The Enemies of My Country

by Jason Kasper

  He fired once, and the weapon thumped sharply in his grasp as a 5.56mm round whipped through the man’s jugular, sending a spray of dark arterial blood in a wide splatter.

  Finally, the downed gunner was still.

  “Clear!” Cancer shouted, then transmitted for anyone who hadn’t heard, “Machine gunner is down.”

  Releasing his transmit switch, he heard David reply, “Thank God—nice shooting, Cancer.”

  Then he realized that the sounds of battle had ended altogether—there was no more gunfire, whether incoming or outgoing, and he quickly mounted the back of the truck. Placing a boot atop the chest of a dead fighter below him, he assumed a firing position over the roof, searching for targets amid the rock formations and finding none.

  David, Worthy, and Ian were scrambling toward the rocks, fanning out to locate any surviving fighters while Cancer and Reilly covered their movement. But no enemy reappeared, and Cancer heard the double whuffs of suppressed shots as the maneuver element dispatched any dead or wounded fighters they found.

  Within thirty seconds, David transmitted, “Objective is clear. We’re heading back to the trucks.”

  I keyed my mic and transmitted, “Raptor Nine One, this is Suicide Actual.”

  Duchess replied, “Send your traffic.”

  “We just engaged an enemy checkpoint, six EKIA. Conducting SE now.” I sent a ten-digit grid location, then added, “Will update when able.”

  “Copy all,” she transmitted back, sounding inconvenienced by my radio contact. I understood why when she continued, “Be advised, units are about to initiate raids in Sepaya. Expect to have cargo located within a few minutes. Be prepared for on-order helicopter exfil.”

  “Good news, we’ll be ready. Suicide out.”

  Turning toward the sound of footsteps jogging to a halt beside me, I saw Cancer’s sweaty face looking resplendently at peace in the wake of a gunfight.

  “Hey, boss,” he said, “the boys are almost done. What do you got?”

  “Duchess is running military raids in Sepaya, expects to find the rockets in a few minutes. We need to be ready for helicopter exfil, and if none of the vehicles are functional, it’s going to mean a foot movement away from the road.”

  “Hallelujah,” he replied. “I’m ready to get out of this shithole.”

  “Amen.”

  Then Reilly jogged back to us, a quiver of foreign assault rifles slung over his shoulder.

  “We’re finished searching the bodies,” he said, depositing his rifles on the ground. “Ian’s got the intel.”

  Ian wasn’t far behind him, carrying a burlap sack as he called out, “Found a half-dozen cell phones and some handwritten notes. Nizar can translate to be sure, but everything looks like personal effects. Doubt we’ll get anything useful out of it.”

  Elias and Worthy arrived a moment later, returning from their vehicle assessment.

  Worthy announced, “Both our team vehicles are shot to shit.”

  Elias nodded and sparked up a fresh Marlboro.

  “They are beyond all hope,” he said sadly. “You can smell every type of engine fluid from ten feet away.”

  “Even gasoline?”

  “Oh yes.” He took another drag, exhaling smoke as he added, “Especially this.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Then maybe smoking isn’t the best idea.”

  Elias looked at the cigarette in his hand with a renewed respect, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him until now.

  “Well”—he shrugged—“this will be my last smoke until we are on our way again. The enemy vehicles are functional.”

  I looked to Worthy, who gave me a short nod of confirmation.

  Then I turned to appraise the two ISIS pickups—they’d been dented and battered before our arrival, and courtesy of our brief engagement with the checkpoint personnel, were now pockmarked with bullet holes.

  But they were otherwise intact, each draped with a black flag bearing words that translated to, “No God but Allah,” and beneath them a white circle inscribed with, “Muhammad is the Messenger of God,” all written in deliberately primitive-looking Arabic script though it had been originally designed on an ISIS computer in 2007.

  What the hell, I thought, this made about as much sense as everything else on this mission so far. And after thirteen hours on the ground in Syria, if we were about to move toward a helicopter extraction, it was far better to drive than walk.

  I announced, “Congratulations, we just became honorary members of ISIS.”

  Cancer, as ever, translated my impulsive statement into an actionable order. “Everyone but David and Elias, get to work transferring the fuel cans and equipment. We’re on call for helicopter exfil, and I want us ready to move in three minutes tops.”

  They moved out to the team trucks, leaving me and Elias.

  I asked him, “You ready?”

  Elias nodded, leading the way to the ISIS truck with the machinegun mounted in the bed and a long-range radio antenna on the roof.

  Elias sat in the driver’s seat while I stood beside the open door, watching. He reached for the radio console and found the hand mic.

  But instead of transmitting, he held his breath.

  And then...nothing happened. He just sat there, holding his breath, until I rapped him on the shoulder.

  “You going to transmit, or is this some Syrian meditation technique?”

  Releasing his breath, Elias responded irritably, “I have listened to hundreds of radio transmissions from Islamic State. If there is a fight, they never speak calmly. Would you like me to do this thing, or do you want to find out how convincing your Arabic is to them?”

  I took a step away from him without another word.

  Elias exhaled, then postponed breathing until his face turned red.

  Once it had, he brought the mic to his face and began shouting.

  “Laqad hasalna ealayhim!”

  A voice responded in Arabic, the intonation of a question rounding the end of the sentence.

  “Arbet kafaar wa wahid—aintazar.”

  He shouted a question in Arabic, releasing the transmit button mid-sentence, then resumed his radio conversation between gasping breaths. “Khamset kafaar wa rajul suriun.”

  Then he looked at me and said, “Have someone fire an ISIS weapon the next time I speak.”

  Looking for the nearest team member, I found Reilly hoisting two fuel cans as he shuffled toward us.

  “Doc,” I called, “grab an AK and give some celebratory fire on my mark.”

  Reilly responded eagerly, setting down the fuel cans and retrieving one of his captured rifles before aiming it skyward.

  When Elias began speaking again, I gave Reilly a thumbs-up.

  He unleashed one long burst of automatic gunfire, then another. On the second volley, he added a shrill victory cry.

  Elias lowered the hand mic and shouted, “Enough! I cannot hear their response.”

  “Sorry.” Reilly lowered the rifle barrel. “I’m starting to see why they do that—felt pretty good, if I’m being honest.”

  Ignoring him, Elias was squinting in concentration as he listened carefully to the voice speaking in an authoritative tone.

  Then he transmitted a final sentence before dropping the mic and looking to David.

  “He said to load all the bodies and equipment for the purposes of propaganda. Then to proceed to their location and rejoin the force.”

  “In Sepaya?” David asked.

  “No.” Elias shook his head. “In a town called Ibrahimkhel.”

  23

  Jo Ann watched the Sepaya raid commence with a sense of sheer awe.

  She wasn’t a stranger to viewing such proceedings—to the contrary, she couldn’t have begun to estimate the number of live operations she’d seen unfolding, first during her staff time with SEAL Team Six and then JSOC Headquarters.

  But the sheer audacity with which these men routinely operated was mind-bending.

  They’d been wheel
s-up on their helicopters within literal minutes of the plan being finalized, lifting off to roar across the Syrian desert on their way to the objective.

  And now, those aircraft were swarming into enemy-held positions in Sepaya.

  On one screen, a Blackhawk helicopter hovered over a rooftop as the team of assaulters expertly slid down fast ropes. On another, a massive Chinook was touching down in a field, twin lines of men racing off the open ramp and heading to separate buildings. The third screen showed a helicopter waving off its planned landing zone when enemy gunfire erupted from a nearby tree line—the aircraft flew a wide orbit out of the area, displacing to an alternate landing zone and clearing the area for an inbound bombing run.

  There was a strange order to the pandemonium, the threads of seamless military organization visible even amid the shifting maelstrom of multiple teams engaged in gunfights, clearing buildings, or moving toward secondary targets once they’d killed everyone at their primary objective.

  Two Delta troops meant close to forty shooters, supported by a full contingent of enablers—medics, dog handlers, and radio operators—each at the pinnacle of training and experience.

  When these hits occurred during the hours of darkness, as they usually did, their outdoor movement tended to be slower, more methodical, maximizing security under the benefit of the best night vision that money could buy. But this was a daylight raid, where any dickhead with a gun could see them plain as day from any window perch in the city.

  That meant the operators were moving like greased lightning to force their way inside and between buildings. One second, the structures were standing as they had on any other day. The next, they were being penetrated from multiple angles simultaneously by teams of armed men moving with impossible speed. Somewhere in between those two moments in time were the door and window breaches, which an observer would miss if they so much as blinked.

  Meanwhile, the entire OPCEN stood by to process intelligence that could lead to the rockets, with Duchess on split-second response to order all teams to consolidate to their location once found.

  But their wait went unanswered.

  One by one, the ground teams reported their objectives cleared, personnel accounted for, the number of enemy killed in action. A few men had sustained minor injuries, with a medical evacuation summoned for one who’d nearly been killed by an enemy hand grenade, but he had since been stabilized and was ready for transport.

  And over and over, Jo Ann heard the same two words at the end of the radio reports.

  No joy.

  No rockets located, no intelligence gleaned that would lead to a follow-on objective. They’d conquered their respective targets and killed eighteen ISIS fighters, and that didn’t include estimates of the fighter and attack pilots who’d executed air-to-ground strikes in the conduct of the mission.

  Jo Ann and Duchess had brought every available shooter to Sepaya, to say nothing of the massive logistical chain connecting exfil assets, quick response forces, and aircraft rotation for refueling and rearmament, and it had amounted to precisely nothing.

  Then the speaker box on Duchess’s desk squawked with a new transmission.

  “Duchess, this is Suicide Actual.”

  This time, Duchess didn’t pick up the hand mic as an afterthought. This time, the speed with which she replied indicated she’d realized the same two things Jo Ann had. First, the team leader referred to her by her personal callsign rather than that of the OPCEN, indicating that his transmission was of extreme importance.

  And second, whatever he was about to say likely represented their last chance of finding the rockets.

  “Duchess here. Send it.”

  “Transmissions over captured enemy radio indicate cargo has been diverted to Ibrahimkhel, how copy?”

  The timing of this information couldn’t have been much worse, arriving on the heels of maximum expenditure of all military assets in the area. If they’d found out even fifteen minutes prior, they could have redirected the strike force—now, it would take a major muscle movement from every supporting asset to refit and transport the shooters.

  Duchess and Jo Ann immediately pulled up the village on their respective computers, and Duchess called out, “How long to relocate the strike force from Sepaya to Ibrahimkhel?”

  Sutherland said, “Between the MEDEVAC and refuel times for transport assets, they could hit the ground in ninety minutes if we’re lucky. I could get surveillance platforms on-line before that, but not by much.”

  “Get them moving, and shift all surveillance platforms to Ibrahimkhel,” Duchess called back. “Everyone else get to work building target packets for suspected cargo transfer points. Same drill as Sepaya.”

  Jo Ann consulted the last reported location of David’s team, unsure what she was supposed to feel about their current proximity to the city. On one hand, they could arrive in less than half the time it would take the strike force helicopters to land there—on the other, Gossweiler had expressly told her that all further action was to be military-only.

  David spoke again. “Duchess, I say again, cargo routed to Ibrahimkhel, how copy?”

  “I copy all,” she replied. “The strike force will need an hour and a half to consolidate and move there before they can action targets.”

  The team leader’s response was almost smug.

  “And fancy that, we’re just under an hour away. Advise my team proceeds to Ibrahimkhel to reconnoiter for cargo location in advance of strike force arrival. We’ll be continuing mission in two captured ISIS trucks, so please see to it that we don’t get smoked in a Coalition airstrike.”

  He said the word “advise” as if he were speaking an order, and rather than be irritated, Duchess instead seized the opportunity to usurp Senator Gossweiler for the second time in five hours.

  “Negative, my orders are to exfil you ASAP,” she transmitted back, quickly adding, “However, since the strike force is rerouting to Ibrahimkhel, I assess that as the safest spot for exfil. Proceed there and…” She inserted some strategic pauses. “Stand by…for link-up…and exfil.”

  There was a long pause as the team leader interpreted the tone and spacing of Duchess’s order. Jo Ann felt a wave of frustration at Duchess’s insubordination, but she had to hand it to the woman: this wasn’t her first time bending the rules.

  Neither her tone nor the pauses between words would be discernable on the transcript of communications emerging in the aftermath of the mission, but both may as well have been a direct order for the team leader to proceed into Ibrahimkhel as recon element for the strike force, just as he’d recommended in the first place.

  At least, Jo Ann thought, if the team leader was as perceptive as she suspected.

  “Copy all, we’re en route and will be standing by for further guidance regarding link-up and exfil. Continuing to monitor enemy radio frequency, will advise if we hear any intel. Suicide out.”

  Duchess set down the hand mic, looking pleased that her unspoken order had been sufficiently received.

  Jo Ann said, “Well, that was clever.”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, the only thing missing was one of you pretending to have radio issues. But this is a bad idea.”

  “The thought hadn’t occurred to me.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Duchess tapped a fist against her opposite palm. “Gossweiler is already sending me to some outpost in the Arctic Circle to steam open envelopes until I retire. Let me worry about the fallout.”

  “Senator Gossweiler,” Jo Ann replied angrily, “could shut down Project Longwing in its entirety as a result of this. This calls into question the Agency’s ability to operate within very specific guidelines—it’s not just about you anymore.”

  “It never was just about me. If Bari Khan makes it out of Syria with the cargo, it doesn’t matter whether we protect Charlottesville or not.”

  “The analysts haven’t found evidence in support of a terrorist attack in Charlottesville.”

>   “Not yet,” Duchess said, “and so what? Bari Khan could use them anywhere in the world, and depending on where he points those rockets, we could be looking at the highest casualty terrorist strike in history. And I’m not ending my command of this program until I’ve done everything in my power to stop that from happening.”

  24

  Wei Zhao approached the bow of his yacht, stopping at the rail to let the salty breeze whip across his half-buttoned linen shirt.

  He came out here often during his passages to think, to focus, to appraise the world behind mirrored sunglasses. From this leading edge of his yacht, he had a sense of acceleration, of limitless opportunity.

  The horizon was an endless expanse of rolling blue ocean, the seascape both invigorating and humbling. On land he was a billionaire, a business magnate surrounded most of the time by an entourage of assistants and colleagues. But out here, he was a speck on the ocean, an infinitesimally small presence that Mother Nature could obliterate at any time. That was one of the reasons he liked going to sea and did it often—to remind himself of his mortality, to consider what really mattered in this world.

  Another reason, of course, was to enjoy his yacht.

  Named after Homer’s six-headed sea monster, the Scylla was a 140-foot-long marvel of luxury yacht construction, one that had taken him three years and over twenty million dollars to build. It was a completely custom project, designed with the aid of a famed naval architect and built by the Italian firm Patrizio Limited.

  He’d commissioned the yacht with an eye to the essentials required for easy access—namely, a helipad—as well as those required by cultural relevance, hence the square tables spread throughout the lounge for playing mahjong, the traditional Chinese tile game. There were also the “water toys,” jet skis and scuba equipment, though they were largely reserved for his guests. Zhao had little interest in splashing around the water like a schoolboy on a family vacation. The same applied to the yacht’s ten-guest capacity, only maximized when he was entertaining business prospects or loaning a charter to his most trusted colleagues.