Brad Taylor - Enemy of Mine

“How?”

“His name’s Lucas Kane. The Taskforce has had a run-in with him in the past, and he’s been on a watch list for at least two years. Never once has that name spiked. We’ve also scrubbed the database here in Lebanon. That name never entered or left the country.”

He said nothing for a moment, thinking. “Let me see that map again.” He studied it, saying, “Hezbollah has built their own communications infrastructure inside Lebanon. A parallel system with the help of Iran. They claim it’s to help them defend the country against Israel, but it’s really just one more step to them becoming a shadow government. I’ve passed the nodes of that network to the Taskforce should we need to target them in the future.” He pointed at a building a few blocks away from the geo-tag of the Lucas screenshot. “That’s the central junction for the fiber-optic grid and a server farm for the network.”

“Okay. How does that help? You think we should hack the network? You think his information will be in there?”

“No. The network itself is pretty secure. So much so that the Lebanese government went to war with Hezbollah over it in 2008. The LAF pretty much lost, and the communications grid is bigger than ever. Even so, the Martyrs Battalion information won’t be on it. Hezbollah’s fairly open now that they hold a majority in the government. Even its military runs around flaunting weapons. But they have to hide the assassination cell, especially after Hariri. There is a database, but it will be air-gapped. It won’t be on any network.”

“So?”

“It’s in this building. I was trying to get access to it to prove my Infidel theory, but had no luck. You get a pipe into that, and you’ll know everything about Infidel.” He leaned back in his chair. “But good luck with that.”

“You don’t think we can get access?”

“No way. Like I said, it’ll be air-gapped, with no contact to the World Wide Web. No WiFi, no Internet, nothing that can be exploited, so you’ll have to physically get hands on a computer that’s in the network. And that computer is in this building, in the heart of Hezbollah-land.”

“Can you get us greater fidelity on where this computer would be located in the building? So we don’t have to run around trying every system we see? Can your source network figure that out?”

“Yeah. I already have that information. I just couldn’t get anyone willing to risk gaining access because they were convinced it was suicide. Add to that the fact that Hezbollah’s entire infrastructure is now on red alert because of the Martyrs Battalion leadership killings, and it’s certainly suicide now. And I mean suicide for a source of mine who’s Arabic with access to the building.”

“Well, we’ll see. Get me the information on the computers and let us worry about access.”

“I’ll get it to you, along with whatever security information I have, but a piece of advice.”

“What?”

“You white boys go in that building, make sure you save one bullet for yourself. No way do you want to get taken alive.”

Knuckles watched the deck of the ship grow smaller as the Bell 427 picked up forward speed. He keyed the mike on his headset.

“Say good-bye to the QE Two . I don’t think we’re going to see the black hole again.”

In the dim light of the helo he saw Decoy’s teeth flash above the dive mask around his neck.

“Fine by me. That damn boat is the smelliest thing I’ve ever had the misfortune to sleep on.”

The QE II was the sarcastic nickname of a salvage boat that plied its cover all over the Mediterranean, picking up scrap metal at various ports and transporting it elsewhere. The company that owned it was located in Tangier, Morocco, and was ostensibly a Moroccan entity. It paid Moroccan taxes, flew the Moroccan flag, and employed ethnically diverse individuals, without a Caucasian among them. It was completely outside all suspicion to the Arab states it operated within. It was another thread in the web of the Taskforce; a profitable, multimillion-dollar corporation that existed for one purpose. In between its journeys, the boat acted as a floating transfer point, allowing terrorists who were snatched to be flown out of country and dropped off. The men would return back to the original country, continuing with their cover activities without anyone realizing what had happened. In a perfect mission, the terrorist simply disappeared into a “black hole,” hence the code name for the vessel.

In this case, Knuckles had transferred Crusty, then returned to Tunisia only to be recalled two days later on an alert from Taskforce headquarters. The ship had begun steaming east, getting in range of the Levant coastline when the mission had been scrubbed. Eight hours later, it was back on.

Having spent the majority of his military time inside a SEAL team, he was used to the on-again, off-again nature of the work, but this time the mission caused him some concern.

Ordinarily, Taskforce planning worked from the ground up, with Knuckles being told the objective, but left to his own devices to determine how it would be executed. In this case, all planning had been conducted by someone else, and he was about to exit a moving aircraft into the Mediterranean Sea, then swim for two hours for a link-up with another boat.

All the parameters had been provided to him. The grid for the boat, the signals for the beacons, the helicopter’s flight path, and the release point had been handed to him complete. He knew it was because of time sensitivity and the lack of ability to directly communicate with his link-up, but it did nothing to ease his fears. Once in the water, they were on their own. If they moved to the link-up, and nobody was home, they’d still be two hours off the coast of a hostile country.

Pike, you’d better be waiting.

His other concern was Brett, the third man on the team. There was no doubt the guy was handy in a gunfight, and plenty smart, but he’d spent the past twelve years in the Special Activities Division of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service. He hadn’t done any subsurface work since he was in the Marines, a long, long time ago, and they were swimming the Draeger LAR V rebreather.

A closed circuit underwater breathing apparatus, the Draeger recirculated the exhaled gas from the swimmer, and thus no telltale bubbles escaped like an ordinary scuba system. It was perfect for clandestine infiltration, but the gas mixture was also very deadly. Make a mistake in using it, and it would kill quickly.

He patted Brett on the knee. “You sure you’re good on this system? I don’t want to be towing a dead body after thirty minutes.”

Brett smiled, his teeth stark white against his ebony skin. “Yeah. Quit worrying about me. A few different buckles and switches, but it’s basically the same thing I trained with. Besides, I’m just along for the ride.”

The crew chief tapped his shoulder, holding up five fingers.

Knuckles echoed the command, shouting, “Five minutes!”

All three began preparing for the cast off of the helicopter, Brett working the waterproofed equipment bundle to the door while Knuckles and Decoy prepped their diver propulsion vehicles.

Knuckles checked his GPS and was relieved to see the release point he’d programmed approaching. At least that will go correctly. He shut off the GPS and zipped it into a waterproof bag. Hopefully, it would be the last time he looked at it, since it wouldn’t pick up a signal underwater. If he needed a GPS again, it meant the link-up had failed, and they’d had to surface to get a reading on where they were in relation to the shore.

The helicopter slowed and dropped down to the deck of the ocean, so close that Knuckles could see the white foam of the rotor wash in the moonlight. The crew chief gave the two-minute call and tossed his headset onto the floor of the helo. He positioned his mask on his face and placed the Draeger mouthpiece in, opening the dive surface valve to allow the flow of oxygen. He purged the system, then turned to help Brett.