by Brad Taylor
All of the Taskforce operators were invited to the unit by word of mouth through the Special Mission Units of the Department of Defense or the Clandestine Service of the CIA. As such, we didn’t need to run a full-on selection process. We let the SMUs handle that, then picked the cream of the crop. Even so, every meat eater loves a challenge and wants to feel like they did something to earn admittance, so the commander of the Taskforce had invented Assessment.
It was basically a seven-day gut check, starting out in the RTL—the Resistance Training Laboratory—where the prospective candidate resists interrogation for a couple of sleepless nights.
If he succeeds in not giving anything away, the candidate is given a mission that involves obtaining a package from a contact. From there a scavenger hunt from hell begins, all with a hostile security force trying to capture him or retrieve the package. If he does everything right, he continues. If he screws up, he goes back to the RTL, or The Hole, as the guys called it, and starts over. Knuckles was asking if maybe having Jennifer start over was just cruel.
I was thinking about my answer when I heard Knuckles say, “I don’t fucking believe it.”
“What?” I said, running around the desk to see the monitor for myself. My face split into a smile.
Jennifer had just entered the building.
Inside his office, Colonel Kurt Hale grinned when he heard the radio transmission from North Carolina. As the commander of the Taskforce, he ordinarily didn’t pay much attention to any single evolution of Assessment, mainly because he’d already hand-selected the men who would try out. He knew they’d do fine and had only invented the damn thing to give them some bragging rights for leaving their previous units. This assessment, however, was a little different. This one had someone who was really trying out, with a ton of people hoping she would fail. Kurt didn’t hold that same hope.
Two years ago, Pike had been one of the best operators the Taskforce had ever seen—until his family had been brutally murdered while he was on an operation. Blaming himself because he’d volunteered for the deployment, he’d fallen apart. Kurt had tried to help him, but Pike had continued self-destructing until he posed a threat to the very existence of the Taskforce. A classified organization operating outside the bounds of U.S. law, it couldn’t risk having a loose cannon as an operator. At Pike’s request, Kurt had cut him free.
A year later, after Pike had averted a terrorist threat, Kurt asked him to return to the Taskforce, but he had refused. Instead, he had broached a crazy scheme of starting a business with Jennifer as a partner. A business that the Taskforce would use to facilitate their operations. It would be just another cover organization, like the myriad of other ones the Taskforce used on a daily basis—from corporate air charters to shell boating companies—but with a distinct difference; this one would be run by operators. Kurt had thought the idea of a cover organization with a full-on operator at the helm had merit, and had agreed.
Once that happened, Pike had sprung the Assessment request. Kurt had drawn the line at that, but Pike was relentless. Kurt had finally given in, and Pike had spent the better part of a year teaching Jennifer a host of skills to get her ready.
At first, the men had all just grumbled. When Pike finagled her into the same hostile environment tradecraft course that the men attended, the grumbling got louder. Teaching her some hand-to-hand was one thing. Pushing people out of the way so she could do HETC was something else. When he began to teach her to shoot, it grew into a howl. If she makes it through the next ten minutes, people are going to scream like a baby. Kurt smiled at the thought, glancing up as a man entered his office.
“What’s going on, Mike?”
Kurt knew Mike was tracking the Assessment just like he was, probably down to the second.
“You tell me, sir. Where’s Pike’s protégé?”
“She made it to the house of pain. The last hurdle.”
“Jesus. Pike must have swayed it in her favor.” When Mike saw Kurt scowl, he backpedaled. “Just kidding. I know it’s legit…. Uhh… You got a call on the unclassified military line in the Ops Center.”
“Who is it?”
“Some colonel from the embassy in Cambodia. Want me to transfer it?”
“Yeah. Go ahead.”
Kurt picked up the phone, wondering who on earth would be calling him from Cambodia. The line was rerouted from the Pentagon, so whoever was calling was dialing Kurt’s cover job as a staff weenie in the J3 Special Operations Division of the Joint Staff. It could be anybody with a Pentagon phone book.
He identified himself and asked how he could be of assistance. After the first sentence, he forgot all about Assessment.
6
J
ennifer stopped in the doorway to let her eyes adjust to the gloom of the sleazy roadside saloon. It wasn’t that impressive. Just a large open area with a smattering of chipped tables and the overpowering smell of stale beer. To her front was a cheap pine bar that ran down the length of the room, dead-ending into the wall. The ceiling had no tiles, just open rafters made of two-by-fours. The wall behind the bar didn’t even extend to the top, looking like it had been made as an afterthought, with a four-foot gap between it, the roof, and the room beyond. Not counting the bartender, there were five other people in the bar. All men. And all staring at her. One of these guys should be the contact. She waited for a pregnant second, hoping someone would approach. She really didn’t want to use her vetting phrase on a stranger. When nobody stood up, she went up to the bartender and got his attention. He looked at her like he’d just wiped something off his shoe, but came over.
“You lost?”
“Uh… I don’t think so. I’m looking for someone.”
The bartender simply stood mute. One of the men ambled over and took a seat next to her. Shit. I’m going to have to say it. Stupid, stupid Taskforce humor.
She glanced at the man on the barstool, then back at the bartender. Swallowing hard, she said, “Maybe you can help? I’m looking for an inbred redneck with shit for brains?”
She immediately knew neither was the contact when both of their eyes went wide, no recognition of the bona fides at all.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. It just popped out.”
The man on the barstool stood up. “You think that’s fucking funny, cunt?”
“No, no,” Jennifer said, her mind racing to spit out an excuse. “I was told I was playing a prank by a guy outside. He said you’d laugh. I’ll go get—”
Before she could finish her sentence, the man punched her hard above the right temple, snapping her head back and causing an explosion of light. He clamped both hands onto her neck and began to squeeze, bending her over backward. The strike rattled her for a split second, long enough to feel her windpipe start to crush. She felt a sliver of panic and uselessly tried to pry his hands away. She began thrashing violently, the fear growing until it blotted out any logical thought. Realizing she was about to pass out, she forced the panic away and focused on what she needed to do.
Rotating to the right, she raised her arm and brought it straight down against his elbow joints, breaking the stiff-arm. Sliding forward, she used her weight to fold his arms, getting within striking range of her attacker. She began to see sparks of light, the man’s grip relentless. She raised her right leg, lodging her foot against the top of the patella on his left knee. She shoved outward with all of her might, praying it would crack the hold.
The strike broke the support of the man’s knee, triggering it to buckle and causing him to blessedly let go of her neck as he fell off balance to the floor.
Jennifer fell with him, scrambling to wrap up his wounded knee in a leg lock. She grabbed his ankle and brought it to her chest while extending his leg. Rotating her legs over his body, she leaned backward, thrusting forward with her hips against his knee while twisting the ankle, desperately trying to damage him enough so that he couldn’t catch her when she ran. If done right, she knew he wouldn’t be catching anything
without help for the rest of his life, but she was out of position. She couldn’t get the leverage to break something and was about to be in a stalemate, unable to let go but also unable to hurt him. She heard him yelling from the pain and slapping the ground over and over, the noise finally penetrating her survival instincts.
Oh my God. He’s tapping out. He’s Taskforce. She let go and warily rose. The man slid backward, remaining on the ground.
She backed up a step, then turned to run out of the bar, only to be confronted by the remaining five men, all advancing toward her.
In the room next door, I lost control when Jennifer got whacked in the temple, jumping up and yelling at Turbo.
“What the hell is that? You know the rules. No head strikes to the candidate. What’s he doing?”
Turbo backed up, recognizing that I’d kick his ass all over the room in the next few seconds. No question of whether I could or not.
“Whoa. Wait. I know… Cleary just gets emotional. He’s a little pissed to be supporting this. You know head shots happen every single evolution.”
I advanced on him, my fists balled up. “Not on the first fucking punch. Maybe in the heat of rolling around, but he deliberately hit her.”
Knuckles yelled from behind me, “Let it go, Pike. Don’t stop the evolution. She’s doing okay.”
Still glaring at Turbo, I said, “What do you mean?”
“He tapped out.”
Turbo and I both said, “What?” and ran over to the monitor.
I saw the remaining five men advancing on her and went ballistic again. “What the fuck are they doing? Jesus Christ!”
The house of pain was the final hurdle to Assessment, a beat-down where a candidate had to fight six people and win. Not six at a single time, though. The candidate was supposed to take on one, then two, then the final three. Of course, after the week of hell he had been through, there was no way he could defeat six operators just as good if not better than him. We didn’t expect him to. As long as he kept fighting, kept plugging away, he’d eventually win. It was a little secret only exposed after he was through, and then only if he supported Assessment in the future—when he got his instructions as cadre. Make no mistake, though, it wasn’t a gimme. The candidate had to use every skill he possessed to survive, with the cadre pushing him to the limits.
In this case, I didn’t think the men were going to let Jennifer do that. They were going to end this right now. Teach her a lesson, five on one.
I started toward the door that led into the bar area, intent on stopping the fight. Knuckles grabbed my arm.
“Don’t do it. You don’t know what’s going to happen. You stop it now, and it’s over. Let her go. They aren’t going to permanently hurt her, and we both know Turbo’s team screwed with the conditions.”
I glared at Turbo for a second, then sat back down. “Yeah, well, I screwed with the conditions as well.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I picked this place for a reason. It favors Jennifer. She has something those guys don’t.”
“What’s that?”
“She’s a damn monkey.”
All of the training I had given Jennifer was for one reason: to give her an edge to escape if she found herself in trouble. The Taskforce guys all groaned at the shooting and hand-to-hand, but they missed the point entirely. She was learning the skills to survive, not to replace them. Last year I had seen firsthand how someone could get wrapped up in a dangerous situation no matter what the reason for being there. If Jennifer had had the skills then that she did now, a lot fewer people would have died.
Here in the bar, she didn’t need to beat all six men like a male candidate. She just had to get away from them. I knew she’d figure out how—if she had enough time.
I watched Jennifer throw a chair at the group of men and race to the door leading outside, a thermos on a sling bouncing against her back. I knew the door was locked.
They closed in on her as she violently ratcheted the knob. At the last second, she ran to the other end of the room, the men right behind her. She reached the wall and sprang up, planting one foot and pushing off. She clawed the air for a rafter, but came up short, landing on the other side of the men.
That a girl. “She’s found a way out. She’ll be here shortly.”
“What are you talking about? All she’s doing is running in circles. They’ll catch her sooner or later.”
I pointed to the gap between the roof and the wall, the bar on the other side. “She’ll be coming through that hole in about a minute.”
Jennifer hit the ground running, putting a table between her and the men. They slowly circled around. When she had two on each side and one in the middle, she leapt up on the table and split the gap, jumping full force into the single man. They hit the ground together, with her springing to her feet and running to the bar. We watched her leap onto the bar and race to the end, where she repeated her wall-jump maneuver. This time, she was high enough to snag a rafter.
She began going hand over hand toward the gap. The men saw what she was doing and tried to block her, one jumping up on the bar himself and swatting at her legs. Without breaking speed, she flipped underneath the rafter, swinging her legs up and over it, until she was crouched on top. She moved with astonishing speed on the two-inch beam, scuttling right to the gap.
I saw her poke her head through the hole, then fall to the ground on our side of the wall. She advanced to the table warily, recognizing me and Knuckles but unsure if that was good or bad. Our faces were stoic.
She didn’t sit down. Without fanfare, she said, “I’m looking for some inbred rednecks with shit for brains.”
I replied, “I can understand why. They can be quite handsome.”
The correct answer caused her to visibly sag. She pulled the strap over her head, set the thermos in front of me, and collapsed into a chair, her head coming to rest on the table.
I leaned over and rubbed her shoulder. “Congratulations. You’re done. I was beginning to worry about our trip to Angkor Wat. Looks like you get to go after all.”
She looked up, but said nothing, the exhaustion on her face giving me a pang of guilt. And a little pride.
“How’d you get past Radford?” I asked.
She smiled, the blood between her teeth and gums making her look feral. “He slapped the hell out of me. Just about knocked me out. I started faking, crying and blubbering, and that chauvinistic son of a bitch actually turned his back to me and walked away.”
I glared at Turbo, who was studiously studying a computer monitor. “Where’s Radford now?”
“Unconscious in the rental car. You might want to get a medevac to him. His arm’s out of socket.”
That’s one I won’t have to deal with.
Turbo came over and shook her hand, which must have pained him, but not as much as the pain I was going to bring to him in the next few minutes.
“Jennifer, why don’t you go clean up,” I said. “There’s a trailer out back. I’ll come get you in a minute.”
When she was gone, I said, “Turbo, go into the bar and line up your team. I’d like to talk to them about following instructions.”
Turbo looked at the door, then back at me. “Uhh. I can handle that.”
“No, I don’t think you can. If they’d like to put on protective gear, I don’t care, although they didn’t give Jennifer the same chance.”
He looked a little incredulous. “You think that piece of ass is worth taking on my whole team by yourself?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Knuckles scowl at the verbal slight, then slowly rise like a wraith. That’s got to look scary.
He said, “I want the asshole that hit her first.”
7
H
assan Rafik booted up his Skype account and clicked the call button for a cell phone in Montreal. When a man answered, all Rafik said was, “Call me back on your computer.” Five minutes later, he was hooked up via voice-over Internet protocol throug
h his laptop. It was completely unsecured, but with the enormous amount of digital traffic on the Internet, it might as well have been encrypted by the NSA. There was no way the Great Satan would be able to randomly pluck this call out of cyberspace, even if they were already listening to Rafik’s cell phone. Discovery would have to be luck because Rafik changed locations—and thus his IP address—every time he called. He had the contact do the same. It was like having a cell phone that changed numbers every time he dialed, thwarting the ability to monitor it.
The contact gave Rafik good news. All of the cells had managed to penetrate their respective electric company’s security and plant the virus. It had not gone without incident, however. He relayed what had happened to Keshawn.
Rafik frowned. “Yet you said all were successful. How did he prevent the discovery from getting out?”
The contact paused for a minute, then said, “He killed him. Don’t worry, though. Keshawn knew what to do with the body. He’s experienced in law enforcement techniques. It’ll look like a robbery in a poor section of Baltimore. One near another substation that the man had visited earlier in the day, so it fits.”
Rafik grinned. He felt like shouting in triumph. Al Qaeda had been trying for years to recruit members who didn’t look, talk, or act Arabic. Men who could easily pass into the lands of the Far Enemy and wreak havoc. All that had gotten them so far was a couple of fat Americans who created a lot of press but couldn’t fight their way out of a baby’s crib.
Rafik had taken a different tack. Instead of trying to get non-Arabs to come to al Qaeda, he went to them. The idea came to him when he learned that Richard Reid, the so-called shoe bomber, and José Padilla, the so-called dirty bomber, had both converted to Islam in prison. Planting a Muslim chaplain in the New York prison system, he began to recruit in earnest, using America’s own freedom of religion against it.
