There were people responsible, and Shaw intended to root them out and leave their bodies for the crows.
• • •
The dark-eyed man watched with amusement as the second helicopter erupted in the sky above them. His fingers rested against his lips, and a smile spread across them as the vehicle plummeted downward. The man clapped his hands together and approached his buyer.
“You see, al-Amiri, my weapons prove far more effective than your RPGs,” he said. The al-Qaeda commander simply stared at him.
“I am grateful for your demonstration, Mr. Silva, and I am more than satisfied with our arrangement,” Isaam al-Amiri responded.
“These VM-99 Stingers will propel your war fighting capabilities into the modern era,” Silva said.
“So it seems,” al-Amiri replied. “I must say I am much more enthused about the missile systems you have delivered and the intelligence you have provided.”
“I am sure you will put it all to good use,” Silva replied. Al-Amiri watched as Silva donned a pair of gold-framed aviators. He wore his dark hair short and neat, and his tanned complexion hinted at his Moorish ancestry. Al-Amiri knew Francisco Silva wasn’t obligated to perform a demonstration. The older man could only assume that the pompous, Western arms dealer was attempting to secure future business through the elaborate display.
It worked. The timing could not have been more perfect.
“I look forward to a prosperous business relationship, my friend,” Silva said as he buttoned the top button of his khaki suit jacket.
“As do I,” the Yemeni answered. Al-Amiri raised his hand, signaling to the man standing behind him. The man approached the metal briefcase situated on the table between them. Silva and al-Amiri watched as the man entered the appropriate account information. “The money has been wired to the account you provided,” al-Amiri stated when his man finished. Silva glanced over to his bodyguard for confirmation. The tall man rotated the briefcase, checked the account, and nodded before closing the case. Silva’s smile widened as he presented his hand. Al-Amiri gripped it firmly and offered him a dull grin from behind his graying beard.
“Until next time,” Silva said. Al-Amiri watched him leave the rooftop and noticed the length of the man’s trousers. They were a tad too short, the hem just above his exposed ankles as was the popular European style.
Silva emerged from the building on the ground floor and nodded his greeting to the al-Qaeda guard as he passed by. His bodyguard, a South African named Rian Mather-Pike, wore a pastel blue suit and followed closely. The two men looked more as if they belonged in the nightclubs of Dubai than in war-torn Aden.
Mather-Pike donned a pair of sunglasses and tossed his long golden hair away from his face. The suit looked too small for him, and his muscles pulled the fabric in the wrong places. In truth, he wouldn’t dress the way he did if his employer didn’t require it, but Silva possessed a dedication to fashion and style that was unavoidable for the South African.
The SUV’s rear passenger door opened as Silva approached. The man, a Frenchman, nodded his head in respect as his employer entered the vehicle. Mather-Pike scanned the area one last time before following Silva inside. The door closed and the Frenchman took the driver’s seat.
“How do you feel about your first time in the field, Rian?” Silva asked.
“That was quite bold,” Mather-Pike said as the luxury SUV sped down the dusty road. Mather-Pike’s demeaning tone not lost on him, Silva stared out the window before checking his Omega Seamaster wristwatch. He was due in Dubai before evening.
“Perhaps,” he replied nonchalantly. Mather-Pike knew better than to mistake Silva’s response for apathy. The Spaniard’s mind constantly whirled with brilliance as he planned several steps ahead in any given situation. The South African had not yet seen him overestimate anyone, but he had only been in his employ for a month. Still, he figured it was the key to Silva’s success, and he admired him for it. However, the day’s events nagged at his conscience.
“I don’t see how bringing down two United States helicopters benefits you,” Mather-Pike stated. Silva rested his head back against the seat and turned to regard his friend. Was he his friend? Silva found he didn’t care much either way.
“It was part of the deal. Check the account again if you need more validation,” he replied. As Mather-Pike expected, one of the Spaniard’s famous smirks found its way across his sharp, attractive face.
Mather-Pike didn’t respond, and instead, he shifted his gaze out the window. He didn’t pretend to know Silva’s mind, but he did consider his own role. He knew security services sat at the very bottom of his own ambition, even more so after Silva’s display. He was okay with selling to revolutionaries and the oppressed, and al-Amiri had first fit that bill, but Mather-Pike had no way of knowing the Yemeni client had possessed such plans against the United States. Why would he know though? He was simply Silva’s personal bodyguard, but Mather-Pike’s worry was two-fold: Silva had crossed a dangerous threshold in his business, and the United States would not take kindly to the events that transpired today. It was a risk Mather-Pike hadn’t thought Silva would take, and yet he had.
He couldn’t deny the lucrative nature of the merchandise, but why did Silva draw the attention of one of the world’s most powerful governments? It just didn’t sit well with the South African. Perhaps he had arranged certain protections with the supplier, but did the supplier have that much influence or power?
The entire event had him questioning everything. At thirty-one, he hoped to have achieved more, and the reality he hadn’t only depressed him. When he had accepted the position, he had resolved to glean everything he could from his employer, but his aspirations still swirled as a thin mist, unknowable, untouchable, unsearchable. What did he desire to achieve? What drive did Silva possess that he lacked? The questions frustrated him, but he refused to show it.
Then there was her. Those vibrant blue eyes, sweet smile, and alluring accent haunted him. He quickly pressed the woman from his mind. Why dwell on the impossible?
He turned to regard Silva, and, as he looked upon the man, a question formed in his mind. Would he take a bullet for Silva? He figured that depended on a multitude of factors, but then again, perhaps just one: would the bullet be fatal?
Silva activated his cell phone, tapped the screen, and directed his eyes toward the Frenchman, Romuald Affré, and said, “How long until we’re airborne?”
“Thirty minutes,” came the swift response. It was as if the man had anticipated the question. Then again, Affré knew every detail of their itinerary. The man was more organized and calculated than any other Silva had ever met. Despite a few past career concerns, Affré, a former French intelligence operative and Legionnaire, had proven himself time and time again.
“Good,” came Silva’s response.
Affré was slender with a trimmed beard. His bronze complexion and jet-black hair came from his Moroccan mother, and he received his French father’s golden-green eyes and slender features. He was strikingly handsome in an exotic way, the best of France and North Africa. He wore a suit tailored in the same fashion as Silva and Mather-Pike, and, though Silva would never admit it, the Frenchman wore the style best.
6
“Contact!” came Reyes’ shout through the comms. Wyatt and York raced back toward their downed helicopter as Reyes engaged an insurgent who had opened fire from the road.
“Get inside!” Wyatt shouted as he ran. His legs pumped furiously, moving faster than they ever had before. He heard the gunfire bellowing behind him, but he didn’t look back.
Kathryn helped the wounded pilot back inside the wreckage and out of sight. Wyatt slid to a stop and climbed into the fuselage. He turned, and falling prone, picked up his first target. He fired, and the heavy thirty-caliber round tumbled through the insurgent’s back. He acquired his next target and fired. The Raiders’ quick aggression stopped the enemy’s advance, and the insurgents clung to the corners of the buildings by the road.
“We need to get off the X,” Reyes said once the brief fighting ceased.
“Fall back to the apartment building,” Wyatt ordered.
“What about the pilot?” York asked. Wyatt slid back from the opening and moved to the pilot’s side.
“Kathryn and I will take care of her. Let’s move,” he commanded.
Reyes led the way as Wyatt and Kathryn carried the aviator between them. The lieutenant hobbled as they moved; her left side burned with each use of her left leg.
“Stay off it,” Wyatt urged as he bore the majority of her weight. He was careful not to touch the shard in her side. The slightest bump could move the object causing irreparable bleeding. Just as they crossed the building threshold, Reyes opened fire down the apartment hallway at an approaching group of hostiles.
“Back! Back!” he shouted. Wyatt scuffled backwards, and Kathryn lost her footing. Wyatt gripped the aviator tightly as he spun and guided her back the way they had come. Wyatt’s eyes immediately widened as he caught a glimpse of the projectile spinning toward them.
“RPG!” York shouted, but it was too late.
• • •
Shaw ignored the pain pulsing in his legs and continued into the room. He paused as he flipped the light switch. The florescent lights snapped on one by one, illuminating the open space. Numerous cages housed various gear, weapons, and equipment. Unlike Afghanistan, where the loadout rooms were constructed of raw, wood shelving, everything before Shaw was state of the art. He had seen it empty before but knowing that most of his team wouldn’t return bore heavily on him. He pushed the thought aside. He wasn’t there to reminisce. He had Top Secret clearance, and he intended to use it.
Shaw dragged a table into the center of the room and prepped his workspace. He nabbed two laptops and a mobile printer and set them up on the table. He propped up a white board and ensured he had the basic office supplies: markers, tape, pens, and a notebook. Lastly, he put on a pot of coffee.
He took his first sip and dove in. Accessing SOCOM’s databases, the Raider pulled up logs of satellite imagery and drone footage from the past twenty-four hours. He navigated through dossiers for which he had clearance and printed off everything he felt held significance.
As time droned onward, more paper lay crumpled at his feet than on the table. The white board had been erased countless times, and each time, Shaw fought the frustration. Each wrong turn, each dead end ate into valuable time, time Wyatt and the others didn’t have. He was on his second pot of coffee when it clicked. His searching generated a file on a joint operation between the CIA, DOD, and NSWC. He quickly set down his coffee cup, spilling a bit over the lip, which he ignored, and dove into the intelligence. His clearance barely got him access.
“Isaam al-Amiri,” he muttered to himself as he read the dossier. That’s why SEAL Team 3 wasn’t deployed to aid the Marines. They were on standby for this guy and rightly so. He was believed to be one of Osama bin Laden’s right-hand men and connected to countless terror attacks across Europe and 9/11. Why was he in Yemen? Shaw read on, muttering the words quickly as his blue eyes darted back and forth. When finished, he turned to the white board. He scribbled the name and then circled it; his gut nagged him that al-Amiri was his man. Regardless of the feeling, Shaw would press further. Hard intelligence provided the answers, not gut feelings.
The Raider printed off an old photograph of bin Laden surrounded by his commanders and taped it to the white board. He knew men and women more gifted in intelligence gathering had likely pored over the photograph in an attempt to identify al-Amiri, but one man in the photo tugged at his memory. He stared hard into the man’s eyes and attempted to recall from where he knew him.
His memory swept him back to Afghanistan 2012. He sat across from a sheik in the country’s Helmand Province. After the Taliban cut ties with al-Qaeda two years prior, SOCOM seized a new opportunity to hunt down high-value al-Qaeda and Taliban targets. Amid the chaos caused by the severed ties, they sought to disrupt any network present in the country. As a freshly promoted captain, Shaw deployed to the region with the 2nd Marine Special Operations Battalion, later named the 2nd Marine Raider Battalion. He remembered having tea with the village sheik while attempting to obtain intelligence about Taliban activity in the area. That man’s name was Taaha bin Hashim.
Bin Hashim’s intelligence on Taliban forces in the area was accurate and resulted in the success of multiple direct-action and counter-insurgency missions. Shaw had always felt the information was too accurate, as if bin Hashim had mingled with those forces, but at the time, he had pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind.
The face he focused on in the photograph belonged to Taaha bin Hashim. Still the name al-Amiri taunted his memory. It was connected somehow to bin Hashim. He remembered something about a rifle. Shaw’s eyes widened as the memory cleared. He remembered bin Hashim’s weapon. The bearded sheik had explained the rifle’s origin, his warrior heritage, and about his father’s involvement in fighting off the Russians in the 1970’s. His father’s name was Hashim Al Amiri.
Everything clicked as Shaw fought through his knowledge of the Arabic language.
In this instance, Isaam al-Amiri was incorrect. The al-, known as the Nasab in Arabic, referred to the definite article the. The name Amiri meant Prince, which translated the entire name to mean Isaam the Prince. However, the correction rested in the proper use of al. In Isaam al-Amiri’s case, the correct article would be Al, meaning the family of or from the clan of. It wasn’t Isaam the Prince, but Isaam of the family of Amiri.
Shaw quickly looked up the meaning of Isaam. After a few clicks on the keyboard, he found it. Isaam meant Safeguard.
“Safeguard the family of Amiri,” Shaw muttered. “Isaam Al Amiri is Hashim Al Amiri’s son.” He stepped back from his workplace and stared at the image again. It was the only rational conclusion. What was the likelihood that a village sheik, who was sympathetic to the United States’ mission in 2011, would be present in a photograph with Osama bin Laden circa 2003? It was possible that bin Hashim had reformed and left al-Qaeda, but Shaw doubted it. The name connection alone suggested otherwise.
That was why the CIA didn’t possess a photograph of Al Amiri. Shaw only stumbled on the truth by sheer luck. Had he not sat and conversed with that sheik, he would never have made the connection. Shaw turned back to the computer and pulled up Taaha bin Hashim’s file.
There wasn’t much, and it didn’t even include a photograph. Perhaps that was why the connection was never made. Despite its expertise, the intelligence network was simply too big and bureaucratic to catch everything.
The file showcased his efforts to aid the US, and Shaw found his own report in the dossier. Something stuck him as odd. Bin Hashim never provided any intelligence on al-Qaeda, just the Taliban. Yet more evidence that he was Isaam Al Amiri. It was the perfect ruse. By helping the United States, Bin Hashim protected himself while his alternate identity spread havoc on US and Allied troops. No one would think to connect the two.
Disgust radiated through Shaw, Isaam Al Amiri had grown rich from United States taxpayers and turned that money toward terrorism. With each strand of intelligence Al Amiri offered as bin Hashim, the Department of Defense had paid him handsomely. Shaw had personally handed bags of cash to the man. Despite his revulsion, Shaw couldn’t deny the brilliance of Al Amiri’s operation. Now, only one question remained, how could he find Taaha bin Hashim?
Shaw knew he was in Aden, and the closest he could get to the city was either the 5th Fleet or Camp Lemonnier. To get to either, he needed orders, and getting orders meant going up the chain of command.
Major General Linus C. Weber commanded MARSOC, and he and his staff oversaw the operations of the Marine Raider Regiment, which was commanded by Colonel James G. Boatwright. Underneath Colonel Boatwright, the regiment was split into three battalions, each commanded by a lieutenant colonel. 1st and 3rd Marine Raider Battalions were currently headquartered at Camp Pendleton with plans to trans
ition to the east coast, while the 2nd Raider Battalion, Shaw’s battalion, remained headquartered in the home of its conception, Camp Lejeune. Four Marine Special Operations Companies made up one battalion, and four Marine Special Operations Teams made up each company. Shaw would first report to his company commander, Major Christopher M. King, and Shaw, if necessary, would work his way to the top to get what he wanted.
7
Wyatt opened his eyes as he lay on his stomach. He coughed and shook his head in a vain attempt to regain his equilibrium. Dust hung in the air and dried out his mouth with each breath. A strong hand suddenly jerked him up.
“Get upstairs!” York shouted. Wyatt stumbled as York shoved him up the stairs.
“The pilot!” Wyatt shouted back.
“She’s gone! Move!” Wyatt, pain radiating from his muscles, tore up the stairs. As he reached the second floor, he cleared the corner and aimed down the hallway.
Clear.
He continued upward toward the third floor. Gunshots echoed below him. If help came for them, they would come by air, and if by air, they could extract them from the roof.
The building wasn’t tall, just four stories, and Wyatt soon found himself on the roof. He scurried toward the edge and braced his rifle against the small wall. He took aim and fired, dropping an insurgent. Those around the unfortunate man scrambled for cover, but Wyatt killed two more before they vanished inside the adjacent buildings. Wyatt glanced back as Kathryn and Reyes emerged onto the roof.
“Where’s York?” Wyatt asked urgently.
“He was right behind us,” Reyes responded.
“Contact TOC,” Wyatt ordered, referring to Bateman’s team serving as their Tactical Operations Center, “let them know what’s going on. I’ll find York.” Just as Wyatt moved toward the stairwell entrance, York emerged. He shook his head and blinked his eyes as he tried to shake off the pain. Wyatt quickly noticed the blood soaking York’s uniform just below his ribcage.
Saber Down Page 5
