Chapter 6

Main River, Germany.

Under the watchful eyes of German federal law enforcement, the two French boat-masters maneuvered the barge back into the Main River’s navigable channel, moving the vessel into eastern Europe. The husband and wife boat-master team had spent the night discussing whether to disconnect the container barge and leave the Americans and their associated insanity, or to continue with the contractual terms of the mission. They then used the following morning re-negotiating the continuation of the contract with national security attaches sent by the French embassy, as full-blown fire-fights had not been part of any previous discussions. The contracted fee had been more than quadrupled, enabling their acceptance of the increased risk. The boat-masters’ assumptive mitigation for the risk level was that this unusual group of people had demonstrated an other-worldly calm under fire, and that the embarked Americans had demonstrated a professional acumen that may well enable some level of mitigation for any further armed conflict. As for the cognitive dissonance per the end-game, regardless of any societal and cultural and moralistic norms, ultimately, money talks.

Jensen felt the boat’s motions as it moved away from the dock, somewhat disconcerted with the realization that the barge had been released by the German police. While concerned about the barge’s destination, Jensen was confident that the vessel would be actively and easily tracked. These thoughts were interrupted by the metallic thunk of the conex hatch opening.

O’Brien did not miss the look of recognition Jensen gave Acorn, surmising (correctly) that the world of spooks was a complex and finite inter-woven web of incestuous intrigue. O’Brien also noted that there was a brief expression of surprise.

“Hello, Hank. Sorry about the MREs, but we have nothing else. Later, we will be able to stop for supplies and have something more palatable.”

Jensen nodded with a cautious glance towards O’Brien.

“I understand that you have a history with Staff Sergeant O’Brien. I assure you that we will attempt to avoid a repeat of such acrimony.”

Jensen, upon his recognition of Harry Acorn as a principal in a counter-insurgency operation, achieved a more broad understanding of CIA structure and control, realizing that The Company was far from containment, but was certain that the change would be eventual, and from the top down. Thusly convinced that the existing powers within the agency would root out this isolated group, Jensen determined that any acts enabled by his cooperation would not harm to the ‘Great Reorganization’.

“I will provide what litle is known, Harry. Have you considered that your sense of duty is misaligned? You should know that the coming changes are inevitable. Most peoples of this world desire order and stability above all else. We can provide a moral order, eventually free from the chaos of continual global conflicts.”

“You may be correct, Hank. We will save your visions of Plato and Mao for a discussion under different circumstances, and for a different time. Let us discuss your CIA controllers...”

O’Brien and Hoerner met with Acorn, in absence of the troops, within the control conex box. Both of the senior military members had concerns and increased doubts when faced with the DIA agent’s certainty of the coming changes.

“Mr Acorn, there are only four people that meet Jensen’s description. And I don’t find any of them likely.”

“Whom would fit your profile?”

“Yourself, Cameron, Richmond, and Haspel. You may have been an asshole at times, but you’re not the inside man, and ya caught yourself before goin’ to the ‘Dark Side’. I’ve met Doctor Richmond and talked to the man several times; he doesn’t seem a good fit for fascism or religious fanaticism. Which leaves your boss and your boss’s boss. I don’t know Mr Cameron or Ms Haspel much, but they don’t seem like the type, so you tell me.”

Hoerner’s interjection matched his practical fatalism, “Damn, Opie. Let’s back up. If the project’s head honcho or the assistant director is the double agent, we are completely screwed.”

Acorn, though younger than MSgt Hoerner or Capt Garza, was quick to recognize that he was now ‘The One’. He had made a hard and staunch determinism to keep the project upright and going forward.

“Gentlemen, whomever the inside person, per Captain Garza, we stay dark and we wait, and we continue towards our next contact, but delay the next mission. And master sergeant, it is important that you realized that our eventual status is by no means a fait accompli.”

O’Brien was less than convinced.

“What ‘bout your CIA drivers? Can’t move around or do shit without those fuckers.”

“They are probably in France by now, dropping off the bodies and the detainees. They should be available for the next phase.”

“Just where did the agency find these people?”

“If you are referencing their low experience levels, master sergeant, that was by design. They never spent the requisite year at The Farm. Both are detached air force personnel. We recruited them directly out of the Monterrey DLI and sent them to Benning for basic weapons training. They are extremely valuable at this point.”

“Not if they continue to lose their bearing and stress out.”

“Top, think of them as civilians, albeit with guns. Their value is three-fold. They are not known by sight or name to anyone else in the project; they have been running around Germany and southern and eastern Europe for over a year and know the operatives and the area well; and they have no deep knowledge of the project or of its personnel.”

“Can they be contacted?”

“Master Sergeant, I am unwilling to attempt communications at this time. In any case, they have been instructed to go dark. So we will not hear from them for several days, perhaps more than a week. In the interim, I believe that we should wait for Staff Sergeant Carlton to call us and for Staff Sergeant O’Brien to use their clever code-book.”

DFW Airport, Texas

The army national guard lieutenant colonel remained secured to the steel chair, but had been stripped to his underwear. The only source of heat was a single incandescent light bulb hanging from an ad-hoc electrical line tacked to the plywood. The officer’s low body fat did not little to delay the onset of the first stages of hypothermia.

“Colonel, when were you informed that a hostile contact team was inbound?”

Garza nodded to Hartman after less than twenty seconds of silence. Hartman had tied several large knots into a meter-long piece of 5mm parachute cord. Hartman pulled on his gloves. Four quick whacks across the colonel’s ventral midsection resulted in unrestrained, but brief, screams announcing the soldier’s reception of an unexpected, and painful, treatment.

“Who told you to prepare an ambush? When did they tell you?”

Receiving no answer, Garza nodded to Hartman. Hartman escalated the ‘inducement’ to talk with a punch to the colonel’s groin. The colonel’s perception of pain was amplified by his inability to fold his body in response to the debilitating impact.

“Colonel, no one will save you. Neither the DoD or any intel organization can know where you are or even if you are alive, as all of your people are dead with many bodies not identifiable. Sooner or later you will be seriously and permanently damaged from this interrogation. Who told you that we were coming? When did they tell you?”

Garza sighed, again nodding to Hartman. Hartman, with grim determination, stepped in front of the colonel, raised his knee, then slammed his boot onto the top of the colonel’s exposed and restrained foot. The soldier’s foot was badly damaged and radiating continual and sharp pain sensations throughout his central nervous system. The colonel was approaching the edge of his sanity. But he was able contain his mind by rationalizing that because these two operatives had not revealed their face, he was not slated to be killed, thus providing a thread of hope, which halted his falling over the psychic precipice of madness. Past a certain threshold of pain the self-awareness of the CNS shuts down. When the colonel lasped out of consciousness, Garza exited the plywood shipping container.

Hartman did not immediately follow his captain out of the container, watching the prisoner’s head roll around his shoulders as his mind entered and exited a conscious state. Hartman’s mind re-played O’Brien’s voice as he recalled one of the staff sergeant’s many pedantic treatises on the nature of sociopaths and religionists and fascists. Sergeant Hartman did not, and could not, understand why a sworn commissioned officer would design to undermine and pervert the American Constitution.

The colonel regained consciousness and locked eyes with Hartman. Hartman, infused by a burst of anger and disgust, overcame his discipline as he proceeded to solidly and continually slap the colonel’s face and head.

The colonel could not plead between the facial and head blows, and could only say “no ... no ... no...”

Hartman’s desire to punish the soldier ended when the colonel was able to choke out, “will tell you ... stop ... will tell you ... no ... no ... stop...”

Sgt Hartman quickly stepped out of the container to summon his commanding officer.

Lt Marc Chapman and Capt Juan Garza and SSgt Jake Carlton walked into a corner of the hangar to talk, watching the two pilots assist the crew-chief as he worked on the MH-47.

“They almost certainly know by now that we secured the AO, and that the contact was outside of our planned schedule, and that the three contact teams in Germany survived the ambush. Whatever they had planned for us is moot. When they cannot find us with satellites, they will use UAVs. So my question is, how do we return to The Ranch, and what if they know the location of The Ranch?”

Garza did not directly address Chapman’s questions, as his mind was already working ahead of those issues.

“How much cash did we find at the tango compound, Jake?

“North of 14k, sir.”

“How much of the CIA cash fund did we take with us?”

“5k, sir.”

“So, we are set for fuel and hangar space rental, at least in the short term. Jake, need you and Halley to find a way back. I do not care if it takes four or five days, but find uncontrolled airports that have hangars large enough for the bird, and that are no more than three hours travel time seperation. What’s our chow and ammo status?”

“Four unopened cases of MREs, two rat-fucked cases, and one thousand rounds of 7.62 mil, plus whatever the boys still have rucked. I’m guessing about 200 rounds of forty cal ... and whatever 5.56 mil is on your bodies.”

“Can you get into CIA systems with the two computers you brought?”

“Not the comm center. If I don’t get too froggy, we can probably access the sat interface computers and the routers and at least one switch in the project control room. Maybe some of the local machines sitting on the control-center desks. Not one hundred percent certain, sir.”

“That is good enough. I want to know what they know about us ... Marc, what’s the bird’s status?”

“Fueled up. Should be good to go after they replace that hydraulic line. How do you want to run this?”

“We will fly, maybe, three hours per night - no lights and no transponders, and stay in a hangar during the day. We will step off tomorrow night. Marc? Jake? Thoughts about the colonel’s future? Is he a liability or an asset?”

“Captain, I will not lie, we all want to cap that bastard. But in the long term, assuming he stays in a communicative mood, he could be a valuable intel asset.”

“Agree with the LT, sir. But he is a definitely a short-term liability. Doc says that if his foot goes south he’s fucked without hospital-level care.”

“Can Sanders keep him alive if his foot goes bad?”

“Not recommended, sir. Wouldn’t want doc to expend his med packs on that asshole. But Sanders says he could probably keep him alive if the foot goes septic, at least until we get to the ranch ... Sir, I got a dumb-shit idea.”

“My favorite type of idea, Jake. What do you have?”

“The LT was talking about not returning to the ranch. Leaving here may be a problem; this FedEx facility is a CIA hub and bears an over-watch. What if I set up a server and one or two of our people camp out here to cover our ex-fil. And, what if we do not return to The Ranch. The LT knows that air force major running base security at Laughlin. We leave the LT and the boys and the bird on the base, then yourself and moi and Lieutenant Colonel Scumbag sneak back onto the Ranch from the air base with a midnight drive. Very low probability that the sats or UAVs would ID and track a single POV with just us.”

“Yes, that would work. And the base is about twenty five air minutes away from the ranch...”

The three aircrew soldiers, repairing the MH-47, turned to face Garza in response to his raised voice, “Ms Halley? Could you spare a few minutes?”

Ottensheim, Main-Danube Canal, Austria

With the multiple lock transitions, the barge slowly ascended through eastern Germany via the Main then into Austria via the Danube. O’Brien scanned the area as the lock lowered the barge. The area was mostly rural farmlands, having little activity, thus presenting minimal security concerns.

“The crew says Ottensheim is less than three clicks, around the next bend. We’re going to dock about a click down the river”

“Roger that. Are drivers on site?”

“Unknown.”

“Manny, send Bark to take the watch. Ask the top to meet me in the control box...”

Hoerner nodded and gestured to O’Brien, indicating the two computer displays in front of the CIA officer. The real-time data indicated that Acorn had found a local data-link and had tunneled into an ISP. After looking at the characters flowing down the screen for a few seconds, O’Brien returned a shrug and a negative head-shake to Hoerner, as the data stream had no clear text. O’Brien did not recognize any of the digital salad other than the 12-byte DNS headers. O’Brien’s frustration with not understanding the displayed data scrolling down the screen, pushed a question to bring the absorbed CIA officer to the here and now.

“Mr Acorn, Jake’s message wasn’t clear. Don’t know if she was sayin that they’re gonna canx their mission. Ya think our head-shed will still attempt to organize the Oklahoma thing?”

“I believe that it is stating the obvious, when I say that Juan Garza would not go forward with the Oklahoma mission, knowing that there is compromised member of The Company that has had access to Hornblende project movement and location data for our contact teams.”

“What ‘bout us? Can we continue on our own schedule and avoid further shit from these commie fuckers? They still watchin us?”

“The logical assumption is that assets from either local cells, or The Company, have been tracking us.”

“No one on watch has seen shit, Mr Acorn. Its been dead-quiet since Passau.”

“Maybe so, but I will assume that the company has used UAVs, or more likely satellites.”

“Those fuckers would divert their heavy-duty shit to watch us?”

“I would be foolish to not make that allowance. To be more specific, there are two well-known satellite resources on line for eastern Europe and southwest Russia; and one is a polar configuration, so the orbital mechanics make it more than plausible the boat is being tracked.”

“I’ll have to agree with Acorn, Opie. The CIA, or at least someone that has access to NSA resources, has eyes.”

If that’s true, Ray, then we don’t make the rendezvous; they would, sure as shit, be waitin with a set-up. The fuckin spooks scheduled that rally site weeks ago. And what are we gonna do with the bodies? We turn ‘round and take em back to France?”

“I would rather not, staff sergeant. We need to get our detainees secured under control of a professional interrogation team as soon as possible. But there is central facet of the rendezvous vehicle that makes us somewhat immune to being intercepted by a cell or an errant Company faction.”

O’Brien, darkly laughing at Acorn’s quaint colloquialisms for double agents and traitors, and secret-squirrel transportation, thought the CIA agent’s discipline of thought to be lacking, or at least for this case, his exhibited shallow analytical depth.

“Shit, they’re probably converging on the coast now. How the fuck ya gonna hide that shit? Pretty fuckin obvious when a US Navy ship sails into the Black Sea.”

“An American naval vessel would not make it past the Bosporus or Dardanelles narrows undetected, nor would they be allowed to transit either strait. The company expects the transfer somewhere along the southwestern Black Sea. There are other options under consideration. These cells would be waiting for a lengthy and uncertain time interval, so the cells would be on-hold for an indeterminate time interval if they continue to follow this vessel into the sea. And it would be reasonable to assume that they would not be able to maintain significant resources on all four sites over the scheduled seventeen two fortyfive-day period.”

“Four sites? Seventeen days? Fortyfive days!? Talk to us, sir. What the fuck is goin on?”

“I have named access to several European accounts. Such as that we are benefactors of The Company largess, I have arranged for the selection of two or three suitable sailing vessels. Which means that whatever cells have been assigned to track us would be waiting for a long and uncertain time interval. One in the Aegean, the other in the Adriatic. I hope you like Greek food; and your people will need to learn to sail.”

Top Hoerner was less concerned about the change of transportation mode than the change of mission plans.

“And the forth and fifth missions?”

“Uncertain, master sergeant, but I do know that there could be an additional sixth mission.”

FedEx Warehouse/hangar, DFW Airport, Texas

As the third shift of FedEx workers poured into the hangar to punch in, Carlton exited the small room that housed the small server farm for the facility. The personnel sorting, routing, and tracking packages ignored the human activity in and out of the adjacent warehouse offices, long inured to the movements of office people. The package handling crew did, however, notice that the unmarked military helo was out of the hangar and on the tarmac. But the marked attentions of the Fedex employees were riveted to that of the panther-like stride of a tall, slender, and athletic female, as she approached and boarded the helo.

“Jammer and Charles good to go?”

“Locked and cocked, sir. They have boarding passes on Southwest for tomorrow’s 1700 flight to Little Rock. After that, its up to them to fly or hitch-hike.”

Jake traversed the piles of gear and Marines and soldiers to sit in the rear, next to Doc Sanders and the detained national guard lt colonel. She signed a ‘two’ to Sanders. Sanders flicked the PTT control to channel two.

“How’s he doing, doc?”

“No problems yet, but Cheeseburger did a job on that guy’s foot.”

“Yeah, that boy lives, breathes, and eats every dumb-shit word out of Opie’s pie-hole. He’s problably proud of himself.”

Sanders laughed at the true statement, but did admit the reality to Carlton.

“Damn, Jake. We all do. Pistol and Opie; they’re our glue. We don’t exist, otherwise.”

Carlton, in her profoundly analytical mind, re-confirmed the reality of the unit’s continued existence.

“Doc, unless the skipper says otherwise, fuck this asshole. Don’t waste a fuck-ton of effort on him.”

“Roger that, staff sergeant ... Jake, you agree with the LT? Are we fucked? What about our people in Europe?”

“Lieutenant Chapman is a damn good soldier. I don’t disagree. BUT ... he underestimates our situational control and our back-channel support. The CIA set us up as an independent entity, with control and funding channels indirect to their ‘black dollar’ funding paths. We stay dark and avoid screwing the pooch. And the boys in Europe are way outside the wire; so not a problem for us to solve right now. We follow the skipper’s lead. Until the boss says otherwise, we’re cleared hot, dude.”

Sanders nodded with a smile of agreement; after a quick glance at his hooded and bound patient, the corpsman looked past the crew-chief sitting adjacent to the mounted M240, onto the sparse distribution of lights, scattered over the dark Texas north-central rolling plains.

Simmons Memorial Airport, Tx

Six Marines, four soldiers, and a sailor pushed the aircraft into the pre-arranged open hangar, as the co-pilot watched the prisoner and the pilot rode brakes.

“Jake, get a link with Jammer. We stay here until he and Charles are out of Dallas.”

“Aye, sir. Setting up now.”

“Ms Halley? Can you re-fuel in this hangar?”

“No problemo, captain. Where’s the truck?”

“Fuel truck scheduled for 0830. It would seem that you have been around my people a bit?”

“That’s affirm. Know most of your Marines from Afghanistan. Sean O’Brien literaly carried my butt out of that place.”

“I have read he mission reports, Ms Halley.”

“Captain, please call me Sandy; my aviators are all out of the 160th, and have worked with many operators. We tend to avoid formalities, although Sean did explain to me that Marines are not comfortable with addressing superiors informally.”

“That we are, Sandy; that we are ... uh, how well do you know Staff Sergeant O’Brien?”

“Major Borden and myself got to know him very well in the ‘stan, captain. But I have not talked to him since then.”

Garza did not miss the flash of the army pilot’s fleeting expression when she said ‘very well’. He had seen that same expansion of facial features when Sergeant First Class Andriankis referenced SSgt Pistochini’s medical condition during a verbal report. Capt Garza did not desire to add personal relationship problems to the unit’s precarious situation, but because humans will human, the same as they have done for over 30,000 years, he nonetheless, felt obligated to state the obvious.

“Ms. Halley, please use caution when working with Staff Sergeant O’Brien. Opie has more than combat-related PTSD. He does not understand, nor does he have some of the typical propensities, that would enable a healthy engagement in some facets of human relationships.”

Sandra Halley was, in general, not a fool. She was, in most ways, more worldly, well-traveled, and aware of human foibles than the larger majority of humanity. In the particular case of Sean Timothy O’Brien, she was, quite literally, taken with O’Brien. O’Brien had met her requisite requirements in spades - he was of her military tribe, of high-standing warrior status, dangerously intelligent, and filled her visions of the preeminent leader.

The difficulties that contraindicated any useful resultants of mating ritualism to be had between O’Brien and Halley, was that the advantages of Halley’s physical attributes, that had previously enabled her to command and control these processes, were delimited by O’Brien’s detachment borne of sociopathy and his extraordinarily disciplined mind. Her attempts to ‘dance the ritual’ with O’Brien had reduced her sense of order and being in control of these natural processes to shambles. She was ‘taken’ by O’Brien in all ways. For the first time, Sandra Halley had entered into the mating games on a level playing field.

Doc Sanders, waiting for the strange exchange between his commanding officer and the SOF pilot to conclude, moved to Halley’s side when Capt Garza noticed his corpsman.

“What’s the prisoner’s status, doc?”

“Worse, sir. Nothing that can’t be handled. I’d prefer to mildly sedate him with diazepam.”

“Why?”

“Would make him more manageable and perhaps less likely to develop complications from anxiety and from the restraints during our travels.”

“Your decision, doc. Do what you have to...”

“Aye, sir.”

Carlton hovered outside the radius of Halley, Sanders, Chapman, and Green; waiting her turn at the commander, but also listening to the exchange.

“Got a message bounce from Jammer, sir. The tunnel into the local FedEx servers is on-line, and the sensor package checks out.”

“Outstanding, Jake. What’s the status of our boys that we abandoned in Dallas?”

“Nada, sir. They’re just smokin and jokin, waiting to bug out tonight. Weapons are secured. They’ll use that army-guard colonel’s card to bounce their way back, but they were not certain if they’ll use that Arkansas safe-house. Told them to burn at least four days enroute to the Del Rio rally point.”

“Sounds good, Jake ... Sergeant Green, we need two outside until sunrise, and a shooter on the roof ... Marc, Jake? You’re with me. Let’s think about how we will handle this mess...”

SSG Green pointed to two Marines, “Cheeseburger, get on top. Bark, stand watch on the north side, I’ll take the south. Vera, relieve Cheesebuger in three hours.”

While the troops not on watch found places along the side of the hangar to rack-out for a few hours, Carlton and Sanders closed the hangars doors for what remained of the night. As they were approaching a spot along the bulkhead near Garza, Doc Sanders’ sudden static stance caused Carlton’s to recognize his ‘men-tat’ connection.

“Doc? What do you have?”

“Not certain, Jake. I could feel Pistol.”

“Between you and Opie, this shit is getting weird. We need to understand how the physics works ... anything specific, doc?”

“Not similar to what we had last month, just an unease from the general sensory faculty. He seems to have situational awareness for both Opie’s teams and of our teams ... and other stuff...”

“And other stuff?”

“Nothing important.”

“Fucking say it. What other ‘stuff’?

“Uh ... I’m guessing the feel of Addy’s tits...”

“Jeezzusss Fucking Christ! We’re deployed around the planet, our ass is in a crack, and Pistol is sending thoughts of Addy’s boobs?!?!”

Doc Sanders could only shrug apologetically as he slid down the hangar bulkhead, to alight adjacent to Carlton and Garza. Over-hearing the exchange, Capt Garza thought about the last time he had cupped the delicate warmth and softness of his (former) fiance’s breasts. He quickly compartmentalized those thoughts to focus on the tactics and strategies essential to his command’s survival.

Anderson Ranch, Medina County, Texas

Pistochini was sleeping the sleep typically induced after the mental and physical intensity of sexual congress. The emotional meaning of the act had been dissimilar for Andriankis when compared to Pistochini. Her brain was flush with the neurotransmitter oxytocin, whereas Pistochini’s brain profoundly differed and had not synthesized any such response. During pre-pubescence, Pistochini’s brain had been wired for a survival-mode sociopathy, then, as an adult, had been preternaturally re-wired for an extraordinary level of external connectivity and electro-magnetic sensitivity, induced by his recovery from damaged tissues resulting from acute cerebral hypoxia. As such, he was rendered unable to experience the mammalian euphoric-emotive response that humans reference as ‘romantic love’.

The mind may sleep, but the brain never sleeps. The sharp mental jab into his brain, of a foreign awareness, pushed Pistochini’s mind to full-bore alertness, as he deeply inhaled to perceive scents, listened intently, and scanned the narrow view through the small window, across the opposite side of his quarters.

Rolling out of his rack, Pistochini pulled on his PT sweats, then quietly exited the building through the aft passageway, while donning his pistol rig, radio, and monocular NVGs.

Nearing the corner of the building, Pistochini closed his eyes to ‘feel’ what it was that had yanked his mind from a sleeping state. Sensing the conscious awareness only of Sergeant Starling and Major Borden, Pistochini used his conventional senses to listen, smell, and visually scan the area.

Advancing around the corner, Pistochini, with an unnatural economy of motion, and devoid of sound, moved to the next building corner to observe the spaces between the corrals, barns and other buildings of the main compound. Pistochini delayed further movement until a line-of-sight was established on the three horses and two donkeys, standing and partially sleeping at the edges of the paddocks that adjoined the main corral.

Pistochini was further disconcerted that none of the animals had exhibited any awareness of ‘something else’. When his hyper-sensitive nervous system again detected another presence, without any reactions from the animals, the realization was that the malevolent interloper was not within the main compound. Pistol changed his radio to the FSK-control side-band, keyed four times, paused, then two more times.

Jim Starling was evaluating his body’s ability to tolerate another cup of coffee when the control channel broke squelch and the annunciator panel indicated an area alert. Starling’s realization that the silent code was for an intruder alert quickly obviated any need for coffee. Starling immediately smashed the large yellow ‘mushroom’ switch on the annunciator control panel, above his electronics workbench, which immediately dimmed or disconnected the internal lighting of the various compounds, while remotely activating the silent alarm systems on the Guthmiller, O’Brien, and Anderson ranch buildings, coded as sites Charlie, Alpha, and Bravo.