by S L Shelton
“Spartan, this is Monkey Wrench,” I whispered between refrains of my new ear worm. “The Serb is wearing tag number nine, and one of the Syrians is wearing ten.”
There was a long pause and then my earpiece cracked to life. It was the sound of laughter—it sounded like Apollo.
“Acknowledged, Monkey Wrench,” came Nick’s bitter reply. “Apollo, if you can pull yourself together, can you swing by and pick Monkey Wrench up?”
“Roger that,” Apollo said, barely containing his snickering. “Pop a tag, Monkey Wrench.”
I peeled another tag off the sheet. “Tag eleven,” I replied.
“Acknowledged,” came Apollo’s voice, still struggling to maintain himself through his laughter.
A few seconds later, I heard John’s voice again. “Monkey Wrench, this is Momma. Good job—and, great singing voice by the way.”
Okay, okay. I’m still out in the open here.
“Danke,” I replied as I disappeared around the corner, losing site of our targets.
nine
Sunday, September 5th
4:15 a.m.—Ar Raqqah, Syria - 135 kilometers southeast of Manbij
NEVEN—the Bosnian Serb who had just made a lot of money with the rocket and arms sales to Ukil and the Syrian Rebels—was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open on the road. As he drove through the gate at the estate in Ar Raqqah, he sighed in relief that he would finally be able to sleep.
He grabbed his jacket and the bag of money from the passenger seat before staggering up the long staircase and into the house. He didn’t even notice the extra vehicles in the driveway.
“Where have you been?” one of his comrades asked in Serbian.
Neven tensed at the unexpected confrontation—he had hoped it would be too early for everyone. “The deal in Manbij,” he said. “The rockets for the Turk.”
“You know Harbinger is here,” his friend replied. “He doesn't want anyone leaving the group until we transfer the warheads.”
“Screw the American,” Neven spat. “It’s their fault Jovanovich is dead. Who is he to dictate to us?”
Just then, the giant walked into the room, ducking through the doorway to avoid hitting his head. Neven nervously smiled at him as Harbinger came into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, eliciting a creaking moan from its wooden frame in protest.
“Late night?” Harbinger asked in English.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Neven muttered in Serbian, thinking it protected him.
“He was with girl,” his friend replied for him in broken English.
Neven dropped his bag of money into the open chest that was being packed for departure and tossed his jacket in on top of the bag.
Harbinger pushed away from the counter and stood in front of Neven. “This one speaks English,” the big man said with a mild grin on his face. “I want to hear it from him.”
Neven swallowed hard, blinking several times before drawing the courage to lie to the giant. “I was with girl,” he said quietly.
Harbinger nodded and reached down into the chest, pushing Neven’s jacket to the side before grabbing the small duffel bag containing the money. Neven reached out and tried to push the big man’s hand away, but it was like trying to push a tree.
Harbinger grabbed the Serb’s shoulder with his free hand and pulled him away from the chest. “What did your girl give you?” Harbinger asked as he opened the bag—and then he grinned broadly. “Well. That’s better than giving you the clap,” he jested bitterly before shoving Neven into a chair.
The Serb reached for his pistol, but one of Harbinger’s men grabbed his arm from behind and stripped the weapon from his holster.
“I thought I had made it clear that we would be focusing on the transfer of the nuclear devices,” Harbinger said calmly. “That we wouldn’t be taking any additional side deals unless we were using them as bait.”
“I was careful,” Neven snapped defensively. “Syrians and the Turk. You’ve dealt with both of them.”
“Who I have or have not dealt with is of no importance,” Harbinger said, pulling a chair around backward in front of Neven. “We have a great deal of expense tied up in these weapons already, and we can’t risk losing them again.”
“I’m telling you, I was careful,” Neven exclaimed, becoming ever more nervous as Harbinger straddled the chair in front of him and leaned forward, his face only inches away from his own. “The Syrians just got a load of small arms and ammunition, and the Turk got the rockets he asked for.”
“And you swept everyone for bugs?” Harbinger asked with an almost-friendly tone.
Neven hesitated. He had not swept anyone, nor had he seen the need to.
“Did you see anyone you hadn’t dealt with before?” Harbinger continued, using the same friendly manner.
“No,” Neven said quickly. “Just Ukil and the Syrians. There was no one else. Even on the street it was quiet…except for one drunk German.”
Harbinger glared at Neven curiously. “A drunk German?” he asked. “In Syria?”
“A contractor of some sort,” Neven sputtered, grasping for an answer. “The western towns are filled with them.”
Harbinger nodded and then dropped his head in thought. After a moment, he looked back to Neven. “Where is Ukil now?”
“How should I know? He was still transferring weapons when I left Manbij,” he replied.
Harbinger turned and looked at one of his men.
“Ukil usually crosses at Akçakale,” Harbinger’s man volunteered. “He has border guards paid off on both sides.”
Harbinger returned his gaze to Neven. “Your phone,” he said mildly as he extended his hand.
Neven hesitated.
Harbinger squinted his eyes at the man. The look carried enough of a threat to coax him into giving it up.
“Which number is Ukil’s?” Harbinger asked as he scrolled through the numbers on the phone.
“That one,” the Serb replied pointing.
Harbinger held the phone up for his man to see the number and waited while he opened the laptop on the kitchen counter. Harbinger looked back at Neven as the tracking program was activated and Ukil’s number was entered.
A second or two went by with no result. “He’s got the GPS turned off,” Harbinger’s man said.
“Track the tower hits,” Harbinger said as he dialed Ukil’s number with his satellite phone; he answered on the third ring.
“Hello?” came Ukil’s voice from the other end.
Harbinger didn’t reply; he just watched the monitor on the computer as it began scanning the cell towers.
“Hello?” Ukil asked again and then hung up after getting no response.
Harbinger looked at his man, who nodded. “He’s on the highway to Akçakale. If we leave now, we can catch him before he reaches Tell Abyad,” the man said.
“What’s the satellite coverage look like?”
“We’re in the clear for about three hours, and then we’re locked down again until early tomorrow morning, when we’ll have a few hours of clear skies before sunrise,” he replied. “If we leave tonight, we can be in place before they go dark.”
“That will have to do,” Harbinger muttered and then looked at the Serbs in the room. “Finish packing your gear, clear out this house, and go to Mahkan. I want you to sit on those warheads until I can arrange for transport,” he ordered before he turned back to Neven and then grabbed him by the collar, lifting the terrified Serb out of the chair. “Come on. Let’s see if your sale to Ukil was as it appears to be.”
**
5:35 a.m. —Jarabulus, Syria - 4.8 Kilometers from the Turkish border.
I had to fight my exhaustion the entire trip back to Jarabulus. The sleep kept sneaking up my spine and pushing my head forward like a warm, heavy hand on the back of my neck.
We had hung around Manbij long enough for the Serb and Syrians to go their separate ways, confirming while we were still in the area that the tracers were doing th
eir job.
Ukil was headed north toward Turkey. I really wanted to know if he was going to meet up with Nick to sell the Russian rocket arrays, but we had been ordered to shut down the SAT link. There was no way for me to communicate with Nick or Langley.
“Dude, you don’t have to watch those tags the whole way back,” Aspen said, turning in the front seat and looking at me. “Grab a little shut-eye. They’ll still be there when you wake up.”
The pink and orange forming in the sky to my right told me that sunrise would find us soon. I wasn’t sure how long the tags on the Serb would be in motion before they came to a halt, but I was anxious to see it when it happened—I wanted confirmation on the locations.
“We’re almost to the extraction site,” I responded tiredly. “I’ll catch a nap under the goat shit.”
Aspen chuckled. “Have it your way,” he replied with a grin.
We turned off the main highway about a kilometer outside of town and onto a dusty dirt road, headed east toward the Euphrates River. The barn where we would ditch the Rover and crawl back into the hidden compartment of the goat truck was only minutes away.
As we rounded the last corner and the building came into sight, a cold chill ran up my back.
The barn is compromised, my other voice whispered.
I peered out the window as we came into view of the metal barn we’d be exiting from and my chest tightened involuntarily.
“Slow down,” I said.
Apollo tapped the brakes and eased forward slowly. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” I replied as the cold feeling continued to raise the hairs on my neck. “Something feels off.”
“We’re early,” Aspen observed. “Our ride shouldn’t be here yet.”
Apollo pulled to a halt next to a parked farm tractor. “Let’s watch for bit,” he muttered. “We’ve got time.”
We sat and watched the barn for several minutes as the sky began to fill with more light. I thought I caught sight of movement a couple of times, near a fuel tank outside the barn.
“There’s movement behind the gas tank,” I said.
Apollo raised his rifle up and peered through the scope. He sighed deeply and then grunted. “Yep,” he muttered, and stared at the area unaided by the scope for a beat or two longer. “Okay. You two stay here. I’m gonna go check it out.”
“Turn your radio on,” Aspen said as he began to get out of the truck as well.
I reached down and switched mine back on as well, making sure the voice activated function was turned off.
“Check, check,” Apollo called into my ear.
“All fives,” Aspen responded.
I watched as Apollo made his way along a shallow irrigation ditch running parallel to the field. I could see the top of his head halfway to the barn before he dipped down and I lost sight.
A few minutes later, he popped up again nearly a hundred yards further down and then crossed over toward the barn.
“What’ve you got?” Aspen asked.
“Not sure,” Apollo replied. “There’re three and they’ve got AKs. But they aren’t carrying them like pros.”
AK-47 rifles…very common for the region.
“Do you see another vehicle around?” I asked.
There was silence for a few beats before he responded. “There’s a white compact parked on the side of the road on the other side of the field,” he responded.
I thought about it for all of half a second. “I’m gonna go check it out,” I said, setting off at a jog toward the other side of the field.
Click, click.
It felt nice to get a positive response to one of my suggestions. I had grown so accustomed to Nick questioning everything I did that I had half expected to hear Apollo deny me my request.
I kept the barn, the tractor, and the irrigation pumps between me and the guys with AKs as long as I could. After covering a good distance with no detection, I dropped down into the irrigation ditch to continue a slouched run toward the car. The men who were hiding had their attention focused forward and probably wouldn’t have noticed if I just stood and ran, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
After a few minutes of carefully running along the ditch, I poked my head up to get my bearings. I was within a dozen yards of the car. I searched the scene for any sight of others and, once satisfied the coast was clear, climbed out of the ditch and crawled to the blind side of the car—an old Mitsubishi Lancer…1980s I would guess.
“At the vehicle,” I said into my mic as I looked through the window.
It was a mess. The car was filled with garbage, empty cans, old food, and some items that made me believe I was looking into the home of drug addicts—or small time dealers: ammunition, boxes of chemicals, baby formula, and burned pieces of tinfoil littered the floor and backseat.
“I think they’re drug dealers or addicts looking for a fix,” I informed him.
“Why the hell would they be staking out our extraction site?” Aspen asked through my earpiece.
I closed my eyes and assembled a flimsy flowchart based on the available information.
“I don’t know, but maybe this site’s been used too often and it looked like a smuggling operation to the locals…or maybe our friendly goat farmer is using it for a side business,” I replied. “In either case, we need to clear them out before we can go home.”
“The truck’s coming,” Apollo whispered.
Shit! Why is timing never on my side?
“Let me know what they do when they see the truck,” I responded. “It looks like all their most valuable possessions are in their car…that should take priority. If it looks like it’s an ambush, I’ll set their car on fire and get them back over here.”
Click, click.
I love a team that works together.
I reached into the car and picked up a long stem lighter lying among the chemicals and burned tinfoil. A bottle of denatured alcohol caught my attention, so I grabbed that as well, dowsing an old, filthy t-shirt in it.
“The truck’s at the turn,” Apollo whispered. “They aren’t moving.”
“Sounds like an ambush to me,” I muttered.
“Wait!” Aspen called suddenly. “How’s Monkey Wrench gonna get back to this side of the field without being seen if he torches their car?”
I was sort of counting on them being too distracted to notice me, but it was a good point.
“Cover him,” Apollo whispered.
Whoa! I disliked drug dealers and junkies as much as the next guy, but I’d prefer not to kill them if at all possible…these guys were just doing a real shitty job of living life.
“How do you say fire in Arabic?” I asked to no one in particular.
“Nār,” Apollo responded in a whisper.
“Nār?” I confirmed.
Click, click.
“Does it still look like they’re planning on an ambush?” I asked.
Click, click.
“Okay, I’m torching their ride,” I said and then lit the t-shirt tossing it into the backseat once it was blazing. The fire began spreading immediately.
Back down into the irrigation ditch I jumped and ran about a hundred and fifty yards before rising back to the road next to the irrigation shed.
“If you’re going to do something, do it now,” Apollo said. “They’re about to take our transportation down.”
I began yelling “Nār! Nār, nār!” and started running back toward the car, this time on the dirt road, waving my hands and shouting as I went. “Nār! Nār, nār, nār!”
“Here they come,” Apollo hissed.
I looked to my left and saw the men running across the middle of the field toward their smoking vehicle. I looked right at them and yelled.
“Nār! Nār!”
One of them waved me away as he ran toward the burning vehicle, stumbling over rows of crops. It seemed he didn’t want me near their vehicle for some reason.
I clicked my mic open. “Get to our goat farmer and have
him go down the road a mile or so. This site is blown,” I said.
“Roger that,” Apollo said into my ear. “Aspen, swing ‘round and pick Monkey Wrench up, then come back this way. I’ll meet you on the road.”
“Roger,” came Aspen’s reply. “Oscar Mike.”
I ran a few more steps toward the car when the drug dealer brought his rifle up, gesturing with it. I skidded to a halt, my hands in the air. I watched them as they sprinted for a beat or two longer before I turned and walked back toward the irrigation pump shed, looking back over my shoulder occasionally.
In the field, the straggler of the group stopped running, leaning on his knees with his hands and panting heavily.
“Drugs’ll kill ya, man,” I muttered as I walked.
Suddenly he turned and looked at me. The deep breaths must have pumped some life into a couple of brain cells because it looked to me as though he just figured out that I had been the only person close to the car when it went up in flames. He began trotting toward me, unslinging his rifle as he moved closer.
I just kept walking, looking back occasionally to see his progress.
“Monkey Wrench! Tango coming up on your six!” Aspen yelled. I could see the Rover speeding toward me on the connecting dirt road.
“I’ve got him, Aspen,” I heard Apollo say.
“Hold,” I said quietly into my mic as the footsteps came scuffing up behind me.
“Monkey Wrench, I’m taking him,” he said.
“Hold,” I hissed, letting the seriousness of my intent be expressed as best I could in a whisper.
The footsteps came right up to me and then I felt a hand on my shoulder. The man blurted something to me in Arabic, angrily, accusingly.
He spun me around by my shoulder and pushed the barrel of his rifle right up in front of my face. “Hl j’el alnar?” he yelled.
Note to self: Learn Arabic.
Kill him, my other voice hissed.
“Monkey Wrench, I’ve got him. Move!” Apollo commanded.
I shook my head. “No,” I said mildly to both Apollo and my inner voice.
A look of surprise swept across the face of the attacker. But it was too late.
