Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

She grabbed the wallet and looked around the street. No one had come out to investigate the sounds of screaming. It’s Sudan, after all. They know better.

  She nodded in silent approval and purposefully strode to her SUV, covering her face once more with the hijab. Time to go, this time for good.

  As she drove back to the US Embassy, she cursed Zeus for activating the chat alert on such short notice. Unfortunately, what was done was done, and she’d have to notify him immediately. She couldn’t have foreseen all of the unknowns—including the eyes that watched through a different pair of high-power military binoculars as she fled the scene of the encounter.

  CHAPTER 19

  US Embassy, Madrid

  Four Days to Zero Hour

  “Did I ever tell you how much I detest losing?” John asked no one in particular, his grizzled face set in a look of odd reflection. “You can blame America’s pastime for who I am today,” he added, smiling with mischievous nostalgia.

  Logan looked quizzically at his friend but didn’t respond. The only other occupant of the classically decorated conference room on the top floor of the building was the CIA’s chief of station, David Everett. The three men waited for Cole to return with an update from Langley.

  The embassy’s secure communications facility lay elsewhere in the building, but thanks to the sensitivity involved in the current operation, Cole had asked Logan and John to wait with the senior CIA officer.

  The three men gazed out the large window at the Madrid skyline, an odd combination of centuries-old architecture, historical landmarks, and modern skyscrapers, including the four tall buildings that stood like sentinels over the city in the Cuatro Torres Business Area.

  “You know I wrestled in high school, state champion and all that, but I don’t think I ever told you about my foray into the wonderful world of baseball.” John laughed as he recalled a younger version of himself, the one the world hadn’t jaded with its evil and cruelty.

  “I was a Little League pitcher. Back then, that’s all I wanted to be when I grew up. Like Nolan Ryan, you know? And I was good, really good. I could throw in the eighties by the time I was thirteen, but unfortunately, I didn’t have a good curveball.” He grinned, looked over at Logan and the CIA officer, and said, “And what’s a good pitcher without a curveball? A one-trick pony,” he said, answering his own question.

  “So I decided I was going to master the curveball, no matter how long it took. Even though I’d strike out eight to ten batters a game with the heater, I wanted that curveball. You see, I wanted to dominate the other team, not just win. I didn’t want anyone to be able to hit my stuff. It was just the way I was wired, although I wasn’t aware of that perfectionist trait at the time. So I practiced and practiced with the help of a teammate—Tommy Smithers, I think—who wasn’t that good but could throw a curveball as if it were a personal calling. And then one day, I suddenly had it—my own physical epiphany.”

  Logan and the station chief were now listening intently.

  “Now, I’d been throwing more than I was supposed to, especially without the coach’s knowledge, and I was supposed to be off the next game. But what did I do? I begged and pleaded for him to put me in. I convinced him I was rested and ready to go. More importantly, I wanted the world to see my new pitch as I took out the opposing team one batter at a time.”

  Logan pictured teenaged John Quick, full of enthusiasm and youthful confidence. He’d been an enthusiastic young kid himself, as well as a high school track star and football player. He’d also developed the drive to win at an early age. He was fairly certain most Marines did, not because all Marines were born winners, but rather because the Marine Corps attracted a certain type of personality, like moths to a flame, for better or worse.

  “The first three innings were flawless. In fact, they were probably the best three innings I ever pitched. Between my fastball and the newfound curve, I was unstoppable. The coach was amazed at the strides I’d made. My dad was as proud as any parent could be. And I felt like the king of the world, a Little League giant that no one could oppose. And I liked it. No. That’s not true. I loved that feeling.” He sighed but continued, a slight edge of regret tingeing his voice.

  Logan knew John better than any man on Earth. Despite his vicious sarcasm and ruthless killer’s instinct, he was a passionate man, a man who felt things deeply but rarely talked about them. The psychological toll of the things they did was an omnipresent force, the reality in which they chose to exist. For John to speak so openly about anything absent a sarcastic comment or profane remark was nearly an act of reverence.

  “In the fourth inning, I’d already struck out the first two batters, and I was facing the league’s biggest slugger, this oversized kid who looked like he should’ve been in high school, not seventh grade. I decided I was going to take him down. He’d grounded out his first time up, but I wanted—no, I needed—to strike him out, to make a point. I threw two fastballs down and away, and he missed them both. So, of course, it was time for the curve, and I decided that I was going to add a little something to it. And I did.”

  His face seemed to lighten a little, the echoes of a fresh-faced boy dimly shining through the hardened features of the man he was. “It was a thing of beauty. I threw the best curveball of my life. I made the kid look foolish. He never had a chance. I knew in that moment that one day I’d be a big-league pitcher like Nolan Ryan.” He lowered his eyes briefly but continued. “And just as quickly, it was over. As I completed my follow-through, there was a sudden, searing pain in my arm. I felt something pop, and I dropped to the ground writhing in agony. The rest of that day was a blur. My dad took me to the ER, where X-rays showed I’d severely separated my growth plate, so severely in fact that I needed pins to reattach it. And just like that, my pitching career was over, and along with it, any dreams of being the next Nolan Ryan.”

  “I’m sorry,” Logan said. The words concisely reflected the numerous emotions his friend’s story had elicited.

  “I’m not. I learned several valuable lessons that day—and I do have a point in telling you this.” The boy was gone; the man had fully returned. “You see, I’d overtrained. I’d pushed myself so hard because I didn’t know better. In my youthful arrogance to be the absolute best, I’d unknowingly sabotaged myself, which was the true irony. It was as if the universe was saying, ‘Nice try. Better luck next time.’ I learned a valuable lesson in humility as well. But here’s the point.” John paused to emphasize it. “Just when I thought I’d won, I actually lost. I lost my arm, my future as a pitcher, and that feeling of domination I’d briefly experienced. And I hated it. Even though I’d done it to myself, I refused to accept it.” He spat the last words with contempt.

  “I mean, I really detested that feeling and I vowed that no matter what, I’d never lose anything after that again. I know that sounds crazy, even pathological, but I stuck to it as much as I could. Whatever it was I did, I trained not just harder than anyone else, but also smarter.”

  Logan glanced at the CIA officer, who sat silent, a wise man with years of interrogation experience who knew when to remain quiet. Logan said quietly, “That failure is what made you—what led you to the Marine Corps, and ultimately, to Force Recon.”

  “I know, which is why I never forget it. It’s a central part of who I am. And here’s why I bring it up. Right now, I’m starting to get that feeling again, and I fucking hate it now as much as I did back then. We thought we had our target on that ship, and it turned out to be a wild-goose chase. We’re chasing ghosts who are acting on behalf of our nation’s biggest enemies, and like a dog chasing its tail, we just can’t catch ’em.”

  The door suddenly opened, and Cole Matthews walked through, an expression of optimism on his face. John ignored him momentarily and continued. “Like I said, I hate it. And unlike my brief fame as a pitcher, failure is not an option here. God only knows the ruin and human misery this technology will reap in the wrong hands. Our best lead is now at the bottom of the sea, a
nd we have no idea where to go next.”

  “First, I have no idea what conversation I just stumbled into, but you can tell me about your pitching career later. Second, you’re wrong on that last point,” Cole said.

  All three men stared at him. Cole grinned and said, “We do know where to go next.”

  Logan was the first to ask the obvious. “Where?”

  “Well, that’s a little complicated,” Cole said. “But we’re working on it.”

  “Isn’t it always,” John replied sharply. “So I ask again, O’ Wise Man, where?”

  “Africa.” He looked at John directly and said, “Specifically, Sudan.”

  “Sudan?” Logan and John asked simultaneously.

  “Uh-huh,” Cole responded emphatically. “Once we left the US, in addition to the intergovernmental intelligence efforts and the standard SIGINT and IMINT packages supporting our mission, we’ve also had the support of some clandestine and very sensitive compartmented programs.”

  “Really?” Logan said. “You CIA boys just can’t help yourselves. Always running around playing ‘I have a secret.’ I don’t think it’s in the CIA’s institutional DNA to want to share.” It wasn’t stated accusatorily, just as a matter of fact.

  Cole shrugged, and said, “Hey, I’m telling you about it, aren’t I? And you’re right. We don’t always tell everyone what we’re doing. I’ve found that a little secrecy sometimes saves lives, and more often than not.”

  “Point taken. So what happened?” Logan asked.

  Cole averted his eyes from Logan and looked to the still-silent David Everett. “Mr. Everett, what I’m about to tell you is compartmented. In fact, it’s actually a SAP,” he said, referring to the acronym for a special access program. “It was initiated by the director of National Intelligence, whom our boss, the director of the CIA, works for. I just got you and my friends here cleared for it.”

  John smiled at Cole, a contradiction to the serious and quizzical look on the chief of station’s face. John said, “Well, now I’m really intrigued about what you have up your sleeve. Pet rocks? Robot soldiers? Wait a minute—is it a spy shoe like Maxwell Smart had?”

  Logan just shook his head. “Ignore him.”

  “It’s slightly better than that. We have trained operatives inserted at several embassies across the world who specialize in wet work and only answer to our director or higher. Sometimes they pose as State Department employees, sometimes contractors. It’s always different so that no one—and I mean no one—ever knows the operative’s identity except a very few, highly cleared folks back in Langley. The program is called LEGION.”

  It was Cole’s turn to smile as the grin fell from John’s face. “What’s that, John? No Quick comeback?”

  “Mr. Everett, don’t be upset,” Cole continued, now looking at the chief of station, who seemed to have turned a shade of white, either from shock or disbelief. “Most station chiefs never learn of this program’s existence, even after an entire career. It’s actually one of our most closely guarded secrets. And now it’s going to be one of yours that you’ll have to take to your grave. Do you understand?”

  David Everett nodded his head. “I do.”

  “Good. Oh, and just so you know, you don’t have one currently here. So don’t play supersleuth in your head and try to figure out who the secret assassin is. It’s a waste of emotional energy and won’t serve any purpose, except to frustrate your intellect.” He paused for a moment, choosing his next words carefully.

  “So here’s what I just learned—Langley told me that once we hit the ship last night, they activated the entire network to be on the lookout for unusual air activity. It was a total long shot. Langley didn’t expect to gather any intelligence from it. They were shocked when an operative in Sudan reported a delivery from an unmarked private plane at an isolated military airfield several miles outside Khartoum. The operative couldn’t see what was delivered but was able to provide one more piece of key information.” He shook his head, still processing the unexpected news. “The presence of Chinese intelligence officers.”

  “Chinese intelligence officers in Sudan?” Logan asked. “Is your person positive? I know China’s heavily invested in Sudanese oil, but Chinese intelligence adds an entirely new dimension.”

  “Positive,” Cole responded. “Our operative killed one of them.”

  “Jesus,” John said. “You know what that means, don’t you?” he asked, his brown eyes displaying his emotions, anger mixed with concern.

  “I do,” Logan said quietly. He looked around the room at each of the men before he spoke. “It means this thing’s gone global, and we’re running out of time. If we’re dealing with an international conspiracy comprised of several of our country’s enemies, there’s an endgame. Someone’s got the gear, and they’re going to use it, and likely soon.”

  “When do we leave for Sudan?” John asked.

  “I’m glad you asked.” Cole turned to the CIA officer. “It actually depends on Mr. Everett.”

  The mention of his name caused the man to turn his head. “Me?” he asked.

  Cole nodded. “Langley already confirmed that the State Department is submitting an emergency request for three diplomatic visas for American IT contractors to repair several crashed servers at the American embassy in Khartoum. They’ve already emailed you the cover identities to your classified email account. We have our diplomatic passports, but we can’t use them. We don’t want to tip the Sudanese that we suspect they’re involved. There’s too much at stake. Langley said you have a talented gentleman who should be able to gin up the appropriate documents within a few hours.”

  “That’s right. I’ll get Oscar on it right now.” David Everett stood and dialed the closed-network telephone in the middle of the conference table.

  “As soon as we have our new identities,” Cole continued, “first-class seats on the next available commercial flight, courtesy of the Spanish government, will have us in Khartoum by tomorrow morning, where we’ll link up at the embassy with our operative and plan the next move.”

  “I just hope we’re in time,” Logan said as he stood from the table, his face darkening. “Otherwise, something very bad is going to happen. It’s like you said, John. We’re dogs chasing our tails.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Republican Palace, Khartoum

  The phone rang in Namir Badawi’s office, interrupting his contemplations. Be patient. Only a few more days . . .

  All was proceeding as planned, and regardless of the incident at the airfield, they were still on schedule. He’d been initially concerned when Gang had informed him that the Americans had seen through the North Korean cargo ship decoy. Namir knew that the Americans had put two and two together. Whoever had been at the airfield had seen something. It was the only explanation for the bombshell that Gang had just dropped on him—the Americans were sending covert operatives to Sudan.

  Gang didn’t tell Namir how he knew this sensitive information, and Namir had momentarily faltered at the ominous news. But after listening to Lau Gang’s explanation and—more importantly—his plan to deal with it, the director was satisfied.

  Even though two men were dead, much larger stakes were on the table. And he had a role yet to play—identify the Americans before they arrived. Even covert operatives had to have a cover story, and Namir had ordered his Ministry of Foreign Affairs to be on the lookout for last-minute visa requests, especially from the United States.

  This better be good news, he thought, and picked up the phone. “This is Director Badawi.”

  “Sir, you asked us to notify you in case any strange requests come in,” said a voice he recognized. “And while I’m not sure it’s strange, it’s at least something I thought you should know about.”

  Namir closed his eyes, already sensing trouble before the deputy minister of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs spoke. Take a deep breath, exhale, now speak.

  “Mr. Suliman, thank you for calling,” Namir said, his voice resonating
with graciousness. “Hopefully, it’s nothing, but I appreciate the phone call. What is it exactly?”

  Namir heard the man inhale, as if praise from the director of Internal Intelligence were confirmation of his significance in the Sudanese government. Small man in a small position.

  “Sir, we received a request from the US State Department for three contractors. The Americans are apparently having computer issues at their embassy, and the technicians they have here can’t seem to fix it,” Mr. Suliman said.

  “Is that so?” Namir responded, his mind already racing.

  “It is, sir. These three contractors were working in Spain and—” Namir suddenly bolted out of his chair behind his desk but maintained the calm in his voice as he interrupted the deputy minister.

  “Did you say Spain, Mr. Suliman?” Namir asked, his muscles tensing. He didn’t believe in coincidences.

  “Yes, sir. They were apparently working on a similar problem in Madrid,” the deputy minister responded.

  I’ll bet they were. The same kind of problem that involves a lost North Korean cargo ship the press hasn’t yet reported, Namir thought.

  “Should I deny their requests?” the man said, excitement in his voice as he sensed Namir’s interest. “It seems routine to me, but if you ask, sir, I can deny it.”

  Namir knew the man wanted to be of service to him, to please him in any way he could. Deputy minister or not, Suliman knew who wielded the real power in the republic.

  “No, Mr. Suliman. I’m sure you’re right. It’s probably nothing, but I most sincerely appreciate you notifying me,” Namir said, emphasizing the point.

  “It’s my pleasure, sir. If there’s anything else I can do—”

  Namir interrupted the man again. “As a matter of fact, there is,” he said, and proceeded to outline the “anything else” for the deputy minister.

  When he was finished, he thanked the man once again and hung up the phone. Still standing, he picked up his cell to call Gang with the good news—the Americans had been identified.