The Forgotten Soldier: A Pike Logan Thriller (2 page)

2

E
ven though he was late, Guy chose to walk the short distance to his office. Inside a building a block long, the only thing indicating what was within was a small brass plaque proclaiming Blaisdell Consulting. Behind those doors was anything but a consulting firm.

He could have driven, as his office building had an underground garage, but that would have taken just as long, if not longer, and he wanted the time to think.

He put in his earbuds and brought up his Pandora app, signing in as his brother. He’d managed to manipulate the login on his brother’s phone and now could listen to the channel on his own device. The music came through, and he began rehearsing his speech. The one he was going to use on his boss.

The meeting was supposed to be for coordination about some ridiculous award he was getting for his actions on a target in Dubrovnik, Croatia, but the request had been a little odd. The boss didn’t usually schedule premeetings for awardees in his office. Everyone knew the awards were bullshit anyway, given out to keep them competitive with their military peers. Men who weren’t buried in an organization so secret it didn’t even have a name.

Guy, like everyone he worked with, lived a dual life. While showing up at Blaisdell Consulting for his real work, he was also, ostensibly, one more military cog in one of Fort Myer’s motor pools, just off
Arlington Cemetery in Washington, DC. Which, given he hadn’t served a day there, would be odd if you asked for a reference from the men and women who actually turned wrenches on Fort Myer. Stranger still, his rank was sergeant major. Not really cog material anymore, but he had to be sheep-dipped somewhere, and Fort Myer worked. To maintain the facade, his military records had to show progress, so every once in a while, he—like every other member of the Taskforce—was thrown the bone of an award.

None of the men gave a crap about them, and they understood that—while the Oversight Council presented them proudly—they were really used just to maintain the cover. But Colonel Kurt Hale, the commander of the Taskforce, understood this as well, which made the scheduled meeting odd.

Guy hit Arlington Boulevard in the shadow of the Iwo Jima memorial, the green carpet of Arlington directly behind, speckled with white dots. In the distance he saw a blip of brown against the green, upturned earth from a burial, and recognized it as Section 60, an area of Arlington he knew well. The Global War on Terrorism section. It was where his brother would earn his own pile of brown. The thought brought him up short.

He ignored the honking horns and speeding Washington lobbyists on Arlington Boulevard, all of whom drove by this national treasure every single day, completely oblivious to the sacrifices it held. He fixated on the piece of brown desecrating the expanse of green. He felt a darkness cloak him. A blackness blanketing his soul, and it was unsettling. He’d known many men who were killed in combat, but this was different. This was
his
blood.

He cranked the volume on his iPhone and began speed-walking down the sidewalk, rehearsing his speech.

3

C
learly irritated, Colonel Kurt Hale looked at his watch and said, “Where the hell is he?”

Johnny, Guy’s team leader, said, “He’s on the way. He just texted.”

Kurt shook his head. “This isn’t helping his case.”

Johnny said, “Sir, he got the box today. Just now. Give him a break.”

Kurt leaned back, taking in the words. “Bad timing. I don’t think it’s a discussion anymore. I no longer want to feel him out. I want him on ice, for at least a month. Get him involved in something operational, here in headquarters, but he’s not deploying with you.”

Axe, the second-in-command of the team, said, “Sir, wait a minute. We need him. We can’t deploy without a teammate. We run bare bones as it is. Just take a look when he gets here.”

Kurt said nothing. Johnny chimed in, “Sir, really, you can’t give him an award and then tell him he’s on ice. What signal is that sending?”

“Spare me. You and I both know how much this award means to him. Jack squat. I can’t have a guy on the edge. Especially where you’re going.”

George Wolffe, Kurt’s deputy commander and an old CIA hand, said, “We all know the stakes, but a blanket statement is a little much. We’ve all lost someone along the way, and we kept fighting. We aren’t
talking about a Pike situation here. Let’s feel him out before making a decision.”

Johnny nodded in appreciation. Kurt scowled at his deputy and started to respond, when a shadow passed in the hallway. Guy leaned in, lightly knocking on the doorjamb.

He took in the audience and said, “Hey, sorry I’m late.”

Kurt saw the emotions flit across his face, recognizing who was in the room, and knew Guy understood this was more than a coordination meeting. He said, “Come on in, Guy. Have a seat.”

Guy did so, glancing at his team leader, then at his 2IC. “What’s up? I know this isn’t about some bullshit ceremony. If you thought I was going to embarrass the Taskforce, you wouldn’t have sent me to Croatia to begin with.”

Kurt said, “Yes. It isn’t about the ceremony. You’re due to deploy tomorrow with your team, but I’m not sure you should. Make no mistake, this is my call. The men in this room feel otherwise.”

He saw Guy relax, realizing it wasn’t an ambush.

Guy said, “I’m good. I can operate. I’m on my game.”

Despite what he’d said earlier, George Wolffe went into attack mode. “Good? You took Decoy’s death last year pretty damn hard. You hit the bottle. Don’t tell me you didn’t. You were on the edge then, and you barely pulled out. You’ve done solid work since then, but now you’ve had another sacrifice. There’s no shame in taking a break. None at all.”

Decoy was the name of Guy’s roommate who’d been killed in action on a mission in Istanbul. The death had been hard for everyone, but especially for Guy.

Guy said, “What do you want me to say? That my brother meant nothing? That I’m a robot? People die in combat all the time. Jesus. We’d have never left the Normandy beach if everyone who’d lost a friend was sidelined.”

Kurt said, “This isn’t Normandy, and you know it. We operate in a
world without mistakes. Period. You fuck up, and you bring us all down. I need every man at one hundred percent.”

He flicked his head toward Johnny and Axe. “They seem to think you’re okay. I do not. I’m thinking you stay home for this one. Get your head on right. Axe said you weren’t even going to the memorial in Montana, which raises a concern with me.”

Guy said, “Sir, I can’t go to the memorial. All I’ll get is questions like ‘Weren’t you in the military?’ and ‘What do you do now?’ I don’t need to go back to respect my brother. That’s for my family. It has nothing to do with how I feel. Shit, why are you even giving me an award?”

Kurt said, “Don’t go there. You earned it, even if you don’t want it. Don’t make this into something else. This is Taskforce business, not Oversight Council.”

Guy flared. “Those fat fucks have no idea of the sacrifice.
None
. Fuck them.”

The words settled, the air now still. Guy shifted in his chair, but nobody else moved. Softly, Kurt said, “I think I could use you here in headquarters. Doing research. Our analysts are the best in the world, but they could use an Operator’s touch. Show them what they’re missing. Show them what to look for.”

To Kurt’s surprise, Guy leaned forward and said, “I could do that. If you let me research something specific.”

Kurt looked at George, wondering where this was going. He said, “What?”

Guy pulled out the operational armband and held it up. “This. These are the fucks that killed my brother. And I want them. They’re terrorists, and it
is
Taskforce business. Look, I know they aren’t something that’ll destroy democracy or cause the downfall of a country. They aren’t high enough as a threat for the usual Taskforce envelope—but they killed my brother. Let me find them.”

Axe leaned forward and took the armband, analyzing the targets on it.

Sensing buy-in of his stand-down order but wary of where it would lead, Kurt held up his hands and said, “Guy, come on. We don’t do overt actions in a war zone. Yeah, you can research them, but we aren’t going to hunt Taliban in Afghanistan.”

Kurt saw Guy’s eyes gleam and knew he’d lanced a boil, the heat coming out like a fervent missionary. Guy wanted to believe. “They aren’t Taliban. Tim was hunting ISIS, and the fuckers in that target package aren’t Pashtun or Uzbek or anything else in Afghanistan. They’re Gulf Arabs, and they’re funding the fight. It’s right up our alley.”

Kurt glanced again at George, his plan of sidelining Guy now taking a different turn. George said, “Guy, okay, you want to use our assets for research, that’s fine. But understand we aren’t going after them. A couple of Arabs in Afghanistan doesn’t rise to our level. That’s an Afghanistan problem. A NATO problem. Not a Taskforce problem.”

Guy simply looked at him. George continued. “You understand that, right? Your brother was killed in combat, but we don’t react to that. We execute actions based on the national threat. Period. We aren’t in the vendetta business.”

Guy said, “I got that loud and clear. I understand. I’ll stand down for a spell and let these guys go have the fun.” He pointed at a wide-screen television behind Kurt’s head, tuned to cable news. “But that fat asshole had better be at my award ceremony.”

Kurt turned and saw Jonathan Billings, the secretary of state, exiting a building, followed by a scrum of men dressed in traditional Gulf attire.

He rotated back around and grinned. “Yeah, that ‘fat asshole’ will be there. He’s leaving Qatar tomorrow. He was doing something with investment in Greece. The ceremony isn’t for a week. I’ll make sure he’s here.”

Kurt should have reprimanded Guy for the slur, but Billings
was
an asshole. Out of the thirteen members in the Oversight Council—the only people read on to Taskforce activities in the entire US government—he was the single sticking point, constantly fighting any operation solely because he was afraid of the exposure. Afraid for his own skin, regardless of the deaths that were saved by Taskforce intervention.

In truth, Kurt understood the reticence. If Taskforce activities were exposed, it would make Watergate’s revelations look like they’d detailed shoplifting at the local 7-Eleven, but Billings constantly erred on the side of caution, preferring that the terrorist attack occur to prevent his own political demise. Kurt lived in the same world, and held the same fear of exposure, but despised Billings for his willingness to sacrifice American lives. It was a fine line, and as far as Kurt was concerned, Billings was always on the wrong side.

Kurt said, “So we’re good? You spend a spell here, and Johnny takes the team without you?”

Guy nodded and Axe said, “Holy shit. Look at the guy behind Billings.”

They turned, seeing a well-manicured Arab wearing traditional Gulf dress, a Rolex on his wrist and a blazing smile. Kurt said, “What about him?”

Axe held up the armband and pointed at a picture. “It’s this guy.”

Guy became agitated, leaning into the TV. He said, “It
is
him. He’s the one. I knew it wasn’t some fleabag Taliban hit. That guy killed my brother!”

Kurt said, “Hold on. Jesus. Calm down. That
guy
is Haider al-Attiya. His father is a bigwig with the Qatar Investment Authority. They have nothing to do with any attacks in Afghanistan. Billings is working with them on the Greek euro crisis. The kid is a rich Gulf Arab, with a silver spoon shoved up his ass.”

Guy said, “Look at him. Then look at the picture. It’s him.”

Kurt glanced at George, knowing he needed to stamp out wild
conspiracy theories. George said, “Guy. Look at me. You’re giving me worry about your control. The man on TV is a respected member of the Qatari government. Don’t make this into something it’s not from a damn CNN clip. Don’t make me doubt you.”

Guy said nothing, still staring at the screen. Kurt leaned over and took the armband away from Axe. He said, “This man’s name is Abu Kamal.”

A wolf smile spread across Guy’s face. “Yeah, like he’d use his real name in Afghanistan. That’s him. And that’s his picture.”

Kurt balled up the armband and said, “Don’t go all Alex Jones on me here. Keep the conspiracies within the realm of the possible.”

Guy leaned back and said, “All right. Okay. I’m good with sitting out the deployment. I’ll stay and do a little help on the analytical side.”

Kurt said, “I think it would be better if you went home. For the memorial.”

“No. I already told you. Too painful. I’ll help out you guys here. Even if I can’t deploy. I’m good.”

Kurt sized him up, trying to see if Guy was really as even-keeled as he professed. He wasn’t sure, but honestly, it wasn’t like the man had threatened to go postal. And he
was
a Taskforce Operator. Handpicked by Kurt himself.

Kurt said, “Okay. Then it’s settled. You help on the analytical side and take some time off. But you’ll see the psychs here. No questions asked. You can tell them whatever you want, but you’re seeing them.”

He saw Guy bristle and leaned forward, speaking barely above a whisper. “Guy. Trust me. They can help. I’ve walked your path. Talk to them. I don’t need to lose an Operator over something that can be helped.”

Guy let the words settle, then nodded. Johnny exhaled, glad it was over. He clapped Guy on the back and said, “Hey, if there’s anything to the Qatar thing, Pike will find it. He drew the card for the James Bond mission.”

Guy looked confused, and Johnny snapped back in embarrassment, stealing a glance at Kurt. Speaking of compartmented missions was a nonstarter, and he just had. Kurt waved it off and said, “Pike’s investigating some ties between Brazil and Qatar. Nothing to do with this.”

Kurt saw a wicked grin slip out. Guy said, “Pike’s on it? Oh yeah, if there’s a connection, he’ll find it. That guy’s a trouble magnet.”