Page 18 of The Fourth Option
“Quite a risk for him to take these pictures,” Walker noted.
Fisk didn’t reply. He flipped to the next chart, a high-resolution satellite image. “Given the long distance to Lashkar and the crowded urban environment, the chief wants this to be a light footprint.”
“Meaning,” Walker said, “no involvement from JSOC.”
The CIA’s Special Activities Center was akin to a specialized military force unto itself, comprising three branches: Ground, Air, and Maritime. Walker and Staub were both with Ground Branch. Depending on the mission scope, direct action ops were either conducted by the CIA and their Afghan partner forces or farmed out to forces falling under Special Operations Command, SOCOM, or JSOC, the Joint Special Operations Command, comprised of tier one units that included the Army’s Delta Force and the Navy’s SEAL Team Six.
“Conventional military assets for the quick reaction force, but the main effort is Agency and Agency assets.”
Walker gazed at the images. “This everything?”
“We’re working up a threat assessment package on Taliban strength in Lashkar Gah. Right now, it’s looking like there are two or three active cells, platoon-strength, though that varies.”
“Why does it vary?” Walker asked.
Fisk paused, as though weighing whether he should share more sensitive intelligence. “We think Nasr is training them. Cells are rotatingthrough, learning how to make bombs, using his house as a base of operations. Clearly, we’ll time the op based on a gap between intervals. I need you two to concentrate on the house and Nasr.”
“Uh-huh,” Staub said with a dose of cynicism, because he’d been in a hundred meetings like this over his career in the SEAL Teams and Ground Branch. “We’re going to need a lot more than a few pictures from the outside of the house. We need to know if the doors open right or left, who exactly is inside, back doors, window placement, disposition of the neighbors.”
“Understood,” Fisk said. “Which is why I’m sending Mongoose back out there.”
“Under what pretext?” Walker asked.
“Let us worry about that. I told him what we need. He’ll get back in the house, but this time wired for video. You’ll get the take.”
“When?”
“He’s leaving for a sales trip to that region tonight.”
“I thought he was just there. These pictures you have are new.”
“Like you guys said, they’re not enough. I’m sending him back.”
Free of the operations building, Walker and Staub made their way along a dirt sidewalk that led to their vehicle, eyes adjusting to the bright sunlight. Now that an op was taking shape, Walker wanted to head back to Bagram to coordinate a QRF—Quick Reaction Force—with the conventional Army battlespace owner.
“I heard Fisk has orders back to Langley,” Staub said.
“Not surprised,” Walker replied. “He’s punched his ticket here in the hot zone. Now he can do an administrative tour stateside and move on to Europe as deputy chief. He speaks French.”
“He speaks douchebag. Hope that French lands him in some shithole like Cameroon.”
They were nearing the parking lot when a pair of Air Force A-10 Thunderbolts rocketed overhead, ascending out of Bagram Air Base, fifteen miles north of Eagle Station. After the roaring echoes died away, Staub caught the distant look in Walker’s eyes. “Overthinking something again?”
“Maybe,” Walker replied.
There was no reason to lock the Land Rover on the fortified base,so Walker simply opened the door, turned the key in the ignition, and started the engine. He performed a three-point turn to leave the parking lot and waved as he passed through the security gate.
“I don’t like the idea of Fisk sending Naji back out there so soon after his last visit. If Taliban fighters are using this bombmaker’s house, then they’re going to figure out who Naji is and what he’s up to. A lot of Westerners visit his shop. While he’s in Lashkar, I could imagine a Tali contingent scooping up his family for leverage.”
“Isn’t he supposed to be getting out of here soon?”
“Yes. He’s over his year commitment already. The last time I saw him, he told me Fisk is dragging his feet on the special immigrant visas for his family. Now we’re sending him halfway across the country while his family is exposed. I’m starting to wish I’d never sent in that contact report.”
Staub kept his eyes focused on the distant hills as the truck neared the exit gate. “Who’s up on favors right now?”
“I am,” Walker said. “For backing you up on that bench press.”
“Time was, you would back me up on that and not count it as a favor.”
