The Mercenary Option

by Dick Couch

  Garrett let this sink in, then continued. “Okay, let’s take a look at what happened.” He pulled down a screen that had a simplified floor plan of the training area. He took a pointer and tapped the end of the passageway. “Here’s where you made your first mistake.” Garrett’s focus fell on the group’s officer. “Sir, try to never look twice. If for some reason you feel you need a second peek, get on your hands and knees—find a different location, and do it very quickly. Next, your withdrawal sucked. When you have to retreat, maintain your discipline and group integrity. In a hostile environment, you have to move with care and trust your shipmates. You guys in the rear, when you become the lead element, you have to look where you’re going, not behind you, where you thought the threat was. Again, trust your teammates. You all know about 360-degree security; use it.” He regarded the group, quickly making eye contact with each man. “Now, let’s talk about what you did right.”

  For the next several minutes, Garrett talked about their patrol order and room-clearing procedures. He complimented them where possible, and the whole attitude of the group changed. He kidded with them, encouraged them.

  “Remember, this is only Monday. We have nine more days of this. It takes practice and it takes discipline; you have to remain focused. Think about what happened and think about what you learned.” He glanced at his watch. “That’s it for today. Let’s get the weapons cleaned up and the training areas policed. Sir, have your men back here at zero eight hundred tomorrow, and we’ll move on to the next problem.” As the trainees filed out, the young SEAL who had fired at Garrett and missed paused at the door.

  “Master Chief?”

  “Yes, Dyer,” Garrett said with a sigh. He was tired of asking Navy SEALs to not address him by a title he felt he no longer rated.

  “When we were backing out of that passageway, you let me shoot first.”

  “That’s right, I did.”

  “How come? You could have tapped me just like you did Charlie and the lieutenant.”

  “Tell me, Dyer, are you a qualified expert on the range?”

  He nodded. “Rifle and pistol, just like the rest of the guys.”

  Garrett put a hand on his shoulder. “Those expert ribbons you wear on your dress blues don’t mean shit. Good shooting only counts when the other guy is shooting back. Getting your rounds on target when you’re under fire is what it’s all about. Remember, you cannot aim; you must hit.” Garrett watched him carefully; he was a good kid—serious about the training. “You see, we can preach good shooting technique, sight picture and trigger squeeze, until we’re blue in the face. We can put you through live fire drills and the pop-up range, but that only does so much. To be a good combat shooter, you must train while you yourself are under fire. And that’s one of the things we teach here.” Garrett gave him a grin. “I doubt you would have missed a pop-up target like you missed me today.”

  He returned Garrett’s grin. “Anybody ever hit you when you give them a free shot?”

  “Oh yeah.” Garrett laughed. “A few classes ago, some snap shooter from Team Five put a couple in my ten ring.” He touched his nose. “I forgot that he had been through the course before. Combat shooting is a learned skill. With a little practice, Dyer, you can do the same. But I may not give you another free pass. I don’t think you’ll miss next time.”

  “Thanks, Master Chief,” Dyer replied as he turned to leave. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Fair enough, and ‘Garrett’ or ‘Instructor’ will do just fine.”

  “Whatever you say, Master Chief.” He grinned, and he was gone.

  • • •

  Later that evening, Garrett walked up from his apartment to the Hotel Del Coronado. It was one of those soft, temperate evenings that are rare treasures for most Americans but regular fare for those who live along the coast in San Diego. He was dressed in a crisp blue oxford-cloth shirt, chino slacks, and polished loafers. His hair was longer now, just on the edge of what might be called a military cut but with an extra curl in the thick brown wave.

  The Navy SEALs had always had a close training relationship with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, especially the FBI Hostage Rescue Team. There were a number of former SEALs on the HRT. Since 9/11, the FBI had asked the military for more combat shooting training for their street agents, including the course Garrett taught for the Navy SEALs. One of those FBI agents Garrett had trained was a rookie agent named Judy Burks. She was a software engineer by training, but a cop at heart. Garrett had never seen anyone with more natural shooting talent than Judy Burks. She was with an FBI team that took down a gang of Russian mafiosi who were smuggling illegal firearms through the Port of Oakland. There had been a shootout, and Judy Burks had been in the thick of it. She had taken out two armed men at short range. Those who witnessed the action said it happened so fast that it was like a scene from a Die Hard movie. Garrett did not see the action; he had arrived at the scene after it happened.

  Judy’s work now periodically brought her to San Diego, and when it did, she gave Garrett a call. Garrett Walker found Judy Burks interesting and unsettling; he never knew quite what to expect from her. He found her seated at a table on the courtyard patio of the del Coronado, a lipstick in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He approached from her blind side.

  “Hello, gorgeous. Is that a pistol you’re packing or one of those new pushup bras?”

  “Hi, sailor,” she replied, turning her head and smiling broadly. There was a smudge of a beauty mark under her left eye. “Wanna buy a lady a drink?”

  Garrett kissed her on the cheek warmly and slid into the seat across from her. She smelled like a lilac bush in full bloom. She wore an orange cotton blazer over a low-cut white blouse with a short black skirt and heels. Everything was tight. Her makeup was heavy and exaggerated, with dark blue eye shadow and bright red Marilyn Monroe lipstick. Judy was normally a honey blond, but now her hair was so heavily moussed that it had a tangerine cast.

  “Well, how do I look?”

  “Like the bad fairy.”

  “No fooling? I was going for a kind of an upscale barrio look—stepping up and stepping out. Does that mean you won’t buy me a drink?”

  A waiter appeared and frowned at her. He was clearly unhappy with her presence and was about to ask her to leave when Garrett turned and gave him a cold smile. “Give the lady whatever the lady would like.”

  The waiter hesitated, then bobbed his head. “As you say, sir.”

  Judy grinned. “I think what I’d like is a cup of coffee.”

  “Make that two,” Garrett replied. Then after they were alone, “So what gives? You doing surveillance on hookers, or is this just the after-six Judy Burks?”

  “Nope, nothing like that. The Customs guys called us in. They think the drug money down south is buying too many border patrol agents, so they wanted us to look into it. I’ve got a short list of bars to prowl down in Imperial Beach. See if some of the off-duty border cops are spending a little too freely for what the government pays them. How about you?” She gave him a careful appraisal. “You look like you’re on your way to a fraternity party.”

  “No need to get defensive, Agent Burks. I’m just a natty dresser. And when did you take up smoking?”

  “I didn’t. It’s just a prop. It makes me look cool and sexy.”

  She took a puff and exhaled immediately, holding the cigarette high and to one side with her elbow just off the table—very continental. But a wisp of smoke from the burning tip drifted back across her face and caused her to begin coughing.

  “Hey, don’t go and hurt yourself,” he said, handing her a napkin from the table.

  She took it without comment and loudly cleared her throat. “It takes a while to get the hang of it.” She coughed again and blew her nose. “By the way, I like your hair longer. And you don’t have to stop there; keep it up.” She paused while the coffee service was delivered. “So how’s my favorite shooting instructor?”

  Garrett made a neutral gesture
. “It’s a job, and I have no complaints, but it’s boring. Same thing every day with a new cast of characters every few weeks. I find myself wishing I could be a student. The students get to move on.”

  Judy Burks had come to know Garrett well enough to understand his frustration and disappointment at being retired from the Navy. She sensed he was still bitter about it, though he never said so. She also knew he was a man who would not allow himself to dwell on the past for any length of time.

  “Well, you just hang in there,” she said seriously. “You’re a great instructor, and a lot of those guys are going to live to fight again because of what you’re teaching them. I’m one who knows.”

  He blew across the top of his coffee. “Like I said, no complaints, but I’m a doer, not a teacher. How’d you like to be on the range at Quantico teaching shooting? You’ve had a taste of field work; would you give it up to be a range instructor?”

  She smiled. That’s what she and Garrett had in common. They were direct-action people. He was a rugged article—lean, angular, talented—an aggressive leader. She was a wisp of a girl with soft edges, but in her own way, she was just as tough. When the FBI raided the Oakland warehouse that served as headquarters for the smuggling ring run by the Russians, she had come in through the side entrance. There she had killed two men in a wild shootout. When it was over, she was consumed with panic and revulsion at what she had done. It happened so fast, she had no time to think, only to react—kill or be killed. At that instant, when the smoke had cleared, they were no longer Mafia scum who deserved to die; they were human beings, and she had ended their lives.

  Following the shooting, he had been there for her. He had taken her home and stayed with her the entire night, holding her and talking her through the nightmare. He soothed her and helped her to purge the terrible, blood-soaked visions that appeared whenever she closed her eyes. He calmed her, reasoned with her, even made her laugh. Killing was something he knew a great deal about; he comforted her and put the taking of life in perspective. He was both strong and tender, and she had never forgotten it. Since that time, they met frequently for dinner or for daytime outings. They had not become lovers, although the prospect hung heavily between them. Garrett Walker was a wild thing, at times warm and giving and at others isolated and emotionally closed. If they were ever to sleep together, it would have to happen in the natural course of events. More than that, she knew he was still in transition, and she understood that this passage might take some time. Judy Burks was content to bide her time and remain his friend. Still, the image of having sex with this man was a fantasy that often surged through her consciousness in exciting detail.

  She shook off her reverie. “I’d like to think that I’d be a damn good shooting coach. But I know what you’re saying, or at least I think I do. It’s a high. Most of the girls I grew up with are home with children or doing the nine-to-five commuter thing. I’m off to a redneck cop bar with an FBI shield and a snub-nosed .38 in my purse.” She grinned. “Are we nuts or what?”

  When she smiled like that, Garrett thought, she looked like a teenager, makeup and all. It was a radiant smile.

  “How’s Ray?”

  Ray Stannick was Judy’s boss and the special agent in charge of an FBI unit called the Special Investigation Team. Stannick and his team were a mobile unit, but for the past six months they had worked out of the San Francisco field office. They worked primarily against organized crime and the terrorist target. Occasionally the two were the same.

  “You know, he asks about you every time I’m down here.”

  “Maybe he thinks I’m trying to lead you astray.”

  “Well, sailor,” she replied, awkwardly recrossing her legs in the tight skirt, “are you trying to lead me astray?”

  “Possibly. You free for dinner tomorrow night, or will you still be pub-crawling with the border Mounties?” He gave her a wolfish smile, and his green eyes danced.

  “That depends. Could you be one of those lowlifes bringing hash across the border?”

  “You’ll never know, Agent Burks, until you investigate.”

  “Well, that settles it then. Duty calls. I’m staying over at the Hyatt on Shelter Island. Why don’t you pick me up about six-thirty?”

  3

  Wednesday, August 28,

  New York

  Initially, Steven wondered if the fifty thousand dollars Simpson had given him was too extravagant. That was three months ago, and now he wasn’t so sure. While the pay was generous for the time, the work had consumed him. He had worked seven days a week, almost twelve hours a day—an effort that tried even Lon’s inexhaustible patience. Neatly filed in the locked briefcase on his lap were the results of his labor. He had begun his work with little idea of quite where it would lead. The idea of an NGO that would employ armed force and intervene directly in the affairs of a foreign nation was a serious and compelling venture. This intervention could come in a number of ways and in all probability would not have the knowledge or blessing of the “invaded” nation. This was an undertaking that required him to draw on his experience as a paramilitary officer and as a covert-actions specialist. Few men in the world were as capable or as experienced in either of these unique callings as Steven Fagan. That he was an expert in both was rare indeed.

  The project had fascinated Steven from the beginning. He knew himself well enough to guard against allowing a project or a cause to become personal. He was a professional and hadn’t the luxury of allowing his emotions to influence his work. Creating the organization that Ambassador Simpson had in mind wouldn’t be an easy task, nor would the work of this organization be terribly pretty. But he did feel it was feasible—organizationally and operationally. And he found the prospect of continuing to work with this project strangely exciting. Perhaps I have let it become personal, he thought; perhaps professionally personal, he admitted, is a better term. That, or I was put out to pasture too early, and I still want to be part of the action. Or had he simply allowed it to become a challenge—the ultimate covert undertaking with a real chance to make a difference?

  The objective was a worthy one; cool global flash points early and quickly, and avoid allowing a situation to deteriorate to the point where U.S. special operations or conventional forces had to be called in—or too many innocent people died. In some cases, he knew the force he had in mind would have capabilities that exceeded conventional military means, even those of America’s special operations forces. Al Qaeda had gone to ground, but any number of terrorist cells were operating around the world. What better organization than this to root them out? Done properly, it could save tens of thousands of lives. It was anybody’s guess just what technologies had leaked out of Iraq or Iran, or Pakistan for that matter. Steven’s abilities and special talents had certainly been employed in lesser causes. He could name several leftist political leaders whose careers he had ended. On a rare occasion, he had also ended their lives, leaving only vague suspicions that the act had been sanctioned by the leader of the free world. Some of these men had been duly elected officials. Because he analyzed each mission carefully, Fagan usually knew his targets well. In many cases they were patriots—nationalists who had embraced communism out of convenience. It had been their undoing. The United States, because of the Central Intelligence Agency and men like Steven Fagan, had the ability to make changes, often in ways that the average American would consider most un-American. To the powerful men in Washington, covert action was a way to exert influence. It was not a course of action to be taken imprudently, of course, but an extension of foreign policy that was stronger than a diplomatic protest but well short of landing the Marines. Marines, and even the special operations forces, he thought, were unable to successfully intervene in a great many global problems. In still others, their response, physically or bureaucratically, was simply too slow. Perhaps, just perhaps, this was a chance to repair some of the damage he and his country had done during the Cold War and its aftermath. For some time now, he felt that his career
as a covert operator had done more harm than good. Just maybe, this was a chance to redeem himself—personally. But, he reminded himself, I have not been asked to do this; it is only a feasibility study.

  At the Agency, Steven had always practiced his trade from a strong moral fortress; he acted on instructions from his government—he was a soldier. A man could do some cruel and inhumane things in the name of his country, he reflected, and be officially absolved of all sin. That’s the way it was in America. But Fagan knew this would not be the case if he remained in the employment of Joseph Simpson. This was a whole different game. Hell, he thought, it became a different game when those bastards took down the World Trade Center.

  “Sir, we’ll be landing at Kennedy Airport in just a few minutes. Would you like me to place that in the overhead compartment for you?”

  “No, thanks,” he replied. “I’ll just keep it with me.”

  He slid the case under the seat in front of him without difficulty. First-class seating was quite spacious, and no one was seated next to him. During the last few months he had done a great deal of traveling for short meetings and sight surveys—a day here, two days there, occasionally out of the country. Simpson had authorized a generous travel budget, but Steven normally traveled in coach class; it was less conspicuous. Today, however, he wanted to relax and think about the work he had just completed and what, if anything, might lie ahead. He had spent a great deal of time on airplanes over the years. Yet, even an experienced traveler sometimes feels a little vulnerable at thirty-seven thousand feet, and Steven had found this vague uneasiness often helped him to think.

  Steven Fagan honestly believed there was evil in the world. He had formed this opinion well before 9/11. He could not have done the things he had done at the CIA if he didn’t. But was covert action suited to the work of an NGO? Or was this just a sophisticated, do-gooder version of the Mafia’s Murder Incorporated? The evil that Steven thought this organization could effectively target could be a movement, an individual, a government, or a fanatical religious faction. If this business could be conducted with no attribution to the U.S. government, then the range of targets and methods were virtually unlimited. And if the action taken were skillful, his nation just might avoid responsibility or retaliation. The possibilities were endless.