growing colder by the second, and it would take forever to get them to react. By then, his cell phone could be in the hands of a fourteen-year-old who’d purchased it on the black market.
“How good are you and your men?”
“Very, very good. Pike trained me, and I trained them. We don’t look like much, but we can get the job done.”
“Weapons?”
Samir turned to a man in the back. He unzipped a duffel, showing the worn bluing of a beat-up folding stock AK-47.
“They aren’t fancy, but they’ll shoot.”
“We do this, and I’m in charge, understand? You follow my orders. You don’t, and I’m going to start shooting in both directions assuming you’re a threat.”
He looked like he’d swallowed curdled milk. “You? You think you’re going on the assault? Have you lost your mind? You’re an anthropologist. Leave this to us. We know how to fight. I understand your lack of trust, but this is something for professionals. You need certain skills to win.”
She pulled out the AK and began a functions check. Satisfied it would work as advertised, she seated a magazine and racked a round.
Seeing the surprise on Samir’s pummeled face, she bared her teeth in a predator’s smile.
“You looked in a mirror lately? I’ve got the skills, and I’m in charge.”
17
K urt Hale slammed his handset into the cradle. “Mike! Get your ass in here.”
The duty officer, hearing the tone, stuck his head in the door in seconds.
“Yes, sir?”
“Geolocate Pike’s cell phone ASAP. Text the grid to this number.” He looked at the last-called display on his desk phone and scribbled the number on a sticky note.
“Got it. Commo section has Pike’s handset selectors already?”
“Yeah. They’ve got something. IMEI, IMSI, or some other tech shit. I don’t care what they’re executing right now, they drop it. This is a Prairie Fire. Send the grid as soon as you get it, and include in the text for them to call secure immediately.”
George Wolffe, the Taskforce deputy commander, was entering the office just as Mike raced away.
“Whoa, must be free beer somewhere.”
Mike said nothing, disappearing down the hall with a purpose.
George said, “What’s that all about? What’s up?”
“I don’t know. Pike’s in trouble. Jennifer called on an open line asking for the location of Pike’s cell phone. She triggered a Prairie Fire.”
George said, “You’re shitting me.”
Prairie Fire was the code word for a catastrophic event. It meantthe overt compromise of a Taskforce team or the impending death of a Taskforce operator. When used, everything in the Taskforce came to a stop, with all assets that could react dedicated to that team. In all the years of Taskforce existence, the words had never been uttered.
“Not shitting at all. I don’t know what it’s about, but it looks like you finally get to see your plan in motion.”
Before accepting the position of DCO of the Taskforce, George had spent decades inside the CIA’s National Clandestine Services, most of that time in the Special Activities Division conducting covert operations on every continent but the Antarctic. Some of the missions had been just short of suicidal; with no way to call for help should the worst occur. Unlike the military, when SAD hung it out there, it was absolutely for keeps. No reserves, no cavalry, no rescue.
George understood when that attitude was truly necessary, but on several occasions, when he’d come close to dying on a mission that was a little ill-conceived, he was convinced it was simply because of a lack of forethought. The CIA leadership was so used to the mission profile that they just took it on faith that nothing could—or should—be done if things went bad. After working with select Department of Defense Special Mission Units, and seeing the care they put into contingency planning for operations, his mind-set changed. When he helped form the mission profile for the Taskforce, he had implemented a panic
“How good are you and your men?”
“Very, very good. Pike trained me, and I trained them. We don’t look like much, but we can get the job done.”
“Weapons?”
Samir turned to a man in the back. He unzipped a duffel, showing the worn bluing of a beat-up folding stock AK-47.
“They aren’t fancy, but they’ll shoot.”
“We do this, and I’m in charge, understand? You follow my orders. You don’t, and I’m going to start shooting in both directions assuming you’re a threat.”
He looked like he’d swallowed curdled milk. “You? You think you’re going on the assault? Have you lost your mind? You’re an anthropologist. Leave this to us. We know how to fight. I understand your lack of trust, but this is something for professionals. You need certain skills to win.”
She pulled out the AK and began a functions check. Satisfied it would work as advertised, she seated a magazine and racked a round.
Seeing the surprise on Samir’s pummeled face, she bared her teeth in a predator’s smile.
“You looked in a mirror lately? I’ve got the skills, and I’m in charge.”
17
K urt Hale slammed his handset into the cradle. “Mike! Get your ass in here.”
The duty officer, hearing the tone, stuck his head in the door in seconds.
“Yes, sir?”
“Geolocate Pike’s cell phone ASAP. Text the grid to this number.” He looked at the last-called display on his desk phone and scribbled the number on a sticky note.
“Got it. Commo section has Pike’s handset selectors already?”
“Yeah. They’ve got something. IMEI, IMSI, or some other tech shit. I don’t care what they’re executing right now, they drop it. This is a Prairie Fire. Send the grid as soon as you get it, and include in the text for them to call secure immediately.”
George Wolffe, the Taskforce deputy commander, was entering the office just as Mike raced away.
“Whoa, must be free beer somewhere.”
Mike said nothing, disappearing down the hall with a purpose.
George said, “What’s that all about? What’s up?”
“I don’t know. Pike’s in trouble. Jennifer called on an open line asking for the location of Pike’s cell phone. She triggered a Prairie Fire.”
George said, “You’re shitting me.”
Prairie Fire was the code word for a catastrophic event. It meantthe overt compromise of a Taskforce team or the impending death of a Taskforce operator. When used, everything in the Taskforce came to a stop, with all assets that could react dedicated to that team. In all the years of Taskforce existence, the words had never been uttered.
“Not shitting at all. I don’t know what it’s about, but it looks like you finally get to see your plan in motion.”
Before accepting the position of DCO of the Taskforce, George had spent decades inside the CIA’s National Clandestine Services, most of that time in the Special Activities Division conducting covert operations on every continent but the Antarctic. Some of the missions had been just short of suicidal; with no way to call for help should the worst occur. Unlike the military, when SAD hung it out there, it was absolutely for keeps. No reserves, no cavalry, no rescue.
George understood when that attitude was truly necessary, but on several occasions, when he’d come close to dying on a mission that was a little ill-conceived, he was convinced it was simply because of a lack of forethought. The CIA leadership was so used to the mission profile that they just took it on faith that nothing could—or should—be done if things went bad. After working with select Department of Defense Special Mission Units, and seeing the care they put into contingency planning for operations, his mind-set changed. When he helped form the mission profile for the Taskforce, he had implemented a panic
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