by C. G. Cooper
Chapter 10
The White House
Washington, D.C.
2:39am, August 24th
The president was waiting in a blue bathrobe and Travis was wearing PT gear when Cal entered the residence. Their conversation stopped when the Marine walked in.
“Thanks for seeing me,” said Cal, still not sure what he was going to tell his friends. On one hand he trusted them both without question. On the other, his buddy Brandon was the President of The United States and Cal’s cousin was the president’s chief of staff. Anything they knew would be scrutinized. It was one hell of a position to be in considering the level of responsibility and the parties they had to keep happy. What Cal had in mind would ruffle more than a few feathers. Part of him had decided to leave without saying a word, but Daniel had convinced him otherwise.
“It sounded urgent,” Zimmer offered, his look sharp despite the early morning wakeup call and the bags under his eyes.
“It is.” Cal took a seat in the armchair across from the president. “I heard from Andy.”
Both Zimmer and Travis sat up straighter. Zimmer spoke first. “Where is he?”
Cal debated holding back the whole truth. What if the information got back to the CIA? Who knew what those bastards were hiding? Screw it.
“He’s still in Afghanistan and it looks like he’s with Rich Isnard.”
The president and Travis looked at each other, a silent thought passing between them.
“What?” asked Cal.
The present leaned forward. “Right after you called, I got an update from the CIA.”
A chill ran up Cal’s spine. Was he too late?
“What did they say?”
“They’ve placed Isnard on administrative leave, indefinitely.”
“What did they say he did?”
Another look passed between the president and his chief of staff. Travis answered this time.
“Apparently Afghan forces were in pursuit of a person of interest and had called in Marine close air support. The Marines were given the go-ahead to take out the target. It didn’t go exactly as planned, and somewhere in the mix an IFF transponder was used that was traced back to Isnard.”
“I don’t get it. What does this have to do with Isnard?”
“As it was explained to us, Isnard always lugs this transponder around when he’s in the field. His boss said it wasn’t sanctioned by the Agency, but Isnard’s a pretty convincing guy. Gets most anything he wants. Anyway, he takes it in the field just in case one of our birds decides to tag his incognito mode of transport. You know the kinds of people he deals with. I don’t blame him for protecting his butt.”
“I still don’t understand why the CIA is going after him for this,” said Cal.
Travis exhaled. “As part of our agreement with the Afghan government, our forces support their forces. Instead of blowing up the bad guys, our Marine Viper had some kind of malfunction and almost destroyed the Afghan convoy. The Afghans think it’s bullshit, some kind of conspiracy. They’re pissed and want to know who’s responsible.”
“Let me guess, the Marine pilot’s been grounded too.”
Travis shrugged. “Pending the investigation, yes.”
The story sounded like a convoluted mess. As Cal digested the news, a thought dawned on him. What if the Afghan army was involved in Andy’s kidnapping?
As if reading his mind, Zimmer said, “Someone’s playing games here and I’m afraid Isnard and Andy are stuck in the middle.”
“What is the CIA doing about it?” asked Cal.
“They’re giving me a briefing at nine with a detailed action plan. You’re welcome to listen in, remotely, of course.”
Cal shook his head. “I can’t, but you can fill me in.” He stood up from his chair. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Wait, where are you going?” asked Zimmer, rising from his seat.
“Afghanistan.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Cal.”
The president grabbed Cal by the arm. Cal looked back.
“Unlike the CIA, I’m not one to leave my friends behind.”
Zimmer let go of Cal’s arm and nodded.
“Officially, I should tell you to wait and let…”
Cal’s eyes hardened. “You sanctioned The Jefferson Group to…”
Zimmer put up a hand. “Let me finish. I was going to say that as the president I should let the CIA do their job.”
“And?”
Zimmer’s eyes softened. “As your boss and as a friend, I wanted to say good luck and be careful. I’m afraid you won’t know who to trust when you get there.” The two men stared at each other for a moment, and Cal finally nodded.
“Thanks.”
“I know I don’t have to tell you that if you go, you and whomever you take with you are on your own. I can’t officially know about this.”
Cal grinned. “Don’t worry, Mr. President, we’ll be in and out before you can say Chesty Puller at the Chosin.”
Chapter 11
Charlottesville-Albemarle Airport
Charlottesville, Virginia
5:57am, August 24th
It took all his willpower for Cal not to tap his foot or punch a wall. He should’ve been on his way to Afghanistan, but he’d hopped a flight from D.C. to Charlottesville on the suggestion of The Jefferson Group’s CEO, Jonas Layton. It took more than a little urging for Cal to delay his journey. This better be good, he thought for maybe the hundredth time.
Daniel was inside the small terminal waiting for the coffee shop to open. That left Cal on the edge of the tarmac, waiting. It wasn’t a skill he was particularly good at as evidenced by the repeated glances at his watch and iPhone.
Jonas had called ahead, instructing the airport staff to escort Cal and Daniel to a spot near a newly renovated private hangar. It was empty and the door locked.
A cool breeze blew across the runway. Cal closed his eyes and tried to imagine where Andy and Rich Isnard were. He hadn’t heard from them again. They were on the run and would only make contact if absolutely necessary. For the umpteenth time he wondered how he’d find them. Another problem to figure out enroute.
Cal’s initial plan called for him and Daniel to fly to Afghanistan and try to find their friends. Unlike past operations, Cal couldn’t use his contacts inside any of the government agencies operating in the Middle East. There was no telling who could be trusted, or worse, who was compromised.
That left few options, but that was fine with Cal. He and Daniel were used to working as an independent unit. They’d make do. Marines always did.
A double honk from the far side of the runway flicked him from his thoughts. Two vehicles sped his way. He frowned when he recognized them. He didn’t want a sendoff party. The first was MSgt Willy Trent’s enormous lava-red Ford truck. 550? 650? Cal couldn’t remember. They seemed to be getting bigger and bigger every time the huge Marine bought a new one. This one looked more like a tow truck than a privately owned vehicle. It was something a well-to-do redneck might drive instead of the near seven foot tall black man.
The second vehicle was a midnight blue BMW X5M. It belonged to Jonas, who Cal could now see was behind the wheel. The guy could afford a fleet of vehicles and chauffeurs, but insisted on driving his one and only automobile himself. Cal had to respect the billionaire for that. One of many reasons he liked the guy.
The two vehicles pulled into the parking spaces next to the hangar, both marked PRIVATE. Trent was the first out, hopping down from the chest high cab with ease. Cal waved.
“What are you doing here, Top?”
Trent ignored the question and popped open the truck bed, hauling out a ruck sack. As he did, more men piled out of both vehicles.
Gaucho alighted from Trent’s truck and surprise guests hopped out of Jonas’s 550hp ride: Dr. Alvin Higgins, former CIA interrogator extraordinaire, and world-class shrink, was joined by super hacker Neil Patel.
“Would someone please tell me what the hell i
s going on?” asked Cal while the others grabbed bags from their rides. Neil toted a set of matching Louis Vitton carry-ons while Dr. Higgins carried a weathered doctor’s bag and a well-worn leather suitcase.
Jonas threw a hiker pack over one shoulder and locked his SUV. “We thought you might need some help.”
That wasn’t what Cal wanted to hear. “Guys, I appreciate you coming out, but this is something I need to do alone. Me and Daniel. That’s it.”
Dr. Higgins adjusted his pearl-rimmed glasses. “Now, Calvin, how could you possibly keep us from visiting such exotic lands? Wasn’t that part of the job description?” asked Dr. Higgins in his academic British-laced inflection.
“No offense, Doc, but this ain’t exactly a vacation to Bora Bora. Besides, your old employer would have a conniption if they knew you were a part of this. You did hear how they’re treating Andy, right?”
Higgins nodded. “It is one of reasons I feel compelled to join you.”
“Come on, boss, Andy’s a friend of ours too,” said Gaucho.
“Yeah, but…”
Trent placed a massive hand on Cal’s shoulder. “Best not to fight it, Cal. We’re coming.”
Cal looked up at his friend and shook his head. “I should’ve known you’d weasel your way in somehow.”
Trent grinned and patted Cal on the back. “You wanna see what the real surprise is?”
“There’s more?”
Trent nodded and pointed at Jonas.
“It should be getting here right about….now,” said Jonas, turning at the sound of airplane engines. A private jet rolled into view and made its way toward the hangar.
“You know, I may be a lowly grunt, but I have seen a chartered jet before,” said Cal.
Trent chuckled. “Just wait.”
The aircraft made its way across the runway and turned so that it stopped perpendicular to where they stood. It didn’t look all that remarkable to Cal, who honestly couldn’t tell one private jet from another. The plane looked new and could probably hold up to ten passengers. He looked back at Jonas.
“I don’t get it.”
Jonas smiled and pointed to the tail. Cal read the tail number: TJG911. It took him a second to figure it out.
The Jefferson Group?
“Did you buy that thing?” asked Cal, shaking his head.
Jonas grinned. “For your information, that thing is a Gulfstream G650ER. It’s the newest model on the market. With a max range of seventy-five hundred nautical miles, this beauty has the capacity to take you all over the world in one hop.”
“And you’re saying it’s yours?”
“No, it’s ours. Official property of The Jefferson Group as of eleven thirty last night. Neil mentioned that we might want to look into getting a more reliable mode of transport, and I’ve been keeping my eye out for a new ride. Good timing. Now, about the tail number, the TJG you recognized, but the 911 on the tail number has dual meanings.”
“Let me guess, we’re America’s new nine one one force?” asked Cal. The slogan had been used to describe the Marine Corps for decades.
“That’s the second reference. The first is to your parents.”
Cal’s parents had died on 9/11. It wasn’t something he talked about, but it was an event that he thought about daily. It was a nice gesture from the newest addition to the team.
“Thanks,” Cal said, not knowing what else to say.
“Does that mean you like it?” asked Jonas.
“Yeah, can we keep it, can we keep it?” asked Trent, mimicking a child’s voice, even clapping his hands.
Cal laughed. “Screw it. Why not?”
Jonas swept his arm toward their new toy. “Then let me give you the grand tour while the crew preps for takeoff. I’m telling you, Cal, you’re gonna love this baby.”
Chapter 12
Langley, Virginia
6:25am, August 24th
The office was like something out of a luxury design magazine. Architectural Digest would’ve had a field day had they known the place existed. Every knickknack had its place. A three-inch-thick glass table here, a delicate porcelain vase there. Reclaimed barn wood planks criss-crossed the once bland ceiling that was now painted gravel gray. The faint scent of fresh mint. Not a smudge or a speck of dust. That probably had something to do with the fact that the cleaning staff was required to service the spacious office no less than twice a day, including weekends.
Kingsley Coles liked things his way and no other. He could remember few times in his life when things hadn’t turned out the way he planned. He’d paid for every upgrade in his office out of his personal funds, of which he had plenty. It was a matter of pride, not vanity. When visitors entered his sanctum, they got an instant feel for the man lording over it. Precise. Level. Commanding.
So as he sat back in his silver Herman Miller chair, he had little doubt how the current situation would unfold.
Afghanistan was a mess and he had two rogue officers to prove it. While he didn’t like Rich Isnard’s tactics, the Baghdad station chief had a way of getting things done. Coles respected that. As long as Isnard hadn’t strayed too far outside the gray area, the deputy director NCS let his underling play. There were numerous successes tucked under the man’s belt.
But this time he’d gone too far. Not only had he disappeared, he’d done so in order to consort with Major B. Andrews, USMC. Coles had never met the Marine, but what he saw in the man’s official Marine Corps record spoke of a career officer who was not only professional but respected by his superiors and his subordinates. Having the Navy Cross didn’t hurt. Coles suspected that he might have actually enjoyed meeting the Marine if the current situation didn’t exist. They were cut from a similar cloth.
None of that mattered now. He was officially no longer under the purview of Kingsley Coles, at least on paper. But now that the two Marines were in cahoots, they were very much Coles’s problem. To make matters worse, the idiots had stumbled onto an operation that was years in the making. Something he had taken a personal interest in. Coles would not let it be ruined by two simpletons who just didn’t know when to keep their noses out of places they didn’t belong.
The deputy director matched the cadence of the ticking clock mounted above the door with his blinking eyes. It was his way of getting back in rhythm, in sync. A soft breath in and hard breath out. Meditation without the spiritual nonsense.
His mind wandered back to the task at hand. The one-time environmental lawyer was not used to having the CIA director, the inspector general AND the president breathing down his neck. It was more than a nuisance. It was a problem that had to go away.
Coles picked up his phone and dialed a number from memory. He let it ring once then hung up. He dialed the number again and the call was answered immediately.
“Yes, sir?”
“Where are we on taking care of the problem?” asked Coles, tracing his pinky along the edge of his two hundred year old oak desk, happy that no dust remained.
“We’ll be landing in two hours.”
“Have you activated our assets?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I think you’re going to have a bit of company.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know yet. Just call it a hunch,” said Coles, once again replaying the conversation with President Zimmer and his chief of staff Travis Haden. There’d been something in Haden’s eyes that told Coles the SEAL wasn’t happy with the CIA’s response. He seemed like just the type of person who had contacts that got things done, namely direct action when needed. Another wrinkle that Coles had his people looking into.
“ETA?”
“They could be there now or they may just be leaving the east coast. I don’t know. I should know more soon.”
The man on the other end, a twenty-one year CIA veteran named Anthony Farrago, grunted. He understood what Coles was saying. Be prepared for anything. Farrago was used to the deputy director’s vague orders. It was the way Coles did business, give yo
ur men just enough information and let them figure the rest out. The good ones soared while the subpar floundered. It made it easy to weed out the ranks.
Coles knew that Farrago liked it that way. The dour spook was best on his own, or at least with a very long leash. He was the deputy director’s utility man, the guy who just got things done. With contacts all over the Middle East, and wounds from more than a dozen battles, Farrago was Coles’s weapon of choice. He knew how to keep his mouth shut too.
“I’ll call you when we get in,” said Farrago.
Coles ended the call and set his phone on the desk. A piece of paper had been moved slightly by the air coming out of the overhead vent. Coles nudged it back in place, his domain perfect once again.
Despite his heavy workload, he knew he had to pay special attention to this operation. With an untold number of missions being conducted around the globe, Coles had his fingers in many pies. Much like a master carpenter, he knew where each of his pieces lay and their direct effect on the whole. Isnard and Andrews were two of the pieces that had to go.
Since accepting the prestigious post, Coles had slashed and burned his way to a more streamlined intelligence gathering apparatus. You might not like his caustic style, but few would dare to discount his effectiveness. Simply put, when Kingsley Coles wanted something done, it was done. He took his responsibilities seriously.
Chapter 13
Gereshk, Afghanistan
3:02pm AFT, August 24th
They’d somehow made it to Gereshk in one piece. Along the way, Isnard used his seemingly endless supply of cash to buy Andy clothes. That, along with an ample dousing of road dust, transformed the Marine into just another tired and dirty face in the desert landscape.
After the chase and the near miss with the Marine attack helicopters, Isnard’s security detachment bolted. The survivors told Isnard not to call them again. The Marines were on their own. That fact didn’t seem to bother the spook. Isnard’s outward calm helped settle Andy’s nerves. The days of captivity were finally catching up to him. He felt weak and it was an effort to put one foot in front of another. Isnard didn’t push, letting Andy take a breather when needed.