by Joshua Hood
It was ironic, he thought, that somewhere in the tribal regions, the last of the Taliban were listening to the same thing he was. Colonel Barnes’s squad had just spent four days sending these men a message in blood as they moved from district to district, killing anyone associated with the Taliban, and he knew that the squad only needed to push a little deeper into Pakistan’s violent tribal regions to completely destroy the last of their leadership.
It had been so easy to hack into the CIA and Pakistani Intelligence Service databases and take the information that they’d been collecting and storing for years. All the target data and operational information that he needed had been waiting for someone to use them, while the agencies that collected the data did nothing.
Drone strikes and limited military incursions into the area might placate their political masters, but while the generals sat on their hands, America was losing the war. As a soldier, he saw the needless deaths for what they were, a betrayal, and while others may have been content to sit idly by and wait for the troops to be pulled out, he had chosen a much different path.
Harden heard someone coming up the hallway behind him. He turned to see Jones walking toward him, dressed like a World Health Organization volunteer. The WHO was unknowingly providing them with a base of operations and the perfect cover.
This was one of the most effective hospitals in the region. A massive earthquake that was followed by a polio outbreak had opened the insular city to myriad foreign aid workers who utilized the hospital and its compound as a base to distribute medicine and inoculations to the region.
“The boss wants to talk to you.” Jones had been working nonstop for the past two days, deciphering the data from the attack in Afghanistan. Harden hated computers and was glad that his teammate knew what he was doing.
“You almost done with your thing?” he asked as they walked down the hallway, through a narrow corridor, and out into one of the courtyards.
“Yeah, I’m just putting the final touches on it before I pass out for a few days.”
Harden slipped his sunglasses off the top of his head and over his eyes as they walked out into the open. He hated the desert sun and wondered why they never got to fight someplace nice and cold. If the Cold War had escalated, the upside would have been the fact that they would have gotten to fight in a place that had more than two seasons and a lot less sand.
“I hope it works better than that Y2K deal that had everyone freaking out.”
“What I’m working on is going to make that look like an annoying pop-up ad. Remember what happened the last time you doubted my Jedi skills?”
“Yeah, let’s not talk about it,” Harden said as Jones opened the door to the team room.
The team had chosen the most isolated location and claimed they needed it to safely store the camera equipment they were using for a documentary. People were always helpful when offered the chance to be on TV. However, the downside of their cover was conducting phony interviews with the staff. Harden had given that shit job to Hoyt because of his lackluster performance in Kamdesh.
The team secured the area by placing a small “shim” camera above the room’s only door. The monitor sat offset from the doorway and there was always a member of the team “pulling guard.” For added security a claymore mine was mounted directly into the door with the detonator stationed at the listening post.
The room had rows of olive-drab cots lining both sides. Industrial lighting hung from exposed rafters and gave the room an institutional feel. Every cot had a soldier assigned to it and his gear was stowed neatly at the foot of the aluminum frame. The canvas cots had been designed during the Vietnam era, and Harden hated them because they were a bitch to put together.
He’d been sleeping on cots like these for the last ten years of his life and he still cursed the design. Before he could sleep on it, he had to slide a metal bar through the end and stretch the canvas tight enough to lock the bar into the frame. No matter how many times he tried, he always ended up with bloody knuckles.
Harden knew something was up because instead of sleeping, the team was cleaning their rifles and checking their kits. A low table in the middle of the room was covered with ammo, grenades, batteries, and other articles of war. At the far end of the room, next to his cot, was a small area curtained off by three poncho liners hanging from olive-drab 550 cord. The cord was attached to nails that had been driven into the wall.
This was the colonel’s area and the team stayed away unless summoned. Standing at the opening of the hooch, Harden fought the urge to snap to attention before making his presence known. He had been out of the regular army for five years, but the discipline ingrained in basic training never went away. After a moment he said, “Sir, you wanted to see me?”
Colonel Barnes’s raspy but commanding voice emanated from within the enclosed area: “Come in.”
The colonel’s room was neat but spartan. Barnes allowed himself no comfort items, except for a handful of books and a cot. A dusty plate carrier hung from a nail sunk into the wall, and below that was his rifle. The battered HK416 had seen more than its share of use. The bluing was wearing off and specks of silver flecked the black weapon, giving it a worn appearance.
Barnes stood shirtless near the wall, with a satellite phone held in his hand. The muscles in the colonel’s arm flexed as he switched the phone to his other ear and motioned for Harden to hold tight. Barnes was a big man and despite his age was in excellent shape.
Large veins snaked up his solid arms, tracing across the muscles like contour lines on a map. Broad shoulders framed two tattooed ravens, which perched like Odin’s mythical companions over his pectoral muscles. The two black birds stood silent witness to his patchwork of faded scars.
“Yes, sir, I understand that, but Swift isn’t going to play dead. We need to deal with him right now . . . I understand that, sir, but I respectfully disagree . . . Roger that, I’ll take care of it.”
Barnes tossed the phone on the bed and looked at Harden.
“Look, we’re almost done here in Pakistan, but I need you to take a team to the Swat Valley and set up an ambush.”
Harden had spent the last few days killing on a scale that even he was unaccustomed to, and he was tired, but he knew they weren’t finished yet. After they had flown out of Afghanistan, the colonel had dropped him and half of the team off in the tribal region, and while the rest of the team set up camp here, they had decimated anyone who had ties to the Taliban.
“Yes, sir, what’s the target?”
“General Swift is proving to be the coward I always knew him to be, and he is trying to work both sides. We are going to force him to commit by leaking our position as northeast of here in the Swat Valley. The boss is giving him one final chance to pick a side.” The colonel pointed to the area, and Harden nodded his agreement. He was familiar with the terrain and it was perfect for an ambush. “I need you to take a team out tonight and recon the area; I’ll bring the rest of the team to link up with you.”
“I got it, sir. Anything else?”
“No, just get me the grids.”
“What about the rest of the targets holed up in the tribal areas?”
“Looks like they’re getting a reprieve. I believe that we will have worn out our welcome in Pakistan after we deal with this situation.”
“I’m good to go, sir, but . . .” Harden trailed off, not wanting to step out of line.
“What is it, Harden?”
“I was wondering if you’ve heard from Decklin.”
Barnes turned to him, his eyes burning brightly with resolve. “He’s got his orders. If we haven’t heard from him, it’s because he’s working or dead,” Barnes said coldly.
Harden had befriended Decklin, as much as you can befriend a psychopath, when he first joined the team and had mentored him until his skill set surpassed Harden’s own. He knew that if he had gone this long without checking in, it was because he was physically unable to.
“Are you worried abou
t him?” Barnes’s question was more of an accusation than anything else.
He knew that Barnes was testing him. Keeping the title of Anvil 7 and the responsibility that came with it was never a guarantee. He had learned from his predecessor that getting the job was the easy part. Keeping it was an entirely different ball game.
“I was just curious,” he lied.
Barnes nodded and smiled coldly at his star pupil. “It’s a heavy burden to carry, but don’t ever allow yourself to take your eyes off the prize. We have had to sacrifice so much to get here. Every time I look over those mountains, I imagine all of those soldiers hiding behind their walls, afraid to take victory out of the enemy’s hands. We are here because they are unwilling to do what is necessary to win, and that weakness has emboldened our enemy. They smell the fear like a shark scents blood in the water. Our enemy knows what they themselves refuse to admit—they are all dead men waiting for their time.”
“Yes, sir, is that all?”
“Go get your men ready.” Barnes turned back to the map and Harden pivoted on his heel and headed back to the cots. He found Boz, his squad leader, already packed and ready to go. Boz’s long hair was pulled back in a ponytail and his long, gray-flecked beard made him look like an outlaw biker.
“We have a mission?” he asked.
“Yeah, we need to go scout an ambush site up in the Swat Valley.”
“Fuck yeah, I love ambushes.”
“Grab Hoyt and whoever else you need and tell them to pack for seventy-two hours. I don’t think we’ll be gone that long, but you never know. We need claymores, a long rifle, and all the rest of the usual shit. I’ll brief the operations order once the team is up. I’d like to be ready to roll in an hour.”
“Got it. I guess I’ll use Scottie, he’s good on the long gun.”
“Sounds good, let’s get it done.”
Harden headed to his bunk to pack his shit and let his squad leader handle the rest of the team. He pulled a map out of his filthy assault pack and found the area Barnes had pointed out to him. From the map it looked like a good spot, but he would have to get eyes on the terrain to make sure. The maps were old and sometimes the terrain on the ground wasn’t exactly what you expected.
The distance to the target was about two hundred kilometers, but taking the terrain, and the fact that they would be on foot part of the way, into consideration added to the time it would take. Looking at the map, he mentally began marking ambush sites, alternate sites, and possible landing zones. He needed a backup for every primary site that he chose as well as emergency egress routes, rally points, and direction of travel.
Thirty minutes later his gear was packed, his kit was loaded, and he was headed through the door and out into the courtyard, where the vehicles were staged. Scottie had already topped off the truck and stowed the fuel and water in the back. Boz and Hoyt opened the rear doors and took a seat.
Scottie took his place behind the wheel and checked the sawed-off shotgun that was stowed between his seat and the gear shifter. Once he was ready, he started the vehicle and headed out into the city.
CHAPTER 20
* * *
Libya
“How far to the highway?” Mason asked as he chased the bouncing flame of his Zippo with the end of his cigarette. The old Jeep swayed side to side on its ancient suspension. The flame dimly illuminated the utilitarian interior and slightly washed out the Libyan’s night-vision device.
Zeus frowned and took his foot off the gas until Mason lit the cigarette and closed the lighter with a click. It was hard enough driving in the daylight, but trying to get out of the foothills under night vision really sucked.
It seemed like every time Mason was in Libya, the roads were washed out, and this time was no exception. As Zeus dropped the truck into another hole, Mason began to feel carsick from staring at Decklin’s computer.
The PVS-14 Zeus was wearing completely distorted his depth perception, making it impossible to pick a safe path. Inside the cab, Mason struggled to keep the laptop stable, while Zeus fought to keep the wheel steady.
“Five kilometers, but at this rate that could take all day,” the Libyan said grimly.
Mason’s stomach demanded he close the laptop or face its wrath, and he was just about to comply when he recognized a name he’d known from the Anvil Program. Clicking on the tab entitled “Gen. Swift,” Mason brought up a memo written to his old boss.
“Hey, listen to this,” Mason said to Zeus as he began reading the memo out loud. “It’s a memo from some general in Bagram to General Swift, the commander of Special Ops in Afghanistan. It’s labeled ‘Eyes Only,’ which means Decklin definitely stole this copy.”
“Good for him, what does it say?”
“It says, ‘You are directed to utilize Anvil 6 to prosecute kinetic operations in Objective Lion.’ ”
“So, what does that mean?”
“It means that someone higher than Swift is pulling Barnes’s chain. I bet there’s another attack on the horizon.”
“You’re reaching,” Zeus replied.
“Bullshit, I’m telling you the same thing I told Ahmed. Someone is running Barnes and now we have proof that he’s running Swift too. They are both fucking traitors,” Mason said, slamming the lid in triumph.
The American glanced at his friend, who appeared bored as he leaned forward in his seat. The green light from the night-vision monocular spilled out over his left eye and provided the only illumination in the Jeep.
Mason could tell he was skeptical, but the American knew he was onto something.
“So, what do you think?”
“I hope this old piece of shit holds out,” Zeus replied as the front end disappeared into another large rut. Mason’s hand shot out to the vinyl dashboard as Zeus punched the accelerator and cut the wheel to the right.
“It might if you stop hitting every hole in the road.”
“It is a good truck. They don’t make them like this anymore,” Zeus replied as the tires caught and dug themselves out of the hole.
“Dude, this truck is like ten years old. It’s not exactly a classic.”
“Yes, but now they make them out of plastic. They aren’t worth a shit.”
“Look, I know we’re getting close to breaking this thing wide open. You have to trust me,” Mason said.
“It’s not like I have anything better to do,” the Libyan replied.
“If we can find out who is pulling Swift’s strings, we have a chance to end this.”
“Is that really what you want?” Zeus took his eyes off the road for a split second and shot his friend a searching glance.
The two men had naturally arrived at a brutal honesty that formed the foundation of their relationship. They shared everything, even blame, and kept no secrets from each other. It was the only way they stayed close despite the horrors they’d been forced to commit.
Mason admired the Libyan and felt that he needed the man more than Zeus really needed him. He knew that his friend was tired of fighting, but he never complained and never let him down.
The cab fell silent again, leaving each man to exorcise his own demons.
“Did you hear that?” Mason asked suddenly.
“What, did you fart again?” Zeus asked, rolling the window down in anticipation of the smell to come.
“No, it sounded like rotors. Get off the road!”
Zeus snapped the wheel hard to the right and bumped the Jeep onto a soft field, and scanned for a place to hide. They were caught out in the open, with nowhere to go, and all they could do was wait.
Mason stubbed out the cigarette and propped open the door. He’d already disabled the interior lights, but he still had to be careful. Lifting his night-vision device to his eyes, he scanned the horizon near the foothills off to the west. There was nothing but empty sky in every direction. Maybe his ears were playing tricks on him.
Zeus got out of the truck, AK-47 in hand. Checking the magazine by feel, he reassured himself that it w
as full before jamming it back into the magazine well.
“Mason, I see a ditch,” he whispered in Arabic.
The American followed the Libyan’s outstretched finger and saw a small scar cutting through the field to his left.
“Go. I’ll grab the gear.”
The NODs bumped against his breastbone as he let them hang from the black cord attaching them to his neck. Reaching into the back of the truck, he grabbed his pack and rifle before sprinting toward Zeus. There was no mistaking the sound of an approaching helicopter now. The pilot had used the mountains to mask his approach, but now the heavy rotors echoed off the open ground.
Mason jumped down into the ditch and grabbed the satellite phone from his assault pack. Tossing it to the ground, he smashed it with the butt of his AK.
“Get rid of your phone,” he told Zeus.
The Libyan ripped the battery out of his cell phone and flung it into the darkness, then hunkered down into the ditch.
Mason put the night vision back to his eyes and looked up into the darkness. Someone was tracking them and this time Ahmed wasn’t there to warn him.
“Fuck.”
A black shape gradually appeared, skimming low and fast over the rolling hills to the west. Mason saw it drop to twenty feet off the deck and race toward them.
The MH-60G Pave Hawk skimmed closer, outrunning the sound of its rotors, and Zeus flipped his rifle to “fire.” Mason knew there was no way they could do anything to the Special Operations helicopter with a couple of AK-47s, so he quickly pushed his friend’s rifle down.
“They’ll kill us,” he said simply, tossing his own rifle to the ground.
The Pave Hawk buzzed low over their position, its hot exhaust and downdraft beating the ground as it passed. Through his NODs Mason could see the gunner’s infrared laser come to rest on them as the pilot brought the bird around in a shallow circle. He knew that the laser was attached to an M134 minigun, and he had no intention of provoking the gunner to use it.
“How do you manage to piss off so many people?” Zeus demanded, tossing his AK into the dirt.
