Goliath

Polaris Operations Complex

  Albany, New York

  About thirty kilometers south of Albany, New York, comfortably nestled against the Hudson River, was a small, run-of-the-mill gas station that also sold local antiques left over from estate auctions. Its owners, a retired Hispanic couple originally from California, made a respectable profit, selling gas and the odd antique to passing tourists. As no other signs existed, the gas station was the only distinct landmark, indicating the turnoff that lead to the Polaris Complex. A dirt road full of potholes that worsened by the season gently meandered behind the store and then disappeared off into the thick, pine-filled woods which surrounded the three hundred acres that were part of the Polaris Complex, with its administrative buildings and extensive training grounds.

  The brainchild of Major-General Jack O’Reilly, U.S. Army (retired), Polaris Operations (Global) was a discreet, private organization that specialized in unique problem solving, and military, police, and civilian training, along with consulting services that would go anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice. Although in competition with the larger companies in the U.S. and Great Britain, General O’Reilly made sure early on that he and his people only ever dealt with legitimately elected governments, and internationally recognized organizations, such as the UN and other international Non-Governmental Organizations. To date, most of his clients only required low-level training, conducted either in their home nation, or on Polaris’ own wide-ranging grounds. O’Reilly’s crew of retired military and police personnel were all experts in weapons handling, advanced driving, small unit tactics, and police training. No one could apply for a position at Polaris; all of O’Reilly’s people were handpicked. Many of them were enticed away from their parent organization to come and work for him, for considerably more money. He had four field teams, only one of which—Mitchell’s—worked on the more challenging and dangerous missions, approved and overseen exclusively by O’Reilly, himself.

  It had snowed through the night, but as the gray light of dawn crept into the world, the snow slowed and then stopped, leaving the picturesque countryside looking like a Christmas card. The bright-yellow sun shone down on a beautiful winter’s day.

  Mitchell turned his beat-up blue Jeep Wrangler onto the dirt road by the gas station, heading into the snow-covered woods. Music blared inside the cab, and Mitchell drummed his hands on the steering wheel to one of U2’s classic tunes. A heavy blanket of snow covered the fir trees lining the road, weighing down their boughs, the whiteness glittering peacefully in the sunshine.

  Having turned thirty-one the month prior, Ryan Mitchell felt that life was going his way. A graduate of West Point, Mitchell had chosen to serve in the army. He sought out a series of ever-challenging positions within the army, and soon joined the U.S. Army Rangers, a principal part of the U.S. Special Operations Command. After several tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, his superiors identified Mitchell as an officer who would do well in his career. However, he would never hold a key position in the higher echelons of the military, because he would never adapt to being stuck behind a desk more than being in the field. Mitchell did not regret his choice to leave the army; he was never comfortable with the idea of playing the political games that came with the more senior appointments he would have assumed in the service. Although he would not admit it, Mitchell had grown increasingly frustrated with the seeming civilian indifference to the years he and his comrades spent overseas. When he was unexpectedly called by General O’Reilly to join his organization, Mitchell jumped at the chance to take his life in a new direction. It was a decision he would never regret.

  Lost in his thoughts, Mitchell almost forgot to slow down when a closed gate barring his way appeared in front of him. Mitchell slammed on the brakes and cursed as the Jeep slid to a less-than-graceful halt, mere inches from the locked metal fence.

  “You’ll need to pay more attention next time, Mitchell,” yelled a man in his sixties, wearing a rumpled blue uniform, as he stepped out from a well-camouflaged guard shack and ambled over to Mitchell’s idling Jeep. Although he knew almost everybody who worked at Polaris by sight, Pat McGregor still diligently checked everyone’s IDs—he did not want anyone getting in on his watch.

  “Sorry about that, Pat. That’s what, the second or third time I’ve done that?” said Mitchell as he flashed his ID and reached down for his travel mug filled with home-brewed coffee.

  “Try again, mister,” said McGregor. “You forget every single time, and we go through this damned routine time and again,” the man scolded, as he looked over Mitchell’s less-than-pristine-looking ride.

  “Well, at least I’m consistent,” joked Mitchell as he took a long swig of coffee and put his ID away. “Many people in today?”

  “A few folks came in last night to do who knows what, but overall it’s a fairly quiet day. The usual staff is in, though; you know, the general, his secretary, and some of the other under-appreciated security folks like me,” said McGregor, as he stepped back into his shack and flipped a switch to open the creaking metal gate. Although the gate looked antiquated, its appearance belied its age and quality. In addition, cameras and motion sensors covered every centimeter of the perimeter. The security staff boasted that a squirrel could not get onto the grounds without their knowledge. However, they could not explain a family of deer that seemed to come and go as it pleased.

  “Thanks, Pat,” said Mitchell with a wave, as he changed gears and drove off down the snow-covered path. A couple of minutes later, Mitchell pulled his Jeep up in front of a large, gray building that looked more like a storage warehouse than an office complex. It might not have been architecturally pleasing to the eye, but the main Polaris Complex building was very utilitarian. Located inside were the head offices for the various branches that ran the organization, and where General O’Reilly personally held all of Mitchell’s pre-mission briefs.

  Mitchell jumped out of his Jeep and headed to the closed front doors. He had dressed for the weather in a warm, blue ski jacket, dark-blue jeans, and a pair of worn, brown leather hiking boots.

  Inside the building were several rows of metal detectors manned by ex-service personnel who had retired from the military or police forces due to injuries suffered while serving. Mitchell knew the drill. Before passing through the metal detectors, he handed over his sidearm, a Swiss-made, 9mm SIG Sauer P220, to Harry Chappell, a lanky ex-Marine who cleared the weapon before placing it in a safe box under his desk.

  Mitchell waved to Chappell and, whistling to himself, he sauntered through the detectors, signed in, and walked down the long, highly polished corridor until he came to a set of stairs that led directly up to General O’Reilly’s office. Taking two steps at a time, Mitchell charged upward. With a loud bang, he flung the door open to O’Reilly’s personal assistant’s office.

  Tammy Spencer, a beautiful African-American woman in her early thirties who had lost a leg in Iraq, did not even bother to look up. “I don’t know why you insist on doing that, Ryan. I have you on the surveillance cameras the instant you enter the building,” she said, as she tapped a small screen on her desk with her pencil. Today, she was wearing a New York Jets football jersey, instead of one of her usual eye-catching dresses.

  “Casual day at work today, Tammy?” asked Mitchell.

  “Captain Mitchell, if you must know, I am in here on my own time during the holidays, so the general lets me dress as I please,” she shot back, finally glancing up at Mitchell with her appealing, deep-brown eyes.

  “Don’t get upset, Tammy,” said Mitchell defensively. “I didn’t mean any offense. I just look forward to seeing you dressed to the nines since I work with the people I do. Your outfits tend to brighten my days. Besides, I’m still betting the Vikings will do better this year,” said Mitchell.

  “They may be from Minnesota like you, but I doubt they’ll do very well this year. Their quarterback was injured last week, and with him gone, your team is doomed,” said Spencer as she gave Mitchell an enticing smile. ?
??Now, Captain, enough chit-chat. General O’Reilly is in his office, and he’s waiting for you, so please go in.”

  Mitchell winked at Spencer and turned away from her desk. For as long as Mitchell had worked for O’Reilly, he had flirted with Tammy. It was just for fun; she was getting married in the New Year to a New York City police officer, whom she had met while they were both on active duty in Basra, Iraq. Straightening out his rumpled appearance, Mitchell headed the last few feet down the carpeted hall to O’Reilly’s office.

  The door was open; Mitchell respectfully stopped at the entrance and knocked.

  Major-General Jack O’Reilly looked away from his laptop and saw Mitchell standing there. Although retired from military service, O’Reilly kept himself in superb shape, and still looked as if he could throw on his college uniform and play football with men more than half his age. His head was smooth-shaven, and the only concession to growing older that he allowed himself was the silver-rimmed glasses that he wore to read.

  On seeing Mitchell, a smile broke out on his broad face. “Come on in, Ryan, come on in,” boomed O’Reilly’s deep voice.

  A thirty-five-year veteran with the U.S. Army, O’Reilly had spent most of that time in the U.S. Special Operations Command, and had been the first African-American to command the first Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, an elite and highly secretive Tier One Special Forces organization that spearheaded America’s global counterterrorism fight. A few years back, he had been offered a more senior operations position in the Pentagon, but when his wife was diagnosed with cancer, he decided it was time to stay home more often and had established Polaris, instead.

  Mitchell stepped inside the office, and was met by a smiling O’Reilly, who eagerly shook his hand.

  “It’s damn good to see you, Ryan. Come in and have a seat,” said O’Reilly with a wave of his hand. “Take off your jacket and stay awhile.”

  Mitchell took off his winter jacket, revealing a well-worn, army-issue green fleece sweater underneath.

  “Take the boy out of the army, but you can’t take the army out of the boy,” O’Reilly kidded, as he looked over Mitchell’s mix of military and civilian attire.

  Both men seated themselves. O’Reilly reached over and poured them both a steaming hot cup of coffee from the carafe on his desk.

  “How is Diane doing, sir?” asked Mitchell, inquiring after O’Reilly’s wife.

  “She has good days and bad days, but thankfully, there are far more good ones than bad.”

  Both men sat silently for a moment.

  O’Reilly smiled and handed Mitchell a coffee. “Ryan, you and your people did really great work in the Philippines.”

  “Thanks, General. Honestly, it was purely by happenstance that we stumbled upon those killers. It was also a plus that the Philippine Counterterrorist unit that we had been training was as ready to go as it was. A lot of the credit really belongs to them,” said Mitchell.

  “You’re being too modest again, my boy.”

  “Just calling it as I see it, sir.”

  “Well, some people don’t see it that way, and that’s why I asked you to come by today,” said O’Reilly, as he leaned forward and yelled down the hallway. “Tammy, could you please get Mister Samuel Kim on the line? Thanks.”

  Curiosity got the better of him. Mitchell raised an eyebrow.

  “Do you remember a young, Asian-American girl named Alanis Kim among the students at the dig site?” asked O’Reilly.

  Mitchell scrunched up his face and shook his head. It had all happened so fast. The only name and face he truly remembered were Jen’s.

  “Well, don’t feel bad if you can’t remember her, but she remembers you, and her extremely wealthy father wants to thank you personally,” said O’Reilly, while he waited for the call to be put through.

  Mitchell felt embarrassed. He cleared his throat and said, “General, there’s really no need for this. I just did what I was trained and what you pay me quite well to do.”

  “I knew you would say that, but a billionaire client with many wealthy friends is always a good thing to have on our side. Consider this a little PR work for the firm.”

  O’Reilly’s phone rang. He picked it up and spoke for a few seconds before placing the speakerphone on. “Please go ahead, Mister Kim. I have Captain Ryan Mitchell in my office with me.”

  “Thanks, General,” said a voice with a slight Hawaiian accent over the speaker. “General, my wife and I would like to personally thank your organization and especially Captain Mitchell for the outstanding work that he did in rescuing our Alanis from those savages.”

  Mitchell leaned toward the speaker. “Sir, thanks for that. It means a whole lot to the team; I’ll make sure that everyone involved knows of your gratitude.”

  “You’re far too modest, Captain. My wife and I were horrified when we heard what had happened,” said Kim.

  “I was just doing my job,” replied Mitchell, with a wink at O’Reilly.

  “You had best watch out, General, or I just might steal him away from you,” said Kim teasingly through the speaker.

  “Don’t you dare,” O’Reilly shot back with a chuckle. “I haven’t gotten my substantial investment in him back yet.”

  “Once again, gentlemen, please accept our heartfelt gratitude for all you have done. I know that I’ve kept you all far too long at this time of the year,” said Kim.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Mitchell and O’Reilly in unison.

  “Oh, one last thing before I go, and I don’t want to hear either of you say that isn’t necessary. I have had my accountant wire a half-million dollars into your company account. I would like to see it distributed as a bonus to the men and women on the ground who risked their lives for my Alanis,” said Kim, choking up over the line.

  “Thank you for that, sir. I’ll personally see that it gets distributed equitably before I go home today,” said O’Reilly.

  “Goodbye, and all the best to each of you,” said Kim before hanging up.

  O’Reilly terminated the call, and with a bear-like grin looked over at Mitchell. “So, Ryan, what are you going to do with your hundred grand?”

  Mitchell was speechless for a minute. “General, I doubt I deserve that much.”

  O’Reilly raised his hand to cut off the conversation. “Don’t be foolish. You and all your people will get a hundred thousand dollars each. It’s only fair.”

  “Thanks, sir. I really don’t know what else to say.”

  “Ryan, I’m moving you and your team into reserve status for the next month,” said O’Reilly. “Take some time to relax, and spend time with your family.”

  “Well, with that much time off and a windfall in my pocket, I think I’ll see about having a date tonight with a beautiful woman whom I met in the Philippines.”

  O’Reilly’s eyebrows rose. “Is she here in New York?”

  “No, actually, she lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, so I had best book a flight and get my ass in gear, if I am to attend a charity fundraiser event with her tonight.”

  O’Reilly chuckled. “A charity event in North Carolina? You do realize that this will undoubtedly be a black-tie event, so you’ll need to dress up for once in your life.”

  “Black-tie,” repeated Mitchell. His mind raced, wondering if he would be able to rent a tuxedo before heading to the airport.

  When he saw the look of panic beginning to emerge on Mitchell’s face, O’Reilly asked Tammy to book Mitchell’s flight and to find him a tuxedo rental shop on the way to the airport.

  “I almost forgot, one work-related thing before you leave,” said O’Reilly, as he rifled through a file on his desk. “It would appear that the man you detained and then handed over to the police in the Philippines has escaped.”

  Mitchell raised an eyebrow. “What happened, sir?”

  “An investigation is still ongoing, but it would appear that he somehow managed to bribe some guards and got away sometime during the night last week.”


  “He didn’t seem too happy with me and Nate. We’ll have to add him to our database of people we’ve managed to piss off recently.”

  Mitchell shook O’Reilly’s hand and, with a promise to call tomorrow to let him know how the date went, Mitchell left the office. He was almost past Tammy Spencer’s desk when a troubled look on her face caught his eye.

  “Tammy?” Mitchell asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s truly awful,” said Spencer, her voice choked with sorrow. “It’s Russia again. Someone set off a series of car bombs at several apartment buildings. CNN is reporting that there could be hundreds, if not thousands of dead and injured.”

  Mitchell glanced at the images of devastation on the wall-mounted TV, and felt a sudden chill crawl down his spine. His instincts told him things in that part of the world were about to get a lot worse, although he could not predict that it would soon involve him, as well.

  7