Into the Fire

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Blackhawk set down gently just after dark, guided by the lime-green wands of the ground crewman. This UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter had large white FBI lettering blocked on either side of the fuselage, but then it was not unusual for a helicopter with these markings to land at this multipad heliport. This landing facility and this compound on the Quantico Marine Corps Base in Virginia are the home of the bureau’s Critical Incident Response Group. This particular pad was the one reserved for traffic serving two of the CIRG’s most secret yet most visible action arms, the hostage rescue team and the special weapons and tactics teams — teams similar in capabilities but with slightly differing missions.

Once they were on the ground, the pilot cut the power to the engines and turned in her seat to address the two men in the rear. “My instructions are to wait for you, gentlemen. Do you know how long you will be?”

“That you up there, Sandee?” the larger of the two men spoke into the boom mic of his headset. They had boarded the helo on a touch-and-go at a remote special-operations training facility at Fort Bragg. Because of their priority routing out of North Carolina to eastern Virginia, the flight to Quantico had taken just a little over an hour.

“Yes, sir. Air FBI, at your service.” Then she continued in a different tone. “And thanks for your endorsement for this job, Mr. Dawson. I might not be here but for your recommendation.”

Sandee Barron, recently Lieutenant Sandee Barron of the U.S. Navy, had been shown the door by the Navy after filing a false flight plan and overflying a friendly Arab nation without permission. The flight, and the loss of a nearly identical helo, a Navy MH-60R, had led to her involvement in a gambit by a rogue Arab prince in Saudi Arabia — an emerging crisis that Op-Center was working to uncover. The Navy’s loss was the CIRG’s gain. The errant Arab plan was foiled by Op-Center, and then-Lieutenant Barron was a part of it. Op-Center had no need for a helicopter pilot, but Chase Williams had used his influence to see she found a good flying job.

Dawson’s laugh carried over the circuit. “We do a little business with the FBI SWAT elements, and we never know when we might be in need of a good helo driver. As for Hector and me, I doubt we’ll be heading back before first light tomorrow. If you’re back here by zero six hundred, that should be plenty of time.”

“Roger that, sir. And just call operations if you need me before then. Otherwise, I’ll be at the transient quarters.”

“Fair enough, and thanks for the lift.”

The two men made their way from the helo to the waiting black Suburban with darkly tinted windows and several wire antennas sprouting from the roof. There were red and blue flashers thinly concealed in the front grillwork. It had no other markings, but the vehicle shouted “FBI Tactical” loudly.

Brian Dawson and Hector Rodriguez could not have been more physically dissimilar. Dawson was handsome and fair, six foot four and 220, urbane, and carried himself like the career Army officer he had been. Rodriguez, at fifty-two, was ten years older than Dawson, five foot nine, and walked with a bulldog prowl. Yet they both had the same pedigree; they were both Army Green Berets. Dawson had commanded the Fifth Special Forces Group before he had overstepped his limited operational guidelines while on a tour in Central Africa. He was branded a cowboy, though his initiative had in fact saved a friendly regime, and he was put out to pasture. He may have screened for general officer, but probably not. Rodriguez began with the Seventy-fifth Rangers, became a team chief with Third Special Forces Group, and went on to become the command sergeant major at Third Group and the Joint Special Operations Command. Neither of them were unknown in the close world of American military special operations.

The two climbed into the Suburban. They were dressed in light field gear, and each carried a small pack. Once in the vehicle, they were whisked away by a silent driver wearing sunglasses and a communications earbud.

“Sunglasses after dark?” Rodriguez said just above a whisper. “Boss, tell me again why we have to put up with these assholes?”

Dawson smiled. “Well, they’re not all assholes. And it’s the two Ps, Hector — politics and Posse Comitatus.” Posse Comitatus was a law enacted in 1878, right after Reconstruction, to limit the use of federal troops to enforce state law. Today it still required a suspension of the law to use federal forces in any domestic law enforcement situation. Op-Center, after a battle with the military establishment, was seconded a direct-action special-operations strike element assigned to the Joint Special Operations Command at Fort Bragg. That element remained under the administrative command of JSOC but could be operationally tasked by Op-Center. It was a platoon-sized unit that trained in readiness at Fort Bragg and could be detached on request by Op-Center, 24/7. But the Posse Comitatus statute precluded the use of this team in the continental United States without a presidential waiver, a procedure that is at best formal, public, and time-consuming.

Months earlier, a CIRG-SWAT element failed to stop a terrorist for hire who detonated small dirty bombs at several shopping malls in the Washington, D.C., area. The terrorist and his intentions were uncovered by Op-Center and passed to the Justice Department with plenty of time to intervene. Bureaucratic inertia within Justice delayed the element’s timely response. Hundreds of people were killed and many more contaminated with radioactive material. In the wake of this failure, Op-Center was granted operational control of a CIRG element for domestic work, much as they had been granted OPCON of the JSOC cell for foreign interventions. Dawson and Rodriguez had just left Fort Bragg, where they participated in a readiness drill with their JSOC detachment. Now they were at Quantico to meet their newly assigned SWAT element and observe them in a training exercise. Early on in their assuming control of the JSOC cell, there had been issues with the conventional military and special-operations hierarchy at Fort Bragg; they now expected the same from the CIRG at Quantico.

They stepped into a briefing center that had the Spartan look of a small private aircraft hangar. Along one wall was a neat line of assault packs, short-barreled automatic weapons, and Kevlar helmets — each fitted with the latest generation of night-vision goggles. There were two rows of folding chairs to seat close to two dozen men. Off to one side, there were about that number of men, all dressed in black cotton assault gear, body armor, and rubber-soled jump boots. They had the collective look of a special operations unit, but they were all well-barbered and lacked facial hair. That alone would mark them as a federal tactical unit, but they all had FBI SWAT blocked on the front and back of their blouses. Facing the lines of chairs were a table, a podium, and two whiteboards. An overhead projector looked down on a freestanding screen. The two newcomers were met at once by a tall, officious-looking man with an air of self-importance.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said without preamble. “I assume that you are Dawson and Rodriguez, but may I see some identification?”

Dawson and Rodriguez exchanged glances and then pulled their ID badges suspended by lanyards from under their tunics. “Would you please remove them?” The two Op-Center officers slowly pulled them over their heads and handed them to the gatekeeper. He inspected each carefully and handed them back.

“And you are?” Dawson asked. As he did, he nodded to Rodriguez, who quietly left them to join the men who were all now watching the inspection ritual.

“I’m Special Agent John Babcock. I’ve been sent down here from the Hoover Building to act as liaison between Op-Center, the Critical Incident Response Group, and this special weapons and tactics team.” Babcock spoke slowly with the assumption Dawson might not be familiar with the abbreviations.

“Liaison, huh,” Dawson said with a puzzled expression. “And just what would you be doing as our bureau liaison?”

“Well, Mr. Dawson, since you are new to how we do things here and how we conduct our op…”

There was a chorus of greetings and commotion as the SWAT element gathered around Hector Rodriguez. Those who didn’t know him or who hadn’t served with him had heard of him. All but a handful of the SWAT team members had served with one of the component commands of the U.S. Special Operations Command where Rodriguez was a legend. It was a fraternity reunion.

“You were saying?” Dawson prompted.

“Well, I, ah, as liaison officer on temporary assignment to the unit here, my primary function is to, ah…”

“Whoa, hold on here. You’re not a part of the men assigned to this team?”

“No, and as I tried to make clear, Mr. Dawson, I was assigned by the deputy director for…”

“Sorry, John, but the terms of the memorandum of understanding between my director and your director are explicit. This is a compartmented, dual-agency relationship where the interworkings are to be on a strict need-to-know basis. That means team members and team members only are to be present for this briefing and evolution.” Dawson suppressed a smile and feigned a serious expression. “John, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“What! Me leave? You can’t do that!”

Dawson folded his arms and turned from Babcock. “Hector! Hector, get over here and bring the team security chief with you.”

“This is preposterous. I’m the headquarters liaison; you can’t ask me to leave. It’s just, well, you … you don’t have that authority.”

“Look, John, I could call my director, who will call your director — not some deputy but the director — and he will call you.” While Dawson was speaking, Rodriguez joined them with a large man in black SWAT garb. His bulk was enhanced by his body armor. “Meanwhile, we’re burning valuable training time.” He turned to the SWAT man, and a flash of recognition spread across his face, followed by a genuine smile. “First Sergeant McGregor,” Dawson said as he extended his hand, “it’s been a while.”

“It certainly has, Colonel. Good to see you again, and it’s no longer first sergeant. Just plain Mac will do just fine.”

“Mac it is, then, and for me now it’s Brian.”

“That could take a while, Colonel. Now, what can I do for you, sir?”

“Mac, could you escort Mr. Babcock here from the building and see that no other unauthorized personnel are present while we brief your team.”

Before McGregor could move, Babcock took a step back. “You’ve not heard the last of this, Dawson. You can count on that.” And with that, he spun on his heel and left the building.

While this was playing out, another man from the team joined them, a shorter and more compact version of McGregor and similarly attired. He was Asian, fit, serious, and of indeterminable age.

“Mr. Dawson, I’m Special Agent Allen Kim,” he said as he extended his hand. “I’m the team leader.” He spoke with the precision of someone for whom English is a second language. “I’m also a former Seventy-fifth Ranger and Delta Team leader. I certainly know of you and the command sergeant major. You were a little before my time at Fort Bragg, but they were still talking about you. Welcome to Quantico and Team Whiskey.”

“Team Whiskey?”

Kim shrugged. “From time to time we change the names of our teams. The last one was Team Victor, and the next one will be Team X-ray.”

Both Dawson and Rodriguez knew about Kim and the team. The FBI and CIRG had not been all that forthcoming with the information, but Aaron Bleich’s people had hacked their database and produced dossiers on each team member and on Kim. He was second-generation Korean with a degree in international studies from American University. He was fluent in Mandarin and Cantonese, Korean, and Tagalog. His résumé from the Delta Force was surprisingly thin, which meant that he had probably been involved in operations that were so classified even the Geek Tank failed to uncover the details.

Yet Dawson asked, “Tell me about your team.”

Kim paused just long enough to convey that he knew Dawson probably already had this information and was asking out of courtesy.

“You and the command sergeant major know…”

“Please, Allen,” Rodriguez interrupted, “it’s Hector.”

Kim nodded an acknowledgment. “You and Hector know a great many of them as they are former special operators. Of the non-SPECOP men, four came to us through municipal SWAT programs. Three of my men came from the hostage rescue team to the SWAT side of the house, and two from the crisis negotiation unit. We are a twenty-one-man team, with two eight-man squads in our flyaway element. Unless it looks like a prolonged operation, we leave the two armorers, the comm tech, and the logistics assistant behind, but they are on standby along with the rest of us. They’re a solid group, sir, and as good as any unit I’ve worked with in the military, perhaps even better.” Kim paused a moment before continuing. “And speaking of the military side, I’m given to understand that you have a relationship with Mike Volner down at Bragg.”

Now it was Dawson’s turn to be taken aback, but he quickly smiled in approval. “Well done, Allen,” he replied, using his given name for the first time. “If you have some idea of our dealings with Major Volner and his JSOC team, then you can rightly guess why we’re here and what we’re looking for in our relationship with your team. Why don’t you introduce me to your men, and then we can get started. Then I’ll try to fill in some of the white space. But”—again the approving smile—“there may not be as much of that as I might have believed.”

After introductions, Kim and his men took their seats, and Dawson moved to the front of the room. He eased the podium aside and took a seat on the table. For the next half hour he detailed the organization and charter of Op-Center and the limited nature of the relationship among Op-Center, CIRG, and SWAT. He stressed the nature of their domestic portfolio.

“As many of you know, and which we hope will remain closely held inside this room, we have a working relationship with a JSOC response team. And as you also know, their charter is to operate strictly outside the United States and on foreign soil. Many of you may be wondering why Op-Center has asked for, and been granted at the presidential level, permission to be given operational mission control of this team — a team that operates within the United States or when the lives of Americans are threatened. There is one reason and one reason only, gentlemen: speed. Op-Center has an extremely robust intelligence-collection and analytical arm. There may come a time when the intelligence is so perishable and the operational response so time-critical there is simply no time to notify the Justice Department and the bureau and allow for the normal bureaucracy approvals to click into place.”

“Now if it’s a hostage taking, when time is on our side, or it’s a situation that can be defused through normal channels, then it will be business as usual for you. If our intelligence surfaces an actionable, non-time-sensitive event, then we’ll pass that information along to the operations center here at the CIRG and they will deal with it. But when speed is of the essence to prevent a terrorist act or some other loss of life — when there is need of a rapid ops-intel interface or ops-intel fusion — then you will come under our operational control, and we will indeed move quickly. Hector Rodriguez and I will be working with your team leader to establish the on-call standby arrangements and out-the-door procedures that will govern the mission notification and mission-tasking protocols. But I can promise you one thing. There will be very few false alarms or prepositioning drills associated with our relationship. When we call on you, it will be because we have hard information of something extremely bad that is about to happen soon, and it will happen unless you can get there in time to stop it. Okay then, any questions?” There were a few smiles and heads nodding in approval, but no questions. “Hector?”

Rodriguez stepped to the front of the room. “From time to time, and with ample notice, we will join you in the course of one of your training exercises to familiarize us with your tactics and procedures, and we may even ask you to train to a given situation or mission profile of our choosing. But in no way will we interfere with how you execute a mission. You’re all professionals, and you know your job. We may tell you what to do, but we’ll not tell you how to do it.” Again, nods of approval. “So tonight will be the first of those. Mr. Dawson and I will sit in on your premission briefings, observe the exercise, and attend the hot washup and after-action review. We’ll try to stay out of your way, and don’t hesitate to individually ask us any questions. And thanks for letting us be a part of your team.”

Special Agent Kim took over and briefed the night’s training exercise. It was a compound takedown under darkened conditions conducted with live fire. The training facility was a multiroom shoot house with ballistically armored walls to absorb and contain the high-velocity rounds from the SOPMOD M4A1 rifles the team used.

As the training exercise evolved, the team broke themselves down into four four-man fire teams and took turns moving through the compound — shooting silhouette targets that were armed threats and not shooting silhouette targets that represented noncombatants. Kim controlled the actions of his fire teams on their intrasquad radio net with his fire-team leaders directing the action. Without the Peltor sound-canceling communications headsets and night-vision goggles, it was all noise and muzzle flashes. With ear protection and goggles, it was calm tactical chatter and a lime-green-cast laser light show with the teams moving through the compound like well-rehearsed ballet troops. Dawson and Rodriguez had seen this many times before, and they liked what they saw now.

“Hector, these guys look ready to go. You agree?”

“I do. Shows you what a decade and a half of war can produce. These guys have all been there and done that. Kim and the fire-team leaders look especially solid.”

At the hot washup, the two Op-Center men expressed their appreciation and approval. Then Dawson took Kim aside.

“You have a fine team, Allen. You should be proud of what you’ve done here.”

“Thank you, Brian.”

“And while I envision your operational role to be primarily tactical and kinetic, we may have occasion to want to filter at least some of you into an area undercover. So why don’t you and your men relax with the haircuts. And lose the FBI and SWAT logos from your battle dress.”

Kim grinned. “Roger that, but we might need a little top cover for that.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too concerned about that,” he replied as they shook hands. “I think we can see to that.”

At first light, Sandee Barron was waiting for them with the rotors turning. “Welcome aboard, gentlemen,” she said as they climbed into the rear cabin, buckled in, and plugged in to the intercom. “Good training evaluation?”

“They were superb,” Dawson answered. He knew the airmen were proud of their ground operators, just as the ground operators liked and trusted their flight crews. “They were everything we expected and then some.”

Sandee glanced over her shoulder and smiled behind the mic. “Great. And if something does go down and you need helo support, don’t forget to request me by name.”

“Count on it, Sandee. Count on it.”