The Maverick Experiment (5 page)

“I really hate that you are going.”

“I know. I do, too.”

Derek began to walk back toward the kitchen. “I do have some good news, though.”

“Oh really? What is it?”

“Well, I was fooling around last night …”

“Oh believe me, I know that.”

“No I was fooling around before we were fooling around, and I got us a little surprise for the spring.”

“What?”

“Well, we are going on a little vacation later this spring. Nothing major, but I think it will be fun.”

“Really? Where?”

“How does Rome sound?”

Derek covered his ears as Heidi screamed in excitement from the bedroom. Within seconds, he was being hugged by his naked wife, who had the grin of a first-grader glued to her face.

“Are you serious?”

“I am serious.”

“That is so awesome. Thank you, baby, you are the best.” She kissed him and jumped in excitement.

“So can I offer the naked lady some coffee?”

The two stopped and looked at each other, realizing they were both naked in the kitchen, and laughed.

“Yes. Just give me one second. I am going to throw something on.” She turned and ran to the bedroom but turned back to kiss Derek one more time. “I love you.”

“I love you too, honey.”

Sunday, January 24
Everglades, Florida
Maverick Training Facility
0150 Hrs

A small light bulb in the corner of the hangar provided the only light for the team as they waited by their packs for the flight. Inside each pack were tactical clothes, communications gear, custom Maverick Series weapons, and an assortment of other gear that would be required on their assignment.

The plane would have the team's chutes and other necessary gear on board. The men had a long flight ahead of them and were not kitted up yet. Most were decked out in 5.11 tactical clothing in hopes of remaining comfortable for the journey. The jet would pick them up at the airfield and take them to Ramstein Air Base in Germany, their only stop. T e military would know a CIA jet was landing but would not be privy to
who was inside or what they were doing. This type of deal was arranged only at the senior level of leadership.

Several pops and the distinct hissing sound of flares ripped through the quiet night skies as red smoke and lights now illuminated the runway. The airfield had been notified by the pilot that they were in range. Men scrambled to prepare the strip. Landing on a short runway in the middle of the Everglades at night was no easy task, especially without good runway lights. The aircrew had done this before, though, and would have several more difficult missions ahead of them.

Derek had learned that Larry Tuttle, the owner of Osprey Aviation, was a longtime friend of the director and had served with him in the army. While the director had been a Special Forces operator, Tuttle had been a Special Operations pilot. He had served with the 160th, a unit dedicated to flying the most difficult missions.

Tuttle's connection to the director and Davenport had landed him a huge contract, and although his company flew cargo and personnel for other agencies, it would now have a section solely responsible for the Maverick Program and other hush-hush CIA operations. Tuttle's people were supposed to be the best; that was comforting for Derek and the team.

The jet touched down rather smoothly, given the conditions, and taxied to the hangar. Light from the cabin pierced the darkness as the jet door opened. The crew stepped down and walked toward Derek and his men.

“You Stevens?” the pilot said.

“I am.”

“You ready?”

“We are.”

“Alright, let's go. Get your stuff and get your men on board. ETD in ten minutes.”

The team grabbed their gear and headed toward the plane. As Derek shouldered his bag, Carlisle appeared out of the darkness of the hangar.

“Good luck out there, Derek.”

“Thanks. We'll be in touch once we hit the ground.”

“Sounds good. Get out of here.”

Derek hustled toward the plane and got on.

Sunday, January 24
33,000 feet
0800 Hrs (1400 Hrs Germany)

Derek blinked groggily and looked around. He had been sleeping with his head resting between the window and his seat. The back-and-forth travel had exhausted him and the other men. At least the jet was well furnished; every seat had a ton of legroom and was spread out to maximize comfort for the passengers.

Miller and Grimes were lying on a couch that lined one wall, watching a flat-screen TV on the opposite side. In the rear, Randy and Carson played cards at a deck-mounted table. Beyond the table was another couch and area with drinks and snacks, followed by benches in the rear and a ramp for loading equipment. This would be the exit point for the team. The men were flying in style, but the luxuries wouldn't last for long.

Carson screamed out, “Dude, you gotta be fucking kidding me! How'd you get that hand every fucking time?”

“I guess fortune is on my side tonight, bro,” Randy said, grinning. “Want me to make sure your chute is packed right? I'm not sure if I'd jump, if I were you.”

A beep sounded, and the captain's voice interrupted the exchange. “Just a quick update from the cabin. We are currently cruising at 33,000 feet and seem to have pretty good weather ahead of us. We should be reaching our first destination in about an hour and fifteen minutes. Sit back and enjoy the rest of your ride, and we will have you there shortly.”

Grimes sat up and asked Miller, “How long are we in Germany?”

“Not too long hopefully, but we want to be sure to not reach Pakistani air space during daylight. Once we take of it's about seven hours or so to our jump.”

“Gotcha.”

The team would be jumping into an area known as the FATA, the Federally Administered Tribal Area, in Pakistan. The FATA was perhaps one of the most dangerous places in the world. Pakistan did little to nothing to monitor the area and would not allow US forces inside to help. Te area had become a safe haven and training ground for the world's worst terrorists. Derek knew that if you picked just about anybody of the CIA's priority target list, he was either there now or had been there recently.

The team was to land in the FATA just east of the Afghan border near Nangarhar Province. In this area, the fabled Khyber Pass ran from Pakistan into Afghanistan. This was one of the several channels used by terrorists for entering Afghanistan to fight the infidels. It was extremely dangerous. The
team's plan was to skirt the Khyber Pass and cross the border just outside of Torkham, a border town on the Afghan side.

Sunday, January 24
Ramstein, Germany
Ramstein Air Base
1517 Hrs

The jet bounced hard as it landed at Ramstein.

The men stood and stretched as the aircraft taxied to an isolated area. A fuel truck followed and refilled the jet. Within twenty minutes, the pilot announced that the team would be departing shortly and asked the men to return to their seats.

“Hey, Derek, when you going to sack up and get into this card game?” called Randy.

Derek laughed. “I'll play a bit once we get in the air. There should be just enough time for me to take your money before we need to discuss our plans.”

“Oh, it's on, brother.”

Randy was a big-time gambler. Everyone in the intelligence community had a pet vice. For most, it was alcohol, and some preferred both alcohol and gambling, a nasty combination.

The jet took off. At this point, the mission was only seven hours away. What the hell is wrong with us? Derek wondered as he watched his men joking mercilessly with one another as if they were about to hit up a bar on Friday night.

It wasn't as though Derek was lacking a healthy level of anxiety, and there was little doubt that most of the men were
nervous, but they had all learned over time to just be confident and trust themselves and their teammates. Operating nervous only got people killed. Things would work out; they always had.

Sunday, January 24
Turkmenistan
40,000 feet
0130 Hrs

The jet glided above the desert and mountains of Turkmenistan. The team was now a little more than two hours out.

Derek threw down his cards and said, “Eat that, bitch.”

Randy's face looked shocked. Derek had dropped four jacks, easily beating his full house. Derek reached across the table and pulled in his winnings.

“I hope you have that kind of luck on this mission, man, because I will be in your hip pocket the whole time,” joked Randy.

“Me too. OK, time to get serious. Everyone listen up. We are getting close, so let's get together back here and go over this stuff.”

The men gathered in the rear of the plane.

“It's 0135 right now. We should be jumping at approximately 0320 according to the crew, so get your minds right. The rock-star fight is over; it's time to get ready to do our job. We all know where we are jumping. It's not pretty. It's extremely unlikely that we'll avoid resistance, so stay focused, and let's all look out for each other. Remember, we are not here to fight these guys, we don't want to. That's not our job. Leave that to the Pakistani military. Our objective is to get to Kabul and set up camp for a few days. Perhaps we will be back in the FATA to play at some point, but step one is find a home and wait for our next objective. Understood?”

The men nodded as Derek continued, “Now, we packed light for a reason. We don't plan on being here too long, and we need to be mobile. So if there is anything in your pack you don't need, take it out and leave it here. Cool?”

The men nodded again.

“I know we are doing it no matter what, and that's cool,” said Grimes, “but why, again, are we jumping into the FATA, if our objective is to get to Kabul?”

“We can't land in Kabul. Te agency and military know everyone who lands there, and we have no explanation for why we are here. Te FATA has no US presence and far less visibility than anywhere in Afghanistan. I can't answer beyond that because I tend to agree with you. I am not 100 percent certain as to why it's being done this way. My only guess is we will get hands-on experience in the FATA, something hardly anyone has, and we may go back there for something. Who knows?”

Randy chimed in, “So wait, back to the packing, do I need my bathing suit or not? I am confused.”

Derek stared at Randy, trying not to laugh. “Yes. Bring it. Alright, let's get ready.”

The drop zone was in a snow-covered, mountainous region. From past experience Derek knew that while certain regions of Afghanistan and Pakistan got extremely hot in the summer, Afghanistan was rife with steep hillsides and towering mountains. The Hindu Kush mountain range, home to K2, the world's second highest peak, ran through the region.

The team dispersed and began to open their packs and put on the necessary gear. The majority of the men put on their tactical rigger's belts, which housed the drop-leg holsters for their Maverick Series Glock 22 .40-caliber pistols with Tim-berwolf frames. However, a couple wore their pistols on their chest rigs. In order to maintain plausible deniability, the Maverick Program had procured its own custom weapons systems through commercial venders, vice the agency's armory. Their kits, or plated vests, had a webbing system that accommodated several extended Maverick Series magazines for their Maverick AR-15 assault rifles. While the traditional AR-15 magazine holds thirty rounds, the Maverick version held fifty-five for sustained combat situations. Each member had a medical kit on his person in addition to a knife, chemical lights, a Garmin GPS, a strobe light for emergencies, and communications gear. Their heads were outfitted with light ProTec helmets that included night-vision goggles and earpieces for their radios. The only thing missing was their chutes. They moved to the jet's exit point and began getting rigged up for the jump. They would need a substantial bit of time with their oxygen masks on before the jump to avoid getting sick. Breathing the pure oxygen from their masks would remove the nitrogen from
their bodies and help prevent them from getting the bends during the fall.

Time crawled by as the men sat quietly in their gear, waiting for the signal. At last, the flight attendant approached Derek and gave him the signal for two minutes.

Derek returned a thumbs up and turned to forward the message to his men. They got up and moved to the ramp.

The door began to open. An onward hand motion came from the flight attendant, and the first man was out the door, speeding at nearly two hundred miles per hour toward the FATA.

As the team hurtled through the pitch-black sky, Derek thought to himself how crazy he and his men must be to go along with such a mission. War zones were intense enough with a vast combat and logistical support system in place; Derek and his team would have no such thing. They just had each other and their instincts, which he hoped would be good enough to help them survive.

When Derek touched down, he tumbled for a few feet and finally stopped. It was a rough landing, and it didn't help that the surface, like much of the region, was the base of a hillside.

The rest of the team hit the ground, with many having the same results. Derek quickly released himself from his chute and readied his weapon. The men took cover and waited for instructions.

The team was dressed in local garb over their helmets, vests, and weaponry, and most had grown their beards to fit in with locals, at least at first glance.

In Derek's experience, when on an operation, adapting to the local surroundings often gave you the precious few seconds needed to avoid being caught in a difficult situation. It
took fractions of a second for spotters to identify Westerners driving high-end SUVs wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses or sports caps.

All team members were equipped with their suppressed MS AR-15 assault rifles, a version the team members had designed and modified themselves, and an assortment of other weapons and gear. Carson and Randy had M203 grenade launchers fixed on their rifles for a little extra punch. Derek's eyes adjusted and he scanned the area through his night-vision goggles for any unfriendly company. Nothing moving. All he could see was the breath of his men feathering out on the cold, dark night. A few hundred meters away, scattered lights illuminated what seemed to be a small village, but they had most certainly landed out of sight. Still, to be on the safe side, Derek stood and motioned for his men to follow. If they had been seen, it wouldn't be long before enemy fighters would be on their trail.

The men fell in behind Derek, keeping a three-meter spread between them as they started their ascent up the first of what would be many hillsides.

The men cautiously climbed the hill, stopping every so often to survey the area ahead and to be sure nothing was out of the ordinary. Their elevation was increasing with each step, and so was the difficulty of the terrain. As they ascended further, the ground was covered with snow.

Much of the year, the hills and mountains in the region were snowcapped at higher elevations, while a more dry and austere environment plagued the low ground.

Derek came to an abrupt halt and hit a knee, signaling the others to stop. He peered ahead carefully. Voices began to
emerge from the silence of the night, and he motioned for his team to take cover.

Fifteen meters ahead, a father walked with his young son along the hill, chatting.

The men remained silent and crouched in their cover, hoping the two would pass without noticing. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the two had moved along without discovering Derek and his men. The team slowly stood and continued up the hill.

Derek whispered into his throat piece, “Stay sharp, guys. That boy was just as likely to open up on us as anyone else here.”

Grimes chimed in. “That's what makes this place so special. Even the kids try and kill you.”

The team was in a place where hatred toward Westerners was preached fervently at local madrasas and mosques. Children learned to hate Americans, or infidels as they were usually called, from an early age.

The men continued on for nearly an hour before they reached another small village.

Derek signaled the men to move forward to a small compound where a few vehicles were parked. Randy and Grimes scurried on and silently secured a four-door Toyota Hilux truck while the rest of the team set up a perimeter.

Little time had passed before Randy flashed his infrared light to the rest of the team, signifying the vehicle was ready. One by one, the men converged on the vehicle and piled in. Because of their heavy equipment load, three men piled into the cab of the truck, and Miller and Carson lay prone in the bed.

They took of toward their destination, the border of Afghanistan. They were close, but sunlight was rapidly
approaching. If they were lucky, they would have another hour—an hour and a half, tops.

They cruised, mostly of road, for forty-five minutes before reaching their first obstacle, a checkpoint. Derek grabbed Randy's arm and told him to slow down. “We have a checkpoint ahead.”

Randy eased up on the pedal and notified the men in the back of the truck via his throat piece, “Three, this is Two. Be advised we have a checkpoint up ahead. Keep your heads down. Will advise of any further actions. Over.”

“Two, this is Three. That's a good copy. Standing by.”

The rules of engagement, as described by Carlisle before leaving, were weapons free on Taliban or other enemy fighters. However, they were only to fire if fired upon when encountering government officials, whether Afghan or Pakistani. It was too early to tell who was manning the post ahead. The problem in this case was that Americans were not supposed to be on Pakistani soil without the express approval of the Pakistani government.

From afar, the checkpoint didn't seem to be overly formal. Taliban, thought Derek. He grabbed his throat piece and spoke. “Weapons hot, boys. This doesn't look official.”

“And if it is?” asked Grimes.

“Well, I don't believe this can be a documented stop, because we aren't here.”

“Hey boss, I actually think it is official, Pakistani military.”

“What are they doing out here? I thought they had left this place. Alright, slow up even more for a second.”

The vehicle slowed.

“Gonna have to go with plan B here, guys. Make it look good,” uttered Derek. “Miller, roll off and wait for my order.”

Miller rolled of the back of the vehicle into the darkness before they were too close and scurried to the side of the road. The vehicle continued ahead, and Randy dimmed its lights as they approached the checkpoint.

“Be sure to let us know who you are looking at, Miller!” Randy hissed into his throat piece.

The vehicle crawled for the last forty meters, which only made the Pakistani soldiers more anxious. Derek and his men could now hear yells from the soldiers as they drew their weapons down and aimed at Derek and his men. One of the soldiers ran ahead, ordering them to approach the checkpoint, and fired a round into the air.

“Miller, what's your status?” asked Derek.

“Working here, boss. Give me thirty seconds,” whispered Miller.

It had appeared, though it was hard to tell, that there were about six soldiers at the small checkpoint.

As the team pulled up in the truck, the man who had screamed and fired into the air approached the vehicle from the front.

“Ready. Eyes on the tango approaching your vehicle,” whispered Miller.

“Roger. Carson, when I get out, you send these boys a care package. Miller, strike on our go.”

Derek exited the vehicle with his hands in the air. Just as he did, Carson stood and lobbed a flash-bang into the group from the truck bed as Miller's shot ripped through the approaching soldier's head. The remainder of the soldiers were blinded and eliminated within seconds. Carson quickly approached a downed Pakistani and took his weapons. He had been working
in Special Operations with the SEALs for eighteen years and brought the most tactical experience to the team. While Randy and Miller brought great talent, they had far less experience. He handed the Makarov pistol to Randy and kept the AK-47 for himself. “We are keeping this shit, right?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” replied Derek. “Take what you can, and let's get going.”

“Hey, man, thanks for the Makarov,” joked Randy as he tossed it to the side. “I'm not keeping that shit.”

“I'm here for you, brother,” laughed Carson as the men piled back into the truck.

The vehicle sped off toward the border with the sun beginning to rise behind them.

“We going to see any more checkpoints at the border?” laughed Miller.

“No, I think we are good. We weren't supposed to see that one, though, so stay focused. Imagery shows a clear path into Afghanistan from here,” replied Derek.

“Hell, we may even be in Afghanistan now. There aren't any Welcome to Afghanistan signs,” exclaimed Carson.

“True. We are close. What do we have on the GPS, Grimes?” asked Derek.

“Says we are going to cross the border in about two clicks.”