Joint Task Force #2: America

by David E. Meadows

  Tucker thought for a moment. There had been so many missions. It had to be one staged out of Djibouti. “Yes, sir,” he finally replied. “I think I do. If I’m right, it would have been Operation Wipe-up. We followed a major campaign of Joint Task Force Promote Freedom. Promote Freedom was a massive hunt-and-kill operation against a reemerging Al Qaeda base in the Wild West hill country of Yemen. Lasted about three weeks. Everyone said it was a great success. Army Blackhawks dropped us to ground in the hills around a lawless tribal area of Northern Yemen. We waited a week after Promote Freedom had ceased and the bombing had stopped for those terrorists hiding to reemerge. Then we started a covert search-and-destroy against them. We had a two-prong effort with us Americans operating on the southern end of the operations zone and the British-Australian Special Forces working their way south from the northern edge of the zone. We engaged and destroyed numerous small groups of terrorists active in the area.”

  “I have read the operations report, Commander. You make it seem easier than what the reports show. Your group broke into teams, and our closest allies in the north broke into teams. At one time, we must have had twenty special-operations force teams running about the countryside killing and destroying. Essentially, when you finished, you had wiped out nearly all of the new Al Qaeda camps. The teams also stumbled on a couple of new training camps with young recruits eager to commit martyrdom to meet Allah, and the teams arranged those meetings for them. Nope, it was truthfully a great moment in special-operations history, which is one reason that as a commander you were awarded the Silver Star.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  James nodded. “I can see the attack on you hasn’t destroyed any brain cells. Another geopolitical reality of the twenty-first century is these nonstate terror elements converging with rogue nations and other nonaligned terror movements to form what I call associations of the moment. Al Qaeda tried to work with Hamas in 2002 when Operation Enduring Freedom freed Afghanistan. They were going to share funds and plan joint operations. Like most terrorist cells, they don’t work well with two masters. Today—”

  “Yes, sir,” Tucker interrupted, “but what does this have to do with me?”

  Duncan James paused a moment, then nodded. “Tucker, you’re probably one of the best, if not the number-one terrorist killer we have on active duty. Wouldn’t want to see that as a Washington Post headline. You work alone when required, with a squad when necessary, and have led major covert attacks deep into terrorist strongholds wherever they may be, whenever you’ve been ordered. As much as we try to keep the individual names of our Special Forces heroes a secret, our open society makes it damn right challenging. It’s hard to balance secrecy against the rights of freedom of speech and press.”

  Admiral James’s words caused Tucker to think of the news article in Newsweek magazine seven months before. The article had had a photograph of him, extolling Tucker as a secret warrior in the war against terrorism. It told of an unnamed source identifying him as the leader of the Special Forces teams in Operation Wipe-up.

  “The attack against the compound where your reconnaissance team spotted this new character—the one called Abu Alhaul—wasn’t that successful. He and his bodyguards had slipped away during the four hours it took for you and your squads to call in reinforcements. You blew the buildings in the compound, killed a lot of people—every one of the dead associated with this new Al Qaeda. Among those associates were the four wives and most of Abu Alhaul’s children.”

  Tucker looked down. He remembered seeing the small bodies and the feeling of nausea sweeping over him. “Sir, I wasn’t aware of the women and children.”

  “I know. And that was where the photograph that showed up in Time magazine was taken.”

  Tucker nodded. War is hell. The fog of war. Give peace a chance. No one can appreciate the dynamics of the moment when bullets are flying and time seems to stand still as the body count grows in the race to close combat. During those moments, things happen because of reaction and not because of predetermined intent. Many officers’ careers have ended for doing what they were trained to do and achieving an outcome that didn’t pass the “Washington Post test” as Admiral James alluded.

  James took a drink of coffee and shrugged. “It isn’t as if we plan on something like this happening, but when you run with terrorists, you must take your chances. What happened to his family is what will happen to others of his ilk who insist on trying to have a normal family life while planning destruction. If they want to protect their families, they would send them to where they would be out of the line of fire. They don’t, because they don’t care. In their own arrogance they believe—”

  “It’s just that—”

  “—in their own invincibility.” Admiral James paused for a moment, bit his lower lip, and then continued. “It happened, and with the exception of that lone photograph, no one ever associated a specific person with the mission.” James leaned forward and poured more coffee in his mug.

  “British MI-5 tells us this new Al Qaeda has a loose working relationship with the New IRA. This radical bunch of Irish terrorists need money, since we cut off most of their overt fund-raising here in the States. What didn’t stop was some of our own citizens’ fanatical loyalty to a homeland they’ve never known or visited. A fantasy Ireland constructed within their own minds.”

  “Yes, sir. I do remember one of the three had a heavy brogue. It took a few minutes during our backyard dance to identify it as Irish. That threw me. I could have understood if—”

  Admiral James waved his hand at Tucker. “I know, I know. If it had been Arabic then you would have probably figured out what I think you already know.” He tilted his head forward, raising his eyebrows at Tucker.

  Tucker nodded, glancing down at the mug he held between his hands. “I take it this Abu Alhaul has a contract out on me.”

  Duncan James laughed. “You make it sound like an organized crime syndicate, but you’re about right, Tucker. According to MI-5, the new Al Qaeda transferred two hundred thousand British pounds to a Swiss account. An account MI-5 is watching. Kind of surprised them, according to Admiral Seidman, Director of Defense Intelligence Agency. When they started backtracking the money trail, it led to Yemen, and from Yemen they followed it to this Abu Alhaul.”

  Tucker Raleigh leaned forward and put his cup on the coffee table. He crossed his legs. “Guess this means they’ll be coming after me again.”

  James shrugged. “Who knows? But, if they do, I am sure the price will be more than two hundred thousand pounds. As for the other two individuals with the Irish hit man, you’re right. They were Americans. Members of one of our home-grown Irish charities whose funds filtered into this radical branch of the IRA.”

  A knock on the door interrupted Admiral James and drew both their attention. The door opened, and Chief Gonzales stuck her head inside the room. Her dark-rim glasses slid down to the tip of her thin Roman nose. “Admiral, Admiral Holman is here.”

  James motioned to her. “Send him in.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, then cleared her throat slightly. “Captain St. Cyr is here also.”

  James’s eyes narrowed. “Give the good Captain a cup of coffee and ply him with doughnuts, Chief. I need a few more minutes with Commander Raleigh and Admiral Holman before we bring in the French Captain.”

  She nodded, pausing a moment before stepping outside.

  She had barely disappeared before Admiral Dick Holman, Commander Amphibious Group Two, walked past her, pushing the door shut behind him.

  Tucker stood as the two flag officers exchanged greetings. He took in the other two-star Rear Admiral who had joined them. Holman was a head shorter than James, with a growing paunch around the middle. When he turned slightly, Tucker saw the ribbon at the top of the six rows. Silver Star. He instinctively glanced down quickly at his own three rows, but then, he had only been in the Navy sixteen years. The top two on his were the Silver Star and Purple Heart, both awarded during Operation Wipe
-up. The Purple Heart was one medal he would have preferred not to have earned.

  “Dick, this is Tucker Raleigh—the SEAL I’ve told you about and the officer Admiral Seidman briefed yesterday.”

  “Tucker, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Holman said, shaking the taller Navy SEAL’s hand. Hope you have recovered.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m fine,” Tucker said, as the thought of Sam Bradley flickered across his mind. It took him four runs before he passed her. He smiled as he recalled the expression on her face when he shot by her the first time without a word. It was priceless. She expected him to do something when he caught up; touch her; grab her; say something wily and ribald about winning the prize. Instead, he just raced by, without a word. She had picked up the pace and caught up with him, and even with obvious attempts to get him to refer to her taunt, he pretended not to understand.

  “—is the reason he is here.”

  Tucker jumped slightly. “Sorry, sir. My mind wandered for a moment.”

  “Whatever it was, it must have been happy thoughts,” Holman said as he walked around the back of the small tanned leather couch where Tucker sat. He reached down and patted the Navy SEAL on the shoulder as he passed. “Don’t have many happy thoughts in the Pentagon.”

  “I think it’s a Department of Defense regulation. Happy thoughts are to be tossed in the trunk of the car when you arrive. You pick them up when you leave,” James added.

  James cut his eyes at the young commander. “Dick Holman and I are old friends, in the event you can’t tell, Tucker. Back to business. Admiral Holman is here because you’re going to be spending a lot of time with him for the next couple to three weeks. Out in the next room is a French Navy Captain named Marc St. Cyr.”

  “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting this Captain St. Cyr,” Admiral Holman said as he flopped down on the chair opposite Admiral James, who was sitting at the other end of the coffee table. “He was the aide-de-camp to Admiral Colbert, the French Admiral in charge of the French carrier battle group that I faced off Liberia.” He pulled his handkerchief out and wiped his forehead. “Whew! I hate these Washington summers.”

  Holman reached forward and grabbed the silver-plated coffeepot. “Duncan, you got any real cups?”

  “Impressions?”

  “Well, Duncan, I would say St. Cyr is a professional Navy officer whose loyalty is to the person he is serving at the time. He speaks flawless English, and from the rough time he had between me and that butt hole Colbert, I would say he’s politically astute. I spoke with him a few seconds before I came in here, so I guess the question I have is why in the hell is he here?”

  Holman pulled one of the small coffee cups and a saucer toward him. The white Navy cups with their distinctive blue trace around the lip had been around for over a century. They held enough coffee to wet the palate, but—

  “That’s a good question, and one that deserves a good answer. Unfortunately, I don’t have a good answer other than to say that it’s politics.”

  Holman took a sip. “Then Marc St. Cyr is the right Frenchman for it.”

  Tucker wondered what the short, pudgy Admiral was talking about. If he met this Frenchman during the Liberian evacuation, then why did Tucker detect a sort of distaste from the Amphibious Group Two Admiral? From what he recalled, the French had sent their two nuclear-powered aircraft carriers off the coast of Liberia to help the United States evacuate their dual-citizen American-Liberian citizens. He even recalled how the two countries expounded on how close the cooperation was; so close, in fact, that Admiral Holman had placed his Joint Task Force under the French Admiral.

  “Well, he’s the one the French have sent. The British officer who will join Tucker will meet you in Norfolk. He’s arriving late. Apparently staying in London for the Chelsea Flower Show,” James continued.

  “Hard to believe,” Holman replied.

  “Why?”

  “The Chelsea Flower Show is held in spring, not August.”

  Holman recalled his first meeting with St. Cyr. They had arrived off Liberia about the same time the larger French carrier battle group showed up, acting like a blustery bully hell-bent on having him back down. St. Cyr had been the aide-de-camp of Admiral Colbert. Admiral Colbert had warned Holman that if he attempted to evacuate the American citizens who called themselves Liberians, the French would have to militarily oppose the operation. Seems the French government had decided Africa was their sphere of influence. If it hadn’t been for those Unmanned Fighter Aerial Vehicles, he probably wouldn’t have been able to sneak his Marines ashore under the eyes of Colbert. As it was, afterward, both governments decided it was best to show how they cooperated, once again proving to Holman and other senior Navy officers that the old adage of “out to sea is out of sight” was still true even in the information age.

  “—the intelligence briefing.”

  “Sorry, Duncan. I missed that. What did you say?”

  Admiral James’s eyebrows bunched. “What is this? Is everyone asleep in this room but me?” He jumped up and looked in the mirror. “Or is it my voice? Have I reached the ripe age when utterances tend to induce sleep?”

  Holman laughed. Tucker felt the blood rush to his face.

  “Now, Duncan. You call a meeting for immediately after lunch in Washington, D.C., in the middle of a hundred-degree summer day, and you don’t expect a man my age to fall asleep?”

  “You’re younger than me, Dick.”

  “And better-looking, too, but I try not to call meetings immediately after lunch.”

  “I said, we need to bring in St. Cyr, so Commander Raleigh can meet him, and then we need to walk down to Naval Intelligence for the Intelligence briefing.” He pointed at Tucker. “Tucker, one thing you need to know. The failure of the New IRA to fulfill their contract means it’s still out there. You’re right to think they’re going to come after you again. Whether they will send someone from Ireland, try to use a homegrown one here, or do it themselves isn’t known. The FBI and CIA are both working to track down leads and see what they can discover.”

  “Thank you, Admiral. I also would like to thank you for having the Navy move me while I was in the hospital.”

  Duncan James raised his hand. “First, I understand it was easy to move you because most of your household goods were still packed and crated. And, second, it wasn’t me that moved you but the Bureau of Naval Personnel in Millington, Tennessee. I didn’t know it, but they have a shop down there that specifically deals with moving people who they believe are in physical danger. I think their primary customers are our married sailors who have a former spouse stalking them, or a sailor, officer, or dependent family living overseas who have unknowingly crossed a host country’s criminal element. Seems to me they move a lot of people out of Naples, Italy.”

  “That’s bull, Duncan. They never move anyone out of Naples. Everyone loves being there.”

  Tucker chuckled. “I recall a one-star admiral they moved out of Naples within two months of him arriving.”

  Duncan James grinned, pointed at Tucker, while looking at Holman. “Here is a prime example of an officer that BUPERS would have had to move out of Naples fast—probably same day.”

  “Why did they move this one-star, Tucker?” Admiral Holman asked as he patted his pocket a couple of times.

  “I don’t know for sure, sir. He was on the Joint Staff when I knew him.”

  “See. That’s why he made flag, Dick. He knew better than to say such a thing while in Italy—and quit patting your pocket. I know you’ve got that ever-present cigar, and you’re not allowed to smoke it here.”

  Holman brought his hand down and pointed his finger good-naturedly at Admiral James. “If you’d smoke one of these fine Havanas with me every now and again, Duncan, you might have been able to save some of that hair that’s missing from your head now.”

  James rubbed the top of his head. “That baldness was from making fast turns under the sheets.”

  Holman nodded. “I’ve heard those f
ast turns were searching for your bifocals.”

  “Save the stogy.” James glanced at his watch. “The Joint Staff Cigar Club is meeting in the center of the Pentagon around fifteen hundred. We’ll sneak off and see what the gossip is in the Joint Staff, and you can impress them about how you get such a great smoke from a cheap cigar.”

  “I’ll have you know these cigars cost . . .”

  Tucker’s mind wandered back to two days after he passed her. It was a Friday night, after a few drinks at this Irish bar in Pentagon City. She had grabbed his arm and insisted he come back to her place for coffee. He did, and stayed for breakfast. He recalled with a smile how the next morning the sheets wove over and under both of them, tangling their bodies between the linen. It was as if the bed had seen a massive fight and taken mystical actions to entrap them with the sheets. Moments later, when her eyes had opened, the sheets soon lost their entrapment. He grinned and surreptitiously glanced at the clock. While these two flags were pandering to some sort of Joint Staff cigar club, he would meet Sam.

  “Commander, it’s not good protocol to laugh when your superiors are duking it out.”

  Tucker’s thoughts raced back to the room. “Sorry, Admiral. I don’t know what I was thinking,” he lied.

  “He was probably imaging how a man with such bad knees and old age could rub his hair off making fast turns anywhere, much less under the sheets.”

  Admiral James held his hand up, palm out, and laughed. “This is fun, Dick. It’s always good to have you come up,” he said seriously as he stood. “Unfortunately, we only have a couple of hours before these two officers have to join you on the helicopter back to Little Creek Naval Base.”

  Two hours! Tucker’s mind reeled. Two hours! He hoped they didn’t mean today.

  James reached over and flipped the intercom. “Chief, please ask Captain St. Cyr to join us.”

  First impressions are always lasting impressions, Tucker’s father always told him. The Frenchman was immaculately dressed in his Navy whites with the familiar four stripes across his epaulets familiar to most every navy in the world. The face drew his attention. The French officer had his hard cover tucked under his left arm as he shook hands with Admiral James and Admiral Holman, his heels touching at a forty-five degree angle and him bowing slightly each time. The mustache—that was it. The dark mustache ran a thin line directly above the lip, with bare skin separating it between the upper lip and the nose. Shit! If he were going to have a mustache that tiny, it’d be just as easy to draw it on. Tucker had had his own experiments with a mustache years ago. The French officer had to spend time nightly to keep a mustache that thin peeked and marked.