by Don Bentley
“Negative,” I said. “But I will by the time you call back.”
“Roger that,” Frodo said. “Matty, verify one more time the precious cargo.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, pushing back against the sudden wave of despair that threatened to overwhelm me. “Laila, brother,” I said. “They’ve got Laila.”
The line was quiet for a moment. Then Frodo spoke.
“I’ve got you, Matty,” Frodo said. “Keep the faith and be ready. I’ll bring the thunder.”
I had to clear my throat before replying. Laila was still captive in a helicopter speeding east, but in that moment, I felt the narrative shift. Frodo was going to bring the thunder.
“Thank you, Frodo,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Consider it done. Out here.”
I hung up the phone and turned to see the Irishman staring at me.
“You have some very interesting friends,” Nolan said.
“He’s not my friend,” I said. “He’s my brother.”
“What now, then?” Nolan said.
“One more call,” I said. Scrolling through the phone’s list of recent calls, I found the one I wanted and dialed.
FIFTY-NINE
I told you never to call me again. My debt is paid. We’re even.”
“I know,” I said, turning away from Nolan for some privacy.
“Then why are we speaking?”
“Because now I need a favor,” I said.
“No.”
“Listen, Benny,” I said, letting some of the rage boiling inside bubble through. “I know that normally we’d go back and forth like this was a Turkish bazaar, but I don’t have time. I need your help, and you’re going to give it, so let’s just cut to the chase.”
A long pause and then: “Are you sure you’re not Israeli?”
“I’m not sure of a good many things, but on this matter I’m quite confident. Aren’t you going to give me the price?”
“First the favor. Then the price.”
A surge of irritation shot through me, but I forced my anger back into place. In the Middle East, this was the way things were done. Even between allies. Perhaps especially between allies.
“For argument’s sake,” I said, “can I assume that you have eyes on the Iranian frontline trace?”
“You can assume anything you want, but I’m not going to—”
“Benny.”
“Yes, that would be a fair assumption,” Benny said.
“Good, then I need you to pull one of your ISR assets off station and head west.”
“Why?”
“Because I need you to locate a helicopter heading east. I believe it’s trying to link up with the Iranian forward elements.”
“Why?”
“The helicopter is carrying three Quds Force operatives.” I paused for a moment, unsure how much to reveal. If Benny knew how urgently I needed the information, the cost would skyrocket. Then again, what was cost in comparison with Laila’s life? At that moment, I would have provided Benny with the nuclear launch codes if I’d had them. Anything to get back my wife. “And my wife. The Iranians kidnapped my wife.”
“Truly?” Benny said. “Those monsters have your wife?”
“Truly.”
This time the Hebrew curses sounded strangely comforting.
“If I were able to locate this helicopter,” Benny said, “what then?”
“Call me on this number and provide range and bearing to the aircraft.”
“What will you do with this information?”
“Whatever it takes,” I said.
Another pause, this one longer than the one before, then: “Let me see what I can do.”
It occurred to me as the line went dead that Benny and I never had settled on a price. Then again, perhaps we didn’t need to. Though we served different intelligence services, I had the sense that Benny was a good man.
At least that was what I was hoping.
SIXTY
Lad—is that your ride?”
I looked from my phone to Nolan and then to where he was pointing. A black speck in the night sky was rapidly resolving into the discernible shape of an aircraft, though what kind of aircraft I wasn’t quite sure. The speck was moving much too fast to be a helicopter. And then I saw the low-slung fuselage suspended between two oversized propellers, and the mystery was solved.
“That’s it,” I said, strobing the flashlight on my cell toward the Osprey. “Hang on to your shirt. The downdraft is a bitch.”
The hybrid aircraft made the transition from plane to helicopter as its nacelles rotated upward, bringing the twin three-bladed proprotors from vertical to horizontal. The CV-22 bled off forward airspeed as it circled the palace, orienting into the wind before making a final approach to the now-vacated helipads. I turned my back to the aircraft’s approach as, true to form, hurricane-force winds announced its arrival.
The snarling vortices generated by the six-thousand-horsepower engines smacked into my back like an invisible tidal wave, pelting me with all manner of grit and dirt and almost taking me off my feet in the process. After less than a second, every exposed inch of skin had been sandblasted by grime.
Then the tempest subsided.
“Holy shite,” the Irishman said over a spasm of coughing. “You weren’t kidding.”
Wiping the tears from my eyes, I turned back to the Osprey to see the ramp lowered and the crew chief beckoning with a red-lens flashlight.
“I think that’s my cue,” I said, offering Nolan my hand. “I meant what I said. I’ll do what I can to help you.”
“And I believe you,” Nolan said, returning my handshake. “But I think this gentleman wants to have a word with ye first.”
Nolan pointed over my shoulder, and I turned to see Zain running up the gravel path leading to the helipads. The smuggler had an assault pack slung over his shoulder, a submachine gun in one hand, and his trusty AK-47 in the other.
“Here, Matthew,” Zain said, passing me the submachine gun. “I figured you’d want something more precise than an AK. So I got you this.”
This turned out to be an HK MP5 with an integrated suppressor outfitted with an EOTech reflex sight and a two-point VTAC sling. Not the weapon to use for distance shooting, but for close-in work, there was nothing better.
“Magazines and a Glock are in here,” Zain said, handing me the assault pack. “Let’s go.”
I took the assault pack but placed my hand on the Syrian’s chest as he started toward the Osprey. “Thank you,” I said. “But you’re not coming.”
“Your wife—,” Zain said.
“Is my responsibility,” I said. “I know you’d go with me if you could, but trust me—that crew chief isn’t going to let you within fifty feet of his bird. I’ve got to do this alone.”
For a moment, I thought Zain would argue. Instead, he just pulled me in for a hug. “Allah be with you, Matthew. Get her back from those monsters. We will find the girl Ferah. I was the one who tipped off the Army after I saw the corrupt police standing guard. With their help, inshallah we will save all the girls.”
I nodded and grabbed the gear. I’d started hustling toward the clearly impatient crew chief when Zain gripped my arm.
“Wait, Matthew,” Zain said. “I didn’t have time to get you body armor. Take my chest rig instead.”
I started to push the smuggler away, but found myself accepting the combination body armor and tactical harness. I told myself that it was a decision based purely on practicality. After all, there would probably be some more shooting before this was all over, and Zain’s soft body armor offered a whole lot more ballistic protection than my filthy sport coat and shirt.
But I knew that wasn’t the only reason. The truth was that I wanted something to remind me that I wasn’t alone. That I still had friends
, and that they had my back. Even if the best they could do in this moment was to offer me a sweat-stained tactical rig.
I slipped the rig over my shoulders, adjusted the Velcro straps, and cinched down the bindings. For not being an operator, Zain had done a respectable job assembling his kit. Miniature med pouch on the bottom left where it wouldn’t interfere with a pistol holster, magazine pouches across the front, a small knife on the right, and several pockets filled with odds and ends along the sides.
In short, everything a growing boy needed to chase down the terrorists holding his wife.
“Thank you, my friend,” I said, shouldering the assault kit. “For everything.”
“Kill them,” Zain said, gripping my free hand with both of his. “The men who took your wife, kill them all.”
And with that, the Syrian turned back down the hill, disappearing into the night.
* * *
—
So who are you exactly?”
The question was fair, but not one I intended to answer. At least not accurately. As a rule, spies tend to have a tenuous relationship with the truth, and I was no exception. But in this case, any deception on my part was more a function of survival than of subterfuge. After all, if I didn’t tell the pilot the truth, then he didn’t have to make the intellectual leap to believe it in all its absurdity.
Instead, I did what spies did best—deflected.
“What were your orders, Captain?” I said, adjusting the boom mike on the headset the crew chief had handed me so that the microphone rested just against my lips. Even in flight, a CV-22 Osprey was loud, and we were still sitting on the ground, though I hoped for not too much longer.
“My orders were to divert to this grid coordinate, pick you up, and provide whatever assistance you required.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Then get this thing in the air and start heading east.”
“What’s east?”
“A helicopter. We need to catch it.”
“Then what?”
“Goddamn it,” I said, not bothering to hide the tension knotting my stomach. “Were you unclear about anything I just said? Get us airborne and headed east before I reach down your throat and rip out your spine.”
For a moment, I thought the Air Force pilot sitting in the left seat was going to argue. That would have been a mistake. But just as I was about to walk up the narrow passage separating the passenger compartment from the cockpit, the Osprey shot into the air like a homesick angel.
The sudden acceleration sent me sprawling across a pile of boxes the crew chief had stacked just to the right of the entrance ramp. I knew pilots could sometimes be divas, but this was some over-the-top bullshit.
“Pilot,” I said, struggling back to my feet, “what the fuck is your call sign?”
“Hammer.”
“Okay, Hammer. You’re fired.”
“What? You can’t—”
“I can, and I just did. Copilot, what’s your call sign?”
For a long moment no one spoke. Then a feminine voice answered, “Pom Pom.”
“Pom Pom,” I said. “Are you a good stick?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“I’m not a sir. I’m Matt. And you are now the aircraft commander. Hammer, if you have a problem with that, get the fuck out of my airplane. I shit you not. Things are only going to get hairier from here. If you’re not down with that, speak now. We’ll land and put you off. I swear to Christ that if my orders are second-guessed again, I will get angry, and you will not enjoy that experience. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Pom Pom said.
“It’s Matt.”
“Okay, Matt. What kind of helicopter are we looking for?”
“It was dark, but I think it was a civilian twin engine,” I said.
“How long a head start does it have?” Pom Pom said.
I checked my watch. “Ten minutes.”
“Okay. At our current airspeed, we should be intercepting in about fifteen mikes, but we don’t have air-to-air radar. We can use our thermal-imaging system to help with the search, but without vectors, it’s still going to be like trying to find a needle in a haystack.”
“I’m working on it,” I said. “What kind of call sign is Pom Pom anyway?”
The woman hesitated.
“Come on, Pom Pom,” I said. “We’re about to be in the shit together. Now is not the time to be shy.”
“I was a competitive cheerleader in high school.”
Okay, so I didn’t see that one coming.
“Are you as good a pilot as you were a cheerleader?” I said.
“Better.”
“Perfect. Here’s the lowdown—that helicopter is carrying three Iranian Quds Force operatives and an American hostage. The hostage happens to be my wife. We have got to find the helicopter before it reaches the Iranian frontline trace. If we don’t, she’s gone. Are you picking up what I’m putting down?”
Another pause and then: “Yes, sir.”
“Matt.”
“Matt.”
“Help me get my wife back, Pom Pom,” I said. “Do some of that pilot shit.”
“I love Top Gun as much as the next girl, but without vectors, we’re going to fly right by your wife.”
“I’ll get you vectors.”
“From where?” Pom Pom said.
“The Mossad, I hope.”
“I’m sorry—did you just say the Mossad?”
“Hang on, Pom Pom,” I said as the phone in my pocket began to vibrate. “I gotta take this call.”
I slid the headset off without waiting for a response, clicked the answer button, and held the cell to my ear. “Drake.”
I recognized Benny’s voice, but his words were unintelligible over the aircraft’s roar. I turned the phone’s volume all the way up, but still couldn’t make heads or tails of what my Israeli friend was saying.
“Benny,” I said, barely hearing myself speak, “I can’t hear you. I’m currently airborne on an eastwardly heading. I need you to text me the bearing and distance to the target helicopter. Bearing and distance. Out here.”
Ending the call, I slid the headset back over my ears and then flipped the phone over, staring at the blank screen, willing a text message to appear. Then it hit me—the background noise had more than likely made my own instructions undecipherable. I thumbed in a quick text message repeating my instructions and sent it to the number that had just called.
A moment later a message appeared.
TRANSMISSION FAILURE
Fuck me running.
So apparently Benny’s phone blocked unknown numbers. What in the actual hell? Did the Mossad have a problem with telemarketers? I screamed my frustration at the cabin’s ceiling like a wolf howling its death cry.
Just one fucking break. That was all I was asking for. One fucking break.
The phone vibrated.
I looked at the screen, holding my breath.
BEARING 097 DEGREES. 10 KILOMETERS.
Hot damn. Maybe I ought to channel my inner wolf more often.
“Pom Pom, I’ve got the range and bearing,” I said.
“Send it.”
“Zero-nine-seven degrees. Ten kilometers.”
“Roger, stand by.”
I felt the aircraft tilt slightly to the right as my cheerleader-turned-aviator adjusted the Osprey’s course. To my surprise, I found myself filling the empty space with prayer. And not just any prayer: the one my mother had prayed with me each night before bed when I was a child.
Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven . . .
I stopped there, not because I didn’t remember the rest, but because that last part seemed strangely appropriate. Here I was, streaking through the heavens in the hopes of bring
ing Laila back to earth in one piece. I wasn’t much of a theologian, but I seem to remember Jesus had once told his disciples that faith the size of a mustard seed could move mountains. Maybe that was a way of saying that people like me who didn’t have much faith at all still had a shot at a miracle.
“Tally target, tally target. Two o’clock. One mile.”
To my surprise, the voice belonged to Hammer. Maybe I’d been too harsh on the old boy earlier. Or maybe my last performance had him pretty convinced that I would dangle him out the back door by his entrails if he didn’t find my wife. Either way, he had eyes on the helicopter.
“Tally,” Pom Pom said, her voice resonating a calm I didn’t feel. “Looks like they’re about five hundred feet above ground level. We’ve got your helicopter. Now what?”
Now what, indeed.
SIXTY-ONE
I’d been in my fair share of sticky situations. I’d been ambushed in Afghanistan, betrayed by a double agent to a terrorist organization in Syria, and caught in a cross fire between rival Shia and Sunni militias in Iraq. As the old-timers liked to say, I’d been in the shit. But what I’ve never been in was a CV-22 Osprey hurtling toward a helicopter holding three homicidal Quds Force operatives and my wife at a closure speed in excess of three hundred knots.
This was a new one, even for me.
“Matt—we’re going to overtake them in ten seconds. In another five minutes, they’ll be over the Iranian frontline trace. We’re starting to get strobed by the air-defense systems embedded with the Iranians. What’s the play?”
I wish I knew.
“What’s our distance to the helicopter?” I said.
“About a five-hundred-meter slant range.”
“Can they see us?”
“We’re above and behind them, so I don’t think so. But I can’t be sure.”
“Stay in their blind spot, but close to within one hundred meters.”
“Roger that, but the clock’s ticking.”
I clamped my lips together, biting back the obnoxious reply lurking on the tip of my tongue. I couldn’t be mad at Pom Pom. She was just doing her job. Now I needed to do mine.
