Days of Rage (4 page)

T
he beer commercial on the bar television was a counterpoint to the somber mood of the crowd around me. I watched the impossibly beautiful people prance about on the wide screen, each drinking a bottle of nectar guaranteed to get them laid, and realized I’d lost a segment of my life somewhere along the way.

I was older than the people in the commercial.

When did that happen?

It seemed like just yesterday I was younger than them, looking at their beauty and waiting until I was their age to savor the goodness of the life they portrayed. Then, in the blink of an eye, I was older, somehow having skipped that beer-commercial generational gap, and never experiencing the Promised Land shown.

It made me a little melancholy. Made me wonder if I had missed out on what others had experienced because of my chosen career. Had I wasted my life chasing terrorists in the burning sands and fetid jungle while others danced at NFL parties, hooking up with impossibly gorgeous women just by drinking a beer?

I wondered if Turbo or Radcliffe had experienced the golden life portrayed in the commercial before they had died. I hoped so. We hadn’t exactly seen eye-to-eye in our unit, but that didn’t prevent us from having a deep connection because of our shared sacrifice. They had been inside a brotherhood that few on earth had experienced.

The official burial at Arlington Cemetery wouldn’t happen for a month, and the bodies hadn’t even been escorted home from Bulgaria, but we always did this little private wake as soon as possible, spreading the word and starting the grieving process early. It was a chance for a very select group of people to not only mourn, but to learn the specifics of the deaths, something that was hard to do in our compartmented little world, where everything was “need to know.” We always held them at the same bar, and always at the same time. We’d done way too many of them since the unit had been created.

I felt someone bump my elbow, bringing me out of my trance. I turned and saw Jennifer, my partner in crime, and the only female in the entire group. Her eyes were red, but even with that she brought a smile to my face, a light that always managed to penetrate the darkness. The melancholy evaporated.

I said, “You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s just such a waste. I feel for their families. They shouldn’t be going through this.” She wiped her eyes and smiled ruefully. “I wonder if they gave their wives as hard a time as they did me. Turbo and Radcliffe were tough to please.”

That’s putting it mildly.
Along with me, Turbo and Radcliffe were members of a counterterrorist unit full of meat-eating he-man woman-haters. I’d recruited Jennifer to join, and they, like most of the unit, about lost their minds. We had women intel analysts, a smattering of case officers, and a few other female support types, but none had ever crossed into an operational role the way Jennifer had. They’d tried hard to keep her out, but had failed. Jennifer’s sole experience with them had been as antagonists, but she was above all of that, and truly mourned their passing.

She said, “You guys live this life and you expect the worst to come from an enemy bullet or bomb. It doesn’t seem real that two Taskforce operators would die in a car accident.”

The unit we were in was so top secret it didn’t have a name. Just some code words that would never see the light of day. We had to call it something, and the Taskforce had seemed to stick. Jennifer was right, though—it was a tragedy to lose two operators for something as stupid as a car wreck. She waved a hand around the bar, full of men all wearing a coat and tie.

“You’re supposed to be indestructible. This reminds me that you’re not, and the rules that apply to everyone else also apply to you.”

Which was exactly how I felt. Apparently, Radcliffe was driving and had gone straight over a cliff, killing them both. I knew the inglorious nature of their deaths was weighing on everyone in the room.

All of the males in the bar were operators pulled from various special-operations units within the Department of Defense and the paramilitary arm of the CIA, now working for a unit that doesn’t exist and living a lie in their everyday lives. In truth, there was a danger in all of us coming together like this, because we were working under different covers, but the commander of the Taskforce, Colonel Kurt Hale, believed the grieving process was more important. And he was right. Anyway, nobody was going to question us because the suits did nothing to dampen the raw aggression in the room. People instinctively knew to leave us alone.

There were no support folks here or representatives of any of the various cover organizations that we used to infiltrate an operational area. No pilots, oilmen, cellular technicians, or anyone else from the myriad different clandestine activities at the Taskforce’s disposal. It wasn’t that they weren’t respected, but this wake was reserved for operators only. Well, except for Jennifer and me.

I said, “I can’t figure it out either. Both those guys trained to drive just about anything from snowmobiles to rally cars in Dakar. It doesn’t make any sense.”

A man came up with a beer in his hand, long wavy black hair and a neck choker, like some sort of 1970s commune dweller. Aggravatingly enough, outside of the hippie hair, he was as handsome as the men in the beer commercial. He said, “Who let you in here? Turbo hated your ass.”

I smiled and said, “I’m not the one who beat the shit out of him for punching Jennifer.” I snatched the beer out of his hand. “Thanks for the suds.”

Jennifer said, “Knuckles, did you get any skinny on what happened over there? Nobody will talk to me.”

He winked at me and said, “That’s because this is for active counterterrorist commandos only. America’s finest. I guess you two don’t rate.”

Matching his sarcasm, I said, “Maybe it’s because I still hang out with you.”

While Knuckles had been a teammate of mine, I’d actually left the Taskforce a couple of years ago, and Jennifer had never served a day in the defense or intelligence communities. Together, we were business partners who owned Grolier Recovery Services, one of the Taskforce’s cover organizations. On the surface, it was designed to facilitate archaeological work around the world, but in reality it enabled the Taskforce to penetrate denied areas and capture or disrupt terrorists out to harm the United States.

Basically, if a diabolical plot was hatched in a country that had some old shit in it, we could use our corporation to infiltrate a team of killers without the state or the terrorists knowing we were coming. Which, given that ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the countries around the world had some type of archaeological site, meant we could penetrate anywhere we wanted. With Jennifer’s anthropology degree and my military experience traveling the globe, we looked legit. Hell, we
were
legit, having found an ancient Mayan temple in Guatemala on our own a couple of years ago.

So why were Jennifer and I allowed into the sacred wake? Some of the greener operators, having come on since I left, gave us a sideways glance, but the old-timers knew better. Before I’d left the Taskforce, I was the leader of the team that had successfully prevented more terrorist activities than the next three teams combined. I was also a plank owner of the Taskforce, one of the first men recruited, and I’d helped build it from the ground up. I’d put most of the men in the room through Assessment and Selection to join the unit, so as far as the tribe went, I was alpha male. And Jennifer was, well, Jennifer.

Probably half of the men in the room despised her presence for no other reason than irrational fear and caveman feelings, but she’d also been through Assessment and Selection, with Turbo and Radcliffe running it, so there was no excuse that anything had been given to her. On top of that, she had proven herself on a number of missions.

Our company was unique in the Taskforce stable: a cover organization that was run by operators, and could do much, much more than simply provide an infiltration platform.

My old team—now ostensibly employees of Grolier Services—were the only ones who had operated with Jennifer. They’d seen her skill, and they were now believers. Their tolerance, coupled with my reputation, was enough firepower to shut up the he-man woman-haters. That, and the fact that she was a hammer to look at.

Knuckles smiled again and said, “Maybe you’re right. Me being seen with you is tarnishing my reputation. Maybe I should see what I can do about getting you two out of here.”

He looked over my shoulder at someone behind me and said, “Maybe I should tell the commander about the fraternization going on in your little company. That ought to do it.”

His words punched a sore spot, friend or not. “Maybe you should keep your mouth shut.”

Jennifer heard my tone and touched my arm, saying, “He’s just kidding, Pike.”

I said, “That’s not something to joke about. Kurt might really take it seriously.”

Over my shoulder, I heard, “Take what seriously?”

I
glared at Knuckles, seeing him grin at the foot I’d placed in my mouth. I turned around and shook Kurt’s hand, saying, “Nothing. Knuckles was just talking about Taskforce members getting administrative leave for same-sex marriages, since Virginia doesn’t support them.”

Knuckles’s mouth fell open, and it was my turn to smile. Kurt said, “Is that so?”

“No . . . no. That’s not what we were talking about,” said Knuckles.

Kurt went back and forth between us before giving up and saying, “I’m sure whatever it was, I don’t want to know about it.”

We spent the next twenty minutes talking about Turbo and Radcliffe, laughing at some of their antics and somberly reciting their sacrifices. The usual thing that happened at any military memorial. Eventually, Kurt got around to asking about our company and our current schedule. My antennae went up immediately, because I’d known him for over fifteen years and could read him like a book. He wasn’t making small talk.

I said, “Company’s fine. We’re still in the black and getting requests from real clients.”

He laughed and said, “You mean like that last client looking for pirate treasure?”

“No, real clients,” I said. I punched Knuckles in the shoulder. “Unlike the ones this shitbag comes up with.”

Kurt cut to the chase. “You able to travel? No notice?”

That completely took me aback. “What?”

“Hey, I know I promised you guys two months’ warning before operations, but I could use you right now.”

“Doing what?”

“Turbo’s team was getting a pattern of life on a Boko Haram leader. The guy is still out there, and I’d like to make their deaths mean something. It grates on me to let it go. He’s probably not worth the effort, but I don’t want to quit.”

I got Jennifer’s eye. She shrugged, telling me,
I’m game. Why not?

I said, “Why us? Why not just slot Turbo’s team a new leader? I know it would be rough, but they’ve got the better handle on the target. Why start over?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I wanted to take them back.

Kurt looked at me for a moment without answering, then said, “You really asking that? Turbo’s team is pulled. If it were a crisis or imminent threat, of course I’d keep them in the hunt, but it’s not. They’re on downtime until I can sort out the chain of command.”

Our missions weren’t like combat in Fallujah or
Saving Private Ryan
, a hellish cyclone of violence where a leader dropped and someone automatically took his place. We worked in the netherworld of covert operations, with the Taskforce itself operating outside of the bounds of US law. As such, the greatest pressure on an operator wasn’t a gunfight but blowing our cover in a hostile country and exposing the Taskforce for all to see. It was a narrow beam we walked, as we all understood how quickly the organization could go bad.

Being a Taskforce operator meant having a moral compass that could withstand just about anything. It took a clear head and nerves of steel, with the judgment to bring violence only when violence was necessary. Not a place for anyone who wasn’t one hundred percent, like Turbo’s team. They were probably looking for a fight.

Most civilians thought us supersecret commandos had some type of on/off switch, where we could shunt our emotions to the side, and to a certain extent they were right. But we were still human, and the worst thing about a unit like ours was the very selective nature of it. We worked together for years, with teams literally coalescing because of shared attitudes and personalities. You became closer than family. Much, much closer than any other unit I had served within, and when someone on the team died, it was just as harsh as losing a brother or wife. It was devastating.

I said, “Yeah, sorry. Forget I said that. But why us? You’ve got four teams in here right now. Why not them? Jennifer and I are just the infiltration platform.”

“The target is in Plovdiv, Bulgaria. Believe it or not, it’s the oldest continually habited city in Europe, which means it’s ripe for your cover. I have a Taskforce cover contract set up with UNESCO to look at some Roman ruins that are being destroyed by automobile exhaust and vandalism. You fit the bill perfectly.”

I caught Jennifer’s eye and saw, like me, she didn’t believe it. “So it’s the cover only? Who’s developing the pattern of life? What team am I infiltrating?”

Kurt said, “No. It’s not just the cover. I want
you
to develop the pattern of life as well, Pike. I need success on this. Set that guy up for an Omega operation. The Oversight Council is getting skittish because of Turbo’s and Radcliffe’s deaths. The team’s cover is holding up just fine, but there’s talk about closing down for a while. I need a success to calm them.”

The Oversight Council was our own unique body of authority. Since we operated outside the bounds of the US Constitution, we didn’t fall under traditional DOD or Intelligence Community oversight. Because of this, Kurt, along with the president of the United States, had built their own oversight, realizing that every organization like ours had eventually morphed like a cancerous growth into something evil. Composed of thirteen trusted individuals from the private sector and the government leadership, the Oversight Council was designed to prevent that, as they had approval over all Taskforce activities.

I was surprised he wanted
me
to execute the mission, but my ego sort of enjoyed the attention. Kurt and I had worked together for years, even before the Taskforce was created, and I appreciated the vote of confidence in my abilities. But I still had a few questions.

I said, “So the Council approved of this deployment? On such short notice?”

Usually, Taskforce approvals took months before we could execute, with a slow buildup until everyone was satisfied with the endgame. Then, if we were lucky, we’d be granted Omega authority for a takedown.

He smiled. “Not so much. You’re deploying under Turbo’s authority. Honestly, we’ve never had a situation like this, where a team is pulled because of death from nonhostile activities. The Council already sanctioned the mission. You’re just executing.”

I nodded, letting that soak in. I caught Jennifer’s eye one more time, seeing she was okay with it. I said, “I need more than just Jennifer and me. I’m going to need the team.”

Knuckles said, “Hey, wait a minute. We’re off cycle. We’ve got a deployment in two months and need to finish the train-up package. I don’t have time for this.”

Kurt ignored him, saying, “You got it. Whoever you want.”

Knuckles said, “What the fuck? I’m the damn team leader here, and I’m telling you we can’t go.”

I ignored him as well, saying, “I need four in addition to Jennifer. Buckshot’s wife is pregnant, right?”

Kurt said, “Yes.”

“I’ll take Knuckles, Retro, Blood, and Decoy.”

Knuckles began huffing and puffing, incredulous that we were talking about his team as if he weren’t there. I let him, enjoying the show.

He said, “Sir, Pike’s no longer active. If I go, it’s my mission. He’s just the facilitator.”

I heard the words and realized it was no longer fun and games. I was overstepping my bounds. Knuckles
was
the team leader, and I was about to cause a fracture in our chain of command. I was nothing but a cover company, no longer an operator in the Taskforce. I hadn’t expected Knuckles to fight it, primarily because of my ego and the fact that I used to be his team leader, but I wouldn’t usurp his command if it caused an issue. I’d made my choice to leave the Taskforce, and he’d stuck by me on a number of missions after that. I had no right to take his team.

I put my beer on the counter and said, “He’s correct, sir. It’s his show, not mine.”

I saw the gratitude on Knuckles’s face at my words.

Kurt said, “Jesus. You people are like a bunch of high-school drama queens. I don’t have time for this bullshit. You need to fly today.”

I waited for what Knuckles would say. He looked at me, then Jennifer, and finally Kurt.

He shook his head and said, “Aww, screw it. It’s your company.” He pointed at Jennifer and said, “Besides, you and spider monkey here wouldn’t listen to me anyway.”