Blowback, p.12
Blowback, page 12
It’s the National Ground Intelligence Center, part of the US Army’s Intelligence and Security Command. Although there is still no hard evidence, Noa is convinced those three foreign students—in these roundabout trips to their technical school—have been scoping out the place for a future terrorist attack.
Noa says, “All stations, we’re still a go. Juan, you’re up, get ready. Wendy, you’re next.”
Aldo says, “I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I,” she says. “But that car could be a breakdown, stolen and abandoned, or out of gas. We’re not aborting for that.”
The narrow road is curving and looping, but now there’s a straightaway. Ahead of her is the Honda CR-V, and in front of that is the Impala. In the distance she sees Juan approaching in the other lane, driving up fast in the Ford pickup truck.
Aldo says, “Sure hope the boy remembered his seat belt.”
“Me, too,” Noa says, as the black Ford F-150 suddenly swerves into the oncoming lane, blocking the Impala, which slams on brakes and instantly collides into the side of the truck.
CHAPTER 39
FOR THE FIRST time in hours, the main cabin of the scrubbed Air Force Gulfstream G550 passenger jet is quiet. Up forward are the pilot, copilot, and two other crew members, all Air Force, but “sheep-dipped” so they’re not officially on duty but are flying as contracted civilians. They have a sense of who they’re carrying on this trip, and also have the sense to leave them alone.
In the main cabin, in luxurious leather seats designed for diplomats and officers, Liam Grey sits still with the surviving members of his team. Ferris Walton sits slumped across from him, butterfly bandages on the right side of his face from where he was cut breaking through the second-floor apartment’s window, a bottle of Heineken in his hand.
Tommy Pulaski is dozing in his padded seat. Mike Cooper is staring over at Liam, also with a bottle of Heineken in a beefy hand.
It’s been a long trip from France, heading out from an abandoned airstrip outside of Montmorency, north of Paris. There had been a debrief, a review of what went wrong and what went right, recriminations and loud curses, and two brawls.
Somewhere in the rear, in a zippered body bag, are the remains of Boyd Morris. Liam knows from cold experience that his family will soon get the bad news, that Boyd is dead, and the bad lie, that he died in a training accident.
Mike Cooper says, “We’re pretty thinned out, Liam. What next?”
“We get replacements, and after some training to ensure we click as a group, we head out again once we get our target packages.”
Ferris Walton scratches at his bandages. “Liam, besides more guys, we’re going to need a change in our ROE. We shouldn’t have nailed those guards at the apartment building with CS gas. We should have killed them all.”
Liam says, “The target was the three ISIS fighters. Our orders were to go in small, quick, hard, and lethal, and get out. Those were our Rules of Engagement.”
Mike says, “Leaving three gunmen pretty much alone.”
“They were teenage boys with AK-47s. That’s it,” Liam says. “Our job was to eliminate the ISIS hardcases before they went somewhere else or hired themselves out. They get zapped, most people cheer. If we kill three local boys being paid a hundred Euros a day for sentry duty, that gets a lot of attention we don’t need.”
With bitterness, Mike says, “One of those boys killed Boyd.”
Ferris speaks up, “Enough. We’ve already gone through that. But Liam, Mike is right. We need more guys, and we need better orders. When do you think we’ll be getting Benjamin Lucas back?”
“Whenever he wraps up whatever he’s doing in Africa.”
There’s a slight jolt of turbulence and Tommy Pulaski is awake. He yawns and says, “What am I missing?”
Mike says, “Talking about when Ben Lucas comes back from his African safari.”
Tommy yawns. “He can stay there for another year or two, that’d work for me.”
Liam is surprised. “Tommy, I didn’t know you had a problem with Ben. He’s a damn good operator. What’s your problem?”
Another yawn from Tommy. “Yeah, I agree, he’s a good operator. Did a good job in Saint Petersburg, did a good job in Venezuela. And we could have used him back in Paris. Maybe Boyd would have made it. But he’s too good.”
Ferris says, “Man, you’re not making any sense.”
“He’s too good, too lucky,” Tommy says. “I’ve talked to him a lot, about his career, and you know what I found out? He’s never been turned down, for anything. Additional training, transfers to foreign stations, lots of action in the Directorate of Operations, and then to Special Activities and then to us. Every request he’s made for advancement has been approved. Liam, why did you pick him?”
“His experience and recommendations from his fellow operators.”
“But didn’t you see it?” Tommy asks. “Our guy Ben’s never been turned down, never been rejected, or faced career disappointment. Nobody’s that lucky.”
Mike says, “He’s got a rabbi.”
Tommy nods. “Just like the NYPD. Ben’s got a rabbi somewhere in the Agency, someone looking out for him, greasing the skids and making sure he climbs that career ladder. So here’s my question, Liam.”
Liam says, “Let me guess. Did Ben Lucas’s rabbi pull him from the Paris job and send him to Africa to keep him safe, knowing how dangerous Paris was going to be?”
Tommy says, “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been thinking.”
Ferris says, “That’s a hell of an accusation, Tommy. Pretty out there, pretty conspiracy-minded.”
Liam stays quiet. Mike empties his Heineken.
Mike says, “Out there and conspiracies are what we do, gents, every damn day of the week. But I’ll tell you this, Liam, we need to have an end game. I’m sorry for Boyd and I love what I do, but we need more team members, and a guarantee from POTUS that he has a plan to declare victory at some point. I don’t want my wife and kids thinking I died in a training accident.”
Ferris says, “Nor I.”
“Same here,” Tommy says.
Liam says, “Guys, I’ll make it happen.”
And as they arrive to the East Coast of the United States, Liam is still thinking how to make it happen indeed.
CHAPTER 40
WITH THE FORD pickup truck T-boned by the Impala, the CR-V with Wendy Liu and Phil Cannon pulls right up to the rear of the Impala, blocking it in. Aldo stops the van to the left side of the Impala and he and she jump out, taking protection behind the open doors. Up ahead is the dirt access road that leads to the base’s fence line. There’s the black Lincoln Town Car, but Noa pays it no attention as she and the other members surround the Impala. Wendy and Phil come out of the CR-V, carrying pistols, and up forward, Juan steps out quickly, carrying a cut-down CAR-15 automatic rifle.
Noa yells, “Federal agent, leave the vehicle now, hands up!”
The driver’s-side door snaps open and Aldo yells, “Gun!” and the driver starts shooting, as Noa returns fire, joined by Wendy and Phil.
The shooting lasts only seconds, the side of the Impala pockmarked and the windows shattered, the left rear tire collapsing.
Noa starts advancing, holding her weapon in the approved two-handed stance, Aldo next to her, Wendy and Phil going to the other side of the shot-up Impala.
Juan yells, “Noa! Over here!”
An engine is starting up and the Lincoln Town Car is reversing on the dirt road, the rear wheels spinning up dust and dirt.
Noa yells, “Juan! Stop that damn car!”
With the cut-down automatic rifle up to his cheek, Juan quickly fires off two-round bursts, flattening two of the tires and riddling the front end, killing the engine.
Back to the Impala now, the driver is dead, as is his front-seat passenger. Pistols are on the bloody upholstery.
“Drag them out,” Noa orders.
Juan yells again, “Noa! Here!”
A man in a black two-piece suit is running into the woods. Noa yells back, “Leave him!”
Good Lord, she thinks, this is getting way too complicated for a domestic operation, and she’s hoping that permanently stuck red light at the intersection will keep things quiet for the next few minutes. As to the Town Car driver running into the woods, he’d probably be dialing 911 at this moment, but cell service within a hundred meters of this op is disabled.
The two dead men are stretched out on the pavement, hats and hoodies pulled away. Wendy Liu squats down, aiming a digital notepad at each of their faces, and says, “Surprise, Noa, they’re not Iraqi refugees. They’re not even Iraqis. Facial recognition software positively IDs them as members of the Iranian Quds force.”
Noa nods, knowing well the Quds force, specializing in overseas terrorism and special operations activities, and officially listed by the American government as an FTO, Foreign Terrorist Organization.
“Get the third body out of the Impala, get his facial ID as well. I’m going to check out that other car.”
Juan is still at the Lincoln Town Car, CAR-15 at his side, when Noa strides up. She says, “Good shooting.”
He smiles. “Always aim to be the best. Check this out, Noa.”
Juan pries open the rear trunk. Noa leans over and gently whistles.
Four RPG-7 rocket launchers are nestled in a pile, along with canvas carrying pouches with spare warheads. There are also several AK-47s, boxes of ammunition, and what look to be small bricks of plastic explosive, possibly Semtex.
“Looks like we broke up a loud date,” Juan says.
“Fair enough,” Noa says. “We don’t have much time, Juan. Give the car a quick look for documents or anything else interesting, and then help us get the bodies into the van.”
Noa turns and heads back to the shot-up Impala, when she hears a loud yelp.
The third terrorist is still alive.
CHAPTER 41
DAMN, DAMN, DAMN, she thinks, as she gets closer to her group of people. The third man is writhing in pain, blood streaming from the side of his head and sopping through his gray sweatshirt. The other two bodies are gone, brought into the rear of the van.
“Wendy?” she asks.
“Quds again, and this one is their superior,” she says. “And he’s got the worst record of all of them. School buses, cruise ships, even a goddamn day care center in Budapest.”
He moans and she stares at his pain-wracked face. And her thoughts turn to her cousin Becky, dead these many years from a visit to Beirut and a meetup with a car bomb.
Aldo says, “Noa … unless he gets immediate medical attention, he’s not going to make it.”
Noa says, “Phil? Any safe medical facility nearby?”
Safe meaning one under contract to the Agency, with no pesky reports to file to local police agencies about GSWs—gunshot wounds—or patients with questionable immigration status.
After looking at his iPhone Phil says, “One about an hour northbound.”
Aldo says, “He won’t last that long. Only way he’s going to make it is by transporting him to a local hospital. Civilian.”
Civilian.
Not like they can drive up and dump him off at a local ER entrance.
Or bring him in officially to a hospital, explaining that his wounds occurred courtesy of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Lots of questions being asked, the word going out quickly about a Quds member being shot and severely wounded on a country road near to one of the most secure and confidential military bases in the region. Add witnesses and surveillance tapes being reviewed, by this time next week, hearings would start up in Congress.
Aldo says, “Noa?”
She says, “Aldo, help Juan unpack that Town Car and dump the load into the pickup truck, if it’s still drivable. If not, use the CR-V. Move.”
Aldo and Juan quickly move back to the disabled Town Car, leaving Wendy and Phil with Noa and the wounded terrorist.
Becky and Beirut.
Amazing how strong those memories are.
Noa takes out her SIG Sauer and shoots the Quds man in the middle of his forehead.
“Wendy, Phil,” she says. “Help me put him into the van.”
Wendy and Phil say not a word, but instantly step forward to help her.
Juan and Aldo ignore them all, focusing on their own job, as good operators do.
CHAPTER 42
IT’S A LATE night in Arlington, near the Pentagon and Pentagon City, and Liam Grey is sipping his second Guinness of the evening—appropriate since they are at an Irish pub—sitting across a small table with an old Army buddy of his, Captain Spencer Webster. Back in the day, when Liam was chasing the Taliban up and down lots of rocky mountain trails, Spencer was the platoon’s medic, nicknamed—of course—Doc.
He was way overqualified for his medic role, being a top graduate from the Pritzker School of Medicine at the University of Chicago, and then—surprising friends and family—entering the military. Why? During leave one night in Bagram, Spencer said, “Following in my dad’s esteemed medical footsteps, I was destined to do lots of surgeries for wealthy patients in safe hospitals. I wanted to do something different. So here I am.”
Now Spencer is part of the White House Medical Unit, and it’s good to sit tight with him and exchange old stories and memories. The night is going well. Spencer is two years older than Liam, with a thick neck and short blond hair, and both are wearing civvies.
One of the best parts of military and intelligence work is knowing that you can walk into any bar near a military installation and find a familiar face or two, like Doc.
Following that Paris mission and the long hard flight back to the States, Liam is enjoying every minute of unwinding with a Guinness and an old friend in a safe and familiar place, the Sine Irish Pub and Restaurant.
Liam asks, “How’s Miriam? And Liz? And Linc?”
“Miriam’s enjoying working from home so much I doubt the EPA will ever get her back in the office,” Spencer says. “Both Liz and Lincoln are graduating from the ‘terrible twos’ to the ‘thrashing threes,’ bumping into the furniture, breaking anything within reach, terrorizing the cat, sometimes going after him as a duo.”
“Sounds like fun,” Liam says.
“It is,” Spencer replies, smiling. “You should give it a go. I mean, sorry it didn’t work out with Kay, but like they say, there’re plenty of fish in the sea.”
“I’m sure there are, but I’m currently in the wrong sea,” Liam says. “Job not conducive to healthy family relationships.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard,” Spencer says, taking a good swallow of his Guinness. “How’s the cloak-and-dagger work?”
“It’s … work. Too much cloak, sometimes not enough dagger. Travel a bit, poke around some, meet interesting people.”
“And kill them?”
Liam keeps smiling but thinks of that wild evening in France, killing the three terrorists, and that long night speeding away in the darkness, frantically trying to save Boyd’s life.
He and his crew sure could have used Spencer that night.
A quick sad thought: Spencer probably could have saved his brother Brian back when he was ambushed in Afghanistan.
“When necessary,” he says, suddenly feeling morose. “And you? What the hell is going on with the veep? What do you hear?”
“That, my friend,” Spencer says, words quiet, staring into his glass of Guinness, “is the daily million-dollar question. Lots of experts are being flown in, tests after tests being run … she’s in some sort of coma, but damn right now if anybody can figure it out.”
“Good to know POTUS is in good shape, though,” Liam goes on. “Saw on CNN yesterday that he’s in perfect health. Were you part of the team doing the poking and probing?”
Spencer says, “Sure was. And yep, he’s in good shape … physically.”
That last word sticks with Liam.
“Whoa, back up there for a moment, friend,” he says. “What do you mean, ‘physically’?”
Spencer quickly shakes his head. “Nope, I’ve drunk too much, said too much. Forget it.”
“Spencer … there’s no way I’m going to forget it. Give.”
His friend’s face is bleak.
“Liam, please, don’t push me.”
“Spencer … you really need to tell me. Honest. I’m not asking for my health, or for morbid curiosity, or just to have something to gossip about.”
Spencer stays quiet.
Liam says, “Look, the past couple of months I’ve been seeing POTUS almost on a daily basis. Giving him the PDB, I’ve been up close to him … and I’ve seen things. If you can confirm it …”
Spencer finishes off his Guinness, slaps the glass down, and walks out through the crowded tavern.
“Shit,” Liam says, pulling out his wallet, tossing a few twenties on the table, hurrying to catch up with Spencer.
Outside in this popular part of Arlington, there’s a lot of foot traffic, but Spencer being well above six feet, Liam quickly spots him. He pushes fast through the crowd and grabs an elbow, and Spencer spins around.
“Hey, come on, leave me alone,” Spencer says.
Liam says, “I can’t. Spencer, if there’s more going on here … you’ve got to tell me.”
Spencer lowers his voice, leans in, and says, “I could lose my license, get court-martialed, and probably arrested if I were to break doctor–patient confidentiality. You know that, right?”
Liam thinks for a moment and thinks again of Admiral Farragut.
Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead.
He sees a closed stationery store nearby, with an alcove. He gently pushes Spencer into it, and looks back.
“Okay, fair is fair,” he says. “I’ll go first.”
A quick glance to make sure no one is within earshot.
Liam says, “I’ve been working directly for the president. Highly classified missions overseas. Dangerous ops, not cleared by congressional oversight. At first I wasn’t worried … but now you’ve got me worried, Spencer. Worried about what the hell I’m doing. It feels like we’re turning into his own personal Army, settling personal grudges, not missions that benefit the country. Like he’s hell-bent on eliminating enemies before they can reach him.”
