“He's also combat diver–certified. Should come in handy when you guys return and go through that school. I figure you won't be swimming much in Afghanistan, though.”
They all laughed as they began to exit the room.
“Have fun,” Carlisle said. “I look forward to hearing about great results. I'm headed back to Washington. We'll be in touch.”
C H A P T E R 3
Monday, January 4
Washington, DC
FDR Memorial
0814 Hrs
Carlisle and Jerry strolled around the FDR monument on a chilly Monday morning. After admiring the monument, they continued their conversation on the walkway, which encircled the tidal basin.
Jerry sipped his coffee and asked, “So, how are they doing down there? Is training progressing as we would like?”
“I think so. It's day five, and they are all doing really well. Derek picked everything up very quickly, just as we expected. He's really something, Jerry. Some people are just born to do this stuff. He's the only one in the unit without some type of active-duty military experience, yet he has as much military experience as almost any of them.”
“How does that work?”
“Well, he was always fortunate with his previous outfits. He received military training to work with multiple tier-one units as their intelligence adviser, so he needed to be on par, or close to it, with their skills in order to participate in some high-speed operations. He's about as squared away as they come.” Carlisle gave Jerry a careful look. “You can't train instincts; you're either born with them or not. Derek has them.”
“Good. That's really good, because he is in charge. I want to make sure we are real clear with our men that this is a tactical intelligence unit, and I emphasize intelligence. I don't want this crew going and doing more door kicking and tactical operations than necessary.” Jerry hugged himself against the cold and leaned back to look at the FDR Memorial. “This isn't our old team, Carlisle. The world is a different place, the agency is a different place. I want brains, not brawn, for a lot of these operations. We all know they can kill brutally, but can they do it smartly?”
“We will be really clear with them, I promise.”
“You better be, or it's my ass. This is your group, Carlisle. I don't have the time to run it, and I certainly can't afford to be too close to it. If something goes wrong, it is GDSI's problem, not the agency's. Understand?”
“Absolutely. I will do my best to keep things as we discussed. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Good. How is Rayna?”
“She's good. Feeling a bit better, I think.”
“Good. Give her my best.”
Friday, January 8
Everglades, Florida
30,000 feet
2159 Hrs
The hum of the plane's engine was deafening, but the team had grown used to it. After all, they had jumped dozens of times over the course of the past couple weeks. Their jumps had been from low to high altitudes during both night and day. Still, the most difficult would be tonight's jump into the wilderness of the Florida Everglades. Their objective was to safely complete the jump and navigate their way to a rendezvous point where a vehicle was to pick them up. It had not been made clear whether the exercise would end there or not. The only thing Derek and his team knew was that they were being dropped into dense marshland, complete with twelve-foot alligators. And that was assuming they didn't run across the chance drug smuggler's camp.
They were jumping with nothing except their individual night-vision goggles, their jump gear, and their packs with some water, a GPS, and a map. Derek assumed that the others, like himself, also had their personal knives on them. They certainly were not equipped for an encounter with drug runners—or alligators, for that matter.
Two minutes out, a member of the flight crew signaled. Derek signaled his team, and they readied themselves for the jump. The door opened. Derek grabbed on to the plane and watched, ensuring his teammates made it out safely before he followed. The team accelerated to terminal velocity—nearly two hundred miles per hour—as they descended toward the earth's surface. Derek focused on his jump procedures but also wondered what waited for him when he landed.
The skies were hazy that night, but all was going well until the team realized what was beneath them. Though they were equipped with night-vision goggles, it wasn't until the last minute that they were able to make out the black, soupy mess that they were approaching at a high rate of speed. With the others, Derek released his chute, hoping they would be able to steer beyond the water's edge, or at least into shallower waters.
“Ahh, shit!” mumbled Derek as he touched down and disappeared momentarily under the swampy surface.
The team had been able to steer closer to shallower waters, but not completely. They were at least seventy-five meters from land, and they weren't alone. The Everglades, by sheer statistics, promised that an alligator or several were close by, trolling the waters.
The team touched down within close proximity of one another. They released themselves from their chutes and began swimming. Not knowing the pilot would be dropping them over a body of water, none of them had brought fins with them. In fact, they had been told not to bring them.
Funny how this reeks of disaster. They're testing us in more ways than one, thought Derek as he swam vigorously through the swampy waters, reliving scenes he'd seen on the Discovery Channel showing alligators and crocs ripping through their prey.
“Oh, fuck!” he heard Carson say in a stage-whisper, as an alligator cruised past and then disappeared beneath the surface.
The dark and murky waters provided the gators a cloak of invisibility. If they weren't visible on the surface, that probably just meant they were lurking beneath. If a gator did attack, it would be without notice, and a switchblade knife was not going to be enough to stop it.
Fortunately, seventy-five meters was not a long way for highly trained operators to swim. The image of large alligators had them all stroking for the shore like Olympians. Too bad nobody was timing them … or were they?
After a few minutes, the men reached the shore, which was nothing more than soupy wetland full of high saw grass. Each step made a sucking sound in the muck, making it difficult to keep their balance.
“Can't we just keep swimming? This shit is nasty,” whispered Randy.
“Just keep your eyes open,” replied Derek.
The men continued slogging their way through the marshy land toward their rendezvous point. At this rate, given their off-course landing, they would never make it in time. Maybe they didn't expect us to make it, thought Derek.
They had pushed on for another fifty meters when Derek heard something. He thrust his fist in the air to signal his team to stop and be silent. Instantly, they all dropped to a kneeling position and remained motionless. Derek and Randy peered around intensely, looking for the source of the noise that had caused Derek to stop. After kneeling silently for what seemed like an agonizingly long time, Derek stood and signaled his team to continue forward.
The team traveled for another minute before hearing the noise again. This time it was closer and more pronounced. Then the sound of an engine erupted into the night, and several bodies appeared out of the saw grass surrounding the team. A blinding flood lamp switched on, illuminating the team's position, and the twenty-plus armed bodies surrounding them began to converge on Derek and his men.
Miller took a rifle butt to the face and fell, stunned, to the marsh. Derek's knife ripped through the sleeve and arm of one of the armed men before he was struck in the back with an AK-47. The rest of the team put their hands in the air as weapon barrels pointed in their faces. They were all subdued and in zip ties within sixty seconds. Whoever these people were, Derek realized they were professionals. He and his team were dragged onto two airboats and taken off into the marsh.
Over the roar of the airboat fan, Derek could hear the two men behind the driver's seat speaking in Spanish. It was too dark t
o tell if they were native speakers, but they sure sounded like it. Two additional men held onto the sides of the boat, keeping their rifles trained on Derek and his team. There were two other teammates on Derek's boat, Miller and Grimes, the logistics guy.
The two boats sped through the Everglades for nearly a half hour before they felt a bump. They partially pulled up onto land, and the men who captured them began to rally and gather Derek's team, taking them off the boat in a line. Their captors shoved the team forcefully up to a small compound about thirty meters from the water's edge. Once at the compound, the team was crammed into a room big enough for three, maybe four, people.
“Get the fuck off me!” yelled Carson.
“Carson, shut the fuck up and be quiet!” screamed Randy.
Derek looked around, surveying his surroundings. He had noticed before being thrown into the room at least twenty more armed guards at the compound, bringing the total to more than forty. A pretty big operation for SERE training. Plus, under the lights of the compound, he had been able to see that the men all looked foreign except for one. This wasn't good. The American-looking man stood in the distance, speaking to what seemed like a high-ranking guard or soldier, just before they had been shoved into their cell.
“OK, listen up,” Derek said.
The men kept chattering nervously.
“Hey! Listen up!” screamed Derek. The others fell silent, and he continued. “We all know what to do, just cooperate and look out for each other until we can figure something out, OK? I am sure they will isolate us at some point here. Just shut your fucking mouths and tell them nothing. Got it?”
The men looked around and nodded in agreement. The door swung open, and three guards yanked Grimes outside. The rest of the team scurried to try to help him, but with their hands zip tied behind their backs, their efforts were fruitless.
“Stop. What the fuck?” Grimes yelled at the guards “Just wait, just wait a fucking second! What do you want from us? I can help you if you just tell me what you want!” The door slammed as Grimes was hauled outside.
The men could hear him scuffling with the guards as he was dragged away to God knew where. As Grimes and his captors got farther away, the sounds became muffled, with the exception of random shouting. The rest of the men on Derek's team stared at each other, wondering where Grimes had been taken. The compound hadn't appeared to be too large, so he couldn't be too far.
Pop. The distinct sound of a single gunshot broke the silence and echoed throughout the compound. Derek and the others stared at one another in astonishment, realizing that Grimes had been assassinated not more than a few dozen yards away.
Seconds later the door swung open, and Derek was yanked from the crowd of men. Again, efforts to help got nowhere. Derek was out of the room, and the door was shut again as quickly as it opened.
Derek was dragged through a courtyard where the pavement was now covered with blood. In the distance he could see three soldiers dragging away a body, but it was too dark for him to see if it was Grimes. Things weren't looking good at all.
Derek remained silent and went where the guards shoved him. As he reached his destination, a small, dark room directly across from where the other men were being held, he saw another one of his men pulled from the room, this time Miller. Derek's door slammed shut. Darkness.
Not a moment had passed before another gunshot echoed through the camp. Derek squinted and clenched his fists. Two of his men were down. He asked himself why he had been spared. His cell wasn't overly fortified, but with his hands zip tied, he didn't have many options. The walls of his cell looked as though they were made of thick bamboo poles, driven into the ground and tied with rope. There was a thatched roof, and the floor was the same soggy marshland they'd been walking through when they were captured.
Saturday, January 9
Everglades, Florida
Drug Camp
0713 Hrs
Derek woke as light pierced through the bamboo walls of his cell. He heard one more gunshot before he had passed out—as many as three of his men were dead.
All he could think of were the families of Grimes and the other teammates who had been executed the night before. It was a sickening feeling. Grimes had a young wife and two adorable kids who would now be fatherless. All because a training op had gone horribly wrong.
Grimes had told the team he had served in both Iraq and Afghanistan several times and had dodged death on more than one occasion. Derek knew that, much like Heidi, Grimes's wife had pushed hard for him to return home. Some of the others were in similar positions: winding down their ops careers, but unable to pass up an opportunity to get some real work done. Randy and Miller, like many of the men in the intelligence community, had been divorced, but both had children.
It was all a damned shame. The team members' deaths were tragic, and no family deserved to get the word theirs would soon receive about their fathers and husbands.
Derek's thoughts were interrupted as his cell door was pulled open. Two guards grabbed him and pulled him across the courtyard again, this time into a more finished-looking building. They dragged him into a windowless room that contained two chairs and a beaten-up table. The guards jammed him into a chair and tied him down, then left the room. Barely a moment had passed before the door opened and in walked the American he had seen the night before.
The man walked right up to Derek and punched him in the face. Blood ran instantly from Derek's nose into his mouth. He spit some out and stared at the man.
“What are you doing here?” screamed the man.
Derek said nothing.
“You are fucking up my operation. Do you understand that? Are you DEA? Huh?”
The man punched him again. Derek's head whipped to the side.
“This is my land!”
Derek lifted his head and spoke. “Last time I checked, the Everglades belonged to the state of Florida. Do you know where you are, asshole? This isn't fucking Colombia. Open your eyes.”
“A smart-ass. I like that. This should be fun.”
The man pulled out a knife and approached Derek. “You see, this is my land because I say it is, and I don't care if you are DEA, FBI, or the fucking CIA. If anyone wants to say otherwise, then I will introduce them to my army.”
Derek laughed. “Your army? You call this an army? Forty Mexicans?” He laughed even harder and spit some of his blood to clear his mouth.
The man circled Derek and stood behind him, knife drawn. He placed the knife on Derek's neck and returned to his questions. “Now, I will ask again. Why are you here? Who do you work for?”
“Fuck you. And you know what? You are a shitty interrogator. You shouldn't string questions together. Which question do you want me to answer: Why I am here or who do I work for? You're fucking embarrassing yourself.”
The man punched Derek in the back of the head and returned his knife to Derek's throat. “This isn't the time to be fooling around, my friend. You stumbled into something you shouldn't have. I killed three of your men, and I'll kill the other one if you don't tell me what you are doing here.”
“How do you know they are my men, asshole? Answer that.”
“Your friend told me before I killed him. Now, you better start answering questions, or I might just have to kill you.”
A knock on the door interrupted the interrogation.
“What is it?” yelled the man.
A guard entered. “I'm sorry to interrupt, sir, but the plane is about to land.”
“How long?”
“Five minutes.”
The man stood up straight, retracted his knife, and walked toward the door. “I will be back for you, friend. Take him back to his cell.”
C H A P T E R 4
Saturday, January 16
Everglades, Florida
Maverick Training Facility
0930 Hrs
The team sat in the conference room, waiting for Carlisle and Derek. It had been an exhausting eight-day SERE exercise for the team,
but everyone had made it through.
Derek and Carlisle entered the room. Derek was pleased to see his teammates sitting there in one piece. Though the exercise had been rough, it had become an instant rapport and bonding experience for the team, as SERE exercises often were. The men had received fewer than ten hours of sleep over the course of the exercise and had eaten just a few bowls of rice and beans. The beatings had been harsh, but most were within training regulations. The key point was that all of the men had survived and passed the training. No one had been shot and killed, and, even more crucially, no one had divulged an ounce of critical mission information. The mock deaths had all been a ruse to see if the others, when isolated, would talk out of fear, hoping to save their own lives.
Carlisle broke the silence as the men sipped their coffee. “Good morning, men. Great job out there last week. You not only completed your jump training, but you passed a physically and emotionally draining team exercise. I am glad to see no one was eaten by an alligator. If it makes you feel any better, we do try our best to keep that training area clear … at least of the really big ones. At any rate, congratulations. You guys are done with training, and now that we know we can trust you—and there wasn't any doubt—you are ready to do what you were hired to do: solve problems for the United States government. You guys are special, and in many ways, you are our only option. When more conventional approaches fail, we will call on you. There isn't a Special Operations team or Special Missions Unit around that will have the flexibility you do. The Maverick Program is the way of the future, the way to keep people safe and make the enemies start to disappear. But remember, you don't exist, and thus you can't speak of this or ever be compromised on a mission. This little experiment of ours will end horribly if you guys fail. No pressure, though. I'll give you guys some time to chat.”
The Maverick Experiment Page 4