by Dalton Fury
Kolt was pretty sure he did not. “So what? I should let him go? That’s not happening.”
“No. I’m saying that we don’t want you bringing him back alive. Kill him, Racer.”
EIGHT
QRF staging area, Northern Syria
Cindy “Hawk” Bird reacted without thinking, slapping the handset out of Lauren Gellar’s hand, and in the process, connecting solidly with the woman’s jaw. The female spook staggered back and landed hard on her backside, which elicited a murmur of excitement from the Army Rangers who were lingering at the back of the commo room.
They had been monitoring the op and following all the traffic with the JOC, but Gellar had been receiving updates on her satellite phone as well. The spook had been content to merely observe until her contact—evidently someone higher up the food chain than Colonel Webber—had forwarded the pictures of Racer’s prisoner. That was when Maleficent had grabbed the radio handset and butted into the op.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Hawk hissed at the stunned woman, ignoring the piqued curiosity of the Rangers. She hadn’t hit Gellar that hard; definitely not as hard as she would have liked to. “Stay in your lane.”
Gellar had no operational authority and no business butting into their comms, much less ordering Racer to do anything. She was there to answer questions and advise—when asked. And no one had asked her.
The spook touched a hand to her jaw, then the pain and surprise left her expression. She fixed Hawk with an icy, almost malevolent stare. It was not the first time she had looked at Cindy Bird that way. “Stay in yours, Sergeant. This is way above your pay grade.”
“The hell it is. You can’t order Racer to kill a prisoner. Just saying that out loud is a crime.”
Gellar was not the least bit apologetic. “So arrest me.”
Hawk shrugged and reached for her flexi-cuffs. That, even more than the blow, which had knocked her on her ass, seemed to get Gellar’s attention.
“Wait! Just wait a sec, okay?” She awkwardly got to her feet and dusted herself off—a touch too theatrically to Hawk’s way of thinking—then faced the female Delta operator. “You, of all people, should know how this works. Killing terrorists is what you Delta commandos do, isn’t it?”
“When they’re an immediate threat,” Hawk shot back. “When they’re our prisoner, we don’t get to just execute them.”
“Don’t be naïve, Sergeant.” Gellar had insisted on referring to Hawk that way, using the title like a taunt, a none-too-subtle reminder that she was at the bottom of the Delta totem pole, and as such, beneath contempt. Hawk had, thus far, managed to ignore the put-down. “You don’t really believe that bin Laden was a clear and present danger to Seal Team 6, do you? This is how the world works now.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit. This guy isn’t bin Laden. He’s nobody I’ve ever heard of.” Even as she said it aloud, Hawk realized what was really bothering her about the situation. She took a step forward, hands on her hips. “You seem to know exactly who he is though. Almost like you expected him to be there.”
Gellar stood her ground. “I knew that he might be there, yes. Someone in his organization tipped us, gave up al-Baghdadi. We knew there was a possibility that it might be a setup.”
“And you didn’t think that was something Racer needed to know about?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Raynor is a pro. That’s why POTUS chose him for this mission. We were confident that he would be able to adapt if things went south.” She shrugged her shoulders. “We were hoping they wouldn’t. Shit happens.”
Hawk did not fail to note that, as she spoke, Gellar’s eyes kept darting up and to the right—a telltale sign that she was being at least partly untruthful—and wondered, not for the first time, just who Gellar really worked for. A trained intelligence officer should have had a better poker face.
“So first you screw Racer over, then you order him to commit a war crime. You’re a piece of work, lady.” Hawk fought to keep her rage in check. Right now, all that mattered was that Racer and the rest of the team were caught in a trap. She had followed the earlier transmission from the JOC, and knew that more enemy forces were gathering outside the objective, either planning to rush the compound or ambush the team when they moved out. She turned away from Gellar, picked up the radio handset and clicked the transmit button. “Noble Zero One, this is Raptor Zero One.” As she said it, she pointed to the Ranger platoon leader, then drew a circle in the air with her finger. “Will be at your—”
A faint crackling noise cut her off, as someone else on the net broke in. “Raptor, this is Capitol Zero One. Do not deploy the QRF. Stand by.”
Hawk did not recognize the voice, but she knew the call sign. Capitol Zero One was General Allen. The commanding general of JSOC had just ordered Hawk to stand down.
NINE
Joint Special Operations Command, Fort Bragg
For the second time that night, Webber was dumbfounded at the actions of the JSOC commanding general, first for not immediately intervening when Lauren Gellar ordered the execution of a prisoner, and then for ordering the QRF to stand down when it was plainly obvious that Racer’s team was going to need all the help they could get. “Sir, respectfully, what in—”
Allen held up a hand, cutting him off. His other hand held his mobile phone, and after tapping the screen a few times, he held the device to his ear. “What the hell kind of mess have you gotten me into?”
Although the general did not show the same deference as in his earlier phone conversation, Webber felt certain that the person on the other end was the same individual Allen had spoken with earlier.
There was a pause, then the CG spoke again. “You can’t just—”
Another pause. When Allen spoke again, it was through clenched jaws. “Yes. Sir.”
He lowered the phone, his face bright red with what Webber assumed was anger, but when Allen finally broke his silence, the Delta commander realized it was actually embarrassment. “Colonel, did you advise your squadron commander of the new ROE?”
Webber felt a chill shoot down his spine. He knew exactly what the CG was talking about.
* * *
Four years earlier, during Relook—the grueling reselection process for former Unit operators wishing to return to the fold—he had indeed advised then Major Kolt Raynor of the new Rules of Engagement.
I need to know if you can drop the hammer on a man who possesses no imminent threat . . . someone who has been designated by presidential order as an enemy of the state.
Can you do it?
Can you order your men to do it?
Raynor had agreed to those terms, just as Webber himself had. The colonel had imagined all the different ways his operators might have to do exactly that, from long-range assassinations to extreme prejudice during raids—the kind of prejudice ST6 had shown in Abbottabad when taking out OBL.
But a prisoner, already in custody?
“Sir,” Webber said slowly. “Just so there’s no confusion here. Is POTUS ordering us to kill this . . .” He glanced at a nearby computer screen which displayed what little intelligence there was about the man Racer had just captured. “This Abu Hamam? Is that what you’re telling me?”
Allen stared back, nostrils flaring as he tried to keep whatever emotion it was in check. “What I’m telling you, Colonel, is that Abu Hamam al-Suri is someone we have no interest in taking alive. As a prisoner, he would be an even greater threat to America than he is now.”
It wasn’t remotely an answer. Allen was refusing to go on record, covering his ass, as was, Webber did not doubt, the person who had just passed along the kill order.
The CG wasn’t finished. “How Racer accomplishes that is up to him, but we’re not going to risk an extraction. Abort the Skyhook and recall the bird. Have Racer head to the offset exfil site, ASAP.”
And then, almost like it was an afterthought, the general added, “He’ll be able to move a lot faster without the Syrian slowing him down
.”
Webber glowered at his superior, but once again, Allen made a point of looking away.
Jeremy Webber had come up in the Unit, getting his start more than a decade before the towers fell. He had led men into battles for meaningless objectives—and buried more than a few of them. He had fought in wars he didn’t believe were right, and had followed orders he didn’t understand. It was the obligation of every officer to refuse orders that were illegal or immoral, but Delta operated in the gray area. Somehow, he had always found a way to square the circle. To rationalize his orders in the context of the greatest good.
This time, he just couldn’t see it.
“That’s an awful lot to remember, sir.” He held the handset out in front of Allen. “Maybe you should tell him.”
TEN
Deir Ezzor, Syria
Kolt Raynor stared straight ahead, seeing nothing, and struggled to process what he had just been told. Despite the intentionally vague language, he understood exactly what the JSOC commanding general was telling him to do. He also understood that Allen had stopped short of making it an explicit order.
More importantly, he understood that the MC-130H that was supposed to whisk their precious cargo off the battlefield was now turning around and heading back to base.
“Shit.”
As JoJo passed the update to Slapshot, Kolt turned to face his prisoner. Abu Hamam was just getting his feet under him after being pulled along the corridor. Raynor ripped off the sack-hood, once again shining the SureFire into the man’s eyes, looking for some hint of familiarity. He hadn’t recognized the name when Gellar revealed it over the net, nor did this second look serve to further jog his memory. For such a high-value target, Abu Hamam al-Suri had done a good job of keeping his name off the Delta hot list.
Kolt had not forgotten his conversation with Colonel Webber during Relook, nor had he forgotten his answer to the Unit commander when asked if he could get on board with the revised ROE.
Yes, sir. I can do it. I will do it.
He had meant it then, and nothing had changed.
America’s greatest enemies weren’t the crazies with AKs and RPGs and homemade bombs hiding out in the desert. They were the men with ideas—the leaders and visionaries—who inspired others to throw away their lives on the altar of endless jihad. Such men were dangerous, even when disarmed and shackled, and as far as Kolt was concerned, they had waived their right to humane treatment along with the rest of their humanity. Given the chance to end the next Osama bin Laden or Daoud al-Amriki—and save countless innocent lives in the process, he would have had zero problem dropping the hammer.
But this didn’t seem quite so clear-cut.
Allen had not given him an explicit order to terminate the prisoner, which meant the CG was covering his own ass, putting all the responsibility on Raynor.
Am I being set up?
Raynor had his share of detractors, both in and out of the Unit. Despite working three times harder than any officer to ever lead a troop, and saving the world once or twice along the way, some of the old guard had never gotten past the fatal error in judgment that had gotten him shit-canned all those years ago. As far as he knew, Major General Seth Allen was not in that club, and no one else who was had the political mojo to leverage Colonel Webber into putting Kolt Raynor in charge of the mission, ensuring that he would find himself in this situation.
He was missing something.
Kolt spoke into his mic. “Slap, we got anyone who speaks Arabic?”
Raynor knew the qualifications of each man under his command, but for some reason, he was having trouble thinking straight.
Hawk speaks Arabic. The thought intruded from out of nowhere. He shook his head to clear it and winced at the subsequent spike of pain. Maybe I do have a concussion.
But he knew that wasn’t the source of his confusion.
Abu Hamam, his face screwed up in an effort to shut out the brilliance of the LED tac-light, grunted then spoke in heavily accented English. “You do not need an interpreter.”
Raynor raised an eyebrow in surprise, but did not lower his light. “My lucky day,” he muttered.
Just then Slapshot’s voice came over the comms. “Racer, what the fuck? We just got the rug yanked from under us, and you want a terp?”
Raynor shook his head. “Stand by.”
“Stand by?”
Kolt could almost see the veins popping out from his sergeant major’s forehead, but he did not respond. Instead, he moved closer to the prisoner. “Okay, asshole. Listen up, because I don’t have a lot of time right now. I just got the order to execute you. After that little surprise party you threw for us, I’m having difficulty thinking of a good reason not to. Help me out here.”
The Syrian turned his head, struggling to face his captor with open eyes. “Why do you hesitate? Kill me, just as you killed my son.”
He made a noise in his throat and spat at Raynor.
Kolt turned this revelation over in his head. That cleared up the question of motive. The Syrian had deliberately drawn the attention of American intelligence officers in hopes of luring a team of American commandos into an ambush, as payback for the loss of his son, presumably in some earlier action carried out in the course of the war against ISIS.
“What you do to piss that guy off?”
Kolt turned toward the voice and saw Slapshot moving down the hallway toward him. It had not really occurred to him until he heard it, but Slapshot was right; Abu Hamam’s rage seemed to be focused on Kolt himself—as if Raynor had personally fired the shot that had killed his loved one.
“Beats me,” Kolt replied. “I’ll worry about it later. Time to bolt.”
Raynor started to move again, but Slapshot didn’t budge. “What about him?” He nodded at the prisoner.
Kolt knew that Slapshot wasn’t privy to the earlier conversations with Gellar and the JOC, and hadn’t heard the implicit kill order, but the sergeant major had probably done the math when the Fulton lift had been cancelled.
Raynor didn’t know if his friend shared his dilemma. Fourteen long years of playing whack-a-mole with radicals in one desert after another had a way reorienting the moral compass. Icing the son of a bitch was probably even the right call morally, if not legally, strictly speaking. Abu Hamam al-Suri was fighting for ISIS, or for some splinter faction with the same brutal goals. Without knowing anything more about that man, that ought to have been enough to justify his death warrant.
What gave Raynor pause was that someone had purposefully cast him in the role of executioner without telling him why.
He definitely did not like being used that way.
If he was going to play executioner, then he was damn sure going to play judge and jury first.
Raynor grabbed the green SAT mic from JoJo. “Wrangler Zero One, this is Noble Zero One.” He spoke slowly, striving for a dispassionate tone. He hoped Webber would pick up on it and recognize the effort he was putting into keeping his cool. He needed the Delta commander on his side now more than ever, which was a lot to hope for considering that Webber’s superior was evidently standing right next to him, sharpshooting the mission. “How’s the weather outside looking?”
Webber’s voice returned a moment later, his tone uncharacteristically subdued. “Cloudy with a chance. Estimate twenty crows outside the north gate. Small arms. A couple RPGs. They’re standing pat for the moment, probably waiting for you to leave. Suggest you find an alternate exit and get your ass out of there.”
Kolt glanced over at his prisoner. “Getting to the exfil site is going to be dicey.” He recalled Hawk’s interrupted transmission. “Request pickup at this location.”
The answer was immediate and not entirely unexpected. “That’s a no-go, Noble Zero One. Your location is too hot.”
No shit, Raynor thought. But Webber wasn’t wrong. The fighters outside, the ones packing RPGs, were probably hoping that a couple of American helicopters would swoop in to rescue the assault team. It didn’t mak
e sense to risk more lives and equipment, not when the deck was stacked against them like this.
“Understood. How about the soccer field where we dropped in?” He paused a moment, then added. “We’re red on casualties. Two Eagles WIA, one seriously.”
He sent the call signs and current medical status of the two injured operators.
There was long silence, and when the answer finally came, it was not from Webber. “Racer, the helos are thirty minutes out,” Allen said. “Diverting to a closer and potentially hot LZ isn’t going to get you guys off the ground any faster. Recommend you continue with the original plan.”
Kolt ground his teeth until the urge to tell the JSOC commander to go fuck himself passed. “Wrangler Zero One,” he said, again stressing Webber’s designator. “We need some cover for our exfil. Can you have the Reaper drop a Hellfire on those crows at the gate?
Webber came back with the answer. “Noble Zero One, you are danger close.”
That wasn’t exactly news to Raynor. The distance from the house to the street outside was only about fifty meters. Danger close for a Hellfire missile was 110 meters.
“Understood. We’ll use the house for cover, and synchronize our breach. Give us five mikes to get in position and wait for my go. Noble Zero One, out.”
He didn’t wait for confirmation. Either they would get the Hellfire, or they wouldn’t, but he wasn’t going to give Allen an opportunity to micromanage him, particularly with respect to the prisoner. He turned to Slapshot. “You heard? Five minutes.”
“We don’t need—”
“No, we don’t,” Kolt said, cutting him off. “But I do.” He turned to the captive Syrian. “Somebody really wants you dead,” he said, trying to sound casual.
“Your government has broken faith,” the Syrian said. “Now there will be no peace, but my son will be avenged. You will never leave here alive.”
“Your son,” Kolt prompted. “Tell me more about him.”
