The light, swift bullets ripped through the back window, cutting down the driver and passenger. Reeves released the trigger. Blood coated the interior glass. Lincoln, Becker, and Quinn burst out of the SUV with their carbines trained on the truck.
“Becker, Quinn, check on those Marines!” Lincoln shouted.
“On it,” Becker exclaimed as he and Quinn raced toward the smashed SUV. Quinn reached the driver’s door and wrenched it open. Barone swayed as he came to; Quinn helped him out.
“You okay, man?” he asked. Barone blinked rapidly.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Hogan?”
“I’m fine, bro,” came his reply. Hogan stood relatively unfazed on the other side of the SUV. “That was ballsy.”
“Worked didn’t it?” Barone replied. He touched his head. “Should’ve been wearing my helmet.” He quickly fetched and donned it.
“Incoming!” Lincoln shouted as he spotted more vehicles headed their way. One separated and bounced onto the beach headed toward the overturned SUV.
20
Within the upside-down SUV, Shaw glanced at Natalie. Unconscious, she hung limp in her seat. The rear driver’s side door opened, and instinctively, Kathryn crawled out.
“Wait!” Shaw shouted, but she had already moved onto the rocky beach. A pair of sandy boots stopped her. She glanced up quickly and met the barrel of a rifle, but it moved away, and a young insurgent, maybe twenty years old, smiled devilishly at her. She knew what thoughts floated behind his dark eyes. He gripped a handful of her blonde hair and yanked upward. A gunshot echoed between them, and more followed as Kathryn repeatedly slapped the pistol’s trigger rearward. The young man stumbled backward, pressing his hands against sixteen fresh wounds in his torso. He looked at her, and his eyes, wide in utter disbelief, met her gaze before he fell backwards. The others with him shouted in alarm and turned their rifles toward her.
Systematic gunfire erupted behind her, and the three insurgents died before they hit the ground. Two men rushed past her, and, fear guiding her, she snapped her pistol toward the nearest one. It clicked.
Empty.
Grateful for an empty gun, Wyatt gently took the pistol from her grip, but she refused to relinquish it until she recognized Wyatt.
“I shot you,” Kathryn stammered, not realizing her pistol was empty.
“No, you didn’t,” he replied. She released her grip and looked past him to the dead man.
“I killed him,” she mumbled, obviously shaken. Wyatt didn’t know how to respond. He traced her gaze to the deceased; the four men lay in the sand, and Shaw put an extra round in each one just to be sure.
“Come on,” Wyatt instructed. He helped her to her feet and guided her behind the armored SUV.
Shaw hurried back to them and tore open the driver’s door. After ensuring she was safe to move, he pulled Natalie from the seat and carried her around and behind the overturned Range Rover. He set her gently on the sand, and, hovering over her, he again examined her for any life-threatening injuries. It appeared that she had hit her head during the crash, but she didn’t seem to possess any other concerning wounds.
Her eyes opened, and she blinked rapidly as Shaw’s countenance materialized. He smiled.
“Hey there,” he greeted.
“You’re beginning to enjoy this,” she groaned. He chuckled.
“Maybe I am,” he replied. “You okay?” Natalie brought her hand to her head and closed her eyes.
“My head is killing me,” she replied. Shaw placed a hand over hers. His touch, surprisingly, comforted her, and she fought off tears as they attempted to rim her eyes. Be strong, Nat, she told herself.
“Shaw!” Wyatt called. Shaw jumped to his feet and peered around the SUV. The rest of their companions bolted toward them, sand flinging up behind their boots. At the road, two more trucks screeched to a stop and turned their guns toward the six sprinting men. Shaw and Wyatt immediately engaged. Their rounds soared toward the truck gunners, and those insurgents ducked behind the vehicle cabs. The two Raiders sustained their fire, which bought their approaching teammates precious time. The four CIA contractors and two Raiders slid into prone positions in front of the overturned vehicle and opened fire. Any advance the insurgents intended to make was halted by the Americans’ aggression.
The trucks’ heavy machine guns barked, but their rounds flew indiscriminately as those shooting hid fearfully behind the cabs. Some bullets arched out to sea and others thudded into the sand and skipped off rocks.
“I got to reload!” Reeves shouted. He worked quickly; they needed his light machine gun back in the fight to keep the insurgents at bay. Seizing the moment, the enemy advanced quickly. They shot their guns wildly from the hip as they moved. They needed to close the distance before Reeves got his gun back up and running. And if the truck gunners found the courage to aim, they would cut the Americans down with ease.
Despair fought for triumph as it assaulted the group’s morale. With the sea to their backs, they had no place to retreat. The armored SUV provided the necessary cover, but the insurgents, if they continued their advance, would soon approach close enough to land successful and consistent hits. Even if the Americans could hold them at bay, they would eventually run out of ammunition.
“Where the hell is our exfil?” Becker shouted. He slammed a new magazine into his rifle and picked up another target. He fired four times, three found their mark, and the insurgent fell on the road.
Natalie, her pistol drawn, kneeled in the sand on the passenger side. She dropped her shoulder and leaned beneath the hood of the overturned vehicle. The space provided enough clearance for a direct line of sight. The shots were long, too long for a pistol really, but she knew they needed all the firepower they could muster. She squeezed the trigger and kept it pinned to the rear for upmost accuracy. The pistol cycled, chambering a new cartridge, and she released the trigger. As soon as she felt the familiar reset, she fired again, having already acquired her target. She couldn’t be sure she landed hits, but perhaps she kept the enemies’ heads down, and that was enough.
Shaw glanced toward Wyatt, who had fished his M110A1 out of the vehicle. His M4A1 dangled at his side. If anyone provided the capability for accurate fire, it was he. With his sniper rifle, he could easily drop the targets at the one-hundred-meter distance. Wyatt exhaled and fired. An insurgent toppled off the heavy machine gun, but another quickly took his place.
“There are too many!” Wyatt shouted. He looked down and to his right. Kathryn covered her head with her hands and had drawn her knees into her chest. Her shoulders shuddered, and Wyatt knew she was crying. Rightly so, within the span of just over twenty-four hours she had endured, not just one, but two firefights and killed a man. She had already experienced more combat than the average US service member. If she came through mentally unscathed, she would emerge as the strongest person he had ever met.
As she sat there, flanked by two Marines and a CIA officer, Kathryn sobbed. Although grateful for the hearing protection, the blasts from all the gunfire still rolled over her. The sharp sounds didn’t stab through her like they had on the rooftop, but each concussive shot brought a new wave of fear. It wasn’t just fear of death, that fear, although very real, paled in comparison to her helplessness. Her fear flowed from the reality that if the worst happened, she was incapable of truly defending herself. Had Wyatt and Shaw not come to her aid just moments ago, those other insurgents would have killed her. Yes, she had killed one, but, without proper training and discipline, she was helpless against her other attackers.
The entire notion terrified her, yet she found relief. As she decoded her emotions, she realized that she had truly defended herself, and that she did not freeze in that moment of dire necessity. Even now, she actually engaged her mind while the world fell apart around her; her mind wasn’t seized by fear to the point of inoperability. She was no longer held captive by her own fear, but in control despite it. The journalist glanced up at Wyatt, she couldn’t see his face b
ecause of the way he shouldered his rifle, but she imagined his eyes, focused and resolute. The thought comforted her considerably.
“We can’t keep this up too much longer,” Shaw said to Natalie as she retreated behind cover to reload. She glanced up at him, but she didn’t need his grave expression to remind her of the severity of their situation. The heat radiating off her pistol’s slide warmed her hands, but she paid it no mind as she slammed home her last magazine. She had fifteen rounds, and she had to make them count.
A guttural whine ripped through the air behind them, and tracer rounds lit up the sky like lasers as they cut through the fading darkness above the small group of Americans. A fifty-caliber, M2 heavy machine gun bellowed amidst the snarling minigun. The heavy rounds ripped through the vehicles and cut down the advancing insurgents with apathy.
Special Boat Team 20, one of the Navy’s special operations units manned by Special Warfare Combatant-Craft Crewmen (SWCC), consisted of two eleven-meter NSW RIBs. Since the beginning of the War on Terror, special boat teams have extracted SEALs and other special operations units from the Tigris and the Euphrates Rivers in Iraq. The NSW RIBs, which stood for Naval Special Warfare Rigid Inflatable Boat, contained room for eight personnel in addition to the pilot and two gunners.
One of Special Boat Team 20’s boats continued to fire on the enemy force while the other advanced toward the beach. Any resolve the insurgents held to continue fighting broke almost immediately. Many were shot through the back and cut in half as they attempted to flee the onslaught.
As the boat nudged against the shore, an eight-man element from SEAL Team 3 jumped off and, in a wide formation, advanced up the beach. They opened fire on the enemy while moving, and they formed a protective layer around the besieged Americans.
“Let’s go!” Shaw shouted. Wyatt reached for Kathryn, but she was already on her feet. He looked back one last time toward the trucks on the road. The minigun and M2 shredded through the vehicles, and one exploded as an incendiary round penetrated the gas tank. As if that were the signal, the rest of the group broke cover and sprinted toward the boat. Wyatt jumped into the craft and hoisted Kathryn onboard. Shaw remained in the surf and provided a step for Natalie. He thrust her upward, and she latched onto Wyatt’s strong arms. Shaw helped Quinn, Becker, and Lincoln aboard and remained until Reeves approached.
The second boat now simply put on a massive display of force. No threat lingered by the trucks or along the road, but they continued firing, as was protocol. They would cease only when the other boat was safely out to sea. After Reeves climbed aboard, Shaw waited for Barone and Hogan to board before reaching for Wyatt’s hand.
As anticipated, the second boat kept firing until the first craft had retreated safely behind them. Once the first boat was clear, the pilot of the second boat sped toward the beach and picked up the SEALS before turning and gunning the engines to follow the other craft.
The silence was deafening once the guns ceased, and although relief spread among them, no one uttered a word. No one laughed or even cried. They simply yielded to their fatigue. Kathryn lay against Wyatt’s chest. She closed her eyes as he hugged her tight. The wind tossed his sandy hair and cooled his scalp. His neck ached from the weight of his helmet and its attachments, and he was relieved to have taken if off. He looked down at Kathryn. Her beauty stole his breath, and he couldn’t ignore the pleasure he felt in keeping his promise to her.
“I told you I’d get you out of there,” he said. The engines drowned out his words to anyone but her.
“I know,” she replied. He could never know the extent of her gratitude, but she would do her best to show him. Her heart tingled as she considered the future, a real future. The fantasy had faded, and the reality of a life next to John loomed before her. If she was honest, it scared her as much as it excited her. What if, without the fear and stress, the quick highs and lows, they failed? One day at a time, she told herself.
Lincoln watched Quinn pat Becker’s helmet and Becker, seated on the floor, reach up and gripped Quinn’s hand. His gaze fell next on Reeves who cradled his machine gun and rested his eyes. No doubt, the man thought of his family back home. Grateful to be alive, Lincoln extended his senses to feel every wave the boat crested and the breeze that refreshed him, but his mind thrust thoughts upon him. Natalie’s obsession over Al Amiri had cost them all dearly. He had the power to paint her as the hero or the villain in his report. He had every right to crucify her. This he knew, but he pushed the thought away, and instead tried to focus on the steady rise and fall of the keel.
Barone and Hogan both could not believe the events of the last several hours. Their admiration for Captain Shaw had dramatically increased, admiration neither had thought could grow any higher. The same thought now ran through their minds. If Shaw was appointed a commander of a new MSOT, they both wanted to be in it.
Natalie relished the cool sea wind as it refreshed her face. Her mind, though, thought forward. She knew she would be summoned to Langley to provide account for the last twenty-four hours. Perhaps she would sit before the director; a small amount of anxiety stirred with that thought.
Shaw sat next to Natalie, and satisfaction rolled over his entire being. Not only had his body held up, he had also accomplished his mission. Al Amiri was dead, and, although Wyatt had effectively saved himself, Shaw had avenged his brothers. Now, a name swirled in his thoughts: Francisco Silva. Who was he, where was he, and, most importantly, how could he find him? He thought of the hard drives stowed in Barone’s pack. He hoped the cache would provide information to locate his next target.
Part Two
The Arms Dealer
21
Langley, Virginia
Two Months Later
“He’s ready to see you, Ms. Hale,” the middle-aged woman stated. Natalie exhaled heavily and rose from the leather chair. She straightened her blazer and built up her resolve. Her fingers traced the fresh scar on her eyebrow, and she fought her nerves as she offered the secretary a smile and followed her into the large, corner office.
The unexpected summons after her return from Dubai didn’t sit well with her. While the events surrounding Aden were under review, Natalie had assembled what data she could on Silva, tracked a private plane out of Aden to Dubai, called in some favors, and left to investigate. The director’s timing suggested he had discovered her endeavors.
The suite resembled a library instead of an executive office. Bookcases completely concealed the walls, and Natalie figured the director couldn’t squeeze in another book. It was arranged neatly though, not disheveled like other offices she had entered, and each case appeared to be categorized by subject. Floor to ceiling windows behind and to the left of the large desk showcased the green, Virginian landscape and cloudy, blue sky.
The secretary closed the twin doors behind her, and Natalie set her jaw and strode confidently forward.
“Have a seat, Ms. Hale,” the man said without standing or looking up at her. She did as instructed and found the chair lower to the ground than it ought to have been. It forced her to look slightly up at the man. It annoyed her, but she didn’t show it.
Director James Caldwell, wearing a gray suit and matching tie against a starched, white, dress shirt, glanced over the report before him. It contained detailed explanations from each Aden survivor employed by the CIA, including Natalie’s own. He struggled to read the blurred words, but he refused to wear reading glasses. Regardless, he got the gist of what had happened. He finally looked at her.
Natalie almost shuddered under his fierce gaze, but she repressed her anxiety. He glanced back down at the reports, and she quietly sucked on her saliva glands to bring relief to her dry mouth.
“I’ll start with this,” he said, “I am issuing nominations for new stars to be added to the Memorial Wall.” He watched her, his eyes prying for some hint of weakness, regret, or apathy. He found none of those things. She remained proud and sat upright. “Those nominations are a direct result of your op
erations in Yemen. Tell me, are you satisfied with the outcomes?” he asked.
“No, sir,” she replied without hesitation.
“But your report indicates that Isaam Al Amiri was targeted and killed, albeit in direct violation of your orders,” he countered.
“That is correct.”
“So, the mission was a success?”
“From a certain point of view,” Natalie answered.
“Hutchins with SOCOM staff reported that you were to relay Al Amiri’s location to them so they could authorize an airstrike,” Caldwell said.
“Those were my instructions,” she replied.
“Indeed they were,” he responded harshly. His expression hardened. “Was it worth it to disobey?” Natalie didn’t know how to respond. She certainly felt that could be the case, but she would never know. Al Amiri was dead, and perhaps her team’s sacrifice might prevent another major terrorist attack upon the Western world. The intelligence gathered by Shaw and his team would answer that.
“The events did not turn out as I would have hoped,” she replied.
“That’s the understatement of the decade.” His gray eyes bored into hers. “To make matters worse, you participated in an unsanctioned operation using unapproved personnel to kill a man. SOCOM wants your head, and there is no way, on paper, to justify your actions.”
“I’m sure there are many things the agency has done that cannot be justified on paper,” she countered. Caldwell’s eyes narrowed; she teetered on the brink of dangerous territory, but he could see that she would not allow him to ridicule her. “The orders came from Major King in MARSOC. I was given a choice, and I chose the option that provided the greatest opportunity to capture or kill Al Amiri and secure vital enemy intelligence.”
“So it seems,” Caldwell responded.
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