by Mark Greaney
Court said, “Dude, any time you want another shot.”
Broz clearly did want to start something, but Van Wyk sealed the hatch and looked in at the team. He saw the posturing between the two men. “Broz! Wade! You start fighting in this tin can with me in here with you, and I swear to God I’m going to shoot you both.”
Court and the Croatian both calmed down, but when the vehicle began bouncing on the road, it became obvious that any fight in these conditions would have likely resulted in more comedy than tragedy.
CHAPTER 61
In his office in central Paris, Vincent Voland hung up his phone and rubbed his tired eyes.
While he had spent his morning coordinating with the Jordanians a means to rescue the baby and the nanny in Syria, and the noon hour spent pushing Drexler’s photo out to all the airports and train stations in Europe along with warnings that he was behind the attacks in France and might be trying to leave the continent, he spent the afternoon hours on deeper research into every shred of intelligence of known Syrian Mukhabarat activities in Europe.
He focused on the physical logistics of the GIS, Syria’s General Intelligence Service, because he assumed Drexler would use Syrian government resources to get back to Syria. He researched airports first, looking for any examples in the past five years of known Syrian intelligence forces using international airlines, charter outfits, or privately owned aircraft. He even examined examples of Syrians sending freight via air, thinking it possible they might simply use the same means to ship a Swiss spook working for the Azzam regime as they would a shipment of jet avionics equipment or high-tech radar parts.
When he knew everything there was to be known about how Syrian government spies had moved men and matériel via air, he targeted every company, route, and middleman, and he communicated with contacts he maintained in the intelligence agencies in the different locations involved. He sent the new, high-quality photo of Sebastian Drexler and asked them to use their existing facial recognition assets to plug the image into the computers that analyzed security cameras around all the properties used by Syrian intel.
When the air routes back to Syria were as well covered as he knew how to make them, he began looking into ship traffic: specifically any instances of the GIS in using oceangoing vessels to move themselves, other people, or items. A couple of private yachts in the Med had been flagged as belonging to shell companies owned by Syrian interests, and Voland had the yachts located and the facial recognition software scanning video in the areas around the marinas where the yachts were in port.
Also through his work he’d found out that in the past year, two cargo ships from Europe had been stopped in the Mediterranean and found with illegal goods bound for Syria. Voland had been in this game long enough to know that for every shipment stopped on the water, certainly a dozen if not more made it through. Reading over the maritime investigations done by the EU into those responsible for the shipments, he learned that one of the two confiscated cargos had originated in Split, Croatia, and the other had departed from Athens, Greece.
Digging into the cases deeper, he found the actual ports where both cargo ships took on their illicit cargo.
Here both trails went cold. In both Split and Athens, investigators had uncovered no paperwork showing a freight company, a trucking company, or any other details of where the goods came from or how they were loaded on board. Instead in both cases it had been random spot checks on the water that determined the ship had been carrying contraband, and the contraband had been sent using forged manifests that could not be traced back to a person or company.
Still, Voland realized a ship from Europe to Syria would be a high-probability means of transportation for Drexler to return to Syria, especially since he must have known that by now he was being hunted at all the airports.
The Frenchman sent Drexler’s photo directly to the harbormasters of both ports where illegal Syrian cargo shipments had departed from the year before. Within an hour he was told that facial recognition suites were up and running at every camera at both ports, including the marinas, the traffic cams, police cameras, even restaurant and retail stores in the two locations.
Voland didn’t celebrate this positive step in his hunt because he knew Drexler could be driving to Russia, or taking a ship to South America, or simply hiding out in Europe for a month before returning to his patron nation.
These were just small steps, a few of many he would need to take today. Still, this was intelligence work. It required time, patience, and, more than anything else, dogged determination.
And in Voland’s case there was one more ingredient in the recipe. Voland was filled with and fueled by an intense passion to make Sebastian Drexler pay.
CHAPTER 62
Court and his group of mercenaries spent the afternoon climbing into and out of their BMP-3 as the KWA team worked to clear buildings behind Desert Hawks Brigade Ali Company’s spearhead to the east.
None of the mercs had been read in on the entire operation, of course, but it was becoming clear to Court that the objective for this day was simply to move through some villages along the M20 highway for the purpose of looking for a fight. Recon by fire, it was called. The Hawks rolled down the road, shot off a few rockets and rounds, and looked to see if there was any sort of fighting force in the area interested in mixing it up.
In the few cases during the afternoon where the militia did receive fire, Ali Company devastated the building or street where the gunfire came from, and then rolled on in their vehicles.
If any structure in the target area was left standing, the KWA men were sent in for room clearing.
Court hadn’t fired his weapon in the past three hours of action, simply because he’d seen no targets in the buildings he’d entered. He had seen dead and wounded; some were fighting-aged males, and others were clearly civilians. They’d all been killed or maimed by Desert Hawks weapons before KWA arrived.
It was scene after scene of sickening atrocity, and all the while Court wondered how the hell he was going to get away from this so he could report what he’d learned earlier in the day in the oil refinery.
* * *
• • •
About five in the afternoon Court’s BMP threw a tread, so he and the other five men from his team rode on the other KWA armored vehicle down a broken street, their weapons up in their arms. They’d been ordered to push on to the eastern edge of the little town and to find some hard cover high enough to get overwatch on the last village down the highway at the far edge of the security zone.
The KWA men were alone in the village with their one vehicle. The main section of Ali Company had been called out of the town and sent up to the north. Court heard from Van Wyk that somehow the Russian helos that they’d requested to pulverize the retreating FSA force had not located them, so nearly the entire battalion had been ordered to go out into the desert east of the hills to make sure the FSA was out of the perimeter the Desert Hawks had been ordered to secure.
The reason a dozen foreign mercs and a few vehicles had been the only ones left in the town had become clear to all minutes after arriving.
There was nothing here left to kill.
Court had seen the first decayed body the moment he climbed onto the other BMP and sat down next to the turret. Just off the broken road, inside a shelled storefront, a cadaver lay with most of its clothing still intact. He saw more bodies, some lying out in the open, over the next few minutes.
He found himself confused by the placement and disposition of the corpses. They weren’t blown to bits; they were just lying around, either in rubble or out on the sidewalks and streets.
Saunders was seated at Court’s shoulder and answered the question before Court posed it by leaning into his ear to speak over the big engine and grinding tracks below them. “Chlorine.”
“What’s that?”
“Gas attack. From the look of the bodi
es it happened a couple weeks ago. The Syrian Air Force dropped barrel bombs on the town. Looks like they used conventional bombs first, and a lot of them, and then just said ‘stuff it’ and dropped some chlorine. Killed anyone left who was out in the open. Bet it sank down into the bunkers and tore up some lungs and throats in there, too. Some of these poor buggers probably came running out of their holes to try to find air, but there was no air to be had.” Saunders sniffed. “Yeah. The gas is gone, but the stink of dead flesh is bloody obvious.”
“Right,” Court said. And then, “This doesn’t bother you at all, does it?”
“Said the bloke who nicked somebody’s baby.”
Court turned away. “You guys are pure evil.”
“You’ll catch up, mate. The day isn’t done yet, and tonight’s gonna be a horror show.”
* * *
• • •
Two hours before sunset the unit had made it to the southeastern side of the village and found an overwatch on the top floor of a five-story apartment complex. Court sat in a corner bedroom filled with trash strewn around amid the broken masonry. Through a window to the east he could see the next town, and through a window to the south he could see desert, with low rolling hills.
Anders sat nearby in the same room, and he scanned the south with his binos. “Wonder who’s hiding up there.”
Court had been thinking the exact same thing. While all day long he’d been hearing reports of fighting in the hills to the north, the hills to the south loomed much closer and more ominous to this little town.
Van Wyk assembled the men in the living room of the apartment a few minutes later. He held his radio in his hand, and he was in comms with a Desert Hawks major back at the command post. The two men spoke in Arabic for a minute more before the team leader addressed the eleven men. “Right. Here’s the plan. The Hawks have finished their work in the northern hills and they’re on their way back here. Ali is linking with them ten klicks out of town in the open desert, and at sunset they’re surrounding the next town on the highway.
“I am told they believe there might be some FSA elements in there from the force they encountered in the hills. They are going to start shelling after sunset, and you can expect the Hawks to pound that town with rockets, tanks, and mortars for a few hours. This is the outer edge of the security perimeter they’ve been asked to establish, and they don’t want any enemy forces remaining.”
“What about us?” asked Anders.
Van Wyk said, “We’ll go into the town behind the main element.”
“More room clearing?” Broz asked, a grumble in his voice telegraphing his feeling about it all.
Van Wyk said, “There is a mosque in that town that has supported anti-regime forces in the past. The Desert Hawks don’t feel great about flattening the mosque, so we’re going in to clear it.”
Saunders mumbled, “Pussies.”
Court said, “ROEs?” He was asking about the rules of engagement, and there was a snicker from one of the mercs in the back of the apartment’s living room.
Van Wyk said, “If they are in that mosque, they are considered hostile. No quarter given.”
Court wanted to hear Van Wyk point-blank say he was ordering his people to kill unarmed civilians, but he decided he wouldn’t press it. The insinuation was clear, and anything else Court did to reveal that he was uneased by what was happening around him would just detract from his cover.
Anders said, “Boss, can you ask the TOC about those hills to the south? We’re sitting ducks from any indirect fire positions up there.”
Van Wyk looked out the window at the hills, and then he spoke into the radio. The major replied and the South African translated. “He said those hills are outside the security perimeter, but SAA intelligence says it’s a heavy opposition presence, so use caution. Still, he’s not worried about an attack from the south.”
Anders said, “Of course he’s not, because he’s back at the fucking command post in the refinery.”
Court asked, “Is it FSA or ISIS?”
Van Wyk looked at Court. “The major said it was terrorists, which is the word they use for any opposition.”
Saunders chimed in. “Wade, the only thing you need to know is that it’s a bunch of hatey, beardy blokes who will pull the trigger as soon as they can get your melon in their gun sights.”
Court let it go.
Anders pushed the issue of their isolation here. “There’s a dozen of us total in this little town. If somebody attacks across that strip of desert from those hills, they could be on us in minutes.”
Van Wyk said, “All right, Anders, I hear you. Just stay out of the windows on the south. Do not reveal your positions to anyone with long glass in that direction.”
* * *
• • •
The meeting broke up, and a few minutes later Court was back at his post by the windows to the east. He could still see out to the south, as well, but he was staying far back in the room so he couldn’t be sighted from that direction.
He was frustrated about the intel he had about Azzam and his inability to pass it on to those who could exploit it. He needed to get the hell out of here, and now. He’d done what he could to search the apartment for a cell phone while the team was settling in to their defensive positions, but he’d not found anything other than a dead wall phone that had been ripped from the wall when bomb shrapnel had destroyed most of the unit. But even though this one apartment was a dry hole, he figured if he had enough time to search the ghost town around him he would be able to find a phone, and with it he could contact Voland.
But he wouldn’t have the time because he was going to be posted right here till it was time to climb back aboard the BMP and hit the next town.
And getting back on mission wasn’t the only reason he wanted to get the hell out of here.
His stomach churned thinking about the attack to come.
The late-afternoon sun was low now in the west; looking to the east through binoculars, Court could see flickers of reflections from the few bits of glass still in the windows of buildings of the next town on the highway. He wondered if he’d find that this area had been hit with chlorine bombs like the one he was in now, and he also wondered if the Desert Hawks were going to utterly level it tonight when the sun went down.
He was all but certain they would, and then he and his colleagues would go in and eradicate any survivors hiding in the rubble.
With an entire battalion of militia raiding in the dead of night, along with a small team of shock troop mercenaries used to raid the mosque and kill anything that moved within, this was going to be a massacre; that much was clear.
Court lowered his binos, then crawled back over to the window to the south. Anders was in the room with him, but the Dutchman ignored him as he dug into a bag of rice and ate it with his fingers.
Court looked out to the southwest, into the low sun again, and then he looked out to the hills to the south.
And he got an idea, but it was not an idea that made him feel particularly buoyant. No, the sickening dread that he’d felt about taking part in this evening’s slaughter was replaced by a sickening dread about what he’d just decided to do.
CHAPTER 63
From his position on the floor in the corner of the apartment, Court looked around the bedroom a minute, searching for an item necessary to implement his plan. He couldn’t find what he was looking for here, so he told Anders to cover his position for a moment, then went out into the living room. A few men sat around at the windows looking east, and none paid much attention to him.
When he’d surreptitiously hunted for a phone earlier, he’d noticed a completely shattered boom box on the floor of the apartment, next to the overturned shelf where it had obviously stood. On the floor around the shelf were a dozen CDs, some in their cases, some lying loose.
Court checked the men around
him, and when no one was looking his way, he knelt and snatched up three of the CDs, then dropped them into a cargo pocket in his pants and returned to the room in the southeast corner of the building.
Anders finished his meal, then looked over at Court. “Hey, you got any WAG bags?”
Court knew what a WAG bag was from his time in Ground Branch. WAG stood for “waste alleviation and gelling” and it was, effectively, a toilet in a bag that an operator could use to dispose of his solid waste. It wasn’t pretty, it didn’t make the highlight reels of snipers or Navy SEALs in action, but soldiers, sailors, and operators in the field had been defecating into plastic bags for a long time.
Court sighed a little to himself, because this meant his battle buddy was about to take a dump right next to him in this four-meter-square room. “No, Anders, I don’t. How ’bout you try to hold it?”
The Dutchman was already undoing his utility belt and heading to the corner. “Nope.”
Court resigned himself to the fact that the next few minutes were about to get even more unpleasant than the last few, but then he turned to Anders as he realized this was the opportunity he needed. “Look, you Neanderthal. There is a shitter somewhere in this apartment. Why don’t you go find it, and I’ll do the same when my time comes?”
“You think the plumbing works in this apartment’s bathroom?”
“Of course not, but it’s a little room with a porcelain bowl, and that’s a lot better than you taking a big crap in the corner here. Have some respect for the homeowners, at least.”
“Why? They’re dead.”
He was probably right, Court realized, but he needed him out of the room. He said, “Dude, I’ll watch your sector.”
Anders refastened his belt with a shrug. “You’re like a damn woman.” And with that he left to go find the bathroom.
