No Fortunate Son: A Pike Logan Thriller

by Brad Taylor

  They reached the conference room and Kurt saw no Secret Service. Which meant no President Warren, the biggest gun who could help. George stopped, his hand on the door. “Last chance. I have that offer to open a yogurt shop. You want in?”

  Kurt grimaced and said, “Sharks aren’t out yet. Let me chum the waters before I give you an answer.”

  George swung the door open, and Kurt saw bedlam.

  Everyone in the room was waving their arms or talking over one another. Usually, the Council was sitting still when he entered, like Supreme Court justices about to hear an argument before them. Handpicked by the president of the United States, they were all members of the executive branch or private citizens. By design, none were in the legislative branch, in order to allow a calm, unbiased analysis of the potential fallout of Taskforce actions, free from competing political pressures. And usually they were calm, but what Kurt saw looked like a couple of cliques at a junior high yelling at each other.

  He moved to the podium unnoticed, laying his computer on the desk next to it. He plugged it into the Proxima projector and looked for Alexander Palmer, the man who chaired the meetings in the absence of the president. He saw a heated argument between Mark Oglethorpe, the secretary of defense, and Kerry Bostwick, the director of the CIA, but no Palmer.

  The conference room door opened and Palmer entered, followed by another man, a youngish-looking bureaucrat who appeared as scared as a rabbit cornered by a pack of wolves. The man moved to the front of the room, unplugged Kurt’s laptop, and plugged in his own. Palmer walked to Kurt.

  “Hey, plans have changed. We aren’t going to hear about Pike’s status today. He’s inactive indefinitely.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You heard about the missing military folks, right? This NSC staffer has the latest information.”

  “How is that Taskforce business? Who gives a shit? I’m not going to let Pike rot because of some political crap.”

  Palmer scowled at Kurt’s nonchalant attitude and said, “Everyone gives a shit. Pike’s done for now. Take a seat.”

  Surprised at the ferocity of the reproach, Kurt nodded and joined George at the back of the room. The staffer turned on the projector and the room became silent. He waited a bit until the bulb settled and the computer had a signal, then cleared his throat, studiously avoiding the secretary of defense’s eyes. Palmer said, “Get it going. Give them the damage.”

  The man cleared his throat again and said, “Gentlemen, it appears that our initial fears have been realized. This is not a coincidence or a random act. An organization has targeted military relatives of key members of the United States government. Currently, we know this.”

  He clicked a slide, and Kurt grew cold at the two headings.

  KIA:

  Staff Sergeant Bryan Cransfield, Fort Bragg, North Carolina, nephew of Representative Duncan Cransfield, ranking member of the House Armed Services Committee

  MIA:

  Lieutenant Colonel Travis Deleon, Brussels, Belgium, husband of Rachel Deleon, Governor of Texas

  Captain McKinley Clute and Lieutenant Kaelyn Clute, Okinawa, Japan, son and daughter of Easton Beau Clute, Chair of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence

  Airman First Class Curtis Oglethorpe, Soto Cano Air Base, Honduras, son of Mark Oglethorpe, Secretary of Defense

  Next to each bullet was a picture of the missing person. Kurt saw the last name and picture, a smiling man in Air Force camouflage, and understood why the SECDEF had been so agitated when he’d entered. He caught George’s eye but said nothing.

  Jonathan Billings, the secretary of state, said, “So the vice president’s son is okay? That was bad intelligence?”

  Palmer said, “Unfortunately, no. That information is close-hold, so much so that nothing is being put on hard copy or electrons. Nick was an analyst at the NATO Intelligence Fusion Centre at RAF Molesworth, England.” He paused for a moment, going eye to eye with the men in the room, then said, “He’s missing as well, and if that leaks, I swear I’m going to cut someone’s nuts off.”

  The D/CIA brushed aside the threat and said, “The NIFC? What did he do there?” He pronounced it Nif-See.

  Billings said, “What’s the NIFC?”

  “It’s the intelligence hub for NATO. They’re responsible for all operational targeting, both possible and actual.”

  Palmer said, “He’s an Air Force weatherman. He provided predictive analysis for operations.”

  “Shit. So he was read onto ongoing and planned missions?”

  “Yes. I guess.”

  “Well then, his being the vice president’s son may not be the worst of this. He’s like the guy in the mail room who knows everything going on in the corporation. He’s potentially got information in his head that could damage current operations worldwide, from Afghanistan to the Ukraine.” He leaned back into his chair and said, “What’s in that man’s head may be more important than who his father is.”

  7

  A low murmur went through the room, then grew into a buzz. The young staffer remained silent. Alexander Palmer said, “Quiet. Let him continue. Give them what we think.”

  The bureaucrat clicked a slide and Kurt read:

  We value the sanctity of human life above all else, but the fact remains that if a person takes up arms against our nation, he becomes a threat to our way of life and will be dealt with, whether he’s a United States citizen or not. Rest assured, though, every operation is thoroughly reviewed and every person targeted is given the same due diligence whether he’s a foreign national or an American.

  Beneath that quote was another.

  I beg to differ. Not every life is the same. You kill people all over the world without any thought to the collateral damage. Farmers in Yemen, civilians in Pakistan, goat herders in Somalia, it’s all the same to you. What would it take to alter your behavior? Whose life is more valuable than the ones you target? It’s an interesting question, isn’t it? Perhaps we will see.

  The staffer said, “Eight months ago the administration hosted a virtual town hall on the website Reddit. The last question asked dealt with our armed UAV program. The top quote is from the administration, given eight months ago. The bottom rejoinder appeared yesterday.”

  The D/CIA said, “So you think this is connected?”

  Palmer said, “We’re assuming so, and before you ask, the NSA is doing everything it can to identify the location of the message. They’ve come up with nothing. Or more precisely, with about a hundred different possibilities. The sender covered his tracks well.”

  “So, given the topic of the Reddit thread, we’re assuming an Islamic group?”

  “Yes, for now.”

  The D/CIA leaned back and said, “I don’t see it. This scope is too big. Too much ground to cover. Too much overt work that had to be done. There’s no Islamic group out there with the capability to conduct synchronized operations that span the globe. For one, they stick out too much. How are a bunch of Arabs going to do operational work on Okinawa? They would have been compromised. For another, they’re too fractured, especially with all of the internal fighting going on. We would have heard something.”

  The SECDEF spoke up. “Well, there are two facts right now: One, they’re missing. Two, we didn’t hear anything. So what are we doing?”

  His statement was calm and measured. Considering what was at stake for him personally, Kurt was impressed with the control.

  “We’ve locked down anyone remotely believed to be a target, including redeploying two from the war zone in Afghanistan.”

  Oglethorpe’s control fractured a smidgen. “Well, that’s great proactive work, but I meant, what the hell are we doing about the ones missing?”

  Understanding the pressure, Palmer let the jibe go. “The president has made this priority number one for every single federal agency t
hat might be of use. And that includes the Taskforce.”

  Kurt popped his head up at the comment. Palmer saw the movement and said, “What?”

  “Sir, that’s not what we do. We’re not a law enforcement investigative organization and we aren’t focused on hostage rescue. Our operations take months—sometimes years. This is going to be time sensitive, and forcing the issue will get us compromised. I understand the wish to do something, but you’re trying to use a flat-head screwdriver on a Phillips screw. It may do more harm than good.”

  Palmer tapped his chin, then said, “What is your primary mission?”

  “Counterterrorism. Preemptive activities against designated substate groups with an end state of preventing harm to the homeland through long-term analysis and disruption.”

  “Don’t give me that official doctrinal crap. You know what I mean. What do you do?”

  Kurt pursed his lips, seeing where his question was leading. “Manhunting.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Sir, you know we’re tracking two separate threats coming out of Syria.” Kurt looked at the SECDEF. “I understand completely the feelings here, but if I divert to this mission, it may mean we lose the thread. It may mean we miss the ability to stop an attack. We’re putting five people’s lives ahead of possibly many, many more.”

  Palmer rubbed his eyes, saying nothing. The SECDEF said, “Don’t make a decision about the Taskforce because of me. I’m recusing myself from the vote on this.”

  Palmer said, “There is no voting this time around. This briefing is for information only. The Taskforce is going to dedicate all assets to recovering the five hostages. That’s from the president of the United States. Anyone has an issue with it, take it up with him.”

  Kurt heard the words and felt a little disquieted by them. He believed President Warren to be a good and trusted man, but in one fell swoop he had just castrated the very council that was designed to keep the Taskforce in check. Designed for oversight, as the name implied.

  Palmer focused directly on Kurt. “You’ll brief just like any other operation, letting the Oversight Council know what’s going on and gaining concurrence for operational activity, but you’re doing the mission.”

  Kurt nodded, and after a little more discussion about the absence of any leads, the meeting broke up, the various members returning to their day jobs. Kurt held his tongue until he and George were back in the car and outside the gate. With the White House in the rearview mirror, he said, “What the hell just happened?”

  George said, “I’d say the president is a little fired up about assholes taking our people.”

  “Yeah, I get that, but we’re proving the terrorist on Reddit to be right. We just put five lives ahead of everything else. Shit, they fired Pike for ignoring the Council, and now the president is ignoring the Council. It’s not good.”

  “You’ve got his ear. You can talk to him.”

  “No. Not yet. I’m not the neophyte you think I am in this world. He sent Palmer on purpose. He didn’t want to see me.”

  George looked at him and smiled. “Very good, meat-eater. Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”

  Kurt felt his phone vibrate with a text. Call me. Please.

  It was from Kathy, and his niece popped back in his mind, causing his stomach to sour. On the drive over he’d toyed with the idea of diverting Taskforce assets or maybe even a couple of Operators to England to see what they could find, but that was out of the question now.

  George said, “Too bad we don’t have Pike in the lineup for this. He’s got a habit of stumbling into the heart of every bad thing.”

  Kurt heard the words and dialed the phone.

  “Who’re you calling?”

  “Pike. I need someone to stumble onto some bad things.”

  8

  Kylie Hale felt shame wash through her as her bladder released, leaking through her jeans and staining the concrete floor. She tried to prevent it, but she had been tied up for so long, and she was afraid to shout out. Afraid of drawing attention to herself. She could see nothing in the darkness and probably couldn’t even if there was light because of the cloth bag on her head. She began to weep, small hitches that she willed herself to contain. She failed. Lost in the fear of what had occurred, wondering where her date had been taken, she lay and shook, the urine dribbling on the floor.

  Twenty-four hours ago she’d been worried about college finals. Now she feared for her very life. She could barely comprehend the turnabout. On the dirt road the men had flex-tied and hooded both of them, showing little compassion before shoving them both in the trunk of a car. They’d been told not to say a word, then tapped in the head with the barrel of a pistol to seal the threat. Driven for roughly an hour, they’d stopped, and she’d spent the night in the trunk, the claustrophobic hood preventing her from seeing anything. When the engine had fired up hours later, it had snapped her eyes open, the panic returning. She heard a multitude of other engines, then felt the vehicle drive up a ramp. She heard a bellowing foghorn and knew they were on a boat. Which meant they’d left England.

  Eventually, they’d begun moving again, the engine lulling her and the exhaustion taking over. By the time they’d stopped again, she’d lost track of how long they’d been driving. She’d been ripped out of the trunk, hearing her date shouting behind her. She was thrown into a dank basement smelling of loam and mold, the cold seeping through her clothes. For the longest time, she’d lain completely still, afraid to move. She remembered what the men had said when they’d originally captured her and knew she was in serious jeopardy. The only thing unknown was the time.

  She rolled over onto her back, worming her way out of the urine puddle. She sagged into a ball and began weeping again, then heard a shuffle in the darkness. She froze, the sound shooting fear through her body. A groan, then scraping. She remained mute. She heard a whisper.

  “Kylie? Kylie, are you in here?”

  It took a moment for the words to penetrate, then the relief flowed through her. “Yes. Yes, I’m here. Are you hurt?”

  “Only my pride. I’m okay.”

  Before she’d been crammed in the trunk, she’d heard him fighting, and heard the punishment delivered. She was fairly sure he was downplaying how hard they’d treated him.

  She said, “What do they want? Why did they take us?”

  “It’s me. I won’t let them hurt you. I promise.”

  “You? Why? What did you do?”

  “Nothing. But it’s me.”

  She heard a squeak, and then footfalls on wooden steps, each one ratcheting up her anxiety. They reached the concrete and stopped next to her. She strained her eyes through the bag, seeing a dim shadow.

  “You pissed on my floor? Jesus, Mother Mary, and Joseph.”

  The Irish accent was pronounced, so much so she had trouble following it. She was jerked upright into a sitting position, causing her to tremble. She felt hands on her skull and she began to scuttle backward. The voice said, “Calm down. I’m removing your hood.”

  It slid off her head and she saw two men, one over her and one over her date, both with rough clothes. The man above her was tall and thin, with an ascetic, hatchet face, the veins on his neck standing out like a marble sculpture. Behind his left ear was a tattoo of a harp. The man over her date was younger, with a thick beard, like a lumberjack.

  The man with the tattoo squatted down to her level. “Why would you piss on my floor?”

  The view of him was disconcerting. Scary. “I . . . I didn’t want to.”

  He studied her. He said, “You may call me Seamus. I am a soldier and work with a soldier’s creed. I do not kill civilians if I can prevent it, but you’ve presented me with a problem.”

  Her date said, “Leave her alone. You have me. That’s enough.”

  Seamus stood up and walked to him. He removed the hood and said, �
��Nicholas Hannister. Yes, we do have you, and unlike the lady, you are not a civilian. And don’t think your name will protect you.”

  Nick said, “Look, everyone will know soon enough that you have me. Letting her go won’t matter. You can take her back where you found us and just let her walk away.”

  “No, everyone will not know. The last thing the United States wants is this to become a circus in the press. And there will be enormous pressure from your government to find you. I cannot risk that your floozie has some clue in her head.”

  The back-and-forth between them confused Kylie, making her wonder who Nick really was. She knew his last name as Seacrest, not Hannister, and he hadn’t told her anything to indicate his family was rich or well connected. If that were the case, why was he enlisted in the US Air Force?

  Seamus walked back to Kylie and said, “What is your name? I know his, but not yours.”

  “Kylie. Kylie Hale.”

  “Well, Kylie, do you have any reason I should keep you alive? Are you valuable to anyone?”

  She began to weep, saying nothing, the tears running down her face.

  His eyes stayed on her for a beat, then he stood and nodded at the bearded man. He came over and untied her feet, then raised her up. Nick started thrashing, getting nowhere with his feet tied at the ankles and his hands behind his back.

  He shouted, “Don’t do it! Leave her alone. I’m warning you. Don’t.”

  Seamus slammed a boot into his stomach and said, “Shut the fuck up. If you’d told someone you were going out with her, we would have waited. Blame yourself.”

  Kylie was halfway up the stairs, her legs barely moving, the bearded man dragging her steadily upward. Seamus turned to go and Nick shouted, “She’s my fiancée! She flew in to surprise me. I didn’t know she was coming. Don’t kill her because of that.”

  Seamus turned back. “Your fiancée?”