by Jason Kasper
And even if those men knew they were about to die, what choice did they have? They were driving across the open desert, and there was no place to run where the unblinking eye of surveillance aircraft wouldn’t find them. Would they even want to survive? Jo Ann wasn’t sure; she only knew that these men were extremists who had, like many of the terrorists she’d targeted in the past, resigned themselves to the prospect of martyrdom in seeking some paradise beyond the confines of their physical existence. In the violent and poverty-ravaged lands where such fighters emerged, the prospect of heaven was a key ingredient in their justification for committing unspeakable atrocities against their fellow human beings.
Still, her thoughts were with the men aboard those trucks, considering what life events had transpired from their birth up until the moment of their death. Soon, it wouldn’t matter; they’d be nothing more than ashes in the desert and forgotten numbers on an Agency casualty count.
And when it was all over, when the targets were nothing more than human remains smoldering in the dirt of some faraway nation, these same military and Agency professionals—herself included—would go to work finding more people to kill.
The first missile came streaking in from the bottom of the screen, a pinpoint of light that connected with the lead truck in a dazzling white flash. Then there was nothing but a vast cloud billowing outward, the trail vehicle braking in the final moment before it too vanished in a blossoming fog of sand and smoke.
Indistinguishable pieces of metal rocketed up and out of the explosions, pirouetting in spinning arcs until they crashed to the desert in a chaotic perimeter around the vehicle remains.
Jo Ann typed the grid of the impact site, sending it on her encrypted chat to vector in the Ranger platoon currently flying toward the strike zone.
Sutherland called, “Both targets destroyed, no survivors visible.”
Duchess replied, “Keep the fighters orbiting for maximum station time. How’s our stack looking?”
“No change to assets; we’ll have manned and unmanned ISR rotating for the duration with continuous kinetic option.”
“I want nonstop surveillance until ground forces arrive, with strike authority against anyone trying to recover materiel from the site.” Then she asked Jo Ann, “How’s our BDA looking?”
Jo Ann replied loudly enough for the rest of the OPCEN to hear.
“Rangers are airborne; flight time is one hour, forty-eight minutes.”
Then Sutherland confirmed, “I’ve got comms with the Ranger JTAC and will be able to shift air assets as per ground force commander’s guidance once they’re boots-on-the-ground.”
Duchess nodded her approval, her face as serene as a woman on her spa day.
But Jo Ann watched that placid expression vanish when a phone on her desk rang—this was the red phone, the one that could never go unanswered.
Duchess snatched the receiver. “Duchess here.”
A long pause as her face became stern, and then finally, “Understand all.”
She hung up the phone, giving Jo Ann an irritated glance before turning her attention to the OPCEN staff.
“I need everyone to prepare a formal brief of your actions and analysis up to this point,” she announced, then cleared her throat. “Senator Gossweiler is on his way.”
18
Sitting without his seatbelt in the lead Land Cruiser’s rear passenger seat, Worthy practiced rolling to his left to reach for the pistol on his side. He repeated the maneuver several times without drawing the sidearm, his rifle resting barrel-down between his legs.
David was seated beside him, pretending not to notice what Worthy was rehearsing as the two-vehicle convoy threaded its way toward Zaranj, the sun rising over a rolling expanse of desert.
After Worthy's final rehearsal found his right palm married to the backstrap of his pistol in a fraction of a second, he relaxed and glanced at the buildings outside, never letting his vision stray far from the front passenger seat.
Based on his competitive shooting experience, Worthy was probably faster with a pistol than a rifle. But speed was only one factor in surviving the mission, and the rest—range, power, penetration—made his rifle not only the obvious choice, but the only one.
However, when shooting a fellow passenger in the tight confines of the vehicle, a pistol was the only option.
With five Americans and two native Syrians split between two Land Cruisers, David and Cancer had chosen the best load plan possible.
A team member drove each vehicle—Ian behind the wheel of Worthy’s truck, and Cancer driving the trail vehicle—with a Syrian in the passenger seat who could identify anything out of the ordinary and stand at least a chance of talking or bribing their way through any checkpoints they encountered.
In the passenger-side backseat was another team member who could maintain physical security over the Syrian guide to his front, prepared to react in the event of sabotage.
And in the lead truck, that role fell upon Worthy.
They could never completely trust anyone outside their own ranks, much less the two civilians plucked more or less at random from Syria, a nation with some of the most complex tribal and militant factions on earth. So a team member had to occupy the “Godfather seat” behind their Syrian passenger, prepared to react if Elias suddenly grabbed the steering wheel and tried to crash their vehicle or any such similar nonsense. Worthy’s first course of action was physical restraint, threading an arm around Elias’s neck and muscling him away from the driver. His pistol was a last resort in more ways than one: if Worthy killed Elias, they’d lose half of their native guides and likely piss off the other half.
But Elias had proven to be a model passenger; in fact, he seemed more than enthusiastic about the mission ahead.
Elias asked, “So once we get the logistician back to my friend’s workshop, what is it you would like to know?”
Ian replied from the driver’s seat, “He facilitated the transport of an ISIS leader and his cargo from your town to an unknown destination earlier this morning. We need to find out the destination.”
“And this ISIS leader is Syrian?”
“Not Syrian,” Ian said. “He’s a foreign fighter.”
“Ah, the scourge of my nation. Where has he slithered in from—Iraq, Lebanon, Palestine?”
“China.”
Elias considered this a moment. “Uyghur or Han Chinese?”
“Uyghur.”
“Thousands of Uyghurs have traveled here. Most fight with the Turkistan Islamic Party. But their allegiance is to al Qaeda, not ISIS. And most return to China to fight for a homeland. Only a few hundred choose ISIS and remain in Syria, and these are probably the dumbest of them all.”
Worthy smiled, wondering who in the hell this guy was. Nizar had been adamant that Elias held a background in Syrian intelligence, leaving his position to resume his childhood trade as a mechanic only when the national situation degraded to the point where he had no choice but to flee Damascus. And Worthy didn’t doubt any of that. Elias seemed highly motivated to pursue anyone associated with ISIS, and seemed to view the Americans as a welcome if unexpected boon to his fortunes. But Worthy sensed the story was incomplete: Elias wasn’t being completely open about something, and he hoped to God it wasn’t some ulterior motive that would undermine the Agency’s objective to locate the rockets.
Ian said, “Well this guy we’re after is definitely leaving the country, and we need to stop that from happening.”
“What has one man done to deserve such attention from America?”
Ian asked, “David?”
Rather than give permission, David replied to the question himself.
“He’s moving a massive payload of rockets, and it’s a safe bet he doesn’t plan on leaving them unused.”
“Ah,” Elias said knowingly. “Yes, this is a problem indeed. But there must be someone else in charge. An ISIS Uyghur would be a foot soldier.”
Ian said, “This one’s calling the shots. Tr
ust me.”
“I believe your intelligence is mistaken.”
“Are you familiar with what’s going on in western China?”
Elias laughed. “The same thing that has always happened: China is crushing any dissent under the weight of her massive Communist heel.”
“It’s more like the Holocaust revisited,” Ian said. “Between one and three million Uyghurs have been arrested, thrown aboard trains, and relocated to political re-education camps for no other crime than being born as Turkic Muslims. The abuse at these camps includes executions, forced labor, abortions, and sterilization. The children are being ripped away from their parents and sent to orphanages for indoctrination. It’s demographic genocide.”
“Please spare me the lesson. I dare say my country’s president has done far worse.”
“Well someone chose this specific Uyghur man for a reason, and it’s not because he’s dumb. Add in the fact that the Chinese government carted off his wife and daughter like cattle to slaughter, imagine how pissed you’d be, and then throw in enough rockets to wipe out downtown Damascus. Now I don’t care if you believe my intelligence or not. We just need to find him, whatever it takes.”
“It sounds like the Chinese should be afraid, not America.”
“Everyone should be afraid,” Ian said, “until we stop him and recover the rockets. If he can’t get them back to China, he’ll use them wherever he can.”
“Well,” Elias said, “this is unusual, but stranger things have happened in Syria. If you people can capture this logistician, I am confident I can obtain the information you require.”
Worthy noted the eerie silence that followed the end of that particular sentence, but before he could consider the means by which a man like Elias would “obtain the information,” the men in his truck caught their first glances of the town ahead.
Zaranj showed no obvious indications of the civil war. As the Land Cruisers made their way through the outskirts, Worthy saw the buildings intact, shops open for business as men, women, and children roamed the sidewalks freely, most of them in semi-Western clothes. There were no signs of government or militant oppression, and while Worthy’s travels abroad had been more limited than anyone on his team, he imagined their current surroundings could have just as easily been in any number of underdeveloped Arab nations that hadn’t descended into chaos and militia control.
As Ian threaded their way along the route, Elias spoke again.
“Once we get him, the interrogation may require some unique methods.”
“No torture,” David said flatly.
“I am telling you, Mr. David, it may not be needed. Those with financial motivations will quickly sing. But if he is hardline Islamic State, I will have to encourage him.”
“Then use your head. Because you’re not hooking up a car battery to some poor bastard’s nipples on my watch.”
Elias recoiled at the accusation.
“Car battery? What do you take me for, a Frenchman in Algiers?”
David shrugged. “If the shoe fits…”
“Perhaps I should simply dress the prisoner in an orange jumpsuit, then waterboard him for my country to prosecute me at some later point.”
Worthy cringed. “Too soon, Elias. Pump the brakes.”
This only seemed to enrage Elias further. “What is the problem? You lose a few thousand in 9/11—waterboarding is A-OK. No problem, my friend. Syria has lost hundreds of thousands since the start of the war, and Islamic State nearly took over the Middle East.”
Then Elias clucked his tongue, going silent without immediate response from anyone in the vehicle.
David finally spoke in a flat tone. “You want to debate geopolitics? Get a side gig as a consultant on C-SPAN once you get back to the States. Until then, watch the road and figure out a way to get our detainee to talk that doesn’t involve torture.”
Elias turned to face forward in the passenger seat, sulking.
“Your friend could at least give me some cigarettes. I have not been able to find Marlboro Reds since Damascus.”
Worthy said, “You should quit. Those things will kill you.”
“If Syria has not killed me yet, perhaps I shall live forever.”
This comment elicited a half-grin from Worthy, an expression that quickly faded as he considered the extent to which his team was operating on a wing and a prayer. Ian had been adamant that short of round-the-clock surveillance on the two flatbed trucks, Bari Khan would find a way to transfer the rockets undetected. Worthy wasn’t so sure, but David’s ultimate decision had been to remain in the fight however possible.
There was a certain logic to his judgment that Worthy couldn’t argue. From what David had explained, their Agency handler was under incredible scrutiny, to say nothing of the pressure to deliver results. After the team’s first outing in the Philippines had suddenly turned into a pilot rescue mission, and the second had seen Bari Khan escape despite a well-laid ambush, they were at risk of total dissolution if they didn’t succeed. And while Worthy was no politician, he knew full well that America’s foray into a covert targeted killing operation was no small leap. If his team couldn’t prove some efficacy in the hours ahead, his country may well abandon the effort for years if not decades—and more than a few terrorist masterminds would likely rise to power as a result.
In the driver’s seat, Ian consulted the tablet in his lap before glancing up at the road and then the adjacent buildings. “We’re almost there. It’s”—he gave a final glance to his right—“that one, blue door.”
David transmitted to the trail vehicle, “Blue door at your two o’clock. Target building.”
Cancer replied, “Truck Two copies.”
Worthy stared out his window, examining the building while keeping his back against the seat so David could see as well.
It was a tan, two-story structure wedged between a similarly unmarked building and an electronics store. Worthy could make out back alleys between and behind the structures, an urban maze that civilians were navigating with ease.
David transmitted, addressing Ian and the trail vehicle simultaneously.
“We’re going to do a few passes around the block, case the alleyways before we take it.”
Cancer confirmed, “Easy day, boss. We’re ready to drop when you are.”
They passed the target house, taking in the details of the city block as Ian turned right to loop around it. Worthy felt his senses and instincts satisfied at the sight before him: unarmed men and women going about their lives, hustling over the sidewalk and across the street as the rhythm of daily life persisted despite the war around them.
But when Ian rounded the second corner, Elias spoke urgently.
“Mr. David, those men do not belong here.”
Worthy scanned out his window, seeking anything out of place amid the bustling civilians. To him, the scene was indistinguishable from the previous city blocks they’d traveled, and he wondered if Elias was making some play to sabotage the mission ahead.
David must have felt the same. “Who are you talking about?”
“Blue jacket, white shirt, and the man in the shalwar kameez without a keffiyeh carrying a backpack. There may be more I cannot see.”
“Who are they?”
“Islamic State sleeper cell, Syrian government proxies, who is to say? They will get our man before we can.”
David said, “Ian, get us to the door.” Then he keyed his radio and transmitted, “Truck Two, Elias sees suspicious military-aged males approaching the target house on foot. Likely trying to get the same guy we are. Advancing to breach now, primary plan in effect. Me, Worthy, and Elias will make entry. Reilly, you back us up and take control of our prisoner. I want both drivers staying behind the wheel and providing outside security, with Nizar on hand if there’s any interference from the locals. Reilly will exfil the prisoner to his truck, and then we proceed to Elias’s friend’s workshop for debrief.”
In the backseat of the rear truck, Reilly felt hi
mself grinning as Cancer keyed his mic in response.
“Truck Two copies, let’s hit him.”
From behind the wheel, Cancer glanced at Reilly in the backseat and said, “If I gotta stay with the vehicle, you better crack some skulls for me, brother.”
Reilly felt a smug sense of anticipation.
“It’s been four days since my last workout. This is going to be fun.”
“That’s my boy.” Cancer nodded, glancing over to see Nizar looking confused in the passenger seat. “What’s the matter, you guys don’t have roid rage here? No Syrian miscreants on the ol’ gym juice?”
Nizar said nothing, clearly confused but having long since resigned himself to letting Cancer say whatever he wanted during the drive into Zaranj.
Reilly knew he was the ideal choice for manhandling a prisoner. If the slight frames of the Arab men he saw on the streets around him were any indication, he’d have no problem whatsoever in getting their detainee out of the building and into the truck. Armed with the knowledge that said detainee was a supporter if not an outright member of ISIS, an organization whose calling cards were mass murder and systematic rape, Reilly thought that he’d pursue his duties with exceptional vigor.
As Cancer wheeled their truck around a street corner and Reilly glimpsed the target building, he saw that Elias was already at the door, pounding on it with a fist. David and Worthy stood off to either side, weapons pointed down, waiting for the door to open.
Then it did, cracking a few inches as Elias took a step backward, and David shouldered his way violently through the doorway.
Cancer braked to a stop with the words, “Go get ’em, killer.”
Reilly leapt out of the truck, rifle at the ready as he darted across a short strip of dirt before bursting through the doorway into the ground floor of the building.
He brought his rifle up toward three figures, none of them his teammates.
