by Carr, Jack
“That’s where the nondisclosures come in, gentlemen. SECDEF has suspended Posse Comitatus through an executive order signed by the president. We will be operating on U.S. soil, using all assets at our disposal to kill or capture our target.”
“What? Can she even do that? Why us? Why not just use HRT?” the SEAL asked, using the acronym for the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team.
“SECDEF wants us . . .” Strain hesitated. “She wants us because, according to her intelligence sources, Reece’s next target is the president.”
Eyebrows went up around the table as the gravity and complexity of the situation unfolded before them.
Fred paused, scanning the room. “If anyone has a problem with going after this target or operating on U.S. soil, let me know now.”
Nobody moved.
“Okay then. He’s in a cabin in the mountains of New Hampshire. I don’t know how they know this. The target package is slim. It says single-source HUMINT with no technical corroboration. Like I said, this is a weird one. There is a bird waiting on us at NAS Oceania,” Fred continued, referencing the naval air station down the road from base. “We need to be airborne in an hour. We will cover specifics when we land in Vermont. From there we will make our way into New Hampshire. There is no time to more fully vet this or let it develop. SECDEF wants this done yesterday, and we are the force of choice. Any questions?” Fred looked from one operator to the next.
Fred regretted the next words that came out of his mouth as soon as he said them. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to do it.” What a dumbass thing to say, he thought.
“Smitty, a word please,” Fred said as the crew got up to grab their gear and head to the airfield.
“Yeah, Senior?” Smitty asked as soon as the door was closed.
“Smitty, you are one hell of an operator, and I’d want you by my side going through a door anytime.”
“But . . . ?”
“But, you won’t be coming with us on this. And,” the Team chief quickly added, “before you protest or say anything else, this is not your decision. I am ordering you off the mission. I can’t have guys that know and respect Reece on this op. I know you understand.”
Smitty tried to hide the relief on his face. He was conflicted like never before. He couldn’t let his Team down, nor could he go after the man he looked up to as the best combat leader he had ever worked with, someone he would follow into the fires of hell. Taking the decision out of his hands was the sign of a good leader.
Smitty simply nodded, bowed his head, and walked from the room without his usual energy.
Fred took a breath. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered to no one but himself. Taking another deep breath, he strode from the room to ready his gear.
CHAPTER 64
The Pentagon
Arlington County, Virginia
THE STORY PREEMPTED EVERY network broadcast and monopolized the cable news channels. Off-the-record quotes from “senior officials” at the Department of Defense were used to tease the story, ensuring massive coverage. Anchors gave viewers a countdown to the prime-time press conference that would be given by Secretary of Defense Lorraine Hartley, while reporters broadcasting from the dozens of satellite trucks crowded in front of the gates of the Naval Amphibious Base Coronado referenced reports of a “domestic terrorist” being responsible for the blast that killed decorated SEAL Admiral Gerald Pilsner.
At 8:00 p.m. Eastern Time, Secretary Hartley strode confidently toward the blue lectern at the Pentagon in a somber black suit. Her face exuded competence and control, a steady hand during these tragic times. Never let a tragedy go to waste. All that was missing from the scene, she thought, was the Presidential Seal on the podium.
“My fellow Americans,” she began in a voice devoid of her usual New England accent. “It is with great sadness that I address you today to report yet another case of violent extremism in this great nation. This week a respected California businessman’s family was held hostage by a domestic terrorist who forced the man to wear a suicide vest onto a military installation. This act of terrorism took the life of a great American hero and the commander of all U.S. Navy SEALs, Admiral Gerald Pilsner. Tragically, the admiral’s killer was one of his own SEAL officers, a disgraced extremist veteran who faces criminal charges for his negligence as a commander in combat, negligence and incompetence that lead to the deaths of over sixty SEALs, Army Rangers, and Army pilots and air crewmen. It was, and is, the worst special operations disaster in American history. The man responsible for this unprecedented disaster is Lieutenant Commander James Reece. It is thought that his guilt over the ambush in Afghanistan drove him to target Admiral Pilsner and it is suspected that he is also responsible for several other murders over the past weeks in Southern California, including the atrocious slaying of a peaceful Muslim cleric and another vicious killing just this week in the Florida Keys where he took the life of another American hero, U.S. Navy Captain Leonard Howard.”
Secretary Hartley paused for dramatic effect, the silence broken only by the shutter clicks of the print photographers’ cameras.
“Lieutenant Commander James Reece is at large and should be considered well armed and extremely dangerous. A nationwide law enforcement effort to locate and arrest him is already in progress but, unfortunately, the labors of our brave men and women in law enforcement are being hampered by extremists on the right who have put so-called privacy concerns over the safety of Americans from the scourge of terror. I have asked the president to sign an executive order enacting various emergency measures necessary to catch Mr. Reece and prevent others like him from murdering their fellow citizens. I also call on Congress to act swiftly to pass the bipartisan Domestic Security Act so that we can all live safely and without fear. Since 9/11 we have looked outward for the threats of terror. This xenophobic focus on so-called foreign terrorists has caused us to overlook the true threats to liberty brewing here at home. Extremists such as Timothy McVeigh, Randy Weaver, Eric Rudolph, and James Reece should be the real targets in our fight against terror. I stand ready to defend this nation from all enemies, foreign and domestic, and with your help, we will bring James Reece to justice, or we will bring justice swiftly down upon him. I’ll take your questions.”
An attractive female reporter from one of the networks stood and was recognized for a question spoon-fed to her earlier by Hartley’s Press Secretary.
“Secretary Hartley, is it true that Commander Reece’s pregnant wife and daughter were murdered in their home several weeks ago and that James Reece is suspected of committing those murders?”
“That’s right, Meredith, and, yes, we do suspect that he was involved. This also brings up another point about the mental health of our men and women in uniform. Mental health and PTSD are serious issues that we as a nation must address. I call on our scientific community to dedicate their resources to addressing these problems. We need to declare war, not on members of our community who are of a certain religion, but on post-traumatic stress disorder. Next question, yes, Andrew?”
Andrew Harrison was a reporter and legal expert for one of the cable news networks.
“Secretary Hartley, can you confirm that James Reece used ‘assault weapons’ with high-capacity clips for some of the murders in California?”
“Yes, Andrew, we know that he used a military-style AK-47 machine gun with an illegal clip to kill a Muslim American cabdriver in Los Angeles. That man’s only offenses were having dark skin and worshipping a different God. Now his wife is without a husband and his children are without a father. One more question.”
William Brantley was the elder statesman of American broadcasters, with a career that spanned back to his time as a young war correspondent in the closing days of the Vietnam War.
“Madame Secretary, perhaps this isn’t the time for such a question, but you’ve led this nation steadfastly through so many tragedies. Will you announce for us your intention to run for president of the United States?”
&nb
sp; Don’t lay it on so thick, William. “Thanks, William, but this isn’t about me. This is about the American heroes who have paid the ultimate price to defend our nation. This is about bringing a terrorist to justice. Thank you all, God bless the victims of these tragedies, and God bless the United States of America.”
The secretary stood for a full five seconds and stared into the television cameras before turning to exit stage right.
I nailed it.
• • •
Angels Camp, California
Katie Buranek watched the secretary’s speech, aghast. She was a bit shocked that Reece had apparently turned Mike Tedesco into a human claymore mine in Pilsner’s office, but even more, she was disgusted by the outlandish allegations made against him. She could buy that he’d killed Pilsner and Tedesco, God knew they had it coming, but there was no way that he had anything to do with the death of his wife and child. She knew firsthand that the story about Reece “murdering” the cabdriver was a lie, even down to what type of weapon he’d used. She was also confident that Reece was no extremist. He never once mentioned politics in any of their conversations. To paint a hero like James Reece as a xenophobic fascist was an affront to everything she knew about the man and his family, whom she so admired. It was time for her to get in the fight, this time wearing her journalist hat, working an editorial that would likely be the sole voice against the Hartleys’ massive public relations machine.
CHAPTER 65
Coös County, New Hampshire
FRED STILL BELIEVED IN the Constitution. He had dedicated his life to supporting and defending it. Like many senior enlisted SEALs, Fred had his college degree. Unlike most SEALs, he was also working on a master’s degree in philosophy, of all things. He loved history, specifically the history of warfare, but he tempered that with the peace that studying philosophy brought him. His guys sometimes called him the warrior-poet, a title he wore with honor. That the president and SECDEF had suspended Posse Comitatus bothered him. He was old enough to remember the fiascos that were Waco and Ruby Ridge in the early 1990s. He was just a kid at the time but remembered the political firestorm that ensued when it was discovered that XXXXXXXXXX advisors had been on the ground assisting the ATF at Waco. Federal government overreach was still something about which most Americans were extremely apprehensive.
What had caused Fred even more concern was the group of men who met him and his team at Mount Washington Regional Airport in New Hampshire. Twenty private security contractors from a firm called Capstone Security were awaiting him. A call back to his command confirmed that the SECDEF had already personally called to ensure the SEALs would support the contractors. The reason for the support role, he was assured, was some legal necessity related to Posse Comitatus. Fred was enraged. This was complete bullshit. These security contractors were not here to apprehend Reece, they were here to assassinate him. Fred knew the law and understood the Constitution. He also knew he had pledged an oath to obey the orders of those appointed over him. It was these two conflicting allegiances that gnawed at his soul.
Speeding over mountain roads brought him back to the moment.
“Slow down, Clarke,” he ordered gruffly. “We need to get to the target in one piece.”
The UAV on loan from Department of Homeland Security showed no signs of life at the mountain cabin. Far removed from the paved roads of the New Hampshire countryside, it looked like an idyllic retreat, at least from the feed Fred was watching on the iPad mini in his lap.
Fred moved his HK 416 rifle to the side and tapped the transmit button on the MBITR radio secured in the gear on his plate carrier. “Lead, slow it down,” he cautioned to the first vehicle in the convoy.
They all wore their gray shipboarding kit, minus any flotation, so as not to look overtly military. The gray, nondescript uniforms made them appear more like a big-city SWAT team than a group of battle-hardened SEALs. The only giveaway was that each operator’s helmet did not match the unexceptional gray of their uniforms and body armor. Operators could become attached to their helmets. Helmets of multicam or AOR1 desert digital camo sat in their laps so as not to alert local citizens that war had come to town.
“What? You getting too old for this, Senior?” quipped one of the newer members of the team from the backseat of the rented Suburban.
“No. I just want us all to arrive at the drop-off point alive.”
“Good copy, Senior,” responded the younger man.
“Hey, Senior, why didn’t they just use local cops to get this guy. I heard what Smitty said about him being a good operator and all, but he’s only one guy and he’s just a vanilla SEAL,” Clarke said, using the unofficial, semiderogatory term XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX used to describe those SEALs and Army SOF operators not in their particular units.
“Hey!” Fred responded with more emotion in his voice than he intended. “This guy is not just a vanilla SEAL, and you know I hate that term. He is an HVI. A domestic terrorist. He is our targeted individual. Do not underestimate him, do you understand?”
“Understood, Senior.”
“That goes for everyone,” Fred said, clicking his radio once more. “Listen up, gentlemen. We are one hour out. Do not, I say again, do not underestimate this guy.”
“Good copy,” came the trail vehicle’s reply.
Fred settled back into his seat. The rental Suburban and Tahoe would get them as far as a drop-off point on the opposite side of a steep mountain behind the cabin. From there they would patrol in to observe from high ground. Then they would make entry under the cover of darkness and apprehend America’s most famous domestic terrorist.
• • •
Reece knew they would come. He didn’t know how many or exactly when, but he knew they would come. He spent little time pondering whom they would send. Would it be private contractors? A possibility, considering the resources of the conspiracy in which he found himself an unwitting pawn. Local sheriff? Reece hoped not. FBI Hostage Rescue Team? A probability, considering they had the authority to operate on U.S. soil. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Maybe, depending on how desperate the SECDEF had become.
Whoever came for him was a part of that conspiracy. They were coming to prevent him from completing his mission and that was something Reece could not allow.
Reece felt no allegiance to anything or anyone. His sole purpose was to make those who killed his family account for what they had done. They had taken everything from him. Now it was his turn.
When they came for him, the last piece of the puzzle would fall into place. Reece prayed he was wrong, but even before he heard the helicopter he knew he was not.
His pursuers were instruments of a group of conspirators who had subverted the system for their own benefit. Power and money were formidable motivators to those in life with no purpose other than their own self-aggrandizement. Had Reece died in Afghanistan as they had planned, his family would still be alive, Horn and his cronies would be more wealthy than most ever dreamed possible, Admiral Pilsner would be on his way to a seat on the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and Lorraine Hartley would be on her way to the presidency. Unfortunately for all of them, Reece was still alive. He was alive and set on a reckoning, one that would see them all to early graves.
He was nearing the end of his journey and would soon join his wife and daughter. Just a few more people to kill, and, if he was right about an approaching assault force, there would be one more name to add to the list.
From his elevated position Reece had a clear view of the road leading to the remote dirt turnaround area where it appeared that hikers sometimes parked their cars. This time of year it was empty.
Reece heard the rotors of the chopper well before he saw it. Even at this distance Reece knew what it was. The helicopter didn’t surprise him, though they should have kept it farther back until the assault had commenced. What surprised him was the number of people they sent. The lead black Suburban was followed by a Chevy Tahoe and two ten-pac passenger vans. Reece watched them exit
their vehicles and gather into a loose formation. These were no hikers or Boy Scouts on a field trip. These were the men sent to kill him. It was an odd conglomeration of what looked to be military or paramilitary forces and private contractors. A few stood out as professional soldiers, while others appeared to give off an air of invincibility and arrogance. Two even lit up cigarettes. He counted close to thirty attackers.
It was time. The enemy had massed, was unaware, and was in the kill zone. Reece picked up the MK 186 wireless firing device that he had linked with a string of six claymore mines yesterday morning. The MK 186 was bulky and old but it worked. He had set them up in a classic L-shaped ambush, adhering to the old military adage Keep it simple. The Mk 48 7.62 machine gun lay next to him along with his M4 with M203 grenade launcher and two LAW rockets.
He looked back at the force readying to kill him and armed the MK 186 with the push of a button. In this game, you lived by the sword and died by the sword. The men 150 yards away and below him knew that well. It was their turn to die by the sword.
Something stopped Reece cold. He pushed disarm on the MK 186 and picked up his binos. Something about the way one of the men below moved gave him pause. It looked to be the leader wearing gray op cammies and gear. A bit of a beard and longer sandy hair gave him the appearance of a contractor, but his demeanor suggested something else. Reece focused the binos in on the man who was seconds away from being eviscerated into eternity.
Damn it, Fred, what are you doing down there? Reece thought, looking down at his old sniper school partner. Some of them are your brothers, Reece. They’re hunting you, but they don’t deserve to die today. They have no idea the part they are playing in this game.
Without another thought, Reece dropped the binos, grabbed his M4, and disappeared into the bush, leaving an empty target for Freddy Strain to ponder.
