Easy Day for the Dead Page 2

  Major Khan opened the door to a classroom within the facility and stepped in. A podium with a chair on either side of it stood at the front of the classroom. Behind the podium and chairs a large Iranian flag covered the whiteboard. In front of the podium were tables and chairs for fifty people. Major Khan had arrived early. It was the sniper in him. To his surprise he saw he wasn’t the first. Scientists, assistants, and workers were already filling the seats. It occurred to him that their early arrival had more to do with fear of being late. A few, perhaps, were actually eager to see the star of the show, General Behrouz Tehrani, one of Iran’s greatest leaders from the Iran-Iraq War and a celebrated hero. Major Khan took a seat next to the podium and waited for the general’s arrival.

  Captain Rapviz Shokoufandeh entered the room. Khan and Rapviz had been friends for years, a rare instance of comradeship for Khan. Rapviz nodded at Khan and walked to stand behind the podium. He coughed and then spoke into the microphone: “When General Tehrani enters the room, please stand until he says to be seated.”

  The crowd stirred.

  Five minutes later, General Tehrani entered, putting his black cell phone in his pocket as he did so. It was a subtle but powerful gesture. He was a busy man, an important man. He wore shiny black boots, an olive drab uniform, and four golden stars on his epaulettes. He was a thin man with a white beard that gave him a distinguished appearance.

  The crowd stood.

  His voice roared, “Take seats.”

  The scientists and others sat down. Some watched him nervously. Others watched him with anticipation.

  General Tehrani stood behind the podium studying them for a moment.

  The audience waited for him to speak.

  “People, the so-called Arab Spring in Iran is bullshit,” General Tehrani began. Those who’d never heard him unedited were clearly shocked by his speaking style, especially the Arab-Iranian scientist sitting near the front. “We are not Arabs. We are Iranians. True Iranians love their Ayatollah and their government. True Iranians love their families. True Iranians love themselves. We don’t give a damn about any Arab Spring in Iran. It isn’t going to happen. Ever. You are here because you worked harder than everyone else and because you’re smarter than everyone else. True Iranians are hard workers and intelligent.” He paused and scanned the audience.

  “Now I am told,” he continued, “that we’re maintaining production levels of MBD21. I don’t want to maintain shit. Maintaining is what Americans do. We’re going to increase production until we have enough bacterium to obliterate half the American population.”

  Some in the crowd let out their enthusiasm: “Yes!”

  “We are true Iranians, and true Iranians don’t wait for Americans to kill Iranian families. True Iranians protect their families by killing Americans first. You are the brightest people with the best equipment in the world. We can’t fail now. We’ve come too far. We must never give up. We must never let the infidels win. I know it hasn’t been easy, but don’t let this moment fall into mediocrity. We must work harder than ever. Show the infidels what we can do. Become mean, insanely aggressive. Cut the infidels’ hearts out. We must want this more than life itself. This moment will be the greatest for Iran. We must defend our families and country. In the same way I use bullets and bombs, you use science. Will you fight for your families and country with me?”

  The scientists applauded: “Yes!” The Arab-Iranian scientist’s response was weaker than that of the others. In contrast, the scientist with a crooked nose who sat next to him applauded louder than everyone else.

  “Will you fight for your families?”

  “Yes!” the crowd cheered. The Arab-Iranian scientist continued to respond weakly. Major Khan recognized him as a brilliant scientist who placed little value on politics and speeches.

  “Your honor?”

  “Yes!”

  “That’s the spirit. Let’s do this! Maybe Iran will fall into mediocrity someday. But not today.”

  Major Khan stood and then walked over to the weakly responding scientist. All of the scientists were smart, but not all were wise. From beneath his jacket, Major Khan swung out his shoulder holster containing a sound-suppressed MPT-9KPDW, the Iranian copy of the German MP5K-PDW short submachine gun. The weapon remained attached to his shoulder holster and the folding stock remained folded, allowing him to fire quickly with the submachine gun still in its holster.

  The Arab-Iranian scientist leaned back in his chair and put his hands out in front of his face. “No! Please, no!”

  The crowd became silent.

  Major Khan stood in front of the scientist, taking an angle that wouldn’t injure others. Not that Major Khan cared about their lives—he cared only about the mission, and this mission needed scientists. Major Khan pivoted, and pointed his gun at the scientist with the crooked nose, the one who had applauded louder than the others. He waited for the man’s eyes to register what was happening and then squeezed the trigger, firing a short burst. A single shot to the head would have sufficed, but the general had wanted something loud and exceptionally violent.

  General Tehrani cleared his voice and patiently waited for the assembled scientists to direct their attention back to him. “Applauding loudly when I’m around is one thing, but slackening effort when I’m not around is another. It sets a bad example—it’s bad for morale.”

  One of the scientists began applauding loudly. No one followed his example—they were too much in shock to move.

  3

  * * *

  JANUARY 10, 2012

  Alex Brandenburg wandered the aisles of the supermarket without noticing the food. His mind was on a mission. More specifically, the fact that he and the Outcasts’ SEAL Team didn’t have one. As the very sharp edge of Operation Bitter Ash, the black ops program that grew out of Operation Phoenix and the targeted killings of North Vietnamese communists during that war, Alex expected the missions would come fast. There was no end to terrorists looking to do America and her allies harm. Administering a lead aspirin at high velocity seemed just the ticket to cure what ailed these sick bastards, but so far the phone hadn’t rung. Instead, just like when he was on the regular Teams, downtime stretched to seeming eternity while he waited for another chance to suit up.

  Realizing he’d wandered into the cat food section, he decided to focus on the mission at hand—buying groceries. The food quality at the Navy Exchange and local supermarkets was okay, but Alex preferred the quality of foods available at Whole Foods. Until recently, the nearest one was located just outside Richmond, nearly a two-hour drive from his home in Virginia Beach, where he was stationed at SEAL Team Six. Of course, Alex could put the cold foods in a cooler to keep them fresh for the drive home from Richmond, but he was on standby, and if Team Six called, he had only one hour to get his ass on the plane and be ready for the brief—and driving over one hundred miles an hour down Interstate 64 didn’t seem like a wise option. Thus, Alex eagerly attended the newly opened Whole Foods store in Virginia Beach.

  Customers crowded the brightly lit store. Alex pushed his partly filled cart out of the cat food section and down an aisle that looked far more likely to have salsa. As he did he spotted an attractive blonde walking toward him. She was wearing a white silk blouse and black skirt under a red knee-length cashmere jacket. What made her attractive wasn’t so much the shape of her face, the size of her breasts, or the calm, quiet way her hips swayed—there was a feeling about her. As she passed him in the aisle, she blew through him like an Indian summer, stopping his breath. As a frogman, he prided himself on breath control, but in that moment she’d taken that control from him. Alex placed the salsa in his cart and contemplated turning around to take another look at her, but he didn’t. Maybe it would make her feel uncomfortable, or maybe he was too proud. It took him a moment to remember the other reason—Cat.

  Alex headed to the dairy section. Once again, the woman in red appeared. Alex couldn’t resist smiling. She smiled back. They both stopped in front of
the milk. Some women didn’t like the military, some did, and others didn’t care one way or the other—he wondered which type she was.

  Not that she’d recognize he was in the military. Alex wore his hair longer than regulation and paid conscious attention to walk rather than march to where he was going. If she asked what he did for a living, his cover was a manager for a company contracted to develop and test military equipment. After the attention from the killing of Osama bin Laden, Alex and his Teammates changed their covers again. When his fellow SEALs applied for car loans or credit cards, if asked for more details, they couldn’t very well say that they worked for SEAL Team Six, so the Team provided them with cover jobs. A full-time secretary working for Team Six devoted her time to answering the phone in an off-base office that supported the cover.

  Alex thought about what to say to her, but none of what came to mind seemed appropriate. He decided not to make an analysis out of it. “Hi,” he said.

  Her eyes smiled as well as her lips. “Hi.”

  Before Alex could say any more, his cell phone vibrated. Normally, he didn’t wait to look at it, but this time he waited—until her eyes broke the gaze and looked at his phone.

  That feeling of anxiousness crept through him: is this another training test, or is this the real deal? He looked down at the text message: T-R-I-D-E-N-T-9-9-9. Real deal or not, the clock was ticking and now he had less than an hour to get on the plane.

  Alex forgot about the milk, but he remembered to say something to the woman in red: “Nice meeting you.”

  “Did we?” Her eyes continued to smile.

  The cell phone had inconvenienced Alex before, but he’d never truly regretted it—until this moment. He turned and headed for a checkout counter. Alex stopped and turned to take one last look at her: now she was focused on getting a carton of milk. After putting the milk in her cart, she looked up to notice Alex staring. For a second, Alex thought about ignoring the cell phone—thought about telling SEAL Team Six goodbye.

  The woman seemed puzzled. Alex turned around and headed to the cash registers. Long lines of people with full carts waited—Murphy’s law: “Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.” He tried to judge which line was the shortest, searching for single men with near-empty carts, but the lines seemed filled mostly with women shopping for large families. He entered the nearest line, only to discover that a cashier was having problems with a customer’s item.

  It was as if something were trying to stop Alex from answering the call on his cell phone, but Alex chose to ignore the “signs,” pushed his shopping cart to the side, and left it. Signs or not, he still had a job to do, and he still loved his job. A lot of SEALs he knew liked hunting terrorists but claimed they didn’t like killing them. Alex liked killing terrorists. It wasn’t a long-lasting joy, but it was still a joy.

  He walked out the front door without any groceries and didn’t turn back. When his warm breath hit the cold air, it created a puff of fog. He didn’t yet know where today’s mission would be, but it was probably somewhere that he wouldn’t need salsa and milk.

  Walking through the parking lot, Alex subconsciously scanned the area for trouble, but his spidey sense wasn’t tingled. He opened his SUV, hopped inside, and sped away.

  After leaving the parking lot, Alex drove along Laskin Road before turning right on First Colonial Road, which became South Oceana Boulevard. Snow covered the ground beside the roads. Five minutes after leaving the supermarket, he arrived at the Tomcat Boulevard base gate. The number “999” was the code in his text message that told him which gate to enter. Alex showed his contractor ID to the gate guard. The guard waved him through. On the base, Alex drove to the terminal and parked his SUV at the lot near the tarmac.

  After locking his SUV, he hurriedly walked toward the plane. Even though Alex still had plenty of time, he walked hurriedly out of habit. Approaching a specially blacked-out C-130, he looked for Jet Assisted Takeoff (JATO) bottles on the plane, used for extra thrust on takeoff, especially useful when bad guys were shooting at Alex and his Teammates. There were no JATO bottles. Maybe this was just a training mission.

  Alex wondered who’d be joining him. As a member of Red Team, Alex could be joined by Red Team SEALs. Alex also served on Black Team, the sniper team. Maybe this would be a sniper mission. Or possibly he’d be shooting solo.

  On the plane, the white lights were on, running off an outside auxiliary power unit instead of the plane’s valuable fuel. Alex didn’t recognize the flight crew, but sitting near the cockpit was a bald Army lieutenant colonel. In conversation and informal writing, lieutenant colonel was shortened to colonel. The Colonel was from the Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC, pronounced JAY-sock). JSOC was headquartered at Fort Bragg and Pope Air Force Base in North Carolina. After the 1980 failed attempt to rescue fifty-three American hostages at the American Embassy in Iran, it became clear that the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines couldn’t work together effectively on Special Operations missions. In 1987 the Department of Defense grafted all the military branches’ Special Operations onto one tree—including Tier 1 units like SEAL Team Six and Delta. SEALs, Rangers, and Green Berets were special, but JSOC took only the best for the top tier: Team Six and Delta. JSOC was Team Six’s boss, and the SEALs were careful not to bite the hand that fed them. The JSOC Colonel already had his portable projector screen and laptop hooked up.

  Alex almost didn’t notice John Landry sitting to the side quietly checking his gear. John was a handsome black man from New Orleans who spoke French and Creole. A former member of SEAL Team One, John was a devout believer in God, but John shot like the devil.

  “Hi, John,” Alex said.

  John gave a quiet grunt—which was more than his usual response. Progress. As a regular Team Six member of Blue Team, John’s presence suggested that this was an Outcasts mission. There were four Outcasts: Alex, John, Pancho, and Cat. Catherine Fares wasn’t a SEAL, but she acted as a sister, girlfriend, or wife for the SEALs to aid their cover and help get them into countries where they didn’t want to look like a bunch of military guys on a mission. She also spoke Arabic. The four of them had previously been in trouble with the Navy and been formed into a new unit: the Outcasts. Now their superiors could run the blackest of black missions—if the Outcasts were discovered, they’d take the fall. Alex had led their first mission, and the Outcasts succeeded in killing seven al Qaeda cadre vying to fill the leadership gap left by bin Laden’s demise. He had fretted briefly about the mission’s one loose end. Mohammed—the radicalized teenaged son of one of their targets—had managed to elude the Outcasts during a shootout in the streets of New York City. Alex would have liked to have had another shot at the blond terrorist.

  Support personnel from Team Six had already loaded the gear belonging to Alex and the others on the mission. He checked his to make sure everything was okay.

  “Where’s your better half?” John asked.

  Alex shrugged. During the last mission, Alex and Cat had developed feelings for each other that broke regulations. “She’s on another assignment.”

  “Is she still one of us—the Outcasts?” John asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  John’s right eyebrow shot up. “You waiting until she comes back, or are you seeing other women?”

  Alex let out a breath. “Why so many questions?”

  John paused. “I just like having her around.”

  Me, too. “No telling how long this separation will be. We agreed that it’s okay to see other people while we’re apart.”

  “Is that what you think?” John asked.

  Alex didn’t want to think about it. “Where’s your better half?”

  John frowned. “Has Pancho ever been early?”

  Alex smiled.

  A new guy Alex had never seen before stepped on board. He wore a military haircut and a nonmilitary goatee. “Uh, hi, guys. I’m Danny.” He sounded friendly enough. “Danny Pieratti. From the Activity.” The Activity was short
for Intelligence Support Activity (ISA). The Activity gathered intelligence—especially for SEAL Team Six and Delta missions.

  The bald Colonel fidgeted with his watch and strained his neck to look outside the plane. Suddenly, the Colonel stopped fidgeting and straining his neck.

  Alex peeked outside.

  Pancho strolled across the tarmac as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Alex checked his Rolex Submariner watch: less than five minutes before drop-dead time. Even if the whole world was on fire, Pancho wouldn’t care—the world would just have to wait.

  “Pancho” was Francisco Rodriguez’s nickname. A Mexican-American giant from Houston, he liked to wear shit-kickers and a big-ass rodeo belt buckle. Pancho was chewing on something, probably Red Man tobacco. He spit. That’s disgusting.

  Pancho had served with John on SEAL Team One before they both came to Team Six’s Blue Team—also known as the Pirates. Although Pancho and John were friends, they were complete opposites. Pancho disliked religion and the heat. Although they generally avoided discussions with each other about religion, if there was a thermostat nearby, Pancho and John were always changing it. Pancho had seniority over John, but Pancho was the less mature of the two.

  Pancho entered the plane and his eyes fixed on Alex. A big smile spread across his face. “Hey, Alex,” he greeted. “You in charge of this rodeo again?”

  “About to find out,” Alex replied. “Good to have you back.”

  “Great to be here.” Then Pancho greeted John but received no response. Pancho grinned.

  The plane door closed and the crew switched from auxiliary power to the plane’s own power. The interior lights switched from white to red. Cat wouldn’t be on this mission.