Hunt the Viper

by Don Mann

  But it was so much easier to close her eyes instead. Strong hands lifted her. Her face turned hot. Opening her eyes, she blinked into the harsh light. Saw blood splattered across a dirty wall. Glimpsed a body on the floor covered with a piece of canvas. Strands of longish black hair that reminded her of Nabhas’s peeked out the top.

  A horrible feeling came over her as she remembered—the dark basement room, the men shouting, guns firing, and the awful terror.

  “Dayna! Where’s Dayna? Where’s Nabhas?” she asked frantically.

  “Stay still,” Azmed Aman warned her. “Don’t move. Be calm.…”

  She was back on the swing, sailing up and down, back and forth, gulping the fresh air.

  Something rubbed against her back. She opened her eyes and saw that she was outside the clinic and about to be loaded into an ambulance. One of the UN jeeps that had escorted her, Dayna, and Nabhas sat to her left, riddled with bullet holes. Blood dripped from the driver’s seat. She gasped and covered her eyes.

  Crocker lay in his bunk on the USS Theodore Roosevelt, staring at the ceiling half-asleep when Akil, on the bunk below him, whispered, “Boss.…Hey, boss.…You awake?”

  “I’m trying to sleep. What’s up?”

  “You better see this.”

  “What?…If it’s some stupid video with cats, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

  “It’s not.”

  Akil handed up his laptop. On the screen, Crocker read the headline, “Doctors Without Borders Workers Attacked Near Aleppo.”

  “Oh, shit!” He sat up and read it again. The headline didn’t change.

  He opened the article from the Associated Press. It reported an attack by ISIS on a clinic in the outskirts of Aleppo. Several local doctors were severely beaten, one DWB worker had been kidnapped, and another killed.

  Crocker immediately thought of Séverine. His blood pressure rose precipitously.

  “Fuck me!”

  He slipped off the bunk, handed the laptop to Akil, and quickly pulled on his pants and shoes.

  “Where are you going, boss?” Akil asked.

  “I gotta call Sutter.”

  The clock in the communication room read 0220 hours, and anger coursed through Crocker’s head and body as he listened over the secure line.

  “Yes, we just became aware of the attack. But we don’t have many details.”

  “What have you heard?” Crocker demanded.

  “A group of ISIS militants arrived to inspect a clinic west of Aleppo. Apparently they had heard that Assad’s soldiers were being treated there.”

  “Were they?”

  “It turned out to be a false rumor. But when they arrived they found some foreign doctors. They killed one and took another female doctor hostage.”

  “A female doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know the nationalities of the dead and captured doctors?”

  “Nothing has been confirmed yet. But reports from Syria indicate the seized medical worker is an American.”

  “An American woman?” Crocker asked.

  “That’s correct.”

  The news, if true, brought relief and alarm.

  “The woman was with Doctors Without Borders? You’re sure of that?” Crocker asked.

  “U.S. officials haven’t been able to confirm that directly. But that’s what we’re hearing from news reports.”

  “Do you know if the doctor killed was a man or woman?”

  “A man, apparently.”

  “What was his nationality?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “And the people who attacked the clinic were from ISIS?”

  “Yes.”

  The rough garment scratched her skin. Her feet hurt. A bad-smelling person held her by the arm. She stumbled over her own feet.

  “Where…am…I?” Her tongue was thick and heavy in her mouth, making it hard to form the words and get them out.

  “Where?…Who?”

  Half thoughts were all her brain could manage. She tried hard to concentrate; then a voice told her not to bother. “Let go, child. Let go…,” it said calmly.

  Let go of what?

  Her head felt as though it had swollen to the size of a pumpkin. The boat she was in bounced and rocked from side to side. But it wasn’t a boat, because they were traveling over something harder than water. And whatever she was riding in moved fast. Cool air reached her nose and lungs, but she still couldn’t see.

  She caught a whiff of lime-scented cologne. “Dad?”

  She pictured his handsome, chiseled face. He waved at her as he pointed a camera. She started to smile, and the image dissolved.

  She was being led up a set of stairs. Men around her mumbled in a foreign language. They spit the words “United States” and “American” with disgust. The sounds grew closer and closer until they felt like they were invading her skin.

  She felt rough hands on her body. They poked, slapped, kneaded, and pinched her.

  “Stop!”

  She felt fingers between her legs. A man started laughing. Others joined in.

  “No, no!” she protested. “You can’t do that!”

  Her body and mind were numb. She still couldn’t see. Why? Am I blind? Has someone done something to my eyes?

  It had always been a fear of hers since childhood. She’d had many nightmares of being lost in the woods and turning blind. Her mother told her the best way to chase them from her head was to think of something pleasant—like standing in the kitchen with her mother and grandmother and baking pies for Thanksgiving. Pecan was her favorite.

  The pinching continued. Her body turned hot. She wanted to wake from this nightmare, but couldn’t.

  She hovered at the ceiling, looking down at her body, pale and half naked. Young men with black beards pawed at it and took pictures of it with their phones, like she was a prize pony or a rare animal in a zoo.

  Why? she wondered.

  She wasn’t afraid, but felt a vague sense that something wasn’t right, that she should be inhabiting her body, that both her mind and body were in a place they didn’t belong, that maybe someone had roofied her drink.

  Logan.…Logan, I don’t feel well.…I want to go home.

  She imagined she was at a party with her high school boyfriend. The two of them were fooling around on the sofa at a friend’s house. She felt him pulling away her bra, and ripping off her underwear. “No, Logan. Absolutely not! Not here!”

  She was growing desperate. She wanted to push him off, to squirm out from under him, but no part of her responded.

  “Logan, stop!”

  The slaps came hard and swift from all sides, as though Logan had sprouted multiple arms. She tried to raise her hands to cover herself, but they wouldn’t move.

  “No.…No, please. I’m a good person. I told you.…I worship God. I love Jesus!”

  She lost control of her bladder.

  A man shouted something in a foreign language, and the slaps suddenly stopped. Fears, impressions, and memories flooded her brain. And all of a sudden she was able to focus. This wasn’t a friend’s house. It was a strange, dark room with strange slogans sprayed on the walls. She wasn’t with Logan. She was surrounded by a group of wolflike men with wild, hungry expressions on their faces.

  “No, God. Get me out of here!”

  She felt their hot breath on her skin and passed out.

  Chapter Twenty

  The cruelest thing of all is false hope.

  —Sister Jude

  Crocker spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, unable to quiet his mind enough to sleep. All the time, plotting how he would return to Kurdistan, and from there make his way into Syria to rescue the American, or Séverine, or whoever it was who had been kidnapped.

  All of them melded into one in his head. National identity wasn’t important. All that mattered was humanitarian workers had been attacked by ISIS thugs. One of them—a female—was in their custody and needed to be freed! No ifs, ands, or buts. No co
ncerns about risks, or how a rescue mission might affect the Russians, Chinese, or anyone else.

  Waiting for more news from HQ was like torture. Crocker tried to alleviate his frustration by doing squats, lifts, and running on the treadmill at the gym to the point of exhaustion.

  No one had come to alert him, nor had anyone called his cell phone. He hurried back to his room now, past framed photos of former Roosevelt commanders, hoping a “go” order from HQ awaited him.

  The tiny room was still and empty.

  He opened his laptop and logged into the secure server to check his e-mails. Mostly solicitations for vitamins and other crap. His father had sent a photo of him and his new girlfriend standing in front of Mt. Vernon, Crocker’s favorite historic site. George Washington had been an inspiration since fourth grade.

  The Viber icon pulsed at the bottom of the screen. He clicked on it immediately.

  “Yes?”

  “Tom?” He recognized the timbre of Séverine’s voice.

  He wanted to reach through the screen and embrace her. “Séverine, is that you?”

  “Tom.…”

  “Séverine, can you hear me? Are you safe?”

  “Yes, Tom. Yes! I’m in Erbil.”

  A tight knot of tension eased in his chest.

  “I heard what happened. Were you there? Are you okay?”

  “I wasn’t hurt, Tom.…But I was there. It was…horrible, horrible, so horrible. I’ve been busy. I haven’t had time to think about it. To process everything, you know. It will take time.…”

  Years, probably. The psyche was fragile. He’d seen traumatic experiences alter lives forever.

  He said, “I understand.”

  “ISIS shot one of my colleagues right before my eyes. They kidnapped another.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “An American girl. A nurse from Georgia. A sweet girl…That’s why I’m calling you.”

  “Séverine.…”

  “Her name is Dayna Hood. She’s twenty-four years old and as American as can be. Daesh took her. They took her away, Tom. You know what those savages will do?”

  “Séverine, listen.…This girl Dayna…she was still alive when they kidnapped her?”

  “She was. Yes.”

  “Do you have any idea where…”

  The line suddenly broke up, and the connection went dead. He pounded the little metal desk.

  Fuck.

  Then he gathered himself and dialed again. His three attempts all met with failure. Instead of screaming or punching the wall, he took a deep breath and tried a fourth time.

  The connection was made and he heard Séverine’s voice. He asked her to remain in Erbil if she could, to gather as much information as possible without putting herself in any jeopardy, and communicate everything she learned to him. She agreed. He was going to do everything he could to meet her there and rescue the girl.

  “Do you know when you’ll arrive here, Tom?”

  “No, but I’ll get there. I promise.”

  “I believe in you, Tom. Believing in you gives me strength.”

  “We’ll do this, Séverine. I know we will!”

  Sheikh al-Sufi had spent that last four days in self-imposed confinement in the little room at the back of the Uwais al-Qarni Mosque, mourning the death of his wife Fatima. Tomorrow he would emerge to lead his men.

  Tonight he faced another sleepless night of memories, regret, sadness, and anger, and warding off the gargoyle-like figures of the many-eyed man and Ibah, who waited in the corners like vultures.

  They waited for him to renounce this life, calling like sirens: “Sheikh.…Sheikh, come with us.…Give up the struggle, Sheikh.…Surrender.…”

  “Don’t you know that I don’t want to listen to you?” he asked from his knees.

  “You are ready to come with us, Sheikh. You feel this in your heart.”

  Anguish gripped his soul. Tears spilled from his eyes onto the cold stone floor. “God has a plan for me! God has a plan!”

  “There is no plan, Sheikh. There’s only death. Your wife’s death, your sons’ deaths, your friends’ deaths. You’re next.”

  “God has a plan!”

  “Look at yourself,” Ibah snorted, wiping snot from her nose. “Look.…Can’t you see that you’re disgusting, like us. Why would God care about you? God has rejected you. Come with us.”

  “No. No. No! Go away!”

  The many-eyed demon issued a high-pitched laugh that grew louder and hurt his head.

  The sheikh covered his ears. “Stop, demon. Stop!…Maybe God has taken everything—my family, my youth, my vanity. But I still have my body, my brain, my will, and my belief.”

  “All you really have, Sheikh, is bitterness and anger. They are worth nothing to God.”

  “You’re wrong! He has brought me to this condition to reveal his plan. I see it now. It is time for me to surrender to him completely.”

  The demons laughed and sang together. “You’re a fool. Old fool. Fool.…”

  Al-Sufi clasped his hands in front of him as their voices grew louder and echoed off the walls, repeating over and over, “God, I’m your obedient servant. I heed your words and direction. It has never been my intention to offend you in any way.”

  The laughing continued. He tried to summon an image of God. But nothing came. Instead he saw the face of Fatima.

  She looked at him with sad, disapproving eyes. “Fatima,” he said out loud. “My heart is numb. My soul is wounded and in pain.”

  The demons continued to circle and taunt him.

  “Fatima,” he prayed out loud. “Fatima, I trust that now you are in the garden of heaven, which is rich with wonders I cannot imagine. I trust that you are there beside the fountain of God with our children, friends, and other family members. I hope that one day I will join you there. First, it is my duty to fulfill the word of God. To lead his believers against the unbelievers and blasphemers. To bring God’s will to his earth, whatever the price, whatever the sacrifices, whatever the pain, degradation, and loneliness. Goodbye, my love. I know you will understand.”

  The sheikh sank to his knees on the stone floor and beat his chest as he shouted: “I am ready, God. I am ready. I am ready. I am ready. I am yours…like I never was before!”

  His jaw ached from the clenching he’d done all day, waiting for HQ to call. Inaction was driving him crazy.

  Daesh had already released a photo of the kidnapped American girl, one of their black death flags in the background, sick fuckers dressed top-of-head-to-toe in black on either side of her holding swords, a terrified, confused look on the poor girl’s face.

  And ISIS had announced the terms of Dayna Hood’s release—immediate removal of all U.S. troops from the Middle East and South Asia, and public withdrawal of U.S. support for Israel. If unmet within thirty-six hours, they promised to lop her head off and post the video on the Internet for all the world to see.

  “She will pay the price of all infidels and unbelievers. This is God’s will,” proclaimed the official announcement.

  Crocker had no doubt they would carry out their threat. He also knew that it was U.S. government policy to never give in to the demands of terrorists. That meant the clock was ticking, and down to less than a day and a half.

  Now he paced the floor of the video comms room of the USS Theodore Roosevelt waiting for Anders and the others to appear on the screen and sketching out a search and rescue plan in his head. CT, Akil, and Mancini occupied chairs behind the central table and manned laptops and phones. All of them were querying friends in the field—military, local, national, or private military contractor—for any shred of information about Dayna Hood.

  Tiny Chavez was on a plane back to Virginia Beach where his wife was scheduled to have a baby any minute. Their second, and he hoped, their first daughter.

  Crocker had spoken with Colonel Rastan in Erbil a short time ago. All he had to convey were rumors from his intel people, saying Dayna had been taken to an ISIS stronghold in either
west Mosul or Raqqa. Both cities were relatively close to Aleppo, where she’d been seized.

  No one had direct confirmation. Some sources said there was a possibility that she’d been taken into Iraq.

  “Get me a solid fix on her location. Work your sources. I’ll reimburse you myself if I have to. This is that important,” Crocker had said to Rastan.

  Now, Anders, Sutter, Smithson, and Crocker’s former teammate Davis appeared on the video feed—seated beside each other, glum expressions on their faces.

  Crocker couldn’t wait for a brief. He said, “If we don’t act soon, we might as well pack in everything: the teams, the helos, the aircraft carriers, the one trillion our country spends on defense.”

  “Watch what you say, Crocker,” Sutter warned.

  “I agree with Crocker,” opined Davis. “What good are we, if we can’t rescue our own people.”

  Crocker wanted to reach out and high-five him through the screen.

  “Fuck waiting, and careful,” Crocker continued.

  “You feel better now that you got that off your chest?” Sutter asked.

  “Not really, sir. What’s the plan?”

  “I’m totally gung-ho about doing something,” Smithson added. “But let’s not forget that this young woman isn’t a U.S. official, and she had to understand the risks she was taking when she went to Syria.”

  “Screw that.”

  “Crocker, I don’t appreciate your—”

  Anders cut her off. “There’s no point debating what Ms. Hood did or didn’t understand. She’s been kidnapped. Since we’re not conceding to any Daesh demands, there’s a very strong likelihood she’ll be executed in a brutal manner, if we don’t mount a rescue.”

  “That’s real talk,” Crocker agreed.

  “We’re all professionals, and we know how this works. It’s our job to analyze intel from multiple sources, and come up with a plan that we then present to the White House. I suggest we start by answering the fundamentals…who, where, what, and when?”

  “The who and when, we know.”

  “Yes and no,” Smithson interjected. “Daesh is a big, unruly organization. We’re going to have to ID the particular brigade and brigade commander.”