by Brad Taylor
Alpha meant the introduction of forces to explore a potential target. Basically, poke around a little bit and develop whether he or she was actually out to harm the United States. Omega, the last letter in the alphabet, meant that the target was an imminent threat and the Oversight Council had granted permission for hostile action, either to capture or kill the target.
In this case, nobody seemed concerned about the potential threat or the Omega authority given. It didn’t matter that a team that had been granted permission to remove an impending danger to national security was now being redirected to hunt for hostages. Something that wasn’t even in their mission profile. Instead, Billings was pressing the time lag.
Kurt looked around the room for the secretary of defense, knowing he understood the intricacies involved with moving forces on the chessboard of global operations. For the first time, he noticed the man was absent.
Focusing back on Billings, Kurt said, “Sir, it takes time to get them redirected. It’s not like they can just jump on a plane. It takes time to close out cover contracts and get deployment assets on station. Time to assess whether the redirect will spike host-nation intelligence services. Time to establish a new cover mechanism in the redirect country. Time to ensure the new cover status they’ll be operating under will withstand scrutiny. It’s what I talked about before. This isn’t our forte. We’re not an alert force that can turn on a dime.”
Billings started to grumble when the door opened. Alexander Palmer entered with the same NSC staff weenie from before. He still looked as if he were a rabbit in the wolves’ den.
Kurt waited on President Warren to dismiss him, noticing the man was haggard from sleepless nights. Warren said, “Good enough, Kurt. Have a seat for the update.”
Kurt nodded, understanding without words that the president already knew what was about to be briefed and that it wasn’t going to be good. He thought about expanding on his statements to Billings, conveying the danger the mission was placing on the Taskforce to the only man in the room who really mattered, then thought better of it. He took his seat at the rear of the room.
The staffer booted up his laptop and without any preamble said, “We got this through the White House website contact page. The email address is bogus and the ISP terminates in Guam. We’ve already explored the ISP with in-country assets and got nowhere. It’s clearly a redirect.”
On the screen, Kurt read:
Dear Mr. President. You never answered the question we posed on Reddit, so we have to assume you thought it rhetorical. It wasn’t. You just conducted a strike against a harmless wedding party in Yemen, and because of it, you have forced our hand. We ask once again, are all lives equal? Will you continue such actions when the end result involves something you hold dear? There are seven innocent families weeping over the loss of loved ones in the Sada’a Province. Who will weep in your inner circle from this attack? Nobody. But someone will weep. We promise.
Kurt had read about the strike in his daily intel update. The al Qaida propaganda machine was saying it was a wedding party, which had been picked up in the press, but the intel track had shown a terrorist convoy. It was hard to determine what the convoy actually was, but regardless, inside that convoy had been three definite terrorists, now dead. The chatter afterward had confirmed that. Along with the loss of four civilians with an indeterminate heritage.
The staffer said, “Given the enormous number of comments that are directed at the White House contact page each day, it took over twenty hours for the Reddit thread connection to reach someone who understood the significance. By the time we had begun tracing the digital trail, a package had been delivered to the front gate of the US embassy in Brussels. Inside was a DVD recording and the hands and feet of a human being.”
A low murmur went through the room, and Kurt had a horrible intuition about why the secretary of defense—a principal in the Oversight Council—wasn’t attending.
The screen flipped to an MP4 movie, and the lights went dim. Kurt saw a person hunched in the center, a hood on his head, surrounded by men wearing kaffiyehs that covered their faces, each brandishing an AK-47. There was no sound. The hood was removed, and he saw the secretary of defense’s son. The boy began to cry in silence, and the man to his right held up a section of poster board displaying the words EXPERIENCE THE PAIN.
The man began to flip the poster boards like a high school YouTube video, each one with a different sentence about the casualties of United States policy. The last placard read, AND NOW IT IS YOUR TURN. REAP WHAT YOU SOW.
The man behind the captive raised his barrel, placing it on the back of the boy’s head. There was a second pause, and then he pulled the trigger. The frontal lobe of the skull exploded outward, taking the eye orbit with it in a shower of gore. The secretary of defense’s son fell forward, his mouth open, his jaw the only thing remaining as a human face.
13
Startled gasps filled the room, followed by murmurs. President Warren held up his hand and everyone grew quiet, subdued by the intimacy of the death. Something they ordered often in their duties but now were forced to see in hyperreal detail. It left them dumbstruck.
As if he were talking about the national orange crop, the staffer said, “DNA and fingerprint testing has proven that the body parts delivered in Brussels match Curtis Oglethorpe, Mark Oglethorpe’s son. We believe the video is genuine, as is the Reddit thread and White House comment. Furthermore, we believe that all of the missing have been taken as leverage against our policy of armed counterterrorist drone strikes.”
He finished and looked to Alexander Palmer for guidance on what else to say.
For his part, Palmer looked to the president of the United States.
President Warren said, “Gentlemen, the entire fabric of our country is now under attack. The barbaric method is new and unique, but the outcome is the same. An attack against our ability to defend the nation. And it’s effective. I’ve already given orders for all strikes against terrorist targets to halt immediately. What I want to know is how we’re going to get them back. And barring that, what we’re going to do about it.”
Kurt heard the words, and the enormity of the stakes came home. There would be no evenhanded discussion of how best to use the Taskforce. The administration was going to destroy anything tangentially associated with the video. And after seeing it, Kurt was more than willing to light the fuse.
Ignoring the emotion, Kerry Bostwick, the director of the CIA, said, “So we’re still feeling that it’s an Islamic group?”
Palmer snorted at the question.
Billings said, “Well, what the hell else could it be? The name on the contact is Abu Mustafa, the target of the action is our drone strikes, and the men in the video are clearly Arabic. Yes, it is an Islamic group. We need to focus on transits to Yemen, Pakistan, or Somalia. Places where they feel secure. That’s where the hostages are going. That’s where Curtis was killed.”
Ignoring the outburst, Kurt said, “What do you mean, Kerry?”
“Well, it still doesn’t ring true to me. I just can’t see them able to conduct such a wide-ranging operation.”
President Warren said, “And neither could your organization on September tenth. We’ve always discounted the threat. I don’t intend to do so again.”
Kerry bristled, and Kurt backed him up, saying, “There’s more to it than Kerry’s gut feeling. I agree with the CIA on assessments of the operation. Besides just being able to coordinate it, they’d have to execute, and we’d have some indication of Arabic men doing the job. We don’t. Which means they might have help from a non-Arabic group, like what used to happen in the ’70s and ’80s. Maybe there’s an Islamic organization behind it, but we shouldn’t discount help from someone else. Someone who could penetrate, like the Japanese Red Army at the Lod Airport.”
Billings said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
Kurt
rolled his eyes, disgusted at the lack of knowledge on basic terrorism. “The Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine . . .” He paused and said, “You know who they are, right?”
Billings grew red and nodded. Kurt continued. “The PFLP couldn’t penetrate Israeli airport security because of their nationality. They hired terrorists from the Japanese Red Army to attack for them. In 1972, the Japanese terrorists came into Israel as tourists, then began flinging hand grenades and shooting up the place. I’m saying it could be the same here.”
Billings said, “But that was when the radical ideology was similar. When all the groups had a Marxist bent. This Islamic thing is different. They’d never accept help like that.”
Kerry said, “There’s something more. In Islamic videos, they almost always cut the head off of the victim on camera. Like Daniel Pearl. Like those Islamic State barbarians in Iraq.” He saw everyone react to his flat words and said, “Look, let’s deal with this clinically. Get over the death on-screen. It’s horrific, but getting emotional won’t solve any problems.” He turned to the president. “Sir, I’ve never seen one where they simply shoot the victim, especially since the Islamic State came around. It’s crucifixions and beheadings all the time. Shooting happens in tit-for-tat reprisals on the battlefield, but not in a staged video designed to maximize propaganda value. Designed to elicit maximum fear. And there’s no talking. No shouting Allahu Akbar along with something we have to translate. This was done on cards, like they didn’t want us to hear them speak.”
Kurt said, “And that final card is interesting. ‘Reap what you sow’ is a Christian thing from the Bible.”
President Warren said, “Is it? Only Christian, I mean?”
Kerry said, “No. It’s in the Quran as well, but only in concept. You’ll find plenty of references about doing good to gather good or doing evil to gather evil, but you won’t find the words reap and sow like you do in the Bible. Maybe they’re poking us in the eye by using it, but it’s another data point.”
President Warren considered the words, then said, “At this point, it’s irrelevant. We go with what we know. We have no indication of any other groups and every indication it’s from some Islamic terrorist organization. They’ve mentioned Yemen twice, and that matters. We’ve never had an indication that Islamic groups were connecting to organizations they would consider infidels, but we do have a ton of connections between Islamic groups. That I could believe. Right now, we focus on the Islamic ones.”
Kurt said, “Sir, you know if they get them to the FATA tribal lands in Pakistan, or the Sada’a Province of Yemen, we’re out of luck. Shit, even if they get them to Mali or some of the outlaw lands of Libya that have been created since Qaddafi fell, we’ll never find them.”
The president looked at Kurt and said, “That’s where you come in. We’ll provide all the intelligence we have, but nobody has the agility across the globe like you do. Everything we do as a government is compartmented by region or even nation. I can do a fine job of crime-scene work in Okinawa, or counterterrorism in Somalia, but when that shifts to another theater, we’re fucked. The guy who finds the lead in Okinawa can’t follow up in Mali. He has no global experience, and he’ll just pass his information into the network. Unlike you. You can work across bureaucratic boundaries. And you have.”
Kurt looked at George and saw a slight nod. He said, “Sir, we need to talk about that. I’m with you on the threat, but I want to make sure you understand what you’re asking. I do this, and there’s a good chance the Taskforce will be exposed. A very good chance.”
He saw Billings draw back, not liking the words. Understanding what exposure could cause and not liking having his skin in the game. Billings said, “What do you mean by that?”
“You heard me talking about cover before, but it’s more than that. Sooner or later, this is going to break in the press, and it’s going to be ferocious. If I resolve the problem, there will be no way to keep it secret. It’s not like causing a terrorist to disappear who nobody knew about in the first place.”
Billings said, “I thought you could do this without any fingerprints. That’s what you always brag about.”
“I can, right up until we have a bunch of rescued hostages in the press. We won’t be able to keep it secret, and like bin Laden, everyone will want to know how it was done.”
“So unlike bin Laden, we don’t blab about who it was.”
“That might work for the public. You might be able to keep us secret from them, but you won’t from the insiders. Shit, the chair of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence has missing kids. He’s going to want to know what happened, and he’s going to find out. I just want to make sure we all understand the repercussions.”
Billings sat back for a moment, then said, “Maybe Kurt’s right. Maybe we should use traditional assets on this. Even if they aren’t as good.”
President Warren’s face showed disgust. He said, “Have you talked to the vice president?”
Billings shook his head.
President Warren said, “I have. And I’m also the one who told Mark about his son. The one who had to deliver the news on how he died.” President Warren’s face was stone, the anger leaking out of his voice like acid. “I promise that Mark could give a shit about any exposure. He’d gladly spend the rest of his life in disgrace or prison if it meant vengeance for his son. Vice President Hannister has seen the Curtis tape. I guarantee he’ll do anything in his power to prevent his son from ending up on a tape of his own. Think about what you would do if it were your son or daughter.”
When Billings said nothing, preferring to sit back and hide his eyes from the president’s gaze, Warren turned to Kurt. “You understand my orders?”
“Yes, sir. I think you’ve been plain.”
“Well, let me make it absolutely clear: If you’ve got the means to resolve this situation, and the end result is compromise, you will compromise. Do you understand?”
Kurt nodded. “Yes, sir. Perfectly.”
President Warren’s eyes bored into him. He pointed at the screen, the still of Curtis Oglethorpe’s body on the ground. “No mercy. Burn it to the ground. Whether we get them back or not.”
14
Lieutenant Kaelyn Clute slowly came to consciousness, the world a hazy kaleidoscope of light. She felt a ravenous thirst, but also queasy, as if she’d just been on a roller coaster, her inner ears in turmoil from repeated spinning. She strained her eyes, trying to penetrate the gloom, but still couldn’t see anything concrete. Only vague light and shadow. She realized it was because of a rough burlap sack on her head. In a panic, she attempted to sit up only to find she was tied at the ankles, knees, wrists, and elbows.
And it all came back.
The Irishmen’s car pulling over to the side of the road, flashing its lights. Mack cursing his luck, saying he wished he’d hadn’t agreed to show them to the aquarium. Her calming him down as they pulled alongside the disabled car, one Irishman already out and under the hood. Her exiting the vehicle, then seeing the pistols. Mack shouting and fighting. The needle being injected into her neck. Her vision blurring as she watched Mack being beaten.
The memories slammed home, making her tremble, sweat popping out on her neck. She rolled onto her back, the nausea returning, her body feeling as if it were rocking left and right even as she lay still. She felt damp, rough-hewn lumber under her and heard a steady mechanical noise. A pump. She smelled diesel and realized it wasn’t the drugs affecting her equilibrium. She was on a boat. Or more precisely, in the bowels of a boat, next to the bilge pump. But where was Mack?
Afraid to speak, afraid of alerting anyone that she was awake, she slowly lowered her head down to the wood and scraped, feeling the sack move an inch. She continued until she had a sliver of light at the base of her neck, enough so that she could see her chest. She lay still, waiting to see if the motion had caused anyone to notice.
Wondering if someone was watching her right this minute. Nothing happened. She repeated the maneuver until she had a good five inches of vision at the base of her chin. She rolled her head to the left and saw the dim interior of a ship’s engine room, but no Mack. She turned right and saw a pair of legs, tied.
McKinley.
She wormed her way forward until she made contact with him, then did the best she could to wake him, rolling her body on top of his and patting his chest with her restrained hands. He did nothing, sending fear through her that he was dead.
She slid off him and squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the panic. She chastised herself, reverting to the discipline it took to achieve her position in naval aviation. Remembering her survival and resistance training, she began thinking through the problem just as she would if she’d had a catastrophic failure in her aircraft, putting aside the fact that she had absolutely no control over anything.
Then McKinley’s legs moved.
She sensed it more than anything else. She cocked her head back to see, remaining still as a stone. A moment passed, and she saw them move again. She sagged to the hull, letting out pent-up relief in one ragged breath. She waited, knowing Mack was working through the aftereffects of the drugs just as she had. He slowly showed more animation, and she could stand it no longer.
She wormed toward his head and whispered, “Mack . . . Mack, are you awake?”
He groaned, a noise that overshadowed the bilge pump. She hissed, “Mack, quiet. Whisper to me.”
She craned her head again until she could see the burlap over his face. It turned toward her. She said, “Mack, can you hear me?”
“Kaelyn?”
“Yes.”
“Are you all right?”
She snorted quietly and said, “Well, I’m alive. I don’t think this qualifies as ‘okay.’”
