Authors: Brad Taylor
Jennifer had watched me closely on the ride back and on the VPN. I could feel her eyes on me, sensing my trauma like some rabbit detecting a coming earthquake.
We had never spoken about it, but we had a connection that was a little strange. Some sort of innate bond that defied explanation. From the very first time we had met, I had been able to intuit her pain, plugged into her being in some visceral, subliminal way.
In the past, it had been helpful because it had always been
me
bringing
her
through some traumatic event. Serious combat actions she had been exposed to for the first time, death and destruction the
average person could only imagine that almost crushed her ability to continue. I had sensed when she was on the edge and had pulled her through every event, then patted myself on the back when it was done. After all, I was the commando.
Now, I was subconsciously hurting. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but I was undergoing an unhealthy dose of post-traumatic stress, and she could smell it as well as I could. The connection apparently worked both ways, which did nothing but piss me off. I could handle the issue and didn’t need her starting in on some self-help bullshit.
I’d ignored her stare and gotten Kurt on the line through the VPN. I told him what we had and demanded a team.
He said, “I’ve got one moving now. Well, not a full team, but I can get you Knuckles, Decoy, and a new guy named Brett.”
I was surprised to hear he’d alerted anyone at all, but when I heard it was Knuckles and Decoy, I didn’t give a damn about anything else. Those two were worth an entire Taskforce team as far as I was concerned.
I said, “Perfect. What’s the story on the new guy?”
“Just came over from the Special Activities Division. I’m going to swim them in after launching them from Tunis by rotary wing. He was the only other guy who had subsurface infiltration experience. Don’t worry, he’s solid. He’s a former Force Recon guy.”
“Great. A jarhead. No issues here, as long as he knows who’s in charge. Which is something I need to know as well.”
I was a civilian, and Knuckles was still active duty. Technically, he should be in command, but I was the man on the ground who understood the situation.
Kurt smiled and said, “You’re ground force commander. Like you would have it any other way. I’ll let Knuckles know.”
I knew Knuckles wouldn’t care, but would have to make sure this new guy from SAD—which always had a tendency to push things—understood the chain of command.
Kurt had finished by giving me PM instructions for another meeting with the case officer, telling me to be prepared to pass off link-up instructions with the team.
After feeding the Taskforce everything we could intel-wise, including an image of the hard drive from the laptop, I decided to download and install a free software program called “Prey,” and give the laptop back to Hezbollah. Made to track stolen laptops and cell phones, the program would allow us to track the computer’s location, let us voice-record anybody within range, get screenshots of the websites they were on, and allow us to get a webcam picture of whoever was using it. In short, get us more intel than we had now. Of course, we’d scrubbed the laptop first, deleting anything that could be potentially useful to the terrorists.
The software package wasn’t nearly as good as some of the custom applications the Taskforce could implant, but hey, you worked with what you had. The problem with my grand idea was that in order to initiate any of its features, the computer had to be within range of a WiFi hotspot, and so far we’d been out of luck. We had no idea where the computer had been taken after Samir met his Hezbollah contact and passed it off.
I pinged it again and was surprised to get a response.
“Hey, we’re in business! The computer’s stopped, and it’s sending a signal.”
Jennifer and Samir gathered around me as I initiated the geolocation feature. When a map came up, with an icon representing our computer, Samir said, “That’s the heart of the
Dahiyeh
. Headquarters for Hezbollah.”
“No surprise there.”
I initiated the webcam, and we got a shaky image of a young Arabic man. The pictures came in once every second, so it was like watching a herky-jerky old-fashioned movie. He was banging away on the keyboard and talking to someone out of range of the camera. Samir said, “That’s my contact.”
I turned on the microphone, getting a tinny response with the voices sounding like they were coming from a tunnel.
“Abu Infidel, I can’t find anything more on this computer. I’m not sure why the Druze gave it to me. It’s like everything but the original programs have been deleted.”
Jennifer became agitated. “He’s speaking English and he said infidel! He called that guy Infidel, just like the case officer said.”
I waved my hands to get her to be quiet so we could hear. I saw a set of arms above the boy’s shoulders, the head still hidden.
“Yeah, I agree. The other computer had all the information I needed anyway. You’ve done fine.”
One snapshot the boy was facing the camera, the next he was turned facing the man. He said, “So, can I go?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
And then, in stilted slow motion, an arm encircled the boy’s neck. He began to thrash in the chair, drool coating his chin, then blood. The individual webcam shots were as repulsive as a pornographic snuff film, and I felt a crippling déjà vu. The boy was dying in front of my eyes while I was impotent to do anything. Just like the dream of my family. I tried to turn away, but was riveted at the death. My adrenaline began to race, and I had to physically stop myself from grabbing the monitor and screaming, setting the dream free from the imagined world. The sliver of darkness in me stirred, straining for the face of the killer, as if it would provide the answer to my own demons.
One second we were looking at the eyes of the boy bugging out of his head, his mouth open in a silent scream, then the screenshot simply showed an empty chair.
Nobody said anything. A shadow passed over the screen as the killer sat down, taking the boy’s place.
It took a moment, but I recognized the figure.
“Oh my God,” Jennifer said. “That’s Lucas Kane.”
K
urt Hale watched the cloud of cigar smoke
drift to the ceiling and was secretly sure President Warren had turned off the smoke detectors. The accumulated haze made it hard to see the ceiling of the Oval Office. The president didn’t seem concerned, puffing away and staring out the window behind his desk.
“So Pike’s okay? Out of enemy hands so to speak?”
Kurt said, “Yes, sir. He got dinged up a little, but he’s safe.”
The president spun his chair around. “Dinged up? That’s what you guys call it? I’d say he was tortured. And for nothing. This little Taskforce adventure was off the charts in stupidity. What on earth was Pike thinking? Who were the Lebanese he used? Without authority, I might add.”
Kurt grimaced. “They were some Druze that used to be in the LAF Special Forces. Pike trained them before the Taskforce existed. If he trusts them, so do I.”
“Some trust. They had him smuggle in a damn IED without his knowledge. Then he gets captured because of it. It’s loose as shit, even for Pike.”
“Sir, he’s just trying to get the mission done, and speaking of that, we have some indicators of—”
President Warren flipped open a folder on his desk and cut him off. “Get ’em home. Now. I’ve given orders for McMasters to skip Lebanon on his trip. I don’t care how much Pike trusts those men. That
place is an absolute snake pit, and there’s no sense tempting fate, even if Pike says he blew up the assassin.”
“Sir, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. We’re not so sure the threat’s gone.”
President Warren closed the folder. “What do you mean?”
“Remember the reports I showed you about an American assassin code-named Infidel?”
“Yeah. As I recall that theory was discounted by the intelligence from the Tunisian hit. What about it?”
“Pike took a computer from the site where he was held. We bled it dry of information, then he inserted it back into the extremist network using some software that allowed him to access it remotely.”
“And?”
“And we got a clear screenshot of an American from inside a Hezbollah headquarters building, along with McMasters’s entire itinerary on the computer. Infidel is real, and skipping Lebanon doesn’t mean McMasters is safe.”
“So you found a Westerner working for Hezbollah, and the official itinerary of a U.S. envoy. Why’s that a big deal? Every government he’s visiting will have the itinerary, and a white guy inside Hezbollah doesn’t equate to some badass assassin.”
“It was more than the official itinerary. It had specific hotels, events, and dates of stay. Much more than we ordinarily include in official message traffic. And it was in Hezbollah’s hands, not some friendly government.”
Kurt pulled out a laser-printed photo from his briefcase. “As for the white guy, we know who he is, and it’s not good.”
“Who?”
“Remember the hired gun Harold Standish used a couple of years ago? Tried to wipe out a Taskforce team in Bosnia?”
“Yeah. Lucas Kane, right? Got his own team wiped out instead and then killed Standish as payback. I thought you guys were hunting him.”
“We were, but after he disappeared in Bosnia, his trail went absolutely cold. We heard rumors and ran them to ground, but always came up empty. I quit focusing on it because it was a drain on resources. He wasn’t a threat to U.S. interests, and I figured he’d turn up on his own sooner or later.” Kurt stood and tossed the screenshot photo on the president’s desk. “Looks like he has.”
The president stared at the grainy image for a moment. “So you think Lucas Kane is on the hunt here? That McMasters’s trip is in jeopardy anyway, even if we avoid Lebanon?”
“Yes.”
“And what would you have me do? Call it off completely? I can’t do that. It’s the first time in years we’ve been able to get the peace process rolling again.”
“No, sir. Of course not. Even if it were just a sightseeing trip, I wouldn’t advocate turning it off. We can’t be held hostage to threats. It gives the bastards exactly what they want. I’m just saying mix it up a little bit. Alter the itinerary so it’s different from what we found. Increase the security posture around him.”
He paused. President Warren said, “And?”
“And let me launch the Taskforce guys from Tunisia.”
The president leaned back, a half-smile on his face. Kurt continued. “The Oversight Council has already approved it. The only difference is our purpose for going. It’s the same country, same threats, same method of infiltration.”
“Kurt, please. The only thing ‘different’ is the primary reason for the approval. Now that Pike’s safe, there’s no justification to launch. We should go back to the Council.”
“Sir, they’re going to say no, and we’re going to lose the one lead we have. Lucas Kane is a proven killer, and we have no idea what identity he’s traveling under. If we don’t get on this quickly, he’ll disappear again. Best case, we simply lose an opportunity to bring him to justice. Worst case, we’re standing over the body of a dead Mideast envoy. And your peace process is in the gutter.”
“My, my, how attitudes change. I remember when
you
used to be the one demanding Oversight Council approval on everything. Now, you want to duck them.”
Kurt shook his head. “No, sir. Not duck. They’ve already given approval for the three members to deploy, so I’m just stretching it a little bit. They don’t have to know Pike’s safe until after the launch. Then, they’re already on the ground. I want oversight, but by a competent body. Let the Taskforce get something done in Lebanon, and it will give the Council a little confidence in our abilities. Right now, they’re a bunch of handwringers.”
President Warren considered for a second, then nodded. “Okay. Get ’em into Lebanon and see if you can get a handle on Lucas. But they don’t do anything else without Council approval, understood?”
Kurt said, “Yes, sir,” and waited to be dismissed. Instead, the president rotated around in his chair and gazed out the Oval Office window again.
“You think this cash giveaway is doing anything for the peace process? You think it’s a good idea?”
A couple of years ago Kurt would have been completely taken aback by the question, but he’d grown accustomed to the president asking him things that had nothing to do with the Taskforce. While they both understood their respective positions, the truth was the president liked bouncing ideas off of Kurt. Trusted him as a man outside the political machine, and thus a person who could give an opinion that wasn’t tainted by whatever poll was in vogue at the time.
Kurt didn’t want to admit it, but he enjoyed the role of trusted confidant, even when the questions were outside his expertise. He had learned to caveat his answers if he felt he was leading the administration down a road about which he had no knowledge. Something else he knew the president respected. In this case, achieving peace within the Levant, he had more knowledge on the topic than ninety percent of the “experts” out there.
“I think any attempt at a reconciliation between the Palestinians
and the Israelis is a good thing. Solve that problem, and you put a damper on every other issue in the region. Long-term, that is. In the short term, it will cause more violence. There are just too many groups who have specific agendas that cannot be met with compromise. And I mean both on the Israeli and the Palestinian side.”
The president returned his attention to Kurt. “That’s not my question. Do you think it’s a good idea to give the Palestinian Authority twenty million dollars? Am I funding terrorism? We have no idea who’s going to get that money.”
Kurt said nothing for a moment, realizing his answer would not be the usual pontification, but instead possibly alter the course of national security. He’d seen it before. A small comment in a roomful of people, then on the news the next day. It had always amazed him how national strategy was often formed more on the words of trusted advisors than the opinions of experts.