Operator Down

by Brad Taylor

  He passed around sheets of paper to the group, letting them digest the conversation. He said, “You’ll see three key points: One, the UNSUB asks if he’s secure, and Hassan talks about being on the ‘resistance’ communication net, which means Hezbollah. They created their own net after the 2006 war. Two, he has a timeline that’s pretty succinct, which is unusual. Why would Lebanon care about a timeline if it were innocuous? They wouldn’t, but Iran would. The next JCPOA inspections are due in the upcoming weeks, which is the only reason Hassan would care. Three, Hassan talks about the delay causing a transfer to a country other than Lebanon. A country bordering Iran.”

  He glanced around the room and said, “The bottom line is that Hassan is up to no good, and we believe he’s working with Tyler.”

  Palmer said, “How do you know that? I mean, how do you know it’s Tyler? The name is masked. Why even bring this here without concrete proof?”

  Kerry said, “It’s not masked. If I could unmask it, I would, but we don’t know the far end. We only know he’s American because of his voice. They caught this through a Skype conversation. We don’t have a name; all we got was an IP address. It ended in Cape Town, South Africa, which is where Tyler was on the day this call was made. It’s him.”

  The group took that in; then President Hannister spoke. “Kurt, what are you asking for here? What do you think is going on?”

  Kurt said, “I think Tyler’s doing something shitty on the African continent in conjunction with elements of the South African military, and he’s getting paid with nuclear components from their Project Circle. In turn, he’s going to sell them to Hezbollah, who will pass them to the Iranians. That’s what I think.”

  Palmer said, “That’s a bit of a stretch. You’re connecting a lot of dots.”

  Kurt said, “Not really. We haven’t collected any intel mentioning Project Circle in close to thirty years, and now we have two hits in the same week? One from a direct Taskforce operation, and another from NSA collection of a known Hezbollah terrorist? No, this isn’t fishing. We knew going into this that Tyler Malloy was looking for nuclear triggers, and I think he’s found them. Not only that, but he’s going to sell them to terrorists in the sway of Iran.”

  Hannister nodded slowly, then said, “So what do you want?”

  “I want Omega authority for Tyler. Let me round him up and bring him home.”

  Palmer said, “Wait, he’s American.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, I’m sick of that excuse. He’s a threat, plain and simple. All I’m talking about is capturing him. Not killing him in a drone strike, and we had no problem doing that with Anwar al-Awlaki.”

  Palmer looked at President Hannister, deferring to him. Hannister said, “Okay, say I do agree. Pike doesn’t have a team there, and the flight alone is close to eighteen hours. How can he do this?”

  Kurt cleared his throat, then said, “Well, sir, I’ve pre-positioned assets on the African continent. I’ve got the rest of his team working a logistics contract on our base in Djibouti, in the Horn of Africa.”

  Kurt saw Hannister’s expression going cold, bordering on anger, and he quickly said, “Sir, I had to prepare for Pike finding something. They were nothing more than a reserve in case he got in trouble.”

  “So you weren’t setting us up for your preferred course of action?”

  Kurt said, “Sir, if I was, I still had to brief here today. They’re cleaning the crap out of pipes on our base, working in the engineering section. I wouldn’t have sent them to Pike without authority. You say no and they all come home.”

  Kroft, the secretary of state said, “Who is it?”

  “Knuckles and Veep. You met Knuckles the other day. The guy with the long hair.”

  Kurt saw her memory click, and prayed.

  Favorably, she said, “Yes, I remember him.” Nothing more, but Kurt hoped it was enough.

  Hannister said, “Okay, Kurt, I’ll put it to a vote. Omega for this? As weak as it is?”

  Ten minutes later, the meeting was breaking up, and George Wolffe sidled his way, saying, “That was close. One vote away from a no. I was surprised the SECSTATE said yes.”

  Kurt packed up his briefcase and said, “Yeah, I know. Thank the heavens for Knuckles.”

  Puzzled, George said, “What else did I miss on leave?”

  54

  Stanko and the man we called Mowgli had walked through our one blind spot to the east. When I heard no contact from my team, I said, “Okay, we’ve got a grid search. Start working it methodically, but keep pressing forward. They aren’t going to circle around behind us. He left to the east for a reason.”

  Shoshana came on the net, saying, “The parking garage is to the east. Across the footbridge.”

  I said, “Who’s closest?”

  Jennifer said, “This is Koko. I am.”

  “Go. Get to the footbridge. It’s a choke point. Everyone else, keep searching.”

  Brett said, “This is Blood. I have him, I have him. He’s still walking east, and he’s got Mowgli’s arm in his.”

  “Where? Where are you?”

  I glanced around and knew there was no way Brett could describe anything that would narrow our ability to find them in this maze. Brett said, “I lost visual in the market, but they’re still moving east. That’s all I can say. Everything looks the same.”

  Shoshana said, “Pike, Pike, we need to get ahead of them. I’m moving to the bridge.”

  I said, “Roger that,” and began running, slapping hanging silk scarves and pushy vendors out of the way, jumping over produce and cheap souvenirs, the stall owners yelling at me as I passed.

  Jennifer came on. “This is Koko. I’ve got them, I’ve got the eye. They’re at the entrance to the walkway headed to the garage. Ivan is forcing him now.”

  Shoshana said, “Interdict! Take him out!”

  “I can’t. I’m on a vantage point for visual, but he’s ahead of me. I didn’t make it to the bridge.” Then: “I lost contact. They’re out of view.”

  “Did they enter the walkway?”

  “I don’t know. They looked like they intended to, but the walkway’s got walls. I couldn’t see what they did.”

  I ran by a stall and saw the footbridge to the far-side parking garage through the wood slats in the rear. I held up, realizing I’d have to run about a quarter mile through the maze to get to it. Or I could just plow through the stall. I did so, ignoring the screaming from the owner, bashing my way through his wares and entering another stall on the far side. I did the same to him, ignoring the products hurled at my back, and reached a maintenance walkway that led to the bridge. I started sprinting, saying, “I’m at the bridge, I’m at the bridge. Who’s here with me?”

  Shoshana said, “I’m close, I’m close.”

  Jennifer said, “I’m off. I can’t interdict.”

  Brett said, “I’m three minutes out. I have a route.”

  Running flat out, I said, “Koko, break off. Get our car. Stage it outside the parking garage. Carrie, close on the target. Blood, lock us down on the bridge. Prevent anyone from interfering.”

  Brett said, “Got it. You think he’s going to kill him in the garage?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  I reached the footbridge, seeing it was also lined with people selling tourist crap, this time music, with a bunch of stalls full of pirated CDs. I sprinted down it for about fifty meters, then held up, searching. I didn’t see my target. But I did see Shoshana, moving with a purpose.

  I clicked on. “Carrie, Carrie, do you have eyes on?”

  “No. I’m on the bridge and moving to the garage.”

  Which brought up a decision. Were we ahead of them? Had they somehow slipped behind us? Should I stay here, providing choke point surveillance, and let her go forward, or back her up?

  I heard, “Pike, Blood, I’m at the en
trance to the bridge. I got nothing.”

  Which made my decision for me. I said, “Blood, close down the entrance. I’m halfway across and moving forward.”

  Shoshana said, “I got him, I got him. They’re in the garage but not stopping. They’re headed to the other side, to another market. The meat and fish one.”

  The damn place was so huge that there were markets all over the place, sprawling about like fungus. I said, “Okay, okay, stay on them. I’m right behind you.”

  I crossed the bridge, hit the parking garage, and said, “Carrie, I’m across. Give me a lock-on.”

  She said, “I’m on the far side of the garage, to the south. Toward the entrance to the meat market. Follow the signs.”

  I said, “Roger. Coming now.”

  I saw the arrows for the meat section of the market and began jogging. I got about fifty feet, then heard, “Pike, he’s pulling him off-line. He’s not going to the meat market. Mowgli’s fighting him.”

  I picked up the pace, saying, “Give me an assessment.”

  I heard her come through the radio, breathing hard, running toward something, saying, “He picked a corner. Away from everything. He’s going to kill our target.”

  I started sprinting, saying, “Carrie, be sure.”

  I heard, “I’m fucking sure.”

  I rounded the first row of cars, searching desperately, then caught movement out of the corner of my eye, away from the walkway, in a dark section of the garage.

  It was Stanko, and he had a garrote around Mowgli’s throat, the man on his knees, the wire ripping the life out of him. I started sprinting toward them and saw a shape spring onto the hood of a car and launch itself on the pair.

  Shoshana.

  She hit Stanko on his back, causing the wire to dig deeper. I ran as fast as I could, watching Stanko try to shake her off without the use of his hands.

  Shoshana snarled, reached for his face, and plunged her fingers into his eyes, puncturing the orbs and causing him to scream. He released the wire and began thrashing. Mowgli sprang up and ran like a lightning bolt toward the new market.

  I dove at him and missed. I rolled upright, flipping my head between his back and Shoshana’s fight. I ran to Shoshana. She had Stanko on the ground, him keening like a wounded rabbit, thrashing about uncontrollably, Shoshana ripping him apart. I witnessed the dark angel in all its fury. The blood coating her wrists, she looked at me and hissed, “Catch the target.”

  I nodded, unsettled by the carnage. I turned and started running, calling Brett on the way. “Blood, Blood, cross the bridge. Go to the meat market. Target’s on the loose.”

  I heard, “On the way.”

  I ran flat out, trying to find the man, entering another maze of stalls, but this one selling fresh fish and meat instead of African masks and tourist trinkets. I went down one aisle, then heard people shouting an aisle over, from some disturbance. I sprinted to the end and turned the corner, seeing Mowgli running ahead of me. I heard, “I’m across, in the market. Where do you need me?”

  I thought, Holy shit, that guy can run, but said, “Come straight in. I’ve got him in sight, and he’s slowing. He thinks he’s safe. Koko, Koko, status?”

  “I’ve got the Rover and I’m outside.”

  “Station at the entrance to the meat market.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Fucking find it. Break, break—Carrie, Carrie, status?”

  I got nothing and continued following our target.

  He slowed to a fast walk, and I did the same. I heard, “Pike, this is Blood. I see you. I see you. Where do you want me?”

  “Get ahead of him. One row over.”

  “Roger that.”

  I kept on the guy, and he slowed to a walk, breathing hard. I hung back, letting him think he was safe. He glanced to the rear and saw me, and his eyes went wide, convinced I was the bogeyman. Which, of course, I was.

  He went batshit, sprinting flat out. I said, “Blood, Blood, I’m compromised. I’m compromised.”

  The target reached the turn to the nearest aisle, and a form launched itself across a freezer full of crab, hammering the guy at chest height and bringing him to the ground.

  I ran up, the people around us all shouting and yelling, Brett on top of the guy as he thrashed on the ground. He punched him in the nose, and the kid screamed, rolling around on the floor protecting his face, his will to fight gone.

  I reached them and held up my hands to the crowd, saying, “This man is a pickpocket. He’s been stealing for weeks.”

  Surprisingly, the owners of the stalls began clapping, some trying to kick him. I smiled and said, “Thank you for your help. All we want is for the market to be a place people want to come to.”

  They cheered, and we hoisted the man to his feet, leading him to the exit.

  On the radio, I said, “Koko, tell me you’re out front.”

  “Right outside.”

  “Roger that. Carrie, Carrie, status?”

  “I’ll meet you out front.”

  I didn’t want to ask her what had happened to Stanko and was just happy she would make exfil. I looked at Brett as we duckwalked the “perp” out of the market. He said, “If we make it out of here, it’s going down in history.”

  I saw the entrance to the market and said, “Looks like we’re making history.”

  55

  Aaron heard the scurrying outside the makeshift toilet and waited for his signal. He got it, three seconds later. Two clanks of an aluminum cup from Thomas.

  He ignored the overpowering odor and stood on the literal bucket of shit, sliding his hand against the walls until he was level with a square window. Well, “window” was a misnomer. It was just a hole in the wall, without any glass or bars.

  It was currently too small for a human to fit through, but that was why Aaron was standing on the bucket. The building was cinder block, but the window had a ring of bricks around it, all mortared in a less-than-perfect manner. He began scraping the mortar between the bricks with the handle of a spoon. His purpose was to weaken the mortar so that, when the time came, he could create a hole large enough to escape through by smashing the bricks. And he needed to do it soon, because he had no idea how long the guards would allow the blanket they’d erected to remain.

  Their toilet consisted of the stalwart bucket, and using it was enough of an embarrassment that Aaron had feigned erecting the blanket out of modesty, giving the men privacy. The guards hadn’t taken it down, and the next day he’d raised it until it covered the opening of the window, then had pulled Thomas aside for a discussion.

  Aaron was losing weight and, along with it, the ability to fight. If he was going to escape, he needed to do it earlier rather than later, because he knew getting out of the building was just the first step. But that first step was huge, which meant he needed help. At that night’s meal, he’d sat next to Thomas and detailed his plan.

  Thomas wasn’t convinced, feeling the effort would bring on the ultimate punishment, which he’d thus far avoided. Aaron had pressed, saying, “Your fate is preordained. It’s not happened yet, but it will. Do you think sitting here in this cell is getting you favor? They will kill you the minute they think they can. Maybe the reason you’ve lived this long is simply the fact that they haven’t generated the courage. They will, eventually. I promise.”

  Thomas had said, “I thought you had a friend. Someone who would get us out.”

  Aaron shook his head and said, “She’s out there, I know it, but we have to work for ourselves. Not waiting on some miracle. If she comes, she comes, but we need to plan as if she isn’t.”

  Thomas had agreed, with the caveat that he wouldn’t allow any of his tribe to help. They’d only provide early warning. That was good enough for Aaron, and he’d set to work. He’d been at it four times today and was close to getting the first brick weak
enough to break free. His primary problem was that he wasn’t sure if the uniformed tribe wouldn’t see his handiwork and alert the guards to curry favor. Which meant not creating damage that could be found by them when they utilized the bucket. But that also meant that when he finally attacked the bricks he’d worked, he might not have weakened them enough.

  A problem for another day. He wasn’t near that end point yet. And so he scraped through the next brick’s mortar, slowly but surely weakening it until he felt it could be broken free with force.

  He pulled out a chunk of mortar and tossed it hard out of the window and into the forest, not wanting anyone passing by to find it, but he didn’t worry too much about that. He’d studied what was beyond, and it was woods, with the foliage growing right up against the building, something that would help them escape.

  He scraped again and then heard an incessant clanging. He stopped, dropping to the ground. He paused, heard nothing else, and was about to remount the bucket when he heard Lurch screaming in English.

  “Where is the Jew? Where is he hiding?”

  The sound of prisoners scrambling penetrated the blanket, the men retreating out of range of the sadistic guard’s wrath. He pulled the blanket aside while pretending to draw up his pants.

  Lurch said, “What is this? You don’t feel like you can shit in public? Are we not good enough for you?”

  Aaron remained silent. Lurch said, “You won’t have to worry about your modesty anymore. My general is back home. We had a discussion about you, and I’m pleased to say that he’s going to talk to you tomorrow. So prepare yourself.”

  Aaron knew that was pure psychology, designed to eat at him. Designed to get him prepared to tell the truth. The nightmares he would conjure in his mind from the threat were to soften him and get him to cave at the first act of violence, before they moved on to whatever he’d developed as a worst-case scenario in his mind. It was psychological warfare, and he’d been in such positions before. The statement was ham-handed. Amateur hour.

  Aaron said, “Why hasn’t he returned to question me yet? I’ve been telling all of you that I’ve done nothing wrong. I demand to speak to my embassy, right now.”