Autumn Assassins: [#3] A Special Operations Group Thriller Read online

  PRAISE FOR STEPHEN TEMPLIN

  “As action packed as a Tom Clancy thriller … harrowing … adrenaline-laced.”

  —Michiko Kakutani, New York Times

  “Pulses with the grit of a Jerry Bruckheimer production …”

  —Washington Post

  “Reveals an intimate look at the rigorous training and perilous missions of the best of the Navy’s best.”

  —Time

  “Well written … an exciting book.”

  —Seattle Post-Intelligencer

  “Cuts straight to the chase. The literary equivalent of a Hollywood blockbuster … compelling and inspiring.”

  —Miami Herald

  “A rare glimpse into the thinking, training, and tactics of the Special Forces at a time when their shadowy work is playing an increasingly crucial role in the war on terror.”

  —San Diego Union-Tribune

  “Another great novel reflecting our spec ops forces’ global capabilities. Written by a proven and insightful master storyteller.”

  —Howard E. Wasdin, former SEAL Team Six sniper and NYT best-selling author of SEAL Team Six: Memoirs of an Elite Navy SEAL Sniper

  “A masterful blend … not knowing if you’re about to take a bullet to the head from a SEAL sniper or get hit in the gut with a punch line.”

  —Dalton Fury, former Delta Force commander and New York Times best-selling author of Kill Bin Laden

  “Grabs you on page one and is hard to put down.”

  —General Henry H. Shelton, former commander in chief of the US Special Operations Command and 14th chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff

  “A must read.”

  —Jack Coughlin, former gunnery sergeant, USMC, and best-selling author of Shooter

  “A muscular thrill ride that’s rich with detail and full of heart and energy. A stand out in the ranks of modern action-adventure thrillers.”

  —Mark Greaney, #1 NYT best-selling coauthor of Command Authority,

  by Tom Clancy with Mark Greaney

  “Eloquent, realistic, humorous, and thought-provoking …”

  —Mark Beder, former lieutenant commander, SEAL assault team leader

  “It’s a wonderful book!”

  —Jon Stewart, The Daily Show

  Autumn

  Assassins

  ALSO BY STEPHEN TEMPLIN

  Special Operations Group Thrillers

  Trident’s First Gleaming

  [#1] Chris, Hannah, & Sonny

  From Russia without Love

  [#2] Chris, Hannah, & Sonny

  Autumn Assassins

  [#3] Max & Tom

  Omega Assassins

  [#4]

  Special Operations Group Short Story

  Dead in Damascus

  [#0] Chris & Hannah

  SEAL Team Six Outcast Novels

  SEAL Team Six Outcasts

  [#1]

  Easy Day for the Dead

  [#2]

  Nonfiction

  Navy SEAL Training Class 144: My BUD/S Journal

  SEAL Team Six: Memoirs of an Elite Navy SEAL Sniper (with Howard Wasdin)

  I Am a SEAL Team Six Warrior (Young Adult version of SEAL Team Six)

  Autumn

  Assassins

  [#3] A Special Operations Group Thriller

  Stephen Templin

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Some tactics have been changed to protect operators and their missions.

  All Rights Reserved © 2016 by Stephen Templin

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Stephen Templin

  www.stephentemplin.com

  ISBN-13: 9781535137713

  ISBN-10: 1535137711

  Cover design by Derek Murphy

  I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.

  — Helen Hunt Jackson

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  The sun bled out of the sky, and CIA officer Hank Wayne thought how ironic it would be if he died in a fender bender before even reaching his target area. He rode in the back of a Mercedes-Benz through the tree-lined streets of Hanoi, passing a row of restaurants with signs written in Vietnamese, Chinese, and French. Texting drivers and a swarm of chaotic scooters seemed like an accident waiting to happen.

  With the autumn temperature in the low seventies, ten degrees cooler than Ho Chi Minh City down south, the air in the vehicle felt comfortable without AC. His driver was a Vietnamese-American whose call sign was Cowboy.

  Cowboy slowed to follow a line of luxury vehicles and taxis that rolled through open wrought-iron gates onto the estate of a tan Chinese man named Gang Fang. Although Fang maintained the cover of a wealthy pharmaceuticals businessman, he was a spy for China and actively recruited financiers, scientists, suppliers, politicians, and muscle for China’s bioweapons program. Due to his deep tan and bald head, the Agency had given him the code name Seven Ball. For Hank, tonight’s party would provide a rare opportunity to gain access to Seven Ball’s personal computer and hopefully gather intelligence about one hundred grams of weapons-grade anthrax stolen from China. He hadn’t thought it sounded like much, until he learned that in an enclosed area, one hundred grams could be aerosolized to infect between four hundred and five thousand people. Hank wasn’t privy to the sources of the intelligence on the stolen anthrax, but his superiors assured him that the intel was reliable and valid. Because the US and its allies feared they would be the target of this anthrax threat, Hank and his CIA colleagues had been closely observing Seven Ball for weeks, and now the planets had aligned.

  Cowboy stopped at the gate and greeted the grim-faced guard standing there wearing a suit. Hank showed his forged invitation, and the guard checked it against a list. The Agency had used the name of a wealthy man who had been invited with his girlfriend, a professor, but neither planned to attend. Hank smiled at the guard and waited to find out if the wealthy man had changed his mind and decided to show up. Hank’s cover was that his girlfriend had some work to do and couldn’t attend, so he came without her. The guard waved him through. He sank back into the seat cushions and released some of the tension from his neck and shoulders.

  Lante
rn lights illuminated a building that appeared transplanted from nineteenth-century France with its ornaments and straight lines. The richness of the estate made Hank feel like an outsider. He was a simple man without the need or desire for such trappings. He felt little connection to the cold side of wealth that took so much and gave so little. But he reminded himself of his cover—the boyfriend of a visiting professor at Vietnam National University, Hanoi. Cowboy dropped him off at the steps to the front entrance.

  Hank wore dark slacks and a white suit jacket over his black shirt, but his collar concealed a throat mic to communicate with his driver after separation. The jacket was reversible, plum black inside. If he had to escape surveillance, he could reverse his jacket to black, confusing his pursuers. In his ear, he’d deposited a magnetized earbud to receive communication. The magnetic properties allowed him to retrieve the bud with a piece of metal as simple as a paper clip. The customized thin treads of rubber on the soles of his black leather dress shoes prevented them from clicking on the concrete steps. The treads would also help him run faster if he had to make a sudden escape.

  At the top of the stairs to the entrance, a butler greeted him and invited him inside, holding the door open. Hank proceeded across a marble floor and joined a crowd of people in the foyer. He spotted a Vietnamese woman alone near a corner, texting on her cell phone. He paused beside her, hoping to make her acquaintance. In the intelligence business, who you know determines what you know. Even a simple Tom, Dick, or Harry might lead to a person of significance, or at least provide the appearance of fitting in until such a person could be found. Tonight, he just needed someone to help him fit in until he could access Seven Ball’s computer.

  On a corner table was a bouquet of fresh milky-white flowers, and he inhaled their sweet fragrance. Through the window he could see cars continue to pour into Seven Ball’s estate. When the woman looked up from her phone, Hank introduced himself in English with a smile. The woman had a thick accent, but she leaned forward as if eager to speak. Hank maintained the conversation with his new acquaintance, creating the appearance of talking with an old friend.

  The two followed the buzzing of conversation and music that came from the main hall. There, about fifty guests stood mingling and chattering under bronze and sparkling crystal chandeliers. A long, red carpeted, winding staircase with mahogany rails led to another floor. On Hank’s floor, in the far corner, two violinists, a viola player, and a cellist played. The music was heavy and dark, contrasting the brightness of the radiant lights and cheerful guests. The notes from the strings seemed predictable then unpredictable. He wasn’t a fan of classical music, and he found this music particularly unsettling, so he diverted his attention to the guests.

  A waiter approached them, and Hank picked up a drink from his tray and held onto it, adding to the appearance that he belonged. He continued to work his way into the crowd. “Man, I don’t think I know anyone here,” he said.

  “Let me introduce you to some friends,” the Vietnamese woman said, leading him to a mix of Vietnamese and non-Vietnamese guests. Rather than Hank having to give his cover story, his new friend did it for him, making Hank’s story more believable.

  As Hank was introduced to a small group, a slender Asian man spoke up. “I lecture at the National University, too. What is your girlfriend’s name?”

  A slight anxiety rose in Hank’s throat, but this wasn’t his first rodeo, and he told him the name.

  The professor took a sip of his drink. “Sounds familiar, but I don’t think I know her. Which department is she in?” His tone was that of an inquisitive scholar rather than an interrogator.

  “Languages and International Studies,” Hank said calmly, but his heart beat rapidly.

  “Oh,” the professor said as if mildly disappointed. “I teach chemistry.” Then his countenance brightened. “But one of my colleagues lectures in that department. He should be here soon. I’ll introduce you.”

  Hank smiled. He breathed deeply and slowly, hoping to temper his pulse rate. “Thank you.” He hoped he’d be finished with this mission before the professor’s colleague arrived, but if he wasn’t, he’d figure a way through this. He always did.

  He spotted Seven Ball, then pretended not to see him, keeping him in his peripheral vision. While some guests greeted the host enthusiastically, others shied away. He strolled through the crowd in the direction of Hank’s group. There was a lack of athleticism in his movements, and Hank felt he could take him if he had to, but then he’d have to deal with the man’s posse. In addition to recruiting scientists in Hanoi, Seven Ball muscled Chinese pharmaceuticals into the Vietnamese market. A few days earlier, one of his thugs bludgeoned a local pharmacist to death with his own cash register for not selling enough Chinese medicine. The thug fled to China, and Seven Ball wasn’t investigated—not officially.

  He stopped by Hank’s group, extended his arms, and said “Welcome” in heavily accented English. A hard man, probably a bodyguard, shadowed Seven Ball. In contrast to the friendly smile of a host, Seven Ball bared his teeth like a shark. He was repulsive in a scary way, but Hank smiled—not too little as to seem impolite and not too much as to attract extra attention. His group thanked Seven Ball for the party. The host’s gaze lingered on Hank longingly. CIA reports indicated that Seven Ball swung both ways, and he had a particular taste for Caucasian men. Hank contained his urge to shudder and continued to project his peaceful, relaxed façade. Seven Ball moved on. Hank realized he had stopped breathing, so he flared his nostrils and let the oxygen fill his chest.

  Hank had mingled for half an hour when a couple of women excused themselves to use the bathroom. The head on the ground floor must’ve become busy, because the women took a detour upstairs. This was his chance. He’d use a bathroom break as an excuse to get near Seven Ball’s office, which was located on the second floor.

  After one of the women returned, Hank took his turn. He ventured up the long, winding staircase. Its mahogany rails were cool to the touch. His pulse pulled away from him, but he reined it in. One of his new acquaintances at the party descended the stairs and made eye contact as he ascended. They smiled at each other. At the top of the steps, Hank discreetly looked to see that no one was watching. Clear.

  He took a detour down the hall opposite the restroom. His pulse pulled harder, so he reminded himself of his cover—I got lost on my way to the bathroom. Focusing on his cover returned his pulse to normal.

  So far, the floor plan of the mansion was exactly as the Agency had shown him. While traversing the hallway, he reached in his pocket and grabbed his keys. Among them was a bump key, supplied by Technical Intelligence. He hoped it would work in the lock as TECHINT assured him it would.

  He counted to the third door, Seven Ball’s office, where he listened for noise inside. Nothing. He glanced down the hall to see if anyone had spotted him. No one had. He turned the knob, but it was locked. Then he knocked. When there was no answer, he quickly removed the bump key and inserted it just short of putting it all the way in. Then he bumped it, forcing the specially designed teeth deeper inside. For a fraction of a second, the lock pins seemed to align. He turned the key, but the pins had fallen out of alignment and the cylinder didn’t turn. On his second try, he bumped the key in and turned it at almost the same time. This time the lock opened. He glanced down the hall again. A pair of men stood outside the bathroom talking, but they paid no attention to Hank. Clear. He slipped inside.

  Hank locked the door behind him. By now it was fully dark outside, but decorative wall lamps made it easy for him to see his way around inside the office. It was a spacious room with a set of closed double doors on the side, which he was told led to another room. Consistent with the rest of the house, Seven Ball’s furniture exhibited his fondness for nineteenth-century French design. A large lacquered wooden desk commanded the center of the room, and an oil painting of a fox hunt covered much of the wall behind it. On the desk was Seven Ball’s personal computer, the focus of Hank’s mis
sion.

  His breathing and heart rates increased as he took a seat behind the computer. Moving quickly was important, but so was moving accurately—efficiency was paramount. In order to bypass the security password, he turned on the computer and held down the F8 key during boot-up. Then he used an advanced boot option. Lines of Windows files scrolled down the screen. When the prompt appeared, he entered a command that activated the administrator function. Next, he restarted the computer. Finally, he accessed the computer as an administrator.

  He forgot about his racing breaths and heartbeats and the possibility that Seven Ball might unexpectedly enter. He opened the web browser and logged into the website of Young Park, a brilliant one-armed cyberwarfare tech who recently teamed up with the joint program between CIA and NSA at the Special Collection Service in Maryland. His mission was to gather overseas intelligence critical to national security.

  Soon the mouse pointer on the screen moved on its own, meaning Young now had control. While Young remotely downloaded copies of Seven Ball’s documents, he also installed hidden monitoring software to log keystrokes of e-mails, chats, and other Internet usage, as well as routine screen captures. Hank had completed the critical part of his mission. Young would do the rest. A sense of relief swept over him, but he couldn’t become complacent. He had to get out before Seven Ball and his thugs discovered that he’d infiltrated the office and hacked Seven Ball’s computer.

  As he rose from his chair, uncoordinated scratching and bumping sounded against the closed double doors leading to the other room. The hinges creaked and the doors opened a crack. The sound of rapid breathing came from the room on the other side.