Overwatch: A Thriller

by Matthew Betley

  Mike nodded. “It did, but once the fire department put out the blaze and recovered the bodies, they also found the remnants of a laptop and what looks like some kind of printer.”

  “A printer? What the hell did he have a printer in the car for?” Logan asked.

  There was a moment of silence as all three men pondered the question.

  “Wait a second. Nowadays all printers do more than just print,” John said. “Hell, I have an all-in-one in my office in Montana. I’ll bet you anything that he scanned the flag or part of it into the printer and transmitted the image to the same someone who is behind this entire mess.”

  “And I thought you were just some Unabomber-wannabe backwoods loner. Will wonders never cease?” Logan said.

  “But that’s a good thought,” Mike interjected. “The local forensics guys are still combing over the wreckage as we speak. I’ll let them know to look for any signs of a wireless internet card or anything else that might come in handy. Once my guys get here, if there’s anything they can retrieve off the printer-scanner or the laptop, they will. They’re the best at what they do.”

  Logan nodded and then asked, “What now? I’m sure I’m not the only one who could use a shower and some sleep. No joke, I’m dead on my feet.”

  “Me too. Those bastards who blew up my house interrupted my Scotch last night, and I could sure use one right now.” John looked at Logan and said, “No offense, brother.”

  Logan smiled and responded, “None taken. I think I’ve finally had enough.”

  John nodded in silent approval.

  Mike smiled and said, “Already ahead of you, boys. There’s a Marriott downtown that’s close, nice, and offers a great government rate, of course. I already booked us rooms. I’ll have one of my agents drive you both over there to get some sleep. I’ll be close behind, but first, I have to update my uncle and let him know what we think about the flag. And I want to pop in on the interrogation. Maybe he’ll give us something; maybe not. He still hasn’t told us his name yet . . . arrogant fucker. Either way, I want to talk to him. We were able to get his phone, and the police techs are running it through their own digital forensics processing. We might get lucky and find something on it.”

  Logan nodded and said, “Sounds like a plan. Hopefully, no one declares war on us again until we’re well rested. I feel like I aged ten years overnight. I also need to call Sarah and let her know I’m okay. She’s got to be worried, especially if she’s watching the news.”

  The three men stood up to leave, and as they walked out the door, Mike voiced a concern that’d been worrying him since the shootout at the Alamo. “Just between us, the longer this goes on and the longer we’re in the dark, the more nervous I am about the endgame.”

  “I know,” Logan said. “I have a bad feeling about this too. If we don’t figure it out, I don’t think today’s casualties will be the last. I just hope it’s not another nine eleven.”

  John said quietly, “We all do. Let’s just not let it get that far, then. Once we identify these assholes, we hit them first, and we hit them hard.”

  Logan looked at him, bone weary. “Always.”

  CHAPTER 27

  CAMP FROST, BAGHDAD

  30 OCTOBER 2008

  2200 LOCAL HOURS

  Cain was in one of his remote offices in the main HRI compound southwest of Baghdad, near Baghdad International Airport, his home away from home. He watched intently on his satellite television as the US national news ran nearly nonstop coverage of the events that had unfolded in San Antonio. Some of the gun battle had been captured on video by a bystander’s camcorder. It was captivating footage, gunshots and screams mixing and echoing across the urban setting, but Cain’s thoughts were elsewhere.

  After it’d become apparent that the United States was going to be bogged down fighting an insurgency in the middle of major sectarian violence between the Sunnis and Shia, Cain Frost had seen the writing on the wall.

  In 2005, he’d created his first major—and still the largest—private security base in Iraq between Saddam Hussein’s Al-Faw Palace and the airport. From his base of operations, his security personnel had continuous access for resupply from the airport, as well as easy ingress and egress routes to the former Baghdad Airport Road, renamed Route Irish after the airport was captured in 2003. In addition to serving as a connector between the airport and the Green Zone, Route Irish also provided access to Highway 1, referred to as Main Supply Route Tampa.

  It was the ideal location for his purposes, especially on days like today. When he’d received the information that Juan’s team had obtained the flag from John Quick’s home, he’d immediately called Scott Carlson, his chief of operations, former Delta Force operator, and CIA case officer, to place the security convoy on a one-hour alert.

  Cain had traveled to Camp Frost as soon as Scott informed him they’d received the scanned image of the flag, complete with the serial number.

  He’d locked himself in his office, forced himself to sit calmly at his desk, and proceeded to decrypt the map coordinates with the key he’d obtained in 2006 from a now-deceased former insurgent who’d been working with both the Iranians and Al Qaeda in Iraq.

  Deciphering the code had been easy, almost unsettlingly so. The key the insurgent leader had devised had been logical, but only one who knew the basic mathematical formula to the key would be able to decrypt it.

  The serial number read 313657292749. He’d then reversed the order, broken the number into a series of six two-digit numbers, and finally subtracted fifteen from each one. It’d taken him less than one minute, providing him with the coordinates 34 12 14 42 21 16.

  The ease with which he’d converted the number (“decrypted” really was too much of an overstatement) made him pause and reflect on the irony. Over two years of laborious work, all to prepare for one moment that was over in seconds.

  He was accustomed to complex tasks, and the simplicity of the coordinates and the key were almost too much for his strategic mind to comprehend. He’d plugged the coordinates into Google Earth on his desktop, but unlike the task of converting the number, the location displayed had shocked him.

  He’d expected the item to be in western Al Anbar Province. He’d been told as much, but he’d also expected it to be isolated, in the middle of nowhere, marked by only a cluster of five large rocks that had been placed in a pentagonal configuration sixty feet from each other, just as he’d been told. His source had said that he could walk in an invisible line from any rock to the center of the configuration, and there he’d find the item.

  He double-checked the coordinates and looked at the surrounding area to find the Haditha Dam less than one mile away.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  As he sat at his desk, he stared at the numbers. Cain had seen the interrogation video. He was fairly certain the Iranian had told the truth; torture could be an effective technique. Unless the Iranian had lied to his people, Cain Frost and his private security force were on a collision course with the Haditha Dam and its protectors.

  Acutely aware of how close he was to his objective, he called Scott into his office.

  Before he could talk, Scott said, “We have a problem.”

  Indeed it was—an unforeseen act of defiance by Mother Nature. Cain had planned on wasting no time. He’d waited long enough, and he could barely contain the physical urge to push forward now that the goal line was in sight. He knew he’d become consumed by his quest for revenge, but he couldn’t control himself. His brother hadn’t deserved to die the way he did, and it was now his sworn duty to ensure those responsible paid for their crimes and suffered, hard.

  Unfortunately, his revenge was going to have to wait a little longer, all thanks to the weather.

  A gigantic cold front had rolled across from the west, picking up sand and dust as it gained momentum. It had blanketed most of Al Anbar Province in one enormous dust storm. All air operations had ceased, and even convoy support had become almost nonexiste
nt, except to units deployed outside the wire requiring a ground medevac. Visibility was limited to less than one-eighth of a mile.

  As much as Cain wanted—physically needed—to get his forces moving, he knew the conditions would only create chaos and likely decrease his chances of success. He was too smart to make such an amateur mistake. His plan was complicated and would take several days to execute, but the delay was unavoidable.

  Scott had told him the sand and dust might clear tomorrow. If that turned out to be the case, Cain and his men would depart as soon as there was enough visibility.

  Fucking Murphy’s Law . . .

  It was too early to sleep; instead, he studied the blueprints of the dam and tried to anticipate everything that might go wrong. Given the proximity of the dam, the city, and the fact that a Marine Corps regimental combat team was providing security for both, a whole lot could definitely go wrong.

  Cain Frost hoped that when this was over, he’d never encounter another Marine again.

  He shook his head to rid himself of the distraction and focused once more on the task at hand.

  In addition to the interrogation report, his personal laptop, and the list of personnel and resources accompanying him, a map of Iran lay open on his desk. On the map was a circle around the southwestern city of Ahwaz, known in intelligence circles as the location of the Fajr military base, home to the tactical headquarters of the Quds Force.

  Keep your eyes on the prize, Cain. Eyes on the prize . . .

  PART IV

  THE SANDBOX—PART TWO

  CHAPTER 28

  FALLUJAH, IRAQ

  27 OCTOBER 2004

  The gunfire outside abruptly stopped. A deafening silence ominously fell over the entire area as trace echoes bounced off the interior of the compound walls.

  Captain West screamed into his tactical throat microphone, “Williams, get inside the compound! It’s an ambush! Get to cover now! Move!”

  He stared at Gunny Quick as moments later Lieutenant Williams screamed back, “We’re moving now!” There was a pause. “We’ve got company! Several vehicles coming from the west from the direction of that building in the distance.”

  Captain West heard Lieutenant Williams screaming at his Marines to move inside the compound. He prayed to the God that all fighting men facing death know too well, prayed that there was enough time before the first rounds landed.

  Lieutenant Williams shouted at Staff Sergeant Lopez, “Lopez, get inside! Now!”

  Those were the last words Lieutenant Williams ever uttered. The first 82mm high-explosive mortar round landed within a few feet of him. The mortar shattered the silence with a tremendous explosion, killing the lieutenant and one of his team leaders, their bodies flung aside like rag dolls.

  Staff Sergeant Lopez was twenty feet away when the round that killed his commanding officer detonated. He miraculously remained unscathed by the shrapnel. Chaos surrounded him like a thick cloak, and he didn’t have time to think.

  He couldn’t hear anything since the world had gone suddenly quiet: the mortar round’s concussion had blown out both his eardrums. All he knew was he had to get the rest of his Marines inside.

  He looked to his right and saw Staff Sergeant Jeremy Simpson screaming at him and waving, but he couldn’t understand him. We have to get inside, he thought, but he couldn’t get the words out.

  Suddenly, he was blown off his feet as the remaining rounds began to rain down along both sides of the compound. The lethal mortar fire slaughtered the Marines caught in the open with nowhere to go and no time to react.

  Lopez now lay on his back as he realized that he’d been hit. Both legs had been severed above the knees, and his back was broken.

  I feel no pain.

  He looked up at the night sky. He thought about his wife and son back in Jacksonville, North Carolina. His last conscious emotion was the love he felt for them both.

  Then he was gone, but not alone. Death had come to collect his entire squad outside the compound.

  CHAPTER 29

  As soon as the mortar fire stopped, Captain West bolted for the door on the side of the building. He hoped some of his Marines had survived, but he knew the odds weren’t good. It had been perfectly executed. They were watching us the entire time.

  He grabbed the door handle and turned to Gunny Quick. “You and I are moving straight to the north entrance to see if we can help. We do not leave the compound until we have a better idea of what the fuck is going on out there. We’re more valuable to our men alive than dead. Understand?”

  Gunny Quick didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”

  Captain West turned to Staff Sergeant Hayes. “Hayes, you four enter the other building. Ensure there are no more surprises. I’m willing to bet it’s clear. The mortars were the real show. Then join us at the entrance. Take no more than thirty seconds. Got it?”

  Staff Sergeant Hayes nodded his head and moved out.

  Captain West turned back to Gunny Quick. “Let’s go.”

  He pushed down on the door handle and swiftly exited the building. He realized as he moved that the sounds of incoming mortar rounds had been replaced by small arms fire.

  I hope my guys are holding their own.

  Moments later, they arrived at the front entrance and peered around the edge of the wall, unobserved. The scene before them exceeded their darkest fears. Unspeakable carnage lay outside the walls, and the horrors were still in progress.

  Captain West restrained himself from running through the gate with guns blazing. The action would’ve temporarily satiated his bloodlust, but it also would’ve ended with his and Gunny Quick’s certain demise.

  I’m no good to them dead, he tried to reason with himself, but a part of him yearned for violent retribution, practicality be damned.

  Six vehicles were arranged in a semicircular pattern where the Marines had been positioned. The pickup trucks were commonly referred to as “technicals,” since each one contained a .50-caliber machine gun mounted on its hood and was manned by both a driver and a gunner. But these weren’t military vehicles. The gunners all wore dark, civilian clothing.

  It’s an insurgent group.

  That fact alone told Captain West all he needed to know about his enemy. They would attack ruthlessly and with zeal. He’d come to expect nothing less in Iraq.

  He forced himself to compartmentalize his thoughts. It worked, barely. His mind shut down on his emotions like a steel trap. The outrage was replaced by a cold fury, a tsunami of raging will, the likes of which he’d never experienced.

  I’m going to find a way to kill them all.

  The gunners methodically fired into the kill zone where his Marines lay wounded, dead, or dying. The machine gun fire from the .50-caliber weapons finished the job the mortar rounds had started.

  They never had a chance.

  In addition to the gunners, more than a dozen insurgents walked among his fallen Marines. He watched as the one who must’ve been the leader—a short, stout man with a beard and bald head, a pair of sunglasses on top—stopped over a body.

  Captain West couldn’t see who it was, but he stiffened as the man drew a sidearm from a holster under his shoulder. He realized in horror what was about to happen, but before he could do anything, the insurgent shot the fallen Marine in the head.

  Captain West closed his eyes to quiet the rage that yearned to consume him. He had to be smart, or he was going to get the rest of them killed.

  “Sir—sir—Logan!” Gunny Quick whispered.

  The use of his first name brought him back to the present and away from his fury. He looked at his closest friend, mentor, and trusted advisor.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but we can’t. If we go out there, then they died for nothing. We need to stay alive to avenge them.”

  Captain West knew Gunny Quick was right.

  “Right now, they don’t know we’re here. We’ve only got a few minutes before those fuckers decide to enter the compound and realize they’re no
t alone. We have the element of surprise, but only for a few minutes.”

  Captain West looked at Gunny Quick, who’d once again read his mind. He managed a small, savage smile.

  “I know. More importantly, I know how we can hurt these motherfuckers, or at least take as many of them as we can with us.”

  He outlined his plan. “Set a Claymore fifteen feet from the entrance and run the wire back to the other house where Hayes is. Wait at the entrance. I have to go inside and talk to our Marines. Hayes might’ve found something. This was an orchestrated attack, and those assholes outside are not some ragtag bunch of bad guys. They were expecting us, and I need to know why. If they come in before I come back out, wait for as many as you can before you trigger it. Make them pay.”

  “Roger, sir. See you in a few minutes.”

  Gunny Quick took off his small Oakley backpack, set it on the ground, and removed a Claymore mine.

  Captain West turned around after taking a few steps, “And John, if possible, save that short motherfucker outside for me.”

  Gunny Quick nodded and returned to the business of preparing the Claymore.

  CHAPTER 30

  When Captain West entered the second building, the first thing that struck him was the layout. It was set up exactly like the first one, a large, open-spaced structure. The only difference was its purpose.

  The insurgents had used it as their living quarters. The back row was lined with several cots—US military–issue ones—and a round wooden table with six chairs stood in the kitchen. In the left corner of the building was a toilet surrounded by a five-foot-tall wall to provide a semblance of privacy.

  Captain West spotted Staff Sergeant Hayes, Sergeant Helms, and Sergeant Avery standing at the kitchen table, fixated on an item blocked from view.

  “Hayes,” he called out, “what did you find?”