Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

Kyle pointed to his own chest and the crew chief struggled over, stepping around the other guys’ boots. “I’m Swanson,” he yelled when the crew chief approached. “What’s up?”

“Wait one,” the sergeant called out, handing over a flight helmet containing a radio.

Kyle pulled the little microphone arm into a speaking position and adjusted the cushioned ear pieces into place. The crew chief flipped a switch, turned a knob, and gave him a thumbs-up.

“Gunny Swanson?” the pilot’s voice was clear, despite the racket, and almost casual in tone. For the SOAR crew, this quick mission was a total milk run and they were all relaxed. No one had shot at them.

“That’s me,” said Kyle.

“We won’t be taking you to the FOB. After your team was on the map again, the brass changed our flight plan. We’re to deliver you straight to Bagram.”

Swanson exhaled in disappointment. Military regulations were looser at a forward operating base, while the huge Bagram facility meant rules and regulations, even though they would be sticking close to the special operations compound. “Any idea why?”

“Nope. Just that a lot of people have been asking about you guys during the past couple of days and were getting pretty antsy. Lots of shit happened while you were out of pocket, partner. When your radio didn’t respond, a VIP flew and really started kicking ass.”

“Batteries got wet. Radio didn’t work.”

The unseen pilot laughed. “Yeah. That does seem happen on these recon missions. What about your emergency radio?”

“Radios don’t work well up in those mountains.”

The pilot laughed again. “Well, you can explain all about it in person to the head cheese in just a little while.”

“Who’s the VIP?” He had visions of some Pentagon staff puke running around with papers that had Kyle’s name on them.

“One of your own Trident people. Major Sybelle Summers, her own pretty little rotten self,” the SOAR pilot said. “I’d like to tell you more about what’s happening, but she ordered me to keep my mouth shut and I’d rather remarry my second ex-wife again than disobey Major Summers. So we are just dropping you off and getting gone.”

“Roger. Don’t blame you a bit. Out.” Kyle peeled off the flight helmet and tossed it back to the crew chief. Sybelle? She’s supposed to be at the White House. What the hell?

T HERE WAS A PALPABLEsense of tension when the bird entered the air space around Bagram. Not a shot had been fired, but pre-battle nerves stretched taut as the Marines picked up on the strange and familiar feeling that something was going on. The Dark Horse helicopter leaned into a circling pattern. Special ops helicopters were never put on hold during a landing; they always go straight in, touch down in their private habitat, and hurry out of sight. Now the MH-47 was in a stack, for the skies were thick with allied aircraft. Fighters, bombers, tankers, passenger planes, and other helicopters howled about, both inbound and outbound. During the time that the Trident guys had been out of contact, the world apparently had changed beneath their boots.

Finally, the huge helicopter’s number was called and the SOAR pilot took them in, flared and touched the tarmac. The ramp lowered and the Trident Marines stepped off, grimacing in the bright desert sun. The runway was crowded, the sky busy. In the distance they could see troops marching.

Joe Tipp shaded his eyes for a better look. “Jeez. It’s the day after 9/11 all over again.”

Travis Stone, who had slept on the flight, yawned, stretched. “Look at all that shit. Makes a man feel kind of small.”

“That’s because you are small.” Tipp gave him a friendly shove.

Sybelle Summers threw open the door of a nearby Humvee and got out, adjusting her narrow sunglasses. She wore a plain dark blue baseball cap, tan BDUs and desert boots, and looked like just another soldier or Marine except there were no name strips on her tunic or her butt. She walked to the team and nobody saluted. Task Force Trident was an odd organization. Rank was only acknowledged in public places. Otherwise, it was the equality and respect of first names.

“Hey, guys,” she said. No smile. “Glad you’re all back okay.”

“Jest a regular ole recon,” said Joe Tipp. “Nothin’ special.”

“You can cut the crap, Joe. General Middleton briefed me, and I’m back in the loop as Trident ops officer again. Anyway, your raid is so-well, yesterday -that it has become about the lowest item on the totem pole.” As the helo powered back up and the rotor downdraft created cycles of sand and wind, she led them all over to the Humvee to wait until the bird lifted away.

In the idle interval, Sybelle eyed them all. Tired but still ready to rock. Each man had been handpicked, but she would immediately get rid of anyone she did not think was up to a job. Trident was not for sissies.

In the early days of the war on terror, certain powerful people in Washington recognized an opportunity when the various federal security agencies were being shuffled to better deal with the new challenge facing the United States. After a series of private meetings with President Tracy at Camp David, a small organization was created to aggressively carry the fight to the enemy through unorthodox methods, and it was named Task Force Trident. It was a hybrid; not strictly military, although its offices were in the Pentagon; nor was it civilian, although it could draw whatever resources were needed, from analysts to hardware, from any branch of the government. It did not have a budget.

On official organizational flow charts, Trident was given a little box somewhere under the broad black umbrella of MARSOC, lost in the secret labyrinth of special operations, down among such common things as beans and bullets. On a final Sunday of discussion at Camp David, President Tracy authorized the unit with a presidential finding. Because the potential was great that such a team might be misused for political gain, he implemented strict caveats: Only he would give the orders. By necessity, Steve Hanson, his chief of staff, knew about Trident, as did the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. No one else. The secretary of state was not in the loop, so that office would have deniability if some Trident mission went sideways. Congressional leaders were not included because their staff members leaked like wet noodles.

The idea for the bold new organization had come to President Tracy as he studied the exploits of a relentless warrior named Kyle Swanson, who had overcome incredible odds to brazenly rescue a kidnapped Marine general in Syria. Valuable and very expendable, Swanson would be the point man, a lightly controlled renegade running operations that were far off the books, and hunting terrorists in distant pastures.

Major General Bradley Middleton, the officer whom Swanson had pulled out of Syria, was put in command of Task Force Trident and answered directly to the president of the United States. If Swanson needed something, he just hollered up the stovepipe, and he would get it.

Middleton intentionally kept the task force as small as possible to avoid attention. He brought in the tough, beautiful, and uniquely talented Sybelle Summers as operations officer. A Recon legend, Master Gunnery Sergeant O.O. Dawkins was drafted to handle general administration. And reaching beyond the Corps, Middleton snared Lieutenant Commander Benton Freedman of the Navy, a technical genius. Freedman was called the Wizard at the Naval Academy, a nickname that his Marine co-workers quickly changed to “Lizard.” The team would plus-up as needed with specialists picked for exact missions.