“It shouldn’t have happened in the first place,” she said honestly. The adrenaline rush was fading fast and the last two days caught up with her in a second. She was exhausted. There had been too much death and some of it was her fault.
“Maybe.”
Chris opened the door of the Tahoe and motioned for Renee to get in.
The deputy director took a seat next to her and told his aide to drive.
“This fuckup is going to start a huge shit storm, and people are going to want some answers,” the deputy director began. “Right now our lawyers are shitting bricks trying to figure out if this little operation was even legal, but that’s not what I’m worried about.” He paused as the driver navigated his way through the mass of cars parked along the road.
As they got closer to the outer perimeter, Renee could see news vans parked on the perfectly manicured grass of the upscale neighborhood. Their satellite masts were extended, and cameras and reporters were busy trying to beat each other to the scoop as trophy wives and homeowners gossiped and tried to get on TV.
It was a madhouse.
“I want you to know that Joseph was a personal friend of mine. Not many people know that we were partners when he first got the job. I say all of this so you will understand that what happened to him is a very personal matter. That being said, I’ve been contacted by General Swift, who wants you on a plane as soon as possible.”
“Sir, I understand General Swift wants me out of here, but I—” Renee stopped talking as the man next to her raised his hand.
“This isn’t negotiable, I’m afraid.”
“I understand.” She didn’t, but it appeared the conversation was over.
The deputy director tossed a manila folder onto her lap and began speaking as she opened the cover.
“Renee, inside that folder is your standard nondisclosure agreement. If you sign it, you get bumped up to the boys’ club; if not, then nothing changes. You go back to Afghanistan and get back to work.”
Renee scanned the first paragraph before turning to the last page and scrawling her name across the signature line. There was no reason to read the whole thing; she knew what it said, and more importantly what it meant.
Thompson took the folder and stuffed it into his briefcase.
“You ever heard of the Anvil Program?” he asked.
“Rumors mostly,” she began, “some black ops unit that Decklin was attached to.”
“The Anvil Program is something we inherited from the Bush era, but unlike your run-of-the-mill Special Ops unit, this one was off the books. I’m talking next-level classified.”
“So what does this have to do with Decklin and me? I mean, why are you telling me all of this?”
“Two hours after Decklin kills one of my agents, Colonel Barnes, and all his people, walk off the reservation; an hour later every hard drive with any information on the Anvil Program gets wiped out. We have no idea how it happened; all my guys can tell me is that it was an inside job.”
“Okay…,” Renee said, waiting for the punch line.
“All we have left is this,” he said, holding up a thumb drive. Deputy Director Thompson squinted his eyes and looked into the distance. “A man like Barnes doesn’t just give up his career unless he’s got big plans of his own.”
CHAPTER 10
The pilot of the Mi-17 kept the helicopter in the fading sun for as long as possible before gaining altitude to clear one of the higher peaks. The Russian helicopter was a relic of the Soviet invasion and until recently had been used to ferry supplies from Kandahar to coalition outposts. A cracked manifold had sent it to the scrap yard, but after a new coat of paint and fresh Afghan army markings, the old warhorse was once again carrying troops into battle.
While the Serbian pilot focused on keeping the ancient helicopter in the air, his copilot kept an eye on the oil gauge. The instrument panel was faded from constant exposure to the Afghan sun, and the glass over the dials was covered with a thick film that partially obscured the white needle inside.
The crew chief’s sweaty coveralls smelled of stale vodka as he squeezed past the soldiers lining the thin skin of the helicopter and made his way to the surprisingly neat row of oil cans bungee-corded below the gearbox. A metal can opener hung from a length of grime-coated rope, where it swung gently in front of Colonel Barnes’s head. The man grabbed the silver tool in an oil-soaked fist and held it tight against the lid of one of the cans. He applied enough pressure to pop two quick holes in the lid before pouring the contents into the gearbox.
Colonel Barnes closed his faded copy of Marcus Aurelius to avoid the sporadic drops of oil coming from the lines that split off from the gearbox and watched the man toss the can out of the open observation window. He’d paid the crew well to transport his team to the target but would be greatly relieved when they were finally on the ground.
“Colonel, we’re five minutes out,” the pilot said over the radio in his heavily accented English.
Barnes’s rusty Russian was better than the pilot’s terrible English, so he had told the man to stick to his native tongue, but the pilot had refused with his trademark toothless smile. The colonel stowed the book in his cargo pocket and leaned forward to get a brief glimpse out of the cockpit.
His team was conducting their final gear checks as they neared the objective, and to his right Harden leaned forward and spat tobacco on the floor of the helicopter. Barnes tapped him on the shoulder and held up five extended fingers. Harden nodded and wiped the dip spit off his lower lip before passing the sign to the rest of the team.
The smell of jet fuel and burned oil filled the stifling confines of the cargo compartment, and as the pilot lowered the ramp, a welcoming flood of fresh air blew over the waiting soldiers. The colonel unplugged his headset from the helicopter’s communication jack, switched to the team’s internal channel, and checked the black Pelican case that sat on the floor between his legs.
He’d been skeptical that Decklin could deliver the weapon he’d asked for, but the man had proved more resourceful than he’d imagined. The vials of the untraceable nerve agent had arrived a day before they were expected, which gave Barnes the ability to push up his timeline.
It was supposed to be some potent stuff, but Barnes had never been the type to take someone else’s word. He needed to see for himself, and that was exactly what he planned to do.
This would be his last operation in Afghanistan, and he planned on making it a memorable one. The war was winding down, and America was tired of fighting a conflict with no foreseeable end. But as the United States was losing its resolve, the enemy was growing stronger and much more threatening. Men like him, the true believers, had been fighting the jihadists in one country or another since 2001, and there was no way they were giving up because the American people were losing focus.
The colonel had been given greater latitude to prosecute the fight than any man before him, but it would never be enough to win. He lived by the Clausewitz motto: “You must pursue one great decisive aim with force and determination.”
Barnes was about to show everyone the depth of his determination, especially that piece of shit Karzai. Fate might have chosen that man to rule Afghanistan, but Barnes believed in making his own destiny. Karzai had done more to undermine America’s policy in Afghanistan than the Taliban. He was a thief and a liar, and Barnes relished the idea of putting an end to his reign.
His attention swung back to the cockpit, where low ridgelines hid Forward Operating Base Kamdesh from his view. The FOB was a black site and its location wasn’t on any of the maps most military commanders had access to. But Barnes knew that it lay just over the next ridge, hidden from prying eyes.