CHAPTER ONE

 

September 30 — 8:35 P.M. AST
Tuesday night

Kirkus Airbase, Northern Iraq

 

“Where are you?” she whispered.

Her image was all but lost in the warped tin mirror.

“Are you in there?”

She wiped the steam off the mirror. Leaning forward, she smiled. Her familiar reflection smiled back. She dragged a thin towel through her close brown crew cut, the only remaining hair on her tall, thin body. Every other piece of body hair had been mercilessly yanked out by an evil waxing goddess in Istanbul.

She rubbed the towel over her left arm and the blue fairy tattoo that lay under her bicep. Her thumb traveled the edges of the tattoo. Sighing, she dried her right arm where the green Vivaldi ‘F’ armband tattoo marking her as a member of the Fey Special Forces Team. In her haste, the towel knocked the diamond that filled her belly button askew. She pulled the towel over her bumpy, scarred left hip to dry her leg. Drying her right leg, she marveled at this leg’s lack of scars, tattoos, or injury.

As dry as she was going to get with the towel, she looked at her reflection again. Her scalp shone red from scrubbing away the sweat, sand, and filth left by the long black wig. She stepped over the pile of scarves and the blue burqa to get to the toilet.

A fist pounded and a man’s voice yelled through the door: “Are you going to be in there forever?”

She closed her eyes.

One glance at the British soldier and she knew what he’d endured. Retrieving hostages was her specialty; and her curse. She needed time, and a long shower, before she felt like herself again.

She stared at the door and bit her lip. Shaking her head at the men on the other side of the door, she stepped into the shower again. Standing under the blistering hot water, her memory replayed the last twelve hours.

Her team had left her three miles away from the camp. Not wanting to attract undue attention, she’d spent more than an hour meandering up the rugged road and through the tribe’s camp. Intel predicted the tribal leader would be sitting down to his lunch after mid-day prayers. The fresh California oranges which lined her robes had bought her safe passage to his table.

“Sir, may I offer you an orange?” she asked in Arabic.

Covered head to toe by the burqa and scarves, she lowered her eyes.

“This is not possible.” The man threw his utensils down.

“Surely, you’ve heard that I have returned.”

Acknowledging their past transaction, she dared to raise her eyes.

“I heard something.”

Two jihad soldiers ran to the man’s aid. He shook his head at them.

“She wouldn’t be standing here if eleven men weren’t watching us,” the man said.

“Twelve,” she said.

She threw an orange into the air. One at a time, twelve silenced bullets pierced the skin of the orange. The man and his soldiers ducked away from the spray of orange juice.

“That’s a terrible thing to do to such a beautiful orange,” the man said.

“You know why I’m here,” she said.

The man nodded.

“He has not been harmed or fouled in anyway,” he said.

“That’s good for you,” she nodded.

She held up two fingers. From the edge of the encampment, Captain Andrew ‘Trece’ Ramirez and Captain Christopher ‘White Boy’ Blanco crept forward. Even in ordinary fatigues, the men’s barrel chests and twenty inch arms intimidated the Iraqis.

Nervous, the young men moved their hands along their weapons. Their feet shifted back and forth in the sand. The jihad soldiers’ eyes flicked from the men to their leader.

“Take them to our guest,” the man said in rapid Arabic.

Trece and White Boy followed the soldiers into a broken cinder block building behind them.

“What will I tell them when they ask?” he asked.

“What did you tell them last time?”

“Food is hard to pass up,” he said.

She shrugged. Trece and White Boy dragged the British soldier between them. Captain Matthew Mac Clenaghan and Captain Vince Hutchins appeared from the brush to help carry the British soldier.

“Didn’t feed him,” she said.

“Who has extra food in these difficult times?” the man asked. “Trade is non-existent. The war keeps industry away. We were poor. We are starving now. Not even you can expect us to overlook a gift from Allah such as this British filth.”

“You almost bought yourself a sure death,” she said. “No one wants to deal with you anymore.”

“He was a gift from Allah,” he nodded.

“You know the drill,” Alex said. “Air drop in two hours then again in two weeks. Don’t shoot at the plane. These days, they’d rather bomb everything in their path.”

“So noted,” he said.

The shower door opened with a gust of cool air and the scene from the Iraqi sand vaporized. She opened her eyes.

“You’re baking yourself,” Arthur “Raz” Rasmussen said. “Come on.”

He held a clean towel for her. She stepped into the towel. A beautiful man with caramel colored skin and grey eyes, he wrapped her in a tight hug.

“What’s got you?” he asked.

His tone was low and nurturing, kind and loving. She looked up at him. Raz. He was her partner, friend, housemate, and the person who had saved her from death.

“Did you hear what he said when I was leaving?”

“Gift from Allah?”

“The Fey lives,” she whispered.

“He’s fed his tribe for a month, at least,” Raz said. “He should be grateful.”

“It was more like the way he said it.”

“Breathy and low. I noticed that,” he said.

“I’m haunted by the words – the Fey lives.”

“You do live,” Raz said.

“If the Fey ever lived, he died in Paris three years ago,” she said. “The Fey is a myth, a fantasy created to cover the actions of an entire team. And anyway, everyone knows the Fey was a male Special Forces officer.”

Laughing, he kissed the top of her head and held her tight again.

“Come on, the boys want to shower,” Raz said. “They’re pissed at you.”

“Officers quarters. I’m the officer.” She pointed to her chest. “How did you get in?”

“Eoin’s been teaching me about locks,” he said.

His hand stroked her chin. Without another word, he left the bathroom.

She leaned forward to wipe the steam from the mirror to check again.

No Fey here.

Nodding to herself, she picked up her clothing and left the tiny bathroom. The men standing on the other side of the door applauded. Through her team’s moaning, groaning, and even their rowdy dinner, three simple words echoed in Lieutenant Colonel Alexandra Hargreaves’ mind.

“The Fey lives.”

She had no idea what they meant.

 

FFFFFF

 

Eight days later
October 8 — 8:35 P.M. EDT
Wednesday night
Private conference room, Arlington, VA

 

Chief Petty Officer Royce Tubman felt the air change. About fifteen minutes had passed since he answered the knock on the apartment door. The man had shoved a hood over his head. A cell phone rang and a familiar voice told him to go with the ‘gentleman.’ The man had pushed him into a waiting car. They’d driven for almost twelve minutes. A larger, more thuggish man had taken him from the car and pushed him into what sounded like an empty office building.

“Stairwell,” the thug grunted.

The young man started down a long stairwell with four landings. The thug pulled him to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. The sailor stood facing a wall while the thug spoke with another grunting voice. The sailor heard a door open and was pushed through the door. They turned left, then right, and continued down a long hallway. The thug pushed him into the wall while he negotiated some kind of lock or security.

“They’re waiting for you,” the thug grunted. “Any screw up and you’ll deal with me. I don’t like Navy pricks.”

The thug opened the door and yanked off Royce’s hood.

“Ah, Chief Petty Officer Tubman,” said a man wearing a US Army dress uniform. He stood in a circle of light from an idling projector. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Royce gave a curt nod. In the dark room, Royce made out five male figures. He’d expected six. The thug pressed him around the table to an empty chair. Pushing Royce into the chair, the man held his hands on Royce’s shoulders for just a moment longer than necessary. The US Army Captain across the table from him nodded and the thug went to stand beside the door.

“Shall we begin?” the man at the front of the room asked.

“Shouldn’t we introduce ourselves?” A loud voice with a thick Texas accent came from Royce’s right. “I’m Cee Cee Joiner.”

The large man and held his hand across the table to Royce. In his left hand, he held a wide white cowboy hat.

“Chief Tubman.”

Royce shook the large man’s hand. When the man sat down, he stuffed the white cowboy hat on his round head. The man took up the entire end of the table with his girth.

“Captain Irwin,” the Captain across the table said. “Retired.”

“Sir,” Royce said.

“Eniac,” the man sitting next to him said.

The man held his hand out and Royce shook it. Eniac’s hand was small, soft and a little damp. When Royce let go, Eniac took off his thick glasses and began a ritual of cleaning them. Royce discretely wiped his hand on his service khaki pants.

“Major…” the man at the front of the room coughed into his hand.

“Major Stonewall. It’s nice to see you again,” Royce said.

“Yes, we met in Georgetown,” the Major said.

“Thank you for extending the invitation,” Royce said. “I’m anxious to hear what you’ve planned.”

“Let’s get started,” Major Stonewall said.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Royce said.

“You didn’t,” a breathy man’s voice came from the shadow in the front. “You won’t.”

“I’m sure Chief Tubman doesn’t mind,” Major Stonewall said.

“No sir,” Royce said.

When the screen changed to show three smiling pictures of middle aged men, Royce leaned back in his chair and let out a breath. He’d made it this far. His eyes took in the men around him. He knew there was no Major Stonewall in the US Army. Captain Irwin wasn’t retired. He was dishonorably discharged. Cee Cee Joiner was near the top of the CIA’s ‘Most Wanted’ list. And this Eniac was a mystery. No one seemed to know anything about him. Royce glanced over to find the man staring at him. His eyes appeared twice their size through his thick lenses. Royce nodded and turned his attention to the front of the room.

“These three men.”

Major Stonewall’s disdain filled the conference room. His index finger punched the air toward each smiling photo.

“General turned Senator Patrick Hargreaves, Benjamin Doucet known only as Benjamin or Ben, and the mysterious Steven Pershing. These three men created the abomination. We will destroy it.”

The man paused for effect.

“As a General, Patrick Hargreaves pushed every barrier, questioned every rule. As a Senator, he’s upended the power structures in Washington. When his daughter wanted to be a Green Beret, he did not hesitate to make it happen.”

Major Stonewall’s voice rose with a kind of cartoonish fury. Royce looked around the room. For the first time, he realized that without their ring leader, the mysterious sixth man, these men were jockeying for position within the group.

“This man…” He pointed to the photo of Benjamin. “He was once the best intelligence agent in the world. He trained the abomination from the time she was a child.”

“So did Pershing,” Captain Irwin said.

“All because Patrick Hargreaves had to prove his point,” the wheezing voice near the front said.

“And what is the point, sir?” Royce asked. His orders were to be mildly confrontational. Give in too fast and they won’t respect him. Protest too much, and they’ll kill him.

“Hargreaves believes women should be allowed in Special Forces, including the Green Berets.” Major Stonewall spit out each word. He worked to control of himself.

“But sir, Alexandra Hargreaves wears a beret,” Royce said. “It would seem General Hargreaves was correct.”

The man at the front nodded to the thug standing next to the door. The thug lifted Royce by the shoulders of his service khaki jacket.

“I don’t mean to ruffle your feathers,” Royce said. “I’m just trying to understand.”

The thug looked at Major Stonewall. The man nodded and the thug dropped the Navy officer in his seat. The thug threw a bruising punch at Royce’s arm then moved back to the door.

“This woman has been successful. We don’t argue that,” Cee Cee Joiner said.

“She’s had every advantage,” Major Stonewall said. “How could she not be successful?”

“She should never have been allowed to be Green Beret,” Cee Cee Joiner said. “It’s just wrong.”

“We meet today, on the anniversary of our failure, to remember that nothing less than annihilation will suffice,” the breathy voice from the front of the room said.

“You cannot pin that on me.” Cee Cee Joiner jumped to his feet. “She should be dead!”

“No one blames you,” Major Stonewall said. “We know Benjamin saved her life.”

“These men!” Captain Irwin jumped to his feet. “Every single time we get ahead these bastards intervene. We spent a year wearing her down. Our operatives had her and she slipped away!”

Major Stonewall cleared his throat to regain control of the room.

“Why don’t we take a moment to tell Chief Tubman why we are here?” Major Stonewall asked.

Captain Irwin and the Texan exchanged a look and sat down.

“That… woman stole from me,” Cee Cee Joiner said. “To add insult to injury, she had the nerve to remove my father from his care facility. My own father!”

Unwilling to give way to Joiner’s indignation, Major Stonewall asserted himself.

“My reasons have to do with the travesty of allowing a woman to invade the Green Berets,” Major Stonewall said.

“I have legitimate military projects that cannot be funded because this woman’s operation is so expensive,” Eniac said. “We could run four, maybe five, legitimate military combat operations for the cost of her little search and rescue operation. It comes down to money, gentleman.”

“And waste. We have the finest military in the world. But it is a combat military,” Captain Irwin said. “Our soldiers know they might die in some enemy prison camp. Their duty is to die and die well. This extraction team is a waste of resources.”

“Besides, with modern technology, most of this work can be done via drone for a fraction of the cost,” Eniac said. Sneering at the young Navy officer, the man added, “Why are you here?”

“I despise the presence of women in Navy Special Forces,” Royce repeated what his file said about him. “But more than anything, I loathe the Admiral’s weak attitude toward women.”

No stranger to theatrics, Royce’s fist pounded the table to emphasize his point.

“Our young friend is attached to the Admiral in charge of Special Forces,” Major Stonewall said. “He is a member of the special assassin team created by President Bush.”

“You have to fight their inclusion from the very beginning, sir,” Royce said. “Once they invade, the entire unit is diminished.”

The Captain snorted in agreement.

“We must keep our focus on our bottom line here,” Eniac said.

“And what is our bottom line, sir?” Royce asked.

“We will eliminate the abomination,” Major Stonewall said.

“How do you propose doing that?” Royce asked. The scoff in his voice mocked the men’s capability to change anything. They bristled at his slight. Royce raised and dropped a shoulder in a subtle challenge. These old men would have to prove they could do anything.

“Go ahead,” Major Stonewall said.

“We have an operative deep within her trusted group,” Eniac said.

“We’ve flooded her group with candidates for the new team.” Major Stonewall’s voice was smug with his accomplishment

“We’re all set to pull her funding,” Cee Cee Joiner chuckled. “She’ll have beg the Senate for funds.”

“We’ll take her family from her,” the breathy voice said.

“We’ll keep her running from fire to fire,” Captain Irwin said. “She won’t be able to build her so called team.”

“We’ll have time to get our own program going,” Eniac said.

The men looked at each other with pride. Royce nodded as if he agreed they would be successful.

“We have different reasons for wanting this to happen, young man,” the quiet, breathy voiced man near the front corner of the room said. “Captain Irwin wants to return to a pure, male, Special Forces. Mr. Joiner wants his money. Eniac is interested in proving his technology makes her obsolete.”

“And I want to repair a travesty that happened on my watch,” Major Stonewall.

“He can’t forgive himself for being ordered to place a Beret on her head,” the breathy voice laughed then coughed.

“And you sir?” Royce asked.

“I want nothing less than Alexandra Hargreaves’ head in a bag.”

The men fell silent. A wheeze like sigh came from the corner of the room.

“I’ll have to settle for her utter and complete ruin,” the breathy voice said.

“Chief Tubman has been assigned to intern on her team. Is that correct?”

“Yes sir,” Royce said. “I start after the first of the year.”

“Good work,” Captain Irwin said.

“Then we are in agreement?” Major Stonewall asked. “Chief Tubman will join our efforts?

The silence was deafening. For a moment, the room itself seemed to hold its breath. When Captain Irwin nodded, the other men followed suit. Royce smiled as if he’d won an award.

Their plan was set into motion.

F