Peter Kirsanow: Target Omega

The magic waitress reappeared with a shot glass and a full bottle of Johnnie Walker Red. She placed the bottle and glass on the table, grinning at Laws all the while, causing Garin to marvel at the old man’s way with women. As he watched her walk away, he conceded that there was, indeed, no deceit in those hips and recalled that Laws was celebrated among the special ops community for more reasons than one.

Laws poured himself two fingers and hoisted his glass to Garin. “Tell me something, Chief, and be honest. When did your sorry fieldcraft go all the way to hell?”

Before Laws could knock back the drink, Garin replied, “If you’re referring to whether I noticed the guy sitting at the near end of the bar, blue trousers, gray blazer, white open-neck shirt, thick black hair combed back, copper complexion, two-day stubble, about thirty-five, five foot ten, maybe 185 pounds, who’s been nursing a tonic water for the last hour and fifteen minutes and should have a sign taped to his forehead that says ‘Which one of these objects doesn’t belong?’ then I’d say it all went to hell the first day you took me to the Ranch.”

Laws blinked once, put down the drink, and leaned forward, his forearms on the table. “I was referring, smart-ass, to that pretty little señorita with the long black hair and big brown eyes sitting at the other end of this dump, about twenty-seven, maybe five foot three, 105 pounds, yellow sundress, who looks to be charging hard through her fifth Bud and has been staring at you for the last fifteen minutes like she wants to have your babies.”

For once, Garin thought, he had the old man. “You really didn’t notice him, not until just now, did you?”

Laws threw back the scotch, grimaced, and exhaled forcefully. “Who? Mr. Obvious?”

Garin nodded, a self-satisfied expression forming on his face. The old master, starting to slip, had zeroed in on the lady and had completely missed the possible bad guy.

Laws slowly poured another drink and looked at Garin, a kid who thought he’d beaten his father at H-O-R-S-E for the first time. “You mean the Mr. Obvious whose black 2009 Ford Taurus rental car, Arizona tags RG53588, Nike gym bag in the backseat, is sitting in the parking lot?”

Garin’s shoulders sagged visibly, his jaw taut in frustration. The old man had checked him once again, but he didn’t dwell on being bested. He glanced at the man nursing the tonic water, then back at Laws. It had been drilled into Garin that if there is any question, there is no question; if a threat is possible, it is certain. The possibility of a sniper on the roof was the certainty of a sniper on the roof. To operate otherwise was to court disaster, if not death. His mentor caught Garin’s hesitation and knew the conversation would turn more serious.

“Something I should know, Chief?”

“Just how big, exactly, was the Nike bag?”

Laws comprehended instinctively. “Big enough to carry say, a Dragunov, along with other assorted parting gifts.”

Garin glanced over at Luci, who was gazing at him past the left shoulder of her third suitor of the night. “Clint, I’m going to ask you something. Now, just a hypothetical, understand?”

Laws, of course, understood perfectly.

“What would you do if you saw something on a milk run that you’re not sure about? You think you saw something that’s not supposed to be there, but you’re just not sure?”

“Note it in the report, son. Let the analysts figure it out.”

“But you’re not sure what you saw.”

“ What you saw or who you saw?”

“Who. Well…” Garin paused. “I don’t know if it’s a who or a… Just something looked vaguely familiar. Like someone or something I should know. Just a possibility. That’s all.”

“You’re a model of clarity there, Chief. If there’s a possibility…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but really…”

“There are no — I repeat, I repeat, I repeat — no coincidences in this business, Chief.”

Laws casually scanned the premises and then slid his chair closer to Garin. “That brings me to why I wanted to meet you here, Chief.”

“I assumed it was for the simple pleasure of my company.”

“I didn’t want to talk by phone or anything else that could be monitored. And I didn’t want to do this at the Ranch either.”

“Something tells me you’ve had your own share of coincidences.”

“Over the last three to four months, there’s been an unusual number of operations gone bad. As a result, several warriors in the ground.”

“Bad things happen all the time.”

“Equipment failures, bad intel, weather, ordinary mistakes — sure. We expect those, plan for them. But being repeatedly outmaneuvered, as if the other side anticipated and planned for our moves, that doesn’t happen by chance.”

Garin didn’t need to be sold. Just a short time ago he’d related similar suspicions to Tanski. “What kind of operators?”

“Tier-one.”

“That would mean a JSOC-level problem. Maybe higher.”

Laws nodded. “My guess is higher.”

Garin raised his eyebrows. “Why’s that?”

“Intuition. Experience. And certain commonalities.”

“What commonalities?”

“Well, for instance, cui bono ?”

“My guess is all of the failures benefit a certain bad actor,” Garin said. “Let me guess: Iran, Russia, China, North Korea, or a major terrorist group?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“I seriously doubt that. But specifically, what commonalities?”

“The last three operations involved Crimea, Ukraine, and Syria.”

“Geez, Clint. You didn’t have to be that specific. Something tells me I’m not supposed to know that.”

“You do now,” Laws stated matter-of-factly. “What player benefits most from failed US ops in those locations?”

“President Yuri Vladimirovich Mikhailov.”

“That’s right, Chief. Probably a distant relative of yours. Lord knows he’s ugly enough.” Laws paused, then shook his head. “Then again, he’s way too smart.”

“So the Russians are running someone high enough in US military or intelligence to compromise code-worded direct actions.…”

“The Soviet Union collapsed. Russian ambitions never do.”

Garin said nothing. He conceded Russian interest in Ukraine, Crimea, and Syria. But he couldn’t fathom what interest they might have in thwarting his operation beneath a Pakistani nuclear weapons facility.

Laws studied Garin’s face. “You’re thinking how your little milk run in Pakistan plays into this. I haven’t worked that out yet. Maybe it doesn’t. But I figure if someone — whether Russian, Chinese, or Guatemalan — is compromising the highest levels of American intelligence and special ops, then they might be able to compromise Omega, too. And if you guys get compromised, well, we’re screwed. The whole world’s screwed.”

“But to affect Omega, they’d have to compromise addresses far beyond MacDill or Bragg,” Garin said, referring to the bases that housed US Special Operations Command and Joint Special Operations Command. “Those addresses are in Washington. There are one, two, three, tops. And they’re very exclusive.”

Laws nodded. “That’s why I didn’t even trust having this talk at the Ranch.”

Garin drained the last of his beer. He nodded slowly to himself, then: “Looks like I’ve got work to do.”

“You always do.”

Garin looked at his watch. “My flight back to Reagan is at six A.M. Feel like giving me a lift to my hotel?”

“It’s either me or Mr. Obvious.”

Garin looked in the direction of the man in the gray blazer. The seat was empty.