Project StrikeForce (6 page)

Naseer shook his head. “They don’t like you using
their fertilizer.”

“They have plans for it?” He continued to grind
the pellets into a fine powder, then dumped it into a plastic pan

Naseer averted his gaze. “They would rather use it
themselves.”

Abdullah stopped his work. “Who taught them to
make bombs? Who taught them to make detonators?”

Koshen looked up cautiously. “You did.”

Abdullah waved at Koshen. “Even he knows this. No,
they will complain, but in the end they will give us the bags we need. They may
not like it, but they will do it. There is a debt, Naseer. They remember that.”

“They respect you,” Naseer cautioned. “They know
how you’ve helped the Jihad. No one doubts this.” He paused, concern on his
face. “Sometimes your comments upset them.”

Abdullah nodded evenly, but his anger grew. “They
continue to use children. They put them in harm’s way. Asking a child to spy is
acceptable. That is no different than talking. But asking a child to carry a
bomb? No, I do not agree with them.”

“It is more than that,” Naseer said. “You told
Azim they should allow girls to learn to read the Quran. They do not agree with
this!”

Azim was the local Taliban commander, a weak and
dishonest man who Abdullah loathed. “Azim may hold his own opinions, as I may
hold mine. Girls should be taught to read and study the Quran.”

“The suspension is only temporary,” Naseer
reasoned. “If you just stay quiet, it will soothe the harsh talk against you.”

Abdullah sighed. “It will not be temporary if Azim
has his way. His goals and mine are not the same. I serve Allah. He serves
himself.”

Naseer glanced around. “Abdullah! You must not say
this!”

“Don’t worry, the only one here is Koshen, and he
won’t repeat this, will you, Koshen?”

“I hear nothing,” Koshen said quietly.

“You see, he hears nothing. As do you. You are not
hearing. Azim is not of Islam. He is nothing more than a thug. He is allowed to
lead because his father was a loyal Mujahideen. But Azim? He is not a man like
his father. No, the Mullah recognizes the debt the Taliban owes me. He
recognizes a true Mujahideen. That is why Azim will not raise a hand against
me.” He turned his gaze to Naseer, who froze. “Azim is nothing before a true Mujahideen.”

Nasser swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

Abdullah went back to grinding fertilizer,
ignoring the ache in his arm. He had his suspicions about Azim, but he could
not prove them. Still, one day, if he could find evidence of Azim’s treachery, he
would make Azim pay for his crimes.

* * *

Area 51

“Ready for this little piece of
melodrama?” Dr. Barnwell asked.

Eric shook his head in disbelief.

The aircraft hangar was divided into many rooms,
hastily built out of plywood and drywall. They entered the largest and found a
cemetery. Eric shook his head at the photos of headstones plastered around the
walls. The ceiling, thirty feet from the ground, was painted bright blue with
fluffy white clouds. The floor was covered in green AstroTurf and headstones
made of styrofoam were taped to the floor. A row of chairs sat neatly in line
next to a mound of dirt, the casket waiting to be lowered into the ground.

The entire scene was fake, decorated like a movie
set. He shook his head again. “I can’t believe Frist will fall for this.”

“He’ll be drugged,” Barnwell said. He rapped his
knuckles against the fake gravestone, which almost toppled over. It was
inscribed with Bob and Phyllis Frist, their birth dates and a death date of two
thousand and four. “Smell the air?”

Eric sniffed. The air smelled of grass, fresh
turned earth, and rain. He nodded.

“Smell is a vital piece of memory. We’re pumping
artificial odors to each environment. It will help the overlay. In the end, he
might remember feeling concern over his parent’s funeral, but he won’t remember
missing it.”

Men and women in dark suits and dresses entered,
including a man dressed as a priest, who nodded at Barnwell and took his place
in front of the headstones. Two men guided Frist, dressed in his Army uniform,
into the room.

Frist’s eyes were unfocused, and he stumbled over
the fake grass. The men steadied him and led him to the front, next to the
headstone. Dr. Barnwell waved for Eric to follow him, and they left through a
door painted to resemble a tomb. They could hear the priest begin the service
through the thin fake walls.

“The drugs should be wearing off,” Dr. Barnwell
said, “just enough for him to form new memories. He’s still in a highly
suggestive state. You need to get ready. The next memory will be the
interrogation room.”

Eric quickly dressed in camos, his breeching tools
hanging from his chest harness, then checked the MP5 for ammo.

“Remember the script,” Dr. Barnwell said. “They’re
placing him in the interrogation room now.”

“Got it, Doc.”

He glanced through the peephole to the
interrogation room and watched as several dark-skinned men bent Frist back,
placed a cloth over his face, and poured water over the cloth. Frist struggled
weakly, but the men did not relent.

Eric felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to
find Deion watching the performance.

“They sure make it look real,” Deion said with a
grin.

Eric smiled. “Well look at you. I’d almost think
you were an Operator.”

Deion grinned. “Look man, I attended jump school.
It’s standard training for a CIA NOC. I just never actually graduated.”

“You lucky spook bastards with your cushy desk
jobs.”

Deion laughed. “I don’t remember it being all that
cushy in Afghanistan.”

“Well, you weren’t out in the field. You got to
kick it easy back in Kandahar.”

Deion glanced again through the peephole. “How
much longer? They really look like they’re giving it to him.”

“They are. I told them to act just like
insurgents. I even made them stop bathing a week ago. Here,” he said, handing
his MP5 to Deion. “Weapon check.”

Deion popped the magazine and counted out the
blanks, refilled it, and checked the chamber. “Clear.” He handed his MP5 to
Eric who did the same.

Another dozen men dressed as Rangers approached.
Eric nodded to them. “Ready?”

“Yes sir,” the lead Ranger said. “On your mark.”

“Ready. Mark!” He kicked the door open and they
entered the room as one, rushing through the fake warehouse. The first
pseudo-insurgent turned and Eric fired directly at him. A blood squib popped
and blood stained the man’s front and back. He fell to the ground, twitching,
then went still. Freeman did the same to the man waterboarding Frist.

“Sergeant John Frist,” Eric shouted. “Are you
Sergeant John Frist?”

Frist coughed, a wet racking sound. “I’m John
Frist,” he managed.

Eric used his knife to slice through the rope
holding Frist’s hands to the chair. “We’re here to rescue you. Freeman, help
him up.”

Deion grabbed Frist around the waist. “Can you walk?”
Deion asked.

“Maybe,” Frist mumbled.

“You’ll be fine,” Deion assured him.

They put their arms around Frist’s waist and
dragged him to the door.

As they approached, Eric signaled to Barnwell, who
activated the Implant. Frist went limp. The Rangers lifted him, carried him
through the door, and dumped him on a gurney.

Barnwell patted Eric on the back. “Very good. Go
get changed. Sergeant Moswell will help you with hair and makeup.”

The ‘dead’ insurgents stood and exited. Other men
filled the room and tore the walls out. Eric and Deion went through to the
dressing room where Sergeant Moswell handed them their dress uniforms and
quickly trimmed their hair. They shrugged off their camos and slid on their
dress uniforms.

Deion glanced at Eric. “Hah. Makeup.”

Eric grinned. “I’ve done a lot of things since I
joined the Army. I’ve gone to strange and foreign destinations, met lots of
interesting people. Killed some of them. But I’ve never fired blanks and wore
makeup.”

When they were done, they entered another room,
this one dressed like a green army tent. They took seats at the folding table
and waited. Fifteen minutes later, the Rangers brought Frist to the room and
sat him at the table.

Frist stared, drooling, eyes glassy. Eric watched
as Frist’s head lolled right to left, his eyes slowly focusing on his
surroundings.

“What? Where am I?” he asked.                          

“Still having trouble, John?” Eric asked.

Frist looked down at the table. “How did I get
here?”

Eric nudged a glass of water across the table to
Frist, who took it hesitantly. “It’s to be expected. The IED really did a
number on you. Take a drink and clear your head.”

Frist eyed them groggily. “I remember you two. You
were there. You saved me. It’s like it just happened—”

Eric shook his head. “That was a year ago, John.
Don’t you remember? I’m Eric and this is Deion. We’re Delta. The IED hit your
Humvee outside Baghdad and the insurgents got you. They tortured you for weeks.
They even water-boarded you. They wanted to smuggle explosives into the green
zone. You did good. You didn’t tell them anything.”

Frist nodded. “Yeah, I remember. They punched me
and kicked me. They put a cloth over my mouth and tried to drown me.”

Eric turned to Deion. “See, this man has the right
stuff. I told you. He didn’t give them anything.”

Deion nodded. “Yeah, he’s got the right stuff.
John, we’re here to make you an offer. Delta has a new program and we think
you’d be a perfect fit.”

Frist stared at Deion, the seconds ticking by.
Eric watched intently, looking for any signs that John remembered his previous
encounters with Deion at Guantanamo.

First continued to stare.

Deion patiently said, “John, the docs says the
effects of the IED might continue for a bit. We’ll take care of you. Plus, your
country needs you.”

Frist finally nodded. “Of course. I’d do anything
for my country.”

Eric smiled. “That’s what we like to hear. You
won’t regret this. You’ll be out-processing in a month. We’ll see you then.”

Frist nodded and smiled back, and then his eyes
slowly drooped. He swayed for a moment, then slumped in his chair. The Rangers
returned with the gurney and hustled Frist away.

Eric and Deion left as the men returned to take
away the furniture and collapse the tent. Dr. Barnwell was waiting for them. “Very
good, gentlemen. He now has a framework to build on. His mind will fill in the
rest.”

* * *

John woke, bleary eyed, the light
from the digital clock casting soft shadows across the room. He took in his
surroundings. A soft cot. A desk with a laptop. He could see a bathroom through
an open doorway. A locker with clothes. He tried to remember where he was, and,
for a moment,
who
he was.

Then it came to him. He was John Frist and he was
a soldier.

He vaguely remembered corridors and hallways,
entering the room, exhausted, and collapsing on the bed.

He struggled for more and then it hit, a road,
more dusty street than pavement. He was hot, sweating. His eyes roving.

Then, a pile of garbage on the side of the street,
like a million other piles of garbage. Pieces of stone and concrete littered
the roadside along with the Iraqi’s trash. Nothing different this time. Nothing
but the explosion. A whump of noise, deafening, pummeling him.

His heart skipped a beat and he trembled as the
memory came on in full force. The muffled ringing in his ears. The smell of the
explosives and the dust gagging in his mouth, the smell of burning plastic and
metal stinging his nose. He wanted to spit, to gag.

He turned and saw O’Neill and Gutierrez slumped
over. Gutierrez turned to him, his eyes vacant. Blood ran in sheets down his
face, down the coppery skin of his neck, and Gutierrez went still. John smelled
the piss and shit and he knew Gutierrez—the man who talked about his wife and
two kids, how he couldn’t wait to get out, go home, drive his kids down to the
beach, make love to his wife after the kids were asleep and then lick ice cream
off her stomach, the man he had come to call friend—was dead. O’Neill didn’t
move.

O’Neill might be dead, too
.

There were screams from the back, the sound barely
audible over the ringing in his ears, and he knew Hernandez was still alive.

Please let Hernandez live.

He screamed and then the pain. White hot pain,
burning everywhere, a million little needles crawling through him, no escape,
the bright glow spilling through his eyelids, and a voice calling for sedation.

He hit the cot, his heartbeat in his throat, his
limbs cold. He trembled, clawing at his wrist, trying to find his heartbeat to
make sure he still had a pulse. His tongue was thick and swollen, dry as the
desert in Iraq. He had an overwhelming urge to urinate and he staggered to the
bathroom, voiding his bladder in to the toilet, the stream splashing wildly
around the toilet bowl.

He beat against the wall until he found the
light-switch and flipped it, the harsh light shocking him back to reality.

There was a knock at the door. He stopped shaking,
forcing himself calm. He made it to the door and opened it. John recognized the
man standing there, the kind brown eyes, the commanding presence, and the
relief settled his stomach. He saluted. “Master Sergeant!”

“You don’t have to salute anymore, John,” Eric
said. “You’re in Delta now. We aren’t big on salutes.” He strode into the room.
“What’s wrong? You look like shit.”

John relaxed. “Sorry sir. Bad dream.” He felt his
heart slow and the impending sense of doom lift. He remembered the warehouse,
glass windows up high, light streaming through the dusty streaks. The two
filthy and sweaty insurgents, their stink heavy in his nose, delighting in his
pain as they beat him. Then, light and hope, Wise bursting in, the two men
shot, and his hand finally cut free.