Author's Note: To all of you who've been on this journey with me, we've made it to the end of The 141. The story will continue in Straw Men, the prologue of which will be posted tomorrow, and that brings us into MW3 territory!
August 17, 2009
Langley, Virginia
Jason Hudson
He stared at the report on his desk, his discontent obvious despite his ever present sunglasses. Years ago during an interrogation, Alex Mason had called the CIA agent Mr. Sunglasses and the Ice Cube, and the statements hadn't been far off. Jason Hudson was known for two things in the CIA. The first was for his ever present sunglasses and the second was for his usual cool demeanor despite whatever chaos was going on around. This was one of the few days that Hudson lost his cool.
Sitting on his rarely used desk was a single file folder. Within in were the names and photographs of Task Force 141, an international task force that had been put together by a man named John MacTavish, a captain, and run by the recently deceased Lieutenant General Hershel von Shepherd the Third. Before Shepherd had died, he had declared the 141 traitors, claiming they had been working with Makarov to start a war between Russia and the United States. Hudson had skimmed this accusation before looking at the names and faces in the file. What he'd seen there had made his temper boil under.
Contained inside the file along with Captain MacTavish, Lieutenant Riley, and the rest of his men, was one David Andrew Mason. The picture stared up at him, as impassive as Alex Mason had been at his best, with the blazing sun over Afghanistan in the background. Staring furiously at the picture, Hudson was reminded of a small boy with intense hazel eyes pleading, "Dad, you promised." That had been '68 when Hudson had come to ask his former asset to help find Frank Woods. That final mission had orphaned an eight year old David Mason and Hudson had only seem him in person once more, at Alex's funeral.
Those piercing hazel eyes, filled with grief, had dug into Hudson's sense of grief and he'd been unable to face the boy. After all, it had been his prodding that had sent Alex chasing after a man who had been far cleverer than the CIA had given him credit for. Woods had called Hudson a coward, but the agent had still slipped out of the back of the chapel in Fairbanks without saying a word to anyone.
He hadn't seen David in person since that day, but Hudson had kept track of the boy's whereabouts. That meant that most of the information in the dossier paper clipped to David's picture was information he already knew. Only one particular piece of information stood out. Printed in unassuming black ink were the words Known Aliases: Alexei Borodin. Hudson stared at that print as if it were an accusation.
The CIA handler recognized the name. He had been the one to set up the alias on the behest of Lieutenant General Shepherd. Like most the work Hudson had done behind a desk, the Borodin identity should have been airtight. In the chaos that had followed "Alexei Borodin's" presumed death, Hudson hadn't known who had been using the identity. That it had been David that had been declared KIA, at least as Borodin, felt like a ball of lead settling in his stomach. Wheelchair or no wheelchair, should David die in the mess that was about to come, Frank Woods would kill him and, honestly, Hudson wouldn't hold it against the other man.
After Alex's death, Frank had raised David as if the boy was his own son. At first, Hudson had wondered if it wasn't just to assuage Frank's guilt but he'd quickly dismissed that notion. Before Alex's death, Frank Woods had practically been part of the family. He'd been Uncle Woods since good humored Camille had discovered she was pregnant and the status had clung to Woods, even after Camille's death. No, Frank caring for David had little to do with guilt and much to do with being the only thing close to family the boy had left.
When David left for the Rangers, it had been Hudson that Frank had called. Despite having given the boy enough training over the years for him to easily soar through Basic, the old soldier had been worried. He'd insisted that Hudson promise to keep an eye on David, and the CIA handler had up until the past few weeks when Russia had suddenly been the agency's highest priority. During that time, Hudson had lost track of David and it appeared that his negligence had been rewarded with disaster.
Hudson flipped to the correct page in the dossier and skimmed over the information for what felt like the hundredth time since the file had been placed in his hands. The report was emotionless as it detailed the events at Zakhaev International Airport, mentioning that what had happened to the CIA's temporary agent was unknown. The camera feed in the area where David had been shot and possibly killed as Borodin had been completely wiped and the FSB couldn't seem to figure out how to retrieve the footage.
The most interesting thing about the report was the little side note that Shepherd had marked David as KIA without sending in a retrieval team yet, just a day ago, the man had been listed as wounded but active by the general. That was intriguing. If Shepherd hadn't sent anyone to search for a body, how did he know that David was alive? Hudson knew that the better question was what kind of a trap was Shepherd setting, but he found himself clinging to the little bit of hope that said David might be alive. And if he was alive, Hudson needed to talk to him.
The man stood abruptly, leaving the file open, and headed out of his office into the plain white hallway. At the end of the hall stood a thick wood door with a gold plaque on it proclaiming it to be the director's office. Hudson's shoved the door roughly open, making the woman behind the thick oak desk glance up. She took in Hudson and her hand dropped away from where he knew a loaded Glock was carefully secured under the surface of the desk. "Can I help you?" Olivia Hart questioned, arching a dark eyebrow.
Hart was not someone that would ever been considered pretty or cute but she was definitively striking. Her long dark hair, which couldn't seem to decide whether it wanted to be deep brown or black, was twisted up in a bun at the back of her skull and her piercing blue eyes were wide on her slim face. Sharp cheekbones and pale pink lips completed the look, making her appear to be more of a china doll than a real human. When she'd first been hired as the director of the CIA, rumors had insisted she'd gotten the job because she was sleeping with the right people. Two months and one attempted terrorist attack later, Hart had put most the rumors to rest and had proceeded to ignore any other slander that headed her way.
Hudson, for his part, respected her. Hart had started out at the bottom of the food chain and had worked her way up with elbow grease and pure will. She was willing to get her hands dirty, if necessary, for the good of the general population, and she had a no prisoners attitude. She was also willing to indulge an agent's suspicion should it be well founded. Hudson was hoping that she would be willing to indulge this one.
"The 141 report just came in," he told her.
"And?" The eyebrow never fell, staying in place as she studied him.
"At the beginning of this mess a cover I created, Alexei Borodin, was declared KIA after presumably being shot and killed at a loading bay in Zakhaev International Airport," Hudson said, pausing just a moment for her nod. "Shepherd's personal files reflect this, but a day ago they were changed to mark the agent as wounded but active without ever sending a search team in to look for a body."
"That's certainly unusual," Hart acknowledged. "I'll see if I can rustle up an agent to investigate."
"I want to be the one to investigate," Hudson countered. "I have one contact in Russia already, which gives me a starting point and a way into the country if necessary."
"Official records indicate Grigori Weaver was killed," was Hart's reply.
"Official records are incorrect. We were being hunted by the government at the time and in order to protect Weaver we faked his death. The records were changed to reflect that, but we've kept in contact."
"I see," Hart replied, tone mildly amused. "In that case, I hand the operation over to you, but I expect consistent reports until the matter is settled."
"Ma'am," Hudson agreed respectfully, nodding at her before stepping out of her office. Once in the hall again, he headed towards the emergency exit, knowing exactly how to shift the wires to keep the alarm from going off when he slipped through it. He had a phone call to make, and he didn't want his conversation to be overheard.