No Fortunate Son (4 page)

The Panic

C
olonel Kurt Hale could barely make out the words through the sobbing in the phone, the hitches of his sister’s voice making her incoherent.

“Kathy, calm down. Take a deep breath. I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

He heard sniffling and looked at his watch.
Running out of time.

“Kathy, listen, I have a meeting I have to be at in thirty minutes and it’s all the way across town. I’ll give you a call back when I’m done.”

The hitches stopped and he felt the heat through the phone. “Meeting? I’m talking about your
niece
. She could be lying in a ditch or dead. Jesus Christ, she loves you better than her own father, and you’re not even giving her the time of day.”

“Okay, okay, calm down. What’s he doing about it? Did you call him?”

He knew the answer before she even spoke. Kathy’s ex-husband, a Wall Street bond trader, was a philandering, narcissistic jerk. Kurt had always wanted to punch the smirk off his face, but it had taken Kathy five years to figure out his true stripes. Kathy now used him only to provide for her daughter, like paying for Kylie’s student exchange to England.

“That asshole just offered money. He can’t do anything anyway.”

“Kathy, neither can I.”

“Bullshit! You work for the CIA or something. You can find her. You’re the only person I know. Nobody else cares. Maybe you don’t either.”

He rolled his eyes up in frustration. He loved his sister dearly, but her views on how the world worked were distinctly different from his. She was a pacifist, to the point that it had taken seven long years before she’d even speak to him again after he’d joined the Army. When he started working in classified assignments, she naturally defaulted to thinking he was some Black Ops assassin and—even when he told her he was in a Special Forces unit—she believed it to be the CIA. She believed
everything
was the CIA. For twenty years he’d listened to her conspiracy theories, and, ironically, if he told her what he was doing now, all her fears would be realized.

He deflected the line of discussion, saying, “Kathy, look, it’s only been twenty-four hours. There’s probably a simple explanation. Maybe she’s just out partying. Shit, she’s grown up now. A college kid. You remember what that was like.”

“Kurt, that line of BS would work when we were her age, but not now. She’s got a cell phone, Instagram, Skype, Twitter, Facebook, Snapchat, and Lord knows how many other means of communication. All of them have been stagnant. Her cell phone goes straight to voice mail, and she’s not posted a thing when she usually does that four or five times a day.”

Which were the first words his sister had said that made Kurt pause. The first clear signal that this wasn’t a college drunken blackout.

Kathy spoke again, the rage gone, replaced by fear. “Kurt, I don’t know anyone else to call. She’s not important enough for anyone to care. She’s just another lost American. And she’s in trouble. I know it as a mother. You’ve got to help me. I have no one else.”

He said nothing for a moment, then: “Okay, Kathy. Send me an email with all of her information. Don’t forget all that social media stuff. Let me get this meeting over with and I’ll see what I can do.”

*   *   *

Driving across the Key Bridge, George Wolffe finally broke the silence. “Hey, you going to let me in on what’s going through that head? You thinking about those missing soldiers, or are you finally accepting what happened to Pike? Still time to change your mind on this brief.”

Interrupted from his trance, Kurt faked a grin and said, “No, nothing like that. Just some personal stuff.”

“Personal? Last I saw you had no life outside of this organization. You seeing someone? After my forty-two attempts at a setup? Marge is going to be pissed.”

This time Kurt grinned for real. Wolffe was the deputy commander of the Taskforce—Kurt Hale’s number two. Like Kurt, he’d basically torpedoed his career to create and help command Project Prometheus, the thrill of the mission much more attractive than the potential future rank. Unlike Kurt, he had a family to come home to, complete with a wife who took pity on the vaunted Taskforce Commander, trying to set him up with every middle-aged divorcée she could find.

Kurt said, “It’s not like that. It’s some trouble with my sister. Nothing like the trouble Pike is in.”

George continued in silence for a moment, weaving through the downtown DC traffic, then said, “You know, falling on your sword is so 1990s. The nobility of sticking to your convictions doesn’t fly anymore.”

Kurt said, “Tough shit. It flies in our organization. It’s what makes our organization what it is.”

“Kurt, I get the military code, but you don’t know this place like I do. That code is fine on the battlefield, when bullets are flying. This battlefield is all about
what have you done for me lately
.”

Unlike Kurt—who’d grown up in special-mission units in the Department of Defense—George was CIA. As such, he had lived through quite a few purges and witch hunts, all looking to hang good men for a petty political edge.

George turned from the wheel and caught Kurt’s eye. “This isn’t going anywhere. All you’ll do is cause a lack of trust in your judgment. You defend Pike and they’re going to think you agree with what he did. Agree that ignoring their orders is okay. Which will cause them to question you on everything you bring forward. Think about that.”

Kurt reflected a moment, then said, “Trust is the cornerstone of our organization. Faith is how we operate. Faith that the Operator will do the right thing. Pike was the man on the ground. We were a thousand
miles away. He ignored Oversight Council orders and made a call. It ended up being correct. He saved tens of thousands of lives at great risk to himself. I will not destroy him because a bunch of political animals now find it expedient.”

“Kurt, he went on the warpath over Decoy’s death. He
lucked
into the thread of the WMD by hunting the Russians. He wanted to kill those men, and he did. You have to see that. He cannot be controlled. Even you couldn’t control him.”

“He didn’t luck into shit.”

“What’s that mean?”

Kurt looked at his trusted friend and said what he thought would never be uttered. “I let him off the chain.”

“What? Are you saying you gave him permission?”

Kurt sagged in the seat and said, “No. Not in so many words. But I knew what he would do, and I didn’t stop him. He would have listened to me. I let him go. Hell, I gave him assets to do so.”

“Jesus. Kurt, you can’t say that. That is
not
a defense. That will
destroy
the Taskforce.”

Kurt smiled. “Calm down. I never thought I’d say those words out loud, and I’m certainly not going to tell the Council. I’m not even sure Pike realizes how I felt. Look, the Oversight Council is a necessary thing to keep us in check, but he’s what’s right in our organization. And I’ll defend what’s right.”

T
hey rolled into the security checkpoint for the West Wing of the White House, the granite monolith of the Old Executive Office Building off to the left. Alexander Palmer, the president’s national security advisor—one of about a dozen read onto the Taskforce—had been promising for years to get the Oversight Council a permanent home, but so far the Council members still trekked inside the same building like a multitude of other government employees. It made Kurt skittish, because sooner or later someone was going to ask what the hell the top secret meetings were about. All it would take was one NSC staffer to speculate, and
The Washington Post
would go into a frenzy.

Trudging up the stairs, Kurt began to rehearse what he was going to say. George had said Kurt was naïve to the ways inside the Beltway, but that wasn’t the case. He understood completely what he was facing, including who was an ally and who was an enemy. He needed to massage both.

They reached the conference room and Kurt saw no Secret Service. Which meant no President Warren, the biggest gun who could help. George stopped, his hand on the door. “Last chance. I have that offer to open a yogurt shop. You want in?”

Kurt grimaced and said, “Sharks aren’t out yet. Let me chum the waters before I give you an answer.”

George swung the door open, and Kurt saw bedlam.

Everyone in the room was waving their arms or talking over one another. Usually, the Council was sitting still when he entered, like Supreme Court justices about to hear an argument before them.
Handpicked by the president of the United States, they were all members of the executive branch or private citizens. By design, none were in the legislative branch, in order to allow a calm, unbiased analysis of the potential fallout of Taskforce actions, free from competing political pressures. And usually they
were
calm, but what Kurt saw looked like a couple of cliques at a junior high yelling at each other.

He moved to the podium unnoticed, laying his computer on the desk next to it. He plugged it into the Proxima projector and looked for Alexander Palmer, the man who chaired the meetings in the absence of the president. He saw a heated argument between Mark Oglethorpe, the secretary of defense, and Kerry Bostwick, the director of the CIA, but no Palmer.

The conference room door opened and Palmer entered, followed by another man, a youngish-looking bureaucrat who appeared as scared as a rabbit cornered by a pack of wolves. The man moved to the front of the room, unplugged Kurt’s laptop, and plugged in his own. Palmer walked to Kurt.

“Hey, plans have changed. We aren’t going to hear about Pike’s status today. He’s inactive indefinitely.”

“What’s going on?”

“You heard about the missing military folks, right? This NSC staffer has the latest information.”

“How is that Taskforce business? Who gives a shit? I’m not going to let Pike rot because of some political crap.”

Palmer scowled at Kurt’s nonchalant attitude and said, “
Everyone
gives a shit. Pike’s done for now. Take a seat.”

Surprised at the ferocity of the reproach, Kurt nodded and joined George at the back of the room. The staffer turned on the projector and the room became silent. He waited a bit until the bulb settled and the computer had a signal, then cleared his throat, studiously avoiding the secretary of defense’s eyes. Palmer said, “Get it going. Give them the damage.”

The man cleared his throat again and said, “Gentlemen, it appears that our initial fears have been realized. This is not a coincidence or a
random act. An organization has targeted military relatives of key members of the United States government. Currently, we know this.”

He clicked a slide, and Kurt grew cold at the two headings.

KIA:

• Staff Sergeant Bryan Cransfield, Fort Bragg, North Carolina, nephew of Representative Duncan Cransfield, ranking member of the House Armed Services Committee
  

MIA:

• Lieutenant Colonel Travis Deleon, Brussels, Belgium, husband of Rachel Deleon, Governor of Texas
  
• Captain McKinley Clute and Lieutenant Kaelyn Clute, Okinawa, Japan, son and daughter of Easton Beau Clute, Chair of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence
  
• Airman First Class Curtis Oglethorpe, Soto Cano Air Base, Honduras, son of Mark Oglethorpe, Secretary of Defense
  

Next to each bullet was a picture of the missing person. Kurt saw the last name and picture, a smiling man in Air Force camouflage, and understood why the SECDEF had been so agitated when he’d entered. He caught George’s eye but said nothing.

Jonathan Billings, the secretary of state, said, “So the vice president’s son is okay? That was bad intelligence?”

Palmer said, “Unfortunately, no. That information is close-hold, so much so that nothing is being put on hard copy or electrons. Nick was an analyst at the NATO Intelligence Fusion Centre at RAF Molesworth, England.” He paused for a moment, going eye to eye with the men in the room, then said, “He’s missing as well, and if that leaks, I swear I’m going to cut someone’s nuts off.”

The D/CIA brushed aside the threat and said, “The NIFC? What did he do there?” He pronounced it
Nif-See
.

Billings said, “What’s the NIFC?”

“It’s the intelligence hub for NATO. They’re responsible for all operational targeting, both possible and actual.”

Palmer said, “He’s an Air Force weatherman. He provided predictive analysis for operations.”

“Shit. So he was read onto ongoing and planned missions?”

“Yes. I guess.”

“Well then, his being the vice president’s son may not be the worst of this. He’s like the guy in the mail room who knows everything going on in the corporation. He’s potentially got information in his head that could damage current operations worldwide, from Afghanistan to the Ukraine.” He leaned back into his chair and said, “What’s in that man’s head may be more important than who his father is.”

A
low murmur went through the room, then grew into a buzz. The young staffer remained silent. Alexander Palmer said, “Quiet. Let him continue. Give them what we think.”

The bureaucrat clicked a slide and Kurt read:

We value the sanctity of human life above all else, but the fact remains that if a person takes up arms against our nation, he becomes a threat to our way of life and will be dealt with, whether he’s a United States citizen or not. Rest assured, though, every operation is thoroughly reviewed and every person targeted is given the same due diligence whether he’s a foreign national or an American.

Beneath that quote was another.

I beg to differ. Not every life is the same. You kill people all over the world without any thought to the collateral damage. Farmers in Yemen, civilians in Pakistan, goat herders in Somalia, it’s all the same to you. What would it take to alter your behavior? Whose life is more valuable than the ones you target? It’s an interesting question, isn’t it? Perhaps we will see.

The staffer said, “Eight months ago the administration hosted a virtual town hall on the website Reddit. The last question asked dealt with our armed UAV program. The top quote is from the administration, given eight months ago. The bottom rejoinder appeared yesterday.”

The D/CIA said, “So you think this is connected?”

Palmer said, “We’re assuming so, and before you ask, the NSA is doing everything it can to identify the location of the message. They’ve
come up with nothing. Or more precisely, with about a hundred different possibilities. The sender covered his tracks well.”

“So, given the topic of the Reddit thread, we’re assuming an Islamic group?”

“Yes, for now.”

The D/CIA leaned back and said, “I don’t see it. This scope is too big. Too much ground to cover. Too much overt work that had to be done. There’s no Islamic group out there with the capability to conduct synchronized operations that span the globe. For one, they stick out too much. How are a bunch of Arabs going to do operational work on Okinawa? They would have been compromised. For another, they’re too fractured, especially with all of the internal fighting going on. We would have heard something.”

The SECDEF spoke up. “Well, there are two facts right now: One, they’re missing. Two, we
didn’t
hear anything. So what are we doing?”

His statement was calm and measured. Considering what was at stake for him personally, Kurt was impressed with the control.

“We’ve locked down anyone remotely believed to be a target, including redeploying two from the war zone in Afghanistan.”

Oglethorpe’s control fractured a smidgen. “Well, that’s great proactive work, but I meant, what the hell are we doing about the ones missing?”

Understanding the pressure, Palmer let the jibe go. “The president has made this priority number one for every single federal agency that might be of use. And that includes the Taskforce.”

Kurt popped his head up at the comment. Palmer saw the movement and said, “What?”

“Sir, that’s not what we do. We’re not a law enforcement investigative organization and we aren’t focused on hostage rescue. Our operations take months—sometimes years. This is going to be time sensitive, and forcing the issue will get us compromised. I understand the wish to do something, but you’re trying to use a flat-head screwdriver on a Phillips screw. It may do more harm than good.”

Palmer tapped his chin, then said, “What is your primary mission?”

“Counterterrorism. Preemptive activities against designated substate
groups with an end state of preventing harm to the homeland through long-term analysis and disruption.”

“Don’t give me that official doctrinal crap. You know what I mean. What do you
do
?”

Kurt pursed his lips, seeing where his question was leading. “Manhunting.”

“Exactly.”

“Sir, you know we’re tracking two separate threats coming out of Syria.” Kurt looked at the SECDEF. “I understand completely the feelings here, but if I divert to this mission, it may mean we lose the thread. It may mean we miss the ability to stop an attack. We’re putting five people’s lives ahead of possibly many, many more.”

Palmer rubbed his eyes, saying nothing. The SECDEF said, “Don’t make a decision about the Taskforce because of me. I’m recusing myself from the vote on this.”

Palmer said, “There is no voting this time around. This briefing is for information only. The Taskforce is going to dedicate all assets to recovering the five hostages. That’s from the president of the United States. Anyone has an issue with it, take it up with him.”

Kurt heard the words and felt a little disquieted by them. He believed President Warren to be a good and trusted man, but in one fell swoop he had just castrated the very council that was designed to keep the Taskforce in check. Designed for oversight, as the name implied.

Palmer focused directly on Kurt. “You’ll brief just like any other operation, letting the Oversight Council know what’s going on and gaining concurrence for operational activity, but you’re doing the mission.”

Kurt nodded, and after a little more discussion about the absence of any leads, the meeting broke up, the various members returning to their day jobs. Kurt held his tongue until he and George were back in the car and outside the gate. With the White House in the rearview mirror, he said, “What the hell just happened?”

George said, “I’d say the president is a little fired up about assholes taking our people.”

“Yeah, I get that, but we’re proving the terrorist on Reddit to be right. We just put five lives ahead of everything else. Shit, they fired Pike
for ignoring the Council, and now the president is ignoring the Council. It’s not good.”

“You’ve got his ear. You can talk to him.”

“No. Not yet. I’m not the neophyte you think I am in this world. He sent Palmer on purpose. He didn’t want to see me.”

George looked at him and smiled. “Very good, meat-eater. Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”

Kurt felt his phone vibrate with a text.
Call me. Please.

It was from Kathy, and his niece popped back in his mind, causing his stomach to sour. On the drive over he’d toyed with the idea of diverting Taskforce assets or maybe even a couple of Operators to England to see what they could find, but that was out of the question now.

George said, “Too bad we don’t have Pike in the lineup for this. He’s got a habit of stumbling into the heart of every bad thing.”

Kurt heard the words and dialed the phone.

“Who’re you calling?”

“Pike. I need someone to stumble onto some bad things.”