by Kenneth Eade
Peterson was right. This does suck balls.
He typed a response: “This wasn’t the agreement. You know I work alone. Request reassignment.”
Robert slammed the top down on the notebook, clenched his fists and pounded one on the desk. He knew his request would be denied. His options were either to follow his orders and walk into a beehive full of killer bees, where the chances of getting killed were higher than he cared to estimate, face criminal charges back home, or try to disappear again.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
He paced the floor, hand to his head. There was only one thing in his crazy, lethal life that ever made sense. The code. He had to follow the code. Without the code there was nothing. This was his assignment. He had to carry it out, no matter what the consequences. If his number was up, it was up.
***
Ted Barnard dialed a secure, direct line to the man with no name. It rang and rang and rang, but finally Manizek picked up.
“Yes?”
“How’d he take it?”
“The little bastard’s requesting reassignment.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. I’m gonna let him sweat a bit.”
“What if he doesn’t do it?”
“He’ll do it. Crazy fuckers like this guy live by some crazy unwritten law of the universe. It’s the only thing that makes sense to them.”
“And if he doesn’t do it?”
“Then it will be Plan B.”
“Plan B?”
“We send someone – just like him – to insure his silence.”
Barnard knew what that meant, of course, but he didn’t want to discuss the dirty details. That’s what men like Manizek were for. The denials, if they need be given, could better be given with sincerity, and they could only be feigned if you didn’t know them at all.
***
Robert checked his PGP, almost excessively. There was no response from the man with no name who had, until the day before, been feeding him a steady stream of Intel.
“Asshole.”
He resolved to continue his planning as if the mission were going forward, but there was no way he was going to plan an invasion. He was responsible for himself and nobody else. Getting in, doing the job and getting out alive were the only three acts to this play.
Robert calculated the citadel was, most likely, occupied by at least a company of 80 to 100 soldiers. If it housed an entire battalion, he would be looking at 500 soldiers. They were sending him on a suicide mission. He didn’t know how many “rebels” planned to invade the castle and he didn’t care. Nobody talked to Robert about it. They understood his mission was classified and he wouldn’t talk to them anyway. But they all seemed to be well aware he was the sacrificial lamb who would blaze the trail for their entrance. They were an annoying and dangerous variable to his plan that was impossible to calculate. There was no way to anticipate what may happen.
They watched Robert constantly, always keeping an eye on his comings and goings and constantly assessing his activities. It was beyond annoying and downright dangerous. Their commanders were constantly questioning him on his mission, but all they got was his usual response: “It’s classified.”
Robert was off every day early, scouting for his mission. Through his keen observation, he traced movements of Syrian Army soldiers through the streets on the western side of the city. There were armored vehicles parked alongside the rubble of the old Carlton and a bunch of soldiers hanging out around them, smoking cigarettes and holding radios. He observed supplies disappearing behind the plastic sheets covering a bombed-out store – soldiers and supplies going in and nothing coming out.
That has to be a secret passage.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Robert’s daily recon trips to the city were becoming routine to his rebel neighbors. Now they formed the basis of a different goal – privacy. He couldn’t afford to be shaking a tail of terrorists behind him every time he made a move, so he needed to outsmart them to get some distance from them. First, he located a suitable, abandoned building on the outskirts of the city. Inside, he made a makeshift underground locker for his equipment from the rubble. He dug a hole and put his equipment in it and covered the hole with stones, and booby-trapped it to ward off potential looters. Every day, Robert took several pieces of equipment and essential supplies with him to his new “storage space” so, when the time came, he wouldn’t be leaving the rebels dressed like Rambo, alerting them to the onset of his mission. After a few days of transporting materials, he was ready. All in all, he had assembled an RPKN with night vision scope, an armor-piercing knife; a Glock 17 9mm pistol with noise suppressor; a helmet with night vision goggles; a gas mask; and a lightweight plate carrier vest. He loaded the pouches of the plate carrier with fully charged magazines and gas canisters.
Finally, Robert was ready. He set out on what looked like a regular, routine reconnaissance mission, with his RPK slung over his shoulder as usual, only this day he did not come back at nightfall as he normally would. He waited at his staging area until it was completely dark, then headed toward the unofficial front between all the fighting factions in Aleppo.
He hid his motorcycle in the rubble of an abandoned building and covered the rest of the trip on foot, slinking close to the buildings like a cat on the prowl. Hearing the rumble of a vehicle, he ducked behind a half-destroyed wall, hiding in the shadows as he watched a Syrian Army patrol in two infantry mobility vehicles pass by slowly. When he was sure they had gone, he once again advanced.
Dipping into a shelled-out building next door to the tunnel entrance, Robert suited up and slipped back out into the night. Outside the plastic sheeted “doors” of the store, he drew his Glock and silently dispatched the two sentries posted there, who both dropped like marionettes who had their strings cut with a dull, dusty thud.
He donned his mask and tossed a fentanyl canister inside the store, waited for it to take effect, and cautiously entered, spotting right away two more guards who had succumbed to the gas. Behind them was an opening in the floor leading to a set of stone steps going underground. He tossed another canister into the abyss. Once the gas had done its deed, he descended the steps into a dusty, muddy tunnel about six feet wide and only a slightly bit taller. He advanced carefully, about 100 meters, reaching a cut stone secret passageway to the citadel. The stone floor was smooth, having been worn and polished from hundreds or maybe thousands of years of traffic. The passage was tranquil, but for the shuffling of his own footsteps. After another 800 meters, Robert was standing at the bottom of a spiral staircase of stone, having met no more resistance up to that point. He detonated two gas canisters in the stairwell and, hearing nothing, began to mount them.
As he climbed, he saw the reflection of light at the top of the spiral stone staircase. Extending his spy mirror like a periscope, he panned the area, located two sentries on watch, talking to each other. He memorized their coordinates. Cautiously, he raised himself high enough to get his shooting arm free above the opening and took aim, shooting first one, then the other, with silent fire from his Glock, dropping both of them instantly. He climbed out of the stairwell and commandeered the usable weaponry of the two guards.
Robert was inside the citadel under a grand stone arch. He peered around one corner and then the other, noting the positions of the machine gunners at their lookout posts on the top of the ring wall. He knew they hadn’t heard anything, because they were still looking out beyond the castle walls for intruders, unaware one was already among their midst.
He ran close to the walls of the excavated ancient barracks toward the visitors’ center and museum. With any luck, the general would be there, and he could get in and get out before the entire Syrian Army scrambled after him. He patiently trekked in the shadows, crouching below the walls of the visitors’ center, an old reconstructed barracks from the 1800s.
The first order of business was to set a charge to take out the electricity. Robert located the power box,
loaded it with C4 explosives, and crawled back around the perimeter of the building. He paused below the first window, carefully extended his tactical spy mirror, and the light from the room gave him a decent view of everything inside. There were a couple of soldiers in the first room, drinking coffee. He crept on to the next window. Nothing there – so he moved on. There were fifteen windows in all to check, and he was running low on precious time.
Finally, when Robert got to window 14, he saw a familiar face, but it wasn’t the general’s – standing there with two other guys in Russian Spetsnaz dress was his old friend, Lyosha.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Robert shook off the initial shock. If Lyosha got in the way of his target, he would have to kill him – plain and simple. Lyosha would do the same thing in his place. If he discovered Robert was gunning after the general, he would take Robert out. Both men were on different sides now, but they lived by the same code. Robert waited patiently. The Russians weren’t there just on vacation; the general couldn’t be far behind. One of the Russians moved quickly toward the window.
Shit! He saw me!
Robert pulled the mirror down and lay flat on the ground beneath the window in the darkness. He could see the Russian’s nose as he peered through the window, then, seeing nothing, left. Robert gingerly raised his periscope again, getting a good view of the players in the room. At that moment, the general walked through the door and stood by the Russians, talking.
Bingo!
Noting that his window of opportunity was somewhere between slim to none, Robert rose up and looked into the window long enough to take his aim and fire, twice, and the general went down.
The Russians were quick to react, two withdrawing their firearms and heading for the window while another jumped on top of the general’s body to protect him. However, it was too late for the general. Robert’s shots had found their purchase accurately, in the head and chest. Robert hit the button on the remote detonator and the entire citadel went dark. He couldn’t go back to the tunnel unnoticed, because soldiers were pouring out of the visitors’ center and taking positions outside, so he set out to traverse the citadel’s grounds to the alternate escape route.
He had to cross one wide-open space between the visitors’ center and the Mosque of Abraham, crouching down in the darkness as he heard random machine gun fire and screaming from all directions. He looked up and could see muzzle flash from the machine gun positions on the ring wall. They were randomly shooting into the citadel’s grounds. He reached the beginnings of a street and lay flat outside the mosque. He could see the bouncing beams from the flashlights of soldiers running from the entrance complex toward the visitors’ center.
Then, a series of loud explosions lit up the inside of the fortress. The citadel was under attack and he was stuck inside it. They obviously didn’t care about blowing up things inside the ancient landmark.
The Russians were right. These are the bad guys.
It wasn’t as if he could run up to the rebels and say, “Hey guys, I’m with you.” The Syrians and the Russians would shoot him before he got to them and the rebels were likely to shoot him as well. He doubled back around the mosque and headed toward the hammam. With the map in his head, he had his bearings and with his night vision goggles, he was a ghost.
On the other side of the hammam, he reached the souk, and continued until he crept up on the entrance complex. There were a series of three gates, designed like a labyrinth to keep outsiders out, but he was approaching from inside, where it was a straight line to the third gate, behind which was the entrance to the secret passage. He shot one Syrian soldier, then another, inside the complex, and made a beeline for the third gate. That’s when he heard a voice behind him.
“Stop right there, Boab!”
Robert froze. He recognized Lyosha’s voice. The sound of small arms fire outside was becoming more intense.
“Drop your weapons!”
Robert let go of the Glock and slid the AK off his shoulder, letting it drop to the ground. He looked in Lyosha’s direction, but all he saw was the blinding beam from his flashlight and the outline of four shadows.
“Kick them out of way.”
He kicked the guns, one at a time, toward Lyosha.
“How did you know it was me? And that I’d be here?”
Robert knew Lyosha could drop him at any second. He was buying time, the only real commodity a man has.
“Nobody is good as you. I knew it was you when the general was hit.”
“Are you going to shoot me?”
With his eyes on Robert, Lyosha picked up and pocketed the Glock, and then lifted and shouldered the AK. He stepped back shone the light down on the floor. Robert could see he was standing with three Syrian soldiers, who were all eager to shoot him.
“The general is already dead. I can’t protect him anymore.”
Lyosha looked into Robert’s eyes. It was the look of a man who had failed. Robert’s punishment should be death, but, at this point, it would also be a waste of an asset.
“You need me.”
He clipped Robert’s hands together with plastic ties, and then motioned to Robert with his rifle, and Robert trudged ahead. The popping of small fire became more intense and it was downright deafening by the time they had reached the end of the entrance complex.
A firefight was blazing in the old Ottoman streets outside. There was no defined front, with rebel guerillas simply attempting to wipe out whomever they saw, and Robert was no exception. Lyosha, Robert and the three soldiers crouched low, behind the foundation of an ancient villa.
“These are your people, Boab.”
“They’re not my people. My only target was the general.”
“Right.”
Lyosha knew that Robert was just a pawn they had used to get access to the citadel. He also knew Robert had no value as a prisoner. Not only would they not acknowledge him or his mission, now that they had their access, they could not care less if he lived or died. But he had killed the general and would have to answer for that crime.
They advanced toward the melee until they reached a clump of Syrian soldiers. Lyosha got into combat position, firing his rifle and commanding the Syrian soldiers. The rebels were firing on them, Robert included.
“Give me a gun.”
“What?”
“Let me help.”
Robert knew that Lyosha needed him and wouldn’t turn down an extra gun.
“You are prisoner. Stay down and be quiet.” Lyosha continued to fire until, all of a sudden, it became eerily silent, only a few pops of small arms in the distance. Suddenly, an RPG exploded the wall they were hiding behind and dozens of rebels rushed at them from the excavations. The soldiers shot some, but there were too many, and they kept coming. Before they knew it, they were in close quarters combat. Lyosha shot two with his sidearm, pulled out his combat knife and quickly approached Robert with it. Robert held out his hands and, with one sweep of his knife, Lyosha cut the ties. Lyosha then ducked behind a ruined wall. Robert turned over a dead Syrian soldier and took his knife and rifle.
While Lyosha was reloading, two rebels came at them, screaming. Robert shot them both before they had a chance to strike. Lyosha nodded to him. They were now in this fight together, and finally on the same side.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The rebels most likely had control of the visitors’ center and who knows how many more had come in. Lyosha decided to double back and take up a position in the forward defensive tower, atop the throne hall that also happened to be an entrance to the second secret passage as well. They gathered up all the firing power of the downed soldiers, retreated to the entrance complex, and mounted the stairs to the tower. From there, they set up a perimeter and began to pick off pockets of their resistance. Lyosha radioed the other members of his Spetsnaz team.
He spoke to them in Russian, getting information on their positions and strength. Robert listened, curiously, unable to understand any of it.
�
�So what’s happening?”
“It is report from Ramzes. Visitors’ center is occupied by terrorists. We have one guy with sixteen soldiers in mosque of Abraham and another guy with eleven soldiers in Hammam Palace. And the soldiers on ring wall are still in place with their machine guns pointed in at the castle now instead of out.”
“Where are your other two Russians?”
“Don’t know. Probably dead.”
“What is your plan?”
“In Spetsnaz, we all work together on plan. We are used to fighting behind enemy lines. I have told each team member to come up with strategy, then we all coordinate. Ramzes’ idea is to parachute more forces into castle. That is how we usually get behind enemy lines.”
“That’s no good.”
“Why not?”
“Because the rebels will shoot your guys before they hit the ground.”
“We still have ring wall defenses that can cover them.”
“Too risky.”
“I think you are right. Other idea was to drop them in city, by entrance to tunnel.”
“Not good enough. I have an idea.”
“You are not member of team, but I listen.”
“There are two structures higher than this one on the grounds. One is the mill and the other is the minaret of the big mosque. We’ve already seen muzzle flash from the mosque, so that’s probably out, but I can go around the perimeter to the mill and take up a sniper position on the top of it. Then your guys from the Hammam and the mosque of Abraham can box the terrorists in the visitors center.
