Verbum Sup

 232.

"Let's get it done," I submit.

Julie agrees asking for Mina to please prepare a fresh pot of coffee for the guaranteed to be tedious debriefing chore. Drysdale and Mustang have long been gone, each retiring to their local apartments in seek of rest and recovery, their briefs done.  

I wheel the chair up to the conference table as she prepares the compact video camera and external mic pointing both in my direction. The paradoxical metaphor is duly noted.

"Ready? Let's start with the onset of the raid. You know the drill, so let's take it from the top."

I introduce myself to the camera and we are off, tally lamp flashing red.

Ninety-two minutes later Julie purses her lips in contemplation, nods her head and announces that we have a wrap. As is almost always the case with a successful recounting, several interesting details have surfaced. My interviewer, a veteran of thousands of similar sessions, has been jotting notes onto a standard legal pad as the interrogation progressed. Notes she now presents as key points as we arc the transition from past to present.

1) Did The Queen divulge ANY information to her captors during her imprisonment?
2) Is the terrorist cell fully exterminated or are there others waiting elsewhere for instructions? On this note she has chosen the rather colorful metaphor of killing the beast with cold, complete and objective efficiency.
3) How much of an asset can Merle be in future operations?
4) Have we been compromised by the phony ATF perp and his bogus alibi?
5) Is there an 'up-river' mole somewhere between the local FBI and Hartaugh?
6) What operation were the terrorists carrying out as front for their criminal operation?
7) Mustang's performance, considering her lack of experience, was phenomenal, have we gleaned maximum intel from her on the perp we call Mr. 38?
8) Drysdale continues to prove his value with the success of every assignment. Is it appropriate to advance his responsibilities within the group?
9) Are we satisfied with the current degree of probability that Adelson remains connected to MBI?
10) Assuming he is, does that automatically imply that Hartaugh is in that same boat?

We finish our session just as I hit the wall. I am exhausted, sore and my arm has begun to throb with what feels like a rock 'n roll downbeat, the proverbial big bass drum in 4/4 time, a robust 120 heart beats per minute by my count.  

Julie senses this and agrees to call it a day, putting an appropriate end to our elongated labor of learning.

"Verbum sap."

Gnats

 231.

"The problem with both Hartaugh and Adelson is that they are such good liars you never really know anything other than what they want you to," I add to the conversation.  Julie is driving cautiously through the busy streets surrounding the architectural centerpiece of American democracy, past Nationals Park and the Anacostia River. The irony of our discourse on the blatant and corrupt deceit of a US Senator hits our consciousness like a gnat on the windshield.

"You think he, or they, will have the guts?" she tries.

"The bug or Hartaugh and Adelson?" I badda-bing, producing only an eye roll from my chauffeur.

"We need to be careful with them," she adds in a more serious tone, "Davis told me yesterday that he asked Adelson point blank if he ordered the hit. And, in case you didn't notice, Hartaugh just about shit a major league brick when you accused him of attempted murder."

"A thickly veiled accusation," I respond, "we agreed to turn up the heat and having them a little concerned that we might know more than they assume will force their hand. They will be talking, exchanging notes and directing their next moves. Furthermore, we just gave Hartaugh another talking point for his leadership role in the success of the raid AND Adelson is smelling the payoff. Of the two, I believe Adelson. The issue is, will they be patient and allow the game to play out, or let their massive egos call the shots?

"Dangerous," she says, "Nothing deadlier than a dirty politician with a wounded ego."

"Or the scoundrel partner guarding his."

"We need to be careful."

"What we need is to have the guts to do it again." I pitch.  

"Like the baseball team?"  

Pause.

"The Nats?"

We share a rim-shot guffaw and park.

The Sound of Squirm

 230.

In a startling demonstration of the cognitive bias defining the Dunning-Kruger effect, the Senator provides us with a recap of the raid. Although having access to the same intelligence as we do, he lacks the single most important element of an accurate synopsis: I was there and he was not. In his authoritarian zeal to appear omnipotent he takes the aggressive approach in his questioning, immediately putting Julie in the position of arguing for the defense. My initial thought is that - should they be arguing the law - perhaps we would be better served by Harlan sitting in the number one chair, instead of my compromised carcass in a wheelchair.

"You know as well as we do that in the performance of our duties, especially in this case, where we are certain the hostiles are not going to be playing by the rules, that it is sometimes necessary to bend the letter of the law or the rules of engagement in our favor. All in order to gain an advantage and accomplish our objectives, which we should mention again, were one-hundred percent achieved in the raid," Julie hammers the point home.

"Yes, I understand," drawls Hartaugh, "The warm and fuzzy National Security blanket, covering all the legal gray areas with red, white and blue flannel."

Not being certain of his ulterior motivation - he seems to be playing both sides against the middle - I push the success of the raid as just one battle, but a major victory in the unending war with an enemy who outnumber us by triple digits.

"With all due respect Senator, we are making solid headway on several counter-terrorism fronts, with limited staff and," I pause for effect, "what now appears to be a breakdown in the chain of command."

"Yes, well, that has been taken care of. No cause for alarm."

"Taken care of? How so?" Julie asks.

"Seems the perp trying to scam his way out of the bust, had somehow managed to obtain a bogus ID card from ATF. He carried it in his back pocket, either anticipating a raid or as entry to facilities rewiring one. It was proved to be a forgery about an hour ago by the regional FBI office in Denver," he informs us, irony dripping from his Dixie dialect.

"Exactly my point sir, that type of communication is critical to our mission, so why are we just hearing about it now, third hand?"

Hartaugh silently sits suppressing his reaction and considers his next tactical move. He can admit he was wrong, float a smoke-screen cover up or pledge better compliance in the future.

Surprisingly, he chooses the former, with the caveat - a common practice of southern republicans - that there is someone lower on the food-chain to blame the error upon.

"A simple mistake on the part of the reporting agency," he says in an unblinking charade.

My internal polygraph is screaming the truth of his untruth but I sense that we can leverage the situation to our advantage, so I try: "Is this the same agency that reported the ambush as being ordered by Adelson?"

The only sound we hear is one I take to be the sound of squirm. The professional liar is on the hot seat.

In a weak attempt to regain composure from my audacious accusation, he finally, for once, chooses the succinct, direct approach of masking his impostor syndrome with a single word:

"No."

Pachyderm in the Parlor

 229.

"Under who's authority?" I ask, "This is completely our operation making any infiltration, especially that of an asset, subject to prior approval and internal review."

Harlan adds that he has no information on any intelligence activity directly related to the covert operation, or, for that matter, anywhere else, as the terms and conditions are specifically understood to include our complete and sole authority in the mission, its tactics and staffing. He finishes his opening declaration of fact with an ominous, "Something is fishy."

"Let's not jump to conclusions quit yet," Julie asks of the road weary crew, "I am on my way for a meeting with the Senator at 1000, so let me hear him out before we offer him a cigarette and blindfold."

At this, Mustang voices an observation from the raid, mentioning that one of the four card-playing terrorists in her charge seemed to be trying to communicate to her by pointing to his rear pants pocket, as if he had a hall pass to offer the dean of discipline, she recalls thinking. She now apologizes for not breaking his code and, perhaps worse, failing to raise the issue upon completion of the raid.

"Things happen fast, and a lot of times we miss important details due to the occupation of our awareness to the matters at hand, you had the responsibility of holding four hostile terrorists at bay as a fire-fight raged around you, this, your first live action with us. You did good." I say.

At this Harlan addresses the pachyderm in the parlor by suggesting that this might be a perfect segue into the debrief sessions. Julie is quick to agree, asking of him to start with Mustang and then Drysdale. She catches my look, one she knows translates to, 'what about me?' and announces convincingly, "You're coming with me. I think your initial testimony could prove valuable in our long-game strategy. Besides Hartaugh needs to be reminded of who runs point in this outfit."

"So I'll debrief afterwards?"

"Guaranteed."

No Fucking Way

 
CHAPTER EIGHT

228.

The final tally, as reported by the local media, was five captured and five killed. The captured will be tried as domestic terrorists after extensive interrogation by the FBI and our counterparts at Homeland Security. There is no mention of anyone other than the ten accounted for in the raid, making our operation to capture The Queen without media attention appear to be a total success. Merle was thanked for his integral part of the operation and left to report on the subsequent local fallout. By dinner time we are back in DC, prepping for individual debriefs with Harlan and Julie. Outside of shrapnel lightly ripping through the back Drysdale's left hand, we emerged from the fire-fight unscathed and undeterred. My initial report to Julie was centered around the heroic performances of the team, Merle, Mustang and Drysdale, who all acted with calm and professional courageousness under the extreme conditions.

The Queen has been taken to our private clinic for medial and physiological observation and testing. In my initial scan, she slept the entire flight back so we did not talk, she appeared gaunt, weak and slightly disoriented, all conditions perfectly understandable for a prisoner surviving solitary confinement for eight months and suddenly released back into our exclusively trenchant sector of society.

Julie, Harlan, Drysdale, his hand bandaged with white gauze, and I are exchanging field notes when a call from Hartaugh comes into the office router. Julie looks at us asking for forgiveness in her acceptance of the inbound call and walks out of the conference room and into the foyer, cell in hand. The three of us continue our casual analysis of the day's events, Mina contributing a fresh pot of coffee and a tray of chocolate-almond croissants to the conversation. Julie returns to the room and absent-mindedly pours herself a cup of the steaming blend while reaching for a French confection.

The room falls silent waiting for her to claim sweet refreshment and fill us with the details of her phonecon with the decidedly sour Senator.

Noticing this she takes the initiative, "His sources are reporting that one of the terrorists was working undercover."

If the room was silent prior to the release of this news it is now complete. I hear a snowflake of powered sugar drop from toasted dough to silver platter, a fall from grace that perfectly mirrors and sums my current feeling of dread.  

The lingering dread of silence is rudely shattered by Drysdale's cry, "No fucking way."

Ten of Ten

 227.

Merle gets the call from Foreman Joey Krebs saying he is leaving the ranch for their scheduled coffee date downtown. It was his idea in order to remove his innocent fried from the potentially lethal arena. He relays the info to Drysdale and the game is on. On cue Kreb's shiny new Chevy pickup passes the makeshift security shack as the Penske truck approaches from the opposite direction. Drysdale has given the driver the option of full compliance or a 9mil in the right knee. They pass through the gate with nothing more than a hand wave from the sentry, Drysdale laying low, out of sight. A trio of bangs on the cab bulkhead alerts us to 'get ready' mode for the mayhem about to ensue. Mustang unslings the deadly automatic Kalishnokov AK-12 and securely places it in my lap. I hear the safety release of her favorite Sig-Sauer P228 from just behind my right ear.

"Stay behind me, until instructed otherwise" I order as a last moment reminder.

Drysdale directs the driver to park in front of the barn, standard procedure, and then to slowly walk to the rear of the truck, slide out the loading ramp and then open the cargo door. From there, he continues, we are going to walk into the main house, you first. He finishes his commands with a terse, "Anything goes South, you are the first to follow, clear?" Adding, "How many people inside?"

The driver answers about ten.

The cargo door rolls up like a stage curtain revealing us with weapons drawn, business ends directed at his forehead. I signal 'hush' with a single finger over my lips as Drysdale flashes the five finger sign, twice. Ten to three, fair odds, I calculate. I initiate the strike with a "Let's go" and we hit the ramp with a rattle and shake.

The driver is vanguard, Mustang and I behind and Drysdale at the tail. We move deliberately towards the aging Spanish style house as I consider my closing comments from last night's final review of the plan and its contingencies, "with any luck at all we might be able to take the cell and capture the target without firing a single shot."

We make it unobstructed to the veranda which runs the full sixty feet front of the house. Drysdale taps me on the shoulder and goes right, we wait until he has reached the corner and I push the AK into the drivers back telling him to open the door and enter. We watch him take a deep breath and then comply. Four men sit at a card table in the kitchen. Mustang moves quickly behind the driver as I level the AK at the card players and shout "FBI, everybody on the floor, hands behind heads. NOW."

One of them makes a halfhearted move to grab his rifle from behind his chair and is met by Drysdale breaking the kitchen window and putting a red dot on his forehead. They all sense defeat and lay on the oak floor, hands behind heads. Five down, five to go.

I motor to them and conduct a three word interrogation, "Where's the girl?" No one speaks. "Tell us where she is and you will all live through this, stay silent and you all die." I nudge the AK into the back of the head of one of the prone card playing terrorists and repeat the question, "Where's the girl? Five seconds till the lights go out."

"Out back in the garage," unexpectedly suddenly shouts the driver, still being covered by Mustang.

Before we can move a muscle Drysdale is running in the direction of the garage, I yell to Mustang to keep them all covered and shoot if any of them twitches as much as a tendon. I make my way out the kitchen door and towards Drysdale's trajectory of approach. About fifty open and exposed meters separate the house and the garage. Drysdale, sensing danger, pulls up behind a huge fir tree. He sees me and points to another tree to my left. Once established he gives me the 'I'm going in and cover me' hand sign and is off.

He is immediately met with cross-fire coming from inside the garage window and from the right, where the barn tosses an early shadow across the yard. He covers the space in astonishing time, live rounds snapping up demolition dust devils right and left behind him. I have time to send streams of cover fire in both directions assisting his sprint. He gets to the garage door, turns to face me pulling a smoke grenade from his vest pocket, signaling 5-4-3. Flash bang and then scattered bursts accompany me as I put the wheelchair's assist motor into high gear and race towards the rear of the building, AK loudly leading the way. We get to the same place at the same time behind the garage. In the fenced area one terrorist soldier has a gun to the head of The Queen, who he secures from behind in a crude version of a choke hold. He is coughing and trying to wipe his eyes as we point our weapons at him.

"Let the girl go and you won't be hurt." I yell.

"Shoot the fucker," The Queen yells back.

"Drop your weapons or I cap the bitch," counters the terrorist.

I glance at Drysdale as he begins to slowly lower his weapon. I do likewise and place the AK on the ground beside my chair. We both have our hands in the air when The Queen makes a quick and furious spin move creating a small space between herself and her captor. A single shot rings out breaking the silence of the standoff.

Merle ejects the spent shell casing from his deer rifle and nods an 'all clear' signal towards us.

Ten of ten.

Keeping Score

 226.

Julie is keeping score. Of the five active protocols, three have seen positive movement. With no one worried about Mr. Big going anywhere we are the closing act on a marque day in our endless defense of life, liberty and the pursuit of those that threaten them. As we prepare to initiate the strike, final preparations and back-up plans set, I can't help but remember a meme from years ago suggesting that 'Whatever doesn't kill me is going to be very sorry it ever tried.' Almost instantly I recoil at this and shake myself from the trap of revenge and back to the mindset of this being a duty and a service to humanity, just the rescue of a hostage held by heavily armed domestic terrorists. Nothing personal.

At 0835 a eighteen foot rented Penske truck leaves the Zimmerman compound, past the tiny one-man security check point and heads South on the two-lane country road. Merle and Drysdale meet it as it departs tailing safely a hundred yards behind. They follow it for ten miles until it makes a turn into a small industrial park and to an all-steel warehouse. The roof and siding of the building are covered with red, black and orange rust, almost complete in its cover of the black impact font advertising Zimmerman Hay and Soy. The truck pulls into the warehouse, twenty minutes later reappearing from behind its huge sliding doors. It heads back towards the compound on the same route it came. At a four-way stop sign between the warehouse and county road the truck comes to an obligatory halt. From the left a Montana State Patrol SUV, blue lights on fire, blocks the intersection. At the rear Merle pins the truck in place as Drysdale jumps out and runs to the yellow Penske. Weapon drawn he climbs aboard and takes command, ordering the driver to keep his hands in the air and not to move a muscle. Drysdale removes his belted sidearm, cell phone and wallet, then signals to the State Trooper that his work is done, much appreciated and please stand by the radio for possible additional assistance. Drysdale returns his attention to the driver instructing him to continue back towards the compound, adding the street Miranda, "Stay cool, do as I say and nobody will get hurt."

Halfway back to the compound Drysdale instructs the driver to pull over into a wide spot in the road. Once stopped his tells the driver to slowly exit the cab and open the rear cargo door. Drysdale slides over and follows him with gun in hand. As they walk back Merle brings the rental car up to meet them. Mustang and I exit the vehicle and make our way to the aluminum loading ramp of the truck that Drysdale has slid into position. Assist motor on and up we go. Inside of two minutes and we are inside the empty truck and headed to the old Zimmerman place and our unannounced rendezvous with The Queen.

On the way I text Julie with an update. "If yr kpng score, we a go."