Strike Force

by Robert Stanek

  It didn't make sense because what he was seeing indicated a there was some kind of high-stakes operation going on. He hadn't seen such a flood of data coming out of the Med since the uprising that ousted and killed Libya's dictator, Muammar Gaddafi.

  "Morning in Utah. Afternoon in the Med," Dave said aloud as he reminded himself of the 9-hour time difference. He started backtracking through the data to see when it all began. It didn't take long and soon he wrote 5:18 AM in large block letters on a yellow sticky note that he stuck to the lower left corner of his primary monitor. On another sticky note, he wrote 5:42 PM--the current time in the Med. This note he stuck to the lower right corner of his primary monitor. The notes were reminders to himself that he needed to fill in the gaps between to understand what was happening.

  He told himself that none of this was directly related to his current job, that he should turn over what he'd uncovered to his old friends working the Mediterranean desk at NSA headquarters in Ft. Meade.

  But what he was seeing was like a giftwrapped puzzle and he was for once in his life in the right place at the right time. He'd created the algorithms and search interfaces that sifted through the exabytes of data being gathered by the NSA every single day. He knew what he needed to do to unravel the puzzle.

  He also needed to tread carefully. The NSA, CIA and other covert intelligence agencies, foreign and domestic, had dozens of missions going on around the world at any one time. If he'd stumbled into one of those and inadvertently exposed it, all hell would break lose.

  But what if it isn't a covert op? What if some sort of major attack is underway?

  Jumping up from his chair, he paced back and forth in his little cubicle.

  The stakes are high, inconceivably high. If I do this and things go wrong, I really will get fired. For real. It won't be just another panic attack.

  Dave exited his cubicle, walking past the dozens of other workspaces in which other specialists were handling other aspects of their Big Data mission.

  He walked down the stairs to the first floor and went outside. He stood there a moment breathing the clean mountain air, with the morning sun on his face.

  His car was right there in the parking lot. All he had to do was get in it and drive home. By the time he ate, slept and woke, this would all be over and whatever it was he could pretend he never knew anything about it beforehand.

  He told himself this but knew he couldn't do it. He thought of 9/11. How the agency had credible intelligence that something big was coming. How the agency hadn't been able to use that information to stop what happened from happening.

  Chapter 13

  Mediterranean Sea

  Afternoon, Tuesday, 19 June

  "Belay that," Captain Howard said. "Evers, you've something else to tell us, so out with it."

  Scott scratched at his forehead. The adrenaline rush was wearing off and he was suddenly feeling the day's wear and tear again. "I believe I do. A hunch. Something I saw while I was under."

  "Under?" the captain asked.

  Scott took a step toward the master chief and stood at the chief's side as a show of solidarity. "Edie and I were on the bridge with Captain Pendleton when it started. When I saw incoming RPGs, I pulled Edie over the rail and we went under. We dove down to avoid the shockwave and stayed under as all hell broke loose. Edie and I are both experienced divers and free divers, so we can hold our breath longer than most. Still, we couldn't have been under for more than a few minutes.

  "By the time we surfaced and came around the Shepherd, it was over and there was no trace of the attackers." Scott stopped, caught himself. "Wait, I think… No, I know. I saw one of the fishing boats when I came up. Far away and trailing smoke. Then I saw something, large, black giving chase. I assumed it was one of the NSW RIBs. But from what I heard earlier, both NSW RIBs were recovered in waters near the Shepherd."

  Captain Howard reached for a large mug of coffee, which must have gone cold long ago. He swallowed the cold mud and then said, "Inflatables 1 and 2 were recovered near the Sea Shepherd. Recovery ops continues and we will keep search and rescue going until all missing are found."

  "But you've only found six. Isn't that right?" Scott said, only realizing the importance of his words as he said them.

  "Six…" Master Chief Roberts said, pausing to look to the Operations Commander. "That's the service member recovery count. We've recovered twenty one: six servicemen, two from the Bardot, four from the Shepherd, and eight from the fishers."

  "Living?" Scott asked. "In the infirmary?"

  "Not all aboard this ship. Not all living," the master chief said.

  Scott paused, counted in his head. "That's twenty, not twenty one."

  Master Chief Roberts looked to Executive Commander Howard before he responded. "The other's a… defense contractor… who was aboard the helicopter we lost this morning."

  Scott noted the delays in the response and suspected the chief said "defense contractor" but meant operative. If so, the operative was most likely from the CIA. Intrigued, he asked, "The helicopter, was it attacked before or after the Bardot sank?"

  Master Chief Roberts said, "The SH-60B was on route to the Bardot when it went down and the reports of the Bardot came in at the same time."

  Scott became agitated, animated. "Two coordinated attacks? One precision attack on both the Bardot and a combat patrol helicopter. A second precision attack on the Shepherd and two fully-manned inflatables."

  Master Chief Roberts nodded and was about to say something when Scott said, "And four found from the Shepherd?"

  Master Chief Roberts nodded again.

  Scott asked, "Where are they?"

  Master Chief Roberts said, "The infirmary will have that information. If not aboard, they'll know which ship they're on and the status."

  "Status…" Scott said. "You mean whether they're alive or dead?"

  Scott didn't wait for an answer. He turned about, and called out for Midshipman Tinsdale.

  As he was leaving the situation room, the Operations Commander said, "Well, we've now wasted time that could have been better spent discussing tactical response. The strike force is assembled and ready below decks. Pilots not part of current ops are on crew rest. Planning cells are preparing and working through the most likely response scenarios, including beach assault, selective insertion, and amphibious engagement."

  As much as he wanted to know the truth about Edie, Scott knew if he left now he'd never get back into the operations room, never be part of the planning or response. He turned around in the doorway, said, "Give me a satellite phone and we'll see who's wasting whose time."

  The Operations Commander, a big, dumb grin on his face reached down, grabbed a satellite phone from his ready pack, and tossed it to Scott. "Knock yourself out… In the meantime, we'll continue discussing tactical response and how to kick these jihadist bastards so hard they'll go crawling back to their caves to die."

  Chapter 14

  Mediterranean Sea

  Late Afternoon, Tuesday, 19 June

  Alexis reached down and picked up the dead woman's phone. A picture on the cracked screen showed a brown-eyed blond-haired girl with a missing tooth and a constellation of freckles. The little girl couldn't have been more than seven or eight. Adorable, Alexis decided as she put the phone on the sink.

  The air in the tiny room was stifling and she fanned her face before she unbuttoned the dead woman's blouse and removed it, along with everything else, before stuffing the body in the stall. Locking the stall with herself inside, she climbed up and over the edge, slipping down the other side.

  Afterward, she dressed in the dead woman's clothes, looking at herself in the mirror over the sink as she did so. Before she finished buttoning up the blouse, she noticed the nametag had come undone, so she fixed it back into place.

  She grinned at her reflection, almost as if to say, "Hello, old friend."

  She picked up a hat from the floor, dusted it off and fixed it into place. She knew enough abou
t shipboard rules to know she generally wasn't supposed to wear a hat indoors, but sailors often did, especially if they were young and forgetful. The dead woman had been both, Alexis decided, as she turned from the mirror and reached for the door.

  Before opening the door, she paused and turned back. "Midshipman Tinsdale, at your service, sir," she said to the mirror until she believed it.

  The two had a passing resemblance, she decided. Same height. Same build. Same close-cropped blond hair. It's why she'd picked the midshipman.

  Plus, with the midshipman running back and forth along the halls, it was as if she was asking to die. Almost like she was saying here I am, come and kill me and hurry up about it.

  Alexis knew the lower ranks were practically invisible. She'd always been invisible when she'd served. They never cared that she was a person.

  The faces behind the hands that patted her ass or grabbed her tits were never looking at her face, that's for sure. They only cared that she could hit the mark every single time at 800, 1200 or 1500 meters. That she had three holes that they could fill on a dark night in the desert.

  Thinking about what she'd just done, her jaw clenched and her face got the pinched look of sadness. She sometimes felt pity for the sorrows she caused but remorse was something she felt rarely.

  Angry with herself for feeling anything, she let herself cry. Red eyes and puffy cheeks might help her make look more like the dead woman anyway.

  She cried for the life she should have had.

  She cried for everything that had happened to her during the long dark nights in the desert.

  She cried for the empty places in her heart.

  But, above all, she cried to get past the pain, to get past feeling anything.

  If she was going to survive, she needed to be numb. Numb like her they told her to be during those dark nights in the desert.

  She touched a tissue to her eyes, let the tissue soak up her tears and her pain. Seeing her puffy red eyes in the mirror, she smiled.

  Done sobbing, she put the tissue in her pocket. She picked up the dead woman's phone and put that in her pocket too. She'd almost forgotten the phone in her haste to do what she needed to do next.

  She looked at her watch, almost willing time to hurry toward zero hour.

  Calmly, she removed a magnetic sign from a utility cabinet that'd she'd unlocked previously. As she entered the hall, she put the sign on the door to the bathroom. "Closed for Cleaning," it read.

  Chapter 15

  Mediterranean Sea

  Late Afternoon, Tuesday, 19 June

  Scott caught the satellite phone, decided right then the Operations Commander was going to be his new best friend even if he had to part the Mediterranean to make it happen. As he stepped into the hall, he dialed into the Switchboard system--NSA's automated global operations board--and then said, "Authentication: Kilo Whiskey Bravo Tango Five Nine Seven Sierra."

  KWBT-597S was a cover code, a sort of dual-purpose self-identification and rapid auto-dial from the field to his handlers at home base. Home base being whatever station he was operating out of. He'd be connected to his handlers as soon as Switchboard authenticated him using the code and voiceprint biometrics.

  He waited, holding the heavy satellite phone to his ear, thinking either the system was running slow or no one was home on the other end. But after a long delay, he heard a male voice on the other end saying, "Authentication: Juliet Romeo Eight Five. Encrypted. Unsecure."

  JR-85 was his primary handler at the NSA, but Scott didn't need the code to recognize the voice on the other end. He pulled the phone away from his ear just long enough to note there wasn't a row of lit indicator lights on the phone. Three green lights would have indicated a fully secure, encrypted and untraceable connection. The one green light he saw meant that at best the connection was encrypted. He replied with, "Bravo Whiskey Seven Nine. Encrypted. Unsecure."

  "Scott?" the voice on the other end asked.

  "Keneke," Scott said, as he breathed a sigh of relief. If Keneke was on shift, he'd get real answers instead of "official" answers. "I hope you're settled in to your new position now because I'm calling in every favor. Every last one."

  "I've been settled in for over a year," Keneke said. "You're still in the Med, aren't you?"

  Scott frowned. "So you've heard?"

  "And then some," Keneke replied. "I'm at the Hawaii field station. You know, the aging underground facility you loathe."

  "Ah, Christmas in hell," Scott shot back. "Take down these coordinates." He read off the latitude and longitude displayed on the e-wall for the Bardot, the Shepherd and the strike group. "Reach out to the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. Get the satellite photography within a 100-mile radius of those coordinates for the past 24 hours and keep looking forward for unusual activity."

  "Whoa. Slow down," Keneke said. "Scott, I don't know what's happened."

  "I thought--wait. What do you mean you don't know what's happened? The Bardot, the Shepherd. They're gone."

  "Scott, whatever you're trying to tell me. I'm not sure I should be hearing. There's no chatter to corroborate anything you're saying."

  "What?"

  "Look, I turned up the Med channels as soon as I took your call. I'm telling you it's dead quiet. Maybe too quiet, if you ask me."

  "Since when do you follow official channels?"

  "Official, unofficial, all over the place. One big hunk of nothing."

  "Nothing?"

  "Scott," Keneke said. "I have to ask. Is your cover legend blown? It was a hell-of-a lot of work to get you--"

  "Cover legend, to hell. The Shepherd's gone--as in blown up," Scott said, his voice full of pain. "They sank the Bardot too."

  Scott heard Keneke typing furiously. "OK. I have one report here stating US Marines were injured during night training exercises but that was from yesterday. That would've been--"

  "Sometime early in the morning here. Yes, that's exactly when it started."

  "When what started?"

  Scott scratched at the stubble on face. "From what you're telling me it sounds like a cover up. This doesn't make any sense. Unknown assailants sank the Bardot III and shot down a Seahawk, then they sank the Sea Shepherd and took out two SEAL squads. Dozens of civilians, lost. Dozens of sailors and marines, lost."

  On the other end of the line, Scott heard Keneke suck at the air, followed by a quiet, "Shit, shit, shit." Then Keneke said clearly, "Does this have anything to do with--"

  "No," Scott cut in. "I mean, I don't see how. My cover legend was solid and I did not deviate. Not even Edie knew."

  "Edie?" Keneke asked.

  Scott didn't want to think about Edie right now. He quickly re-focused on the issue at hand. "The cover was solid. I was in deep for months. There were no issues."

  Keneke sighed loudly in relief. "This is ugly either way. Where are you and what happened exactly?"

  "I'm aboard the amphibious assault ship USS Kearsarge, part of a carrier strike group led by the USS Harry Truman. In the early morning hours, Sea Shepherd came under attack from unknown assailants," Scott said as he started to recap the events of the day. He finished by saying, "Right now, I'm outside Situation Room One."

  A long silence followed and Scott impatiently counted off the seconds in his head. Finally, Keneke said, "I'm guessing you need temporary shipboard clearance?"

  Scott took a few steps away from the door. "Get me a VIP top security clearance and the next time I see you I will treat you to the biggest Kobe steak you've ever seen in your life."

  "I've seen some pretty big steaks… I take it you're having a little command difficulty?"

  "You don't know the half of it. They're having a tough time deciding whether to throw me in the brig or sedate me up in the infirmary."

  There was a long pause, Scott heard more furious typing, and then Keneke said, "I take it Secure Station Number 5 and Printer Sit 1 are in that room?"

  Scott walked back so he could look into the operations room.
He looked for a computer with a printer. Positioned near the door was a work area with several computers and a printer. One of the computers was labeled "SS-5."

  Almost as soon as he replied affirmatively, the printer came to life and started printing.

  "Your hall pass," Keneke said.

  Scott stepped away from the door. "I want your friends at Tailored Access on this. The attacks were coordinated, well-planned. There's a trail of messages out there across the Internet, probably all over the dark net."

  "I'm running Techniques Discovery over here now, Scott. Give me an hour or two."

  "Calls, emails, everything. Hell, get Treasure Map on all of this. Every device tracked to owner. Every recorded call analyzed. Every recorded email analyzed."

  "Scott, you'll know everything even if I have to dig into Dishfire and ferret out text messages myself."

  "And no issues with F.I.S.C. or Senate Intelligence Oversight?"

  "Everything must be triple authorized now, especially if any military-grade encryption breaks are required. Nothing I can't handle," Keneke replied.

  "Wait, a minute," Scott said aloud, even though he meant only to think it. He tried to think, to work through everything that had happened and was happening. He thought about the briefings and what he'd heard the Operations Commander say. What had he said exactly? Did he say they were going to kick these jihadist bastards back to their caves? "Keneke, you still there?"

  "Scott, I'm here."

  Scott looked into the briefing room. "I think I need you to do something else for me too."

  Keneke said clearly, "Anything, just ask."

  Chapter 16

  Mediterranean Sea

  Late Afternoon, Tuesday, 19 June

  She walked down the hall, surprised no one said anything to her about being in the wrong place or on the wrong deck. She didn't know exactly where she was headed, but she knew the general location of the operations rooms from the ship's diagram she'd seen.