Project StrikeForce (21 page)

It was hard to hear, but she was right. “So, what,
I’m here to take
care
of you?”

“Think about it. They needed an Operator, not
necessarily the best, but someone who wouldn’t be tempted to use or abuse their
power. They needed someone to watch over Frist. He idolizes you. How effective
would his training be without that? And, you’re my type, Eric. You’re the kind
of guy I’m attracted to, and my father knows that. You don’t think he’d have
killed two birds with one stone? Come on, he practically gift-wrapped you and left
you outside my door.”

“Stop right there,” he sputtered, “we work
together, nothing more.”

She stood and walked around the table, sitting
down in front of him, close enough that her leg rubbed his. He tried not to
notice her scent, not of perfume, but of soap and skin, the fragrance
intoxicating.

“You’re a man,” she said, matter-of-factly. “I
could snap my fingers and you’d be servicing me before you had time to think.”

He considered that. “You’re wrong,” he lied.

“You’ve been here for months and you haven’t taken
part in the hookup culture. I’d have heard about it.”

“Doc Barnwell just filled me in about that.”

“He give you the speech? No feelings? No catches?
And you haven’t slept with anyone?”

“No.” He paused, then continued. “I think Karen is
interested.”

Nancy laughed. “You should have taken her up on
it. I’ve heard she’s damn good in the sack.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m not some high
school kid looking to get laid in the back of his old man’s car. I have
self-control.”

“It would be best if I had some, too, is that what
you’re implying?” She tilted her head. “I’m messed up and I know it. All I have
left is the Office. What do you have? Why are you even here?”

“It’s what I do,” he said simply. He wanted to
reach out, hold her hand, but anything he might do would only aggravate the
situation. “The world is complicated and crazy, and the only thing holding it
together is people like me. I can’t be distracted. I have to do the job.”

“Quite a hero complex, Captain America.” She stood
and glared at him. “If you really want to know why you’re here, talk to my
father. Ask him about the family business. Mine and yours.”

She slammed the door on her way out.

* * *

Area 51

Eric scanned through the images of
his father’s military records. He knew his father had served in Vietnam. When
Eric was a kid, he begged his Dad to tell stories, but his Dad always refused.
He would say the past was past and there was no need to fill his head with
nonsense, then send him outside to play. Reading through the records, he realized
his Dad might have had other reasons for not talking about his time in the
service.

The records painted a different story than he
expected. His Dad was Special Forces, and the paper trail was blank, from his
entry in Vietnam in August of 1963 until he out-processed in 1968.

For five years he stayed in country. Nothing noted
in his records about missions, either. What did he do for those five years?
Even in the world of Special Forces there were records. His father’s record was
empty. Expunged.

He stood and stretched his legs. Why hadn’t his
father told him? He checked the clock. It was late but he made a brief stop in
the cafeteria for coffee before heading to Smith’s office. Light peeked from
under Smiths’ door. He knew Smith flew in just hours before, but he had not yet
been summoned for a briefing. He knocked politely and entered.

Smith sat at his desk, phone pushed to the corner,
shuffling a well-worn set of cards. He smiled at Eric. “An indulgence from my
youth. It allows my mind to wander freely. What may I do for you?”

“I hope I didn’t cause any problems with the
override of the CIA drone.”

“They were not happy,” Smith said, “but the issue
is resolved. Mr. Rumple has also been summoned to Washington. I think it best
that he have no further contact with our people. The CIA Director agreed.”

“Nancy wants to pass the info back to JSOC and be
done with it.”

Smith paused his game, glancing up. “What do you
think?”

“I think that Abdullah could be the next Bin
Laden. I think we should keep it.”

“The Office has a limited amount of resources.
This might hamper your investigation into the missing caesium. How goes that?”

“We’ve come up blank, sir. Karen is working on it,
but nothing so far.”

“You’re the Commanding Officer,” Smith said,
“There’s no need to bring this to me.”

“Nancy seems to think there is,” he said.

“She’s not the CO, Eric. Go with your gut.”

“Yes sir.” He turned to leave, then stopped.
“Sir?” He hesitated. “Did you know my Dad?”

Smith stared at the cards on the table. “You’ve
been looking through his service records,” he said, without looking up. “Yes, I
knew your father quite well.”

It was the admission he was waiting for. “In what
capacity?”

Smith swept up the cards, then placed them in his
desk drawer. “He worked for the Office, which you suspected.”

Eric nodded.

“He was also my friend,” Smith said. “As was your
grandfather, Joseph.”

“Grandpa Joe? How did you know Grandpa Joe?” He
hadn’t expected that, and his head was spinning. “Is that why you picked me?”

“You spoke to Nancy,” Smith said. He shook his
head. “When Truman tasked me with creating the Office, I was nothing more than
a child. I needed someone with experience, someone with a military background.
Your grandfather was an exceptional man. He was in the Airborne during World
War Two. He suffered through the Ardennes during the Battle of the Bulge. He
was my boot camp instructor, and he left quite an impression. Not for his
training methods, but because of his mental and moral strength.”

“He was ready to retire,” Smith continued, “and I
offered him a job. Just a year. He stayed for three. He was my right-hand man
and eventually my friend. Your grandmother as well. A sweet woman, dedicated to
her husband and her young son, William. I kept in touch with Joseph, as his son
became a man. Then William joined the Army. It was a chaotic time, and my
advice to the President about the war fell upon deaf ears. I had recruited a
young man, Hobert, to run a psychological warfare division.”

“Doc Barnwell?”

“Yes. Hobert was brilliant, but not all of his ideas
were without consequences. We needed someone who could clean up our mistakes.
Your father was a good man, rugged, like his father. You are like him in so
many ways. You are a good man, like your father and your father’s father.”

Smith paused. “I’m old, Eric. I can feel it, more
so every day. My bones ache. I forget things. I need someone to run the Office
after I’m gone. Someone young and full of life. Someone who can hold the line.”

Eric considered the bombshell. “Why didn’t my dad
tell me? He never talked about it. Grandpa Joe, either.”

“Your father had his fill of the Army. He wanted a
clean break. I visited your parents in the hospital. I watched as your mother
held you. Your father took me aside and told me that his son would not be a
military man. I visited again, when you were a young boy, on your eighth
birthday.”

Smith visited my house?
“I don’t remember.”

“Of course not. You were young. William’s position
had hardened. No, the Wise family had paid their debt in blood, it was time for
them to move on. He was quite chagrined to learn that you joined the Army. He
called me and made me promise to keep you safe. I told him it was a promise I
could not keep. He told me in no uncertain terms that as long as he was alive,
his son would not follow in his footsteps. I agreed.”

Realization dawned on him. “He died.”

“Yes,” Smith said softly, “he died, and my promise
died with him. I need you. The Office needs you. You were born for this job.”

“What about Doc Barnwell?”

Smith took a deep breath. “Hobert is my dear
friend, but his time is almost past.”

“And what about Nancy? She thinks you brought me
here to watch over her.”

“Not entirely untrue,” Smith acknowledged. He
gazed at Eric with hooded eyes. “She’s damaged. Fragile. And dangerous. I know
what happened in Afghanistan. She needs someone to care for her. I want you to
help her if you can, but your primary duty will always be to the Office. I
would like to name you my successor.”

Eric rocked back in his chair. “Sir, I don’t know
what to say. A few days ago I’d have jumped without hesitation, but it’s hard
to wrap my mind around all this.”

“I understand,” Smith said. “I’m sorry for
withholding the truth.”

Eric’s mind raced with all that he learned. He
thought he knew everything about his family, about why he chose his career. It
would take some time to process. “I’d like to think about it.”

Smith nodded. A smile played across his lips. “Of
course. Do not make this decision lightly. You have a week.”

* * *

Landstuhl Germany

Abdullah was fast asleep when Naseer
shook him gently awake. Abdullah was momentarily confused before remembering
where he was. “What time is it?” he asked, wiping at the crust in his eyes. The
bedroom was small, but Mahbeer had given it to them as a sign of respect. It
was still dark outside, the room illuminated by Naseer’s laptop.

“Almost morning.” Naseer scowled. “The Americans
have killed Koshen.”

“What?” He bolted upright. “How did this happen?”
he demanded.

Naseer shrank back. “It says that Azim gave Koshen
to the Americans. The Mujahideen attacked. There was a great battle and many
were killed. The Americans got away but Koshen was killed, along with one of
Azim’s men.”

He sagged against the bed in shock. “He was just a
young boy.”

Nasser paused. “He died a martyr.”

“He was just a boy,” Abdullah repeated.
So
young!

“I am sorry. What should I do?”

He stared at the Naseer’s laptop resting on the
floor. “Send this message. ‘We will avenge the boy’s death. He was martyred by
this false Muslim, Azim. He will be executed for his actions.’ Send that
message.”

Nasser typed the message and clicked the button to
encrypt the data, then uploaded the picture to the website. “It has been sent.”

He placed his hands gently on Naseer’s shoulders
and noticed his damp eyes. Naseer had liked Koshen, too. He shook his head, but
he had to ask Nasser. “I must continue Jihad. I must go to America, but Azim
must pay. Will you go back?”

Naseer’s eyes widened. “To Kandahar?”

“Yes,” he said. “You must lead the Mujahideen. You
must execute Azim. His treachery must be punished. Koshen must be avenged. Will
you do this for me?”

Nasser smiled proudly. “I will do this. For Koshen
and for you.”

He managed a weak smile, even though his heart was
broken over Koshen’s death. “You have been a faithful student. I know you will
make Azim pay for his betrayal.”

“I will pray for you, Abdullah, that you may
strike the Americans down and make them suffer for their affront to Allah.”

“The preparations are underway?”

“Yes. Mahbeer’s cousin will be waiting. I wish I
could be with you when you strike the Americans.”

“It is Allah’s will,” Abdullah said. “Strike the
false believer in Kandahar while I strike the Americans.” He grasped Naseer’s
hand, clutching it tight. “For my wife. For Koshen.”

* * *

Area 51

Eric was returning from Smith’s
quarters when his cell phone buzzed, paging him to the War Room. He pounded
through the brightly lit tunnels, making it in record time. The War Room was
alive with activity. “What’s the situation?”

Clark greeted him and pointed to Karen. “We’ve got
a hit. She’s working it now.”

Karen ran a hand through her short black hair. “It’s
the website again. Do you understand steganography?”

“Yeah,” Eric said. “It’s hiding a message in
another message.”

Karen nodded. “Exactly. It could be anything, like
the hand signs you were taught to give if caught and taped by the enemy. I
mean, there’s a whole history behind this stuff.”

She paused as Deion and Nancy entered the War
Room. “We’ve been tracking Al Qaeda for years via steganography. Basically,
when you encode an image in a jpeg you wind up with a bunch of ones and zeroes.
You can swap out thousands of them in an image and the effects are unnoticeable
to the human eye. But, if the receiver knows the pattern, they can take those
values and extract the message. Google’s webbots crawl the Internet cataloging
web sites for their search engine, and we get a copy of that data and run
scrapes against it, looking for patterns. There are thousands of Jihadists web
sites. The active ones have provided useful SIGINT, but the dormant ones are
the ones I find interesting. After the FOB Wildcat bombing, I saw a stego’d
message on what used to be a dormant site. Just a brief message indicating they
had performed a successful operation, but after your mission, there was another
message about an attack.” She pointed at Nancy and Deion. “That would be your
trip to Afghanistan. It was filled with details about that boy’s death. Well,
there was a new post talking about avenging the boy’s death. Here, let me pull
it up.”

The screen displayed the message and his stomach
sank. “You think this is Abdullah?”

“Could be him,” Karen said. “Could be his
proxies.”

“Can you track the image?” Clark asked.

“Working on it. I’ve tracked the previous posts
back to Kandahar. They’re routing the traffic through web anonymizers. But,
after FOB Wildcat, I rooted a bunch of their anonymizers and now I’ve got my
own back-door. From there I can track the IP back, hop to hop, until I find the
source. I should know something in a few minutes.”

Deion turned to Eric with a raised eyebrow. “I’m
glad she’s on our side.”