Hunt the Viper

by Don Mann

  “Séverine, I’m ashamed that the U.S. and other countries have allowed this to happen.”

  “I don’t mean to put this on you, Tom.…I’m sorry.…”

  “Don’t be sorry, Séverine. You’ve got a beautiful heart. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “What do you do when you want to do good, and the evil people in the world won’t allow you to?” she asked. “If we’re not careful, evil will take over. It’s taken over…here.”

  Sporadic bombing continued in the city of Aleppo. With bombs exploding in the background, Per called the nine-member DWB team together and announced, “If the UN cease-fire inspectors don’t give us an all-clear by six p.m., we’ll leave. The Assad government and rebel groups promised a secure environment for us to work in, and they haven’t provided that.”

  After what members of the team had seen yesterday—Russian jets firing rockets and dropping bombs, Assad’s air force dropping barrel bombs out of helicopters, white-helmeted Syrian Civil Defense workers trying to dig women and children out of the rubble—not a single one of them protested.

  Séverine wasn’t the only one who’d spent a fitful night of sleep, trying to process horrifying images she’d seen the day before. Rather than passing the day in the camp playing cards, messaging friends on Facebook, and waiting for news from Per, she volunteered to visit a clinic in the largely abandoned western suburbs, which the UN had classified as safe.

  It would give them a chance to resupply the clinic with much-needed medical supplies and for Séverine to collect more cutaneous leishmaniasis cultures to use in creating a vaccine they could administer if they returned to the city, or were allowed to remain.

  Now she sat in the passenger seat of a Mercedes Sprinter with Marku at the wheel and Nabhas and Dayna in back. Escorting them front and rear were two UN jeeps carrying four “military observers” from Norway, who were armed with pistols.

  It was a beautiful late-February day with a brilliant blue sky. The temperature hovered in the high sixties.

  The area they drove through had once been a prosperous suburb. Now it was completely destroyed. Block after block of bombed-out houses, apartment buildings, and trees with no signs of life aside from an occasional crow or rodent. It’s as though a tornado had swept through and the survivors, if there were any, had been blown far away.

  As they drove, she tried to imagine what the neighborhood had been like before—children playing, music drifting out of houses, men climbing into cars on their way to work.

  Dayna and Nabhas in back were discussing the challenges of being a Muslim woman. Nabhas had recently been working in Kabul, Afghanistan. He was saying, “Now that people are worried about the Taliban returning to power, you see fewer and fewer women on the street without a burqa or chador.”

  “What’s the difference?” Dayna asked. She’d awoken early to shampoo and style her hair. She wore jeans and a Texas “Aggies” sweatshirt.

  “A burqa is a shiny garment that fits over the head and covers the entire body with mesh screens for the eyes,” Nabhas answered, scratching his scruffy chin. “In Afghanistan, they’re usually light blue. The person inside is completely invisible. You can only identify her by her voice.”

  “How strange.…”

  “A chador, on the other hand, is a big headscarf, usually black, that covers a woman’s hair, arms, and butt.”

  “Why do they wear them?” Dayna asked.

  “Some women wear it for cultural reasons, others because the Quran calls for both men and women to cover their bodies.”

  That, Dayna could understand. Modesty and cultural tradition were things she clung to, too.

  Last night, she’d opened up to Séverine and told her she’d always been an ambitious girl, who did well in school and wanted to be liked. She’d let dark influences drift into her life after her parents divorced when she was in seventh grade. Being shuttled back and forth between her mother and father and forced to switch schools made her feel deeply insecure.

  Instead of participating in school musicals and playing on the girls’ basketball team, Dayna started spending time at the mall and the skateboard park and hanging out with boys. She longed for their approval. Freshman year of high school she started drinking and going to parties. Met a rebellious boy named Raymond who introduced her to drugs and sex. Behaved in ways that felt wrong because she wanted to please him. On her seventeenth birthday, she found out she was pregnant. Afraid to tell her parents, fearing they would disown her and feeling as though she couldn’t tell her friends, because she was worried about being expelled from school, she had an abortion. It was horrible.

  Afterward, she felt like a stone. Like she was dead inside. She continued going to parties, drinking herself to the point of unconsciousness, and having one-night stands.

  Then her father found out about the abortion. He confronted her one night at dinner. It was the most humiliating moment of her life. But instead of scolding her or rejecting her, her father looked at her with tears in his eyes and told her that he loved her.

  “That was the first step,” she had told Séverine, “toward accepting God into my life.”

  Despite the enormity of the USS Theodore Roosevelt, and the fact that this city on the sea accommodated 3,200 crew members and hundreds of pilots, featured mess halls capable of serving 18,000 meals a day, communication centers, gyms, shooting ranges, banks, stores, game rooms, a library, doctor and dentist offices, and other amenities, Crocker found it confining.

  Now that they’d missed the window to detain the HS Star Helena and capture Abu Omar, he was anxious to move on. Back to Kurdistan, he hoped, where they could join Colonel Rastan in the fight against the Islamic State.

  It still bothered him that Black Cell’s work had been interrupted and the town of Qabusiye had been overrun.

  Just this morning, he’d communicated with Colonel Rastan via Skype. The battle to liberate western Mosul was under way, Rastan explained, and Black Cell’s infiltration and leadership skills were badly needed. Crocker promised to return as soon as he got permission from his boss.

  He’d also had a conversation with Jenny, who complained about her boyfriend. They had just moved in together, and already he was trying to control her.

  “What do you mean by ‘trying to control’ you?” Crocker asked. She rarely discussed her personal relationships with him, certainly never one involving a boyfriend.

  “You know…”

  “No, I don’t, sweetheart.” His protective instincts rallied. Five years ago, when he caught some sixteen-year-old boy she was dating driving home with her drunk, he’d pulled the kid out of his car and kicked his ass.

  “He yells a lot. He wants everything his way.”

  This time, he decided to take a more considered approach. “Have you explained to him that his behavior bothers you? That any positive relationship is based on mutual respect and compromise?”

  “I have, Dad, yes. And he agrees. He’s usually kind and reasonable, but sometimes, he gets…like…demanding. Mean…”

  Red flags rose in Crocker’s head. “Mean…in what way? Does he get physical?”

  “No, but he threatens to.”

  Crocker wanted to say: Put that punk on the line. Instead, he tempered his response. “Don’t let him intimidate you, or push you around. It’s not easy living with someone from the opposite sex. If you love each other, you’ll talk things over and work them out. But if he touches you in an aggressive way, do me a favor, and get away from him.”

  “I will, Dad. I promise.”

  Despite his own problems with women, Crocker had never been abusive. Ex-wives might have complained that he lavished more attention on the teams than on them. But he’d never raised a hand to them in anger even when he suspected that his ex Holly was having an affair.

  Akil appeared in the corridor of the communications center, signaling to Crocker that he was needed. “I’ve got to go, sweetheart. But I love you. Stay true to yourself. Be strong.”


  “I love you, too, Dad. Thanks for the advice.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect—in terror.

  —Edgar Allan Poe

  The al-Harzat Children’s Clinic occupied a former school auditorium with no windows and basketball hoops on both ends. The wooden floor was stained with blood and lined with cots. The smell of ammonia, sickness, and death filled Séverine’s nostrils as they entered that warm, unventilated space.

  She was trying to hold herself together. The clinic director, a white-haired man named Azmed Aman, explained that most of the children housed there were healing from severe injuries and amputations. He stopped at the bed of one young girl who was suffering from chronic dysentery and looked like a skeleton. Iodine used to clean mouth sores caused by a vitamin deficiency had dyed her lips purple. Her emaciated right hand was wrapped in gauze to hold an IV in place.

  The girl’s mother sat beside her, attempting to cool her with a straw fan.

  Dayna whispered into Séverine’s ear, “How could they let her illness get so bad?”

  Séverine shook her head. “First thing…they need to let in some fresh air.”

  “I agree.”

  Clearly, the clinic was understaffed. She doubted if any of them had more than rudimentary medical training.

  As Nabhas checked the girl’s heart rate and other symptoms, Azmed Aman escorted Séverine and Dayna to a section of the room that had been separated by sheets tied to flagpoles. As soon as Séverine saw the four children on beds healing from wounds and showing signs of cutaneous leishmaniasis, the thought of asking the director to open the windows flew out of her head. One boy with a missing arm had sores over his nose and cheeks.

  “Oh, my God.…” Dayna gasped under her breath.

  “Be professional,” Séverine whispered back.

  The two women donned plastic gloves and medical masks, and were preparing to clean the lesions, when they heard shouting outside. A heavyset woman with a black scarf over her head hurried up to them and indicated that Séverine and Dayna should follow her.

  “Why? What’s going on?” Dayna asked.

  Over her shoulder, Séverine saw Azmed Aman running toward the front door. Another man in a blue medical tunic had taken Nabhas by the hand and was hurrying in the other direction—to the rear of the clinic where she and Dayna stood.

  “What’s happening?” Séverine asked in English.

  “Some militants…outside. They’re hiding us in the basement as a precaution,” Nabhas whispered back.

  “Militants?”

  She heard what she thought were muffled gunshots outside as two medical workers led them down a dark stairway in the far corner. Dayna, at Séverine’s side, slipped on one of the cement steps and started to cry.

  Nabhas said, “It’s okay. We’ll be fine. They’ll leave us alone.”

  “I think I hurt my knee.”

  “Be brave.”

  Crocker felt anxiety tightening the muscles in his neck, thighs, and stomach as he sat in one of the Roosevelt’s secure communication rooms, facing Captain Sutter and Lt. Colonel Barbara Smithson on the large LCD screen. The coffee he sipped from the “Big Stick” mug was bitter.

  He felt as though he was in some sort of prison—artificially confined when he was needed elsewhere.

  “The good news is, we’ve got another op for you,” Sutter started in his west-Kentucky drawl. “Current thinking says it’ll launch tomorrow night.”

  “What’s the bad news?” Crocker wanted to get back to Kurdistan as soon as possible to help Colonel Rastan and be closer to Séverine.

  “The bad news? None really, unless you think enjoying the comforts of the Roosevelt until then is a negative.”

  “Why are we waiting until tomorrow night?”

  “Because we’re looking at another ship takeover,” Sutter replied. “Similar-size vessel to the Star Helena. Similar cargo, also bound, we believe, to the IS in Syria.”

  “Fine, sir. But…”

  “But…what?”

  There was no point arguing that the fight against ISIS had entered a critical stage, and Crocker and his men were needed on the ground. Captain Sutter knew that. Clearly, one way to weaken the enemy was to cut off their supply of weapons.

  Smithson cleared her throat. “The target this time is a general cargo ship registered in Antigua and Barbuda called the MCL Tunis. A hundred meters long; eighteen wide. Currently berthed at the Benghazi seaport and taking on cargo.”

  “Got it. Same entry procedure as last time?”

  “You’ll fast rope onto the deck. Yes.”

  “We’ll be looking for HVTs?”

  “Not this time. Just take over the vessel and inspect the cargo.”

  “What about the Russian and Chinese naval vessels?”

  “Don’t be a wise-ass, Crocker. If they become a problem, we’ll let you know.”

  The overhead light didn’t work, which made it impossible to see in the small basement room. Screams echoed down the concrete stairs. Now she heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Séverine’s chest tightened and she stumbled across something in the tight space.

  Nabhas whispered, “Quiet!”

  Dayna sobbed and gasped by her side. She held on to Séverine’s arm as Séverine felt along the walls in the dark. A row of metal lockers stood along the back wall. She opened one of them.

  It seemed big enough to accommodate one person. She guided Dayna inside. “In here. Lower your head.”

  “Why?”

  “Go on. I’ll stand right here. I won’t leave without you.”

  “What about…”

  She covered Dayna’s mouth with her hand. Closed the locker door. Turned and felt Nabhas’s hot breath on her face.

  “I’ll talk to them.…You hide.…”

  “Where?”

  The footsteps had reached the bottom of the stairs. Someone was turning the handle. She heard a man curse, then boots kicked in the door.

  Nabhas said something in Arabic. Without warning a series of gunshots filled the little space like explosions, obliterating all humanity and reason. Blood splattered across Séverine’s face, blinding her eyes. She stumbled backward, hit the backs of her legs on something, and flipped over.

  One of the men shouted angrily, “Allahu akbar!” and fired his weapon. She saw sparks against the dark ceiling and lost consciousness.

  Crocker and his men were in the Black Hawk again. This time the night sky was clear and the ocean still. He saw it passing by out the window.

  “Fifteen minutes,” the Night Stalker pilot said into his earbuds.

  “Copy, Scarface.”

  Time passed like a dream. He saw Séverine’s face. She was calling to him. He wanted to reach out and pick her up into his arms.

  “You okay, boss?” CT asked beside him.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “You seem somewhere else tonight.”

  “I’m going over the op in my head.”

  He tried to focus, but was having a hard time. Some other part of his brain was pulling him away. To what?…Why?

  “Ten minutes.”

  He’d tried reaching her by Skype before they left. She hadn’t answered. Now he tried to imagine how their lives could fit together. It seemed easy in some ways; almost impossible in others. She wasn’t like any other Frenchwoman he’d ever met. So grounded and practical. He wondered if she was a good cook.

  His body moved automatically. He was on his feet, pulling his gloves on. The green light illuminated. He grabbed the rope last. Wrapped his ankles around it, came down smoothly, spotted a man on the bridge leveling an AK. Saw the sparks coming out of the barrel.

  Hit the deck and fired.

  “Go! Go!”

  He was the first up the steps to the left. CT close behind him. Sporadic gunfire echoing off the deck.

  He reached the bridge and was greeted by Akil’s grinning face. He was holding a
small bearded man by the front of his shirt. The man’s feet were off the ground.

  “Say hello to Orhan.”

  “Hi, Orhan.”

  “He’s the captain of this piece of shit, and he’s Tunisian. And he’s admitted that the hold is packed with weapons. He’s going to show us where they are, aren’t you?”

  Akil shook the captain like a puppy and the captain nodded eagerly. Crocker smiled.

  What’s next?

  He felt as though he was needed somewhere. Mancini was already behind the wheel, bringing the vessel to a stop. And Danny Chavez was on comms, messaging the guided missile destroyers USS Mahan and USS Ramage in the vicinity. CT guarded six crew members who sat with their wrists zip-tied together along the back wall.

  Crocker looked out from the bridge to the light chop of the sea. A bowl-shaped moon glowed in the distance. Everything had gone smoothly; but he had an ominous sense that something was wrong.

  Séverine dreamt that she was on a wooden swing going back and forth, up and down. The wind tickled her ears. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Scenes from her childhood flashed before her—candles burning atop a birthday cake, a big smile on her grandfather’s face, joy in her mother’s eyes. She filled her cheeks with air and blew out the candles.

  She didn’t remember her mother ever being this happy before. She wanted to say something, but a strange guttural sound came out of her mouth instead.

  She was in a boat on a silver lake. Her father held a fishing pole and puffed on a pipe. She watched the gray smoke disappear into the air.

  The boat started rocking back and forth. She heard a voice calling, “Miss…miss…” with a strange foreign accent.

  An amorphous shape came into focus. A man’s battered, swollen face.

  She tried to sit up.

  “No, miss.…No. Don’t move.…We take you. We carry…Don’t move.…”

  She recognized Azmed Aman, the director of the clinic, by his white hair. She wanted to ask, What happened to your face? because his nose had been broken, and his left eye was swollen shut.