“Hey, fellas,” Smith said with a wave.
Both men waved back and smiled, unperturbed by Kemper’s presence.
Kemper nodded cordially and followed Smith over to a gray metal cabinet set against the far wall.
“Nice digs,” Kemper said, gesturing to the hangar and the jets.
“Wait for it,” Smith said, grinning like a kid.
Smith opened both cabinet doors and picked up what looked like an oversize calculator tethered to the top shelf. Kemper watched while he punched in a code, returned the device to the shelf, and shut the doors. After a two-second delay, the entire cabinet disappeared into the floor with a whoosh that reminded Kemper of an old Star Trek sound effect and caused him to jump backward. He peered through a gap in the wall into a space the size of a walk-in closet, behind where the cabinet had been moments ago.
“What the hell is this all about?” Kemper asked.
Smith continued his annoying variant of the silent treatment, and motioned for Kemper to step inside. Kemper rolled his eyes. He hated this cloak-and-dagger spook shit, but he walked over the top of the file cabinet into the darkened closet without protest. Once inside, his perspective changed, and he immediately realized he was standing inside an elevator, not a closet. Instead of a keypad, this elevator had a palm reader similar to the unit at the front entrance. Smith pressed his left hand firmly against the glass until a green LED in the wall flashed twice. An overhead light switched on, and a pair of elevator doors began to close. Through the shrinking gap, Kemper saw the metal cabinet rising up into position to conceal the access point after their departure. A motor purred underfoot, and Kemper felt the elevator descending. The experience was uncannily reminiscent of the SCIF at MacDill.
A moment later, the elevator cruised to a silent stop, and the doors opened, revealing a sleek, modern tactical operations center. Kemper tried not to look impressed as he stepped into the TOC, while at the same time resisting the urge to scratch the itch that never quit beneath the bandage on his neck.
First impressions matter, he told himself. Try not to look like some nervous rookie with a contagious skin affliction.
Similar to the MacDill SCIF, a large wooden table was the focal point of the ops center. Replete with built-in speakers, ultrathin computer screens, and individual video cameras and microphones, this table was undoubtedly set up for multiparty, ultra-secure videoconferencing with any number of similar “war rooms” in other undisclosed locations. Kemper counted twelve leather task chairs encircling the round, polished mahogany table. Maybe the team was bigger than he’d thought.
He surveyed the rest of the space: to his left he saw a door labeled LOCKER ROOM, a small kitchen, and what looked like a bunkroom with half a dozen cots; to his right, he spied an arms locker, a server room, and a door labeled MECHANICAL. On the far wall, seven flat-panel LED monitors hung on angle brackets near the ceiling, mounted above a set of double doors set in black glass. All the screens were dark, except for the center unit, which had quad split-screen streaming security-camera feeds of two different angles inside the hangar—one of the parking lot, and one of the flight line on the airport side of the hangar. Presently, a King Air 350 was taxiing toward the runway.
Kemper returned his attention to the center of the room, where Kelso Jarvis leaned over the table, talking with two young men dressed in blue jeans and T-shirts. Jarvis whispered something in the ear of the closer kid, who nodded and snapped his computer screen closed into the table. Jesus, Kemper thought, these guys don’t look a day out of college. Finally, Jarvis waved him over. Instead of waiting for an introduction, the two kids gathered their gear and disappeared through a set of blacked-out double doors. Kemper dismissed the brush-off with a shrug and extended his hand to Jarvis.
“How are you doing, Jack?” Jarvis asked, shaking hands.
“Fine, Skipper. I still don’t recognize the guy in the mirror, but for someone who recently got blown up, I can’t complain.”
“How’d things go with the doc?”
Kemper shrugged. “I’m here, so I guess I passed muster.”
“Good,” Jarvis said. Then, with authority, he added, “Now try to put all that out of your head, because today is about new beginnings. For all of us. I’m gonna kick things off with introductions and then explain the charter of this new task force. Not just for your benefit, but for all the principals. You’re not the only newbie in the group. On top of that, several of the priors from the JIRG don’t know all the details about what happened in Yemen and Djibouti.”
Great. I get to relive the worst day of my life twice in one day.
But instead of protesting, Kemper just nodded. “Sure, I understand.”
“All right, good. Now, the moment of truth,” said Jarvis, with an expectant look on his face. “Jack Kemper is dead. You will not hear that name from my lips ever again. So, who are you?”
Kemper shrugged. “I didn’t realize I had a say in the matter. I figured I’d show up here and you’d hand me an ID with my picture and a new name.”
“Well, in that case,” Smith interjected, surprising both of them, “I’d like the honor.”
Kemper had no idea what was involved in becoming someone else—in starting a new life with a new identity—but Smith had already crossed that bridge. From operator to spook. From born to reborn. Maybe it made sense for Smith to be his baptizer. Or maybe he’d regret letting a guy named Barry Pozniak pick his new name. Either way, did it really matter? It was just a NOC, after all—what difference does a name make?
“Fine,” Kemper said, with another shrug. “You can call me Sister Mary Francis for all I care, so long as you put me to work.”
“All right, then, your fate is in Shane’s hands,” said Jarvis with a little ironic smile. “Follow me to the conference room, gents.”
Jarvis led them from the roundtable into a room behind blacked-out glass doors. Inside, Kemper scanned the faces of the most unlikely group of people he’d ever seen assembled in a TOC. The two college boys from earlier were huddled at the end of a narrow rectangular conference table, jabbering over an iPad like chipmunks fighting for a giant acorn. Next to them stood a tall, lanky professor type, dressed in an expensive suit, intently observing their conversation. A young Asian man with crazy hair and trendy eyeglasses occupied the spot to the professor’s right. After him stood two operators: a bearded, twentysomething Latino and a clean-shaven, middle-aged African American who Kemper pegged as at least six and a half feet tall. Beside this brute, stood an angel. Or maybe, the devil herself. It was impossible to say which, but whoever she was, the girl was smoking hot. And angry. He’d never seen a face so beautiful saturated with so much venom. She was dressed like an operator, except her cargo pants, shirt, and boots were all black. Her auburn hair was pulled back in an unforgiving ponytail; she wore no makeup. Her pale blue eyes never wavered from their target—Kelso Jarvis.
“Please, everyone, take your seats,” Jarvis said, interrupting Kemper’s look around.
Kemper took a seat next to Smith, and realized he was grateful to have the former Delta operator on the team. The world of spies and OGAs—“other government agencies” as they were known by operators—was outside his wheelhouse, and he was not familiar with the various protocols and personnel roles in a civilian task force like this one.
“Welcome to Task Force Ember,” Jarvis announced once everyone was seated. “In part, this task force is the reincarnation of the Joint Intelligence Research Group, which was officially disbanded a few days ago. Some of you already know one another, but for the sake of our new additions, I’d like to start off with introductions. To my left is our Director of Operations, Shane Smith. Shane is my right hand, and he’s responsible for overseeing all facets of task-force operations. All data and reports should flow through him, and in the event I’m unreachable, he’s in charge.”
Smith nodded to the group.
“Shane, why don’t you introduce the head of our new Special Activities Unit
?” Jarvis said.
Kemper found himself gritting his teeth at the prospect of his new name. Damn it, why hadn’t he given Jarvis a name when he’d had the chance five minutes ago? Something simple and forgettable, like Mark Jones. Instead, he’d flubbed it, and now Smith had control of his fate. He shouldn’t have called Delta guys pussies this morning. Shit. Smith was going to make him pay for that. He could hear it coming. Hey, everybody, meet Jack Goff. Or, I’d like to introduce Erick Shin. The possibilities for lifelong shame were endless: Holden Johnson, Wayne Kerr, Dick Short, Rick O’Shea, and those were just the doozies he could think of on the fly—
“Everyone,” said Smith, giving Kemper’s shoulder a squeeze, “this is John Dempsey. Dempsey is a former Tier One Navy SEAL, and like the famous boxer he shares a last name with, he’s an all-around badass. We’re fortunate to have him on the team.”
Kemper breathed a sigh of relief and nodded to the group. Then he met Smith’s eyes and gave a subtle nod of gratitude. Maybe it was time to start trusting this guy. With stand-up moves like that, Smith seemed like a team guy more and more every day.
Jarvis gave no visible reaction to the impromptu christening—at least none that Kemper could see. He waited for Smith to take his seat before continuing.
“On my right is another new addition, Sal Mendez, who will be working in Special Activities with Dempsey.”
Kemper pegged Mendez for a Marine. Probably a former critical-skills operator. Mendez sported a heavy black beard—at least two weeks’ growth. Give that beard two months and send Mendez and his Latin complexion to Miami Beach for a week, and the guy could easily pass for an Arab. That could be useful. Mendez flashed the group an easy, confident smile that reminded Kemper of Spaz. He liked the guy already, but he knew he should bury the feeling. That sort of thinking was dangerous. He didn’t know shit about Mendez. It didn’t matter what Jarvis or Smith thought of any of these people. Anyone who was going to be part of his team would need to be vetted by him personally before earning his trust.
“Also new to Ember,” Jarvis continued, “is Elizabeth Grimes. She will be part of the leadership here, although her exact role is still evolving.”
Unless his ears were playing tricks on him, Kemper swore he heard the redheaded beauty actually growl at that comment. With her pale-blue irises locked on Jarvis and a voice so cold the room went numb, Elizabeth Grimes said, “I believe what Director Jarvis meant to say was that I will also be working with Dempsey’s Special Activities Unit.”
Unfazed, Jarvis held her gaze. “As I said, your role is still evolving. Should you happen to find yourself with the title of Director, then you can call the shots. Until then, I will decide in what capacity you serve this task force.”
She made no rebuttal, and Jarvis dismissed her with a glance.
Kemper watched the muscles ripple along her hard, perfect jawline as she ground her teeth together in bitter, silent enmity.
What the hell was that all about?
Kemper raised an eyebrow at Smith, who responded only with a sniff.
“Next is Mr. Quinton Thomas. Mr. Thomas is the head of both internal and external security, not the least of which is the physical security of our new facility here. He will be checking our three newbies into the system and running biometrics. Later this afternoon, he’ll brief all hands on the protocols for this compound, discuss our two dedicated aircraft, and give you a walk-through of the comms and computer systems. For all you legacy members, there are a number of important changes to the way we’re doing business in Ember, so pay close attention.”
Thomas gave Jarvis a cordial two-fingered salute, but his face was all business as he looked around the table. Kemper could not help but stare at the big man’s ridiculous physique. Thomas looked like he could pick up Smith and break him over a knee like kindling. The man’s neck was thicker than his head, for Christ’s sake. How was that even possible? After intimidating all the non-operators at the table, the big man looked at Kemper and winked, a hint of a smile lingering still on his lips.
Thomas is enjoying this way more than he should be, Kemper decided. Definitely a Marine.
“Next up is Ian Baldwin, our chief data cruncher and analysis demigod. Baldwin keeps our analyst team on task and on target, which includes the two kids beside him.” Jarvis gestured to the two geeks seated beside Professor Baldwin. “I call them Chip and Dale. I encourage you to do the same.” Both of the junior analysts rolled their eyes at the nicknames like high school freshmen just told to clean their rooms. “All kidding aside, Baldwin’s team is second to none. Data analysis is our differentiator. It was the lifeblood of JIRG, and it will continue to be so with Ember.”
Dempsey nodded at Chip—or was that Dale?—who raised a hand to wave before being elbowed by his partner.
“Which leaves us with Richard Wang,” Jarvis said, gesturing to the Asian kid sitting next to one of the chipmunks. Wang had the lean physique of a triathlete, but he didn’t have the hard eyes of an operator. Cyber tech and comms? Probably, Kemper decided, but he can’t be a day over twenty-three.
“I poached Mr. Wang from US Cyber Command before they could make him head of the Southeast Asia division. Since then, he has reluctantly adapted to our low-tech task-force environment, and somehow manages to carry on as our ITO chief.” There were some chuckles from the organic members, suggesting this was some sort of inside joke.
“A couple of bamboo sticks and a roll of copper wire is all I need, boss. No, seriously, though, first order of business—I’d like everyone to turn in your existing phones and laptops, and I’ll get you set up with some nice Chinese Huawei phones and Hasee computers,” Wang said, barely cracking a smile.
Wise guy, huh? Kemper liked him immediately. But in the field, not knowing what you don’t know was every rookie’s greatest liability. As long as Wang stayed in the back and followed orders, his inexperience could be managed.
“For you new guys—and girls,” Jarvis said, with an exaggerated look at Elizabeth Grimes, “this is a small, elite team. We do the impossible with an impossibly small number of people, so there will be a lot of crossover training. I’m not saying I expect you to be interchangeable assets—we are a team of specialists—but I do expect you to have an operational understanding of one another’s roles. I’m an optimist, but also a realist, and in this business, attrition is a fact of life. When gaps appear on our roster, I need existing members to step up and fill those gaps. Under our new charter, everyone in this room needs to be prepared to work in the field. With that in mind, I’ve scheduled ops training to begin on Monday up the road in Williamsburg. You can think of today as a fam day, if you like, to get used to our new home, the new gear, and one another.”
Kemper noticed Baldwin and the two analysts exchange nervous glances. For men accustomed to working in the ironclad safety of a TOC, the prospect of being thrown into the wild would be terrifying.
Jarvis tapped the table with the Naval Academy ring he wore, jolting everyone awake from their private daydreams.
“Why are we here?” he asked.
Kemper considered the question. The words were rhetorical, but the tone in Jarvis’s voice was not.
No one answered.
“Why are we here?” Jarvis repeated.
Kemper was about to open his big mouth, but Jarvis turned to Smith and nodded.
Smith picked up a remote control on the conference-room table and pressed several buttons. The conference-room lights dimmed, and a large flat-screen TV flickered to life. The screen was configured in a four-way split, streaming video that made Kemper’s stomach churn. Each quadrant showed a different cable-network news piece depicting the massacre of “two dozen” Navy SEALS during an operation in Yemen. CNN, Fox News, NBC, and goddamn Al Jazeera. Fucking unbelievable. The story had been leaked into the wild. Even with the fictitious losses—fewer than half the true number of casualties—the idea that actual footage from the Yemen mission had found its way onto television infuriated Kemper. Se
crecy and anonymity had been the government’s promise to the Tier One operators in exchange for the sacrifices they made every day. Once again, that promise had been betrayed to satisfy some nameless, faceless political agenda. Ironic that the bureaucrat responsible for this leak got to maintain his anonymity, while the safety of the Tier One SEAL family members were put in jeopardy. Kemper listened in disgust as the various news anchors “memorialized” the gallant men who’d lost their lives by reading off their goddamn names and ranks! His chest tightened with rage. He started bouncing his right leg under the table, toes on the floor, heel moving up and down like a piston—trying to relieve the angst brewing inside.
“I ask you again,” Jarvis said, his voice hard and baritone. “Why are we here?”
“To find the bastards responsible and send them straight to hell,” Kemper said, clenching both his fists.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” said Jarvis, standing. “Dempsey just spelled out our charter in one sentence. Live it, breathe it, and don’t forget it. The massacre of our nation’s Tier One SEAL unit will forever be the legacy of the Joint Intelligence Research Group. But not this group. This group will make things right.”
Jarvis paused for a moment to look around the table. “What happened in Yemen and Djibouti can only be explained by a breach in operational security. Was the JIRG compromised? Maybe. Does this event highlight a systematic vulnerability of the DoD intelligence apparatus as a whole? Most definitely. I say this because the intelligence collected that led to the mission in Yemen was vetted through multiple channels, flowed from multiple sources, and was screened with the highest level of care—most notably by half of the people sitting in this room. Our group was secure, and it was black. Its existence in the outside world was known only at the highest echelon of the intelligence community. Even that was not enough.”
Kemper looked around the table. This was the confirmation he’d been dreading—Jarvis and his Joint Group were intimately involved in the operational tasking for Yemen. His immediate reaction was a strong compulsion to blame the people in this room. If they were the ones responsible for handling the data, didn’t that make them responsible for the massacres? He forced himself to take a deep breath. And then another. Would blaming Jarvis, Smith, and the young analysts across the table bring his dead friends back to life? No. Would hating the people in this room ultimately accomplish anything? No. Blaming was unproductive. Blaming was living in the past. He needed to focus on the now. He needed to focus on the real bad guys—the fuckers who compromised the OPSEC and sprung the trap. That was why he was here. That was why Ember was born.
Tier One (Tier One Series Book 1) Page 17