Chapter One CHAPTER ONE
Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan

2019

“HOW MUCH DOES one of these Defenders go for back in the U.S.?” John Staub asked from the front passenger seat.

Walker scanned the vehicle’s interior. The Rover was a four-door 110 version with the longer wheelbase. The back seats were of the dual, inward-facing bench style. The windows were blacked out, but it was otherwise a standard model from the mid-nineties.

Walker scratched his beard. Like Staub, he had grown out his facial hair. The more robust, the more respect it garnered from the Afghans. While Walker’s retained the golden shade of his hair, resulting in his call sign “Viking,” Staub’s beard was starting to transition from jet black to the gray that had appeared at his temples. “I don’t think you could afford one in the States,” he replied. “Plus, you barely fit in here.”

“Yeah, why don’t these seats go back farther?” asked the barrel-chested frogman.

“I think the engineer was a little guy,” Walker responded.

Staub took a closer look at the utilitarian metal dash and manual transmission. He twisted to inspect the rear seats. “Maybe we can smuggle this thing back in a shipping container? Agency will never know. We can call it a combat loss. Leigh Ann has always wanted a Range Rover.”

“This isn’t a Range Rover. It’s a Land Rover.”

“Same thing.”

“Not really.”

“Huh?”

“Believe me, Leigh Ann will know the difference.”

“Well, whatever. I like this one. I’m going to see if I can get it home when we pull stakes and leave this shithole.”

“The U.S. is never leaving this shithole,” Walker replied. He shifted to neutral, coasted, and touched the brakes. “You have your ID? They don’t know us on this side of the runway.”

Walker stopped and cranked down the manual window. He presented his blue badge ID card to a pair of soldiers stuck with gate duty. Staub handed his green CIA identification card across the center console. The difference in colors signaled their differing roles. Blue badgers were management. Green badgers were muscle.

One of the soldiers disappeared inside the guard shack. The other inspected the undercarriage of the Rover with a lighted mirror on a pole. While they waited, Staub remarked, “I can totally see Leigh Ann driving this thing.”

“I can’t.”

“Be like riding in a tank for her and Connor.”

“How old is Connor now?”

“Sixteen. Growing up too fast.”

“Sounds like you need a Volvo. Nice and safe.”

“I don’t think Leigh Ann is a Volvo person. Plus, this is one hell of a capable four-by-four.”

“It’s not like you have mountains in New Orleans. The one time I passed through Louisiana, I thought the whole state was a bridge.”

“Exactly. See the snorkel?” Staub nodded at the hood corner where a thick black tube crawled up the front door post. “Katrina wasn’t the last hurricane to blow through that town. Something like this would be an evacuation machine, you know? I should take it for that reason alone.”

“It’s right-hand drive.”

“Good point. Maybe I just need to buy one. I read they’re coming out with a new design later this year. First time they’re selling Defenders in the U.S. since ’97.”

Walker watched the soldiers at the guard shack. “You’d blow all that extra combat pay you’ve banked over here.”

“Exactly what that money’s for. Tax-free, Mr. Philosopher,” Staub said, using the nickname Walker had acquired very early on in the SEAL Teams.

Chris stared doubtfully at his older teammate. Although Staub was brilliant when it came to tactics, he was capable of the worst possible financial decisions.

“We’re different,” Staub said, correctly sensing the judgment.

“Thank God for that.”

“No, I mean, Leigh Ann and I don’t like restoring old crap. You fixed up your mom’s house and car. You rebuild engines. You haul around that surplus typewriter of yours and clack away at your homework—”

“Dissertation.”

“Whatever. My point is, I bet you’d take this beat-up old right-hand drive over a brand-new made-for-America Defender, wouldn’t you?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Then why do you still wear that issued G-SHOCK?”

“Because it’s practical.”

“And this isn’t?” Staub said, pointing to the Tudor timepiece on his left wrist.

“It’s shiny.”

“You of all people should appreciate the history.”

“Oh, I do. That doesn’t make it any less shiny.”

“Some supply guy was taking a hammer to all the old Tudors at my first SEAL Team,” Staub said. “Have I ever told you this story?”

“About a hundred times.”

“Said he was ordered to do it to get them out of the system. Said it was illegal to take them. I reminded him of the age-old naval tradition of ‘gundecking,’ and in exchange for the last four Tudor Subs, I rewarded him with a case of beer. I saved a bit of history that day. You know, the Team guys who jumped in after the Apollo astronauts when they splashed down were wearing these.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“Gave one to my chief, one to my LPO, and one to my BUD/S swim buddy. One day this one will go to Connor when he graduates college.”

“What’s he interested in?”

“Journalism. Works on the school paper. Big reader. He’s not like me. He’s smart enough to make a living with a pen, not the sword.”

“Well, let’s hope so,” Walker said as a soldier arrived with a clipboard.

The sergeant handed the badges through the window.

“We’re picking up a new arrival,” Walker said. “He would have checked in last night. Name’s Lawrence.”

“Lawrence the first name or last?” the soldier asked.

“Both. He should be staying in visiting officer quarters.”

The other soldier approached with the clipboard. After a half-minute search, he tapped the clipboard. “Got him. He’s in the CHUs. A-16, third alley to your left.”

“Thanks.” Walker shifted into gear and let out the clutch.

The CHUs—container housing units—were the high-rent district on the Bagram base, boasting metal walls and Mitsubishi mini-splits for heating and cooling. Staub was working on requisitioning one of them to set up out in the swamps as a hunting cabin back in Louisiana.

“You worked much with Fisk?” Staub asked as they coasted to a stop by a container.

“We were in the same class at the Farm. But after that, he went the case officer route.”

“Not a gunslinger?”

“Too smart.” Walker smiled, killed the engine, and yanked the parking brake.

“Come on, no one’s smarter than you, genius.”

Walker rolled his eyes.

“I’ll hop out and give him the front seat,” Staub said. “And I can check out the cargo volume of my future ride.”

Walker found container A-16 at the center of a rat maze of narrow passages. In addition to the stenciled A-16 address, a laminated card had been inserted in a slot that read: “L.L. LAWRENCE, OGA.” Other Government Agency was the catch-all term for the various government groups that cycled through Bagram: CIA, FBI, DEA, DSS. But for all intents and purposes, the term had become synonymous with the CIA. The nondescript alias was another dead giveaway.

“Hey, Chris,” Leonard Fisk said in greeting. “Long time.”

Walker shook hands with the taller, skinnier man. “Welcome to Kabul, Lenny.”

“Thanks. Come on in.”

Walker climbed the steps and entered the corrugated metal wall container. “How’s the jet lag? How are things at Langley?”

“Langley’s Langley and jet lag is my standard operating condition,” Fisk answered, pushing his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Give me a second to close out this email, then we’ll get going.” Fisk sat on a desk chair and typed while Walker remained standing by the door.

After half a minute, bespectacled face to the screen, Fisk asked, “What’s your contact’s name again? Just putting together a quick synopsis for the station before we head out.”

“Naji Mansour,” Walker replied.

“And how did you make contact?”

“Believe it or not, Staub bought a rug from him. Mansour hinted at having information that might be of interest to us, so I went in and bought a rug too. The hints became more than that.”

Fisk stopped typing and studied Walker through his glasses. “Really? It was that random?”

“Life’s like that sometimes.”

Fisk resumed typing. After a few more strokes on the keys, he shut the laptop and threw his glasses in a case. “Ready,” he said, standing. “Oh—and from now on, we’re to refer to this asset as Mongoose.”

“Mongoose,” Walker repeated. “Who came up with that?”

“The Agency’s cryptonym generator.”

“It was a good choice. They eat snakes.”