by Don Mann
“I’m trying!” Akil spat the words at him, raw and angry.
“What did Davis say?”
“Davis?”
Crocker said, “I asked you to call him, remember?”
“He said the Israelis have dispatched two helicopters. They’re coming, okay? They’re coming! Leave me the fuck alone.”
Crocker grabbed the front of Akil’s uniform. “We’re both upset,” he growled. “But this mission isn’t over, and we need to think clearly!”
Akil partially snapped out of his funk and said, “You’re right, boss. I know.”
Crocker managed to keep his own emotions in check by focusing like a laser on the tasks ahead. First, he knelt down next to Cal and checked his pulse and vital signs again. They were steady, but weak.
Next, he got up and grabbed his weapon. “You’ve got light sticks and flares on you, correct?” he asked.
Akil felt the Flyye pouch on his chest and located them. “Yes. Yes.”
He wouldn’t let his mind wander back to Ritchie and the consequences of his death. Instead, he said, “All right. Wait here and continue to monitor Cal. I’m gonna place the C-4 on the Predator so we can blow it first. When you hear from me, you’re gonna crack the light sticks and activate your strobe so the rescue pilot can locate you. Leave ’em around here, so he lands near the bodies.”
“Leave what here?” Akil asked.
“The flares and strobe. I want the Israeli helo to land on this exact spot. He gets too close to the Black Hawk, a spark flies, and the whole thing blows. You understand me?”
Akil nodded his big head. “Yes.”
“And stay near the radio. Listen and be alert.”
“Got it.”
“Make sure they load the bodies on board, and take care of Cal. Promise me you’ll do that!”
“I will.”
“Then have the pilot fly over the wreck and drop some flares. Make sure it catches on fire. Then get the fuck out of the area!”
“Got it!”
“You understand all that?”
“Yes. I said, I got it.”
“You have a question, or a problem, you call me.”
“Understood.”
Crocker slapped Akil on the shoulder and said, “I’ll see you in a few.”
Chapter Three
When you come to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.
—Franklin D. Roosevelt
He ran in the direction of the Predator as fast as his legs could take him, fell, pulled himself up, lost his footing again, and put his arms out fast enough to keep his face from smashing into a boulder. But he let go of his HK416 in the process. So he recovered it, and wiped the dirt off the barrel by squeezing his thighs together and pulling it through.
He took a couple of deep breaths and told himself he had to calm down. The combination of adrenaline coursing through his body and the anger over the deaths filled him with a ragelike, I-don’t-give-a-fuck-anymore kind of energy.
By the time he had counted to four, he became aware of guns discharging on the other side of the hill. Then Davis shouted anxiously over the headset. Crocker was too crazed to distinguish the words. But when he ran and peered past the edge of the hill, he saw what was going on.
There were two pickups between him and the Predator, which was approximately a hundred yards away from where he stood. A fighter in the bed of one of the trucks was firing a nasty fifty-caliber machine gun, which made a loud clanging noise and resulted in Davis and Mancini being pinned behind boulders about twenty yards above and to the north of the downed drone.
In addition to the guy firing the fifty cal, Crocker spotted three others inching toward the Predator with AK-47s, and another two with AKs to the left trying to circle around behind Davis and Mancini.
Crocker took it all in, and thinking No more dead, bolted into action, running to within fifteen yards of the trucks. He stopped, breathed hard three times, and grabbed two of the four M67 grenades from the pouch on his chest. With the HK416 clutched in his left, he pulled the pins with his right hand and flung one after the other.
Someone near the pickup shouted in Farsi, and a second later a big explosion lifted the truck in the air. Crocker watched it hit the ground grill first, explode in flames, and turn over. It reminded him of a bucking bronco. He swung left around the truck, firing his HK416. Phit-phit-phit. One enemy cut down. Phit-phit. Two. Phit-phit-phit. Three.
The second truck caught fire and exploded to his right, knocking his feet out from under him. Crocker rolled over, assuming a prone position, reloaded, and continued to fire. When he couldn’t see any more of the enemy through the smoke and flames, he stopped and inhaled fumes and dust.
His mouth and nostrils were clogged and his ears were numb. That didn’t stop him from loading another cartridge into the HK416 and watching the light dance on the side of the Predator, which was strangely beautiful and reminded him of a Navajo rite he’d witnessed in the Arizona desert.
Hot air churned around him. He half-wished it would pick him up and pull him into the sky. Looking up, he saw a bright light approach and readied his weapon.
Through the sight, he saw a grinning Mancini hurry toward him, cradling an M4. “You okay, boss?” he shouted.
Crocker didn’t hear him at first, but saw the tribal tattoo on his neck and his smile. “Stop grinning,” he snarled.
Mancini said, “I like the way you took care of business.”
“There’s nothing to fucking smile about,” Crocker said. “Ritchie, the pilot, and the copilot are dead.”
He watched the expression change on Mancini’s face.
“Cal’s badly injured.”
“No…”
Next thing he remembered was sitting in the rear door of the Israeli helicopter watching the Predator burn in the distance. A warm wind slapped his face and tore at the little hair he still had on the top of his head. He’d let God take all of it and his right arm, if he promised to bring Ritchie back.
He was trying to remember where they had come from and where they were going when he heard Akil’s voice over the headset radio.
“Help! Taking fire from two directions! Need backup a-sap!”
“Hold on, Akil. We’re on our way!”
The Israeli Yas’ur 2000 helicopter (a variant of a Sikorsky CH-53 Sea Stallion) was banking right, away from Akil and the downed Black Hawk, which was on the other side of the hill. Crocker looked back into the helo, spotted Davis by the door, and shouted urgently, “What the fuck is going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re going in the wrong direction.”
“The medevac helo had to pull back. They were taking fire. The Israelis have called in another assault team to clear the area around the Black Hawk first.”
“Where is it?”
“Don’t know.”
Crocker was already on his feet, climbing over the gear in the cargo bay. He squeezed between the fold-up seats, one of which was occupied by Mancini, then held on to the bar in front of the center console with his right and grabbed the pilot with his left. The pilot, who wore a green helmet, matching green flight suit with an Israeli patch on the shoulder, and goggles, vigorously signaled to Crocker to move back.
The helo was about 150 yards off the ground, flying blacked out.
Crocker didn’t move. This time he slapped the pilot on the helmet. “Where’s the assault team?” he asked.
“It’s deploying now. Move back!”
“We left some men back there!” Crocker shouted, pointing behind him. “We’ve got to go back and get them!”
The pilot turned to his right, shouted something to the copilot in Hebrew, then placed a hand on Crocker’s chest and shoved him. “Sit down!”
Crocker stumbled, caught himself on the back of Mancini’s chair, then pushed forward aggressively. All the while, Akil screamed through the headset in his helmet, “I’ve got five minutes max! Soon I’ll either run out of ammo or be overrun!”
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“Listen—”
“Get back. That’s an order!” the pilot shouted.
When Crocker didn’t move, the copilot got out of his seat and met him in a half-crouch. “You heard him,” he shouted in accented English, his face splashed with red instrument light. “The flying here is dangerous. We can’t talk now! Sit down!”
Crocker grabbed him by the front of his flight suit and shouted into his blue eyes, “You don’t understand. I’ve got a man trapped down there. We’ve got to turn this goddamn thing around.”
“We don’t take orders from you.”
“Fuck that!”
He was about to lean past the copilot and grab the pilot when he felt something hit him in the throat and lost consciousness for several seconds. When he came to, he felt big bodies grappling around him.
Davis had the copilot pinned against the seat while Mancini pounded him in the stomach as the helo rocked from side to side.
Crocker heard the pilot scream something in Hebrew, then saw him raise a pistol and point it at Mancini’s head. Not waiting to see if he was going to pull the trigger or not, Crocker grabbed the pilot’s wrist and slammed it against the forward console. The pistol sprang loose, flipped in the air, crashed against the reinforced-glass forward window, and hit the floor.
The bird banked sharply right, throwing Mancini, Davis, and the copilot into a jumble of bodies against the cockpit side panel.
Crocker held on to the pilot bar, pulled his SIG Sauer P226 from its holster, and pressed it against the side of the pilot’s face. “You either turn this fucking thing around and land it, or I’ll put a bullet in your head!”
“Go to hell!”
“I’ll take you with me.”
When the copilot lunged for his arm, he clocked him with his elbow and then smashed him in the nose. Blood flew throughout the tight space.
Crocker pushed the pistol up to the pilot’s cheekbone again. “I’m not fucking around!” he shouted. “Turn this thing around, now!”
The pilot swore up and down in Hebrew as he glanced at his wounded colleague, then up at Crocker. “You’re out of control!”
With his free hand, Crocker grabbed hold of the flight director. “I’ll do it myself if I have to.”
The pilot tried to push his hand away. “No.”
“Then turn this fucking thing around!”
“Okay.”
Crocker kept the pistol pointed at the pilot’s head as he slowed the helo and made a sweeping left turn. Within seconds, he spotted the burning flares on the hill ahead and tracers like little angry fireflies buzzing around the downed U.S. Black Hawk, reminding him of a bonfire on a beach.
“There it is!” he shouted.
“I see it.”
“Akil, you still there?” he shouted into his headset.
“Yeah, boss! But I’m surrounded!”
“Hold on! We’re coming!”
“Quick!”
Turning to Davis, Crocker shouted, “Strap the copilot in one of the fold-up chairs and zip-tie his wrists and ankles together! Then keep an eye on the pilot and give him directions. Mancini, come with me.”
Together they readied the twin 7.62 machine guns mounted on the side windows and started directing fire at the enemy, kneeling around the downed U.S. Black Hawk. Through his NVGs Crocker saw Akil pinned down behind some boulders about twenty yards above where they had placed the flares.
Ducking inside the cabin and shouting at Davis, Crocker said, “Tell the pilot to circle around once, so we can lay down fire. Then I want him to land this baby on the patch of land near where the flares are burning.”
“Got it!”
Yellow-and-white tracers flew up at them, and several bullets slammed into the reinforced metal fuselage. One glanced off the barrel of the machine gun Crocker was holding, making a screeching sound and sending up long white sparks, one of which burned his lip.
He kept shooting, picking out targets around the downed Black Hawk until the barrel of the weapon was red hot. From the cockpit, Davis launched the Hellfire missiles mounted on the sides of the Yas’ur. They slammed into the Black Hawk and exploded. Within seconds the wreckage was engulfed in orange flames.
“Excellent!” Crocker shouted.
“Fuck ’em.”
“Now let’s hit the enemy position near the top of the hill.”
Relentless fire from the twin 7.62s and more Hellfire missiles silenced the enemy there. The helo circled once more; then Crocker instructed the pilot to set it down.
The heavy rotors turning and stirring up an enormous cloud of dust, Crocker and Davis jumped out. First, they found Cal, then loaded the bodies. Finally, they helped Akil aboard; he had been wounded in the arm by a piece of shrapnel from an enemy frag grenade.
They didn’t pause to recon the scene, ID the enemy, or count enemy dead. Instead, Crocker checked Cal’s vitals while the Israeli helicopter lifted off and a last enemy round zinged off his Kevlar helmet and crashed into the ceiling.
“Good thing you keep your bonnet on,” commented Mancini.
The bleeding from Cal’s wounded stomach seemed to have stopped, but his pulse was even weaker than before.
“Tell the pilot to radio ahead and have a medical team and ambulance ready,” Crocker said.
“Roger,” Davis responded.
Akil, seated with his back against the fuselage, his face covered with dirt and soot, his hands caked with dried blood, muttered, “Thanks.”
Crocker sat beside him and started to roll up his sleeve to see where he’d been nicked. “Good work,” he whispered.
But the big SEAL’s eyes were already shut, and he started snoring.
Crocker’s arms were weary and shaking from firing the big machine gun. He took a swig of Gatorade as the pilot announced that they had entered Israeli airspace.
No one responded.
To his right, Crocker saw Mancini looking down at Ritchie’s tarp-covered body on the floor. The recovered Hellfires were strapped to the floor beside him. Mancini’s lips moved as though he was saying a prayer, or a goodbye.
Feeling tears gather in his eyes, Crocker turned to the window and stared deep into the night sky. He was looking for a place to put his grief, which clung to him like a second skin. It wasn’t ready to be shed and wouldn’t be for a long time.
Chapter Four
Facing it, always facing it, that’s the way to get through.
—Joseph Conrad
She felt like she was moving and imagined her body spinning across a dance floor. Strong, sure hands guided her. And in her mind’s eye she saw men’s faces with dark hair slicked back and the color orange.
Lisa realized that she was sitting. But her head kept spinning, reminding her of all the things she had to do to prepare for her husband’s forty-fifth birthday, which was only six weeks away. Besides hiring the caterer and planning the meal, she had to order flowers and put together a guest list, which was always the hardest part of organizing any political gathering. Family and friends were easy. It was determining the people Clark couldn’t afford to offend that made the guest list difficult and required study and input from Clark’s legislative and administrative assistants.
Clark himself might spend more time considering who to invite or not to invite to his birthday party than how to vote on an upcoming military appropriation bill.
Politics were personal. And the longer Lisa lived in Washington, the more she appreciated that. Who got along with whom, which senators played poker together, or golf, or had an interest in antique cars. She reminded herself that friendships, feuds, rivalries, slights, prejudices, and dislikes defined everything from what bills could pass through the Senate, to which individuals were likely to be appointed to fill certain seats in the president’s cabinet.
It wasn’t ideal, or the way politics were described in textbooks. But it was the way they worked.
Realities were realities, she said to herself. One had to make tough compromises in order to lead
a successful life. In the case of planning a successful birthday party for her husband, that meant drafting a guest list and e-mailing it to Clark’s legislative assistant. But when she tried to reach for her iPhone, she couldn’t move her arms. And when she tried to look at what was binding them, she couldn’t see, even though her eyes were open.
That was when the cold reality of her situation hit her and she remembered Sedona and the armed young men in her room. Instinctively, the muscles in her neck and her sphincter tightened, and she realized that she wasn’t coming out of a normal sleep, or even a dream. She’d been drugged and was being transported somewhere. Ripped away from her complex life.
She’d read a story recently about the hundreds of thousands of women who were captured every year and sold into sexual slavery. Was it possible that they had mistaken her for a much younger woman?
Struggling not to panic, she willed her mind to focus and slowly became aware that she was bound to a seat, and that a blindfold of some sort covered her eyes. When she turned her head to the right, an orange light filtered through.
The vehicle she was in was moving very fast, a seeming reflection of the rate at which Lisa felt herself losing control of her life.
Minutes later she was jolted by the wheels of the plane hitting a tarmac and the jet’s engines slamming into reverse. Her mind snapped back to the interrupted bath, the young woman pointing the pistol. And in that instant, she remembered the dark eyes and warm-colored skin and started to panic, because she realized that this was her reality and there was no escaping it.
Remembering her daughter and wondering what had happened to her, she attempted to rip herself out of the seat. She tried to open her mouth to scream and get someone’s attention, but her mouth was taped shut.
Crocker lay on the mattress on the cement floor of the six-by-eight cell looking up at the Israeli guard’s bald head and thinking back on how he had been arrested the night before, led away by armed Israel Defense Forces (IDF) soldiers while Mancini, Davis, and Akil were held back by more armed soldiers. With his wrists and ankles chained together, he had watched from the back of a truck as Cal was moved from the desert-camouflage-painted Yas’ur helicopter to a white-and-blue ambulance, and the bodies of Ritchie and the SOAR Black Hawk pilot and copilot were carried to a coroner’s black van. Even though he was angry and the muscles in his arms and legs were sore, it was a heavy sadness that dominated and wore him down.
