Man of War

by Sean Parnell

  The crew chief waited for him at the troop door. Eric noticed the double take when he saw what Steele was wearing.

  “What? A guy can’t get dressed up for an op anymore?”

  The crew chief shook his head and Steele hopped inside, followed by the crewman, who was about to slam the door when Steele shook his head no and held up the detonator.

  The bird jumped skyward and Steele’s stomach rolled as the pilot banked the bird toward the sea. “Tell the pilot I’ve got to blow the car,” he yelled, leaning in close to the crew chief’s ear.

  The crew chief nodded and pushed the transmit button on the internal radio. When he was given the thumbs-up, Steele leaned out the door and pressed the button on the detonator.

  The explosion glinted orange, small at first, but it quickly grew into a towering pillar.

  Not a bad day’s work, Steele thought.

  He nodded to the crew chief and walked over to the nylon bench. He pulled a pair of headphones from the hook above him and shoved them over his ears. The pilot was transmitting over the encrypted high-frequency net.

  “Eagle to Cutlass,” he said, using the Program’s operations center call sign. “We have the package and are feet wet.” Steele’s eyes closed, and he let the vibration of the helo rock him to sleep.

  He felt someone shaking him awake. The pitch of the blades told him that the helo was descending. His eyes flashed open and he saw the crew chief standing a few inches away. He checked the GPS on his wrist; instead of landing in Cyprus, it appeared that the helo was setting down in the middle of the ocean.

  Something’s wrong.

  “Sir, a tasking just came over the satcom.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Landing on the Wasp.”

  The USS Wasp, known in the Navy as LHD-1, was a multipurpose amphibian assault ship, basically a carrier for helicopters. Steele knew that the only reason they were landing on the deck as opposed to the base in Cyprus was because he was about to be redeployed.

  The Pave Hawk touched down on the deck and when he stepped out the first thing he noticed was a Cobra attack helicopter spinning up next to a V-22 Osprey. The Osprey’s massive tilt rotors were pointed skyward and dwarfed the squad of men checking over their gear near the ramp. At first glance, Steele thought they were Marine Raiders, but realized his error as he got a better look at the master chief who came hustling toward him.

  Steele had mistaken the Marine camo pattern for the new AOR, or Area of Responsibility, pattern worn by the SEALs.

  “Sir, if you could follow me,” the master chief yelled over the whining engines. Steele fell in line behind him, dodging the aircrew that rushed out to refuel the Pave Hawk

  “What’s going on, Chief?” Steele demanded once they were inside.

  “No idea, CENTCOM sent a flash telling the captain to expect a package, and to have a strike team ready and waiting. I assume they were talking about you.”

  “Don’t look at me, Chief. I was asleep a minute ago.”

  The bridge was a hive of activity. Sailors were busy overseeing the Pave Low’s refueling, while the air officer worked to clear the deck. Near a door with the word scif stenciled on it, a thin, weather-beaten man in a ball cap watched the proceedings with a stained coffee cup in his hands. Steele didn’t need an introduction to know he was the captain; the man’s silent command presence was all he needed to see.

  The Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, pronounced “skiff,” was the most secure place on the ship. It was where the most classified information was held.

  “Not every day I get a call from Italy telling me to stop what I’m doing and prepare for a visitor,” the captain said with a warm smile. “Nice threads. Want some coffee?”

  Steele knew the skipper was referring to Naval Support Activity Naples, where both the United States Naval Forces Europe, or NAVEUR, and Sixth Fleet were headquartered. The Sixth Fleet patrolled the Mediterranean Sea as well as Africa.

  “Been a long night, Skipper,” Steele replied.

  “I can imagine,” the captain said, gesturing for Steele to follow him into the SCIF. Inside there was a table with maps and overlays and a commander dressed identically to his master chief.

  A sailor appeared with a mug of coffee and Steele didn’t even have time to take a sip before the commander was handing him a red phone.

  “Code in,” a robotic voice said as soon as he pressed it to his ear. Steele rattled off his identification code and the line beeped and clicked as the crypto decoded his voice and secured the line.

  “Stalker 7, this is Cutlass Main, we have a problem.”

  “Yeah, I gathered that much.”

  Cutlass Main was the Program’s call sign at the White House, which meant that whatever was going down had just happened and that President Cole was personally activating an Alpha.

  “We have lost a level one.”

  Oh shit.

  A level one asset was the highest-value classification the Program had, and Steele knew that right now there were only three on the board. Two were in Europe, which was out of his area of operation. That left one.

  “Breul,” Steele said.

  There was silence.

  “He is supposed to be in Iran, what the hell happened?” he asked, making no attempt to hide the anger in his voice. Ali Breul was his asset, but more than that, he was his friend.

  “The only thing we know is that the CIA called a meeting first thing this morning.”

  “Wait, what? How the hell does the CIA know about Breul?”

  “We don’t have any answers, Stalker 7.”

  “So what’s the play?”

  “We are activating you for this mission, and you have full authority. Get him back.”

  Steele hung up the phone, dropped his assault pack on the floor, and ripped open the main compartment. He took out a ruggedized GPS about the size of a paperback book and walked over to one of the computer terminals. “Is this thing hooked to the satcom?”

  “Yeah.” The commander nodded.

  Steele plugged it in, typed in his password, and waited for the computer to link with the satellite. A map came up and he typed a string of numbers into the search bar and hit enter.

  “What exactly are you looking for?”

  “You know what a data pin is?” Steele asked.

  “Hell no.”

  “It’s like a tracker, and we have hundreds of them in the field. Each one has an address, what we call a pin code, and when you type it in”—Steele hit the enter key with a flourish and an hourglass popped up on the screen—“the satellite finds it for you. We use the tablets in the field, but they are slow and need a clear view of the sky to lock on to a satellite.”

  “So you put them in cars and stuff? Important things you want to track.”

  “No . . .” He paused when a blinking dot appeared on a map identifying the pin’s location. “We put them in things we don’t want to lose,” Steele said softly, like he was speaking to himself.

  That can’t be right.

  The data pin in question was assigned to Ali Breul, an Iranian scientist and in Steele’s mind the most important asset the United States had in its inventory. He had checked on Breul two days ago and the scientist was where he was supposed to be—in Tehran waiting for him. There was absolutely no reason for him to be in Tunis.

  Steele turned to the commander. “We are wheels up in ten. I need some clothes and a weapon.”

  Inside the Osprey, Steele plugged into the commo jack and turned to the pilot, who was staring back from the cockpit.

  “You have the grid?”

  “Roger that, you guys ready?”

  Steele nodded and took his seat next to the commander before addressing the heavily armed operators watching him from the nylon bench.

  “This is going to be a down-and-dirty smash and grab,” he began. “We have a compromised asset in Tunisia. We go in hard, and if you guys do what I say when I say it, I’ll have you back on the ship in time
for chow. Any questions?”

  The commander had one: “What’s the ROE?”

  As members of JSOC, or Joint Special Operations Command, the SEALs were used to working in the shadows, but not like him. Alphas were trusted to figure it out on the ground, and when a unit was assigned to them, it became his call.

  “Weapons free,” Steele called over the net. He was in charge of the operation now and wanted everyone, especially the Cobra gunship, to know that they were going in hot.

  Chapter 9

  Washington, D.C.

  Vice President John Rockford was a big man with wide shoulders and blond hair worn long over his ears. In his hands the baseball looked tiny. It was a beautiful morning and he didn’t want to spend it inside.

  “You ready for this?” he asked, slamming the ball into the mitt so hard it sounded like a rifle shot. “Here it comes.”

  He turned and was about to let the ball fly, but his catcher wasn’t paying attention.

  “Emma, what are you doing?”

  “A butterfly, Daddy,” his six-year-old daughter said, forgetting the glove at her feet.

  “Emma, I thought you wanted to play baseball.”

  “It’s a big one,” she said with a smile that melted his heart.

  Rockford shook his head and looked at his wife, who was grinning at him.

  “See what you did?” he accused.

  “Rock, she’s a little girl,” Lisa Rockford said.

  “Sir,” a female voice said behind him.

  Rockford turned to see the President’s secretary. Allison was a little young to have her job, with mousy brown hair and thin glasses. But despite her age she had proven herself more than capable. Usually implacable, Rockford noticed something in her face and nervously waited for what he knew was coming next.

  “The ambassador from Brazil is on the phone.”

  It was a code he and President Denton Cole had come up with, to be used when their families were present. Rockford tried to keep the smile from melting away. He didn’t want to worry Lisa, and tried to play it off.

  “Probably wants to talk about the price of bananas or something.”

  He bent to give his wife a peck on the cheek and could tell immediately that he wasn’t fooling her. The sudden tension around her eyes reminded him that he wasn’t the only one affected by his job.

  He walked across the garden and ducked into the Oval Office. Allison was waiting there with a black folder.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Director Styles has called an emergency security brief,” she said, handing him the folder. “I know it is last-minute, but I can’t get hold of the President.”

  “It’s fine, Allison,” Rockford said. “I can take the meeting for him.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, sir, they are waiting for you now.”

  Rockford skimmed the folder on his way to the Situation Room. The workup was short, so short that he was able to stop outside the door and read through the entire packet.

  Why would Styles call a presidential briefing if this is all she has? he wondered.

  From the hall it was just another nondescript oak-paneled door, but inside was the most secure space in the U.S. government. Rockford took a breath and entered. He could feel the weight of the room as soon as he stepped inside.

  The group seated around the walnut table represented every branch of the intelligence community and were the most powerful men in the country. He scanned the faces, wondering what each of them knew, or what part they had played in the string of events that had brought him here.

  “Keep your seats,” he said with a wave. He sat down and everyone turned back to the large monitor fixed to the far wall. Rockford knew from experience that the feed was from a Reaper drone. It was a newer UAV, or unmanned aerial vehicle, and had a better camera than did the older Predators.

  “Where’s the boss?” William Harris, the Director of the National Security Agency, asked.

  “En route,” Rockford lied before addressing the table. “What do we have today?” There was no time for the usual banter. It was time to get down to business.

  Rockford’s gaze settled on Director Styles, who observed him with the detached coolness of an ice sculpture. The Director had her blond hair pulled up in a French twist, which framed her high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. Around her neck she wore a simple string of pearls that contrasted perfectly with an ink-black dress.

  Rockford had to admit that she was a striking woman, but the way she looked at him, almost like he was beneath her, was something that grated on his nerves.

  Before becoming the second most powerful man in the United States, John Rockford had been a captain in the first Gulf War. During the battle of Wadi Al-Batin, he was wounded while dragging one of his soldiers from a burning Bradley Fighting Vehicle. He received the Distinguished Service Cross and a trip to Walter Reed for his trouble and was given a medical discharge. The CIA came knocking soon after, and by the end of his time at Langley, he had become the Director. So he knew all too well the pressure Robin’s job carried, which was why he went out of his way to treat her with respect.

  The stress that came with being the Director of the CIA was impossible to convey to anyone who hadn’t held the title, but you wouldn’t know it from looking at Robin. She managed to appear aloof even in times of chaos.

  Rockford had shared his observation with his wife, who’d said, “I think you are reading too much into this, John. She is probably intimidated.”

  “Intimidated by what?”

  “Rock, you guys have your little boys’ club and as the only woman she probably feels left out.”

  Rockford had never thought of it before, but he took his wife’s counsel to heart. As the VP, it was his job to make sure everything ran smoothly when President Cole was away—a task he accomplished with ease, because Rockford was at heart a natural conciliator. But it seemed that no matter how hard he tried, he found he couldn’t break through the latent hostility that existed between himself and the Director of the CIA.

  “So,” he began, turning his full attention to Styles, “you have the floor.”

  “I was expecting President Cole,” she began, her southern accent thick and smooth as unfired molasses.

  “Like I said, President Cole is out of pocket.”

  Rockford wasn’t sure what else to say. Unlike the rest of the people in the room, he wasn’t a fan of the spotlight, and had told the President as much when he asked Rockford to be his running mate. “Sir, no offense, but I am just starting to enjoy the retired life,” he’d said. “I don’t think I’m the guy you are looking for.” But Cole had chosen him anyway.

  More than anything, Rockford wanted to be back in the shadows. The sudden increase in high-level briefings, and the fact that he was the only person in the room who knew the real reason why the President wasn’t here, made him uncomfortable.

  Two months ago, he and his wife were invited to a private dinner at the Executive Residence. It wasn’t the invite that surprised him, because the two families were close. In fact, President Cole was his daughter’s godfather, but the news he laid on him over brandy and cigars still festered in his mind.

  The President of the United States was sick.

  “So what do you say we start the briefing?”

  “Very well, I called the briefing because of Tunisia,” Styles replied, the ice in her eyes evaporating in an instant.

  It wasn’t the shift in attitude that threw Rockford off balance, it was the feeling that Director Styles had been sizing him up and had come to the conclusion that he wasn’t worth her time.

  Tunisia? What is the CIA doing in Tunisia?

  Rockford looked again to Harris to make sure he wasn’t losing his mind. “Director Harris, does the United States have an active mission in Tunisia that I am not aware of?”

  “No sir, we don’t, but apparently the CIA does,” Harris said, looking at Styles. “Robin lost a team this morning.”

  “Where in Tun
isia?”

  “South of Tunis,” Styles said. “It was a routine asset pickup. My team was murdered during extraction. At the moment we don’t know who the players are, but—”

  Styles stopped speaking when the door to the Situation Room opened and Allison stepped in holding a sheet of paper tight to her body.

  “Sir, I apologize for interrupting, but I need to speak with you, now.”

  “Excuse me,” Rockford said, getting to his feet.

  He moved around the table, Allison stepping out of the room as he approached. One look at her face was all it took for him to know something was wrong.

  “Is the President okay?” he asked, stepping into the hall and lowering his voice.

  Allison offered him the plain eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet of printer paper, and as soon as Rockford read the words “Alpha Flash,” a sense of dread washed over him.

  “I still can’t get him on the phone,” she said, a tremor at the corner of her eyes.

  “It’s fine, I will handle it,” Rockford lied. It definitely wasn’t fine.

  Rockford didn’t have a problem sitting in on meetings, but an Alpha Flash was a totally different ball game. Of all the times for Cole to be out of pocket.

  An Alpha Flash was an “eyes only” statement to the President, and when they sent one to the White House it meant that in some dark corner of the world, something had gone terribly wrong.

  Rockford took the paper, feeling like a second-string quarterback who had just learned he was going to be starting in the Super Bowl.

  EYES ONLY

  SAP (Alpha FLASH)

  From: Alpha Ops North Africa

  To: Cutlass Main

  Subj: PRIORITY ASSET

  OGA convoy traveling from AO Algiers to AO Tunis was ambushed on yesterday’s date along route India. Preliminary battle damage assessment has 6 American Nationals KIA.

  Priority Asset Breul, Ali, and one OGA MIA

  Alpha response—URGENT.