“You still there, boss?” Smith asked, snapping Jarvis back to the present.
“Yeah, sorry,” Jarvis said. “Did you try him on his secure sat?”
“Yes. Nothing. Baldwin is trying to triangulate a position, but the phone might be powered off or damaged.”
“Shane, I think we need to consider the possibility Dempsey’s helo crashed.”
“That’s exactly where my mind was going,” Smith said, his voice rife with tension.
Jarvis had watched Smith and Dempsey become close over the past six months—something both inevitable and unfortunate in this line of work. He understood Smith’s angst all too well, but angst was a cognitive liability Jarvis couldn’t afford to indulge.
“What’s your plan, Ops O?” he asked, trying to get Smith on point.
“I want to put the rest of Special Activities on a jet to Iraq and get Dempsey out.”
Jarvis paused long enough for Smith to think he struggled with the decision. “No. We have too much exposure on this already. Work with your contacts at the base to task a drone to look for a downed helo, and start planning a rescue mission with the SEAL team. I’ll try to get you some satellite time to augment the search. Keep me apprised if Ian finds the phone.”
After a noteworthy pause came Smith’s, “Yes, sir.” The formality flagged his disappointment.
Jarvis slipped into the role of Tier One commander from his past. It was what Smith needed. “He’ll be all right, Shane,” he said with unbridled confidence. “In case you’ve forgotten, Dempsey is a very hard man to kill.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Smith said, his voice reflecting back some of Jarvis’s assuredness.
“Hell, what we really need to be worried about is Dempsey taking on ISIS all by himself. He’s probably out there kicking ass and stacking jihadist bodies like cordwood. How am I going to explain that to the DNI?”
Smith laughed, then said, “I’ll call you with a SITREP in an hour, if not sooner.”
“Roger that.”
Jarvis tossed the phone onto the desk and added a knuckle to his other temple. He closed his eyes and let his brain do what came naturally. Strategic options and variables began to take shape, organizing themselves into a decision tree with logic gates. Seconds later, he was sketching the details on a piece of paper—his hand flying over the page. As he drew, his mind assigned colors to the different lines, estimating probabilities based on his twenty years of experience planning and running Tier One missions. When he was finished, he had a roadmap to help guide Ember through this quagmire.
Only one of the paths ended with Dempsey coming home safe with his NOC intact. The other outcomes all required various degrees of damage control, and damage control was expensive. Not in a financial sense, but in a parasitic one. Anything that diverted his attention from his penultimate goal was expensive. Ember’s original charter had been to find those responsible for massacring the Tier One SEALs in Yemen and take any and all action to make sure something like that never happened again. They had made those connections. They had found the mastermind of the attack, VEVAK’s Director of Operations, Amir Modiri. They had also identified the US government official who had leaked information to the Iranians prior to the attack. But unlike Dempsey, who still desired vengeance, Jarvis’s objectives were more pragmatic: He sought a reckoning. A rebalancing of power in the Middle East. VEVAK, and its expanding network of clandestine operatives, was secretly and quietly wreaking havoc throughout the region. The new “moderate” Iran was a chimera—an illusion designed to hide its growing dogmatic and militant aspirations. If he could unmask Iran’s intentions—to leverage the activity of terrorist groups like Al Qaeda and ISIS to aid its rise to global power—then the world would reassess. An Iran that facilitated terror operations was a very, very dangerous development. And so to truly fulfill his charter, he needed to penetrate Modiri’s network, learn his allies and operations, and crush them.
He sighed, blowing air through his teeth in a long, measured exhale.
A balloon, deflating.
At times like this, he wished he had a kindred soul he could talk to—an equal to strategize with, parlay ideas, and vet his logic. He glanced at his phone and considered calling Levi Harel. The legendary former Mossad Director was the closest thing to a friend Jarvis had in this mad world. They had not spoken in months, not since Harel had helped him track down one of Modiri’s field operatives in Frankfurt. Without the Mossad’s help, Ember would have never been able to foil Modiri’s brilliant terror plot at the United Nations. In gratitude, Jarvis had promised to reciprocate anytime, no matter the cost, no matter the risk. Harel had yet to call in the favor.
He picked up the secure phone, scrolled through the contact list, and stared at Harel’s number. After a long pause, he changed his mind. He knew exactly what he needed to do; no affirmation was required. He went back to his paper and worked on his damage-control plans for each of the possible outcomes of Dempsey missing in Iraq. When the next call came in from Smith, he would be ready to make decisions and give orders without delay.
Then, and only then, would he call the DNI.
CHAPTER 5
Wreckage of the Mi-17 Helicopter
Fifty-Five Kilometers Southeast of Haditha, Eight Kilometers West of Al Wadi Thar Thar, Iraq
0645 Local Time
Dempsey opened his eyes.
A beam of light streamed in through a porthole window overhead. He was on his back, lying on something hard and uncomfortable. He heard someone groan and then gurgle. A surge of adrenaline burned the cobwebs from his mind, and he immediately understood where he was and what had just happened. He didn’t think he’d lost consciousness when they crashed, but maybe.
Maybe.
His hands flew over his chest, abdomen, flanks, and thighs—checking for wetness, deformity, or pain. Feeling none of these things, he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and saw a smear of blood on his sleeve and hand. He probed and found the wound. It felt small and shallow, a laceration a couple of inches above his left ear. Scalp wounds were bleeders and looked ugly, but so long as his skull was intact, he’d be fine.
He got himself up into a crouch. What remained of the mangled Russian helo was rolled on its side. He was squatting on the starboard wall—now the floor—directly below the port-side slider door.
He stood, and a jolt of pain immediately flared across his lower back and down his left leg. He repositioned his left boot, straightened his hips, and the angry nerve settled down—just an old back injury aggravated by the crash. Given the circumstances, he’d take it. He was fine. Absolutely fucking fine. He’d survived a helicopter crash virtually unscathed. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for his travel companions. The prisoner, still lashed to the starboard bench seat, moaned. The man’s left forearm had a new and extra joint. His hand dangled, twisted at an impossible angle where the bones had snapped on impact against the seat rail. Dempsey wondered if the man had a concussion, or internal injuries, or both. Time would tell. He stepped around the prisoner and worked his way aft. In the back of the cargo compartment, he found Chunk kneeling beside the younger SEAL, pulling a dry dressing from his blowout kit.
“You guys alive back here?” Dempsey said, putting a hand on the Lieutenant’s shoulder and hunching over for a better view of the injured SEAL.
“I’m fine, but Patch here got himself a new knee,” Chunk said, pressing the dressing against the bone protruding through a tear in the SEAL’s BDUs.
“Son of a bitch, Chunk,” Patch hissed at his platoon leader. “Aggahh . . . the bones ain’t going back together, bro.”
“Thanks again for inviting us to your party,” Chunk grumbled over his shoulder at Dempsey.
“You’re welcome. Next time, I’ll rent a limo.” Turning toward the cockpit, he added, “I’m gonna go check on the pilot, see how he’s doing.”
“The pilot is kinda fucked,” called a strained voice from the front of the helo.
Dempsey worked his way forward, stepping over the dazed terrorist once again. He stuck his head into the horizontal doorway and looked up. The pilot hung suspended, still in his seat, with the control panel collapsed against his lap, trapping his legs. The Army aviator gripped a SOPMOD M4 in his right hand and was straining to see out the shattered windshield.
“You okay?” Dempsey asked.
The pilot looked down at him, face tense with worry. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t feel like anything’s broken, but I’m hard-pinned. My legs are numb.”
“Can you move your toes?”
“Yeah,” the pilot said, nodding. “I think so.”
“That’s good. Any pain?”
“No, not really.”
Dempsey put a hand on the man’s cheek. His skin was warm and flushed. That was a good sign; had the pilot been cold and clammy, it would have been an indicator of shock. On the flip side, even the most horrific injuries were virtually painless in the heat of battle. He’d seen soldiers with their legs blown off look surprised and confused when they couldn’t stand up. There was no way to be absolutely certain whether the pilot was injured until they got him out of that damn chair.
“All right, I need you to listen to me, bro,” Dempsey said, all business. “The a-holes who shot us down are coming. I can guaran-fucking-tee that, so we need to be ready.”
The pilot nodded.
“How far did we go after we got hit, and in what direction?”
“I turned us northeast toward the lake. The blast didn’t take out the rotors, so I kept us flyin’ until I lost my hydraulics and flight controls. That’s when I brought her in.” The pilot let out a slow, shuddering breath. “We flew a bit before we screwed it—ten miles, maybe more. Sorry I blew the landing.”
Dempsey shook his head. “Are you kidding me? You did great, man. You saved all our asses. As far as helo crashes go, this ranks as my best ever.”
The pilot raised a brow. “How many helo crashes you been in?”
“One.” Then, with a shit-eating grin, he said, “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll just be hanging out.”
Dempsey climbed back into the cargo compartment and looked at the port-side slider door overhead. If the pilot was right about opening up some distance from the shooters, then he’d bought them some time. If the helo wasn’t pouring out smoke like some giant marker beacon, they might be lost on the horizon, well beyond the shooters’ line of sight.
Better go find out.
“Chunk, come help me with this door,” Dempsey called. The SEAL officer nodded and made his way forward. It took both of them straining to pull back the insanely heavy door. Then Dempsey scrambled out the opening and sprawled prone on the top of the tipped-over helicopter. From the elevated vantage point—nine feet, Dempsey estimated—he began scanning the desert over his rifle sights. Seconds later Chunk joined him, scanning the opposite 180-degree arc.
“How’s Patch?” Dempsey asked.
“Compound fracture. Tibia’s snapped in half. Fibula seems to be intact.”
“Arterial bleeding? Did he need a tourniquet?”
“No. I splinted the leg. He’s a tough motherfucker, that one. The whole time I was working on him, the only name he cursed in vain was yours.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dempsey mumbled. Far off to the south, a hint of a dust cloud on the horizon caught his eye. “Hey, take a look south, two-zero-zero.”
Chunk shifted his body. “That kick-up of dust on the horizon? You think that’s the shooters heading our way?”
“It’s the right direction.”
“Shit. How far you reckon they are?”
Dempsey performed a quick line-of-sight calculation using mental thumb-rules combining the height of the dust cloud and the height of their vantage point. “Twelve miles, max.”
“That’s not good.”
“Anything to the north?”
“No—clear to the north. I can just make out the lake on the horizon.”
“Even if we can get the pilot out, we won’t make the lake. With Patch on a busted leg and our jacked-up prisoner, we’d be lucky to make two miles,” Dempsey said, his anger rising. “Fuck.”
“What I wouldn’t give for a Little Bird right about now.”
“Did you call it in?”
“Can’t,” Chunk said, grim-faced. “My phone has power but no signal. And the helicopter’s comms are toast. How about you?”
Well, shit. Yeah, how about me? Dempsey thought, chastising himself for not checking his sat phone five minutes ago. He rolled onto his side and slid the phone out of his pocket. After a boot-up period, the compact little phone acquired a usable satellite signal. A second later, a small envelope appeared in the bottom of the screen.
Dempsey smiled. “We might be good here,” he said to Chunk.
He skipped the message, which of course was from Smith, and pressed the number two on the keypad. There was a single chirp in his ear—the call connected—and then came Smith’s worried voice. “Are you okay? Talk to me.”
“Been better,” Dempsey said, and looked over at Chunk and gave a thumbs-up. “We need an EXFIL, like right fucking now. We got two wounded—a team guy and our ISIS captive—and a pilot who’s pinned in the wreckage of the helo.”
“What the fuck happened?”
Dempsey shook his head in frustration. “Time for that later.” He squinted at the southern horizon, where the dust trail seemed to be growing larger. “We’ve got at least two trucks, loaded with shitheads, closing on our position. We need the cavalry—a Little Bird or a drone carrying Hellfires.”
“I’m messaging Baldwin now to triangulate your signal, and I’m trying to get the JSOC commander online. Stand by and I’ll be right back with you.”
Smith was gone without a parting word.
Dempsey snapped the phone shut and looked over at Chunk.
“Gonna be tight,” Chunk said, his characteristic grin notably absent.
“If the JSOTF has a Quick Reaction Force stood up in Baghdad, we could get a quick launch and still have a chance. Otherwise, Irbil is too fucking far. By the time they get here, it will be over.”
“Maybe they have a Predator in the air.”
“What are the odds of that?”
“Coin flip at best,” Chunk said flatly.
“My thoughts exactly.”
“So what’s our next move?”
“We have to dig in and plan for the fact the cavalry ain’t gonna make it in time. Let’s get the pilot free and see if we can’t set up the fifty cals. If we can position those heavy machine guns for cover fire, it may buy us some time.” Then, looking the SEAL officer in the eyes, he said, “Hooyah, frogman.”
“Hooyah!” Chunk barked back.
Dempsey watched him disappear into the crumpled helicopter. It was not lost on him that Chunk had looked to him for both direction and affirmation. In the Teams, a senior NCO like Dempsey, with tons of experience, worked closely with the midgrade officers. Hell, they often led the ops when circumstances demanded. In the heat of the moment, Dempsey had instinctively slid into the NCO role and taken control.
He stared at the phone in his hand and willed it to chirp with good news. “Come on, Shane,” he whispered. “I need ya, bro.”
“You coming or what?” Chunk called up from below.
“On my way.”
He glanced one more time at the dust cloud on the horizon before lowering himself into the hole. Too many SEALs had died in this shithole country on his watch. He had no idea how he was going to get Chunk and the others out of this mess, but one thing was certain . . . he’d either find a way, or die trying.
CHAPTER 6
607 Horseshoe Drive
Williamsburg, Virginia
0055 Local Time
Whether the Fates were conspiring to help him or hurt him, Jarvis could not tell. Dempsey was alive, but beyond that there was little about his situation that inspired hope
: shot down in ISIS-controlled Iraq, an injured SEAL, an injured prisoner, two enemy bogies inbound, and no cavalry within a hundred clicks. Without backup, he calculated the odds of Dempsey’s survival at 25 percent. Yet somehow, despite the odds, Jarvis couldn’t help feeling he’d just dodged a bullet.
Whenever he felt that way, it was invariably time to call the boss.
He picked up his mobile and speed dialed the Director of National Intelligence at his northern Virginia home. The phone picked up on the second ring.
“Yes?” Philips’s voice was crisp, clear, and demanding. Maybe it was conditioning from decades of late-night calls over his long and decorated Naval career—commanding F-14 squadrons, then aircraft carriers, then carrier battle groups, and eventually the whole damn fleet. Or maybe the aviator simply didn’t sleep.
“I have an update on our operation,” Jarvis said, his voice decidedly neutral. “I’m on a secure line.”
There was a pause. Perhaps the DNI had been asleep after all, and this was him leaving the bed where his wife still lay sleeping. “Go,” Philips said at last.
Jarvis spent the next five minutes updating his boss on everything that had happened. When he finished, Philips simply said, “Well, that’s bad.”
The gravity of the understatement was not lost on Jarvis. In the world of covert affairs, bad ended careers, put untouchables in front of congressional committees, landed demagogues in federal prison, and toppled administrations. Yeah—this was fucking bad.
“Yes, sir,” he said, plainly and without excuse.
“I don’t suppose you have any good news for me?”
“I do,” Jarvis said, willing it to be true. “We have comms with my guy on the ground and a rescue in progress. The plan is to secure the scene, EXFIL our personnel and the prisoner, and be ghosts within the hour.”
“What is the visibility here?” Philips asked softly.
Jarvis could tell from his tone that asking this question was a source of personal heartburn. There were men and there were titles. For the Director of National Intelligence, managing the big picture was the top priority. Whether four Americans lived or died was less important than the geopolitical fallout the United States would face from a failed covert operation. That was the business—something Jarvis had made peace with long ago.
War Shadows (Tier One Thrillers Book 2) Page 6
