Extreme Measures (11 page)

TRIPLE FRONTIER

K
ARIM held the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the airstrip from one end to the other. It had been a good, hard march the day before. The men had practiced excellent discipline. As the crow flies, the narrow valley was only three miles from their camp. As with most things in the jungle, though, the most direct route was also the most dangerous. They’d learned the hard way that it was foolish to fight the jungle, so they took the footpath that followed a dry stream west and around the steepest, most treacherous part of the ridge that separated their valley from the next.

Karim had known about the airstrip from the start. The Lebanese man he had bought the land from had warned him to stay away from the neighbors. The strip was used by a drug cartel as a collection and distribution point for their cocaine trafficking. That knowledge alone had got Karim thinking.

For the first month Karim stayed away from the place, but as his men became more proficient in their maneuvering and concealment, he decided to have a closer look at the airstrip. He had a security concern. He didn’t like not knowing what was going on such a short distance from his camp. He also saw an opportunity. A chance to shake up what was becoming a monotonous routine for the men. It was a training tool, an actual facility, manned by real people who carried guns.

They kept their distance for some time. The top of the ridge offered them a clear view of the dirt runway and the ramshackle buildings down at the one end. Karim used the Navy SEAL philosophy of two-man teams to collect his information. He’d send the pairs out early in the morning and tell them they would be relieved at noon the following day. He ran them like this for sixteen days, each two-man team pulling four shifts. It was a great training exercise, and the men reacted well to the challenge. Anything to break the daily monotony of the obstacle course was a good thing.

The men took meticulous notes as ordered and soon Karim had a detailed idea of how the place worked. At first it seemed there was no structure to the set-up, but out of the chaos a pattern emerged. None of the men appeared to be older than thirty and most of them looked to be teenagers. Rarely did anyone rise before ten in the morning, and when they eventually did venture outside they were lethargic, cranky, and most likely extremely hungover. Every night the men would stay up late gambling, drinking, and watching porn movies. Twice, prostitutes had been flown in. It was not unusual to see a man stumble from the bunkhouse well after sunrise and vomit.

The guns were always present, though, and they carried a myriad of weapons, from AK-47s, to MP-5s, to all different kinds of pistols, and as far as he could tell, less than twenty percent of them used the same ammunition, another sign that it was a sloppy operation. They would hold their own impromptu shooting practice, firing at the previous evening’s beer and liquor bottles. Never had he seen them get through a session without one of the weapons jamming. Invariably, the others found this to be hilarious. Karim used it as an opportunity to show his men how not to act.

One evening Karim had executed a mock attack. He split the team into two groups and then led them to within a few feet of the barracks where the men were drinking and gambling. The exercise was a great confidence builder, but for Karim there was no feeling of accomplishment that they had crept to within a few feet of a bunch of drunk and coked-up men. These idiots were not a worthy test for them and he took great care to point out to the men that the Americans would be far more vigilant.

As he peered through his binoculars Karim thought of that first day, when he crested the ridge and looked down at the ramshackle operation. Within seconds he asked himself,
How would I assault this place? How would I deploy my men? What were the odds of total success? What were the chances of failure? What would he do if he lost one or more of his men?

This was how the military mind worked,
he thought to himself.
It is a gift. We look at a target in the same way a sculptor looks at a block of stone or a carpenter a hunk of wood.
Except his job was much harder. His subject was not static. It would fight back if given the chance. That was why he had to surprise them. Karim had seen in Afghanistan what could happen when the bullets started flying. Tactics, maneuvering, concealment, and marksmanship would carry the day, but there was always the chance that a stray bullet could bounce around until it hit a piece of flesh. He could not afford to lose a single man. Not until he arrived in America and the real battle began.

Farid slithered up next to him and looked down at the empty strip of dirt and grass. “Your orders, Amir?”

“We’ll move out in thirty minutes. Send two men to sweep the trail in front of us and have them radio back.”

“May I ask what you have planned?”

Karim continued looking through the binoculars. “A plane will arrive at approximately nine. We’re going to secure the airfield before it lands.”

“So the plane is ours?”

“Yes.”

“You have had this planned for months.”

Karim lowered the binoculars, allowed himself a grin and said, “Why would I do something like that?”

“Because you don’t trust Zawahiri?”

“That is part of it.”

Farid stared down at the landing strip for a long time.

“You have something on your mind?” Karim asked.

Without looking, he asked, “Do you trust us?”

“Of course.”

“Then why do you keep so much from us?”

“Security. Too many people know too many details. The first two teams have failed. We are the only hope.”

Farid watched the wind sweep down and bend the tops of the trees. “You have trained us like the American Special Forces, but you do not command like one of them.”

The honest words were a slap to the face. “How do you mean?”

“At your urging, we have all done much reading these last few months. I think you’ve read too much about the great American generals.”

Karim was annoyed by what he was hearing, but he said, “Go on.”

“I have read some of the same books. They all talk of the need to keep yourself aloof so your judgment isn’t affected. I suppose in the regular army it makes sense, but everything I have read about their Special Forces says otherwise. The enlisted men participate in the planning of the mission.”

“Your point?”

“I think you need to stop keeping secrets from us. You need to trust us. In a few days you will have no choice.”

Karim didn’t like hearing the words, but a part of him knew they were accurate. “Fair enough. When we reach our next destination I will tell the men of my plan.”

Farid smiled, “Thank you, Amir.”

“Just remember, this is not a democracy.”

“You do not have to worry about that. The men have too much respect for you, and more than a little fear.” Farid slithered backward on his belly and then disappeared into the brush.

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

T
HE assistant told Nash they were expecting him. He glanced at the two bodyguards standing post outside the CIA director’s office and opened the heavy soundproof door. Irene Kennedy was seated behind her desk with the handset of her secure phone held to her right ear. She glanced up and gave him a
where in the hell have you been
look, before spinning her chair away and looking out the window. Nash silently cursed his wife. Standing in the middle of the big office, he wished he could have dragged her in here so she could feel what it was like to piss off the person who ran the Central Intelligence Agency.

Two men were sitting on the couch opposite Kennedy’s desk. The gray-haired gentleman on the left mouthed a swear word and put one hand to his ear like he was holding a phone. It was Chuck O’Brien, the director of the National Clandestine Service and a thirty-two-year veteran of the CIA. He had been trying to get ahold of Mike since 6:00 a.m. and it was now almost 9:00.

Nash had two separate CIA-issued phones that he was expected to carry on his person at all times. As soon as he heard the female TV anchor talking about the
Washington Post
article, he knew what had happened. When he returned from Afghanistan, Maggie had met him at the door wearing a thin robe and a lustful expression. She handed him a glass of wine, informed him that the kids were in bed, and suggested he go upstairs and take a shower. He stopped in the den first and plugged in both phones. After he had gone upstairs to shower, Maggie had turned off both phones. She wasn’t crazy about his working for the CIA, and she had a serious problem with the fact that the higher-ups at Langley demanded her husband be plugged in twenty-four hours a day every day of the year. She was right, they were right, and as usual he was stuck in the middle trying to keep everyone happy.

Nash glanced at an empty chair but chose to remain standing. Some might have thought it an old habit from the Marine Corps, but they would be wrong. Nash didn’t like the seventh floor. Didn’t really like headquarters at all. The discomfort had nothing to do with Kennedy. At least not personally. They got along fine. He respected her, even feared her a bit, which was healthy in his line of work. The discomfort, he reasoned, was due to the fact that he didn’t belong. The seventh floor was an arena in which he was not suited to compete.

The top floor of the headquarters building was filled with bureaucrats. Nash would be shocked if one in ten had any real field experience. That did not make them bad people, but it spoke to their narrow perspective. Most were good husbands and wives, fathers and mothers. They were active in their kids’ lives and their communities. They were people who had sacrificed and were willing to sacrifice more. They were patriots, but they had been browbeaten by the media and henpecked by the politicians. They were like children who were punished for the wild ways of an older brother. Mike and his fellow operators in the Clandestine Service were the wild sibling in the relationship. In many ways the bureaucrats’ distrust of men like Nash and Rapp was inevitable.

“No, Mr. President,” Kennedy said as she spun her chair back around. “I can assure you no such operation has been sanctioned by the CIA.” She listened for a second and then replied, “They like to get upset, sir. It gives them a reason to go on TV and let their constituents know they’re still alive.” She listened for another moment and then said, “Yes, sir. I’ll be there at four.”

Nash stood in the middle of the spacious office and did his best to look bored and unfazed by the revelation that the president was already involved.

Kennedy placed the white handset back in its cradle and looked up at Nash. “The president is very anxious.”

Nash didn’t know how to respond so he simply nodded.

Kennedy held up her copy of the
Washington Post
and said, “This is not good.”

“I would agree.”

“Please tell me it is a complete fabrication.”

“It is a complete fabrication.”

The man sitting next to Nash’s boss scoffed in disbelief.

Nash turned and looked with contempt at Glen Adams, the CIA’s inspector general. The man had been hounding him for fourteen months and counting. Mike could think of nothing more satisfying than putting him in a headlock and pounding the snot out of him.

Kennedy glanced at Adams and then back at Nash. “Our esteemed inspector general doesn’t agree with you.”

“I’ve been warning you for months,” Adams said in an I-told-you-so voice. “He’s a loose cannon. My money has him running the whole damn operation.”

Nash felt his headache returning. He closed his eyes for a second and then looked at Adams. The
Washington Post
article flashed across his mind and he wondered if Adams might be one of the unnamed sources that the reporter quoted. Nash took a step closer to the couch and in response to Adams’s accusation said, “Prove it.”

“That’s not my job, but I have no doubt, based on this article, that the Justice Department and the FBI are already in the process of doing just that.”

“Yeah, I wonder if anyone in this building gave them a head start.”

“Don’t make this about me,” Adams said in a sad voice.

“Fuck you.”

“Mike,” Kennedy said forcefully.

“This is bullshit,” Nash said directly to Kennedy. “I want to know how many terrorists this waste of sperm has captured. How many people in his office have been killed in the line of duty since nine-eleven?”

“This isn’t about me, Mr. Nash.” Adams shook his head and casually flicked a piece of lint from his pants leg.

“No, it sure the hell isn’t, because I can’t think of a single thing that you’ve done to protect the American people from another attack.”

“We all have our role to play,” said Adams.

“Some more important than others.”

Adams sighed as if he was bored. “I’m not going to allow you to bait me into a fight when I have nothing to do with this.”

“The hell you don’t.” Turning back to Kennedy, Nash asked, “I wanna know if I’m under investigation by the Gestapo here.”

Before Kennedy could answer, Adams said, “That’s none of your business.”

“What about my rights?”

“You surrendered them the day you walked through the front door.”

“What about you? Who investigates you?”

Adams laughed. “That’s funny, Mr. Nash. Who investigates me?” He shook his head. “I don’t need to be investigated. I play by the rules.”

“Spoken like a true sociopath.”

“Let’s just calm down,” Kennedy cautioned.

Nash’s headache got worse. He looked at the woman he’d always respected and suddenly lost his patience. “Fuck this.”

“Excuse me?” Kennedy was shocked.

“This is all a bunch of bullshit. You’re telling me to calm down. I saw the front page of the
Post
. It’s all a bunch of lies, but it doesn’t matter. The politicians are going to want to burn someone at the stake and this little smug prick here is trying to offer me up.”

“There is no need to talk to me like that.”

“You’re scum, all right. You’re a traitor to your own country.” Looking back at Kennedy he said, “How much do you want to bet he’s one of the anonymous sources mentioned in the
Post
story?”

Adams stood abruptly. “I don’t need to take this. My work here is above reproach, and I for one have done nothing to embarrass this agency.” Adams started for the door, and as he passed Nash, he said, “I doubt you can make the same claim.”

Nash’s right hand shot out and grabbed Adam’s fleshy bicep. He spun him back around and said, “Don’t ever compare what you do around here with what I do. When you have a bad day, a file gets lost. When I have a bad day, one of my boys gets killed.”

Adams tried to pull his arm away. “Get your hands off me!”

Nash ignored him. “You’re not on the field. You’re not on the team. Hell, you’re not even in the arena. You’re at home with a bottle of beer and a bag of chips watching the game on TV, criticizing our every move, when the truth is, your fat, lazy ass wouldn’t last five minutes out there.”

“Mr. Nash!” Kennedy yelled as she stood. “That is enough.”

“It sure is.” Nash let go of Adams and started for the door. He grabbed the handle and looked across the office at Kennedy. “The next time you need someone to go to Afghanistan and get shot at, you can send this prick.” Nash yanked open the door and was gone before Kennedy or his boss could say another word.