Man of War

by Sean Parnell

  What is that?

  He turned to get a better look, and in that instant his mind identified what the man had in his hand.

  A detonator? Why would he . . . ?

  The figure depressed the trigger on the top of the object and West’s insides went cold. He turned to yell a warning to his family, and then the world went black.

  West spent every waking hour examining the operations he had conducted as an Alpha. He knew for a fact that his cover had never been blown, and since all of his targets were dead, that left only one option. The people who murdered his family had been on the inside.

  Then it hit him.

  Breul.

  West realized he must have made a mistake when he approached the Iranian. He had been using a CIA cover that worked well in Europe, and slowly the pieces began to fit.

  Breul had claimed that the CIA knew what Iran was doing, so if someone in Iranian intelligence thought that a CIA agent was bothering their man, they would reach out to . . . Styles.

  It made sense, but it was only a theory, and once West got back on his feet he knew that he had to stay underground to prove it.

  The only money he had was in a safety deposit box in Cyprus. He spent most of it buying false papers to South America, finally ending up in Ciudad del Este, the gateway to the triple frontier. It was a beautiful and dangerous place where Paraguay, Brazil, and Argentina came together in a teeming mass of drugs, guns, and money.

  The perfect spot to start over.

  Nate spent the rest of the money getting skin grafts in Brazil. The first operation was shit, and he almost died from infection, a painful introduction to black market medicine. Later, when he’d gotten settled, he went to a doctor in Argentina who cost him nearly ten times what he had spent in Brazil. The man was worth every cent.

  West tracked down one of the men who had killed his family. He took his time getting the information he needed, and in the end the man confirmed his suspicion.

  Robin Styles had contracted a team to kill his family.

  With that fact at the forefront of his mind, Nate West patiently planted the seeds of his revenge, nurturing them until the time was right. And now that he had the nuke, he was going to destroy everyone who’d been remotely involved in the death of his family.

  Chapter 35

  It was too quiet in the safehouse and Eric Steele didn’t sleep well when it was quiet. His body had become accustomed to noise and movement from years of catching naps en route to drop zones or nodding off in the back of trucks. When it was quiet his brain drifted back to the places he’d rather forget, like the first time he was in Algiers, when Nate West was training him to be an Alpha.

  “I’m done after this,” West said out of the blue.

  “What do you mean, done? You can’t just leave.”

  “Watch me.”

  They were following a van and Steele was trying to keep his interval, watching for any signs of countersurveillance and chatting to West at the same time. Talk about sensory overload.

  “You are going to miss it. I know you are.”

  “What have we been talking about these last fourteen days?”

  It was the same question over and over. Steele answered without having to think. “Staying alive and accomplishing the mission.”

  “That’s right. You want to know the real secret, the one they don’t teach you at Indoc?”

  Steele nodded.

  “Always go out on top.”

  Steele opened his eyes, leaving the memories behind. He stared at the ceiling and remembered the note that Breul had left for him at the dead drop. He sat up slowly and swung his legs off the bed.

  He got to his feet and half limped, half walked to his plate carrier, bending to retrieve the Ziploc bag, which he carried back to the table. He laid it there, next to the remains of last night’s dinner and his father’s 1911. He picked up the pistol and ran a rag over the slide, feeling with his fingernail the five notches cut into the metal. He had never gotten the chance to ask his dad what they meant, but he had a good idea. The notches were memories from another war.

  Steele tore the baggie open and removed the folded sheet of paper. A part of him hoped that the answers to all his questions were here. He stared at the single word in Breul’s distinctive handwriting.

  “Cobalt,” he read aloud. “What the hell?”

  He flipped the paper over, wondering if he was missing something. The note didn’t make any sense. Cobalt was a code name assigned to an SAP, or special access program. Steele could count on one hand how many people were read in on that operation, and Breul wasn’t one of them.

  Steele pulled the computer over, logged in to the Program’s intelligence database, and typed “Cobalt” into the search bar. A second later a list of hits popped up. He read through the operation brief, noting the CIA heading and the SAP classification.

  He dressed quickly and went into the kitchen, where Demo and Meg were chatting over breakfast.

  “You talked to the boss yet?”

  “I wanted to run something by you first. The last time I spoke with Ali Breul I told him that he was going to have to stay in Iran for a bit longer. Breul was ready to leave. He felt that things were getting too hot.”

  It was a painful conversation to remember.

  “I have a family, Eric,” Breul pleaded.

  “Do you trust me?” Steele asked. It was a liar’s question and it burned Eric’s tongue, but he uttered it all the same.

  “Yes, of course I trust you.”

  “Then you have to believe me when I say that nothing is going to happen to you, or them.”

  “But what happens if . . . ?”

  “We have covered that. If you think you’re burned, grab the package and get to the border. There is a man there who will get you across, and you know what to do from there.”

  “Breul’s job was always to grab the nuke. We had gone over the plan a few times and the Gatehouse was the only place safe enough to stash the device. The questions we haven’t answered are why he left Iran and how anyone knew he was going to the Gatehouse.”

  “I think I know the answer to the last one,” Meg said. “There was a CIA officer in Algiers named Charlie Daniels.” She filled them in on leaving her computer open and passing Daniels in the hall before leaving the wire.

  “Did Daniels have access to the Gatehouse log?” Demo asked.

  “If he had my password,” Meg replied.

  “Would your password let him see that an Alpha code had recently been used at the Gatehouse?” Steele wanted to know.

  “He would be able to see any code,” Meg said, the embarrassment evident on her face. “Before we found his body I was checking the computer. Daniels had deleted a bunch of recent emails. I restored them and emailed them to myself. Daniels sent a message to Director Styles. The gist of the memo was a meeting between a guy named Ronna and—”

  “Burrows,” Steele finished for her.

  The links were starting to fit. The cover-up, getting Steele out of position while someone lured Breul across the border. Everything pointed to the CIA. West had let them do the dirty work and then slid in to grab the payoff.

  He still had no idea who got Breul to leave Iran.

  “All that is great,” Demo said, “very informative. But the question is, where is West going with the nuke?”

  “Breul left me a message at a dead drop. A piece of paper with the word ‘Cobalt’ written on it.”

  “Cobalt as in Dr. Bassar?” Demo asked. “Isn’t he dead?”

  “I have no idea who you guys are talking about,” Meg said, holding up her hand.

  “Dr. Asif Bassar. He is a Pakistani who developed their nuclear program. During the Iran nuclear deal, President Bentley decided it was a good idea to grant him asylum in Iran.”

  “Best idea ever,” Demo quipped.

  “And the Bentley administration kept the move quiet too. Didn’t want to have to deal with the backlash from the people.”

  “So
Bassar is a nuclear bomb expert, who is supposed to be dead. Just like West?” Meg asked.

  “Yep,” Steele replied. “I just don’t know why Breul would leave that message.”

  “Maybe he knew Bassar wasn’t dead.”

  It’s possible, Steele thought.

  “Even if that were true, why is it important?”

  “Mano, it is way too early for all these questions,” Demo said, turning his attention back to his bowl of Cocoa Krispies. “All these dead people suddenly alive. Running around with a nuclear bomb and shit.”

  “What are you muttering over there?” Steele asked.

  “It’s like one of those Netflix Steven Seagal movies. Dead scientist isn’t really dead, and just so happens he is the only one who knows how to make a nuclear bomb detonate.”

  “Wait, what was that?” Steele asked.

  “The new Steven Seagal movies, they all go straight to Netflix,” Demo said. “Sad, really. Under Siege was a classic.”

  “No, you moron, the other part. About making a nuclear bomb explode.”

  “Dude, did you even read Bassar’s file? That’s what he did. He built the triggers for the bomb.”

  The statement hit Steele like a ton of bricks. “How the hell did I miss that?” he demanded aloud.

  “Because you hate reading. Or you have been hit in the head too many times.” Demo grinned at Meg and winked.

  “Don’t you get it? That’s why Breul left the message. He knew someone would have to build a trigger.”

  “Oh, damn. Did I just crack the case?” Demo said, shooting another smile at Meg.

  “We have to find Bassar.”

  “What’s this we business? You still have to call POTUS, and when you tell him about West . . .”

  The rush of adrenaline that had built with finding Bassar’s link in the operation dissipated in an instant.

  “What is he talking about, Eric?” Meg asked.

  “I’ve got to update the President,” Steele said with a shake of his head.

  “Well, he should be happy that you have this figured out.”

  “I’m sure he will be,” Demo broke in, “but that doesn’t matter. Steele and West had history.”

  “So?”

  “The Program has rules,” Steele said. “If an Alpha has any type of relationship with a target . . .” He paused, the rest of the sentence like ash on his tongue.

  “If they have a relationship, what?”

  “The Alpha gets taken off the op.”

  Chapter 36

  Steele sat in front of the computer, bracing himself for what he had to do.

  “Code in,” the electronic voice said.

  He leaned into the camera and let it scan his retina. “Identification complete, Stalker 7 is now online,” the robotic voice said. “Please stand by.”

  Steele knew that inside Cutlass Main, someone was alerting the President that an Alpha was online. Depending on where Cole was, it could take a few seconds or ten minutes. In less than thirty seconds the screen came alive. Once again it was Rockford, not Cole, who appeared.

  “I was starting to wonder when I was going to hear from you,” the Vice President said. “Getting out of Algiers was a hell of a thing. I’d give you a medal, but looking at your file”—Rockford held up the binder—“the box appears to be full.”

  Steele knew that if Rockford was reading his file it meant the Vice President had taken a sudden interest in this operation, which was a change from the norm. Steele knew from experience that changes didn’t happen in a vacuum. Something was going on.

  “Is something wrong with President Cole?”

  Steele watched his reaction closely, looking for any hint of a lie. The first sign was the micro tic under his right eye, a tiny tremor caused by sudden stress. In itself it was nothing, but when linked with Rockford looking away from the camera followed by a gentle clearing of the throat, deception was indicated.

  “The President is fine. He is, however, indisposed for the moment.”

  Indisposed. Ali Breul is dead, the Program has been breached, and Nathaniel West has an untraceable nuke. What could possibly be more important than taking this call?

  “What’s your count?” Rockford asked, clearly trying to steer the conversation.

  “Plus one.”

  “You grab a tango?” Rockford asked, hope sparking in his eyes.

  It was time for Steele to come clean, no matter the consequences.

  “Negative, sir. The plus one is a friendly, a CIA operative named Meg Harden.” Steele had her file waiting and sent it to Rockford’s screen with a touch of a button. “I checked her out, and she is legit. Army Intelligence, a couple tours with the Activity, and then the CIA.”

  “Any idea what she was doing there?”

  “The chief of station sent her out to sanitize the safehouses. Purely precautionary, but after Benghazi it is the State Department’s standard operating procedure when credible intel points toward a possible uprising.”

  “The CIA is being close-lipped about this one. I smell a cover-up. What’s your take on the ground?”

  “Sir, we have a problem.”

  Rockford frowned. “What is it, son?”

  Steele took a deep breath, knowing that he could lie and stay on the operation, or tell the truth and get pulled. He already knew what he was going to do, but the temptation was still there.

  “Nathaniel West. He isn’t dead. I saw him with my own two eyes at the Gatehouse.”

  “What? How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know. What I do know is he has an untraceable nuclear device and I think he is on his way to get it armed.”

  Vice President Rockford was stuck on Steele’s last words. He is on his way to get it armed.

  The fact that West was still alive explained the aura of defeat that hung over Steele.

  I’ve got to pull him, but it’s best to wait until he lays everything out.

  He knew Alphas were completive by nature, so having to disengage from an operation was incredibly difficult. Steele had a personal interest in this one, which was going to make it damn near impossible to make a clean break.

  “Ali Breul left a message for me at one of our dead drops,” Steele was saying. Rockford had to force himself to focus on the piece of paper he held up to the camera. On it Rockford could see the word “Cobalt” scrawled in black ink.

  “You know what I am talking about, don’t you, sir?”

  The first time Rockford heard of Cobalt was during a series of transition meetings held for President Cole’s incoming administration. It was boring stuff except for the daily intelligence briefs. Cobalt was the code name assigned to a scientist named Dr. Asif Bassar—the man who had made Pakistan a nuclear power.

  “What do you know about him, sir?” Steele asked.

  “First time I heard the name was during an after-action report that followed a drone strike.” He swiveled in his chair and grabbed a binder from a stack on the edge of the desk. The binders had date labels in their upper-right-hand corners and Rockford quickly found the one he wanted.

  “The Director of National Intelligence just threw it out there,” Rockford said, turning back to the screen, “like it was the most normal thing in the world to allow the one man who knew how to build a nuclear weapon safe travel to Iran. Cole went ballistic. First time I have ever seen him truly angry. Demanded to know why they waited two years to take him out.”

  “Did they have an answer?” Steele wanted to know.

  Rockford shook his head and flipped through the binder. “All they wanted to talk about was the drone strike.” He found what he was looking for and started reading aloud from the text. “Reaper was called on station and fired two Hellfires into target house. SOG team was sent in to collect DNA. Lab results taken from scene provided a positive match.”

  “And you took their word for it.”

  “No. I definitely did not.” Rockford flipped to the end of the binder and traced his finger down the page. “
Secondary test of lab results taken from scene . . .” He skipped over the collection date, chain of custody, and test site, and searched for the result. Rockford turned the page, lips moving as he read everything but the one thing he wanted to know—the results. “Here it is, secondary sample was tested against primary DNA sample and results came back inconclusive . . .”

  He trailed off, the weight of the word pressing him to his chair. “Wait, there has to be a mistake.” Rockford flipped back to the previous page, wondering how he could have missed this critical piece of the puzzle. “ ‘Inconclusive.’ How could I have missed that?” he hissed.

  “You didn’t miss it, sir,” Steele said, voice flat through the computer speaker. “That information was withheld from you.”

  Rockford looked up and the blood drained from his face as he realized that suddenly their CIA theory didn’t seem so farfetched.

  “Cobalt . . .”

  “Isn’t dead.” Steele finished the sentence for him before falling silent.

  Rockford knew that he was waiting for the inevitable.

  “The org chart says that Stalker 8 is the closest Alpha to you. He is in Syria running with our Spec Ops boys. How long do you think it would take to pull him out, get him recocked and redeployed?”

  “Fighting around Wadi Barada is bad. Real bad. Probably take a few hours to get enough ass in the air, maybe send an SF team from Italy, that’s another couple of hours. Come up with a plan, launch airstrikes, and send in the troops.” Steele looked at the ceiling and Rockford figured he was doing the math in his head. “Eight, nine hours. Depending on how long he has been out and how much rack time he’s gotten, you could have him at my location in a day, day and a half.”

  We don’t have half that much.

  Rockford swiveled his chair to get a look into the TOC. He scanned the row of clocks on the wall. Each one was counting upward, and below the red numbers was the name of the Stalker element each mission clock corresponded to. Steele’s was at seventeen hours and counting.

  “If the CIA is in on this we can’t let Ms. Harden go, you realize that, right?”