A/N: Apologies for the long absence. I've been in the hospital with a nasty case of pneumonia and I'm still recovering from it.
XxX
The Spook.
December of 1989.
Kenya.
In the southeastern corner of Kenya, on the edge of an unforgiving desert, a team of French surveyors were the first to discover oil. It was there, in the midst several age-old cities, that a man called Dubwana first rose to power. He was a warlord in every sense of the word – he had his loyal followers, his paid supporters, and a healthy portion of the government willing to look the other way to stay off of his naughty list. He saw an opportunity and he took it, steamrolling through the cities in his path and seizing the resource for himself.
He had no photograph on file, only a sketch done based on witness accounts. Some said he was tall and fearsome, dressed only in a loin cloth with tribal tattoos covering most of his body, but others said he was small and polite at first, well-dressed and well-spoken. Witness accounts only ever agreed on one thing. He had cold eyes, and his very presence was unnerving.
His file sat open on my lap as the helicopter touched down in a cyclone of sand. Burrey, Ted, and Mercer hopped out ahead of me, dressed down in white and gray camouflage with assault rifles swinging on their backs and shaded goggles over their eyes. We assembled in a line, handing our briefing files over to our squad chief as he hopped out behind us. It was hard to see anything beyond the mess kicked up by the helicopter, but as it soared off and the dust settled, a new world opened up. Sadler stored our folders in his backpack, heaved it onto his shoulders, and yanked off his goggles, surveying the horizon with beady blue eyes.
"God, I hate the desert," he remarked, pulling his goggles the rest of the way off his head so sand popped out of his rust-colored hair. "Burrey, take Westen and find our quarters. Lug these bags over and then report to Command. Ted, you get your eager ass over to the mess hall and get me a time on the next meal, I'm starving. Mercer, with me."
I had been in delta force for four months, its most junior member, but with seven fast-paced missions under my belt already, it felt like I had been with them my whole life. I knew these men backwards and forwards, their likes and dislikes, their most irritating and endearing qualities. Sadler was unfiltered and bold, Mercer was quiet and brutal, Ted was always energized and much more dangerous than he looked, and Burrey was broad, like a grizzly in camo, a seasoned warrior who could spot a mistake at two miles on a clear day.
We faced our new surroundings together, the grizzly and I, like we had seven times already this year. It was a throw-together military base, made up entirely of six-foot high canvas tents the color of sun-bleached sand, freshly dug bunkers, and patrolling soldiers. In this quarter mile stretch of desert, you could find more firepower than in most developing countries.
Burrey led the way, lugging three bags on his shoulders, through a swath of soldiers and equipment. I was trained to be impassive, to drive my emotions and not let them drive me, but I was young and the machinery in this place was incredible. Heavy artillery and anti-air guns sat waiting along the edges of the base, alert to dangers, heads on the swivel, and snipers sat in towers at six points around us, only the tips of their high-powered rifles visible through heavy, sand-colored tarps. Platoons of troops jogged between the tents, holding guns, shouting orders, and in the rare moments when the human voices laxed, a helicopter buzzed in the distance.
"Something-" I began, but Burrey slapped me on the back of the head and motioned to a tent marked with the delta symbol.
It was cramped inside, but my unit had once slept back-to-back-to-back in a tugboat going up the Amazon river and space was never a problem. Burrey claimed the bunk to the right of the entrance flap by dropping his own bag on it. He dispersed the others, and I copied him with my own bags.
"Something must be happening," I continued.
Burrey nodded. "Probably conflicts with the locals."
"But we-"
"We invited ourselves, Westen." Burrey shooed me out of the tent and started off again, his tone shutting down any further questions.
It was never mentioned in the briefing folder, but I had learned as early as basic training that army operations were often met with resistance in certain parts of the world. It all depended on the people, how armed they were, how independent they wanted to be. It wasn't my job to have an opinion, but the whole thing made me weary.
We got a lot of looks as we crossed the base this time. I followed closely behind Burrey, feeling smaller than ever under the scrutinizing eyes of older, wiser soldiers. We were dressed like them for the most part, just white and gray instead of white and yellow, but each of our squad wore a black delta symbol over our hearts. We wore a lot of things on missions, but these were standard for working in a base. I had rarely gotten to wear mine. It still looked new, black and shiny, as glossy as it had been the day I stood proudly while a tailor sewed it onto my chest.
Burrey stopped by the largest tent, which had to be Command – the tent orders came from – and stood respectfully beside the door, as stiff as a soldier with his drill sergeant berating him. I was looser, standing with my fingers thrumming idly on my belt, getting another look around.
Beyond the borders of this tented city, the desert stretched out for countless miles. It was like an ocean made entirely of melted caramel, baking in the sun. It was only in the seventies outside, but it was a dry heat. We had just finished a mission in Brazil, where it rained nearly every day and the humidity was incredible. I marveled at the contrast, at the dizzying pace of my new career, and at the impossible variety this world had to offer.
"First time in the desert, Westen?" Burrey asked.
I shook my head, and then hastily nodded. It was my first time in this environment, but not my first time in Africa. I was never sure what they meant when they said 'the desert.' Sadler used the term to refer to most of the Middle East and all of southern Africa.
"I was in South Africa."
"How did you like it?"
"Not at all," I said, my tone biting.
He said nothing else, but looked out at the desert thoughtfully. I wondered suddenly how many times he had been here, and under what circumstances.
Sadler and Mercer stepped out of the Command tent before I could say anything. Sadler looked murderous. "We got a spook running us."
"What?" I said automatically.
"Spy," Burrey said.
Sadler snorted. "I know how to run an op without a spook crawling up my ass."
"If that were true, I think I might be out of a job."
Larry Sizemore stepped out of the tent, smiling wickedly.
He was as strangely out of place here as he had been years ago when I met him in the wake of Mshauri. His hair was combed back, a sleek brown, and his eyes were as gray as the details on my uniform. He was the opposite of every other soldier on this base – relaxed. He was the one who saved me from the massacre at Mshauri, not the one to commit the crime, but I bristled at the sight of him. His face was a reminder of those piles of bodies, the gunshots ringing through the forest, the cold dead eyes of my brothers as they fell to an ambush.
Sadler rolled his eyes and glared at the spy, looking like he wanted nothing more than to sock him in the jaw. "No offense, but this is a hostile takeover, not-"
"Oh, no offense at all," Larry interrupted, looking positively unbothered, "But you and I are going to be working together and I think whoever put that in motion had a plan. Don't you?"
Sadler curled his lip.
"I just wanna get this op over with. I'm supposed to be on a beach in Mexico right now, knee-deep in whores and tequila. But some upper management son of a bitch wanted this mission to take top priority – so here I am." Larry laughed, carefree, and seemed to take no notice of the hostility brimming around him. "Shall we convene in your tent?"
Sadler led the way, grudgingly, with Mercer falling into step behind him. I fell behind Burrey, joining the spy who strolled at the back of the line.
He smiled at me, "Nice to see you're still alive, kid."
I was curious about him, about what he had been doing since we met in South Africa, but for some reason none of my questions would come out. His presence here was no coincidence. He had said he would be in touch the last time we spoke.
"How are you feeling?" Larry asked out of nowhere.
He stumped me. "What?"
"Last time we met, you were recovering from a bullet in the gut and pissed off at the world."
"Oh." It felt like a lifetime ago. Since then I had crossed continents. His question brought out a blunt truth, "I feel… nothing."
"It stays with you a while, that numbness. You have that anger balled up inside. If my plan falls through you might get to let some of it out. I'll let you take the shot, if it comes to that."
His words came as we arrived at the tent, and all I could do was stare at him while everyone got sorted inside. What was he saying? He would let me be the one to kill Dubwana? Did I really want to do that? I had never met the man. I had only read about him in a folder on a helicopter.
Ted rejoined us just as Larry finished unfolding several maps and laying them out on a cot for the squad to look at. Larry went right into his presentation. "I want to divert his resources. He puts all his labor into protection and drilling, so he has to have his food brought in from nearby villages – by force, of course. If we cut off all of his supply lines, we can draw out chunks of his army and neutralize them."
Sadler wondered, "What about the villagers? If they stop cooperating with him, he could retaliate. We would need units stationed in each of the supply villages, and even then-"
"Did you read your orders?" Larry cut in sharply, his face changing so quickly that it seemed he had donned a mask. For a split second he looked absolutely vicious, and then, like I had been imagining it, he put on a tired expression. "Collateral damage is a risk we have to take."
It looked like Sadler might respond, but the seconds ticked on and he stayed silent.
Larry spoke instead. "We capture this resource at any cost. We can interrogate civilians who've been in his stronghold and figure out the best way to breach."
His plan went on in extravagant detail. He showed us more maps, drew lines around the stronghold, and set aside squadrons of soldiers to take key points. It was impossible not to be awed by him, the way his eyes flashed at each clever addition to his plot, the way he planned to make Dubwana stretch out his limbs so we could lop them off one at a time. It was genius. He wanted to spread false information, to send civilians in with reports of non-existent raids, to make it seem like some of Dubwana's soldiers had turned against him and started working with the Americans. This, he said, would inspire Dubwana to take rash action, to expose himself.
It was such an elaborate plan that I could hardly imagine it coming to fruition. It had too many moving pieces and too many if-then scenarios. How could he know how Dubwana would react?
His long explanation ended, and Ted reported that dinner was being served. Starving from the trip, my squad left to eat. I stayed with Larry, and voiced my concerns.
Larry looked pleased by the question. "Warlords are an archetype, kid. You can think of any person that way. You have your soldiers, your civilians, your mothers and fathers, your religious figures, your presidents and chiefs… Everybody has certain traits that make them a little predictable. Warlords, for example, are power-hungry, and power-hungry people are obsessed with loyalty. Without a trusted inner circle, power is limited. So they build up their little empire of followers and demand total dedication. If somebody falls out of line, the punishment is severe. If enough people fall out of line, he starts to wonder… what if there's an uprising coming? What if my friends are really my enemies? What if the people I trust most are out to get me?"
Everything he said made sense, but it also produced a nagging doubt in me. He had to be wrong. People were unique and surprising. Could it really be that simple?
Larry tapped me on the knee with one of his folded maps, smiling, "Reading people comes with experience, kid. One day you might be able to look at someone and see their intentions written on their face, clear as day."
I tried that on Larry, and I got warmth in return. He was more welcoming of curiosity than Burrey. "Will we be able to kill him? I mean, the guy has an army, and thousands of guns."
Larry considered me for a long, trying moment, and then laughed. "Kid, let me tell you something. Guns make people stupid. It's best to fight your wars with intelligence – something a lot of people lack. You get a big group of beefy guys and give them rifles, and what do you have?"
I shrugged, "Security guards?"
"You have dominoes, kid, just waiting to be knocked down."
Finally, the questions I wanted to ask in the beginning came back to me. "You said you were a spy. What does that mean? What do you do? Is it like in the movies?"
"It means I have… unconventional assignments, like you and your squad here. Except you and your buddies have a big, classified manifesto of all your comings and goings. I do what needs to be done, without official involvement from the home front, if you get that."
I nodded, though the whole thing was still unclear. His words inspired something in me. I was reminded of what he said after Mshauri, how the world was full of scum, and we made up for the people we lost one mission at a time. Was that what he did? He went around the world, destroying monsters like the ones who had leveled that village? He walked with such freedom, spoke with such candor, and seemed so perfectly unburdened by this mission. He was not numb like me, not bitter like Sadler, not tired and beaten down like the other soldiers on this base.
He must have seen the curiosity and desire in my eyes, because he smiled again, almost victoriously, and said, "It's gonna be a pleasure working with you, kid."