On Scope

17

Senator Jordan Monroe was trying to put a good spin on a bad situation that was getting worse by the minute. For the third time, he explained it all again to Yasim Rebiane, on the other end of the call. The senator was growing weary of the conversation; he had a full calendar today and wanted to clear this problem. “Look, my friend, I had a sit-down with a brigadier general sent over by the Joint Chiefs, and the general assured me that United States military forces are not carrying out any reprisals in Spain over the Barcelona incident. This man sat right here in my office and confirmed that to my face. There was no misunderstanding. He’s really plugged in, this general. If he says they are not involved, I believe him.”

Rebiane insisted it was a polite brush-off. “Just a one-star, and you think he knows what’s really going on? I’m disappointed; I expected better of a United States senator. May I suggest that you put someone who is really in charge — say, one of the Joint Chiefs — under oath before your Armed Services Committee and ask those same questions.”

Monroe felt the entire episode was taking too much of his time. “I also reached out to the State Department and the CIA, both of which deny any covert actions, sir. I really want to help, but there is only so much I can do on deep background, calling in favors all over Washington.”

“Then what is stopping you from making it official? Call for a hearing. Turn up the pressure.” The voice brimmed with contempt.

The senator fidgeted in his big chair. “Now calm down, sir. You have been a major supporter of my campaigns, and I appreciate that and hope it will continue, so I was willing to make some informal inquiries in your behalf. That being said, there is a limit to what you or anyone else can ask of me. I cannot just snap my fingers and hold a hearing without any real evidence of wrongdoing.”

Rebiane made an impatient clucking sound. “Is it just a matter of giving you more money?”

“Of course not! No United States senator is for sale.” Monroe was growing exasperated.

“Well, that is too bad. Imagine the blowback from Europe when the news breaks that American assassins are running amok, killing important civilians. The president will have to answer some angry calls from other world leaders.”

“That is not happening. It is not going to happen. Any such thing would have to be vetted and approved in advance, and it would not be because of policy ramifications. Be reasonable.”

“You seem to lack proper motivation, Senator Monroe.” Rebiane was silent for a moment before resuming with a changed tone. “I was reluctant to supply this new information for your calculations. Are you before your computer?”

“Yes.”

“Go online and type in this address.” Rebiane recited a dummy file that he had prepared for just this occasion.

When Jordan Monroe called up the site, he coughed and his throat tightened. It was a photograph of a twelve-year-old girl on a school playground in jeans and a black T-shirt, with long honey-colored hair streaming behind her. “You bastard!” he shouted into the phone.

“That, of course, is little Michelle, your daughter by a campaign volunteer whom you raped after getting drunk at a party. You pay all of the bills and give a stipend to the woman every month. This photo was taken yesterday.”

“Don’t you dare bring her into this! All I have to do is call a press conference and notify the FBI of this clumsy extortion and bribery attempt, and you will be arrested!” His grip on the telephone was slipping as his hand sweated. His eyes couldn’t break away from the photograph of the beautiful child he had never met, joy on her face as she sailed on a swing set. Michelle. Monroe knew that if this affair was exposed, there would be a huge personal scandal, and the political fallout would be of nuclear proportions. Nevertheless, he would not back down from this Middle East bully. Persian? Iraqi? What’s the difference? “I’m warning you, Rebiane,” he hissed. “I have resources that you cannot imagine.”

“Why, Senator, I have no intention of ruining your career. You can be useful to me not only now, but again in the future.” Yasim allowed himself a smile, knowing that Djahid, who had taken the photograph, had everything in place in St. Louis.

“Then why—”

“Forget about your resources, or going to the press or to the FBI. My foot is on your throat, you arrogant fool. The child and her mother both are already in my custody. Unless you are able to answer my question, I intend to kill them both.”

Ryan Powell lowered his binos and looked up from the dirt, straight into the television camera, and heaped praise on a Marine squad that was assaulting a ridge with maximum firepower. His words were underscored by the buzz of a Squad Automatic Weapon. The NCO in charge of the attack yelled for cease-fire, and the explosions and gunfire died away, leaving a sheen of gunsmoke hanging in the air. Powell smiled and said, “And that, my friends, is how the Marines do it!”

The director of The Elite yelled, “Lunch break. Thirty minutes.” The two dozen Marines involved in the exercise for the reality show had earned a treat, and instead of eating military field rations today, they headed toward a pair of waiting gourmet food trucks and the alluring smell of barbecue created by an executive chef. It was cheaper for the production company to hire a top-rate food service than pay overtime to the crew, and there was still another show to finish this afternoon.

Powell slapped a few palms, shook hands, and made his way to his air-conditioned trailer, careful not to mop away the sweat on his face and neck in front of the Marines. With his star power off the set, the boys could enjoy themselves mixing with the crew, particularly the women. Once in the trailer, he stripped away the dirty clothes and took a quick shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and went into the bedroom, where a shrimp salad and an assortment of cool beverages waited on a table. A change of clothes was on the bed. He had to appear fresh for the next episode, which would involve a new set of Marines plus some armor. A few bites of the salad and some cold water, and he had five minutes left for a nap. His active night with Mandie had taken a toll.

A rap on the door, and a female voice called out, “Telephone call, Mr. Powell. Somebody from Washington.”

“Shit,” he exclaimed to himself. Probably some asshole general with an idea for a show. Then, to the assistant, “Tell them I’m not available. Take a number.”

“Sir, I explained that we’re on a working set, but he says he’s calling for a senator and that it is urgent to speak with you.”

Powell exhaled in defeat. “OK. Bring me the phone.” The brunette came in, appreciatively eyeing her muscular boss in the towel, and handed over the phone. “This is Powell,” he said.

“Mr. Powell, my name is Douglas Jimenez, and I’m the administrative aide for Senator Jordan Monroe.” The aide paused, letting the name sink in. Monroe equaled the Armed Services Committee, which equaled access and funding.

“What can I do for you, sir?” Powell slipped into the humble servant-patriot voice.

“I’ll come straight to the point, for your girl told me that you are working. My boss has been tipped off that a covert U.S. operation may be behind the assassinations of two civilian financial figures in Spain. Both were killed by snipers, and while the Pentagon, State, and the Agency deny any involvement, we believe that where there is smoke, there may be fire. Do I have your attention?”

“Yes, sir, you do. How can I help?” An idea was already forming in his mind.

“I was asked to check with people plugged into the special operations community, and rather than deal with the usual chain of command, I decided to start at the top: with Ryan Powell and The Elite. You have knowledge on both sides of the spec ops fence, having been an outstanding SEAL yourself, and now doing such outstanding work on the overall military program.”

“Well, I’d like to be of assistance, Mr. Jimenez, but I haven’t heard anything about any Spanish operation, either from inside or outside of the community. Nothing from the private contractor grapevine, and those guys swap a lot of stories. However…” Powell let the intriguing thought dangle. “You said a sniper did the hits?” He had not really been keeping up with the news, but he certainly remembered his evening at the SNCO Club last night, for several reasons. He had a chance here to damage that asshole Swanson. Maybe he could take down the entire organization. Sweet!

“However … what?” asked Jimenez, whose heartbeat was increasing in anticipation.

“How private is this conversation, sir? I don’t want to be called to testify on anything I give you in confidence, since it may be just a hunch on my part.” He took a bite of a seasoned french fry.

“The senator will see to it that you have nothing to concern yourself about.”

“In that case, there is a very off-the-books unit that would be fully capable of carrying out this sort of thing. Small and lethal and really deep black. I don’t know where it stands in the chain of command; it might not be in there at all. I have always considered such an organization to be borderline illegal, a bunch of rogue assassins. Just a possibility, something I heard, you know?”

Jimenez was scribbling notes. “Go ahead, Mr. Powell. The senator would be very appreciative for any insight you may provide. It stays between us, I promise.”

“OK. As I understand it, the group goes by the name of Task Force Trident. Like I say, I don’t know much about it, other than it exists. The one thing I do know from personal experience is that Trident has a cold-ass killer as its triggerman, a Marine sniper, name of Kyle Swanson.” Powell smiled broadly and punched his pillow in delight.

There was a pause in Washington. “Task Force Trident and Kyle Swanson. Strange that we have never heard of them.”

“That’s the point, sir. Like I said, they are deep in the special ops budget or even somewhere else. This character Swanson fits the profile. He’s very good, but he has always been a lone wolf. Rules do not stop him from doing whatever he wants. Matter of fact, I saw him at dinner down here just last night, and he looked as if he was gearing up for a job.”

“Well, we find that to be very interesting. We thank you, Mr. Powell. Now that I have these names, I have a starting point. Hey, now, you have a good day.”

“Good luck,” Powell said and closed the phone. A moment later, a loud, rebel-yell victory war whoop from inside the star’s trailer startled those standing nearby outside.

The idea had been sound, but the variables were just too wobbly for the proposed simultaneous assassination plan to work. After spending days trying to pull it all together, the frustrated Lizard finally bit his pen in half in frustration. By lunchtime, he had set up a secure Skype call that would put himself and General Middleton in Washington on the same screen as Sybelle Summers in Paris and Gunny Swanson in North Carolina.

“We know the probable location of Torreblanca, the guy from the Islamic Progress Bank, to a ninety-five percent certainty. He will be in Seville to attend the big April fair. Beyond that, his itinerary has been closed down because of the additional security.”

Swanson, in a small communications trailer at Camp Lejeune, replied that his MARSOC team could be in place and ready and just wait for the right moment. Having to wait was not enough of a reason to cancel the operation.

“Kyle, without exact movement times, it is impossible to match him up with the woman in Paris. Mademoiselle Bourihane is just as dicey a target. Her office also has stopped saying when and where she will be during the next couple of weeks, and her earlier public schedule has been changed severely. I doubt if it is any good at all.”

The general entwined his fingers as he listened, then chewed a thumbnail. “Too many moving parts,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said Commander Freedman. Summers and Swanson could not disagree. If they could not make simultaneous strikes, the second team in action would lose the element of surprise and their target would immediately go to ground.

Typically, Middleton made his decision. “Summers and Coastie have the best chance of a takedown while Bourihane is still in Paris, if they can penetrate the security. What are the chances, Sybelle?”

“Excellent, if we are no longer tied to Kyle’s timetable in Seville.”

The general agreed. “Do it. And Swanson, stand down your team for now, but keep them handy while we dream up a Plan B. You get back here by tomorrow morning.”

Kyle hated to stop something where the momentum was already gathering, but they were right. Too many moving parts had killed many a plan throughout history. It was better to take out one target for sure, but he just wanted it to be his target. He saw a little smirk on Sybelle’s face. “Sir, we can nail Torreblanca at the fair. No doubt.”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow in the office. Don’t pout.”

There is always a time to shut up when arguing with a general. “Yes, sir. I’ll leave this afternoon, soon as I clean up something down here. Liz, would you detail a couple of NCIS agents for my use later today?”

Middleton had considered the conversation over, but his eyes suddenly flashed back to life. “Why the hell do you need NCIS, Gunnery Sergeant Swanson?”

“Nothing important, sir. I’ll explain it all tomorrow morning back at the office.”