by J. T. Patten
Now that he was more than technically a ghost, Sebastian would have hopefully thought about how to make introductions and assure full backstopping.
But as Drake rounded the rough drywalled corner, he wouldn’t have been more surprised to see dogs sitting around the team table playing poker and sipping 7-Eleven Slurpees from a straw. There were just three of them. Sebastian. A woman, Middle Eastern from what he could tell, wearing a headscarf. And across from her, another Middle…no, it was a Sikh. Indian.
What the fuck? is what played in his mind. And for the first time, his head voices were silent. Maybe the shock, maybe the extra dose of meds. This is a deep cover black ops team? Drake thought.
No way. This was fucking international night at the community center minus cultural hors d’oeuvres. Total joke. A Scot, a Persian, and an Indian walk into Danny’s Palm Bar and Grill in San Diego…
The woman before Drake had a reddish iced drink in a large clear Starbucks cup. Her turban-wearing cohort had what looked to be a milkshake or frozen coffee drink in a similar plastic container. Sebastian sat with a shit-eating grin on his face. The Scot-born Brit had a small white Starbucks cup with the writing “Chai Skim” in one hand and his other outstretched, presenting the sorry sight sitting in all its shitty splendor.
“Good. No mess,” Sebastian said to Drake. “That means we’re carrying on like soldiers.” Sebastian spoke the words to Drake with a voice of venom, followed by a nod and stiff lower lip over a jutting chin. “I’d like to introduce you to the task force, D.”
D? Drake questioned to himself, realizing Sebastian had not yet established an alias for Drake. Nor had Drake looked at the new cover docs. Amateur hour. Himself included.
The Sikh stood, taking his drink with him as if the Arab sitting to his right was going to steal a sip. He was tall. Maybe six foot six. Well groomed. His shoulders were wide. He could have been a football player, but his gut said pizza and potato chips. His eyelids or lashes were so dark that Drake squinted as the guy approached to see if they had makeup. “I’m Mojo,” he introduced with no discernable accent. Mojo extended a large hand and executed an anaconda-crushing handshake that surprised Woolf.
Mojo leaned in, causing Drake to pull back. The younger man mouthed, “I knew your uncle,” and beamed a friendly smile and a wink. Mojo motioned back toward the, for lack of better words, open-concept kitchen or break room table behind them against an exterior wall. “We didn’t know what you wanted, so we brought you a black coffee. I think it is the Sumatra blend.” He turned to the woman. “Did you get Sumatra or Colombia Medium?”
“Sumatra.” She visibly cringed. Her response was sharp. Her accent and enunciation, just in a word and from what he heard in the background before was now in context of the Iranians Drake had been dealing with in the field, indicated she was Persian. Drake assessed her as Mojo rambled on about the other coffee being a vanilla latte, and that they had cream and sugar. The guy sounded more like a surfer or skater dude than he appeared outwardly. He was a fucking tool, but Drake suspected he was brilliant. It looked to Woolf like the Persian would agree with the tool judgment based on how her appearance of discomfort and agitation grew the longer the guy spoke.
The Persian cast an eye to Sebastian.
Yep. She was about to explode. But was she uncomfortable for Drake, or herself? It was clear that this chick had some serious fire inside. Then again, most Persians and other Middle Eastern women Drake had met over the years all had the capacity for some serious nuclear unleashing when provoked.
The woman pushed her chair back. Drake wondered what her hair looked like under the scarf. Short or long. Probably long. She definitely wore eye makeup, with the fashion trend that made her look catlike. Her nose was longer than average. Roman. She was tall, too. Not like Halliday, but probably five foot six or seven. Thin. Not unattractive by any means. Conservative in dress.
She approached Drake, leaving her drink behind. Keeping hands at the side, she said, taking a sharp breath, “Mena. Foreign affairs analyst, senior analyst team chief for the DIA before leading a section within the Agency’s Persia House. I’ve degrees from Georgetown’s terrorism and nuclear proliferation studies, American University in political science, and Princeton international relations. I’ve studied at the National Defense University for my master’s in strategic intelligence, as well.” She extended her hand after the biographical sketch.
Drake took her long fingers in firmly. “Thanks for the resume. Any sports?”
She stammered as if being told she left out a letter during the national spelling bee championship. “I don’t understand.”
“Exactly.” You’re a fucking tool, too.
Tool, tool, and a go-take-the-hill-at-any-cost asshole. Drake shrugged to Sebastian. “What gives, Chief?”
“Can you sit with us a moment?” Sebastian motioned toward the back counter. “Take a coffee and just listen, if you will.”
Drake headed for the joe. “I’m listening,” he called back.
“We can wait another minute. The discussion requires full attention—of the team.”
Woolf gave his senior the appropriate level of respect, grabbing the closest coffee cup, and quickly took his seat. This was going to be good. Drake didn’t have to like his situation, but his career was honed within the time-honored traditions of respecting superior officers, or at least the appearance when situations suited. His uncle, OT, had quite literally beat that into Drake.
“Let me start by saying Mojo is read in to this effort since day one. He has primarily worked with NSA Special Source Operations in the Enviro Analysis branch. With your approval, I would like to add Mena. She is an authority on our situation, and I feel she could help you. She has met your other two colleagues and assisted in some of the initial analysis and planning.”
Ah, the one that almost got us killed. Check. Drake brushed his palms together in agitation but said nothing. He expected his head voices to be screaming in protest, but they remained silent. “Fine. I’m listening,” he defended sharply, not meaning to snap so aggressively. “Sorry. First coffee.”
“Okay, great. Our situation is this. We’ve attained message traffic that coincides with reports of stolen radiological agents from the University of Chicago. What news media has not been privy to, nor uncovered at this juncture, is the dreadful nature of the radiological agent.”
“Let me guess. It’s the most powerful weapon ever developed that will wipe out the entire Eastern Seaboard if we don’t stop it within the next twenty-four hours.”
The table glared at Drake.
“I’ll shut up.” Drake took a large pull of his coffee. He was off. More hostile and argumentative than normal. He didn’t mean to try to pick a fight.
“D. It is indeed weaponized. Quite deadly, but it has what the experts call a short half-life. Or duration to cause affliction.”
“Got it.”
“The person of interest is a Venezuelan student, who has not yet been located. We assume by his prior communications that he has been using another device for communications. From the social linkages and background information we have received through the NCTC, his extended family had mid-level leadership positions within Hezbollah.”
“Was he recruited back in?”
“We’re still developing this,” Sebastian elaborated. “However, what we do know is that his grandfather was suspected of being a double agent in Lebanon working for the Israelis. He martyred himself in an explosion that killed a number of Israeli soldiers. Intelligence reports, going back some time now, asserted he may have been trying to reclaim honor and clear the family name. The family moved to Venezuela before that time. We have no intelligence on the suspect’s family in Venezuela due to a lack of collection priorities and frankly the black box to operate there in past years. In his last known activities, we find no physical training evidence, no communications seeking advice or t
arget talk. No weapons training. No unusual financial patterns. No pretext to travel. Essentially, his affairs are in order with no plane tickets or luggage purchase. He is today’s young terrorist. Lazy and entitled.”
A question formed on Woolf’s lips.
Mojo jumped in. “You want to know what we’ve been looking at to find this out. We have a system that is, as I am sure you are aware, capable of passive and active SIGINT collection systems interception. VoIP traffic is processed through TURMOIL’s HAMMERCHANT module, and digital telephony through CONVEYANCE. Those systems are interconnected through a number of databases for mission system interfaces and data repositories. In particular…”
“Stop. Mojo, right?” Drake continued with affirmation. “I know how the NSA components, selectors, cross-feeding databases, and programs work.”
“Right.” Mojo started again, his words working as rapidly as his hand movements, which looked like they were signing for the deaf at an Eminem concert. “Basically, once we knew where his location typically was, we triangulated other communication devices in and around that same, well, more precise location, like, exactly where that fucker was at all times. Right? Call chaining and data diodes between high and low sides of a network. We use CRAYONBAD Co-Traveler Analytics to develop more targets that are unknown associates who may be traveling with or meeting our known target. Then I do a little magic with Thunderbunny, Wireshark, and Splunk.”
Mena closed her eyes and took a deep breath with her palms on the table and fingers spread out in silent screams.
Mojo continued his rambling, “…and then overlaid it with other communications of interest and those actors around the world, ya know some Low-Level Voice Intercept teams humping Wolfhounds, got the King Air suckers, do a lil’ Splunk data sorting, then…”
The Persian’s eyes shot open. “Goddammit, Manmeet, just tell him we think he was talking to Hezbollah in South America, people at the Venezuelan embassy, and those people are talking to the Iranians, for God’s sake,” Mena blurted.
“Jeezus,” Mojo responded, then shut his Admiral Analyst mouth feed.
Drake softened with a grin, turning his own hand up from the table to a thumbs-up to Mena. “Any target identified yet?”
Sebastian pursed his lips and shook his head no. “The United States is a target-rich environment. It could be anywhere. We have some good intel but don’t want to exclude anything. Still chatter on the lower East Coast, but nothing in the past twenty-four hours. Some still in Chicago, but that has also reduced in frequency and endpoints.” He shrugged.
Mojo stole the floor while Sebastian’s remarks set in. “There’s the most likely connection there, especially with the theft. I’ve just last night put in the prospects for lat and long location data, GCID to compute date, time, locations, and movements. Collectively based on functional relevance. Also tabbing closeness for frequent power-downs and handset swapping. But you know, prior, terrorists have been technically challenged getting WMD in-country. Whether you Americans, well we, have just beaten the odds or whether WMD acquisition has been out of their reach short of a few scenarios…”
Sebastian raised his hand and put a finger on his lips. “Shhh.”
Mena added her two cents while Mojo was silenced. “Any attack could cause mass disruption and anxiety. The compounds stolen are likely not at a size or complexity to reach catastrophic threshold, to your earlier remark.”
“I was kidding before, but tell that to the family of the first person who dies, to the news media that overreacts, or to the market crash,” Drake tossed out. “Just for starters.”
“True,” she conceded, “but from a national threat standpoint, this isn’t a high priority given the safety mechanisms the administration has in place. Most powerful radionuclides can be detected with radiation systems at ports of entry and exit or international borders. Our hypothesis is that this may remain in Chicago. I have my own belief that—”
Mojo jumped in, “Our fear is of an indiscriminate, relative mass-casualty violent event. Like face-peeling shit on CNN. You know. Like fucking babies dead in the street like our own version of Syria.” Mojo tilted his head, bulged his eyes and stuck out his tongue.
“God, Mojo.” Mena choked in disgust. “As I was starting to say, I believe that—”
Sebastian interrupted, “Mena”—he smiled politely—“I know what you’re going to say, and let’s stick to facts.”
Mena’s dark eyebrows pointed down her beaklike nose to tightening lips. “It’s important to mention the—”
Sebastian double-tapped her with a shooting look that killed whatever she was going to say.
“Okay. Who do we need kill to stop this? The student?” Drake pressed to Sebastian. “And aside from the theft of radioactive material in Chicago, I’m assuming you have tied the Iranians that we’ve been hunting to this and to the Venezuelan consulates in the US from the drone footage I saved from our last pursuit…” He shot a look to Sebastian. “I’m assuming they aren’t read in to that, so I’ll leave that alone. But bottom line, if you are bringing it to me, it means the WMD factors for homeland don’t matter. You know the people, they have the material, the money doesn’t matter so fuck following it, and you’ve got the SIGINT to get all the data and knowledge and orders with all the lines of communication that you can eat. But since you don’t know what infrastructure they are going to attack, you need someone dead fast. And going through the motions of calling the FBI to do legal wire taps will be too late for a year-long approach. Am I right? You just want the Chicago players taken out.”
Mena shot a cross look to Woolf as if she just heard Celine Dion was leaving Las Vegas and girls’ weekend was canceled. “What are you saying? You have no idea what they are capable of. Sebastian. Tell him. This isn’t about killing. I can’t believe—”
“Let me stop you there, sister. This isn’t coffee shop poetry night.” Woolf’s hand was raised and jutting out in full Heisman-trophy extension. His rear communication knife hand was locked and loaded for the next point. “What do you do in the absence of knowledge when a major threat persists?”
Flummoxed, Mena answered as if it was an academic question. She started with the intelligence cycle. “First you do your collection, your—”
“No.” Drake paused for a second before the onslaught of head voices slowed his ability to articulate himself without interruption. Still they were silent, but his frustration was growing. “Mena, this isn’t a policy issue. It’s counterterrorism. The strategic intel phase is done when you walk into this shop. This is targeting. Tactical. Kinetic response. We kill who we can in war. If you’re here in this building, and you want to be part of what we do, you need to come to the realization that I am only here to hunt down and kill whatever is out there in the forest.” He paused for emphasis. “Nonviolent war is diplomacy. I’m no diplomat. I just want this done.”
Mena remained blank.
Drake figured she was thinking of a rebuttal, so best end this now. “Let me say this another way from a seasoned intelligence community voice. When people come to me, they either ask me to develop the whole target package from scratch or they give me one. I would expect you to have a target. I need to know everything about him. This unit is about signals and HUMINT. So, the bottom line is, just tell me where he lives, who he calls. Does he email, text, Snapchat, Skype, WhatsApp? Tell me about Chicago. Who would handle administration, logistics, security for a cell? Is an emir involved? We need signatures of their movements and communications. Their pattern of life. Target package. BBC. Whatever you want to call it. Red bull’s-eye to snuff. AFO reconnaissance and surveillance clock has counted down to zero. You’ve given Sebastian an intelligence picture. From there, he committed me as the resource to confirm battlespace conditions with steel and gunpowder. Off the books threat elimination.”
Mena looked down.
Mojo’s face showed a good poker hand. May
be even a smile. If he worked with OT, he was waist-deep in the dark mire. Drake left him alone. The guy was a dork and annoying, but he was analyst as fuck. He could stay.
“Sebastian?”
“Yes. That is an accurate view. And Mr. Singh here has much of what you require of our Lebanese target and his Venezuelan compatriots. But Ms. Shabpareh…” Sebastian reached over and touched her hand, which she retracted. “Drake raises a good point. While I know you can appreciate the notion of this being a gray-zone conflict, and that the aggressors are more than willing to accept terror, covert action, and subversion, it may come down to elimination and not just collection.” He guided a stern look of disappointment to her. “I thought you understood this.”
“Sebastian, you said that I would be accompanying a SIGINT specialist to Chicago to help identify and assess—”
“Hold the fuck up. No. No, no, no, no, no. No!” Drake slapped the table. “No fucking way!”
Mena postured. “I can assure you—”
Drake popped up from his chair and lurched with both hands coming down heavy before him. Let’s see what this bitch is made of. The inner voice was Drake.
Mena was a statue. Not even a blink.
Mojo reacted with a shout and dropped his coffee, which exploded on the table, sending ice sliding across.
“Assure me what?” Fucking kill this cold bitch. Again. Drake. “You’re…a goddamned virgin…telling me how to write a sex scene!” Woolf screamed.
“Dude, I’m not a virgin,” Mojo muttered, still twitchy from being startled.
He was met with eyes of rage building in the Man from Orange.
“Just sayin’.” Mojo shriveled.
Drake refocused his aggression toward the Persian idealist. “When our boots hit the ground as we’re chasing Elvis, it won’t be long before the first explosions or gunfire go off. I won’t be able to drag you as we go room to room trying to remember names and faces committed to memory as we assess our shoot don’t shoot options. There’s no time for questions. No time to think. No time to question orders. You pull the trigger and you kill what’s in front of you most of the time.” He stopped. “Take off your headscarf.”