Operator Down: A Pike Logan Thriller

by Brad Taylor

Johan could not believe his bad luck. These men hated the United States for backing the prime minister in his fight against General Mosebo, and he was here to help them get exactly what they wanted, but they were blinded by their paranoia. The irony wasn’t lost on him that his presence was, in fact, a good reason to be paranoid. Or that because he’d worked as a security contractor for a duplicitous asshole in the United States, he was now suspected of being a spy. He’d ended up killing that man, but he couldn’t say that here.

  Wait—that’s a mistake. I did have a visa to work in the US, but I slaughtered my boss because he was helping terrorists. Don’t tell anyone. It’s our secret.

  Probably wouldn’t go over too well.

  Johan said, “Yes, I worked in America. I work all over the world. How does that make me a spy?”

  The man on the left said, “You know who has you, don’t you?” He finished the question with the odd snort, like ending a sentence triggered some visceral phlegm reaction.

  Johan said, “Uhhh . . . no, I don’t. I have no idea why I’m here. I was told Lesotho was very beautiful, but that’s not what I’m seeing now.”

  The tall reed in the center said, “You are working with American Special Forces. We know they have a team here. We know they are at the embassy right now.”

  What in the hell? The damn Americans. The news filled Johan with not a small amount of worry, if only because their fear was rooted in something concrete, thus making it harder to dissuade them from their chosen conspiracy. He was sure it was nothing more than a security assessment team provided by the US Special Operations Command to do a routine check, but with the paranoia shown here, that mattered little. They’d probably do the same if a USAID team came in delivering wheat.

  The frog on the left said, “We know they landed today, and now we want to know why.”

  Johan thought, You know because the damn embassy told you they’d be coming. But he couldn’t show any familiarity with soldiers or embassies. He simply said, “I’m just a photographer. I didn’t fly in with any American team. I flew in from Johannesburg by way of Durban.”

  The frog said, “If you’re a photographer, where are your cameras?” Snort.

  What is up with that guy?

  He ignored the quirk because the question put him in a bind. He couldn’t lead them back to the hotel or he’d be spending the next few years in some rotten hole once they saw what he’d done. But not saying anything would look just as suspicious.

  Time to shift tactics. He became belligerent, raising his voice, against training protocols. “My cameras are in my hotel room. Where you snatched me up.” He pointed to the man circling behind his chair and shouted, “I offered to show those idiots who brought me here, but they had no interest!”

  That answer seemed to rock them back a bit, giving him hope. Time was not on his side. Sooner or later, they’d wonder why he hadn’t asked for the South African embassy’s help—which was something he most definitely couldn’t do.

  He stood up, snarling, “I’ve had about enough of this shit. Stupid talk of spies and Americans. I’m a South African citizen, here to help your tourism industry, and you treat me like a criminal!”

  The man pacing behind his chair stepped forward and punched him in the kidney, bringing him to his knees in an explosion of pain. He feigned being hurt much worse than he was, thinking, Okay, that didn’t work. Looks like you’re fighting your way out.

  He had no idea how he’d get out of the camp but was thinking only of one step at a time. He crawled on his knees, hacking spittle like he was incapacitated, searching for the man who’d punched him. He was the one who worried him the most. The hired gun. Not the officers behind the table. Take that guy out and the rest would be easy.

  His eyes aimed at the floor, he saw the boots of the man, just outside of striking range. Still crouching and feigning injury, he shuffled forward on his knees and coiled his legs.

  He heard, “Stop this!”

  He turned, and a new man had entered the room. From the reactions of the others, Johan could tell he outranked them all.

  The man said, “What is going on here?”

  Like you don’t know. Johan was sure he’d been listening next door, and the violence had been more than he was willing to sanction.

  Johan waited and saw the expression of the frog go from bewilderment to anger. The frog said nothing, but it was enough for Johan to realize he was right. Whoever the man was, he knew exactly what was happening, and Frog wasn’t too happy about being thrown under the bus.

  The reed in the center rattled off a bunch of sentences in Sesotho, and the man answered. After a back-and-forth, the center man left the room and the commander took his spot. At that point, Johan knew his gambit had worked. The roughing up of him, with no evidence, had spooked the commander, and now he was going to play nice.

  This he did, apologizing for the “inconvenience.”

  Johan said, “So that’s it? I’m free to go?”

  “Yes, but you understand why this happened, correct?”

  “Fuck no.”

  The words came out as a slap, and the commander leaned back. He said, “The Americans are against the LDF. They want Lesotho defenseless. They have relentlessly persecuted our commanding general—and your own country has shown no inclination to help, leading those in power to wonder just what South Africa wants.”

  Johan started to say something, the unwinding conspiracy theories becoming ridiculous—not least because he was living the very conspiracy on behalf of the man talking—when the commander held up his hand, saying, “I know, I know, you’re just a photographer. A man who knows nothing of such things but apparently travels all over our capital city without a camera today, stopping at some decidedly strange spots.”

  Johan remained quiet, sensing the endgame and not wanting to screw it up. First rule of interrogation: If the interrogator wants to talk, let him.

  He continued. “If, by any chance, you bump into the US ambassador on your sightseeing trips, you might tell him how we feel. Let him know that Lesotho will not tolerate American interference. We don’t fear Special Forces. We have our own—and as I’m sure you’ve now seen, they’re just as good.”

  Johan kept his opinion to himself, realizing that this man truly thought he was a spy and was giving him a message to take back to the US embassy. The lunacy of the entire situation made him wonder about the general they were supporting. If Mosebo was half as crazy as these men, he probably deserved to go.

  The commander smiled and handed back Johan’s passport. He said, “Can you relay that, if you get the chance?”

  “Yes, of course. But I’ve told you—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. You’re just a photographer.”

  A man entered the room with a digital SLR and a piece of paper with handwriting on it. The commander said, “You don’t mind if we use our own, do you?”

  The man handed the paper to Johan, and he saw it was his name and passport number. He was instructed to place it under his chin, like a common criminal, and the man took several photos. When he’d left the room, the commander said, “Balim, take him back to his hotel.”

  To Johan he said, “But rest assured, we’ll be watching. Johan the Photographer.”

  Johan nodded and followed Balim out the door. On the silent drive back he reflected on two things: One, these men were nowhere near as good as Colonel Armstrong thought they were. The cream of their intelligence crop not only never searched his room, they didn’t even make him empty out his pockets. It didn’t bode well for General Mosebo’s troops, whom they were currently training. And two, there was a United States Special Forces team on the ground, which made the no-fire box of the US embassy critical. In no way did he want them involved. This had to be clean, Lesotho against Lesotho. Any fight drawing in the Americans would be a mess of the first order.

  Balim pulled int
o his hotel drive-through and put the vehicle in park, not saying a word. Johan exited and for the first time felt the sweat under his shirt.

  For as amateurish as the interrogation had been, it had still been harrowing and had come close to leading to mission failure. He went up to his room and realized the reconnaissance he’d been sent to do had accomplished exponentially more than he had expected, but he needed to get out. Now.

  No way was he going to ply his cover tomorrow, driving around taking pictures of waterfalls. The only pictures he’d get would be on the mountainous plateau, when he emplaced the beacon for the drop. After that, he intended to be on the first plane smoking out of the country.

  The next time he’d see Lesotho would be under a parachute canopy, and the three in that room had better hope they didn’t end up in his gunsight.

  30

  Knuckles saw the phone in the team room blink and answered, hearing, “He’s here. Just walked in.”

  He said, “Thanks,” hung up, then jogged down to the second floor toward Kurt Hale’s office. He knocked, and Kurt looked up, a phone to his ear. Kurt said, “Never mind, he’s in my doorway.”

  Kurt hung up and said, “What, you have a beacon on my ass or something?”

  Knuckles grinned and said, “No, sir, I just knew you wanted me here. You still serious about taking me to the Oversight Council meeting?”

  “Yeah. I’m serious. George is on leave, and I need someone to keep me company.” Kurt smiled and said, “I can’t do these meetings by myself.”

  George Wolffe was the deputy commander of the Taskforce and the natural choice to take to an Oversight Council meeting. Knuckles—an Operator—was not. And he knew it.

  He said, “What about Blaine? Where’s he?”

  Blaine Alexander was the Omega chief. The man who called the shots when an operation was executed to put someone’s head on a spike. Once a lieutenant colonel in the Army, he’d controlled every single hit that Knuckles had been on under Taskforce authority. He’d retired from the military and taken a contracting job with the Taskforce. Which is to say he was doing the same thing he’d done on active duty.

  The Taskforce was weird that way. It was a digital machine in the world of the analog government. But it didn’t explain why Knuckles was going to an Oversight Council meeting.

  Kurt said, “Blaine’s busy on a project.” Kurt looked at him and said, “You afraid of going?”

  “No. Hell no. Just wondering, is all.”

  Kurt said, “Well, quit it. There aren’t any surprises with me.”

  Knuckles heard the words and wanted to laugh, wondering if Kurt actually believed them. Behind his back, Kurt Hale was called Yoda, and that was for a reason. He never gave an explanation for doing anything and always confounded those around him, right up until he was proven correct. There was a purpose behind Knuckles’s attending the Oversight Council meeting, but, maddeningly, Kurt wouldn’t say what that was. Knuckles had lived with that for the last seven years he’d been in the Taskforce, and, while it was aggravating, he’d never complained. Because at the end of the day, it usually meant he’d get to put a terrorist down.

  Kurt exited the office and Knuckles followed. He said, “Hey, sir, just out of curiosity, why me?”

  Walking toward the elevator, Kurt said, “You heard the VTC yesterday with Pike, correct?”

  “Yeah. Of course. Pike’s got a thread, but we have no idea what it is.”

  “No, I mean did you hear the VTC?”

  Okay, Yoda, I’ll be your Skywalker.

  He said, “Yes, sir? What do you mean?”

  Kurt pressed the button for the elevator, then turned to Knuckles. He said, “How’s it going with Carly? How’s the training?”

  The shift of the conversation was pure Hale. Knuckles wanted to punch the wall at the change of subject, but he knew Kurt had a reason. He said, “It’s going.”

  Nothing more, letting Kurt know he didn’t appreciate the shift.

  The doors opened, and Kurt said, “You know there are a lot of guys hoping she’ll fail.”

  Knuckles said, “She won’t.”

  Kurt looked at him and said, “You sure about that? Because from what I’m hearing, you’d just as soon she did.”

  Knuckles bristled and said, “She’ll do just fine. She’s switched on, and she’s got a natural talent. When I’m done with her, she’ll smoke most of those assholes talking.”

  Kurt laughed and said, “Touchy, touchy.”

  “I’m just sick of the bedroom talk. She’s working her ass off, and it’s because of her, not me.”

  The door opened, and Kurt said, “That’s why you’re in the elevator with me. I need to know.”

  And Knuckles realized that Kurt was doing a pulse check of his organization. Wanting to assess where the real level was.

  Knuckles said, “Sir, she’s good. Better than good.”

  “And you have no issue with that? Since you’re no longer . . .”

  They exited into the parking garage, and Knuckles said, “Come on, sir, can’t she just be judged on her damn skill? Does she have to be ‘the girl who dated an Operator’?”

  Kurt said, “No. Not at all. My point was, can she work in the Taskforce with you, the guy who used to ball her?”

  Knuckles was incredulous. “Did you really just say that? Sir?”

  Kurt stopped and faced him. He said, “Yes, I did. I don’t give a shit about political correctness. I care about killing terrorists. And I need to know if this is going to be a problem. Because if it is, she’s got no chance at selection. I need to hear it.”

  Knuckles sighed, then said, “You know, I’d like to tell you you’re right and she needs to go. I really would. But, truth be told, she’s good. I’ll be straight up—I don’t want her in the Taskforce. She’s headstrong and she’s got no off switch. But that’s just me talking from a failed relationship. If that hadn’t happened, I’d tell you she’s better than about half the people in this building.”

  They reached Kurt’s car, Kurt circling to the driver’s door and Knuckles waiting on the passenger side. Kurt unlocked the doors, and Knuckles said, “She’ll do just fine.”

  Kurt said, “Are you willing to keep training her?”

  Knuckles opened the door and said, “Are you kidding? Of course. No way is she going to fail. My name is on that chit.”

  They settled into the seats, and Kurt said, “You mean that?”

  “Yes. Look, sir, we parted ways, but make no mistake, she’s talented. I can see it. Pike can see it. Jennifer can see it. I’m not just making it up, and while I don’t like the way things ended with us, I do appreciate skill. She’s got it.”

  Kurt put the car in drive and said, “Does she have enough training to do drills on her own for a while?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  He said, “Nothing.”

  They drove the rest of the way in silence, passing by the monuments of Washington, DC. They rolled into the access point for the Old Executive Office Building and, after showing identification, were waved through. Kurt parked, and they walked up the steps to the building. Kurt said, “You ever been to one of these before?”

  “No. I’m not sure why I’m here right now.”

  Kurt laughed and said, “It’ll become obvious later. We’ll enter, you’ll go to the back of the room, and I’ll brief. Clear?”

  Knuckles said, “Yeah. Clear.” What he thought was, Clear as mud.

  Kurt said, “Just answer what I ask, when the time comes.”

  They approached the scrum of people attempting to enter the secure room, and Knuckles said, “What the hell does that mean?”

  Kurt shook his head, telling him no more talking. Fuming, Knuckles waited in line, then passed over his cell phone, went through a metal detector, and took a seat at the back of the room, watching the most inf
luential bodies in the United States government gather around and talk as if they were out for a midmorning tea. It was surreal. The same people he saw discussing death and destruction on Sunday shows were now chatting as if they were deciding where to get brunch. He realized they were, in fact, just people. But powerful, nonetheless.

  The Oversight Council had been designed by Kurt Hale and the previous administration to control Taskforce activities. While the Taskforce operated outside the bounds of the US Constitution, Kurt had known they needed a check, lest they turn into something vile. President Hannister had inherited the Taskforce after the death of the previous president, and he had a choice: Disband the unit or embrace it. Initially, he’d been leaning toward disbanding it because he’d seen in past operations the threat the unit posed to the fabric of a democracy, but then he’d learned—the hard way—the good it could do. It wasn’t hyperbole to say that the Taskforce had prevented World War III, and Hannister had been the president when it happened. It was the deciding vote to embrace the unit.

  The Council was the sole body that oversaw Taskforce activities. Comprised of thirteen people both inside and outside the government, it was a Faustian bargain for those who chose to embrace the responsibility. Get read on to the Taskforce, and gain the ability to be in a secret circle that few on earth knew existed. But to do so meant agreeing to an illegal organization that could cause any member to go to jail for a long, long time.

  Knuckles wondered how many in the room did it out of patriotism, or simply out of a junior high I’m in on a secret bullshit. Hard to tell, but that was the way of the US government.

  All would proclaim patriotism, but only a few could look in the mirror and say it wasn’t because of ego.

  31

  No sooner had Knuckles taken a seat at the back than the entire room stood up. President Hannister had entered.

  Knuckles stood like everyone else, but after seeing the people chatting before, he couldn’t get past the feeling that this whole thing was show, with none of the folks on the Council assimilating the true seriousness of what was being discussed.