by Jim Roberts
“Hang on…” Packrat adjusted something on the radar, “…six Jordanian F16’s, approaching north-northwest.”
Krieger sighed. “They are the bomber craft Jade mentioned. No big deal.”
Packrat nodded, “I’ll keep an eye on them.”
Krieger patted Packrat’s shoulder, then pressed his comlink, “Haly-Con One, come in, over,” His accent stumbled over the unfamiliar word.
“This is Halcyon Base, go ahead, over.”
“Jade, we have company.”
“We noticed. Maintain overwatch as planned.”
“Copy.”
“Krieger…is Joe…”
“Is Joe what?”
“Never mind. Halcyon Base ou…” There was a pause on Jade’s end for a few seconds. “Peacemaker One, can you confirm Contact change of course?”
Krieger frowned. Packrat checked the radar. The pilot clicked the comm, “This is Packrat, I can confirm all six Contacts altering course.”
“What is going on?” Krieger asked the pilot.
Packrat made a quick flight correction, “Not sure…the F16’s just changed their flight path.”
“Do they know we are here?”
“I highly doubt it. The stealth shielding should be blocking us from their instruments.”
“Peacemaker One, urgent! Abort mission, repeat, abort mission!” Jade’s voice was tinged with urgency.
“What has happened?” asked Krieger.
“NATO just informed us that the Jordanian government changed its target at the last minute. They are going to bomb ISIL insurgents in Al Kawm and the Raqqad valley!”
“WHAT!” Krieger roared. “That’s impossible, they were supposed to be hitting them miles away!”
“There was a delay in communication. It looks like they changed their mind!”
“Well get command to call them off!”
“That’s impossible, Krieger. This Op isn’t on the books. We’re on our own here!”
Krieger slammed his hand against the Spirit Walker bulkhead. “What is their ETA, over?”
There was a pause before Jade’s voice returned.
“Three minutes.”
“B`lyad!” Krieger swore loudly.
Joe was parachuting straight into a live bombing attack.
And there was nothing they could do to help him.
* * *
ACCORDING TO the altimeter on his wrist, Joe Braddock had reached 6,000 feet. When he reached 3000, the automatic activation device (AAD) would open the main chute. He was preparing himself for the release when Jade’s voice came over the comm.
“Joe, the mission is aborted, repeat, the mission is aborted.”
“What? What’s going on, over?”
“The Jordanian bombers are moving towards the Raqqad valley. They have orders to level any and all ISIL presence in the area!”
Joe’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh hell.”
“You need to alter your course. That landing area is compromised, over!”
Joe forced himself to stay calm. He had to think.
If he allowed the chute to open at 3000 feet, there would be little time to maneuver away from the valley. He would need as much time as possible to direct his descent.
“I’m pulling my chute now!”
Joe yanked the ripcord. As smoothly as a sail unfurling, the nylon chute erupted from the pack. Joe gripped the steering line and immediately eased due east from his original destination. There was a strong northerly wind directly behind him and it was forcing him on.
Damn it, turn!
The wind was too strong. With the nightvision goggles, Joe could make out the peaks of the Raqqad valley below him. Dotted here and there across the area were small buildings and hamlets. If he continued in the direction he was falling, Joe would land square in the center of the valley.
“Joe, what’s your situation, over?” Jade’s voice sounded hoarse with worry.
Joe checked his altimeter and OpTab GPS. “Trying to get the hell out of this valley…but…”
As Joe continued his fall, he became aware of a noise emanating somewhere behind and above him. It was faint, but began to grow louder.
Jet engines. Had to be.
He checked the altimeter.
900 feet.
The noise was becoming louder.
800 feet…
Joe made one last attempt to alter course. He strained as hard as possible on the steering line.
Nothing.
700…
The sound was almost on top of him. Joe’s heart was racing.
600…
A loud blast of noise exploded over top of Joe as the wing of bombers passed over him.
500…
Jade’s voice broke through over the comm, “Joe! Turn off befor…”
Whatever last words the mission analyst was offering were drowned out completely by a cataclysmic series of explosions. One after another, they tore through the valley in a sea of sequential fire and napalm, sending plumes of superheated smoke into the sky.
Joe’s vision went white as the nightvision goggles overloaded from the sudden burst of orange light. Clenching his eyes shut, he whipped the goggles away from his flight helmet. Blinking away the momentary blindness, he opened his eyes to the realization he was falling directly into the open maw of the inferno.
200 feet…
The rising heat swept over Joe, scalding him. The burning smoke sent tears streaming from his eyes. He felt a spasm in the steering line. Looking up, he saw the nylon chute burning from flaming debris. Joe felt a sudden rush of gravity, pulling him down faster into the churning flame and smoke. Time seemed to stand still as the parachute neared its breaking point. Joe braced himself as best as he could, knowing full well he was dead in the air.
Then, for a moment, his vision cleared.
He saw the ground rushing to meet him, lakes of fire still burning around the arid landscape.
A second later, his legs impacted with the ground, pulling him violently forward.
His head slammed into the dirt and the lights went out…
Chapter 7
Lost
The Cottage
July 15th, 2015
THE PEACEMAKER Mission Operations Center (or MOC) was located on the bottom floor of the Cottage Command Center. Thirty feet below ground, it had originally been used as a bunker by the Navy. Woefully out of date, it had taken the CIA, along with the Army, two months to build a credible and state of the art Operations facility for the Peacemakers. Tricked out with every ultra-modern surveillance gadget the Army and the CIA could provide, the MOC was perfect for the burgeoning Unit’s needs. Via satellite uplink, the Peacemaker Unit was capable of running any operation around the world from this secure location.
Currently, the MOC was brimming with tension, all stemming from an angry commanding officer.
“It’s been an hour and all you can give me is a ‘you’re sorry’? Do you think I’m an idiot, son?” Stanlin was livid as he bellowed into the secured smart phone. He’d been speaking with NATO command for the past twenty minutes and as the call progressed, Stanlin had been getting angrier and angrier, to the point a vein had popped out on his forehead. Jade had never seen the Major so mad.
Stanlin’s hand gripped the phone with such force, Jade feared it would break.
“The Jordanian government informed NATO the attack was to be made on ISIL targets twenty-five miles west of the Raqqad valley. You’re telling me the decision to hit Raqqad was made two hours ago and we only receive the information two minutes before the bombing? My mission is royally screwed because our ally couldn’t keep us informed! What baby-faced shitheel do you have over there in charge of relaying information?”
The last hour had been ungodly for Jade Masters. They had lost contact with Joe immediately after the bombing run and hadn’t heard a single response from him since. What was to be an uneventful night-time jump into fairly quiet enemy territory was now a total disaster. Even if by some mir
acle Joe survived the jump, the entire area was now buzzing with activity. ISIL radio transmissions had skyrocketed in the region. The bombing run had stirred up a hornet’s nest of activity that no one man would be able to escape.
Jade watched her CO speak. The NATO subordinate on the other line had abruptly handed the call off, probably to a superior. Stanlin’s face was beet red. After a few seconds, Jade could hear a new voice speaking.
“Yes sir…I…” Stanlin’s voice became reserved, his anger barely contained, “Yes…yes sir, I understand. No, thank you General…two minutes is a fucking outstanding amount of notice, sir!”
Stanlin flung the phone against the wall of the Operations Center, shattering it into pieces. The Major shook his head. “Our best opportunity to get an Olympus defector ruined because Jordanian Intel couldn’t make a goddamn phone call!”
What about Joe? Do you even care that he might be dead? Jade’s thoughts burned hot in her mind, but she left them unsaid. Whatever her feelings for Joe, she had a job to do and any chance they would have of salvaging the operation could depend on her clear thinking.
Stanlin leaned a meaty hand on one of the surveillance consoles. The tech working at the station, a young man in his early thirties, looked up at the Major. “Sir, the console can’t take that kind of physical strain–”
“Shut your mouth and keep your eyes on your business!” Stanlin shouted. The tech jumped, not prepared for the violent outburst. Jade tensed, having grown accustomed to Stanlin’s fiery temper. It was moments like these when she realized how much she missed the calm and cool command style of Colonel Walsh. The other Peacemaker grunts and techs in the room kept their eyes firmly on their work, afraid they too may raise the ire of the CO. Stanlin swept his eyes over the MOC before gesturing to the communications technician across the floor. “Patch me through to the Spirit Walker, now!”
The young tech jumped to the task, quickly connecting the uplink to Packrat and Krieger. The tech passed an earpiece to the Major. Jade moved closer to listen in.
“This is Peacemaker One, go ahead Halcyon Base.” Packrat’s unmistakable Louisiana twang warbled through the comm.
“This is Major Stanlin. Any sign of Sergeant Braddock on the thermal scan?”
“That’s a big negatory, Halcyon Base. The airstrikes have stirred up a hornet’s nest of activity. It’s impossible to pinpoint our boy in the mess, over.”
Jade had to make her mind known to her superior, “We can’t give up on Joe yet, sir.”
Stanlin gave the tech a cut-off sign to disable the comm. “We don’t even know if he’s alive, Masters.”
“Yes sir, even so…if the chance is there, then there’s a possibility he can still complete the mission.”
Stanlin cast Jade an incredulous look, “The mission? The mission is FUBAR, Corporal. In twenty minutes, I have to brief the DCIA and the Chairman of the Joint Chief’s about how our already illegal mission into Syria has been botched by a goddamn lack of communication.” Jade’s jaw clenched tight. She could tell by the look in her CO’s eyes that Stanlin was fully prepared to cut Joe loose. The Major turned back to the console, avoiding the accusing stare from his mission analyst. “I’m not giving up on Braddock yet. We’ll follow through with the extraction as planned. But if he’s not on the plane by the second extraction, he’s walking home.”
Jade’s position in the Unit was far too tenuous to even think about questioning the commands of her superior. “Sir, I…I know you don’t think highly of Sergeant Braddock, but I assure you, if he is alive, he won’t quit until the mission is completed.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Jade saw Chief Rourke and Alistair ‘Brick’ Reynolds enter the MOC. They were quickly checked out by the security soldiers posted at the elevator leading into the Operations level. The two men made their way through the bustling area towards Jade and the Major.
“What the hell happened?” Brick asked, his cockney accent losing the H sound from both words.
Jade quickly filled the two Peacemakers in on the previous hour’s events. Brick’s expression hardened as she told the ex-SAS soldier about the bombing. She knew the Peacemaker’s secondary point man had lost little love for Braddock in the time they had served together. However, despite his personal issues with Joe, Brick was loyal to all in his Unit and would go to the ends of the earth for any of them.
“So what’s the plan now?” Brick asked as Jade finished the brief. Before she could answer, Stanlin interjected.
“The CIA and I still have a vested interest in the defector and this mission, Sergeant. Joe has until 0500 Syrian time to complete the objective and reach the primary LZ.”
Rourke spoke, his emotions firmly in check. “And if he doesn’t?”
Stanlin removed the comlink from his head, “He’ll try to make the secondary LZ, at 2200 hours.” Stanlin had one of the tech’s pull up a satellite image of the Homs Governorate of Syria. He pointed at a ridge of hilly terrain three miles due west of the Raqqad valley. “It’s quiet and there have been no reports of ISIL activity in that area. The Spirit Walker should be able to land with little to no difficulty.”
“And if he misses that LZ?” Brick asked, his eyes meeting his superior’s.
“Then–” Stanlin met his three Unit leaders with a no-nonsense gaze, “–the mission is scrubbed and Braddock is on his own.”
Brick shook his head. “Goddamn it.”
Stanlin checked his watch, “I’ve got to explain this cluster-fuck to the Chiefs. Reynolds, you’re in charge until I return. Keep me posted if anything changes.”
Jade and her companions watched as the Major made his exit. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Brick cast a worried glance at her. She set her teeth against each other and betrayed no emotion. If Joe was still alive, he wouldn’t be for long. She pushed aside the inward sense of helplessness as she swore to herself a promise.
No matter what, if Joe Braddock was alive, she would bring him back home.
Chapter 8
Scourge
Syria, Raqqad Valley
July 16th , 2015
THE SOUND of Arabic-speaking voices rousted Joe Braddock from unconsciousness. A fit of coughing shook his body as he tried to expel what felt like a pound of smoke and dust from his lungs. His senses gradually returned and he could feel dried blood from a gash on his forehead covering half his face. The stench of burning gas tortured his sinuses. Joe had no clue how long he’d been out for, but the sight of the morning sun rising over the peaks of the Raqqad valley told him it had been hours since the failed drop. A dull, throbbing pain emanated from his right ankle as he realized he was being dragged. Joe was trapped between two men who were pulling him, none too gently, by both arms. Each man was garbed in flowing black jihadi uniforms, with tan camo vests overtop. Their faces were covered by foreboding balaclavas.
Joe recognized the uniforms as what was typical of the Army of the Islamic State.
Looking down, he saw that his flight suit had been torn away. The top half of his night infiltration suit was also missing, leaving him with only his grey T-shirt. He noticed the ground he was being pulled across was blackened with soot, dotted occasionally with small fires still burning.
Ahead of him, Joe could see peaks of small hillcrests popping up along the horizon, telling him he was still in the Raqqad valley. He was being lead towards a group of trucks parked on the outskirts of the charred area. A small group of ISIL soldiers stood waiting for the two men to bring their prisoner to them.
Joe’s stomach churned as he thought back to what the Islamic State did to prisoners.
His mind raced as he pieced together all the possibilities he would be faced with in the next few minutes. He was not wearing identifying markings, except the stealth suit, that was now mostly in tatters around him. The suit was highly advanced and if the ISIL men were on the ball, they would recognize it immediately as American. It meant little in the long run as he was an armed combatant entering a location held by the Isla
mic State. Capturing a live American soldier entering their fiefdom would be a coup of epic proportions for any ISIL warlord. Joe had a feeling he would have to work very hard if he was going to see another sunrise.
His two captors dumped Joe unceremoniously in front of the group of ISIL soldiers. Joe hit the ground hard, coughing from the pain that wracked his whole body. He felt the men pull his arms behind his back and secure them together with two plastic zip ties. Finished, one of the goons planted a heavy boot against Joe’s back, knocking him to the ground, face first.
As Joe lay in the dirt, the men started talking all at once. They spoke harshly to one another in Arabic for what felt like an eternity. Braddock had learned enough Arabic to get by during his time in Iraq, but hadn’t had much cause to use it in the past year. He only caught a few snippets of words and phrases he understood.
What he could grasp didn’t sound promising.
After some time, the man who Joe guessed was their Commander stepped forward and spoke to Joe’s two minders. They roughly picked him off the ground and sat Joe on his knees, holding him secure between them. Joe’s head rolled weakly to the front, forcing his captors to hold him up by the hair. The ISIL soldier to his right – a pencil thin man who on any normal day Joe could have neutered with a punch – slapped him across the face.
The Commander knelt down to look Joe in the eye. He was taller than any of his men, but did not wear a balaclava. Instead, he sported a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses that weirdly offset his heavy beard and Muslim headdress.
“American?” the Commander spoke English, his voice oddly high pitched, “American, yes?”
Joe said nothing.
The ISIL superior regarded Joe with a twisted smile. One of the jihadists passed the Commander what remained of Joe’s M-1950 weapon case. The ISIL Commander took the bag, opened it and removed Joe’s M4A1 carbine. A wry smile spread across his dimpled face. “Ah…American, yes?”
Joe still said nothing. He had hoped the gun had been lost during the jump. While the M4 was used by many countries around the world – Greece, Singapore and Yemen to name a few – it was the mainstay of the US Army. Joe knew the ISIL terrorists would jump to the immediate conclusion, no matter if he spoke or didn’t.
