Overwatch: A Thriller

by Matthew Betley

  As Steven made his way to the van for their unconscious parents, the surviving passenger had stumbled out of the wrecked pickup, still drunk, and just stared at the van. The coward didn’t even try and help. Before Steven could reach the van, it exploded into flames and smoke.

  The image of that remaining hunter, swaying like a drunken boxer as his parents burned, was seared into Cain’s soul as the epitome of all human selfishness and cruelty. For Cain, the moment had crystallized his world into one singular reality—Steven was now his entire family, his constant. Amid the carnage and smell of burning gasoline, he’d vowed that no one would ever take that away, the way his parents had been violently torn from their sons’ lives.

  The two brothers had learned diametrically opposed lessons from the same traumatic event, fundamental changes in their characters that revealed themselves as the brothers grew into young men.

  Steven became convinced that one man could make a difference, change the world. By saving his brother, he’d unlocked that part of himself that wanted to help others and actually believed he could. On the other hand, Cain’s belief system solidified around himself. There was no God. It was a cruel world where bad things happened to good—not just good, but wonderful, loving, full-of-life—people. It was a world where careless men killed innocent people, a world where you had to increase your odds of surviving through preparation, discipline, and training.

  Cain focused his efforts on supporting his brother, making one personal sacrifice after another. Steven had thought it was out of love. Cain had even deluded himself into thinking the same. But in the end, not even he could prevent the inevitable. The world was full of horrors, a world where weak men did nothing while evil men walked free to do the devil’s bidding.

  Well, that’s about to change, Cain thought as his Iridium satellite phone rang and broke the repetition of his pacing. He walked over to his desk, picked up the phone, and pressed the talk button.

  “Yes?” He waited, his body tense.

  Relief from the confirmation surged over him like a wave. He sat down and sank into the luxurious leather of his desk chair. All assets were finally in place; the operation was about to commence.

  Thank God. We’re almost there, Steven. By this time tomorrow, I’ll have it, and then vengeance will be ours.

  The last few years of endless searching and planning were about to pay off. He couldn’t believe their victory was nearly at hand.

  The irony of Logan West’s and John Quick’s involvement was almost too much for him to bear, but he intended to make the most of it. Their failure years ago only deepened his hatred for them. Intellectually, he understood they weren’t responsible, but his rage overshadowed rational thought when it came to his brother.

  They’d been there. They could have done something. They should have gone sooner.

  If only he’d known the flag was in their possession, he might have made a few different decisions. Regardless, he wasn’t one to second-guess his choices. There was nothing to be gained from self-doubt.

  If nothing else, the years of searching had provided him the opportunity to create the largest private security firm in the world. It earned hundreds of millions in profit from security contracts worldwide, not just in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  HRI—Hard Resolutions Incorporated—was a globally recognized firm that provided security and “peace of mind” to US government officials entrenched in foreign policy and global military matters.

  Even the current president had personally thanked him for his contributions to the stability in Iraq, following the success of the surge. He’d recently received an invitation for lunch at the White House. He hadn’t responded with a proposed date, since unfortunately, once this operation was over, he doubted he’d be welcome back into the United States, let alone at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

  At least I’ll have justice, and that’s all that I need.

  He closed his eyes and said a prayer to his brother, hoping that if some type of afterlife existed, Steven appreciated what Cain was doing to change the course of history in the Middle East.

  PART II

  THE SANDBOX—PART ONE

  CHAPTER 16

  TACTICAL FUSION CENTER

  CAMP FALLUJAH, IRAQ

  27 OCTOBER 2004

  Captain Logan West sat in the small conference room surrounded by plywood walls and camouflage netting that hung from the ceiling.

  His impatience slowly transformed into a gnawing anger he struggled to control. Four hours wasn’t enough time to plan a successful assault-and-rescue mission on a suspected insurgent compound, especially based on the questionable intelligence the CIA liaison officer had just provided.

  Captain West had been summoned to the Tactical Fusion Center—referred to as the TFC—to receive a brief from a CIA officer who’d flown in from the Green Zone on a Black Hawk helicopter only an hour ago. He’d been at the gym and was already pissed off that his afternoon workout had been interrupted.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me, right? With all due respect, I don’t care if it’s Saddam Hussein himself hiding in this house. I need more than a few hours to prepare my Marines, especially when you’re telling me you have no idea how many insurgents are at this place, what kind of defenses they have, and even more importantly, who the target is. And don’t forget the fact that this house is in the middle of nowhere, with no good avenues of approach.”

  When Captain West finished stating his objections, he glared at “James.” He was certain it wasn’t the agent’s real name. The agency had a ridiculous habit of using cover names, even when it wasn’t necessary. Even when everyone who dealt with the “Other Government Agency” jokingly made fun of the institutional rigidity, the leadership at Langley continued the practice, ever in denial that anything they did might be silly or needless. The alias was always something generic and stupid. James, Bob, what-the-fuck-ever . . .

  “Captain West, all I can tell you is that our source, a very reliable one, informed us that a high-value target—reported to be one of Saddam’s henchmen—is using this house as a bed-down location while he operates throughout Al Anbar Province. If we don’t go there tonight, we’re going to miss him.”

  Captain West shook his head. I can’t believe this shit.

  “I understand your frustration,” James continued, “but General Longstreet has committed any and all resources to us for this mission, and that includes you and your Force Recon platoon. You know as much as we do.”

  His icy gaze arrogantly told Captain West everything he needed to know about this man. Dropping the name of the First Marine Expeditionary Force commanding general was intended to intimidate him. Unfortunately, James didn’t know Captain West very well.

  “Don’t worry, James. I’ll be talking to General Longstreet as soon as this little prep session is over. I’ll see what he has to say about it before I do anything. You understand me?”

  James shrugged. “Do what you have to, Captain West, but it’s been decided.”

  “If he orders me directly, obviously, we’ll do it, but I’m telling you now, James, if this is some bullshit mission, I’m holding you personally accountable, you understand? I won’t put my Marines in harm’s way for some half-assed ghost chase, especially when we’re only weeks away from retaking this godforsaken city.”

  There was no mistaking the threat behind his words. Logan’s loyalty to his Marines and his steadfast resolve to protect them was paramount. He’d taken his officer’s oath seriously.

  “We leave at twenty-one hundred hours. Here’s a hard copy of the intel.” James handed Captain West a red folder with the word SECRET printed across the front cover in big capital letters.

  “I suggest you study it and prepare your men.” Before Captain West could respond, James turned and briskly walked out of the small conference room.

  Captain West turned and looked at the other man in the room, Gunnery Sergeant John Quick. His platoon sergeant had sat silently throughout the entire exchange b
ut spoke up now that they were alone.

  “Sir, that is one gigantic asshole. Those CIA types are arrogant as hell. Think they know how to run operations, although most of them never get their hands dirty.”

  He shook his head and ran his right hand through his crew-cut brown hair as if to convince himself this conversation hadn’t occurred. He finally looked at his commanding officer, stood up, and asked, “What do you want to do?”

  Captain West formulated his next move as he exited the conference room with Gunny Quick at his side.

  “Gunny, you go prep our boys. If our good friend James invoked General Longstreet’s name, I’m sure we’re going to have to suck this one up, as much as I don’t like it.”

  As they reached the entrance to the TFC, Captain West suddenly stopped. The move surprised both Gunny Quick and the young lance corporal providing security at the front desk.

  “Make sure everyone has plenty of water and ammunition. Borrow two M79s from our SEAL friends. Pack a couple of Claymores and some explosives. This part of Fallujah is a known safe haven for insurgents, and as much as I detest clichés, I have a bad feeling about this one. I want us as heavily armed as possible. I’ll be back at the Cantina as soon as I see the general. Take this with you,” he said as he handed over the folder James had provided. “Any questions?”

  Captain West read Gunny Quick’s face, trying to sense any doubt or hesitation. There was none. Both were trained and dedicated professionals, poised for action. They might not like the mission, and they definitely didn’t trust the CIA, but orders were orders.

  “Negative, sir. I got it. See you when you’re finished.”

  * * *

  In the central part of Camp Fallujah stood a fortified facility that had once been the living quarters of an Iranian dissident group leader. Captain West knocked loudly on the metal door that served as the front entrance to the current resident’s quarters.

  After four knocks, the general’s aide—a serious-looking major, shorter than Captain West but just as fit—opened the door and asked, “What can I do for you, Captain West? The general’s getting ready to head over to the COC for his afternoon operations brief.” The camp’s combat operations center was where all tactical, logistical, and air support operations were coordinated.

  “Major Carter, I’m sorry to bother him, but I really need to speak to him right now. Please tell him it’s about this mission tonight.” Major Carter looked confused, his brow furrowing.

  “I didn’t think we had any missions going tonight. We’re in an operational—” He was interrupted by a voice from a distant part of the quarters.

  “Let the captain in, Jack. And then I need you to head over to the COC and let them know I’ll be a few minutes late.” He laughed and added, “It’ll give them a few more minutes to come up with another Chuck Norris saying.”

  It was a long-standing tradition that had somehow taken on a life of its own over the past several months. At the end of every brief, the operations officer included a short saying that spoke to the true lethality of the action hero. It was even rumored that the deputy commanding general was trying to coordinate a visit from the man himself.

  As Captain West entered the quarters, spacious by Iraqi standards, General Longstreet said, “You know what they say, ‘Chuck Norris is the reason Waldo is hiding.’ Now leave me and the captain alone, and I’ll see you over there. Thanks, Jack.”

  Major Carter didn’t hesitate. “Roger, sir.” He exited the building, nodded at Captain West, and closed the door behind him.

  Captain West looked at the general, who at fifty-two years of age was an intimidating figure of a man. His barrel chest showed through his green tee shirt. He didn’t have his camouflage blouse on, and he was holding a towel in his muscular left arm. His salt-and-pepper hair was slightly damp, and Captain West realized the general must have just returned from an afternoon PT session. His fitness was legendary, a carryover from his days at First Force Reconnaissance, time which included some extremely sensitive missions behind enemy lines in the immediate days before Operation Desert Storm.

  The general spoke first. “Logan, I know why you’re here, and I’m sorry to tell you, son, that this operation is on. This one is coming straight from the Green Zone in Baghdad. Hell, I’m not even sure how much they’re not telling me. All I know is that a phone call was made by the director of the CIA to Baghdad, and I received a phone call from General Harding earlier this afternoon. This mission has the highest priority. I know it’s last minute, and it’s dangerous as hell, but it’s a go.”

  Captain West was stunned. The commanding general of all forces in Iraq had called? This is crazy.

  “Sir, I’m not sure what to say. The intelligence is sketchy at best. That CIA asshole said it was a HUMINT source and not corroborated by SIGINT or anything else for that matter. On top of that, we’re supposed to be in an operational pause—like Major Carter said—and weather isn’t going to permit any UAV support. We’re basically on our own and going in blind. And into an insurgent-infested hotspot. It’s not going to be pretty, sir.”

  “Logan,” General Longstreet said. He used my first name. It’s a done deal. “My hands are tied. I know it sucks, but if anyone—and I do mean anyone—can do it, it’s you and your Marines.”

  Captain West paused, and General Longstreet sensed he had something else to say. The general waited patiently. Finally, Captain West spoke, his voice steady and calm.

  “Sir, I’m your asset. I do what you tell me. I just needed to hear this one from you. I guarantee we’ll get this target if he’s there, or die trying—although I prefer it to be the former, sir.” He managed a wry smile.

  “Sir, if you’ll excuse me, I need to attend to my men. Gunny Quick is already prepping them, but I need to memorize the file the CIA gave us and brief the Marines one last time.”

  “Listen, Logan.” There it was again. “I trust your judgment, especially after what you did for me in Ramadi,” he said, referring to a meeting with the FBI and local tribal leaders that had gone horribly wrong. Logan and his Force Recon Marines had ultimately rescued General Longstreet and the FBI liaison officer from a guaranteed flight home in body bags. “More importantly, I trust your loyalty to your Marines.” The general let the gravity of the compliment sink in. A moment passed.

  “Now get the hell out of my quarters and let me finish getting dressed. Good luck, son.” With that remark, the general reached out and shook Captain West’s hand firmly, looking him squarely in the eyes as he did so.

  Captain West had almost reached the door when the general added, “I have faith in you, even more so now than I did on that day in Ramadi. Just remember that. I do. Every day I’m still breathing.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Captain West exited the general’s quarters, briefly wondering if he’d see the general again. He looked at his watch, his thoughts interrupted by the time.

  Fifteen thirty? I need to go. I’m burning prep time and daylight.

  * * *

  Captain West entered the Cantina and assessed the scene in front of him. Even though the lack of planning weighed heavily on his mind—an operation like this usually required at least twenty-four to forty-eight hours for adequate preparation—he was encouraged by the intensity and focus he saw on the faces of his Marines.

  The Cantina was First Force Reconnaissance’s combat operations center, nicknamed the Cantina out of pure irony, since there was a zero tolerance policy for the use of alcohol by any US forces in Iraq. Located in the southern part of Camp Fallujah, it provided easy access to Highway 1 just south of the camp. The highway curved to the north and connected at a cloverleaf exchange to Route Michigan, which led west into the heart of the city.

  The structure had once been used as some sort of storage facility, but it was more than adequate for Captain West’s purposes. All mission planning was conducted inside its walls.

  Gunny Quick looked up. He stood over the table in the center of the room with
the contents of the intelligence folder spread out before him. Next to him were First Lieutenant Kyle Williams and his platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant John Lopez. Both men watched as Captain West moved to their side of the table.

  “So what do we know about the target location? Is any of this information worth a damn?” Captain West asked.

  “Sir, for a bunch of bureaucratic spies, they’ve given us everything we need; however—and all kidding aside—this is going to be tight. Take a look.”

  Gunny Quick grabbed one of the satellite images printed on a regular sheet of paper in black-and-white and placed it in front of Captain West. He bent over to scrutinize it more closely.

  “It’s in the southern outskirts of the city. It’s an isolated compound that has two single-story houses about three clicks west of Highway One. Looks like our best approach is via Humvee. There’s a series of dirt roads off One right here.”

  He pointed at a military grid map that depicted several dotted lines intersecting Highway 1 approximately two kilometers south of the cloverleaf intersection.

  Gunny Quick continued. “The problem will come when we get close to the target. As I said, it’s isolated. There’s nothing around it for five hundred meters in any direction. Additionally, it looks from this satellite photo that there’s some kind of perimeter wall. I can’t tell how tall it is, but it looks taller than I am. The whole place is one big square. There appear to be two openings, one in the northwest corner and one in the southeast corner. And between the wall and the building is approximately thirty meters of open ground.” Gunny Quick paused to let the information sink in.

  Captain West clenched his jaw and let out a barely audible sigh. “Perfect. So if there are guards—and we have to assume there will be—they’ll have plenty of chances to detect us, either approaching across the big, open space or at the wall entrances. Even if we scale the wall and the guards hear us, we’re sitting ducks. Fan-fucking-tastic . . .”