The Terminal List

by Carr, Jack

  “Well, it’s a big deal, sir. We need to get some questions answered for D.C. as soon as possible.”

  Reece nodded, resigned to take the blame he knew was his. He had always believed that as a leader you shared in the successes but owned the failure, and when successful you always pushed the credit down to the guys. They deserved it most. This was an unmitigated failure. His failure.

  “Mind if I change?” Reece asked.

  “No problem, Commander. I’ll be outside.”

  Reece took a deep breath and surveyed his room. It wasn’t what one would expect to find in Afghanistan. Modern and sterile, it stood in stark contrast to the world beyond its doors. Alone with his thoughts, Reece took another breath and located his clothes, op cammies covered in sweat and blood. He picked up his camo Crye Pro top and rubbed the blood-soaked material between his fingers, wondering which of his men the blood belonged to.

  Reece knew that if anything were really wrong with him they would have put him in the ER, which was in a different wing of the hospital, behind another set of doors and always ready for the inevitable next mass causality event, which had become an all-too-frequent occurrence in the counterinsurgency fight. His weapons and body armor were gone. Boozer would have taken care of them.

  “Ready,” Reece said, exiting the room.

  “Okay,” the NCIS man answered.

  This time he was not alone. Instead he was flanked by a large but portly uniformed Navy chief master-at-arms carrying a Beretta 92F pistol in a clean nylon holster. How the Italian gunmaker’s awkward 9mm handgun had replaced the Colt 1911A1 .45 to become the official sidearm of the U.S. armed forces, Reece could only guess.

  Great, more fake cops, he thought.

  Reece fell into step with Agent Bridger as they made their way down the hallway toward the exit. The duo could not have been more different. Bridger stood about five inches shorter than Reece’s six feet. His clean cargo pants and offset shirt were not stained by sweat, dirt, dust, grime, and blood like Reece’s. His clean-shaven, pale face was a stark contrast to the taller man’s stubble poking through the tough tanned skin of someone who had spent most of his life beyond the confines of an office.

  Reece and his entourage pushed through the two sets of double doors separating the medical world from the Afghan dust, which, no matter how much gravel the U.S. military continued to lay down, got into everything. Emerging into the blazing sun, Reece squinted his eyes and shielded them with his hand, realizing he hadn’t had time to glance at his watch and for some reason thought it was still night. Reece almost stumbled as a headache worse than any to date almost crippled him. Almost before he could react, it was gone again. What were these things? As Reece’s eyes adjusted to the light, Bridger motioned to a parked side-by-side quad, a military-looking version of a golf cart. Bridger climbed into the driver’s seat while Reece took the front passenger side. Their silent master-at arms “security” got in the back and they moved off toward what Reece assumed would be the base NCIS office.

  They blended in with the normal buzz of daily activity at Bagram Air Base, soldiers moving to vehicles getting ready for a mounted patrol with their Afghan partner force, airmen switching shifts at the airfield, a line of military and civilian contractors forming at the chow hall. Just another Wednesday afternoon in a war zone.

  As they cruised down Disney Drive, Reece couldn’t help but shake his head at the officers who had to return salutes about every five paces as they passed junior soldiers. Even in a combat zone, some brass felt it was important to maintain this piece of military decorum. It made him appreciate the sterile uniform he wore; no rank, which meant he didn’t need to return fifty salutes on his way to the PX or gym.

  Bridger slowed the vehicle and pulled up in front of a structure left over from the time the Russians invaded Afghanistan in 1979. The outside was chipped with bullet holes—whether from the Russian occupation or the current conflict, it was impossible to tell. Funny, to Reece it looked like the old Russian brig. Fitting.

  Bridger left the Navy chief outside and led the way into the building and down a hallway lined with offices, each with a similarly dressed agent typing away, sifting through papers or mumbling on the phone. Reece took it all in, noting which way the doors opened, which offices had windows, which agents were armed, until Bridger stopped at the last door at the end of the hallway.

  “Please wait here, sir,” he said before slipping inside.

  Reece was left alone, assuming he was probably being watched by a small video camera surveying the hall. He looked at the BOLO, or Be On the Look-Out, printouts on the wall. Most were former Afghan workers who did the jobs too lowly for Americans, namely emptying the port-a-potties that baked day after day in the heat of the Afghan summer. Reece had always thought they were some of the best sources of intel for the insurgency, having paced out every corner of the base multiple times to ensure correct schematics for incoming mortars and rockets.

  The door opened again and Agent Bridger nodded at Reece to come inside. It wasn’t a big room, though Reece noticed immediately that there were no windows and no other points of entry. Seated at a rectangular folding table was a man who didn’t offer his hand but introduced himself as Special Agent Dan Stubbs while holding out his badge and ID card. Bad cop.

  Reece took a seat across from Agent Stubbs while Bridger joined the man who was quite obviously his superior. Stubbs made a show of organizing some papers before sliding his thin reading glasses down the bridge of his nose to address the SEAL he had summoned in an obvious power play.

  It was much darker in this room than in the hall or adjoining offices. Reece’s eyes adjusted once again while casually continuing to scan the room. A large stack of papers sat in front of Agent Stubbs and a microcassette recorder lay next to that. A video camera was set up in one corner on a tripod but appeared to not be recording.

  Agent Stubbs was one of those guys who could be forty or sixty. His hair was buzzed so it was hard to tell its exact color. His double chin was pronounced enough to notice and, though he did not stand, it was obvious he had a belly not accustomed to daily PT. He wore a black polo shirt under a cheap-looking dark suit coat. Something about his demeanor suggested past military experience, though Reece was skeptical as to the type.

  “Commander Reece,” he began in an official-sounding voice while pushing a piece of paper across the table, “before we begin, please acknowledge your rights and sign below.”

  Reece knew better than to ever sign anything for a federal agent without an attorney present. He also knew that his men were dead and that it was his responsibility. He signed the paper and pushed it back across.

  “We are not video-recording this interview, Commander.”

  First lie, thought Reece as he nodded in acknowledgment. Reece knew that the inoperable video camera in the corner was a prop, as was the microcassette recorder on the table. The entire interview was being audio- and video-recorded by a microphone and camera hidden somewhere in the room. The prop camera was to put the subject psychologically at ease while the microcassette recorder would be used at certain times to go “off the record,” a provision that, of course, did not exist.

  “I am going to start this recorder for my notes, if you don’t mind,” continued the fat man. Reece nodded again, more to acknowledge the theatrics of the scenario than to specifically give his consent for the record.

  Stubbs made a show of starting the recorder and placing it back on the table. “This is Special Agent Daniel Stubbs of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. Time,” looking at his off-brand analog watch, “12:56 p.m., Wednesday, June fourteenth, 2017. I am here with Special Agent Robert Bridger to interview Lieutenant Commander James Reece, Troop Commander, SEAL Team Seven, concerning mission number 644: Odin’s Sword. Commander Reece, take us through the events surrounding Odin’s Sword.”

  Reece started from the receipt of mission and went through the planning process. It had been a TST, or time-sensitive target, meaning it
was a fleeting opportunity that needed to be acted upon immediately. The intelligence had come from a single source, which would normally disqualify it from consideration until it was more fully developed. Reece always validated intelligence across disassociated sources: two HUMINT sources coupled with SIGINT. Traditional and technical methods overlapping to ensure the target was viable and not an entity using America to settle a personal or political grudge. When Reece had pushed back to his next-echelon command he had been told in no uncertain terms that this was national-level intelligence, which was code for he was not authorized to know where it came from. Reece was cleared for Top Secret/Sensitive Compartmented Information, which meant he could be read into Special Access Programs on a need-to-know basis. Taking your men into battle was definitely need-to-know in Reece’s book.

  Reece’s troop had been operating out of an outstation in Khost, bordering Pakistan’s Federally Administered Tribal Areas near the town of Miram Shah, a hotbed of insurgent activity as well as a safe haven for terrorists and their enablers. Ever since the high-profile killing of Osama bin Laden in Pakistan, cross-border operations were a rarity, and the enemy knew it. Setting up in Khost, developing an indigenous intelligence network, working with host nation partner forces, and kinetically hitting the ratlines that moved people, weapons, and drugs between Afghanistan and Pakistan were the order of the day on this deployment. That is why the alarm bells started ringing when the TST came down the pike; no one knew that area as well as Reece and his Team. They had been working it for the past five months. None of their human networks or technical intelligence pointed to a Taliban compound in their area of operations. The Taliban were too smart for that. Their senior people could live and direct operations with impunity from the Pakistan side of the border. Something was off.

  Reece didn’t mention his call to Lieutenant Colonel Duke Bray, the Army Special Forces commander of the Special Operations Task Force of which Reece’s unit was a part. Duke Bray was a Special Forces legend and the best soldier one could ever hope to meet. He had been one of the first into Afghanistan after September 11, 2001, part of Fifth Group’s famed Triple Nickel, riding horses in support of the Northern Alliance offensive that retook Kabul in days rather than the months predicted by the talking heads at home. He had crossed paths with Reece many times over the years and both men had the utmost respect for one another. Over their private secure video teleconference, Reece could be as blunt as he wanted with the man he considered both a friend and a mentor.

  “What the fuck, sir?” Reece had asked when he knew both were behind closed doors and in front of their computers.

  “I know, Reece. This is shit. I’ve never seen this, well, not in a long time. I told CJSOTF to fuck off and that we were not doing it. What’s crazy is that it wasn’t their intel people pushing it. It’s national-level intel and you know what that means.”

  Reece knew that meant CIA and it meant strategic-level intelligence, not the tactical kind they developed on the ground. This had to be important to come down so quickly from that high up.

  “Reece, I called in a couple favors at Langley to see if I could get some color on this. Nobody’s heard of it. How does the target package look to you?”

  “It looks great. That’s why I’m questioning it. I’ve never seen anything this thorough from that high up. And we’ve never even heard of this targeted individual, but there is sure a lot of intel to back up that he’s a serious player with connections to Pakistani ISI,” Reece said, referring to Pakistan’s intelligence service.

  “What did Stevens have to say?” Reece asked, referring to the colonel commanding the CJSOTF one level above Bray.

  “You know Stevens, he’s a good enough officer. Wants to do the right thing but he’s a career guy. He said he had the personal guarantee from Tampa that this was a high-priority mission that has to go tonight.”

  Tampa was the headquarters of both Central Command, in charge of U.S. military operations in the Middle East, and the Special Operations Command, which has the lead on all special operations worldwide.

  “Wonder who guaranteed them?” Reece wondered aloud.

  “I don’t like it, Reece,” Bray continued, shaking his head. “Wish I was down there with you, Commander, but I’ll make sure you have all assets of the Task Force at your disposal tonight. Your op will be the only game in town.”

  “Thanks, sir. A dedicated AC-130 and a Pred with Hellfires would be nice.”

  “My staff already has them dedicated to your mission.”

  “Good copy, sir. We better get to work. Thanks for the support.”

  “Godspeed, Commander.”

  To Reece’s surprise, Agent Stubbs did not dig into any of the oddities of where the intelligence originated. It was almost as if that were not even an issue.

  Interesting.

  As hard as it was, Reece recounted the events once on the ground. The offset infiltration. The reports of nothing moving on target. The explosions. The death.

  When he was finished, Stubbs’s first question was not even about the mission. Instead he removed a paper from the stack in front of him and pushed it across the table to Reece.

  “Is this from your email, Commander?” he asked.

  Reece made no attempt to disguise the anger in his eyes as he looked back up at Agent Stubbs and then over to a nervous-looking Agent Bridger.

  “Maybe a better question is, what the fuck are you doing reading my personal emails?”

  “I will ask it again, Commander: is this from your email?”

  One of the first rules in an interrogation is to always know the answer to the questions before you even ask, and this was most definitely not an interview; it was an interrogation.

  “This is private email correspondence between me and my wife.”

  “Not only with your wife, Commander, but with members of academic institutions about ongoing military operations in Afghanistan.”

  Reece almost couldn’t control his eye roll. “You mean Dr. Anna Scott at Naval Postgraduate School and Dr. David Elliot at Johns Hopkins? Subject matter experts in insurgencies and international relations?”

  “What did you mean by this highlighted sentence here?” Stubbs asked, ignoring Reece’s questions and pointing to a section of the printed email now in front of Reece. “It says, ‘I question whether the tactical goals even support our national strategic vision.’ ”

  “It means exactly what it says.”

  “And how about this one here?” Agent Stubbs asked again. “Well, let me read it for you, you wrote to Anna Scott on April ninth and I quote, ‘I couldn’t launch a mission today to apprehend a jaywalker with the same amount and quality of intelligence with which we invaded Iraq.’ End quote.”

  “Well, Stibbs,” Reece began, intentionally mispronouncing his interrogator’s name, “Anna Scott is a dear friend and one of the world’s leading authorities on insurgencies and counterinsurgencies. She’s spent much of her life in the field immersed in the complexities of revolution, unlike those actually dictating policy.”

  Stubbs’s hand reached for the microcassette recorder and pressed the stop button. Reece knew immediately what was coming. “Commander Reece, off the record, what is your relationship with Dr. Scott?”

  Unbelievable.

  “Strictly professional, Stibbs. You should know that from reading all my personal emails.”

  “I see,” pressing record on the recorder again, “and how do you explain actively promoting assassinations as an active-duty naval officer?”

  “What are you talking about?” Reece asked incredulously.

  “Back in 2014 you emailed Dr. David Elliot and suggested targeted assassinations as a viable government policy in your capacity as an officer, which is a violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”

  Reece looked back and forth between the two NCIS agents across from him. It would almost have been comical had it not been so serious.

  Reece had had many discussions with subject matter e
xperts in the field of warfare. He felt it was his duty as an officer to constantly study his profession, resist groupthink, question assumptions, and seek out the most knowledgeable people he could across the industry to ensure he was going into combat as prepared and well equipped as possible. That was what he owed the men under his command. It is what he owed their families, the mission, and the country.

  “I’m done talking with you two idiots. Am I free to go?”

  “Don’t make plans to go home just yet,” Stubbs said, leaning back in his chair and exposing his well-nourished midsection. “It is going to take us a while to sort through this mess. You are officially under investigation for subversive activities, disclosure of sensitive information, and violation of Article 13: conduct unbecoming an officer.” Stubbs voiced all this without much emotion, as if running on autopilot.

  Reece stood slowly. Bridger looked like he wanted to be anywhere except for right where he was. Stubbs put the emails back into the stack. As he stood, Reece’s hand instinctively went to the back right section of his hip, where he always carried his issued SIG P226 9mm pistol. He couldn’t help but think that had it been about 150 years earlier, the government would be looking for two new federal agents.

  CHAPTER 4

  DR. PETER O’HALLORAN EXUDED the confidence of a man at the top of his profession. In the weeks following September 11, 2001, Dr. O’Halloran turned the reins of his highly successful spine surgery center over to his team of surgeons and joined the Army to do what he felt was his duty.

  As one of the best spine surgeons in the country, Peter had performed procedures on everyone from professional athletes at the height of their careers to aging politicians looking for a reprieve from constant nerve pain. He knew that men would be gravely wounded in this fight and he wanted to put his ample skills to work to keep those men alive. A waiver was quickly granted to bypass the age restrictions and, much to the dismay of his wife and children, Dr. Peter O’Halloran soon found himself Lieutenant Colonel O’Halloran of the U.S. Army Reserve, spending more time in uniform in Iraq and Afghanistan than in his spine clinic in La Jolla, California.