Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  Nonchalantly, he turned toward Colonel Russ Jernigan and said, “Hell of a night, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Jernigan said without looking over. Jernigan was dressed like an officer: khakis and a polo shirt. He looked out of place in the decrepit bar.

  Allen waited a moment, glanced over at him, and said, “Hey, I think I know you.”

  Jernigan turned and studied him, his eyes squinting. After perhaps five seconds or so, Jernigan grunted, “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Yeah, you’re uh, Jared, right? No, that’s not it.”

  Allen started snapping his fingers, then buried his head in his hands in agonized frustration. “Argh. I remember you, but your name slips my mind.

  Allen looked up again.

  “It’s uh, ah, don’t tell me. It’s, uh, Jenkins. No, that’s not it either. Hang on, don’t tell me.”

  Allen squinted and looked off to the side as if he were thinking hard.

  “No,” Allen said, “I remember now. It’s Jernigan. Yeah, that’s it. Captain Jernigan.”

  Allen’s target for months and months paled as if a knife had just been plunged into him. He tried to play it off, but Allen knew he was nervous as hell.

  “You may not remember me,” Allen Green said. “I was a nobody in Pakistan back in ’88.”

  Jernigan took in Allen’s face again, searching the deepest depths of his memory for Allen’s face, while trying not to show anything, which he was failing badly at. He had been caught way off guard, without question.

  Allen took the reaction, and the fact Jernigan did not deny ever being in Pakistan, as confirmation of what one of his sources had said. His source had said, quite incredibly, that the U.S. military had sent troops to Pakistan to operate against the Soviets in the height of the Cold War. The troops were allegedly deployed to Afghanistan in the latter stages of the Soviet Union’s invasion of that country during the ’80s.

  This fact had never been confirmed or reported in any publication. And, it was huge news, in and by itself.

  The U.S. government only admitted to arming Afghan Mujahideen against the Soviet invaders, including giving the tribal fighters deadly Stinger anti-air missiles that were capable of shooting down planes and helicopters.

  These Stinger anti-air missiles had dramatically helped shift the war against the Soviets since they were about the only thing capable of shooting down the devastating, heavily armed Hind gunships. The Hind gunships had been made famous in America by their role in the 1984 movie “Red Dawn.”

  It was one thing for America to arm those fighting the Soviets. The USSR had done the same thing back in the ’60s, arming the Viet Cong in Vietnam.

  But to think that American troops had actually fought and killed Russians during the height of the Cold War? That was insanely huge news. Perhaps the biggest news story in decades.

  But Allen knew there could be more. He had to hang onto his act a little longer.

  “Hey, nothing to worry about,” Allen said, leaning toward his very nervous target. “We’re both pro’s. Let me buy you a drink. This deserves celebrating.”

  Jernigan looked unsure. He was like a deer that sensed danger, but couldn’t see it or smell it or hear it. Allen worried Jernigan might bolt at any second.

  Jernigan looked at the old man sitting next to him. Jernigan had done some shady covert work in his day, and it wasn’t for the world to see. And he couldn’t remember this guy’s face at all.

  Jernigan knew he should pay for his drink and leave. But, if this guy were CIA, which he understood, “We’re both pro’s to mean,” then maybe he could be Jernigan’s ticket into the Agency. Jernigan was currently at a dead-end in the Corps. And while Jernigan had always worked strictly from the military side, assisting the CIA in several instances, he had never actually been in the shadows with the CIA. That had been one of his true dreams.

  “So, what’s your name, sir?” Jernigan asked.

  “Rick Knight,” Allen said, without hesitation. Noticing Jernigan checking out his clothing, he leaned closer and whispered, “Forget my clothes. I’m in town doing some recruiting. Looking like a salty gunny usually opens the door easier for these young Marines.”

  “Oh,” Jernigan said.

  Allen knew the explanation made sense, and he could see Jernigan mentally kicking himself for having never thought of it. Clearly, Jernigan wasn’t the sharpest colonel that Allen had ever met. He had probably been promoted beyond his abilities and was stuck now.

  Looking around, Allen slid close toward Jernigan and murmured, “We’re putting together a team to insert into North Korea. Our overhead surveillance isn’t revealing enough about their nuclear reactors.”

  Jernigan nodded, taking in the lie as if it didn’t surprise him. As if he had known that, or at least figured that to be the case. Shit, he was a player, too. A real James Bond.

  Allen edged even closer and smiled cynically as if the two were regular ole’ chums now. “The truth is, they’ll probably get killed or captured. But, the president is looking for an excuse for military action.”

  Allen paused, sucked on his cigarette, and exhaled a thick cloud.

  “I tell you,” Allen continued, “that we have to knock out those damn reactors. You and I know diplomacy just doesn’t work, but those damn pogues in Washington.”

  “You’re right,” Jernigan grinned, taking a deep swig of his beer. Allen could tell that Jernigan liked him already. And it had been so easy. Well, at least after Allen had located him. Most reporters wouldn’t have worked so hard to track down such a source.

  “Say,” Allen tilted his head, pointing his finger at Jernigan. “I heard that you were in Pakistan to assist an American sniper team back in the ’80s. One that was going to ambush some Soviet special forces in Afghanistan. Rumor had it that those Soviet Spetsnaz bastards had been wrecking the Mujahideen resistance fighters. And finally, almost too late, Washington said enough. Let’s send in some Americans and take care of this problem.”

  Allen shook his head in disbelief, then continued. “Even though I believe the guy that told me -- he’s a long-time friend and all -- I always found that one hard to believe.”

  Jernigan smiled at Rick Knight.

  “We did,” he boasted, glad to confirm his credentials as a bad-ass, Alpha male, who had also worked on some cloak and dagger stuff. This cat was okay, Jernigan thought. He lifted his beer and drank greedily again. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but he needed to appear tough. This guy could probably get him in the CIA for sure.

  Allen saw that Jernigan wasn’t quite ready to spill the beans. Prepared for this, he began a story about a team he’d trained recently and sent into Palestine to take out a Hamas terrorist leader for the Israelis. He explained how the Americans had dressed as Israelis and raided the man’s home, capturing the terrorist.

  The story was spectacular and full of details such as how the Americans had used C4 to blow down the door. And how after they captured the terrorist, they had to fight their way street-by-street back to the exfil point.

  Allen told the story flawlessly, just as he had rehearsed it a dozen times. Allen watched as Jernigan took it all in, his eyes glazed over and practically experiencing it.

  If there was one thing Allen could do, it was tell a story. Hell, he was a writer. But tonight, Allen outdid himself. The pressure of months and months to find Jernigan had been shed, and Allen remained smooth, like a pro. Shit, he was a pro.

  He was oh-so-close to winning that Pulitzer and all that money. He could almost taste it. He smiled and lit another cigarette.

  Allen followed the story of the Israeli raid with some ranting about terrorists and Muslims. By this time, an hour had passed, and Jernigan had drunk three beers. He was beginning to loosen up.

  Allen began a story about a CIA team trying to track down Osama bin Laden in the mountains of Afghanistan. Finishing it twenty minutes later, he took the plunge, though by then it didn’t feel like a plunge.

  “So tell me about your
story in Afghanistan back in the ’80s,” Allen said.

  At best, he hoped Jernigan could confirm that American forces had engaged Soviet forces directly. That would be huge. The headline would say, “U.S. troops killed Soviets in battle.”

  It would make a hell of a story.

  But, what Jernigan said was far worse. It shook Allen to his very bones.

  Chapter 4

  The weather was perfect on the day Bobby Ferguson’s normal life ended. The temperature was in the 70’s, and the sun was out.

  Bobby was the foreman of a small asphalt crew. They were in the middle of an expansion job on Interstate 40 in Knoxville, and on this day, they were putting the final touches on many weeks of work.

  After tearing up a three-mile stretch of old concrete and replacing it with new asphalt, they had spent the day painting the lines, sweeping up the trash on the side of the road, and finally taking up all the orange barrels lining the side of the interstate.

  The crew was in a good mood, and everyone felt a sense of accomplishment for having completed this stretch of the road. Plus, the weather rocked.

  Bobby didn’t push his team hard on this day, and he even allowed them to add a few minutes to their breaks.

  For much of the day, Bobby was lost in thought. He couldn’t wait to get off work because he wanted to do a little shooting when he got home. It was such a beautiful day that he thought he’d pull down one of his bolt guns -- maybe his Remington .270 -- and do some long range shooting.

  Daydreaming, imagining the kick of the gun and the smell of gunpowder, he noticed a red Chevy Lumina approaching. It looked like Anne’s car, and for a second, he thought it was her.

  As the car passed by, he saw it wasn’t her, but that got him thinking of her. He smiled at the thought and decided that instead of shooting the .270, he would pick up some roses and a bottle of wine on the way home.

  Some things beat shooting a rifle, even for a former sniper who loving being behind a scope.

  Chapter 5

  Allen Green’s story appeared in The New Yorker magazine three weeks after his “interview” with Colonel Russ Jernigan at the loud Leatherneck bar.

  His article read:

  Americans hunted down, killed Soviet Special Forces

  JACKSONVILLE, N.C. -- During the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, America has long admitted to supplying weapons to the Afghan resistance fighters, or Mujahideen, including cutting-edge technology such as Stinger anti-air missiles. But, an in-depth investigation has revealed that American intervention was actually far more direct.

  Several sources have confirmed that American snipers were sent into the southeastern parts of Afghanistan to engage Soviet Special Forces, or Spetsnaz, after Afghan resistance was nearly extinguished in the province in late 1987.

  Incredibly, after the operation, American military leaders purposefully leaked information of the two snipers, which achieved two goals.

  First, it tied up loose ends by having the men who were involved in the operation killed.

  Second, the leaked information was used to ferret out a Soviet mole buried within the U.S. intelligence community. This mole had been leaking and hindering Mujahideen operations for years.

  Both snipers were killed because of these leaks, and the mole, once identified, was used by U.S. counterintelligence to leak false information to the Soviets.

  Two brilliant Afghan victories actually resulted because of the false information fed to the mole. These battles were later called the Battle of Al Mosud and Taranka.

  This mole was later arrested and remains in U.S. custody.

  The victories of Al Mosud and Taranka helped stabilize the final years of the war in Afghanistan. . .

  Allen’s article went on, but the details were nothing compared to the bomb-shell revelation in the top of the article that stated American troops had killed Soviet Spetsnaz in Afghanistan.

  The story made nearly every respectable news outlet within minutes of the issue hitting newsstands. CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, ABC, CBS, and NBC, as well as every national newspaper the following day.

  The government denied the story, which even Allen admitted wasn’t bulletproof.

  Nonetheless, Allen did have military records showing a Nick Woods, whose name had been used by Colonel Russ Jernigan, had gone to sniper school in 1985. Records also showed that Nick Woods left his Marine unit in 1987 for reasons no one in his unit seemed to know.

  That was odd. Furthermore, there was no record of Nick Woods anywhere in the country now; twenty of the nation’s top reporters couldn’t find him.

  Finally, Allen had found two Pakistani embassy employees -- one former and one current -- who stated off the record that eight American soldiers had been at the embassy during 1987.

  And these weren’t your normal, embassy Marines with dress uniforms and perfect teeth, they’d said. These men had brought military gear with them and had departed after a short time, but with two fewer men, according to the two embassy employees.

  The two Pakistani embassy employees had heard rumors that the American troops had pushed into Afghanistan and conducted operations. Both had heard that at least one of the members had been killed.

  Allen hadn’t mentioned the sniper’s name -- Nick Woods -- because he knew that it would likely affect the insurance money Woods’ family received after Nick died in a “training accident” in 1987.

  He also didn’t want to put Woods’ family through any more grief.

  Of course, Allen couldn’t confirm the insurance money because the military had “misplaced” his records. (“It happens all the time,” he had been told by a bored clerk named Sergeant Janet Lonnely, who had no clue why some reporter from The New Yorker was even asking about a Marine from so long ago.)

  Worse, Woods’ family down in Georgia had practically thrown him off the porch when Allen showed up for “just a few questions” about the subject of the training accident.

  What Allen didn’t know, nor had Colonel Jernigan, was that both snipers were not killed. It was one of two facts in the article that were wrong.

  Chapter 6

  Allen Green sat at his desk, checking his e-mail the day after the story broke. There were messages on his voice mail for television bookings and interviews for print media.

  It was a media firestorm, and he basked in the attention, thinking of whom he’d call first. He imagined the money that would be headed his way. Oh, the money.

  His phone gave the in-house ring, breaking his thoughts.

  He picked it up.

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  “Allen,” said the front-desk receptionist, “there’s a guy here to see you. Says he has an appointment.”

  Allen thought for a second, then flipped open his planner. Nothing. He remembered that he wasn’t even supposed to be back in New York yet from Jacksonville, North Carolina.

  “That’s funny,” he said, “but I don’t have an appointment listed.”

  “He says it’s important, and that if you don’t want to talk to him, he’ll go to The New York Times with the information.”

  “Okay, then,” Allen said reluctantly. “I’ll be down.”

  He stood from his desk and walked toward the door. Then he stopped, remembering he might need to take notes. He turned around, headed back to his desk, and grabbed a pen and notepad.

  No reporter ever forgets pen and paper. That’s taught on day one.

  So much for being a pro. The whole thought of finally having some money and winning the Pulitzer was seriously debilitating his ability to function.

  In the reception area, a man in a suit awaited him, standing and looking about nervously. Allen smiled. Guy looks like a government agent, he thought.

  “I’m Allen,” he said to the man as he walked up and offered his hand.

  The man stepped closer, shook his hand, and whispered, “Can we talk outside?”

  “Uh, sure,” Allen said, glancing back at the receptionist. Her face said, “Give me a break. Who d
oes this guy think he is?”

  Allen smiled at her but followed the man toward the elevator. It opened before the suit could press the button, something that rarely happened since their office was on the fourteenth floor.

  Coincidence, Allen figured, though his floor was scarcely visited.

  Two other men were in the elevator, and neither moved toward the door. Now that was odd, Allen thought. Wonder why the elevator stopped if they weren’t getting off? Especially since neither he nor his source had pressed the button?

  A cursory glance revealed one wore a button-up blue shirt with khakis. He was smiling at Allen, real eerie like. The other person was hidden behind an outstretched New York Times, only revealing his slacks and shoes.

  Allen hesitated to make sure they weren’t getting off, then stepped forward, entering the elevator with his visitor. They both turned to face the doors.

  The doors began to close, and Allen felt the hair on his neck stand up. As the doors were inches apart, he thought of thrusting his hand in between them and running.

  But by the time that idea had crossed his mind, it was too late. The doors had closed, and he heard the rustle of a newspaper as it fell.

  He knew he was in deep shit as he tried to turn. His arms were grabbed from behind by both men, and he struggled to break free. Allen started to yell, and his supposed source covered his mouth, which he bit for all he was worth. The guy cursed in pain, but then Allen felt something stab into his back. A knife, he thought.

  He was going to die in this elevator.

  But a burning pain spread in his knew and he realized it had been a needle instead of a knife. Something had been injected into him.

  “Stay calm,” the source said. “Don’t fight it.”

  The elevator descended the fourteen flights. The doors opened to the lobby, and two paramedics were waiting with a gurney. Allen felt his knees buckle, and as he fell, arms propped him up. He tried to yell, but his mouth would not respond.