THE CONTRACTOR

  Richards lost his cool a little. “Well, then perhaps we need to tell Israel to dust off their fallout shelters. Hell, maybe we should tell our own east coast!”

  Several of the committee members looked at each other, perhaps trying to decide which version of the state of affairs was the truth. Deep in their souls, they knew Richards was right. But there had been political promises at both high and low levels. There were families awaiting the return of their beloved soldier sons and daughters. There were strategies that had been put into motion in Iraq. There were even promises that had been made to local tribal leaders.

  This had all started a while ago, of course. You don’t announce you are pulling out troops and just start doing it. You have a plan in place long in advance. There are hundreds of vendors with whom you must renegotiate contracts. There are the logistics of moving people and machinery from here to there. There are elections to arrange, and propaganda to disseminate. There are payoffs on top of payoffs. There are military leaders who will be retired, or reassigned, and new ones moved into new roles to support the strategy. Most importantly, there is the setting up of people in certain government structures, and certain military and law enforcement leaders to be put in the right places, and they have to all make certain agreements with the U.S. about how various factions will be handled, and how oil flow will be protected. The withdrawal had been in the works for some time before it was announced.

  Richards’ presentation sent ripples of discord through the committee. Reality was a bitch. Negotiations over the next few days did not go smoothly with this new information.

  That made Richards happy. It meant that his realistic view of what was happening on the ground was making people think. Some began to take a longer-term view. Some began to make comments about how leadership should have this kind of experience. It was all music to Richards’ ears.

  The bar at the Dubliner Pub was bustling. Government workers, attorneys, guests of nearby hotels, and tourists flock here to enjoy the ancient looking Irish décor, or to sit at the outdoor patio tables and people watch. The interior looks as if it was plucked from a small Irish town and shipped to Washington whole. Dark wood accented by somewhat dim sconces sets the overall tone. There are dark corners where new lovers chat and drink, or where businessmen make backroom deals. There is a long, curved bar where the early patrons sit on stools and those who come later stand. Against the wall are lined several square tables, each filled with patrons enjoying traditional Irish fare or perhaps a juicy burger. Classic Irish tunes come from a small stage in the corner of the pub. There is laughter and conversation and the clinking of pint glasses, and one can hear the occasional call of “Slainte” over the din.

  Richards sat at one of the square dinner tables, waiting for Ms. James to arrive.

  They had arranged a meeting and chose this pub because it was close to The George Hotel, where Richards was staying. Ms. James wanted to hear more about the on-the-ground intel Richards had provided to the committee in a less formal setting. She figured that an open conversation with candor would be most helpful, and also that a pint and a shot might help create said candor. What Richards didn’t know was that Marianna James was bringing a guest.

  Richards had already finished a pint of Guinness and a shot of Jameson when James arrived. He squinted his eyes and made an inquisitive face as he saw there was an unexpected third party with her.

  As the two women approached, Richards stood to greet them.

  “Good evening, Ms. James. And who might I have the pleasure?” he said, gesturing toward the black woman in her late forties.

  “Hey, Chris,” Marianna said with a bright smile. “This is Congresswoman Katherine Allen.”

  Richards reached out his hand to shake hers.

  “You can call me Kay,” she said.

  “Nice to meet you Congresswoman…I mean, Kay.”

  He pulled out her chair and then attempted to do the same for Ms. James, but she had already taken her seat.

  “So, this is a pleasant surprise. Tell me, Marianna, how do you know Congresswoman Kay?” That was the nice way of Richards asking what the hell she was doing there. He had expected a candid conversation with a committee member—not having to pitch to a Congresswoman.

  “Oh, we have mutual friends and mutual interests,” James responded, waving to the waitress.

  “Chris, I see you have already started,” the Congresswoman pointed out.

  He chuckled. “Yes, it was a hard day at the office.”

  Marianna laughed. “For who?”

  Richards gave her the “a-ha, you got me” face.

  The waitress took their drink order and scurried off through the crowd.

  Marianna started the conversation. “Chris, I brought along Kay because she has a vested interest in some of the appropriations decisions that are being made in the Mideast. She has been involved in the financial and funding areas for a few years now and sits on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. In other words, she will be reviewing our proposals.”

  “Ah, I see. So, we’re giving you a sneak peek, Kay?”

  Congresswoman Allen was about to answer but paused when the waitress came with her tray of drinks. She handed Ms. James a Smithwick’s Irish Ale and a shot. Richards got another round of Guinness and Jameson. Allen got a two-finger neat pour of Macallan 21.

  “Going for the good stuff,” Richards stated, pointing at her tumbler.

  “Don’t worry, I am paying for all of this,” Allen said. “I just love Scotch, and this one is damn good.”

  Everyone nodded their approval.

  Now, you have to understand that Congresswoman Allen is a force of nature. She is tall, and her suit betrays that she is muscular also. Most people assume she is African American, but in fact her parents were Jamaican, and she is mixed race. Although impatient, she listens deeply, and has an uncanny ability to remember people’s names, even years after they have met. That has always done her well in the halls of government. She was born in Canada, but her parents moved to Maryland when she was still in grade school. She had good academics, but it was her no-bullshit, get-it-done personality that really drove her success. She went to Georgetown University where she got her degree in Political Science with a minor in Finance, and then continued on to earn her master’s in International Relations. She had served in the Maryland House for a while before making her run at Congress. She sat on a Congressional Intelligence sub-committee for a few years, where she interacted with the CIA and NSA. She was now considered an expert at the inner workings of funding for the military, military contractors, and arms sales.

  Each raised their whiskey glasses and said “cheers.”

  Richards and James made the face one makes when a high-alcohol whiskey brings heat as it goes down the gullet. Allen just smiled and nodded her head as she drank her very expensive scotch.

  “So, Kay,” Marianna said, shaking her head from the power of the shot, “Mr. Richards has an interesting take on what is happening in Iran and Iraq. It doesn’t specifically fit the narrative we are working to support, but it has merit. I thought you might want to hear it directly from him.”

  “Yes, Chris…may I call you Chris?” Allen asked.

  “Of course.”

  “So, Chris, you left the top job quite mysteriously. The intelligence world was, shall I say, skeptical. Nevertheless, you must have had your reasons. Then you moved on to take the post as Station Chief in Baghdad. Some would see that as a reassignment.”

  “I can see that Kay, but it was not a reassignment. I requested that move. The real intelligence we needed was not getting back to DC. There were repeated failures on the part of the CIA and the military to secure and transmit accurate intelligence. Bad decisions were being made. Lives were being lost. I felt something needed to be done.”

  “So, Chris, you were unable to manage your field agents and military liaisons in a manner that gave you what you needed in order to make the big decisions?” Allen asked.

&nbs
p; “Truthfully, Kay—no. Things were getting out of hand, and I was playing cat wrangler from a million miles away. People were dying. Again, I had to make a big move, regardless of the optics.”

  Marianna piped in to relieve the building tension: “Commendable.”

  The Congresswoman took another dram from her glass. “Let’s move past that. Tell me what your thoughts are on Iran and Iraq, from a boots-on-the-ground viewpoint.”

  “I would love to.”

  Kay reached into her pocket and pulled out a small notepad and pen. “Do you mind if I take some notes?”

  Richards gave her the thumbs up.

  The Station Chief ran her through the past two years of activities across both countries. He talked about the missions that went well and the missions that did not, knowing full well that many of the missions that didn’t go well were not because of insurgent or terrorist activities, but because of a certain rogue CIA NOC. He talked about the various tribal leaders and their areas of influence. He ran her through various strategic scenarios to control, police, and manage certain sectors of various cities. He intensely told the story of how insurgent attacks had increased as soon as the U.S. had announced their drawdown plans. Finally, he walked her through the recent nuclear materials inspections and the smuggling of nuclear materials, and how the U.S. was woefully unaware of what was really happening in that arena.

  Both he and James had done another round while he told his tales. Allen slowly sipped on her elixir.

  When he finished, he sat back in his chair. “So…what do you think?”

  “Well, Chris, I did hear about a few of the items you mentioned from a friend at the CIA. His name is Michael Goldman. Do you remember him?” Allen sat back in her chair and threw down the remainder of the Macallan.

  Chris could feel himself getting flushed in the face. Perhaps it was all the alcohol, or perhaps it was that Congresswoman Allen seemed to throw that name out there to intentionally surprise him.

  “Yes, of course I remember Michael. Good guy. Didn’t know you were acquainted.”

  Allen smiled, “Yes, we have actually known each other for years. Long before I was in Congress.”

  “I am glad he filled you in on what he knew. But as you can see, there was a lot more. A-lot!”

  Ms. James leaned toward the Congresswoman. “Kay, do you think we should run this by Leon?”

  “That’s probably a good idea. He’s going to need to run some of this up the flagpole to make sure communication is consistent.”

  “Wait, what?” Richards yelped, sitting up straight in his chair. “Panetta? You are going to give this to Panetta?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem?” Kay asked.

  She knew it was a problem. Marianna knew it was a problem. They had just ganged up on him and he hadn’t even seen it coming. This was Ms. James’ way of taking the wind out of his sails. They knew damn well that Panetta was gunning for the same role he was. This wasn’t about raising the intel up to the Director of the CIA—it was about giving the intel to an opponent who was also maneuvering for the Secretary of Defense position. This would allow him to bring that info to the President and other members of his cabinet and get the messaging in alignment with planned actions.

  What the actual fuck?

  Kay leaned back toward Marianna, “Let’s validate this with Goldman, too. He will want to talk with Leon.”

  Richards jumped right into the tar pit. “Goldman isn’t in country. The last I heard he was in Turkey. Maybe I should talk with the Director.”

  Kay smiled. “I am pretty sure he is going to want to chat with Goldman. You have saved me some time finding my old friend. I will make a call to Sven.”

  Business done, Ms. James waved down the waitress, got the check, handed it over to Ms. Allen, and then stood to leave.

  “Listen, Chris, you have been a giant help. Getting this kind of clear intelligence is going to really be key to managing the withdrawal and will help to structure the security forces. I know you will be a key part of those activities.”

  A key part? So Panetta is a foregone conclusion?

  “Yes,” Allen agreed, “I know you will keep Iraq under control, which is what we need. We have much bigger issues with Syria, Egypt, Yemen, and Libya. Some shit is about to go down there, and we need to know we are secure in the sandbox.”

  “Thank you so much for coming to DC to be part of the committee,” Marianna added as a little verbal knife in the ribs.

  “So you two get the committee in alignment and send those recommendations over by the end of the week. I will shepherd them from there. Then you can get back to Baghdad and close things up for us Chris.”

  Chris’ blood was boiling. He had been blindsided.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN – One Kill

  The flight into Green River Municipal Airport in Utah was nothing like the flight into Kuwait or Baghdad. It reminded Nick more of his flights into Jordan, his usual first port of arrival when working in the Mideast. Unlike Iraq, where the pilot has to execute specific takeoff and landing maneuvers to avoid potential enemy fire, this landing was smooth and uneventful. Kinda boring, actually.

  It had been a very long day, and it still wasn’t done. Nick had said goodbye to his wife—with whom he had just reestablished a good relationship after the Iran affair—and then drove ninety minutes to Logan airport in Boston. The ride was nice; it was spring now, and the trees were in full bud. There were daffodils along the highway, and the New England air was now warm enough for driving with the window down. As Nick drove, he thought of how the last few months at home were a much-needed rest for his body and mind.

  Upon return to the U.S., he settled back into his New Hampshire home and recuperated, established better international relations with Melissa, and sidestepped the multitude of questions from friends in town as to the whereabouts of Erik Olsen. Melissa simply told them that they had gotten separated while in Turkey, and that she hadn’t seen or heard from him since. Luckily, those who paid any attention to Erik knew that he tended to “disappear” from time to time on his various world expeditions. Nobody really knew what he did.

  After the holidays, Nick was contacted by Goldman, and they had agreed to meet in D.C. It was the first time Nick had visited the CIA Headquarters. He thought it was pretty cool, but in the end, it just looked like a big office building. Goldman’s office was pretty epic, on the other hand. All glass with some kind of magnetically controlled door. Of course, Goldman really gave him the hard sell on coming to work with the Company. All kinds of opportunities and all kinds of dollars were thrown in his direction. In the end, Nick capitulated and agreed on a position that kept him in the good ol’ U.S. of A. Besides, the job title “CIA Sniper Instructor” was gonna look pretty damn awesome on his resume.

  So, here he was, landing at a single-runway airport in the middle-of-nowhere Utah to spend ten weeks running classes for CIA agents. Two classes; five weeks each. The class was essentially a five-week sniper crash-course where he would try to jam in all the info and skills that took the SEALs twelve weeks to learn, with much more detail.

  Should be fun.

  There was a driver waiting for him at the airport who loaded him into a Chevy Tahoe. They then drove for an undisclosed amount of time to an undisclosed location where Nick was to begin teaching his killing skills to operatives with undisclosed backgrounds. The site is managed by a private organization but is used by various U.S. government agencies for various types of tactical and covert operational training.

  The terrain reminded Nick of parts of Afghanistan. There were snowcapped mountains in the distance, and they drove across a relatively flat, wide valley. They had turned off Highway 70 and were headed south on Route 24. After several miles, they stopped at what looked like a simple cattle fence. Nick’s driver hopped out and opened a nondescript gate. On the other side was a dirt road, which they followed after closing the gate behind them. There were no signs. Nothing that warned of a government installation or secret CIA facili
ty. Nothing could be seen in the distance. They were literally on the road to nowhere.

  After a good thirty minutes, two small concrete buildings appeared in the distance.

  Maybe that’ll be home-crap-home for the next ten weeks.

  “Is that where we’re going?” Nick asked his driver.

  “Might be,” the driver responded with a slight southern accent.

  As they got closer, Nick could see the buildings were cinderblock with somewhat rusted aluminum roofs. They had once been painted white, but the color had been sandblasted, frozen, and thawed over the years, leaving the buildings patchy. Scrub brush grew against them, giving the impression that they were abandoned.

  The driver pulled up in front of the first building. There were no other cars.

  “Okay, this is it,” the driver told Nick.

  “Okay…just go inside?”

  “Yup.”

  Nick grabbed his go bag and duffle bag from the back seat. It was unusual to go to work—in his line of work, at least—without a bag of goodies. No guns, no ammo, not even a first-aid kit. Just ten weeks’ worth of 5.11s, polo shirts, underwear, socks, boots, shades, cold-weather gear, running shoes, and caps. Strange feeling.

  “Thanks, man,” Nick said as he closed the back door of the Tahoe.

  The driver didn’t answer and just drove away, back in the direction from where they had come.

  “Nice.”

  What have I gotten myself into this time?

  The room was devoid of any furniture or decoration except for a semi-circular counter—something like you would see entering your neighborhood gym. Behind that counter stood a very gorgeous woman with dark hair that had been pulled back into a ponytail and stuck through the back of her baseball cap.

  She looked up when I walked into the room.

  “Well, hi there,” she said in a bright, youthful, chipper voice.

  Super-hot is the only thought that went through my head.

  “Um, hello. I am Nick Branson. I’m guessing this is the right place because this is where my driver brought me…”