Project StrikeForce (13 page)

She shook her head. “Another lone-wolf mission?
Isn’t that what got you in trouble the last time?”

The memory of that operation angered him, but her
assessment was fair. “You never know, Val, maybe I’ll win them over with my
charming personality and complete disregard for regulations.”

Valerie shook her head sadly. “The next helicopter
leaves in two hours. Nancy, can I steal him for a moment?”

“Absolutely,” Nancy said. “He’s all yours.”

They stepped away, out of earshot. Valerie turned
to glance at Nancy, then back to Deion. “Nice looking girl. Seems a little
cold, though.”

He laughed. Jealousy was the last thing he
expected. “She’s just a coworker, Val. Trust me, there’s nothing there.
Besides, I still haven’t gotten over you.”

“Funny, I almost believe that.” She finally
smiled, and it made her look ten years younger. “It’s good, Deion. We’re good.
It was just…something to occupy our time, right?”

He tried to smile, but it faltered. “You know it
was more than that.” He reached for her hand and took it in his, gently
squeezing her fingers. “You know what kind of problems our relationship meant
for our careers. Not to mention the CIA paperwork.”

She nodded, still grinning. “It was worth it to
see you naked.”

“Back at you.” He wanted to hold her, to hug her,
but the people streaming through the tents made that impossible. He caught her
eyes and held her gaze. “I missed you.”

She bit her lower lip. “Back at you. But, it’s history.
You’ve got a job to do. Let’s get your weapons checked out.”

They rejoined Nancy and Valerie led them to the
armory where he selected M11 pistols and MP4 rifles for himself and Nancy. Nancy
leaned over and pulled an old Ka-Bar knife and sheath from the armory. Deion
raised his eyebrow, but she just shrugged.

Valerie signed for their weapons and ammo while
they changed into local clothes. When done, Deion grabbed a backpack, filled it
with handfuls of extra magazines, and slung it over his shoulder.

Valerie gave him an appreciative glance, then gave
Nancy a quick once over, pausing at the bulge under her pant-leg where she’d
strapped the Ka-Bar knife. “The helicopter leaves soon. You guys hungry? By the
time we finish, they’ll be ready to spin up.”

She led them to a small tent with plastic tables
where several agents ate boxed sandwiches from the chain restaurant on base.
She grabbed extras and passed them out.

He took a bite and shook his head. “Nothing like
fast food in Bagram.”

“Hey, the soldiers like it. The least the Army can
do is offer them a taste of home.”

She filled him in on the status of former
coworkers while they ate. Nancy maintained a polite smile, but he could tell
she was bored.

They finished their meal and prepared to board the
helicopter when Deion saw his former special-agent-in-charge, Jim Rumple. The
man stuck out like a sore thumb among the other agents, his clothes grubby and
creased, his hair thin and graying, seemingly detached from the urgency and
professionalism around him. “Freeman. You’re back.”

He smiled and contemplated decking the man. “Jim.
Still in charge?”

Rumple turned to Nancy. “And you are?”

“Just leaving,” Deion said, sticking his arm out
to brush the man away.

Rumple frowned, then placed his hand on Deion’s
chest. “I’m afraid I’m going to need more than that.”

Nancy frowned. “You’ve received a copy of our
mission orders?”

“I have,” he said.

“Then you have our security clearances. That’s all
you need to know.”

Rumple glared at her. “A little cooperation goes a
long way. We’re in the middle of an all-hands-on-deck situation.”

Nancy glared back. “We’re not going to hinder your
investigation, but we have our own.”

“Then you won’t mind me contacting your superiors.
I want to be briefed on your mission.”

Nancy smiled grimly. “You already tried that. Your
friend, Grant, back in Langley told you to drop it.”

Rumple blanched. “How did you know that?”

Deion started to interrupt, but Nancy silenced him
with a look. “Drop it now,” she said, “or you’ll be sitting in your apartment
back in Maryland wondering why your buddies at Langley couldn’t stop your
discharge.” Nancy turned to Deion and Valerie, her voice hard as steel. “Come
on, we’re going. If this idiot keeps it up, I won’t just have his job, I’ll
have his retirement. He’ll be cleaning the fry bin at McDonalds for the rest of
his life.”

They hustled out of the room, Rumple watching
them, his face a mask of anger and disgust. They found their way to the Chinook
and took seats halfway in the back.

He leaned in close to Nancy. He wanted to ask her
about Rumple, then thought better of it. Instead, he said, “You don’t look
happy.”

“I don’t like it when I’m not the one flying.”

“Don’t trust the pilot?”

“Not especially. It’s a control issue.”

Valerie turned to them. “That was good. I’ve never
seen Jim called out like that.” She smiled at Nancy. “You’ve got balls, lady,
bluffing him like that.”

“Who said I was bluffing,” Nancy said.

Valerie’s smile faded as the engines whined and
the rotors began thump-thumping.

* * *

Kandahar, Afghanistan

Neil Burch greeted them when they
exited the Chinook at Kandahar. Neil was a short man in his late forties, and
Deion liked and respected the man. He was glad to see Neil still in the field
and not riding a desk in Washington. “Neil, looking good, man.” He tousled
Neil’s curly blond hair.

“Good to see you, too. I thought for sure they
wouldn’t allow your ass back in country.”

Deion laughed, then introduced Nancy and Valerie.

Neil gave Valerie a firm handshake. “Glad to
finally meet you. Your reputation precedes you.”

Valerie returned the handshake and grinned. “Yours,
too.”

Nancy shook Neil’s hand. “Mr. Burch, your record
speaks for itself.”

“Keep it up,” Neil said, winking. “Flattery will
get you everywhere.” He directed them to a waiting Humvee and they sped
north-east to a small hangar, exited the truck, and showed their identification
to the MP’s guarding the entrance. After a thorough inspection, the MP’s
saluted, handed them their ID’s, and Neil led them inside.

A large wedge-shaped aircraft sat on the floor of
the hangar, painted in subtle shades of gray and black. “This is the Sentinel,”
Neil said. “We were testing it with Delta, near the mountains. The plan was to
shake out the bugs and start deploying them along the Pakistan border. This
really wrecks our schedule. Not to mention the loss of life. It’s just tragic.”

“Yeah,” Deion said. “We’ve heard. What do you know
so far?”

“Not much. We think it’s AQ.”

“The local Taliban are trying to distance
themselves,” Valerie confirmed.

Deion whistled as they walked around the drone.
The wedge-shaped aircraft was bigger than he expected. “What’s so special about
this drone?” he asked.

“It can intercept thousands of cell phone calls.
You know there’s not a lot of land lines here, everyone uses cheap cell phones.
Instead of tapping cell-towers, this scans all cell phones within a thirty
kilometer range. It can also pull data from the phones, including text and
pictures,” Neil said.

Deion’s eyes widened. The drone would be a
game-changer for SIGINT and would allow JSOC unprecedented flexibility in
tracking high-value targets. He shook his head. Of course AQ would be terrified
of the Sentinel.

Neil led them out of the building and they got
back in the Humvee and headed south-west to the DIA headquarters.

As Neil drove, Deion watched off-duty soldiers
playing soccer, no field in sight, just a bunch of men, black and white and
brown, stirring up dust and kicking the ball. He sighed. Nothing had changed since
he left. The rest of Afghanistan was a powder-keg of hostility and resentment,
thousands of years in the making. They were still no closer to achieving a
stable and democratic Afghanistan. “Did you make those calls I emailed you
about?”

Neil nodded as they drove past a no-parking
fire-lane sign. “I did. The local Taliban commander is named Azim. He’s more
concerned about maintaining power than repelling the infidel horde. He fights
just hard enough to keep AQ off his back. His man will talk to us, but we have
to go to him. His man said you’d know the location.”

Valerie cleared her throat. “Is that safe? I mean,
how could that possibly be safe?”

“Hell no, it’s not safe,” Deion said. “We have to
go to the middle of Kandahar. If we go in heavy, Azim’s man will be in the
wind.”

They entered the brown tent, the feeble
air-conditioning barely making a dent in the heat. Nancy tapped Deion on the
shoulder. “Is this the same cowboy shit that got you sent to Gitmo?”

“Yeah.”

She stared at him quizzically. “You sure about
this?”

He nodded.

She shrugged “It’s your show.”

They greeted the officer on duty and set up
temporary desk space on a wooden table near the back. The tent was a beehive of
activity, with countless missions in progress, but no one paid them any attention
as Neil produced a map of Kandahar and circled a residential section. “Here’s
where we need to go, about two blocks from a market. Deion knows the area. The
ladies will have to wait in the truck.”

“No way,” Nancy said. “We’re going in with you.”

“That might be a problem,” Deion countered. “You
know how the Taliban are about women.”

She glared at him. “It’s not open for discussion.”

He started to argue, then realized it was
pointless. “Val, what about you?” He hated to put her in danger, but it wasn’t her
first time on operations deep in enemy territory.

She frowned, then slowly nodded. “I’m in.”

“How do we do this?” Neil asked.

Deion pointed to the surrounding buildings. “We’ll
have guys here, here, and here. I want choppers spun up and ready, and drone
support if we can get it. Once we enter the building, it’s just the four of
us.”

Valerie pursed her lips. “When does this happen?”

“At dusk,” Neil answered.

Deion glanced at the digital clock at the front of
the tent. “Shit, that’s not a lot of time.”

Neil smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ve got Delta there
and waiting. The site is as clear as it’s going to get.”

Deion snapped his fingers. “Let’s make it happen.”

Denver, Colorado

ric’s teeth rattled as the C-17
touched down on the Buckley AFB runway. He missed the Gulfstream, but it lacked
the capacity to carry the two black Ford Econoline vans that were strapped down
in the cargo bay. The plane taxied to the hangar and the crew got busy
unloading the vans.

He shivered in the morning chill, his light
windbreaker providing little comfort. He took John aside. “We’ve got a few
minutes. You ready for this?”

John nodded. “This is what I’ve been training for,
right?”

“This isn’t like missions in the Army. We’ll be
mingling with citizens. We don’t want any screw-ups, we just need to get to the
storage unit and find the caesium.”

“Got it,” John said.

Eric introduced him to the other former Operators
he had recruited with Nancy’s help. Taylor Martin, a black man with massive
hands, had worked with Eric years before in Afghanistan and was
second-in-command. Martin had an easy sense of humor, with intelligent,
deep-set eyes. He trusted Martin and knew the man would rather die than fail
his commanding officer.

Roger Johnson, a thin young man with a receding
hairline and jutting chin would be their third, followed by Mark Kelly, a bland
looking man with sad brown eyes.

They were all dressed in civilian clothes, and
none would look out of place on the street, unless you noticed their eyes. They
all had the thousand-yard stare.

“Martin, John, and I will be in the first unit.
Johnson, you and Kelly will follow in the second. Any questions?”

“We have a location?” Kelly asked.

“What we have,” Eric replied, “is the location for
a storage unit, rented to Jeff Fletcher. He’s a known associate of the APR, and
a drone overfly detected unusual amounts of radiation.”

Martin spoke up. “We’re ready, Steeljaw.”

“Remember, we don’t have any firm intel, so be
careful.”

The crew chief of the C-17 approached and saluted.
“Your vehicles are unloaded and ready to go.”

Eric saluted back. “This is it, gentlemen. Once
more unto the breech.”

They loaded into the vans and Martin headed west
on I30 toward downtown, John in the passenger seat, Eric in the back.

“Why does it have to be a white power group,”
Martin grumbled. “I hate white power groups.”

Eric smiled. “Don’t be full of the black hate.”

Martin looked up in the rear-view mirror, a wide
smile on his face. “Smart-ass.”

Eric laughed, then turned serious. “Remember,
there’s enough caesium to light up Denver.”

All three men looked at each other, the laughter
gone. They followed the GPS coordinates to a storage complex on the southern
edge of downtown Denver, the landscape dotted with pawnshops, nail salons, and
check-cashing services.

“This is it,” Martin said. He pulled the van over
a block from the storage shed and Kelly wheeled in behind them.

John opened a black plastic case and removed the
FGRD, a Fast-Cooling Germanium Radiation Detector.

Eric interrupted his fiddling. “Didn’t you check
that thing before we left Groom Lake?”

“Yeah,” John said, “but it’s finicky. Never can be
too careful.”

“Good point,” Eric agreed. He pulled his M11 from
his shoulder holster, checked it, then put it back, covering it with his
windbreaker. John did the same.

They checked their ear-pieces, and after ensuring
the MBITR radios worked correctly, Eric exited the van. John followed,
clutching the FGRD case. Traffic was light and no one noticed as they headed to
the front of the storage property.

They stopped in front of the gate and Eric peered
at the numeric keypad that controlled the front gate. “It’s a SSW—iLW unit,” he
said over the radio.

“Hang on, Steeljaw,” Martin replied over the
ear-piece. “We’ll have the override code momentarily.” There was a pause. “The
override code is 12#45*. That should unlock the gate.”

He gave a silent prayer to modernity, keyed in the
code, and was rewarded when the green light blipped and the gate opened.

They headed for the second row of concrete storage
sheds and John removed the FGRD and computer from the case and started the FGRD’s
cooling cycle. After several minutes the display turned blue.

“Well?” Eric asked. “Anything?”

“Analyzing data,” John replied. He stood still for
several moments, staring at the small screen.

“Nothing?”

“It’s not as easy as I’m making it look,” John
said.

Eric grinned. “Just trying to light a fire.”

“Okay, it’s complete. There’s definitely abnormal
amounts of radiation. Which unit belongs to Fletcher?”

“217, that’s three rows back. Let’s get moving.”

They headed deeper into the storage yard, moving
quickly. As they rounded a corner, John raised his hand, staring at the
computer screen. “We’re getting closer.”

“Glad it’s you two in there,” Martin’s voice
crackled. “Remember that ten years from now when you’re both sterile.”

John frowned and Eric slapped him on the shoulder.
“He’s just fucking with you, John, there’s nothing to be worried about.”
I
hope.

As they walked through the gravel lot, John said, “Getting
stronger. It’s definitely coming from this row.”

Eric’s ear-piece crackled. “Heads up. You’ve got
incoming. Brown Ford station wagon, four males,” Martin said.

“It’s this unit,” John said, pointing to 217.

“How much time?” Eric asked.

“They’re at the keypad,” Martin answered. “Thirty
seconds.”

“That’s not enough,” John said.

“Is Fletcher with them?”

“Cannot confirm, repeat, cannot confirm,” Martin
said.

John’s eyes widened. “What do we do?”

Eric thought quickly, dismissing scenarios, then
grinned. “We improvise. Make yourself scarce.”

“Gate is opening,” Martin said.

“Okay, we’re playing this by ear,” Eric said.

“Roger that,” Martin said. “Vehicle is through the
gate.”

John hurried around the row of storage units,
while Eric pulled at his jacket, ruffling it to hide the shoulder holster, then
moved down two units. As the station wagon came around the corner he backed up
and pantomimed placing keys in his pocket, as if he had just finished closing
the storage unit door.

The men in the car eyed him suspiciously as they
shut off the engine and piled out. They were dressed in blue jeans and dirty
t-shirts, and Eric recognized the driver, Jeff Fletcher, from his rap sheet.

“Oh, hello,” Eric said. “Weird huh?”

Fletcher regarded him coolly. “What’s weird?”

“You almost never see anybody in these storage
faculties,” Eric replied, walking closer. “I mean, I drive past places like
this all the time but I never actually see anybody.” The men stepped forward,
giving each other sidelong glances, as he continued. “I’ve been here a couple
of times and this place is always deserted, then you guys showed up. Isn’t that
weird?”

Fletcher glared at him. “It’s a mini-warehouse
dumbass, someone has to actually put stuff in and take stuff out.”

The three other men smirked but eased back.

Eric watched them, the thousand yard stare
allowing him to keep track of all four men with his peripheral vision. He
stepped forward again, “I know, but it’s still weird.” He was now close enough
to have raised their guard, if not for his nonsensical speech. “Seriously, when
was the last time you saw someone else here? It just doesn’t happen. Never,
wouldn’t you say?”

He was close enough that Fletcher finally took
notice. He had invaded the personal space a stranger should never occupy and
was within a step of striking distance. The man to Fletcher’s right was tall,
six foot, stocky build, a Harley Davidson shirt stretched across his muscular
frame. The men to Fletcher’s left were shorter, but not by much. They were all
well-muscled. All wore tattoos of different shapes and colors, all indicating time
served in prison. Fletcher was the only one without ink.

Eric grinned. “Hey, do you guys belong to a biker
club? Those tattoos are cool.”

“What are you, Walter fucking Cronkite?” Fletcher
asked. “You writing a book? Get the fuck outta here and mind your own
business.”

“Didn’t mean to bother you,” Eric answered. He
took the last step forward. “I’m not looking for trouble.”

He finally triggered some kind of internal alarm,
the distance too close for a crazy person on the street, and Fletcher’s eyes
widened. Before he could move, Eric slammed his palm under Fletcher’s chin. The
man’s jaws slammed together and he went down hard in the loose rock.

Fletcher’s friend, the big man with the Harley
shirt, lunged forward. Eric side-stepped and a quick chop with his left hand
collapsed the man’s wind-pipe.

Then the two shorter men were on him, one throwing
wild punches at his head, the other bolting forward but knocked senseless from
the other man’s flailing fists.

He saw John come from behind and strike the wild
puncher in the kidneys. The man screamed as he went down.

The other man scrambled up and dove toward Eric,
catching his legs, taking him to the ground. He grunted from the pain as his
head slammed into the rock. Fletcher rose, dazed, but managed to kick him in
the groin before John stepped up from behind and clapped his hands on the sides
of Fletcher’s head.

Fletcher screamed as his eardrums ruptured, and
John spun and drove his fist deep into the solar plexus of the other man, who
collapsed, white-faced and motionless.

Eric was rising when Fletcher pulled the gun, a
stubby nickel-plated revolver. He struggled to pull his M11, watching in
slow-motion as the barrel of Fletcher’s revolver inched higher, when then there
was a double wham.

Two holes appeared in Fletcher’s chest. Fletcher
dropped his revolver and collapsed on the ground, eyes glassy. John stood
behind, his M11 drawn, a wisp of smoke wafting from the chamber.

John’s gaze flickered from Fletcher to Eric and
back again. “Holy shit,” he managed, his face tinted green.

Eric stood and surveyed the damage. “Are they all
dead?”

John quickly checked the bodies. “Yeah.”

Eric sighed. “I was trying not to kill them.”

“The training took over,” John said. “I didn’t
have time to think.” His hands started to tremble, then he doubled over and
threw up, long heaves that emptied his stomach onto the white rock.

“Steeljaw? What’s the sitrep?” Martin asked. “We
heard shots fired. Do you have Fletcher?”

Eric stooped and searched Fletcher’s pockets. He
found Fletcher’s keys and tried several until he found the one that opened the lock
on the sliding door. The storage unit was filled with dozen of brown ammo boxes
and a crate of M16’s, but most of the space was full of empty barrels
emblazoned with the Landfrey logo.

He turned to John, who was still on his knees
wiping spittle from the back of his mouth. The four dead men lay where they had
fallen. He looked back to the warehouse, which contained no caesium. “Well
fuck!”

* * *

John watched as Martin, Johnson and
Kelly loaded the men into body bags. He turned as Eric clapped him on the
shoulder. “Thanks, John. Fletcher was going to shoot.”

“I didn’t mean to kill them,” he said. “It was
reflex.”

“You didn’t kill them all,” Eric said. “The guy
with the collapsed trachea was mine.”

Eric’s words didn’t make him feel better. He
watched as Martin and Johnson picked up the body bags, one by one, and flopped
them into the back of the van. “It’s not the same.”

“What’s not the same?” Eric asked.

“Killing a man up close. It’s not like Iraq. They
were always shooting at us.”

“I won’t lie to you. Killing a man up close
is
different. You see their eyes, you feel it when you hit them. You see the
bodies jerk, smell it when their bowels release. There’s nothing glamorous
about death. Taking a life isn’t pleasant, but it’s part of the job. It was us
or them. I don’t like killing, never have, never will.”

He shrugged. “I feel horrible.”

Eric smiled. “Good. It means you’re not a
monster.”

They finished loading the last body in the van,
then Martin handed a cell phone to Eric. “We found this burner in Fletcher’s
car. The rest of the men were clean.”

Eric pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his
jacket, and held it next to Fletcher’s until Fletcher’s phone beeped. “Clark,
did you get that?”

Clark replied over the ear-piece. “We got it.
Karen’s running the backtrack. There was nothing else in the storage unit?”

“It’s a dead end,” Eric said, “but if we track
where that phone’s been, we know where Fletcher’s been.”

John was listening over his ear-piece, but it
suddenly went quiet. He tapped it, thinking perhaps it was dislodged, but Eric
shook his head.

“That’s right,” Eric said. “It was just like
that.” He paused, then continued, “That is correct. Everything is under
control. We’ll continue with the mission.”

John wondered what Clark was saying and why he was
cut from the conversation. Was it about him mistakenly killing Fletcher? He
replayed the events in his mind, how Eric struck Fletcher, how he came to help
defend Eric, the blur of the fight.

It happened so fast, his body on autopilot. He
punched the first man in the kidneys, because he knew that a blow to the
kidneys—if hard enough—would incapacitate most men.

When he struck, he knew something was wrong. His
arm was a piece of iron, driven by the power of a freight train. The man
collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Then, the sickening crunch
traveling up his arm as he hit the second man in the solar plexus, and the
split second where he knew he had collapsed the guy’s sternum.

He was so strong, so fast. He knew as he struck
that it was a killing blow, the heart destroyed as the bone shards lancing
through it, only seconds before it would start spasming, blood leaking into the
body cavities, blood pressure dropping.