The Eyes of Others

PROLOGUE

“Boston” hollinger

U.S. Forward Operating Base

Deir Ez-Zor Governorate, Syria

I hate this place. The “graveyard of empires” was hardly a garden spot, but I would take Afghanistan over this hellhole any day. Satan would be eager to return to hell after spending seven months in this Godforsaken place. Syria is always under threat from the government regime, pissed-off rebels, the remnants of ISIS, the Russians, and groups allied with them. It’s a mess, and the reason American troops are stuck protecting large oilfields and the potential revenues they could bring in.

None of that matters to me. It’s my exhausting, often thankless job that brought me to a desert four hundred fifty miles from Damascus and over five thousand miles from home. As an intelligence analyst, I turn raw data collected from various sources into useful products that help keep the men and women here safe. Commanders here make life and death decisions every week. It’s the information that I provide that they base them on.

I pull the small towel out of my cargo pocket as I walk and mop the sweat off the back of my neck as I make my way back to the tent. The temperatures here are already unbearable, and it’s only the middle of June. My military deployments have taught me to hate insufferably hot places void of vegetation. The only respite to the misery I manage to enjoy is the time I spend with some of the other soldiers on the base. Some of them have quickly become close friends.

“So, we’re haulin’ ass across the desert in the MRAP like we stole the thing, and these two Apaches drop down on us from the sun. I swear, man, we never saw ‘em,” Mexico says, his arms flailing as he acts out every single word in front of the soldiers lounging outside the tent.

“Remind me never to travel anywhere with you in the turret,” Colombia says, not bothering to look up as he adjusts the plate in his body armor carrier.

“You can’t shoot for shit, anyway,” Georgia says, lounging back in her chair as if she’s working on her tan.

“I’m an expert marksman, thank you very much.”

“Hold on, hold on, I’m not finished,” Mexico admonishes. “These pilots must have been bored or something because sneaking up on us wasn’t good enough. No, these asshats start practicing their attack runs on us. My driver panics like he’s being chased by a hive of hornets or something. He starts dodging and weaving the truck like he’s gonna get away from them.”

“How long has this story been going on?” I lean over and ask Maryland, who’s trying to read a book and pretending not to pay attention to the grunt.

“Twenty minutes or so. Mex is on his third story.”

Maryland is the only other guy in this gaggle of unlikely friends who is also in military intelligence. He’s the most mission-oriented soldier in my unit. All he wants to do is get the mission done and get home, or so he whines to us almost every day.

“The driver screams at me, ‘Find us a place to hide!’” Mexico continues. “So I yell back at him, ‘make for the tree line.’ Don’t you know, he shouted back, ‘What tree line?’ like we weren’t in the middle of the damn desert.”

The group roars like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. Soldiers have a sort of dark humor, and it’s something they carry with them when they no longer don the uniform. Mexico has a bright future doing comedy someday, although civilians aren’t likely to get most of his jokes.

“He stops us on this little rise, and one of the Apaches comes at us head-on and flies over the MRAP, like ten feet over our turret. I swear, I could smell the pilot’s aftershave. The other Apache flares up right next to us. He looks at my driver, and the gun points wherever he looks. My driver looks like he’s about to shit his pants, so the guy starts shaking his head, and the cannon moves left and right like he’s waving at us.”

“Your tall tales are getting taller,” Georgia moans from her makeshift lounge chair.

“I’m with her. I can’t take it anymore. Which one of you dumbasses gave Mexico caffeine this morning?” I ask the group, knowing the cause of his hyperactivity all too well.

Everyone looks at Louisiana, who’s smoking a cigarette as he listens to the story. Maryland points without looking up. Realizing his friends just ratted him out, he puts on a face of mock surprise. The prankster combat engineer of the group, Louisiana would have been my first choice as instigator anyway. What he lacks in stature and athletic ability, he makes up in attitude and intelligence.

“Maryland, why you always blamin’ me, bro?” he protests in his Cajun-tinged accent.

“Because you’re the one always doing stupid crap,” Maryland says, only half-joking.

“Like what? Name one time I’ve done anythin’ stupid.” He left that wide open.

“The story about the strip club in Augusta,” Maryland deadpans.

“The ATM at the PX in Kuwait,” Colombia adds with a grin on his face.

“Something about the flight attendant on the plane to Kuwait,” Mexico adds.

“I haven’t heard that story yet,” Arkansas says, getting nods from his buddies Kansas and Indiana.

The motley group is made up of different military occupational specialties. We have infantrymen, combat engineers, military intelligence, military police, and even a cook who stays quiet for obvious reasons. The food here is also terrible, and he hates us reminding him of that.

After seven months on this deployment, we’ve become a tight-knit group. It’s why we stopped calling each other by our rank and last name, and use our home state or country instead. Most are states and countries like Maryland, Louisiana, Mexico, and Colombia. I got named after a city because Boston sounds slicker than Massachusetts. Together, we’re a walking geography lesson.

“How ’bout you, Boston? You wanna add to the list of my transgressions?” Louisiana asks. I don’t have to think about it for long.

“Did anyone mention about how you almost burned down the general’s house at Lewis-McChord?” I say, smiling. It’s funny to me, but not for his commander, who ended up standing in front of a furious colonel for a serious ass-chewing.

“Hold on, wait a sec!” Louisiana shouts before grinning broadly. “I had accomplices for that one.”

“Yeah, Sergeant Jack Daniels, Specialist Johnnie Walker, and Private Jim Beam,” Colombia announces in his typical cool, James Dean manner.

“The three wise men that manage to turn Louisiana into a complete idiot,” Maryland needles.

“Wow. There’s a whole lotta sell-outery goin’ on here,” Louisiana decrees, eliciting snickers from the group.

“What’s new in the world, Boston?” Arkansas asks. “We win the war yet?”

“I’m in the SCIF staring at field reports all day. I’d be the last to know.”

In intelligence parlance, the “skiff,” as it is pronounced, is the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility where we analyze classified material. It’s an enclosed structure with stringent access controls and is restricted solely to personnel who have passed a thorough background check and have been granted clearance to enter. We just think of it as our office.

“Guys, we need to take the fobbits on a field trip one of these days,” Indiana says, doing a function check on his M4 carbine.

“Fobbit” is a derogatory word used to shame soldiers afraid to head outside of the base. Just as most hobbits from Lord of the Rings never left the Shire, most fobbits never leave the forward operating base. Technically, this isn’t a FOB, but the term carried over from the Iraq War.

“Shut up, dude, before you get some unlicensed dental work,” Maryland threatens. He likes to talk tough, but the guys know that the dog has no bite.

“Bro, you don’t have the strength to open a can of Coke, so what are ya goin’ to do?” Louisiana retorts.

For most road warriors trekking to work in the U.S., the biggest concern they have is not to rear-end someone when they cut you off. The only mental energy they expend is listening to the local radio station’s traffic report to figure out how to get out of the bumper-to-bumper traffic. A tragedy back home is spilling coffee on your work clothes.

“I’m going to beat you senseless tonight,” Maryland says.

“Promise?” he responds, blowing his rival a kiss.

“You guys need therapy. Did anyone—”

A blinding light precedes a deafening blast, and a wall of dust blows over us like a tsunami as I try to keep my balance. Seconds later, the telltale barking of a pair of M240B machine guns rips through the desert air.

“Shit. That was the gate. Let’s go!” Kansas says, rallying his fellow infantrymen. They start grabbing their gear when the whistling of falling mortar rounds grows louder.

“Incoming!”

There’s no time to react. The round hits the tent, and I feel myself hurtling through the air before crashing on the ground. My ears are ringing… What’s going on?

A sharp pain stabs at my head. It feels like it’s…split open. I try to move but can’t. My body has gone limp.

I see movement above me…everything’s hazy. Muffled voices…who is that? Maryland? The infantry guys? Their shouting barely registers…I can’t understand.

Hands grab at me…I’m not where I was. There’s a piercing pain in my shoulder. I feel like I’m being dragged into… Another bright light destroys my vision and makes me wince. My head is pounding, and it’s getting worse. The pain is so bad.

I hear popping sounds. I search the sky above me and see streaks of light…smoke… Another jolt of pain goes through my body as I’m jerked along the ground. I feel dirt kick up into my face as a soldier drops next to me. I try to move my left arm, but nothing happens. I touch my face with my right hand and feel it sticky and wet. Is that blood? My blood?

“Hang in there, pal. We’ll get you out of here,” a muffled voice reassures me.

There are popping sounds everywhere. They sound like firecrackers. I can’t hear or see anything well. My head is swimming. I can’t stay awake.

Another small explosion erupts next to me. I can taste the sand kicked up as everything grows dim. I need to get up and try to make my legs move, but nothing happens. Everything sounds more distant now as my world grows darker…and darker.

six years later

CHAPTER ONE

GINA ATTISON

Senate Select Committee on Intelligence

Hart Senate Office Building, Washington, D.C.

Senators Colby Washington and Garrett Turner are not stupid men. Despite serving on separate sides of the aisle that delineates the ideological and party divide on Capitol Hill, both understand and play the political game well. They are party loyalists in policy matters and magicians when convincing their constituents of their value.

Unfortunately, like most politicians, they’re out of their depth in the act of governing. No elected representative has the breadth of knowledge required to make informed decisions in the complicated mess that our society has become. That’s why they hide behind talking points written by their staff and hire people like Gina and Boston to help them navigate the world. That frees the senators up to do what they do best: posture and play politics.

“Admiral Troxell, you’re the Director of National Intelligence. You have been brought before this committee because there is credible evidence of a traitor leaking critical information to the Syrians.”

“I’m aware of why I was subpoenaed to come here, Senator,” the admiral states with a slight edge to his voice.

“Then how can you have the audacity to tell us that you can’t confirm the information?”

“It’s imprudent to confirm information not proven to be accurate.”

“You are saying, then, that there is no leak?”

“We have not confirmed the transfer of any sensitive material to our enemies, no.”

Most closed-session hearings of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence involve sworn testimony and briefings from intelligence agency directors and senior analysts. Most hearing topics include updates on intelligence activities, collection programs, and geographic region or issue analysis. This one is about something far more sensitive.

“Several members of the intelligence community have come forward with viable claims that someone is leaking our secrets,” Senator Garrett Turner continues. “They believe that the leak is coming from the Defense Intelligence Agency. Are they liars?”

“I don’t know what their motivations are,” the director says, recognizing the question from the ranking Republican on the committee more for the accusation it was intended to be.

“But you think that they are wrong?”

“As I have previously testified, I have not been able to confirm the authenticity of their information. If there is a leak in the DIA, it will be found.”

Senator Turner leans back in his chair and rubs his chin as his fellow committee members casually watch. “Director, why do I get the feeling that you are not taking this seriously?”

“I assure you, Senator, that is not the case.”

Gina eyes Boston standing along the wall on the opposite side of the room. Most information presented here is highly classified and available only to select staff who possess the proper security clearance. Since they both have one, they can trade notes when the time, place, and situation allow for it.

Ahead of this meeting, Boston issued her a warning. He said that this hearing would make things worse before they got better. Whenever politics gets injected, even the best intentions are often laden with conspiratorial fallacies and partisan agendas. It looks like he’s right.

“Yes, of course. Then we should assume that you’ve leveraged outside counterespionage resources to evaluate the claims as Director Karen Weisz generously offered weeks ago.”

“No, we have not,” Admiral Troxell says with all the confidence he can muster. “All investigations are being conducted internally.”

“Internal investigations? You mean by the same agencies who would be publicly embarrassed if a damaging leak were exposed? Does that include the DIA?”

“Yes, Senator.”

Gina hears a smattering of groans amongst the committee members. Boston shakes his head slightly. She recognizes the tactic now, and the DNI just fell into the trap.

“Admiral, how does someone in your position as DNI not see the problem with that?”

“We believe in transparency, Senator.”

Senator Turner shakes his head. “You lead the agencies that make up the sum of America’s intelligence ecosystem. The nature of their business is a lack of transparency. You may be able to stonewall the American public, but not this committee. These failures are having a significant impact on our foreign policy, Director. Don’t believe me? Walk over to Lafayette Park when you finish here. I’m sure the president is aware that the American public is losing patience with this administration.”

Gina would never admit it, but the senator has a point. The protests in the park are vocal but peaceful for now. The last time the area across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House looked like this was the fight for racial justice. Now groups are calling for a fundamental change to the country’s foreign policy. The protestors want American soldiers out of the Middle East, and their numbers are growing.

“Politics is your job, not mine,” Troxell argues.

Senator Turner leans back in his chair. “If you want to keep your position, you should rethink that mentality.”

“Senator Turner,” Senator Washington says, swiveling in his chair. “I would ask that you refrain from castigating our distinguished guest during this meeting. We all play for the same team.”

“Mr. Chairman, former intelligence officials appear on television every night and explain to the American people that someone is leaking information to the Syrians. That information is, in turn, being used to imperil the lives of our servicemen and women stationed there. If the Middle East destabilizes, there will be plenty of blame spread around.”

“And I have no doubt that you will find a way to blame the Democrats.”

“Who’s playing politics now, Mr. Chairman?” Turner sneers.

“Do any of the members have any further questions for the DNI?”

Gina surveys the men and women at the front of the room. There are no questions. Closed-session hearings spare everyone from the political grandstanding in front of the cameras most congressional hearings are known for. The committee members are more interested in seeing how this information can help them and their parties than providing actual oversight of the intelligence community.

“Very well. Meeting adjourned,” Senator Washington says with a rap of the gavel.

“Well, that was fun,” Gina says once her boss departs the dais and walks over to her. “When you plucked me out of this room to work on your staff, I thought it was to guide you on policy regarding intelligence matters. I don’t like playing politics.”

“Creating policy is playing politics, Miss Attison. You’ve been inside the Beltway long enough to know that.”

She knows he’s right. Gina is a veteran of the Senate intelligence committee, having come there from the CIA. When the senator became chairman following the last election, he made her a generous offer to join his personal staff to serve as a committee liaison. A Top Secret/Sensitive Compartmented Information clearance is required to be privy to what happens when either Congressional intelligence committee is in session.

Sensitive compartmented information is a classification for knowledge derived from intelligence sources, methods, or analysis. SCI is not a classification itself like Top Secret is. It’s why the titles are often used together and generally indicate that the information a holder of that clearance has access to is classified above Top Secret. Gina already had a TS/SCI, and the new position was a bump in both pay and prestige. Only a fool would have turned him down.