One of his Rangers was missing.
The Ranger, Sergeant Fred Saxton, had been part of the element tasked with clearing the compound. Resistance from the compound’s defenders had been fierce, and Saxton’s Ranger buddy had been shot in the chest during the assault. In the fog of war that accompanied a mass casualty event and an ongoing operation against a determined and well-equipped enemy, no one had realized that Saxton was missing until much too late. The working theory was that Saxton had been surprised while rendering aid to his fallen teammate, overpowered by HIG fighters, and carried away by the fleeing jihadis.
With a start, Mark realized he’d grabbed hold of Dan’s desk.
And was shaking it.
Mark folded his arms across his chest, embarrassed about losing his composure. He knew that he was on the ragged edge, but Dan’s perceived lack of urgency wasn’t helping. Mark’s Rangers were still kitted up just feet from the helicopters that would carry them into battle.
Dan was sipping coffee and munching jelly beans.
Something had to give.
“What’s going on, Steve?”
Mark turned to see someone standing in the doorway to Dan’s office.
The CIA operations center was small and reasonably well lit. A pair of flat-screen televisions dominated the far wall while a map board with notes annotated on clear acetate covered the second. The B-hut’s windowless interior had the feel of a library, and its CIA occupants could have been university students researching their dissertations.
Dan’s desk was located in the corner farthest from the wooden hut’s single entrance. His workspace had plywood partitions for walls and a door that opened to the bullpen. Besides the clatter of fingers on keyboards, Mark’s conversation with the chief of base was the only thing interrupting the silence, so he was surprised he hadn’t heard the visitor enter.
Steve seemed doubly so.
Mark knew that CIA officers frequently used false names when stationed overseas, but it pissed him off that the clandestine operative had used a legend with him. Mark wasn’t some asset the chief of base had recruited from a Kabul slum. He was a fellow warfighter. That Dan had chosen not to disclose his true name made Mark even angrier.
“Nothing Steve and I can’t handle,” Mark said. “Or was it Dan, or maybe John Doe? I can’t seem to keep you guys straight.”
Mark turned his back on the newcomer, already dismissing the man. Sure, he had the untamed look of someone who operated beyond the Hesco barriers and mud brick walls that delineated FOB Fenty from the Wild West that was Afghanistan, but Mark wasn’t impressed. Buying loyalty from corrupt warlords with suitcases full of cash wasn’t for the faint of heart, but neither was boarding a helicopter to take the fight to the enemy in the dead of night.
Mark did feel a grudging respect for the CIA’s Ground Branch operators, but he knew the snake eaters stationed at J-Bad by sight if not name. The olive-skinned man with shaggy black hair and a matching beard might be a step above the slovenly chief of base, but he was not a shooter and was therefore unworthy of Mark’s attention.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, stud, but I wasn’t asking you. What’s the story, Steve?”
The way the newcomer so casually dismissed Mark irritated him but also piqued his interest. The man hadn’t raised his voice, but he’d asked the question in a manner that expected a response. Judging by how Steve was squirming, the chief of base wasn’t keen on providing one.
“Hey, Mitch,” Steve said. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
“Just hopped off a C-130 from Bagram. What’d I miss?”
Mark didn’t have to be a body language expert to see that the newcomer made the chief of base nervous. And not the kind of nervous that an unexpected visit from a superior might provoke. This looked more like honest-to-goodness fear.
Maybe this Mitch guy wasn’t so bad.
“This is Mark. He’s the Ranger CO and one of his guys is unaccounted for—”
“Missing,” Mark said, interrupting. “The phrase you’re looking for is missing and presumed captured, which gets closer to missing and presumed dead every second I spend fiddle-fucking around here instead of leading a company of Rangers to find him.”
“What’s stopping you?” Mitch said.
“Great question,” Mark said. “JSOC is gun-shy after losing that Chinook. My chain of command won’t authorize a follow-on mission until they understand how a shoulder-fired missile managed to bring down a helicopter at night. They’d also like intel on who might have my Ranger and where he’s being held. You know, the sort of intel the CIA’s supposed to provide.”
Mark had worked with the Agency long enough to know that trying to pit one officer against another was a losing battle. The CIA was an incredibly close-knit entity, and though he was certain they fought behind closed doors just like any other organization, the officers he’d worked with always presented a united front. By stating his frustrations so plainly, Mark had probably just shot himself in the foot. Mitch might have been sympathetic before, but in response to a frontal assault by a knuckle dragger like Mark, he would undoubtedly close ranks with Steve.
“What the fuck, Steve?” Mitch said.
Or maybe not.
“Come on, Mitch,” Steve said, looking over Mark’s shoulder, “it’s not my decision. The chief of station is crawling up my ass. He doesn’t want any case officers leaving the wire until we have a better understanding of the current threat assessment.”
Mark was not an intelligence officer, but that sentiment made zero sense. Gaining a better understanding of the current threat assessment required case officers to leave the wire. Maybe there was something he didn’t understand.
“The chief of station is in Kabul,” Mitch said. “You think someone sitting in a bunker one hundred miles away has a better grip on the situation here than you?”
“He’s my boss, Mitch,” Steve said.
“I swear to God, we’re going to lose this war,” Mitch said, shaking his head. “If I thought explaining how to do your job was worth the effort, I’d give it a try. Instead, why don’t you tell me what you do know, and I’ll decide whether to ship your ass back stateside now or offer you a chance to redeem yourself.”
“But the chief,” Steve sputtered.
“Don’t worry about the chief,” Mitch said. “If Bill’s as fucked-up as you, his ass will be on the seat next to yours on the flight back to Dulles. For the last time, what do you have on this missing Ranger?”
The CIA officer looked like a beached fish gasping for air. His mouth opened and closed, but he didn’t speak. Steve’s forehead glistened as beads of perspiration ran down his scalp. Opening his mouth for the third time, Steve replied.
“One of our assets provided actionable intelligence on a high-value target who was a key member of the HIG leadership team. We provided that intelligence to JSOC, who tasked Captain Garner and his Rangers with prosecuting the target and—”
“And it was a trap,” Mitch said. “I want to talk to the asset. I assume he’s hanging by his balls somewhere nearby?”
Steve shook his head. “The asset is no longer in communication with his handler.”
