Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  "Any time you want to discuss it, you know where to find me," I replied.

  "It won't be that easy, motherfucker. I'll find you and finish you, and you won't even see it coming. One day you'll find out what it means to cross me. So long, sucker."

  His voice had become hysterical, and I dismissed it as the rantings of a lunatic. Maybe it was time for the Agency to review their hiring policy.

  * * *

  The present day – Rockport, Maine

  I must have stood for two hours watching the waves crashing down on the rocky beach, thinking again about taking that final swim into the long goodnight. And as always, I returned to walk up through the sighing branches of the trees that guarded my shack. I opened the door and walked into the gloomy space I called home. The threadbare couch stood on wooden floorboards that were long overdue for a new coat of varnish. Dust was everywhere, coating every surface. Maybe it was squalid, but it was familiar, and it was home. Something had changed since I'd been out. The light on the answerphone was flashing. I'd been careful to only handout the number to the three other men in my fireteam, the Hunter Killers. I winced. Even recalling the name was painful. I played the message. It was from Brad Olsen.

  ‘Hi, Buddy, long time no see. Listen, I need your help. I know you've got your troubles, but this is life or death. I need you to come up to Drum. This is the address I'm staying at.’

  He reeled off his street and house number, finishing with a final plea. ‘I really need you, Schaeffer. Don't let me down, Buddy. You're the only one can do this, and if I don't get help soon, I'll be dead. See you soon, and thanks.’

  There's nothing like a life or death plea from an old friend to sober you up fast. I checked the map. It was about five hundred miles, a long drive, but I had nothing else to do, so I packed a few things in a bag, swallowed a gallon of strong black coffee, and climbed into my old Dodge Ram truck. Apart from a toothbrush, the only luggage I carried was my sidearm, a Ruger SR1911 .45 caliber automatic. I'd picked it up from a dead insurgent, dead because I shot him three times.

  The classic 1911 had almost certainly been taken from a dead American soldier, and I figured it was only right it returned to American hands. I’d kept it in my kit ever since and brought it back with me when I came home. It felt comforting tucked into my waistband. Besides, Brad mentioned life or death. If there was going to be a death, I'd sooner it was the other guy.

  I wasn't too worried about the distance. The Dodge would eat it up, a hefty 5.7 liter 345Cu. V8 engine, which purred like a big old pussycat.

  * * *

  Fort Drum, New York State

  It was 09:00 when I finally drove into Drum. A chilly morning, typical this far north, with snow on the ground, people hurrying along in mufflers and boots. Fort Drum was mainly a military community, and everywhere I looked, there were soldiers. I stopped to allow a platoon out for a morning run, the instructor bellowing at them to pick up the pace. Half of them were red-faced and panting, stumbling along at the rear. I smiled; some things never changed.

  I found Brad's bungalow, a pleasant little single story structure built of timber, close to the main gate of Fort Drum. I parked the Dodge, slid the Ruger into a more comfortable position, walked up the front path, and rang the bell. Nothing.

  I tried again, still nothing. So I hammered on the doorknocker, and to my surprise, the door pushed open. I went inside. The living room was neat and clean. Brad had always been excessive about that kind of thing. Decent furniture, fairly new and mid-range, several tasteful prints on the wall, and a nearly new LCD television, which I estimated was about 46 inch. There was no sign of Brad, but there was something else, an odor in the air, which I'd encountered many times in the past. It was that musty, slightly sweet tang a corpse gives off soon after death. I pulled out the Ruger and nudged the bedroom door open.

  Brad was dead. He lay spread-eagled on the bed. Brad Olsen, former Navy Seal, a brave and skillful Special Forces operator who'd been by my side in more battles than I could count. I recalled he had a big family out West. I think it was California. A houseful of brothers and sisters, all Democrats, who were almost direct opposites, trendy left-wing liberals. The kind who'll champion any cause at a moment's notice, a middle-class, academic rent-a-mob.

  Brad was a registered Republican, and it was only a matter of time before he became a card-carrying member of the NRA. A brave man, a great American, only to wind up murdered in his own home in a quiet corner of America. There was no doubt he was murdered. I counted the wounds, and there were four distinct bullet holes where someone had shot him. Maybe more, but his shirt was so drenched in blood, it was impossible to be sure. I suppose I stood there, numb and disbelieving, for many minutes. My first reaction should have been to call the cops, and I finally came to my senses and took out my cell. I never made that call.

  "Armed Military Police. Get your hands up, motherfucker!"

  The door had crashed open violently, and four soldiers tumbled into the living room. Two armed with service automatics, and the other two with M-16s. I slowly put up my hands, and the man who'd spoken walked rapidly toward me.

  "Hands behind your back, Buddy."

  I knew what was coming, or at least I thought I did, and I turned for him to put the cuffs on. At that stage, I didn't blame him. I was in a house with a murder victim, and I was the inevitable prime suspect. The cuffs didn’t go on straight away. Instead, I saw stars as I felt the pain of a smashing blow to my skull. I almost blacked out and reeled to the floor, just as the other men rushed up. The four of them pinned me down and screwed on the cuffs. They were tight, real tight, but in view of the assault, I didn't think there was any point in arguing.

  "Get up, shithead. You killed the wrong guy. He was one of ours. It's a pity we don't have the death penalty in New York State. We'd be queuing up to see you fry. And so you don't forget, my name’s Sergeant Ross Wilson. I'm the guy who'll be kicking the fuck out of you when I get you inside my cell."

  I couldn't get up. My head still spinning, and I don't like to stick my neck out until I'm sure what I'm getting into. They ran out of patience and dragged me to my feet, and I found myself staring into a face that was red with fury. He didn't ask who was, just frisked me, pulled out the gun with a satisfied nod, and retrieved my driving license from my coat.

  "Liam Schaeffer, well, Mr. Schaeffer, you lucked out when you killed Brad. You see; Brad and me were good friends. We used to go drinking together, so I can't promise you an easy ride while you're in my lock-up." He nodded to his men, "Okay, boys, take him away, and there's no need to be gentle.”

  They weren't gentle. They frog marched me backward down the path and tossed me in the back of their MP Humvee. One of them delivered a hard punch to my kidneys as I went in. The short drive to the guardroom gave me time to catch my breath and get my thoughts together. I had a hundred questions. This whole business stank like stale fish. How in hell did the MPs know about Brad? And how did they come to arrive at the exact same moment as I discovered the body?

  They threw me into a cell, and I mean four burly MPs picked me up and tossed me onto the hard concrete floor. The steel barred door slammed shut, and I was left alone to stare at the scratched, graffitied walls while I tried to work it all out. The cell was ten feet by ten feet. There was a toilet bowl in one corner, and a solid concrete platform the other side, presumably to sleep on. There was no mattress. I guess the MPs had adopted it from the Vietcong ‘Manual of How to Build a Military Prison’. The place stank of sweat, sewage, and fear; an uninviting ambience that they would use to overawe prisoners as an interrogation tool. It sure made the idea of getting out of here mighty attractive.

  I settled down to start thinking. I'd led enough missions in the field to know the first rule is to understand what the enemy is thinking. But the more I thought, the less I understood. At first glance, it looked as if someone was trying to frame me for the murder of Brad Olsen, in that they'd waited for me to arrive, and then dropped the dime to the
MPs. It didn't make sense. It was crazy. There was no way they'd know I was coming unless they had his phone tapped, and that started me on a whole new line of thinking.

  There's one organization that has something of a reputation for illegal phone taps. That made no sense either. Why would the Central Intelligence Agency tap the phone of a civilian instructor on a remote army base?

  I didn't get time to think about that. The normal procedure is to allow the prisoner a few hours to soften them up for interrogation. The MPs had a different MO. The four of them who’d taken me at the bungalow arrived outside the bars. Sergeant Wilson started the fun. He was shorter than me by about four inches, but it would be a mistake to underestimate him. He was wide, built like a heavyweight boxer, and his nose looked as if he learned his trade in the ring. He also had about eighty pounds on me. He began with a sledgehammer blow to my guts, which forced me to the floor, and when the first boot went in, I felt every ounce of it. There was no point in resisting. These men would have been more than pleased to reply in kind, making certain the beating was even more severe.

  All I could do was curl up into a ball and try to protect myself from the worst of it. The hammering seemed to last about eight hours, although afterwards I estimated it at fifteen minutes. There was no attempt to question me, no interrogation. These boys wanted revenge.

  "What are you men doing?"

  They stopped, as if someone had thrown the switch. The man standing outside the cell wore civilian clothes, but whatever his job title, he needed no uniform to underline his authority. He was one of those men, the kind that inhabits the boardrooms of blue-chip companies. Harvard men, Yale men, men who'd grown up convinced of their place in the world; a place out of reach of the average Joe. He sported an expensive haircut, mid-brown hair tinged with silver streaks, and an over smooth, intelligent face that had never heard anyone say the word ‘no’ to him. Expensive clothes, tweeds, tailor-made, and the kind of duds that always looked better with the patina of wear. As if there was any need to underline the aura of wealth and power, his shoes were clearly custom-made, brown leather brogues, with a subtle design I'd never seen in a chain store. Neither has anyone else, I suspected.

  Sergeant Wilson, as the senior NCO, replied first, "The prisoner was making trouble, Sir." Then the realization flashed across his face. This was a newcomer, a civilian, "Who are you, and what are you doing in my guardhouse?"

  The man crooked a finger, and the Sergeant walked warily out of the cell to speak to him. The newcomer flashed a wallet in his face, murmured a few words, and Wilson snapped to rigid attention.

  "Yes." He looked into the cell. "You men, get out of there. On the double!" He turned to the civilian. "Will there be anything else, Sir?”

  The man shook his head. "I'll call you if I need anything. Now get out."

  They left, and the man entered my cell. He grimaced as he came closer and saw the damage they'd done. They'd ripped off my coat and tossed it to the floor. When they went to work on me, they ripped my shirt and pants, and the cuts and bruises were already showing through.

  "They gave you a good working over. Any complaints?"

  "I've had worse."

  "I'm sure you have, Lieutenant Schaefer."

  He hesitated, and I had to ask him the question that was burning through my brain.

  "What's the CIA doing in Fort Drum?"

  He didn't bother to deny he worked for the Agency. He wasn't that kind of a man. He wouldn't waste his breath.

  He sighed. "I came to see Sergeant Bradley Olsen. We had some business to conduct, but obviously I was too late."

  "Did it have anything to do with why he was killed?"

  He thought about that. "I doubt it, Lieutenant. It was just a little job I wanted him to undertake for me. A pity he's dead." He sounded really cut up about it, "What about you? Why were you here?"

  I suspected he knew exactly why I'd gone to visit Brad, but there are some things you don't want to tell the world. So I gave him an abbreviated version, that he'd invited me to visit. I finished by saying, "I didn't kill him."

  He nodded. "I'm sure that's true, but unfortunately, the MPs seem to think differently. You got yourself into a lot of trouble."

  "Tell me about it."

  "Of course," he went on, as if I hadn't spoken, "it may be we could help each other. What I mean is, if I could convince the military cops that you are innocent, you might be interested in helping me out."

  I should have stopped then. I knew in my gut what was coming. The kind of shit these people could throw at me. Like an idiot, I opened my mouth and asked him what he wanted.

  “You recall your last operation in Herat, when you went after Ghani Khan. I appreciate there were issues between you and our local man, but the big problem was that you missed Khan. And he's still on the loose inside Afghanistan, doing his best to slaughter as many of our soldiers as possible."

  "You can hardly blame us for your own intelligence failures," I interrupted, "In my opinion, if you'd…"

  He waved a hand, as it to brush away the past. To brush away the innocent lives that had been taken in the name of fighting a war. "It's all water under the bridge, Schaeffer. I was the man sent out to speak to Jeffs, and I'm satisfied there were errors on all sides."

  Is that what they call killing pregnant women and their unborn babies? An unfortunate error!

  He saw my irritation and hurried on. "For your information, he's been moved to another post, effectively a demotion. Believe me, it was difficult. Jeffs was a personal friend of mine, and I was sent to reassign him."

  "I guess he was real impressed."

  He grimaced. "He went ballistic on me. He's still bitter. However, this isn't about raking over past mistakes, ours or yours; especially yours." He looked up, and I got the point. When it came to attaching blame, I was the first name out of the hat.

  "Ghani Khan is still out there somewhere, but this is something else, something far more serious. You’ve heard of Mullah Mukhtar?"

  I nodded. “Another bloodthirsty lunatic. Don’t they call him the ‘Mad Mullah’? He claims to have killed more Americans than any other warlord in Afghanistan, and that’s saying something.”

  “That’s the guy. It seems he’s not content with the body count so far, so he put together a plan to get to the top spot in Afghanistan. If he succeeds, it could make the current war look like a minor skirmish.”

  I smiled. "What’s he up to? Does he produce a campaign manifesto offering free assault rifles for all, and try to win votes?"

  He ignored my attempt at levity. "I wish it was funny, but it isn't. These Islamic warlords make their name by the number of infidels they've slaughtered. And as you said, Mukhtar has got off to a good start. He's also a charismatic leader who is not frightened to send his own men to be slaughtered in battle, if he sees an advantage in it for him. That’s nothing new. But what he’s planning is very different. So far, the Taliban and their Al Qaeda allies have been limited to using the usual stuff, assault rifles, RPGs, IEDs, that kind of thing. But this guy has a new angle on killing.”

  "Worse than Mullah Omar? I thought he had the monopoly on butchery."

  I thought of the Taliban spiritual leader, one eye, ugly as a beached catfish, and the kind of guy who’d see Joe Stalin as a soft touch.

  "A lot worse,” he replied, “He’s busy helping a bunch of people in Egypt who plan to seize power during the current upheaval. If they succeed, there’s a quid pro quo.”

  “You’re not serious? Egypt has a modern army, air force, armor, and fighter aircraft. The works. Surely he’s not persuaded them to lend him a few tanks?”

  I felt a lurch in my guts as I thought about our troops in Afghanistan up against armor and attack helicopters. The war would escalate into a full scale, head-on confrontation, and that meant massive casualties, the kind of loss of life you get when two well-equipped armies confront each other. The idea of Al Qaeda and the Taliban with armored brigades and an air force was terrifying. He
read my expression and nodded.

  “If we allow him to continue, Afghanistan could descend into all-out warfare. The kind that can and does escalate out of control, and it could take over the entire region. The risk is another World War. Remember, Pakistan is sure to be pulled in, and they’re a nuclear power.”

  He stared at me, to make sure I understood that nukes could be more dangerous than lobbing bricks. “It has to be stopped, Schaeffer. We need someone to go into Egypt and take this Mullah Mukhtar down. He’s the key to the whole thing. It has to be someone who isn’t US Military. Someone we can deny all knowledge of.”

  So that was it. That’s why he was here. I let him continue. There was always a chance I was wrong.

  "Go on.”

  He smiled then for the first time. He assumed the fish had taken the bait, and it was time to put in the barb, although he was more man-eating predator than sport fisherman. "We want you to do just the same as you did before, when you were a private contractor. I gather you were known as the Hunter Killers. We want you to go into Egypt, hunt Mullah Mukhtar, and neutralize him."

  He couldn’t say the word ‘kill’, and I laughed out loud. The CIA must have someone who spent their entire time inventing euphemisms for assassination. ‘Terminate with extreme prejudice’, was one they used, until the word ‘terminate’ became notorious after the Arnold Schwarzenegger films. So it seemed ’neutralize’ was the current flavor of the month. Why not just call it as it is? Kick the enemy in the balls, and put a bullet in his head while he’s down.

  "Let me get this straight. You came here to ask Brad Olsen to go to Egypt, locate a Mullah who’s hiding in deep cover, and kill him. And now someone has murdered Brad, you're asking me to go instead."

  He nodded. "That's it in a nutshell, except he won’t be in such deep cover. His job is to persuade the locals to give their support to his sponsor, General Babu Sadat.”