by Carr, Jack
Whatever mixed emotions Dr. Belanger had felt about the coupling of politics and ethics beneath the Mexican soil were guided by his devotion to country. He didn’t want to cause these prisoners any undue pain, the key word being undue. To Dr. Belanger it was like the challenge of a complex puzzle: how could he extract the necessary information from a religious fanatic, causing him the least amount of pain possible while ensuring that the intelligence gleaned was accurate and reliable? He couldn’t pick up a weapon and charge into battle in defense of his country, but he could help the war effort in a different way, and the doctor intended to do just that.
With the change in administration and the nation feeling the fatigue of what some had termed “the Long War,” Dr. Belanger was reassigned to the medical staff of the CIA in Northern Virginia. The interrogation files from the team’s experiments in Mexico existed only in hard copy in the depths of a vault deep in the bowels of an off-site medical clinic with no discernable clientele. It existed in name only as a shell corporation for a company that didn’t exist.
As one of only a few doctors in the United States with the knowledge and experience to extract information from a noncompliant subject, Dr. Belanger was a valuable commodity. On very rare occasions, he would pack a Pelican hard case with the tools of his vocation and be flown to a foreign country to ply his trade. This was the first time he would be jumping out of a perfectly good airplane. He knew he could not be in better hands than those of the SEAL senior chief seated next to him, but he was still nervous. Who wouldn’t be? He wasn’t even a very good swimmer.
The doctor’s black hard case would be jumped in by another SEAL. He would be reunited with it once the assaulters had secured what he heard them refer to as the VOI, or Vessel of Interest. Then it would be his turn to work.
Dr. Belanger watched as the SEALs went into what looked to him like the well-rehearsed movements of a Team that knew their business. Chutes were donned, weapons and gear secured, then double- and triple-checked by teammates to ensure multiple sets of eyes were inspecting every detail of the lifesaving equipment that would guide them safely into the waters of the Mediterranean Sea.
The doctor stood and turned around as his harness was clipped to the tandem rig of the large SEAL next to him. His life was now in the hands of the blond-bearded Viking he’d met only hours earlier. There was nothing he could do now but consign himself to fate.
The roar was deafening even through his foam ear protection, as the ramp of the C-17 opened to the unforgiving elements. With the adrenaline, Dr. Belanger felt something that he hadn’t experienced since the early days of the war when the first al-Qaeda prisoner was delivered by a team of CIA operatives: purpose.
A gray pilot chute shot from the palletized assault boat, violently pulling it from the cargo hold and out into the night. No sooner had the first boat been pulled from view than the second followed closely after. Dr. Belanger knew a second C-17 would be going through the same sequence right behind them just like he’d been told in a quick brief in the hangar before they launched. As his jumper moved with him closer to the open door, he barely noticed the steady stream of assaulters and boat drivers piling out the back of the aircraft in quick succession, following their sleek high-speed assault crafts falling from the sky.
The edge of the ramp was suddenly before him and they stepped off into the abyss.
CHAPTER 75
Mediterranean Sea
October
GENERAL QUSIM YEDID’S FIRST indication that something was wrong was when the door to his stateroom flew open and smashed into the bulkhead. His second was when his security detail lead burst in waving his Makarov 9x18mm pistol, frantically yelling at him to get out of the bed he was occupying with a tall Ukrainian redhead who had a penchant for cocaine.
Yedid sat up just in time to watch his head of security cut down as he took a burst of bullets to his upper back, dropping to the floor just shy of the bed.
The general had the lights dimmed to enhance the mood but still illuminate the lithe body of the beautiful young Ukrainian who had her head between his legs until the first two apparitions from another world shattered the sanctity of his domain. He knew instantly they were Americans. The four-eyed night-vision devices attached to their helmets were a telltale sign that his life had just irrevocably changed. Popularized by the military-inspired television shows and movies in the wake of the Osama bin Laden raid that made them famous, these technological wonders were tilted slightly up so the predators could use the light of the room as they searched for more targets.
Yedid had never been on the receiving end of an assault. He’d ordered plenty but always left the deed to others. He was more of a planner. He felt a paralyzing fear unlike any he’d ever known. Even if he had a pistol nearby, he would not have reached for it.
He was unceremoniously thrown to the floor by the larger of the two intruders and flex-cuffed with an efficiency he had seen only from the Russian advisors to the Mukhabarat, the military intelligence unit controlled by Assad.
His female friend was cuffed as well but was given a bedsheet to preserve some of her dignity and was gently led from the room, her initial screams having subsided. Even though the patch was subdued gray and black on the shoulders of the invaders, she recognized the Stars and Stripes of the United States and knew her night was not going to end at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea. She wasn’t quite as certain about the general.
Still facedown on the deck, Yedid was roughly turned on his side as someone grabbed his chin, twisting it to get a better view of his face and comparing it to what Yedid correctly guessed was his most current photo. A flashlight blinded him as another commando approached, comparing it to another photo on his wrist coach. Nodding to his Teammate, he pressed a button on his chest and said a word that Yedid knew did not bode well for his future: “Jackpot.”
CHAPTER 76
Over the Atlantic Ocean
THE GULFSTREAM WAS IN the air less than an hour after Reece had received Rodriguez’s call. At least he’d finally made his way onto a private jet. The G550 landed briefly to pick up Freddy at Marine Corps Air Station Beaufort before heading eastward over the Atlantic. Reece could tell by the look on his partner’s face that it was crushing him to fly out in the middle of his son’s birthday party. Things like that never got easier, especially with a special needs child like Sam.
As the standby squadron from Dam Neck hit the target, Reece and Freddy would be airborne and able to flex as necessary based off exploited intelligence. Their weapons were being stored at the Agency base in Kurdistan, so a basic weapons package from the Ground Branch armory had been loaded onto the plane for their use. Strain opened a black Pelican case and inspected the HK416D assault rifle inside.
“Just one?” Reece asked.
“Looks that way,” Strain responded. “Maybe they don’t trust you yet.”
“Terrific.”
“Hey, with what I’ve experienced in my short time at Langley, we’re lucky to even have that. Here,” Strain said, “you take the two pistols. I’ll take the rifle.”
“Wonderful, no extra magazines?” Reece commented, inspecting the 9mm SIG P320 X-Carry and P365. “What kind of operation are you guys running over there?”
“At least they included two nice holsters,” Freddy countered, tossing Reece an ankle rig for the 365 and a BlackPoint Tactical Mini WING for the larger handgun.
“I like these Elcans,” Freddy remarked, referring to the expensive optic mounted on his HK as he broke the weapon down into its upper and lower receiver and placed it in a low-vis backpack.
“No armor?” Reece asked.
“Doesn’t look like it. Guess we better not plan on getting shot.”
While they were loading magazines the jet’s onboard satellite phone system chirped. The conversation was mostly one-sided and Freddy jotted down some notes before hanging up.
“XXX just hit Yedid on his yacht. He survived. We have an Agency interrogator working on him no
w. They said the general was scared shitless when the boys interrupted his party. We should know more soon.”
“Any theories, Freddy?”
“It’s quite a cast of characters. We’ve got a former Russian GRU colonel clearly at odds with the current regime and very connected in D.C., a turned CIA Russia analyst on the run, a Syrian general tied to Assad and essentially brokering mercenaries out of Syria and Iraq and God only knows where else, all connected to a rogue CIA Ground Branch sadist running a former friend of yours who thought he was working for the U.S. government. They certainly aren’t doing it because they have nothing better to do.”
The two former frogmen turned intelligence operatives began discussing various scenarios when another call came in.
“This is Strain.”
“Mr. Strain, this is Andy Danreb at the Russian desk. I’ve come across something that I think you need to know about.”
“Hey, Andy! What time is it there?”
“I’m not sure, it’s late. This idea hit me, so I came back to the office. My wife was thrilled.”
“I bet. I’m putting you on speaker with Reece. What do you have?”
“After our conversation, I started thinking more and more about Oliver Grey. We know he’s dirty. What I couldn’t figure out, though, was, why now? Why, after what must have been years of working for Andrenov, did he do something he knew would blow his cover?”
“We’ve been asking ourselves the same question, Andy,” Reece chimed in.
“Well, I think I’ve found the answer. I started looking through some of the raw intelligence coming across his desk; he was looking at a ton of signals intercepts, which is really well below his pay grade. I’ve been searching all weekend, but I didn’t find anything that made any sense. It hit me tonight that he would have hidden whatever it was, that he would have removed it from the system, so I couldn’t pull it up. He couldn’t hide the raw feed, though, so I went back and found an intercept that wasn’t in message traffic.”
“What was it?”
“It’s the Russian president’s itinerary. NSA intercepted some communication between the Russian FSO, the Federal Protective Service, and the president’s Executive Office. The FSO is their version of the Secret Service. We have a thirty-day snapshot of where President Zubarev will be, hour by hour. It’s this month, Strain; we are halfway through the calendar that we have.”
“Where is the Russian president now?”
“He’s scheduled to give a speech in Odessa tomorrow at noon. Then he flies to Moscow early the following morning.”
“Grey didn’t randomly choose this month to disappear. That schedule is the key. We’ll need some analytical assets at our disposal, Andy. You think you can help?”
“I thought you’d never ask; what can I do?” Danreb felt like he’d been liberated from prison.
“I need your best team, people you can trust, in a secure conference room. I need you to be our eyes, ears, and brain as this info comes through.”
“I’ll get on the phone and start waking people up.”
“I need you to be absolutely sure that none of these people are tied to Grey.”
“That’s not a problem. Let’s just say that he and I don’t run in the same circles around here.”
“Do you know Nicole Phan at CTC?”
“I’ve heard the name, but I don’t know her.”
“She’s been helping us on this; you might want to bring her in if you can.”
“Will do. I better run if I’m going to get this thing up and running.”
“Thanks, Andy. Great work.” Freddy ended the call and turned to his friend. “Reece, I almost forgot.”
“What?”
Strain pulled a duffel from a compartment behind his seat. “I saw what you gave to Richard Hastings in Africa and thought you might need a new one,” he said as he pulled a Winkler tomahawk from his bag and handed it to his friend.
Reece stared at the masterpiece of wood and steel, slowly pulling the small bungee cords that secured the Kydex sheath to its deadly head and examining its razor-sharp blade.
“I can’t accept this, brother. It’s your Squadron ax,” Reece said, honored and humbled.
“I’ve never carried it. As you know, I prefer my guns,” Freddy said smiling, clearly enjoying the moment. “Keep it. Think of it as a thank-you for nailing that haji that was climbing the building to take me out in Morocco. Plus, I know how much you love those things.”
“Thank you, Freddy. I’ll hold on to it for you; how about that?”
“Sounds good, Reece.”
CHAPTER 77
Somewhere over the Mediterranean Sea
October
THE TOUGHEST PART WAS going to be getting word to the Russians. Ordinarily, the State Department would have been the appropriate channel, but in this case, more urgency was required. Strain had relayed what information he knew to Vic Rodriguez, who was working the phones on his way into the office. After speaking with Janice Motley, it was decided that the best course of action was to have the Moscow station chief reach out to the Federal Protective Service, responsible for President Zubarev’s security. Sources and methods had to be protected, so the communication was simple: the United States government had reason to believe that individuals, possibly Syrian nationals, were targeting the Russian president during an upcoming trip to Odessa, Ukraine. The head of the FSO was polite and appreciative but offered no information in return.
Their apprehension about sharing and their skepticism about a threat were not unfounded. Single-source intelligence, hunches, and assumptions were how one got into trouble. Of course, that ran contrary to the sixth sense that had kept warriors alive in battle since the beginning of time; sometimes you just needed to trust your gut.
The CIA jet was within thirty minutes of landing at Odessa International Airport when the phone rang again. This time it was the Agency doctor who had accompanied the SEALs on the takedown of Yedid’s yacht calling with an update.
“This is Strain.”
“Freddy, this is Dr. Rob Belanger. I’ve got an update for you.”
“Give me good news, Doc.”
“Well, as you know I don’t make the good or bad determination. It’s information and I would rate it reliable.”
“Understood. What do you have for us?”
“CIA analyst Oliver Grey went through General Qusim Yedid to hire a sniper team. Their last known location was two weeks ago along the Turkey-Georgia-Armenia border near a town called Göle. General Yedid identified the sniper team as Tasho al-Shishani, a Georgian, and a Syrian named Nizar Kattan. Langley is doing a workup on them now. They’ll send you photos if they have any, along with anything else they can dig up.”
“And the target?”
“He said he didn’t know. Grey wanted to run the operation himself.”
“How confident are you in what Yedid told you?”
“Mr. Strain, I didn’t even need to open my case, which is always the best way. He isn’t a radical, ready to die for Allah. Those are my specialty. He is a businessman and has no interest in dying for the cause. I am not at liberty to discuss his deal, but rest assured the Agency will put him to good use as an asset.”
“Understood. Anything else?”
“Yes. General Yedid had a female companion with him when he was detained.”
“You mean a prostitute?”
“Yes. She told us that there was an American on the yacht a few days ago. Yedid confirmed it was Grey. They dropped him off when they picked her up.”
“Where was that, Doc?”
“Odessa.”
• • •
Freddy pulled an iPad from his pack and selected the icon for LeadNav Systems, a sophisticated imagery program used by special operations forces. He pulled up the area surrounding Göle and turned the screen so Reece could see it.
“That was Dr. Ron Belanger. He’s a CIA interrogator that XXXX jumped in on the Yedid takedown. He says that Grey hired General Yedid
to find him a sniper team and he got him one. And get this, their last known location was just across the Black Sea, right here,” Freddy said, moving the cursor to a place on the screen. “Notice anything?”
“Looks pretty rural,” Reece offered. “Good place to shoot a rifle without attracting too much attention.”
“I agree. They’re training for something. Look at how close it is to the coast. Let’s say these snipers board a ship somewhere here,” Freddy said, pointing to the screen, “then cross the Black Sea. They’re in Odessa.”
Freddy zoomed the image out to show the entire Black Sea and its coastline, with the snipers’ last known location directly opposite the landlocked body of water from the Russian president’s destination.
“Can you pull up port information on that thing?” Reece asked.
“Nothing too specific. We’ll need Andy’s team for that. It looks like the closest port of any size would be Batumi, just across the border in Georgia.”
The engines had powered back and the jet was descending rapidly over the Ukrainian countryside. The pilot came over the cabin’s speakers and indicated that they would be on the ground in ten minutes. Both men put on their seat belts and took a few moments to think through the newest information. The puzzle was coming together, but Reece still felt like they were missing a big piece.