Project StrikeForce (2 page)

Eric considered his words carefully, then placed
the Colt on the table. “Fuck you.”

Smith’s weathered face lit up with satisfaction.
“Quite right. Tell me, if you would.”

“You’re the one who canceled my deployment. You
burned me. You stuck me here so when you came to offer a job, I’d jump at the
chance.”

Smith nodded. “Good, Mr. Wise. What else?”

“You have a lot of pull,” Eric said thoughtfully,
“because Delta is usually outside the sphere of influence of anything other
than direct orders from the President. To fuck with my deployment must have
taken a lot of juice, and to keep it quiet so that I couldn’t find out even
more. Influencing Blackwater and every other contractor, though, that takes
more than juice. That takes real power. Either you’re really well connected, or
you work for an agency who reports directly to the President. Of all the Delta
Operators, you had to pick me. Why shouldn’t I blow your brains out right now?”

“A meaningless threat?” Smith snorted. “Come now,
you were doing so well. From your point of view, it was probably torture. As
far as why you were picked, it’s because of your record, first in the Army,
then in the Rangers, and finally in Delta. Even the one-off job you did in
Europe a few years ago.”

Eric’s mouth dropped. “That came from you? That
thing with the hijackers? You
do
work for the President.”

“You would be surprised how many secret agencies
have the President’s ear,” Smith said. “Mine is small but we perform a valuable
service. I’ve sent several jobs Delta’s way over the years, testing the Operators.
Until I found you. I was sorry to hear about your father. No matter what you
think of me, or will come to think of me, know that I truly
am
sorry.
Your mother also. Mr. Wise, you are still young and strong, and your country
needs you.” He leaned forward. “Would you like the job?”

“Funny, you haven’t even mentioned your agency or
what it does. Plus, I’m still pissed about being blacklisted.”

Smith regarded him with pale blue eyes. “I don’t
believe you are. Now that you know you are highly valued and there is something
that requires your skillset, you want back in the game. Besides, once I offered
the job there was no going back.”

“You’re right,” Eric sighed. It burned him to
admit it, but Smith had him. “I want back in.”

Smith smiled. “Of course you do.” He thumbed the
briefcase open and withdrew a stack of folders. “I work for the Office of
Threat Management.”

* * *

Eric pondered the preprogrammed
cell phone. He was stunned. If half of what Smith said was true, the Office of
Threat Management had been responsible for shaping much of the past fifty years
and Smith had been right there, leading it.

He glanced at the pictures on the fireplace
mantle, pictures of him as a child, some with his parents and some of him
alone. Never pictures of him with friends. The pictures moved from left to
right, him as an infant, him in grade school, pictures of him and his dad at
the target range, pictures of him with his mom after graduation on the day he
enlisted.

There were no pictures after that.

He sipped his beer but it had gone flat. He sat
the can next to the Colt and picked up the gun. His father was dead now, and
his grandfather, too. He wished he had asked them more about their time in the
service.

On the day he enlisted, he begged his mother to
drive him to the recruiting station. His father was waiting when he got home
that afternoon. His father never spoke a word, just shook his hand, then went
to putter around the garage. His grandfather stopped by later, hugged him, then
stood at attention, his back ramrod straight, and snapped off a salute. It was
the last time he saw his grandfather alive.

Physically his mother was now in Central West
Community, a nursing home for Alzheimer patients, but mentally? She called him
William at the funeral.

His father’s name.

Then she quit speaking, just staring when he tried
to engage her in conversation. He picked up the phone to dial her number, then
paused. What would he say? What would she understand?

He placed the phone on the table and walked
through the empty house. Over the years his parents had moved his childhood
possessions from room to closet, to garage, to the corner trash. Only his bed
remained, just big enough for a child but much too small for an adult. His
growth spurt in high school made sleeping on it sheer torture, but he found
himself on it once again, even though his feet dangled over the end.

The offer from Smith gnawed at him. His retirement
barely covered the bills and his meager savings account afforded him no
luxuries. It wasn’t as if he needed the money. He barely left the house and his
love-life was a distant memory. He hadn’t had a date in two years, the last
serious relationship five before that.

In the end, the choice was easy. He sat on his
childhood bed, the musty yellowed sheets folded tight and crisp, and dialed the
number. “I’m done here.”

“I’m not surprised,” Smith answered.

Kandahar Provence, Afghanistan

is name was Abdullah walade
Muhammad Younis, but the loyal Mujahideen in Afghanistan called him Abdullah
the Bomber. He was one of the chosen few recruited during the eighties by the
Maktab al-Khidamat, funneled from Saudi Arabia through Pakistan to the
mountains of Afghanistan to fight the Soviets.

He stared at the base through the binoculars,
shimmering in the heat from the bare desert floor. Kandahar was dozens of miles
away, and the base was the only thing breaking the monotony of the dusty
valley.

A line of ancient pickup trucks and wooden carts
entered through the south side entrance. He could not blame the locals for
cleaning the American’s dishes and picking up their trash. They were poor.
Centuries of fighting had ravaged the country, and even after they had worn
down the Soviets they were still surprised when the Americans attacked. The
people of Afghanistan had seen so much of war; their children barely knew
peace. The boys and girls rarely had the luxury of time to read and study the
Quran.

His current student, Naseer, believed that women
should not be taught to read, let alone read the Quran. He disagreed. It was
every person’s duty to read the Quran, including women. Not while they were
menstruating, of course, even a fool knew that, but nonetheless a sacred duty.

He also disagreed with Naseer’s idea of using
children to bomb the American base. Children should be protected from the
cruelties of war. He would not sacrifice one American child in Jihad, let alone
Afghani children.

Children were off limits. But soldiers? Soldiers
were a legitimate target. The only way to fight the Americans, the most
powerful army on earth, was a shadow war of bombs versus bullets. Naseer had
found a local man named Fahad who worked in the American base, cleaning and
doing menial labor, and Fahad had agreed to drive the truck full of explosives.

The dusty brown rocks poked him uncomfortably in
the stomach but he dismissed the discomfort. It was a small price to pay to
deliver the justice that Allah demanded, a small price for what the Americans
had done.

He watched as soldiers committed a perfunctory
inspection of the vehicles before waving them through. Yes, it was possible.
The explosives would have to be powerful, hidden so they would pass the
checkpoint.

He prayed silently to Allah for help in his quest.

* * *

Hebron, Kentucky

Eric took a cab to the
Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport. Terminal One was shut down
for construction, but he followed his instructions and a bored security guard
took one look at his ID, nodded, and directed him toward a hallway. A
windowless room and a pretty blonde were waiting at the end.

She looked up with cool blue eyes and nodded
lazily. “I’m Nancy.”

Eric smiled. Smith said he would have a liaison.
“What time does the flight leave?” he asked.

“Now,” she said as she stood. “I’ve been waiting
for you. Follow me.”

They walked through a set of doors, down a flight
of stairs, and onto the hot tarmac. A Gulfstream G550 waited for them. He had
flown in an older Gulfstream before, as part of joint CIA/Delta operation, but
not the newer G550.

He stepped into the plane and was shocked again to
find only a handful of chairs along a small table, and a large video screen
against the facing bulkhead. A stack of folders sat neatly arranged on the
table. “I’d start reading if I were you,” Nancy said. “You should at least
glance them over before we arrive in Gitmo.”

“Guantanamo? Why?”

Nancy snorted. “That’s what the files are for.”

“Fair enough. What’s with the layout?” he asked,
pointing to the table and chairs.

“Cuts down on weight, gives us better range and
more speed,” Nancy said. “This is your personal plane now, no need for a lot of
extras.”

His own personal plane? A Gulfstream G550 started
somewhere around 40 million.

How big is the OTM’s budget?

“I’ll get started,” he said.

“You do that. I have to get this bird in the air.”
She headed for the cockpit.

“You’re not sitting back here?”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “Hard to sit
back there and fly the plane.”

The paperwork was so engrossing that he hardly
noticed when the jet roared into the sky minutes later.

* * *

The plane nosed sharply down to the
tarmac in Guantanamo, the thump of the landing gear breaking his concentration.
He glanced out the window at the deep azure ocean only a stone-throw away and
rubbed his eyes as the plane taxied to their hangar. When the plane came to a
stop, Nancy exited the cockpit and handed him a package. “Did you get through
the important parts?”

Eric sighed. “Yes. My cover is with the CIA.”

“It’s not a cover. At least, not
just
a
cover. You are
actually
with the CIA. One of the benefits of working for
the Office, we can place you anywhere. Just get the prisoner back on the plane
so we can leave. I hate this fucking humidity.”

As they exited the plane, he noticed Nancy’s feet.
They were small and graceful, and she glided as she walked, always balanced,
each step perfectly controlled. He knew that walk. It was the result of serious
martial arts training.

The waiting Navy MP’s drove him across the base to
Camp Delta. After negotiating several rounds of security checks, he was taken
by a different Humvee to a smaller set of concrete buildings away from the main
camp. As an Operator, Eric had been to Camp Delta before, but he’d never been
to Camp 7.

Camp 7 was different than Camp Delta. It was
ringed with razor wire, but the guards were more alert. There were very few
buildings, but some of the most valuable prisoners the US housed were located
in Camp 7.

The damp heat wormed its way down his back as they
entered the first building, and the high-school locker room smell lodged in the
back of his throat.

Three men greeted him, two white men with dark
black hair and wire rimmed glasses. They looked like former football stars
turned investment bankers. The third man was black and muscular, with deep-set
eyes and the beginnings of a smirk.

“Eric Wise?” the first man asked.

“Yes.”

The black man never took his eyes from Eric. “You
ready to see him, or you want to shoot the shit?”

“I’m on a tight schedule,” Eric said. He opened
the briefcase and handed a folder to the first agent. “Here’s the paperwork.”

“Kind of unusual, breaking protocol,” the first
agent said. “No partner. I don’t like breaks in protocol.”

“The paperwork’s in order,” Eric replied.

The second agent took the folder and studied it,
then sat down at a desk against the far wall and typed on a computer.

The third agent continued to watch Eric, polite
but alert, still smirking.

He wondered if he would have problems. The
paperwork was valid, but he was violating all procedures for prisoner
transfers. He could almost feel the suspicion from the three agents, but
especially the third.

It was a standard part of Delta training for
Operators to learn the basics of spy craft, and he had paired with CIA agents
in the past. Still, the prisoner transfer was out of the ordinary and he was
missing the slick gloss that defined most CIA agents.

It had them spooked.

The third agent finally spoke. “You’re not one of
the usuals. You’ve never been to Camp 7, but I swear I’ve seen you before.”

Agent number three suddenly seemed real familiar
to him, too. A distant memory flitted through his brain. Afghanistan? Yeah, the
village near Kandahar. Freeman, that was his name. Teon? No, Deion. Deion
Freeman. It was Freeman’s nose that he remembered, short and curved, the
refined lines a study in contrast with his well-cut physique. It made him look
delicate, but he knew better. Freeman had a sharp mind, a laconic attitude, and
was known mostly for being a smartass. “I’ve spent some time near Baghdad,” he
offered. “I think we might have crossed paths there.”

Freeman shook his head. “I don’t think it was
Iraq.”

“Does it really matter?” He did not have time for
lengthy explanations. He needed to get the prisoner and get back in the air.

“Nope, guess not,” Freeman finally said. He turned
to agent two. “Does it check out?”

Agent two rose and handed the folder back to Eric.
“Yeah, it does. You’re clear. You need an escort?”

“No, I’d like to talk to him alone. Give me
fifteen minutes. Then, bring the gurney.”

All three agents nodded. Agent two led him to a
concrete building farther from the rest, unlocked the heavy metal door, and
waved him inside.

The sole occupant was chained to the floor. He had
committed the second mass bombing on United States soil by an American citizen.

Eric stopped, sizing up the big man. It was hard
to tell with the man kneeling, but he looked close to six foot, late twenties,
with dark brown hair and an angular face. His eyes were hazel, and at first
appeared almost kind. Except, they never quite blinked enough.

Eric entered the room and signaled to Agent two to
shut the door behind him.

“You’re John Frist?”

The prisoner raised his head. “Here to torture
me?”

Eric shook his head. He had seen the signs before.
Frist was definitely not okay. “You held up under some harsh interrogation,”
Eric offered. “It’s not your fault you broke.”

Frist glared at him, silent.

Eric continued., “We
broke Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. He wasn’t actually water-boarded. Just preparing
him was enough. He sang like a canary.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m here to offer you a way out.”

The man finally blinked. “Out of what? I’m a
terrorist.”

Eric sighed. “Yeah, you are. You killed over 500
innocent people. Children, even. The Red fucking Cross? Really, how do you see
yourself? As a hero?”

“I’m no hero,” Frist said. “I just did what had to
be done. No one in this country understands sacrifice anymore. If people knew
what it really took to keep them safe, to protect the American way of life, the
freedoms—”

“So you blew up the Red Cross?”

Frist’s eyes widened. “It was the only way,” he
said.

“You’re a little crazy, aren’t you?”

“One man’s crazy is another man’s sanity.”

Eric sighed. “That doesn’t even make sense. Look,
you were a good soldier, you had a rough time in Iraq. I get that. Then you
came home and blew up a building full of people because you missed your
parent’s funeral. Something got fucked up in your head and you blamed the Red
Cross. I’ve read the reports. Now you have an opportunity to give back some of
what you took when you killed those people. You should understand giving back
to your country.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Frist rattled his cuffed
hands, tick-ticking the shackles against the concrete floor. “Start the torture
or shut up. Either way is fine with me.”

“You never really leave the Army, John. You still
belong to the US government.” He removed the leather case from his pocket and
withdrew a syringe. “Either way, you’re going to volunteer. It’s your choice.”

Frist finally showed concern. “Drugs? You think
you’ll get more information with drugs?”

“Scared of needles?”

First shook his head. “I’m not scared of anything.
Not anymore.”

“Really? Because you look like you’re about to
jump out of your skin.”

“Go ahead, drug me. It won’t make a difference.”

Eric grabbed Frist’s arm, and jabbed the needle
in. “It will actually.”

Frist struggled against the drugs, his eyes
rolling back. “Whu-zin-at?”

“Something that
will
make a difference. A
difference in me having to listen to your mouth during the trip.”

Frist collapsed on the floor, spittle dangling
from his mouth. He moaned and tried to roll over, but the shackles prevented
that. In moments, he was still.

Someone rapped against the door to the cell, the
meaty thunk echoing in the enclosed space. “You ready?” Freeman called out.

“Yes,” Eric said. “Bring it in.”

They rolled in the gurney. Freemen helped unlock
the shackles and together they lifted the unconscious man from the floor. They
dumped him on the gurney, tightening the leather restraints, then used a pair
of handcuffs to secure the shackles to the metal frame. A sergeant helped wheel
the gurney out and load it in the back of a truck for transport back to the
hangar.

“Afghanistan,” Freeman said suddenly. “That’s
where I know you from. You’re Steel-Jaw. I remember now.”

Eric shrugged.

“You were Delta,” Freeman said. “How’d you wind up
in the CIA?”

“The same way anybody does.”

“The CIA is better than Delta. Nicer digs, hot
coffee. Three squares.”

“But you still wind up in some crummy shithole.
Like Cuba….”

Freeman laughed. “Good luck with Frist. He
deserves what he gets.”

Eric thought about that, then nodded his
agreement. “Yes, he does.”

* * *

They were flying over the heartland
when Nancy came back and plopped down in the chair across from him. Frist was
motionless, the gurney chained to the floor at the back of the cabin.

“How’d the transfer go?”

Eric looked up from the paperwork. “Shouldn’t you
be flying the plane?”

“Autopilot,” Nancy said. “With the updated
avionics, the plane can actually land itself. Or, fly remotely like a UAV.”

He nodded. “One of the agents recognized me from
Afghanistan.”

“Don’t worry,” Nancy said. “It’s bound to happen.
You’re going to come across people you worked with. Your cover is airtight. I
saw to it myself.”