David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

Roesing read his face. “They’ve stopped using private security contractors. Too much controversy.”

War was good business for a certain breed of ex-military entrepreneurs. Private security companies had made millions from the war in Iraq. Brendan didn’t blame the guys who went the way of the mercenary — he’d heard the pay was fabulous — but some contractors had gotten reputations as “shoot first, ask questions later” outfits. Deserved or not, once a company was labeled as an outlaw by the media, politics was driving the bus. Some tried to rebrand themselves by changing their company name. Apparently, State wasn’t buying it.

Brendan chose his words carefully. “I’m sure we can help them, sir.”

“That’s the spirit, Lieutenant. The RSO is expecting you. Go make the ambassador safe.”

Brendan swung back through the barracks and tapped three SEALs to join him at the State Department briefing.

The US Embassy seemed like a palace after the sparseness of the military barracks. The entire Green Zone fit into a point of land formed by a huge bend in the Tigris River, and the Embassy occupied the best spot in the Zone. The massive hundred-acre facility overlooked the river from a high bluff. Brendan and his men fast-walked down a hallway where one entire wall consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows. On the far bank of the river, the city of Baghdad seemed to stretch on forever.

The Regional Security Officer was a dark-skinned man in his early thirties with a touch of gray on his temples. “Lieutenant McHugh, I’m John Davis — call me JD.” When he smiled, the skin around his brown eyes crinkled. “Thanks for helping out on short notice. I guess you heard we’re not using private security anymore. Just as well, I’d rather have you guys any day of the week.”

“Glad to help, sir.”

Davis wasted no time on further formalities. “We’re under some time pressure here, gentlemen. There’s an emergency meeting at the MOJ this afternoon that the ambassador needs to attend—”

“This afternoon?” Brendan interrupted. “You need us as escorts to the Ministry of Justice today?”

“1800,” Davis replied.

Brendan checked his watch. That was three hours from now. “Alright, JD, you’re going to owe me one…”

Davis grinned and passed out a map with the convoy route. Thirty minutes later, Brendan and his men were back in the barracks. Brendan quickly tapped four more SEALs, bringing his team to eight, and assembled them in the conference room. He had the mission outlined in his head and ran the briefing as a checklist: route, positions on the detail, comms, ammo load-out, backup air support, and of course, medical support and an exfil plan if the shit hit the fan.

By the time he was done, they had less than an hour to be ready. He glanced at his watch; it was after six o’clock in the morning in San Diego, just enough time to call Amy and wish her a Happy Thanksgiving before she left for her mother’s place.

He hustled back to the barracks and found an empty office with an Internet connection. A few seconds later, he had his Skype account up and had called Amy’s connection. After six long rings, she answered.

“Happy Thanksgiving, baby!” he said.

Her hair was a mess and her makeup smudged around her eyes. She was wearing one of his old T-shirts and no bra. “Brendan, do you know what time it is?” she replied in an irritable tone.

“Yeah, sorry, I just wanted to talk to you before I left on a mission.” Mentioning “mission” usually sweetened her mood.

She rubbed her face with both hands. “I have such a hangover, Bren. I was out with Roger last night.”

Roger was Amy’s agent, the one who’d promised her the cover of Sports Illustrated . Brendan felt his jaw tighten; he did not like how Roger looked at his girlfriend.

“I hope you had a good time,” he said stiffly.

“It would be better if you were here,” she said.

That was more like it. Brendan gave her a wicked smile. “Oh, really? What would you do if I were there right now?”

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. Petty Officer Gonzalez, in full battle dress, peered through the glass. Brendan held up a finger.

“Look, Amy, I need to go—”

“You just called and woke me up and now you’re hanging up on me?” She pouted. “Why even bother to call at all?”

“I’m sorry, I’m in the middle of—”

“Wait, I need you to take care of the autopay on the water bill. Your credit card’s about to expire and they called twice now.”

Brendan gritted his teeth. She was living in his apartment, couldn’t she deal with the water bill? “I’ll do it as soon as I get a chance.”

“You need to do it today . They called twice already and I’m leaving tomorrow for a photo shoot.”

Gonzalez rapped on the glass again. Brendan held up his index finger again.

“Okay, go into my filing cabinet. There’s an envelope in the very last folder that has the password for my accounts at USAA. The credit card info is in there—”

“So you want me to pay your water bill? Really?”

“If you want it done today, you need to do it yourself. I’m sorry, Amy. I need to go now.” He hit the red icon to end the call. “Love you, too,” he muttered to himself.

Brendan blew out a long breath and motioned for Gonzalez to enter.

“Doesn’t sound like your lady is much of a morning person, sir.”

“Gonzo, there are times when my lady is not much of a person.”

His team rolled up to the Embassy in two Humvees at exactly 1740. Brendan rode in the lead vehicle passenger seat. He tugged at his body armor to move it a fraction of an inch to the left and rapped on the trauma plate that covered the center of his chest.

Convoy duty was his least favorite activity. On a raid or any other ground op, at least he had the ability to move, to respond to a threat. With convoy duty, you were a sitting duck for any insurgent attack. Sure, the up-armored Humvee they were riding in offered some level of protection, but it also kept them contained, bunched up, a target.

The ambassador’s unmarked, armored car idled in the parking lot bracketed fore and aft by two State Department Diplomatic Security vehicles. The door to the lead vehicle opened and Davis stepped out. He wore dark sunglasses and body armor and was packing an M4 carbine and a 9mm Sig Sauer in a hip holster. His mouth was set in a firm line that was all business, the easy smile from earlier gone for now.

“Lieutenant,” he said with a nod. “We’re on channel five. Stand by for a comms check.”

Brendan listened to his team call in, then ordered his team to shift to their backup channel. He adjusted his earpiece, and nodded to Davis. “Test sat, sir. We’re ready whenever you are.”

Davis checked his watch. “Just waiting on the bossman, Lieutenant.”

The door to the Embassy opened and the ambassador strode into the hot Baghdad sun flanked by two bodyguards. Brendan caught a glimpse of a tall, spare figure with neatly trimmed gray hair, clad in a dark blue suit, and then the door to the ambassador’s car slammed shut.

Davis’s voice crackled in Brendan’s ear. “Alright, gentlemen. We have our package. Just like we rehearsed it. Let’s move!”

The heavy gates separating the embassy from the rest of the Green Zone opened and the barriers designed to stop car bombers retracted down into the earth. Davis’s lead car roared out through the gate, closely followed by the ambassador’s car and the other State security vehicles. Brendan’s team took up stations on either side of the ambassador’s car.

The distance they had to travel was ridiculously short, maybe a kilometer as the crow flies, but probably triple that once they factored in the ground traffic. Once they left the embassy compound — even in the Green Zone — the ambassador became a target for insurgents.