Project StrikeForce (12 page)

His PRC-148 squawked to life. “Delta two this is
Delta one, over.”

He keyed his radio. “This is Delta two. We’ve got
a local who’s not responding. I think he’s having a heart attack, over.”

“Say again, Delta two, over.”

“It’s one of locals. I think he’s dying. Can we
get a medic out here?”

His radio squawked, and a pair of PFC’s came
running from the mess hall along with the base doctor and nurse.

They were barely out of the tent when Fahad sat up
and gunned the engine, the truck lurching forward.

“What the hell?” Donnie grabbed his rifle and
struggled to bring it to a firing position. “Stop the truck!”

He saw Fahad holding a device, turning to mouth
something.

Kelvin saw it too and screamed, “Bomb!”

The truck leapt forward and hit the tent at twenty
miles per hour, then exploded. The mess hall blew apart, the tent shredded, and
the truck became a pile of shrapnel as the shock wave expanded.

Donnie knew he had made a fatal mistake. He had a
fraction of a second where time slowed and he saw the shock-wave race across
the dusty ground, and before he could blink the shrapnel hit him moving at
twenty times the speed of sound and then he knew nothing.

Area 51

ric woke, bleary-eyed, the furious
rapping on his door rousing him from a deep sleep. He staggered out of bed and
made his way to the door, stubbing his toe against his desk. He yelped and
fumbled around the wall until he found the light switch.

He wanted to kick the desk that held his computer,
the endless paperwork now the bane of his existence, but worried he might break
a toe. He opened the door and found a young PFC waiting.

“Sir, you’re needed on deck.”

Eric nodded wearily and turned to put on his
uniform, but the PFC stopped him. “Now, sir.”

He cast a baleful eye toward the PFC and struggled
with the urge to strangle him, then nodded. The PFC was just following orders.
Eric checked himself quickly in the mirror. There were deep bags under his eyes
and his t-shirt was wrinkled, but it would have to do.

He followed the young man through the labyrinth of
tunnels as the PFC explained the situation. “There’s been a bombing in
Afghanistan. Twenty six confirmed dead.”

“Where?”

“Near Kandahar. There are teams in route from
Kandahar and Bagram. The site is secure, but they need to evac the wounded.”

The PFC stopped at the security entrance. “Ms.
Smith and Mr. Freeman are waiting.”

Eric dismissed the young man, navigated his way
through the security entrance, and joined Nancy, Deion and Clark inside the War
Room.

Nancy gave him a once over, her eyes lingering on
his sweatpants and t-shirt. “You got briefed on the way?”

“Yes. Do we know who’s responsible?”

Deion offered, “Too sophisticated for the Taliban.
It’s AQ, gotta be.”

Sergeant Clark displayed a map of Afghanistan on
the big screen. The noise and buzz in the room receded as the analysts stopped
to watch.

“This is Kandahar.” The mouse hovered over the
city, and Clark moved it to the north east. “This is Forward Operating Base
Wildcat, twenty six miles away. The purpose of the FOB was to test the
deployment of a new drone, the RQ-170, code named the Sentinel.”

A picture of a gray-painted drone snapped into
place on the upper right quadrant of the screen. “It’s a Lockheed Martin flying
wing design. It was launching from Kandahar, but controlled by a team at FOB
Wildcat. This was a shakeout session, with DIA, CIA and JSOC forces. If
successful, the operation would move to Creech.”

“Did AQ know that a new drone was being tested?”
Nancy asked.

“There’s no indication that anyone knew of the
testing,” Clark said. “The FOB was built in a hurry.”

A live feed played on the overhead, showing the
wreckage of FOB Wildcat. Clark continued, “Locals were employed to work in the
kitchen and clean the latrines. A man named Fahad drove the truck. He’d
recently been diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer. At 08:00 local time he
approached the FOB in his truck. During routine inspection he faked a massive
heart attack, drove the truck full of explosives into the mess hall, and
detonated the bomb.”

On screen, the devastation was evident. The
shredded remains of the tent flapped in the wind, plastic and wood debris
spreading outward from the point of detonation. The truck frame was a barely
recognizable pile of charred and twisted metal.

“Twenty six are confirmed dead,” Clark said,
“another six critically wounded. Fifteen more are bad enough to require medical
care. They’ll be evac’d to Bagram, triaged, and sent on to Ramstein.”

Eric’s stomach sank as he watched the wounded
being loaded into helicopters, body bags full of dead soldiers still lying in
the dirt. “Do we have identification on the twenty six?”

Clark nodded, his face grim. “I’m afraid six
members of Delta were killed.” He turned to Deion. “And two CIA officers. Also,
two Lockheed contractors, the base doctor and nurse, and the rest were DIA or
Army.”

Eric’s stomach twisted. “Do you have the names of
the Operators?”

Clark nodded and displayed a list of names on the
screen. Eric barely recognized the first name, Joel Wood. His heart thudded at
the next three. Joshua Goodman, Cedric Carpenter, and Dwight Spears.

He knew them. Had known them. They were good men.
Joshua was a star quarterback in his Texas high-school, and used to talk about
Texas high-school football like it was a religion.

Cedric and Dwight were good Operators, Cedric a
big black man from Philadelphia, and Dwight a skinny little man from Seattle.
They were best friends, quick to laugh, and quicker to kill. They made a hell
of a team, as he found out on a mission with them in 2004.

He drew a blank on the next two names, Tanner and
Lott. They must have gone through selection after him. He felt a stab of anger
at the senseless loss of life, and anger that he was far removed from the
action.

“You have the names of the CIA officers?” Deion asked.

Clark displayed two names, Jack Trevino and Gene
Wiggins.

Deion sighed. “I don’t know Trevino, but Gene
Wiggins was a good officer. I worked with him back in 2005.”

Eric glanced at him, surprised. “Was Wiggins the
one who tried to push for the operations against the Pakistani ISI?”

“That’s the man,” Deion said. “Couldn’t get it
approved, but his heart was in the right place.”

“What do we know about the explosives?” Nance
asked.

“Ammonium nitrate and diesel fuel, a fairly large
yield. This wasn’t locals throwing an IED over the fence.”

The door to the Operations room opened and Fulton
Smith entered, his suit fresh and recently pressed. “Gentlemen. Nancy. You have
questions?”

Eric was surprised to see him. “Do you know who
did this?”

Smith took a seat at the end of the table. “Intel
suggests it is the work of Abdullah the Bomber.”

“Never heard of him,” he said.

“Not many have,” Smith said. “He is a contemporary
of Bin Laden. We believe he was recruited as a young man in Saudi Arabia. He
was trained as a soldier by the Mujahideen and received explosives training by
a young CIA agent, Jack Trevino.”

Realization dawned. “The man killed at FOB
Wildcat.”

Smith nodded. “Either intentional or
unintentional, it is quite ironic. Trevino spent much of 1985 training young
men to fire stinger missiles and construct IED’s. It was this training that
helped the Mujahideen wear away at the Soviet occupying forces, forcing them to
abandon Afghanistan.”

“What do we know about him?” Nancy asked.

Smith nodded at Sergeant Clark who displayed the
file on the overhead.

“We believe his family is originally from
Afghanistan, but fled to Saudi Arabia in the 40’s,” Clark said. “The case
reports are thin. He’s highly intelligent, and a master of improvised
munitions. It’s possible he spent time in the west. We have no SIGINT on him.
Based upon HUMINT gained after the invasion of Afghanistan, we believe he spent
the last few years training others. The sophistication of IED’s coming from
both Afghanistan and Iraq increased dramatically after 9/11.”

“And you think this Abdullah is the one
responsible,” Eric said.

“Guy sounds like a major player,” Deion said.

Eric agreed. “How do we not know anything about
this man?”

“Because he’s very smart and very careful,” Smith
said. “We found a reference to his name in a training document in 1993, after
the World Trade Center bombing. We’ve been trying to learn more ever since.
We’ve spent thousands of hours combing through the records of immigrants after
the Soviet withdrawal of Afghanistan. We suspect he entered the US without
record. He’s gone to great pains to conceal his existence.” Smith turned to
glance at each one of them. “This man is not a foot soldier. This man was a
valuable member of the Mujahideen and most probably a very powerful member of
Al-Qaeda. He’s declared war on the United States.”

“Kryzowski believed she found a website associated
with AQ,” Nancy said.

Clark nodded. “Yes. Based upon the encoded text
that Karen found, we believe this was merely a warm-up. Make no mistake, this
is a smart and dedicated enemy. There’s no telling where he will strike next.”

“To that end,” Smith said, “I’d like Mr. Freeman
to go to Afghanistan and start investigating. This is exactly the kind of
threat the OTM needs to stop.” He turned to Deion. “Mr. Freeman, your
investigation will be in addition to the JSOC operation. Find intel on this
man.”

Deion grinned. “I’ve still got contacts. I’ll find
more in a day than they’ll find in a week.”

“I’m sure you will,” Smith said. “Your knack for
languages and interrogation will be most beneficial. You’re CIA cover is still
valid. Nancy will accompany you.”

Nancy’s face grimaced and Deion squirmed
uncomfortably in his chair. “Sir, with all due respect, and to Nancy as well, a
woman won’t be welcome where I’ll be going.”

“I assure you, she will not hinder your
investigation,” Smith said.

Eric was itching to go to Afghanistan, to help his
former team-mates. “Sir, what about me?”

Smith turned to Eric. “Your place is with Frist.
Sergeant, isn’t there still missing caesium?”

“Yes,” Clark agreed reluctantly. “It’s still a
concern, but wouldn’t it make sense to deploy Frist to Afghanistan?”

Smith ignored the question and addressed Eric. “Take
Frist to Colorado and find the missing caesium. Report on Frist’s stability and
watch for any signs of unpredictable behavior. You have no higher priority.”

Eric wanted to go with Deion to Afghanistan, but
he was a professional. He bit his lip. “I understand my orders,” he muttered.

Smith stood. “I have the utmost confidence in you.
All of you. Sergeant Clark, the deck is yours.” He nodded at Nancy, Deion and
Eric. “Good hunting.”

* * *

Washington, DC

The light in the bunker cast dark
shadows under the President’s eyes as he glared at Smith. “I want him in
Afghanistan.

Smith was tired from the flight to Washington. The
frequent trips were wearing on him, more so every year, but when the President
requested an audience, he knew he must appear. “He’s not ready.”

The President sat his porcelain coffee cup on the
table, the Presidential Seal outlined in delicate gold filigree. “After the
money we’ve spent, I want him in Afghanistan.”

“He’s months away from being fully operational.
Sending him to Afghanistan would be a disaster.”

The President leaned back in his chair, glaring. “We’ve
got twenty seven dead now. One died on the way to Germany.”

He understood the President’s anger. “I’m sorry,
but sending Frist won’t change that.”

The President slumped in his chair. “We can’t get
any traction in Afghanistan. This drone was supposed to bail our asses out of
the fire. The Joint Chiefs are all over it. We need it operational. The
insurgency is increasing.”

Smith nodded, more to himself than the President. “I
know, sir. The data shows we are at significant risk of Afghanistan becoming a
failed state. The risk to the region is severe.”

“I sold this to the public as a chance to end
Al-Qaeda. They don’t understand what will happen if Afghanistan fails. It could
be a breeding ground for terrorists for the next hundred years.”

“Some understand,” he said softly, “but people are
tired of war. They want peace and comfort. They don’t want to know their safety
is hanging by a thread, ready to plunge into chaos.”

The President eyed him sourly. “You’re damned
depressing today.”

“I’m paid to be a pessimist.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I’ve got a team on the way to Afghanistan,” Smith
said. “They’ll find out who bombed the base and why. In the meantime, we’ve got
another issue.”

The President’s eyes widened. “Christ. It never
ends.”

“A small amount of radioactive material has
been—misplaced—shall we say.”

“Ours?” the President asked.

“Yes, sir. Medical devices. We’ve got a team on
the way. They will find it and secure it.”

“Fulton? Did I ever tell you this job isn’t worth
the headache?”

He knew how the President felt. “All the time,
sir.”

* * *

Bagram AFB, Afghanistan

Deion stepped off the plane and the
smell of jet fuel hit him like a hammer. While it was suffocating, it wasn’t as
bad as the wind blowing over the latrine pit, a smell he thought he left behind
the year before. He sighed and led Nancy through the checkpoints to the CIA and
DIA shared office.

He saw Valerie Simon approaching, still looking
fit in her camo pants and black t-shirt. She had a few strands of gray in the
peak of her short ebony hair, and could have been mistaken for early-thirties
instead of mid-forties. Their romantic fling ended after his transfer to
Guantanamo, effectively ending their relationship before their age difference
became an issue. Still, he kept in touch. They ended as friends, but he still
had feelings for her. He stuck out his hand, but she grabbed him in a fierce
hug. “I thought you hated Afghanistan,” she said, laughing.

He grinned. It really
was
good to see her
again and he realized just how much he’d missed her. “Valerie, this is Nancy
Smith. We’re here to investigate FOB Wildcat.”

Nancy stuck out her hand. “So, you worked with
Deion.”

Valerie shook her hand and smiled. “We spent three
years trying to track the Taliban’s movements through eastern Afghanistan and
into Pakistan. I’m glad you’re back,” she said, the grin fading. “This Wildcat
thing is FUBAR’d. The DIA is trying to shut out the CIA, the CIA is complaining
about the DIA to JSOC.” She shook her head, the smile gone. “Like I said,
fucked up.”

Deion nodded, noticing the dark lines under her
hazel eyes. “When does the next helicopter leave for Kandahar? I’m looking to
dig up an old contact, see if he knows anything.”