Without Sanction

by Bentley, Don

  After all, as Don Henley and Glenn Frey had so aptly demonstrated, sometimes hell really did freeze over.

  TWENTY-TWO

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Peter glared at the men and women next to him, making no effort to hide his displeasure. Nothing raised his temperature like people attending to their personal devices during a meeting, particularly a meeting as important as this one. The first part of Peter’s deception plan had been enacted, and he and his staff were now gathered to examine the results.

  A heavily sanitized narrative laying out the details behind Beverly’s disastrous CIA raid had been leaked to a handful of sympathetic journalists. The raid’s true purpose had been stricken from the statement, and the dead operators’ affiliation had been altered as well.

  Rather than CIA paramilitary officers, Peter had instructed his press secretary to refer to them as Special Forces advisers. He’d further dissembled by stating that the men had been killed assisting the Syrian rebels in their fight against Iranian-backed Shia militias.

  While service member deaths in the Middle East were still out of the ordinary, the American public had grown accustomed to the occasional fatality. The U.S. special operators embedded with the Iraqi police fought against an assortment of militants. Their jobs were incredibly dangerous, and their casualty numbers reflected this reality. Peter was betting that the average American wouldn’t attach any significance to the fact that the latest round of fatalities had occurred in Syria, rather than in Iraq.

  So far, he’d been right.

  Even so, the President’s challenger, Senator Kelsey Price, was still making political hay of the tragedy. In an interview from the Capitol Building steps, Price had expressed just the right amount of remorse tempered by outrage. According to Price, the current administration’s lack of a coherent Middle East strategy was just as much to blame for the American deaths as insurgent bullets.

  Unfortunately, Price’s attacks seemed to be resonating. In the last four hours, Gonzales’s poll numbers had fallen two points, while Price’s had risen one.

  To add insult to injury, Peter couldn’t fault the man’s logic. The irony of a Republican attacking a Democrat for irresponsibly employing the military aside, this scenario was exactly why Peter had been determined to resist Syria mission creep at all cost. The American public was tired of their men and women dying in places that most people couldn’t even find on a map.

  Peter needed to stanch the administration’s bleeding, and do so quickly. Otherwise, he risked handing Price a hammer with which he could bludgeon Gonzales all the way until Election Day.

  With Gonzales’s numbers still trending in the wrong direction, Peter had called a war council. Now he was more than ready to take out his foul mood on whichever staff member had been foolish enough to arrive at the meeting without first silencing his or her electronic device.

  Assuming, of course, the perpetrator ever worked up the courage to answer the still-ringing phone.

  “Will someone please answer that phone?” Peter said as the electronic ringtone continued.

  The four women and two men seated across from him looked at one another in confusion. Finally, Gavin Bledsoe, the pollster, rooted around by his feet, coming up with a leather messenger bag. “I think it’s in here.”

  Peter stared at the satchel as the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

  “Sorry, folks,” Peter said. “It’s mine.”

  Peter had kept the anxiety from his voice as he spoke, but his heart still thundered. Excusing himself, he grabbed his bag and squeezed out of the narrow conference room, shutting the door behind him.

  Once free of the group’s prying eyes, Peter set the bag on the floor, digging through first one pocket, then another, until he located the offending device. He shot a look down the hall in either direction, then keyed in the password that allowed him to answer the call, and put the phone to his ear.

  “Yes?”

  Peter didn’t identify himself. He didn’t have to. Only one person knew the device’s number. Charles had provided him with the secure satellite phone just before he’d left for Syria.

  “We’ve got a problem,” Charles said, his voice distorted by the digital encryption protocols. “A big one.”

  “Give me a minute,” Peter said, looking for privacy and finding it in the tiny kitchenette located just off the main hallway. He entered the room only to see a woman sitting over a steaming cup of coffee. Her eyes widened at Peter’s sudden appearance, and she grabbed her mug as she stood, splashing coffee across the table.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman stammered. “I’ll clean that up.” Reaching for the napkin dispenser in the center of the table, she knocked over a saltshaker, further contributing to the mess instead.

  “It’s Julie, right?” Peter said, putting his phone on mute.

  The woman looked up, midwipe, her eyes showing equal parts surprise and fear. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Julie Casillas.”

  “No need for sir, Julie. Peter will do just fine.”

  The woman nodded in answer, apparently not trusting herself to reply. It was at this moment that Peter realized just how young the woman was, barely twenty if he was any judge. With her olive complexion and dark hair, she didn’t look anything like Kristen, but Peter saw his sister all the same.

  “You’re one of the interns working for Bill down in policy, right?” Peter said.

  “Yes, sir. I mean, Peter. I really appreciate this opportunity.”

  Peter nodded and knew that the woman wasn’t exaggerating. He’d helped to select the current round of interns and specifically targeted outstanding students who were attempting to pay their own way through college. He’d even managed to change the status of the internship from volunteer to paid and solicited matching grants from each intern’s college to help offset their tuition.

  No, the half woman, half girl standing in front of him wasn’t Kristen, but she might as well have been. Despite her low pay and thankless job, she was here, busting her ass on a Saturday. Women like Julie were the reason he’d entered politics to begin with. Peter would do well to remember that.

  “We’re lucky to have you, Julie,” Peter said, his lips stretching into a genuine smile. “Bill says great things about your work. Don’t worry about the mess. I’ll finish cleaning up.”

  “Thank you,” Julie said, grabbing the soggy napkins and dumping them in the trash can on the way to the door. “I won’t let you down.”

  She opened the door and slid through before Peter could reply, but her parting comment stuck with him. The twenty-year-old intern was worried about letting him down. In fact, he should have been the one worried about letting her and the countless other struggling young people down.

  Taking a moment to center himself, Peter selected a clean mug and filled it halfway full with black coffee. This time, he smelled the strong hints of Colombian rather than Texas pecan. Taking a confirming swallow, Peter set the mug on the granite counter, thumbed the phone off mute, and tried again.

  “Sorry about that,” Peter said. “I’m back. You were saying that we had a problem. Is the issue with your Syrian network?”

  If Charles was irritated about being put on hold, he didn’t let on. Instead, the new Chief of Base got right down to business.

  “No,” Charles said, “my network is fine. In fact, my trusted commander agreed to dedicate his resources solely to finding and rescuing Shaw.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that my asset and his men are currently being held at gunpoint by a squad of Rangers.”

  “What are you talking about?” Peter said as his newfound sense of calm evaporated.

  “Matt Drake.”

  “The DIA case officer?”

  “Yep. Ten minutes ago, he walked into my TOC, pulled a gun on my asset, and ordered the Rangers to take him into custody.�
��

  “Why?”

  “Drake claims my asset tried to kill him during a failed ambush three months ago. The man is delusional. I’ve worked with my asset for the last eighteen months, and he has been paid handsomely. No way he bites the hand that feeds him.”

  “Jesus,” Peter said, beginning to pace. “Why is Drake even there?”

  “I was about to ask you the same question. You didn’t know about him?”

  “Of course not. Why would I?”

  “You’re the President’s right-hand man. I thought it was your job to know everything.”

  “You thought wrong,” Peter said, his irritation with Charles growing. “My job is to keep us from going to war during the next four days so that the President can get reelected. Your job is to control Syria. Do your fucking job so I can do mine.”

  “That’s funny. From where I’m sitting, I’m doing my fucking job. I gave you the leverage you needed for Beverly, my Syrian network is up and running, and I’ve got a line on the captured paramilitary officer. In fact, Shaw might have been rescued by now if Drake hadn’t pulled a fucking gun on my asset!”

  Peter wanted to scream back a reply, but took a deep breath instead. His anger wasn’t productive. Besides, Charles had a point. He could hardly contain Syria if unwanted guests like Drake started kicking over anthills.

  “Okay, look,” Peter said, spooning sugar into his mug. “I’ll remove Drake from the equation and ensure the principals here understand that Syria is under CIA jurisdiction. No one else comes into, or out of, country without your approval. But you’ve got to keep your end of the bargain. The President is ready to authorize a rescue attempt for Shaw. He’s just waiting for actionable intelligence. You have to make sure that intelligence never materializes. Everything we’ve worked for is on the line. Everything. If you lose control of Syria, I lose my leverage with Beverly. If that happens, your head will be on the chopping block, right next to mine.”

  Peter lifted the mug to his lips as he talked. His mind had already transitioned to the next obstacle, so he was completely unprepared for Charles’s response.

  “Is that a threat?”

  Peter slammed the cup onto the counter, sending a black tide sloshing across the granite.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Peter said. “No, that’s not a threat. I just want to make sure you understand what’s at stake. You came to me, remember? You said that if I sent you back, you’d take care of this shit. So take care of it. You want to be the next Director of the CIA? Do your fucking job. I’ll get Drake out of your hair, but your Syrians best keep the situation under control until the polls close in California Tuesday night. If they don’t, the balance of your CIA career will be spent processing HR complaints in some windowless fucking room. Now that was a threat. See the difference?”

  For a long moment, Peter heard only his own breathing. Then Charles spoke.

  “Take care of Drake, and I’ll deliver,” Charles said, then ended the call.

  Peter held the lifeless phone, realizing that his friendship with Charles was over. So be it. Politics was for keeps, and nice guys finished last. Charles might be angry right now, but his bruised ego was nothing the rarefied air of Langley’s seventh floor couldn’t fix.

  Fortunately, the Drake problem would be easy to resolve in the grand scheme of things. Washington was full of ambitious people, and quite a few of them had hitched their careers to a second Gonzales term. Peter might not be able to change the outcome of the Syrian war, but he could bring a wayward DIA case officer to heel.

  Shoving the phone back into his pocket, Peter left the kitchen for the sanctity of his office.

  The DIA might be an insular organization, but even insular organizations answered the phone when the White House came calling.

  TWENTY-THREE

  CIA COMPOUND, SYRIA

  Imperial, Pasty, or Redneck?” I said to the twenty-something soldier posted outside the door of the confinement area where Scarface and his men were being held.

  “Sir,” he answered, shifting the M4 strapped to his chest as he spoke.

  “Come on, son. I haven’t been out of the Ranger Regiment that long. Which are you?”

  The soldier looked at me stone-faced for a beat before smiling.

  “My skin’s too black to be a Pasty, and I’m sure as hell no Redneck.”

  “My man,” I said, extending my hand. “I was a First Battalion Ranger myself.”

  The Army’s Ranger Regiment is a small organization with only three operational battalions. As a rule, Rangers take no shit from anyone who hasn’t worn their scroll; however, competition is fierce within the Regiment, as is the case with most Special Operations units. Over time, the three Ranger battalions developed their own lore and, with it, informal nicknames. The men in Second Battalion, stationed at Fort Lewis, Washington, near perpetually cloudy Seattle, are known as Pasties due to their notoriously pale skin. Third Battalion Rangers, housed in rural Fort Benning, Georgia, are the Rednecks. First Ranger Battalion, in comparison, hailed from sun-kissed Savannah. Called the First Imperial Ranger Battalion by their members, and the Beach Boys by the envious other Rangers, First Battalion had been my home for three amazing years.

  That meant that the Ranger standing guard and I shared a history.

  “Is Sergeant Major Hagan still kicking ass and taking names?” I said, starting a round of the do you know? game that all Rangers past and present play when meeting fellow commandos.

  The grin slid from the man’s face as he slowly shook his head. “No, sir. He was killed nine months ago. Training accident. A young private tangled parachutes with him. Sergeant Major Hagan got the boy’s chute clear, but his own collapsed in the process.”

  “Damn,” I said, “he was my first sergeant when I commanded Alpha Company. I can’t believe I didn’t hear about it.”

  “How long you been out of the Regiment, sir?”

  “Long enough for you to quit calling me sir. My name’s Matt Drake. What’s yours?”

  “Staff Sergeant Ray Unruh.”

  “Staff Sergeants stand guard nowadays, Ray?”

  “Ain’t much of anything happening as of yet. Figured I’d take a turn and give the boys a break, sir.”

  “Matt.”

  Ray paused a moment and then nodded. “Matt.”

  “You know the prisoners, Ray?”

  “Not really, but I recognize the haji with the scar. Before everything went to shit three months ago and this place was shut down, he used to roll into the compound two or three times a week. He always traveled in a big convoy. The rest of his men would stay outside the gate, but the haji and his three lieutenants would come inside the wire for meetings.”

  “Who’d he talk to?” I said.

  “The Chief.”

  “Every time?”

  A nod. “The CIA folks arrived back in-country just a couple of hours ago, and the haji and his men were their first visitors. Supposedly, the Chief is planning a raid to rescue the captured paramilitary officer.”

  “You don’t sound very convinced.”

  Ray shrugged his massive shoulders. “I wouldn’t know. The CIA case officers don’t tell us shit.”

  This did surprise me. “You guys aren’t in on the op?”

  Ray shook his head. “Nope. The Agency boys have everything under control, I guess. Me and my men thought we’d be part of the action when we got the orders to leave Johnson and secure this place ahead of the CIA contingent’s arrival.”

  “Johnson?”

  “It’s a makeshift combat operating post where the in-country JSOC folks are hanging out with the remainder of my company. They’re holed up about fifty klicks away.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Another exasperated shrug. “Hell if I know. I guess they needed someone to lock down the compound while the Agency guys ride
to glory. Except that from where I’m sitting, ain’t shit happening. They jaw-jack with the hajis all day, but nobody’s doing mission planning or rehearsals.”

  “Ray, I need to tell you something, Ranger to Ranger.”

  “Lay it on me, sir.”

  “Matt.”

  “Matt.”

  “I didn’t come here to jaw-jack. I have an asset inside the splinter cell holding Shaw. He’s gonna give me Shaw if I agree to bring him out.”

  “You’re going in?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Need company?”

  “All I can get. But first, I need a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “The jihadis you’re guarding, they ambushed my partner and me.”

  “Bad?”

  “My partner’s missing his arm.”

  “You talking about Frodo?”

  “Know him?”

  “He was my squad leader when I first got to Regiment. Finest soldier I ever met. Damn shame what happened. You want me to smoke the jihadis?”

  “Not just yet. The Chief of Base thinks I’ve got the wrong guy. Says the Syrian is his trusted commander, whatever the fuck that means. Anyway, I’ve got to find a way to prove him wrong. Something he can’t ignore. I thought running biometric samples from these guys through the system might be a good start. Awfully hard for the Chief to argue with me if the database comes back with a hit. What do you say?”

  “I’d say that Staff Sergeant Unruh is going to follow his orders, and you’re coming with me.”

  The new voice came from over my shoulder. I turned to see standing behind us the same youngster who had asked me for my badge.

  “Son,” I said, facing the cocksure CIA officer, “I’m normally pretty easygoing, but you seem bound and determined to test my patience.”

  “After that stunt you pulled, you’re lucky you’re not the one in handcuffs,” the youngster said. “Get your ass to the TOC. The Chief wants to see you.”