Chapter 5

Ochsenfurt, Germany

Hearing the obnoxious two-toned German police sirens from the north and the east, O’Brien broadcast a terse order on the group channel, “Shoot all of the dock lights out!”

Beeman and Malone quickly assassinated the three HID floods that lined the quay. Malone, not joining the group effort of searching bodies, and recording IDs, returned to the east side of the metal building, finding the four tango bodies in line. Malone keyed his headset.

“Boss, we got a live tango that needs to be secured on the barge before the cops get here. You’re going to want this fucker!”

O’Brien and Acorn exchanged questioning glances as Sifuentes patched up the hole in the CIA officer’s shoulder.

“Roger that, Digger. We’ll be docking in a few mike. Stand ready with your live tango.”

Before sunrise, the deployed Hornblende members were aboard the barge, secure and locked into the conex containers that were directly in front of the wheelhouse. Only Acorn and O’Brien, along with the barge crew, remained topside, discretely observing the festivities and mass confusion from a space between two shipping containers amidship.

The accumulating, and geometrically increasing, arrivals fed the disarray of officialdom that had filled all available spaces in the industrial area, covering the area over 300 meters length and parallel to the Main River. The gaggle of law enforcement, paramedics, politicians, and federal officials was approaching a significant percentage of the small community’s population. Acorn commented on the latest arrival.

“This is quite interesting. I will assume the main attraction has arrived.”

“Who are those fuckers? They look like politicians.”

“Valid assumption, staff sergeant. The older man, gray hair and beard, is Harald Range. He is the Public Prosecutor General, functionally equivalent to our Attorney General. The shorter man to his left is his boss, Justice Minister Heiko Maas. And the man coming out of that black Mercedes is Hans-Georg Maassen, the head of the German domestic intelligence agency. And the woman with him is a senior officer of Bundeskriminalamt.”

“What the fuck is ‘bundershit’?”

“Bundeskriminalamt is the Federal Criminal Police Office of Germany. I would guess that the German feds are about to usurp control of the crime scene from the state police; which may allow us to avoid detention.”

Acorn and O’Brien surveyed the confused scene, noting the comings and goings of the multitude of German officials with varying degrees of interest, at least until Acorn, in a rare expletive, announced his surprise at yet another arrival.

“I will definitely be damned. Shit. Look at that...”

“Look at what?”

“That is Maurice Gourdault-Montagne. The French ambassador.”

“Why the fuck is he here?”

“He will probably perform various diplomatic feats that would save us from ourselves. I would be willing to bet that he is about to claim that this barge is French sovereign.”

“All of this international intrigue has exhausted me. I’m gonna see that tango that got Digger all hot and bothered. I’ll keep it on a hot mike if ya wanna listen. Let me know if Mr Cameron is able to explain this shit and determine who set us up ... Your two drivers. They in a secure pos?”

Harry Acorn nodded an affirmative to the O’Brien, delaying going into the control conex container, intently observing the various peoples wading through the dead bodies and the related law enforcement activities along the quay.

Malone ripped the sack off of Jensen’s head, then shoved him into a steel chair. Jensen blinked several times, regaining his focus, as Malone further bound the DIA agent to the chair. O’Brien’s surprise was minimal, and his first words were stated almost whimsically.

“Wellllll ... howdy fuckin doody, asshole.”

Malone’s evil grin was his silent response to O’Brien’s greeting to the DIA agent, offered in the full faith that Jensen would be in receipt of some well-earned karma. The sudden widening of the prisoner’s eyes indicated his recognition of O’Brien. O’Brien was, of course, over-joyed and perversely touched of his immediate recognition by the DIA agent. To Jensen’s credit, he did not piss on himself or beg. He was resolute, driven by his elitist arrogance and a fanatical sense of purpose.

“Your group of wanna-be commandos fucked up big-time. They’re all dead ... except you. Ya wanna tell me who the brilliant tactician was that designed that fuck-story of an ambush?”

Jensen, remained silent, surveying his surroundings. His earlier guess that he was within one of the shipping containers on the targeted barge appeared to be correct. The irony of O’Brien’s question to Jensen was that the DIA agent also wanted to know whom had arranged this catastrophe. Regardless, Jensen knew that his part in the ‘Great Reorganization’ had ended and that he would probably spend a limited portion of his immediate future in a jail, and was certain that O’Brien would eventually be killed, while he was destined to be a member of the new ruling elite.

“Look man, I’m over Afghanistan. You need to talk to us. If ya don’t, its gonna abso-fuckin-lutely suck to be you. Ya understand, ass-bite?”

“I understand, sergeant.”

“Were you in command of that cluster-fuck?”

“Yes.”

“Who were you takin orders from?”

“Nobody in Germany knows who our controller is.”

“Fuckin guess.”

“I am certain directives originated from The Company.”

“Why y’all think the CIA is your controller?”

“Our France and Italy people are insisting that there is an army Special Forces unit that has been clearing out our people, and that their runners were all CIA. The intel officer at the Frankfurt consulate told me that a Special Forces commander and a CIA officer would dock a container barge in Ochsenfurt, and that the vessel would be lightly defended.”

“Why would they think that Special Forces were hittin your people?”

“Because green berets were observed in Landstuhl taking down our people, and they were observed training at Camp Pendleton with a CIA officer ... is your platoon supporting this counterinsurgency?”

“Yep. Just a bunch of stupid fuckin grunts. No high-speed shit here.”

Jensen could not be certain if the Marine was serious, or was simply being a sarcastic minor cog in the CIA’s greater gear-box. The DIA agent had yet to fathom that a small group of Marine infantrymen were methodically eliminating key members of their organization. Jensen firmly believed that this was but a temporary set-back, and that they now had a critical mass of people embedded in all western governments that had remained undetected. He was also certain that no western state had an effective counterinsurgency.

Mr Acorn, you know the asshole. Ya think he’s legit?”

“I do. It is interesting that the cell organizers believe that an army SOF unit is doing insurgent search and destroy. If there is a CIA controller, then that person may well be be playing both ends against the middle, for obvious reasons.”

Master Sergeant Hoerner grimaced at Harry Acorn’s statement as he firmly stated, “I’m not an intel guy, so its not obvious; makes no sense to me, Acorn.”

“Very much so, master sergeant. There is, at a minimum, no senior person in The Company that does not suspect that the organization is running an internal counterinsurgency. And if a senior officer has become indirectly or directly aware of Hornblende, or is a member of Hornblende, that person would probably, by design, be a double agent. Why? Because no one can predict if we will be fully successful. So no matter what power structure evolves after the 2016 elections, they would want to be pre-installed into the winning side.”

“The CIA is that much in doubt?”

“Very much. From the AD on down to the working analyst level.”

O’Brien wanted it out in the open, he wanted the troops to hear an ‘official’ prognosis.

“Come clean, Mr Acorn. Do ya think we can win?”

“What is winning, staff sergeant? All that can be said is that I do not want to live under a new world order governed by religionists and fascists. I will not entertain any thoughts of losing ... but back to the principle issue, we can now say that there is at least one senior man inside The Company whom is a double agent. We have to assume that all message traffic is not secure. Therefore, the risk level is too high. We cannot call this in.”

“Fuckin agree, Mr Acorn. And fuck any more sitreps. They’ll sure as shit will hear about this cluster-fuck. Its gonna hit the German news feeds today and will be global tomorrow.”

Hoerner ratcheted up his paranoia, but asserted a need to avoid any immediate action. His advice was never ignored by the soldiers and Marines of Hornblende.

“I agree with Opie. The head-shed will figure it out soon enough. I think that we should continue the over-all mission, but on our own schedule, and under comm black-out. But we need to let the ranch know, and you need to find a way to maintain your European contacts without any leaks back to Langley.”

“I see no way to talk the the ranch securely...”

O’Brien pulled his personal phone out of his side pocket, with an overt display of the device to Acorn and Hoerner.

“We’ll just give Jake a call to her personal number. Then we let her over-ripe brain-housing group decide who to inform and what to say.”

“Say what?!?! When was the last time you had a piss test, Opie?”

“Geez. Eat shit, Ray. We have a fuckin code book. Jake and the captain made a book of single-use phrase transpositions. So there’s no code to break or de-cipher; ya gotta have the fuckin code book.”

“That should work, Opie ... But you’re ignoring the elephant in the room. Your boys are demanding Jensen’s head. You plan on turning him over with the other tangos?”

“Not a fuckin chance. But until Mr Acorn believes we’ve squeezed out all intel possible, he stays, unharmed and isolated, and on this barge. That asshole is too dangerous and too self-righteous, and he can ID some of us. We lost a damned good Marine in Afghanistan because of Jensen’s fuckery. But he will, and he has to, end. Jensen is not gonna leave this barge alive.”

Anderson Ranch, Medina County, Texas

Captain Garza exited the head and returned to his rack. After a few minutes sitting of his rack, he looked at his watch and knew that his chances of returning to sleep were close to nil. Throwing on cammie trousers, boots, jacket, and his pistol, Garza decided a walk out around the corrals and paddocks in the mild winter air would be nice.

Spock was also awake, having woken from a bad dream, unable to return to slumber. The donkey seldom slept well when too many members of the herd were gone past three or four days. His thoughts formed images and the remembered smells of O’Brien and Malone and the other human herd members that had been missing for almost a week.

“Hello, Spock. How’s it going?”

Spock greatly appreciated the captain’s company, even though he did not scratch and pet his favorite spots. But being petted across his neck and being talked to was good. Garza and the donkey engaged in a deep conversation about engineering design considerations for hydraulics and pneumatics. The captain believed that a donkey named ‘Spock’ should have some basic engineering knowledge. The conversation continued until he saw Carlton exit from the control building.

“If I have to, I will order you to your rack, staff sergeant.”

“I’m done for the night, or morning, sir.” Jake eyes swept the area. “We need to talk, captain. I just learned that our people in Germany had a big-ass fire-fight ... I believe that we need to re-think the Oklahoma mission.”

“Talk to me, Jake. Did any of our people get hurt in Germany?”

“Unknown, sir. Opie said that the cells have a senior person inside the CIA. That person may be batting for both sides, and that this person is also the controller for, at least, the Germany cells.”

“What the...?!”

“That’s right sir, they have a mole. My money is on one of the senior analysts that directly supports Hornblende. I’m working my way through comm logs and travel records and watch officer logs and respective personal home computers, but have not found anything definite. I have three more people to look at.”

“Cancel Oklahoma?”

“Yes, sir. It’s probably a set-up. Our most recent request for sat support or a UAV on-station was denied or ignored, The army reconnaissance systems were delayed, and the last sitrep for the AO was nothing but a dupe of the previous report. Our people would be walking dead into a pile of shit.”

“It does add up, Jake. I will canx the mission ... You look doubtful, Jake. Let’s have it all, Marine. What else did you find?”

“When certain CIA SigInt stations are not active, I have side-channel access to a limited number of sats. I have two recent images. One from less than 100 hours ago, and one from this evening. There is an increased material presence on site, there are about ten to twenty more possible tangos, and they have constructed two more OPs. They’re getting ready sir, and not just for us.”

“If we dropped in now?”

“They could not be forewarned, so we would not be facing an ambush, but our contact team would be too small to be effective, sir.”

“But we have the chance to neutralize a large number of principle cell organizers...” Captain Garza stroked a non-existent beard, “Quietly round up Chapman, Green, Doc, Charles, Jammer, Crammer, and Cheeseburger...”

“No reserve team for Europe, sir?”

“It is logical to assume that Hoerner and O’Brien will have go quiet for a few days. I will bet my next paycheck that O’Brien has already gone dark. They will have to stand down for forty eight to ninety six hours. Inform them.”

“Aye, sir. I’ll call Opie and get Star and Higs working on seven kits ... Captain? The aircrew?”

“They’re at Kelly Field for the night; I will give them a status alert. Also, I will need to talk to Major Olsen. Unless he advises that we wave off, we go in tomorrow night; so we’ll have to step off within an hour. The lock-down starts now. Jake, take our acquisition systems links down. Except for your agency monitor feeds, I want us totally dark.”

“Aye Aye, sir.”

Ochsenfurt, Germany

“It would seem that we got mixed up in a group of ultra-nationalists selling arms and drugs to finance their operations.”

O’Brien cracked a wide smile at the CIA officer, mostly in remembrance of the Iran-Contra fiasco, and the total tool that Ollie North was.

“Damn. You spooks could make a shit-load of money writing pulp fiction. Whatever works. Gonna bet that this was major fuckin eye-opener for German spooks. Is everybody freakin out?”

“Let’s put it this way, staff sergeant. Germany, Norway, Denmark, Poland, Sweden, and Norway are requesting an audience with the NSA director.”

“Guess who is missing from that list?”

Hoerner, in a moment of increased understanding, raised an eyebrow.

“I will say the UK and Austria.”

“Bingo, Ray. Give the master sergeant a cookie.”

“Why is that supposedly obvious, boss?”

“Simple shit for simple minds, Digger. The UK because they’re too fuckin stupid to know that they’re stupid, and Austria because they are a nation of shitbag Nazis ... Back to the issue, Mr Acorn. Jake’s last comm said that Captain Garza ordered us to stand down, and that we are are our own for for the next three or four days.”

Hoerner and O’Brien exchanged knowing glances.

“We’ll be back on the river by noon. Start the watch, Opie. I’ll stand first watch. Digger, you’re up with me.”

“Aye, top. Okay, people. Two per watch for two hours, one fore and one aft. Condition One. Keep out of visual. Radios in group P25 mode. Mickey and me will take the next watch.”

Fedex Hangar/Warehouse, DFW Airport, Texas

“Refuel in 45, LT. We got both 240s set up, but only the ramp gun will be manned.”

In response to the pilot, Lieutenant Chapman briefly looked up to nod an acknowledgment to CW4 Halley.

“Staff Sergeant? Care to take a midnight ride?”

Carlton, almost jumping up from the equipment pallets, was quick to answer.

“Aye, sir. Good to go. I’ll take to door gun.”

Jake Carlton’s eager response did not go unnoticed by Captain Garza.

Chapman signaled a rally to Green and Vera, leaving Hartman, Jerry, Mybar, Sanders, and Charles to complete their kits and verify comm and data systems. Captain Garza verified the leg restraints on the two agency/FedEx employees, intending to secure the spook-support personnel for at least the next 36 hours.

“ ... like I said, sir. The locals do not give a shit. Gunfire is not unusual, its an isolated army base. But if we buzz them, there’s a chance we’ll get holes through the bird. As for our end-game, we know that will get a big response ... What’s the latest on weather, sarge?”

“Surface winds calm, intermittent from the southwest. At fourteen to seventeen thousand, its five to twelve from the north, swings to the northwest under six thousand. Still clear, but we got another cold front out of the northwest coming through in less than forty eight hours.”

“So how about if I don’t open until under three? Don’t want the moon behind me.”

Green was certain of the answer was self-evident, but nonetheless, confirmed Vera’s drop plan.

“LT? We clear to go? Vera can do it.”

Lieutenant Chapman did the mental math, then Nodded to SSG Green.

“He will have less than two mike to find the north OP on the way down, but its a go for now, just do not miss that ridge. Sergeant Green, get a final report before we go. But both you and Corporal Vera need to be observant and be prepared to change plans up until the drop.”

“Understood, sir ... Tyjon, I want you or Cheeseburger to check my rifle scope before I pack it.”

Lt Chapman separated himself from the main group, joining Captain Garza to further study the latest sat imagery and map overlays.

East of Camp Gruber Training Center (Cherokee Game Refuge), Oklahoma

The MH-47 had been in a gradual and steady climb since crossing the Red River, then leveling at 17000 feet MSL, being careful not to enter the controlled airspace starting at FL180.

Carlton pressed her flight helmet into the front ridge of Vera’s jump helmet. They were talking via their headsets, but she wanted Vera’s eye contact. She wanted her statement to be emphatic.

“Again, Tyjon. There is no chain of command for the first phase of the mission. You see something bad, call for an abort, Don’t wait for the LT or for Cheeseburger to declare. You will be the one that sees shit long before the others. Don’t hesitate to call it, Marine.

Aye, staff sergeant. No problemo.”

Vera flipped his radio back to the group channel.

“Last chance for one of my chili/macs, Jammer.”

“Fuck you, Tyjon. Not giving you my marble cake.”

The crew-chief, watching this strange group of sailors, soldiers, and Marines prepare for uncertain hazards, thought them to be slightly unhinged when he observed their laughter. Sergeant Berry shrugged at the unknown source of humor, then pointed to Lt Chapman when the pilot provided the five-minute alert.

Chapman and Berry exchanged hand signals. Indicating standby to Vera and Green, Chapman pointed to Vera. Vera stood up and waddled the short distance to the aft cargo ramp, secured his NVGs, handed his oxygen bottle to the crew-chief, then calmly strolled off the ramp’s end, disappearing into the cool darkness.

Vera carefully flipped onto his back to re-position his watch and altimeter. Flipping back over to face the rapidly approaching earth, Vera aligned his body to the south using the dimming moon as directional reference, then spreading his arms and legs away from his body to ‘fly’ to the southwest. At 6000 feet, Vera identified the general AO, enabling his decision to delay his chute deployment to under 3000 feet.

Pulling the cord handle released the drogue followed by the abrupt deceleration when the main canopy was pulled free. Briefly glancing up to verify, Vera turned his attentions to flying to the target ridge and finding the clearing. Turning more south than west, put the jumper flying more parallel to the ridge. Finding the clearing, Vera opened panels to increase descent rate and dropped his tethered equipment bag, Vera sharply banked to turn normal to the small ridge clearing at less than ten meters above ground, enabling a touchdown at the south edge of the clearing. Vera collected his dark green canopy material and stashed his jump gear in the bushes at the tree line. After scanning the area, Vera clicked his radio PTT three times. Three squelch breaks were heard in reply.

Visualizing the topo maps and satellite images in his mind’s eye, the Marine chambered a round into his M25 before moving through the intermittent cosp of oaks, poplars, and cottonwoods that were connected with the typical west Ozark thick undergrowth of brush. Less than halfway down the ridge, Vera found the game trail, following it to southeast.

The OP was facing north, nestled among a stand of barren deciduous trees, about five meters below the ridge line. Vera observed the OP and studied the adjacent area for five minutes, then turned off his NVGs. Closing his eyes, he listened to the voices of his two staff sergeant mentors. He heard O’Brien’s dissertation on situational awareness, and ‘feeling’ the AO with all senses, and staying super-aware. He re-played his most recent session with Pistochini, feeling the confidence and security when mentally joined.

Vera un-assed his ruck gear, pulled the slide back on his pistol to verify that a round was loaded by touch, determined the upwind direction, then traversed the bottom of the ridge paralleling a ravine. Looking back down the ravine to verify his position and wind direction, the Marine ascended the ridge diagonally. Every fifty meters of travel, Vera stopped to listen, smell, and visually scan his local perimeter.

Reaching the ridge-line, Vera scanned the rock edifice to the south until he found the second OP. Vera then reversed direction to approach the tango’s OP. The Marine froze his position when he smelled coffee then strained to hear a muffled metallic rustle. A few seconds later, Vera heard the subdued speech of two males. Vera smiled, knowing that their poor noise discipline would mask his stalk.