Bad Environment (Agent Juliet Book 3)

  Bad Environment

  By: E. M. Smith

  Copyright 2014 E. M. Smith

  “Bad Influences” by E. M. Smith is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

  For Officer Mary

  Two cops walk into a bar.

  One of them was her.

  Table of Contents

  Title, Copyright, & Dedication

  Bad Environment

  About the Author

  The C17 shook like it was about to fly apart, jumped up and dropped back. My chin bounced off my chest and my teeth snapped together. If I hadn’t been strapped in, I probably would’ve gotten my ass thrown across the cargo hold.

  Great day to come to work hung over. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath through my nose. At least I’d already thrown up everything in my stomach back on solid ground.

  “I hate flying coach,” Romeo said.

  “Ain’t even seen a flight attendant yet,” I said.

  Romeo turned her head and faced the opposite end of the hold.

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek. I’d been hoping the whole me yelling at her thing would just blow over if I acted like nothing had happened, but so far it wasn’t looking good.

  The plane rattled and I felt it dip. I glanced sideways at Fox.

  “Totally normal,” he said.

  Earlier, Fox had promised me that a certain amount of turbulence was to be expected for a plane this size, especially during a storm. It wasn’t that I doubted him—Fox could pilot anything that flew—I just wondered if we had passed that “certain amount” mark yet.

  “I still don’t see why we couldn’t take a NOC-Unit jet,” Romeo said. “‘Deep black op’ doesn’t have to mean ‘super uncomfortable accommodations.’”

  “Logs, flight plans, tracking software,” Fox said. “Not very deep black when there’s a paper and digital trail following us to Greece. And it wouldn’t take much for somebody to put together a NOC-Unit jet landing in Greece with a small plane taking off for Kuwait.”

  “And here I thought I was done breaking my back in C17s when I left Uncle Sam’s official employ,” Romeo said.

  On the other side of me, Bravo snorted. “Life’s full of hilarious little assfucks like that.”

  “You’ve really got a way with words, Bravo,” Romeo said.

  That triggered a memory of something she’d said to me last night. Something like, That’s romantic. You should write a poem.

  Dammit. If I had just told Romeo I was trying to stay sober, I wouldn’t have gotten trashed with her, slept through my alarm, and given Ms. Baker an excuse to revoke my visitation rights. Then I wouldn’t have yelled at Romeo and I wouldn’t be getting the cold shoulder from the only person who had halfway acted like my friend since I started with NOC-Unit.

  The door to the cockpit opened and Whiskey and Mike came down the metal stairs. Mike flipped down the empty seat on the far side of Bravo and strapped himself in. Whiskey stayed standing where we could all see her.

  “We’re seven hours from touchdown,” she said. “Let’s get the briefing out of the way. After that, maybe we’ll all be able to catch a little sleep in spite of the weather.”

  The plane bucked again. Whiskey had to grab the netting on a pile of crates to keep from being thrown off her feet.

  “Nothing quite like autumn over the Atlantic,” Fox said.

  Whiskey straightened up.

  “Memorize every word that comes out of my mouth,” she said. “There are no orders, no photos, no maps you’ll be able to study on this op. It never happened. You were on R&R all day Saturday and Sunday after rescuing Senator Miller’s daughter from that cult on Friday. I don’t care how you say you spent this weekend, just have an answer ready and stick to it.”

  I spent this weekend sleeping off a hangover and wishing I wasn’t such a fuckup. Familiar territory.

  “We’re going into Kunar Province in Afghanistan,” Whiskey said.

  Bravo flinched.

  “Why?” he asked. “They want us to take back the Korengal Valley? I’m not fucking going back because some assclown politician decided on second thought he does want it after all.”

  “You were there?” Fox asked.

  “Not officially,” Bravo said.

  “When?” Whiskey asked.

  “Pretty sure that’s still classified, boss,” Bravo said. “Unless this op came from Wes. This isn’t another Company contract, is it?”

  Whiskey pressed her lips together. After a few seconds, she said, “Deeper than that. Two people on the ground know about this op and neither of them is CIA, NOC-Unit, or military.”

  “Would this be considered a hijacking of NOC-Unit resources?” Romeo asked. “If somebody found out, I mean.”

  “Technically, we’re all subcontractors for NOC-Unit,” Mike said. “We’re free to take other work if we choose.”

  “Why all the secrecy, then?”

  “This isn’t about protecting our jobs,” Whiskey said. “How long after American troops left did your squad go in, Bravo? A few months? A year? And it was CIA-sanctioned, right? We’re not authorized by anyone to be in Kunar—or anywhere near Afghanistan. The orders on this come from me. If we get found out, that’s all you know.”

  For a minute, the storm outside quieted down. We kept our mouths shut, too. Whiskey wasn’t officially military. If some higher-up brass found out that she’d taken a team into a hot zone without clearance, there wasn’t much chance she would see a trial.

  “We’re not going into the Korengal Valley,” Whiskey continued. “But we will be nearby. There’s been a confirmed report of a small group of insurgents holding prisoners.”

  “What kind of prisoners are we talking?” Fox shifted in his seat. “Soldiers? Journalists? Abductees from a girls’ school?”

  “‘Prisoners’ is as detailed as the source would get,” Whiskey said. “We don’t have specifics or a headcount on the prisoners or the hostiles.”

  “What about coordinates?” Mike asked. “A plan? Anything?”

  “We have a guide. We’re set to rendezvous with him at thirteen-hundred local time.”

  “And he’ll know their camp from the air?” Fox asked.

  “The ground,” Whiskey said. “We’re going in on foot. It’s too open for a drop. Even at night, a helo would draw too much attention.”

  “What about extraction?” Fox said. “I can have somebody ready to pull us out if things go balls-up.”

  Whiskey flexed her fists at her sides. “No helos. No one outside of this cargo hold.”

  “What are we supposed to do when we’ve got a half-starved, brutally beaten Muselmann—or, hell, ten of them—with us and we’re trying to run for our lives?”

  “Yeah, I’m not trying to be a dick,” Romeo said. “But this has goatfuck written all over it.”

  “We won’t be running on this one,” Whiskey said. “This is the most important part of your orders—on egress, we don’t leave any witnesses. We can’t afford to. If it has eyes, kill it.”

  Another few moments of silence. I wondered when I’d stopped being surprised at hearing stuff like that. This was only my third mission with Whiskey’s team. I could tell myself I had to be a good little soldier if I wanted NOC-Unit to think I was valuable enough to keep around, but shouldn’t I at least be having some kind of internal reaction?

  What if it came down to shooting a woman holding her baby or never getting to see my nieces again?

  My stomach clenched. I already knew what I’d do.

  *****

  Eleven hours and a bumpy-ass truck ride later, the last of my hangover had worn off and we were in one of the bigge
st no-gos in the political and military world. Which I’d always figured would be warmer. According to the little bits and pieces of news I’d caught during the War on Terror, Afghanistan was supposed to be a desert. For the last hour of our ride, though, we’d been in the mountains.

  I leaned against the rusted-out wheel well of the truck and let my M16 hang over my shoulder on the strap. Whiskey, Fox, and Mike were all busy arguing with Aamil, a skinny guy with a potbelly who was supposed to be our guide.

  Romeo was sitting on the tailgate, holding her rifle, and watching.

  “What’s he saying now?” she asked.

  Bravo quit scanning the village’s buildings for a few seconds and listened. “Says he wants double the payment they agreed on. He thinks you and Whiskey are prostitutes and if we’re not okay with his crew getting some free suck and fuck, then we need to pay extra.”

  The muscles in my shoulders tensed up.

  “Like hell,” I said.

  “In this part of the world, unmarried women dressed in men’s clothes and traveling with men are whores,” Bravo said, looking over his shoulder at me. “And keep your fucking gun at the ready, bitch-boy. What, do you think N2KL is friendly territory or some shit?” He pointed off at the jagged horizon line. “You can piss over that mountain into the fucking Korengal Valley. Do you have any fucking idea what that even means?”

  “Were you actually stationed here, Jersey Shore, or’d you just read a lot about it on Twitter?” I said, but I still brought my M16 down to the active position just to be safe.

  “‘Stationed’?” Bravo snorted. “Go back to the minor leagues already.”

  The breeze changed directions again and I shivered.

  “I thought it was supposed to be hot in Afghanistan,” I said to Romeo.

  She adjusted her rifle and stared more pointedly at the argument between our guide and our senior teammates.

  “Bet you thought there was sand everywhere, too,” Bravo said. “And that they all rode camels.”

  “I don’t like it,” Romeo said. “Why’s this guy in such a hurry to turn over his own people?”

  “It’s complicated,” Bravo said. “He says they’re not his people. Could mean they broke local code and they’re disgraced or that they’re literally a different tribe.” Bravo shrugged. “Or it could just be one big fucking trap.”

  *****

  Once Whiskey finally agreed to a dollar amount Aamil could live with, Aamil left and we got to hang around the jeep some more and wait for full dark.

  Bravo stayed on his feet the whole time, scanning the street and buildings like someone might open fire at any second.

  Fox and Mike played some kind of memory poker without any cards and acted relaxed, even though they checked out of the corner of their eyes whenever anything moved.

  Whiskey went over the plan with us one more time. Not that it was super complicated. I think she was just anxious to get moving.

  Romeo inspected, disassembled, cleaned, oiled and reassembled her rifle and talked to everyone who wasn’t me.

  Six hours is plenty of time to think back over everything you did wrong and everything you should’ve done instead. It’s also enough time to hate yourself for wishing you could drink until you didn’t remember what you were so pissed about.

  Telling myself that I didn’t drink anymore—that before last night, I hadn’t drank in eight months—didn’t make me want it any less. Even remembering how awful the hangover had been didn’t make the nagging go away. Jesus, I needed a drink.

  I should just put the barrel of my M16 in my mouth and blow my head off. That would stop the cravings and the fuck ups pretty damn quick.

  No, I should man the hell up. My life might not be worth shit, but Della and Eva needed me. They didn’t have anyone else.

  Plus, there was that promise from Whiskey that she would leave me to rot in some third-world prison if I ever drank on her watch again.

  So, I couldn’t drink.

  But I wanted to.

  My brain kept going around in circles like that until Aamil came back. He said something in Afghanistan-ish to Mike and Mike answered.

  Whiskey jumped to her feet. “Tell him he’s taking us to that goddamn cave and pointing it out or there’s no deal.”

  Mike relayed her message, then he and Aamil argued for another few minutes.

  Whiskey broke in again. “Tell him we’ll pay it. Just get us moving.”

  That shut Aamil up. He led the way out of town and we fell in.

  *****

  I kind of zoned out as we walked. I knew I was supposed to be paying attention, but I’d done plenty of night hikes back home in the Ouachitas—a few of them stoned out of my mind. If there was one thing I could do right, it was walk a mountain.

  The cold felt good, calmed down the hankering for a drink. Being out in nature had always done that to me—made me want to be sharp enough to enjoy it.

  Maybe that was my problem. For the last five months I’d been trapped in the city, spent most of my time post-hospital in the gym, in the barracks, or with Whiskey doing lessons. The couple of times I had tried Central Park, the place reeked like exhaust fumes and garbage.

  When this op was over, I should see about getting my driver’s license back and find someplace to go camping. Fox lived in the Adirondacks. Maybe he could suggest somewhere.

  We stopped on a hillside. Whiskey handed out headsets. I put mine on and listened to Mike and Aamil’s voices rattling along in the earpiece while I checked my rifle.

  My brain started to get the message that this was life-or-death, time to focus. The weird, wired feeling I always got right before an op spread through my body and I felt my skin heat up.

  Aamil left, heading back the way we’d come in.

  “Okay,” Whiskey said. “Fox, Romeo, get to a vantage and cover the mouth of the cave. Stay within arm’s reach of each other. Once we’re inside, maintain radio silence unless we have unexpected company.”

  “Roger,” Fox said at the same time as Romeo said, “Wilco.”

  Then they took off, further up the hill. There wasn’t any moon out, so they disappeared after a couple yards. I wanted to point my IR flashlight in the direction they’d gone so my NVGs would pick them up, but it was attached to my rifle’s rails. Taking it off would’ve been a waste of time and probably gotten my ass in more trouble.

  Whiskey turned to the rest of us. “Let’s move out.”

  We headed downhill, staying wide of the cave’s immediate line of sight, hopped a stream, then started the jog back up the other side.

  “Whiskey, this is Foxtrot. Romeo and I are in position.”

  “Roger,” Whiskey said. “Can you see inside the cave?”

  “One-point-five yards,” Fox said. “All clear.”

  “Let me know if that changes.”

  “Roger.”

  We made a big circle—up and behind the entrance—then Whiskey gave us the signal to stop.

  “Status, Fox,” she said.

  “Still no activity,” his answer came through the headset.

  “We’re going in,” Whiskey said. “Anything that comes out of that cave that isn’t us is a target. Take it down.”

  “Roger,” Fox and Romeo said at the same time.

  Whiskey gave us the signal to go. We jogged down the slope and stopped, backs against the rock.

  Mike was closest to the mouth of the cave. Through my NVGs I saw him crouch, pop his head around the corner and check for life. He leaned back and gave the All Clear.

  Whiskey nodded and pointed at Mike. On his count.

  Mike brought his hand up and started counting down. When he hit one, he’d give Bravo and me the signal to go in, then if no one ambushed us, he and Whiskey would follow.

  Three…

  My heart hammered and my throat went dry. This wasn’t just standard interior combat. This was inside rock walls with a mountain on top and Jesus knew how many guns and men inside waiting to blow us all to hell.


  Two…

  Sweat started running down the outside of my NVG’s eyepieces.

  One…

  Mike chopped his hand at the entrance. Bravo peeled off and went in low. I went high, ready to light up some unlucky son of a bitch.

  No one there.

  At the back of the cave, to the right, the green glowed a little brighter. They had a light in there somewhere.

  I looked at Bravo. He nodded. We crept forward, slow and easy, as quiet as possible wearing sixty pounds of gear.

  I could feel Mike and Whiskey behind us. Bravo and I had taken the lead because we were the junior operatives and statistically the most likely to kill somebody with friendly fire. But if a firefight broke out in a space this small, the odds had to be good that one or both of us was taking a bullet in the back.

  We rounded the corner, low and high again.

  Two men. An old glass-globed Coleman lantern on a card table and an AK-47 leaning against a chair.

  One started yelling. The other reached for the AK. Bravo shot the one raising the alarm and I took out the guy with the rifle.

  Somewhere up ahead, I could hear movement and the metallic sound magazines make when you shove them into a gun.

  “Pull back!” Whiskey ordered.

  Bravo and I got back.

  She tossed a grenade down the tunnel. “Frag out!”

  The boom killed the lantern, but the NVGs lit the place up in shades of green. Whiskey gave the sign to follow. She and Mike took the lead. Bravo and I followed. We stepped over the bodies Bravo and I had taken out, then rounded the corner. A pile of arms and legs tangled up with AKs and all types of pistol.

  A hand twitched as I passed. I put a round in the back of his head. I could barely hear the shot. That grenade must’ve screwed up my hearing more than I’d realized.

  Something moved straight ahead. I snapped my rifle up. Mike and Whiskey let loose a three-round burst apiece before my eyes even focused. Another body dropped in the tunnel.

  Mike gave the sign to Stop. There was another room up ahead. He pulled a grenade and tossed it. This time I covered my ears.

  After the boom, Whiskey motioned for me and Bravo to clear the room. We went in. It was empty except for a few crates that now had shrapnel damage. At the end of the room, the walls came back together into a tunnel. Bravo checked it out.