“You have won a great victory over the West today,” the young man greeted.
“The day is not over, Faatin,” Al Amiri replied. He rose to his feet and straightened out his garb. The cream thobe extended to the floor. The older man reached for his brown bisht, a cloak-like overgarment common among the more traditionally dressed Arabic men, and donned it over his shoulders. His beard grayed around his chin and was neatly kept. Deep wrinkles formed on his dark forehead and around his coffee eyes. Faatin Radi always felt he saw a dull fatigue hanging behind those pupils, but Al Amiri had proven countless times over to be a vigorous and wise leader.
Radi, a young man not yet thirty with sharp, attractive features, sported a neatly trimmed goatee, and his eyes held the shade of honey. If anyone possessed the countenance of a successful leader, it was Radi, and Al Amiri knew that too well. However, curbing the young man’s temper had proven quite the chore, but he had succeeded. His hatred for the West was well founded by Al Amiri’s standards, and Al Amiri, with his sons dead by the hands of the Coalition, hoped that Radi would be his heir.
Al Amiri approached the young man and smiled warmly. He placed a hand on his shoulder and met his gaze, “Do you bring more news?” he asked. Radi grinned, and his teeth gleamed bright ivory, a trademark of a Western upbringing.
“We located a convoy of three SUVs in the city. They are making their way to the crash site now,” Radi answered.
“Good. Pull back our soldiers. We will follow them back to their base of operations. Once we know the location of the CIA, our many months of planning will have not been in vain. Remember, the victory today is not in the number of deceased; it is in the acquirement of knowledge,” Al Amiri explained. Al Amiri guided Radi back through the door from which he entered. The room, covered with maps and monitors, served as Al Amiri’s command center. It was a bit crude but functioned perfectly for his needs. More importantly, he could move it using just the one van he kept ready in the back alley.
All rose from their seats as he entered. The four men in the room, all educated in Europe and the United States in information technology, cyber security, computer engineering, and national security were the keys to his success. He had more than enough soldiers; what he truly valued were intellectual minds, and those he could not afford to lose on the battlefield. These minds gave him their undivided attention and, more importantly, their unfailing loyalty.
“We will allow the Americans to collect their dead. This will put them at ease and provide a false sense of security. It will make them think they are in control. Make no mistake, they will try to hunt us from Langley, but you all will have made that impossible,” Al Amiri said. Smiles spread throughout the room. “By the end of the day, we will know the location of our target, and I will rely on you all here for victory.” Al Amiri turned to Radi, “Contact our men in the mountains, have them prepare, and update me when we know the location. We will not fail.” Radi inclined his head as his leader returned to his room.
• • •
Natalie Hale watched the large video monitor with great anticipation. She barely noticed her increased perspiration as her anticipation grew. Years had passed since she witnessed the live deaths of United States personnel, and she wouldn’t easily forget the image of the one Marine jumping on a grenade. Several of her staff, having never before witnessed such an act, responded in different ways. Two had vomited, three had stepped outside, and one still lay passed out in her chair, but all had wiped tears from their cheeks.
Her right hand tightly gripped the radio that connected her to Staff Sergeant Wyatt and Scott Lincoln. She listened to their communication as she watched the drone footage. Bryon was in communication with the Air Force Remotely Piloted Aircraft Pilot. The communication set up wasn’t ideal, but it was the best they could do with such short preparation, but the RPA Pilot was professional and seasoned. Cheerleader could read the battlefield as well as, if not better, than Bryon or Natalie could, and the CIA officer trusted Cheerleader to do her job and operate within the confines of her orders. Natalie was simply grateful they were able to obtain such support so quickly. MARSOC didn’t play around. The radio clipped in her earpiece.
“Good copy, Lincoln, we’re headed that way,” Staff Sergeant Wyatt said. Natalie watched as the two silhouettes, identified through the drone’s infrared display, moved north. Wyatt had activated the IR strobe on his helmet for easy identification. His silhouette blinked consistently, visible only to the drone.
Natalie followed their movements but kept a sharp eye out for any hostiles. The room was silent; no one dared to breathe as they watched the events unfold before them. As Wyatt and Kathryn neared the alley opening, Natalie engaged the radio.
“You’ve got two tangos at your three o’clock,” she said.
“Yeah, I see them,” came Wyatt’s reply. Natalie held her breath as Wyatt and Kathryn crossed the two intersecting alleys; Wyatt paused at the opening of the next alley to engage any threat in the event they were seen.
They weren’t.
The duo continued north down the next alley. Natalie had patched the drone feed through to Lincoln’s team. On the ground, they would better be able to devise their approach and exfiltration.
“Bryon, you seeing this?” Natalie asked as she moved closer to the wall monitor.
“I am,” he responded. The room watched as four trucks pulled into the courtyard with the downed helicopters. The remaining insurgents swarmed the vehicles.
“They’re leaving?” Bryon questioned. Natalie felt in her gut that his assumption was correct, but they had just killed Americans. They weren’t going anywhere.
“It looks like they are planning on pursuing,” she countered. Bryon smirked as he caught the direction of her reasoning. He opened up his line to the drone pilot.
“Cheerleader, we’re seeing a convoy mounting to pursue our survivors, can you confirm?”
“I confirm,” came Cheerleader’s response. Her tone was light and a bit peppy, living up to her call sign. “We are clear to engage.”
A satisfied smile spread across Natalie’s face when the missile thudded into the vehicles arranged in the courtyard. The gray screen flashed as a billow of white flame plumed on the monitor, and when it cleared, ivory flames licked the mangled vehicles, and strewn body parts painted the ground a crisp white.
“That’s a good hit, Cheerleader,” Bryon said. He glanced up at Natalie, and she gave him a quick nod of approval.
“Hale, this is Lincoln.”
“Go ahead, Lincoln,” Natalie replied through the radio.
“We’ve picked up the survivors and are headed back,” he said.
“Good copy, we’ll see you soon.” She issued a sigh of relief and turned to face her team. “We got them,” she said. Somber smiles donned the faces in the room. Natalie turned back to the screen and hardened her face. Bryon noticed it immediately. “Now, who did this?” she whispered to herself.
9
The three SUVs roared down the tattered and war-torn streets of Aden, Yemen. The first Range Rover turned left and accelerated down the street lined with low, flat-roofed buildings, and the trailing vehicles followed. Each man kept a sharp eye for anything out of the ordinary. Jared Becker drove the lead vehicle while Matthew Quinn, next to him in the front passenger seat, navigated. Within Becker, relief and anger surged and crashed together. Quinn, always reserved, wore his usual calm expression.
“How could this have happened?” Becker exclaimed. His hands wrenched hard the steering wheel. Quinn didn’t look up from his tablet displaying their navigation.
“Easy, bro. We’ll sort this out when we get back,” he assured. “Just get us there in one piece.” The vehicles were armored against small arms fire, but that wouldn’t protect them from an IED. A wrong turn or a simple mistake could spell disaster.
“How we looking, gents?” came Lincoln’s voice over the radio. Quinn pressed his PTT.
“So far so good,” Quinn replied.
&
nbsp; “Let’s pick up the pace. This civ is getting pretty hysterical.”
“Good copy,” Quinn responded. He looked at Becker.
“Yeah, I heard him,” he said as he pressed on the throttle. The Range Rover surged forward, and Quinn checked the navigation. “Hey, I got a military-aged male on a cell phone just ahead on that balcony; he’s staring right at us,” Becker said.
“Yeah, I see him,” Quinn replied, looking up. “Hey, Lincoln,” he called into his radio.
“Go ahead.”
“We’ve got a military-aged male on a cell phone up ahead.” Quinn waited for his reply. They had all lost friends to such men. At worst, the man would initiate a call at the proper moment, shredding apart their convoy in a detonation of smoke and flame. At best, he was simply making a phone call.
“Your call,” came Lincoln’s reply.
“We’ll push through,” Quinn replied. Becker shot him a look.
“You sure?” he asked. The contractor nodded.
“I figure there wasn’t enough time to set up an IED since we’ve been out in the city, and we’re not returning the same way we came. I think we’re being tracked,” he replied. Quinn watched him as they passed, the man’s eyes, dark with anger, met Quinn’s. Becker flipped him the bird as they roared past.
“Oh yeah, they’re tracking us,” Becker said.
“You got that right.” Quinn felt it in his bones. “Take the next left. We’ll try to throw them off. They can’t have eyes everywhere.” Quinn spoke into the radio, “be advised, we are being tracked. We are altering our course back.”
“Affirmative, your lead,” Lincoln replied. The two men in the front vehicle had nearly three times as many years of combat experience than he had. Lincoln commanded Rangers as a captain, which is no small feat, but these men had rumbled in the Middle East for nearly a combined forty years. If anyone knew how to get them back in one piece, it was Becker and Quinn.
The second car followed Becker’s lead and made the left turn as quickly and sharply. Wyatt noticed the sudden shift in the vehicle’s urgency but continued to comfort Kathryn. Any emotion that she had suppressed in the field now streamed openly. She sobbed on Wyatt’s shoulder, and he held her tight. Her tears again left dark streaks on her dust and dirt covered face, and her entire body trembled against Wyatt’s stone frame.
She wouldn’t be able to explain it, but at the sight of American faces, she broke down. Her fear never left, but relief had rammed into it with such force that it destabilized her entire body and mind. Rational thought had long left, and Kathryn tumbled through the assaulting emotions like a child caught in a violent riptide. She could only ride it out until it released her.
“It’s alright. You’re safe now,” he whispered tenderly as he rubbed her arm. She sat curled up on the seat next to him. Wyatt doubted she could move any closer to him if she tried. “You’re safe now,” he said again. Just acting on instinct, he kissed the top of her head. “Everything’s alright,” he assured. She quickly tossed her head up and smashed her lips into his. The action completely caught him off guard. Her tears and mucus wet his face, and he was so shocked, he didn’t return the kiss. She pulled back, immediately aware of what she had done. Miraculously, the action broke the cycle of unyielding emotion. How? She couldn’t say, but her mind seemed clearer and back under her own control.
She wiped her eyes and ran her sleeve across her nose. Her embarrassment skyrocketed, but, in some way, the kiss had helped.
“I’m sorry,” she hastily said. She grew red under the pale dust on her face. Deep down she knew the events of the day would take years to flesh out and decipher, but, in that moment, she felt better.
“No, it’s okay,” Wyatt said as he wiped his face. He offered her a smile.
“You’re not married or anything?” she asked. Wyatt briefly chuckled; it felt good.
“No, I’m not married or anything,” he responded. She smiled, and, as the fear left, the relief swept through more of her body like a wave of warmth. She curled her loose hair behind her ears.
“So, I could kiss you again, if I wanted to?” she asked, wearing a shy smile.
“You could,” Wyatt replied. She leaned in and offered him a quick peck on the cheek.
“Thank you,” she said. Wyatt felt the weight of her sincerity behind the simple words.
“No problem,” he replied. In truth, he didn’t know how else to respond, but even covered in dirt and grime she was beautiful. The comfort of their interaction stole his mind away from York, Reyes, and the rest of his team, whose bodies still lay where they fell.
“We’re coming up on the compound,” Lincoln said, turning back to face them. “We’ll get you two cleaned up and stateside in no time.”
“Thank you,” Kathryn answered quickly. Wyatt remained silent. He did not intend to return home, not yet anyway.
• • •
Natalie Hale and her team waited in the courtyard of the former estate. It had belonged to a family who graciously permitted them use after receiving a new life in the United States. Surrounded by ten-foot walls, the compound held two buildings. The main structure, which was once the primary residence, now housed Natalie’s operation, and the upper level served as residence for her team. The opposite structure, a single-story building, housed Lincoln, his team, and their gear. The solid steel gate whined open as the convoy approached.
The heavy doors groaned shut once the three vehicles pulled within the safety of the compound. The men all poured out at once, and Lincoln opened the door for Kathryn.
“Abby,” Natalie called to her right. The young woman appeared at her side knowing exactly her intended order.
“Sure thing,” she replied. As soon as Kathryn set foot on the ground, Abby was at her side. “Hey, I’m Abby,” she said with a wide smile. The short brunette took hold of Kathryn’s hand, and as soon as Kathryn saw the array of clean faces, she burst into tears again. Abby rubbed her back and guided her toward the group. Her knees buckled as she neared them, but Natalie caught her.
“We’ve got you,” she said sweetly. Kathryn continued to cry. Her embarrassment rose again, but she knew she shouldn’t feel that way. Her reaction was completely justifiable, and anyone else would have reacted the exact same way. Natalie turned to another woman, “Rach, will you help out?” She nodded, quickly took Natalie’s place underneath Kathryn’s arm, and guided her into the main building.
Wyatt appeared around the front of the second Range Rover and watched Kathryn disappear into the building. He longed to follow her, to still protect her, but he curbed the emotion.
“Hey there,” Natalie greeted as she moved toward him. He instantly recognized the voice.
“Hale, I can’t thank you enough,” he said as he gripped her outstretched hand.
“I’m just sorry we couldn’t do more,” she replied. For the first time, Wyatt allowed in the unchecked pain of his loss. He blinked quickly and coughed to suppress his tears. He looked over her head and avoided eye contact, fearful it might cause him to lose the grip on his emotions.
“Hale, there’s something we need to discuss,” Lincoln interjected. She nodded without taking her eyes off Staff Sergeant John Wyatt. How could a man endure what he had and come through on the other side? She thought of the SEALs of Operation Red Wings. Wyatt was not the first, and it was possible for a man to recover from such a traumatic event. “Becker, Quinn, see to our Marine here,” Lincoln said.
“On it,” Becker stated. He moved to Wyatt’s side. “Come on, man. Let’s get you a shower and some chow.”
“Yeah,” Wyatt responded quickly. He blinked away more tears and followed them into the other building.
The air conditioning refreshed him more than he could have ever imagined. He took a minute to breathe in the cool air and collect himself. He closed his eyes while inhaling and opened them after his long exhale. He glanced around the main living room. A large, high-definition television adorned the far wall. It must have been at least s
ixty-five inches from corner to corner. Beneath it sat a PlayStation 4, a myriad of games, and several controllers. The ceiling fan spun too quickly to follow, and a row of cubbies jutted out from the wall to his left. A large sectional and a recliner took up the majority of the floor space, and a table was built into the kitchen island.
“Pretty nice, huh?” Becker said as he strode in past the MARSOC Raider.
“Yeah,” Wyatt responded. Becker moved to his cubby and removed his gear. The rest of their team followed suit.
“Feel free to take the last cubby on the left. It’s not being used right now,” Becker offered.
“Thanks,” Wyatt replied as he moved that way. He cleared his weapons and stowed them in the open space. He removed his plate carrier and hung it on the heavy-duty hanger designed for such loadbearing equipment. Again, he inhaled deeply, and his chest expanded to its full capacity. He was thrilled to be out of his kit.
“Feels good to be out of that monkey suit, doesn’t it?” the man next to him said. He was thick with a bright red beard and fair skin. The guy looked like he could compete in the World’s Strongest Man competition. Wyatt unzipped his gray jacked, pulled it off, and tossed it on the base of the cubby.
“Yeah, it does,” he replied.
“Rick Reeves,” he said, introducing himself. He extended a massive hand which Wyatt gave a firm pump.
“John Wyatt.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s a name I won’t forget. You did good out there, brother,” Reeves said in deep vocal tones. Wyatt wasn’t so sure, perhaps he did, but he knew as time progressed, he would see what he could have done differently. He hoped it wouldn’t drive him toward insanity. “Showers are around the corner, down the hall, second door on the left.”
“I appreciate it,” Wyatt replied.
“Towels and stuff are already in there.” Reeves left him and settled into the recliner. He donned a pair of readers and cracked open his book. Wyatt couldn’t tell what it was. He could ask but didn’t feel like it. The Raider removed his boots and headed for the showers.
Saber Down Page 7
