Disavowed

by C. G. Cooper

  6:24pm AFT, August 23rd

  The room smelled like someone had used it as a bathroom since the day the dilapidated building went up. Sour and musty like a junkie’s crack house. It didn’t bother Rich Isnard. He’d been to and even lived in worse places. At least he’d only be in the apartment overlooking the bustling bazaar below for the night, if that long. The cracked plastic blinds let in a filtered yellow light from the street lamps that only served to cast the room in a more depressive pallor.

  Despite his repeated attempts to quit his two pack a day habit, Isnard puffed away like a man possessed. It’s what he’d always done in the field. Habit, plain and simple. Like breathing.

  Isnard had the hard look of a man who’d seen and done things that others might condemn. His features placed him somewhere between early thirties and mid-fifties. A forgettable face covered in salt and pepper stubble. His short hair matched his beard. To strangers, Isnard’s gray eyes might look bored, but they hid the fact that the man possessed mental faculties that were always on high alert. He knew every exit in the three story complex despite only checking in an hour before. Thorough.

  In his youth, he’d thrown off attempts by his overbearing mother and bitter electrician father to corral his free spirit. What do you do with a kid who’s kicked out of every school in a ten mile radius?

  As an only child, Isnard had ample time to observe his parents. Early on, young Richie, as his mother called him, figured out that his parents were losers. They were the type of people who complained about their circumstances instead of doing something about them. His father constantly griped about non-paying clients and freeloading employees despite the fact that he rarely got anywhere on time and almost never paid his people when he was supposed to.

  His mother, the basket case, got fatter and fatter as the years creaked by, more content with bitching about the high price of milk than giving her only son anything nutritious to eat, let alone motherly love.

  Rich Isnard left home at the age of seventeen after a particularly bitter fight with his father. Time had erased the reason for the argument, but the high school dropout ended up at the office of the Marine recruiter he’d met at his last high school. The young sergeant was pretty cool, even letting him bum a cigarette when they bumped into each other in the parking lot.

  Much to Isnard’s dismay, Sgt. Austin told him that at the time he didn’t have any slots for kids without high school diplomas. He went on to explain that Isnard had to wait until he was eighteen to go to boot camp.

  None of that deterred Rich Isnard. He convinced Sgt. Austin to let him sleep on his couch, promising to keep the Marine’s apartment spotless in exchange for food and a place to crash. Austin agreed and set Isnard up. Isnard was true to his word. They shared the bachelor pad for two months. Time ticked by until Isnard turned eighteen. Meanwhile he took and passed the GED exam without studying.

  Sgt. Austin was surprised. “How come you were failing out of school?”

  Isnard grinned and replied, “I was bored.”

  Soon after, he got a perfect score on the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery (ASVAB), which basically gave him his pick of any military occupational specialty (MOS). He’d surprised Sgt. Austin again by choosing infantry.

  “Most smart kids like you want intel. You wanna be cannon fodder?” asked Sgt. Austin, who himself was an artilleryman.

  Isnard shrugged. “If I’m gonna be a Marine, I’m gonna be a real Marine.”

  So two months after leaving home, Recruit Rich Isnard stood on the yellow footprints at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island.

  Despite his small stature (his initial boot camp physical measured him in at 5 feet 5 inches tall and a scrawny 120 lbs), Isnard showed his fellow recruits and the staff that he had more than enough scrap to go around. There wasn’t much he couldn’t do, from scoring “expert” on the rifle range and acing his academic tests, to besting his entire class on the obstacle course. He’d finally found a place where he could excel and be rewarded for it.

  It was a theme that would replay wherever he went in the Marine Corps. Everyone underestimated Rich Isnard when they first met him, but it never took him long to prove his worth.

  After doing four years in The Corps, Isnard used his contacts to join the CIA. By then, he’d mastered Pashtun, Chinese, Spanish and Latin (just for fun). He’d gone from pushing paper to running his own team in Iraq in under a year. He was fast-tracked by superiors who recognized his talent for the intelligence business. He read others like few could and would bend their wills when needed. If there was ever a natural spook, it was Rich Isnard.

  Now, despite where he stood waiting, Rich Isnard was the CIA station chief in Baghdad, Iraq. He knew they were looking for him, but he couldn’t go back. Not yet. He’d lost one of his own, his recruit, another Marine. The one thing that would always be at the foundation of Isnard’s soul, a lesson learned in the first days of Marine boot camp, was that you never leave a man behind. It was a solemn promise, a vow embedded in every Marine’s heart.

  No. He wouldn’t go back until he found out one way or another. His highly tuned mind was betting that the man he was waiting for had some insight into the whereabouts of Major “Andy” Andrews. More importantly, the contact would be the first crumb along the path of finding out why the hell the CIA had labeled Andrews a traitor.

  Whether by bribery or bullet, Isnard was going to do what was needed to find the truth. He’d never failed before.

  Chapter 4

  University of Virginia

  Charlottesville, Virginia

  11:12am, August 23rd

  The attractive brunette with striking blue eyes walked into Little John’s Deli wearing a Naval ROTC uniform. This time of year it was whites. Despite the unflattering attire, hair pulled tight in a bun and only minimal makeup, heads turned as Diane Mayer passed by. One couldn’t help but look at the fourth year student who walked with an air of confidence and a genuine smile.

  Cal watched the 28-year-old from the corner table, his heart beating a little faster when she smiled at him with a wave. God, she’s beautiful.

  She motioned for him to keep his seat but still leaned over the table to give him a kiss. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” Cal replied, still amazed by the swell of emotion he felt when seeing his…well, they hadn’t exactly defined their relationship yet. Diane, who’d served four years in the Navy before enrolling at U.Va., didn’t like the term “boyfriend and girlfriend.” While their relationship was still new, Cal was well aware of the gravitational pull drawing him to Diane.

  “What did you order?” she asked, pointing down at the two sub sandwiches sitting in the middle of the well worn table.

  “One Nuclear sub, extra Texas Pete, and an Italian.”

  They’d taken to the habit of sharing food, always halving orders. Diane grabbed a half of the Nuclear sub and took a bite. Her eyes lit up.

  “I’m starving,” she said with a mouthful of sandwich.

  Cal smiled, grabbed the other half, and dug in.

  Not a word was said until they’d finished, Diane because she didn’t stop eating, and Cal because he was enjoying the sight of a beautiful woman with an appetite she wasn’t afraid to show.

  “I’m going out of town tonight,” he said, taking a sip of soda.

  Diane stopped wiping her mouth. “Oh?”

  Cal knew what she was thinking. On his last “business trip” he’d returned with a dislocated shoulder and stitches, courtesy of two weeks of sustained Ops in Iraq. Diane didn’t know what he really did for a living, but he was sure she had a hunch. She wasn’t stupid. Far from it, in fact.

  As was his way, after the first couple dates, Cal put super hacker Neil Patel to the task of finding out about Diane Mayer. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, but he didn’t like getting involved with anyone without knowing something about them. He knew the basics: family, naval service, etc.. but she’d been almost as coy as Cal when it came to telling him what she’d
done in the navy. She always said she was some kind of paper-pusher.

  It hadn’t taken Neil long to find out.

  “She’s intel,” Neil had said. “Analyst. Pretty damn smart by the looks of her confidential record.”

  “Confidential record?” asked Cal.

  Neil nodded. “Just like the special Ops guys. Looks like your girlfriend’s been involved in more high level ops than you.”

  Neil had really gotten a kick out of that little morsel, chuckling as Cal snatched the file out of his friend’s hand.

  But Diane’s former occupation meant more headaches for Cal. As the de facto leader of The Jefferson Group, Cal was sanctioned by President Zimmer himself. There was no one else that he answered to. If that fact was ever made public…well, it couldn’t happen. He had to be careful with what he said around Diane.

  “I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone,” said Cal, watching to see Diane’s reaction.

  She reached out and grabbed his hand. It was warm, comforting.

  “No more stitches, okay?” she said with a grin.

  Cal nodded. This was getting complicated.

  +++

  Diane waved goodbye and made her way toward the Rotunda. Her next class started in ten minutes.

  As she walked, thoughts filtered, still absorbing the lunch with Cal. She wasn’t stupid. She knew Cal wasn’t a consultant. There were thousands of consultants in the D.C. area, and Diane had met her fair share. Her time in Naval Intelligence had introduced her to the world of spy versus spy around the nation’s capital.

  She remembered the moment she’d checked into her first duty station and her commanding officer told her not to come to work again unless she was armed. From that day forward she had a Sig P239 no more than an arm’s reach away. An expert shot, Diane had grown up in a military family. Her brothers had all served. As the baby sister, she’d gone along for the ride.

  While Diane could hold her own in a military and familial establishment filled with men, she held no illusions that she could ever be a field operator. That wasn’t what she wanted. Her prospects within the enlisted ranks were limited. She’d left the Navy only after applying for a ROTC scholarship and being accepted to the University of Virginia. Her dream was to be a Naval Intelligence officer. As an officer, she’d have the opportunity to have her own team, maybe even be assigned to the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA) or Special Operations Command (SOCOM).

  With an easy command of multiple languages, Diane’s prospects were high. She had the experience and the brains that the Navy was looking for. Now that the Zimmer Doctrine was filtering through the federal branches, there would be an increasing need for beefed up intelligence assets. They were taking the battle to the enemy and Diane wanted to be part of it.

  As luck would have it, Cal had been the proverbial wrench thrown into her well-thought-out plan. She hadn’t been looking. It had just happened. But she knew that she loved him. It was the easiest of things. Under his sometimes gruff exterior lived a loving man who was loyal and kind. A born leader. She saw how he was with his friends. Guys like the enormous MSgt Trent and the crafty Gaucho deferred to Cal even when they joked with him.

  Diane knew there was more to Cal than he was telling her, but she didn’t push. He would tell her when the time was right.

  +++

  Cal had similar feelings as he walked away from lunch. He’d loved a girl once before. She’d been taken from him in the most horrific way possible: murdered right in front of him. The thought still made his heart drop, the years having done little to lessen the sting of Jessica’s brutal death.

  That was one of the reasons he hesitated with Diane. Besides the fact that what he did for a living was highly classified, he didn’t want her to get hurt. Deep down, in a place that never saw the light of day, Cal still blamed himself for his fiancé’s death. He’d replayed that night over and over again, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong. As crazy as it sounded, sometimes he felt cursed like those closest to him were the first to get punished. His parents were gone. Jess too. At least guys like his right hand man, Marine sniper Daniel Briggs, could protect themselves.

  But even highly trained operators could fall on the wrong side of fate. His good friend, former Navy Corpsman Brian Ramirez, was one of them. Would Andy be next?

  The thought haunted him as he made his way back to The Jefferson Group’s headquarters. Cal still couldn’t believe that the CIA had disavowed Andy and labeled him a traitor. Not Andy. Never.

  Cal had served with his fair share of officers and Andy was the best. Unassuming, moral, and patriotic. Andy had a way, just like Daniel, of making a stressful situation better with a simple pat on the back or nod of his head. He inspired confidence in his men and his superiors. There was no one better to lead Marines.

  That’s why the thought of Andy being a traitor was so ludicrous. No way.

  Hopefully he’d have some answers soon. His team should be waiting. He had to talk to them first, then it was on to Washington. If the president didn’t have the answers, Cal would find them some other way.

  Chapter 5

  Helmand Province, Afghanistan

  6:03am AFT, August 24th

  They had a new game now. Instead of delivering severed body parts to his cell, a trio of guards would come into the room, blindfold him, unhook his manacles from the wall, attach a cold metal collar to his neck, and drag him out like a dog. They even made barking sounds and tried to trip him like kids do.

  Once outside they would parade him around, jabbering on about what a good dog he was, apparently not knowing that he could understand every word. They never hit him. It was just like taking a dog for a walk. Andy didn’t have a clue what they were doing.

  As well as he could estimate, they did this every hour or two. He didn’t have his watch so he couldn’t be sure, but it felt like hour-long intervals. He’d started the habit of counting down the seconds. Tedious, but what else was he going to do?

  They kept it up throughout the night, killing any chance of getting sleep.

  They were either toying with him or wearing him down in the most obscure way he’d ever experienced. He’d had briefings on captivity and torture. He knew what to expect. But this wasn’t it. There had to be a reason…

  He’d just dozed off when the cell door creaked open and the guards streamed in. Gone were the playful smirks, replaced by grim determination. No one said a word as they ran through the practiced routine, leading him out of the structure into the still morning air.

  Andy’s ears strained to hear anything that would give away his captors’ intent, but none came. One of them pushed him to the ground, and in broken English, said “Sit.”

  He sat, and waited. It didn’t take long.

  Soon he heard the sound of vehicles approaching. He couldn’t tell, but he estimated between five and ten. Car doors opened and shut and he could just make out the muffled conversations coming from the passengers. They were talking about him.

  In Pashtun one of the men said, “Stand him up.”

  Andy’s heart beat faster as strong hands grabbed him under his arms and hoisted him to his feet.

  “Tell me why you’ve come to my country,” the same voice said again, still in Pashtun.

  Andy ignored the question. They didn’t need to know that he understood the language. Let them think that he was just another no name contractor who didn’t speak a lick of the local dialect.

  Again in Pashtun, the man said, “Come now, Major Andrews. I know that you speak my language. Do not be rude. Please answer my question.”

  While it didn’t necessarily surprise him, it did add to his worry. If they knew who he was, it was only a matter of time before they knew he was working for the CIA. And if they knew that…

  “I asked you a question, Major.” The man’s voice sounded cultured, unlike the men who’d guarded him since his capture.

  “I’m in Afghanistan on a humanitarian mission with White Dove International.” It was his
official cover and he’d actually gone through the steps of being hired by the non-profit as a sort of ambassador for the region. His job with White Dove was to find Afghan communities in need of assistance and organize the shipment and distribution of aid. It gave him the ability to travel wherever and whenever he needed.

  “And please tell me, Major, does White Dove International know that you also work for the Central Intelligence Agency?” The man had switched to near flawless English, his accent faint.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am a former Marine who…”

  “According to my sources you are an anomaly, Major. Still listed as an active duty Marine Corps officer, you have apparently done work for the CIA for close to six months. Is this not true?”

  “It is not.”

  “It would be better if we could be honest with each other, Major. There are some in my country who would like to see you drawn and quartered on national television. Is that what you want?”

  “Call White Dove. Ask them who I am. They’ll tell you…”

  The man snapped his fingers and the sound produced an immediate result. The butt of a rifle slammed into Andy’s abdomen, blasting the air from his lungs. He resisted the urge to kneel, waiting for his body to naturally regain its ability to breath.

  “Despite what you might think, we Afghans are a civilized culture. Our people established this community centuries before your country was even a wisp of a thought. There have been many nations which have come and gone in that time. You Americans are only the most recent. I am sure that because of your Marine background you are well aware of our history, our ability to outlast even the most brutal invaders. Let us bring that same concept into our current situation. I am a patient man, Major, but my patience has limits. You either cooperate with us now, or your entire operation will become public knowledge.”

  Andy’s stomach clenched. There was no way they knew…unless someone within the CIA had tipped them off.