The Enemies of My Country

by Jason Kasper

  “What else?” I asked.

  Elias shook his head. “This is all he knows. I believe he speaks the truth.”

  I turned to Cancer. “Let’s get him gagged and ready to move.”

  It wasn’t Cancer who responded but Elias, his voice alarmed. “Move where?”

  “Sepaya. He’s coming with us.”

  “No, this is impossible. My friend can release him once we are gone. Otherwise, he will slow us down.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll see to it that he won’t, and I have other friends who will want to speak with him. Let’s go.”

  Elias nodded, relaxing as if resigned to my decision.

  He brought a hand to his stomach as if scratching an itch, then dipped his palm beneath his shirt and drew a tiny automatic pistol.

  I dove forward to tackle him, hearing the pop of a gunshot a moment before colliding with Elias and driving him to the ground.

  Looking back, I saw I was too late—the logistician’s head was marred by the round red mark of a bullet hole, a greasy slick of blood and brain matter sprayed from the exit wound along the floor.

  Elias grunted under my weight as Cancer torqued his arm and recovered the pistol.

  Reilly darted inside, taking in the scene.

  Cancer said to him, “Get back out there and pull security. We’ve got it under control.”

  “What happened in here?”

  “Elias just executed our prisoner.”

  But Reilly’s eyes were taking in the truth of everything that transpired before that—the puddle of urine, the plastic bag abandoned on the floor.

  Cancer repeated, “Get back out there and pull security. I ain’t gonna tell you again.”

  Reilly left, leaving me to half-shout at Elias.

  “What the hell was that?”

  The side of his face was pressed against the floor as he replied, “You want to know why I did not ask you to bring my family to America? Because these savages raped my wife before butchering her and my sons. You want to shoot me? Help yourself. But if you want to find this cargo, you need my help. You will not get far with Nizar alone.”

  I pushed myself off Elias and stood.

  He did the same, rising to brush the dust from his clothes in a dignified motion before Cancer threw his chest into the wall, frisking him for other weapons. When he’d completed his check from behind, Cancer swung Elias around and began sweeping the man’s front from top to bottom.

  I had my rifle poised, ready to gun Elias down for resisting.

  But he made no move to stop Cancer’s search; to the contrary, he held his arms out to make the process easier and watched me with a languid smile.

  “Relax,” Elias said nonchalantly. “My friend will take care of the body. It is no problem. And in any case, he was begging me to kill him.”

  For once, I didn’t know what to say.

  Whether or not the logistician knew any further information didn’t matter now. Nor could I stay mad at Elias for long—he’d successfully procured the cargo’s true destination, as well as the timing and location of the attack. I didn’t doubt the information for one reason alone: the target was my hometown. That didn’t make any sense to me, but the logistician could have listed any major city in the world—instead, he’d identified a location that I was one hundred percent sure he’d have no other way of knowing. Elias didn’t know where I was from, and there were no elaborate circumstances by which this intel dump could have been staged as a diversion.

  At the same time, I was angry at myself: as enthusiastic as Elias had been about going after ISIS, I should have thought something was wrong when he didn’t ask us for a weapon.

  But the revelation that Charlottesville was the target of a terrorist attack had shown me who I truly was at heart—all morality was stripped away in that moment, and if Elias hadn’t risen to the task of torture as a means of procuring further information, then I gladly would have.

  As I took in my last view of the dead logistician, blood and brain matter leaking from the hole in his skull as he sat in a pool of his own urine, the resting place of his final moment, I honestly didn’t give a shit.

  Of all the likely terrorist targets across the globe, what were the possible chances that a Uyghur separatist backed by seemingly extensive ISIS resources would choose Charlottesville, Virginia? The odds had to be in the millions, and it should have occurred to me then that the circumstances in which we’d found ourselves had transcended any possible coincidence.

  Cancer took a step toward me and gave my shoulder a hard shake.

  “Forget about it, boss. We’ll get to the bottom of this. Nothing’s happening to your family while I’m around, okay?”

  Without waiting for a response, he spun toward Elias with the grace of a ballet dancer, producing his Marlboros and holding them out to him.

  “Starting to like you, pal. Here—keep the pack. But surprise me one more time,” he growled, “and you’re going to think the logistician got off easy.”

  21

  Duchess resumed the vigil at her workstation after Gossweiler’s departure. Her seat no longer felt like the throne of an Agency officer running a critical mission overseas; it now seemed like a prison cell rocked by the political winds that governed her every move.

  But she wouldn’t have to worry about that for long, she thought. Gossweiler was terminating her leadership of the program in one week anyway, and in the meantime she had to draw the current proceedings in Syria to a close before notifying David that his team was disbanded.

  By the time she received her next transmission from him, it served as a welcome interruption to her thoughts.

  “Raptor Nine One, this is Suicide Actual.”

  She lifted the hand mic and replied, “Send it.”

  “Logistician reported that the cargo was to be transferred to some other means of transport, then routed to a village called Sepaya. He wasn’t directly informed of anything else, but overheard discussion of an attack set to occur, quote, ‘five days from yesterday.’ The target is in Charlottesville, Virginia. No further information at this time, how copy?”

  Duchess’s first thought was that David was making some ill-timed joke. There seemed to be no other reason for a mention of his hometown, and certainly no motive for a terrorist attack there.

  She transmitted, “Say again.”

  David responded with impatience, “Cargo en route to Sepaya. Intended for use in attack four days from now in Charlottesville, Virginia.”

  “Copy all. Be advised, both flatbed trucks have been destroyed, BDA is ongoing but likely negative. Stand by for guidance.”

  Putting aside her skepticism, Duchess consulted her digital map, locating Sepaya and considering the time it would take David’s team to get there. They wouldn’t be able to beat the Delta operators out of FOB Presley—and those were the men she was concerned with at present.

  If she tasked a helicopter to recover David’s team and the logistician, it was one fewer for the raids she’d need to locate the rockets in Sepaya, and those raids would have to commence at the earliest opportunity.

  She took a moment to consider how to kill two birds with one stone.

  Gossweiler had said to send the team to the nearest exfil point—he didn’t specify where, and Duchess had some leeway to dictate the tactical particulars according to her judgment.

  Even then, what she was about to do was a sin she’d pay for in due time.

  Keying her mic, she said, “Will send strike force to Sepaya to search for cargo. Proceed there for link-up and exfil.”

  “Good copy,” David replied.

  “And bring the logistician—we’ll need to rendition him for further debrief.”

  “Be advised, the logistician has escaped custody.”

  Duchess was unable to hide her displeasure at this statement—she saw Jo Ann’s eyes dart to her, bearing the knowledge of what they both knew full well. No American element would let an asset like that get away, and whatever fate befell the
man, his soul had since departed.

  To David’s credit, Duchess thought, he hastily added a bullshit explanation for the benefit of anyone who would have a problem with that outcome.

  “We were questioning him on a rooftop, and he took a two-story leap and ran off into the village. We can search for him, or we can move to Sepaya. Your choice.”

  She transmitted, “Understood. Proceed to Sepaya for exfil.”

  “We’re moving.”

  Duchess barely had time to set down her hand mic when Sutherland called out from his desk.

  “Ranger GFC reports they’ve finished their search of the flatbed wreckage: zero evidence of rockets.”

  Duchess rose from her seat, assuming her command posture in front of the OPCEN as she issued her orders.

  “Wonderful. The Rangers will redeploy to FOB Presley and refit as quick response force for Delta. Shift all available intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance platforms to Sepaya and get me a continuous stack of all available air support on a rotating basis.”

  Turning her attention to the J3, she continued, “I want target packets for known, likely, and suspected rocket transfer and storage sites in Sepaya in descending order of priority. Link in with JSOC and have the Delta shooters at FOB Presley ready to launch as soon as they’ve got a plan to action simultaneous raids. Follow-on targets are likely based on boots-on-the-ground intelligence acquired on the initial objectives.

  “J2,” she called next, “task the analyst staff with identifying any possible terrorist targets for an indirect fire attack in the vicinity of Charlottesville, Virginia, in four days. Then I want you working on refining our Sepaya objectives until the shooters are wheels-down.”

  Then she directed her gaze to the J4 staff responsible for supply and logistics considerations.

  “J4, how could those rockets reach the US?”

  A woman called back, “With a northbound trajectory from their last known location, and given the size of the cargo, most likely destination is one of three Turkish ports: Ambarli, Mersin, and Ismit.”

  “Lock down all border crossings however you can. Put the port staff on high alert, get some intelligence people in place at all three to screen incoming cargo using all classified means. Questions?”

  There were none—her response came in the form of each section spinning to their workstation in turn, the clatter of keyboards and phones leaving their receiver, a collective hum of activity that signaled everything was in the works and order was being restored to the universe after Gossweiler’s visit.

  She dropped into her chair for a moment of respite, trying to process the bigger picture before setting to work on her next task.

  Her reverie was broken by Jo Ann’s deep northern accent.

  “If there was going to be a terrorist attack,” Jo Ann said firmly, “it’d be against an Independence Day celebration.”

  Duchess looked to the ceiling and took a breath. “Four days from now isn’t the Fourth of July, it’s the third.”

  “And that makes it even more unlikely. Someone’s blowing smoke. There’s nothing in Charlottesville. What makes you think that the intel on cargo headed to Sepaya is any more credible?”

  Duchess looked at Jo Ann, appraising her with a newfound sense of annoyance. Maybe it was the sight of her atrocious wardrobe, or the wedding and class rings on either hand.

  Or maybe, Duchess had to admit, because Gossweiler had just eviscerated her career and her Agency ground team in front of a military officer.

  Duchess said, “You wanted me to tell them about the logistician. ‘Nothing to lose by telling them,’ I believe you said—now you’re contesting the intelligence they’ve obtained as a result?”

  “I’m contesting the validity of that intelligence based on the means they likely used to obtain it,” Jo Ann said, leaning in so she could speak without being overheard. “And their detainee didn’t escape. Your team executed him, and you know it.”

  Duchess locked eyes with Jo Ann, feeling the simmering burn of heat spreading throughout her chest. There were certain things you didn’t speak aloud until you had some hard evidence, and accusations of war crimes were one of them.

  Leaning in to match Jo Ann’s posture, Duchess whispered back, “I don’t know that, because I’ve been sitting here instead of in the field. But that wasn’t always the case…which, unless I’m mistaken, is more than you can say for yourself.”

  There was a glint in Jo Ann’s eyes then, a tick in her jaw muscle. The last thing any support person wanted to hear was a dismissal of their opinion because they’d never been on an actual operation, and Duchess had just hit the nerve she was aiming for.

  Pressing the initiative, she said, “Charlottesville is too random to be coincidental. If someone wanted to send us on a wild goose chase, they’d have said New York or LA.” Then, switching her voice to the sternest possible tone, she concluded, “So do you want to keep pursuing Bari Khan and the rockets, or do you want to have a pissing contest with me? Because right now, there’s only time for one.”

  22

  Cancer adjusted his steering around another pothole in the road, trying to minimize the truck cabin’s nausea-inducing jostle that had characterized their entire drive to Sepaya as he followed David’s Land Cruiser.

  In the passenger seat, Nizar seemed unfazed by the rough ride. He was gazing out the window at the rocky desert around them, a landscape that seemed desolate and alien to Cancer—but for Nizar, this was home.

  Or at least, it would be until they made it out alive, and he could move his family to America. If they made it out alive, that was.

  In the Godfather seat behind Nizar, Reilly looked considerably less comfortable.

  He too was scanning the desert, one hand draped across his holstered pistol. But the team medic’s expression—one of terse contemplation—was not due to the ride, but what he’d seen in the aftermath of the logistician’s interrogation.

  Of all the kids in the team, Cancer thought, Reilly was the most ill-equipped to deal with the sight: the plastic bag, the sight of a restrained prisoner who’d pissed himself before being shot in the head.

  Cancer glanced at the medic in the rearview mirror and asked, “You okay back there?”

  Reilly said nothing.

  Returning his gaze to the road, Cancer dodged another pothole with a quick jerk of the steering wheel.

  As the oldest member of the team, Cancer had been raised by the old-school generation of warfighters. Those men treated the job like they were coal miners: when it comes time for your shift, you get down in the mine and you do the work. When you come out, you don’t turn your job into some philosophical dissertation. You don’t go talk to doctors to find out what’s wrong with you, you don’t talk to shrinks about your feelings. You drink, you go to sleep, you get up the next day to do it over again. Simple.

  But the younger generation of warfighters to which Reilly belonged was another breed entirely. With their tortured morality and ever-expanding social consciousness, they seemed to be more anguished about their jobs with each passing day. It was exhausting.

  Still looking out the window, Reilly said, “We don’t know if his intelligence was credible. And either way, he didn’t deserve to be tortured. Or executed.”

  “I agree with you on the execution part. After directing his efforts to facilitating the mass rape and execution of everyone outside his organization, I’d feel better if he spent a few decades rotting at some black site. But hey, look at the bright side: we don’t have to haul his fat ass around the country with us.”

  Cancer then looked to Nizar, sitting stoically in the passenger seat.

  “For someone who lives here, you’re awfully quiet over there, pal.”

  Nizar spoke calmly. “Elias lost his entire family to ISIS.” Half-looking over his shoulder to Reilly, he continued, “If his pain was yours, you would do the same.”

  “Exactly,” Cancer chimed in.

  “But that does not make it right.”


  Cancer rolled his eyes, giving an exaggerated sigh. “Hey, is it too late to switch trucks? Because I’d rather be smoking with Elias. And I’m one hundred percent fuckin’ certain that David doesn’t have a problem with any of this.”

  In the rearview mirror, Cancer saw Reilly looking away, out the window. Nothing needed to be said about the rest—that David’s wife and daughter were in Charlottesville. And while Cancer was unburdened by the moralities that seemed to plague others he worked with, David had a dark side, a capacity for self-destruction that flared at certain points in the fight. Cancer had seen it while fighting alongside him as a mercenary in Argentina, and during the team’s first Agency operation in the Philippines.

  Neither had anything to do with the man’s family, which made Cancer inwardly eager to see what his team leader was capable of now.

  Cancer’s train of thought was interrupted by Reilly’s voice.

  “I’ve been thinking about why Bari Khan might hit Charlottesville.”

  Cancer replied, “So have I, and my only conclusion is that Charlottesville is too worthless for any self-respecting terrorist to hit.”

  “That’s exactly my point,” Reilly said. “That means there’s got to be critical infrastructure in that area, and it’s probably an electrical substation.”

  “You think he’s trying to shut down power.”

  Reilly nodded. “My dad was a project manager for one of the largest power companies in the country. He had to deal with a blackout covering almost half of California because an electrical substation malfunctioned. And that was an accident. All BK would need to know is a little bit about the network structure. He picks the right substation, and he could cause a cascading failure that’s nearly impossible to stop.”

  “What does that mean—cascading failure?”

  “There’s an initial failure when he takes out a substation. So the network rebalances the load, which causes a secondary failure. That starts a domino effect that continues until the entire network shuts down. And he wouldn’t need all the rockets just to take down a substation; if I were him, I’d use some to hit the service centers, so the techs won’t be able to fix what he’s broken.”