by Brad Taylor
Guy did so, glancing at his team leader, then at his 2IC. “What’s up? I know this isn’t about some bullshit ceremony. If you thought I was going to embarrass the Taskforce, you wouldn’t have sent me to Croatia to begin with.”
Kurt said, “Yes. It isn’t about the ceremony. You’re due to deploy tomorrow with your team, but I’m not sure you should. Make no mistake, this is my call. The men in this room feel otherwise.”
He saw Guy relax, realizing it wasn’t an ambush.
Guy said, “I’m good. I can operate. I’m on my game.”
Despite what he’d said earlier, George Wolffe went into attack mode. “Good? You took Decoy’s death last year pretty damn hard. You hit the bottle. Don’t tell me you didn’t. You were on the edge then, and you barely pulled out. You’ve done solid work since then, but now you’ve had another sacrifice. There’s no shame in taking a break. None at all.”
Decoy was the name of Guy’s roommate who’d been killed in action on a mission in Istanbul. The death had been hard for everyone, but especially for Guy.
Guy said, “What do you want me to say? That my brother meant nothing? That I’m a robot? People die in combat all the time. Jesus. We’d have never left the Normandy beach if everyone who’d lost a friend was sidelined.”
Kurt said, “This isn’t Normandy, and you know it. We operate in a world without mistakes. Period. You fuck up, and you bring us all down. I need every man at one hundred percent.”
He flicked his head toward Johnny and Axe. “They seem to think you’re okay. I do not. I’m thinking you stay home for this one. Get your head on right. Axe said you weren’t even going to the memorial in Montana, which raises a concern with me.”
Guy said, “Sir, I can’t go to the memorial. All I’ll get is questions like ‘Weren’t you in the military?’ and ‘What do you do now?’ I don’t need to go back to respect my brother. That’s for my family. It has nothing to do with how I feel. Shit, why are you even giving me an award?”
Kurt said, “Don’t go there. You earned it, even if you don’t want it. Don’t make this into something else. This is Taskforce business, not Oversight Council.”
Guy flared. “Those fat fucks have no idea of the sacrifice. None. Fuck them.”
The words settled, the air now still. Guy shifted in his chair, but nobody else moved. Softly, Kurt said, “I think I could use you here in headquarters. Doing research. Our analysts are the best in the world, but they could use an Operator’s touch. Show them what they’re missing. Show them what to look for.”
To Kurt’s surprise, Guy leaned forward and said, “I could do that. If you let me research something specific.”
Kurt looked at George, wondering where this was going. He said, “What?”
Guy pulled out the operational armband and held it up. “This. These are the fucks that killed my brother. And I want them. They’re terrorists, and it is Taskforce business. Look, I know they aren’t something that’ll destroy democracy or cause the downfall of a country. They aren’t high enough as a threat for the usual Taskforce envelope—but they killed my brother. Let me find them.”
Axe leaned forward and took the armband, analyzing the targets on it.
Sensing buy-in of his stand-down order but wary of where it would lead, Kurt held up his hands and said, “Guy, come on. We don’t do overt actions in a war zone. Yeah, you can research them, but we aren’t going to hunt Taliban in Afghanistan.”
Kurt saw Guy’s eyes gleam and knew he’d lanced a boil, the heat coming out like a fervent missionary. Guy wanted to believe. “They aren’t Taliban. Tim was hunting ISIS, and the fuckers in that target package aren’t Pashtun or Uzbek or anything else in Afghanistan. They’re Gulf Arabs, and they’re funding the fight. It’s right up our alley.”
Kurt glanced again at George, his plan of sidelining Guy now taking a different turn. George said, “Guy, okay, you want to use our assets for research, that’s fine. But understand we aren’t going after them. A couple of Arabs in Afghanistan doesn’t rise to our level. That’s an Afghanistan problem. A NATO problem. Not a Taskforce problem.”
Guy simply looked at him. George continued. “You understand that, right? Your brother was killed in combat, but we don’t react to that. We execute actions based on the national threat. Period. We aren’t in the vendetta business.”
Guy said, “I got that loud and clear. I understand. I’ll stand down for a spell and let these guys go have the fun.” He pointed at a wide-screen television behind Kurt’s head, tuned to cable news. “But that fat asshole had better be at my award ceremony.”
Kurt turned and saw Jonathan Billings, the secretary of state, exiting a building, followed by a scrum of men dressed in traditional Gulf attire.
He rotated back around and grinned. “Yeah, that ‘fat asshole’ will be there. He’s leaving Qatar tomorrow. He was doing something with investment in Greece. The ceremony isn’t for a week. I’ll make sure he’s here.”
Kurt should have reprimanded Guy for the slur, but Billings was an asshole. Out of the thirteen members in the Oversight Council—the only people read on to Taskforce activities in the entire US government—he was the single sticking point, constantly fighting any operation solely because he was afraid of the exposure. Afraid for his own skin, regardless of the deaths that were saved by Taskforce intervention.
In truth, Kurt understood the reticence. If Taskforce activities were exposed, it would make Watergate’s revelations look like they’d detailed shoplifting at the local 7-Eleven, but Billings constantly erred on the side of caution, preferring that the terrorist attack occur to prevent his own political demise. Kurt lived in the same world, and held the same fear of exposure, but despised Billings for his willingness to sacrifice American lives. It was a fine line, and as far as Kurt was concerned, Billings was always on the wrong side.
Kurt said, “So we’re good? You spend a spell here, and Johnny takes the team without you?”
Guy nodded and Axe said, “Holy shit. Look at the guy behind Billings.”
They turned, seeing a well-manicured Arab wearing traditional Gulf dress, a Rolex on his wrist and a blazing smile. Kurt said, “What about him?”
Axe held up the armband and pointed at a picture. “It’s this guy.”
Guy became agitated, leaning into the TV. He said, “It is him. He’s the one. I knew it wasn’t some fleabag Taliban hit. That guy killed my brother!”
Kurt said, “Hold on. Jesus. Calm down. That guy is Haider al-Attiya. His father is a bigwig with the Qatar Investment Authority. They have nothing to do with any attacks in Afghanistan. Billings is working with them on the Greek euro crisis. The kid is a rich Gulf Arab, with a silver spoon shoved up his ass.”
Guy said, “Look at him. Then look at the picture. It’s him.”
Kurt glanced at George, knowing he needed to stamp out wild conspiracy theories. George said, “Guy. Look at me. You’re giving me worry about your control. The man on TV is a respected member of the Qatari government. Don’t make this into something it’s not from a damn CNN clip. Don’t make me doubt you.”
Guy said nothing, still staring at the screen. Kurt leaned over and took the armband away from Axe. He said, “This man’s name is Abu Kamal.”
A wolf smile spread across Guy’s face. “Yeah, like he’d use his real name in Afghanistan. That’s him. And that’s his picture.”
Kurt balled up the armband and said, “Don’t go all Alex Jones on me here. Keep the conspiracies within the realm of the possible.”
Guy leaned back and said, “All right. Okay. I’m good with sitting out the deployment. I’ll stay and do a little help on the analytical side.”
Kurt said, “I think it would be better if you went home. For the memorial.”
“No. I already told you. Too painful. I’ll help out you guys here. Even if I can’t deploy. I’m good.”
&nb
sp; Kurt sized him up, trying to see if Guy was really as even-keeled as he professed. He wasn’t sure, but honestly, it wasn’t like the man had threatened to go postal. And he was a Taskforce Operator. Handpicked by Kurt himself.
Kurt said, “Okay. Then it’s settled. You help on the analytical side and take some time off. But you’ll see the psychs here. No questions asked. You can tell them whatever you want, but you’re seeing them.”
He saw Guy bristle and leaned forward, speaking barely above a whisper. “Guy. Trust me. They can help. I’ve walked your path. Talk to them. I don’t need to lose an Operator over something that can be helped.”
Guy let the words settle, then nodded. Johnny exhaled, glad it was over. He clapped Guy on the back and said, “Hey, if there’s anything to the Qatar thing, Pike will find it. He drew the card for the James Bond mission.”
Guy looked confused, and Johnny snapped back in embarrassment, stealing a glance at Kurt. Speaking of compartmented missions was a nonstarter, and he just had. Kurt waved it off and said, “Pike’s investigating some ties between Brazil and Qatar. Nothing to do with this.”
Kurt saw a wicked grin slip out. Guy said, “Pike’s on it? Oh yeah, if there’s a connection, he’ll find it. That guy’s a trouble magnet.”
4
I caught a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye and froze. This was the time. I was sure of it. Slowly, ever so slowly, I turned my head, looking at our kitchen counter. Sure enough, I saw the enemy, crouched and eating a crumb. The damn bane of my existence. A mouse that had been terrorizing my house with turds and torn-open bread loafs.
I slowly swiveled my head to the front door, listening. I heard nothing. Jennifer had an irrational soft spot for “innocent” foragers, but she was probably a good five minutes behind me on our run. Five minutes to crush the skeevy life out of that damn spawn of Satan, dispose of the carcass where she wouldn’t find it, and then act like I was just doing postworkout stretching. Plenty of time.
My hands and arms rigidly held just as they had been when I heard the noise, I rotated my head back. Like I did on operations, I calculated the available options. The little bastard was on the left side of the sink. He could run right, in which case he’d fall into the stainless-steel basin. Good for me. He could run left, in which case he’d round a corner and hit the plethora of cookbooks Jennifer had stacked on the counter, get behind them, and be gone. Bad. I needed to push him right.
I shuffled ever so slowly. The Satan-mouse continued crunching on his find. I got closer. I leaned over to a drawer and slowly pulled it open. I glanced inside, looking for a weapon. I saw a small mallet. Apparently used for some type of cooking, it had spikes on one side and a flat head on the other. The spikes would do. I pulled it out slowly, like I was playing that old game Operation and afraid to touch the sides of the drawer.
The mouse continued where he was, oblivious.
I inched forward and caught a flash of movement to my right. A blur that jumped to the countertop on the other side of the sink. It was Knuckles, our mange-ridden cat. The same one who for some reason didn’t give a shit about mice, and another rescue by Jennifer when the cat was found digging in our trash can.
I stood with the mallet raised, not daring to breath. The cat began licking her paws. Glancing at me with disdain. I thought very hard about using the mallet on her. I hated the beast, and the feeling was mutual. I was convinced that the only reason the mouse lived was precisely because that damn cat was spiting me. She brought all manner of dead things to my door, but now, with a mouse looking her in the eye five feet away, she does nothing?
I returned to my prey, inching forward ever so slowly. The mouse crept left, taking the bread with it. I analyzed again. It was moving into the corner and wouldn’t escape unless it made the turn behind the cookbooks, although my strike would be exponentially lengthened. The corner was better than nothing.
I advanced, watching the little bastard nibbling away, feeling triumph in my veins. No more would I be awakened worrying about a burglar because of a noise. No more would I find small turds in my shoes.
The front bell rang, and I could hear the door open. I froze, watching the mouse. He didn’t move. I turned around and saw Knuckles, my second-in-command.
What the hell. He isn’t supposed to arrive for three more hours.
He started to talk and I hissed. He shut up, giving me a look of confusion. I pointed the mallet. He grinned.
I crept closer and closer, getting within striking distance. I raised my weapon, about to close the deal, and heard, “Pike! Don’t you dare!”
The damn spawn of Satan escaped behind the cookbooks and I turned, now trying to explain the mallet.
Breathing heavily, having just finished her run and entered the door my traitorous teammate had left open, Jennifer said, “Tell me you weren’t going to bash that defenseless animal. Tell me your word means something.”
I said, “My word is my bond. I would never do such a thing.”
Okay, actually I said, “I . . . uhhh . . . I . . . wasn’t going to hurt it.”
She said, “Pike! Really? We got the live traps. We talked about this.”
Yeah, we had. She’d made me buy these stupid traps that capture the mouse alive, so we could return it to the “wild”—read someone else’s house—and they didn’t work for shit. We might as well have put out strips of cardboard on the floor and wished for Peter Pan to show up. The damn mouse had been able to take out every bit of bait and had never been caught. And now it never would be.
Knuckles picked up our mangy cat and started cooing, “Hey, Knuckles, how ya been.”
Yes, our beast was named after my teammate. It was supposed to embarrass him, but it backfired. The cat loved him and still hated me.
Jennifer stood in the kitchen doorway and glowered at me. Which, of course, made me feel like a heel. As she knew. I threw the mallet on the counter and said, “The mouse is a health hazard.”
Jennifer, a hand on her hip, shook her head and said, “Really? That’s the best you can come up with?”
Knuckles broke free, jumping down. Knuckles the cat, that is. Knuckles the man said, “I don’t know what just happened here, but I’m pretty sure it falls in line with my proscription against teammates getting involved with each other.”
Jennifer smiled, held out her arms, and said, “Sorry. It’s Pike’s fault. He’s been trying to murder that poor thing forever.”
Knuckles grinned and embraced her, saying, “I’d whack that little bugger in the head too.”
Jennifer pulled out of the embrace and he backpedaled, “But it’d mean I don’t get to be the date. Remember, I’m the sensitive one.”
She smiled at him, then glared at me. I said, “I can be sensitive too. I can. But I don’t look like a fashion-model hippie. That’s why he’s the date.”
Which was true. Knuckles would fit in on a billboard for Abercrombie & Fitch. Flowing black hair, chiseled features, and chiseled abs. Whenever we went out, the number of women who threw themselves at him made me sick, because I knew, in his heart, he was a rodent-smashing knuckle dragger. But he was smart enough to play it off with Jennifer. And handsome enough to pull off our assigned mission.
Not that I’m saying I wasn’t.
The mission itself wasn’t dangerous, but it was going to be fun. We were detailed to check out a meeting between some Qatari interests and a shipping magnate from Brazil. Apparently, the Brazilian wanted to start mining a rare earth element called neodymium and was looking for investors, because a deposit had been found in his country. Neodymium was something that created very, very powerful magnets, which wouldn’t be a concern, except that such magnets were used in every single bit of modern technology in existence, from wind turbines to cell phones to hybrid cars. Currently, the major producer was China, which caused its own problems when they shut down production on a whim, but now the
United States was wondering where Qatar was going by investing in the endeavor. Especially since we didn’t have a mine in our own country. We were dependent on foreign supply.
At the end of the day, it wasn’t a traditional Taskforce problem. We primarily dealt with terrorism. We targeted groups on the State Department’s official list of Foreign Terrorist Organizations, but our missions had been bleeding out into other areas for a couple of years because of our skill. And our ability to remain anonymous.
Two things made the beltway in Washington soil their pants when a paramilitary covert action was proposed: One—could they do it? And two—would it leak? On both counts, the traditional intelligence and military architecture had been beat up over the years. The CIA, focused primarily on intelligence collection, didn’t have the in-house talent for the intricacies of kill or capture missions, and the DoD, focused primarily on overt combat operations with an enormous overhead bureaucracy, didn’t have the ability to keep such missions secret. Put together, they had the expertise and the security if they’d quit fighting among themselves like schoolkids. Which is where my organization came in.
Created after the terrorist attacks on 9/11, off the books for anyone looking, we’d been given the charter to take it to the terrorists, but with strict left and right limits. Now folks in the know were broadening those limits. Using us to get things done that weren’t exactly within our charter.
I didn’t mind, because I’d argued for the blending of intel and direct action since forever, but I’d be lying if this mission didn’t cause me concern. Not because of the mission but because of the ramifications. Like case law, this would start defining who we were, and who we were was only as strong as who we were.
Replace people like me with something less, and the damn thing would be out of control. I’d lived through enough scandals in Special Operations to know that we were all only one man away from disaster.
