by Chuck Holton
“Yeah, but it isn’t helping much. I figured out the coordinates of the warehouse and plugged them in, but ever since we left that main thoroughfare by the port, my map shows no streets. The best I can do is tell you how close we are to the target as the crow flies.”
John gave a puff of laughter. “Modern technology. Data in, data out.”
“That’s garbage in, garbage out,” Sweeney said seriously.
John looked at the big man. For a smart guy, he sure could be dumb. “Thank you, Sweeney. What would I do without you?”
It took another forty minutes of driving around, stopping several times for map checks, to find the smuggler’s entrance to the camp. It was just as Zothgar had described. An old chain-link fence stretched behind a dilapidated building that looked like it had once been a service station. One fencepost stood at a skewed angle from the rest, the rusty fence sagging with it. Closer inspection revealed that the post had been broken off at ground level. Tire tracks were evident in the dusty, trash-filled vacant lot beyond the fence.
With a quick check to make sure they weren’t visible from the road, John and Doc simply walked up the sagging fence, their weight pushing it to the ground. John then waved at Sweeney, who drove the van, lights turned off, across the flattened chain link.
John and Doc jumped back in, and the van bumped across the vacant lot and onto the deserted street inside the Palestinian camp. A block farther on, Sweeney turned the headlights back on, and the team started breathing again.
“That was fun,” Frank deadpanned.
An hour later the team was parked half a block from their objective. John took over the passenger seat and scoped the nondescript warehouse with his night-vision goggles. It looked very old, constructed of stone and built into the side of a hill. The only entrances were two rolling metal doors and one regular door to the left of them. A light shone through a dirty window with metal bars on it like most of the other windows in the neighborhood. The only other visible light on the building was a bare bulb that illuminated the covered entryway in front of the door.
They dropped Rip and Hogan in the unlit alleyway across the street from the warehouse, and Rip began using the scope on his weapon to look for signs of life inside the building.
“What’ve you got, Rip?” John spoke into his FM radio.
The radio beeped, then Rubio whispered, “Only one man confirmed at the moment. He’s watching a John Wayne movie on TV.”
John chuckled. “Which one?”
“I think its The Shootist.”
“Sounds like my kind of guy.”
“Looks like not much is happening, Coop.” Sweeney was observing through his own NVGs, which he balanced on the steering wheel. “We could blow a hole in one of those metal sliding doors and make it more of a surprise than if we went in the front door.”
John thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. We don’t know what the configuration is inside the building. They could have stuff stacked in front of those doors, for all we know. Besides, if they’re storing explosives in there, we probably shouldn’t be setting off any of our own. The whole place could go up.” And us with it.
“So we go in the front door then?”
John shook his head. “Not all of us. Frank and I will go in first with Rip and Hogan. You and Doc stay with the vehicle as outside security. We’ll drive past the building again. Frank and I will get out and join Rip and Hogan in the alleyway. We’ll approach the building from there when we’re ready to execute.”
John reached over to Frank and grabbed the SATCOM handset, then updated Major Williams on the situation.
“Sounds like you’ve got it under control, Coop.” The major’s voice reflected the anticipation that was rising in John as well. “I’ll get the aircraft inbound and will give you a call approximately twenty minutes out.”
John checked his watch. “Roger that. Valor One, out.” He switched back to the ICOM radio.
Sweeney was looking through the goggles again. “Hold up, boss. We’ve got company.”
Sainiq Refugee Camp
LIZ SAT PARKED in a rubbish-strewn empty lot for over an hour, slumped down in her seat so no one could see her. Never in her life had time passed so slowly, but she made herself wait until she felt the camp was soundly asleep. She checked her watch. 1 A.M. Time to go.
She started the car. The explosion of sound shattered the silence. She cringed and held her breath, expecting doors to fly open and men to rush her, demanding to know what she was doing driving around at this hour. And that would be the question if they bought her masquerade as a Palestinian. She shuddered at what they’d do if they learned she was an American. Beat her? Kill her? Or just kick her out?
As the seconds ticked by and nothing happened, she began to breathe again. It took several minutes for her heart to slow to something remotely like normal.
Slowly, carefully, she pulled onto the dirt street and drove back to the warehouse. Liz drove around it again, hoping to see something she had missed before. Nothing new. She parked in what looked like an inconspicuous place, but one near enough for her to get Julie to the car quickly.
If only she knew what to expect as to Julie’s health. Could her sister walk or had the arthritis made her virtually immobile? What was her pain level? Had she been beaten? Or worse? Well, she’d know soon enough.
Liz climbed out of the car, leaving the plastic bag of medicines on the seat beside a bottle of water. Her chest felt as if a great constrictor was wrapped about it, pressing the air from her lungs as it tightened, tightened.
Fear.
She made herself inhale a deep, albeit very shaky breath. The constrictor didn’t loosen its coils, but she took the first step toward the warehouse, then the second. For Julie she could withstand the crushing pressure of terror.
As she walked, she dropped the car keys into the deep pocket in her skirt, where they banged against her leg with each step. She’d left her purse and passport as well as Nabila’s papers under the front seat because she wanted her hands free. She might need to unlock a cell door. She might need to hold Julie up. She might need to—Her mind froze at the unthinkable possibilities.
Oh, Lord! Help! Help!
She kept to the shadows as much as she could, thankful that Palestinian women wore black instead of white like some of the Maronite Christians or blue like the Druze. She crept to the single window and, standing to the side, peered cautiously in. A man, his back to her, sat in a molded plastic chair that he balanced on its back legs. He was completely absorbed in a John Wayne movie showing on a small TV perched on a rickety TV tray.
She searched for any sign of other guards. Bashir had said there was only one, Azmi, but who knew? All she could see beyond the small circle of flickering light cast by the TV was blackness and more blackness. If there were other guards—please, God no—she would have to deal with them if and when they met.
She stepped back from the window and rubbed her chest, as if she could ease the constrictor’s crushing embrace. If anything, it gripped tighter. Oh, Lord! Please! Please!
With a final calming breath—Ha! As if she could be calm in circumstances like these—she strode to the front door of the warehouse. She caught herself at such an American movement, horrified at how fast she’d fallen out of character, and tried to scuttle.
As she passed under the light hanging over the door, she felt more vulnerable than she ever had in her life. They could see her clearly, whoever they were. They could grab her, shoot her, do whatever it was they did to American women who were where they didn’t belong. Still, she made herself continue to move slowly forward.
She grabbed the door handle, turned it, and pushed.
Sainiq Refugee Camp
John was sweating as he keyed the mike again. “What’s happening, Rip?”
“It’s a woman,” Rip said, his voice filled with disbelief. “She peered in the window, and then she went inside. She’s dressed in black like a proper Palestinian, but I’m not sure she m
oves like a Palestinian woman. It sounds weird, but she strides like an American.”
Sweeney dropped his goggles and looked at John. “What do you make of that, Coop?”
“No idea. I mean, isn’t it odd to have a woman out alone this late, especially here?”
Doc spoke from the back of the van. “Could she be a prostitute?”
John shrugged. “I suppose anything is possible. But it seems pretty unlikely, based on what she was wearing and the fact that we’re in a conservative Muslim neighborhood.”
“Maybe the guard’s wife or daughter?” Frank suggested.
“Not likely.”
“So what are we going to do?” Sweeney asked.
“We’re going to go ahead as planned. Maybe her being there will distract the guard enough for us to get in before he can sound the alarm.”
“Well, let’s get on with it, then,” Frank said.
“What? You got plans for the rest of the evening that we don’t know about?” Sweeney asked.
“Yeah, I was hoping to get back to the hotel in time to catch some rasslin’ on tay vay.” Frank’s simulated Southern accent elicited a laugh from Sweeney.
“Okay, Bobby,” John said. “Drop us in the alley with Rip, then take a turn around the block and stop here until we call for the getaway car.”
Sweeney grinned. “Hooah. Jeff Gordon, eat your heart out.”
“Listen, once we leave the van, I need you to monitor the SATCOM and keep the major up to speed on what’s happening. And get those birds inbound. No sense staying here any longer than we have to.”
“Roger that, boss.”
“Okay. Everyone ready?” As grunts of acknowledgment sounded in response, John keyed his mike. “Rip, get ready. We’re coming to you.”
Sweeney shoved the van into gear and rolled toward their objective. John snapped the chinstrap on his Kevlar helmet and dropped the night-vision goggles into place. When the van reached the alleyway, Frank slid open the side door, and he and John stepped out, melting into the shadows in the alley where Rip and Hogan were barely visible, even through the NVGs.
The van rolled off down the street with the side door open and turned the corner.
John stuck his head close to Rip’s ear. “You cover the rear. I’ll go in first this time.” He turned to Hogan and whispered, “Stack up on me. Then you, Frank.”
At Hogan’s nod, John moved quietly to the alley opening, staying in the darkest shadows. Hogan squeezed his shoulder, the signal that everyone behind him was stacked on each other, ready for action.
John keyed the ICOM, knowing that each man would be able to hear him clearly in their earpieces. “Okay, men. Let’s do this and get out of here. Bobby, any word from Valor Six?”
Sweeney’s voice crackled in John’s ear. “Roger. Exfil birds are in the air.”
“Copy that. Okay. On my count.” John leaned forward, fingering the safety on his XM-8. “Five. Four. Three.”
“Abort! Abort!” Sweeney yelled in his ear.
John tensed. “What is it, Bobby?”
“Another vehicle—it just passed me and is headed your way.”
“Roger.” The four men melted backward into the alley as headlights played on the dirt road in front of them.
Liz found herself in a large room that was empty except for the man watching TV. At her abrupt entrance, he jumped to his feet, his chair going over backward.
She held out a hand like an Indian giving John Wayne the peace sign. “Are you Azmi?” she asked in Palestinian Arabic.
He nodded, looking wary.
“I was told you’d be here.”
Azmi took a step back, clearly uncomfortable with this news.
Liz reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out the envelope stuffed with money. She held it toward him.
Azmi picked up the chair and held it between them, a flimsy barrier against the unknown threat she represented.
“For your son.” Hand still extended, she took a step toward him. “For your son.”
He looked at her, then at the envelope. When he glanced back at her, his eyes held both confusion and hope. He turned toward a picture taped to the wall near his chair. A beautiful little boy looked solemnly at the camera, his dark eyes too serious for so young a child.
“Is that your son?” Liz asked. “He’s very handsome. How old is he?”
Azmi looked at the picture with a sad smile. “He is six.”
“And he was injured?”
He nodded. “We were on a picnic. Don’t go away from our blanket, I told him. Land mines. I told all of them.”
“You have other children?”
“Six others. All older. I fell asleep in the sun. Working nights, you know?” He indicated the warehouse. “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”
Liz tried to imagine how it must feel when something so terrible happened to a little one you loved, and you blamed yourself.
“The explosion woke me.” Azmi put his hand to his forehead and rubbed, as if he had terrible pain even in the recounting of the tale. “My son can walk, but he limps badly and is in pain. The child who stepped on the mine died. We did not know him.”
Liz held out the envelope again. “This is for your son. To make him better.”
He reached toward her, hope flaring once again. She shook her head and pulled the envelope back. “Tell me where my sister is first.”
“Your sister?” His eyes were fixed on the envelope.
“The Western woman who is being held against her will.”
Azmi looked up from the money. His eyes flicked to a room that jutted into the main storage area in the far corner.
“There?” she asked as she started across the room. “Julie’s there?”
“Not—”
The sound of gunfire filled the room. Liz thought for an instant that it was John Wayne holding off the bad guys. Then Azmi screamed. She spun and watched in horror as he fell, grabbing his leg. The envelope tumbled from her hand as she started toward him, the livre spilling across the dirty cement floor.
Another shot rang out; this one hit Azmi between the eyes. Liz stared at him, trying to comprehend what had just happened.
As three men, two of whom held large rifles of some sort, moved across the room, she spun away from Azmi and screamed, “Julie! Julie, where are you?”
Wild with dread, she sprinted for the little room as one of the men leveled his gun on her.
Refugee Camp
“WHAT DO YOU WANT to do, boss?” Rip asked.
John thought for a moment. “They may be here to pick up the cargo we’re looking for. If we wait for them to leave, they may take the ITEB with them. But if we go in now, we’ve got more guns to contend with—and that means more noise.”
Frank whispered, “Murphy’s Law strikes again.”
John fished for his radio. “I’ll have Sweeney call the major and get some guidance.” But before he could press the transmit button on his radio, a shot exploded inside the building. The sound echoed down the street in both directions. John flinched. Another shot erupted.
Sweeney’s voice sounded in his headset. “What was that?”
John made a split-second decision. “Whatever’s going on in there has compromised our presence. Everyone in the neighborhood has to be awake by now. Let’s go.”
Task Force Valor was across the darkened street in seconds. They ran one behind the other, looking like a lethal alien caterpillar dressed in black body armor. John didn’t bother knocking on the cheap wooden door. Instead, he hit it low with his shoulder and smashed it open, immediately breaking left once inside. Behind him, the rest of the team fanned out left and right to avoid the “fatal funnel” in front of the door.
In a fraction of a second, the scene registered in John’s consciousness. Five people, three of them with their backs to the door. As they whirled to meet the unexpected intruders, two of them had Kalashnikov assault rifles. The third appeared to be unarmed. On the ground lay another man in a spr
eading pool of blood.
One of the armed men had had his rifle pointed at the woman. He spun toward John, but before he could complete his turn, two rounds from John’s XM-8 knocked him off his feet. The shock of the weapon firing inside the enclosed space was stunning, even with the hearing protection the team wore.
Then the room broke into chaos. The second armed mans eyes widened with fear, and he dropped his weapon. At the same time the woman screamed, and the taller, unarmed man dove behind a desk that jutted from the corner of the wall and disappeared into the dark, empty space of the warehouse.
“Go! Go!” John motioned to Rip and Hogan to follow the tall man. The two, weapons at the ready, ran up to the corner. They stopped for a split second as Rip carefully rounded the corner. Once certain it was clear, the two men raced off in pursuit of the tall man.
Frank covered the man who had dropped his weapon. When his broken Arabic and hand signals proved insufficient in convincing the Palestinian to lie facedown on the floor, he took two steps closer and swept the young man’s legs from under him. He landed heavily on his back.
John pulled a pair of flex cuffs from his vest and tossed them to Frank, who had turned the prisoner over and now had a knee between the man’s shoulder blades.
Frank pointed at the fifth man, the one who had been on the floor when they entered. “Better see if he’s breathing.”
Cordite smoke curled from the end of John’s weapon as he took a step toward the man. The woman had run to him and was kneeling beside him. She kept calling, “Azmi!” again and again.
John decided to see if the woman spoke English. He stepped toward her and said, “Are you okay?” She looked up at him and for the first time, he took a good look at her. Those eyes!
Recognition hit him like a truck.
No…way!
Liz stared in disbelief. “John?”
She was so stunned to see him that she was having trouble believing in him. Even with the black helmet and some sort of binocular-looking goggles covering his face, she knew who he was, though he was the last person she expected to see here.
