Man of War

by Sean Parnell

  He hit hard, feet slapping the pavement flat and painful. The shock coursed up his legs like a bolt of lightning, and he winced at the damage his feet were taking. There was a squeal of brakes from the lead truck and he saw the front end drop low. The truck slid to a halt and the doors flew open in unison.

  Steele didn’t hear a command or the usual uncertainty untrained jihadists showed on contact. These men were trained and they came out shooting. He saw the girl freeze in the middle of the road, transfixed by the sudden gunfire. Steele knew he had to get her off the street, now.

  He bent low, legs pumping, head turtled into his neck as he ran to her. He snatched her off the ground at full stride. Somehow he hadn’t been hit, but he wasn’t planning on pressing his luck. Without breaking stride, he swerved to the left. It reminded him of a post pattern he used to run during football practice in high school, except this time he prayed there wasn’t a bullet at the end of his route.

  “Gunslinger, this is Mako 2, we are taking fire,” a calm voice said over the radio. The pilot hit the throttle and the Osprey’s engines roared, sending it juking out of the line of fire.

  Steele saw the shadow flash over him as he ran. It got smaller and smaller and he wondered where in the hell the gunship was hiding.

  “Roger that, Mako, I’m coming around. You boys hold tight.”

  He made it to cover and set the girl on the ground behind him. He brought the H&K into the fight, tucking the buttstock into his shoulder. He flexed his deltoid into the stock, locking the rifle tight, and settled his jade eyes behind the Vortex Strike Eagle mounted to the rail.

  Who the hell are these guys?

  The Cobra flashed overhead, but the pilot didn’t fire. “I have civilians everywhere, I’m going to need someone to mark the target,” he said.

  Steele had worked with the Marine aviators before and they were among the best in the world, fearless and more than willing to put their lives on the line. But like the rest of America’s military, they weren’t going to open fire with innocents on the ground.

  It was one of the things that made Steele proud to be an American.

  Steele dropped the magazine from his rifle, stuffed it into his dump pouch, and grabbed a fresh one marked with a band of red tape. He jammed it into the magwell and hit the talk button.

  “Gunslinger, Stalker 7, I am marking target with tracer, stand by.”

  The moment he got back on target, Steele remembered why he was a big fan of the Strike Eagle. The scope’s 1–6 magnification range gave him the versatility to zoom out to 600 yards, or dial down for close-in work. He had it set to 1 power, but was not ready for what he saw when he centered the reticle on one of the shooters.

  The man was white, and expertly using the vehicle as cover while the rest of the convoy tried to turn around. Steele didn’t have a clear shot, but that wasn’t the point. The mag was loaded with tracers; all he had to do was mark the target.

  He fired five quick shots, and the magnesium-tipped rounds zipped across the street burning bright. Steele sent the bullets through the door. It was the only target he had, and he prayed the 5.56 had enough ass to punch through. On the fifth shot he saw the target stumble out of sight.

  The bad thing about marking a target was that it went both ways, and one of the gunners tracked the fire to Steele’s position and opened up. The rounds hit the wall, throwing rocks and dust into his eyes. Steele backed up, pushing the girl deeper into the doorway.

  “Little help,” he said over the radio.

  The shuddering thump, thump, thump of the Cobra’s M197 20mm cannon boomed over the firefight. Steele didn’t have a fix on the bird, but he had front-row seats for the damage. The rounds chewed up the vehicle and sent the men scurrying for cover.

  A machine gun opened up on his right flank, pinning him deeper into the doorway. The men on the ground knew the Cobra wouldn’t fire on them if they hid behind the civilians.

  “Gunslinger’s off,” the pilot said.

  Steele stripped a frag from its pouch. “Cover your ears,” he told the girl in Arabic. With the Cobra peeling away, the shooters hit the streets, bounding from cover to cover.

  “Frag out,” Steele yelled, before tossing the grenade toward one of the positions. He needed to get their heads down and move before they pinned him.

  The frag hit the ground with a metallic tink, bouncing into the path of two of the shooters who had just settled in behind a smoking vehicle five feet to his right. Steele ducked his head, knowing that it was going to be close.

  “Stay here,” he told the girl, before he pushed into the street.

  One of the shooters was lying on his back, bleeding but not dead. Steele swept past him, dumping one round into the center of his head. It might seem cold, but he knew the man was still a threat. He took cover on the clean side of the vehicle and yelled at the civilians frozen around the sidewalk to get inside. He was in the open now and caught a flicker of movement from the SEALs on the rope.

  “On me!” he yelled, advancing to the final vehicle, hoping Breul was still alive.

  Whoever these soldiers were, they knew what they were doing. They knew there was no way out, but stayed together, trying to maneuver out of the kill zone while laying down a heavy wall of lead.

  One of the men moved to the backseat of the truck and yanked open the door. Steele centered his reticle on his head. He wasn’t a fan of headshots—it was the one target on the body that was always moving—but he had little choice; his friend’s life was in the balance. He took a breath, letting it out slow, waiting for the crosshair to settle.

  No such thing as a perfect sight picture.

  He pulled the trigger, sending a single round into the back of the man’s head. He dropped like a bag of rocks.

  Steele conducted a combat reload on the move. He was still out in front of the SEALs and exposed, but all he could think about was Breul.

  “Secure the prisoner!” one of the shooters yelled, in a language Steele recognized but couldn’t place. He thought it might be Afrikaans. One of the fighters reacted to the order, turning to the open door and aiming his rifle at the hooded man trying to get out.

  The rifle steadied and Steele heard himself scream.

  Chapter 12

  In Algiers, Meg followed Colt down a dimly lit hall to the back stairs that led up to the main floor. She knew the SOG guys called this the upper deck, and like Meg, they tried to avoid it.

  The stairwell opened up to a large room with black tile that gleamed in the fluorescent lighting. To the right, a group of State Department employees were knotted together beneath the television that hung in the corner of the canteen, stirring their morning coffee. The fresh beans smelled wonderful and Meg cast a longing look at the coffee station.

  Colt snorted and waved a hand at the State Department personnel standing under the TV. “Look at them. They are supposed to be our eyes and ears on the ground, and what are they doing? Watching freakin’ CNN.”

  Meg could see where this was going and decided against stopping for a cup.

  She hadn’t been with the CIA long enough to develop any allegiance. She tried to keep quiet and do her job, but it was impossible not to notice the tension between the State Department personnel and the SOG teams. But she’d heard the gossip and knew that it stemmed from the 2012 embassy attack in Benghazi.

  The State Department foreign staff were made up of career diplomats, men and women who believed that America’s diplomatic failures in the Mideast were to blame for the war that had been going on since 2001. Because of that, many of them felt that the CIA’s drone strikes in Libya had been the catalyst behind the Benghazi attack.

  Meg didn’t have a problem with the State Department staff, but knew better than to say that to Colt—or any of the SOG members, for that matter. Like most of his team, Colt had retired from the Navy as a member of SEAL Team 3 and served with one of the men killed in Benghazi.

  They continued down another hallway to the briefing room where th
e rest of the team was already assembled. The chief of station was at the front of the room reading from a sheet of paper that Meg assumed had come directly from Langley.

  He looked up as Meg and Colt walked in and she caught James glance back at her from the front row. They made eye contact for a split second before he ducked his head.

  God, men and their fragile egos.

  “I was just reading the brief,” the chief of station said. “If you want to take over.”

  Colt nodded and made his way to the front of the room, leaving Meg to take a spot against the far wall.

  “Thank you, sir. We don’t have a lot of time, so I am going to keep it short and sweet. According to the State Department there is no evidence of any civil unrest outside the wire.”

  A distant explosion drew Meg’s attention to the far wall.

  “Someone needs to tell whoever is lobbing mortars that,” one of the operatives joked.

  “All I know is what has been told to me,” Colt said.

  “The only way those goons learn about what is going on is by watching CNN,” another cracked.

  “Yeah, boss, why are we even going out there?” James asked.

  Colt’s smile fell from his face and all the jokes stopped.

  “Did the new guy just ask a question?” one of the men wondered aloud.

  Here we go, Meg thought.

  Colt looked up at Meg, his eyes twinkling. “Just how hard did you hit this guy?”

  The room erupted in laughter.

  Thanks, Colt, that’s all I need.

  “All right, all right, settle down,” Colt chided. “The reason we are heading out, young James, is to sanitize safehouses. And before you ask, we are bringing your sparring partner because the boss told us to.”

  Meg knew why she was being included. Officially the CIA had two “on the books” safehouses in Algiers. She and the chief of station knew that there was actually a third, a level one site that wasn’t on the State Department list. Since she was the only one with the security clearance necessary to access the site, as well as the technical know-how to wipe the hard drives, Meg was going out.

  The thought of hard drives reminded her that she had left her computer unsecured in her room. Oh crap. The realization sent a shiver up her neck, and she quickly slipped out of the briefing room and jogged toward the stairs.

  She hit the living quarters hallway at a full run, turned the corner, and almost leveled a middle-aged man walking toward her.

  “What the hell?” the man yelped as she ran into him, knocking the Snickers bar and plastic case he was carrying to the floor.

  “Daniels . . . Oh my gosh, I’m sorry,” Meg said, grabbing the man by the shoulders to keep him from falling.

  Charlie Daniels had been with the CIA for almost twenty years and was nearing retirement. Meg didn’t know much about him, other than the fact that he was the butt of most of the jokes upstairs.

  “You scared me,” he said, bending down with a spryness that surprised Meg and snatching the case off the ground.

  Meg retrieved his Snickers, but had to wait for Daniels to shove the case into his pocket.

  “Sorry, I forgot something in my room,” she said. “Why are you down here, anyways?”

  “I uh . . . they were looking for you upstairs and I was coming to grab breakfast.” He nodded toward the vending machine a few paces away then held up the Snickers.

  “That was sweet of you to think about me, thank you, Charlie,” Meg said. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Got some padding those other guys don’t have,” he replied.

  “Great, and thanks again.”

  Meg patted him on the shoulder and continued to her room, passing the vending machines on her right. She unlocked the door, stepped inside, and moved to the desk, noticing one of her pens lying on the ground beneath the chair.

  Was that there when I left?

  She picked it up and placed it on the desk before checking the computer. It was still locked, which was all that mattered. Meg quickly logged off the computer and checked her watch. She had been gone for five minutes.

  Oh no, I need to go.

  Chapter 13

  Steele fired as fast as he could. He hit one of the enemy fighters in the gut before walking a second round into his chest. Behind him the SEALs engaged, their suppressed rifles making thwap, thwap sounds. But they were too late. The mercenary managed to dump three rounds into Breul’s chest before someone finally took him down.

  Steele was breathless when he reached the truck, frantically yelling Breul’s name. Ali was slumped forward, the mask still covering his face, blood pouring from his chest. The SEALs set up a perimeter while Eric ripped the hood off, revealing his friend’s ashen face.

  “Ali, can you hear me?” Steele asked, throwing his rifle across the seat and ripping his trauma kit from his vest.

  “He knew . . .” Breul said with a labored breath.

  “Don’t talk, buddy, I’m going to get you out of here.”

  Steele ripped his shirt open and knew immediately that the wounds were fatal. He pressed gauze over the holes, pushing hard to keep pressure on the wounds.

  “Eric, listen to me . . .”

  Steele could see his friend was dying, but refused to believe it.

  “No, stay with me, man. Medic, shit, I need a medic.”

  Breul began to convulse, and then one of the SEALs was at Steele’s side.

  “I’ve got him, move,” the medic yelled, throwing his aid bag to the ground.

  Steele stepped back, his plate carrier and hands stained a dark crimson. He was helpless to do anything but watch. The SEAL laid Breul on his back and went to work. Another SEAL was calling for the helo to land, telling the pilot they had an urgent casualty.

  “Roger that, stand by. Sir, Cutlass Main is on the horn,” the radio operator said.

  “What?” Steele asked, looking at the handmike.

  “Washington, sir, they want to talk to you.”

  Get your shit together, Steele thought. You have a job to do.

  “Tell them to stand by, we are not secure. I need two guys to check the rear vehicle. If there are any bags or cases I want to know.” Steele moved to the front of his vehicle, searching, while in the back the medic pounded on Breul’s chest and cursed.

  Steele knew his friend’s heart had stopped.

  “Doc,” he said.

  The medic knew what he was asking and shook his head.

  Ali Breul was dead.

  “There is nothing here.”

  Steele stood up, moving around to the back. The team leader was standing within earshot, and Steele held up his hand and made a circling motion with his finger.

  “Let’s bring it in,” the team leader said over the net.

  Steele stared down at his friend, thinking about all the promises he’d made him and his family. Leaning forward, he brushed Breul’s eyes closed with his fingertips before pulling the Spyderco from his pocket. The blade snapped open and Steele gently draped his friend’s arm across his face, revealing a tiny red mark beneath the armpit. He was struck by all the things he couldn’t say.

  Never meant for this to happen. You know that, right?

  “I’m sorry,” he finally managed. “About all of it.”

  He made a small incision below the red mark with the tip of the blade and held the wound open until he squeezed the data pin to the surface and into his open palm. The pin looked like a silver Tic Tac. He closed his fist tight around it and made a promise that no matter what it took, or where he had to go, Steele would avenge the man who had trusted him with his life.

  Someone is going to bleed for this.

  Chapter 14

  Washington, D.C.

  Rockford walked back into the Situation Room, working hard to keep the emotion off his face. The fact that Styles had been lying to him since calling the brief infuriated him, but he knew better than to let it show.

  “Is everything okay?” Director
Harris asked.

  “Actually, no,” Rockford said.

  A second door, this one on the other side of the room, came open and a man in a gray suit appeared. Rockford guessed he was in his late thirties, but as with all military men it was hard to tell.

  “Sir, I need you to come with me.”

  “What is going on?” Styles asked, her face clouded with a sudden uncertainty.

  “It seems there is a rescue operation under way in Tunisia.”

  “A rescue operation? Who authorized that?”

  The operation was now under the Alpha Program, which meant that it was classified above even those in the Situation Room. So Rockford tried to keep his answer as vague as possible.

  “Someone is missing,” he replied. “Robin, you got . . .” He paused, acting as if the question pained him to ask. “You got one hundred percent accountability of your team, didn’t you?”

  “What are you saying?” she demanded.

  Her voice had gone an octave higher, which told Rockford that his instincts were dead on. Styles is definitely trying to hide something in Tunis.

  “Details are sketchy . . .”

  “Mr. Vice President,” the man in the suit warned him calmly.

  “Of course,” Rockford nodded.

  “I’m sorry, this is now on a need-to-know basis. I have to go.”

  “Need-to-know basis? Who do you think you are talking to?” Styles demanded, jumping to her feet. “I called this meeting, not you.”

  Rockford picked up his folder and ignored her outburst. This wouldn’t be the first time he had sat in on an Alpha mission, so he was familiar with what was about to happen. But it was the first time he was in charge.

  “Go get ’em, Rock,” NSA Director Harris said.

  The Vice President nodded and headed out of the room. Styles jumped to her feet and fell in behind him. “Tunisia is my operation, Rockford,” she shouted at his back. “If I have an agent missing, I need to be read in.”