by S L Shelton
Come on guys, I thought. Those rebels need your guns.
Aspen leaned over and nudged me as I searched. “Do you think they know we figured out their secret?” he asked me quietly.
I shook my head. “They’ve been running their deliveries the same way for months. Even the ambush yesterday followed the same pattern,” I replied, “—except for the bombing part.”
He nodded before a worried expression crossed his face. “What do you think made them ambush us like that?” he asked. “That was different.”
I thought about it for a second before responding. “Was it the first time our guys actually had physical contact with the delivery vehicle?” I asked, referring to the Delta Team member who had climbed into the back of the truck which had blown up.
He nodded.
I shook my head. “It may be that all the vehicles are rigged like that,” I said quietly. “Your friend may have just set it off. Or maybe they’re trying something new. They seemed pretty confident they couldn’t be tracked. They may have just been testing to see if we'd discovered them by setting a trap. If we had done anything different, they would have suspected we were on to them.”
“What happens if there’s another one with explosives in it, and we know about it?” he asked. “Won’t they be suspicious if we change tactics on them?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. But they should certainly expect a change in tactics after the bomb anyway,” I replied honestly. “I would.”
This didn’t seem to satisfy his worry, so I added, “But I think that was their test. I think they're moving the devices soon.”
“You have to admit, that was a pretty big statement,” he said. Despite his low tone of voice, I could tell Nick and Apollo were listening, having ceased their chatter.
I thought about his statement for a few beats. “The buyer may be involved now,” I said, going out on a limb. “There’re still too many variables to be sure about anything, but the simulations show delivery soon. If the bomb was a test to see how much we knew, then it’s an unfortunate advantage for us. They will assume we ran into the ambush because we didn’t have the ability to track them by satellite.”
He remained silent.
After a moment of watching the emotions play across his face, I closed my laptop. “I’m sorry about your friends,” I said sincerely. “I’m looking forward to helping you burn the bastards that did it.”
I saw a smile flit across his face for a second and I couldn’t help but notice Apollo was nodding almost imperceptibly. We remained silent for the remainder of the trip to Gaziantep.
When we arrived, we pulled into a barn on the eastern outskirts of the city and then Aspen and I hopped out to close the doors. When I turned back, I saw a friendly looking old man with a long white beard, petting and talking to his goats, coaxing them up a ramp into the back of the truck.
I looked over at the truck we’d be sneaking across the border in. It was an old farm truck—a flatbed with slatted rails on the sides and back. The bed of the truck was a false bottom with just enough room to lay down flat beneath the straw, the goats, and the goat crap.
I hadn’t looked inside yet, but I hoped it was a solid floor above us. It would really suck to be trapped, flat on my back, and have a goat take a whiz above my head.
“Scott,” Nick called as I examined the truck. I turned around.
“You are only to manage the hardware, track the cell signal to get a fix, and activate the tracers,” he said once he had my attention. “You are not to engage. You aren’t to leave the vehicle unless it’s on fire and you are not to expose yourself to danger… in any way.”
“Does that include crawling in there and suffocating in goat shit?” I asked with a grin, pointing out that John had already given the green light for me to get smuggled into Syria to do the tech job. Any suggestion that staying in the truck would keep me safe was ridiculous.
Nick walked over to me and lowered his voice. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said with a half-smile on his face. “I don’t think you should be in the field at all. But apparently John and the old man are convinced you can handle it. Either that or it’s a test.”
My ears perked up. Test! That sounds about right. I’m good at tests.
“Okay,” I said, deciding I had irked Nick enough for one day.
Apollo and Aspen were already placing gear into the hidden compartment.
“Seriously, Scott,” Nick said pretty intensely but with a low voice so the others couldn’t hear. “I know this feels like spy work, but it’s just getting you from point A to point B so you can do the electronic tag and search. No Aston Martins, no Walther PPKs. You are a tech, so let the Delta guys do their job and you do yours.”
I was getting a little impatient with the lecture about my place in the grand scheme of things.
“Got it,” I said, trying to get him to back off a bit. “No spy shit. This is just a normal signal tracking job—except for the goat shit.”
He didn’t think that was funny. He just stared at me for a couple of beats before turning back to Apollo and Aspen. I hefted my bag and double checked the magazines for my Glock, making sure all three were full. Once they were all safely stowed back in my shoulder holster, I pulled up my pant leg to check my Baby Glock.
Satisfied, I joined the Delta guys, loading equipment into the tight compartment in the truck bed. Aspen went in first, laying down flat on his back, his head near the rear of the truck. He rolled up part of his shemagh before tucking it under his neck.
Apollo was next, and I slid in on the far edge—it was a tight fit with all our gear stuffed in at our feet.
“Here,” Nick said as I settled in. He was holding a wad of cash in his hand.
“My allowance?” I asked with a grin.
“Emergency cash. In case you get separated or do something stupid,” he replied coolly as I reached out to take it.
“Got, it,” I replied. “Stupidity and separation cash.”
His lip curled in a mild sneer. “If you get separated, it’s because you did something stupid. So it’s just stupidity cash.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I snarked. “I promise I’ll take out the trash when I get home.”
Nick rolled his eyes as he began to close the back, but paused before latching it.
“Last chance,” he said to me as I craned my neck back to look at him.
Damn it, Nick!
“I’m good,” I responded plainly and watched as the light disappeared with the clank of the hatch.
The only light I could see was coming from the floor beneath us. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust, but once they did, I could see the serious expressions of the other two guys next to me. It was already stuffy, and the smell of goat was most prominent—then someone farted.
“Jesus, Aspen,” Apollo said, pulling his scarf over his nose. “You couldn’t have done that before we got in?”
Aspen just laughed. With that, the truck started, and we began to move.
As we bounced down the dirt road and out onto the highway, I began recalling the movement data on the Serbs I had viewed before we left for Turkey. I was trying to continue the simulations in my head, working on drawing some sort of concrete pattern—and more importantly, a solid lead on a location of the nukes.
“So do you have any ideas where the deliveries are coming from?” Apollo asked as the truck puttered toward the border town of Kargamis. It was on the Turkish and Syrian border, about an hour down the road.
“There are a total of twenty-six suspect locations,” I said. “I like three of them better than the rest. And two I like a lot, but it’s based on speculation. I’m hoping the tags will confirm one of them for us.”
“What are the two you like the most?” Apollo asked.
I hesitated. They were my favorites only because they had a little better than twelve percent more traffic than the others—that was thin.
“Come on,” he said. “I won’t hold you to it. I’m just curious.”
“It’s just a small statistical aberration that makes me think these two are different than the others, but Deir ez-Zur and Mahkan on the eastern side of the country are looking the most promising.”
“What makes them stick out more than the others?” he asked.
“Like I said, there’s a slight statistical bump on the traffic through those two towns,” I replied. “But the kicker is that unlike the others, they aren’t really crossroad locations—that makes them seem more like destinations.”
“What’s the third?” Apollo asked.
“Manbij,” I replied. “Where the rebels are supposed to meet the Serbs.”
“And you don’t like that as much as the other two?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. “Though I did before the rebels requested that the weapons deal go down there.”
“Why did that change its rank on your top ten list?” he asked.
“If you had spent three months laying decoy trails to hide the location of nukes, would you deliver half a truck of small arms to the Syrians in your hometown?” I asked. “The sale is tiny compared to most of their other transactions. It seems like too much risk for such a small payoff—unless they’re counting on it being too small to be detected.”
He was quiet for a moment, then, “Unless they already delivered the nukes and are back to doing normal sales.”
I had actually thought of that. “I don’t think so,” I replied. “The nukes would bring a big payday. Their resources would grow significantly after the sale. I don’t think they’d be wasting time with penny ante transactions.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” he said. “It gives me the willies thinking about those things being out there.”
“Amen,” I replied.
There was a moment of silence where only the rhythmic clacking of the tires was heard and then he asked, “Which one do you think it is?”
I was silent for a minute, having an answer but not wanting to jinx it with a call. “Mahkan,” I replied matter-of-factly. He was a big boy; he knew it was my personal call, not a sure thing. “For the same reason I liked them all—more traffic and no real reason to be there. But Mahkan is a dead-end town except for Route 4 running through it. Stopping there makes no sense unless it’s a destination.”
“I like your confidence,” he said after a moment’s pause.
“Don’t,” I replied just as confidently. “It’s all an act.”
“Good to know,” he said.
I tried to ignore the smell of goat crap and Aspen farts as the map lines crossed and re-crossed in my head. By the time we got to the Syrian border, my flowchart was homing in on the three possible origin points for the Serb deliveries—and Mahkan was looking more and more like the right call. We’d find out soon enough if we could tag a Serb.
“Okay, coming up to the border crossing,” Aspen whispered. He was the only one with an outside view, via a small gap in the side rail of our rolling metal coffin.
We felt the truck rolling to a stop. I heard voices outside and got the distinct feeling they were accompanied by dogs, judging by the sound of toenails clicking on the pavement. A moment passed, and I heard the driver’s door open before closing again as the conversation in Arabic continued.
I suddenly heard sniffing next to my head outside the truck and then felt tapping on my right arm. It only took me a second to realize Apollo was communicating with me in Morse code.
.-. . .-.. .- -..-
(Relax.)
I shortened and quieted my breaths as the dog moved along the edge, sniffing as he moved toward the front. I tapped a message on Apollo’s forearm.
-.. .-. ..- --. -.. --- --. ..--..
(Drug Dog?)
His reply was immediate.
. -..- .--. .-.. --- ... .. ...- . ...
(Explosives.)
I calmed down considerably after that. I knew we didn’t have any with us. The dog continued to move down the edge of the truck and then looped around and came back on the other side. When he reached the back, he began sniffing around outside next to my head again.
Shoo!
I heard claws on the frame and suddenly the goats began to bleat and stomp around, moving away from the dog. I heard something being said and our driver replying.
I felt more Morse code on my arm. Jesus! I’m not a friggin’ telegraph operator. Slow down.
-. --- / ... .... --- --- - .. -. --. / .. ..-. / - .... . -.-- / --- .--. . -. .-.-.- / ... ..- .-. .-. . -. -.. . .-.
(No shooting if they open. Surrender.)
That made sense. We were probably surrounded by Syrian border guards. But I couldn’t help but feel a moment of panic with the mention of the word “surrender”.
A moment later, I heard dog toenail clicks moving away from the truck, followed by the sound of the driver-side door closing. Within moments, we were moving again.
I let out a deep breath as soon as we were up to speed.
“Is it like this every time?” I whispered to Apollo.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Ain’t never crossed like this before.”
I chuckled. “Nice,” I said. “I’m glad you waited until after we were across to tell me that.”
“We still have to go back across.”
“We’ll all be pros by then,” I replied, garnering a chuckle from him.
“Will you guys shut up?” Aspen moaned. “I’m trying to sleep.”
“No time. We’ll be in Jarabulus in about five minutes.” Apollo said, referring to the town just on the other side of the border where we were to pick up our transportation.
“Then I’ll sleep for five minutes,” Aspen replied. “Hush.”
True to his word, he slept for what turned out to be fifteen minutes. It took longer to get through town than we had anticipated. Once we arrived at our destination, I heard a large metal overhead door roll up before we pulled inside an enclosed space. A few seconds after the door closed again, the back hatch opened up.
The friendly looking Middle Eastern man stood there, waving us out. He stood by the door and looked through a crack as we began unloading the gear.
Once the gear was out and loaded into an ancient-looking Range Rover, Apollo thanked the old man and verified he would be back to meet us at 6 a.m. and 6 p.m. for two days until we showed up again. He smiled and nodded at me as I got in and I smiled and nodded back, feeling bad that I hadn’t at least learned how to say “thank you” in Arabic during the prep for this mission.
I climbed into the back and booted up my computer and the satellite connection. Once my tracking algorithm was loaded, I searched for Syrian rebels on my feed, hoping they were still in transit—they were.
“Okay, guys. The rebels are a little more than an hour out from Manbij,” I said as Aspen drove us out of the metal barn. I watched as the old man backed his truck out after us. He was pulling the door closed by the time we went around the corner on the dirt road.
“That gives us a bit of time to pick out a good spot to watch from,” Apollo said. “Manbij is only about half an hour from here.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” I replied. “If the Serbs follow their pattern, they’ll show up at least fifteen minutes before the buyer.”
“That’s okay,” Apollo said as he pulled us onto the hardtop of the highway. “Aspen’s got his nap behind him. We should cover the ground pretty quick.”
I went back to scanning the target area for suspicious traffic as we drove down Route 216. It was so much easier getting targeted imagery from the satellites than it was trying to track on saved data—like I’d had to do when we had been hunting Mark Gaines last month.
So far, the coast looked clear.
“Just so I know where we stand, and don’t sandbag me,” Aspen said as we approached our destination. “Can you handle yourself if we get into a scrape?”
A cold chill ran down my spine despite the hundred plus degree temperature.
“I’m a fair shot,” I replied as sincerely as I could.
“And I’ve been known to get into the occasional fight.”
Apollo leaned over and slapped Aspen on the shoulder. “That’s CIA for ‘I can kill a man with a toothbrush’,” he said chuckling.
“I’m fresh out of toothbrushes,” I said as we pulled up a block from the proposed exchange location, “—and I’m not CIA.” Yet.
“Right,” Aspen said mockingly. “Civilian contractor.”
I flipped to the tagged cell-phone tracker belonging to the Syrian rebels who were buying the Serb's weapons. “The Syrians are about twenty minutes out,” I said, after confirming the location on the satellite feed.
“Do you think the Serbs will show up?” Aspen asked. I also heard him in my earpiece that time. Apollo had turned on the radio.
“Yes,” I said more quietly, now relying on my mic rather than using my voice to carry the conversation. I flipped my radio to the voice-activated setting, or VOX, so I didn’t have to stop typing every time I wanted to talk. “The Serb’s last communication with the rebels was a request for location. The Syrians sent these coordinates. If something had changed, they wouldn’t be on their way here now.”
As I watched the screen, a new yellow tag suddenly appeared in the display, moving toward our location, approximately eight minutes out. There was no label because it wasn’t part of the operation overlay, so I clicked a couple of buttons and then opened the tag to see who it was.
Adb al-Malik Ukil? The Turkish arms dealer. I smiled. Here to keep an eye on your merchandise, Malik?
“Just a heads up,” I said softly into my mic. “We’ve got two deals merging in one place.”
“What’s that mean?” Apollo asked, turning in his seat.
I wondered if Nick or John were monitoring our radio. “Momma or Spartan, are you monitoring this channel, over?” I said.
A few seconds went by and then I heard Nick’s voice. “Monkey Wrench, this is Spartan. Go,” came the reply.
“Spartan, Monkey Wrench. Your buddy with the noisy phone just cruised onto my display,” I said—rather than saying 'I told you so' as I wanted to.
