Disavowed (6 page)

Chapter 11

Charlottesville-Albemarle Airport

Charlottesville, Virginia

5:57am, August 24
th

It took all his willpower for Cal not to tap his foot or punch a wall. He should’ve been on his way to Afghanistan, but he’d hopped a flight from D.C. to Charlottesville on the suggestion of The Jefferson Group’s CEO, Jonas Layton. It took more than a little urging for Cal to delay his journey.
This better be good
, he thought for maybe the hundredth time.

Daniel was inside the small terminal waiting for the coffee shop to open. That left Cal on the edge of the tarmac, waiting. It wasn’t a skill he was particularly good at as evidenced by the repeated glances at his watch and iPhone.

Jonas had called ahead, instructing the airport staff to escort Cal and Daniel to a spot near a newly renovated private hangar. It was empty and the door locked.

A cool breeze blew across the runway. Cal closed his eyes and tried to imagine where Andy and Rich Isnard were. He hadn’t heard from them again. They were on the run and would only make contact if absolutely necessary. For the umpteenth time he wondered how he’d find them. Another problem to figure out enroute.

Cal’s initial plan called for him and Daniel to fly to Afghanistan and try to find their friends. Unlike past operations, Cal couldn’t use his contacts inside any of the government agencies operating in the Middle East. There was no telling who could be trusted, or worse, who was compromised.

That left few options, but that was fine with Cal. He and Daniel were used to working as an independent unit. They’d make do. Marines always did.

A double honk from the far side of the runway flicked him from his thoughts. Two vehicles sped his way. He frowned when he recognized them. He didn’t want a sendoff party. The first was MSgt Willy Trent’s enormous lava-red Ford truck. 550? 650? Cal couldn’t remember. They seemed to be getting bigger and bigger every time the huge Marine bought a new one. This one looked more like a tow truck than a privately owned vehicle. It was something a well-to-do redneck might drive instead of the near seven foot tall black man.

The second vehicle was a midnight blue BMW X5M. It belonged to Jonas, who Cal could now see was behind the wheel. The guy could afford a fleet of vehicles and chauffeurs, but insisted on driving his one and only automobile himself. Cal had to respect the billionaire for that. One of many reasons he liked the guy.

The two vehicles pulled into the parking spaces next to the hangar, both marked PRIVATE. Trent was the first out, hopping down from the chest high cab with ease. Cal waved.

“What are you doing here, Top?”

Trent ignored the question and popped open the truck bed, hauling out a ruck sack. As he did, more men piled out of both vehicles.

Gaucho alighted from Trent’s truck and surprise guests hopped out of Jonas’s 550hp ride: Dr. Alvin Higgins, former CIA interrogator extraordinaire, and world-class shrink, was joined by super hacker Neil Patel.

“Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” asked Cal while the others grabbed bags from their rides. Neil toted a set of matching Louis Vitton carry-ons while Dr. Higgins carried a weathered doctor’s bag and a well-worn leather suitcase.

Jonas threw a hiker pack over one shoulder and locked his SUV. “We thought you might need some help.”

That wasn’t what Cal wanted to hear. “Guys, I appreciate you coming out, but this is something I need to do alone. Me and Daniel. That’s it.”

Dr. Higgins adjusted his pearl-rimmed glasses. “Now, Calvin, how could you possibly keep us from visiting such exotic lands? Wasn’t that part of the job description?” asked Dr. Higgins in his academic British-laced inflection.

“No offense, Doc, but this ain’t exactly a vacation to Bora Bora. Besides, your old employer would have a conniption if they knew you were a part of this. You did hear how they’re treating Andy, right?”

Higgins nodded. “It is one of reasons I feel compelled to join you.”

“Come on, boss, Andy’s a friend of ours too,” said Gaucho.

“Yeah, but…”

Trent placed a massive hand on Cal’s shoulder. “Best not to fight it, Cal. We’re coming.”

Cal looked up at his friend and shook his head. “I should’ve known you’d weasel your way in somehow.”

Trent grinned and patted Cal on the back. “You wanna see what the real surprise is?”

“There’s more?”

Trent nodded and pointed at Jonas.

“It should be getting here right about….now,” said Jonas, turning at the sound of airplane engines. A private jet rolled into view and made its way toward the hangar.

“You know, I may be a lowly grunt, but I have seen a chartered jet before,” said Cal.

Trent chuckled. “Just wait.”

The aircraft made its way across the runway and turned so that it stopped perpendicular to where they stood. It didn’t look all that remarkable to Cal, who honestly couldn’t tell one private jet from another. The plane looked new and could probably hold up to ten passengers. He looked back at Jonas.

“I don’t get it.”

Jonas smiled and pointed to the tail. Cal read the tail number:
TJG911
. It took him a second to figure it out.

The Jefferson Group?

“Did you buy that thing?” asked Cal, shaking his head.

Jonas grinned. “For your information, that
thing
is a Gulfstream G650ER. It’s the newest model on the market. With a max range of seventy-five hundred nautical miles, this beauty has the capacity to take you all over the world in one hop.”

“And you’re saying it’s yours?”

“No, it’s ours. Official property of The Jefferson Group as of eleven thirty last night. Neil mentioned that we might want to look into getting a more reliable mode of transport, and I’ve been keeping my eye out for a new ride. Good timing. Now, about the tail number, the
TJG
you recognized, but the 911 on the tail number has dual meanings.”

“Let me guess, we’re America’s new nine one one force?” asked Cal. The slogan had been used to describe the Marine Corps for decades.

“That’s the second reference. The first is to your parents.”

Cal’s parents had died on 9/11. It wasn’t something he talked about, but it was an event that he thought about daily. It was a nice gesture from the newest addition to the team.

“Thanks,” Cal said, not knowing what else to say.

“Does that mean you like it?” asked Jonas.

“Yeah, can we keep it, can we keep it?” asked Trent, mimicking a child’s voice, even clapping his hands.

Cal laughed. “Screw it. Why not?”

Jonas swept his arm toward their new toy. “Then let me give you the grand tour while the crew preps for takeoff. I’m telling you, Cal, you’re gonna love this baby.”

Chapter 12

Langley, Virginia

6:25am, August 24
th

The office was like something out of a luxury design magazine.
Architectural Digest
would’ve had a field day had they known the place existed. Every knickknack had its place. A three-inch-thick glass table here, a delicate porcelain vase there. Reclaimed barn wood planks criss-crossed the once bland ceiling that was now painted gravel gray. The faint scent of fresh mint. Not a smudge or a speck of dust. That probably had something to do with the fact that the cleaning staff was required to service the spacious office no less than twice a day, including weekends.

Kingsley Coles liked things his way and no other. He could remember few times in his life when things hadn’t turned out the way he planned. He’d paid for every upgrade in his office out of his personal funds, of which he had plenty. It was a matter of pride, not vanity. When visitors entered his sanctum, they got an instant feel for the man lording over it. Precise. Level. Commanding.

So as he sat back in his silver Herman Miller chair, he had little doubt how the current situation would unfold.

Afghanistan was a mess and he had two rogue officers to prove it. While he didn’t like Rich Isnard’s tactics, the Baghdad station chief had a way of getting things done. Coles respected that. As long as Isnard hadn’t strayed too far outside the gray area, the deputy director NCS let his underling play. There were numerous successes tucked under the man’s belt.

But this time he’d gone too far. Not only had he disappeared, he’d done so in order to consort with Major B. Andrews, USMC. Coles had never met the Marine, but what he saw in the man’s official Marine Corps record spoke of a career officer who was not only professional but respected by his superiors and his subordinates. Having the Navy Cross didn’t hurt. Coles suspected that he might have actually enjoyed meeting the Marine if the current situation didn’t exist. They were cut from a similar cloth.

None of that mattered now. He was officially no longer under the purview of Kingsley Coles, at least on paper. But now that the two Marines were in cahoots, they were very much Coles’s problem. To make matters worse, the idiots had stumbled onto an operation that was years in the making. Something he had taken a personal interest in. Coles would not let it be ruined by two simpletons who just didn’t know when to keep their noses out of places they didn’t belong.

The deputy director matched the cadence of the ticking clock mounted above the door with his blinking eyes. It was his way of getting back in rhythm, in sync. A soft breath in and hard breath out. Meditation without the spiritual nonsense.

His mind wandered back to the task at hand. The one-time environmental lawyer was not used to having the CIA director, the inspector general AND the president breathing down his neck. It was more than a nuisance. It was a problem that had to go away.

Coles picked up his phone and dialed a number from memory. He let it ring once then hung up. He dialed the number again and the call was answered immediately.

“Yes, sir?”

“Where are we on taking care of the problem?” asked Coles, tracing his pinky along the edge of his two hundred year old oak desk, happy that no dust remained.

“We’ll be landing in two hours.”

“Have you activated our assets?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I think you’re going to have a bit of company.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know yet. Just call it a hunch,” said Coles, once again replaying the conversation with President Zimmer and his chief of staff Travis Haden. There’d been something in Haden’s eyes that told Coles the SEAL wasn’t happy with the CIA’s response. He seemed like just the type of person who had contacts that got things done, namely direct action when needed. Another wrinkle that Coles had his people looking into.

“ETA?”

“They could be there now or they may just be leaving the east coast. I don’t know. I should know more soon.”

The man on the other end, a twenty-one year CIA veteran named Anthony Farrago, grunted. He understood what Coles was saying. Be prepared for anything. Farrago was used to the deputy director’s vague orders. It was the way Coles did business, give your men just enough information and let them figure the rest out. The good ones soared while the subpar floundered. It made it easy to weed out the ranks.

Coles knew that Farrago liked it that way. The dour spook was best on his own, or at least with a very long leash. He was the deputy director’s utility man, the guy who just got things done. With contacts all over the Middle East, and wounds from more than a dozen battles, Farrago was Coles’s weapon of choice. He knew how to keep his mouth shut too.

“I’ll call you when we get in,” said Farrago.

Coles ended the call and set his phone on the desk. A piece of paper had been moved slightly by the air coming out of the overhead vent. Coles nudged it back in place, his domain perfect once again.

Despite his heavy workload, he knew he had to pay special attention to this operation. With an untold number of missions being conducted around the globe, Coles had his fingers in many pies. Much like a master carpenter, he knew where each of his pieces lay and their direct effect on the whole. Isnard and Andrews were two of the pieces that had to go.

Since accepting the prestigious post, Coles had slashed and burned his way to a more streamlined intelligence gathering apparatus. You might not like his caustic style, but few would dare to discount his effectiveness. Simply put, when Kingsley Coles wanted something done, it was done. He took his responsibilities seriously.

Chapter 13

Gereshk, Afghanistan

3:02pm AFT, August 24
th

They’d somehow made it to Gereshk in one piece. Along the way, Isnard used his seemingly endless supply of cash to buy Andy clothes. That, along with an ample dousing of road dust, transformed the Marine into just another tired and dirty face in the desert landscape.

After the chase and the near miss with the Marine attack helicopters, Isnard’s security detachment bolted. The survivors told Isnard not to call them again. The Marines were on their own. That fact didn’t seem to bother the spook. Isnard’s outward calm helped settle Andy’s nerves. The days of captivity were finally catching up to him. He felt weak and it was an effort to put one foot in front of another. Isnard didn’t push, letting Andy take a breather when needed.

Andy wasn’t one to complain, but he felt the limits of his physical strength waning. Even though there was plenty of food to be had in the makeshift shacks along the way, he couldn’t find the appetite to eat. He forced himself to drink, remembering the nights in his OCS squad bay, chugging canteens full of water as his sergeant instructors watched. The order always included hoisting your overturned canteen over your head to prove that you’d finished it all. That was one way to keep your charges hydrated.

His stomach grumbled from whatever parasite had laid claim to his insides. Hopefully his bowels could stay intact until they reached Kandahar. Isnard led the way into another tent. They’d struck out in the last five. What they needed was transportation, having ditched their delivery van on the outskirts of Gereshk.

Kandahar was barely a two hour drive away along Highway 1, but the damn road was wide open. They couldn’t risk going alone. They needed to be part of a larger convoy. Lots of people. Lots of goods moving from point A to point B.

Andy was proud of his half-stuttering Pashtun, but he marveled at Isnard’s command of the language. The guy knew the people and the language. Within minutes the young man sitting behind a short wooden table invited the two Marines to an early dinner.

“You’re going to Kandahar?” Isnard asked his new friend.

“Yes.”

“How many vehicles?”

“Twenty five, my friend. Would you like a ride?” the man asked, his eyebrow lifted as if asking to be in on Isnard’s secret.

Isnard nodded. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. We lost our car a mile back. Axle.”

The man nodded with a knowing smile. Driving in Afghanistan wasn’t like driving down Main Street U.S.A. There were potholes everywhere. Sometimes whole portions of road just disappeared. It was part of the Afghan way of life, move around and keep going. The people had learned to adapt.

“Just the two?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to know how much?”

Isnard shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “You are a friend. As a friend I know you’ll give us a fair price.”

The man smiled, his gold canine peeking out from his sagging mustache. “You know how to shoot a rifle?”

Again the shrug from Isnard. “Who doesn’t?”

The man nodded, scratching his scraggly beard, thinking.

“I give you a deal. Ride in the lead vehicle and help protect my goods from bandits and crooked police, and I give you half price.”

Andy didn’t like it. He wasn’t sure what the full price would be, but he was sure Isnard was good for it. The better play was to hunker down in one of the twenty five vehicles and stay out of sight. It wasn’t that Andy was scared of being shot at or shooting someone else, but being seen wasn’t something they needed right now.

After a moment to think, Isnard said, “We’d be happy to help, my friend.”

The two men shook hands.

“Please, call me Latif. Latif Saladin.”

They waited until dark to leave, their host explaining that checkpoint guards tended to be lazier after nightfall. He was right. An hour in they’d made it through three checkpoints without more than a cursory glance at whatever lay inside the packed cargo holds. Andy was pretty sure it had more to do with the money he saw Latif slipping the guards along with other sundry items from the salesman’s eclectic collection. He wondered how many pockets the man had under his billowy robe.

As they cruised along, Andy’s mind wandered back to the last time he’d been in-country. Then he’d been part of a beefed up convoy of Marine light armored vehicles (LAVs) who’d offered to give him and his squad leader a lift to Kandahar. There’d been no one to stop them. Hell, they’d even had gunships and drones providing overwatch as they moved. No such protection this time. Now it was Andy, Isnard, Latif, and his complement of some forty employees. Most looked to be no more than fifteen, but every one came armed and grim faced.

The number of weapons did little to settle Andy’s nerves. They were still in the middle of Afghanistan being pursued by a force that could easily overwhelm the ragtag convoy.

“This remind you of playing cowboys and indians as a kid?” Isnard asked over the heavy revving of their vehicle’s engine.

“Feels more like General Custer’s last stand. Circle the wagons, right?”

Isnard laughed. “Hey, man, if I’m going out, I’m going out shooting. But I’m not a proud bastard like Custer. I know when to duck and run.”

That much Andy knew. While Isnard did, on the surface, look like a reckless operator, the guy was much more than most people probably realized. He was a survivor, a winner. It was what made him such a good spook. He was always analyzing the situation behind those bored eyes, tearing plans apart and rebuilding on the fly. Much like Cal Stokes, Rich Isnard inspired confidence in his men. It was probably the only reason Andy had made the decision to leave his post at 8
th
& I. Well, that and a bit of adventure. The life of a newly minted Marine major was more paper-pusher than behind-the-lines operator. It was why so many of his peers left the Corps after their first tour as captains. Going from company commander to desk jockey didn’t sit well with hard-charging grunts.

Isnard nudged Andy and pointed to the road ahead.

“Another checkpoint.”

“This one looks bigger,” said Andy, noticing the presence of high powered lights blazing in the night. Different than the last three posts that had had not much more than a rusty streetlight and a couple guys with flashlights.

The convoy slowed as it approached, the screech of brakes bringing them to a stuttering stop.

Andy’s heart beat a little faster as he squinted through the spotlights and saw what lay within the checkpoint perimeter. Instead of a collection of dented Afghan police and military vehicles, he saw the familiar outlines of humvees and armored SUVs.

Andy watched as Latif walked out in front of his caravan and approached the cluster of guards. They seemed casual enough, all smoking cigarettes, weapons slung over their shoulders. Latif kept his distance, talking and gesturing with his hands like the good salesman he was. This time no money or goods were exchanged.

A minute later, Latif walked up to the passenger side door of their truck.

“They want us all out of the trucks. Inspection.” His face seemed placid, but something in his eyes rang alarm bells in Andy’s head. “Come. Help me tell the others.”

Isnard and Andy climbed down and followed the Afghan as he went from truck to truck instructing his men to turn off their engines and step to the side of the road. Once they’d made it to the final vehicle, Latif went around the back of the last canvas-flapped truck bed. The Marines followed.

“They are looking for two Americans. They say the men are criminals, possibly terrorists trying to destroy our country. There is even a reward for their capture.”

No accusation in his tone or in his gaze. More like a flash of amusement. Andy could tell that this man lived for adventure.

“We are Americans,” said Isnard.

“Are you the men they are looking for?”

“What if we are?”

Latif gave a slight shrug, leaning against the back of the truck. “It could be that we have more in common than I thought.”

“Oh?”

“I know those vehicles, my friend. Not police, not military. They are government, possibly secret police.” Latif spit on the ground.

“We could leave,” offered Isnard, pointing to the darkness beyond the road.

Latif shook his head. “I like you, my friend. Something tells me that I would gain more by helping you than turning you in. The government pays little for criminals, the secret police even less. Tell me, would you return the favor?”

“On my honor as a United States Marine,” said Isnard, putting his hand out.

Latif’s eyebrows rose, but he took Isnard’s hand in his, even covering the clasp with a second hand.

“You are a long way from home, Marine. Come, let us see how we can get out of this mess.”

Nods from each man. Just as they went to join the others, there was shouting from the front of the convoy. Andy saw that one of Latif’s young guards was pinned against a truck, his weapon lying on the ground. Andy knew what had happened before snippets of the yelling made it to his ears.

The interrogators, four men in suits, turned as the hoisted teenager pointed to the back of the convoy. Every one of them turned, their eyes locking on to Latif, Isnard and Andy.

Isnard grabbed Andy’s arm. “Time to go.”