by Joshua Hood
“Tomahawk Base to Savage 7, request sitrep, over,” the radio squawked.
“You want a situation report now?” Renee muttered, limping to cover. With shaking hands, she ripped open the sterile package and packed the gauze into the wound. The pain was intense, but she bit down on her lip and finished the job.
Taking a cravat from her kit, Renee wrapped it as tight as she could around her leg and stoically tied a knot over the wound just as Sergeant Major Mitchell came around the corner.
“Fuck you,” he yelled while firing into a jihadist who was creeping toward the downed helo.
“Are you good?”
Renee gingerly got to her feet and hobbled over to Mitchell. She could see that the rest of the team had already set up a defensive perimeter near the front of the bird, and despite some scrapes and bruises, everyone was ready to fight.
“Tomahawk Base, Savage 7 Romeo, stand by,” she said into the radio as Warchild began barking orders.
“Parker, I need you and your team to set up overwatch while we hit the objective. I need you,” he said, pointing at Renee, “to get CAS on station and get us a ride out of here.”
The man might be an asshole, but in combat he was as cold as ice, and right now it was all that mattered.
“Tomahawk Base, Savage 7 Romeo. Be advised we are moving to target location time now. Request immediate close air support and extraction at LZ Bravo. How copy?”
“Roger that, 7 Romeo. Be advised you have multiple hostiles moving in from your northeast and west.”
“Shit. Hey, they’re moving on us,” she said to Parker as the team moved out.
The bird had gone down less than five hundred meters from the target location, but a warren of narrow streets separated the two points and funneled the team down a natural choke point. The tight alleys, recessed doorways, and windows made it a perfect kill zone; and worst of all, it was the only way out.
Parker and his team sprinted ahead of the squad and set up security. Mitchell was just getting posted up when a burst of gunfire erupted from a building off to his right. A bullet slammed into the side of his helmet, knocking him off balance, and when he turned to engage the shooter, a round cut through his arm. The sergeant major tumbled to the ground in a cloud of dust. Instinctively, Renee snapped her muzzle toward the threat and fired three quick shots, hitting the jihadist in the chest before rushing to Mitchell’s side.
“Help me up,” he bellowed.
Renee reached down and tried to lift him off the ground, but his imposing bulk was too much for her.
“Warchild,” she yelled. Her team leader stepped into the street, firing as he moved. Three fighters rushed around the corner, firing on full auto, their AKs blazing as they charged him. Warchild stopped and, like a gunfighter from the wild west, calmly took aim and engaged—it was suddently clear how he’d earned his nickname.
He was born for combat, and once his bloodlust was up, there was no stopping him. His finger danced across the trigger and cut the men down in the street.
“Warchild, fucking help me,” she yelled again.
The team knew what it was doing, fighting its way to the objective without the need to communicate. While the enemy fire picked up all around them, they flowed off one another like water searching for cracks in a dam.
Her team leader forcibly removed himself from the battle, and he glared angrily at her before reaching down and grabbing Mitchell’s left arm.
“What the fuck are you good for?” Warchild demanded as they struggled to get the sergeant major to his feet.
“You’re such an asshole,” she yelled back, bracing herself against Mitchell’s weight.
“This is no place for a woman—”
“Behind you,” she shouted just as two men appeared on a roof three feet over their heads and fired down on the team.
Renee stepped forward, placing herself in front of Mitchell. She felt the rounds pound into her chest, knocking the breath out of her and slamming her into the sergeant major. Her momentum knocked Mitchell out of the line of fire while her finger closed around the trigger.
The rifle bucked in her hands as one of the men pointed his AK at Warchild. Her chest was on fire, but she managed to gather up the last bit of energy and shove her team leader out of the way.
The expended brass glinted in the sun as it cartwheeled from her rifle, and the fighter went down, a reddish mist flowering out from his leg. Renee gasped for breath, brought the rifle up to her shoulder, and put two rounds center mass of the second jihadist before dropping to her knee.
Warchild grabbed Renee by the back of her kit, pulling her to her feet while she checked herself for holes.
“Get off me,” she managed, pulling herself free in order to help Mitchell.
She noticed the strange expression in her team leader’s eyes as he realized she’d just saved his life.
“You’re a beast,” Mitchell praised, ignoring Warchild, who moved, unbidden, to her side and helped move him to cover.
CHAPTER 10
* * *
Al Qatar had been holding on to his revenge for so long that he could barely believe all his plans were finally coming to fruition. As he led Boland deeper into the building, he was hard-pressed to hide the smile that threatened to creep across his face.
Just like the men he was going to meet, the American had no idea that he was a pawn in a much larger game, one where al Qatar was finally the master. He’d grown tired of the baseless rhetoric the imams used to convince their impressionable fighters to die for their dogma. The only way he could strike a blow the Americans would never forget was to take his destiny upon himself.
“Did you hear that?” Boland asked, straining against the large duffel bag he was carrying.
Al Qatar had hoped the thick walls would muffle the sounds of the chaos unfolding outside, but that was obviously not possible any longer.
“We must hurry, Latif is waiting,” al Qatar said, his heart pounding in his chest.
“Something’s going on.”
“The fighting never stops, you know that,” the Iraqi said, coming to a set of rickety wooden stairs.
The building had been a bank before the war, but instead of a vault, what little money was stored here had been put in the reinforced basement. The stairs might have seen better days, but the subterranean chamber was modern, with a generator-powered lighting system and large metal safes lining one wall.
In the middle of the room, the two most wanted men in Syria stood side by side, watching al Qatar make his way over.
“I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me, Abu,” Latif said, blowing a jet of smoke up toward the low ceiling.
“I apologize for making you wait. We were held up by one of your checkpoints,” al Qatar said.
“Well, at least you brought my money. Who is this?” Latif asked.
“It is the man I told you about: Hamid. He was sent by the emir.”
“It is a pleasure,” the Syrian said, turning to Khalid, who eyed Boland silently.
Al Qatar knew the American had activated his GPS beacon the moment he got out of the car, but he was confident that the heavy walls would interfere with the transmission. He had no intention of falling prey to a drone strike, and if his men were doing their job—watching the feed he had spent so long setting up—it shouldn’t be a problem.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Boland began. “The emir Baghdadi sends his warmest regards. He prays that you will accept this humble token of his appreciation.”
Latif smiled broadly, and when he took the duffel bag full of money, three other men materialized from the shadows.
One of them was carrying a black Pelican case. Right away al Qatar noticed that Boland was unable to take his eyes off it. The American moved his hand slowly to his pistol, while Latif knelt down and began digging through the pile of neatly banded stacks of cash, unaware of Boland’s furtive movements.
But Khalid never took his eyes off the American, and as Boland took a
step to the side, a thin smile played across his face.
The American’s pistol flashed from its holster in a compact draw borne from countless repetitions. He almost had the front sight on his target when al Qatar took a sudden step forward and cracked Boland on the back of the neck with the leather sap he’d hidden in his pocket.
The American fell to his knees, the pistol clattering across the floor. Shouting in anger, Khalid’s men raised their rifles. Boland’s face showed a mixture of surprise and confusion; it was obvious that he hadn’t planned for the betrayal.
Al Qatar scooped the pistol from the floor and stepped out of his reach before turning his attention to Latif.
“Step away from the money, brother,” he said.
“What is this?” the Syrian asked, slowly getting to his feet.
“Business,” al Qatar replied before shooting the man in the face.
The shot echoed loudly in the confines of the basement, reverberating off the walls in a deafening roar. The bullet snapped the Syrian’s head back and blew his brains out the back of his skull.
“He was a savage man. Very stupid,” the Iranian chuckled, looking down at Boland with a savage grin.
“It seems that you have had nothing but bad luck since you lost this,” Khalid said, motioning to the Pelican case, which held the equipment Boland had lost a few weeks earlier. “I would have thought you learned your lesson the last time we met, but alas, I was wrong.”
“Fuck you,” Boland groaned.
“Did you tell your American masters that you lost it, or did you lie to them as well?”
“Just kill me, and get it over with.”
“Oh, you will die, but it will be very slow,” al Qatar said, slamming the pistol across the American’s face. He knelt down beside the American and grabbed his hair, forcing his head up.
“You don’t remember me, do you? Well, I am not surprised; it was quite a long time ago when we first met.”
Boland was bleeding from his mouth, and his nose was broken. Al Qatar let go of his hair, and Boland rolled onto his side and spit half a tooth onto the filthy concrete floor.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Boland panted as al Qatar stood up.
“We have plenty of time to talk. I just wanted you to know that I have been dreaming about this day since you killed my brother.”
“We need to go,” one of Khalid’s men said, checking his watch.
“Very well. Give me the case and help me carry him to the car,” al Qatar instructed.
“What about our agreement? I do not see what you promised in here,” Khalid said, pointing down at the bag.
“You are going to have to trust me. I will have it for you by the week’s end.”
“Trust didn’t work out so well for him,” the Iranian said, motioning to the bleeding American.
“Give me the case.”
Khalid studied the Iraqi for a long moment before nodding to his man, who handed the case off to al Qatar.
“If you prove to be untrue, things will not go well for you.”
“Have I ever failed you?”
“Not yet, but there is a first time for everything,” the Iranian said, smiling. “Bind him,” he ordered his men.
The Iranians slipped a pair of zip ties over Boland’s wrists and pulled them tight with a plastic click. After placing a black bag over his head, they lifted him to his feet. Then, without a word, they retreated to the back of the basement.
“One more thing,” al Qatar said to Boland.
He took the small emergency beacon from the hidden pocket in the American’s pants and tossed it to the ground. “We won’t be needing this anymore.”
CHAPTER 11
* * *
Operations Center
It took General Vann fifteen minutes to get to the office, and that was with his driver keeping the government Chevy Tahoe at ninety. Despite the early hour, the Beltway had a sprinkling of cars taking professionals into the city, and as his driver weaved through the sparse traffic, Vann knew that every second could be the difference between life and death.
Vann’s driver let off the gas long enough for the armed guard posted at the entrance of the subterranean garage to open the gate, and the tires squealed on the black pavement as he brought the Tahoe to a halt near the secure express elevator. The general hopped out of the backseat slamming the door behind him before heading to the secure express elevator.
Placing his hand on the biometric scanner, Vann waited for the stainless steel doors to slide open and then inserted his keycard into the magnetic reader mounted to the panel. The small LED light switched from red to green, the doors closed, and the elevator shot up toward the top floor.
The car came to a silent halt, and the doors opened, revealing the general’s aide standing patiently with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.
“Here you go, boss,” Captain Chad Brantley said, offering the cup to the general.
“Where are we?” Vann asked while they walked down a nondescript hallway, passing his office on the left.
Captain Brantley looked every inch the soldier, despite wearing civilian clothes. His dark beard was neatly trimmed, and his skin held the burnished bronze of a man who spent most of his time outdoors. His thick neck and broad shoulders gave him the look of a college linebacker, but he possessed a catlike grace that hinted at a deeper, predatory nature.
“It’s a shit show, sir,” he said, waving his identification card over the reader attached to the solid steel door.
The lock disengaged with a metallic click, and Vann took a sip of coffee before stepping into the chaos of the tactical operations center, or TOC. The general had developed a taste for strong Arabian coffee during his time in Yemen, and insisted that his staff keep a pot going at all times. He drank five or six cups a day.
As the deputy director of the DIA, Vann had the unenviable burden of keeping tabs on the jihadists who flowed into Syria like water from a broken dam, and the TOC was the nerve center of his unenviable task.
He had made a name for himself in Iraq. As a member of Task Force 121, his crowning moment came in 2006, when his men found and killed Abu Musab al-Zarqawi—Osama bin Laden’s heir apparent in Iraq in 2006. Vann was known for getting results, and he had left a trail of bodies as proof of his lethal abilities.
But this was different. Unlike his time in Iraq and Afghanistan, he didn’t have the assets to get his people out of trouble. Worse than that, the general knew that there was no end in sight to the war he had been fighting since 2001. America was finally learning that there was absolutely no way it could kill its way out of this war, but that didn’t mean the United States wasn’t going to try.
The TOC was always a frantic place, but with an active mission under way, it bordered on chaotic. Individual monitors covered the walls, but the room was dominated by a large screen, upon which the Reaper drone beamed a clear feed back to the States. Vann’s team members either sat before their monitors or moved briskly from station to station, passing pertinent intel. At the moment, everyone was focused on the two smoking birds lying stricken on the ground in Syria.
“They really fucked us on this one, sir,” Captain Brantley said while Vann took his place at the center of the bustling room.
The general studied the downed helos and took another sip of the coffee. There was way too much movement on the edges of the crash site. Jihadist’s flooded the area, but it was the lack of movement from any friendlies around the birds that made his stomach sink.
“What happened?”
“We think they used a MANPAD on the first bird.”
“Where the hell are they getting surface-to-air missiles?”
“No idea, sir. We assume they must have limited numbers because they used an RPG to knock out the second bird. I have no idea how the pilot managed to get it on the ground,” he said, pointing to the second craft, which was lodged between two buildings fifty feet from the first.
As Vann stared at the mangled tail
section of the Mi-17, a figure slowly emerged from the cargo compartment. Instead of elation, the general felt a weight slowly begin pressing down on his shoulders, because he knew that now he had to find a way to get them out.
“Well, shit,” he said grimly. “Someone get Anderson on the phone. Tell him I need an extraction team in the air in ten minutes, and get a fucking satellite diverted.”
“Already done, sir. It should be coming online right about now,” a man said, pointing up to the screen just as another feed appeared.
The general put the empty Styrofoam cup on the edge of the table and reached into his pocket for an unopened can of dip. He used his thumbnail to pierce the thin paper that separated the lid from the can and said, “Find Boland.”
• • •
The Reaper Brantley had “borrowed” from the CIA banked to the left, and the operator panned out with the powerful camera.
“Got him,” an NCO—or noncommissioned officer—said, pointing out the light-blue Toyota Corolla that was pulling up to the objective.
Vann lifted the gold lid off the can of Copenhagen Long Cut, and used his fingers to pinch the dark tobacco together. It burned against his lip, and the nicotine coursing through his body was tinged with guilt.
“What do you think?” he asked Brantley, never taking his eyes off the two men who got out of the car and jogged toward the building.
“Depends on what you want, sir.”
Besides Vann and Captain Brantley, the only other people who knew the real reason they had launched the mission were SecDef Cage and National Security Advisor Simmons. Like many others who’d served with Cage, Vann considered him the only man still dedicated to purifying America’s honor after the shame of Iraq, and he would do whatever was necessary to insure that he carried out his boss’s mandates.
