Special Forces: Operation Alpha: Kissing Kalliope (Kindle Worlds Novella) Read online

  Text copyright ©2018 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Stoker Aces Production, LLC. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Special Forces: Operation Alpha remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Stoker Aces Production, LLC, or their affiliates or licensors.

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  Contents

  1. Kallie

  2. Ethan

  3. Kallie

  4. Ethan

  5. Kallie

  6. Ethan

  7. Kallie

  8. Ethan

  9. Kallie

  10. Ethan

  11. Kallie

  Epilogue

  More Kindle Worlds from Amy Briggs

  Saving Sarah

  Uncovering Davidson

  Tough as Nails

  Revelation

  Fated

  Also by Amy Briggs

  Acknowledgments

  Created with Vellum

  For everyone who protects and serves.

  Kallie

  The team had just returned from their latest mission, extracting a hostage in South America, and they were taking the day off to recuperate. It had been a rather complicated one, involving minor covert operations at the scene, to gain entry to the hostile’s hideaway. It was extremely rare they didn’t achieve their mission, and that was largely in part due to the intelligence officers that worked for the government. That’s where I came in.

  I worked directly for the Commander of Delta Force. Each day, I’d work on the base, pouring over intel that came in from overseas, determining which threats were viable, or were an appropriate fit for the team to get involved, and then I would recommend an operational strategy to the Commander during our weekly briefings. I’d become quite adept at it in the three years I had worked for him, but constantly being stuck at a desk was becoming extremely boring. As a civilian, going on the missions wasn’t necessarily what I wanted either, or I’d have tried to become an Operator.

  I always knew that I wanted to serve my country in some capacity, particularly Intelligence or counterterrorism, but I didn’t want to enlist. That wasn’t the life for me. My father was career Army, and we moved so much during my early years, I can barely remember what any of our houses looked like growing up, and I definitely didn’t stay anywhere long enough to maintain friendships with other kids. At the time, it was a lonely existence, especially as an only child. Just my mom and me, supporting each other through my dad’s deployments over the years. We considered ourselves Texans once they settled on a house there, and it’s where my dad retired. We’d stopped moving every two years by the time I made it to high school, and I was able to finally make some friends, put down some roots, and start working on my own career aspirations.

  While enlistment wasn't the route for me, I loved the stories my father told when he came back from his deployments. How he and his men would help children in need, how they bonded together, and how important his work was to the safety of the United States. He was a hero to me and my role model. He encouraged me to help others in any way that I could and was a progressive man for his age. As long as I was doing some good with my life and career choices, he didn't push me to join the military, but would've supported that decision, had I made it.

  My mother had his back, no matter what. Even when you could see the tears in her eyes, while watching the news of what was happening overseas, and not hearing from dad for long periods of time, she never had a sour word to say about the Army or the Army life in general. Over the years, as technology got better and she could video chat with him, her fears seemed to ease.

  When it came time for me to pick a career, I chose public safety as a major and went to UTEP—the University of Texas at El Paso—across the state. I knew I’d probably stay in Texas, especially once we’d finally set roots down there. The recruiters always came to campus trying to get college kids to enlist; a hard sell, in most cases. For me, I just mused as I walked by their table in the student lounge area, knowing what the life was all about. As I studied public safety more and more, counterterrorism became a focus in the curriculum of many of the classes for my major. Post-9/11, any public health or safety, law enforcement, or government affairs courses had a section on counterterrorism, and what the government was supposedly doing to help protect the nation. Every class it was brought up in drove me closer and closer to figuring out what I wanted to do when, one day, while sitting in my Law Enforcement and Critical Infrastructure course, it hit me. I wanted to work in Intelligence.

  When I talked to my dad about it, he'd suggested the Federal Bureau of Investigations after graduation, but the FBI seemed so stuffy to me. All I could imagine was a sea of navy-blue suits finding their way to my closet, to go with the monotonous desk work I'd heard was necessary. The television really gives a false sense of what is real when it comes to police, FBI, firefighters, or any other awesome sounding job. They're far less cool than one would think, in most circumstances. I wanted to be able to carry a gun and be taught by someone other than my dad to shoot and defend myself, but I also wanted to use my brains as well.

  Originally, I tried out for the U.S. Air Marshals. The exam was ridiculously easy, and when I made it the panel interview level, I was let go from the process. Upon receiving feedback, I was informed I was "too pretty to be undercover," and I should consider a different form of law enforcement if that's what I really wanted to do. My face was hot with anger, and before furious tears fell, I thanked the agent for his time and went back home, my tail between my legs. That was supposed to be the easiest branch of federal law enforcement, and they had denied me for what seemed like inappropriate reasons, even after I'd aced their exam.

  I called my dad to discuss what my next move should be. It had taken months to get through that screening process only to be denied, and I didn’t know what to do next about a job.

  “Well Kallie, I’m gonna be honest with you,” he started.

  “Oh God, this can’t be good. You’re not gonna blow smoke up my ass, right, Dad?”

  “When have I ever done that?” He chuckled.

  “Yeah, ok, that’s fair. Let’s have it.”

  “You don’t want to be an Air Marshal, honey. Spread your wings. It would have been a good stepping stone into federal law enforcement, but I know you. You would have been bored out of your skull, taking four flights a day, and not doing much else after the academy. And, he is right.”

  “What do you mean, he’s right? When did you become sexist, Dad?!” I whined aggressively.

  “Settle down. You are too pretty to be an Air Marshal. You’d be wearing civilian clothes all day, on a plane, where you’re not supposed to socialize with other passengers. You’re supposed to observe, that sort of thing. You have way too much personality for that. Sorry kid, but you do.”

  I wanted to be offended, but a part of me knew he was right. Not about me being pretty—that’s just opinions and whatever; of course my dad thinks I’m pretty—but that maybe it wasn’t the right fit.

  "Whatever. What do I do now?" All I wanted to do was find a way to put my talents to use, without enlisting. I wanted to do something to stop terrorism, and I had the right education for the job but wasn't really sure where to go next.

  “I think it’s time to throw your hat in more than one ring, kid. The FBI would be a good place to start, but I wouldn’t put all your eg
gs in one basket. I think there are a lot of open intelligence officer positions on base, and I could certainly put in a good word for you.”

  Great, my daddy was going to help me get a big girl job. Wonderful for me. “Thanks, Dad, but don’t you think I should get a job on my own merit?”

  “Oh, you will. My recommendation as your father isn’t going to get you far, don’t worry. But go look at the openings, and see if anything tickles your fancy. You’re going to have to start at the bottom anyway, but it’s time to branch out. Leave no stone unturned. That’s what counterterrorism is anyway, right?”

  “You’re totally right. Thanks for listening. I know I probably seem like a little kid right now, I just thought I’d have an offer and that would be that.”

  “Things we want don’t go our way for a reason, honey. This opportunity not working out is just a way for the universe to show you how many other, better, opportunities are out there. Now go get them!”

  “Will do, sir!”

  And that is how I got the job of Intelligence officer, working under the commander of the Special Operations team, Delta Force. After working in military intelligence for three years as a civilian, I had established the appropriate security clearances, and the door was opened for me relatively early in my career. I’d been reasonable satisfied analyzing intelligence and making operational recommendations for three years when I received a call from the Commander for a special assignment that would get me out of the dark confines of my office.

  Ethan

  As I looked across the shiny, oak conference room table at my boss, I had to refrain from rolling my eyes. I was once again going to be the guy who met with whoever the latest liaison was, for an information sharing and collaborative session. I knew, when I took the job at the Central Intelligence Agency headquarters, it wasn’t going to be as exciting as being a spook out in the field, but I didn’t know I’d be coordinating with Intelligence from other branches of security, in what I deemed public relations.

  At the age of thirty-two, I’d been with the CIA for around six years, and I had spent five of those around the world, gathering intelligence in an attempt to further the national security of the United States. I spent countless hours in filthy countries, mostly in parts of Africa, having covert meetings with the shadiest characters you could imagine. My job at the time was to enlist informants with jobs within the government of their country, or that had relationships that put them in a position where they could gather intelligence for the United States. Some information gathered was useless, while some of it saved countless lives. Finding the right informants, ferreting out the double-crossers, the double agents, and the potential marks that just didn't have the access to information they claimed to, was hard work, but extremely exciting.

  Covert operations was never something I thought I'd get into. I was an FBI agent before the CIA recruited me. I always knew I'd be law enforcement, from the time I was a little kid playing old-school cops and robbers with my brother. Jason, who was older than me by three years, joined the military and became a Ranger. He too travels all over the world doing special operations for the government, just in a more openly tactical position than mine. I was super smart in college. Not just good grades, but exceptional. I was particularly driven to be the best in my classes, and while I knew law enforcement was for me, a college degree was also a necessity. For the satisfaction of my parents, who were both teachers, but also because I wanted to be the best.

  I graduated from Columbia University with a degree in Accounting, and a minor in Forensic Science. If you really want to do federal law enforcement, and actually get a decent job, even at an entry level, a degree in something other than Criminal Justice is an absolute must. The Criminal Justice degree doesn’t teach you a damned thing, except for how to cover your ass as the local podunk sheriff in town, and anything you can learn in those classes, they’ll teach you at the academy anyway. The FBI has little interest in retraining the small mind to think about enforcement of Federal law as opposed to local or state law. They’re interested in taking the sharp candidate with a propensity toward critical thinking and then turning them into an agent, their way.

  I loved every minute of the academy. I ran every day, went to class every day, and studied at night. Maybe I was a dork, but I was number one in my class, and that’s what I was about. When the CIA expressed an interest in me, they approached my supervisor. It wasn’t like the movies, where some withered old spy found me in a cafe and slipped me a secret offer. Although, that would’ve made for a great story.

  Contrary to public belief, the Federal law enforcement system does communicate to a degree, although every division of Homeland Security and the Department of Justice likes to operate in their own little silo. That being said, there’s a database, that I knew very little about at the time, that contained my records. Marksmanship proficiency, grades, cases I’d worked on and solved or not solved—everything a potential agency suitor would want to know—was all in my electronic file. If an agency, like the CIA, for example, was looking to fill a gap that they had, they could utilize this database to find potential recruits for their agency, but they had to follow the chain of command protocols for wherever that candidate came from. While the government posts a lot of their lower level intelligence officer jobs on their Federal jobs website for the average Joe to apply for, this process was utilized for jobs that they'd never offer to the general public.

  It turned out that the CIA was very specific in their search for young, skilled new agents to add to their international teams. Young being the operative word. In this day and age, with job markets and government budget cuts they way they are, I’d never have expected interest in someone so young as myself at the time. Back in the 1950’s, maybe a young guy would get recruited to spy against the Russians or something, but in the twenty-first century, that just wasn’t a thing, or so I thought.

  I didn’t have any foreign agency experience, I didn’t speak any other languages, and I look as white bread as they come, with blue eyes and dark hair, but they saw something that piqued their interest and contacted my higher-ups. As a twenty-six-year-old FBI agent looking for adventure, I happily traveled to Langley with my agency's blessing, and four months later, was employed on probationary status with the CIA.

  It was much like the Army recruiters in the student lounges at college—yes, even Columbia had recruiters set up tables to entice young coeds with the thrill of international travel, job training, and the promise of finishing their college education when they got back from wherever they were being sent. I'd briefly considered it since my brother had done so well in the Army, but as much of a rule follower as I was, having someone tell me when it was ok to brush my teeth or shower wasn't my idea of awesome.

  Jason never cared about taking orders like that. We’d talked about it one Christmas we were both home visiting, and he said that he actually liked not having to think about things and just being told what to do. He found it calming, and it let him focus on his missions, and how to survive those. I can stand behind that philosophy, even if it wasn’t for me.

  I’d been working overseas, doing my recruiting for a while, and had become pretty adept at it. The vast majority of my informants didn’t need anything extravagant or weird as payment for their services, although there was always one or two that pushed their luck. But, they were bringing in quality intel. It had been running like clockwork, which made it less exciting.

  When headquarters asked me if I’d be interested in coming back to the States to work in a different role “for awhile,” I decided that it might be a nice break from hovels where you can’t drink the water, or get a decent steak.

  For the most part, it had been ok, but after years away with not many friends, and an autonomy that you don’t get at Langley, there were some bureaucratic projects that made me want to jump out a window. Intelligence sharing operations were one of them. An Intelligence officer working with Delta Force was going to be coming to Virginia for the week
, where I was to show him how we gathered intelligence for our agents in the field. In turn, they would share some of their processes with us. As if they had anything to share that we didn’t already know how to do.

  My boss was clear about how I was to handle the operation, and that was to not share anything particularly clandestine, as the CIA would always remain the most covert and private arm in the justice system, whether we were playing nice or not. I didn’t know anything about the officer, coming other than they were civilian, but employed by the government, with appropriate security clearances. They were also one of the best intelligence officers they had, whatever that really means. So, at the end of the day, I was going to spend the week performing in a dog and pony show, that would demonstrate our ability to get along in the sandbox, for the sake of national security. Yippee.

  Kallie

  The Commander—who I always wanted to salute, even though it wasn’t appropriate since I’m not military—called me into his office.

  “Tyson, have a seat.” He gestured to the seat across from his desk, where he was sitting casually, coffee cup in hand. Years of oversight for Delta Force had prematurely grayed his hair, but not the light in his eyes. Even when he was pissed off about a mission going awry, or his men in the field making decisions he didn't entirely approve of, he never blew up. He never screamed or yelled, or lost his temper. He was extremely even-keeled, for a man with as much pressure on him as he had.

  "Yes, sir." I took the seat but didn't get comfortable. Typically, when I was called into his office, it was just for a brief moment and an assignment.