Chase nodded. “Thanks. I’ll be right with you.” He finished cleaning up and said goodbye to his friend.
Chase got into the passenger seat and asked the Sergeant, “Any idea what it’s about?”
The Sergeant, sitting in the passenger seat next to an airman, said, “Sir, a man by the name of Elliot is on his way to meet with you. That’s all I know.”
“Got it. Thanks, Sergeant.” The only Elliot that Chase knew of was the CIA’s station chief in Dubai. He had never called on Chase personally, and it would be very unusual for him to do so. He usually had minions do that work.
They began speeding over the desert road toward the other side of the base. Chase saw the enlisted man glance at the end of his gun.
“Is that a silencer?”
Chase said, “Yup.”
“Why do you use a silencer at the range?”
“Practice how you play. That’s what I’ve always believed.”
“Sir, you mind if I ask you what outfit you’re attached to?”
“Sure, Sergeant. You can ask. I just can’t answer.”
The man rolled his eyes as if to express that he should have known better and remained quiet the rest of the way.
Seven minutes later, Chase entered the Joint Tactical Control Center, the US-only building where several hundred American servicemen worked each day, managing the American military’s tactical picture in this part of the world.
Chase entered through two layers of security before he got to the CIA’s section of the building. The CIA security man looked up when he entered. Chase recognized him.
The security man said, “ID?”
Chase removed the microchipped government-issued ID that hung around his neck. The duty officer slid it into a card reader and then handed it back to Chase.
The door behind him buzzed, and Chase entered a large dark room with flat-screens on the wall and dim blue lighting. About a dozen people were inside, most hovering over tactical displays or talking on headsets. The displays on the walls showed various images. Live feed from drones throughout the area of operation. Digital maps. Green lines for national borders. Red and blue shapes representing military units.
It was freezing cold in the room. The temperature was kept very low in order to ensure optimal performance for all the high-tech computers and electronics. Most of the people working there had on winter jackets. To Chase, just coming inside out of the desert heat, it felt great.
The duty officer was a redheaded woman of about thirty. Chase thought her name was Doris, but wasn’t sure enough to call her by name. Chase remembered her from when he had first arrived on this base, almost a year earlier. Just after his mother’s funeral. That seemed like a long time ago.
Upon completion of his CIA training near Williamsburg, Virginia, Chase had been transported to Al Dhafra Air Base in the United Arab Emirates. After some initial orientation training on base, he had been moved about the Middle East on various assignments. He had served on missions targeting ISIS leadership and supply lines in Syria and Iraq for a few months. Then they had flown him to East Africa, where he had participated in operations disrupting the terrorist groups Al-Shabab in Somalia and Boko Haram in Nigeria.
Some of the time, Chase felt like there was little difference between the type of work he had done with the SEALs and the type of work he now conducted on behalf of the CIA. At other times, the differences were starkly apparent. His chief complaint was that he felt like he was in a corporation and not a tactical unit. There was more politics. More political correctness. And there was a definite rank-based class system in the Agency. This frustrated Chase, but he didn’t feel like there was anything he could do about it.
Chase stood before the woman whose name he thought was Doris, and she gave him a once-over. She had the slightest hint of a smile. Rosy cheeks in the cold air.
She stood behind a desk with several landline phones, each with different labels. “Elliot’s on his way to see you. I’m to have you call him as soon as you are available. Apparently he wants you in Dubai tonight. Not sure what it’s about.”
“Yeah, I got that from the Air Force tech sergeant. Anything more?”
She shrugged. “Just that it was urgent.”
She picked up a white phone labeled US Embassy Dubai, Station Chief. “Yes, sir, Manning is right here. Roger, sir. Here you go.” She handed Chase the phone.
“Manning.”
“Chase, this is Elliot.”
No last name required. Elliot was a man of great importance in Chase’s world. As the station chief in Dubai, he was in charge of over fifty agents scattered throughout the operating area, and he was the senior ranking CIA agent in one of the most active regions of the world. He also happened to be a friend of Chase’s father, which hadn’t hurt Chase’s station assignment.
“Yes, sir, how can I be of service?”
“I’ll be quick. Your expertise is required. I need you in Dubai tonight. I’m getting on a plane. Pack your things. Be ready for me to pick you up in one hour.”
The U-28A was the military version of the single-engine turboprop PC-12. The Air Force loved its versatility and used it as a Special Operations transport for small numbers of passengers. It had the horsepower to get them there fast and could take off and land on very small runways. If there was a remote part of the world that was hard to get in and out of but at least somewhat flat, Air Force Special Operations could likely get you there quickly in a U-28A.
This one was painted dark grey, and Chase watched as it rolled up to the passenger terminal, its reverse thrust buzzing wildly before it shut down. The door opened and Elliot Jackson stepped down the ladder.
He was a tall black man with close-cropped grey hair. He wore rimmed glasses that tinted automatically in the sunlight. He walked up to Chase and shook his hand. He had a firm fireman’s grip. The kind of handshake that told Chase that Elliot Jackson was a man’s man.
“It’s good to see you again, son.”
“Thank you, sir.” Chase had his black travel duffle bag slung over his shoulder.
Elliot said, “Go ahead and throw that on the plane. Then let’s go find someplace quiet to talk for a bit.” Chase wondered what subject of conversation would require the station chief to fly twenty minutes at around two thousand dollars per flight hour. He could have had Chase drive the ninety minutes and meet him somewhere in Dubai. Either it was good to be king, or the conversation was going to get interesting.
A moment later, they walked into a building marked Base Operations. It was a passenger terminal for Americans going in and out of the UAE via military transport. Several dozen US Army soldiers were sprawled about the waiting area, sleeping next to their bags while wearing their boots and cammie uniforms.
Chase and Elliot found a quiet air-conditioned room down the hall. A briefing room that the pilots used to prepare for their flights. There was a whiteboard and a stack of charts sitting on a plastic table. An old TV hung from the ceiling. A digital aviation weather forecast scrolled across the screen.
Elliot motioned for Chase to take a seat. “Your father is in town tomorrow.”
Chase said, “Is he? I didn’t know.”
“You heard about his job change, right?”
“Yes, I did. It’s… unfortunate.”
“Yes, it is.”
Elliot was tapping his fingernails on the table. “Iranian-US relations are at an all-time low right now after the Abu Musa incident.”
“They weren’t so great before that.”
“True. I’m just saying that your dad didn’t do anything wrong, Chase. He just happened to be in command of someone who did. Happens to the best of us.”
Admiral Manning was the one-star in charge of the Harry S. Truman Carrier Strike Group, the lone US aircraft carrier strike group in the region. As such, he was responsible for all the actions of the ships under his command. Including the US Navy destroyer, the USS Porter.