Element 94

by Kleiner Jeffries

  The Russian could appreciate Russell’s unease.

  “Don’t worry Russell, we’re almost home. Just do as you’re told and everything will be just fine”

  Russell felt a knot in his throat. It was difficult to speak, but he managed a reply.

  “Sure thing Yuri”. His tremulous voice belied his underlying fear.

  The Russian nodded, and slowly began making his way back down to the main deck. Russell breathed a sigh of relief, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead. So they still needed him, he concluded. If these people did have drugs, then Russell was their best chance for a safe harbor. But why all the activity then? Why this fascination with the cargo vessel? Why the diving gear? And why those goddam harpoons?

  The answers to these and other questions Russell would soon find out. He would learn that he was right in many ways. Yuri and his colleagues were part of a smuggling operation of sorts. But drugs were not their forte. Something altogether more sinister was afoot. The diving gear was a contingency; one which had been anticipated, or at a minimum well-rehearsed, the men moving swiftly, automatically, with no hesitation and a modicum of direction. However, he never did learn what the harpoon was for. By the time the weapon was fired, Russell would already be left for dead.

  Kelly closed the file and packed his computer away, wholly unsatisfied. He would have to review the details at greater length when time allowed, still puzzled by the many incongruities of the situation. The silence surrounding Salaam had been lifted, but many questions remained. He had always maintained that it was these silent killers, who sprung up seemingly out of nowhere, that posed the greatest threat to national security. History’s megalomaniacs had surely wreaked havoc, most recently in the guise of Osama Bin-Laden. But his infamy ultimately resulted in his demise. Those who shy away from the public spotlight are often more cunning and elusive. The Salaams of the world laid low, bided their time, avoiding scrutiny while preparing for that really big strike. Was this to be it? Did this ship contain chemical or biological agents? That was Kelly's prime concern as he prepared his forces – their radiodetection nets would have picked up any nuclear threat by now.

  Kelly climbed into his suburban and prepared to make his way across the Hudson. The sight of the George Washington Bridge gave him pause. Long identified as one of the prime terrorist targets in the area, Kelly recalled being awed by the structure as a youngster, its double-deckered suspension construction an architectural and visual wonder. In later years, the bridge had been a focal point of surveillance since the foiled plot to bomb the nearby Lincoln tunnel. As he crossed the bridge now, his warrior instincts began to stir. It was a vantage that while awesome to most, with the great city looming below, to Kelly conjured up images of carnage and destruction. For that was his job really – to envisage the worst case scenario and preempt such an occurrence.

  His eyes locked in on his destination point to the South, the Special Ops frigate Primo. Shortened from the Latin opprimo, meaning to subdue, overpower, take by surprise, the vessel was designed for just that. Nestled inconspicuously between the retired aircraft carrier Intrepid and Pier 84, the ship could blend in with the mercantile fleet of almost any busy port. But within was housed one of the more sophisticated mobile command centers ever built. The CIA had a navy of sorts, and the Primo was among its most prized possessions. Initially designed for carrying out special operations around the world, she was now turned inward, in a defensive posture. The Palisades Center from which Kelly embarked, which also served to house his Unit, was deemed too conspicuous to serve as the meeting ground. Increased activity could be detected along the open terrain. A nondescript ship leaving port, on the other hand, would easily go unnoticed. The amphibious base would be their staging ground.

  Kelly picked up his secure two-way radio, hesitated momentarily, looked at his opened laptop computer on the passenger seat of his car, at the face of the would-be martyr displayed on the screen, and called in to his Operations Chief.

  “Mack”

  No answer. He tried again.

  “Mack.”

  “Yeah Bill, what’ve you got?” They didn’t need code names on the two-way, the transmission scrambled automatically, secure from eavesdropping technology.

  “Bogey at 40, 73…”. Kelly read off the degrees latitude and longitude, followed by the minutes. The coordinates placed the target about 120 miles off the Eastern seaboard.

  “Moving 12 knots towards. Looks like a commercial vessel. Our man’s on board”

  “Roger that.” Mack had the location mapped within seconds

  “Are you receiving the feed?", Kelly asked, as data was sent across the encrypted frequency.

  "Sure am Bill. We'll nail this sucker, don't you worry".

  Mack’s husky voice was a perfect match to his physique. At 6-foot 240 pounds, the muscular soldier resembled more a football linebacker to Kelly’s lankier, wide receiver-like frame. Both men exuded the physical and mental toughness required of all who had reached the highest unit within the army’s elite - Delta. And he could be trusted. There was no doubt about it, Mack was Kelly’s point man for this operation. But the stakes had increased. Kelly could not sit on the sidelines any longer.

  "Mack, I’m joining you on this one.”

  “Can’t let us have all the fun, eh”, jibed the Special Ops officer. Kelly thought Mack took the slight well, a measure of relief threaded through his sarcastic response as he was effectively relieved of the burden of command.

  Kelly chuckled. “Course not." He then continued in a more serious tone. "Mack, I'm on my way"

  “You want me to call in the team now then Bill”?

  “You tell me – you ready for them”

  “I don’t know - you have anything else for me?” Mack had received most of the intel some hours ago. Nothing dramatic had seeped in from Langely since their latest communiqué.

  “No.”

  Mack hadn't expected such a terse reply. The line went silent momentarily as he gathered his thoughts.

  “I could use a day Bill, to get the men…”

  “No way Big Mack. We move tonight.” Kelly knew what the operations man was going to say, and cut him off. There could be no further delay. They were already behind the eight ball as far as timing was concerned. Salaam must be approached while still in the isolated vastness of the Atlantic.

  "Okay. We'll be ready to go in twenty minutes"

  "Good. I'm on my way"

  In truth, Kelly was already halfway to the vessel, just a short sprint down the West Side Highway. He and Mack would have some time to review the operation before the personnel arrived. If everything went as planned, Salaam would be in custody within a matter of hours. Of course, Kelly understood special ops rarely unfolded as scripted, the plan so clean on the drafting board often got muddled in the field. Kelly was heartened by the fact that his team had proven time and again they could think on their feet, in the heat of engagement. For such a mission often required not just physical prowess for success, but decisive, malleable, quick-minded decision making, based upon what they loosely referred to as “on-site modifiers”. No one quite realized, however, just how ominous the particular “modifiers” on this eve would be.

  Back on the Primo, Mack Sullivan sat alone in the large conference room that would soon house the entire team for a pre-operative strategy session. He couldn’t quite help shake a feeling of unease since receiving his marching orders from his superior. Why would Bill take such a hands-on approach on this mission? he wondered. It was rather out of character for Kelly, who tended to delegate responsibility judiciously among his most trusted colleagues. Why the need to come on board, risk himself? Noone on their team was dispensable, as elite and irreplaceable as a force might be. But Kelly was the brain-trust of it all. Why risk it? In the final analysis it didn’t matter much, Mack decided. They had overwhelming force on their side – they could not fail. Besides, where Kelly would lead, Mack would follow - plain and simple.

  This
was the typical military thought process. And unlike Kelly, who made the transition from the military to the civilian sector, Mack was still technically pentagon property, “on-loan” as it were to the CIA. Previously, military commandos from all branches of the armed services were dispatched to the Agency on a temporary basis for specific operations. Temporary service in Kelly’s CIA now extended rather full-time, often prompting unofficial civilian status for those military personnel within his unit. This was another of Kelly's unique organizational coups, lending an effective enforcement arm to his intelligence capabilities.

  In days of old, collaboration between the Pentagon and Agency were limited, and all too often ineffective. Something had to be done to facilitate the lines of communication between the two bureaucracies. It proved to be a turf battle fought at the highest level of government. Impressively, Kelly, and by default the CIA, won. The intelligence agency essentially maintained autonomy over a unique slice of the military. He no longer needed to solicit recruits through financial incentives, or skirting the many hangouts around Fort Bragg where the special operations command was headquartered for candidates. Today, Kelly was granted access by presidential authority over the pick of the military elite. It was an arrangement very few people at Langely could legitimize. Bill Kelly, a former high-ranking military officer and war hero, was among the few who could - and did - pull it off. His credentials from veteran engagements in the first gulf war, and more recently Iraq and Afghanistan, spoke for themselves. And among his first recruits under the new regulatory terms was Mack Sullivan.

  But there was some lingering resentment over in Alexandria, Virginia, home to the Pentagon. Like salt being poured in a fresh wound, the military not only lost some of its best personnel, but was still liable for the lion's share of the price tag, from salaries to equipment. Surprisingly, this was not an altogether unheard of scenario in government - with movement between enforcement agencies somewhat routine among Justice, the SEC, and others. But for the Pentagon, a bureaucracy obsessed with control, this arrangement was unprecedented. While still a thorn in the side of the military establishment, Kelly, ever the effective politician, had eased tensions over the years through careful diplomacy and judicious stroking of egos. With every success, every high-profile act, he was careful to credit the appropriate branch of the armed forces, often singling out individuals with negligible roles for commendation. A mutually symbiotic arrangement had miraculously been achieved, with both elements gaining notoriety and prestige. But some high-level military figures continued to resent Kelly's ever-growing presence and power within their turf.

  Mack had done his best to ease tensions over the years, maintaining that such elements within the military were the exception rather than the rule, with a small – albeit vocal – minority that tended to put their own personal ambitions ahead of that of their country's. While a rather accurate assessment, this argument was at times a difficult sell, as it was Kelly who held the strings in a seemingly monarchical expression of power. For it remained Kelly's operation, always, with his people controlling everything from the planning through the execution stages of any CT maneuver. And Mack, Kelly’s “right-hand man”, was the beneficiary of such an arrangement.

  The Pentagon had effectively been relegated to a supporting role in the war on terrorism. Elements within the government and military continued to view the anti-terror czar as a latter-day J. Edgar Hoover, with influence extended over a decade, spanning three administrations, and showing no signs of wavering. But in this case, the strings of power were justified. Noone before or since William S. Kelly had done as much to secure the safety of the nation in the anarchy of the post-nineeleven world.

  Ironically, Kelly depended on the Pentagon, through its control of the nation’s global positioning system (GPS), for intelligence information far more than for enforcement purposes. The entire Hermes system, in fact, relied on the network of satellites positioned across the globe that could transmit the three dimensional data from the receiver implanted in Salaam and the scores of other suspects to Langely. And although the Pentagon would never admit it, Mack suspected the military had figured out how to access classified GPS, and by extension Hermes, data through their tracking station at Schriever Air Force Base. The Colorado facility was the master control center for GPS satellite coordination, and was capable of bilateral communication with every satellite, uploading and downloading data to adjust orbital information ad libitum. It was entirely feasible that someone at DOD had figured out how to intercept the Hermes signals by now. It was a delicate balance indeed for control over information, and the military, at least in theory, could represent a significant leak in intelligence. The irony of the situation was not lost on Mack; the CIA, while gaining unprecedented enforcement capabilities, was jeopardizing its control over the flow of information. But the realities of Hermes could not be ignored – a sheer, one-sided success. But like all good things, Mack figured, it must come to an end some day. In the process, however, he just hoped the system wouldn’t be turned against them; the creators threatened by their own creation.

  The West side of Manhattan was a popular stomping-ground for the CIA’s elite counter-terrorism group (CTG). Personnel were mandated to be within 20 minutes of the Primo, but that still left plenty of prime Manhattan real estate within reach. Unlike the annual navy day, where sailors adorned their uniforms all about the city, this group blended like chameleons into the surrounding bustle, adapting to the high-energy environment of the great city, just as they could almost anywhere else on the planet. Behind enemy lines, this quality often meant the difference between life and death; in NYC it translated into “have a good time… just don’t let anyone know who you are and what you’re doing here”.

  The meatpacking district was close to the piers and held a bustling nightlife; much of the crew were out at their favorite local watering hole. They appeared grizzled, conspicuously shunning the standard-issue military crewcut - a privilege many had grown accustomed to during their days in Delta or in another of the military’s special forces. The perks associated with the added rigors and increased risk associated with entering an elite unit were manifold; access to the latest technology, more autonomy, and yes – long hair – were counted among them. It would come as a shock to any onlooker that these “regular” guys were the lifeline of the city, called to duty to protect the multitudes oblivious to their peril.

  Unlike the signs of bravado and machismo common to other fighting units of their caliber, this squad was uniquely humble, a reflection not of physical strength – which they possessed in droves - but rather of mental maturity. Kelly was a good judge of character, and each man in the unit bore his personal stamp of approval. Fame and glory did not motivate them; that recognition was reserved for celluloid soldiers. This was a serious bunch, a family of brothers bound by a life spent on the edge, by the all-too real drama of depending upon one another for their lives. They represented an amalgam of the military’s elite special operations forces, a cohesive unit with a singular purpose.

  That is not to say that subdivisions did not exist within Kelly’s CTG. This was only natural given their diverse backgrounds and specialized roles. The amphibious assault team typified one such niche. This group specialized and trained for aquatic missions, often involving deep-sea dives, and was drawn in large part (but not exclusively) from the Navy’s elite SEAL Team 6. Their numbers had recently increased from 8 to 9 with the addition of C.J. Muzzonigro.

  C.J. was unique among the group for several reasons. For starters, he was the younger brother of another member, A.J., the first sibling pair in the entire CIA’s CTG. Secondly, he was the youngest and only unmarried or unattached member in the unit, and as such often found himself frequenting the lively nightlife Manhattan had to offer. This often went against the grain of his older sibling, who inevitably was coerced into accompanying C.J. on his frequent outings. On this eve, the brothers were out late - too late, thought A.J., as he motioned to his younger sibling. />
  “Hey, get back here. We’ve got to get going”. A.J. was beginning to get exasperated. The unit could pretty much come and go as they pleased, but it was poor form to stay out all night during a red alert period, when they could be called in for an op at a moment’s notice. Some had pushed the boundaries before, all of them able to withstand harsh doses of sleep deprivation. A.J.’s fraternal instinct, however, was beginning to border on the paternal, which irritated the younger sibling. C.J. looked at his brother, frowned, and left the table without so much as a word.

  This was all part of the interesting dynamic that existed between the pair. But despite such sophomoric outbursts, the brothers were crucial to Kelly's operation. A.J. was a first-rate demolitions expert and a tremendous leader under pressure. The younger C.J. could certainly hold his own in the field, and was perhaps the more physically impressive of the two. His mettle was untested, but he was the crop of the class in SEAL training and Kelly immediately scooped him up to his unit. There, he figured, the boy could grow up into just the kind of operative he sought to cultivate. What Kelly - and the rest of the team - did not realize, was that C.J. would grow up faster than anyone had imagined, a maturational process accelerated by the extremes of conditions he would soon face.

  “C.J., what does that stand for?” asked a scantily-clad female from the next table, whom C.J. had begun to engage in conversation.

  “Nothing.” That wasn’t a lie. C.J. Muzzonigro was born just that – C dot J dot, right on his birth certificate. His two older brothers were A.J. and B.J., respectively. Had the Muzzonigro family given birth to a girl the pattern might have been broken, but as it stood all three had the distinguishing mark of having sequential initials for first names. “It was so unoriginal that it was original” his father liked to say. It was ridiculous really, but it didn’t matter much to the children. Their good looks, athleticism and engaging personalities always made them popular among their peers and deflected any ridicule at their birth names.