CIA HEADQUARTERS
Langley, Virginia
Although he didn’t know it, most of the details of Steve Nelsen’s trip to Turkey had been worked out for him prior to his arrival in Washington. He would fly by C-5 from Dover Air Force Base to Incirlik Air Base, Turkey. From there he would meet up with a special forces unit on loan to the Agency. In the meantime, Agency officers would be watching every airport in Turkey for the pilot of that Beechcraft. Baskale.
All Nelsen knew as he paced nervously in the DO’s office, was he had been called to CIA headquarters. He had not been back to Langley since the commissioning ceremony for the new organization over six months ago. And this was the first time he had been called to the Director of Operation’s office. He had known Kurt Jenkins from the old Agency days, having crossed paths as Jenkins rose higher in the organization, while he seemed to stagnate as a field officer. A good field officer, though. One who got results. Until now. Now, he had failed miserably. It was true he had guessed the terrorist’s target correctly, and taken appropriate measures, but he had failed to consider an alternate target. He had even come up with the right mode of dispersing the nerve gas. After all, that’s how he would have done it. He had thought like a terrorist and it had paid off. But the leader, Baskale, had gotten away. And they had only recovered one of the four terrorists. Dead. All of Nelsen’s colleagues thought the three terrorists would try again, for they had failed and would never be able to return to their bosses under those circumstances. Nelsen knew better. The nerve gas was gone. Had they really failed? Instead of killing one former president that most of the world had already forgotten about, they had killed over a hundred, and the count was rising. Every major news source had picked up on the story and was milking it for all it was worth. Newspapers, Network News, CNN, National Public Radio, the BBC. Everyone. Someone high up in government had leaked that the attack was carried out by Kurdish terrorists, and the media had linked the bombing of the Astrodome to other attacks in Germany and England. The process had started. Now Nelsen knew that he had very little time to act before every step he took would be mirrored by some news hound out to make a name for himself.
The door opened and slammed quickly behind Jenkins, who had a sour look on his face as he plopped down behind his chair. His suit looked rumpled, as if he had slept in it. He set his briefcase on the desk top. “Have a seat, Steve.”
Nelsen sunk into a leather chair.
The MEO opened the briefcase and pulled out a thin file. “Good work down in Texas.”
He had to be joking. “You’re not serious?”
“I’m dead serious,” Jenkins said, adjusting his tiny round glasses higher on his nose. “You had the chemical warfare units on site in Houston at the time of the attack. If we had had to pull them from their normal bases after the fact, it would have taken hours. And who knows how many lives it would have meant? The president is very pleased. So is the CIA director. Malone is preparing a citation for you. You should be proud.”
He felt far from it. He had been so close. “Thank you, sir. But I should have caught the bastards, or at least realized they had an alternate target in mind. My failure is inexcusable.”
“That was far from failure, Steve. What if they had dropped the bomb on downtown Dallas, or New York, or here in D.C.? How many would have died then? If they had struck the New York City subway system at rush hour, like those religious loonies in Tokyo, who knows how many would have died. You were right on their tail through Mexico, figured out why they were in Texas, and even planned, as well as anyone could have, to stop them. That’s all anyone can ask of you.”
Nelsen shrugged. He had to hand it to Jenkins. He was slick with people.
“You get the point, Steve. The terrorists killed a few baseball players and some fans. It could have been far worse.” He paused for a moment, as if he had laid out a set of decoys on a pond, was watching a flock of ducks set their wings, about to land, before pow—he raises his gun and starts blasting. But the fire storm didn’t come. “You’re gonna go out there and catch that bastard, Baskale, for us. And that’s not all....”
Nelsen sat and listened for nearly an hour as the MEO laid out the plan for him. Nelsen interjected with comments only a few times, as he came up with additional ideas that might help the mission.
When Jenkins was done, he could tell that Nelsen was pleased with the MEO’s confidence in him. After all, Nelsen had gone to Washington thinking he’d be on the carpet for his fuck up in Houston. Instead, he was leading an international search for Baskale. Nelsen couldn’t have been more happy.
“When do I leave?” Nelsen asked.
“One hour. Baskale could have left the country by now on his way across the Atlantic with his two buddies.”
Nelsen rose and reached across the desk to Jenkins, grasping his hand tightly and pumping it. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down. I promise.”
After Nelsen had gone, Jenkins leaned back in his chair and wondered if what he had just done was the right thing. Steve Nelsen may get results, but at what cost? He had always been a hot-head. Brutal some would say. Yet maybe that’s what it would take to bring down a fanatical terrorist group. He wanted someone tough, who was willing to stick his ass on the line for the Agency. With that in mind, there was no one better.