Hidden Threat

by Anthony Tata

  Amanda Garrett sat on her bed and looked at her clock. The entire episode had taken nine minutes, which was more time than she had thought about her father in a long while. She kicked off her sandals, slid under her sheets, and rested her head on her pillow.

  ***

  Loudoun County, Virginia

  Matt Garrett stood at the door of his Loudoun County home and stared at the man standing before him. The soldier was dressed in Army blue uniform, creased perfectly along the front seams of the pants. His face was stern, stoic, and unrelenting in its gaze.

  “So either my brother’s dead or you’re lost,” Matt said.

  “Sir, I regret to inform you that your brother, Colonel Zachary Garrett, is reported as killed in action in Kunar Province, Afghanistan.”

  The rest of the visit was a blur. Matt had been down this dark trail previously in the Philippines. And now again? True, both he and Zach operated in the thin margins of life where danger continuously lurked, waiting like a rabid puma, eyes glistening, mouth foaming, ready to kill at random. His role with the CIA had put Matt in a series of difficult situations while Zach’s eagerness to get back into the fight after 9-11 had led to fights in the Philippines, Canada and now Afghanistan. Men like Matt and Zach operated in the netherworld of spies and operatives that few Americans understood but from which all benefited, whether they knew it or not.

  Zach dead?

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Matt muttered. He dismissed the officer and walked through his small brick rambler sitting on three acres of rolling hills. He picked up the phone, thought about calling his sister Karen and his father, but then put the receiver down and decided to wait. They were probably at church anyway. Instead he grabbed a Budweiser from its dominant and nearly solitary place in the refrigerator, and walked through the back door onto his wood deck. From the deck he could see his land slope away to the south and west, toward the Blue Ridge and toward Stanardsville, his family home 90 miles away.

  He could also see his makeshift batting cage about 100 feet away. It was Sunday morning and he figured he did his best thinking down in that mesh netting so he bounced down the steps, pulled the gate closed behind him as he stepped into the cage, and grabbed his Pete Rose 34. He dialed the pitch speed to 95 miles per hour and said, “Screw the helmet.”

  Standing in the batter’s box, the first pitch blew crazily past him as if it were a knuckle ball. The tires kept spinning and the cantilevered chain driven arm dropped another ball into the jugs machine and he saw this one coming high and inside, took a slight step into the bucket, and ripped a solid line drive to what would be left field, maybe even over the green monster at Fenway Park in Boston.

  He was juiced. Zach dead? No way. He didn’t care what some puke stateside officer told him. His brother had proven his own indestructibility in the Philippines and then had damn near saved the world during the Ballantine incident a few years ago. He continued to groove what he called “frozen ropes” into the back of the net. As he did so, he developed his plan.

  First he would call Karen and tell her what the uniform had told him, but he would ensure she didn’t say anything unless the media got hold of the information. Then she could tell their father. Next he would get on the first plane smoking to Afghanistan, link up with Major General Jack Rampert, who owed him a mountain of favors after what he had done to Zach post-Philippines. And who knows what kind of tight spot Rampert just put Zach into in Afghanistan that supposedly got him killed.

  Lastly, if indeed Zach were dead, he would exact revenge. He would do it coolly and professionally. He would find the offending bastards and kill them. It was his blood promise with Zach, who had dragged him dying off the Philippine battlefield.

  He took one last cut, got that weightless moment between bat and ball, felt the rawhide launch into the netting and watched it punch a hole through the taut material and keep going. He doubted three acres would contain that anger management swing.

  He punched the red button, watched the tires slow, and flipped his bat against the back of the cage. He walked back to his deck, halfway expecting to see Peyton O’Hara reappear, but knowing she was forever gone into the terrorist underground. He drained his Bud, walked into his bedroom, grabbed his go-bag full of weapons, knives, and night-vision goggles, locked his house, and tossed his equipment into the passenger side of the Porsche. He cranked the engine, slammed the stick into first gear, and floored the gas pedal so that his 15 year old sports car spat gravel from his driveway like the rooster tail of a cigarette boat as he rocketed toward Dulles Airport

  Retrieving his Blackberry, he punched the Agency director’s number and said, “I’m going to Afghanistan.”

  “I heard. I’m sorry, Matt.” Roger Houghton, the director of the CIA, spoke over their secure line in somber tones.

  “He’s not dead. Save your sympathy.”

  “I’ve got the Afghan team running the reports. It sounds . . . conclusive, Matt.”

  “You don’t know Zach like I do.”

  “I know Zach, but I understand. We’ll send you on tonight’s milk run.”

  “Thanks. It’s Sunday. Usual time?”

  “I told them to get ready. They’ll be waiting for you when you get to IAD.”

  “Thanks, Roger.”

  “Least we can do.”

  “I’ll be back when I’m back. No sooner.”

  “No sooner. And Matt?”

  “What?”

  “You know Rampert gave your brother the Operation Searing Gorge mission right?”

  Matt hesitated. Searing Gorge was his idea, but he certainly didn’t anticipate that Zach would be the mule.

  “No idea.” After a pause, he added. “Though it makes sense. He’s the best.”

  “That he was,” Houghton added.

  “Is,” Matt corrected and hung up.

  Matt pulled into the private parking lot that the agency leased at Dulles International Airport. He found the crew chief to the Boeing 757, shook his hand, and said, “Let’s get on with it.”

  As he boarded the nondescript Boeing 757, he noticed four rows of seats and then pallets stacked to the ceiling. The Agency ran an airplane weekly to Afghanistan to resupply the operatives on the ground. It was affectionately known as “The Milk Run.”

  There were a couple of logisticians with Ipod earbuds hanging from their ears sitting in the small passenger section. Matt nodded at them as they immediately offered to move.

  He fixed a killer’s grimace onto his face and sat in one of the comfortable seats in the front row, strapping his go-bag in the seat next to him. Anyone looking at the expression on his face would have figured him for a deranged psychotic. He went through a checklist in his mind: recover Zach, kill whoever did this, and complete the Searing Gorge mission himself.

  Matt Garrett was on the move.

  CHAPTER 7

  Spartanburg, SOUTH CAROLINA

  Jake Devereaux pulled into Amanda’s driveway, slamming the door as he rushed from his truck and sprung up the steps of the brick Georgian home two at a time. He knocked furiously on the door and rang the doorbell twice, then again.

  The door swung open, and he was face to face with Nina Hastings.

  “She’s not accepting visitors.”

  “She called me and told me what happened. Let me in.” Jake stood tall in the doorway. He’d had enough of Nina Hastings for a lifetime. He wasn’t going to be deterred when Amanda needed him. “Ma’am, we can do this the hard way or the easy way.”

  “Nina, let him in. I called him,” Amanda said, pushing her way past her grandmother.

  Always one to pick her fights, Nina relented, but added, “See what happens when you go to The Citadel, Jake?”

  Jake, hugging Amanda in the hardwood foyer, looked over his shoulder and said, “Have some respect, please.”

  He took Amanda’s hand and walked her outside, curving around the two-car garage with finished bonus room above. He led her into the backyard and beyond the fence int
o an isolated spot in the woods. Amanda was wearing her Clemson sweatshirt and had put on a pair of jeans. Jake was wearing a T-shirt that said “Fandango” on a movie ticket stub. His biceps were pushing at the material as he rested a hand on a small dogwood branch. Two hummingbirds hovered around an open knot in a tree that was filled with water.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, what’s not to be okay with?”

  “Don’t give me that tough girl act, Amanda. This is your father we’re talking about.” Jake pulled her close.

  “Like I said last night, he’s just been a thorn in my side. So maybe this is for the best.”

  Jake looked at her, shaking his head. “Don’t ever say that again. Your father loved you.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I saw him come to your swim meets and cheer you on.”

  “Yeah, well, where’s he been since then?”

  “How about trying to keep us safe over here?”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you? That fighting solves anything? That going—going over there to wherever helps?” She was nearly screaming at him.

  He could see she wanted to cry, but that she was afraid. Afraid of what, he didn’t know, so he just talked.

  “Amanda, for the last four years I’ve seen you struggle with this issue about your father. At times, I can almost see a star-struck daddy’s girl deep inside of you, though you never let it out. Mostly, though, you are hateful and spiteful towards him, even manipulative.”

  “That’s not true,” she said, pushing away to emphasize the point.

  “I think your grandmother and mother have made you the point man in their fight against your father. That’s not a fight any sane person would want.”

  “My grandmother helped raise me in his absence.”

  “Maybe, but don’t you think you owe it to yourself to learn something about him? Maybe honor him just a bit. After all, you only die once.”

  Amanda stepped away. “I know everything I need to know about my biological father. Everything!”

  Jake lowered his head. “I’m just trying to help here.”

  A long moment of silence passed between them. The hummingbirds continued their yo-yo around the small pool of water. The wind tossed Amanda’s highlighted hair, and the sun shone in a single ray through the forest canopy behind Jake’s head.

  The shrill voice of Nina Hastings pierced the moment. “Amanda, telephone!” Jake shook his head slowly.

  “I’ve gotta go deal with this. The army guy told my mom he needed me to sign some paperwork. Something about insurance.”

  “Okay, go do your thing, Amanda. Just remember, I’m trying to make us better, and you need to work with me to do that.”

  “You’re being naïve, Jake. You weren’t there when all of this happened.”

  Jake looked at her. “Were you?”

  Amanda walked away, saying, “Don’t cause a fight anymore than you have, Jake. This is not your business.”

  “Amanda, phone!” Nina’s echoing squawk was the shrill call of an angry shepherd.

  Jake kicked at the underbrush as Amanda walked past the pool, up the deck steps, and then disappeared into the backdoor of the house. Amanda was the first and only love in his young life. He enjoyed curling her up into his arms for hours as they mapped out their future together. But now, he was beginning to see—no, had seen for a long time—an unseemly materialistic side to her.

  She’d been taught to believe that love was a wisp of air, and that money and things were forever. Did she really love him, he wondered? Or were they together just because he was the quarterback and she was beautiful?

  CHAPTER 8

  Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan

  Monday

  Sergeant Eversoll parked Colonel Garrett’s Humvee next to the headquarters building at the old air base. The location had been a MiG fighter base during the Soviet Afghan invasion. The invaders had constructed some rudimentary cinderblock buildings, which now served as respectable makeshift headquarters for the Joint Task Force.

  He was exhausted from two days of participating in the search for remains of the fallen soldiers. They had collected either actual remains, pieces of bone mostly, or the identification tags of all but one soldier. Sergeant Honeywell was unaccounted for and was listed as duty status whereabouts unknown, or DUSTWUN in Army acronym parlance. Eversoll wondered about Honeywell, one of his closer friends in the unit, as he locked up the vehicle and walked into the command headquarters.

  He unsnapped his helmet and dumped it on the ratty chair that sat outside Colonel Garrett’s office, then walked in. The large window splashed the 6 a.m. sunlight across the dusty room. An old desk, two equally ratty chairs, and a table were situated around the room. Eversoll walked past the desk, eyeing the pictures of Colonel Garrett’s daughter scattered about in different frames, and stopped at the wall with a large map of Afghanistan spread from side to side. He ran his hand absently along the terrain he knew so well, the very area where Colonel Garrett’s helicopter had crashed.

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it, son?”

  Eversoll quickly turned and stood to attention at the sound of Major General Jack Rampert’s voice. He saw Rampert standing just inside the office, holding a combat helmet under his arm. Rampert’s bristly gray hair covered his head like shaved porcupine quills.

  “Yes, sir,” Eversoll responded. Then he added, “Actually, I don’t believe it.”

  “You don’t believe that he’s dead, or you refuse to believe it?” Rampert’s voice was crisp and authoritative. It was the voice of someone well practiced in the command of soldiers in tough situations.

  Eversoll walked away from the map and toward the desk. He was about ten feet from Rampert. “Sir, let’s just say I need more than a dog tag to go by.”

  “They found both of them, Sergeant Eversoll. That isn’t good enough?”

  Rampert knew Eversoll from spending time with Colonel Garrett during so many long missions through lonely nights waiting for situation reports. Sometimes senior leaders got to know quite well the young men who drove, answered radios for, and protected leaders such as Garrett as they led the Army. Rampert respected Eversoll’s relationship with Colonel Garrett. The conversation was not confrontational; rather, it was intended as comforting.

  “I understand what you’re saying, sir. Maybe I’m in denial; I don’t know. But you always tell us to use our instincts, and something just doesn’t feel right about this.” Eversoll lowered his eyes, unable to hold the general’s gaze. Maybe he was in denial. Maybe he was not being honest with himself.

  “Come here, son. Follow me.” Rampert turned and walked toward the hallway.

  Five minutes later, Sergeant Eversoll found himself in the bowels of the Joint Task Force headquarters. He was standing with Major General Rampert in a windowless room. Two large plasma television screens sat atop a long table. Eversoll thought to himself that it looked like a small home movie theater. The general motioned him into one of the comfortable-looking chairs.

  “On the left, Sergeant, you will see the unmanned aerial vehicle video of the action that night. On the right will be the AC-130 video.”

  “Rampage.” Eversoll’s voice was a whisper. He wasn’t sure he was prepared for this. Wouldn’t he rather live with the slim hope, however misguided, that his boss had somehow miraculously survived the explosion of the helicopter? It was too late. As he was pondering the notion of getting up and walking out, Kill TV, as the soldiers called it, began to show on both screens. They called it that because typically they were watching their team kill the Taliban or AQ in large numbers. Reviewing this reversal of fortune was not supposed to be part of the moniker.

  “You can see there, we’ve got heavy fire on the landing zone, with the first aircraft taking a hit in the tail rotor engine housing.” Rampert used a green laser pointer to circle the MH-47’s smoking tail rotor. He shifted to the AC-130 gun tape. “Here, you see Rampage laying down heavy 105 suppressive fire.”


  Eversoll remembered sitting in his Humvee listening to the fight. So far this tracked with what he knew. Though, it was different seeing it actually happen.

  “Here you see Jergens falling out of the aircraft as it lands, then pulls up. We lose him for about twenty seconds because of the whiteout from the snow. Watch.”

  Sure enough, the helicopter was kicking snow high into the air. The twin rotors pushed down and then pulled up the snow, creating a white cloud that surrounded the helicopter and everything within one hundred feet. Eversoll knew that pilots called this whiteout, and he absently wondered how they could possibly control an aircraft in those conditions. These Special Forces pilots were good; he knew that much. Watching this video, he saw they had to be. He could not see the aircraft or Jergens.

  “You see the 47 take off here,” Rampert continued. “It almost falls, but maintains control off that ledge. Now that the whiteout is gone, you can see Jergens, here, and AQ coming at him, here.” He used the pointer to highlight Jergens on the left side of the screen and the Al Qaeda on the right. There were about fifteen men wearing white sheets and wielding AK-47s and rocket-propelled grenade launchers. The grainy, gray video painted an unmistakable picture.

  Navy SEAL Jergens was a dead man if something didn’t happen in the next two minutes. Eversoll felt like he was watching a thriller movie. His palms were sweating, and he could feel himself wishing someone would help the American trapped on the mountaintop.

  “Here comes Colonel Garrett’s aircraft.” Rampert pointed to the UAV video feed. “You can see the AC-130 is still focused on separating the AQ from Jergens.”

  “Doing a pretty good job, sir.” Eversoll had not followed this portion of the picture when he had originally listened to the fight. The AC-130 was providing pinpoint accurate fires, killing the enemy. He could see six or seven dark masses lying in the snow.

  “Roger, now watch what happens here.”