by Al Pessin
“If anyone can whip them into shape, it’s Harrington.”
“I’m not so sure. A can-do guy like him never says ‘maybe’ unless he means ‘fubar.’ ” Fouled up beyond all repair.
Bridget hesitated, then said, “I’ve got another maybe for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Faraz Abdallah.”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t know if he can beat six weeks, but he’s made great strides. Of course, the docs are still skeptical. They say he needs more time. And Faraz only wants to go home.”
“Every soldier wants to go home. Every trainer and every shrink wants more time.”
The car stopped at the foot of the plane’s stairs. Hadley got out, saluted the airfield commander, and started the obligatory courtesy chat.
Bridget headed straight for the plane, second-guessing herself. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned Faraz. She had hoped that showing him al-Souri’s picture and letting him read about the attacks would provide him new motivation. But she also remembered what happened the last time she pushed him too hard.
* * *
Bridget had a first-class seat in the silver-and-blue cabin of the C-40B, a military version of the Boeing 737 with posh décor and extra fuel tanks for long-distance travel by top government officials and their staffs. The pilot announced they would cover the twenty-four hundred miles to Washington in exactly four hours, with full internet and live TV service throughout. Pretty good snacks, too, Bridget decided as the flight attendant delivered a fancy soda water and bowl of trail mix, accompanied by a cocktail napkin with the air force insignia.
A few minutes later, she returned. “Ma’am, the general needs to see you.”
Bridget walked back to Hadley’s cabin and knocked on the open door. The cabin spanned the width of the plane, narrowing toward the tail. One side had a banquette that turned into a bed. On the other side was a desk with a leather chair and a TV high up on the wall. Hadley’s camo jacket, with his new three-star insignia, hung on a hook on the door.
“Come in. Have a seat.” The general was reading something on his computer.
A slim white intercom handset on his wall buzzed. Hadley picked it up. “Yeah . . . Good . . . Do we need a fuel stop? . . . Excellent . . . Yes, make the change. Thanks.”
Hadley hung up and swiveled his chair to face Bridget. “Listen, the secretary got a serious ass kicking from the president last night. He obviously doesn’t want to get hit by another attack. And the political clock’s ticking, too. They want results yesterday.”
“Political clock,” Bridget said with some attitude.
“Look, it’s not only that. We have a situation on our hands. Al-Souri has done a lot of damage in the last few weeks, and I’m damn sure more is coming if we don’t prevent it.”
“What are you saying, General?”
“I’m saying Abdallah is our best option. Unless he’s foaming at the mouth and dancing around the room, we need him. He knows how to do this, and he knows al-Souri.”
“You want to push him out before he’s ready because the election is . . . what? Eleven months away?”
Hadley stared at her.
“Sorry, sir. Let me set up a call with the docs. Their latest still has warning lights flashing.”
“And always will. They’d keep him on sick call for a hangnail.”
“He doesn’t have a hangnail, sir.”
“You’re the one who raised his name.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have. That’s a big responsibility you’re taking on if you overrule the docs.”
“I’m not overruling them, but I am pushing for a balanced approach to get the right man into the right position to prevent the next terrorist attack. It’s not a small thing, and it’s not politics. And I expect you to be with me.”
“Sir, I’ve been hoping he’d be able to take this mission, but let’s see what the docs say.”
“I’ll do you one better than that. You got anything urgent in D.C. today?”
Bridget smiled. “Only Christmas shopping.”
“Well, it’ll have to wait. I just confirmed with the flight crew. We’re going to Gitmo.”
* * *
It turned out generals get helicopters, too.
A few hours later, with the December sun hanging low over the Western Caribbean, Bridget and Hadley walked from the plane to a small navy chopper, where the pilot handed them temporary IDs and took off as soon as they had their seat belts fastened.
Five minutes later, they touched down at the hospital helipad and walked into Dr. Ellison’s office.
“He’s not ready,” the doctor declared. The man looked nervous, but although he was four ranks below Hadley, the medical caduceus on his lab coat gave him license to speak his mind. “Lieutenant Abdallah needs several more weeks of therapy and evaluation, at least.”
Hadley leaned forward, putting the stars on his uniform a little closer to the doctor. “Commander, your report says he’s made—what’s the phrase?—‘significant progress,’ right?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“You’ve allowed him some freedom of movement, let him mix with other patients. Looks like the more you loosen the bonds, the better he does.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“No more buts, Commander. We’ll go see him. If he’s doing as well as you say—as you say, doctor—we’ll talk to him about the mission.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I do not advise it.”
“Understood. Let’s go.”
“Sir,” Bridget said. “He knows me in a cover identity. Should we come up with one for you?”
“Nah. At this point, he’s either in or he’s out. Either way, he might as well know who he’s talking to.”
* * *
Bridget and Hadley waited outside Faraz’s room while Nurse Julie knocked on the door. Bridget wondered which Faraz they would meet on the other side of it—the angry one from her first visit, or the contrite, helpful one from her second.
“Come in.” His voice sounded friendly enough.
“You have some visitors, Lieutenant.” Julie opened the door and stepped aside.
“Ms. Walinsky,” Faraz stood up, clearly surprised. He was clean-shaven, wearing fresh green scrubs. He came to attention when he saw Hadley.
“Hello, Faraz. This is General Hadley. We need to talk to you.”
“As you were.” Hadley offered a hand. “It’s good to meet you, Lieutenant. I want you to know that we recognize you did a helluva job on your last mission. You have my congratulations and my thanks, and now that you’re feeling better, we’ll arrange a ceremony to get you the medals you’ve earned.”
“Thank you, sir.” Faraz stood at ease, feet apart, hands grasped behind.
“Let’s sit,” Hadley said.
When they were settled, he got right to the point. “Lieutenant, we have a mission for you, if you feel you’re up to it.”
Faraz looked away and let out a breath. Then he looked back at Hadley. “Al-Souri?”
“Yes.”
“I’m in.”
Bridget thought he agreed too quickly. She had planned to let Hadley do the talking, but she spoke up. “Really? Until now, all you wanted to talk about was going home.”
“I would like to go home, ma’am, but I read what al-Souri did. I kick myself every day for not taking him out when I had the chance. If he’s the target, and if the docs will let me out of this place, I’m in.”
“You let me deal with the docs,” Hadley said. He had a satisfied smile.
“Thank you, sir.”
Hadley stood to go, but he stopped. “I want to be honest with you, Lieutenant. The doctors are skeptical. They think it’s too soon. But I say let’s get you into some mission-specific training and see how it goes. Think you can handle it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. Good luck, Lieutenant.” Hadley shook his hand again and led Bridget out of the room.
* * *
&nb
sp; Bridget sat alone on Hadley’s plane, pretending to read something on her laptop. She wasn’t comfortable with what she’d witnessed. But people with stars on their uniforms operated differently than mere mortals. They were results oriented, and usually had the juice to get the results they wanted.
That disturbed her. Faraz’s transition seemed too easy, definitely too fast. Bridget understood what the doctor meant when he had questioned whether Faraz’s new attitude was genuine and long-lasting. She wondered whether Faraz even knew.
But maybe the general had a point. If the stress of training didn’t crack Faraz’s new veneer of confidence, he might actually be able to do the mission. Either way, they needed to know.
Bridget sent Liz a secure email. “We may have our sand cat.”
Chapter Sixteen
Ten days later, Bridget was back on the observation deck in the California desert, watching Faraz walk along the creek bed toward the survival exercise finish line.
“He’s doing well,” Harrington said, “making much faster progress than he did first time around. Definitely better than our other candidates.”
“That’s good, I guess,” Bridget replied. “I worry that he’s too gung ho.”
“You won’t be surprised that I don’t believe there’s such a thing as too gung ho. He’s getting high marks from all concerned, including pretty good marks from the shrinks. Barring setbacks, he’ll be ready to fly in a week or so. He made me a believer, and that’s not easy.”
“I hope you’re right. I’d like to meet with him this afternoon.”
“No problem. The exercise ends at noon. We’ll get him cleaned up and fed, and you can have him by 1400.”
* * *
Bridget and Faraz sat on opposite sides of a table in a small conference room. She could already see he looked even better than he had at Guantanamo. He seemed stronger and much more relaxed. She could even detect a hint of the fresh-faced California boy she’d first met a little more than a year ago.
“How are you feeling?” Bridget asked.
“Good. A bit worn out from the exercise, but a decent night’s sleep and I’ll be ready to go.”
Bridget smiled. “The timeline isn’t quite that tight, but you will be leaving soon. We have a new identity for you to study. That, and the mission details, are here.” She handed over a sealed envelope. “This material does not leave this building.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Faraz held the envelope with both hands. “I guess I’ll have a chance to fulfill my promise.”
“What promise?”
“That SEAL commander who was injured in the assault on the villa, he wanted me to kill al-Souri that day. I promised to do it another time. I thought the air strike had taken care of him. Now, I’ll have a second chance.”
Bridget felt a chill. That SEAL commander was Will. She’d watched the incident live in the Ops Center on a grainy infrared video feed from the nose camera of a drone.
She shook it off. “Maybe we’ll arrange a reunion with that SEAL for you someday.”
“So he’s okay?”
“He’s great.” Bridget caught herself. “Last report I saw, anyway.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“And Faraz, since we’re going to be working together for a while, I think you should know my real name.”
“I figured . . .”
Bridget stood and held out her hand. “I’m Bridget Davenport, and you are now officially a member of Task Force Epsilon.”
Faraz got up and shook her hand. “Thank you, Ms. Davenport. It’s good to meet you.”
* * *
Back in his room, Faraz sat at the simple metal desk. He broke the seal on the envelope and pulled out the papers.
He would be Karim Niazi. Karim and Faraz were the same age, twenty-five, and both were the American-born only children of refugee parents who fled Afghanistan after the Soviet invasion in 1979. But that’s where the similarity ended. Karim’s parents settled in Michigan, and they had died in a car accident several years earlier.
Faraz paused on that one, looked away, then forged ahead.
Karim had not been to college. The money from his parents’ life insurance and the accident settlement was running low. He spent most of his time in their small house in Detroit playing video games and exploring online chat rooms.
He had attempted suicide last year. Faraz paused again and rubbed his wrist. Well, they had to explain the scars. Karim had taken to going to the gym as part of his rehab. That would explain why he was in better shape than a video game basement rat would be.
Faraz leaned his chair back and put his feet on the desk as he got to know his new identity.
Karim had only a basic knowledge of Islam and very little Arabic, mostly slang expressions and swear words, and a few Koran quotes. Now that suicide hadn’t worked, he had no plan for how he would support himself when his parents’ money ran out. His online explorations over the last few months had led him to believe that his life was a lie—that his true destiny lay elsewhere. In service to Allah.
When the invitation came to go to Europe, “Karim” had hesitated, allowing time for Faraz to prepare for the mission. Once he was ready, they would send Karim’s final request to the recruiter, to join the jihad in Syria. Nowhere else.
Once the recruiter agreed, all Karim would have to do was go to Detroit Metro Airport, pick up a prepaid ticket, and board a flight to London. From there, he would be taken into the militant world, probably flown to Turkey and smuggled into Syria, where he would join other Muslim young people from around the world.
Of course, the jihadis could screw them, send Karim somewhere else. But that was a chance they’d have to take.
The last page of the mission brief had two of what the military called “caveats.”
Operative is to avoid contact with AS.
Operative is to break and report immediately any intel on an MTO.
Avoiding contact with al-Souri made sense. The man would likely shoot him on sight. Immediate reporting on any Major Terrorist Operation made sense, too. But it was a mystery—what the planners called “operational discretion”—how he was to find out about an MTO, learn where al-Souri was and how he got his money, and get all the other high-level intel they wanted while avoiding the commander and his headquarters.
The briefing papers said, “Caliphate secrets believed to be distributed and compartmentalized,” meaning they thought he could get enough from the network’s periphery to get the job done.
Faraz wasn’t sure they were right about that, but there was no turning back now. He had nowhere to turn back to.
The packet contained a username and password for Faraz to use on the base’s secure network. He had thousands of words of chats to read, loads of details about Karim and his life to memorize, and several months of relevant news to absorb. He also had to learn all the Arabic phrases Karim had used in the chats, and a few more for good measure. And he would have to brush up his video game skills. The secure network had been set up for that, too.
Faraz pulled his feet off the desk and headed for the computer room.
* * *
The next day, back at the Pentagon, Bridget was still thinking about whether Faraz was truly ready when she received a summons to Hadley’s office. It was upstairs, not far from the secretary’s suite. Hadley had a large wooden desk, plush chair, carpet with the DIA seal, flags on poles in every corner, and a conference table that could easily seat a dozen. And it had windows. Ah, windows. Even a view of the Washington Monument.
Bridget knew that two weeks earlier, his office had been half of a converted shipping container surrounded by sandbags.
Hadley invited her to sit in a wood and leather chair in front of his desk. He pointed at his computer screen. “Your report on Abdallah looks good.”
“I’m still concerned, but I guess that’s my job.”
“Your job is to get stuff done. Speaking of which, this mission has a lot of high-level attention. We need to keep closer t
abs on him than last time.”
“I can’t see how.”
“Well, I can see two ways. One is to have some of our other assets in Syria check on him as needed. We have a few locals, anyway, who feed us info.”
“Yes, sir. Risky, but possible, assuming we know where he is.”
“This could be how we find out where he is.”
“Maybe. What’s the other way you want to keep track of Faraz?”
Hadley took a breath and leaned forward. “The other way is to have you in Baghdad to exert real-time control over this operation—keep as close a watch on him as you can, move agents, drones, Special Ops, whatever it takes to push this mission to a successful conclusion in the shortest possible timeline.”
“You want me to move to Baghdad?”
“Travel orders are here.” Hadley picked up a folder from his desk and handed it over.
“Oh, General.” Bridget read the orders. “I can do all this from here.”
“No. You can’t. We both know there’s a big difference between being seven hours behind and six thousand miles away, sending your orders by email, versus being onsite, walking into someone’s office, and making something happen.”
Having had two combat zone tours as an intel officer, Bridget couldn’t argue with that. She sat back in her chair, then looked away from Hadley and scanned the military service emblems hanging in a row on the wall.
“I need you to do this, Bridget.”
“You know I got out of the army to avoid deployments,” she said, still not looking at him.
“This isn’t a deployment.” Hadley reached over to point at the top line of the piece of paper Bridget was holding. “It’s a ‘temporary change of duty station.’ The sooner this job gets done, the sooner you come back.”
Bridget was silent, now staring at the orders, trying to think of something to say, knowing Hadley was right.
“Or I can find someone else,” he said.
Bridget looked up. “To run my mission?”
Hadley stared her down.