As the photos prepared to load, he drafted a quick situation report to be included in his email.
Norseman + 1, Eagles Oscar.
“Norseman” was Harvath’s call-sign, Jasinski was his “plus one,” and “Eagles Oscar” meant that they were both uninjured.
As he wasn’t in a position to be resupplied, he refrained from giving any updates on his current level of ammunition or the condition of his weapon. He simply went straight to the meat:
Ambush. Anti-personnel devices encountered 100 meters from target. At least 4 Norwegians KIA. Multiple injuries—some critical. Took automatic weapons fire from inside target—at least 3 shooters. Norwegians engaged with 40 mms. All Tangos KIA. Target destroyed. Solo Tango attempted escape. Tango engaged and KIA. Transmitting photos of materials recovered.
While the U.S. military had switched to the term MAM, short for military-age-male, as well as EKIA for enemy-killed-in-action, his organization still preferred Tango. It didn’t engage in a lot of navel-gazing.
With the photos ready to go and a strong signal from overhead, he reviewed the message and hit Send.
Moments later, his sat phone vibrated with a reply:
Message received. Full Stop. UPDATE: O.M. is worsening.
O.M. was code for Harvath’s boss and mentor, Reed Carlton—someone he was very close to and someone whose health had been deteriorating. The news was not good. He kept his reply short and to the point:
Understood. Will be back in touch soon.
Once the message had sent, he powered down his sat phone, disconnected his cell, and headed back toward the cabin.
Halfway there, he encountered Jasinski. Harvath had taken his helmet off, revealing his short, sandy colored hair.
“What happened?” she asked. “I heard shots.”
It took him a moment to respond. He was still thinking about Carlton, trying to put pieces together several steps ahead. “One of them ran,” he finally said.
“Is he still alive?”
Harvath shook his head.
“Damn it. I tried to hail you over the radio. Why didn’t you answer?”
He pointed to the earpiece hanging over his shoulder.
“You could have waited,” she declared. “And by the way, who authorized you to carry a weapon?”
He wasn’t in the mood for an interrogation. “Not now,” he replied.
His response only made her angrier. This was her investigation, not his, yet for some unknown reason she’d been forced to accept him as a “consultant.” Something very strange was going on and she intended to get to the bottom of it. No matter what.
CHAPTER 4
* * *
RESTON, VIRGINIA
Lydia Ryan hadn’t wanted the enormous corner office, but Reed Carlton—the firm’s founder and namesake—had insisted. As The Carlton Group’s new director, it was only appropriate that she take it. Considering all of the job’s responsibilities, she was entitled to reap its benefits.
The view was amazing—even at night. The Carlton Group occupied the very top floor of a twenty-five-story glass office building, ten minutes from Dulles International.
They had their own private elevator, with access from the garage, which allowed them to secretly whisk people up without passing through the lobby—a must for a private intelligence agency, especially one now tasked with some of the CIA’s most sensitive assignments.
Because they handled classified information, the entire space had been constructed to the strictest TEMPEST requirements. Meant to safeguard against “compromising emanations” or CE, TEMPEST regulated the mechanical, electrical, and acoustic signals from all equipment used for receiving, transmitting, processing, analyzing, encrypting, and decrypting classified information. Every possible step had been taken to prevent both active and passive eavesdropping.
The firm had been just as diligent in protecting its IT, as well as all of its communications systems. In fact, wherever they could, they exceeded the standards. It put their facility years ahead of anything the government was doing.
It had cost a fortune, but it was an investment Reed Carlton had been willing to make. He was blazing an entirely new trail with his firm and being on the cutting edge of technology was sine qua non.
Carlton had a gift for recognizing threats before they ever appeared on the horizon. He also had the type of mind that was always steps ahead of everyone else.
During his three decades at the CIA, he had traveled the world, battling everything from communists to Islamic terrorists. His greatest achievement, though, was establishing the Agency’s now famed Counter Terrorism Center. There, he had dreamed up and carried out some of its most daring operations.
When the time had come to retire, he tried it, but it didn’t agree with him. He missed the “great game.” Part of him resented its going on without him. What’s more, the threats facing America hadn’t abated. They were growing. And as they grew, his beloved CIA was changing—and not for the better.
It was being overwhelmed and subverted by bureaucrats. Operations were being scaled back, or scuttled altogether. Management was obsessed with minimizing losses. An infamous maxim, pinned to the wall in one manager’s office, read Big ops, big problems. Small ops, small problems. No ops, no problems.
Like a terrible vine, the bureaucracy had wrapped itself around Langley’s throat and was choking it to death. No longer was it a vibrant, dynamic agency carrying out some of the nation’s most dangerous and necessary business. It had all but come to a halt.
The calcification had terrified Carlton. Without an effective intelligence service, the United States was in serious trouble. So Carlton had done the only thing he could do. He had come out of retirement and had founded his own private intelligence firm.
Unlike private military corporations, The Carlton Group offered more than just hired guns; it offered global intelligence gathering and analysis. For select clients, it went even further—offering full-blown covert operations.
In essence, he had created a smaller, faster version of the CIA. The United States government quickly became one of his biggest customers.
He had modeled his new company upon “Wild Bill” Donovan’s OSS—the precursor to the CIA. Their guiding principles were the same—if you fall, fall forward in service of the mission. Only the mission mattered.
To staff his operation, Carlton recruited the same type of individuals as Donovan. He wanted courageous, highly effective self-starters for whom success was the only option. He focused on the elite tiers of the military and intelligence worlds, people who had been proven, people who had been sent to the darkest corners of the world, tasked with absolutely impossible assignments, and had prevailed. He had an exceptional eye for talent.
Looking across the hall, Lydia Ryan could see Scot Harvath’s office. It was smaller than hers, but that had been his choice. He had turned down the Director position.
Carlton had been disappointed. His greatest asset, the foundation his company was built upon, was his wisdom, his hard-won experience, and his global network of intelligence contacts.
He had distilled his thirty-plus years of espionage experience and drilled it as deeply as he could into Harvath’s bones. He had forged him into one of the most cunning weapons the United States had in its arsenal.