by Dale Brown
“I assure you, Major, Agent Bolton didn’t touch anything—he was simply taking notes.”
Jason stepped around Bolton, reached into the cab, and closed the computer terminal’s access cover—he couldn’t remember if he had left that cover open or not, but he assumed that Bolton had opened it. “Oh yeah? Maybe Agent Bolton would like it if I took a look around inside his suitcase—I promise I won’t touch a thing. Is that okay, Agent Bolton?” The big engineer scowled at him but said nothing.
“Problem here?” Jason looked up and saw Command Sergeant Major Jefferson approach. He wore a slightly boyish grin, but those eyes…his eyes pierced through Jason’s brain like a white-hot poker. Despite the crocodile smile, those eyes said only one thing—you are dog meat to me, sir. “Good morning, sir. Any problems?”
“Good morning, Sergeant Major.” Jefferson nodded but said nothing. “I was just warning Agent Bolton here about the dangers to himself and others—especially himself—if he gets near my equipment without letting me know first.”
“Slept in this morning, I see,” Kelsey said to Jason with a trace of humor in her green eyes—her rather gorgeous green eyes, Jason had to admit. He ignored her, mostly because she was too damned perky and together to be for real.
Jason turned to Jefferson instead. “I want everybody kept away from the Humvees until I’ve had a chance to brief everyone on their operation,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Yes, sir,” Jefferson responded.
“Next item, Sergeant Major: are all the showers screwed up like mine is?”
“If you mean is the hot water not on and do the pipes need flushing out: yes, sir. This facility was mostly shut down when we arrived—there wasn’t time to get everything up and running.”
“That’s unacceptable, Sergeant Major,” Jason said. “I realize the urgent nature of our mission, but piss-poor planning on the White House’s part shouldn’t become a hardship on our part—there’ll be plenty of time for that when we get on the road. I want you to find every available unoccupied transient or visitor’s quarters available at Cannon, divide our crew into shifts, and send them over there for rest, a shower, and a meal.”
“We can’t spare the time or the manpower,” Kelsey DeLaine interjected. “We need to be up and running in less than six days.”
“Agent DeLaine, I don’t care what Chamberlain said—I’m not going to have bone-tired soldiers working around my equipment,” Jason said. “Everyone here understands the urgency of our mission, and we’ll all work as hard as we can. But CID works because my directorate is careful, deliberate, and we don’t make bonehead mistakes. I’m going to keep it that way. Sergeant Major, see to the crew rest rotation schedule, and have someone out at the air base get our facilities fixed ASAP.”
“Yes, sir.” Jason was relieved to see Jefferson’s scowl had lessened a noticeable bit—obviously his way of showing his approval—as he turned to issue orders.
“Next item: What time does the chow hall open, Sergeant Major?”
“The chow hall here at Facility Twelve is closed, sir,” Jefferson replied. “Because of the THREATCON ALPHA security alert, all civilian contractors without at least a Confidential security clearance are prohibited from entering this area. Hours had to be severely cut for all support services. We’ve requested MREs and box lunches until we can get hot meals prepared again.”
“That won’t work either, Sergeant Major.” He thought for a moment; then: “Is there a Pizza Hut near Cannon?”
“I do not know, sir.”
“Sergeant Major, in all your years of experience, do you know of any military installation in the continental United States that does not have a Pizza Hut right outside the front gate?”
Jefferson glared at Richter as if he was trying to decide if the man was pulling his leg or not. “There are usually an abundance of civilian fast-food restaurants within a very short distance of the entrance of every CONUS military base that I am aware of, sir,” he replied with a deep threatening voice, obviously warning the young major to get to the point quickly and not to fuck with him in front of all these outsiders.
“And are there any restrictions to the movement of properly credentialed military persons on and off the base?”
“Not at this time, sir.”
“Then I want you to find a vehicle and a couple of men and pick up as many pizzas as you think we’ll need for all the personnel here for lunch and dinner,” Jason said. He pulled out his wallet and handed him a credit card. “That should take care of it. Make mine pepperoni and sausage. And scout around to find out what other restaurants are nearby—even I will get sick of pizza.”
Jefferson blinked in surprise, but his voice never wavered: “Yes, sir,” he responded. He motioned for a soldier working nearby to make the arrangements.
“It’s understandable that you want to be fed and clean, Major,” Kelsey said impatiently, “and I think it’s cute how you’re trying to take charge here like this, but we really don’t have time…”
“Agent DeLaine, as I said, I don’t want tired, hungry, cranky people working around my weapon systems,” Jason said. “You may think it’s ‘cute’ that I’m trying to look out for the men and women who are stuck out here, but even us Officer Candidate School ‘ninety-day wonders’ learn to take care of our people first. I assume if my latrine and meals were screwed up, everybody else’s is too. Am I wrong? Did you have a hot shower and breakfast this morning, Agent DeLaine?”
“No, but we…”
“Sergeant Major, did anyone here have a hot shower and hot meal here this morning?”
“No, sir. None of the personnel that arrived last night had either. I cannot speak for the base personnel assigned to us by the Air Force.”
“There you go—an invitation to disaster,” Jason insisted. “Any other complaints, Agent DeLaine?” He didn’t give her an opportunity to answer. “Good. Next item: I want coffee, and I want a target,” Jason said.
“A target?”
“Coffee first, and then I want to find out who and what to hit first,” Jason repeated. Kelsey looked as if she was ready to protest again, so he turned back to Jefferson. “Sergeant Major, where’s the damned coffee?”
“Right this way, sir,” and he headed off toward a small office inside the hangar.
“Hey, wait a minute!” Kelsey protested. “We need to have a meeting first! We have a staff to organize. We need progress milestones, a timetable, set up a daily report…”
“Why don’t I leave that up to you?” Jason suggested over his shoulder to Kelsey. “I think all we need is some fresh intel and a plane that’ll get us to wherever the bad guys are. CID will do the rest.”
Jefferson led the way to the coffee—actually an old metal percolator half-full of boiling water on an even older hot plate, with Styrofoam cups and packets of instant coffee from MRE kits strewn about—but stopped before entering. “I think Special Agent DeLaine is right, sir,” he said. “We’ve got a mixed task force here—civilians, military, Army, Air Force—that has never trained or fought together before. We should take the time to organize and plan strategies before we head off into the field.”
“How many agents and soldiers were we given, Sergeant Major?” Jason asked.
“I have a support staff of three, a security staff of six, plus two Special Forces instructors here with me, sir,” Jefferson replied. “We have two staff officers, one from the Marine Corps and one from the Air Force. Agent DeLaine has one FBI intelligence officer with her.”
“Doesn’t seem to me that we have anybody to plan or train with.”
“The typical procedure, sir, is to build a game plan—a TO&E, or Table of Organization and Equipment—and then requisition the personnel, weapons, and equipment we’ll need to execute the plan,” Jefferson said evenly, like an impatient teacher explaining an important point to a rambunctious teenager. “We can’t move forward without a plan. I believe Mr. Chamberlain is prepared to give us anything we need to make
this task force mission-ready. But we have to tell him what we need first, and the best way to do that is to sit down and make some decisions.”
“The ‘typical’ procedure,” Jason repeated. He could see that Sergeant Major Jefferson was unaccustomed to being questioned as to how things should be done. Jason turned and motioned toward the C-130 and his two Humvees in the hangar. “I believe we have everything we need right there, Sergeant Major,” he said. “Let’s load it up and get the bad guys.”
Sergeant Major Jefferson took in a lungful of air and looked for all the world like he wanted to start barking at Richter; Kelsey quickly interceded before he did. “Let’s try it our way, okay, Jason?” she asked. “This is our first full day here. Let’s come to an agreement on how we want to proceed, come up with a workable plan, then upchannel it to Chamberlain. If we’re together on the plan, it’ll stand a good chance of getting approved.” Jason looked as if he was going to keep arguing, so Kelsey let her voice rise a bit. “I think the sergeant major and I have a bit more experience in organizing, training, and employing a task force than you do, Major. Try it our way for now, all right?”
Jason saw Ari enter the hangar, now wearing a dark blue warm-up suit, still a little groggy, and decided he wasn’t going to get much help from her yet, so he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go meet with the staff and talk.” He endured Jefferson’s exasperated scowl as they exited the little office and headed for the conference room in the main hangar.
Two officers already in the room got to their feet and called the room to attention when Jason walked in. Kelsey took the head of the table; Sergeant Major Jefferson sat on her right. As expected, the two officers stared at both Kelsey and Ari, not expecting two women to be involved in this project. “As you were, guys,” Jason said. He stepped over to the first guy and extended a hand. “Jason Richter.”
“Frank Falcone,” he responded, shaking hands. He was an Air Force captain, mid-to late twenties, with very close-cropped hair to mask his early baldness. He was of above average height, maybe a little on the heavy side, and walked with a noticeable limp. “I’ve been assigned as your operations and intelligence officer.”
“Your second in command, sir,” Jefferson said. “Special-operations experience during Operations Enduring Freedom and Iraqi Freedom.”
“Fifty-seven sorties in central Asia in MH-53Js,” Falcone said, “and sixteen in the Iraqi theater before I took an SA-7 in the face.”
“That how you got the limp?”
“The crash took out most of my left thigh and hip,” Falcone said. “I was in Walter Reed and various other hospitals for eight months. After rehabilitation and recertification, I went to Air Force Special Operations Command Headquarters at Hurlburt Field for three months in plans and operations before being assigned to the task force.”
“First Lieutenant Jennifer McCracken, sir,” the woman next to Falcone, a Marine Corps lieutenant, said. She was shorter than Richter, with ear-length straight brown hair, thick glasses, not athletic-looking but sturdy—a female Marine who didn’t look too feminine but didn’t want to look like one of the guys either. She had a firm handshake—a little too firm, Jason thought, as if she thought she had something to prove to her temporary army boss. “Logistics officer, Headquarters Battalion, First Marine Division, Marine Depot Twentynine Palms. I’ll be your adjutant and logistics officer.”
“As you can see, sir, we had to double up on your typical staff assignments because of time constraints,” Jefferson pointed out. “I think we can overcome any difficulties we encounter.”
“You three represent three more staff persons than I’m accustomed to,” Jason admitted. He turned to Ari, who was making faces as she tried to drink a cup of the instant coffee. “This is Dr. Ariadna Vega, the lead design engineer and team leader at the Infantry Transformational BattleLab, Fort Polk, Louisiana. She is also my adjutant, logistics assistant, cleanup gal, and chief cook and bottle washer. Take seats and let’s get going.”
As they sat, Kelsey DeLaine asked, “Mind telling us about yourself, Jason?”
“I think we need to get this meeting started…”
“It is started,” Kelsey said. She smiled at his obvious discomfort at being the center of attention and added, “You look awfully young to be a major in the U.S. Army.”
He rolled his eyes at her, then said, “There’s not much to tell, guys. I come from a long line of career army officers stretching back to the Civil War, but I didn’t go to West Point myself because I got accepted to Georgia Tech’s engineering program when I was in ninth grade. I got my bachelor’s and master’s degrees by the time I was eighteen.” That bit of information got a mix of impressed nods and disbelieving glares from the others in the room. “But my dad is a retired army colonel and really wanted me to join up, so I enrolled in OCS. That’s about it. I’ve worked at the Army Research Lab for the past three years. Any questions? Comments?”
“It was pretty awesome, what you did in Kingman City, sir,” Falcone said. “What other units have you been with? What kind of special-ops training have you had?”
“Uh…well, none, Frank,” Jason replied rather sheepishly. “I got my master’s and doctorate degrees at Georgia Tech and Cal-Poly San Luis Obispo, then went on to Fort Polk and the Army Research Lab, working in weapon system engineering and development. I did a year at the Armed Forces Industrial College in Washington and a year as project officer at Aberdeen Proving Grounds, working on various projects.” No one said anything after that. He shrugged, then motioned to DeLaine. “How about you, Kelsey? Been a G-Man for long?”
Kelsey gave Jason an evil scowl but got to her feet. “Thank you, Major. Welcome, everybody. I’m Special Agent Kelsey DeLaine. I’m the deputy director of intelligence, FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C., second in command at the FBI’s intelligence headquarters, which oversees nationwide and worldwide law-enforcement information-gathering, analysis, dissemination, and operations. Before that, I was deputy special agent in charge of intelligence for the FBI field office in London, with a force of twenty-three agents and a staff of sixty personnel. Before that, I was at the FBI Academy in Quantico, teaching classes in intelligence field operations and international law. I have a prelaw and law degree from Georgetown University.”
“The sergeant major said you had something to do with that huge black market weapons bust in London a couple months ago?” Falcone asked.
Kelsey nodded. “I was the coleader of a joint U.S.-British-Russian task force tracking down terror cells moving into Europe from the Middle East through the Caspian Sea region and southern Europe,” she replied. “Our task force broke the London cell wide open, which led to the discovery of the black market WMD dealers in London and Washington.”
“I heard that op might have saved both capitals from a nuclear or bio-weapon attack,” McCracken said. “You confiscated something like seven billion dollars in secret bank accounts?”
“More like ten billion, plus those four huge chemical weapon caches that we…”
“That’s good, Kelsey, thanks,” Jason said. Kelsey rolled her eyes at Richter but took her seat. “I’m not sure why I was chosen to be in this group, except I have the keys to the gadgets out there in the hangar. Intros over? Good. Frank, get us started. What do you have for us?”
Falcone distributed folders from his briefcase, disguising a smile at DeLaine’s expense as he did so. “This is the latest information we’ve received on the attack in Kingman City,” he said, “mostly details about the explosion itself and the extent of the damage. Over eleven known terrorist and extremist groups have taken responsibility for the attack. The FBI is working with the CIA, State Department, and foreign intelligence and law-enforcement agencies to narrow the list down.”
“Any information on this, Kelsey?” Jason asked.
“Not yet,” Kelsey responded. “We do know that another three dozen or so unknown group or individuals have also claimed responsibility. It’ll take time to track down each an
d every lead.”
“Any guesses? Anyone stand out?”
“I think that’s very premature,” she said hesitantly. “We need more information.”
Jason glanced at Ari, who made an imperceptible nod in return as she sipped her coffee. “Okay. We don’t have a target yet, so we can’t ascertain exactly who or what our enemy is yet,” Jason said. “But Sun-tzu said that in order to be effective in war you needed to know your enemy and know yourself. I think it’s time to get to know El CID.”
“El Cid?”
“Cybernetic Infantry Device—our little friends in the Humvees,” Jason said. “I brought two with me from Fort Polk, including the one I used in Kingman City. We have four more in various stages of readiness back at Fort Polk—since we use a spiral development program, we can manufacture units one by one and subsequent units adopt upgrades and enhancements. I expect we’ll get one or two within the next month, followed by the rest within six months along with the specialized Humvees and other support equipment. Our goal should be to train someone to use CID number two and have him or her up to speed.”
“I thought of that,” Kelsey said. “Carl Bolton has volunteered to train in the second unit.”
“Carl? Really?”
“He’s the perfect choice,” Kelsey said. “He’s a career FBI agent, graduated top of his class in the academy, and has degrees in engineering and computers.”
And it would give you someone on the inside on my side of the task force, Jason told himself. “Actually,” he said, “I was thinking of…Staff Sergeant Doug Moore.”
“Who?”
“Sergeant Moore, the Air Force Security Forces guard assigned to this area.”
“You mean, the guy at the front desk?” Kelsey asked incredulously. “The short fat guy with glasses?”
“He’s of average height and maybe a little on the husky side, but not fat.”
“I think Carl would have a much better understanding of the technology than the staff sergeant,” Kelsey said. “We don’t have time to train someone in all the intricacies of haptic interfaces. Carl has researched that technology for years. He’s also a marathon runner and open water SCUBA diver—I think he would do better physically and endurance-wise inside CID than Moore. I vote we train Carl Bolton in the second CID unit and use Sergeant Moore in the next units that arrive.”
