Outsourced

by R. J. Hillhouse

  Camp Raven, The Green Zone, Baghdad

  When Camille rushed into the Black Management war room, her senior operations officers were arguing around a conference table littered with laptops, blueprints and satellite images. As soon as they saw her, they stopped and stood. She was never sure if it was out of respect for rank, or old-fashioned chivalry, but either way it made her feel uncomfortable. She was the owner and president of the company, but she knew she wasn’t in the same tactical league as her generals. That’s why she kept her call sign as LIGHTNING SIX, the six denoting a field commander. She was comfortable calling the shots in a skirmish, but she left the war planning to those trained by the big military.

  As usual, her Chief Operations Officer, Iggy, was wearing 5.11 tactical shorts, showing off his shiny new right leg. The Black Management dress code for employees in Iraq allowed khaki shorts, but senior staff usually wore full-length Royal Robbins 5.11s. Iggy was no bleeding heart liberal, but he was determined to convince the spec ops community that the loss of limbs didn’t necessarily mean loss of combat readiness. At Walter Reed, before the wounds on his amputated arm had healed, Iggy had already broken his first prosthetic hand from too rigorous a set of push-ups. Over the next eighteen months he relearned how to field-strip an M4, parachute from planes, build improvised explosives and even insert an IV needle into a wounded man’s arm. Despite the blisters, he ran for miles with full gear weighing down on his stump. Camille had seen him swap ammo magazines with one hand faster than most men could with two. He lived by the mantra: mind over matter—if he didn’t mind, it didn’t matter. Although he had exceeded all physical requirements for his old job, the CIA had offered him only a desk.

  A few years earlier when they were both in the CIA, Iggy had certified Camille as meeting all standards for the Agency’s Special Activities Division operators. He had been willing to make her the CIA’s first female paramilitary operator until Joe Chronister had pulled some strings and blocked her transfer. In the late spring of 2003, when Camille had heard the Agency had written Iggy off as an operator, she recruited him. Camille wanted his strategic mind, but gave his body a chance, returning an old favor and sweetening it with a minority stake in Black Management.

  Even though he didn’t need to for his position, Iggy had passed the company’s rigorous physical tests for tier-one operators and he again met all Delta Force black book certification standards. When things were quiet, he went on runs with the boys to maintain his combat skills. Despite his old Agency ties, she knew his loyalty to her was unwavering.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” Camille said, wanting to rush through formalities and get down to planning Hunter’s rescue. “I believe you all know GENGHIS who’s joining us tonight.” Camille noticed how Virgil and Iggy shot each other glances. No one welcomed GENGHIS. Camille continued, “Where are Stout and Matsushita?”

  “Running the Syrian engagement. It won’t cool down,” Iggy said.

  “Pete gave me a sitrep on Abu Ghraib, so I know what’s going on. All I need is the plan.” Camille took a seat at the table and turned toward the screen with a satellite image of the five separate compounds which made up the sprawling Abu Ghraib prison complex.

  Iggy cleared his throat, but didn’t speak. She looked over at him. He stared into the air, as did the other senior ops officer.

  “Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Camille said, tapping her fingers on the table. “You did make up the contingency plans I asked for? Come on, you have to have one for Abu Ghraib.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Virgil Searcy said in a Southern drawl. Searcy was Black Management’s Deputy Operations Officer. “We have two plans and we’re just trying to get our heads together on our approach.”

  “Let me guess. You want to stage a distraction, then fast-rope in from helos with overwhelming force and secure the whole goddamn prison. And Iggy wants to play Mission: Impossible.”

  GENGHIS laughed, but no one else did.

  “In a nutshell, ma’am, you nailed it.” Virgil smiled. The Vietnam vet and former SEAL commander’s silver hair was almost civilian in length. Almost.

  “We don’t have much time. I want this to go down tonight while the intel is fresh.” Camille studied the satellite image. Abu Ghraib had five main fortified structures spread out over several hundred acres, each one a separate prison. Clusters of tents were scattered throughout the fenced-in compound. “Virgil, unless you’ve got a unique twist to the overwhelming force scenario, I want to hear the one with the lighter footprint. Abu Ghraib’s a legal black hole, but I don’t want to hit so hard that we piss off the new Iraqi owners and start to wear out our welcome. We have to go as black as possible with this one. What’s your plan, Iggy?”

  “Our hunter teams drop off captured tangos at the Rubicon Abu Ghraib facility almost every night—busy nights, we can make several deliveries.” Iggy tapped something into his computer and the satellite image zoomed in on what must have been the Rubicon prison. He aimed a laser pointer at the entrance. “For the ingress, we send in a SUV with a prisoner delivery, but instead of tangos, we drop off a team of six armed tier-one operators posing as Iraqi prisoners. We use break-away flex cuffs on their hands and feet. Thanks to our colleagues at Lyon Group, we now have an arrangement with one of the Rubicon guards to make sure the metal detector is down and to provide a distraction that will allow them to bypass a body search so they can take in gear on their persons.”

  Camille shook her head. “I know Rubicon is sloppy, but I find it hard to believe that they ever take prisoners into their facility without searching them first.”

  “Their searches are secondary. They count on us to make sure the prisoners arrive clean. They conduct one at a holding area on the inside, but our contact will stage a diversion to prevent this.”

  “You ever see those Rubicon guards?” GENGHIS wrinkled his eyebrows. “They’re not pick of the litter. They’re the guys who can’t get jobs in county jails stateside. I don’t like counting on one of them not to fuck it up.”

  Iggy ignored him and continued, “The team takes in sidearms, night vision, C and all the fixings to blast the doors open. They grab our man and get out. The delivery team in the SUV usually has to wait three to five minutes for Rubicon guards to take the prisoners inside and come back out with the usual transfer paperwork, so they’ll still be waiting outside for the egress.”

  “What transfer paperwork?” Camille said, looking up at Iggy.

  Virgil looked up from his laptop. His comb-over slid and revealed the bald spot. Camille glanced away as if she had just seen the guy naked. “We’ve been pestering the shit out of Rubicon ever since we handed over three HVTs last month and they claimed they never received the bastards.”

  “Bullshit,” GENGHIS said, shaking his head while avoiding eye contact with Iggy. “Rubicon did it the first couple of times, then they’d go inside and leave us hanging. We’re the ones who fill those things out to keep you desk jockeys happy.”

  Iggy raised his voice. “It doesn’t matter who fills out the goddamn paperwork, the point is everyone is used to the truck sitting there for a few minutes after the prisoners go inside. They can wait on the team and not arouse suspicion. As soon as the team is in the facility, our Rubicon insider takes them into a holding area here. Two and a half minutes after entering, our advance team cuts the lights using a remote triggering device for their charges.” Iggy shined the red dot on fuzzy rectangular objects behind the main building. “These are the generators. The Iraqis supply the prison with power for four to six hours a day, always in the morning and late afternoon. The rest of the power is from the backup generators.”

  “As bad as here in Baghdad,” Camille said, shaking her head.

  Iggy reached for his coffee mug with his artificial hand and took a sip. “We send in a two-man advance team to rig a small charge on it for remote detonation.”

  “How?” Camille said.

  “We rounded up some Iraqis for a routine prisoner drop earlier in the eveni
ng. We do it like always in a food delivery truck and use the tangos as cover to drop off a couple of extra men inside the wire. They set the charges, then hitch a ride out with the second chalk.”

  “I don’t want innocent Iraqis swept up,” Camille said with force.

  “Don’t worry.” Iggy smiled. “Bad guys are easy to find. We’re already baby-sitting a few of them over in the bunker that we grabbed in anticipation.” He stood and pointed to one of the blueprints on the table. “The original British plans, courtesy of an SIS contact. He tells me that it hasn’t changed and our collaterals confirm this. Sorry, we didn’t have time to scan the prison drawings to add to the slide show.”

  “Good enough,” Camille said.

  Iggy traced the planned movement of his teams with his hi-tech hand, custom designed for combat. It was encased in carbon fiber and steel plates protected the motor and microprocessors in the palm. The pinky was made from an extra durable polymer since it was the more vulnerable digit. Iggy tapped a finger on the blueprint. “As soon as the power’s cut, our team pops their plastic cuffs off, puts on NVGs and neutralizes the guards—like our friends say: swift, silent, deadly. After that a team of three heads down to the end of Broadway to isolation cells in B-Block. They blow the sliders to the block—”

  Camille held up her hand to stop him. “Translate. You’re talking to someone who can’t stand to watch prison movies. The thought of being cooped up like that freaks me out.”

  “Sliders are the big barred doors that slide open. Block’s a cell block and Broadway is what they call the main walkway between the rows of cells. So as I was saying, three operators blow the doors, and extract Stone. Meanwhile three from the team hang behind and eliminate any additional resistance, then plant charges on the doors to clear an escape route back outside.”

  Camille sighed. “You’re taking out the Rubicon insider who’s escorting us in?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I recommend we eliminate all potential resistance,” Iggy said.

  “I don’t like it. It doesn’t seem right.” Camille pursed her lips. “Alternatives?”

  The three operators shook their heads and Iggy spoke. “It’s a gamble what our insider will do when the lead starts flying and his buddies start dropping. I can’t risk my men.”

  “I have no problem killing tangos, but I don’t like taking out some poor working class slob trying to get ahead,” Camille said as she absentmindedly tapped her pen on the table.

  “Jesus. It’s big boy rules around here.” GENGHIS threw his arms into the air. “Play like a girl and you’re going to get us all killed to save your boyfriend’s ass.”

  Anger flashed in Camille and the kernel of truth in what he was saying made her more furious. “You’re out of line, soldier.” She jerked her head around and pointed at GENGHIS. Her finger was inches from his face. Snake eaters like GENGHIS knew only one type of ass chewing and she knew if she didn’t throw in enough insults and profanities, he’d look at her, laugh and spit Skoal on her boots. She took a deep breath. “If you want to work for me, then shut your fucking cock holster long enough to realize who’s in charge and then support me in my orders. Otherwise, you can just continue your little five-knuckle shuffle back in your hootch and go home.”

  She glared at him. He didn’t blink. Neither did she.

  Seconds passed.

  “Are we clear, GENGHIS?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are we clear young man?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was out of line, ma’am.” GENGHIS looked away and stared into the room, checking out like a grunt being dressed down by an officer. “It won’t happen again, ma’am.”

  “If you want to work for me, you have to show respect. That goes for me and my senior staff.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Understood ma’am.” His speech was clipped and military in cadence.

  Camille glanced over to Iggy and Virgil. “I want to make sure this is clear to everyone. This mission is not about saving ‘my boyfriend.’ This mission is to extract an operator who infiltrated Rubicon and who possesses information that Rubicon wants to keep suppressed at all costs.”

  Iggy shined his laser pointer at the satellite photo projected on the overhead screen. “Back to business, everyone exits in the food truck. They have to peel off their disguises before they hit the gate. A third team will be providing overwatch from a building near the gate. We’ll also have a little fireworks at their number two gate and Rubicon will be doing everything they can to rush their shooters outside the wire to quiet things down.” Iggy turned off the projector. “That’s the plan, unless you want the full SMEAC.”

  “No need. I’ll be in on the mission briefing and the ‘crawl, walk, run,’” Camille said as she studied the floor plans.

  GENGHIS cleared his throat and said, “A couple of borrowed Ford Expeditions instead of food trucks would make it look like their own guys are going after the bounty. That way they might not tie the op to Black.”

  Iggy ignored him.

  “Iggy?” Camille said. “We pose as Iraqi cops all the time, I don’t know why we can’t use Rubicon as cover. Is there a problem with that?”

  “No ma’am. No problem. Rubicon’s SUVs are parked outside the bars most of the night. I can send someone out for a joy ride.”

  “We have Rubicon uniforms and ID badges?” Camille said.

  “The spooks stockpiled them as soon as we ran into the first trouble with them.” Iggy powered down his laptop.

  “Include me and GENGHIS among the fake prisoners,” Camille said. “The mission’s all yours, sir. Make it happen.”

  “You got it,” Iggy walked toward the door to the main ops center. He had no sign of a limp and if he wore long pants, no one would suspect that he was missing his right leg below the knee.

  “Ma’am. Any idea what that information is, ma’am?” GENGHIS said. “Is it related to Rubicon beating us to sites with large weapons stockpiles?”

  “I’m guessing it is. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find out they’re selling seized arms back to the insurgents, but I’m only speculating.”

  Iggy stood in the doorway. “That would be enough to bring down the bastards. You ever think about how much business that would free up for us? Why the hell would they ever take a risk like that? They’ve got billions in contracts and that’s not even counting Afghanistan and the drug work they’re doing in South America.”

  “I know.” Camille set down the pen. “Rubicon has raked in over fifteen billion in Iraq contracts. That’s a hell of a lot at stake, but you know, if peace breaks out and things settle down here, all that goes away. Maybe they’re doing us all a big favor and making sure it doesn’t.” Camille had seen the CIA flounder about for most of the 1990s, searching for a real purpose after the collapse of the Soviet Union and the end of the Cold War. She sure as hell didn’t want to be in the same listless position if the War on Terror abruptly ended. Everything she had worked so hard to build up would be over and Black Management would be out of business. She didn’t particularly like it, but she needed the War on Terror—a lot of people did.

  “I wouldn’t put it past them to bankroll the tangos to stay in business. They screw their own guys every chance they get.” GENGHIS snorted.

  “Can I see you in your office for a minute?” Camille said.

  “Sure thing.” Iggy motioned with his prosthetic arm for her to walk ahead of him. They entered his office and he shut the door.

  Blinds covered a window looking out into the operations center. They were lowered, but the slats were turned so that he could keep an eye on things. The office was just big enough for a desk, a few chairs and a vinyl couch. Stuck in the corner beside bookshelves were what Iggy called his dumb arms and legs. His running leg and swimming limbs were the latest of their kind, each costing fifteen to twenty thousand dollars, but they had no brains. The smart ones cost three to four times that.

  Most of the time he wore his smart limbs, which had microprocessors that constantly compensated an
d adjusted to whatever activity he was doing—walking slowly, climbing stairs, driving, eating, typing. Servo-motors opened and closed hydraulic valves in his ankle and wrist, increasing or decreasing movement in response to the microprocessors that measured his movement fifty times a second. The limbs were Bluetooth-enabled so they could be adjusted remotely with a laptop. Out of concern that an enemy hacker could gain access to his body, he had refused to be outfitted with them until their programming was upgraded with 256-bit encryption. Only he, Camille and a handful of his doctors knew the alphanumeric password.

  “What’s the story with you and GENGHIS?” Camille said. She stood beside his desk and put her hand on a stack of papers.

  “One I don’t tell,” Iggy said as he sat down.

  “You’re going to have to. I need to know whatever it is.”

  “You know I’m professional.”

  “But GENGHIS isn’t. I want to know what you know about him and don’t like.”

  “Did you know he’s Carmen’s godfather?” He pointed to a picture of one of his seven kids hanging on the wall next to a shot of him in jungle camouflage holding a sniper rifle.

  Camille sat down. She had never considered that GENGHIS might have been his friend, let alone the godfather of his oldest daughter. Tonight was the first time she’d ever seen them together and they didn’t exactly seem to get along.

  “This stays between us.”

  “Of course.”

  “GENGHIS and I were both in Delta. He came up through Marine recon, then switched over to the Army. He’s the kind of guy who didn’t care about losing rank and that’s pretty much all I cared about. They were looking at swapping my bird for a star and I got a chance for some field action that would help make the case for my promotion. I handpicked my team. GENGHIS, a guy named Pilkenton and I gave the Libyans a little technical assist in complying with international agreements on chemical weapon production.”

  “Meaning, you were on a black op to knock out a factory?”

  “Flattened the goddamn complex. Woke up Qadaffi in his tent sixty miles away.” Iggy grinned, pleased with himself. “Anyway we were on the egress to the rally point, outside of Rabta and ran into resistance. We neutralized it, but Pilkenton took a round in the face. We were running behind and racing to get the hell out of there. You take out a chem plant like that and you’ve got all kinds of fallout you don’t want to be exposed to. The winds were light, but they were shifting and about to blow toward us. Pilkenton was slowing us down, bleeding all over the place and groaning. He couldn’t help it, the poor bastard. Anyway, we heard another Libyan patrol coming, looking for their buddies. Pilkenton would’ve given away our position. There was hardly any mouth there to put your hand over to shut him up. GENGHIS snapped his neck, then carried the body to the LZ. Pilkenton never would’ve survived anyway.” Iggy’s gaze was distant, still somewhere in the Libyan desert. He took a deep breath. “It’s hard to explain how someone with a gunshot wound to the face dies from a broken neck.”