American Operator

by Brian Andrews

  “That actually makes sense,” Dempsey said, surprised to hear himself agreeing with Adamo. “But it doesn’t address Munn’s point, which is, How the hell do you smuggle a blonde American female—whose face is plastered all over the news—across the Turkish-controlled border without anyone noticing?”

  “We know PKK has infiltrated Turkish Intelligence. We know they have moles inside both the government and the military. It is possible they utilized this network to facilitate the crossing. Bribes could have been paid to look the other way.”

  “So what’s the endgame?” Grimes asked. “Why kill the Ambassador and take Allen? Especially if what you’re saying about PKK is accurate and they have no intention of taking credit for this attack and kidnapping?”

  “From the moment we got the tasking, I’ve been thinking a lot about that question,” Adamo said. “I don’t have an answer, only theories.”

  “Well, let’s hear them,” Munn chimed in.

  “All right,” Adamo said, pushing his glasses up on his nose again. “Theory one is that they took her for financial reasons—they saw this as an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Kill the Ambassador to make a statement and sell back his Chief of Staff to make money. We have to presume they know who her father is and therefore could set a high asking price.”

  “Who’s her father?” Dempsey asked.

  Grimes looked up, an eyebrow raised. “Seriously, JD? You’ve never heard of Supreme Court Chief Justice Henry Allen?”

  Dempsey shrugged but felt his face flush. “There are millions of people named Allen in this world. Why would I assume that Amanda Allen is his daughter?”

  Grimes laughed, enjoying his embarrassment. “I guess I thought we were all expected to keep up with current events in this job. It was all over the press and cable news when the Chief Justice’s daughter was assigned to the embassy staff in Turkey a few months back . . . just saying.”

  Dempsey shook his head. “Been a little busy fighting terrorists lately, if you haven’t noticed. I guess some of us don’t have time to watch TV whenever we want.” But he couldn’t help chuckling at himself.

  “What’s theory two?” Latif asked, speaking up for the first time and looking at Adamo.

  “Theory two is that PKK somehow pierced Allen’s official cover. They want to know what the CIA knows about their clandestine operations, so they took Allen because she is young and green and they thought they could break her and extract valuable information. When they’re done with her, instead of trying to ransom her back to her father or the State Department, they’d probably auction her off to the highest bidder. There are plenty of bad actors who might want to take a crack at a CIA asset with knowledge of the identities of regional double agents and CIA assets.”

  A chime sounded, and Adamo’s gaze shifted from his laptop camera to somewhere else. After a beat, he said, “I’m moving out to the TOC. Smith and Baldwin are ready to jump in.”

  The big-screen TV in the Boeing’s conference room went dark momentarily, and then the feed shifted to a split image: the Ember TOC videoconference camera on the left and a satellite image on the right. The sat image was a crisp bird’s-eye view of a small compound comprised of two buildings surrounded by a low stone wall. The imagery zoomed out, revealing that the compound was connected by a quarter-mile-long dirt road to a major highway traveling north of a city.

  “Hello, everyone,” said Baldwin in a cheerful professorial tone. “This compound lies in Syria, about twenty-four kilometers from the Turkish border at Elbeyli.” The screen shifted to a grainier picture of a man and woman talking in a tan desertscape. “The man on the right is Abdul Haq. He was a Regional Commander in PKK in the 2000s, but when the Syrian civil war broke out, he left Turkey to join YPG, also known as the People’s Protection Units. YPG is the backbone of the Syrian Democratic Forces fighting to liberate northern Syria from ISIS. We suspect, however, that Haq maintains close ties with his former colleagues in PKK.”

  “Who is the woman?”

  “We haven’t made a positive ID, but we believe that is Mutla Birarti, a former YPJ Commander who migrated the other direction, from YPJ into PKK.”

  “What is YPJ?” Latif asked.

  “YPJ is the Women’s Protection Units, which is basically the sister unit of YPG. They are closely allied, collaborating and fighting together in all capacities.”

  “My God, how many friggin’ groups are there fighting in Syria?” Latif said. “How the hell do you keep them all straight?”

  Baldwin laughed. “I’m not going to lie—we have a spreadsheet.”

  “What are we looking at here, Baldwin?” Dempsey said, starting to lose his patience.

  “This picture was taken in Syria, not very far from al-Bab. The image is only a few weeks old, and it indicates that PKK sent Mutla Birarti to make contact with YPG, leveraging an old association. At the time, we could only speculate about the reason for the meeting, but recent comms intercepts indicate Birarti may have been involved in the Ankara attack. If that’s true, then this meeting between Haq and Birarti takes on new relevance.”

  “So you’re saying the woman, Birarti, kidnapped Allen for PKK, and now Abdul Haq is hiding Allen in Syria for them?” Dempsey asked, trying to follow.

  “Not Haq or YPG per se, but we believe Haq arranged access to a safe house in Syria for Birarti. It is a business arrangement, not at all uncommon among these cooperating groups motivated by money and the promise of future favors. I’ll scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

  “Why al-Bab? Isn’t al-Bab under the control of the pro-Ankara Syrian forces now?” Grimes asked. “Why not choose a safe house in Manbij, a city where YPG has control?”

  “Two reasons,” Baldwin said. “One, because Haq doesn’t want to give Turkish or Syrian forces any justification to launch a campaign against them in Manbij, and second, because since 2014, an American-British coalition has been providing weapons, training, and support to YPG in the battle against ISIS. If they were discovered to be aiding and abetting a PKK faction in a terrorist operation against the United States, then I can’t imagine it would sit too well with the coalition. So my guess is, Haq is acting alone on this, making good on some blood debt or other promise.”

  “Okay, whatever,” Dempsey growled. “The point is, PKK took Allen, and now you think Mutla Birarti moved her to this compound in al-Bab?”

  “That’s what we’re attempting to ascertain, John. HUMINT suggests ownership of the compound has changed hands several times. We believe another third-party faction owns this compound presently and that this third party is now involved and may potentially have custody of Allen.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Dempsey said, feeling a headache coming on. “Is Amanda Allen being held in this compound or not? Answer yes or no.”

  “There is a high degree—” Baldwin began, but Dempsey cut him off.

  “I said answer yes or no. I did not say use lots of words that mean maybe.”

  “Ah, look, here is Director Smith,” Baldwin said, red-faced but bemused, turning on-screen to face Shane Smith as he walked into the frame. “Perfect timing.”

  “Hey, guys,” Smith said, his voice so crystal clear over the sound system in the Boeing TOC, it was as if he were sitting in the room with them. “I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation, so I thought I’d jump in.”

  “Hey, Shane,” Dempsey said. “Now that you’re here, can we stop playing footsy on this one and you just tell us when and if we have the green light to hit the compound?”

  “I realize you’re anxious to kit up, John, and go yank Amanda Allen out of the lion’s den,” Smith began. “But we still have a lot of questions on this one. We suspect PKK was behind all this, but we don’t have proof. Normally, we’d wait for confirming intelligence before authorizing any sort of rescue op, but as you know, every hour that goes by is another hour Allen’s life is at risk and the information in her head is in jeopardy of falling into enemy hands. So the DNI has autho
rized us to conduct a small-footprint, kinetic operation in al-Bab. The mission objectives are to A, confirm whether Allen is being held at this compound Baldwin identified, and B, identify the party holding her.”

  “So you’re sending us in?” Dempsey asked curtly.

  Smith’s gaze took in the whole team. “We’re finalizing the mission details and solidifying Dempsey’s NOC as we speak—”

  “Hold on,” Grimes interrupted. “Dempsey’s NOC? Don’t tell me you’re sending him into Syria alone.”

  “He won’t be alone,” Smith said. “Adamo is going to embed him in a UN chemical weapons inspection team for a surprise inspection in al-Bab, just a few miles from the compound. Once in al-Bab, we’ll use a field asset who can get him close to the site for intel collection.”

  “And hostage recovery?” Dempsey interjected.

  Smith pursed his lips. “If appropriate, John—I trust you to make the call on the ground. But it does Amanda Allen no good if you get killed trying to pull off a one-man insurrection in al-Bab, does it? The first and best option is to gain intel on the facility, stage in place, and we’ll pull a team together for a raid. What we desperately need is confirmation she’s still alive. I also need you to keep in mind that the other criterion for mission success is gathering intelligence on who is responsible for this and what their next play might be. The DNI and I are both concerned that other attacks are coming, and your ability to gather information to that end is vital.”

  “Understood,” Dempsey said.

  Grimes shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re sending him in alone.”

  “Agreed. I don’t like it,” Munn said. “It should be a two-man team, at minimum. Send me with him.”

  “Having two of you folding in on the NOC raises too many eyebrows,” Smith countered. “You’ll stand by with a strike team comprised of the rest of Ember SAD, and we will supplement with JSOC assets out of Turkey if required. We can get you in and out by air if things go sideways.”

  “Simple to say, but what if we can’t mobilize an air asset across the border in time to bail him out? What then?” Munn said. “There needs to be some sort of contingency plan.”

  Dempsey could feel his friend and fellow frogman’s eyes on him.

  “It’s only twenty-four clicks from the border. That’s like fifteen miles, Dan. You could practically run and get to me in time. But if it makes you feel better,” Dempsey said, turning from Munn back to Smith, “can you arrange support from the 160th Special Operations Air Regiment? That would go a long way toward relaxing everyone here.”

  “Sure, and if we can’t secure an asset from the 160th, we’ll use the Air Force’s Seventh Special Operations Squadron. They have a detachment at Incirlik right now.”

  “Pave Lows?” Munn asked.

  “No. They’re using the B-model Ospreys.”

  “Shit, that’s even better, Dan,” Dempsey said, selling it to his friend. “Those CV-22s are a helluva lot faster than helicopters. Even from Incirlik, you’re looking at an INFIL under thirty minutes. Hell, if you spooled up the squadron for ‘training flights,’ you could even shave a couple minutes off that.”

  Munn nodded, his expression not pleased but at least mollified. “If it’s Seventh, see if we can get a couple of PJs from the Wing. Nice to have high-end medical assets for CASEVAC if things go bad.”

  “Good thinking, Dan. Will do,” Smith said.

  They were a planning machine now, doing what Ember did better than anyone else.

  “How do we make sure the UN inspection team gets across the border, much less with John in tow?” Grimes asked.

  “Yeah,” Martin said, speaking for the first time. “I just read that Syria has been jerking the inspectors around. They wouldn’t let them inspect Khan Sheikhan and then delayed them coming to Shayrat Airbase until it was pointless. Then just this year they refused inspectors access to Douma.”

  “All true,” Smith said from the screen. “But before I address that, I’m dying to know—since when can Marines read, Gunnery Sergeant Martin?”

  The room broke into laughter, Martin smiling and shaking his head. Smith was a natural-born leader. The break in tension allowed a pause and for everyone to refocus and come at the problem with a fresh perspective.

  “Okay, so here’s what you need to know about the state of Syrian chemical weapon inspections,” Smith said, now deadly serious. “First, there’s renewed world pressure for compliance, and this will give Damascus a great opportunity to show cooperation since we know and they know the Syrian Army is currently in control of al-Bab. The Syrian military will be happy to cooperate because there’s nothing in al-Bab. Cooperation is all gain and no loss for them since the UN team will obviously find no chemical weapon signatures. Moreover, the locals will welcome any opportunity to garner more international support for their plight and should be overtly cooperative to a UN team that might report on war crimes perpetrated by the Syrian Army.”

  “That’s smart,” Latif said.

  “I’m still uncomfortable with this plan,” Grimes said. “Who is this asset that’s going to be taking Dempsey in?”

  “He’s with DIA and has been operating for over a year as a chemical weapons expert with the UN. He’s made three incursions into Syria under this NOC,” Smith said. “I talked to his CO already, and he’s a shooter. Don’t worry, JD won’t be the only gun in this fight if things go bad.”

  Dempsey had doubts about whether his DIA counterpart was a blooded operator, but if the dude had infiltrated Syria three times and was still going strong, then he had to have skills. Syria was presently the most dangerous fucking place in the world. It was the definition of suck.

  “So when do I go?” Dempsey asked.

  “As soon as possible. While we pull together your NOC credentials and contact your DIA partner to arrange the meet, I advise you folks start prepping everything else we discussed.”

  “Roger that,” Dempsey said, and then, turning to his fellow team members, he added, “You heard the boss. Let’s get to work.”

  He got acknowledgments from everyone around the table, except for one . . .

  Grimes was already on her feet, standing by the door to exit the TOC, hand on the knob. “A word?” was all she said and then disappeared.

  Dempsey followed her into the Director’s office adjacent to the TOC and shut the door behind him. “Yes?” he said simply.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” she said, hands on hips. “You can’t go into Syria and execute this mission alone.”

  “Where is this coming from?” he said, folding his arms across his pecs.

  “You’re doing this because of Elinor, aren’t you?”

  He took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. “Elizabeth, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You’ve never talked about it . . . what happened in Tehran. Not once. It’s been a year, and you pretend like nothing happened. But something did happen, John. You won’t admit it, but there was a connection between the two of you.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head emphatically. “It was all an act . . . a painstakingly constructed, impeccably executed cover story.”

  “Bullshit,” she said. “I saw the two of you together in Jerusalem. I saw the way you looked at each other. You can’t fake that. I’m a woman, John. I know what I saw.”

  He averted his eyes. “For a fleeting moment, maybe there was something . . . a connection between us. But does it matter now? She’s dead.” Then anger suddenly flared in his chest, and he resented her for riling up his demons. “Jesus. This is fucked-up. Why are you doing this? Is this how you get off these days? Fucking with everybody’s head?”

  “Is that what you think of me?” she said, screwing up her face. “Nothing could be further from the truth. We’re family. I care about you. I’m worried about you . . .”

  “I’m fine. I’ll be fine . . . Just drop it. Please.”

  “Look at me,” she said and waited until
he did. “I know how your brain works, JD. I know that in your mind, you broke the one rule that no SEAL has ever broken. You left a teammate behind. But because you can’t live with that, you tell yourself that Elinor was a traitor, that she was a double agent and a spy and that she deserved everything that happened to her. But your heart knows better, and so the end result is that you’re stuck oscillating between denial and soul-racking guilt. You can’t go on like that. It’ll break you, trust me. I know what I’m talking about.”

  Dempsey felt a lump forming in his throat. “I see her in my dreams,” he admitted. “Writhing and bleeding on the floor . . . I left her, Lizzie. I left her to die.”

  “Yeah, you did. And now you need to forgive yourself for that. There was no scenario, and I mean absolutely none, where you could have exfiltrated with Elinor and survived.”

  “That’s not the point. The point is, I didn’t even try.”

  Grimes shook her head. “It’s exactly the point. Ember is not Tier One. We play by different rules. We follow a different code. And every member of this team accepts that risk. Elinor accepted that risk. Your executing the mission was not a betrayal. Your escape was not a betrayal.” She stepped toward him, her hand reaching out but not touching him. “But it is okay to grieve for her. It is okay to admit that no matter what Elinor Jordan truly was—ally or enemy—a part of you cared about her.”

  He swallowed but said nothing.

  “Going into Syria alone to rescue Amanda Allen is not penance. It is not an act of contrition.” She pressed her palm against his chest, over his heart. “No matter how many Amanda Allens you go galloping off to rescue, you can’t change the past. All you can do is accept it.”