Operator Zero

By Scott Pershing

A young air force pilot is caught up in an underground war when he is shot down during a classified mission during Operation Odyssey Dawn: the bombing of Libya in March 2011 and the subsequent civil war.
While the world's attention is drawn to images of smart bombs and missiles fired from drones he will have to carry out the mission alone, facing Gaddafi's troops, terrorist forces, and constantly shifting loyalties.
Marked by family tragedies and heavy military heritage, his first adventure will test his values, determination, and courage.
Holden Black is on the track of Muammar Gaddafi, the world's most elusive, cruel, and wealthy dictator. The journey will lead him to leave behind his innocence while he must place his trust in increasingly obscure characters to carry out his mission.
A completely unexpected love will appear to complicate this plot full of action, combat, conspiracies, dictators, and organized crime.
It's worth taking a look at the authentic and complex characters that intermingle during the plot. Some for only one chapter, others present in the whole series.

Original series:
This is a new original series that builds a universe that begins two parallel stories.

On the one hand, the action thriller series THE OPERATOR tells the adventures of Tom and Holden Black during their military career and post-military life. Full of action, combat, conspiracies, dictators, drug lords, and organized crime.

On the other hand, the series BLACK MOUNTAIN follows the misadventures of Jonas Black: veteran, hunter, and hermit since the death of his wife in a terrorist attack in 1996. He is called to the front by his fellow citizens to fight crime in remote Peak County, Idaho.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Pershing
• Release date: Nov 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005856014

Scott Pershing

Scott Pershing was born in 1989. He traveled throughout Europe, South America, and the Caribbean for nine years while working in real estate development.He moved to the beach in 2019 and now it stays at home with his wife and daughters to write and design high-end furniture.

Book preview

Operator Zero

Scott Pershing

All rights reserved Elite Publishing MVD 2020. Third English Edition: November 24, 2020.

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Table of Contents.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

In this series

Prologue

The veteran CIA agent looked me in the eye over the cheap metal table trying to sound sincere. For an agent with so many years in the agency, it was quite a challenge.

I don't know who you've been working for, he said, but it wasn't for us.

Sure, I said.

I’m serious, we're the only integrated CIA/NSA task force in this AO.

There are probably a hundred covert programs all over the place you've never heard about.

No, believe me, there aren't. I would know about it. We don't interfere with each other without senior officers being informed.

He took a drink from his Mountain Dew can, allowing me to take in the information. His companion looked at me with a skeptical expression; he was much younger and wore an expensive suit. I didn't like him.

Why don't you start by telling me your story? The whole story. He suggested.

Look, I already told it to NCIS in Sicily, the base commander, AFSOC, the Air Force intelligence officer, and even to the JAG guys, I said opening my arms.

Try me. He said.

The minutes passed and the atmosphere became tenser. I could stay like that all day, but the agent was looking for something and he wanted to get me talking.

Look. He said. Your situation is a particular one. The Air Force wants to court-martial you on the following charges: Section 86 absent without authorization, Section 108 for stealing a thirty-five-million-dollar plane, Section 119 for manslaughter, and Section 131f for violating the codes of conduct. On the other hand, the Libyan provisional government is looking for you to be decorated and given a reward. Who should I hand you over to?

I left the question suspended in the air. If this guy wanted to hear a good story, he'd better sat down on that chair and get his ass ready for a good beating because it was going to be a long one.

Start from the beginning. He invited with a wave of his hand.

CHAPTER 1

March 19, 2011, 2247 - the Mediterranean Sea, 80 nautical miles south of Malta.

The black, opaque form had emerged from the clear waters just after nightfall. Inside, all the stations were on high alert. Communications, sonar, radar, weaponry, and defense were all in their combat positions.

The excitement was reaching its peak. Not a soul slept inside the Ohio class submarine USS Florida; not even the off-duty crew. No one wanted to miss what was about to happen. For the vast majority of them, it was their first act of war.

The captain decided to wait a few moments before turning his key as the tactical screen of the submarine showed numerous dots identified as RF2 and M2000D passing right over his unit. These were the Rafale and Mirage French fighter-bombers, heading for their targets on land at high speed.

When all was clear, he turned the key, then the weapons officer pressed the red button. On the top of the submarine, a hatch opened. Riding on a tongue of fire, the first Tomahawk missile rose towards its own programmed target within Libyan territory.

It was the beginning of Operation Odyssey Dawn. An intense bombing campaign by eleven countries and approved by the UN Security Council to try to cause the overthrow of Muammar al-Qadhafi.

In power since 1969 and accused of having supported numerous terrorist groups as well as murder, genocide, the bombing of civilian areas and development of weapons of mass destruction.

7 hours later - Aviano Air Force Base northern Italy.

I finally got up. It wasn't my turn to fly that day, but overnight the first flights had started to leave for the African coast, and I wanted to see some of the action.

I met my squadron mates in the officer's mess for breakfast, and then we went for a walk around the hangars.

Our hosts were very busy and had no time to talk. We headed to our planes to check them out so we would at least have an excuse to ask our squadron mechanics if they had heard anything.

When the time came, we gathered at the side of the runway as tradition dictates. All the pilots who were not flying alongside the mechanics, all lined up beside to dismiss the planes that were leaving for the fight.

The eight F16s approached from the taxiway. They were two combat patrols of four planes each. When they reached the head of the runway, each plane turned on its afterburners and shoot forward.

That early in the morning, the 26-foot flame that followed them could be clearly seen as they accelerated vertiginously along the runway. With their load of six air-to-air missiles and two external tanks, they covered quite a bit of ground before taking to the air and heading for the African coast.

That afternoon, over coffee, I was told to go to the briefing room. I thought it would be to check the routine flight for tomorrow, but when I arrived the door was closed and only my squadron leader Captain Peter Boomer Nowak was waiting next to it.

Bad sign.

Boomer I salute him.

Burner. You too? He asked. I had earned the nickname by accidentally turning off the plane's engine during a training flight. The screw-up almost cost me my place in the squadron. Did you screw up?

Not that I know off I said.

Are you still harassing the Colonel's daughter?

No. I replied with a smile How about you? Did you break windows again without realizing it? He had earned his nickname a long time ago when he made a supersonic pass over a small town in Northern Texas when he screwed up his navigation.

If you didn't screw up and I didn't screw up, what could it be?

Anything unknown is a bad thing. I sentenced

Amen, brother.

Boomer and I got along, which is not the usual between the leader and the second one since the second one inevitably wants the first one's place. But our situation was special and I wanted to be the best individually. I wasn't interested in the extra work it meant having a squad of my own.

The door opened and the group's commander, Colonel Whitman, invited us in. Another bad sign.

Two civilians in suits were standing by the screen in the front of the briefing room. That's always a bad sign. Boomer and I waved and looked at each other as the bad signs piled up.

Well gentlemen, started the Colonel this is no ordinary briefing. What these gentlemen have to say is confidential. But listen to them carefully, it could be the opportunity you have been waiting for all your life and if you let it go you may not get another one.

The colonel waved us with his head and left the room, leaving us alone with the civilians. Boomer and I looked at each other, we were both very anxious to hear what they had to say.

If I had known who they were and what would happen nine years later, I would have taken out my Beretta and put a bullet in each of their heads. And I probably would have gotten a medal for it. But I was innocent then, too innocent.

All up until April 19, 1995, my life had been perfect. We lived in a beautiful house in the rich neighborhood of Piedmont, my school was one of the best in the state and I had my friends.

My father was then an instructor captain for TWA and my mother was employed by the U.S. Department of Commerce.

Her office was on the sixth floor of the Federal Building in Oklahoma City and that day it blew up in the air.

I didn't learn about the terrorist attack until years later.

Two days after her death, my father lost his mind, took early retirement, and drove us to Grandpa Rutford's remote hunting cabin in Idaho.

The old, two-story log cabin was nestled deep in the dense forest beside Bruin Mountain, near Payette National Park. It had electricity and water service but not much else.

The only neighbors in the area were hermits who lived off hunting and trapping in the winter and then selling the fur in the spring.

From the moment we got there we became homeschooled children. The nearest school was an hour and a half away by car and almost half the way was on an unpaved forest track that twisted its way to the foot of the mountain.

Until then, I believed that my father was the best in the world and nobody could beat him, at least when he was at home. But from the moment we arrived at the cabin a feature of his personality that I had not noticed before took control of his mind and there was no turning back.

The idea that got stuck in his head was that he had to teach my older brother and me how to survive in the most hostile environments with nothing but our brains and a 499-survival knife.

The objective of all this was not clear, sometimes it was terrorist groups on our own soil, or the Arabs, or the Chinese. There was always a different enemy lurking.

Tom, who was several years older than me, only had to endure torture for four years before he managed to enlist with the Marines when he turn seventeen years old. He arrived just in time for Afghanistan and then took a tour of Iraq as well.

The experience ironically made him a hermit. He had no wife or children and lived in the dense forests of West Virginia. He would call me for my birthday and I would do the same for him, which was more or less all the contact we had.

During our torture years in Idaho, we were very close, he helped me through the hard training sessions. I could see that it was very difficult for him to leave me alone with my father to go to basic training at Camp Lejeune, but by then Tom was no longer a normal teenager but a man with a mission. His only goal in life was to kill terrorists and anyone who opposed the United States or what our flag stood for.

I stayed behind for another four years, just the old man and I. Over the years he loosened his hand and I was able to get my driver's license. I started the three-hour drive back and forth to New Meadows High School in Grandpa's old Ford pickup that was as old and run-down as the cabin. But back then fuel was still cheap and it didn't matter.

During the winter snows and summer storms, the road was impossible and we were isolated for weeks in the old cabin. We were not bored, however, because the old man considered that it was the best time to come down from the mountain to hunt.

When one of us got a piece, the other had to walk back to the cabin to get the snowmobile or quad, depending on the season. Then we would skin the thing in the garage and put the meat in the old rattling freezer in the basement; one of those so old that they opened with a big chrome lever.

Finally, we would carefully wash the garage with disinfectant so as not to attract black bears.

In high school, I got good grades, and on top of that, my father had been honorably discharged from the Air Force. So, I was able to buy my escape ticket by enlisting in the Air Force.

Compared to my teenage years in Idaho, the service was a child's play. I was paid a check twice a month, given housing, and helped pay for food. They even paid for my college education. All in exchange for years of service.

The patience and concentration I had developed with the old man soon helped me to stand out and after the officer's courses, I was able to earn a place as a pilot.

In 2009 after earning first place with honors at the SERE course I was transferred to the newly formed 500th Special Operations Group that was attached to AFSOC, the air force special operations command at Hurltburt Field, Florida.

We were given some F16C Block 52s fresh from the factory in Texas. Then we were told to fly to Florida and prepare for everything. We dedicated ourselves to training and developing new tactics. We were flying over the gulf without anyone bothering us; we started getting bored and doing stupid things until the call finally came.

NATO forces were preparing for action against Libya. We were deployed first to the United Kingdom and then to Aviano in northern Italy. There we were given the orders but they were not what we expected.

The local fighter squadrons 510º and 555º with their F16Cs had been designated for air cover and combat patrols. We were to cover them in their regular duties which consisted of sunbathing and flying every three days to maintain the security of the base and our qualifications. But it was a base in the heart of the European Union, no one would think of attacking it.

Gentlemen, the one on the left began I would like to remind you that everything said here is top secret and that you took an oath.

We both nodded our heads in agreement, we wanted to know what was the mission about, there would certainly be one; otherwise, we would not have been called.

All right, now the one on the right was doing the talking here it goes. Israel has a worldwide communications monitoring system. It's like a small version of our own ECHELON. Three years ago, they detected communications in North Korea following a head-on collision between two trains. On the death list, Israeli intelligence agents noted the presence of 22 Arab names. They identified most of them as Syrian scientists, which put Mossad on high alert. After investigating, they concluded that there was a nuclear cooperation program between Syria and North Korea, the objective was to build a reactor and possibly atomic bombs. Upon closer inspection of satellite images, they were able to identify a reactor already under construction on Syrian territory. It was speculated from data collected in South Korea that the number of reactors purchased was actually two.

With the help of the United States, the other one continued a commercial blockade was established in Syria preventing the arrival of parts and technicians to finish the first and start the construction of the second reactor.

The navy informed us that immediately after the embargo was established, three North Korean ships changed their destination and docked at Tripoli and Benghazi. In all this time, no suspicious activity has been detected, until now.

The rebel forces in central Libya, who are our allies, reported to us suspicious construction activities. We were able to corroborate via satellite images that they are identical to the Syrian constructions of the reactor. They were overlooked because of the remote location in the Ubari lakes region in the south-central part of the country. We were looking for activity on the coast, where the water to cool the reactor is most abundant. But it makes sense, in that area, it is less vulnerable to attacks from Israel from the north and from France from Chad in the south.

The reactor must be destroyed at all cost, but discreetly. The United Nations did not authorize the operation because our allies did not get the waterborne radiation tests we needed.

It's a covert operation, it doesn't exist. That means no support; just two patriots carrying the flag on their own.

Your new F16 Block 52 with conformal and auxiliary tanks can make the entire round trip without refueling, there will be no tanker support and no AWACS. There is no anti-aircraft coverage is expected in the area.

It will be impossible to sneak in without being detected by our own AWACS, Boomer said.

You'll have a cover for the mission. You'll go in as support aircraft for the 510th, once on the coast, no one will pay any attention to you. When you come back you just have to say you're the Dusk training operation planes and you'll be covered. No one will know of this but you and the intelligence community.

This is not a game, the area boils with rebels and terrorist training camps that are loyal to Gaddafi. Imagine if they only managed to get radioactive material for dirty bombs, it would be devastating.

There's a reason you're a special operations group, gentlemen. You have to decide now, whether you're in or out.

Boomer and I looked at each other, the proposal was total madness. It would be full of planes from various allied air forces doing all kinds of missions. A lot of them looking for Libyan planes so they could score a hit. The idea of sneaking in was crazy.

But then I looked at his face and knew that he was thinking the same thing I was. We had invested more than two years in building the squadron, training to be the best, and by how things looked it could be the only chance for a real war mission, like the ones our parents did.

We're in, Boomer said.

Screw the United Nations, let's do It. was my response. But what about navigation?

"You don't have to worry about that, we installed new firmware in your aircraft's mission computer and navigation system. You have to follow precisely the course set and then execute the bomber run. The bombs will be dropped automatically as normal.

Boomer and I looked at each other again and nodded in satisfaction; after all, I wasn't the only innocent one.

The mission will be in the early morning, that's tomorrow gentleman, you will leave with the 510th planes to Benghazi and from there you will continue the mission. Here are all the details, this folder must not leave this room. You must memorize all the relevant details. As he walked out the door he added. We'll come back for it in an hour.

We discuss the details with the optimism of the soldiers before a big battle, ignoring all the red flags that would normally have seen.

Early the next day we met beside the planes, we talked for a few minutes as the hour approached. It was not like in the movies where legions of mechanics check things and help the pilot up.

The Air Force had learned the hard way that if they performed the inspection, refueling, weapons, and manned the aircraft simultaneously and an attack occurred the loss of qualified personnel would be terrible.

The new protocols were set in stone and the new F16 models start up on their own in less than a minute and at the request of the pilot. They do not need an auxiliary car or APU.

The planes were already loaded by the bomb squad and signed off by the mechanics, ready to fly. We checked the weapons load; it was all just like they wrote on the mission planning. We had two mid-range AMRAAM missiles on the wingtips, two Paveway II guided bombs, two auxiliary tanks, and a container with the laser guidance system for the bombs.

We checked each other's equipment, shook hands, and signaled a couple of ground