by Brian Parker
He smiled warmly at Olivia as they walked through her domain and she returned it. They’d had a good time together the other night and he was looking forward to picking up where they’d left off when he returned. He’d have to figure out a way around the company’s fraternization policy.
When the doors to the elevator slid shut, Grady asked, “Any idea why the old man wants to speak to me, Skipper?”
“Probably wants to tell you not to step on your dick. This deal is worth a whole lot of money for Havoc.”
Grady grinned back at his friend. That sounded exactly like something Bill Kizer would say.
The fifth floor of The Havoc Group’s headquarters building was just as elaborate and ornate, if slightly dated, as the lobby. Glossy black marble tile met them the moment they emerged from the elevator. It stretched across an expansive reception area filled with brown leather couches, real potted plants, and mannequins wearing the latest military gear and weaponry to highlight the martial nature of the organization.
“Been a while since I’ve been up here,” Grady mumbled.
“Lucky bastard. I have meetings up here twice a week.”
“You took the promotion,” he reminded the older man.
“My knees couldn’t take any more abuse and my wife told me she sure as hell wasn’t going to push me around in a wheelchair when we’re in our seventies.”
“So, next year, right?” Grady teased.
“Watch it, Junior. I’ve still got almost a decade to go.”
They walked across the reception area toward a young man who looked to be in his early twenties. He wore an expensive-looking suit while he stood at one of those standing desk contraptions. Grady had seen him coming or going in the downstairs lobby, but hadn’t spoken to the youth before.
“Shit,” Grady rumbled.
Pete stopped and turned toward him. “What?”
He indicated the clerk with a tilt of his head. “I just thought of that guy as a youth. Can you believe that shit?”
Pete snickered. “Seems I’m not the only one getting old around here.” He clapped a hand on Grady’s shoulder and said, “Come on, buddy. Let’s go talk to the boss.”
His mentor didn’t bother checking in with the guy at the desk. Instead, he just walked through the open doorway into Bill Kizer’s office with Grady in tow.
“Pete! Glad to see you got my message,” Bill said as way of introduction as he leaned a golf putter against the wall.
The co-founder of the company stood off to the side of his office where an alcove had been converted into a twenty-five meter putting green that was littered with golf balls at varying positions. Dressed in black slacks and a white button-down shirt without a tie, Bill looked every bit the CEO of a billion dollar company.
“Yes, sir,” Pete replied. “And I brought Grady Harper, like you asked.”
Grady shook Bill’s leathery hand. “Thanks for taking time out of your mission prep to come see me, Grady. You look good. I don’t see you nearly often enough.”
“Thanks, Bill. I try to avoid all this corporate stuff. You know, I’m a field kinda guy.”
“Yes, you are,” Bill Kizer agreed. “That’s why Thom and I hired you. I can’t stand kiss-asses. I like my boys to get out there, get the job done without any international incidents, and spread the good name of The Havoc Group.”
“How’s he doing?” Grady asked. Thom Banks, the company’s co-founder had been in hospice care, bedridden with abdominal cancer for the last four months.
“Eh. Thom’s a fighter, but he ain’t got much further to go until he reaches the finish line.” Bill walked stiff-legged to his desk and sat down. “Have a seat, fellas.”
Once they were seated, Bill called out loudly, “Jeremy?”
“Yes, sir?” the young man from outside his office said, appearing in the doorway.
“Can you close that door, please? Important stuff here.”
“Of course, Mr. Kizer.”
When the door was closed, Bill pushed a button on his desk and a low thrumming sound began to emanate from white noise generating devices placed at the corners of the room. Bill Kizer had grown up in the era of Russian spies around every corner and still believed in absolute secrecy. Grady on the other hand, spoke about team missions in public at bars, trusting in the anonymity that the locations provided. Maybe he should rethink that a little.
“Now that that’s out of the way,” the older gentleman stated, whirling his index finger around in the general direction of the white noise generators, “I’ve gotta tell you to be careful, Harper. I don’t trust Her Majesty’s Diplomatic Service as far as I can throw them.”
“Ah—” Grady started, but was cut off by Kizer.
“Those sonsabitches are some deceitful assclowns. They’re like our own State Department, but with an extra five hundred years of lies under their belts.”
“Then why are we taking the job?” Pete asked.
The old man turned a baleful eye to his operations officer. “Can you honestly tell me that you’d turn down a five million dollar contract for two weeks of work?”
Pete squirmed uncomfortably. “No, sir, but—”
“But nothing, Thompson,” Kizer huffed. “Our reputation is everything in this business. If our competitors learn that we turned down a contract to make things right after a person under our watch was murdered, then we’d be the laughing stock of PSCs. It’d be like blood in the water to a bunch of sharks. If something like that happened, those fuckers at KBR or Constellis would eat us alive. Thom and I have been rebuffing buyout offers for years. Something like that might force us to become a part of those mega corporations.”
“Bill, I’m sorry about the Kellogg disaster,” Grady said.
“Don’t be a goddamned fool, Harper. There ain’t shit you, or anyone else, could have done about that. Those North Korean bastards had that hit set up for a long time and the federal prohibitions on the use of counter-UAS technology within the continental United States made damn sure that there wasn’t anything we could do about it.”
Grady was confused, which was exactly why he didn’t play in corporate politics. “If there was nothing we could have done to stop it, then why—”
“The truth doesn’t matter, son,” Kizer said. “The only thing that matters is that Kellogg was murdered by a bomb while he was under our watch. That’s ammunition that can be used against us in future contract negotiations and during Department-level contract bids. The only way to save face is to take this contract and make it right with the Brits.”
“But you don’t trust them,” Pete stated, clearly not asking a question.
“Hell no I don’t. If they see anything that may begin to implicate them, they’ll tuck their tails between their legs and run on back home. Our job is to execute the contract without creating some type of international incident.”
“Destroying a secret facility inside the North Korean national border won’t be an international incident?” Grady asked.
“Oh, it’ll be an incident all right, but the wheels are in motion to make it look like somebody else did it.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Brits are going to frame the Russians,” Kizer said, pushing back from his desk and standing up.
Grady and Pete stood as well. “Oh, sit down, you two. I’m just getting a drink. Do either of you want something? I have Pappy Van Winkle’s bourbon and Suntory the Yamazaki 25 Single Malt.”
He didn’t know what the Japanese-sounding alcohol was, but Grady knew the bourbon was expensive, made more so by the rarity of it. “I’m a Woodford kind of guy. I’ve never seen those brands outside of the part of the liquor store where degenerates like me aren’t trusted to go.”
Kizer smiled. “Bourbon or the malt whiskey?” he said less formally this time.
“Bourbon, please,” Grady said as Pete asked for the same.
The old man reached below his bar into a small ice maker and scooped out a couple of pieces of ice for ea
ch glass, then straightened and poured three fingers of liquor into the glasses. He turned and set them on the desk across from each man, then turned, picked up his glass and sat wearily into his chair.
“It’s fucked,” Kizer began again. “The Brits are planning to send you from Japan into Vladivostok to make your way into the country from the extreme northeast.”
“Vladivostok?” Pete asked. “Why would they go through Russia?”
Kizer didn’t answer. Instead, he looked intently at Grady. “If you had unlimited resources, how would you infiltrate North Korea, Harper?”
Grady shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He’d been thinking on that topic constantly. The INFIL and EXFIL—arguably the two most important and dangerous parts of any military operation—were still not decided. Truth be told, he’d had zero interaction with the Brits, so he didn’t know what their plans were, and until just now, he’d thought the insertion method was up to him to choose.
“Ah, I’d considered a HAHO drop over the Sea of Japan,” he replied, referring to a High Altitude, High Opening parachute drop. The high opening would allow his team to maneuver their chutes for about thirty-five to forty miles, more than enough distance to make it past border security. “Exit the aircraft at fifteen miles off the coast, then hit a DZ about twenty miles from the coast.”
“Good idea,” Kizer nodded. “Is everyone in your team rated to do that?” Grady shook his head no. “What about wind shear over the water?”
Grady shrugged and brought the bourbon to his lips. Instantly, the pleasant aroma of well-worn leather hit his nose. When he tasted it, the bourbon was smooth and almost sweet, like vanilla and honey. “That’s good,” he remarked and then answered, “At that altitude, there’ll be wind shear anywhere we jump, so I’m not overly concerned with the wind, we’d cut through it and make the best of things when we finally land.”
“Except if it pushes you in the wrong direction, you’ll get blown back out to sea. A water landing seventy miles off the coast is not ideal,” the old man stated. “What else have you considered?”
“Two Zodiacs, launched from a fishing boat.”
“Too risky.”
“Crossing the Chinese border—”
“Besides the DMZ between the South and the North, the land route into China is one of the most heavily-guarded borders in the world. It’s not as bad on the Chinese side, but the North Koreans have several divisions stationed all along their side of the border to keep their people in.”
Grady sighed. “You think the Russian border is any better?”
Kizer nodded. “The North Koreans export thousands of workers into Russia. They end up in work camps, hundreds of miles from civilization. The location alone is enough of a deterrent against defection, though hundreds try each year.”
“So the border is more porous with the Russians?”
“Indeed,” Kizer replied. “The troops the Koreans have stationed there are the worst in the country. They receive the least rations and have the least support of any units on the Peninsula. That’s the route the Brits want you to go, but I don’t think they want to go that way simply because it’s the best option.”
“The setup,” Grady guessed.
“Yeah. There will be records of you coming through a border checkpoint from Russia. Once you accomplish your mission and EXFIL without capture, those border records will be examined. The fact that a group came through just a few days or a week before the assassination will point the fingers directly at Moscow.”
While Grady thought it was a smart move to keep suspicions as far away from the West as possible, he wasn’t sure about the British plan. If relations deteriorated between Russia and North Korea, things could easily spin out of control into a full-blown war. Good, let somebody else besides Americans die trying to get rid of the assholes of the world, he thought.
“So what do you want Grady and his team to do, Bill?” Pete asked.
Kizer shrugged. “Dammed if you do, and all that, right? I’m just giving you a head’s up about what I think the British government is planning when you get to Japan in a couple of days. Because of that Ambassador Kellogg nut roll, we have to take this contract, but I can’t, in good faith with my investors, let you or your team be on the payroll if this goes south.”
He paused and Grady wasn’t sure if he wanted them to reply to his comment. Neither of them did, so Kizer continued, “That brings up another question I have. Do you have any African Americans on your team?”
Grady nodded. “Chris McCormick is a black guy. Why?”
Havoc’s founder leaned away from the desk. “This is going to sound racist, Harper, but it isn’t meant to be—and frankly I don’t care if you think it is. You may want to consider replacing McCormick if your team is supposed to pass as Russian Spetznaz or whatever the Brits want you to pull off.”
“No,” Grady answered immediately. “He’s my guy and I’m not ditching him because he has the wrong skin tone. What about Akram Bazan? He’s Iraqi. Fuck, sir. What about me? I’ve got some Vietnamese in me, but—”
“There are plenty of Russians of Asian descent, especially out beyond Siberia. You’re fine, and Baz looks like any number of Kazaks or Uzbeks. He’s okay. I looked it up when I decided to speak to you about it. There are only about 40,000 ‘Afro-Russians’ as they call them in the country. They’re very few and far between, and the vast majority of them are mixed and light-skinned.”
“I’m not budging, sir,” Grady confirmed. “McCormick is one of the best damned mechanics I’ve ever seen. We are likely going to need his expertise over there. Without transportation, we are dead.”
“Fine, fine,” Kizer said, holding up his hands in surrender. “You’re the team leader who will be on the ground with the risk. I just want to you be aware of the situation.”
“Noted,” Grady replied, irritated. He took a sip of the exquisite whiskey to calm himself down.
The old man looked like he wanted to say something else, but stopped himself and gestured toward the alcove he’d been standing in with the putting green when they arrived. “Alright, you two. I’ve got important work to do, as you can see.”
Grady pushed himself up from his chair with his hands on his knees. Kizer, not standing, reached across the desk to shake his hand. “Get in and get out of there, Harper. I want a full report from you when you’re back.”
“Of course, sir.”
They turned to leave after Pete had also shook Kizer’s hand, but the old man stopped them. “And Harper?”
He turned back. “Yes?”
“I want a verbal report. Nothing goes on paper. Ever.”
“Yes, sir,” Grady acknowledged and turned back to the door.
THIRTEEN
* * *
WASHINGTON, DC
ONE WEEK BEFORE THE OUTBREAK
Grady walked into The Farmhouse and waived half-heartedly at Sean, who was managing the first floor bar. He and Sean had never seen eye to eye, and with three separate and distinct bars in one building, it was easy to avoid the man. He trudged up the stairs, feeling the pull of the years on his body, hoping that his favorite bartender, Rachel, was on the second floor and not the third.
He’d done an incredible amount of training in the five years that he’d been in the Army before getting RIF’d, but the twenty-plus years he’d been at The Havoc Group had been even harder. Two years in East Timor, a year in Afghanistan, Iraq for almost eight straight, and then back to Afghanistan for a couple more years before moving into a spot amongst the senior guys of the company. While he’d earned a ridiculous amount of money over that time, his body felt every dollar’s worth of pain.
The middle floor was nearly empty, so he slid into a seat at the bar. It was early still and the place would probably fill up, but for now, he could enjoy a nice drink without too much going on around him. Rachel wasn’t working tonight, so he ordered a scotch on the rocks from the bartender behind the counter.
Out of habit, he glanced around the
room, noticing two guys who hadn’t been there when he came up. One of them quickly glanced above Grady’s head to the television mounted behind the bar. He wasn’t sure if the guy had been watching him, or if he simply focused on Grady as he moved, which with the setup of the bar, was most likely the case. The two men looked to be Korean—again, not a big deal in a metropolitan city like DC, but it was a little unnerving given the details of his upcoming mission.
He stared pointedly at the one facing him. The man gradually became aware of Grady’s gaze and looked down from the television, locking eyes with him for just a moment. He ducked his head in acknowledgement and then turned to his partner. They spoke for a moment in Korean before pushing away from the table and retreating down the stairs quickly. Neither of them had ordered any drinks or food.
“You seen those guys before?” Grady asked the woman behind the bar.
“Who?” she replied, looking up from the workspace where she combined ingredients into a pitcher for the bar’s premade margarita mix.
“Those two guys that were just in here.” He pointed to the table where the Koreans had been sitting moments before.
“I guess I missed ‘em,” she said, returning to the task of preparing mixes for the night ahead.
“Hmpf,” Grady grumbled. He felt foolish for seeing ghosts in the shadows. It was Washington, DC—one of the most ethnically diverse cities in the world. Seeing two Korean men in a bar was commonplace and nothing to worry about.
He took a sip of his drink, but the taste had soured. Something didn’t feel right, regardless of how much he wanted to convince himself that it was normal.
“I’m actually gonna close out,” he told the bartender.
She glanced at her watch before looking at him. “Early night tonight.”
“Yeah, well, something’s come up,” he replied, slamming the rest of his drink.
“That’s a terrible waste,” she muttered, pointing to his empty glass of forty dollar scotch.
“I just realized I left the stove on,” he lied, pulling his wallet out of his front pocket.
