Between Destiny and Duty: A Chuck McCain Novel- Book Two

by David Spell

  Thomas drank another beer, pressing a stack of paper napkins against his bleeding lip, as he waited for the military police to arrive so he could give them his statement. The bartender corroborated Jackson’s story and the four sailors were arrested. Even though he was outnumbered four to one, however, his superiors, under pressure from the Navy brass, had demoted Thomas. Feeling betrayed, the Marine had turned in his papers the next week to leave the Corps. After driving a truck for two years, Jackson had still felt the itch to serve and enlisted in the Georgia National Guard, serving once a month and for two weeks during the summer. It was there that the former Marine had met Lieutenant Colonel Kevin Clark.

  After the zombie outbreak, Thomas had stayed close to Clark realizing that this man, even though he had been a Ranger, was one hell of a fighter, one hell of a leader, and one hell of a man. After the bio-terror crisis was over, Jackson had gone back to driving a truck and serving in his normal rotation for the National Guard.

  With Kevin’s appointment as director of ops, he had called Thomas to ask him to come and join his security detail. Six months into the job, he had no regrets. Jackson and Gray had already become close friends and Gonzalez was also a quality guy.

  Serving on a security detail at the CIA was no joke. The former ops director, Sandra Dunning, had been seriously wounded and her two primary bodyguards killed the previous year during a deadly attack. Even though Gray and Jackson were both top-notch operators, Clark had sent them to the CIA’s training center, the Farm, for a few weeks to sharpen their personal protection skills. Gonz had gone to the Farm as well, receiving advanced driver’s training along with courses to refresh his own weapons skills.

  As the security team enjoyed coffee in the break room with Sam Mercer, Clark, Perkins, McCain, Fleming, and Dunning met in the general’s office. Thirty-five minutes later, Clark looked around at his friends, each of whom flipped through a folder containing details about the mission he had just briefed them on.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re crazy!” McCain said, looking up from the documents.

  Kevin chuckled. “No crazier than you and a few others sneaking into Mexico to take out a cartel or me flying in under the radar to snatch your ass out and bring you home. At least on this one, language won’t be an issue.”

  “Time frame?” Andy asked.

  “As soon as possible. I’d guess a few days to plan and get all your resources in place and then a few days or a week to execute, depending how you decide to approach it.”

  “What kind of support would we have?” Chuck asked.

  “Not much,” Kevin shrugged, “since this is on U.S. soil. I think that’s one of the reasons the president suggested contracting the mission out to you guys. That and the fact that we’re still rebuilding the ops directorate. I can make sure your team all have DHS credentials. That should keep the wolves at bay if you happen to encounter any local cops. With this guy being a diplomat, though, I don’t have to tell you that there will be hell to pay if you get caught.”

  The general sighed and laid his folder on the desk, holding up an eight-by-ten color photo of a Middle-Eastern man in a dark suit, keffiyeh on his head, staring out at the camera.

  “If this man, Abdallah Bamya, is one of leaders of the Brotherhood and if he is behind this latest terror attack, as well as the other dozen that Colonel Clark mentioned, taking him down and squeezing him for information may protect American lives down the road. Chuck, per our agreement with the president, you have the right to accept or reject any mission, based on your belief in whether or not that mission can be successfully carried out. What do you think?”

  McCain locked eyes with Fleming. He and the former MARSOC operator had been working together for several years and they had become a formidable team. Chuck wanted Andy’s input before answering the general. After a moment, the Marine gave a slight nod. The big man then looked at Dunning. She had been his boss for a while at the Agency and had a lifetime of covert operations experience. Now they were both VPs at Century.

  “Sandra? What do you think?”

  “I’m all for taking down terrorists. My team will support you in any way we can.”

  “We’ll do it,” McCain nodded at Clark.

  “Who will you need from here?” Perkins asked.

  “Andy, Scotty, Jimmy, Chloe, Gabriella, and me to start with.”

  “You and I are scheduled to teach a SWAT school next week in Trenton, New Jersey,” Fleming commented. “What do you want to do about that?”

  “See if you can get Hollywood and Josh to cover it. They’ll do a great job and I’m sure they could use the money.”

  WESTLAND, MICHIGAN, TUESDAY, 1:55PM

  Around twenty reporters crammed into the small room at the Westland Democratic Club, the buzz of anticipation filling the air. Westland was only a half hour from Saleem’s home and as a former presidential candidate, he was welcomed with open arms at the democratic club. The leadership had been thrilled when he had asked to hold a press conference at their facility. Most of the reporters present were from local television and radio news sources.

  Under normal circumstances, there would probably have been more media outlets represented at the press conference. With the terror attack in Washington D.C. the previous day, however, most of the nation’s news channels were focused there. Bashir was fine with the small turnout. Once CNN, MSNBC, and Fox picked up the video of what he had to say today, the next press conference would receive plenty of coverage. The assembled reporters had little idea as to why Saleem Bashir had called them together. They assumed that he would be announcing his candidacy for the senate again in the upcoming mid-term elections.

  At 2:03pm, Saleem entered the room and seated himself in front of the microphones. He read from a single sheet of paper, the statement taking the reporters by surprise.

  “It is time for the United States government, federal police, and all local law enforcement to stop their persecution of Islam. Yesterday in Washington, D.C., a tragedy occurred and many lives were lost. Part of that tragedy is that the nation’s police agencies are going to use this incident to target and profile innocent, peace-loving Muslims.

  “News reports are already calling this a terrorist incident and are pointing to the Masjid Ali Mosque as the origin for this group of criminals. There is no evidence that this attack in our nation’s capital had anything to do with Islam. These murderers were intent on killing as many people as they could. Islam is a religion of peace and those who follow the teachings of the prophet are peaceful and law-abiding citizens.

  “The Masjid Ali Mosque is a wonderful community and to have its name slandered in this way is a travesty. It is time for Muslims to stand up for their rights in America. It is time for the government to know that we have had enough of being persecuted. It is time for President Asher to halt his own personal vendetta against Islam in America and throughout the world. Now, I will take a few questions.”

  This had not been the direction any of the reporters had seen this press conference going. There was a long silence before someone spoke up.

  “Senator, are you saying that the FBI is wrong and that was not a terrorist attack yesterday?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Bashir answered. “The FBI believes that there is a terrorist under every rock. These men might have been gang members or possibly even using Islam as an excuse for their violence, but that’s no reason to blame the world’s largest religion.”

  Another reporter raised her voice. “The initial FBI briefing said that all the indicators pointed to these suspects as being members of the Masjid Ali Mosque in Washington, D.C. Are you denying…”

  “The FBI is lying!” Saleem interrupted her. “They have no evidence of that. These criminals were all African-American men. Clearly, the government is going to frame this incident to allow the authorities to continue profiling black men and Muslims. This must stop!”

  With that, the former presidential candidate
stood and walked out of the room.

  MORRISVILLE, PENNSYLVANIA, THURSDAY, 1555 HOURS

  This had been the easiest twenty-five thousand dollars that Aaron Richards had ever earned. The six men and two women were eager learners, even if they were going to be attacking and killing Americans, probably dying themselves in the process. The eight recruits were a mix of four black Americans, two Africans from Somalia, one from Algeria, and an Afghan.

  Aaron had worn one of his Springfield .45’s in plain view over the last few days. He didn’t trust any of the fanatics, but the Afghan especially made him nervous. As a Green Beret, Richards had done three tours in Afghanistan, probably killing some of this guy’s relatives, he thought. As it turned out, Ghaazi had been the friendliest and the most talkative of the group during their breaks in training.

  The Afghan had told the American that each of their families were being well paid for them to martyr themselves. After the deed was done, each family would receive a hundred thousand dollars in cash. Richards shrugged and smiled grimly at his student.

  “Kind of like a life insurance policy, I guess.”

  The former soldier had worked with the recruits for a day and a half, familiarizing them with the AK-47. Ghaazi and Hakim, the Algerian, were the only ones who had handled a rifle before and Aaron drilled the recruits over and over in how to load and fire it. Each student practiced for hours with two empty magazines, loading, dry-firing, dropping an empty mag, and smoothly inserting the other into the weapon.

  The next two days were spent discussing tactics. The mystery man who had hired him was not at the safehouse. Ishmael, the driver who had picked him up in Trenton, was running the show and he wasn’t saying much of anything to Aaron. Richards assumed that the attack in D.C. was related to what they were doing. There was no television in the house so he discussed what he had seen in the news footage, breaking it down and dissecting the tactics of the terrorists.

  Richards had not been given any guidance on what kinds of skills the man wanted him to teach. Aaron wanted to give them their money’s worth, though, so he paired them up and moved the two couches in the living room to simulate parked cars. The former spec ops soldier then drilled them for hours on moving to cover, suppressing fire, and reloading from behind the vehicles, all with empty weapons, of course.

  The living room was only average sized, but the trainer did the best he could with what he had. Aaron had no idea how many more of these sessions they had planned for him but his hope was that he could make at least a hundred thousand dollars. He would then slip back into Canada and drop off the map. His special forces training had taught him how to live off the land. So much of America’s northern neighbor was wide open with plenty of forests for him to hide in.

  He’d have enough money to buy the things he couldn’t hunt, fish, or trap. The biggest hole in his plan would be the lack of female companionship. Richards had no plans to become celibate. Maybe Ashley would go with me? Probably not. She had said something about wanting to live some place warm, and besides, I’d be bored with her in a month.

  As the recruits continued to take turns ducking behind the sofas, pretending they were vehicles, Aaron’s cell phone beeped and vibrated in his pocket.

  “Next pair, run through it again!” the instructor ordered. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He stepped into the kitchen and swiped the screen to answer.

  “I’m hearing very good things about your training. The kinds of things that you’re teaching is exactly what they need to know.”

  “I saw the news,” Richards laughed. “I’d like to have some range time, but this will have to do.”

  “Yes, it will,” the heavily accented voice replied. “Do you have transportation? I have another group that I’d like you to start training next week in Philadelphia on Friday for three days.”

  “I can do that but I don’t have a vehicle. Someone dropped me off in Trenton. I want to get paid for this class before I do another one, though.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “Of course. Ishmael has your money. He will also let you use a car to drive to Philadelphia. I’ll call again next week to give you instructions for where to meet. Ishmael will include some extra money to cover your expenses while you wait for the training to start. You understand the need to keep a low profile.”

  “I understand. I’ll bounce around some of the shitty hotels in the area.”

  “Very good.”

  The caller disconnected, clearly worried about being tracked. Aaron put the phone back into his pocket. Easy money, he thought, heading back into the living room. I wonder if Ashley would want to hang out with me for the week? I’ll give her a call later and see.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SAFE HOUSE, EAST 41ST STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK, MONDAY, 0725 HOURS

  Kevin had been kind enough to let the contract team use one of the Agency’s Manhattan safe houses. With the United Nations just two blocks away, the CIA had a strong but covert presence in the Big Apple, keeping an eye on a number of different players in the world terrorism scene. The three-bedroom apartment would be Chuck’s headquarters until their mission was completed.

  There was just enough room for the team of six, with the ladies sharing a room. Chuck and Andy were roommates, while Scotty and Jimmy took the third bedroom. They would begin their surveillance later in the day, hoping to take their target down later in the week.

  The team had arrived the previous day, each person showing up separately throughout the afternoon. Chuck had ordered $150 worth of Chinese food to be delivered to the apartment for dinner and they had discussed the mission until midnight. They had developed three different plans which they would utilize, depending on how things developed during their observation of the diplomat.

  Always an early riser, McCain sat in the living room of the third floor apartment, enjoying his first mug of coffee as he spent some time in the Bible. He read a chapter of the Psalms and two chapters from the Gospel of Mark, utilizing the Bible app on his iPad. No matter where he had served: from local law enforcement to two one-year contracts in Afghanistan, as an advisor to a SF unit, as a federal police officer, or to his current job as an instructor for SWAT and military units, Chuck always tried to start his day with God.

  He took a few minutes to pray for protection for his team and himself, and for wisdom in executing the mission. Chuck knew he was working with some of the best operators in the world but never took anything for granted. God saw the big picture and McCain welcomed any sort of Divine intervention that he could get.

  Andy and Jimmy had also gotten up and out early for a run. Chloe wandered into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee and joined Chuck in the living room.

  “I didn’t think you liked coffee?” McCain asked.

  “Tea’s always my first choice but I didn’t bring any with me and there’s none in the kitchen.”

  “I guess we need to make a grocery store run,” Chuck said. “Make sure you put your tea preference on the list. How you feeling about this op? You get the starring role in Scenario A.”

  Wilkerson smiled. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. I’m pretty sure I can handle Bamya if he tries something. You and Scotty have taught me some pretty good moves.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can take care of him,” McCain nodded. “And, I know how strong you are. You’d snap his neck in a second. It’s that bodyguard that has me worried.”

  “Me too,” she sighed. “Plus, if we end up back in his apartment, it’ll take a little while for the cavalry to arrive if I get into trouble.”

  “Well, we’ll come running if you need us. After breakfast, we’ll plan out the day and get to work.”

  The door to the apartment opened as Fleming and Jones came in, sweaty from their run.

  “I wasn’t sure what we had here to eat,” Jimmy said, “so we stopped at the bakery on the corner and got some authentic New York bagels.”

  By 0915 hours, the team had
eaten, showered, and were in the living room preparing to begin their work. They reviewed the three different scenarios that they had created. Chuck and his group had been given the mission of snatching Abdallah Bamya and transporting him to a remote location in upstate New York where he would be squeezed for information by a team of interrogation specialists supplied by the CIA.

  Of course, the operation was highly illegal and complicated even more by the fact that Abdallah had diplomatic immunity. That the president was willing to risk the political fallout if something went wrong showed the importance of the intelligence which the suspect possessed. Kidnapping anyone in NYC was a challenge. Bamya was always accompanied by his bodyguard, another obstacle that McCain’s team had to prepare for.

  Today, they would set up surveillance on the Palestinian. Kevin had provided a file on him from a previous intelligence gathering mission so they weren’t starting from scratch. Thankfully, the man enjoyed his routines, leaving his building on East 44th Street every morning at precisely 0800 hours for the two block walk to the United Nations building. Bamya’s routine only changed if the weather was bad, utilizing a limousine service or a taxi for the drive to work.

  The file noted that Bamya was always accompanied by another man who functioned as his bodyguard and personal assistant. The intel noted that the bodyguard, Nassar, had been identified as a high-ranking soldier in the PLO who evidently lived with Abdallah.

  During the day, the leader of the Brotherhood stayed inside the UN compound, dining at the cafeteria there. In the afternoon, however, he always left for home by 1730 hours. He frequented the One World Tavern several times a week. It was located a block from Abdallah’s building. A little digging had revealed that the co-owner of the establishment was Palestinian and a friend of Bamya’s.