by Selena Kitt
Operative on the ground outside Aleppo. Rescue before daylight. Please acknowledge.
She could make it.
* * *
Michael pressed his earpiece, and the voice came in his ear, low but perfectly audible. "In about fifty feet, turn right."
He leaned to the side and let his chin activate his hands-free shoulder mic. "Copy that." In some ops, troops were tracked with either satellites equipped with heat-seeking cameras or drones equipped with night vision. Neither of those was available on this mission, but his GPS tracker was so accurate that they could follow him on a map, with an accuracy of less than a meter. On their end, his GPS signal was being overlaid onto maps which were updated daily. They knew exactly where each checkpoint was, each cluster of militia. They knew where these guys ate, drank tea, and took a dump.
Knowing that he had backup 'eyes on' made Michael feel a lot better, because without it he could never have gotten through the warren of blocked streets and rubble-filled alleys by himself within any kind of reasonable time frame.
Michael was going in 'slick,' meaning that he had almost no standard equipment, no body armor, no helmet. A Delta Force operator alone, even in full gear, could not accomplish much if surrounded by more than three or four hostiles, so the decision had been made to opt for local garb and rely on disguise, that and the fact that he spoke Syrian Arabic fluently. He wore a plain didasha—a loose knee-length shirt—in a drab tan color, and typical Syrian male headgear. In a shabby canvas backpack, he carried a minimum of essential gear, including a bolt cutter, water bottles, small first aid kit, and a small escape and evasion kit. He had a tiny but very powerful flashlight and a roll of duct tape because you always needed duct tape.
There was also a wrapped paper package containing what his Kurdish driver had promised him was current high fashion for women in the ISIL-controlled areas of Aleppo: a full black abaya, a black headscarf with a second face veil and black gloves.
Under the didasha, he carried on his belt a Glock-19, extra rounds, and a survival knife. His lightweight communication gear consisted of an earpiece under his kufiya and a pressure activated shoulder mic, both wired into an antenna that he wore on his back The entire set up was so small it could easily and surreptitiously be pulled away and dropped into a pocket with no one noticing.
He also had a very basic night-vision unit. It was not the full-size head gear that allowed the Teams to operate with almost no light as if it were daytime, but the advantage of this new and very high-tech unit was that it was small—hardly larger than a pair of swim goggles. Even if he were searched, this small pair of goggles could be stuffed down into a pocket, even dropped into the street and might easily be overlooked.
As he approached the end of the alley where he was supposed to turn right, he looked at the map on his GPS tracker again He was now deep into Aleppo, almost out of the safe zone, if any area of Aleppo could be called 'safe' currently. He'd been driven as far as his Kurdish driver had dared into the city; now he had to traverse the rest of the way on foot, through rubble-filled streets, trying to avoid checkpoints any way he could. In the old days, crossing the city of Aleppo was an easy bus ride. Now, it was a warren of garbage and sandbags; on a good day, it could easily be ten checkpoints manned by illiterate teenagers who, if you were playing by the rules, might let you through or they might shoot you. If you were lucky, you made it.
The distance he'd needed to cover on foot was eight klicks—around five miles. Over open land, even with full gear, he could do that in under an hour. Through Aleppo, through whole neighborhoods that were nothing but no-man's-lands of rubble, he knew he was going to be lucky to do it in twice that time. It just got worse and worse. Emily was at least a mile behind the current line of the ISIL-controlled section, the 'caliphate.'
Was she running around Aleppo in a tank top and jeans? Probably.
Michael couldn't fathom what she was doing there, what insanity could possibly have possessed her to attempt this, but he would find out. Oh yes, he would have answers—either the easy way or the hard way, and deep down he hoped it was the hard way. When he got through with Emily, she was not going to be a happy camper, and he didn't care. "These are the precincts of pain" was a Delta Force training motto. Emily was going to learn a little bit about pain when he got hold of her.
Michael approached the corner, looked carefully around, and saw nothing. He moved on quietly through the deserted streets, getting angrier by the second, while still trying not to let his anger cause him to lose his concentration. On top of Emily's insanity, this whole thing stank worse than the streets around him. He was supposed to turn her over to Assad's forces… after he found her? What kind of lunacy was that? They knew where she was; her GPS locator was showing him and anyone the Americans cared to share it with her location down to around two meters. If they wanted her conveniently disappeared, they could have leaked her location to Assad's forces—or horrifically—ISIL. They hadn't.
The answer to the obvious question of 'why' was in the little directive Marion Jayne had given him—seemingly as an afterthought, but Michael knew it was anything but. What Emily Becker was carrying was to be destroyed before she was turned over to Assad's forces.
Whatever she went into Aleppo to get, that was what this was all about. That was the mission, not Emily. He hadn't been ordered to confiscate it and bring it out. Oh no, he was to destroy it. The American government was going to considerable—and illegal—lengths to make sure no one got what Emily had—not even them. Then Emily herself would disappear into a Syrian prison for a while, so she couldn't talk about it. And Emily's uncle—the President—was in on it. Creep.
Michael was a good little soldier but he wasn't that good. They'd picked the wrong man for this job. So, now he had two problems. First, he had to find Emily Becker and get her away from folks that would like nothing better than to burn them both, broadcast live on the Internet. Then he had to protect her from her own government, and save his own skin while doing it.
Yessiree, it wasn't a job, it was an adventure. No, that was wrong. That was the Navy.
Chapter Four
5:00 a.m. local time
Emily thumbed her communicator into life and began to cry. On the screen, the text message flashed: Operator within one click. Exfil imminent. Stay alert for contact.
She'd been sitting in silence for nearly six hours, only moving significantly once, when she'd carefully climbed to her feet, moved about five feet from her corner, managed to ease her jeans down and urinate. Since that time, though, she'd been trying to do little things every couple of minutes to keep herself from getting stiff—rotating her feet in circles, lifting up her calves and counting to three, flexing her shoulders up and down. She'd barely been able to stand when she'd gotten up before and she was very afraid when her rescuer came that she would hold him back.
She held her breath and strained her ears, trying to isolate any small sound she heard. She looked at her locator again—she'd picked up the message just now, but it had actually been sent ten minutes earlier. So… ten minutes ago, the man sent to get her was within one klick—one kilometer of her position. It was dead silent around her… and then it came, ever so softly. The crunch of gravel under a boot.
The sound was close; he was close.
And then came the whispered voice: "Em?"
In the darkness, Emily Becker's mouth dropped open and her eyes went wide, and it occurred to her that was ahead of her might well be worse than what would have been behind her. For one incredibly insane moment, she considered not answering, but she knew it would be pointless. He could see her on the GPS locator, of that she was sure.
"I'm here, Mike," she whispered. Before, she had just been fairly certain she was going to die. Now, she was positive. "In the basement."
* * *
Why had it never occurred to Emily that they would send Mike? Now, it seemed so obvious, but it had never even dawned on her.
He knew Aleppo well and God only kne
w all the places he'd been in Syria, all the things he'd done. He had hinted at some of his missions a couple of times, but she knew he couldn't talk about specifics, and she'd never asked. The bottom line was, he was very familiar with Syria. His grandparents had been Syrian, and he spoke Syrian Arabic fluently. He was dark, with dark hair and eyes, and skin that always looked like he had the most perfect suntan in the world. He fit in here; he could pass for a native, which was just how the Special Forces wanted it. That much she knew.
On top of everything, he was based in Paris. Of course they would send Mike.
His deployments into Syria were the whole reason they had met to begin with. When she was living in Malula, out of the blue one day a bearded American showed up.
Under the beard and the nondescript Syrian clothing, she had been shocked to see Michael Duncan, Justin's West Point roommate. "I don't know if you remember me," he'd said, casually. The military haircut, the clean-shaven jaw were gone, but under the casually grubby beard and longish hair, under the Islamic dress, it has still been Michael.
Remember him? Oh, Emily had remembered him all right. Four years older than she, she'd been fourteen when they first met and eighteen when Justin and Mike graduated. Michael Duncan had fueled many an adolescent sexual fantasy, so to see him standing there in the garden of the house in Malula where she was living, was like something out of dream.
His voice hissed into the silence. He was just above her on the street, from the sound of it, standing by the window she'd fallen through. "I'm coming down. How far is it to where you are sitting?"
If he felt comfortable talking in a whisper he must be fairly sure there was no danger close at hand. "It's about eight feet down, I think. I climbed through the window and fell. There's no floor."
"Copy that. I can see. I have night vision."
Within just a few seconds, Mike had eased himself down to the basement floor. "God, it stinks down here." He moved directly next to her, hunkered down into a squat. Emily was not a small woman; she was over 5'8", but next to Mike she always felt dwarfed. Even crouched down, he seemed big.
"Mike…" she started.
His voice came, low but absolutely insistent. "Em, do not speak unless I talk to you. Answer the questions I ask. My only concern for now is getting you out of here. Anything else can wait. Do you understand that?"
"Yes," she whispered, barely stopping herself from adding a 'sir.'
"First, are you mobile?"
She noticed immediately that he had not asked if she was hurt. He asked if she could walk. "I'm not sure," she answered honestly. "I twisted my ankle when I fell down here, really jammed it. It's not broken; I'm sure of that, but I don't know how far I can walk."
"Okay. Anything else?"
"I have a cut on my head but it's not bleeding anymore. They… they were shooting at me, Mike, and… and…" She started to break down.
"Hold it together, Emily," his voice came, soft but firm. "You've made it alone for six hours. You've done great. I'm here now, and I need you to keep it together. Tell me about the head injury."
"It's stopped bleeding. I don't think it's much."
"Where is it? Show me." Mike reached out towards Emily's head, and Emily grasped his hand and pushed it towards the back, low down on the left side, guiding his fingers to the spot. Deftly, gently, he probed the gash.
"You're right, it's not serious. Merely a flesh wound," he said, in his best Monty Python imitation.
In spite of everything, Emily smiled into the darkness at the joke, but the five seconds of humor was all she was going to get.
"Anything else?"
"A couple of times I think I got hit with splinters, you know, when the bullets hit a wall. I can feel them burning and itching in my arms, but it's not serious."
"You are absolutely sure you are not shot."
"No, I mean… yeah, I'm sure. I don't know about my ankle, but other than that I'm not hurt."
Mike slipped into position to sit up against the wall next to her. She felt him turn his head to the side, and realized he was keying a microphone with his chin. "Target acquired," he whispered. "Her ankle is injured. Unknown how seriously. We're putting together a plan now."
There was a pause, and Emily realized they must be talking to Mike through an earpiece, because she could hear nothing.
"Copy that," he responded, and then again: "Copy that. I'll let you know when we have a plan."
Mike eased himself back into a reclining position, and Emily could feel him relax, just a little bit. "So, little girl. What have you gotten yourself into now, and, how the hell am I going to get you out of this one?" Mike had a small tablet system and he flipped it into active mode. He began running through the maps and notes on the screen.
"Do you have a car?" Emily asked.
"Five miles. Eight clicks. On the other side of the Old City." He flipped some more, and then added, as conversationally as one could in a barely audible whisper, "I thought I told you not to talk. You never have listened very well, have you?"
Emily ignored that. "I don't know if I can walk five miles."
"How did you get this far in?"
"We took a bus almost to one of the checkpoints, then we just walked in."
"A bus? I didn't think they were running."
Emily shrugged in the darkness. "They were yesterday."
"How far did you have to walk? After you got off the bus."
"I don't know." Emily thought about it. "But it wasn't anywhere near five miles. Maybe two? Some of the alleys are open."
"We?"
"One of the men from the village… well, one of the priests. We got separated." Emily's voice caught. "God, I hope he's all right."
"I hope so, too," Michael said, his voice hard. "Because we've gotten some reports that they're crucifying Christians for entertainment."
Emily felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach, but she only whispered back. "It was important. I had to come. If I hadn't come, one of the nuns would have tried it, and they are all like ninety years old."
"Could you find it again, on the map? The place where you came through the checkpoint?"
He handed her the tablet and she scanned the map, sliding the image around with her fingers, and quickly found the intersection where she and Father Timothius had crossed out of the Assad controlled area of Aleppo and pointed it out to Michael.
She could feel him nod. "I know where that is. Did you have to show papers?"
"No, they just wanted money. Father Timothius had heard that at that checkpoint they were quick to take bribes. It's why we went through there."
Suddenly, very close, just on the street above them, came voices: two men conversing normally. Michael grabbed the tablet from her, clicked it off instantly, and froze. After only a few moments, the conversation moved on. "Nothing to do with you…" he whispered. "It's almost time for morning prayer."
As if he had summoned it, out of the blue came the long keening cry of the mullah summoning the faithful to fajr, the sunrise prayer, and then almost simultaneously, another call from farther away. It was eerily beautiful ringing into the dark night, and in spite of everything Emily felt herself getting chills. Within seconds the air was filled with dozens of calls from all over Aleppo.
Emily whispered. "I need to stand up. My legs are cramping."
"Go ahead, no one will be able to hear anything over this." Emily stood and leaned towards the wall, pushing her heels to the ground, trying to stretch out her calf muscles. "I think we should go as soon as prayer is over."
"There's a curfew, and it's not over until sunrise," Emily warned him.
"In Islam, sunrise officially occurs when fajr is over even if the sun isn't up. So it's the perfect time to go, because it will still be dark for a while."
"Mike, we can't go out. I don't have anything to wear. I had an abaya and a scarf, but someone grabbed me by the abaya and it pulled off." She shuddered at the memory of the man holding her by the loose open garment; it was only by
a great stroke of luck that she had managed to push him backwards down a flight of stairs and get away. "I can't go out there without a cover. It's how they spotted us the first time. I thought we'd be okay, but the open abaya… no one is wearing them. They saw me right away."
Michael reached into his backpack and handed Emily the paper-wrapped package. "Everything you need is in here, including gloves. Don't put them on until we get up to the street."
Emily looked around the basement and realized that the first light of dawn was beginning to illuminate her surroundings, just faintly. Mike was right. It was time to go.
Chapter Five
The moment had arrived that Michael had been dreading for hours, ever since he'd gotten the bizarre directive on the airplane to turn Emily over to Assad's forces, just moments after the President's chief of staff had feigned offense at the suggestion that the President would let Miss Becker die. Didn't add up then, didn't add up now.
Coldly, he realized that in the next minute he might well be throwing away his entire military career. If he got caught, he could be court-martialed. If somehow they made a treason charge stick (and considering that Mike was half Syrian, how hard would it be to fabricate some terrorist connections?), they could execute him. For one terrible second, he wondered if maybe he should just turn her over to Assad's people, turn her over and walk away, but he pushed the thought away as quickly as it came.
Shivering next to him in the stinking basement was the woman he had thought for at least two years of his life that he would marry, the woman with whom he had intended to have a family. He couldn't think about that right now, but he did know that whatever else, in his own heart he had vowed to protect her with his life, even if that promise had stopped being meaningful to her. He couldn't break that promise now.
Outside, as abruptly as it had started, the cries of the mullahs calling to morning prayers stopped, leaving the world again in dead silence. Michael's voice immediately dropped again to a barely-audible whisper. He couldn't get careless now.
