One Rough Man (3 page)

“Yeah. Azzam something-or-other?”

“That’s him. Well, you know we got execute authority for Jordan, but the target’s gone to Tbilisi, Georgia. Ordinarily, I’d just recommend sitting in Jordan with the team in place and waiting on him to return, but I think we need to go after him in Georgia.”

“Why? What’s the rush?”

“We think he’s trying to get nuclear material.”

W
hy would the target leave so soon?
I called Bull. “What happened?”

“Don’t know. Maybe Knuckles spooked him, but he’s leaving.”

“Keep on the trailer and let me know if he moves. Retro, be prepared to go either way. If the trailer’s a ghost, take the target on my command.”

“Roger.”

Bull came back on. “Trailer’s paying his bill.”

I felt the sweat start to build. This was going to be close. I had about a ten-second window to trigger the assault on the target—or pull off the assault team and wait for the trailer.

“Roger all. Showtime.”

I exited my car and headed in the direction the target had habitually gone. If he went the other way, the whole thing was off anyway. Knuckles came on. “Target just passed, no deviation.”

Bull said, “Trailer’s going the same way.”

“How far back?” I had to make sure the target was out of eyesight of the takedown. If he saw us thump the trailer, he’d haul ass.

“You’re good. About a hundred meters. If the target follows his pattern, he’ll be out of sight by the time the trailer’s in the kill zone.”

I posted on the corner of the narrow road the target had always turned down, on the other side of the street that he habitually used. From here, I could keep an eye on him without having him pass right by me. We had picked this location because there wasn’t any parking at all on the side road, with the exception of one handicapped spot midway down the street, currently occupied by a van. No parking meant little to no foot traffic, and no witnesses. Once he was on that road, we could take him out. I couldn’t see the trailer, which was good. The target turned the corner, heading down the street away from me, right into the kill zone. I had about five more seconds to confirm Baldy wasn’t a ghost.

“Bull, where the hell’s the trailer? I don’t see him.”

“He’s on your side of the street, about forty meters away.”

Shit.
Of course he wouldn’t walk right behind the guy. He was about to bump into me. I started walking away, calling Retro as I went.

“Retro, Retro, let the target go. I say again, let the target go. Knuckles, stay on him.”

Both acknowledged.

“Bull, I can’t turn around. Tell me when the trailer turns the corner.”

I kept walking at a slow pace, starting to wonder if time had stopped. Finally, Bull confirmed Baldy had his back to me. His call was immediately followed by Knuckles.

“Target’s stopped. He can still see the kill zone.”

I turned around and saw the trailer stop as well, proving what he was after. “No issue. Let me know when he moves. Retro, get ready.”

“Okay. He’s moving. Kill zone’s clear.”

“Roger that. Retro, you have execute authority. Bull, Knuckles, the garage is yours. Haul ass.”

I watched the trailer walk down the sidewalk, approaching the van. A man exited the driver side and moved to the sliding door adjacent to the sidewalk. He opened it to reveal another man in a wheelchair. Both began struggling to get the wheelchair onto the sidewalk, with the chairbound man doing what he could to help. When Baldy came abreast of the sliding door the driver asked him for help. He agreed and leaned into the van to get the right side of the wheelchair. When his neck was level with the top of the wheelchair, the man in the chair miraculously wrapped his legs around the target’s waist and crossed his hands, grabbing the man’s right and left collar and violently pulling out. I watched the target try to react as the operator scissored the fabric of the man’s shirt into his neck, cutting off his blood flow and choking him out. While they were locked in the embrace, the driver simply pushed the wheelchair into the van and closed the door.
Man, that was probably a surprise.

Retro came on shortly after. “We got him. He’s down.”

“Roger. Knuckles, you copy?”

“Yeah, we’re on the way. Should beat the target to the garage by a few minutes.”

“Good to go.”

“You’d better hope that fucking beacon works.”

P
resident Warren took a moment to process what Kurt had said, then asked the obvious question: “What do you mean by nuclear? He has a bomb?”

“No, nothing like that. We think he’s attempting to get some radiological waste from a contact in Chechnya. But, as you know, that would be bad enough. Setting off a dirty bomb would cause incredible panic.”

“Panic would be the least of our concerns. It could render whole blocks of city into a dead zone. Even if we could clean it up, we would never be able to convince anyone the area was safe. The economic impact would be huge.”

Kurt smiled. “I’m glad you see it that way, sir. Since the target’s changed location, I no longer have execute authority. I need to brief the Oversight Council tomorrow and was hoping for some help.”

Even though Kurt had been given carte blanche to create Project Prometheus, he was cautious in its construction. He knew it went against everything that the United States stood for, and such activities in every country in history had ended up repressing the very people they were ostensibly designed to protect, something he’d promised Warren, and himself, would not happen. To that end, he worked with the National Command Authority to develop the Oversight Council, made up of thirteen people, including the president. They were the only ones who knew of the Taskforce’s existence, and they approved every mission as a single body. All the council members were either in the executive branch of government or private citizens. None came from the legislative branch. Kurt had worked very hard to ensure the right people were chosen. He didn’t mind members who were leery of the unit and its mission—in fact he welcomed them—but wanted to take politics out of the equation. He only needed a body that fully understood the threat and the implications of action. He almost achieved his goal.

President Warren said, “Well, you’re on your own there. You were the one who specifically asked that my vote not have any more weight than any others. I can’t throw my weight around for a specific target. It would set a dangerous precedent and defeat the whole purpose of the council.”

“I wasn’t referring to the council as a whole. I’m talking about Standish.”

Out of the thirteen council members, Harold Standish was the only one who had absolutely no experience in anything related to what he was overseeing. No foreign-policy, intelligence, military, or any other experience that would give him the ability to make qualified judgments on Taskforce activities. That didn’t stop him from thinking he knew better than anyone else, including the president. Given a do-nothing political appointment to the National Security Council by the president, Standish had taken the job and turned it into something dangerous.

He had created what he called the “Deputy Committee for Special Activities.” Kurt thought it should be called the “Deputy Committee for fucking with anything I want,” because Standish provided no useful service but had his fingers into every covert operation the U.S. undertook. DEA, DIA, CIA, you name it. And now, using his position in the NSC, he was involved with Prometheus.

Kurt saw the president bristle but plowed ahead. “Come on, sir, you can’t think he’s an asset for this kind of work. I don’t understand why the hell you appointed him to anything in the first place.”

“Slow down. Not everyone gets to live in the black-and-white world of the military. The political world has its own unique laws. I agree that Standish is a weasel, but that weasel played a significant part in getting me elected. He can just as easily play a significant part in hurting my administration. Prometheus isn’t the only thing on my plate.”

“Jesus, sir, listen to yourself. You’d let a weasel in on the most secret things in the U.S. arsenal? I’m telling you Standish is a threat. He needs to be reined in.”

Kurt saw the president’s face cloud over and knew he had overstepped his bounds. “Kurt, I didn’t get to this position by being blind. I’ve seen Standish’s type over and over again. He’s power hungry, but he does have his uses. Just deal with him, and remember—if it wasn’t for his work, there would be no Project Prometheus, because I wouldn’t be president.”

Kurt started to say something else, but the president held up his hand. “That’s it. End of discussion. I’ll have Palmer keep him in check, but I’m not going to fire him.”

Kurt backed off. “Okay, sir. But the immediate problem is the guy in Tbilisi. No telling what Standish is going to say about that. He’ll probably only agree if we say we’re going to smoke every Arab within twenty miles.”

Warren laughed. “Come on. He isn’t that bad, and he’s only one vote. Who’s in the hopper for the mission?”

“Pike’s team. He doesn’t know it yet, but I’m recalling him now.”

Kurt had handpicked every member of Prometheus, and the president had made it a personal duty to meet every one of them. He knew Pike, which meant he knew his reputation.

“And you’re worried about Standish. I’ve never seen Pike’s team do anything without drama.”

“Yeah, but he’s the only one with a perfect record.” Kurt smiled. “Terrorists can run from him, but they just die tired.”

“Well, there you go. Let me handle Standish. You handle the terrorists. It’s worked pretty well so far. We haven’t had another major attack in close to ten years.”

Kurt grew somber. “Don’t kid yourself, sir. We’ve been lucky. Ever since 9/11 we’ve been hunting terrorists more concerned with their place in history than conducting a well-thought-out attack. They’ve been happy just to shove some explosives in their underwear. This guy getting so close to radiological material scares the shit out of me. Some lone wolf gets his hands on WMD and his place in history won’t have to be well thought out.”

“I know. It keeps me up at night, too, trust me.”

“What keeps me up at night is another Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. Someone who understands the second- and third-order effects of an attack and has the patience and skill to make it happen. Someone who isn’t satisfied with just bringing down a single airplane.”

Kurt went to the windows overlooking the Oval Office patio. “That man is out there. Planning right now. Studying our weaknesses. If he gets his hands on a weapon of mass destruction, we’ll learn the real meaning of terror.”

K
nuckles was coordinating the garage hit when I felt my pager vibrate in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw a word I never would have expected: ENDEX.
Huh. That’s never happened before
.

We were on our culmination exercise, something that was considered sacred. This was the final exercise after three months of working out tactics, techniques, and procedures before deploying overseas on a specific mission. Now we were being ordered back in the middle of our last training run. It’s like someone telling the Super Bowl team that they had to vacate the field on their final practice before the game.

“Break—break—break. All elements, all elements, this is Pike. ENDEX, ENDEX, ENDEX. We got an alert. Return to home. Head straight to the conference room. Acknowledge.”

Four of them replied with their call sign and a simple “Roger.” Knuckles was last, and I knew I wasn’t getting a one-word response.

“ENDEX? What the hell? We won’t get an ENDEX in a real-world situation.”

I smiled, knowing he had spent the better part of the day dressed like a homeless man, stinking of whatever disgusting filth he could find to smear on his body. “I hear you. I just got paged. I don’t know what it’s about. I’ll swing by and pick you up. I don’t think anyone else wants to ride with you.”

Before Knuckles could answer there was a chorus of calls claiming their cars were full or they were already moving. He finally broke in. “Okay. Fine. What about the Rabbit? What do you want to do with him, turn him loose?”

“No. Bring him along. I don’t know what the page is about, but we might be able to pick up where we left off. No sense burning the team by letting him go.”

Knuckles acknowledged the call, then gave directions where to find him. He was only a couple of blocks away. I cranked up the car and pulled into traffic. I rounded the corner and spotted him a block away. He was standing two streets up holding a cardboard sign that said: “Homeless Veteran. Will work for someone who understands what’s important.” I pulled over, allowing him to climb in.

“Funny sign. Unfunny stench. Maybe you should take the Metro.”

“Ha ha.” Knuckles was silent for a minute, which told me he was pissed. I was unsure whether it was the exercise or the page, but he didn’t waste any time leaving me wondering.

“What the fuck was that call back there about tagging the target? Dumbest damn thing I’ve ever heard. There was no reason to do that. It’s not like we were in a Jack Bauer scenario.”

“I know, but these exercises never have a guy carrying a nuke. We never get pressure to get it done at all costs. I decided to make it a Jack Bauer scenario—see how the team reacts. We don’t want that to happen on a real-world without doing it once in practice.”

“Yeah, sure. There’s a reason Jack Bauer’s on TV. It doesn’t happen real-world. You pull that shit on a live mission and we’re spending the rest of our lives in a shithole foreign jail.”

“Ease up. It’s better to be prepared.”

Knuckles switched the subject, telling me he was good. “What’s the story? We’ve never had a culmination exercise called off. We’re due to deploy in five days and we haven’t even worked the kinks out of the new kit.”