The Ethan Galaal Series: Books 1 - 3

by Isaac Hooke

  "Not taking a rifle?" Ethan asked her.

  "Nope."

  The two of them donned the balaclavas, mostly for intimidation purposes, and then climbed back into the front section of the Nissan. Ethan left the windbreaker in the cargo area; while he was colder without it, he didn't need the jacket getting in the way of a reload. If a firefight erupted, seconds could mean the difference between life and death.

  Bretta drove over the pitted terrain to within thirty meters of the site, and then the pair exited the vehicle and made their way to the closest building on foot.

  He edged along the steel wall until he reached the window. Worried that someone might be observing from within, he switched his cellphone to camera mode, turned off the flash, and gently slid it past the corner of the window.

  No bullets struck the phone. A good sign.

  He held the device flush against the glass and took a picture. He glanced at the display.

  "What do you see?" Bretta asked. Her voice sounded muffled behind the balaclava.

  He tilted the screen toward her.

  "Looks abandoned," she said.

  Ethan shrugged. He peered past the corner of the window and shielded his eyes from the sun. He spotted a bunk bed. Nightstand. Closet. Desk. Two chairs. Filing cabinet. Small couch. Fridge. Kerosene heater. Cupboards.

  He studied the entrance. "The door doesn't look booby-trapped from here."

  Ethan went to the front door and tried the handle. Locked. He picked it with his lockpick set.

  Leaving Bretta by the entrance to stand watch, he proceeded inside the pre-engineered building and carefully searched the place. The filing cabinet, closet and nightstand proved empty. Inside the cupboards, he found cooking utensils and non-perishable foods: canned fish, dried beans, pasta, beef jerky.

  In one corner of the room he thought he discovered a bomb. Upon further investigation it proved to be a solar powered lamp: wires in turn led from the ceiling to a charge controller, a bank of three solar batteries, an inverter, and a portable transfer switch, terminating in the aforementioned lamp, currently turned off. A backup diesel generator was linked to the transfer switch. Also off.

  Ethan decided not to touch the solar setup—if there was any place for a booby trap, that would have been it.

  Ethan came out and told Bretta what he'd found.

  "This probably really was a legitimate research facility at some point," she said. "Until Al Sifr bought out the company for his little wild goose chase."

  "Why go through all this trouble and expense for a simple diversion?" Ethan said.

  Bretta shrugged. "We're talking about a guy who cut off his own hand to escape capture. Who knows what goes on in a mind like that?"

  "I think he actually had a team using this place," Ethan said. "But then they outgrew the facilities."

  "Why would he have a team all the way out here?" Bretta said.

  "That's the question, isn't it?"

  The pair followed the same procedure at the next building: Ethan first surveyed the insides via the window, and then searched the place while Bretta stood watch. He found only more abandoned furniture and solar cells.

  At the third and final building, when Ethan peered through the glass, almost immediately he spotted an IP camera situated on the windowsill inside, along with a satellite Internet device. A wire ran from the two devices to an open laptop on a desk. He was glad the two of them had elected to wear balaclavas.

  "Well well well," Ethan said. "Looks like we're being watched."

  "Assuming those devices are powered," Bretta said. "The camera feed could be delivered anywhere in the world, from Riyadh to Miami."

  "Or somewhere in the nearby hills," Ethan said. "Too bad our friend Randver didn't supply us with signal jammers."

  From the window, he confirmed that the entrance wasn't booby-trapped. He made a last circuit of the building, checking for anything out of the ordinary. He also scanned the surrounding terrain for any signs of ambush. Everything seemed normal.

  He proceeded to the front door and picked the lock.

  Inside Ethan discovered a solar power setup similar to the previous buildings, except with double the number of charge storage batteries.

  At the desk, the laptop's power indicator was active. The display was currently off—probably in "power saving" mode.

  Ethan returned to the entrance, leaving the computer untouched.

  "It's powered," he told Bretta.

  She produced a thumb drive. "I think I can find out where the video feed is going." She turned around to enter the building.

  "No," Ethan said. "The laptop could be booby-trapped."

  She froze. "Good point."

  "I'm going to call Sam." Ethan fished out the sat-phone. "I'm hoping she can send in a bomb squad. We'll get Frankenstein to do a flyby of the nearby hills, see if we spot anything, but otherwise I think we're done here."

  "Feels like we didn't really accomplish anything," Bretta complained.

  "Yeah well, sometimes that's how missions end." Ethan pressed a few buttons on the sat-phone, but the screen didn't respond. "Shit."

  "What's wrong?" Bretta asked.

  "It's frozen. Perfect time to crash. The wonders of modern-day technology."

  "Let me try." She took the sat-phone, removed the battery, and plugged it back in after fifteen seconds. A black display greeted her.

  "Well that's even better," Ethan told her. "You do have a magic touch when it comes to phones, don't you."

  "Maybe the battery died?"

  Ethan frowned. "It was at seventy percent last I checked. This is why it's always good to have redundancies. Which brings up a point. We each get our own cellphones, so why the hell does Sam allocate only one sat-phone for every two operatives? It can't be to cut costs, not when the DoD has private jets in its arsenal."

  Bretta shrugged. "I think it is to cut costs, actually. Ridiculous as that may sound. I could have 'borrowed' one of the sat-phones from the G650, though."

  "Too late now." He fetched his cellphone. While it was operational, the smartphone still couldn't connect to a network carrier.

  "Try Randver," Bretta said, after confirming her own cellphone had no signal.

  Ethan unclipped the secure radio from his belt. "Randver. Do you read? Over."

  No reply.

  Ethan attempted the call a few more times. He received only dead silence in return. Randver was simply too far.

  "Guess we're going back." Ethan reattached the radio to his belt. Then he paused, listening. "Wait. Do you hear that?"

  Bretta cocked her head. "What?"

  "Sounds like..."

  Ethan hurried to the side of the building. A white Hilux AT44 was bouncing over the rough terrain toward them.

  Gunfire erupted from the vehicle and a hail of bullets slammed into the metal wall beside Ethan.

  "Get inside!" he said.

  40

  Ethan hurried into the self-framing building. Bretta quickly attached the silencer to her Px4 and then shot out the camera by the window. Together they took cover behind the desk. Ethan peered past the right side, Bretta the left.

  "Watch the window," he told her. "I'll take the door." He sighted the A4 at the open entrance.

  He heard the Hilux grind to a halt outside. Multiple footsteps crunched on the rock. They sounded hesitant, cautious.

  A tango appeared in Ethan's sights. The target wore a keffiyeh around his head, and the lower half of his face was veiled by a scarf so that he looked like a bandit.

  He carried an AK-47.

  Ethan took him out.

  The man toppled. A moment later a grenade bounced over his body and landed in the middle of the room.

  "Grenade!" Ethan ducked behind the desk and jammed his index fingers into his ears.

  The bomb detonated. Shrapnel tore into the walls and the desk shook. Though his ears were plugged, the loud bang caused Ethan's tinnitus to flare up, and for a few moments he could hear only that all-encompassing, high-
pitched ringing. The thick surface of the desk had spared him from any further injuries.

  He glanced Bretta's way.

  "You okay?" he said, barely able to hear his own voice.

  "Fine!" she kept her pistol trained on the window.

  He returned his attention to the doorway. The haze from the grenade had already cleared, though the strong gunpowder stench remained.

  He heard shouting outside. It sounded like Pashto: "Abu Raafe! Go!"

  Another fatigue-wearing man appeared in the entrance. Ethan fired a burst from his rifle, downing the intruder.

  Bullets abruptly raked the top of the desk; he crouched lower.

  Beside him, Bretta began to fire. Shards of glass from the window spread across the floor.

  More frantic shouting. "Abu Busyr! Do it!"

  Five meters beyond the entrance, a veiled fighter came into view. He carried an RPG launcher.

  Ethan had a perfect shot, and he terminated the tango before he could fire.

  The RPG tube landed invitingly on the ground beside the man, tempting any other militants who might be out there.

  Sure enough, another individual dashed forward to take up the rocket. Ethan struck him, too.

  He waited. No one else tried to retrieve the RPG tube.

  After a few more quiet moments Ethan said: "I'm going to have a look outside." His tinnitus had cleared somewhat, though his ear still ached badly.

  "Careful," Bretta said, never looking from the sights of her Px4, which remained aimed at the now shattered window.

  Keeping his rifle trained on the entrance, Ethan very slowly left cover. On the desk beside him, the laptop was riddled with gunshot holes.

  Guess it wasn't booby-trapped after all.

  He neared the entrance at a crouch, moving sideways, slowly increasing his view of the outside world. He paused occasionally to glance at the window, worried that he might be revealing himself to an attacker beyond Bretta's sight line. He stopped when he was flush against the right side of the entrance. He had nearly a full view of the left outer wall.

  One of the dead men had fallen inside: Ethan hauled the body away from the entrance, freeing the opening. Then he beckoned Bretta forward.

  She approached in a similar manner, though from the opposite vector, until she was in position on the other side of the door.

  He counted down on three fingers and then stepped outside, ready to fire at any attackers lurking at the building edges. He went high, Bretta low.

  He spotted one of the rocketeers crawling away on the uneven ground, toward the Hilux. Ethan resisted the urge to eliminate the fighter.

  "Don't move!" he said in Arabic instead.

  The man ceased crawling and raised his hands. He appeared unarmed.

  Ethan waited, keeping his rifle trained on the injured fighter while Bretta cleared the four sides of the building.

  "Anyone else?" he said when she returned to the front area.

  "Only a corpse under the window."

  Ethan stepped over another dead man and approached the still living fighter. An abandoned AK lay on the ground near him; Ethan picked it up and slid the strap over his shoulder.

  "Are there any more of you?" Ethan asked the man in Arabic.

  No answer.

  Ethan tried his limited Pashto. "More men?"

  Still nothing.

  While Ethan guarded him, Bretta continued ahead to the Hilux. When she had cleared it, she went to check the remaining two buildings.

  The fighter's hands remained in the air, though they were slowly sinking with each passing moment, the exhausted muscles shaking from the effort of keeping his arms aloft.

  An Arabic voice abruptly spoke over his radio. It was difficult to understand amid all the static, but Ethan thought the voice said: "Ahmed, what's your status?"

  Ethan wrenched the two-way radio from the man's chest rig. He didn't trust this Ahmed to respond truthfully. Still, Ethan hadn't heard enough of his voice to form a reproducible baseline, so he couldn't do it himself. Not yet.

  He held the radio to Ahmed's face.

  "Tell him you eliminated us," Ethan said in Arabic. He dug the rifle barrel into the man's cheek. "Tell him."

  Ethan clicked the send button, intending to cut off Ahmed the instant he spoke.

  Ahmed shouted in Arabic. "The intruders have escaped!"

  Ethan had released the button after the word "the." He had his voice sample. Judging from the accent, Ahmed was definitely a native Pashto speaker—an Afghan. Though Ethan spoke very little Pashto himself, he thought he could mimic the accent.

  "Say again, Ahmed?" came the static-filled response.

  Bretta returned from her check of the other buildings. She gave him a thumbs-up.

  Ethan nodded; he backed away from Ahmed, then pressed the send button.

  "The intruders have been eliminated," he said in a low voice. He held the radio some distance from his face so that his voice wouldn't sound too clear. The balaclava provided a further layer of obfuscation.

  Ethan waited a few tense moments, wondering if the operator would recognize it wasn't Ahmed who spoke.

  "Good," came the response. "Return to Zero Base immediately. We're about to launch. Bring the bodies."

  About to launch.

  Ethan glanced at Bretta. "You catch that?"

  "I did," she replied. "About to launch. Not sure I like the sound of that."

  "Neither do I. But this Zero Base can't be far if they're able to maintain radio contact."

  "Assuming they don't have repeater towers," Bretta said.

  "You give our prey too much credit." Ethan glanced at Ahmed and said in Arabic. "What are you launching?"

  The prisoner started giggling like a madman. "You're too late! Too late!"

  Ethan secured the two-way radio to his chest rig and then gave Ahmed a good kick to the ribs, stopping the laughter. He planned to interrogate him later, when they were on the move.

  "Would you run back to the Nissan and grab the duct tape?" he asked Bretta.

  "Already packed some." She reached into her chest rig and produced a black roll.

  "Nice."

  While Bretta covered Ahmed with her Px4, Ethan bound his hands behind his back. When finished, Ethan discarded the AK-47 so that only the original A4 was strapped to his shoulder. He didn't need the spray-and-pray AK.

  "His name is Ahmed," Bretta said. "I wonder..."

  Ethan glanced at her. "Iqbal's roommate from Romania?"

  She nodded.

  Ethan roughly pulled down Ahmed's collar, revealing a star-shaped mark on the right shoulder—it matched the description of Ahmed Al-Afghani that Iqbal had given to the Romanian support team.

  "It's our man," Ethan said.

  He searched Ahmed and found a cellphone, and the keys to the Hilux. He removed the spare magazines stowed in the man's vest and discarded them—they were useless in Ethan's A4.

  While Bretta watched Ahmed, Ethan searched the bodies of the other men: they all had two-way radios, but no one else had a cellphone or a sat-phone. He grabbed one of the radios for Bretta and gave it to her.

  "What am I supposed to do with this?" Bretta said. He could just imagine the confused expression she wore behind her balaclava.

  "Hang onto it," Ethan told her.

  She shrugged, stuffing it into her chest rig with her free hand.

  Ethan used the step box to climb aboard the Hilux—like the Nissan, it was suspended on forty-four inch Michelin tires. He started the vehicle, drove it to the front of the building, and disembarked to begin loading the bodies of the dead into the cargo area.

  Bretta backed toward him, keeping her Px4 trained on Ahmed.

  "We're taking their vehicle?" she said over her shoulder.

  "We are." Ethan removed his balaclava and chest rig, then stripped the fatigues, scarf, and headgear from one of the bodies. The man had soiled his undergarments, but thankfully the sludge hadn't seeped through into the outerwear. Ethan would have worn it eithe
r way, though.

  He slid the fatigues over his existing clothing, adjusted his utility belt, tied the scarf to his neck, and wrapped the checkered keffiyeh around his head. He loaded a fresh magazine into the A4 before tossing the tactical rig into the cargo area.

  He hauled the next man to the vehicle and similarly stripped him.

  "Those are yours," he told Bretta, nodding at the clothes. He loaded the heavy body into the cargo hold with difficulty, and almost slipped on the step-up.

  Bretta removed her balaclava and regarded the fatigues dubiously. "There's blood and shit on them."

  "You'll live."

  She returned her attention to Ahmed. The man hadn't moved.

  "The sat-phone is still dead?" Bretta said.

  Ethan retrieved the sat-phone and tossed it to her.

  She caught it with one hand and momentarily regarded the screen. "Damn."

  She swapped the sat-phone for the encrypted radio at her belt and tried to contact Randver. No response.

  "I'm sorry," Ethan said. "We're on our own here, Bretta."

  41

  Ethan loaded the last of the dead men into the Hilux. "Keys?"

  She tossed him the keys to the Nissan. Ethan jogged to the SUV, turned it on, and parked it beside the Hilux. Then he began transferring the gear, placing it between the dead bodies.

  "We can drive back to Randver and pick up his sat-phone," Bretta said, keeping an eye on Ahmed while Ethan worked.

  "You really want to ask Sam what to do?" Ethan tossed a Blackhawk load-out bag into the compartment. "You really want her to hold your hand?"

  "She—"

  Ethan didn't let her finish. "It'll take us half an hour to drive there and back on this terrain."

  "Randver will be in range of our radios well before then," Bretta said. "We can have him meet us along the way. If we do that, I'll bet the total trip there and back will only take ten minutes. What's ten minutes in the overall scheme of things?"

  "You heard what the radio operator said. They're about to launch. We can't delay. Not even for a minute."

  "We don't even know what they're launching!" Bretta said.

  "Do you really want to wait, and then find out after the fact?"

  She had no answer to that.

  "While a sat-phone is nice and all that," Ethan continued. "Sam won't be able to provide any help out here. By the time she gets any bombers overhead, the so-called launch will be long over. She's going to defer to my judgment on this. Trust me."