Khost

by Vincent Hobbes

  They strode on and on, enjoying the warm night air, chuckling and reminiscing about the day’s activity, the gunfight; they joked and laughed and felt confident. Whatever misgivings they held about the Marine were long gone. He truly felt part of the team, which was rare, but they accepted him, enjoying the man’s company, curious to learn why they were here in the first place.

  The team was refreshed, in good spirits, on an adrenaline high.

  “Take a look at that,” Thompson said, thumping Clements on the shoulder, grinning and pointing.

  “What?”

  “That dude over there. Carrying the rifle.”

  “Sure as fuck can’t be some regular Joe, or they’d have his ass,” Clements said.

  “Ha! He looks like one of us. Think he’s Delta?” Thompson asked.

  Clements stared hard, saying, “Never seen him before.” Turning to Jefferson, he asked, “You know him?”

  “Nah, man.”

  “Well, he must be,” Thompson said, taking a good look. “That an AK he’s carrying?”

  “Looks it,” Clements replied.

  “Not sure why he’d want an AK, but whatever. Must be Delta if he’s in this part of the base,” Thompson said.

  “Or CIA or some shit,” Jefferson said.

  “Nah, most the CIA scrubs wear suits. That dude is in shorts,” Thompson replied.

  “He’s not Delta,” Dale commented, “and not everyone with the CIA wears a suit.”

  “Oh, I forgot . . . we’re CIA now,” Thompson said with a chuckle. “Go figure.”

  “Damn right,” Dale said, nodding.

  “Then what’s he doing here, Dale?” Thompson asked, pointing to the man.

  “He’s Spec Ops all right, but not Delta,” Dale replied, not really answering the question.

  “There’s only one other special operations group and . . .” Thompson started.

  “What the fuck!” Clements exclaimed, stopping. Marcus and Hernandez walked close behind, and nearly crashed into the man.

  “What’s wrong?” Thompson asked.

  “Don’t tell me he’s a SEAL,” Clements said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Dale said, pushing Clements to hurry along. “Let’s get going, boys, we’re running late. Heard that Elizabeth gal isn’t one to piss off, either.”

  “You scared of a woman?” Thompson asked Comstock, smirking.

  “This one, a bit, yeah,” Dale replied. “Let’s go.” He continued walking, Jefferson, Marcus and Hernandez following.

  But Clements held still, Thompson urging him forward. “Let’s go, bro.”

  “Seriously, he better not be a SEAL,” Clements said, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a can of dip. He pulled a pinch, a large one, stuffing it into his lip while watching the man across the way. He then offered the can to Thompson, who reached in and grabbed some too.

  “Remind me why you don’t like SEALs,” Thompson said, grinning.

  “Hate ’em,” Clements said.

  “Why, man? Same team and all, just different patches.”

  “Dunno, just do. Never liked ’em, never will. He better not be one,” Clements said again.

  “Well, we’ll know soon enough. Let’s go, brother man, find out why we’re here,” Thompson said, tugging at the large man.

  *

  The private sitting at the desk was a dorky fellow, balding, though he attempted to hide it with a comb over. He was a kiss-ass—you could tell without even speaking to him. He was a man who talked big but would never amount to much more than a desk clerk.

  He stood, welcoming the men.

  They didn’t respond.

  “Um, fellows, I’ll need to see your IDs,” the man wavered.

  “Fuck off,” Jefferson said, walking past, the laughter of Thompson filling the entrance area.

  “Move kid, or Jefferson here might remove an arm,” Marcus added.

  “Oh, okay then . . .” the man whimpered, pointing to a doorway that led down another hall. “That way.”

  They passed a few rooms, finding a doorway at the end. Outside, stood Colonel Reynolds. He was dressed in new fatigues, his face solemn.

  “Colonel,” they acknowledged, passing as he held the door open for them.

  “This way, gentlemen. Time to get this show started,” Colonel Reynolds said.

  54

  The room was large. A table stood in the middle surrounded by a semi-circle of comfortable chairs. At the front of the room was a small podium. There, a woman named Viki stood talking with Michael. Both were CIA. Both worked for Elizabeth. She hardly noticed Delta’s arrival, or at least pretended not to.

  They entered, looking to the Colonel who motioned for them to sit. They sat at the right end of the table, Colonel Reynolds sitting at the front of the table, facing them.

  On the opposite side of the room was a massive display monitor, several desks, computers, and an elaborate communications system. They could see what appeared to be a live feed. On screen, they watched as a gunfight was underway. They could see tracer rounds from multiple helmet cameras.

  “Oh, shit. Where’s that?” Thompson asked.

  A young man, early twenties at best, approached, handing out bottled water and file folders to the six Delta members. He looked up to the screen, saying, “Some Rangers are getting into it, looks like. We’re just watching, testing the feed is all.”

  “They doing all right?” Thompson asked.

  “Seem to be,” the man said, excusing himself from Viki and nearing the men. “Feed looks good. We have two new drones too. Gonna work them the next few days, make sure we’re good to go. Here’s your files, something to drink. If you need anything else, just ask. Name’s Michael, by the way.”

  “What do you do, Michael?” Dale asked, flipping through the folder.

  “I work for Elizabeth,” he replied. “And that gal up there, her name’s Viki,” he pointed to a woman huddled over a keyboard.

  “She’s cute,” Thompson said.

  “Quit thinking with your dick for two seconds,” Clements said.

  “To hell with that.”

  Clements shook his head, turning back to Michael. He could tell he intimidated the guy. “CIA, huh?” Clements asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And what do you do?”

  “Well, I . . . we . . . Viki and I assist Elizabeth.”

  “Do ya now?” Clements asked, tilting his head inquisitively. He reached into a pocket, pulling out his can of dip. He offered some to Michael, who declined politely. Then Clements stuffed a lip full. “So, where’s this Elizabeth?”

  As if on cue, a beautiful woman entered the room. Her hair was brown, pulled back, her attire conservative. She didn’t even look their way, hardly acknowledging them as she leaned over Viki at the computer, whispering something, adjusting the live feed.

  “That’s her,” Michael said, his voice filled with a certain pride.

  Clements nodded, then leaned down toward a trashcan and spit a stream of black liquid from his mouth. He wiped his lip, looking back up. “She as bad as they say she is?”

  “You’ve heard?” Michael asked. “She’s worse. Tough as nails, I’ve seen her make grown men cry. But Elizabeth gets the job done.”

  “And she’s in charge?” Clements asked.

  “That’s correct, she’s our field director.”

  “I see,” Clements said, looking down at the wiry kid. “What about you? What’s your job title? Or are you just our waiter?”

  “Ha!” Michael chuckled nervously, stepping back and creating some distance between himself and the massive man. “I’m the super-geek of the bunch. The guy outside, Jerry, he’s the one who’ll tend to your needs.”

  “Super-geek, eh?”

  “Sure am. I’m halfway decent with computers,” Michael said.

  “How long you been with the agency, kid?” Clements asked, staring long and hard at him. He couldn’t have been older than twenty, at best.

  “Well, joined the Army eig
ht years ago,” Michael replied.

  “Damn, you don’t look a day over twelve,” Clements insulted.

  Michael turned red, but didn’t retort. He didn’t dare piss off this massive man. “I’m twenty-seven. Did four years in Army intelligence, four years at Langley.”

  “You must either like it or you’re good at it,” Clements offered.

  “Well, I didn’t like the Army much, to be honest.”

  “Why’d you join?”

  “Well, I believed the posters, believed the recruiter. Wanted to be all I could be and all that.”

  “Ha! Yeah, recruiters have quotas.”

  “Well, I didn’t know that. They stuck me in infantry at first. Once they realized I wasn’t worth a damn with a rifle, they put me at a desk. Reason being, I could type.”

  “Sounds fun,” Clements said, rolling his eyes.

  “It allowed me to showcase my real skills.”

  “Which are?”

  “Computers. I’d fix them for a certain Captain, do routine maintenance, spruce up their systems. If it weren’t for my knowledge, I’d still be serving coffee.”

  “Why’d you serve again after your first four years?” Clements asked. He wasn’t really curious, didn’t care much actually, but was bored, figuring he’d make small talk until they could get this show on the road.

  “I didn’t. My last few months, I was moved to Intelligence. Up my alley, actually enjoyed it, though I had a dick for a boss. Then I got caught doing something . . .” Michael paused.

  “Do tell,” Clements said, now a bit curious.

  “Hacked into a few sites that I shouldn’t have. We were using new computers, new systems, figured I’d take a peek.”

  “What’d you hack?”

  “Can’t say. If I did, they’d throw me away and toss away the key.”

  “Something important, eh?”

  “You could say that.”

  “And you did this from the Army’s computers? Not that bright, kid,” Clements chastised.

  “No, sure wasn’t. Thought I was safe, thought the system was safe. Guess I helped them catch me once they realized our new systems were being hacked.”

  “Got busted. Then what? You serve time?” Clements asked.

  “Much too frail for that,” Michael admitted. “I’d be someone’s bitch for sure. Was scared out of my mind, but then I was approached by some fellows at the NSA. They’d dismiss charges if I signed up for four more years. Didn’t want to stay in the Army, but better than ten in the brig.”

  “Yup,” Clements said, nodding.

  “The NSA was great, learned a lot, but damn they’re stiff. Didn’t like the working environment, but hey, again better than prison. Not long after, Elizabeth came along. Not sure how she heard of me, but approached me with an offer. Joined ACES a few days later, been doing it ever since.”

  “ACES?” Thompson questioned.

  “Yeah, Asymmetrical Clandestine Elite Service,” Michael spouted.

  “So you fix her computers, huh?” Thompson asked, his tone disrespectful. He couldn’t help it, he was warrior class, and looked down on anyone who wasn’t.

  “I do much more than that,” Michael defended himself. “I can hack with the best of them. I’m also the man who gets the fun toys across the border without anyone knowing. There’s two divisions of the Special Activities Division—you guys, the ones who go in. And guys like me, who get you the gear you need. Viki, she helps me with that. Quite good with computers herself.”

  “You fucking her, aren’t ya?” Thompson asked.

  “What? Wait . . . what?” Michael gasped.

  “Excuse him,” Clements chuckled. “He has two things always on his mind, both being women.”

  “Er, oh . . . I see. Well, Viki is the one who orders the fun toys you guys use. I’m the one who smuggles them in. We’ve also come up with some creative ways to get you guys the most up to date intelligence when you’re out. That’s why we’re watching this feed. We’re testing the system,” Michael replied.

  Thompson nodded his head as if he cared, then said, “Well, don’t fuck up. Clements here has a bitter taste in his mouth when it comes to you intelligence guys. Been fucked over once or twice.”

  Clements nodded, agreeing.

  “I’m the best,” Michael said.

  “Better be, ’cause if not, we’ll probably have a little chat,” Thompson added. He was merely picking on the guy, for no other reason than because he could.

  “You do realize what I’m capable of, right?” Michael said. “Hey, you might be able to kick my ass, but I can empty your back account in under a minute. Donate it all to charity. I can run up your credit cards, ruin your credit. I’m that good, and I’m on your side, okay?” Michael was hoping by standing up for himself, the men would respect him more. He’d worked with Operators before, but these guys seemed the toughest bunch thus far.

  It’s always the guys with the beards you should fear most.

  Thompson grinned at Michael, “Problem is, my wife spends all my money, maxed out my credit cards too. Difference between you and I is this: You mess up, we die. So get it right, cause if you don’t, I’ll consider putting a knife in your gut.”

  “Got that, kid?” Clements added.

  Michael gulped, nodding furiously.

  “Good.”

  55

  Elizabeth finally finished talking to the woman at the computer. She nodded, turned, then walked toward the group who were just taking their seats. Elizabeth hardly acknowledged them, glancing briefly over her shoulder at the six rugged men. A bit of a scowl crossed her face, then she glanced to her left, nodding at Colonel Reynolds. Elizabeth dismissed Michael, who sat at a desk nearby, an array of computer monitors in front of him.

  “Gentlemen, welcome. My name is Elizabeth, and I’m in charge,” she said.

  “Sounds like my ex-wife,” Clements muttered, causing Thompson to laugh.

  Elizabeth glared at him, saying, “Trust me, I’m much worse than your ex-wife.”

  “She was a pretty big bitch, trust me,” Clements commented, un-intimidated, testing her, pushing the limits. “Thing is, she was pretty fat, you’re not. Kinda hot if you want to know my opinion,” he added, a casual smile on his face.

  “Actually, I don’t care much for your opinion, Sergeant Clements. And though I may not be fat, as if that matters, I’m indeed a bitch. I’m the epitome of bitch. Queen bitch, you got that?”

  Clements nodded, saying, “Yeah, a lot like my ex-wife. You’re a spook, aren’t ya? Thing is, I’m not a fan of taking orders from civilians, especially women. Don’t hold it against me, though. I’m a sexist, just like my boy Thompson here. Nothing personal, ma’am,” Clements said, grinning.

  Elizabeth nodded, her eyes staring directly into his. Men like him didn’t cause her to falter in any way. With a cold stare she said, “Nothing personal at all, Sergeant. And it won’t be personal when I sign the dotted line and have your ass hauled off to Leavenworth either.”

  “For what?” he asked.

  “For whatever reason I can make up. Doesn’t matter. You smart off, talk shit, don’t obey—that’s fine. I’ll ship you off and forget your name and face ten minutes later. Sorry to say, but your humor doesn’t amuse me, and you don’t impress me either. So, you have a choice, Sergeant Clements. You all do. You can either accept my command, or you can relieve yourself. But if you decide you’re in, you better commit.”

  “Look, I . . .” Clements began, stuttering over what to say. “. . . I want in,” he said.

  “You sure?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Clements grumbled.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Clements said, face getting hot, turning red. “I’ll stay. I’m in this.”

  “Well, goodie!” Elizabeth exclaimed, her tone beyond sarcastic, clapping her hands, staring him down. “Now, if you’ll kindly shut the fuck up and stop wasting my time, we can get started.”

  The room erupted w
ith clapping and laughter, everyone joining in.

  All but Clements, who sulked in his chair.

  *

  “This is a Special Activities Division Priority One Mission,” Elizabeth stated. “We’ve gotten the green light, and I’ve formed this task force, personally selected each member. This is a multi-tasked team composed of fourteen members. Six of you are from The Unit. You’ve all met Colonel Reynolds. Michael is a civilian contractor, he’ll be in charge of the technicalities with the help of Viki over there. All surveillance and communications—IMAGINT and TECHINT, will be under their control. Those other two men in the corner, well, you don’t need to know who they are. You just need to know they are with me. Understood?” she asked.

  They nodded, though Clements raised his hand.

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes, saying, “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m might be a dumb country boy, but I can count. That’s only twelve.”

  “How astute,” she smiled. “The other two members will be here shortly. But I’ll need to catch you up to speed. We don’t have much time.”

  “What is the mission, ma’am?” Dale asked. He was team leader, and as he flipped through the files, there wasn’t much, not enough to go on. “I suppose you’re going to tell us now, right?”

  “Sergeant, before we get into that, I must make one thing clear to you and your men. Eight will be going into hostile territory. I don’t expect all of you to come back. Is that understood, Sergeant?” she asked. A look of true concern crossed her face.

  “You sending us on a suicide mission, eh?” Dale asked, tilting his head, curious.

  “There’s little chance of success, yes. I’ll be straightforward and honest. It’s a death run, though I wouldn’t be sending you in if I thought there was zero chance of survival.”

  “Sure about that?” Dale asked.

  “I am. Don’t take these blunt facts to mean I don’t care. Each of you is able, right this moment, to walk away. Like McClain’s team, you’ll be reassigned. Nothing will be held against you for walking away,” she said.

  “That why McClain isn’t running the show?” Clements asked.