The Maverick Experiment

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All statements of fact, opinion, or analysis expressed are those of the author and do not reflect the official positions or views of the CIA or any other U.S. Government agency. Nothing in the contents should be construed as asserting or implying U.S. Government authentication of information or Agency endorsement of the author's views. This material has been reviewed by the CIA to prevent the disclosure of classified information.

Copyright of The Maverick Program logo, as shown on the cover as well as throughout the book, is owned by Drew Berquist.

Published by Greenleaf Book Group Press
Austin, Texas
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Copyright ©2011 Drew Berquist

All rights reserved.

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Publisher's Cataloging-In-Publication Data
(Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)

Berquist, Drew.
  The maverick experiment / written by Drew Berquist.—1st ed.

p. ; cm.

ISBN: 978-1-60832-114-8

1. Undercover operations—Afghanistan—Fiction. 2. Taliban—Fiction. 3. Afghan War, 2001—Fiction. 4. Suspense fiction. I. Title.

PS3602 .E77 2011
813/.6                                                       2010938277

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Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

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First Edition

IN REMEMBRANCE

This book is dedicated to my friends and colleagues—patriots all—who were killed on the front lines on December 30, 2009, at FOB Chapman in Khost, Afghanistan. You will never be forgotten.

Wednesday, October 21
Undisclosed Location, Pakistan
2132 Hrs

The dull hum of the Agency's Predator drone filled the star-spattered sky as it stalked its target. The distinct sound created a sensation the villagers and Kuchi tribesmen alike had grown more and more familiar with in recent years: fear.

CIA officials in the region, responding to sensitive human intelligence reporting (HUMINT), had launched the drone in an attempt to eliminate one of their primary targets, Malawi Rafiq. The senior Talib, based in Pakistan, had been responsible for hundreds of deaths in Afghanistan and had rapidly ascended on the Agency's target deck. Months prior, Rafiq had ordered a suicide attack on westerners in Paktika
Province. The bomber had detonated next to an armored Land Cruiser, causing the deaths of two Americans.

Rafiq and the Taliban struck gold when news reports indicated two Agency officers were operating the vehicle. The fallout had been catastrophic. The image of one of the officers, a young father of three, had been splashed all over the media following the incident, providing the ultimate trophy for the Taliban and al-Qaeda. Killing American soldiers had become easy for Rafiq and his grunts, but killing CIA personnel was an accomplishment that had always eluded him. The fact that the suicide bomber had been clueless about who was operating the vehicle was irrelevant; Rafiq knew the news ticker would reflect the unadorned fact: two CIA officers killed in Afghanistan by the Taliban. Such information would greatly aid the Taliban's ongoing psychological operations, which focused on creating more confidence among its soldiers and adding to the American public's waning support for the war in Afghanistan.

Tonight, Rafiq was reported to have been visiting a primary safe house in Pakistan used to facilitate safe passage for Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters into Afghanistan. However, like most upper-echelon terrorists operating in the region, Rafiq knew not to stay too long in one location or the result could be a Hellfire missile tapping him on the shoulder.

A squawk came over the comms unit in the dark viewing room, located at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia: “Calypso, Calypso this is Joker-One.”

Doug Lloyd, chief of the agency's Counter Terrorist Center, stood and watched from the rear of the room as his aide, Ryan Vance, and Carlisle Davenport, a senior-level consultant for
counterterrorism, scrambled anxiously to listen in on the back-and-forth between the drone pilots and Islamabad station.

“Joker-One this is Calypso, go ahead,” responded the communications officer from Islamabad.

“Calypso, we have identified the target vehicle, requesting authorization to fire.”

“Copy, Joker-One. Please indicate what we are seeing here,” returned Islamabad as anxious sets of eyes around the world watched their live feed of the drone homing in on its target.

“Roger Calypso. Reporting indicates the target left the grid coordinates provided to us in a dark-colored Toyota Corolla. We have identified the vehicle on your screen as the target.”

“How certain are we?”

The drone pilot, seated at a control center in a remote CIA facility, swiveled his chair around to face his partner. Shielding his mic with his palm, he said quietly, “I hate these guys. Do they want me to push the damn button or not?” Uncovering his mic, he continued, “Calypso, Joker-One. We are certain. The target vehicle will be in the village ahead in approx three minutes, over.”

Lloyd pushed Davenport and Vance out of the way as he rushed forward and pressed the “talk” button on the comms unit. “Joker-One standby for further instructions.”

“Doug, what are you doing?” exclaimed Davenport.

Lloyd turned to Davenport with a sick expression. “We can't fire on a village!”

Carlisle fought his urge to punch his boss in the face and gathered himself to calmly reason with his superior. “Doug, people die in war, and we aren't firing on a village if we fire
now. They indicated this is our target, but we need to provide authorization this second.” He turned to Vance. “Ryan get on the horn and give them the green light, now!”

“Sir?” said the nervous aide to his boss as he moved his hand closer to the comms unit, preparing to respond.

“Just hold on, Ryan!” Lloyd shouted. “Carlisle, I won't survive this if any civilians are killed. You know that.”

“But Rafiq will if we don't fire. Dammit Doug, authorize Islamabad to give the order! He'll be done before the car reaches any possible collateral damage. I promise.”

Lloyd sat down, shaking his head as he pondered how this would affect his career. The Agency had zero will to pull the trigger on any operation that could cause further political problems for the United States. If even one innocent civilian was killed, it meant big problems. Lloyd had his eye on an upcoming promotion, and possibly even a run for Congress, someday. This didn't help the situation.

The radio screeched. “Calypso, Joker-One. Do we have authorization to fire?”

“Stand by Joker-One,” responded a now-frustrated Calypso.

Carlisle looked at Lloyd in astonishment and disgust as he watched politics once again rear its ugly head and get the better of a CIA officer he had formerly respected.

The secure phone line broke the silence, startling Lloyd. Vance quickly picked up.

“Go ahead.”

“Give me the authorizing officer,” said an angry-sounding official from Islamabad.

Vance turned to Lloyd, covering the mouthpiece. “It's for you sir. Islamabad.”

Lloyd grabbed the phone as he stared at the screen, watching Rafiq's vehicle speed toward the village. “Yes.”

“Sir, we need to do this. We have Rafiq and there is no telling when we will get another shot at him. Do we have authorization?”

Lloyd placed the phone on his shoulder as he stared for the last time at a situation that could make him a hero or villain. He returned the phone to his ear. “No. Stand down.” Lloyd hung up the phone. “Kill the feed,” he said to Vance. He walked away without looking at anyone.

Friday, December 25
Jacksonville, Florida
Stevens Residence
1033 Hrs

The fresh smell of the extravagantly decorated Christmas tree filled the home of Derek and Heidi Stevens as holiday music played in the background. Although they lived in Florida, the fire crackling in the hearth made the family room feel pleasantly warm and cozy. Derek sipped his coffee, admiring his beautiful wife.

It was nice to finally be home for a holiday, thought Derek. As he did, his cell phone sounded in another room.

Derek sprinted across the house, nearly tripping on several now-open gift boxes and reaching the phone just in time.

Shit. Restricted call. This is never good, Derek thought. “Honey, turn down the music,” he said over his shoulder.

The sounds of seasonal music ceased.

“Hello?”

“Derek. Hello, my name is Carlisle Davenport. I apologize for calling on Christmas, but I've got a job opportunity to discuss with you.”

“Well, I'm really not—”

“Derek, just wait. Before you say no, listen to me for a second. OK?”

Derek sighed. “OK. Who are you with, Carlisle?”

“Who is it, honey?” Heidi asked from across the room.

Derek covered the mouthpiece and said, “It's business, honey. Hang on a second.” He returned the phone to his ear. “Sorry, continue.”

“No problem. We are a small firm in Virginia serving a Virginia-based client.”

Derek immediately knew the CIA wanted him for a contract. In defense-contractor lingo, the “client” or “customer in Virginia” translated directly to the Central Intelligence Agency. With the Global War on Terror spreading faster than the US government could manage it, Derek guessed that this call meant it was time for some more overseas dirty work. “Does your company have a name?” he asked the caller.

“Yes, although you likely have not heard of us. We're Global Defense Solutions Inc.”

“Doesn't ring a bell. What are you looking for?”

“Well, I know it's the holiday season—but how do you feel about traveling?”

“Well that depends,” laughed Derek. “Where to?”

“Afghanistan. We need someone who understands the environment like you do. We could really use your operational skills in a new program of ours.”

Derek had served the US government for several years as a trained intelligence officer running clandestine sources, interrogating terrorists, and conducting special operations overseas. He spoke Czech, Russian, Spanish, Arabic, and a bit of Dari, the local language in parts of Afghanistan.

“Which operational skills in particular?” As Derek asked the question, he sat down at his desk and googled GDSI. Nothing.

“Well, interrogation for one, but that's off the record, of course. We don't interrogate people. Ever since the lawyers and media got involved, our ability to conduct interrogations has been put in a stranglehold; just hugs and kisses for the terrorists these days. Anyways, Afghanistan is getting more and more visitors from outside countries, and they are really messing with our plans, if you know what I mean. Your Arabic could also come in handy. Bottom line, the goal would be to utilize your operational and language skills. If you're interested, we can discuss the program more in person. I promise the assignment will be worth your time, and you will be well compensated.”

“When do you propose we have this conversation?”

“As soon as you can get here. We'll pay for your flight. You know the drill; just bring us all your flight info, bank account number, and a receipt. We'll do the rest.”

“Where do I go once I'm wheels down?”

“The client's main site. You still have access?”

Derek opened a safe inside his desk drawer. Inside were a few forms of identification, foreign currency, and a Glock 19 handgun with three extra magazines. He picked up a green identification badge and looked at it. “Yes, I do. How urgent is this?”

“Extremely. This is coming straight from the top floor.”

Derek looked across the room at Heidi for a moment before answering.

“I'll see you in the morning.”

“Perfect. Meet at the Starbucks at ten.”

As Derek hung up the phone, Heidi walked into the office, eating an apple. “What's up?”

“Oh, I need to go somewhere again. Aren't you glad you married a spy?” He laughed and pulled her into his lap.

She giggled a bit as he tickled her but then turned and gave him a serious look. “Where could you possibly have to go now? It's Christmas!”

“Afghanistan, but not for long. Well, come to think of it, he didn't say how long. I'll ask him tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Is he here in Jacksonville?”

“No, Langley. I need to buy a ticket and get to headquarters in the morning to discuss this with him. Can't do it on the phone, obviously.”

Heidi sighed. “I thought you were done with the traveling, at least to these godforsaken places.”

Derek gave her a sad smile. “You know I'll never be done. I want to be, I really do. But this is the life we signed up for. I promise we'll go somewhere really fun just as soon as I get back.”

“That's great, but it doesn't make up for you being gone. It's not easy being here without you. Especially when you're
in places we're fighting a war with, like Afghanistan. It scares me, Derek.”

“Well, honey, technically, we aren't fighting Afghanistan. They're our allies.”

Heidi smacked Derek on the arm. “You know what I'm saying.”

Derek looked at her, realizing that his attempt at humor had failed. Heidi was staring at him, waiting for a better response.

“I know, I know. Listen, honey, this is not a done deal. Let me just talk to this guy tomorrow and get the details. It could be a great opportunity. Or it could be nothing.”

“Or it could be a disaster.”

More than you know, Derek thought, then quickly shoved the idea aside.

After Heidi had left the room, Derek closed his safe, turned to his computer, and bought a ticket to Washington, DC.

Saturday, December 26
Langley, Virginia
CIA Headquarters
0950 Hrs

Derek drove up and down the parking lot looking for an empty space.

He had entered through the back staff entrance from the gorgeous, tree-lined George Washington Parkway. It was no longer any secret where the CIA was housed. There were, in fact, large road signs pointing to the massive compound,
engulfed by nature just off the road. Inside the sprawling complex was a sea of parking lots surrounding the two main buildings.

“This is ridiculous. How long do we have to be the most powerful intelligence agency in the world before we can solve our parking problems? And at Christmas!” Derek mumbled. The agency had always been a dreadful place to park, and with the surge of applicants since 9/11, the number of vehicles had grown exponentially—while the number of spaces had not grown at all. Planning had never been the government's strong suit.

After giving up and parking illegally in a reserved spot, Derek made his way through the cool winter morning to the old entrance. Derek always went in that way, relishing the immediate adrenaline rush he received by walking over the large CIA seal on the ground and past the five-pointed stars on the wall, placed to commemorate anonymous fallen colleagues. Every officer gave deference when passing the stars on the wall. The old entrance was a solemn yet inspiring passage that only a few people ever saw, these days.

Derek approached the first group of turnstiles, swiped his badge, and entered his personal identification number. Access granted.

As he made his way past the medical center, the CIA museum, and portraits of previous agency directors, Derek ran into an old friend, Eric Stanley.

“Holy shit! Derek, that you, man?”

“It is. How are you, Eric?”

“Fuck, man. Good to see you. I'm good. Just plugging along, you know. Diane is pregnant, and yeah … well, that's it, I guess. Nothing new here. Just reading and writing.”

Derek was always amused with how people who had been in the field, even analysts, felt it was necessary to swear in order to come off hardened. Eric, for instance, had been a huge help to Derek in Afghanistan and had provided great insight into some of the cases he had worked, but Eric was not operational. The truth was, most agency personnel who deployed to combat areas never left the green zone and in most cases didn't know their heads from their asses when it came to street smarts or tactics. Still, having been abroad, in their minds, warranted growing a beard or getting a tattoo and adopting the swagger and salty language of a field operator.

“How you been?” Eric wanted to know.

“Great. We are living in Florida now and getting by. What are you doing here on a Saturday?”

“I had duty hours today, but just until this afternoon. Then I'm going hiking for a bit over at Great Falls. So, you have kids now?”

“No, not yet, although Heidi is pushing. I just want to slow the travel down a bit first.”

“I thought you were done traveling?”

“Well, yeah, me too. I stopped for the last seven months but just got called up yesterday for something.”

“What is it?”

“Honestly I don't know anything about it. You know how it is; who knows, right?”

“Those are always the best. More exciting than what most of us do around here.”

“Yeah, I know. That's what I'm afraid of … Hey listen, I gotta run, but I'll catch you sooner rather than later, hopefully. Good seeing you.”

“You too, man, and good luck.”

Derek thanked him and rushed on toward Starbucks.

Headquarters had become a completely different building over recent years and now offered many of the same commercial services civilians could find on the outside. Starbucks was just one example. The agency offered several popular restaurant choices, ATMs, and other services and amenities, all within a building complex that was rife with mystique and history.

Starbucks was a warmly welcomed addition when it came in 2006, but the place wasn't overly conducive to work. Computers be damned, coffee and a comfy chair always made for a better work environment, as far as Derek was concerned. The problem was, with reports and writing being the biggest function of everyone's job at the agency, Derek was technically a professional deviant. He didn't care.

The more he thought about it as he walked, the more he agreed with Eric's assessment: the assignments that could not be discussed and that were part of “new programs” often had the most sex appeal … at least, to the officer working the program. But he or she would never tell a soul of the project. The black ops in the agency were the only ones worth doing anymore. The problem was, Derek was looking to slow down and become a family man, not put himself into more critically dangerous situations.

“Derek. Derek, over here.”

Derek turned to see two gentlemen standing with cups of coffee in hand, waiting. One of them approached him. “Derek, Carlisle Davenport. Pleased to meet you. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“No problem.”

Carlisle wore a green badge, indicating he was, like Derek, a contract officer at the agency. He was an older man, likely in his sixties, but still appeared to be in decent shape. He had a distinguished look; his beard, glasses, and sweater-vest combined to give Davenport a look of prestige and an aura of confidence, as though he belonged in the director's office. Derek knew immediately from the sight of him that this was no ordinary contract officer. He had something about him, something different. Though he was a contractor, it seemed clear that he, not the senior-looking staffer who stood by his side, wore the pants for this new program.

“Derek, this is Jerry Carr. He is the man in charge of this fine new program we want to discuss with you, and a longtime friend.”

Jerry handed Derek a cup of coffee. “Pleased to meet you. Do you drink coffee?”

“Only way I've survived this long, Jerry. How are you doing?”

“Very good. Thanks. Carlisle here has said some great things about you.”

“Derek, we would like to step out into the courtyard, if you don't mind,” Carlisle said. “I know it's a bit chilly, but hopefully the coffee will help.”

“Sure.”

“Right this way.”

The large cafeteria at CIA headquarters was nice for a government facility. Outside was a large courtyard for agency employees to enjoy the weather or take a smoke break. During the colder months the patio was usually empty, with the exception of a few heavily addicted smokers.