by Jason Kasper
Sutherland continued, “But the truck’s location, or locations plural, will determine how to proceed.”
Duchess’s shoulders fell. She knew where this conversation was heading.
“Let me guess: nearest location of allied forces.”
“That’s right, ma’am,” Sutherland said. “If the trucks follow the northwest route, they’ll be approaching a Special Forces ODA in Iskar. Once they break a five-mile barrier, we can justify close air support using Type 3 terminal attack control with blanket weapons release clearance in defense of US forces. That’s our strongest legal justification, and it’s pretty airtight.”
“And the other possibility?”
He shifted the tip of his pen on the map. “One or both trucks take the northeast route instead. They don’t pass within five miles of any allied forces, which removes our ability to justify close air support. We’d have to switch to AI instead.”
“AI?”
The man beside him finally spoke.
“Air interdiction,” he said flatly, and Duchess watched him closely for an explanation.
In contrast to Sutherland, Gregory Pharr was in his sixties. With his slicked-back silver hair and graying beard, he looked like the aging patriarch of a biker gang. Which, to an extent, he was—though it consisted of a group of his professional peers, most of whom looked considerably more bureaucratic than he did.
Pharr was an Agency lawyer, and he possessed decades of experience with the byzantine and often conflicting legal restrictions that governed covert action abroad. His role was to know every line of fine-print legalese that Duchess couldn’t understand even if she had the time to read it all, seamlessly translating the authorities into clear, actionable guidelines. Pharr knew exactly what Duchess could legally approve, what she couldn’t, and what fell into the nebulous gray area that could contribute either to mission success, the end of her career, or both, depending on which way the political winds were drifting.
She asked, “Why haven’t I heard of air interdiction before?”
“Because it’s a last resort, ma’am,” Pharr replied quietly. “In the AI scenario, we’d be legally justifying the strike as destroying enemy military potential before it can be used against friendly forces. We’d be within our authorities, roughly speaking, but this scenario is subject to being dissected three dozen ways by every possible level of oversight. If the bomb damage assessment doesn’t reveal any evidence of the rockets being onboard the trucks, and especially if this hits the news, the oversight committee, and Gossweiler in particular, are going to be looking for any possible way to distance themselves from your decision.”
Duchess nodded, glancing to the wall clock and considering the timing of Gossweiler’s next check-in. “Have both scripts ready to go. Barring any updates to the intelligence picture, I plan to authorize either scenario—or, if the trucks split up, both.”
16
Ian’s team arrived at the mechanic shop at quarter after four in the morning. The sky was still dark, though Ian grimly considered that they were losing that advantage by the minute as sunrise approached.
Once that happened, things were going to get complicated for five white men desperately trying to blend in. Granted, Nizar had provided much of his wardrobe to help with the effort—but to Ian, the results were predictably disheartening.
His team looked like a ragtag gang of homeless militia, the tan fatigues they’d arrived in now supplemented with checkered scarfs called keffiyehs, along with Nizar’s unbuttoned overshirts and windbreakers worn atop tactical gear. The process would have been much easier if they could have simply donned full-body burkas, but aside from perhaps Ian’s wiry frame, no one on the team was in any danger of passing for a woman.
As Nizar, David, and Ian approached the door, the remaining three men spread out into a loose defensive formation facing the dark street.
Nizar gave three hard raps on the door.
As they waited for the mechanic to answer, Ian considered the few advantages they had.
The locals in this part of the country wore clothes ranging from traditional Arab garb to Western casual. Most importantly, to hear Nizar tell it, was that the civilian populace tended not to let their gazes linger on anyone with a gun. There was such a wide spectrum of Syrian government forces, fractured ISIS militias, and resistance fighters roving throughout the country that you could more or less wear whatever you wanted without drawing attention—that is, right up until the moment you encountered armed fighters representing one side or another, at which point the situation became considerably more dire.
When Nizar knocked a second time without response, David whispered, “I thought you said this guy could deliver. If he’s already bailed, I’m going to be pissed.”
Ian knew that being pissed was the last of his team leader’s concerns at present—if this mechanic had decided to turn on them in the minutes since Nizar called, the odds of him not ratting out the team for some ISIS bounty were slim to none, and they were stepping into an ambush.
But Nizar shook his head. “He hates ISIS more than anyone. But he is too smart. Be careful what you say around him. In any case, he will probably read your thoughts.”
“What do you mean, read my—”
It was too late for David to finish the sentence.
The door creaked open, held by a single figure that Ian couldn’t make out in the darkness beyond. David didn’t hesitate, entering with Nizar as Ian hastened to follow with Cancer, Reilly, and Worthy collapsing their formation to slip inside. The smells of oil, gasoline, and rusting metal were thick in the stale air, and when the last man entered, the door swung shut behind them and locked.
Only then did their host flip on the light switch, illuminating a dank workshop packed with vehicles, motor parts, and toolboxes.
Ian got his first look at the man who’d let them inside.
The mechanic was short and squat, with a wide nose set over a bushy gray beard. His squinting eyes leisurely passed over the men, as if the 4:00 a.m. arrival of an American paramilitary team were a routine occurrence. Ian had worked his fair share of intelligence sources, and immediately assessed the abject lack of moral struggle in the mechanic’s eyes, the self-assuredness he projected despite being immediately surrounded by armed men. It took Ian two seconds to arrive at the conclusion that he was dealing with a ruthless opportunist, and that could be a very dangerous thing.
David spoke at once.
“Which vehicles are we taking?”
The mechanic swung a weathered hand across the tight confines of the shop as he replied in heavily accented English, “These Toyotas are my most reliable.”
He was pointing toward two Land Cruiser SUVs, one silver and the other white, appearing in decent condition given the country they resided in.
“Fully fueled?”
“I said I would fill them up, and I did. You may take as many gas cans as you wish from the back of my shop.”
Cancer spoke to his men. “Get the gear loaded. Split Team One in the white truck, Split Team Two in the gray one.”
As Worthy and Reilly began shuttling the team’s rucksacks aboard, Cancer took a step toward the trucks.
The mechanic’s hand shot out to stop Cancer, and then he stepped closer before inhaling deeply through his nose.
“You smell like cigarettes, my friend. American cigarettes. Camels?”
Cancer’s brow furrowed in irritation. “Do I look like I’m trying to live forever? Marlboro Reds, Jack.”
The mechanic smiled. “Perhaps some nicotine would help me wake up.”
“Perhaps these rust heaps get us where we need to go, and I’ll fucking think about it.” Then he gently pushed the man aside, proceeding to help Reilly and Worthy load the trucks.
David intervened, extending his hand to the mechanic.
“I’m David.”
The man shook it. “Elias.”
“What kind of work did you do for Syrian intelligence?” Ian asked.
&
nbsp; The question provoked a phlegmy noise from Elias, somewhere between a cough and a laugh, and he tapped his chest with a fist as if trying to clear some obstruction.
“I hunted the enemies of my country,” he said, fixing Ian with his stare. “Just as I suspect you do.”
Nizar quickly cut in, seeming to sense that this line of inquiry would produce less-than-favorable results.
“Elias, thank you for your help. You were the only one I could turn to.”
Then Elias responded with a rapid-fire question in Arabic, and Ian interrupted before Nizar could reply.
“Gentleman,” he said, “please communicate in English so we can understand as well.”
Elias shot him an angry glare. “I said, ‘what is in this for you.’” Then he looked back to Nizar and repeated, “And so, my friend, what is in it for you?”
Nizar shook his head. “It is not important. These men need our help.”
Elias narrowed his gaze.
“Since I have never known you to care about money, Nizar, then I guess you have a trip to America all lined up for your family.” Nodding, he turned to David and said, “This sounds nice. I will have one too, please.”
“One what?”
“Trip to America. But I will make it easy on you. The arrangement will be for me alone. Do we have a deal?”
David said, “We can discuss this later. This is a matter of urgency—”
“You have no idea how urgent it is,” Elias cut him off. “If you seek a man responsible for transport of a cargo that was very nearly captured already, who do you think will be the first to die when these men try to cover their tracks?” He gave a short, rasping laugh. “It has been some time since my work in Syrian intelligence, but my ignorant mechanic’s guess is that the logistician responsible for facilitating the transport will be quite high on that list. We will very likely arrive to find him dead already.”
17
Jo Ann’s eyes darted across the screens at the front of the OPCEN, now filled with the camera feeds of UAVs streaking over northwestern Syria.
The first UAV to arrive had gone to Deshar where the road diverged, starting at the village’s center and flying concentric circles outward with the first priority of locating the two flatbed trucks and, barring that, identifying any evidence of rocket transfer.
But that first surveillance platform had thus far observed only normal pattern-of-life activities within the village, transmitted in black-and-white images across the central flatscreen. The others were sweeping up the two main roads, searching for any trace of the flatbeds.
Then she heard the ground team leader transmit, “Suicide element is en route to logistician using locally procured vehicles and guides. ETA just under two hours.”
Seated beside Jo Ann, Duchess lifted the hand mic and transmitted back, “Raptor Nine One copies all. You are cleared to continue pursuit using maximum possible discretion.”
“Discretion is our middle name. Suicide out.”
This comment made a faint grin appear on Jo Ann’s face as Duchess set down her hand mic. “I’m glad you told them about the logistician.”
“So am I,” Duchess responded, her voice trembling with relief.
But there was nothing to be relieved about yet, Jo Ann thought. That ground team could get rolled up at any moment, and while they were non-attributable to the Agency—even accounting for China’s data hack, which was no small achievement—they were still Americans, and to Jo Ann that made them the same as any active duty servicemember she’d sent into battle.
Before she could consider the thought any longer, Sutherland shouted, “We’ve got visual—looks like both trucks passed through Deshar and are on the northeast route. No US or Coalition forces ahead, so the strike would have to be authorized under air interdiction guidelines.”
All eyes turned to the central screen as the image flashed from the orbiting view of Deshar to the feed from a new camera, this one sweeping up a road toward the distant shapes of two flatbed trucks. The four escorting pickups were nowhere in sight, and that bore dire consequences for their ability to authorize an airstrike—provided, of course, these were the same flatbeds in the first place.
“Fidelity?” Duchess asked.
“On it, will advise when able.”
The analysts were capturing screenshots from the UAV feed, comparing them to previous images from the last surveillance platform before it went offline.
Within a minute, the lead analyst announced, “Side-by-side imagery of physical markings and thermal signature puts us at ninety percent fidelity that these are the same vehicles.”
Sutherland turned in his seat to face Duchess. “Concur, ma’am. I’ve got more than enough for PID.”
Beside him, Pharr shot a silent thumbs-up.
Jo Ann watched Duchess close her eyes and breathe an exalted sigh. PID—positive identification—was exactly what they needed. Duchess had just gotten her airstrike.
“What about the armed escort vehicles?”
“No sign of them,” Sutherland replied. “Best guess is they waved off in or around Deshar, and are currently in hiding to minimize signature of the cargo trucks.”
The only question now, Jo Ann thought, was whether the rockets were still aboard.
“How are we looking with the cargo?”
Sutherland gave a confident nod. “We’ve assessed the trucks’ speed against the distance traveled—bottom line, if they stopped at any point since we lost visual, it wasn’t for long. Less than ten minutes, tops. And with ISR continuing to observe normal pattern of life over the only likely transfer point at Deshar, I’d put our odds at seventy percent that the rockets are still aboard those flatbeds.”
“I want PID handed off to the F-15s as soon as they’ve got eyes-on. Priority of fire is lead vehicle followed by trail, as close to simultaneous hits as they can manage. We’ve got continuous coverage lined up from here on out?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be able to rotate surveillance with Gray Eagles and maintain strike capability on site between Predator and Reaper flights.”
“I want the flatbeds destroyed with a small enough munition to leave some evidence for the BDA. What do you recommend?”
“Based on loadout and given that both targets are moving, our best bet is the AGM-65 E2/L, which is the laser-guided Maverick missile variant with a three-hundred-pound warhead. They’ve got a total of four on the rails, which gives us two shots before they’d have to resort to larger munitions or a strafing run.”
“Approved. Relay to the pilots and let me know if you get any kickback.”
“Will do. Fighters will be on station in three mikes.”
Jo Ann had already typed the launch order for the Rangers into her encrypted chat, but waited for Duchess’s order before hitting send.
When Duchess didn’t speak at once, Jo Ann prompted her, “Want the Rangers inbound for BDA? They’ve got just under a two-hour flight time on the MH-47.”
Duchess, who looked like she’d just been awakened from a dream, quickly nodded.
“Confirm. Get them airborne.”
Jo Ann hit send on her message, thinking that the amount of information to process at once was simply too much even for Duchess to manage—with this many moving pieces amid a rapidly escalating situation, they were playing three-dimensional chess in Syria.
But the real players were the Rangers packed into an MH-47 helicopter, currently sitting on the tarmac at FOB Presley with its refueling probe hooked up to a fuel bladder while the engines idled, prepared for immediate launch.
Checking her screen, she said, “They’re preparing to take off now.”
Duchess nodded without speaking, waiting for the next update from Sutherland. It took less than a minute.
“F-15 flight lead has confirmed all, and assesses they should be able to achieve dual-impact within a three-second spread. They’ve got six miles of forward clearance before the next civilian population center, and there’s zero traffic inbound.”
The lawyer replied, “It’s a clear shot for air interdiction, ma’am.”
Sutherland added, “PID has been transferred to flight lead, we’re offsetting our UAV from the bomb trajectory. Sixty seconds to weapons release; last call.”
She responded, “Final clearance approved.”
Whatever amount of time elapsed before the next spoken words in the OPCEN didn’t seem like sixty seconds to Jo Ann. No matter how many times she’d watched a mission unfold on real-time footage, the magnitude of the ground events was rarely lost on her. She’d attended enough military funerals of the men she’d supported to forever purge herself of achieving total detachment, no matter how far from the fight she was.
“Weapons release,” Sutherland called out, then repeated the statement a few seconds later.
Both air-to-ground missiles were streaking along a laser-guided trajectory, and the OPCEN went dead quiet aside from the chatter of the pilots emanating from a speaker box.
Jo Ann knew what would happen next.
All too often, footage of the seconds before a bomb or missile impact were filled with people racing away from the target on foot, having detected the noise of the aircraft or the projectile itself hurling through the air toward them—Jo Ann was never sure which. All she knew was that once the dark figures of humans on the ground scattered like insects, the explosion occurred on screen within three seconds or less.
Usually those fleeing figures were unsuccessful, vanishing in the blast despite their best efforts. Occasionally she could make out a human form half-crawling away from the destruction, making a last-ditch effort to survive before succumbing to their wounds. And in some cases, the fastest runners in a group managed to outpace the immediate blast, either vanishing offscreen or, in the event of high-value individuals, being tracked until a second bomb or missile could find its mark.
But the men aboard these trucks had no way of knowing what was about to occur; or maybe they did know, and were simply resigned to their fate. Either way, there would be no way to hear the fighters streaking in from fifteen thousand feet over the sound of truck engines, nor the descent of missiles until they were milliseconds from pummeling into the vehicle.
