Outsourced

by R. J. Hillhouse

  “Will you take a rain check?”

  Camille pulled herself along the ground until the SUV was between them and the gunmen’s last position. She scraped her forearm on the rough asphalt and it stung. “It’s too damn dark.” She tried another door. It was also locked. She whispered to Hunter. “I’ve got it. Go to the next Navigator and when I signal, bounce it as much as you can and set off the car alarm. Rubicon uses the old PVS-7 NVGs, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “They take forever to resample the image and refocus. The flashing headlights will flare them out. They’ll be blind. Plus, my men might sleep right through gunfire, but not car alarms coming from our own motor pool.”

  Hunter scooted on his belly to the next Lincoln, clutching his tooth in his left fist. If there were any chance of saving it, he knew he had to keep it moist. As he fired toward the shooters, he kept his mouth closed and sucked as if he were getting ready to swallow a pill without water. Once a small pool of saliva collected, he popped the tooth into his mouth and tasted blood and dirt. He spat, but he could still feel the grit. His tongue moved the tooth to the side of his mouth and he tried to ignore it.

  He emptied Kyle’s .45 and tossed it away because he knew he would never find any more ammo that caliber. Ready to rock the vehicle to set off the alarm at Stella’s signal, he grasped the SUV’s door handle and tried pushing up on it, just in case it wasn’t locked. It opened. Relieved that the automatic cabin lights had been disabled, he crawled into the backseat and then climbed to the front. He felt under the dashboard, but it was enclosed. He ran his hands over it until he found the release and pulled it off.

  “Now!” Stella yelled and a few seconds later one of the Navigators started honking and flashing its lights.

  Hunter couldn’t set off the alarm from the driver’s seat, so he did what he could to mimic one. He flipped on the lights, switched them to bright and punched the horn, then he returned his focus to the tangle of exposed wires. When the other vehicle’s headlights flashed on, he could see the wires, but by the time he focused, it was dark again. After the next cycle, he closed his eyes and tried to recall the snapshot he had just seen. He reached for the two wires he thought were red and touched them together. They arced and the engine turned over.

  Placing his knife behind the steering wheel between it and the column, he jammed the blade down and tried to turn the wheel. It didn’t move. Careful to keep his body out of the way of the airbag in case it deployed from the force, he shoved the knife down harder until he felt it knock the locking pin away from the wheel. He turned the switch to put the truck into four wheel drive, jerked down the gear shift and stomped the gas, then drove directly toward the white muzzle bursts.

  “Damn him,” Camille whispered to herself as she watched Hunter plow her Navigator through trash barrels, spare tires and anything else in his path as he tried to run down the shooters. She could never rely on him to cooperate with her. He was a team player with everyone else, but not with her.

  Five of her men ran toward her from two different directions, their assault rifles pointing at her while two others remained with their backs to the nearest building, ready to eliminate any threats to their comrades. Stella threw her arms up and stood motionless, waiting until they were close enough to positively identify her.

  Brakes screeched and she watched Hunter backing up into gunfire, redirecting the shooters away from her. The son of a bitch was on her side, at least. He just wasn’t on her team.

  Hunter saw motion in the rearview mirror. Stomping the brakes and turning the wheel at high speed, he threw the SUV into a U-turn worthy of the Bat-mobile and backed the armored vehicle into the gunfire. He couldn’t see much, but kept steering the vehicle toward the muzzle flashes.

  Several armed men ran toward Stella. He made a hard right and gunned it, barreling toward them. They didn’t fire on him, so he flashed on the lights for quick identification. At the last second, he recognized them as Stella’s troops and veered sharply left, then swerved right, weaving in between them at fifty miles an hour.

  Hunter really wanted to take Stella up on the offer to help him, but he knew from his time at Rubicon that they had a man on the inside at Black Management, feeding them information about upcoming jobs. The mole was probably no threat to Stella, but he couldn’t trust her outfit to keep him safe.

  Her men were protecting her and she didn’t need him, not that she ever needed him. And with her holding off Rubicon’s men, he was now free to head for the main gate. Any moment they would put the compound in lock-down and he would be trapped.

  Camille heard the Navigator’s engine roar as Hunter peeled off toward the compound’s main gate, running away from her as fast as he could. Her chest tightened with each breath, but she was too angry to notice the hurt. He had used her for the last time.

  GENGHIS jogged up to her. “Orders, ma’am?”

  “Two Rubicon gunners were firing at me. Get them—alive, if you can.”

  “What about the SUV?”

  Camille shook her head. As much as she wanted to, it wasn’t right to send her troops to carry out her personal business. Hunter was her problem, one that she had to resolve herself. “Everyone knows Navigators are Black Management. He’ll dump it as fast as he can. Give him two hours, then go search Ramadi for the vehicle. I want it back before the Iraqis find it and decide to detail it.”

  Chapter Four

  The Pentagon, expanding into the CIA’s historic bailiwick, has created a new espionage arm and is reinterpreting U.S. law to give Defense Secretary Donald H. Rumsfeld broad authority over clandestine operations abroad.

  The previously undisclosed organization, called the Strategic Support Branch, arose from Rumsfeld’s written order to end his “near total dependence on [the] CIA” for what is known as human intelligence.

  —The Washington Post, January 23, 2005, as reported by Barton Gellman

  Camp Tornado Point, Anbar Province

  The stench of smoldering garbage and medical waste kept all but the rats and strays away from the burn pit. The dump was the best site for a private nighttime rendezvous on a base where there was very little privacy. Larry Ashland closed his cell phone and lurked in the shadows, wondering whatever had happened to the glamour of his profession. The collapse of the Berlin Wall had not been kind to spies.

  Ashland clutched a thick brown flip chart his assistant Kyle had prepared months ago at his request when he had first suspected Force Zulu had a man on the inside at Rubicon. Greg Bolton, whoever he really was, was a risk that Ashland had anticipated. A single spy was not going to be allowed to destroy his progress, even if by accident. For two years Ashland had been working his way into a highly secretive project codenamed SHANGRI-LA and thus far knew only peripheral details, none of which added up. CIA funds were being dumped into Rubicon to run it, but he still couldn’t tell if the money was because it was a covert Agency project or because another rogue CIA case officer was setting up lucrative retirement plans with corporate America.

  As Ashland worked his way deeper into SHANGRI-LA, he had studied Rubicon personnel files of its top operators in Iraq, searching for anyone who could blow his cover. He recognized the photo of a man whom he had first encountered in Afghanistan, an operator who had then been working with Force Zulu, the Pentagon’s new espionage and counterterrorism unit, the vanguard of the Pentagon’s push into the CIA’s realm. The man’s Rubicon personnel file had told a very different story, one that Ashland had no doubt had been professionally crafted by Force Zulu to cover for one of its spies.

  A BMW SUV drove toward him with its lights off. It stopped and Ashland jumped inside.

  “Jesus, that stinks. Shut the door fast,” Joe Chronister said as he held his hand over the dome light.

  “Sorry to get you up at this hour, but we’ve got a situation.”

  “It better be worth it. Security firm supervisors and oil company execs don’t generally meet in the middle of the night even if they
do have the same parent company. Covers are wearing thin, even for around here.”

  “Rubicon busted a small-time crook tonight. One of our team leaders got greedy and went into business for himself.”

  “With the tangos?”

  “Yeah and worse. With al-Zahrani’s faction.” Ashland handed Chronister a dossier.

  “Crap. All it takes is one little guy to fuck up and someone thinks they’ve got something and they start pulling at threads. I assume you’ve taken care of him.”

  Ashland took a deep breath and slowly exhaled before speaking. He was counting on the pause to add drama. He had to burn the Force Zulu operator so badly that not even his own guys would believe him, let alone help him. Even if Rubicon managed to eliminate the man tonight, Ashland had to make sure that Force Zulu would not come around to investigate the death of their man. They had to believe their own man had gone bad. Joe Chronister had the connections, credibility and creativity to make sure that happened. He’d see to it that every government and private operator on the planet believed the Force Zulu spy was radioactive.

  Ashland cleared his throat. “We could use some help. He took out Kyle, my best man. We’re after him right now, but he’s good.”

  “The way I see it, it’s a Rubicon personnel problem. Jesus, this smell is too much. The hospital must’ve tossed a bunch of body parts in there tonight.” Chronister turned up the air conditioner. Gunfire popped in the distance, but they ignored the typical sound of Iraqi nightlife.

  “You’ve got to help us make sure he’s neutralized,” Ashland said. “Pull the right thread and you can unravel a whole sweater.”

  “The Agency can’t be part of a manhunt. Too public. Eliminate him yourself. Jesus, you’ve got more hunters on the payroll here than we do. Tell the guy’s family he died killing terrorists and let them collect the death benefits. No one will think twice about it, let alone call for an investigation. The family will probably be happy not to have to deal with Rambo coming home and fighting the war at the local 7-Eleven. The guys who succeed over here make lousy civilians and families know that.”

  Chronister wasn’t cooperating and Ashland had worked with him long enough to know that he was losing patience and any moment would cut off the conversation. He didn’t like giving away any more secrets than he had to, but he realized it would take the CIA’s fear of the Pentagon to get Chronister on board with his plan. He still hadn’t figured out the guy. Ashland knew that Chronister was CIA, but the deeper he got into the SHANGRI-LA project, the more he suspected that the Agency knew nothing about SHANGRI-LA, that Chronister had gone rogue and was using CIA resources to help the secret Rubicon project. The more he thought about it, the more Chronister disgusted him. But at the moment he needed Chronister and his contacts. Ashland took a deep breath and said, “There’s a little more to it. Bolton—or whoever he is—works for Force Zulu. They’ve infiltrated Rubicon.”

  “Fuck. We take out their spook, we’re painting a bull’s-eye on ourselves.” Chronister folded a Kleenex, held it up to his nose and breathed through it. “You know I actually typed up a resignation letter the day I heard the president authorized Cambone and that born-again whack-job Boykin to round up a bunch of soldiers and start playing I Spy. I predicted this was going to happen—us tripping all over each other. You know the Pentagon’s real goal is to shut us down and corner the market on intel. Those fuckers spying on us is just another goddamn brick in the wall.”

  “If they learn that one of their Bushmen has started playing ball with the tangos, they might take care of him for us.”

  “Not without asking a lot of questions. And I have a lot I’d like answered—like how deep has Zulu penetrated Rubicon.” Chronister shined a penlight on the file and thumbed through it.

  “You have to burn him with Zulu. Make them doubt everything he says.”

  “Let me keep this.” Chronister tapped his fingers on the file. “I can fuck him up with Zulu.” A picture fell out of the file and fluttered to the car floor. Chronister picked it up. “Hey, I know this motherfucker. He was engaged to someone I used to work with. You know, I might be able to help you out with a silent solution after all. You ever meet Camille Black? She’s a real ball buster, in the best kind of way.”

  Chapter Five

  “Anbar is controlled by terrorist groups,” said Sheik Yaseen Gaood,[Iraqi] deputy minister of the Interior overseeing the western provinces. “The Anbar government has no authority. The ministries of Interior and Defense have no influence there.”

  —The Los Angeles Times, June 11, 2006, as reported by Megan K. Stack and Louise Roug

  Anbar Province

  As Hunter drove out of the gates of the camp and into Anbar province, he gritted his teeth and immediately felt pain. His tongue checked on the tooth, still tucked into the side of his mouth. He had to get it back in the socket soon.

  Like he had earlier in the night on the way to the raid, he turned right toward Ramadi. His unit had worked out an emergency exit plan for him—the only problem was he had to get to the insurgent stronghold, Ramadi. The escape plan had been set up before the insurgents had returned there yet again and no one in the Pentagon had ever gotten around to modifying it. He knew an American armed only with a SIG Sauer and a little over thirty rounds wouldn’t make it far on the dusty roads of Anbar province. A goat in an Afghan mujahedin camp had a better chance of dying a virgin.

  He had to go local.

  The guys at Rubicon were constantly leaving things in their trucks but a quick scan of the back of the Navigator confirmed what he already knew—Camille Black ran a tight ship. A break-down kit was in the back along with ammo cans he’d check out when he got a chance, even though he was sure it would be 5.56 rounds for assault rifles, not 9mm for his sidearm. What he wouldn’t have given for a stray rifle or even a different vehicle, one outfitted for a trunk monkey—a machine gunner with a mounted weapon designed to punch out the back window with the first round and surprise the road hazard with the following ones.

  With one hand on the wheel, he reached under the driver’s seat, hoping something useful had escaped inspection, but he found nothing. Leaning over to the passenger seat, he patted the floorboard and his hand bumped up against something, but it rolled away. A water bottle. Hopefully it had a few swallows left in it. The tooth was driving him crazy and he had to do something about it. Already on the edge of Ramadi, he pulled over to the side of the road, unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for the water bottle. It was half full.

  He turned the overhead light on and opened the door. He poured some water into his hand, he spat his tooth into the palm, then swirled it in the water. Although he had stitched up comrades more than once and had even carved a bullet from his own thigh, teeth were different. He’d rather face a horde of tangos than a dentist. It was all he could do to force himself to look at it. At least it seemed to be free from dirt.

  Careful not to touch the roots, he picked it up and turned it around as he tried to figure out which way it went in. The water rolled out of his hand onto the ground. He leaned back into the truck to look into the rearview mirror to find the hole. Checking one more time to make sure the tooth was turned the right way, he took a deep breath and shoved it into the socket. Pain zinged his mouth. After another measured breath, he bit down firmly, pushing the tooth farther down. He jumped from the jolt.

  He swirled warm water in his mouth. As he leaned out the door to spit, a knife thrust toward him. He jerked out of the way and yanked the door shut to the sound of bone being crushed. A man screamed and the knife fell to the ground. Unsure if the carjacker had buddies with him, Hunter threw the SUV into gear, grabbed the arm and held onto it. This was the break he needed and he wasn’t about to let go.

  The man howled as he was dragged alongside the Navigator. Hunter glanced into the mirror and even though he saw no accomplices, he still wanted to get a little distance from the carjacking site, just in case. The man was going for a short ride. Hunter sank his fingers in
to the guy’s hairy forearm, digging his fingernails into the skin, but he couldn’t get a good grip. The arm slipped away. He hit the brakes, came to a stop, then sprang from the vehicle.

  The young man lay unconscious in the dirt, his arm twisted into an unnatural position. Hunter yanked off the assailant’s headband, headscarf and beanie and dropped them onto the hood of the SUV. He wrestled with the body for its clothing, a dishdashah, the traditional white man-dress worn throughout the Arabian Peninsula. He worked the skirt above the man’s hips, exposing his genitals. Keeping with local customs, the carjacker wore no underwear. Hunter averted his eyes.

  “This is why guys in Detroit never go out carjacking free-balling under a dress. It’s not only the cold,” Hunter said as pulled the dishdashah over the man’s head. He wadded it up and grabbed the headdress. He smiled when he found a small wad of cash. It wasn’t much, but would be enough to get him by for awhile before he could sell the gold chain necklace that he always wore for such emergencies. He jumped into the Navigator to drive back to where the guy had lost his slippers.

  The dirt streaked across the front of the white cotton garment would draw some attention, but even so, the man-dress would help him blend in a lot better than his 5.11 pants and Under Armour T-shirt. Back on the tango turn-pike to Ramadi, he yanked off his shirt and undershirt, then pulled the dress over his head and down to his waist. The Velcro crackled as he pulled the sheath off his leg and lay his knife on the seat beside him. Steering with his knee, he unzipped his pants and pulled them down to his ankles where they got stuck around his combat boots. Peeking up over the dashboard just enough to see the road ahead, he untied his boots and took off his pants. For a few moments he debated with himself whether he really needed to lose his jockeys, but knew he had to do everything he could to blend in. His knife could have been a spoil of war, he told himself as he strapped it back onto his bare leg, but as much as it pained him, he would have to leave the firearm in the SUV. He had no way of concealing it and passing as an Iraqi was a far more powerful defense than a single bullet.