The CALLSIGN_A Taskforce Story

by Brad Taylor

  The information she had discovered was extremely volatile. Knowing Hezbollah’s reach, she had chosen not to file a report electronically, and certainly wasn’t going to discuss it on a phone system run by the very terrorists she was investigating. She flew straight back from Beirut to the tribunal’s office in the Netherlands to report in person. Which is where the man hunting her came in.

  Unlike the bloodbath that could be perpetuated in Lebanon against Lebanese civilians, the investigator would have to be handled with care. Her death could in no way be attributed to her work. It had to appear innocent.

  At first, the man thought about simply mugging her and stealing the briefcase, leaving her as a victim of random street crime. After conducting a site-survey, he realized that wouldn’t work. Unlike his hometown of Chicago, there wasn’t a whole lot of violent crime in the Netherlands, and certainly none in the middle of the day in Leidschendam. Not to mention he’d probably have to cut off her hand to get to the contents of the briefcase, which would raise an eyebrow. He’d have to be more subtle.

  After giving the investigator some time to clear the area, the man left baggage claim and returned to his car. He didn’t necessarily need to beat her to her residence in Leidschendam—he had already prepared the reception—but he wanted to see the results in real-time. If she traveled her usual route, she’d take the train and then walk home. That meant a three-stage movement: shuttle to the Rotterdam train station, train to the Leidschendam station, then a little over a quarter of a mile trip remaining to her house. If she followed her pattern, she’d walk it instead of getting a cab. He should be there in plenty of time to enjoy his work.

  He was quite proud of his scheme, and wished his new career allowed him to converse with others like him. If there were any others, that is. He hadn’t run into any with his professional skills. Just pipe-swingers with no imagination. He’d only conducted four missions where the objective had been targeted killing, but he’d found he had a talent for it. Three had been flawless. One had been an unmitigated disaster, causing him to flee the United States for good, and landing him in his current position working with Syrian intelligence. Or Hezbollah. With the spasms rocking Syria in the wake of the Arab Spring, he wasn’t sure who was footing the bills anymore.

  He was a meticulous planner, something that had facilitated his success in his new career field, just as it had facilitated his success in the U.S. Navy SEALs while fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan. Using that skill, he had found his method of execution.

  While there was little street crime, one thing the Netherlands did have in abundance was natural gas. The country was the second largest exporter in the European Union, and almost every house used it.

  Preparing the house in the investigator’s absence had been easy. Figuring out how to trigger it had been hard. He had to know she was home, and had to execute fast enough to prevent her from discovering the trap he had prepared, which meant a surveillance team.

  In no way did he want to involve anyone else in the operation, especially not a bunch of swarthy Hezbollah gunmen who would stick out like charcoal in the snow. Being blond haired and fair skinned allowed him to move invisibly throughout the country, but he had no other contacts like himself. No one that could blend in. Still, he also knew that singleton surveillance efforts were a recipe for failure, which left him in a little bit of a catch-22. Until he had stumbled upon the baggage tag idea.

  The airline she used had invested in radio frequency identification, or RFID, for their baggage control. A small transmitter was embedded into the destination tag given at check-in. Unlike a bar code, it didn’t have to be seen to be read, and would register from a much greater distance. In use by everyone from Walmart to the U.S. Department of Defense for tracking merchandise and end-items, RFID was now being used to track passenger baggage in order to prevent the huge expense airlines paid recovering and delivering lost luggage.

  The tag itself simply transmitted the name of the owner of the luggage and the destination, read by machines tucked strategically around the baggage control areas of airports. Nothing sinister or evil. Just a unique identifier for each bag. You couldn’t gather any more information from the RFID than that which was printed on the outside of the tag in the first place, but if you wanted to trigger an explosion exactly when a certain person entered a kill zone, the tag was ideal. It just required a slightly different kind of signal receiver. The primary risk was someone else carrying the luggage. Luckily, the investigator traveled alone.

  Using his Hezbollah contacts, he had gleaned the investigator’s RFID signature assigned by the airline in Beirut, fed it into a reader located in her apartment, then daisy-chained it to the initiation device. He now had no need to keep eyes on her at all. Sooner or later she’d arrive home with her luggage, and she—along with her briefcase—would be incinerated.

  He took the A13 away from Rotterdam, and twenty minutes later he was boxing Sytwendepark in Voorburg, the town adjacent to Leidschendam. He passed through a traffic circle and took a left, then pulled into a parking space for a series of modern flats. Checking his rearview, he confirmed he could see the investigator’s small one-story house on the parallel street, across an expanse of grass and sidewalks. He settled in to wait.

  After thirty minutes, he began to grow antsy, wondering if maybe he should have mounted a surveillance effort. Wondering if she hadn’t gone straight to the tribunal without stopping at home to drop off her luggage. Killing her after she’d delivered her report would be futile.

  She should have been here by now.

  He considered his options, toying with a kitchen magnet that housed a picture of the investigator with a man. He always collected something from each mission, and had taken the magnet while setting up his trap. It wasn’t strange, like some Hannibal Lecter serial killer. He wasn’t commemorating anyone’s death, simply the mission itself, like the platoon sergeant in Saving Private Ryan scraping sand into a can for each beach landing. At least that’s what he told himself, even though everything he collected was something personal from the victims themselves.

  He glanced up the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of his prey. He was rewarded with the sight of a person dragging luggage down the promenade between his road and hers, about three-hundred meters away. He couldn’t be sure it was his target, but the odds of two people with luggage at this time, on this street, were pretty slim. He sank back into his seat and waited, checking his rearview for the front of the house. What he saw caused him to sit back up.

  A man was stapling something above her front door. The same man from the kitchen magnet picture.

  What the hell?

  He looked out his window and saw the investigator still walking, closing the distance. She’d be at home in a matter of minutes.

  He turned around completely, facing the residence. The man was hanging some sort of sign over the door, like one of those happy-birthday stringers purchased at a grocery store. The sign was in Dutch, but he knew instinctively what it said. Welcome Home.

  Shit. It’s a booty call.

  During the entire time he had cased the place, he had never seen anyone pay any attention to the house, which, of course, made sense now, since the investigator was in Beirut. He cursed his stupidity.

  The boyfriend used a key and entered the home. If allowed to continue, he would find the trap the assassin had laid, and raise the alarm—before the RFID tag triggered.

  Reacting without thought, the assassin exited his car and sprinted to the door. He saw the target in the distance, now close enough to identify. He had about thirty seconds. Maybe a minute if he locked the door behind him. A minute to kill the man and exit out the back of the house before the investigator inadvertently blew them all to pieces.

  He entered, slammed the door and locked it. He found the boyfriend next to the RFID reader on the kitchen counter, a bag of rose petals in one hand and a bo
ttle of wine in the other.

  The boyfriend shouted something in Dutch, then pointed to the RFID reader, saying something else. The assassin closed on him, grabbing the back of his head and slamming it into the counter in a blow that should have killed him outright. If not, it most certainly should have stopped the fight. Miraculously, the boyfriend rose, blinded by the blood in his face but screaming at the top of his lungs and swinging wildly.

  The assassin danced back, out of reach, and picked up a vase, hearing the investigator outside. He flung the vase full-force into the head of the boyfriend. Unable to see to block the missile, it cracked him above the bridge of his nose and dropped him like a stone.

  The assassin heard more shouting and turned to find the investigator in the foyer, raising her luggage as a weapon with both hands, the briefcase dangling off her wrist. He prepared to deflect it and continue the assault when he realized what was about to happen.

  She’s going to kill us all.

  He had no firm idea of the RFID’s reading range, but clearly, since he was still alive, it didn’t extend to the foyer. He was positive, though, that if she threw the luggage at him, it would turn into a much greater weapon than she planned.

  He saw her wind up to heave the bag, and began running. He glanced back and saw the bag turning in the air in slow motion, the tag fluttering like confetti from the handle. He hit the large plate-glass window at the back of the room full-force, oblivious to the pain as he punched through. He crashed beyond the brick protection of the walls as he heard the initiation of his clever kill-box, a small wump, followed by a blast of fire out of the window like the late ignition of a gas grill.

  He rolled around on the ground for a second, ensuring he wasn’t on fire, then rose and surveyed the damage. The outside of the house had contained the blast, but the inside, through the window, was an inferno.

  No way will they be able to find anything through forensics.

  He circled around to his car, milling in with the multitudes that had come to help or just watch the show. He fled the neighborhood at a leisurely pace, driving randomly for five miles before stopping and pulling out an international cell phone.

  “This is Infidel. It’s done.”

  Chapter 2

  Colonel Kurt Hale finished his briefing, knowing that the detailed information was overkill. The target, who they’d nicknamed “Crusty” because his hair reminded everyone of the Simpson’s cartoon character Krusty the Clown, had been chosen for Omega authority on two other occasions. Nothing in Kurt’s briefing had changed from those other two attempts at taking him off the board. In fact, Crusty had become more involved in terrorist financing—and maybe stepped into an operational role. The only thing that had changed was the Oversight Council’s membership roster after the presidential election. Not a complete shuffle, but five of the thirteen members were new. It shouldn’t matter—the information should stand on its own—but Kurt had learned the hard way that individual personalities meant a great deal in Washington, D.C.

  As the commander of the Taskforce—a counterterrorist organization made up of the best operators from the special mission units of the Department of Defense and the national clandestine service of the CIA—Kurt wasn’t a voting member of the Council. Since the Taskforce operated outside the bounds of U.S. law, everything they did was incredibly sensitive, and his position was seen as too much of a conflict of interest. He agreed with the sentiment, but in this case he was afraid the Council would balk simply because they were new. Well, new and the fact that the last Taskforce action had occurred on U.S. soil—directly against their charter—and had almost made front-page news. If it had, the entire Council would have ended up in jail, their lives destroyed.

  Kurt could tell they were skittish about granting him Omega, the last mission’s close call fresh in their minds. Luckily, President Warren had decided to attend this update. Theoretically, his vote carried no more weight than anyone else’s, but realistically, everyone knew it did, if for no other reason than he’d appointed everyone else on the Council.

  He knows how critical this vote is. I’m giving them a softball. If they say no here, we might as well disband, because the next one will be worse.

  Kurt waited for the first question. It came from President Warren, setting the tone. “So this is the same guy we were chasing when we diverted to Bosnia two years ago? The financier?”

  “Yes, sir. No change to his operational profile. Still in Tunisia, and still doing bad things. The only difference is that he’s moved from Tunis to Sousse, further down the coast.”

  “And no change to our operational profile?”

  “No, sir. We’ve been at Sigma for the last three years. Never changed. Same cover organization, same planning considerations.”

  The Taskforce called each stage of an operation a different Greek letter, starting with Alpha for the initial introduction of forces. Sigma was the last phase before Omega—authority for a takedown. The end for a terrorist.

  “How can you say nothing’s changed? Tunisia went through a seizure two years ago. The government was overthrown. Another one has taken its place. Surely that matters.”

  Kurt was momentarily taken aback at the attack, expecting the president to support him. Then he realized that’s exactly what the president was doing, giving him a platform to short-circuit any reason for the Council to say no.

  “Well, yes, that’s a consideration, but truthfully the change of government has made this easier, not harder. Besides finding a target, the biggest problem in doing an operation in another sovereign country is penetrating that country’s own security apparatus. In this case, it’s in disarray. The public distrusts anyone in the old intelligence agencies.”

  The new secretary of state, Jonathan Billings, tentatively snaked his hand in the air like he was in grade school. He’d never been in an oversight council meeting, and Kurt could tell he was intimidated. Maybe wishing he’d never agreed to sign the non-disclosure statement and seal his fate should something go wrong. After the troubles he’d had with the previous SECSTATE, Kurt dreaded what was going to come out of his mouth.

  President Warren said, “John, you don’t need to raise your hand. What do you have?”

  “Uhh . . . I know I’m new to the Oversight Council, but I’m wondering why we’re wasting so much time on this. Seems like an easy decision to me. Unless I’m missing something. From what I was briefed, this profile is the perfect mission. Am I missing something?”

  Kurt fought to control his facial expression, keeping it neutral, waiting on a council member to confirm or refute the statement. It came from the secretary of defense, a man who’d lived through every Omega operation conducted. Not an enemy, but someone who understood the repercussions.

  “Hang on, here,” the SECDEF said. “Yeah, it’s the perfect profile, but so is a takedown of just about a thousand other people. We can do the mission, I don’t question that. But is this guy still worth the effort? After the death of bin Laden and all the other leadership in the old AQ hierarchy? Is he still a player, or is this a Taskforce vendetta based on the fact you’ve never managed to get him?”

  Kurt said, “Yeah, he’s worth the effort. Besides continuing to be a conduit of funds for various terrorist groups, we now have indications he’s stepped into an operational role. It’s not something we can pin for sure, but he’s apparently funding an assassination attempt in Lebanon, refusing to provide money unless he gets to pick the target. It’s not a direct threat against U.S. interests, but given the unrest over there, pulling him now can only be beneficial.”

  The director of the CIA said, “How sound is that intel? From what I’m seeing, about half is just guessing at what’s going on in the Levant.”

  Kurt said, “Honestly, not that good. We’ve got a case officer in Lebanon with greater penetration than any of your assets—no offense—but it’s still iffy.
We’re putting a team into Syria in the next few days to see if we can regain a handle there, but that’s not a determining factor here. Forget I mentioned the Lebanon assassination angle. Crusty still needs to go. He’s a threat to U.S. national interests. Always has been.”

  The SECDEF and DCI sat back, satisfied. President Warren called the vote, and before Kurt knew, it was over. Omega authority. For a target the Taskforce had hunted since its inception. He didn’t want his emotions to show earlier, maybe clouding the vote, but this was personal.

  Finally. He wanted to flee the room right there and send the message to the team.

  President Warren interrupted his thoughts. “Okay, on to other business. Who’s going to Syria, and when?”

  Kurt smiled. “Pike. Well, Pike’s company.”

  “I thought his ‘company employees’ were in Tunisia? Taking down Crusty?”

  “They are. It should have taken five months to get a visa for Syria, but the Syrian government pushed it through. Pike’s going with Jennifer. The team will catch up. We can’t waste the opportunity. We don’t know when the government will shut down our entry. Nobody else in the U.S. can get in, but Pike’s cover business worked out perfectly. The government itself is actually helping us penetrate.”

  “When’s he leave?”

  “Uhh . . . as soon as possible. We got the visas back today. But he doesn’t know he’s deploying yet.”

  Chapter 3

  I heard Jennifer enter the front door of the office and rapidly began stroking keys, desperately trying to shut down the first person shooter I was playing and bring up the boring archeology research I was supposed to be assimilating. I wasn’t quick enough, which was about par for the course in the game itself.