First Team [First Team 01]

by Larry Bond

  “I think the electorate would be thrilled at your work ethic,” said the president behind her.

  Corrine felt her face flush. “You surprised me, Mr. President,” she said, turning around from her computer.

  “I have that effect on people,” he said, peeking at the computer screen. “Addressed to me?”

  “I haven’t finished it yet.”

  “How was Cuba? Warm?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Our guest?”

  “Interesting, but not very talkative,” said Corrine. “I already told you the decision should be deferred while they’re pursuing his present information.”

  “E-mail is not the same as a personal report.”

  “I’m working on my report now.” She folded her arms in front of her breasts, feeling almost as if the president had barged into her bathroom as she came from the shower.

  “I understand the CIA director and the deputy director of operations are on my agenda for the morning.” McCarthy raised his eyebrows just enough to suggest a wink as he continued. “What is it they’re going to complain about?”

  “They got to you already?”

  The president reached for the seat near her desk. He pulled it over and sat down, pulling the pant legs of his gray suit back ever so slightly and exposing his snakeskin boots. “Now just remember, dear, the shoe leather is snake. My legs will hurt if you start to fib.”

  Corrine had heard the line a million times. “It’ll all be in my memo.”

  “Horse’s mouth is always better, not to mention quicker,” said McCarthy. “And I am by no means suggesting that you’re a horse.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Corrine told him what she had found—an operation with no checks in place and, it seemed to her, ample opportunity for running amuck.

  “They’re completely outside any oversight,” said Corrine. “The fact that they’ve used a structure intended for something else is, at the very least, a serious red flag.”

  “You’re sure it was intended for something else.”

  “I’ve seen the minutes.”

  “And they would be accurate.” The president let just the hint of amusement enter into his skepticism; he knew the past administration extremely well. “They don’t have to report to anyone?”

  “Just the DDO.”

  “The person I appoint,” said the president. He was drawing an important distinction—the NSC directive did not state that the DDO was in charge of Special Demands.

  “Slott’s been with the Agency for years; his loyalties aren’t to you,” said Corrine. “I don’t think he has any perspective at all.”

  McCarthy propped the side of his face against his hand, as relaxed as if he were discussing how they dealt with critters on his Georgia farm. “The problem is that they don’t have intelligence findings before proceeding?”

  “The problem is they don’t have anything. Decisions are being made by the officer in the field and a Special Forces colonel who has enough firepower at his fingertips to start a world war. Slott is a rubber stamp at best. This is exactly what led to catastrophe in the sixties. It took decades to recover from that. Some say they still haven’t.”

  “Well now, they’ve told me what’s going on,” said the president. “Shouldn’t I trust them?”

  “There’s no way for us to know for sure what they’re doing,” she explained. “The NSC isn’t involved, there’s no paperwork, no procedures, the director doesn’t have to be notified, they don’t have to report to the congressional committees—we have to completely trust the people involved.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I don’t trust anyone. First rule.” Corrine shook her head. “The operation in Iran is a perfect example. What happens if they’re captured? Or worse, if they find a dirty bomb on that ship and blow it up? Not to mention that, in my opinion, they’re going off on a wild-goose chase.”

  McCarthy sat back up. “How’s that?”

  “It’s obviously meant to throw them off the trail. The Iranian government took over the Islamic organization months ago. Our guest told them that to throw them off. He’s probably hoping we’ll give the Iranians trouble.”

  “And how do you know?”

  “I’ve done a little research. Where do you think I’ve been the past few days?”

  “That didn’t occur to them?”

  “Probably, but they won’t admit it. They get a hot lead, and they pursue it. That’s how they operate.”

  McCarthy put his hand to his chin, rubbing the nubby whiskers of his five o’clock shadow.

  “If they really want to find out where the waste is going,” Corrine told him, “we should track it from Buzuluk.”

  “They said they tried,” said the President.

  “As far as I could find out, they only used satellites and detectors; they weren’t actually there. Big difference seeing the bear than hearing about it,” she added, using one of his phrases.

  McCarthy rose from the chair without saying anything. He walked over to her desk, reaching around her to the computer.

  “Here,” he said, pointing to the screen. “Insert your recommendation here.”

  “Which recommendation?”

  “The one that recommends that the person in charge of Special Demands be outside the CIA and Special Forces command structure, as permitted by the authorizing directive and executive order. And the law.”

  “Uh—”

  “To be more specific, that the president’s counsel be that person.”

  “But—”

  “Then a little lower, down here, plot out your recommendation for following the operation. I think that might be the first thing you do, assuming you’re right about the ship.”

  “But I can’t do that.”

  “Can’t do what, dear?”

  “I can’t get involved in this.”

  “Whyever not? You have experience working with the Intelligence Committee. You obviously aren’t intimidated by the CIA boys. And I’d bet even those hard-assed Special Operations people’ll be eating out of your hand in short order.”

  “But I’m a lawyer. I’m your lawyer.”

  “I hope you’re not bringing up the matter of your job description again.” McCarthy straightened, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

  “I am.”

  “I’m beginning to believe you are angling for a raise, Miss Alston.”

  “You set me up, didn’t you?”

  “How’s that?” asked the president.

  “You want to exercise more control over them, but you didn’t want to make it look like it was your idea. So you’re using me. You sent me—you used me.”

  “Nevuh would I use a woman.”

  “How much did you know about Special Demands before you called me in? Or this operation?”

  “I didn’t know everything you’ve told me,” said McCarthy.

  “That sounds like an answer a lawyer would give,” she said.

  “Touché, Counselor. Touché.”

  ~ * ~

  11

  OFF BANDAR ‘ABBÃS, IRAN

  The hardest part was waiting before launching the mission. Rankin busied himself with equipment checks and plans, but eventually all he could do was sweat, the excess energy seeping out from the pores of his skin. He wanted to be onshore, rescuing Ferguson—bailing the asshole out, as usual—but prudence dictated they wait until dark. Conners had the site under surveillance; the situation was pretty stable, given the circumstances.

  Though in Rankin’s opinion, a bullet in the head might teach Ferguson a lesson.

  Rankin had learned to meditate while recovering from a shoulder injury when he was a corporal; he didn’t use the full lotus position he’d learned in the yoga class— too goofy in the submarine, with SEALs all around—but he did sit still in the mess area, hands resting on his knees, eyes zoned into a distant space. It helped for a while, settling his muscles and controlling his breath, but inevitably the adrenaline of the pe
ople around him pierced through the temporary veil.

  When the time finally came to climb into the escape chamber and board the minisub, Rankin moved slowly but deliberately, as if trying to hold his muscles in check. He sat on the bench of the ASDS next to the SEAL team’s leader, a large, blond-haired master chief petty officer from Minnesota about Rankin’s age. The others called him MC, partly because of his rank and partly because of his name—Mark Carpenter. But he also had the air of an emcee, silently surveying everything and calmly maintaining order.

  When the ASDS was ready to slide off the submarine, MC looked at Rankin, lowering his head slightly as if to say, “Are you ready, Soldier Boy?” Rankin nodded. Rather than speaking, MC tapped the navigator, who passed the signal on to the helmsman.

  The submarine pushed through the water, a bit unsteady at first. The ride took barely twenty minutes. Rankin wasn’t a very strong swimmer, but the watchfulness of the two SEALs assigned to shepherd him to shore irked him; Rankin felt like a recently weaned lamb, crowded by two sheepdogs all the way to shore.

  He saw the signal when they were still a good thirty yards from the rocks. The others made him stop and tread water while the coded sequences of signs and countersigns were exchanged and repeated. It was absolutely prudent and necessary, but Rankin felt mostly annoyance, and when the SEALs finally started swimming forward he realized that he had grown somewhat used to working with Ferguson, whose easygoing demeanor infected everything the Team did, even authentication procedures.

  It was an odd realization—if anyone had asked, Rankin would have said flatly that Ferg was far, far too ready to cut corners and take chances.

  Conners squatted near the rocks with the flashlight when Rankin pulled himself onto the dry land.

  “Hey,” said Conners. He put his hand out and helped him up.

  “Yeah,” answered Rankin.

  “They’re just local security people, as far as I can tell,” Conners told him. “I got it all psyched out.”

  Rankin called over the SEAL team leader and introduced him. Conners filled them both in on the layout and lineup. The other local Iraqi spy was watching the site. They’d gotten close enough to use the boom; the people at the factory had bought the Russian cover story and were torn between demanding a ransom and just letting the two men go.

  “I just talked to our guy. No change,” said Conners. He had sketched out the facility on a piece of paper. “Pretty straightforward. Two guys at the front gate, a couple of roamers. Pretty light security. No problem with eight guys.”

  “You sure there’s no change?” asked Rankin.

  “Fifteen minutes ago, no change. We’ll call again once we’re close. He doesn’t talk English,” Conners added. “I used the handheld to get some Farsi and English back and forth.”

  “Is the waste in there or what?”

  “Can’t tell for sure,” said Conners. “But I don’t think so. They’re counterfeiting DVDs.”

  MC took the paper from Rankin.

  “Come on,” said Conners. “Our bus is over here.”

  “Bus?” asked Rankin.

  “What, you expected a BMW?” said Conners. “The guy who’s watching the facility has a brother who owns two buses. He’s our driver. It looks like a school bus. Don’t worry, he says we won’t get stopped.”

  “Why don’t we just get a fuckin’ fire truck and go lights and sirens?” said Rankin in a sneer.

  “I thought of that,” said Conners. “But I couldn’t find one.”

  “You’ve been hanging around Ferguson too long,” said Rankin.

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  ~ * ~

  Y

  ou’d think they’d give us some free samples to while away the time,” said Ferguson.

  Keveh didn’t laugh.

  Ferg got up slowly from the plastic chair, holding his hands out so that the guard at the door would realize that he was just stretching his legs. The Iranians didn’t seem to know what to do with them; Keveh said one of the guards had mentioned that they had to call their “administrator,” who apparently wasn’t at the factory. They obviously weren’t going to call the police—the bootlegging operation was illegal and would either get them into trouble or necessitate a serious round of bribes.

  Ferguson had floated hints that they would pay a ransom, but their captors hadn’t actually asked how one might be paid. He figured Conners and the cavalry would wait until dark to bail them out; with a little luck this would be merely a burp in their schedule.

  The guard stared at him as he stretched. He had a pistol at his belt, easily take-able—obviously the man wasn’t too experienced guarding prisoners. Ferg figured it was safe enough to wait; besides, the security office was next door, and there was no telling whether there might actually be someone who knew what he was doing there.

  Ferguson began stretching; he felt cramped as well as tired—then pulled over one of the plastic chairs. The guard said something in Farsi. Ferg motioned that he was going to do a push-up against the seat, then did so, hamming the routine up.

  “What are you doing?” Keveh asked.

  “Limbering up,” said Ferg.

  “He thinks you’re nuts.”

  “That’s good.” Ferguson reeled off a few sentences of Russian about the beauty of the white leopard in winter, then added in English “You think they’re going to feed us?”

  “The guard doesn’t know.”

  “Send him out to ask,” said Ferg. “I’m getting hungry.”

  Keveh asked in Farsi if the guard might get them some food. The man shook his head, then explained that he was not in charge—they would have to wait there until his superior arrived. He, too, was hungry.

  As the guard was speaking, Ferguson heard footsteps in the hallway. He rested his left hand on the chair, listening. There was a loud pop in the distance, from near the entrance—with a swift motion Ferguson picked up the chair and tossed it at the guard’s face, following underneath with a dive at the man’s midsection. Ferguson twisted around and up, pushing his legs underneath him and pinning the hapless guard to the ground. A quick kick to the man’s chin ended any possibility of resistance.

  “Down,” Ferguson yelled at Keveh, grabbing the gun from the holster. “Get over to the side. They’re using flash-bangs. Keep your eyes closed and head covered.”

  He crawled out of the way just as the hinges of the door flew open with the loud report of a shotgun blast. Rankin and a SEAL in battle dress and blackface pushed into the room with a bang; within three seconds a gun barrel pointed at each occupant’s head.

  “Watch where you point that thing, Skippy,” said Ferguson, who’d put the pistol he’d taken under his body.

  “You’re lucky I don’t pull the trigger.”

  “Then you’ll have all those friendly fire reports to fill out,” said Ferguson. He held up his hands so it was obvious to the others that he was a good guy, and gestured to Keveh. “He’s ours.”

  “They’re all right, they’re okay,” said Conners, rushing in behind them.

  Rankin pushed the Iranian guard to the corner of the room, trussing him with plastic cuffs. Ferguson, meanwhile, went out into the hall.

  “Right, turn right,” yelled Rankin, following him out.

  “Gotta get my hideaway,” Ferguson told him. “They took it.”

  “Fuck that,” said Rankin. “Let’s go.”

  “That stinking Glock is my personal weapon,” said Ferguson. He trotted down the hall toward the far end of the corridor, where two SEALs were watching the approach from a second hallway. Ferguson signaled to them to follow, then went toward the office where he’d been searched.

  He kicked the door in and threw himself back as the two SEALs poked their guns inside. The lone occupant was hunched behind a desk in the corner. One of the SEALs shouted in Farsi for the man to throw down his weapon. He shouted again, and the man raised his hands to show he wasn’t armed.

  As Ferguson slipped between the SEALs into th
e room, he spotted a shadow in the corner of his eye. With a quick lunge he pushed on the door and then grabbed his would-be assailant, disabling him with an elbow shot to the solar plexus after pulling him forward. A gun flew to the ground.

  “Fucking rent-a-cops,” he said, grabbing the Beretta from the floor.

  Tears were falling down the other man’s face.