American Operator

by Brian Andrews

  He slipped his hand into his pocket, retrieved his mobile phone, and sent a secure SMS to Shane Smith:

  Where is Ember SAD right now?

  The response came almost instantly.

  Croatia. They just nabbed al-Fahkoury and rescued two hostages.

  Good. Have you heard about Turkey?

  Yes. Do you have tasking for us?

  Wrap up, head to Incirlik, and find Amanda Allen.

  Roger.

  We’ll send you all the intel we have, but you have authority to requisition whatever resources you need.

  Roger that, standing by.

  Jarvis set his phone on the conference table and looked from Petra to Catherine and back again.

  “It was the right call to make,” Petra said with a nod.

  “I know,” he said as a grim foreboding washed over him. “But for Amanda Allen’s sake, I just hope we’re not too late.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Luxury Yacht La Traviata

  Adriatic Sea

  Twenty-Six Miles Southwest of Dubrovnic

  May 5

  1130 Local Time

  Dempsey stood on the bow of the yacht, scanning the blue depths of the Adriatic as they cruised in open water.

  Five minutes, he’d told them. Just give me five minutes of solitude.

  And they had.

  He inhaled deeply and let the energy of the sea recharge his soul. Most people feared the ocean. Few beachgoers ever waded beyond waist-deep, and never at night. When he’d gone through BUD/S, the instructors had made his cohort watch the movie Jaws before a five-mile swim in the shark-infested waters around San Clemente Island. The message wasn’t to fear the ocean. It was that, for a SEAL, the sea was an ally. It was escape. It was victory. Get to the surf, fin out beyond the break water, and the ocean would swallow you up and conceal you from enemies seeking to destroy you. The nostalgic allure was so powerful, he suddenly felt a compulsion to slip over the railing and disappear, leaving the hamster wheel of missions, responsibility, and killing behind.

  It would never happen.

  Some dumbass has to run in the hamster wheel, he thought with a chuckle. Might as well be me.

  “SDV is en route from the Illinois,” Munn said in his ear from the bridge, where he was once again at the controls playing skipper. “Five mikes.”

  “Check—Charger Three, bring up the package.”

  Two double clicks in his ear told him Latif had heard him. Dempsey scanned the horizon looking for a periscope, which he knew was nearby playing peek-a-boo with the rolling waves. The USS Illinois—a Virginia-class fast-attack nuclear submarine—was waiting for their arrival. He felt the yacht slow to idle as Munn eased off the throttles. Belowdecks, Martin had been seeing to the rescued hostages, who, despite being a little dehydrated and undernourished, were in physically good condition. Psychologically, however, the women had a long road ahead.

  Latif had been assigned to watch al-Fahkoury while they transited. After “the event” with Malik, Dempsey had given Latif the babysitting assignment on purpose—as a show of confidence, but also to make the point never to underestimate an enemy, no matter how benign the perceived risk.

  With one final deep breath, Dempsey said goodbye to the sea, turned on a heel, and marched aft. He gave Munn a ball-cap salute as he walked past the bridge and the salon toward the party deck. He circled the hot tub and stepped over Malik—whose body was wrapped like a mummy in a bedspread from the main cabin, held in place by paracord. Dempsey pursed his lips and stared at the corpse. Two decades fighting jihadi terrorists and he had never encountered one who’d transformed like this dude. The speed, the way he’d capitalized on a moment of inattention, the look in his eyes. Malik had executed his escape attempt like a professional soldier. Which was why Dempsey had made the call to hand the corpse over instead of sinking it when they scuttled La Traviata.

  Dempsey bent at the waist, grabbed several strands of paracord, and dragged the corpse across the party deck and down a few short steps to the stern platform at the very back of the yacht, the dead man’s head conking each tread as he did. Once on the platform, he shoved the body against the hull so it wouldn’t accidently roll overboard. Behind him, he heard commotion and looked up to see Latif leading a hunched and shuffling al-Fahkoury toward him. The terrorist’s wrists and ankles were bound, and he wore a black hood over his head.

  “How’s our new friend doing?” he said to Latif.

  “He has little to say,” Latif answered. “Nothing, in fact.”

  “Well, what a good little soldier of the jihad,” Dempsey said, climbing the half flight of steps to join them. He patted the terrorist on the shoulder, and the man recoiled. “We need to get our friend all set for his swim.”

  Latif looked up at him, brows arched. “We’re not going to . . .”

  “Yeah, we are,” Dempsey said, flashing the Green Beret a sly grin. “So he’ll need a HEEDs bottle.”

  Latif shook his head and chuckled. “Okaaaay, but what if he runs out of air?”

  “Then I guess their corpsman will just have to revive him.”

  Latif gave him a You’re a sick bastard, you know that? look and then marched off to get the emergency breathing apparatus Dempsey had requested. Dempsey turned his attention back to the sea and scanned for signs of the SDV—the minisub used by SEALs to travel to the target while their host submarine loitered off the coast in deeper water. If he squinted, he thought he could just make out a shadowy silhouette fifty yards off the stern.

  “You should have visual on the SDV any second, JD,” Munn said in Dempsey’s ear.

  “Check,” he said.

  “They’ll ask for John. You authenticate ‘India’ and make the handoff.”

  Latif returned holding a HEEDs III emergency-egress compressed-air bottle, just as Dempsey was maneuvering al-Fahkoury down to the stern platform. A stream of bubbles surfaced just off the deck, and a beat later, two SEALs in full combat load and dive gear broke the surface. One kicked back a few yards and raised his assault rifle while finning in place. The closer SEAL emerged with a Sig Sauer P226 pistol pointed directly at Dempsey’s chest; after a beat, he raised his mask.

  Dempsey recognized the man instantly.

  At six foot six and 230 pounds, Master Chief Shawn White was one of the largest SEALs Dempsey had served with. His muscular physique and leading-man good looks had earned him the handle Hollywood in the Teams. White was one of only a handful of African American SEALs from Dempsey’s generation. He and White had served on different teams most of the time, but they had operated together on several occasions early in their careers and had hung out socially.

  Shit, Dempsey thought, adjusting his ball cap, this could be a problem.

  “Howdy, I’m John,” Dempsey said, changing his voice to incorporate a little Texas twang while subtly rolling down his sleeves. The serpentine scar that wrapped his left forearm was the one defining feature that would betray his former identity. After the explosion in Djibouti when the surgeons were putting him back together, the face guy had tweaked his nose, but no amount of work could hide the damage done to that arm.

  White spat out his regulator. “Authenticate?” the SEAL boomed in his deep, distinctive voice.

  “India,” Dempsey said, resisting the urge to rub his shaggy beard. Thank God for the beard and his long hair.

  “You have something for us?” White said, all business.

  Like a highlight reel in his head, memories of kicking ass side by side on their first deployment flashed through Dempsey’s mind. He felt an overwhelming urge to wrap his one-time brother up in a bear hug and trade war stories. But he couldn’t. The SEAL named Jack Kemper, the man Dempsey had once been, was officially dead and buried. Setting his jaw, Dempsey pulled the plug on the memories and simply said, “Yeah, party boy here,” and then, kicking the corpse at his feet, “and his friend.”

  He turned and waved a hand at Latif, who guided al-Fahkoury to the edge of the platform. Dempsey took t
he terrorist by the arm, jerking him roughly to get his attention.

  “Listen very carefully. You’re about to go for a swim. I’m going to put something in your mouth.” Latif handed him the HEEDs bottle—a miniature scuba device only slightly taller and wider than a can of soda, with a black rubber mouthpiece sticking out from one side. Dempsey shoved the bottle under the hood, finding the man’s mouth and forcing the regulator in. “Breathe through your nose until you hit the water because you’ll only have maybe twenty to thirty breaths in this thing.” He felt the terrorist shudder and shake his head. “And bite down hard. If it falls out, no one will know you’ve drowned until they get you inside the lockout chamber. And no one will give a shit, quite frankly. So don’t struggle, and try to breathe slowly.”

  Watching from the water, White screwed up his face in disapproval. He stowed his Sig and held up a second octopus backup regulator intended for buddy breathing.

  Dempsey met the SEAL Master Chief’s gaze and flashed him a look that said, I know, I know . . . just having a little fun with this piece of shit.

  A beat later, White’s expression changed and recognition flashed in his eyes. “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Dempsey said, his grin fading.

  “Yeah, okay,” White said, but he looked like he’d seen a ghost. “You remind me of someone I know, er, well, used to know.”

  “There’s a lot of motherfucking Joneses out there who look and talk like me,” Dempsey said, amping up his twang and running his tongue between his lower lip and teeth, “if you know what I mean.”

  White’s expression softened, and he actually chuckled at that. “Amen, brother.”

  Dempsey seized al-Fahkoury by the shoulders and felt the man trembling in his grip.

  “They tell me this guy’s important, so look after him. His friend is just luggage and won’t require any air.”

  On cue, Latif dragged the mystery corpse down to the edge of the platform and rolled it unceremoniously into the water. The second SEAL finned over, grabbed the corpse, and disappeared under the water.

  “Remember,” Dempsey said in al-Fahkoury’s ear through the hood, “breathe slowly.”

  Shaking his head, the SEAL Master Chief finned backward a yard, donned his mask, and popped his regulator into his mouth. Then he gave Dempsey a wave signaling he was ready. With a twinge of evil satisfaction, Dempsey shoved al-Fahkoury off the edge of the platform and into the water. The terrorist submerged briefly then kicked furiously to the surface, trying to keep his hooded head above the water. Dempsey watched White wrap thick powerful arms around the man, pull the terrorist beneath the water, and disappear into the deep.

  A beat later, an empty black hood floated back up—the perfect metaphorical exclamation point for this unorthodox prisoner exchange at sea. Dempsey and Latif looked at each other and busted up laughing.

  As they made their way back to the bridge, Latif said, “Did you know that guy?”

  “Nah,” Dempsey said. “Why?”

  “I don’t know, just seemed like the two of you might have been buds . . . once upon a time.”

  The corner of Dempsey’s mouth curled up. “Once upon a time . . . maybe.”

  He sent Latif down to check on Martin and ready the liberated hostages for their impending EXFIL before wandering to the bridge to caucus with Munn.

  “How’d the handoff go?” Munn said, turning to look at him.

  “Slick,” Dempsey said. “But, dude, you could have warned me.”

  “Warned you about what?”

  “Master Chief Shawn White, that’s what. Hollywood was the fucking welcome wagon.”

  “No shit?” Munn said, grinning. “Well, I’ll be damned. How is he?”

  Dempsey shook his head. “You’re such a dick.”

  “Did he recognize you?”

  “It was touch and go there for a minute . . . maybe.”

  Munn clasped a hand on Dempsey’s shoulder. “Seriously, bro, I didn’t know. If I had, I would have warned you or had Latif manage the handoff.”

  “It was bound to happen sooner or later. It’s a small community.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Munn said. “And there’s only one Hollywood.”

  They shared a nostalgic smile, and then Dempsey said, “Is the helo inbound?”

  “Yeah, it will be here in twelve mikes. And then Adamo wants us for some new tasking.”

  Dempsey nodded, then looked around at the beautifully appointed pilot house with a knot in his stomach. “Are we set to scuttle this bitch?”

  “All set,” Munn replied. “We’ll do it remotely from the air once we’re clear. I have it set to blow in series so she goes down bow first. Fucking shame, though,” Munn added with a theatrical sigh. “I could get used to having one of these. Hell, if I can keep it, I’ll even let you call me Captain Dan and drive your tired, ugly ass around wherever you want to go.”

  Dempsey laughed. “Someday, maybe, but it won’t be on a boat like this. We’ll be lucky if you and I can tool around in something like that Damor.”

  “When that day comes, a Damor would be just fine. So long as we have a cooler of beer and some trawling gear so we can go deep-sea fishing together, I’ll be happy.”

  “Hooyah,” Dempsey said with a tired smile, and then he turned to go help ready Sarah Bonney and Diana Curtis for their journey home.

  CHAPTER 7

  Ember’s Executive Boeing 787-9, N103XL

  Incirlik Joint NATO Airbase

  Adana, Turkey

  1945 Local Time

  “So now we’re a QRF?” Grimes grumbled, folding her arms and looking from the image of Simon Adamo on the monitor in the Virginia TOC to Dempsey with an expression that said it all: See, see what I told you? This is exactly what I was talking about. We’ve become just another quick reaction force. They’ve turned Ember into a glorified flyswatter . . .

  Dempsey met her gaze but kept his expression neutral.

  “Ember is not a QRF de facto, but it is a QRF de jour. In other words, Elizabeth, Ember is whatever the DNI needs us to be,” Adamo replied with the annoying tone he used when he was exercising his authority while trying not to sound like he was.

  “I think what Elizabeth is trying to say,” Dempsey said, chiming in for the first time in the brief, “is that we shouldn’t even be having this conversation right now. We should be interrogating al-Fahkoury and trying to determine the identity of the dude he was meeting on the yacht. Ground Branch is perfectly capable of extracting Allen, yet you’re retasking us to do it. Lately, Simon, it seems like you’ve got us hopping all over the place. Just when we start digging into an assignment, you pull us off and we have to start from scratch on something new. I think the distinction Grimes is making is important. There’s a helluva difference between a task force and a quick reaction force.” Dempsey glanced over at Grimes.

  The look she gave back said, Finally, you get it.

  Adamo pushed his glasses back up onto his nose, index finger and thumb extended in a gesture resembling a finger pistol. “If I’m being completely honest, I don’t disagree with the two of you, but there is another factor that I don’t think either of you are appreciating . . .”

  “Which is?” Grimes asked.

  “That the DNI is under an incredible amount of stress. Ember is his Excalibur. Given the choice, he will always task Ember because we’re the better blade. So let’s table your concern for now and focus on executing our new tasking.”

  Dempsey resisted the compulsion to argue. The truth was, seeing the former CIA man sitting at Shane Smith’s desk and playing Ember Operations Officer irritated him. Probably a product of his twenty years in the Teams, but Dempsey automatically tended to lump people into one of two categories: operators and support. In his mind, Adamo was support—like Ember’s Signals and Cyber Division personnel, for example—and was not someone forged for a leadership position. Dempsey worried the former CIA Staff Operations Officer had neither the instincts, the field experience,
nor the stones to make the tough life-and-death decisions with the speed and confidence that Smith—as a former Delta Tier One operator—possessed in spades. But with Jarvis’s departure to become the DNI and Smith taking the reins as Director of Ember, they were stuck with Adamo as Ops O.

  When no one said anything, Munn broke the silence. “Guys,” he said, putting on his peacemaker face, “Amanda Allen is out there, right now, alone and in the suck. If I were in her shoes, I would be praying to God that the DNI was sending a shit-hot team to extract me. We are that shit-hot team. I agree with Simon. Let’s table the OPORD gripe fest until after we get her back.”

  Dempsey and Grimes both nodded and returned their attention to Adamo as he briefed them on the intelligence collected thus far. Baldwin’s assessment was that Allen had been smuggled into Syria by one of the terrorist factions either working directly for or in collaboration with PKK. Also known as the Kurdistan Workers’ Party, PKK had been founded with the goal of pursuing Kurdish political autonomy in Turkey. With the fall of Iraq and Syria and the subsequent formation of Kurdish-occupied regions claiming autonomy in those countries, Turkish President Erodan’s fear and paranoia about a breakaway Kurdish state in the east had reached a crescendo. Turkey had effectively declared war on the Kurds, and now the United States was officially embroiled in the conflict.

  “Why would PKK smuggle Allen into Syria?” Grimes asked. “Seems like a terrible risk.”

  “I agree. The Turkish-Syrian border ain’t what it used to be. The wall changes everything. Border traffic is tightly controlled now. Every crossing is via checkpoint manned by Turkish security forces,” Munn said, voicing Dempsey’s thoughts while Latif and Martin just sat with their mouths glued shut, taking it all in.

  “Valid points,” Adamo agreed calmly. “But the heat on PKK inside Turkey is tremendous. There is an argument to be made that smuggling Allen into Syria is actually the lower-risk alternative. Assuming we’re right and PKK is the instigator, their leadership does not want to get caught holding an American hostage. This is probably the same reason they have not claimed responsibility for the attack. PKK holds Washington culpable for allowing Erodan to forge and cement his dictatorship in Turkey, but they do not want American special operations elements showing up in country working hand in hand with the Turkish military, thereby speeding their own decimation. If I were overseeing the op for PKK, I’d move Allen to a safe house inside Kurdish-controlled Rojava. I’d stash her somewhere in Afrin, Manbij, or Tell Abyad—somewhere Turkish MIT didn’t have eyes watching my every move.”