Outsourced
Page 1
To Cynthia
We are not simply a “private security company.”
We are a turnkey solution provider for 4th generation warfare.
—Blackwater USA, LLC
Triple Canopy provides legal, moral, and ethical Special Operations services.
—Triple Canopy, Inc.
Cast of Characters
Individuals
Abdullah
leader of one of two al Qaeda factions; disputed successor to bin Laden
al-Zahrani
leader of one of two al Qaeda factions; disputed successor to bin Laden
Larry Ashland
an executive in Rubicon who is also a spy
Beach Dog
Both call sign and nickname of the Black Management helicopter pilot, a former Night Stalker; his call sign and nickname are the same
Camille Black
president of Black Management; an alias used by Stella Hawkins
Greg Bolton
an alias of Hunter Stone, created for him by Force Zulu to serve as his cover while he penetrated Rubicon
Bushmen
members of Force Zulu
Joe Chronister
CIA case officer
GENGHIS
Black Management operator, former Delta Force
Stella Hawkins
real name of Camille Black
Manuel “Iggy” Ignatius
Black Management’s Chief Operations Officer
LIGHTNING SIX
Camille Black’s call sign
Jackie Nelson
a geologist, wife of Brian Nelson
Brian Nelson
an executive in Rubicon’s petroleum division
Sue “Pete” Peterson
Black Management deputy project manager for logistics for Baghdad; former personal assistant to Camille Black
Ray
an alias of Hunter Stone
SABER TOOTH
Hunter Stone’s call sign
Virgil Searcy
Black Management’s Deputy Operations Officer
General Grant Smillie
Deputy Undersecretary of Defense for Intelligence; oversees the SSB, including Force Zulu
Hunter Stone
member of Force Zulu; his call sign is SABER TOOTH; aliases include Greg Bolton, Ray and Sergei
TIN MAN
Iggy Ignatius’ call sign
Zorro
alias of Joe Chronister
Companies and Organizations
AegeanA
British intelligence firm, specializing in signals intelligence (eavesdropping on communications)
Black Management
private military corporation founded by Camille Black
Blackwater USA
private military corporation founded by a former SEAL
CIA
Central Intelligence Agency, slang names include Other Government Agency (OGA), the Agency and Christians in Action
Delta Force
popular name for the Army’s elite counterterrorism unit (SFO-D)
Force Zulu
a deep-cover espionage and covert action unit that combines elements of espionage along with commando tactics; part of the Pentagon’s Strategic Support Branch (SSB); the real-life designation of the unit is highly classified and changes frequently; also referred to as Task Force Zulu
Gray Fox
a military spy organization; precursor to SSB and Force Zulu
Halliburton
multinational energy services and construction company whose subsidiary KBR is a major military contractor that provides the Pentagon with billions of dollars of outsourced services, including private military services
Lyon Group
private intelligence corporation
Rubicon Group
multinational energy services and construction company whose subsidiaries include a major military contractor that provides the Pentagon with billions of dollars of outsourced services, including private military services
Special Activities Division (SAD)
paramilitary unit of the CIA, composed primarily of former Special Forces operators
SSB
Strategic Support Branch, the Pentagon’s new spy organization responsible for black units of Special Forces operators specially trained to collect human intelligence and run covert actions; the agency responsible for Force Zulu
Triple Canopy
private military corporation formed by former Delta Force noncommissioned officers
ZapataEngineering
private military corporation, services include bomb disposal
See glossary of terms.
Contents
Prologue
Part One: Private Wars
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Part Two: Civil Wars
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Part Three: Secret Wars
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
The Facts Behind the Fiction
Glossary
About the Author
Acknowledgments
/>
Prologue
Aurora, Missouri
May 11th
Camille Black stared at the electric meter, pretending to read it, while across the street her aunts, uncles and cousins cried over the flower-draped casket. Her family plot at Maple Park Cemetery was close enough to the edge that she could see the tears flowing down Aunt Ethel’s face—or at least she convinced herself that she was looking at streaks in her aunt’s makeup so that she wasn’t alone in her tears. Camille had made a fortune from the War on Terror, but she was starting to suspect she had sold her soul, damning herself to exile, a spook haunting cemeteries, reading meters and faking deliveries while she stole glances at her loved ones’ coffins. Two years ago it had been her fiancé Hunter’s homecoming from Iraq, a flag-draped casket and a Marine Corps honor guard. Today it was Granny Lusk. She turned Hunter’s engagement ring on her finger, then scribbled a number on her clipboard before moving on to the next house, all the while scanning the area. A UPS truck circled through the neighborhood—for the third time.
Across the street, the UPS truck pulled over and parked at the side of the cemetery. A maple tree with the delicate light green leaves of spring was the only thing that shielded her from the driver’s view as she studied the vehicle. It was definitely the same one that had been in the area for the past fifteen minutes, but something seemed different. For some reason the guy now had the doors closed, although it was a warm spring day. And there was something else that bothered her.
The driver now had dark wiry hair and a deep tan.
A blast of adrenaline jolted her body and her muscles tightened, hardening for battle. She was marked. He was either an old enemy or paparazzi trying to get another shot of the elusive CEO of Black Management, the only female player in the sexy shadows of private military and intelligence corporations. That novelty had already splashed her grainy image across tabloids around the world and she didn’t want to give them any more fodder, particularly at the expense of her family’s privacy.
She carried a USP Tactical pistol under her coveralls, but she knew a frontal assault would be too loud and too public and she also wanted a quiet chat with the driver. She melted to the ground. Like a sniper creeping into position, she inched herself along on her belly until she was behind a weathered barn, out of the driver’s line of sight. She looked around for options. As she accidentally trampled a flat of tomatoes awaiting planting, she could almost hear the words her father had repeated over and over again as he had trained her: Paint the picture you want him to see.
A cottage with an attached carport stood a good forty feet across an overgrown vacant lot from the barn. She peeled off her coveralls and pulled off a baseball cap, freeing the shoulder-length hair of her wig. Then she picked up a plastic flat of wilting tomato plants. As much as she wanted to dash to the carport, she paced herself, plucking dead leaves from the plants as if she gave a damn.
The inside of the carport was old-lady tidy with little more than a silver 1979 Buick LeSabre, a clothesbasket filled with canning jars and a cardboard box with bundles of tied-up newspapers inside. Whoever the occupant was, she wasn’t giving her much to work with. The only potential weapon she spotted was an ancient screwdriver with a cracked wooden handle and hand-hewn metal shaft that was pitted with rust. It was too crude to wield smoothly. She chided herself for not going inside the barn, but now had no time to double back. In the past month she had personally neutralized over a dozen Iraqi insurgents and she had felt no more than a few fleeting pangs of fear. Now she was breathing hard and her arm wouldn’t stop trembling. She closed her eyes for a second and took a long breath. When she opened them, she grabbed a mason jar and her arm stopped shaking.
Camille dumped the newspapers from the cardboard box, then wrapped an old rag around the jar for insulation. She hurried over to the hot water heater. The valve at the base didn’t want to turn, but she forced it open and filled her mug with steaming water. Perfect.
Shielding her face with the cardboard box, she ran toward the UPS truck. Its height complicated things and a street scene was out of the question. She would have to strike high so that the driver didn’t fall forward and onto the pavement. She banged on the passenger door. “Hey, so glad I caught you.”
The driver slid the door open and she threw the scalding water into his face. With her gun pointing straight up, she sprang into the truck and jabbed his chest with the hard polymer grip, her body’s inertia magnifying the blow. In the split second that he fell backwards, she aimed the weapon.
Camille saw his kick coming at her the same instant his sunglasses flew to the floor. The sight of his face made her pause for a moment, slowing her pivot. His foot struck her thigh hard.
“Stella!” he said using her old name—her real name. “Break off! It’s me. Hunter.” He put his hands on the pistol and she let him guide her aim away from his chest.
“Oh my god. Hunter?”
“It’s me, honey. Alive and missing you like hell.”
“Why?” She stared at him, stunned.
Her late fiancé, Hunter Stone, blinked hard as he moved past her to close door. Without a word, he took her in his arms. She pressed her body against his, yearning for the joy they’d once had, but she knew all too well that death had a way of changing people.
They left the funeral separately after agreeing to meet up in an hour south of town in the Mark Twain National Forest. Hunter had planned to camp for the night, but Camille insisted upon breaking into an empty fishing cabin outside of Shell Knob that she thought still belonged to her uncle Chuck. Over the years, she had learned to take advantage of creature comforts whenever the rare opportunity arose.
The cabin was perched on a bald limestone bluff over a hundred feet above wide, winding Table Rock Lake, which stretched for miles in front of them, then disappeared into the rolling hills. The sunlight sparkled on the water, diamonds bursting across the silver surface. High above it, gnarled cedars clung to the occasional patch of soil. She picked up some dry needles and rolled them between her fingers, pricking herself, then raised her hand to her nose. Nothing smelled more like home than red cedar. God, she missed the Ozarks. She was a creature of these rugged hills and deep hollows and she longed to return for good someday.
Hunter walked outside and set three shot glasses on the picnic table along with a box of matches. He filled all three, struck a match and lit the vodka in one glass.
“This is for Granny Lusk. It’s a tradition among the guys that after we’ve come home from combat, we order a shot of vodka and let it burn for those who paid the ultimate price watching our backs on the front.”
“I know,” Camille said, reaching over for his hand, trying to touch the past. “I lit one for you once.”
A huge redheaded woodpecker knocked on a nearby hickory and buzzards circled overhead. Camille and Hunter sat silently, each staring at the lake and distant hills until several ski boats roared by.
“You’re going to have to come clean with me. What was so important that made you pull a stunt like this? We were almost married, for god’s sake.” Camille looked him in the eyes, but he was staring past her. “You know I broke into the funeral home in Springfield so I could see you one last time without the damn press hounding me. Your coffin was stainless steel, welded shut. I found the paperwork. The Marines’ medical examiner claimed the explosion hadn’t left much of you and what was there, the Iraqi heat had turned into a biohazard. The casket was ordered sealed before it was allowed into the country.”
“I didn’t ever mean for you to go through that.”
“I sat there all night beside you, beside that empty tin can. I can still smell the formaldehyde.” Her jaws clenched as she fingered the engagement ring. It was starting to feel like it had been on her finger for too long, two years too long.
“I’m so sorry. You’ve got to believe me. I thought I was doing the right thing.” He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away. “Around that time, a couple of my teammate’s wives an
d kids had suspicious accidents. There was a lot of talk about families getting targeted. I couldn’t risk that happening to you.”
“That’s absurd. I make my living in the crosshairs and you know that. And if being with you puts me in so much danger, why in the hell did you decide to resurrect yourself now? The world suddenly became free of bad guys?” She filled the shot glasses and glanced over to the third one. The flame now had burned away half of the vodka.