Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(52)
But of course, he couldn’t do that. All he could do was relive those wonderful moments in his mind. So that was exactly what he did.
He fell asleep, remembering one of the happier times in his life—having no idea of the incredible danger he was flying into.
CHAPTER 23
CHIèVRES AIR BASE
BELGIUM
When the jet touched down at Chièvres, Harvath descended the air stairs and was met on the tarmac by Lieutenant Colonel James Mitchell, Commander of the 424th Air Base Squadron. The 424th was a geographically separated unit of the 86th Airlift Wing out of Ramstein Air Base in Germany. Mitchell was in charge of everything that happened at Chièvres.
As Harvath had been identified as a Department of Defense adviser and was dressed as a civilian, Mitchell greeted him with a firm handshake, saying, “Welcome to Belgium, Mr. Brenner.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” he replied.
“I understand you won’t be with us long.”
“Just a quick meeting and then I’m on my way to ?iauliai.” Nodding toward a waiting car and driver, he asked, “Is that for us?”
“I thought you might want to get cleaned up before your meeting,” the Base Commander said. “We’ve got a VIP lounge, complete with shower, set aside for you. Airman Williams can take you over and then bring you back to my office whenever you’re ready. You’ll be using our secure conference facility.”
Lawlor had gone directly to the President with Harvath’s request. The President had then put Lawlor in touch with the Secretary of Defense, who had set everything up. He had definitely instructed Mitchell to pull out all the stops. This was first-class treatment.
Looking at his watch, Harvath rubbed the stubble on his cheeks. He had more than enough time for a hot shower and a shave before his meeting with Proctor and Jasinski.
“That sounds excellent,” he responded. “Thank you.”
Airman Williams helped transfer Harvath’s gear from the jet to his vehicle while Harvath thanked the flight crew. They planned on spending the night in Belgium and flying back to the States in the morning. He wished them safe travels, thanked Mitchell again, and hopped into the passenger seat of the car.
Williams was a courteous, professional young man originally from the Florida Panhandle near Destin. The building they were headed for was so close, they barely had any time for small talk.
Parking out front, Williams popped the trunk and insisted on carrying Harvath’s personal bag inside.
“Not necessary, Airman,” Harvath replied. “But thank you. All I need is for you to make sure the rest of my gear is here when I come out.”
“Yes, sir. It will be,” said the airman. “I promise.”
Williams walked Harvath up to the door and swiped his keycard through the electronic reader. “Down the hall, first door on your left. Take all the time you need. I’ll be here.”
Harvath thanked him and headed inside.
The space looked like it might have been an officer’s club at one point. The walls were paneled with wood and there were plenty of framed photos and pieces of art depicting military aviation.
The furnishings, while tasteful, were several decades old. It had the same industrial cleaning supplies smell that most U.S. installations had—probably because Uncle Sam bought those supplies in bulk.
Walking down the hall, Harvath found the door he had been told to look for and stepped inside.
The lounge was about the size of a small studio apartment. There was a sitting area complete with TV, a desk, a snack station cum kitchenette with a minifridge, coffeemaker, and a microwave, as well as a small bathroom with a shower.
In addition to sourcing gear for Harvath, McGee had been kind enough to have someone pack him a go-bag with clothes and toiletries. It was all comfortable, middle-of-the-road casual stuff. Nothing that would make him stick out and get noticed.
He laid out a few things, turned on the hot water in the shower, and crossed over to the kitchenette. Opening the fridge, he checked out the contents.
It had been stocked just like a hotel minibar. There were waters, soft drinks, juices, beer, and mini-bottles of hard liquor. The Maker’s Mark bourbon, with its signature cap dipped in red wax, immediately caught his attention.
“Just one,” he said to himself as he pulled it out, kneed the fridge shut, and searched the cabinets for a glass.
The glasses were all the way to the right, along with the coffee cups. Taking one down, he opened the bourbon, and poured.
He knew it was a bad idea the same way he knew it wouldn’t be “just one.” It’d be one now, then another when he got out of the shower. He’d try to cover up the odor of alcohol by brushing his teeth, gargling with mouthwash, and taking a strong, black coffee to go.
No sooner had he raised the glass to his lips than his conscience got the better of him. He couldn’t let his demons hold sway over him like that. He was working, for God’s sake. The President had personally signed off on this operation and had set all the wheels in motion. The last thing he needed—no matter how good he thought he might be at hiding it—was for Proctor to report back to the Secretary of Defense that he had shown up with booze on his breath.
Setting the glass down, he fired up the coffeemaker, grabbed a mug, and inserted a pod.
As the machine brewed his coffee, he carried his glass of bourbon into the bathroom and dumped it down the sink. There’d be plenty of time for drinking later.