Clear by Fire: A Search and Destroy Thriller

by Joshua Hood

  Barnes, now a major, was seen as the bearer of the sacred torch of democracy, and General Swift expected him to illuminate the dark path to victory. No one had time to notice the subtle but furious narcissism that was growing within him.

  The man was magnetic and dangerous. General Petraeus called him a “warmonger,” and Barnes wore the title like a badge of honor. He had nothing but disdain for the generals who sought to garner Iraqi affection. For him, the way to victory was through total war, and while his methods were barbaric, they were effective.

  He was running Task Force 120 when he was given command of the Anvil Program.

  Iraq was turning into a bloodbath and the men running the war kept throwing more bodies into the grinder. The victory they had held up a few months before had turned to ash in their hands, and the old president had needed a “win” to sell to the American public.

  With no yardstick to measure success, they used a body count to prop up the faltering conflict. Barnes’s team provided more bodies than most of the coalition forces combined. JSOC (Joint Special Operations Command) rolled the classified figures into their weekly briefs in an attempt to right the foundering ship. It was all about results, and the old president had laid it out: “Leave Barnes alone.” The golden child was safe to sink deeper into the darkness, and no one was watching over those men he pulled down with him.

  Then, according to the document, something odd happened. Sometime during his last days of office, the previous president suddenly ordered the DoD to pull the plug on the program. The sudden shift in policy intrigued Renee, especially when she read that the former chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had lost his job over a confrontation stemming from the decision.

  Had the president realized that they were losing control of the Anvil Program, or was it something else? Either way, the decision to cut the program had a profound effect on the balance of power in Washington, and Renee wondered if this decision had pushed Barnes over the edge.

  Renee scrolled through the documents, pausing to study the last picture taken of Colonel Barnes. He was standing next to a building, its sandy exterior scorched with the black scars of expended munitions. She recognized the building as the house where they had shot it out with Saddam Hussein’s two sons.

  The picture captured Colonel Barnes in all his glory. He stood with a wry smile in front of the smoldering building, his body armor stained black with blood and dirt, his rough beard and close-cropped blond hair framing a cold and brooding gaze. Renee enlarged the picture and stared at his eyes. There was a powerful savagery in them, like a grass fire fed by a harsh wind.

  She breezed through the remaining documents, looking for anything that she could use. Most of the files were incomplete, and it seemed that whoever had saved the documents had done so while they were being deleted. It wasn’t much to go on, and she still couldn’t get a firm grasp on the overall picture.

  She was about to close the computer when she noticed an offhand memo from Barnes to Swift entitled “Objective Massey” that grabbed her attention. Renee remembered that the Third Ranger Battalion had conducted the raid along the Syria-Iraq border and stumbled across huge amounts of intel linking Saudi Arabia, Syria, and Libya to terror cells in Iraq. The documents reinforced the growing idea that Iraq and Afghanistan were just the first steps in a much wider war.

  Renee’s eyes burned from lack of sleep and she had to close the laptop, but she couldn’t stop thinking that the memo might be the key to this whole thing. Barnes was telling her something, but she was too exhausted to see it. Whatever it was could wait until after she had gotten some sleep. Digging a pill bottle out of her bag, she popped an Ambien out into her palm and swallowed it with a sip of water.

  The jet prepared to land at Jalalabad Airfield eight hours after leaving Ireland. Renee felt the steward shaking her awake and slowly opened her eyes. She’d been dreaming, and the transition back to the waking world was a journey she didn’t want to take.

  Groggily, she sat up, the side of her face damp from a light sheen of sweat. Renee took the offered bottle of water and allowed her empty gaze to wander around the cabin. Opening the cap and taking a drink from the cold bottle, she remembered staring at a slumped form behind the wheel of a smoking vehicle. Just like the nights before, when she finally pulled the person free, she was staring at herself.

  Light blue carpet stretched from the bulkhead to the rear of the cabin and offset the dark brown leather of the plush chairs and sofa. Even the cool air that circulated through the cabin smelled expensive. It also caused chills to run up her arms as she finished the last of the water. The steward asked if she needed something to eat, and she forced a cheery smile.

  “Yes, please.”

  She slid open the window shade and watched the flaps deploy as he returned with a sandwich wrapped in cellophane.

  “I thought you could use this too,” he said, and kindly handed her a Red Bull.

  “You’re a lifesaver.”

  She could feel the pressure change in her ears as the jet descended for their final approach. Unwrapping the cellophane, Renee took a bite of the turkey sandwich, savoring the flavorful sourdough bread and crisp lettuce.

  “Don’t get used to the VIP treatment, girl,” she said to herself as the jet touched down and taxied to one of the private runways.

  Her first deployment to Afghanistan had taken three days and spanned three countries. She had ridden in a tiny seat, jammed between two bulky soldiers on their first deployment. Their nervous chatter had annoyed her, but not nearly as much as the rough ride of the transport.

  Renee’s hand slipped back to her lucky necklace, and she idly slid the pendant back and forth across its chain as she chewed. Her first tour had changed her. The violence and deprivation of combat had blasted away at the facets of her humanity. When she learned that her father had suddenly taken ill, her first thought was what to do about the mission that was coming up. By the time she got to a phone, he’d passed away, but by then death was so commonplace that it took a day for the tears to form.

  The key to being a good soldier, her first squad leader had once told her, was the ability to suffer through anything while continuing to push forward. In Iraq, they called it “the suck,” and like a good soldier, Renee had embraced its suffering. She knew now that while a good soldier merely embraces suffering, a great soldier always asks for more.

  Renee opened the frosted silver and blue can of Red Bull and washed down the remains of her meal. By the time the plane rolled to a stop, she had fixed her hair and was wearing the smile that everyone expected of her.

  The sun was just beginning to rise over the Tora Bora Mountains as she thanked the steward and stepped off the plane. Renee’s eyes glanced over the rusted-out hangar that had once been used to repair Russian attack helicopters. It was too small for the larger cargo planes and had bullet holes stitched across the metal siding from when the United States had taken the airfield.

  Grimy windows covered in dirt and cobwebs muted the sunlight from the outside, and the concrete floor was stained with oil and jet fuel. Renee saw a man with a closely trimmed Mohawk leaning against a late-model Chevy Suburban that sat running a few feet away from the nose of the jet.

  Tattoos covered both of his deeply tanned arms before disappearing into his sleeves. A white scar extended from his scalp down the right side of his face and over his jawbone. As Renee’s feet settled onto the hangar floor, two more thick-necked men got out of the truck and walked around to meet her.

  “Well, if it isn’t Kevin and the famous Z-boys. I hope you have my gear,” Renee said.

  “Yes, ma’am, it’s in the back. I hope you haven’t gone soft after hanging with all those California surfer boys,” the burly Mohawked man replied with a smile. Taking two giant steps forward, he grabbed Renee up in a big bear hug.

  “I wasn’t even gone a week. Put me down. I’m supposed to be in charge.”

  It felt good to be home.

  “I hear you made qu
ite the impression back in California,” he said after setting her back on the concrete floor.

  “It was an experience,” she replied.

  Renee had handpicked the Green Beret to be her team leader. It was a decision she had never regretted. A true warrior, Kevin had the innate ability to find the enemy on even the most mundane missions. No matter how heavy the fighting got, his team always made it back home. An offhand comment by an army officer had earned them the name “Zombie Squad” after he said the team “took more hits than the undead.” The nickname stuck, but for brevity’s sake was cut down to “Z-boys.”

  “Good to see you, Bones,” Renee said, greeting another familiar face, who had gotten his nickname because of his striking resemblance to Phil Mickelson’s caddie.

  This was her home, among warriors whose sacrifices left their bodies scarred and their eyes blank and distant. The men of the Zombie Squad had the unique swagger born from self-awareness. Outsiders assumed their aloofness was a result of arrogance, but what they never saw was their deep warmth and love for their brothers in arms.

  “Is this the new guy?” she asked, moving to the rear of the truck.

  “Yeah, his name’s Tyler. We got him after Milo was smoked at Gardez; he’s good people.” Introducing herself politely, she took in the scruffy beard that hid the boyish face but failed to mask the man’s steely gaze.

  “Ma’am,” he said, his lower lip bulging from a large pinch of dip.

  Renee looked down at his hand, which was rough and covered in the scar tissue indicative of a bad burn. His ring finger had been partially amputated and the words “nice try” had been tattooed below the missing knuckle.

  “Welcome to the team.”

  Renee tossed her bag into rear of the truck and grabbed an M4 from the duffel that lay open. Pulling the charging handle to the rear, she ensured the weapon was clear and on safe before inspecting it. Once she was satisfied that the rifle was serviceable, she began checking the rest of her faded gear.

  “Renee, the general wants to see you right away,” Kevin said.

  “Yeah, I was hoping to get a shower first. Can’t it wait?”

  “Uhh, no. He told me to come and get you—not that I wouldn’t have anyways,” he stammered.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, zeroing in on his uncharacteristically serious tone.

  “A CIA black site got hit last night. Someone sent us a video.”

  “Black site? I didn’t know we had any more of those in country.”

  “None of us did.”

  Renee slammed the rear doors, wondering if it was connected with either Decklin or Barnes or both. “Okay, let’s go see the old man.” She shrugged and moved to the front of the truck.

  Jumping into the passenger seat, she slid on a pair of dark Oakleys and cranked up the A/C. The sun was halfway to its apex and already burning brightly in the east. Kevin pulled out of the hangar door, which had been slid open for Renee’s arrival, and she could see the heat already beginning to form a mirage above the black asphalt of the tarmac. The flight line was alive with the frantic bustling of man and machine, and through the air-conditioning vents she could smell the distinctive odor of burning jet fuel.

  Jalalabad never slept. Like Bagram to the west and Kandahar to the south, “Jbad” played a huge role in supplying the war effort. Cargo aircraft were constantly ferrying in mission-essential equipment, personnel, and supplies, and as a result the base was always in motion. During the invasion, the small airfield had been at the epicenter of the covert war that was unfolding across eastern Afghanistan. When al-Qaeda and their Taliban benefactors retreated into Tora Bora, the base became a vital staging point for operations in the area. Its proximity to Pakistan attracted the majority of Special Operations soldiers and clandestine operatives, and unmarked aircraft became a common sight.

  Kevin drove cautiously through the Hesco barriers that formed a protective wall around the Special Operations side of the base. Throwing the truck in park in front of a low plywood building, he told Bones and Tyler, “Stay put,” before jumping out.

  Renee walked up to the heavy steel door and punched her access code into the keypad. The lock clicked open and they walked into the tactical operations center, or TOC, where they were met with a flurry of activity.

  Typically, only a skeleton crew manned the TOC during the day, since most missions took place at night. Obviously something big was going on and the large, open room was packed. Soldiers frantically pecked at computers lining the massive square table that sat in the middle of the room. The three large monitors hanging from the ceiling were alive with maps and lists of coordinates as information was posted for all to see.

  The plywood floor was covered in a layer of fine grit called “moon dust,” which hadn’t been swept away, and the trash cans were overflowing with Styrofoam coffee cups and tobacco-filled spitters.

  General Swift was standing below a monitor, with a phone in each ear, and a huge dip in his lower lip. The usually unflappable officer was stressed out, and seeing Renee walk in added to the already deep scowl on his face.

  The video playing on the screen was in black and white and had a large targeting reticle in the center of the feed. Numbers designating altitude, airspeed, and heading told her that she was looking at the heads-up display of a drone.

  “General Swift,” she said from her boss’s side.

  The general held up a finger as he listened to whoever was on the other line. “Right now, all we know is that there was an attack on American forces near Kamdesh,” he said in his gravelly tone.

  His right fist held the phone so tight that his knuckles had turned white. Turning his head, he spat a brown glob of tobacco into an overflowing trash can.

  “I understand that, sir, but we had no idea they were operating in the area. Kamdesh is not an operational FOB.”

  The way the general said the word “sir” made her smile. She’d learned long ago that a person’s inflection when saying the word was one of the oldest yet safest ways of showing displeasure when talking to a ranking officer. He might have been saying “sir,” but he sure didn’t mean it.

  “Roger that, I’ll keep you updated.” He slammed the phone down as Kevin approached with the coffee. “Thanks, son,” he said, grabbing Renee’s cup and taking a sip despite the dip in his mouth.

  Kevin shrugged and headed back to the coffeepot to retrieve another cup.

  “Some CIA dipshits have been running an illegal detention site at Kamdesh. They were using a Special Forces team as security and last night the FOB got hit. We have a Reaper en route now and about ten minutes ago, we got this.” He pointed over to a staff sergeant staring at a laptop.

  “General, I need to ask you something,” Renee began.

  “I’m a little busy right now.”

  “It’s about Colonel Barnes,” she spat.

  General Swift’s wide shoulders went rigid, and he turned slowly toward Renee. “What did you say?”

  “I know about the Anvil Program, sir.”

  “General, I have the video up,” the staff sergeant said from his place in front of the laptop.

  Swift’s eyes narrowed as he studied Renee. He was about to say something but decided against it.

  “Renee, check this out,” Kevin said from the table.

  Renee knew she’d lost her chance and grudgingly moved to the laptop as the general picked up a phone and began dialing. “What do you have?”

  “It’s an unencrypted video that came in from the FOB,” he said, hitting play.

  The video was from a mounted helmet camera and was from the point of view of whoever was wearing it. The quality was clear but jumpy. She could hear the man’s muffled breathing and it sounded like he was wearing some kind of mask.

  The camera panned to a group of men wearing level-three chemical breathing masks. Their position overlooked a typical Afghan village, and the video perfectly captured a sixty-millimeter mortar that had been set up next to him.

 
“Hang it,” he commanded as another soldier held a mortar round at the top of the tube.

  “Fire.”

  The gunner dropped the mortar round into the tube, and they heard the metallic sound of the round sliding down before the mortar bucked as the firing pin hit the primer on the bottom of the round. A cloud of dust shot up as the round arced out of the tube with a boom.

  “Hang it,” the man said again.

  Another round was held above the tube and on the “fire” command the sequence was repeated.

  “What the hell is this?” Renee asked the sergeant.

  “Some really fucked-up shit, ma’am.”

  The camera was turned to the village and someone off-camera said, “Splash,” followed a second later by the round air-bursting over the target. She could barely make out the white cloud that was forming when the second round exploded near the first one.

  The picture held tight on the cloud that was slowly spreading and drifting down onto the dirt-brown compounds. The villagers looked like tiny caricatures of people grouped together in clumps as they pointed up at the cloud.

  After a few seconds, the helmet-mounted camera looked down at the black case, and Renee recognized it immediately as a military-issued Pelican case similar to the one she had under her bed. Inside the box two more mortar rounds sat, nestled in gray egg foam. The bright orange biohazard symbol painted on the body of the rounds stood out clearly.

  “Oh no,” she whispered.

  She could feel her stomach knotting up as a sick feeling washed over her.

  This was what Decklin was doing in California. Suddenly the pieces began to fit. She thought she might puke and got up to find a trash can but instead bumped into the general’s drone control station, made up of a makeshift cockpit being helmed by two air force pilots. The terminals resembled a training simulator that pilots used before actually getting into an airplane.

  The “pilot” sat on the left, in front of a bank of controls and screens, which allowed him to fly the drone. Next to him, the sensor officer had a similar setup, but instead of flying, her job was to operate the onboard targeting systems and cameras that made the Reaper so deadly.