Hunt the Viper

by Don Mann

  “Listen, Crocker…You’re to stay in Erbil and be ready to deploy only on orders. Understood?”

  “Understood.” Another part of him was thinking, fuck that.

  “You need anything, talk to Colonel Connelly.” Connelly was the Air Force colonel in charge of the Erbil base.

  “I will, sir. Thanks.”

  Crocker handed the phone back to the Peshmerga aide and returned to the confab in the middle of the room. Major Jahani and Doyle stood with the members of the Black Cell team—a scruffy lot all dressed in civilian clothes, duffels packed with gear at their feet.

  He overheard Mancini say, “She’s a young woman. No goddamn way we’re sitting here with our fingers up our butts.” It made him feel proud.

  Doyle crushed a Camel with the heel of his boot and lit another. Frowned and looked up at Crocker. “This bother you?” he asked, pointing to the cigarette.

  Crocker shook his head.

  “Anything new?” Akil asked, scratching his grizzled chin.

  “Nothing specific on the girl’s location. She might be in Sheikh al-Sufi’s custody. We’re not to deploy until we get an okay from the White House.”

  Mancini groaned. “I got kids of my own, and a conscience to live with.”

  CT said, “I gotta wife I gotta answer to. I don’t do something to help that girl, she’ll kick my ass.”

  All eyes turned to Crocker. “No wife, but I’m going in no matter what DC says.”

  Akil gave a thumbs-up. “Make that four!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Any fool can learn from his mistakes. The wise man learns from the mistakes of others.

  —Otto von Bismarck

  Sheikh al-Sufi stood at the metal rail looking down at the young American girl praying by the window. The way the afternoon sunlight glanced across the pale skin of her face and her blond hair stood out against the black of the hijab made her look like an angel.

  Her appearance reminded him of the pretty schoolgirls he’d seen during the months he’d spent training in North Carolina. Before they became women, they were innocent and friendly. In their teenage years they turned immodest, unchaste, and vain. They imagined their role was to make men weak.

  The American girl confused him. Parts of him wanted to hate her, befriend her, and take her into his bed.

  The Quran said, “Good women were obedient. They guard their unseen parts because God has guarded them.” It instructed men: “As for those wives from whom you fear arrogance, admonish them first; and if they persist, forsake them in bed; and finally, strike them.”

  Though this girl was an unbeliever, she seemed to have a good soul. He’d heard she’d come to Syria to help heal the sick and wounded.

  Al-Sufi wanted to approach her, but was wary. She could be a demon who would beguile him with her youth and beauty. Since her arrival yesterday, Ibah and the many-eyed monster hadn’t appeared.

  Seeing how her smooth skin glowed in the light, he wondered what it would be like to take her into his bed. If he truly wanted this, it would be okay. As the divine verses said, “Women are your fields, go, then, into your fields hence you please.”

  But did he? Maybe sleeping with her would please him too much, and lure him into an impure place, and, therefore, weaken him before the eyes of his men and Allah.

  As he continued to stare at her, he wondered if there was another way. Maybe he could give her the opportunity to embrace the Faith, and after that decide to take her for his wife.

  But even that would come with risks. And he’d been raised to distrust beauty. For all he knew, she was the most deceitful kind of demon—the kind that appeared as an angel, but was really born of fire and not from light, and refused to bow before Allah.

  A local man in a white tunic brought tea and peanut butter sandwiches and set them in the center of the table. Through the window to his right, Crocker saw a big white praying mantis–like RAF MQ-9 Reaper drone being refueled and wondered where it was going next. Doyle fired up the black laptop he carried under his arm.

  “This is the Viper’s stronghold,” he said, pointing at a map on the screen. “This strip of land along the Euphrates River. Extends from the outskirts of Aleppo on the northwest, through Raqqa, and all the way southeast.”

  “How much land we talking about?” asked Mancini.

  “Twenty thousand square miles, give or take. Other IS commanders rule territory north of Damascus, including the city of Palmyra, parts of Kurdistan, and northern Iraq.”

  “That’s a whole hell of a lot.” Crocker exchanged looks with the rest of his men.

  “Even if we knew for sure that Ms. Hood is in the Viper’s custody, we’d still be looking at a massive challenge to find her.”

  “I get it.”

  “What I’ll do, which the suits in DC won’t,” Doyle continued, “is trust my powers of deduction. I’m no Sherlock Holmes, and I’ll probably get canned for this, but here goes…”

  Crocker leaned in closer.

  “The Viper’s stronghold is Raqqa. He’s got complete control of the city and anywhere between fifteen thousand and thirty thousand militants protecting him. They’re heavily armed and deeply dug in. So if I’m wearing his shoes, that’s where I am now.”

  “Agree.”

  “Also, Raqqa is where Daesh has its propaganda people, TV cameras, satellite feeds, and all that technical shit. In other words, it’s a perfect place to stage a public execution.”

  “Good point.…”

  “By the way, I looked it up, and ISIS has never publicly executed an American woman,” Mancini added. “This would be the first time.”

  “True,” Doyle countered, “but they’ve been taking it on the chin in Mosul and other places, and need some way to strike back at us and rally their troops.”

  “So you’re betting they go ahead with the execution?”

  “Hell, they’ve issued a public statement. They can’t back down now.”

  “You agree, Major?” Crocker asked, turning to Major Jahani.

  “I do.”

  The situation seemed dicey all around.

  Crocker said, “We can’t take a chance that they’ll change their minds.”

  “No.”

  “But…what do we do? Where do we deploy?”

  Doyle cleared his throat and pointed to a spot on the computer map. “A few days ago we gained a stronghold here…around the Tabqa Dam, which is about fifty kilometers southwest of Raqqa and along the Euphrates River. We did it as part of a strategic plan to cut off the city of Raqqa and take it before the Russians, Assad’s forces, and the Iranians do.”

  “Who’s we?” Crocker asked.

  “U.S. Special Operations—a combination of Marine Recon and Special Forces—and various Kurd militias. It’s now being held by the SDF. Their units are made up of militiamen equipped and trained by us, and led by a guy named Commander Kassim. Not my favorite person. Spends too much time flapping his lips on YouTube in my opinion. But he’s there now and he’s what we’ve got.”

  “Will he cooperate?” asked Mancini.

  “If he doesn’t, we’ll push him aside.”

  Crocker slapped the table. “Then let’s get shaking. I’m gonna need a couple of Black Hawks, weapons, ammo…”

  “When, sir?” Major Jahani asked.

  “Now! We leave as soon as it turns dark.”

  Asso had taken Route 1, to Route 2, to the M4 highway in order to skirt the Turkish border and to stay within the Kurdish area of the region of Rojava and Northern Syria. Along the way, they’d encountered windstorms and SDF checkpoints, but found almost no cell phone and wifi service.

  The ride had been long and uneventful so far—six hours over two-lane asphalt and dirt roads and mostly flat parched land. Séverine felt disoriented and sick to her stomach. She couldn’t tell if it was a result of the tension, the continued pain from her back, neck, and shoulder, or the Percodan.

  Now as they entered the town of Al-Hasakah, she saw that she had a coup
le bars of reception on her phone and sat up.

  “Look,” she said, pointing to her cell phone as they rolled into the city—a sunbaked mud grid, home to roughly two hundred thousand people—that boasted more than forty mosques, eight major Christian churches, and a large soccer stadium.

  “Careful with that. Daesh monitors all cell and wifi activity in the area.”

  Asso explained that Al-Hasakah had been the scene of fierce fighting between Syrian Armed Forces, the al-Qaeda allied militia group Al-Nusra, and the Kurdish YPGs. During the summer of 2015, the town had been subsumed as part of the ISIS caliphate. A year later, Kurdish militias coordinated by the Asayish drove ISIS out.

  Subsequently, Syrian armed forces had launched a brutal air attack against Kurds controlling the city. In August 2016, Syrian government forces withdrew and ceded control to the Kurdish Federation of Northern Syria–Rojava under a cease-fire brokered by Russia. The new governing council currently ruled under a Charter of the Social Contract that guaranteed all residents gender equality and freedom of religion.

  As Asso slowed at a checkpoint flying a yellow and red Kurdish Federation flag, Séverine opened Facebook Messenger and saw that she had a message from the guy who called himself Mohammad, who had contacted her through the “Raqqa Is Being Slaughtered Silently” Facebook page.

  She waited until Asso stepped out of the car to confer with the soldiers at the barricade to read it. The message said: “I am a student. My mother and sisters are trapped in Raqqa. I’m in a town nearby. What is going on there is a human rights nightmare. Maybe we can help each other. We are all human beings.”

  Despite Asso’s warning, she typed back, “If you can help me find my friend, how can I help you?”

  “Who is your friend?”

  “Dayna Hood, the captured American. She is a good person. A nurse. We worked together in Doctors Without Borders.”

  “She is in Raqqa? You want me to try to find her?” Mohammad asked.

  “YES! How can I help you in return?”

  “My mother is very sick. Her kidneys do not work properly. She needs to get out of Raqqa for medical help.”

  “I will help you if you can locate my friend. Please…HURRY!!! It has to happen…now!!!”

  Dusk started to fall and Asso was still chatting with the soldiers. Séverine got out to stretch her legs and use the bathroom.

  Asso pointed to a restaurant across the street. He said, “If anyone stops you and speaks English, tell them that you’re with me, your boyfriend. Stick to the story.”

  “I will.”

  “You can’t trust anyone. There are spies everywhere.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was just being overprotective. When she emerged from the little bathroom, Asso stood in the hallway talking with three serious-looking men, two of whom were in uniform.

  He took her by the forearm and said, “Come with me.”

  Asso sat across from her at a wooden table in a private room filled with the scent of roasting lamb seasoned with rosemary, and said in a conspiratorial tone, “It’s too dangerous to travel farther south or west without an escort.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “They did.…One is an officer in the YPG. The other two are Asayish.”

  She didn’t want to be sidetracked into wondering what Asayish’s interest in the case might be. They would either help or they wouldn’t. “Do they have any information?” Séverine asked.

  “Just confirmation that Ms. Hood is in Raqqa.”

  “Okay. That’s important.” One of the Asayish officials joined them. When he grinned, his mouth was filled with stained and broken teeth. “Raqqa is a large city, isn’t it? Do they have sources there who can locate her?”

  Asso spoke to the official and translated his answer for Séverine.

  “The situation there is very dangerous right now. A siege is imminent. It’s coming from Assad forces and the Russians from the north, and from Kurds east and west. So it’s difficult to move around the area without being stopped by the religious police. But Asayish sources are active. They’re transmitting information twenty-four seven.”

  “Thank you,” she repeated, grasping her hands in front of her for emphasis. “Thank you very much. Please tell us anything you learn immediately.”

  “He will. He also wants to warn you about trusting anyone you meet on a Facebook page. They could be ISIS.”

  The short, pale Asayish official nodded and waved his finger. “Very bad. No trust.”

  The tone of his deep voice sent a chill up her spine. “Time is quickly running out for my friend. What does he suggest we do?”

  He and Asso conferred, then Asso said, “He thinks we continue on to Ayn Issa. It’s the last town under Kurdish control before Raqqa. Only fifty kilometers north of Raqqa.”

  “Why?”

  “The few people who are getting out of Raqqa arrive there. Maybe one of them will have some information.”

  It was worth a try. But the road to Ayn Issa wasn’t secure, so they needed to hire an armed escort. While Asso and the Asayish official hurried off to attend to that, Séverine ordered a bottle of water and checked her messages.

  The first one was from Crocker. “Leaving Erbil now. Will land in Tabqa, west of Raqqa, in an hour. Will contact you when we land.”

  She texted back, “Great news! Thank u, thank u, thank u with all my heart. I’m leaving soon for a town called Ayn Issa. Hope to learn more there. Much luv.”

  She also had several messages from Mohammad, asking where she was and offering his services again. One of them read, “Please. My mother is dying. I will take whatever risks u need in exchange for medical help! I am taking risks now. I can be stoned to death for talking to you!”

  She wrote back, “I understand. You’re a brave man. I’m on my way to Ayn Issa and will contact you when I arrive there.”

  “I will meet u.”

  Armed men led her through a courtyard with a tree in the center. Since they were taking Dayna outside, the men had removed the hijab she had been wearing and replaced it with a burqa so her face was hidden. Through the mesh that covered her eyes, she spotted small tapestries with Arabic sayings woven into them hanging from the limbs of the trees. She wondered if they were prayers, and hoped that she was with people who believed in God.

  Now they were leading her downstairs to a dank cement basement. Chills spread through her body into her hands. At the bottom, they arrived at another courtyard and gate. Two armed men opened it. They pushed her into a little room with no windows and thick cement walls, and left. A plate of food and a glass of hot tea sat on a table.

  A single bulb hung from the ceiling. Dirty pillows leaned against one wall. Arabic calligraphy covered another. An old sweater hung from a nail by the door.

  Listen to my prayer, O God. Do not ignore my cry for help.…

  She was trying to keep track of time in her head. Approximately forty Mississippis later, footsteps echoed from the passageway. She heard a key in the lock. The door swung open and six men crowded into the little room. There was hardly room enough for all of them to stand.

  Please listen and answer me for I am overwhelmed by my troubles.…

  One, with a long, slender face, pushed the plate of food aside and placed a microphone and tape recorder on the table.

  “Sit,” he said.

  She obeyed. “Good. You speak English. Where did you learn English?”

  “I’m not here to talk about myself. Be quiet!”

  He lifted the hood of her burqa. The other men were fierce-looking and bearded.

  She recited some verses from Psalm 55 to herself. My heart is in anguish. The terror of death overpowers me. Fear and trembling overwhelm me. I can’t stop shaking. Oh, how I wish I had wings like a dove; then I would fly away, and be at rest!

  “We want you to answer some questions.”

  She thought she sensed a little drop of sympathy in his voice. “What’s your name?”

  “You can call me Rasu
l.”

  She wanted desperately to cling to it. “You are a good man, aren’t you? You’re my Angel Rasul.”

  “Just answer the questions.”

  He pushed the microphone under her chin. The questions came fast. “Why are you in Syria? Who are you working for? Where do you live in the United States? Who hired you? What was the nature of your mission to Aleppo? What are the names of the people you were working with? When did you become a spy? What are the names of your contacts in Syria?”

  She answered as best she could, but the questions kept coming like lashes. The men were practically shouting them at Rasul. She became confused and exhausted, and noticed that Rasul was gently encouraging her.

  “Answer.…Do the best you can.…Don’t hesitate.…Don’t look at me, look at them.…This will be over soon.…”

  When she said at one point that her beliefs came from the Bible, Rasul said, “I won’t say that.”

  Under her breath, she recited two verses from Psalm 27 to resist the negative thoughts that invaded her head. Though a host encamp against me, I will not show fear. Though war rise against me, in spite of this I shall be confident.

  She tried to hold on to God as her shield, her defense, but her will was starting to crumble.

  Her answers to the men’s inquiries no longer made sense. She swore that Rasul was answering them for her. She held on to the spark of empathy in his eyes.

  “Are you married?”

  The question surprised her. She wasn’t sure if it was coming from Rasul or the others.

  “They want to know if you’re married.”

  “I’m not married. No.”

  “Were you ever married?”

  “No!”

  “Why not? Are you a nun?”

  “No, I’m waiting for the right person.”

  When Rasul translated, the men looked puzzled and whispered among themselves. Then one of the fiercest of them looked at her and nodded. It was the first time she sensed the least bit of humanity in any of them.

  Rasul said, “He thinks you should become a Muslim. He thinks you will be happy if you become a Muslim and marry a Muslim man.”