Operator - 01 by David Vinjamuri Page B

deputy holsters his weapon and opens the rear door on the driver’s side of the cruiser. The deputy who cuffed me pushes me forward gently and guides my head down as I step into the vehicle.
    I don’t bother to ask questions; I know I won’t get anything useful from these two. They are silent for the short drive to town hall, which houses the mayor’s office, the town registrar and sheriff’s department for Conestoga. The building is quiet, and only a few vehicles are parked outside. There are several other cruisers, but I do not see the Sheriff’s SUV. Inside the office, the deputies empty my pockets and fill out an inventory list. They seal the envelope containing my wallet, cell phone, keys and the 3” folding Spyderco knife they’ve confiscated, then both sign it in the presence of a desk clerk and hand it over to her. She opens a safe and stashes the envelope inside. Then the two deputies lead me toward the back of the office. The magnetic lock for a solid-looking steel door clicks as we approach and the larger man opens it. Inside are a half dozen holding cells in a row, each with two steel cots. A few of the cells are occupied. The lights in the cellblock are already out and the men are sleeping – or at least lying down. The deputies escort me to an empty cell and after locking it instruct me to turn around. They remove the handcuffs through the bars and leave me standing in the cell. Neither deputy has spoken a word to me since cuffing me outside the motel.
    I stand there for a moment as questions and implications race through my mind. I realize that I haven’t been Mirandized, fingerprinted or photographed. So I haven’t actually been arrested, just detained. I lie down on the bed, on top of the rough wool blanket, and close my eyes. Speculation is useless: answers will come soon enough. I am asleep before the lights wink out.
     

Chapter Four – Monday
    I sit uncomfortably on the hard gymnasium floor with my legs tucked under my knees. My ankles ache after the first few moments, but I will not allow myself to move. I have flown a military transport for sixteen hours from Virginia to reach the northern island of Hokkaido in Japan, accompanied by Dasher, my training supervisor at the Activity.
    I’ve survived Delta Force selection and training and have been whisked away by the Activity, not without some regrets. The Intelligence Support Activity, codenamed “Gray Fox” at the time I join, is headquartered in a non-descript building in Arlington, Virginia. The purpose of the unit, as Alpha told me several years earlier, is to provide field level intelligence for the covert units of the Joint Special Operations Command. When the ISA was founded, there was a great deal of distrust between military commando units and the CIA. The ISA was set up to give units like DEVGRU – Seal Team Six – and the Delta Force the information they needed to mount counterterrorism operations. The ISA was essentially a special-purpose integrated field surveillance unit. As the Internet evolved, the ISA evolved with it until it employed as many computer experts – hackers – as communications experts.
    On my first day in the ISA, Alpha introduced me to Dasher, the Command Master Sergeant for the direct action arm of the ISA. “We’re shooters,” Dasher explained to me. “Except that when we shoot, nobody can know about it. We infiltrate enemy locations to map them out and identify targets. Sometimes we’re also tasked with completing special assignments that are best carried out by an individual rather than a team, because we’re the only unit in the special ops community that trains and deploys shooters as individuals. That’s why you go through Delta selection and training before you can even set foot inside this building. We do everything they do except we do it alone, without maps and without the Army Rangers to bail our asses out if we screw up. Before you go on your first field deployment, you’re going to