In truth, the number was a simple code that the insurgent commander had devised in order to hide what the numbers really were—coordinates to the nuclear briefcase he’d buried somewhere in Al Anbar Province.
The second item in the courier’s possession was the key to the code. It had been written on a piece of paper and sealed in an envelope to be opened only by al-Zarqawi himself.
The courier had successfully accomplished his mission, but al-Zarqawi, the untrusting and ruthless man that he was, shot the courier dead upon receipt of the flag and the envelope. He wanted to be the only one with the knowledge of the nuclear device.
He kept the envelope for himself. Realizing the flag and the envelope had to be kept apart, he’d given the flag to a local insurgent commander for safekeeping in early 2004.
That insurgent commander had been killed in a US operation, and the flag had been lost, its location unknown. Then in 2008, one of Cain Frost’s numerous investigators had stumbled across an after-action report concerning an operation that had gone horribly wrong and resulted in the death of nearly an entire Marine Force Reconnaissance unit.
One note in the report had captured the investigator’s attention. “Gunnery Sergeant John Quick took custody of an Iraqi flag and will provide it to the MEF G2 shop for disposition.” That one note in a four-year-old report had started the clock on the current chain of events, ironically sending Frost on a search for the very man who’d been dispatched to save his brother’s life.
As for the envelope itself, the Iranian had provided its location before he died at the hands of Scott Carlson. Hoping against hope, he’d pleaded for his life. The begging had fallen on deaf ears. Scott Carlson had slit the man’s throat. Days later, he found the envelope exactly where the Iranian agent had stated, stored in a bank in Baghdad, still sealed. He’d handed it over to Cain Frost.
Commander Vargas stopped the interrogation. He stepped outside the enclosed chamber into the main hangar to discuss the veracity of Marcos’s story.
Logan recalled a reported Israeli air strike in September 2007 on an alleged Syrian nuclear facility called al-Kibar. The reports were speculative and shrouded in secrecy, and neither the Syrian nor Israeli governments had commented on the action. The press treated it as if it had never happened.
“As much as I don’t want to believe it, unfortunately, I do. Wars have started for less, and given the resources Cain Frost has at his disposal and his motivation, it sounds legitimate.”
Mike said, “I agree.” He looked at Commander Vargas. “See if you can get him to tell you anything more about the target itself. I can’t believe the Quds Force headquarters is going to be an easy target to reach. I need to talk to my uncle to find out exactly where it is.”
Logan thought for a moment and then said, “You know, Mike, Marcos may be a trusted agent of Cain’s, but it occurs to me that the real target could be somewhere else.”
“Come again, Logan?”
“Think about it,” Logan said, his voice strengthening. “He goes through all this trouble to obtain a nuclear weapon. He knows Marcos is a loose end he can’t tie up. He also knows that if Marcos gets captured—as he did—we’re going to interrogate him until we learn everything he knows. I’ll bet you anything that he told Marcos what the target was just to throw us off the scent in case he was captured.”
John said, “What that means is that the only way we’re going to confirm the identity of the real target is if we capture Cain before he can leave Iraq. The clock just started ticking faster.” He shook his head in disbelief. “This just keeps getting better and better.”
“I’ll see what I can find out.” Commander Vargas turned and entered the small chamber.
It proved to be unnecessary. Marcos didn’t have any more information. He’d told them everything he knew.
Commander Vargas joined them at the table moments later. He looked pale from the weight of the knowledge he now held. Logan sympathized.
So here we are, in a hangar in Mexico, trying to figure out how to stop an egomaniac hell-bent on revenge from starting a war on the other side of the world. This sucks, Logan thought.
Logan looked at Mike, who kept studying his phone, expecting his uncle Jake to call at any moment. He broke the silence.
“Unfortunately, what he’s doing is only going to result in more US casualties—if not the fucking end of the world. Iran is going to blame Israel, since everyone knows Israel has an arsenal of nuclear weapons, regardless of what they acknowledge publicly. And considering the rhetoric coming out of Iran to wipe Israel off the face of the earth, they’ve got the motive. Iran will use it as an excuse to launch a full-scale attack, probably with the support of other countries in the region. The US will have no choice but to defend Israel and respond, and everything we fought and died for will be wasted.”
“I agree, man . . .” John’s sentence trailed off, then he added, “but Logan, as much as I want to put a bullet in the man’s head, he has a point. When do we finally do something about Iran meddling in Iraq and everywhere else? We know they’re responsible for hundreds of dead US servicemen from their goddamn EFPs.” The explosively formed penetrator was a special type of IED designed to penetrate armor by using an explosive charge to deform a metal plate into a slug or rod shape and accelerate it toward a target, with disastrous effects. It was well-known throughout the Department of Defense and had even been leaked to the press that Iran was responsible for manufacturing and using them in both Iraq and Afghanistan.
John continued. “Cain’s just the first one to do something about it. I’d give him credit for it if his insane plan wouldn’t end up starting the next world war. Christ, what a mess.”
“Unfortunately, nothing’s ever black-and-white,” Logan responded.
“We should know something soon enough. If Cain has the flag and the key and if he’s in Iraq, then he’s got to be close to the bomb. The trick is going to be getting both him and the device at the same time,” Mike said.
Logan was about to respond when Mike’s phone rang. All eyes turned to him as he answered.
Logan and John watched as Mike listened to the caller, taking a few notes and nodding absentmindedly. After sixty seconds, the call ended, and Mike said, “Thank you, sir. I’ll let them know.” He hung up.
“You want the good news or bad news first?”
“The bad so I know how bad it actually is,” Logan said.
“Fair enough. Frost is in Iraq right now. He’s with his chief of operations, one Scott Carlson.” That fact cemented the underlying truth in Bocanegra’s story.
“He left his base in Baghdad yesterday on a trip throughout Al Anbar Province, supposedly to conduct inspections on his security forces at various locations. He was stuck in Fallujah yesterday due to a gigantic sandstorm. He’s supposed to be leaving for Ramadi and then finish tomorrow afternoon in Haditha. My uncle is calling the chief of station in Baghdad right now to figure out how to get eyes on Frost. If he has the nuke already, we’re fucked.”
Logan suddenly sat up, his eyes blazing intensely. “He doesn’t.”
“How do you know?” John asked. He looked at Logan, who sat smiling, eyes sparkling malevolently.
“Bocanegra. He told us that the insurgent group was hunted down in Haditha. That has to be where they hid it.”
Mike nodded. “Good catch.”
“So what’s the good news, Mike?” John asked, already knowing the answer.
Mike smiled and said, “We all get to go back to Iraq for more fun in the sun.”
“You know you seriously suck at this ‘good news, bad news’ thing,” John said.
“Hey, I’m just as excited as you are. My uncle has a C-5 on its way here. It should arrive in an hour. Then we have a direct flight to Baghdad, which should take a little more than twelve hours with multiple air refuelings.”
“Change the destination to Al Asad,” Logan said suddenly. “It’s only twenty-five miles to Haditha. Have your uncle arrange helicopt
er transport for us. We can beat Frost to Haditha and wait for him. Once we get him on surveillance with a Predator or whatever they’re using in Iraq right now, he’ll lead us to the weapon.”
“That’s a smart play, Logan,” John said. “But where do we go in Haditha? It’s a big-ass city.”
Logan already knew the answer. “The largest landmark they have,” he said. “The dam.”
“Of course. Damn—no pun intended. I should’ve thought of that already.”
“Don’t worry, John. It’s not your fault. You’re just not that smart,” Logan jibed, smiling broadly for the first time.
“Yeah. Fuck you too, brother.”
Logan looked back to Mike and asked, “What about Bocanegra?”
“That’s easy. He stays here in Mexico. If we recover the weapon, Commander Vargas will release him, and he’s free to go anywhere except the US. He’s never to set foot on our soil again. The president added that condition himself.”
“Nice,” John commented.
“Well then. I guess someone had better go inform Mr. Bocanegra that he better start rooting for the home team. Otherwise, he’ll be remanded to Mexican custody, and right now, they’re not too happy with him.”
Commander Vargas stood up from the table. “You know, if you fail because of any bogus intel from him, I’m going to personally see to it our friend in there never sees the light of day.”
“Well then, Crisanto,” Logan said, “I think you should be the one to tell him that. Maybe he’ll think of something he forgot to mention—or at least it’ll give him something else to think about over the next twenty-four hours.”
Commander Vargas smiled. “My pleasure,” he said as he reentered the interrogation chamber.
Logan looked from Mike to John. “I never thought I’d ever go back to that hellhole, ever.”
John nodded. “Likewise. But here we are.”
“So here we are,” Logan echoed. “And now we have to go back to the Sandbox where all this started to finish this, once and for all.”
The look of determination in his eyes told Mike and John all they needed to know, and Mike summed it up in one word, “Karma.”
John shot back sarcastically, “I prefer the circle of life, or in our case, the circle of death.” Then he added cheerfully, “Hakuna matata, motherfuckers.”
Logan stared at his friend. “You know, John, I’m not sure I ever told you this, but there’s something seriously wrong with you.”
PART VI
THE SANDBOX 3
CHAPTER 43
FALLUJAH, IRAQ
27 OCTOBER 2004
Captain West ordered Gunny Quick and his remaining Marines to set up defensive positions inside the building. He and Sergeant Avery were going to exit the south entrance and attempt to flank the insurgents outside the compound.
It was a risky move, but he thought it had a chance of working.
They definitely won’t expect it.
Captain West and Sergeant Avery stood by the back door to the building, ready to run on the former’s command.
Gunny Quick was moving a thick table along the west wall when they suddenly heard the distant Thwump! of mortars being fired once again.
“Get behind the table!” Captain West screamed as Sergeant Helms and Staff Sergeant Hayes scrambled for cover next to Gunny Quick and Sergeant Baker.
Captain West hoped that between the cement wall of the building and the heavy wood of the table, they’d be protected from the incoming mortars and shrapnel. “Prepare yourselves and stay down,” West said to them. “This is going to hurt. Let’s go!” he shouted to Avery.
As the mortars whistled through the night, Gunny Quick looked at his commanding officer and said, “You’re crazier than I thought, sir.”
Captain West smiled at him, a glint in his eye, but before Gunny Quick could say anything else, the captain and Sergeant Avery disappeared out the back door at full speed.
I hate indirect fire, Gunny Quick thought moments before the mortar rounds fell on the compound.
* * *
Abdul Sattar crouched behind his pickup truck as Abu Omar opened fire with the first volley of mortars that he’d requested.
He prayed that Omar’s aim was true and that Allah would guide the mortars to the target. If one round fell short of the compound, Abdul Sattar and what remained of his men would likely be killed, not the remaining Americans inside the compound.
He counted the seconds as he waited for the rounds to impact.
One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . and then all four rounds struck simultaneously inside the compound, four separate explosions that merged into one enormous Boom! that sent a gigantic plume of dirt and debris into the air.
He smiled as he waited for the dust to dissipate. It wasn’t likely that anyone could survive a direct hit from the mortars, but just for insurance, he’d ordered Omar to fire a second volley.
Abdul Sattar wanted to ensure that whoever was inside was either dead or seriously wounded before he sent more men into another ambush.
He turned to his right to speak to one of his men. The smile fell off his face as his jaw dropped on its hinges and he stared shocked at the scene before him illuminated by the trucks’ headlights.
It can’t be. No one should’ve survived!
* * *
Inside the building, Gunny Quick, Staff Sergeant Hayes, Sergeant Helms, and Sergeant Baker had flattened themselves at the base of the wall behind the table.
Gunnery Sergeant John Quick knew a direct hit would likely kill them all. Even though the table, carved out of a thick, heavy dark wood, had taken three of them to flip, no one survived a direct mortar strike.
He’d wondered where the insurgents had obtained such an obviously ornate and expensive table and when they’d transported it to this torture compound. Then he remembered this was Iraq, and nothing much surprised him anymore except the level of cruelty and violence their enemies displayed on a daily basis.
He prayed silently as the four 82mm mortar rounds landed inside the compound. Two of them were direct hits on the other building. One landed near the south entrance to the compound. The remaining mortar hit the roof of their building, punched a hole through it, and detonated inside their shelter with disastrous effects.
All prayers and thoughts were wiped from his mind as the concussive wave slammed into the table, splintering it in half and knocking him unconscious.
CHAPTER 44
Captain West and Sergeant Avery ran to the south entrance of the compound in seconds. They slowed momentarily as they dashed through the doorway and turned right, only to sprint again toward the western wall.
Captain West was counting on the insurgents focusing their fire on the north entrance, where all their losses had occurred. He was conducting his own personal flanking maneuver and hoped like hell the spirit of Rommel was on his side.
I better be right, or we’re screwed.
The two men reached the compound’s corner and moved past it into open ground. They looked right as they emerged from behind the wall to assess the situation in front of them. Their movements were concealed by the darkness at this end of the wall.
Thirty meters in front of them were four pickup trucks. One of them near the north entrance was in ruins from the Claymore. The remaining three were parked facing the compound entrance.
Captain West spotted several bodies near the wrecked pickup, but his focus shifted immediately to the bald man with dark sunglasses near the truck farthest from them.
In between the captain and his prey stood six armed men, all dressed in an assortment of dark clothing, all carrying AK-47s. Fortunately for Captain West and Sergeant Avery, none of them faced their direction.
The bold maneuver had worked. The Marines had them dead to rights.
Checkmate, motherfuckers.
As the mortars hit the building, Captain West moved a short distance from the sergeant and transitioned from a run into a combat walk, raising his M4 in a flui
d motion. Sergeant Avery, closer to the wall and in stride with his commanding officer, executed the same move. Both men quickly closed the distance, moving parallel to the compound wall.
Captain West had instructed his Marine to hold his fire until he himself initiated contact. He placed the red dot on the back of the head of the closest insurgent, now only twenty feet away, and slowly pulled the trigger.
As the earth shook from the explosions, he watched the man’s head jerk forward with the impact of the bullet. His body went limp and fell to the ground.
He moved forward as debris rained down around them. Another insurgent collapsed to the dirt, the handiwork of Sergeant Avery.
Captain West, ears ringing from the mortars, realized that the echoes of the explosions would only mask their fire for a few more seconds. He wasted no time as he stalked the men and pulled the trigger with fatal accuracy.
No quarter. No mercy.
Only seconds later, two more victims standing near the second pickup truck lay dead on the ground with multiple gunshot wounds to their backs.
They closed the remaining distance as the third pair of insurgents turned toward them. They’d recognized the gunfire through the din of the mortar rounds. The expressions of shock and surprise on their faces satisfied the Marines’ thirst for vengeance—at least momentarily. Moments later, a hail of gunfire killed both Iraqi men where they stood.
One man collapsed into the beam of a headlamp; the other bounced off the hood of the pickup truck and slumped to the ground, his back against the front tire.
Now it’s your turn, Captain West thought as the final echo faded away and the insurgent leader turned and looked directly into his face.
What Abdul Sattar saw was the face of Death, eyes bright with a righteous fury he recognized.
He’s chosen a path and will see it to the end, Abdul Sattar thought.
Overwatch: A Thriller Page 24
