Operation Zulu

by Ernest Dempsey

  From the looks of the video, he just found the one percent.

  Two other men sat in the room, watching the events take place. No one laughed, even though it might’ve been tempting. They weren’t there for comedy.

  Over the years, Zeke Marshall had been a thorn in the director’s side. His ineptitude was trumped only by his laziness, lack of motivation, and overall disregard for authority. Maxwell had been looking for a reason to get rid of him for a long time. While spilling coffee in the break room was hardly grounds for termination, the incident had resulted in his personal laptop being ruined. It would take a day or two for the thing to dry out, and even then, there was no guarantee that all of the data stored on there would be intact.

  One of the guests in the chair to Maxwell’s left was an older man with white hair, dark sun splotches on his forehead and hands, and deep bags under his eyes. He was wearing a pristinely pressed army uniform with more medals and bars on it than most soldiers knew existed. To his right was a younger man, probably in his mid-fifties. His hair was cut similarly to the general’s, but he wore no military uniform. He was what the director liked to call a broker.

  Brokers were the ones who brought the challenging jobs to the GIC. When the federal government needed plausible deniability, they used the CIA and its special ops units. When the CIA needed plausible deniability, they went to the GIC.

  The two guests shared a sidelong glance and then faced Maxwell again.

  “And you think those two are up to the task?”

  Maxwell leaned back in his high leatherback chair and crossed one leg over his knee. He steepled his fingers together over his lap, tapping his index fingers together repeatedly as if contemplating the question.

  “You said we needed sacrificial lambs, right?”

  The general arched one eyebrow. “I don’t recall saying it that way.”

  “Fine,” Maxwell said. “Decoys. Whatever. We both know what they are. These two are perfect.”

  “You’re certain they’ll be capable enough to get into position without screwing up?” The CIA guy in the business suit sounded dubious. His hair was perfectly sculpted and slanted to the left atop his skull. He was tanned and fit, evidence of both outdoor activity and plenty of exercise and training.

  “We’ll make sure they’re in place. You make sure everything on your end is ready to go.”

  “You never have to worry about my end, Director. We are always ready.”

  “So, does that mean you approve?”

  “If you’re certain we can sweep this under the rug with minimal backlash.”

  “Shouldn’t be an issue,” Maxwell insisted. “These two are trained agents, not field agents, but they know all the rules, all the protocols. They’ll follow along right up until the point they’re taken out—if that sort of unfortunate incident were to occur.”

  The old general’s eyes narrowed. He’d been sitting as still as a statue ever since he got there. His face was stoic, cold as stone. The entire time it felt like he was sizing up the other two like a lion stalking its prey. Maxwell wasn’t unnerved by much, but this old soldier shook him ever so slightly.

  General Ortega had been in combat. He’d commanded the United States Armed Forces with swift, sometimes brutal decisiveness. He also understood how to assess an enemy and, often, more importantly, an ally.

  When he spoke, his voice was just as cold as his expression. It was gravelly, scratchy from years of barking orders and giving debriefings.

  “What about the IT guy?” he asked. “How does he fit into all this?”

  “He doesn’t,” Maxwell said. “I’m going to fire him at the end of the week. That coffee spill was the last straw.”

  “He was an innocent bystander,” the CIA guy said, although he didn’t look like the type to be merciful or understanding. Sympathy was a weakness in his line of work. For some reason, though, it bothered him that the IT guy in the video was going to be terminated for something that wasn’t his fault.

  “It’s not the first time he’s screwed up. Don’t worry. He’ll have another job somewhere else by the end of the month. Probably Best Buy or somewhere like that. He’ll be happier there anyway. He can goof off all he wants all day long.”

  The two men exchanged another questioning glance.

  “What is it about these other two?” the general asked. “What are you not telling us?”

  “Nothing,” Maxwell said, a little more emphatically than he intended. “Look, we need two decoys. Okay? They’re perfect. They’re expendable. They have no wives, no children. And they’re useless individuals.”

  “The one with the funny name,” the general said, “he’s a smart one.”

  “Underwood? Phoenix Underwood? Yeah, he’s brilliant, a little too smart for his own good, or the good of this nation, General. I didn’t want to say anything, but…I caught him downloading some inappropriate videos the other day onto the computers in his office. He thought he’d gone through a proxy and that we wouldn’t see it, but we did.”

  That was a bald-faced lie, but the other two didn’t need to know that. The truth was, Phoenix Underwood had been digging a little too deep into some files as he traced information, data, and money streams through the web and the internal databases stored locally. The last thing Maxwell needed was for those files coming to light.

  “And the other guy?” General Ortega asked.

  “He’s an idiot. The only reason he’s here is his father was something of a legend at the GIC.”

  “Who is his father?” the CIA guy asked.

  The director ignored the irony. “He’s dead now. I don’t think I should elaborate on the details at this moment.” He leaned forward, planting both feet on the floor. He rested his elbows on the table, cocked his head to the side, and stared at one man, then the other for several long seconds.

  “Look, gentlemen, these are our guys. You asked me to pick two expendable decoys, and I did. If you don’t want my resources or my expertise, then feel free to use your own departments to take care of the issue.”

  They looked at each other one more time.

  “They’ll do, Maxwell. Don’t be so testy.” The CIA guy, whose name was Alan Tisdale, spoke in a condescending tone.

  It was no secret that the CIA disparaged the GIC. They thought they were better, more legitimate. Those feelings of loathing might have also come from a sense of distrust. Maxwell didn’t care, he was paid a lot of money to make sure other agencies’ screw-ups were taken care of, or that the dirt they didn’t want to handle was cleaned efficiently. In this instance, they were babysitting in a very literal sense of the word.

  “We’re talking about billions of dollars of tech and research, and thousands of hours that were spent to create these bombs. If they fall into the wrong hands, there’s going to be more trouble than any of us have ever seen before,” Ortega said. “I don’t think I have to say anything about what it would mean if this goes south.”

  “No, you don’t.” The director did his best not to sneer, but it was all he could do to hold himself back. “Obviously, the stakes are very high. We’re talking about state-of-the-art technology. I know what’s at stake. The plan is perfect. Everything will be in place. We just needed two patsies to take the fall.”

  The plan in question was an elaborate one. The bombs they were talking about were a new kind of weapon, a sub-nuclear kind of explosive that could wipe out a radius of fifty city blocks without the nasty effects of radiation afterward. They were expensive, but the threat they could pose if an enemy got their hands on them would be immense.

  Since the missiles were not nuclear, they were more challenging to track while being moved from place to place, though each bomb had been fitted with a homing device to alleviate that issue. Still, if someone was savvy enough, they could remove that and then the weapon would be lost, much like a broken arrow in terms of nuclear bombs.

  The primary mission was simple enough. A dozen of those missiles were being delivered to the fro
nt lines in Afghanistan, but there was concern of a leak in the chain. Evidence was thin at best, but no chances were going to be taken for this operation.

  So, the Department of Defense decided to have the GIC take point. They would orchestrate a decoy convoy, one that could draw the attention of anyone who was considering stealing the weapons. The decoys would escort a cargo truck, along with a dozen empty crates, to the front lines in the war against terrorists, primarily ISIS. To make the plan work, information would have to be leaked about the decoy caravan. This would serve two purposes. One, it could help isolate the leak in the department. And two, when the terrorists attacked the fake truck, they would be rewarded with a bunch of empty crates and nothing but wasted time. Meanwhile, the real GIC field agents would escort missiles to the drop-off where they would be prepped and utilized against the larger terrorist camps and training facilities.

  Would the two decoys be killed? That was a given. Once the terrorists realized they’d been duped, they would probably torture and execute the two agents. That was not only a risk the director was willing to take, but it was also one he was counting on. The other two men in the office didn’t know the ulterior motive behind his selection of decoys. And Maxwell Madic had no intention of sharing that with them.

  A few months prior, at the office Christmas party, he’d seen Zeke Marshall talking to his wife in a back corner of one of the rooms. He was clearly hitting on her. Madic was a jealous man. He liked to be in control of everything. Maybe Marshall didn’t realize it was the director’s wife, but that didn’t matter to Madic. He suspected that maybe the flirtation had gone a little further, maybe a lot further, though he had no proof that had happened. Still, he had no intention of letting it go further than it already had. Marshall was useless. He was a problem in his department, a cancer that infected the rest of the people who worked with him. Madic had heard the reports about Marshall slacking on the job, wasting his hours watching videos on the company computer, or just his all-around lack of respect, both for his position and the agency in general.

  Getting rid of Zeke Marshall would kill two birds with one stone. It would protect the billions of dollars of weapons hardware and tech, while at the same time cutting out a problem within their own agency.

  While Marshall’s friend Phoenix Underwood hadn’t personally offended Madic by hitting on his wife, he had caused his own set of problems for GIC. He was looking into a paper trail that cut too close to home and had recently come across information that, if followed deep enough, could lead straight to the director.

  Madic had been receiving funds from foreign entities for the last few years, taking a bribe here, a payoff there. It was never anything that would hurt Americans or the men and women in the field. Usually, the information he provided was regarding other enemies. The enemy of Madic’s enemy became his friend, despite that being a direct violation of the law. The technical term for it was treason. Madic was no traitor. So what if he made a little money from information he had readily available? So long as he didn’t get caught, there wouldn’t be an issue.

  Now Underwood was digging into his personal affairs and that, he could not abide.

  This trouble with the missiles had provided him multiple opportunities to take care of a couple of troublemakers, while at the same time coming off looking like a hero to the other agencies, as well as the president himself.

  “You’re sure you’re okay with losing these two?” Ortega asked. “Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen, Max. They’re going to be taken, tortured, and killed in very gruesome ways. I don’t have to tell you what terrorists do to American operatives when they’re captured. You’ve seen the video footage. You’ve seen the bodies dragged through the streets. Those two are going to be on Al Jazeera within twenty-four hours of being caught.”

  “And that will simply add more fuel to the fire. The American public will be outraged. They will push for more intervention on our part. Losing a couple of operatives is good for business. You both know that.”

  The two guests looked at each other and nodded. They knew he was right. Nothing boosts the economy like a war. Sure, the country wouldn’t get into an all-out conflict based on the execution of a couple of agents. Normally, if spec ops assets like that were taken and killed, the agencies would disavow any knowledge of their presence, or what they were doing there in the first place. They’d blow it off, saying that it was just a couple of American friends on vacation or something along those lines.

  That would make it even juicier. The public would be so incensed, they wouldn’t be able to see straight. Flags would wave harder than ever as the American people cried out for justice and revenge.

  It was almost too easy.

  “The plan is perfect, gentlemen. By this time next week, you’re going to have the latest tech in missile offense that the world has to offer. Terrorists will see what we can do with those babies and will have to rethink everything they think they know about us, and to what lengths we will go to ensure our way of life and the safety of Americans everywhere.”

  The two guests nodded.

  “Very well,” Ortega said. “Get it done.”

  “Sounds good on my end,” Tisdale agreed. “Make it happen.”

  The two men left the room after a few more minutes of casual conversation about golf, the upcoming baseball season, and the usual pleasantries about wives, family, and empty promises about getting together for drinks.

  Madic watched as the two men disappeared through the security doors at the end of the hall. When the doors closed, he stepped back into his office and closed the door. He took a deep breath and sighed, glancing down at the two files on his desk.

  Pretty soon, he’d be rid of both problems in his life, and he’d probably be in for a pay raise. He smiled to himself at the thought, pleased with his plan.

  Now all he had to do was convince Underwood and Marshall that they were going to be a part of a special unit. Of course, they couldn’t know they were the B-Team, the group sent in to be the sacrificial lambs. They had to be convinced they were part of something else, something more important, something vital to national security. He couldn’t call them the B-Team, even though that’s exactly what they were.

  Then the idea struck him. It was perfect. He’d give their operation a catchy title, one that would instill them with a true sense of purpose, duty, and pride, while still identifying them as what they were.

  Madic was an alpha male. He’d always been strong, able to take out weaker opponents in anything in life, from sports to career to dating. These two were nothing like him. They were clumsy, foolish, and weak. They were beta males. There was no question about that.

  The idea sent a grin across Madic’s face. The title he’d give them would make idiots like those two feel as if they were some kind of butt-kicking super agents. They would eat it up, never knowing that the name of their unit was actually an insult. It was beautiful.

  “Beta Force,” he said dryly. “They’ll be called Beta Force.”

  4

  “This is crazy,” Zeke said. Disbelief was written all over his face. “Are you serious?”

  He and Phoenix were sitting across from Director Maxwell Madic. The office was wrapped in cherry wood panels with ornate molding adorning the façades. It smelled of fine leather and cigars, though the director didn’t smoke in the room. His box of cigars was on the edge of the desk with the lid open, exposing the tightly wrapped tobacco within.

  “I am,” the director said. His voice was matter-of-fact, firm. “This mission is a high priority one for us. Only the best can pull it off.”

  Phoenix frowned, looking down at the floor for a moment as if considering everything the director was saying. “Don’t you have other agents that are specifically trained for a mission like this?”

  “Most of our operators are in the field as we speak. Things have been escalating around the globe and we need every able-bodied soldier and special agent we have at our disposal.”


  “How long do we have to prepare and train for this?” Phoenix assumed it would be months of rigorous and challenging training before they were shipped out to the Middle East.

  “You head out tomorrow. You and your team will rendezvous with your contacts in Afghanistan at Bagram Air Base. From there, you’ll drive a truck to the drop off point.”

  He made it sound overly simple, which sent up a red flag in Phoenix’s mind.

  “Why don’t you just have a couple of Marines do it then, or maybe some of the guys from the army. Doesn’t sound too complicated. Why all the fuss? Why send a couple of special agents halfway across the planet to drive some missiles to another base?”

  Madic nodded and leaned forward. He picked up one of the cigars out of the cigar box and pinched it between his finger and thumb. The two guests watched as he sat back and put the cigar in his mouth, gently biting it with his teeth. Phoenix and Zeke both wondered if he was going to light it, despite the strict ban on smoking indoors within most buildings, especially government ones.

  Zeke wanted to reach over and punch his friend in the shoulder, tell him to shut up. This was their chance to finally get out of the crap jobs they were stuck in, a way to do something that mattered, that made a difference. Not only that, it was precisely what Zeke had been hoping for. He could finally get out of the office; go somewhere else, see new people, new places. It was the adventure he’d been waiting for.

  “I thought you’d ask that,” Madic said, pointing a finger at Phoenix. “I knew you two were clever. I’ve read your files, spoken to your supervisors. You asking these questions reaffirms my opinion that you’re the right guys for the job.”

  Zeke arched an eyebrow. “That’s…very kind of you, sir. I appreciate that.” He didn’t fully trust it, neither did Phoenix.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Look, I’m going to be honest with you. This could be a potentially dangerous mission. You’re going to be transporting highly classified weapons. And you won’t have an escort. We can’t risk it. Big convoys are always the first targets of terrorists. If they saw a bunch of Humvees and transport trucks rolling through the desert and the mountains, they would know it was something important. While I’m confident in our abilities to defend caravans of that nature, we’ve learned that it’s often more effective to send out single transport and cargo vehicles to avoid suspicion. One vehicle draws almost no attention. Not to mention we’re going to make it look like an ordinary cargo truck. There will be no identifying marks on it so that it will look like a civilian vehicle.”