Project StrikeForce (9 page)

“Of course,” Nancy said. “Always willing to take
one for the team. Blah blah, blah.”

Smith silenced her with a look. “You’ll do as I
ask.”

Eric almost missed her grimace.

“Yes, sir. Excuse me, I’ve got things to do.” She
stood and glared at Eric. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, before your training
sessions with Frist.” She left and although she did not sullenly slam the door,
it was close.

Smith eyed the door. “Sorry for that. She doesn’t
like taking orders, even from me. My fault, really. She didn’t have a normal
childhood, though I tried to make sure there were a few gentle years.”

Curios, he asked, “What’s her deal, anyway? What
role does she fill?”

Smith adjusted his tie. “She is one of the deck
commanding officers. She handles special assignments. She’s performed several
targeted assassinations.” Noticing the look on Eric’s face, Smith continued,
“Try not to look so shocked. She received combat and firearm training before
she could drive. She had just turned eighteen when she joined the Office. She
was eager to please her father.” His voice trailed off.

Eric waited as the man fumbled with his tie.

“Less so when she found out what we do,” Smith continued.
“Her first assignment went poorly and she killed a man. We needed alive. The
operation was a failure. I won’t bore you with the details, but many innocent
men and women died because of that failure. She took it very personally.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Eric offered.

“Surely they do, and I told her as much. She
changed after that, became more aggressive, more stubborn, more violent. The
harder she tried the less effective she became. I finally gave her a choice,
either modify her behavior or remove her from the Office. Do you know how hard
that was?”

Erick shook his head. “Of course I don’t.”

Smith’s eyes bore in to his. “She’s my only child.
It would be worse to lose her. If she died because of me, I believe I might
lose all sense of perspective. Do you understand what that means?”

Eric thought about what Fulton Smith could do with
the power and the resources of the Office, and felt a cold pit in his stomach.

“Yes,” Smith said. “I can see that you do. I’ve
been the Director for over fifty years. I’ve always done the right thing, you
understand? Even Nancy’s birth was an accident. I didn’t want a child, someone
who would suffer through having me as a father. What life could I give her? She
wanted to join the Office, but one wrong mission and she could be caught,
tortured, or even killed.” Smith stopped fiddling with his tie. “No one on this
Earth would be safe if that happened. I would make the world burn.”

Eric shuddered. Smith’s life was a lonely place,
full of power and responsibility, and his daughter suffered for it. He tucked
the sudden insight away and nodded.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to burden you with this,
but you’ll be working with her and I need to know you’ll protect her. From
those who might hurt her. From herself. You’re a man of your word. Promise me
that?”

“Yes, sir.” Eric rose as Smith stood and shook
Smith’s hand. “Was there anything else?”

“I’m returning to Washington tomorrow. Continue
with Frist. Nancy will be in charge of your training on deck, but remember, you
answer only to me. No matter what she may say.”

Eric nodded. “I’ll remember.”

* * *

There was a knock on Eric’s door at
0600. He opened it and found Nancy standing there, Deion in tow. “You ready,”
she asked, “or would you like a hot shower and a donut?”

“I’ve been waiting for the past hour,” Eric said
with a grin. “Already went over the duty roster. And, ate my donut.”

Deion smirked, but stopped when Nancy glared at
him.

She talked as she led them to the War Room. “The
first thing you need to understand is that the AI’s comb the data, but they’re
only as good as the analyst who programmed them. Each analyst can change their
AI’s search data. If they tag something, it gets saved and rolled over to the
next shift.”

They entered through the War Room’s man-trap and
the sergeant manning the deck saluted. “Commander on deck!”

Nancy nodded as control was passed to her. “What
have we got today, Sergeant Clark?”

Clark sighed. “There’s a North Korean trawler
that’s not where it’s supposed to be. We’ve got something happening in the financial
markets in Greece. Al-Sadr’s men are causing problems in Iraq, but the surge
seems to be holding. There’s chatter about a white supremacist group in
Colorado. Afghanistan is still Afghanistan.”

“Thank you Sergeant, you’re relieved.” Nancy
turned to question Deion and Eric. “So, which of these requires attention?”

Eric glanced at Deion, but Deion waved for Eric to
go first.

“The Greek markets could be serious,” he said,
“but there’s not much we can do about that. Al-Sadr is a pain in the ass, but
the surge will hold, based upon evidence, so we pass the concern along to JSOC.
The trawler is a problem, though.”

“Why so? Freeman, you’re up.”

Deion nodded. “Ever since Japan captured that
trawler a few years ago, tensions have been high. If it’s another spy boat
fitted out like a trawler, it could destabilize the entire region. We can’t
just blow it out of the water, that would make it an international incident.
Best option is to pass it along to JSOC as well, let them deal with it.”

Nancy turned to Eric. “Do you agree?”

He nodded. “The SEALs could handle it discretely.”

Nancy nodded. “Good call.” She turned to Sergeant
Clark. “Sergeant, make it happen.”

Clark nodded. “I’ll pass it along to our people in
JSOC.”

Nancy turned back to Eric. “Now, what about the
white supremacists?”

He shrugged. “It depends on the intel. Sergeant,
what’s the scoop?”

Clark tapped out commands on his keyboard and one
of the analysts, a thick brunette woman, hurried to the control deck, a coffee
cup in hand. “This is Karen Kryzowski.”

Karen smiled and then explained, “A group we’ve
been tracking for years is acting up. The American Patriot Revolution. There’s
chatter, but no specifics. It could be drugs, but more likely guns. The part
that concerns me is that they’re speaking in codes.”

“What do you know about this group?” Eric asked.

“Mostly petty criminals until about 2 years ago.
It was guns and meth, but they graduated to armed robbery. They have strong
views about an upcoming race war.”

Nancy pursed her lips. “Are they on the feebs
radar?”

Karen laughed. “The FBI has a file on them and it
goes back decades, but they don’t know about the robberies and murders of the
past two years. They liked them for an anthrax scare six months ago, envelopes
sent to a congressman’s office. They could never make it stick, but the Office
has an email trail. They’re good for it.”

He felt a knot twist in his stomach. “Great, a
white supremacist group with anthrax.”

“No, sir,” Karen said, shaking her head, “they
didn’t have anthrax. Turned out to be flour.”

“I’d suggest we turn it over to the FBI,” Eric
said, “maybe send the gun-running info to the ATF.”

“Good plan,” Nancy agreed. “We funnel the info to
them, let them clean up the mess. Dismissed, Kryzowski. Now, what about
Afghanistan?”

Eric turned back to Clark. “What’s the status?”

“Same as usual. Insurgents all over the place,
Taliban mostly. The high value targets are on the run, they’ve dug in deep in
the mountains or blended in to the urban areas. We have picked up some signals,
back channel stuff. We’re surveilling their cell phones and what few landlines
they have, Internet activity is being logged and filtered, but they’ve gotten
smart, they do everything via courier and paper. HUMINT remains weak. You were
stationed in Afghanistan for some time, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I’d say that was top secret, but I’ve a feeling
you already know that.”

Clark grinned. “Yes, sir. We keep a pretty good
eye on the Delta Operators, and your name came up often.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment. So, what is the
nature of the threat, if we don’t have hard intelligence?”

“An Internet posting. There was a photo with
stego’d information, no details, no names—”

“Is there anything scheduled,” Deion interrupted.
“Any major activity planned?”

“No,” Clark said. “It’s one photo. It could be
nothing. JSOC isn’t aware of it, and if you pass it to them without hard data,
there’s not much they can do.”

Eric turned to Nancy. “What do you recommend?”

“You’d think with all this information flowing
through here we would have more hard intel,” Nancy said, “but this is usually
all we get. Without actionable intelligence, we have to let it pass. Or, we
could ping JSOC and have them shake the trees, but each action has a reaction.
What do you think might occur?”

Eric recalled his past experiences. “You make the
rounds from corrupt politician to corrupt tribal leader, but nobody ever knows
anything. What intelligence you get is useless, or worse, deliberate
misinformation. Or, they shake you down for money. It’s a waste of time.”

“Exactly. For now, we’ll continue to watch.
Sergeant, have them follow up with that photo. Find out who owns it and flag it
for review.”

Clark saluted, but Nancy had already turned her
attention to the main monitor. “When will Frist be ready?”

“Hard to say,” Deion replied. “Even with the
training, his first time out will be rough. It’s different in the field.”

She turned to Eric, lips pursed “You think he’ll
perform?”

“He’ll perform,” Eric said. “He’s shaping up to be
a competent soldier.”

“He should have been shot.”

“You don’t like him much do you?”

“I have no use for him,” she said. “The project
was my father’s idea. Frist is a murderer and a traitor and I’d just as soon
see him dead. When you’re done with his training today, I want both of you in
my office at 2000.”

* * *

John took one look and turned back
to Eric. “What is this place?”

They were in a small hangar, looking at a
construction of drywall and paneling held together by 2X4 walls. There were
windows with lights and cables strung everywhere, and inside he could barely
discern the furniture-filled room.

“The shooting house,” Eric said. “This is where
you learn to shoot.”

“I thought I
was
learning to shoot,” he
protested. “I’m at the range every day.”

Eric laughed. “We’ve created the first floor of an
apartment building. There are pop-up targets, stationary targets, and movable
targets. Don’t worry about ricochets, the bullet traps will catch them. Now,
it’s time to pick your weapon.” He led John to a table near the front.

Eric picked up one of the many handguns on the
table. “This is your standard Colt M1911. Nothing fancy. It’s been cleaned up
and fine-tuned, and we swapped out the hammer for an upgrade so you won’t get
pinched in the webbing between your thumb and index finger. It’s a perfectly
serviceable weapon.”

He picked it up, inspected it, then handed it back
to Eric. “Why a .45?”

“You lose round capacity over a nine millimeter,
but it has more stopping power.” Eric picked up another and handed it to John.
“This is a standard Sig-Sauer M11, but chambered in .40 instead of 9 mil.” He
handed it to John, who inspected it as well.

“This one,” Eric said, picking up another, “trades
stopping power for magazine capacity. It’s a Browning Hi-Power, 9 millimeter.
You get almost double the rounds, and it’s accurate. It’s the pistol that
shoots like a rifle.”

John exchanged the Sig-Sauer for the Browning,
sighted, then looked up at Eric. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Pick one. Your weapon is a personal choice, it
has to feel good to you.”

The Browning felt good in his hands. He pulled
back the slide, checked the chamber, then picked up a full magazine from the
table and inserted it.

“Concentrate on the weight of it. The feel of it.
Don’t sight down it, just let it become one with your arm. Do you feel it?”

John nodded. “Yeah, it feels good, just not quite
right.” He swapped the Browning for the Colt, and even though he had more
experience with it, it held no appeal. “Something is off with this one. It’s
almost there, but let me try the M11 again.”

Eric took the Colt and handed him the M11.

He extended his arm and closed his eyes, letting
his hand move with the weight, and he knew he had found it. “I don’t know why,
but it just feels right. That’s the one.”

Eric shook his head, disappointed. “I was hoping
you’d go for the Colt, but it’s your choice. I’m going to teach you to become
more than a good shot. Anyone can learn that. You’ll become magic. You’ll be
able to go through the shooting house and put bullet after bullet in the same
place. When we’re done with that, you’ll do it all over again with the
Battlesuit. And, again with the VISOR. Then with the Implant activated. It gets
fun after that, because we’ll start with sub-machine guns like the MP5. I hope
you like this place, you’re going to be living here.”

He groaned.

* * *

Kandahar, Afghanistan

Abdullah and Naseer worked on Fahad’s
ancient white Toyota Helix. A dusty light-bulb cast a faint glow across the
room, a chill settling in the air as the sun set.

“We place the charges around the engine, along
here and here,” Abdullah pointed. They struggled to lift the scratched and
dented hood from the truck, then set it along the far wall. “Bring me the
satchel.”

“Others could do this,” Naseer protested.

“You must learn patience. If I were to ask another
man to do this, I would place my trust in that man. I would take his word that
he did the job correctly. What if he were to make a mistake? Would he take the
utmost care? No, if I do the job myself, I know it is done correctly. This is
something you must learn, Naseer. You cannot depend on others to help you.”