Clear by Fire: A Search and Destroy Thriller

by Joshua Hood

  “I was approached by an intermediary from the CIA about my research involving biologics. I was working on a new delivery system that would transport cellular data to the frontal lobe of the brain—”

  “Frontal lobe of the brain? What the fuck are you talking about? The CIA doesn’t give a shit about frontal lobes.”

  “I swear to you that I thought I was working for the government. You have to believe me. The whole situation was very straightforward until it was time to deliver. I was contacted and given instructions to bring the bio agent to the parking garage. That man yesterday gave me the second half of the money and then there was a lot of shooting. I had no idea it was going to be like that. I went home and there were four men waiting for me.”

  “Who was expecting delivery of the package? Where was it going?”

  “I don’t know. I swear it.”

  “You better tell me something if you want to leave here in one piece.”

  “Please, you have to understand, I thought it was legit. I’m not a bad guy—”

  “Doc, save it.”

  “I heard someone mention a place called Kamdesh. That’s all I know.”

  Renee didn’t know if he was lying or not, and there wasn’t time to find out, because the door of the van slid open. Jim Green stood there glowering, flanked by three men with “FBI” written across their blue windbreakers.

  “Dr. Keating, don’t say another word. You are now in the custody of the FBI,” one of the agents said.

  “Jesus, Renee, do you mind telling me what the hell you think you’re doing?” Jim Green exploded as the FBI agent stepped into the van to grab the doctor.

  “My job.”

  “What happened to his face?” one of the special agents asked.

  “He fell.”

  “Cut the shit, Renee. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I promise you that when the chief hears about this, you can kiss your career good-bye.”

  “When the chief hears about what?” a man’s voice asked as Renee was stepping out of the van.

  Everyone turned to see Chris Thompson, the deputy director of the Defense Intelligence Agency, appear with his aide.

  “Sir, this woman is—” Jim Green began.

  Chris held up his finger, stopping his subordinate in midsentence. “Gentlemen, I appreciate all of your help, but as you can see we have a great deal of work to do.” He offered his hand to the FBI agent and, after a firm handshake, motioned for Renee and Jim to follow him.

  “Sir, someone in our office will be in contact with you soon,” the FBI agent said.

  “Tell your boss that I’m still planning on coming over for dinner tonight, and thank you once again for your help.” He continued walking over to a black Tahoe that was parked out of the way of all the commotion. His aide unlocked the truck and went around to the driver’s side.

  “Sir, I would like to brief you on—”

  “Jim, save your breath. I think you’ve done enough today. It seems to me that you have a situation you need to handle until your replacement relieves you.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Agent Green, shut the fuck up and get out of my face.” He watched the crestfallen man walk away before turning to Renee. “I understand you saved a lot of lives today.”

  “It shouldn’t have happened in the first place,” she said honestly. The adrenaline rush was fading fast and the last two days caught up with her in a second. She was exhausted. There had been too much death and some of it was her fault.

  “Maybe.”

  Chris opened the door of the Tahoe and motioned for Renee to get in.

  The deputy director took a seat next to her and told his aide to drive.

  “This fuckup is going to start a huge shit storm, and people are going to want some answers,” the deputy director began. “Right now our lawyers are shitting bricks trying to figure out if this little operation was even legal, but that’s not what I’m worried about.” He paused as the driver navigated his way through the mass of cars parked along the road.

  As they got closer to the outer perimeter, Renee could see news vans parked on the perfectly manicured grass of the upscale neighborhood. Their satellite masts were extended, and cameras and reporters were busy trying to beat each other to the scoop as trophy wives and homeowners gossiped and tried to get on TV.

  It was a madhouse.

  “I want you to know that Joseph was a personal friend of mine. Not many people know that we were partners when he first got the job. I say all of this so you will understand that what happened to him is a very personal matter. That being said, I’ve been contacted by General Swift, who wants you on a plane as soon as possible.”

  “Sir, I understand General Swift wants me out of here, but I—” Renee stopped talking as the man next to her raised his hand.

  “This isn’t negotiable, I’m afraid.”

  “I understand.” She didn’t, but it appeared the conversation was over.

  The deputy director tossed a manila folder onto her lap and began speaking as she opened the cover.

  “Renee, inside that folder is your standard nondisclosure agreement. If you sign it, you get bumped up to the boys’ club; if not, then nothing changes. You go back to Afghanistan and get back to work.”

  Renee scanned the first paragraph before turning to the last page and scrawling her name across the signature line. There was no reason to read the whole thing; she knew what it said, and more importantly what it meant.

  Thompson took the folder and stuffed it into his briefcase.

  “You ever heard of the Anvil Program?” he asked.

  “Rumors mostly,” she began, “some black ops unit that Decklin was attached to.”

  “The Anvil Program is something we inherited from the Bush era, but unlike your run-of-the-mill Special Ops unit, this one was off the books. I’m talking next-level classified.”

  “So what does this have to do with Decklin and me? I mean, why are you telling me all of this?”

  “Two hours after Decklin kills one of my agents, Colonel Barnes, and all his people, walk off the reservation; an hour later every hard drive with any information on the Anvil Program gets wiped out. We have no idea how it happened; all my guys can tell me is that it was an inside job.”

  “Okay . . . ,” Renee said, waiting for the punch line.

  “All we have left is this,” he said, holding up a thumb drive. Deputy Director Thompson squinted his eyes and looked into the distance. “A man like Barnes doesn’t just give up his career unless he’s got big plans of his own.”

  CHAPTER 10

  * * *

  Kamdesh, Nuristan

  The pilot of the Mi-17 kept the helicopter in the fading sun for as long as possible before gaining altitude to clear one of the higher peaks. The Russian helicopter was a relic of the Soviet invasion and until recently had been used to ferry supplies from Kandahar to coalition outposts. A cracked manifold had sent it to the scrap yard, but after a new coat of paint and fresh Afghan army markings, the old warhorse was once again carrying troops into battle.

  While the Serbian pilot focused on keeping the ancient helicopter in the air, his copilot kept an eye on the oil gauge. The instrument panel was faded from constant exposure to the Afghan sun, and the glass over the dials was covered with a thick film that partially obscured the white needle inside.

  The crew chief’s sweaty coveralls smelled of stale vodka as he squeezed past the soldiers lining the thin skin of the helicopter and made his way to the surprisingly neat row of oil cans bungee-corded below the gearbox. A metal can opener hung from a length of grime-coated rope, where it swung gently in front of Colonel Barnes’s head. The man grabbed the silver tool in an oil-soaked fist and held it tight against the lid of one of the cans. He applied enough pressure to pop two quick holes in the lid before pouring the contents into the gearbox.

  Colonel Barnes closed his faded copy of Marcus Aurelius to avoid the sporadic drops of oil coming from the lines that sp
lit off from the gearbox and watched the man toss the can out of the open observation window. He’d paid the crew well to transport his team to the target but would be greatly relieved when they were finally on the ground.

  “Colonel, we’re five minutes out,” the pilot said over the radio in his heavily accented English.

  Barnes’s rusty Russian was better than the pilot’s terrible English, so he had told the man to stick to his native tongue, but the pilot had refused with his trademark toothless smile. The colonel stowed the book in his cargo pocket and leaned forward to get a brief glimpse out of the cockpit.

  His team was conducting their final gear checks as they neared the objective, and to his right Harden leaned forward and spat tobacco on the floor of the helicopter. Barnes tapped him on the shoulder and held up five extended fingers. Harden nodded and wiped the dip spit off his lower lip before passing the sign to the rest of the team.

  The smell of jet fuel and burned oil filled the stifling confines of the cargo compartment, and as the pilot lowered the ramp, a welcoming flood of fresh air blew over the waiting soldiers. The colonel unplugged his headset from the helicopter’s communication jack, switched to the team’s internal channel, and checked the black Pelican case that sat on the floor between his legs.

  He’d been skeptical that Decklin could deliver the weapon he’d asked for, but the man had proved more resourceful than he’d imagined. The vials of the untraceable nerve agent had arrived a day before they were expected, which gave Barnes the ability to push up his timeline.

  It was supposed to be some potent stuff, but Barnes had never been the type to take someone else’s word. He needed to see for himself, and that was exactly what he planned to do.

  This would be his last operation in Afghanistan, and he planned on making it a memorable one. The war was winding down, and America was tired of fighting a conflict with no foreseeable end. But as the United States was losing its resolve, the enemy was growing stronger and much more threatening. Men like him, the true believers, had been fighting the jihadists in one country or another since 2001, and there was no way they were giving up because the American people were losing focus.

  The colonel had been given greater latitude to prosecute the fight than any man before him, but it would never be enough to win. He lived by the Clausewitz motto: “You must pursue one great decisive aim with force and determination.”

  Barnes was about to show everyone the depth of his determination, especially that piece of shit Karzai. Fate might have chosen that man to rule Afghanistan, but Barnes believed in making his own destiny. Karzai had done more to undermine America’s policy in Afghanistan than the Taliban. He was a thief and a liar, and Barnes relished the idea of putting an end to his reign.

  His attention swung back to the cockpit, where low ridgelines hid Forward Operating Base Kamdesh from his view. The FOB was a black site and its location wasn’t on any of the maps most military commanders had access to. But Barnes knew that it lay just over the next ridge, hidden from prying eyes.

  The copilot held up one finger and the colonel got to his feet, grabbing the case by its plastic handle. He felt the helicopter shudder beneath his boots as it began to slow. The pilot gently popped over the final rocky outcrop, swung the nose toward the landing pad, and flared for landing.

  Stepping off the ramp as soon as the wheels touched the ground, Barnes kept his head low as the spinning rotors beat the loose dirt and sand into a thick cloud of brown dust. He knew his men were right behind him as he held his breath against the hot exhaust, and he stayed bent over until he was clear of the blades.

  Two bearded Special Forces soldiers were sprinting down the hill toward the landing pad. One of the men had a rifle slung casually across his chest and was trying to keep his flip-flops from coming off his feet as he ran. He used his right hand to keep the rifle from hitting his bare knees, which protruded well below the tiny black shorts he was wearing. The other Green Beret was dressed in a tan tank top, cutoff fatigue pants, and unlaced boots. He was unarmed, except for an angry expression.

  Obviously, they weren’t expecting him.

  Barnes could hear the engine being pushed to full throttle, and the two men running toward him waved their hands in an attempt to get the pilot’s attention. The pilot ignored them and lifted the helicopter off the pad, pushing it toward the valley floor below.

  The men were yelling something now, but it was still too noisy for the colonel to hear them, so he kept moving forward.

  “This is a restricted base, you can’t be here,” the one man yelled as the distant thundering of the rotors drifted away. He stopped, hopping gingerly on one foot as a piece of gravel found its way between the thin sole of the flip-flop and the exposed flesh above it.

  Barnes suppressed a grin and motioned that he couldn’t hear them. Holding his hand to his ear, he continued to close the distance between them. Stopping two feet away from the Green Berets, the colonel placed the black case on the ground and made a show of searching through his pockets.

  “I have orders here for . . .” The annoyed expression on his face deepened as he searched for the elusive papers. “Shit, I know it’s here somewhere. Tell your captain that Colonel Barnes is here for the prisoner.”

  The soldier with the rifle had gotten the rock out of his foot and took a menacing step forward as Barnes’s right hand disappeared around his back.

  “You don’t have clearance to be here,” the man replied over the thick wad of chaw stuck in his cheek.

  There was a subtle click as Barnes slipped the knife from its Kydex sheath at the base of his spine. The Green Beret turned to spit a long stream of brown tobacco onto the gravel pad as the colonel’s blade sliced down into his throat. A look of utter bewilderment was frozen on his face as his hands rushed to his mangled throat. Thick jets of oxygenated blood arced through his fingers and onto the front of Barnes’s uniform.

  The colonel pushed him hard in the chest and took a step to his left. A metallic cough echoed from his rear as Harden fired his suppressed M4. The 5.56 round hit the second soldier in the eyeball, blowing the contents of his skull out of the back of his head.

  He was dead before the expended brass bounced off the gravel.

  “Move,” Barnes ordered.

  He pulled the knife from the man’s throat and wiped the gory blade across the dead soldier’s T-shirt. It wasn’t the first time he’d killed an American, but for many of his men, this would be their first step down the dark path.

  The Anvil Team moved up the hill and into the FOB’s perimeter. As he passed the dead soldiers, his radio operator, Jones, delivered a rifle shot to each of the men’s foreheads. They called it “moonroofing” and it was standard practice on the team to ensure a combatant was dead.

  Barnes sheathed the knife and lifted the black case off the ground as suppressed gunfire erupted in the tranquil twilight. It was supposed to be a silent raid, but the detonation of a fragmentation grenade told him they had lost the element of surprise.

  “So much for that,” Barnes said as an invisible defender opened up on full auto. The long burst echoed off the rock face and bounced across the valley. The colonel handed the case to Jones and loosened the sling on his rifle in eager anticipation.

  More gunfire rang out, followed by another explosion.

  “Heavy contact, building two,” someone said over the radio.

  “Roger, moving.”

  At the top of the rise, Barnes could see two of his team firing into building two. Someone inside was engaging his men with a belt-fed machine gun, and the bullets tore chunks out of the plywood wall, filling the air with splinters.

  A muffled yell rose over the din. “Frag out.”

  Barnes watched the grenade tumble through the air and land near the wall, where it exploded with a distinctive thump. Rounds buzzed angrily over the colonel’s head and he turned to his left to see muzzle flashes coming from the commo shack.

  Jones had a small gray box in his hand, an
d the digital readout on its face glowed red before blinking green.

  “We’re jamming,” the black man said, putting the electronic jamming unit back into its pouch. He barely flinched as a bullet hit the gravel in front of him and ricocheted off with a whine. Raising his rifle toward the commo shack, he fired three quick rounds and started toward the building.

  “Hold tight,” Barnes said.

  Firefights were perversely calming to him, like staring into the flames of a fire, and he found himself unable to look away. The colonel felt the goose bumps crawling up his arms with a chill, like a dose of the most exclusive drug.

  Jones shrugged and clicked the push-to-talk button on his chest. “Contact, building four.”

  “Roger, red team moving.”

  The small incline that led up from the landing zone gave an unparalleled view of the FOB. The cluster of plywood buildings sat nestled in the shadow of the mountains, with the dominant terrain being the communications bunker, built atop an artificial hill. Whoever was holed up in the tiny shack could shoot down at his men but didn’t have the angle to hit Barnes or Jones.

  Looking at his watch, he noted that it had only been three minutes since he’d stepped off the bird. Harden had five more minutes to clear out the FOB before Barnes would step in. The colonel had learned from General Swift that it was always best to let your men do their job, and while most leaders wanted to get into the fight, Barnes knew that his men were more than capable of handling the situation.

  He knew that any decision made during the first ninety seconds of an engagement was usually too far behind the power curve to matter. It was only after the situation began to settle that a commander’s orders could affect the outcome.

  Reaching into his sleeve pocket, Barnes took out a can of dip. Placing a pinch of tobacco into his lip, he watched as three of his men jogged toward the commo shed.

  The first man moved to the edge of a Hesco barrier. The cubes of felt and reinforced wire were filled with dirt and used to defend positions. Using the lip of the bastion to steady his rifle, the operator engaged the door of the commo shed.