by Brad Taylor
Adnan smiled and said, “The real one will destroy the heart of the kafirs.”
3
Waiting on the president to finish, eyes glued to a television, Colonel Hale sat with the rest of the Oversight Council, watching him getting raked over the coals in the White House James S. Brady Press Briefing Room. Kurt heard a little exasperation escape President Warren, a sign of the pressure he was under. Kurt felt for the president, but was glad it wasn’t him on the stage. The conversation would have been much less civil.
“Kathy, I don’t know how to make it any more plain. None of the men in the picture are either American or working for United States intelligence. They are not in any capacity agents of the United States. Clearly, those barbarians will kill anyone just to prove a point. And that point is fear.”
The hands in the pressroom rose again and President Warren said, “Thank you,” then walked off, hearing a chorus of shouted questions. Sitting in the Old Executive Office Building next door to the White House, Kurt knew it would be a good ten minutes before he arrived for their meeting.
He looked around the room. Only half of the thirteen members of the Council were present, the other half most likely getting castigated right now in the Oval Office over the scourge of the Islamic State.
Kurt knew how President Warren felt: impotent.
For nearly a decade he’d been hunting terrorists with a unique counterterrorist organization that had unparalleled success; yet despite its efforts, a greater threat had appeared. Not only appeared but had thrived like the spread of Ebola in a ward of children. And his unit could do nothing about it.
The thought made him sick, driving home the fact that the application of military force would never be decisive in this fight. The roots were too deep, and the siren call too sweet. No matter how many terrorists he prevented from individually killing, there was a pervading ability for ideology to transcend logical thought, spreading like a cancer through whole societies he would have otherwise thought normal, civilized humans.
Because of it, the Islamic State had become the most powerful terrorist organization on the face of the earth.
Encompassing broad swaths of terrain across Syria and Iraq, the group possessed a brutality unheard-of in the modern world. But it was not unlike the history of the past. The Islamic State cowed its opponents with an unparalleled ability to instill fear, using new social media grafted on twelfth-century barbarism to depict beheadings, crucifixions, torture, and mass executions, and in so doing recruiting waves of others to continue the killing.
As much as Kurt would have liked to take the war to them, that wasn’t his job. The current fight was for overt conventional and special operations—something he had done long ago, but had given up for the secret war. A war he had thought he was winning. Now he wasn’t so sure.
He was the commander of a Taskforce created after 9/11, designed to operate in the shadows outside of the established intelligence or defense architecture. In short, to operate outside of the law. The entire experiment had been an enormous risk—but deemed necessary due to the threat. They worked without legislative oversight, and routinely flouted the Constitution to protect US national interests—read: US lives—and, while Kurt had his qualms about creating such an organization, he’d agreed to head it up because the menace had been grave.
Now, after nearly a decade of work, he wondered if it had been worth it. The threat had grown beyond grave, and they’d created an organization that could prove absolutely cancerous to US liberties. And for what? To see the rise of the most powerful terrorist organization in history ripping through the Middle East like Genghis Khan?
The light flashed above the SCIF secure door, and President Warren entered, followed by Kerry Bostwick, the director of the CIA, Alexander Palmer, the national security adviser, and the secretary of state, Jonathan Billings.
They took their seats, and without preamble, a staffer brought up a digital photo showing four bodies lying facedown, dressed in orange, each with a grisly head positioned above the shoulder blades.
President Warren said, “Everyone here?”
Kurt said, “Everyone except for the vice president.”
The Oversight Council was the sole body that approved Taskforce actions. With the exception of Easton Beau Clute, the chair of the senate select committee on intelligence, all were either civilians or in the executive branch. The president had wanted no part of politics interfering with the decidedly explosive operations the Taskforce conducted, and had made the decision to exclude the legislative branch.
Clute had been read on because of a past operation involving his son and daughter. While serving in the military, both had been taken hostage and faced certain death. They’d been saved from slaughter by the Taskforce. Because of it, Kurt had no doubt about his loyalty.
President Warren said, “Kerry, give them the damage.”
The D/CIA said, “We have managed to introduce three assets into the architecture of the Islamic State. Their crypts are BOBCAT, LEOPARD, and COUGAR. The third from the end in the picture was BOBCAT, and he was the only one reporting.”
Kurt thought, Holy Shit. He was ours.
“BOBCAT was a Kurd we’d recruited in Sulaymaniyah a long time ago, back when we were still in Iraq and still fighting against the Ba’athists and al Qaida. We activated him seven months ago, and he agreed to penetrate into Syria. We knew it was a risk, because he was a Kurd, but there have been several reports about Kurdish recruits, so much so that the Kurdistan administration is beginning to fear a second front, inside its territory. He made it in and began reporting, surprising the hell out of us. I mean, he was really reporting. Quality stuff. He was very good, and our biggest fear was that he’d be caught by a Kurdish PKK, YPG, or some other Peshmerga unit and skinned alive as a traitor. We never saw this coming.”
The secretary of defense said, “And the others? Are they in the picture as well?”
“No. We don’t know who they are. Probably poor saps just caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, or on the outside, reporting for one of the Gulf States or a rival militia. They aren’t ours.”
Kurt said, “You mentioned ‘quality stuff.’ What was he reporting?”
“You know our greatest fear is that a bunch of radicalized citizens come home or go to Europe to wreak havoc. With the FBI in the United States and the CIA’s liaison with European allies, we have a pretty tight handle on who’s gone overseas. Or at least we thought we did. Ninety-nine percent are ‘citizens’ of a country but are one step removed from the Middle East. Like the English rapper who beheaded James Foley. He’s a British citizen officially, but he’s of Egyptian descent and his father was extradited to the United States for the African embassy bombings in ’98. Which is to say, he had a background of terrorism to begin with.
“BOBCAT popped our comfortable bubble on our view of the threat. Six weeks ago he reported on a group called the ‘Lost Boys.’ He didn’t know what they were, only that they existed. It was included with a ton of other reporting from him. Four days ago, he sent an in-extremis message saying they were United States citizens, and they were ‘Americans.’ That was all. We don’t know what he meant, but we think it indicates that they’re not of Arabic descent. They’re pure, dyed-in-the-wool all-Americans. And they might be coming home.”
His words settled in the room like a foul stench and President Warren said, “So, the question is, what do we do about it?”
Secretary of State Billings opened his mouth, and, after the words spilled out, Kurt wondered if he’d forgotten every single Taskforce mission he’d ever been involved with. Or maybe he was just stupid. But then again, Kurt had grown a little biased against the man.
“Can’t the Taskforce get in there? Maybe send them to Damascus to start looking for these guys?”
Kurt waited for someone to describe how stupid that was, then realized it was on his shoulders. He said, “Sir, we are not a green-machine combat force. We operate within the fabric of sovereig
n nations, taking the fight to the terrorists who use the infrastructure of those nations either wittingly or unwittingly. Clandestinely.”
“Yeah? So what? Wasn’t Pike’s team in Damascus a few years ago?”
Kurt ground his teeth, looking at the president. Warren simply nodded at him to continue, but with a little bit of a glare, meaning, Don’t embarrass him.
“Okay, the ‘so what’ is that, for one, ISIS isn’t in Damascus. President Assad still owns that terrain. Even if we could get a team in—which we can’t now—it would do no good. Secondly, the damn country is a war zone. I don’t know if you’ve been watching the news, but we’re pummeling the shit out of them from the air. The Taskforce operates using plausible covers in otherwise unsuspecting countries. I can’t send a team of supposed agricultural engineers into Syria and expect that cover to last more than five minutes. There are no NGO gringos operating in the countryside. There’s no way to penetrate ISIS with the Taskforce. I mean, are you dumb enough to think they could drive into Raqqa, the heart of the Islamic State, wearing mirrored shades and hauling genetically altered wheat seeds and not expect them to end up on their own video?”
He saw President Warren scowl at the last statement and turned his own glare on the man who’d asked the question.
Billings snapped his head up at the harsh words, glancing toward President Warren for support. He wasn’t getting any. He said, “What about your vaunted walking disaster? Pike Logan? We pulled him back in against my vote, but maybe we can use him here. Surely he could do something. I thought he was Captain America.”
Kurt knew he was being baited. Pike was the best team leader he had, with a supernatural ability to solve problems. Which is to say he killed terrorists with an unbridled skill. He was also a trouble magnet—both on the enemy side and on the side of the Taskforce, causing massive headaches when he went off the reservation, using his own intuition instead of listening to the very council that was supposed to authorize his actions. Because of it, he’d been fired twice, and brought back into the fold each time due to his abilities. At the end of the day, no one could argue with success.
Kurt knew Billings was sick of being on the Oversight Council. Tired of the risk of being exposed for operating outside the law, leaving his long tenure in public service in tatters on the front page of the Washington Post. He was a career diplomat, and the very notion of the Taskforce assaulted his sensibilities. He didn’t like authorizing missions for a normal team, but was petrified of Pike. In his mind, Logan was a loose cannon who was going to cause the downfall of all of them. Pike’s past successes mattered little. Secretly, Kurt believed Billings would rather have a terrorist attack occur than sit on the Council for one second longer.
As much as he wanted to, Kurt didn’t need to get in a fight right now. He chose the better—and honest—answer.
He said, “Yeah, I’m with you. If anyone could do it, it would be Pike’s team. Unfortunately, he’s engaged right now in Africa. As a matter of fact, trying to shut off some Islamic State funding from a corrupt Saudi citizen.”
4
I felt a fingernail stroking my back, right between my shoulder blades, then a whisper. “Wake up, sleepyhead. I have to go. Before one of those early birds comes and knocks on the door.”
Meaning, Before someone finds out I’m here.
We’d been out very late the night before developing a pattern of life on our target, who wasn’t what one would call a pious Muslim, and I figured everyone from the mission was still asleep. The target wouldn’t be doing anything until at least noon.
I rolled over, leaning on an elbow. “Jennifer, I don’t think we’re fooling anyone anymore.”
She said, “Pike, appearances matter. I know they know, but there’s no reason for the team leader to throw it in their faces. I think Knuckles tolerates it, but only because we make an effort to not let it show during operations.”
Knuckles was my second in command, a Navy SEAL who, strangely enough, was a stickler for the military prohibition on fraternization within the chain of command. I think it had something to do with a bad experience in the close quarters of a ship with a male supervisor. Or maybe he was just a stickler. Either way, unfortunately for him, neither Jennifer nor I were in the military, and it was my company. My team. But she had a point.
“So you want to scuttle out of here doing a walk of shame to keep up the appearances of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’?”
Before she could answer, I heard the door to our room fly open. Like a high schooler hiding from her mother, Jennifer threw the covers over her head. I bunched up the thick bedspread to hide her form, tossed a pillow over her pile of clothes, then turned to rip into the idiotic maid who’d entered.
Instead, I saw Knuckles standing in my room.
He said, “Retro’s finally cracked into the backbone server for the hotel. We’ve got Panda’s computer, and he’s making plans.”
I scowled and said, “What the hell are you doing? Don’t you know how to knock? How’d you get in here?”
He held up a keycard and said, “I just told you Retro got into the server. We can make a key for any room in the hotel.”
“So you figured you needed one for my room?”
He smiled and said, “I figured you’d be asleep and didn’t want to bang on the door.”
“I was asleep. Asshole.”
“You want to dress and come up? Or stay in bed?”
I was already out and throwing on my clothes. He turned back to the hallway leading to the door, disappearing from view. I heard the door open, then, “Oh, Jennifer, you can come too. We won’t say anything about you wearing the same clothes as last night.”
Shit. The door closed and she poked her head out. “Well, that’s pretty embarrassing.”
I said, “Tell me about it. Getting caught skulking around like kids is more embarrassing than getting snagged red-handed.”
She kicked over the pillow, grabbed her clothes, and went into the bathroom, saying, “I’m using your toothbrush.”
I started shoving things into my pockets and unplugging my phone from the charger, saying, “I guess that makes it official.”
I was putting on my shoes when she came back out fully clothed, brushing her hair. She said, “It wasn’t before?”
The words caught me off guard, because I was just making a joke. Jennifer and I had definitely become partners in more ways than just our business, but we’d never verbalized it. I’d made one statement in the heat of the moment on our last mission, then we’d just sort of dropped it. I was a shit show when it came to such things, and she knew it. She was patient, but I wasn’t sure how long that would last.
I said, “Well . . . yeah . . . I mean . . . I was just . . .”
She hit me in the chest with a towel and said, “Oh, please. Spare me. Should I go up?”
Relieved, I stood and held out my arm to the door. “Yeah. Get it over with. You show any weakness with these guys, and they’ll start ribbing us forever.”
We got in the elevator and I noticed her clothes, stained from our mission last night and wrinkled from lying on the floor of my room. She looked like she’d slept in them. I said, “You’re really going to wear what you had on last night?”
She snapped her head to me and said, “I was. . . . Should I go change?”
The car stopped and I said, “Too late. Welcome to the lion’s den.”
I stepped out and she said, “I’m not going in if you think they’re going to laugh at me.”
“Come on. They know better than to laugh at the managing partner of Grolier Recovery Services. You can fire them.”
Jennifer and I were the owners of GRS, ostensibly a firm that specialized in archeological research. We worked for private entities, universities, and others to help facilitate excavations around the world. Since most archeological digs were in areas that were borderline Wild West—like Nairobi, Kenya, where we were now—I handled the security side of things, something that fit my milit
ary background. Jennifer, with her anthropology degree and insatiable appetite for annoying anyone within earshot about ancient history, had the hard part of acting like we really were a legitimate archeological firm.
In truth, the whole thing was a shell company that cloaked a top secret counterterrorism unit called the Taskforce. Back in the day, when I was on active duty, I had been a team leader in the unit. Now, I was a civilian co-owner of a cover organization and a team leader yet again. It had been a rocky road, starting with recruiting Jennifer—a pure civilian and a female to boot—getting her read on, trained up, and admitted to the unit, and had ended with me convincing the commander, Colonel Kurt Hale, to let my company start operating not as a support asset, but as an actual team.
On the surface, for anyone looking at the pure black and white, the demands were insane. Let a female Operator into the Taskforce? Let a civilian company start running missions? No way. But there’s much more to special operations than what can be tallied on a sheet.
Jennifer had passed selection with flying colors, and had put away a few bad guys with her innate skill alone before even attempting that trial, and I . . . well, I was fucking Pike Logan.
Enough said.
That might be a little bigheaded, especially given some of the mistakes I’d made in my past, when I’d slipped into the abyss and lost my way. But that was history now, and at the end of the day, even with the stains, I was the most successful team leader the Taskforce had ever used. Just ask all the people walking around today because I had been there to prevent their death. You couldn’t, of course, because they didn’t know I existed.
The Taskforce command and I had been going back and forth, with me running things off the books and the Oversight Council wetting their pants because of my actions, but finally Kurt had said I was officially in charge. Which gave some members of the Council fits, but since I’d personally saved the lives of Oversight Council family members on my last mission, those idiots were shut down.
