The ramifications of that scenario made Brecht shudder. If Beeman hadn’t yet delivered a dangerous weapons technology to a hostile power, the NSA was taking a grave risk by letting the situation play out.
Why would they take such a terrible chance?
To identify all the foreign operatives—to roll up the entire cell, of course.
Fitch must have DataHelix under lockdown. The technology is secure. The risk is minimal.
Would they let innocent civilians die just to catch a few more foreign operatives? Was the White House trying to send a message? Or prepare for a war? Or justify one?
As the theory sharpened, each idea triggering the next like a row of dominoes, Brecht’s mind raced. The women could be the bait that held Beeman in place, and he was the bait that held a foreign spy ring in place. The NSA—probably working with the FBI—was overseeing the operation loosely from a distance. They weren’t watching the women, or even Beeman. They were, in fact, watching the watchers. Everything else was secondary.
But who was the enemy?
Who would want a state-of-the-art bioweapon?
Someone who can’t develop one themselves and who has an urgent need for it because they have plans to use it in the immediate future.
A terror cell? ISIS? Hamas? Al-Qaeda? Or an enemy nation? Iran? North Korea? Syria? Brecht ran down a list of possibilities in his mind. Russia and China had robust bioweapons programs of their own, not to mention nuclear weapons. North Korea had nukes as well. That left Iran. So the top candidates were Iran and ISIS.
The intelligence community widely believed that ISIS and similar terror cells lacked the wherewithal to pull off a major espionage operation on US soil. That left Iran. Perhaps it wanted access to a WMD it could use on Israel right away, while its nuclear efforts were still incomplete—a weapon traceable back to the US. Of course, the same could apply to Palestine, but that just didn’t feel right. Palestine lacked the resources and had too much to lose; it would be risking total obliteration with such an operation. Israel herself would love to have such a weapon but would never conduct a directly hostile operation on US soil. Hell, it would be an act of war no matter who did it.
Even though North Korea has nukes, I can’t rule them out. And there are probably a dozen other possible players. Even Russia. God, it could be anyone.
Speculation and assumptions are poor substitutes for facts.
He needed more, but there was no more.
He’d have to go with what he had, at least for now.
Deciding what to do is always easier with fewer options.
Brecht climbed to his feet and stepped briskly to the front of the coach. All eyes turned to him. He thought of the consequences of what he was about to do. His agency had worked painstakingly for decades to build rapport and trust with the NSA, FBI, CIA and Defense Intelligence Agency. He was about to destroy that work with a single sentence.
For Conrad.
He turned to Thomas. “Hack the DataHelix computers,” he said. “I want everything we can get on Beeman and any weapons research to which he has access.” Then he turned to Thomas and said, “Leave the observation team at Beeman’s cabin. Bring Kenehan and Partridge back here. I want them to oversee surveillance on Beeman’s house and all known entrances to DataHelix.”
“Yes, sir.”
He stepped over to where Mark Jensen sat paying rapt attention to him, noticing once more the resemblance between the man and his father. He placed his arthritic hand on Jensen’s shoulder and looked down into the man’s gray eyes for a few seconds before speaking. “Much to discuss,” he intoned. “But let me start with this—we have new reason to believe that the girls are alive.”
Chapter 39
The partially exposed roots of a massive rotting tree trunk covered a natural dugout further covered with pine boughs stripped from younger trees, ferns and long grass, providing excellent concealment for the cave-like sinkhole in the hillside.
It was just large enough for four men and their gear.
From merely ten feet away, this sniper hide was essentially invisible. Moist soil and mulch crowning the rim did a fair job of obscuring thermal signatures. Hopefully it would prevent any land-based observer with enhanced infrared optics from spotting the humans hunkered down within.
The thin roof above consisted of pine needles and branches, leaving an unobstructed line of sight to the sky—which allowed Kenehan’s Iridium 9555 encrypted satellite phone to produce clear voice communication. In his tactical headset, Dave Thomas’s voice came through as though he were speaking softly into Roady’s ear.
“Tomahawk, this is Grayhound, how do you read?”
“Lima Charlie,” responded Kenehan. Loud and clear. “How you?”
“Lima Charlie,” Thomas responded. “The audience is listening, Tomahawk.” You are on speaker. “Can you voice comm for ten?”
“Affirmative. AO is clear and we are concealed niner-two.” The area near Kenehan’s position was uninhabited; niner-two meant that concealment was excellent from ground level, but his team would be relatively easy to spot from above, particularly by an aircraft or drone with thermal-sensing optics. “Last patrol, sixteen-forty Zulu.” Partridge had stealthily scouted the forest around the cabin only fifteen minutes earlier, confirming the deserted hide they’d found the night before was still abandoned. Partridge assured Kenehan he’d been careful as he scoured the grounds; after his embarrassment during training in Florida, Kenehan knew Partridge’s vigilance was high. The man had something to prove.
“Tomahawk be advised: Alpha Bravo orders you and Sodbuster detach from your team and exfiltrate for RTB ASAP. Recent incident of interest was under hostile and friendly eyes. Uncle was watching. Property owner at your present position is Hotel Victor and may be off the reservation. Our group ordered to stand down from high up, but your second element remains in concealed overwatch.”
Kenehan couldn’t quite believe his ears. The tech-speak meant Beeman was a high-value subject—a person of tactical importance to national interests, under surveillance by unknown hostile agents and by US forces. So the Brecht Group had received an order to disengage and return to base.
“What source intel?”
“Expect debriefing and further data upon your arrival. Be alert; Uncle has eyes nearby, likely skilled operators, USLE, HRT, possibly even Tier One. Most urgent you recognize Alpha Bravo has avowed his intent to stop crashing Uncle’s party, so the boys who stay on station need to be invisible.”
Kenehan was astounded. The cabin was under observation by federal law enforcement or possibly the US military? The Old Man had promised to withdraw from the operation? His mind churned to figure out how this could be. Were they really going to abandon the operation?
How could they face the Jensens?
Sand would go apeshit—and Kenehan wouldn’t blame him.
“Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Grayhound?” This wasn’t the first time they’d yanked Kenehan in the middle of a difficult op that was making progress. All elite soldiers have tasted the bitter disappointment that comes from the brass calling them off at times that made no sense; it was part of the business, even in the world of civilian contractors—but this was extreme FUBAR. Given the horrendous evidence he and his team had discovered in Beeman’s cabin, government interference could ruin any chance of bringing the girls home alive.
Seconds passed before Thomas responded. “Uncle sees a bigger picture. Rest assured, Tomahawk: Alpha Bravo chooses to raise rather than fold, but at present all visible action must confirm our compliance with Uncle’s directive to demobilize. That’s it until you RTB. Acknowledge, Tomahawk.”
Kenehan took a deep, calming breath. The Old Man said raise rather than fold. “Roger that, Grayhound. Tomahawk and Sodbuster to exfil and RTB soonest.”
“Excellent. Expand your perimeter, and you’ll spot the other side of the family. Play the part, Tomahawk. Exfiltrate with Sodbuster and leave tracks. Wave and smile on your way out. Put them at ease.
Rest of your team remains, dug in deep, eyes on target premises for at least another forty-eight, heads on swivels.”
“Copy. Their ROEs if engaged?” Kenehan asked for their rules of engagement.
“If by Uncle, improvise and stay friendly. If by confirmed hostiles, report and standby for further orders, if possible. Otherwise, use minimum force and stay invisible. Take no incoming without returning the favor. No letters to Mama.”
“Copy those instructions, Grayhound. Expect us in nine-zero mikes.”
“Your ride is spooling, Tomahawk. See you soon.”
The Black Hawk, tail number N1959BG, waited in a pasture four miles away on the other side of the state highway. Kenehan briefed the team; then he and Partridge hefted their rucksacks and started jogging. They left all weapons but their concealed pistols and tactical knives with the other two members of the team. Once they were well clear of the hide, they started breaking twigs and making all sorts of racket.
They looked like hikers in a hurry to get home, which they were.
When they reached the turnoff that led from the highway to the cabin, Kenehan saw a highway patrol car parked in a shaded glen, with a single trooper at the wheel gazing intently up the road. Partridge and Kenehan approached from the other side of the cruiser and tapped on the glass.
Skunk Two jolted in his seat, startled by the rapping on his passenger side window. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He hadn’t expected this. Security, dumbass!
An elite warrior never forgets to keep scanning, looking everywhere, but he’d been stupid, lulled into a false sense of security by the mountain quiet and the fact that he looked for all the world like a regular cop. Turning quickly in his seat with one hand on his holstered Smith M&P, he saw a pair of hikers smiling at him.
He touched a switch and lowered the window.
“Hi, officer,” said the taller of the two. A Rockies baseball cap and a pair of Maui Jim sunglasses mostly concealed his features. His untucked tee shirt was baggy enough to cover a weapon, but he’d lifted his hands away from him with his palms were facing outward to reassure the man in the cruiser that he was not a threat.
“Hello, boys. What can I do for you? You lost?”
“No, sir. We’re going home.”
“Yeah?”
“And we want you to know we’re going home.”
“Okay. Why do I need to know that?”
“Well, to inform your TOC.”
“My TOC? You’re talking to the Colorado State Highway Patrol.” He forced a smile. “You’ve been watching too much TV.”
“Of course, officer. But the very last thing on this earth we would want is for anyone to think that my company can’t take a hint. So if you would be kind enough to do so, we would like it very much, with great respect, sir, if you’d let the rest of your team know that we’re bugging out as asked. We took the hint, and we know when we’re not welcome. You’ll see us overhead in a few minutes. We’re out of your AO.”
For a brief moment, Skunk Two was at a loss.
Then he got out of the car.
Kenehan and Partridge stepped back.
“Sir,” the taller man said, keeping his hands visible. “Before things get buggy, could you just make that call? You’re not blown as far as we know, but you need to be read in. We’ll just stand over there until you give us a green light to be on our way.”
What the hell?
“Over there, by that big rock. Stay still. Keep your hands where I can see them. If you move, I’ll take you into custody. Got it?”
“Absolutely.”
Skunk Two sat back down in the patrol car, keeping his eyes on these two while he keyed his secure radio.
“Skunk Actual, Skunk Two. I’ve got a pair of hikers who claim they are ‘standing down’ and that you would like to know about that. They state I need to be ‘read in.’ Can you clarify?”
“Roger, Skunk Two. Those are contractors, hired by the families of the mall girls. Their arrival on site was not expected. Their boss is former high-level US intel, very connected. The NSA ordered his team to cease and desist their current investigation. They work with us on occasion. They are cooperating. Be nice and wish them a good day.”
“Detain for questioning?”
“Negative. They’re good guys and no longer a factor.”
“How did they find the cabin?”
“Unknown, Skunk Two. They’re outbound.”
“Who in hell do they work for? Triple Canopy?”
“The Brecht Group. More of a shadow outfit but usually on our side.”
“Roger, Skunk Actual. I’ll see them to the door.”
The Brecht Group. No wonder they get kid glove treatment.
Skunk Two climbed out of the car once again.
“Alright, boys. Verified your creds. Safe trip home.” He actually waved and smiled, just as ordered.
The man who’d done the talking waved back. “Have a good one.” As he and his friend jogged away in the summer heat, Skunk Two noticed the long ponytail running down the larger man’s back and wondered.
Several minutes later, Kenehan and Partridge climbed aboard the converted Black Hawk and strapped in while the rotors began to turn. The Brecht Group had thoroughly soundproofed this machine, unlike a military chopper, so they could talk to one another without headphones. But Kenehan donned a pair anyway so he could communicate with the cockpit.
“We need to do an overflight,” he said. “I’ll give you visual vectors. Stay below a thousand feet and head northwest.”
“What about—”
The only actors still on scene are people who want to see us bugging out,” Kenehan interrupted. “The rest are in the wind.”
“Got it.” The pilot complied, leveling off five hundred feet above the treetops.
Kenehan craned his neck to see out through the front windscreen. “There—follow that road for about a mile.” A minute later he said, “Okay, reduce speed. Hover over that little jog in the road, by that cluster of trees for just a minute. Flash your landing lights and then bug out.”
An hour later, in the cool darkness of the air-conditioned coach, Kenehan and Partridge smelled like a couple of men who had slept in the forest and run for miles without taking shower. Jensen gaped at him in wonder as he relayed his encounter with a federal agent disguised as a state trooper. His mind was spinning with all that had happened, and it was about to get worse—he could sense it.
“So, he made the radio call and then he let us go. He’s staking out Beeman’s place from a couple miles out, so he missed us and whoever was there before us until we sat in his lap.”
“Now they know who you work for,” Thomas said.
“So, for effect we gave him a flyover on our way out.”
“You’re such a drama queen.”
“You said to be conspicuous.”
Thomas grinned. “Uh huh.”
Kenehan didn’t smile. The rest of the conversation would be a lot harder. Taking a seat, he asked, “So, can you fill us in on the details?”
Thomas looked to Brecht.
The gray-haired man rubbed his ghostly pale face. “An old friend by the name of Nathan Fitch called me today.”
Kenehan raised a brow. “NSA?”
Brecht nodded. “Yup.”
“Why did he call you, sir?”
“Because our inquiry with DataHelix triggered alarms. Their software led them straight to us.”
“Is that possible?” Sand asked. “I thought you scrambled your calls.”
“Some of our comm lines are transparent to high-level feds,” Thomas explained. “It buys us love from above now and then when we need it.”
“We’re team players,” Brecht added.
“Are we?” Kenehan asked defensively. “They want us to walk away. Are we going to do that, sir?”
“When they took the girls, they were under direct surveillance by federal agents.”
“I got that part,” Kenehan said, “Why would they let them take the girls?”
“Because of a bigger picture, they say.”
“What bigger picture?”
“Foreign agents were also observing Beeman when he and Pessoa nabbed the women. The feds were maintaining surveillance on that team and Beeman—not the girls, and they chose to let the abduction run its course to preserve an in-progress intelligence operation because they see the foreign team as a serious threat to national security, a much higher priority.”
Kenehan gave a quizzical look. “So who are they?”
“I don’t know yet,” Brecht said. “But I do know now that Beeman is the most advanced scientist in America when it comes to biological weapons research.” He paused to catch his breath. “Genetic engineer. Works for DataHelix, as you know. He’s been under observation by that cell for a long time. I’m guessing it’s a country on our enemy list.”
“So rather than take down a few pawns, they’re waiting, watching, until they know enough to shut down the whole group or use it for counterintelligence?” Sand ventured.
“Seems that way,” Brecht said.
Sand continued speculating, carrying forward thoughts that Brecht had not yet voiced. “So the folks our people are watching present a genuine threat to our national security. An enemy nation or terrorist organization. The stakes have to be pretty damn high to justify deliberately sitting still during a kidnap of two innocent civilians right in front them.”
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