Authors: Brad Taylor
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.”
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.
Getting my ass kicked by a bunch of thirteen-year-olds, now about to get my ass kicked by Jennifer.
“What are you doing? Are you playing that stupid game?”
Show apparent innocence…no proof…give up nothing.
“What? What do you mean? I’m studying. Just like when you left.”
Jennifer leaned against the door and shook her head, giving me her “disapproving teacher” face. I would never tell her this, because it would only encourage her, but the look really worked. I felt a little ashamed before she even opened her mouth.
“Pike, come on. This is our one shot at a real archeological expedition. You
need
to know this stuff, if for no other reason than to protect the cover. There won’t be any Taskforce oversight helping us out here. You need to look and sound like you know what you’re doing on this dig.”
Jennifer and I were partners in a cover company called Grolier Recovery Services, which camouflaged Taskforce activity. Ostensibly, we specialized in facilitating archeological work around the world. In reality, we used the company to let us penetrate denied areas so we
could put some terrorist’s head on a spike. The cover had worked well so far, because it gave us a plausible reason to travel anywhere that had something of historical significance, which was basically any place on the planet with solid ground—and a few places underwater.
The difference was that we’d really been hired for this job. No Taskforce paycheck on this one, although it was the Taskforce that had linked-up our company with the project. Jennifer was really,
really
looking forward to the trip, because she was a pencil-neck at heart. A scientist torn between being a plant-eater and a meat-eater.
I said, “Jennifer, we aren’t leaving for at least three months. The Syrians aren’t going to approve a visa for either of us until they’re convinced we aren’t some secret James Bond organization. I’ve got plenty of time to study this boring shit.”
I saw her eyes cloud and knew I’d blurted too much from the heart.
“Wait…wait…that didn’t come out right—”
“Boring shit? Is that what you think? Well how about you do it because
I
asked for a change? I’ve done
everything
you’ve asked for the Taskforce. Don’t mess this up for me. All you have to do is a little studying. I promise, you’ll like it. Bloodshed and death. Right up your alley.”
We’d been asked by an American university to help reestablish archeological work at a place called Hamoukar in northern Syria, right near the border with Iraq. The site had been discovered in 1999, with digs conducted every year since then. In 2011, with the upheavals in Syria, the digs had been discontinued. Now, the university was headed back to reopen the dig and had hired us to provide the coordination and on-site security for the work.
The find was apparently one of the oldest cities ever discovered, a treasure trove of artifacts that sent shivers down my spine. I couldn’t
wait
to see the broken pottery shards and old bricks. Okay, that’s a little uncharitable, I suppose. There was one cool thing about the place: The city itself had apparently been destroyed in the first recorded occurrence of urban warfare.
I spread my hands, attempting to salvage the night. “Okay, okay. I’ll study it. I promise. I get it’s important. We still going out tonight? Or am I grounded?”
She squinted for a second, then said, “Maybe I should have you take a test. If you pass, we’ll go out.”
I smiled. “Fire away. I know more than you think.”
“Oh, please. You’ll just make up something and claim I’m wrong. Let’s go. Where’d you decide?”
Tonight was the one-year anniversary of the establishment of our business. We’d tossed a coin to see who’d get to pick and I had won. Which meant we weren’t going to some wine bar.
“Blind Tiger. On Broad Street.”
“Do they serve anything besides hamburgers?”
“Yeah. You’ll like it. I promise.”
I
dropped Jennifer off
out front and found a parking spot a block and a half away on Church Street. The Charleston weather was perfect, with a warm breeze and the will-o’-the-wisp smell of pluff mud hanging faintly in the air. I passed a wedding reception and had my short walk marred by a rowdy group breaking free and following me down Broad Street. As luck would have it, they came right into the pub with me, apparently deciding that paying for their liquor was more fun than drinking for free.
I scanned the inside of the pub for Jennifer, came up empty, and moved to the backyard patio. I spotted her at a table at the rear of the deck, two drafts of Guinness in front of her. I couldn’t fault her taste.
I pulled out a chair. “Great choice on the beer. Did I sit at the right table?”
She grinned. “I keep my word. You won the bet, so it’s your beer.”
She snaked a hand across the table. “How was last night?”
I knew why she asked, and was a little embarrassed at the attention.
“Fine. He didn’t come.”
Jennifer knew exactly who I meant. She knew everything that had occurred with my family, and I’d poured out my soul about the dream when I’d returned back to Charleston two months ago. The stalker had shown up a few times since, but only once with my family. Jennifer prodded me every day about it, and I was sure she was going to
recommend some psychobabble therapy if it happened again. She stared at me like she was surveying my conscious for a lie, as if I was a chick who needed to vomit my feelings in a social group, which did nothing but piss me off.
“Quit that. You’re going to ruin the night. Can we talk about something else?”
She considered me for a moment, squinting her eyes. I waited her out until she finally shook her head. She held up her phone. “Our contact with the university called,” meaning the Taskforce. “Our visas have been approved. We can go as soon as we’re ready.”
Before I could answer, one of the drunk groomsmen rammed into the back of my chair, knocking me forward. I whirled around to see him standing with his hands in the air.
“’Scuze me. Sorry.”
His four other buddies and the two women with them were all laughing like they were watching a stand-up routine, drinking out of plastic cups that had been decorated for the wedding reception. I felt Jennifer grab my wrist, getting my attention.
“Let it go. They’re just having fun.”
I told the guy it was no problem, and sat back down.
“What did Kurt say?”
“Apparently the Syrian government is keen to get this dig going again. Prove to the world that they’re returning to normal. The Ministry of Culture pushed through the visas. The university isn’t prepared to deploy yet, but they want us to go over and do a site survey. If we say it’s good, they’ll follow.”
Site survey. Right. Chickenshits are afraid. Kurt must be laughing his ass off at the Syrian government helping the Taskforce penetrate their state.
“What about Knuckles and the crew? They’re supposed to go with us.”
Before she could answer, another drunk groomsman was standing by our table, swaying slightly.
“Hey, I want to apologize for my friend there. Let me buy you guys a beer.”
I smiled at him, “That’s okay. We’re fine. Thanks.”
“I want to. I really want to.” He listed forward, spilling some of the beer from his ridiculous pink cup onto our table.
I stood up. “I said it’s all right. Please leave us alone.”
My tone was nice, but my glare wasn’t. Jennifer saw the challenge going out and stepped between us, looking at me.
“Let’s go somewhere else.”
Why the hell should we leave?
I thought about it. About the trouble we’d get in. About our trip coming up and the unwanted attention I’d draw if I mopped up the deck with all five of these assholes. And about the fact that Jennifer had asked—which meant more than the other considerations combined.
“All right. You get to pick this time, but walking distance from here.”
She took my hand and led us through the throng of the drunken wedding party. We were on the far side of the group when one of the men reached out and pinched her ass, then ducked back into the protection of the pack, giggling.