by Don Mann
“The Turks didn’t have anyone guarding the gate?”
“They did, in fact. Both of them were shot and killed.”
Crocker turned to his left and saw for the first time that the gate wasn’t really a secure gate, only an opening in the fence with a barrier and sandbag-covered guard station.
“Did anyone see the vehicle?” Crocker asked.
“The lighting wasn’t good. It was a little after five a.m. All this individual saw was the back of a truck. Maybe a two-and-a-half-ton. Maybe a black Volvo. Maybe a dark-green Mercedes.”
“So they knew we had arrived. Someone informed them.”
“Who?” Janice asked.
“The attackers.”
“Or they watched us enter,” Mancini added.
“Video surveillance?” Crocker asked, his brain spinning wildly.
“There’s a camera at the gate, but it isn’t working.”
“Is Colonel Oz aware of all this?”
“He and Captain Nasar are on the phone with Ankara now.”
“Who’s Captain Nasar?”
“The camp commander.”
Crocker now remembered him greeting them when they arrived. “Why didn’t anyone wake me up before?” he asked, his anger and alarm rising.
“The Turks were handling it,” Janice explained. “There was a lot of confusion.”
“Where are Akil and Davis?”
“Davis was with me in the visitors’ tent,” Mancini answered. “I thought Akil was with you in the clinic.”
“He was. That’s right.”
The enormity of the disaster took time to process. What the hell happened? Who did it? How did they know we were here and had the sarin?
Zeid and Babas were dead, so it couldn’t have been them. Dozens of questions ran through his mind.
Anders and Grissom were irate when Crocker spoke to them on a phone in Captain Nasar’s office.
“Jesus Christ, Crocker. How the hell could you allow something like this to happen?” Grissom asked.
He had no answer, only confusion and rage.
“All of us risked our lives to bring out the sarin,” he said, mustering all his reserves of self-control. “So the idea that anyone allowed this to happen is highly insulting.”
“Insulting, did you say?”
Crocker bit down hard on his anger, but still some slipped through. “Yes, insulting. You heard me right!”
He went on to explain that since the camp was guarded by Turkish soldiers, he had assumed it was safe. As an extra precaution he had left one of his men to guard the truck. Apparently his assumption had been wrong, and for that he took full responsibility. He was as shocked and angry as Grissom and Anders. While he felt terrible about the missing sarin, he was equally concerned about Suarez, and immediately started to second-guess his decision to leave him alone with the truck.
“This is an unmitigated disaster!” Grissom shouted through the phone. “Do you know what that sarin can do if it’s released in Istanbul or Ankara, or both? We’re looking at mass murder on an unthinkable scale, Crocker!”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“You didn’t finish the job, man! You screwed up.”
Crocker had to fight hard to keep from losing it. “I told you before, I take full responsibility. But as bad as this is, and as pissed off as we are now, we need to focus on recovering the sarin.”
“Not you, Crocker,” Grissom responded. “Hell no. I want you and your men the hell out of Turkey. Drive immediately to Ankara, get on a plane, and get out ASAP. You’ve done enough damage already.”
Crocker’s mind was still partially focused on Suarez and the horrible possibility that he might have lost another team member.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” Grissom screamed through the phone. Crocker heard Anders in the background telling him to calm down.
“I understand your anger,” responded Crocker, “but I think you’re making a mistake.”
“You’ve got balls, Crocker, but no fucking sense.”
“We’re not running out of here with our tails between our legs, sir. That’s not happening.”
“You’d better, before the Turks arrest you and hold you for questioning.”
Crocker hadn’t even thought of that. “I seriously doubt they’ll do that, but I’ll take that risk.”
“Nobody gives a rat’s ass what you think!” Grissom shouted. “Just do as you’re told, and do it now!”
Crocker took a deep breath. Through the window he saw Colonel Oz standing in the cement courtyard outside with Akil, Mancini, and Janice pointing past the gate and looking highly agitated.
Maybe Grissom’s right.
“Sir, we brought the sarin into Turkey,” he said into the phone, “and now we’re going to help the Turks recover it.”
“How?”
“I can’t answer that now.”
“Of course you can’t, because you’re out of your depth. And you’re not going to accomplish a goddamn thing, because you’ll be behind bars in a Turkish prison. Like Midnight Fucking Express, but worse.”
Crocker hung up the phone and tried to compose himself. Going to prison wasn’t a concern. Recovering the sarin was. They had to act quickly, and they needed a plan.
As soon as he stepped outside Janice separated herself from the group near the gate and hurried toward him, her hair flying and her fists clenched.
“Have you seen Hassan?” Janice asked.
“Hassan?”
“The engineering student. Have you seen him?”
“Not since we arrived this morning. Why?”
“When’s the last time you saw him?” she asked with desperation in her voice. “Do you remember?”
“He was walking with Jamila and Tariq over to the clinic,” Crocker said, gesturing behind him. “Why?”
“Did you see him go inside?”
“No, I didn’t see him enter the clinic. No. Have you talked to Jamila? She should be able to answer that.”
Janice nodded and looked at the ground deep in thought.
“Something happen to Hassan?” Crocker asked. “What’s going on?”
“He’s missing.”
“What do you mean, missing?” asked Crocker.
“He’s not in the camp.”
“What?” It made no sense.
“We’ve questioned everyone. Oz had his men search the camp. Nobody can find him.”
It seemed incredible.
“What about Jamila and their son?” Crocker asked, as he tried to grasp the implications.
“They’re still here,” Janice answered. “Everyone else has been accounted for.”
It was hard to believe that Hassan would have exited the camp voluntarily and left his girlfriend and son behind.
“Maybe he was kidnapped,” Crocker conjectured out loud.
“Why?” Janice asked. “Why in the world would the hijackers want Hassan? Why would they bother to take him? Why?”
Hoping to find answers, Crocker ran to speak to Jamila. He found her sitting in a sun-filled room in the clinic, nursing Tariq. She seemed as confounded as he was, but strangely calm, given the fact that the father of her son had suddenly disappeared.
“I’m worried about him,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t find an explanation. Hassan was happy the last time I saw him. He kissed me and Tariq good night and told me he loved me. It was the first time he ever said those words. Then, next thing I hear, he’s left the camp without telling me.”
He noted sadness in her voice, but no fear or anxiety, which was odd. “When’s the last time you saw him?” Crocker asked.
“It was about thirty minutes after we arrived. Sometime after four. We were here in this room, Tariq and I. Hassan kissed us goodbye and left.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“He said he was sleeping in the visitors’ tent with your men. Tariq and I remained here in the clinic with Natalie and Amira. If something was wrong, he didn’t
tell me.”
Strange.
“Did he mention anything about wanting to meet someone—anyone—here in Karbeyaz?”
“No.”
“Does he have relatives here? Friends?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did he say anything about expecting someone to visit him?”
She shook her head as Tariq pulled back from her nipple and yawned. Jamila quickly covered herself, and Crocker looked away.
Very fucking strange.
She held a crying Tariq to her chest and patted his back.
“Did he mention anything he was worried about?”
“No,” she answered. “But Hassan and I don’t have such a close relationship where he tells me everything. He keeps a lot to himself. Maybe he’s worried about the responsibility of being a father, and went away to think about that.”
Curious answer.
“You think that could be the reason he left the camp?” Crocker asked.
Tariq burped loudly.
“It’s the only one I can think of,” she whispered, laying the baby down on the bed.
“So you think Hassan left because he’s not sure he wants the responsibility of being a father?”
She nodded. “I hope not, for our son’s sake.”
When Crocker related what he had heard from Jamila to Colonel Oz, the colonel seemed highly skeptical. “This man leaves because he doesn’t want to be a father, and the WMDs are taken at the same time? I don’t believe in such a large coincidence. Forget that theory. It’s bullshit!”
Crocker had his own doubts. There were contradictions in Jamila’s story. She’d said the last thing Hassan had told her was that he loved her. Then she’d suggested that he might have left the camp to get away from her and their son.
“Why would the same person who warned us about the existence of the sarin and led us to it, at some personal risk, participate in hijacking it when it arrived in Turkey?” he wondered out loud.
Human motivations were often gray and murky.
Oz ran a hand over his smooth head and looked directly into Crocker’s eyes. “I don’t know the answer to this question, but we’ll find out. We have to. My country is now in tremendous danger.”
The question Crocker had posed to Colonel Oz burned in his brain as he and Janice huddled with the rest of the SEALs and the two schoolteachers in the lobby of the clinic, discussing what everyone had seen or heard that morning. Meanwhile, Colonel Oz went with his men to account for every single refugee in the camp to try to ascertain whether any of them had participated in the theft.
What should have been a happy morning had turned into a nightmare. Amira and Natalie were frightened and had little to say. In fact, Natalie completely shut down again. Amira explained that the women had been offered beds in the clinic housed in the old train station. They fell asleep immediately, heard nothing, didn’t see Hassan after they left the lobby, and were unaware that anything had happened until they were awakened by camp commander Nasar, who they claimed had treated them harshly. Now they worried that they would somehow be held responsible and forced to return to Syria.
“Why do you say that?” Crocker asked gently.
Amira covered her eyes with her hands. She had worn the same black stretch pants and a dark-red tunic since the first time they’d met. “Because the Turks are angry, and they’re men.”
He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, but he stopped himself, remembering what the two schoolteachers had gone through in Syria.
“Not to worry,” he said. “My men and I will make sure you’re treated well and never forced to return.”
“Thank you,” Amira replied, lowering her eyes. “You’ve been very kind…so far.”
Next he went to the visitors’ tent and asked each man to describe what he had seen or heard since their arrival.
“I slept in the clinic on a cot,” Akil said. “I don’t remember seeing Hassan after I left the truck. I went out like a light and didn’t hear or see shit. Don’t even remember dreaming.”
“I carried all the comms out of the van and set them in the corner of this tent,” Davis remembered. “I wanted to Skype with my wife and tell her I was safe but was too tired to even think. And I was scheduled to relieve Suarez at 0730, so I wanted to catch some z’s. Don’t remember seeing Hassan at all. I was awakened by shouts from the Turkish guards at around 0700 and saw them trying to revive Suarez. I looked for you, boss, but didn’t know where you were. That’s all…”
“Davis and I helped the women out of the van,” said Mancini. “Jamila and Hassan seemed to be squabbling about something. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but they both looked unhappy. I saw him checking his phone, which I thought was odd. Then one of Nasar’s men escorted Davis and me to the white visitors’ tent. I threw my gear in, and went outside to the latrine to wash up. When I came back, Hassan was sitting by the cot beside the door. I asked him if anything was wrong. He shook his head. I lay down and fell asleep.”
Hassan’s backpack, with a Spiderman pin attached, still lay by the cot. They searched it: a change of clothes, dirty underwear, toothbrush, toilet paper, and three thousand pounds in Syrian currency, which was worth about twenty U.S. dollars.
“Travels light,” said Davis.
Akil: “Not even a pack of rubbers.”
Interesting that Hassan was arguing with Jamila when they exited the truck, then went to the clinic a few minutes later, kissed her, told her he loved her for the first time, and disappeared.
Crocker sorted through the information in his head, thinking that he had to talk to Jamila again, when the light on the sat-phone lit up. On the other end of the line he heard the voice of his commander, Captain Alan Sutter, calling from ST-6 headquarters in Virginia.
“Crocker, you okay?” he asked in the raspy Kentucky drawl that evoked horse farms and bourbon.
“Been a whole lot better, sir. I’m here with my team trying to make heads or tails of a very troublesome and confusing situation.”
“I imagine you were halfway home in your head when it happened.”
“I was asleep, sir,” said Crocker. “Dead to the world. Most of us were.”
“How’s Suarez?” Sutter asked.
“Not so good, from what I’ve heard, but still alive. He was taken to a local hospital. Soon as I sort things out here, I’ll follow up.”
“Wait.…Good news. Just got word from Ankara that his condition has stabilized.”
Crocker felt relieved. “That means they’ve stanched the internal bleeding. That’s good.”
“He’s being medevaced to the NATO hospital in Diyarbakır.”
“When?”
“Soon. Hold on.” Sutter came back twenty seconds later and said, “Look, Grissom wants you out of the country. He’s pretty adamant about that. Anders seems too overcome by events to express an opinion.”
Crocker said, “I believe it’s a mistake to run away now. We’ve got a very dangerous situation here, and we need to help the Turks figure it out.”
“I knew you’d say that. And I know that if I tell you to take your tail straight to the airport you’ll find a way to stick around.”
“Sir—”
“Do what you gotta do, Crocker. But keep in mind that you’re the one who’s going to have to justify this at some point. This goes further south and guys like Grissom will feast on your throat.”
Crocker swallowed hard. “I know how it works.”
“Remember, he’s the chief and he’s under fire, so don’t expect him to be supportive.”
“I won’t.”
“Stay alert, be smart, don’t get led by emotion.”
“Sound advice, sir.”
“Godspeed.”
Chapter Sixteen
The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it emotionally.
—Flannery O’Connor
Crocker felt as though everything he had ever accomplished was slipping down the drain and the ea
rth itself was shifting under his feet. On his way back to the clinic to talk again with Jamila, Captain Nasar—a tall man with a gray handlebar mustache—intercepted him and said, “Colonel Oz is waiting for you by the gate. He wants you to bring one of your men and go with him.”
Crocker looked down and saw that he was still wearing the medical robe over his black pants. “Where?”
Nasar shook his head.
“Did he say why?”
“No, but he asked you to hurry.”
If Akil hadn’t still been recovering from the wound to his shoulder, he would have chosen him, because even though he didn’t speak Turkish, he had a good understanding of people from this corner of the world.
He asked Mancini to accompany him instead, borrowed a black tee from him that he pulled over his head, and told Davis to monitor developments at the camp as best he could. Should he learn anything new from Jamila, he should communicate it to Captain Nasar, who seemed to be a smart guy.
“Inform me, too. I’ll carry my burner.”
“Where are you going?”
Crocker shrugged. “No idea. But I’ll let you know when we get there.”
Two Turkish-made Cobra light-armored vehicles waited outside the gate. Most of the U.S. Cobras Crocker had seen were equipped with overhead Rafael Spike antitank missile systems. The Turks had armed theirs with Nexter 20mm M621 cannons with day and thermal imaging sights instead. Otherwise they had the same compact profile, with all-welded steel hulls and wide, fully opening side and rear doors that facilitated rapid crew entry and exit.
The two SEALs were directed into the rear of the second vehicle by a Turkish commando who looked like a ninja in his black uniform, black helmet, and black face mask.
“Batman,” Mancini muttered under his breath as he climbed in after Crocker.
The air inside was already cranked up, chilling the sweat on Crocker’s arms and neck. They sat opposite the ninja and four similarly outfitted soldiers on one of the rear benches. Almost immediately the driver powered up the turbo diesel V8 engine, put the auto transmission in Drive, and they took off at high speed following the Cobra ahead. Through the glazed side window Crocker saw that they were climbing into mist-covered hills.
