The Big Blue Sky: Forty-eight

Brower pulled up beside the others. The other Suburban was parked beside the road a mile or so east of the Sea Coast Inn. It had grown quite dark, and the worst of the rain had moved off, leaving a frigid drizzle that coated and glistened upon everything. McCullough was beside him, as reserved as ever about his private misgivings. Brower rolled down his window, which was speckled with rain drops, and glared silently at the other three men for a purposely long uncomfortable time.

He wasn’t happy, and if he failed to make that clear before, Brower intended to leave no doubt whatsoever now. Again, they had allowed Springer to slip through their fingers. All the high tech gear that could track and trace most anything on the planet, the ability to access and monitor cell phone calls and text messaging, wi-fi internet connections, access to BCI- the Federal Bureau of Criminal Identification, credit card and debit card transactions and databases, credit histories and real time satellite imagery, and still he managed to get by men who’d benefitted from the greatest military and intelligence training on the planet.

The dome light was off in the other Suburban, all but concealing the three men in shadow, and the ambient light of a deepening night. Brower could still see their stony faces. Even if he couldn’t have seen them he could feel their embarrassment and frustration, and not a small amount of trepidation at facing the full fury of their pissed-off boss.

“Really?” Brower shook his head in supreme disappointment. “I bet a pack of snot nosed cub scouts could find this guy quicker than you men.”

Brower could push, but he knew he could only push so far. None of them, not even Brower could pretend they weren’t part of a much larger conspiracy. No longer was the mission to train Iraqi cops, illiterate Afghan militias or protect Western oil workers and executives in Nigeria against rebels. The mission had moved into questionable territory, only made palpable for the legally tax-free cash each man was paid. Indeed, the nature of the mission was the only thing separating them from being an outright criminal enterprise. Maybe they could argue and convince themselves there was a higher, even patriotic purpose, but at the end of all rationalism were they shared crimes.

The mission now had changed and grown, something often called mission creep, which happened when facts on the ground necessitated changing the fundamental aspect of an operation. Brower’s training an experience eschewed so-called mission creep, and he took great pains in avoiding and minimizing it, but now he could feel it all getting away from him in the worst way. What had been a mission to shadow Fallahi to see who he contacted had grown at the last minute to an ad-hoc scheme to discredit and frame Doug Springer for Fallahi’s murder. He’d given the authorization to eliminate Springer after he’d escaped the first time. That he had made contact with an FBI agent who had let him walk away without notifying her superiors was perhaps most disturbing of all. What had he told her, and why was she keeping quiet about it?

Brower didn’t wait for, nor want an answer from the men in the other Suburban. He pulled a phone from his pocket and pressed the redial button. Despite the late hour it rang only once. The voice on the other end was familiar and low, as though not wanting to be heard.

“Please, tell me the mission is complete,” the voice said, with notable exasperation. He was Archer Waverly, the founder and director of FIRST THRUST INC, a stoic and resolute man, a deeply devout Christian man, who saw the company as far more than a military contracting business, but also a spiritual and political crusade.

“Need a little guidance on company policy,” said Brower. “Threat assessment criteria?”

Unchanged,” said Waverly.

“In a non-hostile environment?” His tone was purposely misleading.

“All environments are potentially hostile, Mister Brower. The deployment of your team and the mission presupposes a hostile environment. Are you unclear on the mission?”

“Clear, sir,” he replied. “Mission. Company. Team. God. Country.”

“That’s the order. Will this be concluded tonight? Things are ready to hit the fan in a big way, and this is one loose end that definitely needs cutting.”

“That loose end got a bit longer tonig…” said Brower.

“Are you a bunch of fucking new recruits?” Waverly erupted in anger, enough that the men in the next vehicle could hear as well. But for a furl of the brow, Brower made no reaction. “I want this concluded tonight. Mister Shosa will meet tomorrow with the president’s assistant National Security Advisor and several congressional leaders. Finish this, now! Before you left I authorized additional resources for you. This would be the time to use them.”

The line went dead abruptly. Brower looked off into the dark night and let it slip slowly to his lap. He looked over at McCullough and gave him a reassuring nod. They would deal with Springer, while the others handled the agents. He swallowed a yawn and looked over at the three men.

“Chicago authorized an additional five thousand dollar bonus for each man if this is concluded tonight.”

“By concluded?” asked the grizzled veteran, leaning uncomfortably across the driver, with an almost sexual sort of eagerness.

“McCullough and I will be on Springer. He can’t be far. By your report he’s dropped his girls somewhere close by. He’ll try to make contact with them or with the agent. The clock is ticking on all this, and Mister Springer understands that as well as we do. You men will be on the agents. All loose ends are to be cut, with no traces left behind. Clear?”

“Fuckin’ eh!” snarled the old veteran, pushing over the driver’s door and practically shoving the guy out the cab. “I’m pulling rank. I’ll drive.”