On Scope

24

Henri Lecroix stepped in a puddle, lost his balance, bumped off a wall and collapsed on the sidewalk with a splash and an abrupt curse that changed immediately to a laugh. I am drunk, he thought happily as he rolled to a knee. He pushed himself upright. The night was cool and rainy, and since he had nothing else to do, he might as well drink. The last bar had thrown him out, but there was always another one ready to accept his money. He did not even mind the light rain, for it refreshed him enough to push on, and he felt like singing, so he did. People avoided the wobbly bearded man with long black hair that was plastered to his wet, dark skin.

Lecroix had been inebriated for almost a week. The binge started when he went on the prowl with two of his friends, who had matched him glass for glass as they talked about the old times as engineers in the Armée de Terre, which taught them all the hazardous trade of being a demolition specialist. After having wasting his early years on the family’s dismal farm, Henri had found something he truly enjoyed, was good at, and was paid well to do. Dynamite, TNT, plastique, C-4, Semtex, fuses, and timers were wonderful things. Anybody could blow things up. To do it just right was an art for a special few. He would have continued being a soldier, but his expansive loves of whisky, dope, and women far outshone his love of explosives. The other two men also had been on the demolition squads, and they were able to talk shop and argue in boring detail.

One of his buddies had gone into construction after the army, using his blasting skills to clear old buildings and reshape stubborn rock formations. The other was in a private business that defused old military ordnance from two world wars that still surfaced around France.

“What keeps you busy?” One peered at Lecroix with wet and unsteady eyes. “If you are still able to blow shit up, I can get you a job.”

“Got a job,” Lecroix declared. “Good work. Pay is outstanding, which is why I’m buying the drinks for you bastards.”

The friend laughed. “Doing what? Besides drinking.”

They had another round, and Lecroix added it to his credit card. Then he held a finger to his lips to shush them and looked carefully around the bar. They were in a corner, and he lowered his voice. “I’m no terrorist, you know that; could not care less about any religion or politics. But did you hear about what happened in Barcelona?”

There was no reply. The two men looked at him, then at each other, suddenly sobering.

“Boom!” said Henri, opening the fingers of his left hand like a flower. “My beautifully timed explosions on the corners pancaked that place right down. Booosh! Not many people could do that. They needed an expert, somebody like us.” He tapped his thumb on his chest.

One of the astonished friends shoved his chair back, got up, and left the table and the bar, never saying another word or even looking back. Henri smirked and shouted, “Alors fillette!” You pussy!

The other called for still another round, eased closer, and said, “Tell me more.” Henri had launched his drunk that night. Somehow he awoke the next day in his own bed, groaning in pain from a terrible hangover. With his eyes still closed, he felt for the bottle at his bedside, fished a couple of aspirin tablets out of a packet, and, after rushing to the toilet to vomit, was soon ready to begin the cycle anew.

Such gossip about terrorist activities, even if it was a wild lie, spread quickly in the underworld. Henri’s pal told another friend, who spilled it to a traffic cop two days later while trying to talk his way out of a parking violation. The unconfirmed report then worked its way up the investigative chain, and when it jumped into the intelligence realm, alarm bells began to ring. It was the first real break investigators had gotten about the Barcelona attack. Things had moved much faster when an informant passed it along to Yanis Rebiane.

This was a race Rebiane would win.

Henri Lecroix gulped in the fresh wet air. He still had plenty of money. He could get more. He tested to be sure he was steady on his feet before moving toward the lights in the next block that promised more whisky. He was suddenly hungry, too, and wanted some cheese and fresh-baked bread. As he thought of his immediate future, he took no notice of the shape coming directly toward him, someone who did not move to the other side of the street to avoid the drunk. The man’s face was down as he struggled to open an umbrella. They were on a collision course.

Djahid Rebiane looked up at the last moment and said, “I warned you about this, Henri.” Before Lecroix’s befuddled brain could register the danger, Djahid lifted a Heckler & Koch semiautomatic pistol from the folds of the black umbrella, stuck the barrel to the tip of Lecroix’s nose, and pulled the trigger until the magazine was empty.

“I was not pleased with all of that, Doug. An ugly piece of stonewalling, that’s what it was.” Senator Monroe shouldered back in the familiar chair at his office, still fuming after their visit to the SEAL base. “They can’t treat a United States senator like that.”

“But they did, sir. You gave them a chance to come clean about this matter, and they flatly refused.” He had been thinking about the next step during the entire helicopter flight back to Washington. They had treated Doug worse than the senator, as if he were unmanly and no more than a speck of dirt. “They have no more chances. Now it’s our turn.”

“I can’t tell our, uh, client that we failed. We have no proof of Trident and Swanson being real, much less being the ones doing the killings in Europe.” The solemn face of Yasim Rebiane rose in his memory. “He is going to call me tomorrow.”

Jimenez laughed out loud. “Sir, it’s the old thing about how if something walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, chances are it’s a duck. It’s Trident; no doubt in my mind. Otherwise, why this big show-and-tell by the Pentagon to convince us that it is not? People jumping out of airplanes and shooting guns were interesting to watch, but no answer to our questions. They could have just totally ignored us. All they did was try to bluff us out of the game by saying our inquiry will cost American lives. I call it bullshit.”

This was when Monroe liked his young aide best, and why he had hired him in the first place. The younger man was equal parts politically smart and devious, and when things got dicey, Jimenez retreated to the gang culture of his early days in Los Angeles, before his father was killed in a drive-by shooting. He never let an insult stand, nor allowed a challenge to go unanswered. His mother had moved them all the way across the country to Florida to escape the dangers of the street and worked hard to give her son a chance in life. The resulting law school diploma from the University of Florida had not erased the violent memories.

“What do you have in mind?”

Jimenez held up his cell phone. “We’re back playing on our home field now, where we have the power to make things happen. Let me make some calls and do some research. I think we may have this dustup in the bag in a couple of hours. Fuck those grunts.”

The first problem was the location from which a small Marine unit would stage to reach Spain. Ex-SEAL Ryan Powell had said Swanson was a Marine sniper and had been spotted at Camp Lejeune within the past forty-eight hours. That was the starting point. A private Pentagon source soon explained to Jimenez that a strictly military flight to Europe from Lejeune would most likely launch from Pope Field in Fayetteville, North Carolina. Pope was part of the giant Fort Bragg Army base a little more than 160 miles from Lejeune, and the home of a U.S. Air Force airlift group which specialized in such missions across the pond and could easily take personnel and equipment right past the customs inspectors.

Next, the Air Force helpfully furnished the powerful senator’s aide a roster of everyone who worked in air traffic control at Pope, a list of several hundred names. Spain, Task Force Trident, and Kyle Swanson were never mentioned.

Now Doug wanted a vulnerable individual on that roster, and the other government agencies soon cleared most of them as being ridiculously clean of legal or financial trouble. The State Department furnished three names on the list for emergency visas. Jimenez thought Master Sergeant Leftwich, Gary J., was the best shot.

Back to State and the Pentagon. He learned that Leftwich had married a local girl while based at Incerlik Air Base in Turkey. They had transferred back to the States six years ago and had two children. Leftwich and his wife were trying to get a special compassion visa to bring over the wife’s elderly mother, who was seriously ill and had no family left to take care of her in Turkey. So far, the request had gotten nowhere because there were so many similar requests and passport demands were so tight.

Jimenez took a break, grabbed a quick meal, and updated the senator that things were looking good. After that, he called Master Sergeant Leftwich at home, identified himself, and had Leftwich call back through the Senate switchboard to confirm his identity. A favor was proposed. “My senator can cut through the paperwork and get that visa for you within a week,” Jimenez said. “All we ask in return is that you tell us whether a transport plane from Pope was routed to Spain in the last few days or within the next two. No secret information is involved.” Leftwich grabbed the deal and was able to provide the information within thirty minutes: Yes, only one special flight was so designated in that time frame, and the master sergeant provided the tail number.

“Who authorized it?”

The click of computer keys was loud as Jimenez awaited the answer. “It was a JSOC flight, sir. Looks like a squad of Marines from Camp Lejeune. That’s all I can tell you without getting into confidential special ops territory.”

“My senator and I just spent all day with those guys down at SEAL Team Six, and I’m following up a matter they asked us to straighten out. It’s likely a bureaucratic snafu, but they believe that it might needlessly cost American lives if it remains unsolved. This is a favor for Senior Chief Rockhead Sheridan of Six. I understand your caution, so let me ask just one more question. Was one of the passengers a Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson?”

There was a pause. “Sorry, sir, but that is classified.”

Jimenez met that with a pause of his own, then bombed Leftwich. “Very good, Master Sergeant. Thank you for your assistance. Let’s hope that U.S. troops don’t die because I can’t solve a problem for a SEAL master chief. Please send the name of your mother-in-law to me, and I will see what we can do to help her get a passport.”

“You told me you could get her into the country!”

“We can. As soon as my question is answered. Also, if you won’t give it to me now, Master Sergeant Leftwich, we will subpoena your testimony when this thing blows up, and that will be the end of your career. Now choose: a quiet favor that gets sick old mama-in-law into the U.S. for treatment, or a summons from Congress?”

The keys started clicking again. “Yes, sir. Swanson was listed as team leader.”

“Good. Send me her name and all the vitals. She’ll be here in two weeks. And thank you for your service.”

Senator Monroe was still in his office when Jimenez barged in at eight o’clock with a broad smile. “Got the sonofabitch,” he said, giving a concise summary of what had happened.

“Hell of a piece of good work, Doug.”

“Hoo-ah,” Jimenez replied with a mocking laugh.

Daniel Ferran Torreblanca felt as if he were locked in a beautiful prison, under house arrest by brusque and impolite guards who ignored his protests. He had no control over them, no matter what he said, and they refused to let him go outside. They answered to Yanis Rebiane, the person atop this so-called security. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Torreblanca was in charge of the Spanish branch of the Islamic Progress Bank in Saudi Arabia, and a rich and powerful man who enjoyed his freedom, wealth, and luxury. He moved about in limousines and private jets, wore tailored suits, and enjoyed manicures and massages at health spas, playing tennis and golf, and taking joy in his family. His control of massive amounts of money had been a propelling force behind the scheme to destabilize the Spanish government. Islam had been good to him and his family for generations as they melded into the polyglot society. Today, instead of being lionized, he was being treated with no respect by large men who had locked down his home. Other family members could come and go as they pleased, but not him. He was effectively chained by links stronger than steel, at least until Yasim arrived.

He did not even know how many guards there were, but guessed that about twenty professional gunmen were roaming the estate in four groups of five men each, rotating shifts all day and all night. They represented a hodgepodge of countries and apparently did not like each other, probably the result of old nationalist hatreds and professional jealousy. When the mercenaries conversed, he had overheard Polish, German, and Ukranian words and even a smattering of Chilean-flavored Spanish. English, the international language, was a struggle for all of them. Mostly, there were a lot of incomprehensible sounds and sporadic cursing in little arguments. The only things they had in common were that they all wore black, carried weapons, and moved like lumpy shadows with blank eyes in the fading light.

Unable to give them orders, Daniel had wrestled for hours with the question of whether all of this security was even necessary. Torreblanca considered himself to be a law-abiding and generous citizen and a moderate where religion was concerned. He was a Muslim, and his wife had switched to his religion, although her parents remained staunch Roman Catholics. He had stayed distant from the awful depravities of the radicals, and acted as a valuable financial funnel between both worlds. Politics was not his forte, but with the economy of his homeland of Spain collapsing ever more by the week, the banker had agreed to the rescue plan and an escape from the merciless European controls. The revolution was to be carried out in boardrooms and on trading floors, and he wanted to prove to the uneasy citizens that a long-term shift toward Islamic rule did not have to be some bloody coup or an impossible moral burden. Then came Barcelona. Everything changed overnight.

The only member of the Group of Six who even knew the specifics of the terrorist strike in advance had been Yasim. The others had agreed to a controlled action, perhaps a protest riot before the U.S. Embassy and consulates, some flag burning, but Yasim had given the job to his unhinged son, Djahid, who habitually left catastrophe in his wake. The Rebianes had totally misread the situation. Instead of being intimidated, the United States reacted vigorously in the financial realm, throwing up more obstacles to the needed loans, and now blood had begotten blood. He did not need an official notification that the CIA, probably working with the help of Western European nations, was striking back hard.

Three of the Six were gone as if snatched away by some phantom force. The others were in danger. So, yes, Torreblanca knew, the security squads patrolling his grounds and the quiet, beautiful city were needed. The question was whether they were up to the task. He didn’t think they were.

Master Gunny O. O. Dawkins was still in his battle dress camo when he returned to the Pentagon from Virginia and reported to Major General Middleton. He had been among the nameless senior NCOs who had met with Senator Jordan Monroe and his aide after the spec ops demonstration. “He didn’t have any authorization of any kind, sir. Other than being a United States senator, he had nothing.”

“Being a senator usually is good enough,” observed Commander Benton Freedman.

Dawkins gave a lopsided grin. “Rockhead Sheridan chewed him out pretty good, gave him every chance to explain why he was nosing around. The senator and his little-dick assistant should have come prepared to slap some legal action on us from the Armed Services Committee, or the courts, or somebody. It was their golden opportunity. Instead, he just huffed and puffed and we sent him away. Should have seen their faces when Rockhead handed them an AK-47 and told them to shoot some soldiers. Empty, but they didn’t know that.”

Sybelle Summers, the Trident ops officer, looked over at the hard-faced master gunnery sergeant. “However, he specifically asked about Trident and Kyle.”

“Yes, ma’am. That he did.”

“Why us?” asked the Lizard, Commander Freedman. “Hundreds of special operators are on the move every day. Why is he digging so hard to get us out of the closet? And how can he be linking us to what’s going on with the Group of Six?”

Dawkins spread his hands in an I-don’t-know motion.

“Why do politicians do anything?” Middleton asked. “He didn’t just dream this thing up out of blue sky. It sounds to me like someone called in a big favor and he is poking around for answers. As an Armed Services member, he knows better than most that special ops work is secret, and that blowing a secret op is a big deal, something that he would not chance unless he had a very good reason to do so. It could backfire on him politically.”

The Lizard acted nervous. “Jimenez, that assistant, has been busy. After finding the name and photo of Kyle, he managed to get some low-level Department of Homeland Security hacker with administrator clearance to track Swanson’s recent movements. Back when we pulled Kyle out of Germany to go to Spain, he left some electronic footprints in Barcelona when he visited the widow of one of the Marines who was killed. Added to what Ryan Powell gave up, the assumption could be made that he, and we, are involved in the Spanish surgical strikes.”

The general sighed. “Thank you, Dr. Spock, for your Star Wars logic. It still leaves unanswered the question of why.”

“That would be Mr. Spock, sir, the first officer and science officer of the starship Enterprise. Dr. Spock was a famous pediatrician. And it’s Star Trek, not Star Wars. You do that on purpose just to see what I will say, don’t you, sir?”

“Be quiet. Any suggestions for a next step? I don’t want the White House involved.” The general looked at the team. “Come on, people. Think.”

“A private talk with the senator might help,” suggested Summers.

“To scare him? We don’t want to be accused of threatening a member of Congress.”

“Just the opposite, sir. Let’s throw him a bone. See what he wants in an informal session.”

“You’re not going over to his office, are you?”

“I’m thinking more about his living room, say about oh-dark-thirty.” She flashed a wicked smile.