The Suicide Squad

By TJ Waters

Reece McNair, Carter Stephens, Brian Godfrey, Amir Farajian, and Kristen Hayes become close friends while at the Farm, the CIA’s legendary training facility where they were taught the tradecraft of spies.

Insurgents kidnap Reece while they are deployed in Iraq. Anticipating she will be executed for propaganda purposes her friends conduct an unsanctioned rescue operation, facing serious repercussions.

Threatened by termination and federal charges, an unlikely savior appears. The head of the CIA’s reviled counterintelligence division convinces the team to work for her as an alternative to criminal prosecution.

Each officer hides a secret worthy of immediate termination and is rightly delighted to avoid a federal investigation. The entrapped ensemble soon specializes in finding and forestalling spies targeting U.S. interests.

Counterintelligence has long been considered career suicide at the CIA. Consequently, leadership euphemistically refers to them as THE SUICIDE SQUAD.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TJ Waters
• Release date: Oct 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311583192

TJ Waters

Prior to becoming a spy novelist, TJ Waters was an undercover CIA officer, a sr. counterintelligence consultant, and a team chief at U.S. Special Operations Command. His CIA memoir 'Class 11' is # 2 on the agency's list of recommended reading for new employees.When he's not writing mystery/thrillers he volunteers with the Ronald McDonald House Charities.

Book preview

THE SUICIDE SQUAD

By TJ Waters

Copyright 2013 TJ Waters

Smashwords Edition

Disclaimer

This material has been reviewed by the CIA. That review neither constitutes CIA authentication of the information nor implies CIA endorsement of the author’s views.

- CIA Publications Review Board

Chapter 1

Baghdad, Iraq

CIA Field Station

Carter Stephens leaned back as far as the chair would allow. The CIA field office in Baghdad was short on creature comforts, among them, decent office chairs. Most everything had been hastily brought into the country - from the coffee maker to the copy machine to the makeshift bar in the trailer next door. The work was difficult enough without a lack of basic amenities making it any more disagreeable.

The insurgency had abated, but the place was still plenty dangerous. Kidnappings. Shootings. Rocket fire. It was a very difficult place to run normal intelligence operations.

He looked over the report one final time. The guy was a walk in, someone who came to the International Zone to report an Iraqi intelligence agent targeting the American Embassy. U.S. Marines escorted him into a room set aside specifically to meet with unvetted locals. Some wanted help. Some wanted money. Some wanted to case the joint so their nightly mortar fire was more accurate.

Carter had given the guy the codename LEADBOTTOM to accentuate his distaste for the son of a bitch. No matter how much alchemy he mustered, this guy would never turn into gold. The Chief of Station would probably make him waste precious time and money on this worthless toad.

The chief was not known for his take-charge style. Quite the contrary. Before he was station chief, Kenneth O’Donovan had the dumb luck of a walk-in at the Bucharest field office several years earlier that had offered him the keys to the kingdom - trunk loads of documents from the Russian SVR. Plans, programs, budgets, and communications records, anything and everything handed over in volume. It was the kind of case that made a CIA officer’s career. It had turned Kenny into Kenneth. Now Kenneth was Chief O’Donovan.

But promotion had only masked his limited skills set rather than improve them. He often got lost in both previous cities he’d been assigned. He couldn’t write, couldn’t brief, and couldn’t carry on an intelligent conversation with senior beltway officials to save his life. Prior to the Bucharest godsend, O’Donovan’s career was notable only for its amazing mediocrity.

He’d been castigated to dealing with walk ins to get him out of the way so the rest of the CIA station could get some work done. That’s when the sticky fingered Russian arrived. Baghdad was the pinnacle of O’Donnovan’s strategy - take no risks; let the enemy come to you.

So, with US forces leaving in droves, he barred anyone from leaving the International Zone. Strangely enough, sources didn’t seem to be lining up to come inside. The ones that did, like LEADBOTTOM, were not just worthless, they were sucking up time and resources that could be used elsewhere. Chalk up another failure to a strategy of risk aversion.

What Carter and the other case officers learned after they were in country was that it was too late to counter the insurgents. Corruption was rampant throughout the nascent Iraqi government. Foreign services didn’t really need to steal anything because the Iraqis were giving it all away. There was no real starting place. The nation was already lost. The Agency extended their tour an additional six months, hoping O’Donovan would grow a pair of balls or the insurgency would end. Neither seemed right around the corner.

A door slammed elsewhere in the building, interrupting Carter’s thoughts. The entire room vibrated from the tremor of footsteps progressively getting louder. Amir looked up from a satellite photo he was labeling as the footsteps thundered closer. Brian cautiously reached for the 9mm Glock in the backpack at his feet. The door burst open.

They’ve been kidnapped! Major Gregory and Reece are gone!

O’Donovan’s voice was an octave above normal and he was sweating profusely. What was it about short men that made them perspire at a disproportionably elevated rate? He looked like he might melt right where he stood. Carter dropped the report and jumped up.

What are you talking about? he demanded.

They’re gone. Captain Sneed went to the training center. The Iraqi Security Forces are dead. Reece and Major Gregory are gone. Witnesses said two people were dragged into a couple of vehicles. It sounds like a contract job.

Major Donna Gregory was an Army Psychological Operations officer training Iraqi Police to exercise restraint and arrest rather than kill. Reece volunteered to help Major Gregory so she wouldn’t be out alone. But Carter suspected O’Donnovan’s reasons for allowing her to go were far less altruistic. She was an attractive young woman offered up as bait to entice the Iraqis. Someone had reached out to her apparently, but Carter felt sure they weren’t providing her with information so much as using her for ransom.

Or worse.

The radical Sunni cleric Muhammad Aziz al Dubar was offering $1,000,000 for a CIA officer captured alive. A million bucks was a hell of an incentive. It would fund a lot of operations. Kill a lot of people. If Reece was taken by a contract militia the clock was ticking. Whoever had her and Major Gregory would want to cash out within hours, before Coalition Forces could muster up a manhunt.

O’Donovan’s idea to use an attractive woman to entice the trainees was reflective of his utter incompetence. As the US withdrawal escalated, western women were increasingly rare. The only International Zone areas with young women were the Embassy, the press corps broadcast building, or the CIA Station down the street. Embassy officials busied themselves with the Ambassador. Media personnel primped for their next broadcast. Anyone left over had to be CIA. There simply was not a large enough population of women to blend into. They were fish in a barrel.

Now they had Reece.

Carter glared at O’Donovan. He knew the answer before he growled it through his clenched teeth.

What do you want us to do?

Nothing, O’Donovan replied, confirming Carter’s preconceived notion of the prick. I’ve got to talk with the Ambassador and cable Washington. We should have instructions by tomorrow.

Carter grabbed O’Donovan’s arm.

We can’t wait until tomorrow. We’ve got to get them now. Dubar will have them tucked away somewhere in a couple of hours. If we don’t get moving we’ll get them back disassembled.

Video of Dubar beheading three previous hostages were required viewing for all new personnel in the International Zone, a warning to not go out alone. The entire Arab world feared the young hothead cleric. His youth and computer prowess worked in his favor. He knew how to manipulate the media. He’d traded respect for fear, knowing fear was a far more motivating force.

O’Donovan collected himself enough to return Carter’s glare.

Let go of me! I’ll decide what we do here, and I’ll do so only after it’s been approved through proper channels!

He yanked his arm from Carter’s grasp. An involuntary yelp escaped his thin lips when the grip was tighter than he’d expected.

Carter watched him scurry from the room. He glanced over one shoulder to where his two colleagues stood by waiting. Motor pool. Twenty minutes. I’ll arrange air support.

Carter shoved the office door open and ran across the compound to another nondescript building. He walked in, nodding to several Air Force officers he knew, but spoke to no one. She was sitting at the terminal.

Kristen was a natural at flying the Air Force’s unmanned drones. Predators, Reapers, even the tiny Air Sonics. Despite never being in the military she handily beat every opponent foolish enough to take her on in the simulator. The Air Force was desperate to get as many qualified pilots as possibly flying their drones. They knew they’d never coax her away from the Agency, so they did the next best thing. They broke their own rules and allowed a civilian to fly a military aircraft. The fact that she could do it better than any of them made it an easier to sell to Air Force brass.

Carter could see the terrain she was flying over on the monitor bolted into the wall above her head. It gave Air Force managers a convenient perch from which to watch the pilot’s combat actions. A second, smaller monitor underneath it showed a virtual cockpit with gauges for airspeed, direction, and altitude. A third superimposed the aircraft’s position on a map. The vehicle was nearly ninety miles away, following the Tigris River down to the marshlands outside Amarah. It would take her a while to bring it back towards Baghdad.

Carter tapped her on the shoulder and she flipped up the screen on her headgear display. The look in his eye put an end to her quick smile. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

Reece has been kidnapped, he said quietly, glancing around the room. We’re launching a rescue in twenty minutes. Can you support us?

I should be with you, Kristen insisted.

You will be with us. We need her cell phone tracked, we’ll need some video feed, and we’ll sure as hell need fire support. Are you armed?

She nodded but said nothing aloud.

O’Donovan’s not going after her. When the shit really hits, someone’s got to guide a strike team to us. Can you do it?

She nodded again, holding up a finger with one hand while keying her microphone with the other.

Central, this is Tango Whiskey, she said into the radio. I’ve got a wonky gyroscope. I’m having trouble keeping it level.

The radio crackled from a nearby speaker.

Tango Whiskey this is Central. Roger that. Return to base for diagnostics and repair.

Roger that. Returning to base, she replied. Carter watched the monitor as the aircraft banked southwest, away from the International Zone. Kristen stepped on a pedal and pulled back on the stick, putting the drone into a wide, loping turn to the left. He glanced around the room before reaching up and turning off the monitor displaying the drone’s position. Kristen shoved the throttle forward to max out airspeed, but didn’t look at him when she spoke.

Don’t come back without her, she said.

Chapter 2

Baghdad, Iraq

Motor Pool Garage

All three men were in the motor pool within fifteen minutes, yet it took another fifteen to acquire the water, weapons, and communications equipment they needed. All had strapped on body armor, tossing two additional sets into the vehicles. They also collected a medical kit, satchel charges, and four handheld GPS units. Each carried an encrypted cell phone on one hip and a Glock 17 pistol on the other.

Chief O’Donovan was still talking with the Ambassador. Other government personnel noticed the team’s abrupt preparations but said nothing. There was little doubt what was going on. This group was tight. Everyone knew their camaraderie even if they didn’t know their true names. Having geared up, the trio set out into the city without clearances or military escorts. They were on their own.

Carter and Amir bounced along in a lightly armored Jeep Cherokee. Brian followed behind them in a Toyota pick up. Kristen had calculated Reece’s approximate position before the two vehicles departed the motor pool area. The drone was now on an elliptical course at 15,000 feet, well above the threshold of anyone seeing it from the ground. Time was the critical factor. Either Reece’s cell phone battery would die or the Predator would run out of fuel. Either scenario ruined any chance of a rescue.

Forty minutes later the vehicles were inching through traffic on the edge of Baghdad. Amir drove while Carter rigged the satchel charges with remote detonators.

Carter had an AA12 automatic shotgun and the ubiquitous M-4 assault rifle with a holographic laser site. He was responsible for short and medium range enemies. Distant targets were up to Amir.

He’d brought his own weapon to Iraq, an MX25 Light Sniper Rifle. It was a disappointingly simple weapon. Several of their military colleagues had mocked its plainness. But Amir considered guns to be like golf clubs – effectiveness did not necessarily improve with expense. He believed talent belonged in the musician, not the instrument. With an effective range of over 900 yards he didn’t disappoint. He was scary with a rifle, handily beating