True Believer

by Carr, Jack

  “You ever do any of those ‘diaper runs’?” Reece asked his friend, using the Agency slang for the kinetic side of extraordinary rendition due to the use of diapers on terrorists snatched off the street in country X on the way to country Y as both a means of humiliation and practicality.

  “No. By the time I got to the Agency that program was pretty much over. Too much controversy. Though what we’re about to do sure comes close. And besides, I came on just to find you.” Freddy smiled again.

  “Gee, thanks,” Reece responded, not attempting to hide his sarcasm.

  “No problem, and thanks again for not putting me in one of those revenge graves,” Freddy said, thinking of everyone Reece had put in the ground avenging his family and SEAL Troop.

  “You’re welcome,” Reece returned with just the slightest hint of a smile before shaking his head and continuing more to himself than to his friend. “I just couldn’t do it, man. I saw you down there in the kill zone, and suddenly everyone down there became a version of you. Guys with families, kids, dogs, aspirations, dreams. Not only did you save everyone’s lives that day, you probably saved mine. I’m not sure I could live with myself had I followed through with it. I was just so blinded by what I needed to do that I almost ambushed a troop, just like the SECDEF and Admiral Pilsner ambushed mine. I should be the one thanking you for saving my life.”

  “Whatever you say, brother. Let’s call it even.”

  “Freddy, you didn’t get out just to find me, did you?”

  Freddy glanced at his friend and then back to the road. “Well, not just to find you, although that’s what sealed the deal on going to the Agency and, in all honesty, was a huge part of it. I had to find out why you didn’t kill us all that day when you had us in a textbook ambush. I looked at the claymore set up after we assaulted Ben’s cabin, came up empty, and patrolled back to the trailhead. I sent some of the reconnaissance guys out to locate possible hide sites, and sure enough they found where you had set up. Looks like you had most of the Team Seven armory laid out up there: LAWs, an AT-4, an Mk 48.”

  “It was a good position.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks again.” Freddy paused. “But like I said, that wasn’t the only reason I left.”

  “Really? I thought you loved the Teams.”

  “I did. Remember the witch hunts that went down in the wake of the ‘tell-all’ book on the big mish?” Freddy asked, referencing one of the many nonfiction books on the Osama bin Laden mission.

  “I remember. What a shit show. The same people that gave the green light to that Hollywood movie starring active-duty SEALs and benefited more than a little bit from BUD/S tours they gave wealthy donors to the different SEAL foundations suddenly got convenient cases of amnesia. They fried a bunch of guys for off-duty employment, from what I remember.”

  “Yeah, that’s about the gist of it. Years before I had done some teaching at a hunter’s marksmanship program in Texas called Bladelands Ranch.”

  “That place is amazing,” Reece said in acknowledgment. “I took my snipers out there before our last deployment to Iraq. Beautiful facility in the Hill Country. Guy that started it made a fortune selling a microbrewery to Coors or Budweiser or something, right?”

  “That’s right, Blackbuck Brewery. Great stuff! Anyway, some of us in our off time would go out there on leave to pick up a few extra dollars helping people prepare for hunts in Africa or Alaska, getting their rifles dialed in, teaching them how to dial and hold, that sort of thing. Well, after the tipping point of the UBL books, they came after everybody doing outside employment. They said we were teaching ‘sniper’ tactics and giving away TTPs. Of course, that wasn’t even close to what we were doing. I learned that the justice system is not always out to do what’s right. They are out for the win. It was an eye-opener.”

  “Sounds like I should have added a few people to my list,” Reece offered with a slight smile.

  “Ha! I have a few names for you, for next time.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “They took a bunch of us to mast. You wouldn’t have believed it, Reece: standing right next to the CO was the CMC who’d taught tactics and CQC out at Blackwater in North Carolina for years to make extra money on the weekends. Guess he just forgot.”

  “You didn’t bring that up?”

  “Reece, you know me better than that. Not my style. Besides, he has to live with it. And if I remember correctly, his wife had more platoon hats than he did.”

  “Karma’s a bitch sometimes.”

  “You actually already took care of one of them: Admiral Pilsner. Turns out he was even dirtier than we thought. His wife was funneling money from one of the SEAL-oriented foundations into an offshore account and selling influence through guided tours and access. Emails proved Pilsner knew all about it. If you hadn’t killed him he would have gone to jail for a long time. I think ol’ Mrs. Pilsner got six years in the federal penitentiary. Probably be out in four, I’d imagine.”

  Looking out the window as the desert started to turn rocky and the XXXXXXXXXXX began to take shape in the distance, Reece swallowed and asked, “How’s your son?”

  Freddy’s son, Sam, had been born with a rare genetic disorder and would require full-time care for life. Reece remembered Freddy and his wife, Joan, putting on brave fronts as they dealt with the situation. Reece always had the highest respect for how they handled what had to be one of the toughest situations imaginable.

  Taking a breath, Freddy kept his eyes on the road. “He’s okay, Reece. Thank you for asking. It’s a lifelong journey. Our mission is to help him reach his full potential, regardless of what it is.”

  “Was there ever a final diagnosis?”

  “Raife didn’t tell you?”

  “What do you mean?” Reece asked, puzzled.

  “He’s the only reason we have a diagnosis.”

  “He never mentioned it, but our relationship was a bit strained after Iraq when he left the Teams. And,” Reece remembered, “the last time we met up, we were a little busy.”

  “Yeah, well, we got the runaround from the Navy doctors for years. We almost went broke paying specialists from some private top-name hospitals for their opinion, hence the off-duty work at Bladelands. Nobody could figure it out. They kept trying to diagnose him with labels that just didn’t fit. Joanie knew. She knew they didn’t have it right.”

  “So, what happened?” Reece pressed.

  “Somebody mentioned it to Raife. I always thought it was you.”

  “We discussed it, but only in terms of you having a lot to deal with, especially with multiple deployments and workups, which as we know are stressful enough on a family without a special needs kid. You and Joanie were an inspiration to everyone.”

  “Thanks, man. What happened between you and Raife, anyway? You guys were like brothers.”

  “Something happened in Iraq. Nothing you or I wouldn’t have done in his shoes. So how did Raife help out?” Reece asked, clearly not wanting to discuss his old friend and getting the conversation back on track.

  “He talked with his father-in-law about it. Must have been right about the time he was getting out. Next thing we know, Joanie is getting a call from the lead doctor at Southwestern Medical Center, just outside Dallas. Apparently Raife’s father-in-law donated most of the money to build it. Anyway, about a month later we’re getting picked up by a G550 private jet, complete with a nurse, and flown from Virginia Beach to Dallas. They assembled a team of genetic specialists from around the country, did a full workup of genetic tests on all of us, and sent our blood around the world to institutions doing similar research.”

  “That’s incredible!”

  “Yeah, we would never have gotten a legitimate diagnosis from the Navy.”

  “What did they find out?”

  “A researcher in the Netherlands had discovered a rare genetic mutation of the NR2F1 gene. It helps form the brain. They didn’t even have a name for it back then but now they call it Bosch-Boonstra-Schaaf af
ter the team that discovered it. Sam was the thirteenth person ever diagnosed with it. There are more out there, they just don’t know someone who can correctly diagnose it.”

  “How is Joanie doing?” Reece asked.

  “She’s the strong one, Reece. She dealt with it all while we were away doing the job, focused on the mission, on the Team. She did it all alone. I’m not sure I could have done it in her position. Sam is a sweet kid. He’s nine now, but cognitively he’s very young. He certainly keeps us on our toes.”

  “How is he with the other kids?”

  “Ha! He’s sandwiched in between an older sister and younger brother that are absolute rock stars. We have to believe that Sam came to us for a reason, and that reason is that God thought we were strong enough to love him while at the same time raising two other kids and giving them the attention and support they deserve.”

  “You guys are an amazing family, Freddy. Sam is certainly lucky he got you two as parents.”

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  Freddy nodded at the road ahead and changed subjects. “It will be a few miles off this main road back in those mountains. Not a bad place to spend a few months.”

  CHAPTER 34

  XXX Black Site

  Near XXXXXXXXXXXXX

  July

  WITH THE XXXXXXXXXXXXXX VISIBLE to the north and the rocky terrain flanking each side of the road, the XXXXXXXXXXX looked like some of the Nevada training sites where Reece had learned to call in aircraft for bombing runs known as Close Air Support.

  Strain slowed the Hilux as they approached a stone-walled compound surrounded by open fields. He tapped the horn and, a few seconds later, the corrugated metal gate was pushed open by a muscular Westerner wearing hiking boots, desert tiger-stripe pattern camouflage pants, and body armor over a brown T-shirt. Topped off with a thick reddish beard, Oakley sunglasses, and a battered ball cap, his appearance screamed “private security contractor.” His Glock sidearm was visible in a holster at his waist and Reece was sure that a long gun was somewhere within arm’s reach. The contractor returned Fred’s wave as they rolled through the open gate.

  “Welcome to Falcon Base, Reece.”

  Reece took stock of the compound and saw a large two-story stucco building at the center surrounded by several single-story concrete structures of various sizes.

  Bringing the Hilux to a stop, Freddy said, “That main house is home base. We’ll bunk in there. It also has a mission planning space and classroom where you’ll have your lessons.”

  “Lessons?”

  “Yeah, they’ve lined up an Islamic studies teacher to bring you up to speed on culture, language, all that. Make you stand out like less of an infidel when we get to work.”

  “Interesting. How long am I supposed to be here?”

  “Not sure, buddy. As long as it takes for our intel guys to get a solid location on Mo. My guess would be anywhere from two weeks to a month, but you know how this stuff works. We could get a call to go tomorrow or it could be a few months.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Over there is the arms room.”

  “You sleep in there with your toys?” Reece asked.

  “No, but it’s not a bad idea. The big barn-looking building is where we work out, keep our gear, all that kind of stuff.”

  “How’s the gym?”

  “Not bad. We’ve got a big Rogue rig with ropes, bumper plates, kettle bells, a rower, VersaClimber, assault bike, all that. We could start our own CrossFit box here. We have a couple of Woodway treadmills and some mats, so we can roll. I’m sure you can still kick my ass in jiujitsu, but I’ve been training, so we’ll see.”

  “I’m pretty rusty, brother. You may have me.”

  “I’m not buying that, Reece, not at all.”

  “Ha! Guess we’ll find out.”

  “We have a range a couple klicks south of here, but I put some steel out back so we can shoot handguns without going anywhere.”

  “Great. I haven’t been shooting much, so I’ll need the tune-up.”

  “We’ll get you dialed back in.”

  Freddy pulled the pickup in front of the main structure and both men climbed out. Reece grabbed his duffel from the bed of the Toyota and followed his Agency handler toward the entrance.

  Freddy stopped abruptly at the door. “I almost forgot, your name is ‘James Donovan’ while we’re here. We’ll get you a full identity worked up but that’ll do for now.”

  “Donovan, huh? As in Wild Bill?”

  “I don’t know. The computer picks the names based on an algorithm that keeps your first name and doesn’t repeat last names. It could be much worse, trust me. Some poor guy got ‘John Holmes’ recently.”

  Reece just shook his head.

  As they entered, a slightly built man with dark features and a neatly cropped beard, wearing a clean white djellaba robe and red fez, greeted them politely in British-accented English.

  “Welcome, gentlemen. You must be Mr. Donovan. I am Maajid Kifayat.”

  “As-Salaam-Alaikum, Maajid.” Reece extended his hand.

  “Wa-Alaikum-Salaam, Mr. Donovan. Please, come in.”

  Reece bent down and untied his boots, leaving them outside the door in the Islamic tradition. Maajid walked gracefully through the foyer of the large home, as if in deference to its grandeur. The zellij mosaic tiles in bright blues and yellows, elaborate furnishings, and arched doorways represented classic XXXXXXX architecture. Reece guessed that the home was hundreds of years old, or was at least designed to look that way. It was like a scaled-down version of the Alcázar palace in Seville, Spain, which was built during the days when the XXXXX occupied much of the Iberian Peninsula. “Not like the plywood shitholes we lived in in Afghanistan, is it?” Freddy quipped.

  “I’ve stayed in worse.”

  “Let me give you a quick tour, and then we can get settled in.”

  Maajid faded off to another part of the house as Freddy led the way through the foyer, which opened to a large living area adjacent to a stone and grass courtyard. A second-floor balcony overlooked the enclosure on all four sides. Freddy showed Reece the common areas of the home—the kitchen, bathrooms, and study that would serve as a classroom—before heading up a marble staircase.

  “Maajid is cleared TS/SCI, but even so, this is need-to-know and he is not on that list. Upstairs is off-limits to the rest of the staff, so all our planning will happen up here.”

  Strain hit a succession of numbers on a cypher lock to open a series of rooms along the balcony hallway. One had been converted into a mini briefing room with a large LCD screen on the wall, while two other adjoining rooms would be their sleeping quarters. They were small but clean and had been retrofitted with LG mini-split air-conditioning units. The last room was secured with a heavy wrought-iron gate as well as a steel door that bolted shut from the inside.

  “This is the Alamo; if any Benghazi-style shit goes down, this is our fallback position.”

  “What’s the threat environment?”

  “XXXXXXXX a stable country, at least for this part of the world, and we have a good relationship with the XXX, that’s their secret police. We keep a very low profile here. We’re also a good distance from town and the cover story for this place is that it’s used by the XXXXXXXX government to house visiting dignitaries. We built it under the guise of training host nation counterterrorist units, which we’ll end up doing eventually.”

  “Got it. How much security do we have?”

  “We have four XXX guys assigned. They’re all solid: three Rangers and a Marine. All of them have multiple deployments. You and I can help in a pinch. We’re a long way from reinforcements if something really goes sideways.”

  “Thanks, Freddy. This place will work just fine.”

  “Let’s grab your stuff and get you squared away in your room. Then I’ll show you my toys.”

  • • •

  Freddy led Reece to the padlocked storage building that would serve as their small armory. Fluorescent
lights hummed overhead in the long, narrow room where he had arranged various weapons on a stout wooden table. Reece recognized most of them, though a few were clearly more exotic than what he’d been issued in the Teams. They were arranged from smallest to largest, starting with handguns and ending with belt-fed machine guns. Most of them had been spray painted in mottled camouflage patterns.

  “Okay, here you’ve got handguns: even though you like the Glocks, I’d like you to try the new SIG 365, especially for work in low-vis environments. It holds more rounds than your 43.”

  “I heard a lot about this during development. I’ll give it a run,” Reece said, immediately impressed by the subcompact pistol.

  While Reece loved his subcompact G43; the unprecedented 12+1 9mm capacity of the SIG 365 along with its surprisingly smooth striker-fire trigger and night sights made this one a winner right out of the box.

  “And this is the SIG P320 with upgraded triggers by Bruce Gray,” Freddy said, picking up the SIG’s new 9mm pistol. “I think you’ll like her.”

  “I like her already,” Reece said with a smile.

  SIG had recently won the highly sought-after, nearly decade-long process to replace the Beretta 92F and supply the U.S. armed forces with a new advanced pistol, a variant of the SIG 320, now adopted as the M17/M18.

  “Is Mato still running training up at SIG?” Reece asked, referring to their old SEAL master chief who could probably still out-PT the newest BUD/S graduate.

  “He sure is. They have an incredible facility up there. He’s crushing it.”

  “Well, if we make it through the next few months and the tumor doesn’t do me in, let’s go pay him a visit.”

  “Done deal, brother.”

  Freddy motioned toward a small, blocky, futuristic-looking submachine gun that looked like something out of a science fiction movie. A curved magazine protruded out of the weapon’s pistol grip and a smaller foregrip folded down from near the muzzle. A tubular suppressor extended its length, and the entire package was dappled with a brown and tan homemade camouflage scheme.

  “Next, we’ve got some MP7s like we use at Dam Neck. You ever shot one?”