by Jack Carr
“What does that mean?”
“They’d use AKMs with 7.62x39 sourced rounds from Russia to make it look like a mafia hit on the son of a rival.”
“And the second option?”
“CAG, aviators from the 160th, Agency and FBI HRT operators have been rehearsing at a secure location. The plan is to stage out of Alaska, fueling low-signature aircraft on the Aleutian Islands, and inserting teams via HAHO—that’s high altitude, high opening—onto Medny under the cover of darkness.”
“I’m familiar with HAHO,” Pyne lied. “They’d use those same Russian guns?”
“Correct, sir.”
“Continue.”
“After insertion, the teams would move overland, breach the target building, and secure the hostages. The helos, the same kind used in the bin Laden mission, would then move in from an amphib in international waters and extract all U.S. personnel.”
Pyne leaned back in his chair and made a production of closing his eyes and heaving an audible sigh. He then leaded forward.
“You want to invade Russia?”
“No, sir, our plan is to briefly visit Russia to return an American citizen held against her will.”
“Interesting semantics. In both of these COAs, how long would your people be on the ground?”
“Four hours for the SDV option. One, possibly two hours for the airborne option.”
“Could this be some sort of sanctioned rendition of a former SEAL for something he did in service against Russia?”
“We do not believe that it is condoned by the Russian government. We also believe that if we go through official channels, Director Zharkov will be tipped off, which will cost Hanna Hastings her life.”
“Is that COA 3?” Pyne asked.
“Sir, if we go the diplomatic route it is imperative that the president understand that he is signing the death warrant of a kidnapped U.S. citizen.”
“You don’t know that,” Pyne cautioned.
“That is the official analysis of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“Like weapons of mass destruction in Iraq?”
Director Motley held his condescending stare.
“That was before my time, Mr. Pyne,” she responded without a hint of the fury she felt boiling inside.
“Enemy order of battle?” Pyne asked, bringing the briefing back on course and using a term he’d heard the president use on occasion. He’d made a note of it.
“Aleksandr Zharkov doesn’t rely on official Russian protection. He uses private security contractors from the Wagner Group. Ten are currently with him on the island. We do not believe that they expect a rescue attempt.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” the chief of staff said, directing his question back to Director Motley. “What is Zharkov’s beef with the Hastings family and this Reece character?”
“It is possible it is retaliation for what they suspect was James Reece’s involvement in thwarting the assassination of President Grimes last year in Odessa and the subsequent assassination of Colonel Vasili Andrenov and the poisoning of General Qusim Yedid,” Director Motley said, quite intentionally bringing Reece’s involvement in saving the president’s life into the conversation.
“Yes, most curious,” Pyne said, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve heard rumors that Mr. Reece is responsible for both of those assassinations. What do you know about that?”
Rodriguez visibly bristled in his chair while Motley met the president’s chief of staff’s stare without flinching.
“We confirmed that those were just rumors, sir. Both of those men had lists of enemies a mile long.”
“I see. And why would we risk an international incident, even war with Russia to kidnap a girl and her brother who the Russians will say were there of their own free will?”
“If we don’t,” Director Motley answered, “an American citizen kidnapped against her will is dead, and a TS/SCI-cleared operator will be exploited for intelligence by the same country that manipulated the very technology we developed to influence our last election. This is a chance to hit back.”
Pyne tapped his finger on the closed cover of his iPad case.
“How soon could you go?”
“All assets are standing by, sir,” Rodriguez said. “We could have the teams on C-17s within forty-five minutes of the president’s signature for either COA.”
Pyne continued tapping his iPad, thinking through options and worst-case scenarios.
“I want you to thank the men and women who have been preparing for this possibility.” Pyne paused for effect. “But, there’s no way in hell that we are invading a nuclear-armed Russia to get back one girl and her brother who are probably already dead. Do you have any idea what kind of international incident this would cause? Relations with Russia are already in the shitter. This could start another Cold War, or worse, World War III!”
“Sir…” Motley attempted to interject.
“You had your chance to speak, young lady; now it is mine. There will be no presidential finding. There will be no mission. Send your men back to Bragg, or Coronado, or wherever they came from. I want NDAs signed by everyone who is in the know on this. I don’t need any of these assholes whining to their congressman about it.”
“Sir, shouldn’t the president weigh…” Rodriguez interjected.
“As far as you’re concerned, I am the president. He will not be briefed on this and any attempt to go around me and get to him will be career ending for everyone involved. Do I make myself clear?”
The two spies remained quiet but nodded in recognition.
“Good.” Pyne’s tone switched from enraged to almost effeminate on a dime. “This room is secure. Leave your OpPlan for the executive files. Now, I’m sure the CIA has other threats to our national security on which to focus. Thank you for coming and please enjoy the rest of your evening.”
He rose and strode out the door without shaking hands. He had just been passed a valuable piece of information. If he could relay it in time, it could pay dividends for him once the president was out of office. He needed to visit an old friend.
Information truly was power.
CHAPTER 59
[Redacted X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X]
REECE PEERED THROUGH THE thermal optic on his SR-25 E2, scanning the scene around the bunker structure for any sign of human activity. The Light Weapon Thermal Sight was mounted forward of his Nightforce day optic and made any living thing in his scope stand out like coal on snow. Reece was at the closest of three overwatch positions, just over six hundred yards from the target building. The only movement he spotted was from the assault elements approaching the structure from two directions. Operators moving swiftly and silently with the experience of hundreds of missions in hostile territory, they swarmed the building, masters in a deadly ballet.
Reece shifted his weapon and, using the optic, scanned behind his position to ensure that no one had moved in behind them. All clear. His overwatch function, devoid of the responsibilities and chaos of command, reminded him of the good old days as an enlisted SEAL sniper. He turned his attention back to the objective in time to see the assaulters set their breaching charges on the concrete building. Instinctively, he averted his eyes.
A violent explosion rocked the building, the lead element stormed through the openings created by the carefully prepared shaped charges. The distance and the suppressors masked the sound of gunfire but Reece knew that the engagements were swift and violent. After ten seconds that seemed like as many minutes, Reece heard Sergeant Major Holloway over the radio, “Objective clear. I pass Touchdown Dugga Boy. Touchdown Lioness.”
The operators were maintaining a perimeter around the target site, their precious cargo well protected at its center inside a phalanx of armor-clad operators. A quick glance at the screen of his chest-mounted ATAK device, essentially a smartphone with detailed mapping software configured for military use, confirmed the position of friendly forces and the location of the LZ. The lines between war and vid
eo games had officially blurred.
Reece and the rest of his sniper element were two hundred yards out when they heard the odd-sounding whine of the stealth helicopters approach. He watched as the assaulters loaded the hostage into the first Black Hawk, which lifted off immediately, spiriting her to safety. He picked up the pace to a jog, turning every few seconds to check their six. He instinctively ducked as he passed through the rotor wash and climbed inside the helo alongside his sniper team and part of the assault element. His stomach sank as the pilot cranked the throttle and the powerful bird jolted skyward. Reece’s legs dangled out the open cargo door of the Black Hawk, his rifle ready to support the crew’s 7.62mm miniguns if necessary. They were soon off the objective, skimming low over the terrain at high speed. Barring a mechanical failure or an interception threat from a Russian fighter jet, they were in the clear.
“All elements, this is ARGO SIX. Endex, I say again, Endex.” Reece heard the command element’s call over the Peltor headset that he wore under his ballistic helmet. That was the signal ending the exercise. From Reece’s perspective, it had gone exceptionally well.
Now they just had to do it for real, against an armed enemy defending home soil.
* * *
Even seasoned professional commandos felt the euphoria of a job well done and the mood during the debriefing was light but serious. Every pilot, operator, and support soldier involved in the operation was in the room. Men in sweat-stained combat uniforms sipped coffee, Kill Cliff, Gatorade, or Red Bull, each fighting their body’s circadian rhythm, which told them it was long past time to go to sleep. The clock on the wall indicated it was just after 0400 and, despite having trained every night and slept during the day for the past five days, everyone was exhausted.
The special operations culture is unique in its willingness to ignore rank when it comes to providing brutally honest assessments of an action. Though the mission went well, there was always room for improvement and the men in the room made no bones about what could have gone better. Drone footage of the assault was played back on the oversize screens and paused at various intervals to allow for discussion. The movements of each individual operator could be tracked using the ATAK software and were displayed and scrutinized the way that game films were in a football locker room. The technology left no doubt as to who did what, when.
Reece’s role was that of a Ground Branch liaison, there to support the highly capable operators who would perform the rescue. He had a reputation as a solid combat leader and because his postwar exploits had given him near-legendary status in this community, Sergeant Major Holloway asked if he had anything to add.
“Just that if it was me on Medny, there is no other group of killers I’d want kicking in the door to do the job. Thank you all for…” Reece’s phone buzzed. “Excuse me,” he said, seeing Vic’s number come up in the caller ID.
Walking a few steps from the Army commandos he accepted the call. “Talk to me, Vic.”
“It’s a no-go, Reece.”
“Shit!”
“President’s chief of staff shut us down.”
“You didn’t even talk to the president? Get me his number. You’re the C-I-A. Get me his private line. I’ll call him directly and cash in those chips from Odessa.”
“I know you’re pissed, Reece. Director Motley and I have been talking all night about how best to handle this, but right now our hands are tied.”
Reece was about to continue but instead switched gears. It was time to think, not fly off the handle.
“Sorry, Vic. Understood. I’ll let the crew here know.”
“Pass on the director’s sincere thank-you to everyone on site. Get some rest and take your time getting back. We will figure this out. Like you said, we’re the CIA.”
Reece ended the call and turned to see the room of sweaty operators looking at him, already knowing what he was going to say. They’d been spun up only to be turned off more times over the years than they could recall.
“Mission is canked,” Reece said. “Director Motley thanks you all for your efforts, but it’s a no-go.”
A few heads hung in silent resignation before they started to shuffle to the door.
Sergeant Major Holloway approached Reece.
“Sorry, friend.”
“Yeah. You guys got a bar around here?”
“How’d you guess? Follow me.”
* * *
Most of the seats and bar stools were already taken when Reece and Christian Holloway entered the makeshift bar.
“What a find!” Reece remarked, looking around the cavernous interior.
“Well, we’ve been down here so much over the years we figured we needed a place to call home. Your Seabees built it for us. Built one for Blue, too.”
Plaques adorned the walls, red party lights were strewn from the ceiling, and speakers linked to one of the operator’s playlists filled the small structure with the songs of Johnny Cash.
“Join us for a beer?” Holloway asked.
“Give me a few minutes,” Reece said. “I’m going to grab a whiskey and do a little thinking.”
“Dangerous stuff, that thinking business,” Holloway remarked with a smile.
“That’s what they tell me,” Reece replied, making his way behind the self-serve bar, nodding to the [XXX] operators, who raised their glasses as he passed.
After picking through a seemingly unending supply of whiskey bottles, Reece selected a Woodford Reserve on ice and settled into a bar stool at the far end of the bar, swirling his whiskey and ice with a plastic stirrer.
The sun was coming up as the last operators left the bar. Reece’s ice had long since melted and he still hadn’t taken a sip, his thoughts lost on Hanna, Raife, Ivan Zharkov, Aleksandr, Oliver Grey, and Medny Island. He didn’t even look up when the looming figure of Andy Danreb took the seat next to him.
“How’s the whiskey?” Andy asked. “Looks a little watery.”
Reece picked his head up and looked around. “Are we the last ones here?”
“Brilliant observation. You should come to work for the CIA.”
“Guess I lost track of time.”
“Bars will do that.”
“That water?” Reece asked motioning to Andy’s drink.
“Vodka. It’s like water, only better. I am from the Russian Desk.”
“Makes sense.”
“What are you doing, Reece?”
“Just thinking.”
“Ah,” Andy said, taking a swig of his vodka. “In the Cold War days, we used to do a lot of that.”
“What?”
“Figuring out how to get the job done when senior intelligence officials or politicians told us we couldn’t.”
“How did you handle it?”
“We out-thought them,” Andy said, tapping his temple with his finger. “We used to call it plausible deniability. Sexy term for giving your superiors the ability to say they had no idea what you were up to and ‘yes, sir, I’ll rein those cowboys in right away and this will never happen again, sir.’ ” Andy chuckled. “Your old man did it more than once.”
“You knew my old man? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Everyone knew your old man, Reece. If not in person, then by reputation. And I didn’t tell you because it wasn’t pertinent the last time we met.”
“And it is now?”
“It is,” Andy said taking another sip of his drink.
“How?”
“Once, your dad was ordered to stand down and hang a certain doctor he was running in Czechoslovakia out to dry. Do you know what happened next?”
Reece nodded.
“Good. What do you need to pull it off?”
“Take a breath, look around, make a call,” Reece muttered.
“What was that?” Andy asked. “I’m a bit hard of hearing these days.”
“It’s something an old troop commander of mine used to say. ‘Take a breath, look around, make a call.’ ”
“Well, you’ve ta
ken your breath. Now look around.”
Reece picked his head up, his eyes slowly taking in the plaques and mementos that adorned the walls commemorating the exploits of one of the best special operations units the world had ever known. He smiled.
“Thanks, Andy,” Reece said, moving off his stool, leaving his Woodford untouched on the bar.
CHAPTER 60
REECE STEPPED INTO THE early morning light, stopping briefly to shield his eyes from the sun as he fished out his Gatorz sunglasses and slid them into place.
Running toward one of the hangars used as a staging area for gear, he could see the [XXX] operators already inventorying gear and packing up for the journey back to Bragg.
“Christian,” Reece called, seeing Sergeant Major Holloway checking on his troops.
“Hey, buddy, hope you don’t mind us sliding out on you this morning. You looked like you didn’t need anyone disturbing you.”
“No worries. Listen, I just got a call from Vic at the Agency. He’s working some other options on this Russia mission. He wanted me to see if we could 1149 some equipment?” Reece said, mentioning the form that serves as a requisition and invoice document anytime something of value trades hands in the military.
“Really?” Christian said.
“Yeah, just want to make sure it’s all official. I’ll sign the 1149s and take custody of the gear. Should get it back to you in a couple weeks.”
“Reece, has anyone ever told you that you are the worst liar on the planet?”
Reece shrugged and raised his eyebrows.
“What, exactly, do you have in mind?”
“Just some parachutes, NODs, radios, and 416s?” Reece asked. “Oh, and to go with the chutes we’d need CPS thermal suits, heated Wilcox nav-boards, oxygen kits, basically anything necessary for a high-altitude parachute insertion in arctic conditions.”
