All Necessary Force

by Brad Taylor

  She stopped what she was doing, facing me head-on. “Bullshit! You’re all alike! I’m not sure who’s the good guy and who’s the bad guy. Terrorists kill people, and the Taskforce reacts, running off killing people. Maybe you both just found an outlet for your psychopathic tendencies. They use God as an excuse to bomb, and you use them. Maybe there are no white hats.”

  I couldn’t believe what she had just said. “Jesus. You can’t think that we’re like terrorists? We’ve never driven a plane into a building, for Christ’s sake. I’ve never enjoyed killing. We do what we do to protect people. Nothing more. If they’d quit, so would we. The opposite isn’t true. If we quit, they’ll just keep killing.”

  She backed off a little. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know what I believe, but I know I’m not cut out to be a part of it. I’m going home.”

  I remembered the camera, and the possible connection with the bus strike. I couldn’t do what I needed to do on my own. I needed a team. And I could use Jennifer’s help to get one.

  I knew that was just an excuse to keep her here, but I had to do something. She had seen something good in me a year ago, when I was drowning in the abyss, and I needed to prove she wasn’t wrong. I needed some time. Some space from what had happened to mend the rip between us.

  And I really could use her help.

  “Okay, okay. I won’t stop you, but I need you to do something first.”

  “What?”

  “The man mentioned a camera, and his passport showed him in Indonesia at the same time as us. Something’s going on here. The bus strike wasn’t random. I’m going back to that convention center to find out what. I need a team on the ground, and I need you to bring them in.”

  “Bring them in? Why?”

  “Because they’ll be falling from thirty thousand feet.”

  25

  Rafik kissed Kamil on both cheeks, saying, “As-salamu alaikum.” He shook the hands of the men with him, then touched his heart with his right hand.

  “Good to see you,” Rafik said. “Any issues getting here?”

  “None,” said Kamil. “But I’m anxious to hear why you called us to Cairo.”

  Rafik told him what had happened in Alexandria, and the dilemma the plan now faced.

  Kamil said, “So we need to convince these heathen pilots to continue with the plan despite the fact that their boss is dead?”

  “Yes. They don’t know why they’re here, and will probably resist. Which is why I brought you. We need to make an early lesson.”

  Kamil pulled out a seven-inch fillet knife. “I can do that. What’s your plan?”

  Rafik pointed into the hotel. “The elevator’s right past the reception desk, but we’ll be taking the stairs on the other side. The head pilot’s in room 232. We take him, have him call the others, then hold a meeting. There’s a loadmaster and three pilots. We only need one.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Rafik addressed the Indonesians, holding a thick plastic trash bag, the other three Arabs flanking the group left and right.

  “Noordin was paying you to fly a certain cargo from Alexandria to Prague, then onward to another country. He is no longer here, but I am the one who hired him. I wish you to continue.”

  The lead pilot answered, “We worked for Noordin, it’s true, but we’re not any more. We have another job. We’re leaving tomorrow. Sorry.”

  The loadmaster seemed to shrink into one of the other pilots, like a small child. The pilot put his arm around him, rubbing his back. Rafik was disgusted to realize they were partners, and decided the loadmaster would be the lesson. Then he grasped that the connection could be useful later.

  He said, “I’m not going to threaten or beg. I’m going to show you what will happen if you say no. I only need one pilot.”

  Rafik turned to Kamil and said, “The one who spoke.”

  Initially the Indonesians looked confused. When the Arabs pulled out pistols, they showed their first signs of alarm. But by then, it was too late, their conscious minds failing to sense the extent of the danger. As had happened throughout history, whether facing a mugger in New York City or being pushed toward a shower by a Nazi guard, they acquiesced without a struggle. Kamil grabbed the lead pilot and forced him to his knees. He shoved the man’s head into the trash bag and pulled out the fillet knife. The pilot, unable to see anything, remained still. Kamil placed the knife under his neck and began to saw.

  The blade bit deep. Before the pilot comprehended the danger, he was already dead. His body just didn’t realize it. He began flopping around like a fish on a dock, but Kamil held him down and stroked three more times. Kamil dropped the body and stood up, watching it continue to whip, causing a spackle of red to spray out, as if someone had stomped on a ketchup packet. The sounds coming from inside the bag made the other Indonesians flinch in horror. First a wet wheeze, it grew into a gurgling rattle as the pilot’s lungs fought for air through the torrent of blood. In seconds, the body was still, the only sign of life a twitching left foot.

  “Now,” Rafik said, “do I need to repeat this?”

  The loadmaster turned his head away and buried it in the pilot’s chest. The pilot said, “No. I’ll fly you. Please don’t hurt anyone else.”

  “Okay. Then everyone calm down. Harm will only come to you if you fail to accomplish this mission. What did Noordin tell you about the plan?”

  “Nothing. Only that we were flying a plane.”

  “That’s true, from Alexandria to your usual spot in Prague. As just another flight from Noordin’s company.”

  The pilot said, “That won’t work. All planes have tail numbers that show where they’re from and who owns them. We can’t fly another plane as if it’s ours.”

  “You’re going to repaint the number to one that Noordin owns. Then just fly it home.”

  “What type of plane?”

  “A DHC-6 Twin Otter, registered in America.”

  “We don’t have any Twin Otters. All our aircraft are built by Indonesian Aerospace. This won’t work.”

  Rafik grew abrupt. “Nobody’s going to match the tail number with the model. It’s just one flight. Once it’s on the ground, you can have the Twin Otter. I only want what’s inside. You can either do it and risk jail, or remain here. I have more trash bags.”

  When the pilot said nothing, Rafik continued, “Transfer the boxes inside the Otter to a real Noordin plane, then wait for us.”

  He saw the pilot’s face reflect a glimmer of hope. “You won’t be with us?”

  “No. Two Noordin employees flying a Noordin plane won’t cause a commotion, but us on board will raise questions with customs that might create trouble.”

  “You mean three? Three Noordin employees will be flying?”

  “I mean three unless you keep questioning me. We’ll fly out of Cairo and meet you in Prague. Do you understand what you need to do?”

  “Yes.”

  Rafik took the knife from Kamil and held it up, the blood and bits of flesh still clinging to it.

  “You had better be at the airport in Prague when we arrive. You make me hunt you down and I’ll cut off your head only after I’ve worked my way up from the bottom.”

  26

  I computed the time change between Cairo and D.C., and decided I’d waited long enough.

  Kurt would be in the office by now, and I wasn’t getting anything at the convention center. I’d cased Noordin’s booth for close to three hours and gleaned nothing. Maybe nothing was going on. Maybe Noordin was doing whatever he was doing all by himself.

  The booth itself—in fact, the whole convention—was moving slow, like Vegas at nine in the morning. It stood to reason, since the terrorist strike had killed Noordin and seventeen other participants.

  I pulled up our VPN on the company Web site. Once I was secure, I instant-messaged my “secretary” in the rear—really just someone who was pulling radio watch in the Taskforce headquarters. When he came on, I asked him to find Kurt, then put on th
e headset and waited.

  It had taken a little doing, but Kurt had finally agreed to send over some more operators. The connection with the terrorist strike and his father’s camera had been weak, but it was enough. Everyone in D.C. seemed to be shitting their pants over the intel indicators, and ultimately it had swayed Kurt’s decision. He wouldn’t give me a complete team, but he did agree to send over the rest of Knuckles’ men. That was fine by me, since they used to be my team.

  While none of the men were documented in my company, the primary problem was that we needed equipment—and bringing it in through customs wasn’t the best idea. Eventually, we’d have the ability to do that with company infrastructure, but our problem was now.

  I’d pulled the trigger on an in-extremis option that the Taskforce had never used—a high-altitude, low-opening parachute jump. The team, with one man attached to a tandem bundle that held the equipment, would exit an airplane flying at commercial altitude on an existing air route. The plane, ostensibly flying a humanitarian mission to Sudan, would appear to be just transiting Egyptian airspace.

  Kurt had balked at first, because it was fraught with risk, but I finally shamed him by asking why the hell we did all the practice jumps if we never intended to use the method. It was designed for just this type of contingency. He’d agreed, provided I gave him an update prior to the team launching from Europe on the final leg of the flight, which was why I was calling now.

  I heard a scratching through my headset, then Kurt’s voice, sounding like he was speaking through a tube because of the VoIP and encryption.

  “Pike, you there?”

  “Yes, sir. I got you.”

  I gave him an update on Knuckles’ status, and learned that a Taskforce casualty affairs team was on the way. From this point on, it would be out of my hands. More “employees” of my company, including now a doctor, would arrive tomorrow to deal with both the recovery of Bull’s remains and the treatment of Knuckles. Taskforce capability never ceased to amaze me. Neither did the organization’s desire to do whatever it took to take care of its own.

  Kurt shifted to the mission. “So what’s up? You still want to execute?”

  “Yeah. I do. I don’t have a lot to go on, but finding a thread first may be too late to get a team here. I need to be able to react as soon as I find it.”

  “Do you have anything at all?”

  “Noordin’s folks are going to the Khan al-Khalili market tomorrow. Three females. It’s probably nothing, but I can’t follow all three by myself. The market’s a tourist-trap nuthouse.”

  Kurt paused, then said, “You know, if we weren’t all pissing in our pants here in D.C. over the indicators of a strike, I’d cancel this. The infil alone’s dangerous enough.”

  “Sir, I got it. But we both know there’s a link to something here. Did you get the film?”

  “Yeah. We developed it. Only seventeen of the thirty-six frames were exposed. All of them pretty much shot by the heat and humidity in Cambodia. We managed to get an image out of six.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing right now. Just a bunch of shadows and light. A couple have a man in them, but nothing identifiable. We’re digitally working them.”

  “Okay. I know it sounds nuts, but those pictures mean something.”

  “We’ll keep working it. How’s Jennifer doing?”

  “Fine. She’s doing the recce for the drop zone right now. I’ll have the coordinates by this afternoon, before the team launches from Europe.”

  And she’s going home after that. I realized I couldn’t keep stalling about what had happened to the Chinese man. I hadn’t told Kurt how I had made the connection between the camera and the strike, but I knew I had to. I wasn’t looking forward to it. I knew what he’d think. Get it over with.

  “Actually, sir, she’s not fine. She’s coming home tomorrow, after the jump.”

  “Why? Was it Bull’s death?”

  “No. It’s something I did. I killed a guy.”

  I heard nothing for a second.

  “Were you in the right?”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  I told him what had happened, leaving nothing out, knowing I was probably canceling the jump, if not my future in the Taskforce. Shit, maybe putting my ass in jail. That’s just the way it would have to be. I didn’t know how the Taskforce would manage that, but I knew I’d go. I finished and waited on Kurt to say something.

  “Pike, why?”

  “Sir, I don’t know. I went black, like I used to do after my family died. I guess seeing Knuckles tore me up. I didn’t mean to kill him. It was either him or me.” When he didn’t respond, I hurried to get out “It was self-defense.”

  I heard nothing but breathing, Kurt going through the implications in his mind. When he came back on, he was calm, but his voice was steel. “Pike… you need to come home. Get the team on the ground, then come back.”

  He was remembering my slide into the abyss, and thinking I was just getting started on another run. “Sir, it won’t happen again. I mean that. I realize what I did. I know it’s bad.”

  He lost his temper. I could hear it even through the Mickey Mouse sound of the VoIP. “Bad? You make it sound like you pissed on the rug. You fucking beat a detainee. Then killed him. Jesus Christ, if we were sanctioned by the government, you’d be arrested. I would arrest you.”

  “Sir, I told you, it was self-defense, and he had something to do with Bull’s—”

  “Shut the fuck up and let me finish. We can’t afford cowboys. You know that. We’re doing enough illegal shit as it is. We do not lose control. And we sure as shit don’t beat the hell out of people because of our own personal problems.”

  The silence extended out. I said nothing, knowing he was right. I’d broken the sacrosanct rule. Because the Taskforce sent men out with the authority to make decisions with national implications, they had to be implicitly trusted to do the right thing. To do what was morally and ethically just. Always. Even when no one was looking. Especially when no one was looking. We operated outside the law, and we were our own police. Kurt took that very, very seriously. Trust was the cornerstone of our existence, and I might’ve lost his.

  Kurt finally said, “Okay, get the team on the ground. I’d pull you right now, but we’re in a full-court press. Something bad’s coming, and I need everyone on it. We’ll talk about your future after this is over. You’re lucky that fucker killed a busload of people.”

  I sagged with relief. “You got it, sir. I’ll do what I can.”

  “That’s not what I want to hear. Do it right. No more bullshit.”

  27

  At precisely nine o’clock at night, Rafik pulled the nondescript van up to the south gate of Alexandria’s El Nozha Airport. His calm demeanor belied the adrenaline pounding his temples. He relaxed slightly when he saw his contact exit a guard shack, carrying a garbage bag.

  Within five minutes, he and Kamil’s men were dressed just like the contact, as Egyptian soldiers, complete with AK-47s. The two pilots and loadmaster were cowering in the back, dressed in Noordin’s travel agency uniforms.

  They entered the airport and waited, checking and rechecking their weapons.

  Rafik said, “There’ll be another vehicle somewhere. They’ll go to the plane to unload. We need to beat them to the rear of the aircraft.”

  They saw the lights of the runway spring to life, bathing the ground in a soft glow. The Arabs tensed, scanning the sky for the aircraft. Kamil saw it first. A blinking dot getting closer and closer. When it began its final approach, Rafik told the contact to drive.

  They paralleled the runway, watching the plane touch down, the twin propellers reversing with a roar.

  Behind the driver, Kamil said, “There’s the other vehicle.”

  Rafik saw a pickup leaving the terminal, heading toward the runway.

  “When we get to the plane, act like confused soldiers,” he said. “It will buy us time and lull them. Kamil and I will go inside. The rest
of you deal with the truck.”

  The driver turned onto the runway and reached the back of the plane as the rear door was lowering. The Arabs exited, Rafik in the lead.

  A Caucasian man poked his head out, warily looking at the van.

  Rafik said, “What is this? You have emergency?”

  The man said, “Uhh… no. We’re meeting that vehicle.” He pointed to the approaching pickup.

  Rafik walked up the short stairway, forcing the man to back up. Kamil followed, while the others stayed on the tarmac.

  “Meeting someone? This airport is closed. Where is the pilot?”

  “Hey, talk to Mansoor. Captain Mansoor? He’s your boss, right?”

  The man had backed up to the cockpit, where the pilots were running through checklists, not realizing something was wrong. He got their attention. Both the pilot and copilot turned and faced backward. Rafik now had three heads in a neat row. Perfect.

  The pilot said, “Hey, come on. You want more fucking money, or what? A deal’s a deal.”

  Without a word, Rafik raised his AK and pulled the trigger, splitting the man’s head open. He heard Kamil fire twice on his left as he shifted his aim to the copilot. The man raised his hands in front of his face, as if that would stop the high-velocity round from tearing through his brain. Rafik squeezed twice and saw the man’s head snap back like it was yanked on a string.

  All three men were dead, the pilots lolling in their seats as if they had fallen asleep, and the loadmaster crumpled on the deck.

  Rafik lowered his weapon and smiled at Kamil. Before he could say anything, they heard gunfire erupt at the rear of the plane, the rattling sound of AK-47s on full automatic competing with a lower popping from pistols.

  Rafik and Kamil threw themselves onto the deck of the aircraft and began snaking their way to the rear. In the distance, Rafik heard the Egyptian soldiers on guard begin firing in every direction, with rounds puncturing the thin skin of the aircraft.

  They’ll ruin the plane. “Quit shooting!” he screamed. “Stop firing!” He knew as long as his men kept pulling the trigger, the Egyptians would respond.