disinterested shrug. “What would you like to know first, Pete?”
“Well, I’d like a rundown on exactly how the outfit’s shaping up. Plus, where you see us fitting into the JSOC and Pentagon scheme of things.”
Thorn had read a huge stack of reports before flying up from North Carolina, but he wanted to hear it straight, without the usual official gobbledygook. From what Sam Farrell had said, Rossini had a reputation throughout the intelligence community for not pulling any punches even when keeping quiet might benefit his career. This seemed like a good time to find out how much of that reputation for candor was deserved.
Rossini didn’t disappoint him.
“We’ve got some damned good people working here, Pete.” The big man smiled gently. “Some of their social graces aren’t exactly up to snuff, but they’re some of the brightest puzzle-pushers I’ve ever seen. Too bright for the powers-that-be in their old agencies, I guess.”
Thorn nodded. He’d been worried by some of the things he’d read during his first quick scan through the Intelligence Liaison Unit’s personnel records until he’d begun to see the emerging pattern. Backed by Farrell’s carte Blanche, Rossini had recruited mavericks men and women whose skills were undoubted but who were widely viewed as square pegs in round holes inside the existing intelligence bureaucracies. At a time of declining budgets, the CIA, the NSA, and the other agencies were under increasing pressure to cut costs and staff. In those circumstances, the first to go were usually those who didn’t quite fit the button-down, yuppified tone emanating from each organization’s upper floors.
Those were exactly the kind of people Farrell had said he wanted for the ISOC liaison unit: people who were independent-minded and “just plain ornery enough” to take the analyses generated by the rest of the intelligence community, shake them up, turn them inside out, and basically play holy hell with the conventional wisdom.
Well, Joe Rossini had taken the general at his word, Thorn realized. The offices outside this room were crawling with men and women who loved nothing better than poking holes in other government agencies’ pet theories. Men and women who were now under his authority. Terrific. He had the sudden, unnerving feeling he’d just stepped out into a bureaucratic minefield.
He shook off the feeling and asked, “Any problems so far?” ’
“You mean besides our wonderful accommodations?”
Thorn matched Rossini’s wry tone. “Yeah. Besides that.”
“Frankly, not as many as I expected. The teams I’ve set up are shaking out pretty well. The data’s starting to come in and most of the agencies are cooperating or at least making a good first stab at it.”
Then Rossini shook his head. “But we need more focus, Pete. More practical input on the kinds of inter Delta, the SEALs, and the rest of the Command really need for planning and conducting operations. Without that we’re just another time-wasting loop in the information cycle.”
Thorn nodded, starting to understand why Farrell thought he could do some good here.
Providing the Joint Special Operations Command with highly accurate, up-to-date intelligence on terrorist groups and their foreign backers was the whole rationale for this new unit’s existence. The Special Operations Command already had a Directorate of Intelligence staffed by hundreds of dedicated professionals, but they were mostly sited far away from Washington, D.C. They were also often mired in the kinds of interagency rivalries and lockstep thinking that inevitably developed in large organisations.
For years Delta Force and the other American commando units had been complaining about the quality of the intelligence support they received. Delta even had its own detachment of covert operatives, nicknamed the Funny Platoon, to provide tactical intelligence just before any strike. The ILU was an effort to build on that to expand JSOC’s storehouse of reliable information to the strategic and operational levels. People outside JSOC saw Major General Farrell’s new unit as simple empire-building. People inside saw it as a matter of survival. Bad intelligence got good soldiers killed.
Apparently, the general was counting on him to give Rossini and his civilian teams the military and operational insights they lacked. Now, that made sense, Thorn thought, feeling a surge of excitement and satisfaction at the prospect of real, meaningful work work that could save lives. He wasn’t an analyst, and he certainly wasn’t a skilled “fixer” able to navigate the Pentagon’s tangled administrative backwaters. But he did know the kind of data commandos needed to survive and succeed.
He caned forward. “Okay. Let’s concentrate on developing that focus first, then. We can’t turn analysts into Delta commandos, but we can give ‘em a clearer idea of just what’s involved in putting a mission together and in pulling it off without getting killed. Here’s what I think we need to do…”
Rossini listened intently while he outlined his ideas, interrupting only to clarify something or to offer alternate suggestions.
By the time they broke for a quick lunch, Thorn was feeling better about his new post. A lot of his success or failure in this assignment would depend on how well he and his deputy director worked together. Although it would take time to fully sort their relationship out, his first take was positive. Rossini might be carrying around a lot of extra weight, but none of that fat was between his ears.
Fighting an urge to put a bullet through the computer screen in front of him, Peter Thorn forced himself to take another stab at understanding the procedures required to request photorecon satellite time. The acronyms and bureaucratic doublespeak glowing on his monitor were all starting to run together in one unintelligible mass.
Pursuant to AFR 200-11, NSDW2, and DCID 1/13, requests to the NFIB’s Committee on Imagery Requirements and Exploitation (COMIREX) must Bust be approved by the appropriate offices and suboffices listed in DOD Poplar 18/3075…
“Got a minute?” Rossini’s booming voice broke the spell.
Thorn looked up in relief and waved his deputy in. “Hell, Joe, take an hour.” He nodded in disgust at the electronic text showing on his computer. “I’ll be old and grey before this stuff makes any sense to me.”
“If you ever do figure it out, you’ll probably be the first person in HOD history,” Rossini said sympathetically. “The rest of us just fill out as many random forms as we can find and hope to hit the right ones by luck.”
“Swell.” Thorn swiveled his chair away from the computer. “So what’s up?”
“Mike McFadden came to me an hour ago with some interesting material.” Rossini sat down and plopped a thin stack of papers down on the desk in front of him. “He’s been digging through some of the data the CIA collects from the Brits, the French, and the rest of NATO. These pieces caught his eye.”
Thorn paged through them. Most were intelligence reports from the international peacekeeping units and headquarters stationed in Bosnia. Somebody, either McFadden or Rossini, had highlighted the significant sections with a yellow marker.
His eyebrows went up. Buried deep among the routine descriptions of Serb, Muslim, and Croat troop movements and weapons deployments were some disquieting reports. There were rumors circulating through the Muslim armed militias and guerrilla forces rumors of mysterious foreigners spreading money and plane tickets to men with good combat records and leadership skills.
He looked up at Rossini. “Somebody’s recruiting terrorists again.”
“Yep.” Rossini spread his hands. “The question is, who?”
“The CIA have any ideas?”
Rossini shook his head. “Nope. Not that they’re much interested. Langley doesn’t see Bosnia as a priority. It’s a European bailiwick. And there’re no nukes involved to make it sexy for the Congress. Plus, they don’t have anyone on the ground outside of Sarajevo.”
“Shit.” Thorn grimaced. “These recruiters could be working for almost anyone in the Islamic world. Iraq. Syria. Pakistan. Afghanistan. Even what’s left of HizbAllah or Hammas. Hell, they’ve all got military training missions operating inside Bosnia.”
“So do the Iranians,” Rossini pointed out.
“True.” Thorn nodded. He thought back over his conversations in Tehran. “Look, Joe, General Taleh promised to cooperate with us in the fight against terrorism. He’s certainly kicked the hell out of them inside his own country. Maybe we should test his cooperation on a bigger playing field.”
“You want to see if his own intelligence people have picked up these same rumors?”
“Right. Christ, one thing’s sure. The Iranians are bound to have better sources in Bosnia than the Brits, the French, or the CL.” Thorn thought further for a moment. “Look, I’m flying down to Bragg next week for a conference with Farrell. Have McFadden put this together in an organised fashion and I’ll take it with me. Then we’ll see if the
