When he first heard Hogan’s name and place of birth, his face had contorted like he had just eaten a lemon. Surely, Jimmy Hogan came from a stereotypical Irish family having been born in Brooklyn. His mom, not unlike his, probably stayed home, took care of the house, and prepared all the food, but his father, no doubt, was likely a cop and a Dodgers fan. After all, they all were.
Hogan’s pointed, slender nose lay centered and straight between two blue eyes on his pale face. His hair wasn’t quite blonde, but still held a hint of sand. His face reminded Barone of a horse, long and thin.
“What are you looking at?” Hogan asked.
“Just wondering if you’re a Dodgers fan,” Barone answered. Hogan smirked.
“What, because you think I’m Irish?”
“You could say that,” Barone replied with a grin. Hogan laughed.
“I bleed blue and white,” Hogan responded.
“Figures.” Barone could not understand how someone could root for a team that didn’t represent their city. The Dodgers had left Brooklyn ages ago to play in Los Angeles; he could at least be a Mets fan. Barone then shuddered at the thought. No, he was better off rooting for the Dodgers.
“Did you remember to pack your ice pick?” Hogan asked. Barone chuckled as he finished zipping up his bag.
“Yeah, right next to my baseball bat and Tommy gun.”
“Alright, Capone,” Hogan jested, “just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget anything.”
“Well if I forget anything, I’ll just borrow your billy club.”
“Not a chance, pal, that thing has been in the family since the late 1800s,” Hogan replied.
“Really?”
“No, bro, my family sells wedding cakes. Been in the baking business since the twenties,” Hogan answered, wearing a witty smile.
“No kidding.”
“You think we were all a bunch of cops?” Barone shrugged.
“It crossed my mind.” They both laughed. “I see why you joined the Marines then.”
“Yeah,” Hogan answered, scratching the side of his head. “Baking doesn’t do it for me. What about you? Your old man in the Mafia or something?”
“I wish, bro. No, he actually owns a small wedding dress boutique. He does all the dresses for my neighborhood and their families.” Hogan laughed so hard and so loud that Barone had to keep himself from being offended.
“I tell you what,” Hogan said once he had collected himself. He had laughed due to the sheer coincidence that they had both fled the wedding business and turned to the Marines instead. “If we ever get married, I’ll make sure you get a discount on the cake if you make sure my future wife gets a discount on her dress.”
“I think that leans a bit more in your favor,” Barone stated.
“I don’t know, bro; my old man bakes a solid cake. Besides, your wife’s dress will probably be free anyway.” Barone smirked.
“Alright, deal,” he said. Both their eyes snapped to the door as it opened. Hogan jumped to his feet and mirrored Barone by snapping to attention.
Captain David Shaw entered wearing his issued M81 woodland, camouflaged uniform that matched those of the two younger men. The camouflage pattern, although officially retired from broad Marine Corps service in 2002, had been resurrected by MARSOC in 2011 as their combat uniform camouflage. Their uniforms though, unlike previous generations, were made of state-of-the-art, flame-retardant material and moisture-wicking, stretchable fabric. They were far more comfortable and practical than the Combat Utility Uniform that the rest of the Corps wore.
Each man wore an American flag and Raider patch on their sleeves. Although the skull and Southern Cross weren’t officially adopted by MARSOC as their logo, many Raiders wore it as a tribute to the brave Raiders of WWII. The giving of the patch had turned into an unofficial initiation for new Raiders who had completed training.
“At ease,” Shaw ordered as he crossed the room. He extended his hand in greeting, “Hogan; Barone,” he said in the order of handshakes.
“Sir,” they both responded respectively. Both young Raiders swallowed down the lump in their throats. In such a small, tight-knit community, Shaw was a legend, and both had read up on his exploits; at least those that weren’t redacted.
“I want to thank you both for accepting your orders. You both know we are hunting one of the world’s highest priority terrorists, so let’s do our best not to mess this up and embarrass the Corps, rah?”
“Aye, sir,” they both said. Shaw smirked.
“You guys can lighten up. Grab your gear and let’s go. Welcome to MARSOC.” Shaw grinned at them both before turning to leave. The two young Marines swiftly hoisted their gear, grabbed their weapons, and followed him.
They found themselves aboard a C-17 transport aircraft hurtling down the runway and lifting into the air. Barone and Hogan exchanged smiles as their excitement skyrocketed. Neither could fully express in words the exhilarating feeling of heading into combat. They had seen movies of actors portraying soldiers who rejoiced after receiving combat orders, but neither expected such a powerful feeling to wash over them. They felt invincible.
“You boys feeling invincible yet?” Shaw asked without looking up from his mobile device and map. Hogan and Barone glanced at each other in wonder.
“Yes, sir,” Barone answered. Shaw cracked a smile and looked up at them both. Try as they might, their eyes still held the soft glow of innocence, and Shaw valued it more than he could express; even more so knowing that it would be ripped away from them after their first pull of the trigger.
14
“Yes, sir,” Natalie Hale replied, “I understand, sir.” When she hung up the phone, a mix of dread and exhilaration funneled through her. Her evacuation request had been delayed. Director Caldwell, upon hearing this new intelligence, had altered his evacuation approval. She was assured that the new information would follow the phone call and provide new insight into finding al-Amiri. Upon discovering his location, the Pentagon would authorize an airstrike. She could hardly wait to get her hands on the new intelligence. She must have really impressed some people with her work in Tehran for them to trust her this much.
Natalie opened her laptop and logged in with her agency credentials. She found the new intelligence waiting for her, and her eyes bulged as she read over the material.
“How did they get this?” she uttered in disbelief. She read everything twice, and, with her mouth agape, she simply shook her head. “How could we have missed all this?” Even though she uttered those words, she knew that she had missed this information only because it was unavailable to her. There was no way her team could have unearthed it. It was the kind of intelligence only gathered on a battlefield, and this David Shaw had done excellently. If he wasn’t careful, the CIA would scoop him up and put him to work.
The intelligence she gazed upon was utterly amazing. Shaw had been in the right place at the right time, and, more importantly, he had remembered and put everything together. It was just the break her team needed. The CIA officer stood and left her office. All eyes fell on her as she strode onto the main floor.
“Alright team, new intel from HQ,” she started. Everyone stopped their duties and offered her their undivided attention. “We have the name wrong,” she stated. “It’s Al Amiri, not al-Amiri.” The team exchanged confused glances, but Natalie wore a satisfied simile.
“What’s the difference?” Bryon sincerely asked. He studied her movements as she wheeled a glass pane, similar to a white board, to the center of the room. She spelled out the two names in white script, and her team immediately caught the subtle difference.
“One is a title. The other is a family name,” Natalie said. “Isaam Al Amiri’s real name is Taaha bin Hashim Al Amiri. I want everyone searching for this man.” Natalie circled Al Amiri’s name on the pane with the dry-erase marker. “Reach out to your city contacts and see what we can dig up.” Everyone returned to their computers with renewed vigor. Natalie lingered for a moment, observi
ng her team hard at work. If she got Al Amiri, it would be because of them. Gratitude welled up within her, and she offered a nod to no one in particular before returning to her office.
The outside door opened, and the action stopped Natalie before she reached for her office door. Wyatt moved around the perimeter of the room and headed her way. She offered him a smile as he stopped before her.
“Hello, Wyatt,” Natalie greeted.
“Ma’am, I was hoping to connect with you about the updated intelligence,” Wyatt said.
“I’m sorry, the what?” she asked. She had no authority to share agency intelligence without permission regardless of the level of clearance the personnel possessed.
“The new intelligence on Taaha bin Hashim Al Amiri,” Wyatt clarified. Confusion assaulted her.
“How do you know about that?”
“I’m part of the Raider team that’s going to be hunting him,” he answered. Natalie’s brow furrowed. She possessed no knowledge of any ground element. She turned the handle to one of the French doors and ushered Wyatt inside. Once she followed him through, she closed the door quickly.
“What Raider team?” she asked. She planted her hands on her hips and waited impatiently for the Marine to respond.
“My command has deployed a small team to rendezvous here for direct-action against Al Amiri,” Wyatt answered. Natalie shook her head.
“No, an airstrike has been authorized against Al Amiri,” she countered. There was a hint of sadness in her tone. An airstrike would reduce the risk to American lives, but it could never confirm the kill like men on the ground, not to mention it destroyed any intelligence that might be obtained. The fact that the Pentagon and SOCOM pursued an airstrike told Natalie that they were more concerned with retaliating for the lost Marines than securing intelligence that might prevent future acts of terror.
It was often a choice the upper administration faced. She knew they hoped that neutralizing any threat allowed for more time to uncover any terror plot or perhaps disrupt that plot entirely. It was always a gamble, and an airstrike wasn’t the option Natalie preferred, which made Wyatt’s information all the more intriguing. If Al Amiri was planning something, she wanted men on the ground to provide her with as much information as possible.
“I know about the airstrike, ma’am,” Wyatt replied. “But my team leader, Captain David Shaw, is currently in the air for a HALO insertion to this compound.”
“So let me make sure I’m understanding you correctly,” Natalie started, “SOCOM and the CIA have provided my team with new information to locate Al Amiri so they can call in an airstrike on his position, but you’re saying that MARSOC is deploying a team for what I’m assuming is a capture or kill mission?”
“That is correct, ma’am,” Wyatt replied.
“And if you’re in the vicinity when they decide to call in this airstrike?”
“The way I see it, ma’am, if they never learn the location of Al Amiri, they’ll have no coordinates to launch an airstrike,” Wyatt countered. Natalie smirked and pondered his words. What he proposed would provide her the option to gain the intelligence she so desperately desired and potentially capture Al Amiri.
“Alright, Wyatt, we’ll play it your way,” Natalie said with a grin.
• • •
After finishing their timed pre-breathing period to flush nitrogen from their bloodstream and avoid hypoxia, the trio of Marines stood at the rear of the C-17 as the crisp air swirled around them. Normally, they would have witnessed the curvature of the earth, but the night stole their sight; their night vision binoculars (NODs) only cast their vision so far. Each man wore a special helmet equipped with an oxygen mask and goggles. They cruised around 30,000 feet to avoid any surface-to-air missiles, and the trio would freely fall until they opened their chutes at 2,500 feet.
Shaw glanced back at the two excited Marines and activated his comms. “Ready?” he asked. They both nodded, and Shaw waited for the cue from the pilot.
“Philo Actual, you’re clear to jump.”
“Good copy, Leonidas,” Shaw replied, referring to the aircraft by its call sign. He didn’t hesitate but threw himself headfirst into the darkness.
Shaw plummeted toward the earth at increasing speeds, his breath echoing through his ears. His uniform flapped about him, but his gear remained unmoved. He had cinched, tightened, and strapped everything down so as not to lose anything.
Reaching speeds in excess of one-hundred-twenty miles per hour, the three Marines kept a close eye on their gauges as they neared their chute deployment window. With darkness encircling them, their night vision goggles did little to help them judge the distance to the ground. For anyone else, it would have proved a frightening endeavor, but for these men it was another day at the office. The infrared chem lights fixed to Shaw’s helmet and wrists made it easy for the other two Marines to follow him down. They each possessed similar lights attached to their bodies. The lights blazed neon under the pale glow of their white-phosphor night vision but remained invisible to anyone else.
Shaw’s internal clock nagged at him. He had fallen long enough. Just to be sure, he checked his gauge. He just passed the 2,500-foot mark. The Raider yanked his chute and jerked violently upward when the dark canopy fully opened and immediately slowed his descent. His inner thighs tingled from his harness slowly cutting off circulation to his legs. He glanced downward as the mountainside cleared through his NODs and, pulling on his chute adjustment lines, plotted his course safely down.
The Marine captain, his injuries swirling in the back of his mind and generating a small batch of anxiety, prepared for his landing. He lifted his legs as the ground neared, and on contact, he hit the ground running. His wounded muscles shrieked in protest, but they obeyed his orders. Shaw fought through the pain by keeping his mind on the mission. Once on the ground, he wrenched hard on the lines and wrestled his chute under control. It went better than he could have hoped. He exhaled a long sigh of relief before hurriedly doffing his harness. He switched out his helmet and oxygen mask for his ballistic helmet and transferred his night vision goggles to it. Once he had it settled on his head, he searched the immediate proximity for Hogan and Barone.
Both men trotted up to him with grins wide on their faces. They looked like creatures from another world with their silhouettes enlarged by their gear, their heads oversized and rounded from their helmets, and their eyes, shielded by the circular and protruding, night-vision binoculars, glowed a faded, eerie green. Shaw looked no different.
Shaw knew what they felt, because for the first time in several weeks, the urge to touch his stomach was nonexistent. Excitement coursed through his body, revitalizing him thoroughly. The exhilaration could not be explained without several moments of contemplative thought, but simply put, the men felt truly alive and on the cusp of dangerous adventure. The feeling welled upward from their guts, tickled their hearts, and quickened their minds. It was almost like injecting a drug, but the three men would say it was indeed far better than any substance available.
Shaw carried Wyatt’s M4A1 strapped to the side of his rucksack, and the rest of Wyatt’s gear was dispersed through his, Barone’s, and Hogan’s packs. Shaw checked their coordinates on his GPS and then again by map and compass just to be sure. He located their bearing and set off toward the CIA outpost.
The brutal climb tore at Shaw’s legs as he ascended. His muscles still ached from his wounds, but he pushed onward. He picked his way up a narrow ridge and sweat beaded down his face as he exerted himself. The Raider moved slowly, careful to judge distance accurately. His night vision binoculars severely handicapped his depth perception, and one wrong step could send him tumbling down the mountainside.
The Marines reached the crest of the mountain, and, from their perch in a small clearing surrounded by boulders, they took a moment to catch their breath and gaze down upon the city. Various lights dotted the entire valley, but it was a far cry from luminous San Francisco or New York City. Shaw checked
his map and confirmed the location of the compound.
“There,” he said, pointing to a cluster of buildings beneath them. Barone and Hogan noted the location and followed Shaw as he began his descent.
The descent, almost as difficult as the ascent, proved challenging. The three men carefully placed each foot as they moved through the rocky crags laden with loose dirt and small rocks. They fought to balance the weight of their gear, but each had carefully packed their kit to aid their center of gravity.
As they neared, Shaw observed the quiet compound. Darkness shrouded every inch of the outpost and nothing moved. He surveyed the mountainside and narrowed his eyes. The breeze picked up, and a piece of fabric fluttered in the wind. The silhouette of a man materialized as he focused in on the waving cloth. The man lay prone behind a scoped rifle pointed toward the compound. Shaw guessed he was about seventy meters away. He pressed his PTT, “I’ve got eyes on a sniper.” A prickling sensation rolled over both Hogan and Barone at the news. They were really in it. After all their training, they had arrived.
“I see him,” Hogan stated.
“Me too,” Barone said. Shaw brought up his carbine, and the IR laser fluttered for a moment then steadied on the sniper’s torso.
“Move in on him from behind. I’ve got you covered,” Shaw ordered. Barone and Hogan carefully picked their way toward the sniper but stopped. Shaw noted their pause. “What is it?”
“I’ve got movement in the compound,” Barone answered. Shaw turned his head slightly and noted the figure stride across the courtyard. It was a woman with light hair; that was all he could decipher through the pale green illumination. His eyes snapped back toward the sniper and watched as the man settled in behind his rifle. The man slowly inhaled as his rifle traced the woman’s steps. Shaw aimed for center mass, exhaled to find his natural respiratory pause, and squeezed the trigger.
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