Patriot

by A S Bond

  “No idea where he goes from there?”

  “That’s what our contacts are saying. It takes money to move around without leaving a trace, but it’s possible.” Mike paused. “His jet is scheduled to depart Abu Dhabi this evening for New York. Do you want us to pick him up for a chat?”

  “Not just yet. Let’s not raise any hackles until we know what we’re talking about. I’m heading into an emergency meeting about this right now.” Scott said scribbled something on a notepad, the phone clenched between his head and shoulder. “Thanks.”

  “Glad to be of service. Hey, you want to grab a beer or two this weekend?”

  “I’ll give you a call later.”

  “Sure.”

  The Saturday meeting of department heads and their deputies of the DOD’s counter-intelligence divisions was far from routine. This one, Scott knew, would be chaired by the new NCIX Policy Board member and senior DOD intelligence officer, Gus Sykes . Technically Scott’s boss’s boss, Sykes was a man to be respected, if not liked, not least for his ability to subsist almost entirely on coffee and four hours’ sleep a night.

  Scott was the last one to arrive, and Sykes started the meeting the moment Scott was seated, his baleful blue eyes on the latecomer. The only issue on the agenda was the Apache Incident. Various leads and arguments were pursued, each department offering its own findings. After an hour of this, Sykes consulted his agenda.

  “And Jensen, I see you have flagged an interesting angle on all of this.”

  “Yes, Sir. I agree there are a number of ways we can pursue this, but no one seems to be focusing on the originator of this technology, or its current owner, Jean Maynard.”

  Sykes frowned and looked through his papers.

  “You have a lead on who built these weapons, Jensen?”

  “Not the weapons sir, just one chip, in the positioning software. I believe Langley provided the details.”

  “Ah, yes.” Sykes scanned the papers in front of him. He frowned. “But the intel suggests Maynard simply bought the technology from the inventor some time ago, for his deep drilling operation. It’s a dead end; that one small piece of technology could have passed through any number of hands in the past five years, legitimately or otherwise, and it could take just as long to follow up from that side. We need to act fast, and find these weapons before they are used again. We may only have hours. Supply is the key, here. Who’s selling? Where is the enemy getting the cash to buy, and how are the weapons being transported into Afghanistan?”

  “If we start from the end user, it will almost certainly lead us back to this processing chip eventually,” Tomasso from Signals said from across the room. “But that can’t be the priority right now.”

  “I have a hunch about this guy,” Scott insisted, “and Langley checked him out. He’s been over to the Middle East three times in the past six months, and as far as I can see, none of his businesses have any interest in that region. In fact—”

  A secretary entered and whispered something in Sykes’ ear.

  “Thank you.” Sykes reached for the TV control. All heads in the room turned towards the screen as it swelled into color to reveal a news anchor on Al Jazeera.

  “And I’ve some news just in...” She listened for a moment to a voice in her earpiece, and then continued. “We have just received some footage of a U.S Army patrol under attack in eastern Afghanistan, which, we understand, occurred earlier this week.”

  She turned her perfectly coiffed head toward the studio feed, which cut to the footage.

  “This is Daisy Donnelly reporting for BBC TV News America from the front line in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. It’s early morning, and I’m on foot with a patrol belonging to the American 22nd Marines, Brava Platoon. The goal of ‘Operation Safe Passage’ is to take control in a key Taliban stronghold and we have flown out to a small forward operating base in the area. This base has been hit three times by enemy mortars in the past two weeks, making August the deadliest month of the conflict so far this year.

  “American combat operations in Afghanistan are due to end in 2014, but these young men have arrived to find that the war is far from over. Helmand is 22,000 square miles of mountains, desert and farmland that produces almost 40% of the world’s heroin. The battle for control of this most violent of districts has so far cost thousands of ISAF and Afghan lives.

  “The average age of the men in this patrol may be just twenty years old, but they have a complex counter-insurgency task; to oust the Taliban and win the ‘hearts and minds’ of the local population.

  “Yet this place is eerily quiet. When the Taliban move in, local people fear getting caught in the crossfire, so the elderly, women and children flee the area, taking their livestock and everything they can carry with them.

  “Platoon Sergeant Wills is a decorated veteran of the second Gulf War and is currently two months into his third deployment here in Afghanistan. He has command of this patrol. Sergeant, what exactly is your mission here?”

  “We’re building on what the British have been doing in Helmand for the past 10 years. This important valley hasn’t had sufficient tactical deployment and we’re here to secure it.”

  “Have you seen the enemy?”

  “Oh yeah. We’ve seen them. We would welcome the chance for a stand-up fight, but they won’t do us that favor; just as they learned not to fight the British. When they did, they lost.”

  “Have you noticed a change in their tactics?”

  “We’re getting more IEDs and mortar attacks at the moment. They like to use guerrilla tactics, but that is their only advantage. We have superior firepower and training. They’re fighting pretty hard, but from a distance.”

  “Thank y - “

  “CONTACT! Get down!”

  “We...we’ve just had some incoming fire... from the other side of the valley, I think. Our patrol is using the irrigation ditches for cover and returning fire for fire. The fighting is very close. It’s impossible to say... how many enemy there are, as the field opposite is full of crops and providing cover for the insurgents. The corporal next to me is indicating there are at least ...two dozen...maybe more, close to the tree line...”

  “Stay down! We’re in a Goddamn shooting gallery!”

  “This is an ambush...the enemy are on maybe three sides...That..... fizzing sound you can hear is an RPG...Christ, we’re taking casualties.....”

  “Donnelly. We need to get outta here. You two stay close to me and head for the village as soon as those Marines are in position to give cover....Ok, let’s go. Now.”

  The quality of the recording was poor, but terrified breaths of the cameraman and reporter came across clearly as they skidded down into cover. The continuous gunfire at close range distorted the sound, making it as painful to listen to as the pictures were to see.

  “We have taken shelter in the village compound, which seems deserted. There are grenades coming over the wall and we’re returning fire. It seems unclear how many enemy insurgents are close by, but there are bullets flying over our heads and my cameraman and I are relying on these American Marines for our lives. Sergeant Wills has called in air support from Combat Rescue in Nowzad, but this platoon is only a few dozen men, holding a compound under heavy fire in one of the most hostile places in the world....

  “Sniper! Ten o’clock!”

  “ETA on requested air support...”

  “Christ! That went through the wall! Sarge, these ain’t no Kalashnikovs!”

  “Medic!”

  “Sergeant, what does he mean, ‘these aren’t Kalashnikovs’?”

  “He means those bastards have some fancy shit, Donnelly. We need to locate those positions, and you need to let me do my job.”

  “Sir, we have another five injured! I think they’ve got armor-piercing ammo.”

  “Fuck! So much for our fucking superior firepower. Where’s that air support?”

  “INCOMING! DOWN! DOWN!”

  “What the hell is this? Where did the station g
et this footage?” Sykes’s neck was turning purple. Scott felt overwhelmed with the desire to turn away, but somehow he couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.

  “Saul, Saul...are you hurt? Wake up...Oh Christ. My...my cameraman is seriously injured and the patrol has taken a huge number of casualties. The insurgents appear to have some form of sophisticated weaponry and it’s decimated this patrol. The compound isn’t yet overrun, but I can see very little because of the smoke from the RPGs and the sand. I will continue recording for as long as I am able.....I - “

  “Time to go! Leave that fucking camera...”

  “Sergeant, my cameraman - “

  “Is dead. They’re going to take this compound. You need to get out of here. There’s a small hole behind you in the wall. Get through it and you’re out on the opposite side of the valley. It’s a drop to ground level, but there should be a dry river bed a few meters out, which will give you some cover. Follow it south; it parallels our route in and you should reach the base - “

  “What about you? Your arm - is it broken?”

  “Don’t feel much like running; figure I’ll wait here and give ‘em some payback. Just let the cavalry know I’m here.”

  “Count on it...

  ... I’m in some kind of wadi. The fighting is still going on behind me in the compound. That noise is....oh, thank God, I think it’s the Apache from Combat Rescue. I’m running...What was that? Shit, bullets...Someone is firing at me....There’s someone up ahead. There are six of them and they seem to want the camera...Oh God, I think it’s the Taliban. I hope- “

  Every person in the meeting room watched in silence as the camera swung around to point at the sky. There was no more sound; just the image of the Apache’s final moments, as it exploded and crashed. Then, the TV feed cut back to the studio. It was clear the footage had been roughly cut together, probably by an amateur. The anchor started talking again, but Sykes jabbed the control and the screen faded.

  “Hell’s teeth.” Sykes reached for the phone. All over the room, beepers started to go off.

  “Why didn’t we know about the film? Wasn’t the recovered equipment checked? It’ll be all over our news in minutes.” He barked out a mixture of instructions and questions, and then slammed down the phone. The temperature in the room rose by several degrees. “So now they’ve topped their military advantage with a propaganda coup.”

  “And that British reporter will be a hostage, if she’s isn’t dead already.” Tomasso voiced what Scott knew they were all thinking.

  “It was only a matter of time,” Scott muttered, and there were nods all around the table. “We couldn’t keep something like this quiet forever.”

  The meeting had dissolved into open discussion when the door opened again. The room fell silent. It was the President’s Counterintelligence Executive, Peter Waring. He entered and moved soundlessly to sit behind Sykes, who nodded acknowledgment, and then turned to Scott.

  “Let’s get back to business. You were telling us about Maynard, Jensen?”

  Scott was surprised to see the CI Executive, but he replied. “Yes, I believe the inventor died in unusual circumstances, at which time Maynard obtained the technology.”

  “I don’t think is this a road we need to go down right now.” Waring looked directly at Scott.

  Scott tried again. “With respect, Sir—”

  “CIA is already on it.”

  There was a short whisper in Sykes’ ear, and Waring sat back in his chair. Sykes cleared his throat.

  “All right, moving on.”

  The meeting lasted another ten minutes. As they were all getting up to leave, Sykes said

  “Jensen, can you wait for me?”

  “Sir.”

  Without speaking, Waring followed Sykes into the adjacent office. The door closed, but in the quiet of the conference room, Jensen could hear Sykes’ bull-like rumble. Scott knew his boss well enough to know he was seriously annoyed. Scott stepped closer to the door and stood, like a naughty schoolboy, waiting to see the principal. The words being exchanged on the other side of the polished wood became clearer.

  “I know what you’re going to say, Gus, but let’s not waste time.” Scott recognised Waring’s slightly nasal whine. He knew it would be making his boss’s blood boil. A decorated soldier, followed by thirty years in the Department, Sykes knew what he was doing. And he particularly resented careerist pencil-pushers pulling rank in front of his team.

  “So you want to enlighten me as to why you just stopped by to run my department for me?” Sykes ploughed on as though the other man had not spoken.

  “It’s simple, Gus. Orders from the top.”

  “Shackleton?” Philip Shackleton was the Director of National Intelligence and, technically, the CI executive’s boss. In reality though, Waring’s job depended on just three people; Johnson, the Secretary of Defense; Vernon, the CIA Director; and the Molton, the Attorney General.

  “No, the very top. National Security met this morning and the decision was made to pursue external sources through Langley. Just as you said yourself, follow the supply chain in the field.”

  “But—”

  “I wasn’t there, Gus. I’m just the messenger.”

  Scott edged a little closer. Waring’s voice was quieter and harder to hear through the door. Sykes reply boomed so loud by contrast, that Scott jumped, thinking his boss was about to open the door.

  “If I recall, I was directing a discussion with my deputies. I don’t know what you think you’re doing over there, but here at the Pentagon, we’re not in the habit of allowing key American technology to fall into the wrong hands. We may be talking serious industrial espionage. Jensen has a job to do. If he turns up nothing, so be it.”

  “You’ve seen the briefing. There’s no mileage there; it leads straight down a big hole in northern Canada. We have more pressing leads.”

  “An hour ago, I might have agreed with you; now I’m starting to wonder if Jensen isn’t onto something after all.”

  Scott knew the interview was coming to an end. He took a deep breath and knocked. Then, without waiting for a reply, he walked into the office.

  Sykes barely kept a lid on his annoyance as Scott closed the door to the inner office. He turned to Waring, but the man held up a seemingly bloodless, bony hand; whether in supplication or merely to interrupt, Scott didn’t know and didn’t care. Waring was a tall creature, but far from impressive. Except for those eyes. They always reminded him of a lizard basking in hot sun.

  “Sorry, Sir.” Scott said to Sykes, who scowled in reply. Scott turned to face Waring.

  “What the hell was that in there? You know CIA can’t investigate anything domestic.”

  Waring refused to be drawn in. He walked over to Scott, and, holding his arm above the elbow for a fraction of a second, murmured in his mild yet unsettling tone, “Shut down your line of investigation. “

  “Why?”

  “You want to tell me who gave you clearance to liaise with CIA over this? It’s top secret. Maybe I should be asking Vernon to conduct an internal investigation into leaks.”

  “I’m in the loop anyway,” Scott said, feigning confidence. He knew he was on shaky ground and, more importantly, so was Mike. “Why don’t you just let me do my job?”

  “I’ve told you, CIA is already all over this and we don’t want any crossed wires here, do we?” Waring opened the door to leave, ignoring Sykes, who stood in the middle of the room, his thick neck flushed red.

  “Where is this coming from?” Scott looked from Sykes to Waring and back again. Sykes was impassive. Waring spoke.

  “It comes from the top, Jensen. From the White House itself.”

  Chapter 3

  The sound of Sunday’s Post hitting her apartment door barely filtered into Brooke’s consciousness. Hell, it was the weekend. She rolled over and went back to sleep with a passing, but still glorious, sense of irresponsibility. It had been a long week, from endless Senate committee hearings, to chasing arou
nd every fire station in D.C., checking out a story on financial fraud by city employees. Yes, she needed to sleep past 5:30am just once this week.

  So when the phone beside her bed rang a few minutes later, its violent jangle seemed particularly cruel.

  “Yes?”

  “Brooke? Is that you?” the voice was vaguely familiar.

  “I think so.” She glanced at the clock. 7a.m. Damn. How about I get back to you in a couple of hours to confirm that? she thought, but instead said “Who is this?”

  “It’s Scott, Brooke. Scott Jensen.”

  Brooke’s eyes snapped open and she sat up, reaching for the notepad and pen on her nightstand.

  “Hey, it’s been a while. But I’m guessing you aren’t calling me at this time for a catch-up? You got a story for me?”

  “More of a reciprocal favor.”

  “Huh.”

  “Listen, can we meet?”

  “I’d love to hear all about the Pentagon’s new board member at NCIX. Sykes, isn’t it?”

  “Relax. How about brunch this later morning? No grits, I promise.”

  Brooke smiled at this reference to the cheap staple of their student days.

  “Sure, there’s that new place in Adam’s Morgan - “

  “No.” Scott’s tone was sharp. “I was thinking of the bar and grill at the top of the Kennedy Center. I’ll be there at 9.”

  “What?” Brooke laughed. “It’ll be full of tourists!”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.” Scott said. “See you then.”

  Brooke was about to hang up when he spoke again.

  “And Brooke?”

  “Yes?” she said, almost dropping the phone. Her coordination hadn’t yet caught up with her brain.

  “Leave the tape recorder at home, okay?”

  Brooke tried to recapture the bliss of her pre-phone call semi-consciousness, but failed. Her mind was already working on this invitation, so she got out of bed and made a pot of coffee as she looked out of the kitchen window in her small apartment, which had a view of the Potomac. It was a nice day for early fall, and sunshine warmed two teams of rowers as they skimmed past, George Washington University emblazoned on their shirts. Brooke pulled her dark, corkscrew curls into a lazy knot, and sipped the coffee as she sat, resting her tanned feet on the windowsill.