Tier One (Tier One Series Book 1)

by Brian Andrews

  “And miss the after-party? Never,” Wang said, but his voice cracked.

  At the rear of the SUV, Smith had already pulled out the large duffel packed with all their gear. He stood waiting with it slung across his back, like a seasoned gladiator primed for battle in the Coliseum. “You’re lead,” he said to Dempsey. “On your order.”

  Dempsey nodded, gave the hand signal to move out, and led his team into the woods to go rescue Sarah Reed.

  CHAPTER 24

  Sneaking through the shadows, an old familiar rush washed over Dempsey. His senses felt keener, his heartbeat stronger. The air tasted sweet, rejuvenating him with every breath. He smirked at the irony of it all. He’d endured weeks of browbeating from Jarvis and Smith on the fact that Ember was not the teams, and how being a clandestine operator was not just about kicking in doors, clearing rooms, and evacuating survivors off the X . . . What a bunch of bullshit. Tonight’s mission was textbook Tier One operations, and they knew it. Which is exactly why they needed him. At the end of the day, all the psychological, secret-agent mumbo jumbo was nothing more than foreplay before the romp in the sack. He’d seen it time and time again on the teams—in the end, guts, muscle, and superior firepower rule the day.

  Dempsey stopped at the tree line behind the warehouse and took a knee just inside the boundary of moon shadow. The others pulled up beside him and did the same. Smith slid the bag off his shoulders, unzipped the main compartment, and divvied out the gear. The soft, black tactical vests had no SAPI plates tonight, but the blended Kevlar-Dyneema weave would stop up to a .44 Magnum hollow point. Dempsey slid the vest over his head and then clicked on the MBITR encrypted radio. He set the radio to channel three, slipped the small earpiece into his left ear canal, and lowered the thin boom mike into position by the corner of his mouth. Next, he slipped three thirty-round rifle magazines and three fifteen-round pistol magazines into the pouches on his vest. He grabbed two flash-bang grenades, handed one to Mendez, and then dropped the other into the pouch on the left side of his vest. Last, he snapped a drop holster onto his belt and adjusted the Velcro straps around his right thigh to hold one of the Sig Sauer P229 pistols Smith was handing out.

  Once everyone had handguns, Smith moved onto the heavy stuff. By request, the Sig516 assault rifles went to Dempsey and Mendez. Dempsey had come to like the rifle over the last couple of weeks. It was similar to his SOPMOD M4, but it felt lighter and somehow more solid. With its 7.5-inch barrel and 5.56 x 45 mm NATO ammunition, it was perfect for heavy, close-quarters action. He clicked on the red-dot holographic sight and checked that the magazine was securely engaged in the weapon. He pulled the slide back far enough to confirm a round was chambered, checked that the safety was off, and then slung the rifle across his chest in a combat carry. Satisfied with his weapon, he watched Grimes and Smith ready their smaller H&K MP7A1 submachine guns. The H&Ks were more pistol than a combat rifle in Dempsey’s mind, less accurate and less lethal with their 4.60 mm rounds. However, click the mode selector to Auto Fire, and suddenly those problems went away—probably a good thing for the redhead, Dempsey figured.

  Quickly and quietly they buddy-checked one another’s gear and then performed sequential “double-click” radio checks to ensure they were all on the same frequency. Dempsey tapped his mike with a finger, and they all twisted the knob on their radios to go to “hot mikes,” meaning the radios were now voice activated. Last but not least, Smith nudged Dempsey and passed him a small black case with the compact C4 charge he would need to breach the warehouse door. Dempsey slipped the case into the left thigh pocket of his cargo pants and closed the Velcro flap.

  He looked at Smith. “I say no to NVGs tonight. Plenty of moonlight and we’re going in with lights on. You agree?”

  Smith flashed Dempsey his trademark lopsided grin. “This is your rodeo, John. I’m just a cowboy waiting for his eight-second ride.”

  “All right, then, whenever you’re ready,” Dempsey said, gesturing toward the house.

  Smith gave him the thumbs-up and signaled to Grimes it was time to go. Dempsey watched them disappear into the trees as they began their short trek through the woods around to the front of the property. He checked his watch. Kitting up had taken under a minute.

  Excellent.

  “Five—Lead—you up?” he said softly into his mike.

  “I’m almost to the corner,” came Wang’s voice over the radio. “I’ll be in position in just a sec.” Wang sounded tactically nervous, but not “lose your shit” nervous, which Dempsey could live with.

  He watched the clock for two minutes, enough time for Smith and Grimes to circle around to the front of the house. When time was up, he signaled to Mendez to make for the building. Moving in a tactical crouch, Mendez ran from the safety of the tree line to the side of the warehouse, while Dempsey covered him. Dempsey followed a split second later, angling to stay clear of the oversize window in the back of the warehouse. As he closed on the building, he noticed that the window was blacked out by a heavy blanket, a low-tech but effective countermeasure against snooping eyes. Dempsey signaled Mendez to reposition to the east entry point around the corner. Keeping low, they moved quickly, rounded the corner, and both took a knee on either side of the weathered metal door. A seam of light glowed through a warped gap in the upper corner, confirming for Dempsey he’d made the right call about the night vision.

  While Mendez scanned the yard for threats, Dempsey retrieved the C4 kit from his pant-leg pocket. With practiced efficiency, he pressed the hunk of C4 into the crevice between the lockset and the door frame, and then inserted the red-and-black leads into the gray Play-Doh. He motioned for Mendez to clear the blast zone, and they both backpedaled, Dempsey unspooling the detonator wire as he moved. Dempsey gave himself five feet of lateral separation from the door and pressed his back against the wall. He turned his head to look at Mendez. Mendez, mirroring his position on the opposite side of the door, gave Dempsey a thumbs-up.

  “Lead—set,” Dempsey whispered into his mike.

  “Two—set,” Smith replied in his headset.

  Dempsey waited and listened. Although muffled by the structure of the building, he definitely heard two men arguing inside. A moment later, over the top of the shouting, he heard the shrill timbre of a woman’s voice. He couldn’t make out what anyone was saying, but words or no words, Dempsey knew what fear sounded like.

  “Mom—Lead. We’re set at the target. Disturbance inside. Are we green?”

  “One moment, Lead,” came the woman’s voice, now all business where love had been before.

  Dempsey anxiously tapped the side of the plastic trigger box wired to his breacher charge. Inside the warehouse, the argument was turning hot and angry. All three occupants were screaming on top of one another. The woman’s voice was being drowned out by the male voices now—voices so filled with rage that he knew what was coming next.

  Fuck this.

  “Mom, we need a go. The package is in immediate danger.” He moved his finger to the trigger. “We need a green now.”

  “Negative, Lead,” came Jarvis’s voice, deep and collected. “Pull back and hold. Mission abort. I say again, abort.”

  A scream of pain from inside the warehouse sent a surge of anger through Dempsey’s body.

  Maybe Jarvis was willing to let the girl die, but he wasn’t.

  “Two—Lead, we’re going on my mark. Three—two—one—go, go.” On the second go, Dempsey pressed the trigger. The breacher charge went off with a resounding thump, blowing a ten-inch hole in the door where the latch and lock had once been. A half second later, he heard the thud from Smith’s charge at the front of the house. Thank God, Smith had followed his lead. Mendez slid to the edge of the doorway on a knee, banged the door open with his elbow, and then rolled a flash-bang into the room.

  Dempsey reflexively shielded his eyes from the blinding flash as the bang went off, rattling the corrugated metal wall he was leaning against. He dropped into a crouch and burst through t
he door, moving left and clearing left, door to corner. After confirming he couldn’t be flanked, he charged forward, scanning and sweeping over his rifle barrel sights. In peripheral vision, he saw Mendez finish clearing right and fall into step two meters away. At his ten o’clock, Dempsey sensed movement in the white smoke. Muzzle flashes lit up the haze, followed a split second later by the “tap, tap, tap” of a semiautomatic pistol. He brought the human silhouette in line with his holographic sight and squeezed the trigger twice—the figure lurched backward and collapsed to the ground. A woman shrieked, and he had to stop himself from calling out Sarah Reed’s name. Clenching his teeth, Dempsey crept forward in the haze, scanning.

  Scanning.

  Scanning.

  The sound of gunfire in the distance registered in his consciousness, and he knew it was coming from the house out front.

  Suddenly, the smoke recoiled, as if the warehouse itself had just inhaled, and two new silhouettes materialized in front of him. He saw the girl, cowering behind a male who was crouched low to the floor.

  “We’re American military,” Dempsey shouted. “The house is surrounded. Throw down your weapons.”

  The crouching male stood, one hand in the air, the other at his side, clutching a rifle. Dempsey put his red targeting dot in the center of the man’s face. “I’m not fucking around here,” he growled.

  The man hesitated, contemplating surrender or certain death. He chose life. The rifle clattered to the ground as he raised his hands into the air.

  “On the ground,” Dempsey shouted.

  The man complied, sprawling himself on the concrete floor facedown. Mendez moved in swiftly and put a knee on the back of the kidnapper’s neck. The Marine kicked the rifle out of reach with his other foot and turned to Sarah Reed, who was still crouching beside her fallen captor. “It’s okay,” Mendez said. “We’re the good guys. We’re here to rescue you.”

  “Lead—clear—package secure,” Dempsey said into his mike after sweeping the room one last time for additional threats. Satisfied the warehouse was secure, he straightened up and moved toward Mendez and Senator Reed’s trembling daughter.

  What happened next caught him off guard. The young woman whirled and surged toward Mendez, screaming with incoherent terror. This was either a panic attack or a complete psychological meltdown. She stayed low, but moved with enough speed that Dempsey realized she would likely topple Mendez over, freeing the terrorist pinned under his knee. He surged forward to grab her, but she veered, rolled, and scooped up the rifle that Mendez had kicked aside.

  “Allahu Akbar!” she screamed and trained the rifle on Mendez. She fired twice. Mendez grunted and sat back onto his haunches, not falling over, but releasing the terrorist who had been under his control.

  Dempsey raised his rifle to shoot the girl, but before he could fire, two loud bursts of automatic gunfire echoed throughout the cavernous warehouse. Sarah Reed arched her back, screamed, and pitched face forward onto the ground. He looked down at the girl, writhing and whimpering on the concrete floor. Blood poured from her left side, making a purple lake beneath her. A moment later, she stopped moving.

  Smith and Grimes charged to his side, the barrel of Grimes’s H&K submachine gun still smoldering. Dempsey looked at the terrorist’s rifle on the floor next to Sarah Reed. With a bellowing roar, he kicked the damn thing across the room so hard he worried he’d broken his toe. Then he went to Mendez. He grabbed the Marine by the shoulders and turned him to inspect the damage. Mendez pressed his palms into his chest and pulled them back dripping with bright-red blood. He looked up at Dempsey, eyes wide with confusion.

  “What the fuck?” the Marine croaked.

  Dempsey’s throat tightened. Oh God, not again . . .

  “What the fuck indeed,” echoed a baritone voice, loud and angry.

  A standby electrical generator roared to life somewhere outside. Half a dozen halogen lights turned on, and ventilation fans began to whir overhead, clearing the lingering smoke from the room in seconds. Dempsey ignored all this and stood dumbfounded as a square-shouldered figure strode into the light. He pointed his rifle at the new arrival, just as the familiar voice spoke again.

  “At ease, Dempsey.”

  Jarvis?

  “Everyone stand down,” Jarvis ordered as he stepped into the middle of the room. “This exercise is finished.”

  “Exercise?” Dempsey said, lowering his weapon. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  He looked at the dead woman on the floor, and watched with disbelief as she opened her eyes, got to her feet, and walked to stand beside Jarvis. Jarvis handed her a brown towel, which she used to mop the “blood” from her chest and arms.

  “I’m not shot?” Mendez asked, still staring at his blood-soaked hands.

  “Not this time,” Jarvis said, tossing another towel to Mendez. “No thanks to your team leader. The low-velocity training rounds broke simulation blood packets inside your vest.”

  “Shit,” the Marine hissed as he wiped at the fake blood with trembling hands.

  Dempsey felt his face flush with anger. “You mean this whole thing was some bullshit training exercise?”

  “And thank God it was, since you fucked it up royally,” Jarvis barked. “In this simulation we briefed ambiguity about the relationship between the package and her abductors, but you ignored that and latched onto Sarah Reed’s sorrow-filled backstory. You pitied her and dubbed yourself her protector and rescuer—like a knight in shining armor from some fucking fairy tale.”

  Dempsey stared at the girl next to Jarvis. The resemblance to Sarah Reed was uncanny, but now he could see that this woman was not the senator’s daughter. The shape of her eyes, the size of her nose, the line of her jaw—all slightly different from the photographs he’d spent hours staring at. She blew him a kiss, then reached up with her right hand and pulled off a blonde wig. Fuming, he watched as she ran her fingers through her real, mousy-brown locks.

  “But your biggest failing as team leader, John, was not trusting your team,” Jarvis continued.

  “What are you talking about? Every one of these guys had my back. Hell, Grimes even took out the package before she could turn her gun on me.”

  “I’m not just talking about the assault team. Baldwin and his guys back at the TOC are among your most valuable weapons. Sometimes the remote analysis team uncovers information they can’t communicate to you in the field. If you’re ordered to abort, you need to trust your teammates and respect that decision.”

  “But she was screaming,” Dempsey muttered, looking at the actress beside Jarvis.

  “Yes, she was screaming. And you acted on that single data point and got a teammate killed,” Jarvis shot back. “You made a unilateral decision that sunk an operation where we had the option to leave the principals in play. If you had not intervened, the simulation would have resulted in you working your way up the food chain, locating the terror-cell leadership, and stopping them before they detonated a dirty bomb in Norfolk. The real-time mission is only one piece of the larger mission. Today you failed, and by the simulation playbook, tens of thousands of people will pay the price.”

  Dempsey clenched his jaw and said nothing. He caught Smith’s eyes and the former Delta man winked. Dempsey shook his head.

  “The cleanup team will be here in five mikes,” Jarvis said. “Pack up your gear and we’ll meet at the airfield. Wang could use the practice, so let him drive you out as part of the exercise until you get to the highway. We’ll debrief on the plane.” He paused for a moment, holding Dempsey’s eyes. “Remember this disaster, because training is now officially over. We’re not going back to Newport News. Wheels up in forty-five minutes for Frankfurt. There’ve been some recent developments that require our attention. Effective immediately, we’re on mission . . . our real mission.”

  And with that, Jarvis spun on a heel and disappeared into the night, leaving Dempsey alone with his team and his shame.

  PART III

  “Th
e problem in defense is how far you can go without destroying from within what you are trying to defend from without.”

  —Dwight D. Eisenhower

  CHAPTER 25

  Boeing 787–9

  Eastbound over the Atlantic Ocean

  May 18, 0215 EDT

  “You gonna ring the bell?”

  Dempsey looked up to find Smith staring down at him. “Excuse me?”

  “I said, ‘You look like hell,’” Smith said, popping a handful of roasted almonds into his mouth. “What did you think I said?”

  Dempsey shook his head. “Something else . . . it doesn’t matter.”

  “You know, John, this bird has a full-size shower. You could use one.” Glancing at his watch, Smith added, “You still have fifteen minutes until we start the brief.”

  “Good idea,” Dempsey said, extending his right hand. “This chair swallowed me. Help me up.”

  Smith gripped his right wrist and pulled him out of the butter-soft leather lounger he’d been dozing in for the past hour.

  “I’ll send Grimes back to join you,” Smith said as Dempsey shuffled past. “Maybe she can help you work the kinks out.”

  Dempsey flipped Smith the bird over his shoulder.

  Two minutes later, he was standing inside a marble-tiled shower with steaming hot water pulsing onto his aching back. The airplane was ridiculous. Ridiculous. For the tenth time, he had to remind himself he was flying forty thousand feet over the Atlantic Ocean and not in a luxury condominium in San Diego. Where Jarvis got these toys was beyond him. The stateroom suite—which occupied the rear third of the fuselage—was palatial, with a king-size bed, dressing room, and a bathroom worthy of the Ritz-Carlton. In addition to the stateroom, the plane housed a bunkroom designed to sleep eight, with desks and chairs for four. The midsection of the jet was outfitted with a conference room that rivaled what they had at the Ember hangar, including flat-screens, secure computers, oversize leather chairs, and a wet bar. Next was the richly appointed “common room,” where Smith had found him. The common room housed a sixty-inch LED television, a sofa, four leather lounge chairs, and a library wall. Attached to the common room was a private office, where Jarvis had been holed up since takeoff. Finally, just behind the cockpit were the aircraft’s galley and two additional bathrooms. All told, he guessed this 787 VIP luxury jet had close to three thousand square feet of living space. Talk about waste, fraud, and abuse. What the hell was Jarvis doing with a plane like this? There are perks and then there are “perks.” This fell into the latter category, which made Dempsey uncomfortable. Not that he wanted to spend the rest of his life as a back-of-the-bus guy, but seriously, this was absurd.