In the back of the barn below the ceiling of an open-air, three-sided loft, they saw a soft glow.
The barn has electricity.
They entered the building and moved slowly to the back. Staff Sergeant Hayes searched the left wall near the entrance. “Sir, found a switch,” he called out.
He flipped it upward. “Holy shit,” Gunny Quick said. “Jackpot.”
Captain West couldn’t believe it. They’d discovered an insurgent command center.
Three tables were lined up side by side. On each one were two computers and a radio, which looked like some type of Iraqi high-frequency system. In addition to the computers and radios, plywood had been erected behind the tables. Taped to the plywood were maps and photographs of both the city of Fallujah and the camp the Marines were using as a base of operations.
Captain West walked over to the center of the table.
No fucking way . . .
He was riveted by one particular photo, which had been taken from the ground. It showed a building complex surrounded by concrete walls. There was only one entrance to it, which was guarded by a Marine and surrounded by concertina wire. It was the Tactical Fusion Center in the middle of Camp Fallujah.
“Sir, you’re not going to believe this,” he heard Gunny Quick say. He looked over to see the Marine holding multiple ID cards that were provided to Iraqi contractors for access to the Marine camp.
“Damn.” Captain West turned to Staff Sergeant Hayes. “Tell Helms to contact the COC. Tell the watch officer to find the division G-2, Colonel Gifford. Tell him to wake him up if he has to. It’s an emergency. Give him our frequency and channel and have the colonel call me as soon as he can. Tell them we hit the fucking insurgent intelligence lottery. We’re not going anywhere right now.”
He heard Staff Sergeant Hayes relay his instructions. His peripheral vision caught some movement, and he looked to see Gunny Quick folding something, about to place it in his backpack.
“Gunny, what’d you find?”
Gunny Quick turned his head toward him, an odd look in his eye. He nodded his head to the right of the tables.
“These fuckers were using that area to film beheadings. There’s blood all over the floor . . . lots of blood . . . and this.”
He held up an Iraqi flag with both hands.
“It was hanging in the background. I’m taking it as a reminder and to ensure that no one ever again uses this particular flag as a symbol of torture and evil. This operation is now closed, but I want to remember what we did here. And this will remind me.”
Captain West understood, although he knew he wasn’t going to need a trophy to remind him of any of this night’s events. He had a feeling they’d be far too vivid for way too long.
“Fair enough. Just make sure you let the G-2 know. If he gives you any grief about it, I’ll take care of it.” He paused, then added somberly, “You know, this intelligence could save a lot of lives, both American and Iraqi. We paid a high price for it, but no matter what’s here, it wasn’t worth it to me.”
The enormity of the night’s events weighed heavily on both men. They were trained professionals, elite hunters of men, but this mission was something altogether unlike anything they’d ever encountered.
“I agree, sir, but at least this intel might bring just a little bit of value to this entire fiasco. I still can’t believe we were used to do the CIA’s dirty work. I don’t want to ‘what if’ this one to death, but more prep time might have avoided some or even all of our casualties. What a fucking nightmare . . .”
Gunny Quick’s voice trailed off.
Captain West remained quiet. Finally, he said, “I know. And I’ll tell you one more thing—and you can take it to the bank—if I ever see that motherfucker James again, I’m going to kill him. I don’t care who or what he is, he’s a dead man for setting us up like this. You hear me? A fucking dead man.”
The conviction in Captain West’s voice was unmistakable.
As determined as his commanding officer and leader was, Gunny Quick realized that James had likely left Camp Fallujah as soon as they’d stepped off for this mission. He was certain Captain West knew it as well.
He also knew that somehow, no matter how long it took, his boss would see the man again. He only hoped he’d be around to witness that reunion.
You’re a dead man walking, James, and you don’t even know it.
PART VII
RECKONING
HADITHA DAM, IRAQ
CHAPTER 48
HADITHA, IRAQ
2 NOVEMBER 2008
The city of Haditha—home to some one hundred thousand Sunni Iraqi citizens—was located approximately 140 miles northwest of Baghdad. It had been center stage for several major events in the aftermath of the US invasion in 2003 as a result of both its location and its single-largest piece of key terrain—the Haditha Dam.
The dam sat on the Euphrates River and supplied water through an extensive system of regulation and pumping stations, and irrigation and drainage canals. It was an enormous, earth-filled structure over five and a half miles long and 187 feet high. It contained more than sixteen floors of rooms and chambers that housed not only the power plant itself but also the Marines who currently ensured its security.
US Army Rangers had seized the hydropower complex in April of 2003 to prevent its possible destruction by Iraqi forces. Destroying the dam would’ve resulted in an immediate lack of water during the sweltering summer months, massive flooding from the enormous artificial lake the dam created, and the loss of a major source of electricity.
Haditha proper, which actually lay a few miles south, had been a center of insurgent activity after US forces took control of the dam. Multiple operations had been launched against the insurgents holding the city until tensions between US Marines and civilians had finally boiled over, ultimately resulting in the controversial killing of twenty-four Iraqi noncombatant civilians in 2005.
International news coverage and an outcry from politicians, using words like “murder,” only inflamed the volatile situation until the US changed its strategy in 2006 and drove out the remaining insurgents by the end of 2007.
Now, nearly one year later, things had quieted down dramatically, so much so that Cain Frost’s private security contractors augmenting the dam’s security hadn’t come under attack in almost six months. Cain wouldn’t have believed it himself if he hadn’t been out here on another site visit three months ago, when he’d been provided a guided walking tour of the city by the chief of his security forces.
So much change in so little time. And I’m about to change it all some more, he thought now as he looked at the dam through the tinted window of the Cougar HE armored fighting vehicle in which he rode shotgun. His convoy had already passed the city, having left Fallujah late in the morning.
The fact that he’d lost contact with Juan Black—Marcos Bocanegra—yesterday concerned him. His source in DC had gone off the grid as well, indicating that events were escalating not just for Cain but also for the organized forces pursuing him. If US law enforcement were close on his trail, his source wouldn’t have the time to contact him again. It didn’t matter. The finish line was in sight.
Cain knew that the secrecy and sudden lack of information—especially with such a highly placed source—meant one of two things: the assault had gone disastrously wrong, or the US had succeeded in capturing Marcos and now knew Cain’s intentions, if not the exact target of them. He hoped it was the former and that the aftermath would provide him enough time to retrieve the nuclear device and leave Haditha tomorrow morning. If it were the latter . . . well, he’d deal with it at the appropriate time. There was no point in dwelling on it. He was past the point of no return.
As a precautionary measure, he’d contacted his home office. No law enforcement or Department of Defense officials had called for him, but his office had received a phone call from some senator’s office looking into the future of his Iraq contract.
Fucking politici
ans. Always about money with those corrupt bastards. He had no plans to call him back, ever.
Cain looked at the GPS-enabled laptop computer in front of him as his convoy approached the coordinates he’d preprogrammed into it. They were almost there.
“Scott, make the call,” he said to his chief of operations, the driver of the Cougar.
“Roger, sir,” Scott Carlson responded. He picked up the transmitter on one of the vehicle’s tactical radios, already programmed with the radio net frequency for the dam’s combat operations center.
“Haditha COC,” he called out, “this is HRI Actual about a mile and a half southwest of the dam. One of our vehicles just stalled—if you can believe that,” he added for good measure. “We’re going to stop all the vehicles. The boss doesn’t want to leave one out here alone, even though the threat level is low. As soon as we ID the problem, I’ll call you back. How copy?”
“Roger all, HRI Actual,” responded a youthful-sounding Marine. “Radio if you need us. We can be there in minutes.”
To have Marines respond to their location was exactly what Cain didn’t need, especially at this stage of the game.
Scott and Cain exchanged glances, and Scott said, “Appreciate the offer, COC, but I think we have enough firepower to take on a small army. We’ve got the boss with us, you know?”
Cain shook his head in mild exasperation, but the banter seemed to strike the right chord with the Marine. “I hear that, sir. You should see what we take when we escort visiting generals on sightseeing tours of the city. Insurgents would be crazy to attack us. Anyhow, we’re here if you need us. Good luck. COC out.”
“Roger, COC. Thanks. HRI Actual out.”
Cain said, “Nice job. Hell, I’d have believed you myself.”
Then just as quickly, Frost’s face donned the mask of intensity only his inner circle ever glimpsed. “Now let’s get down to business. We have a country to attack.”
The entire convoy of five vehicles stopped as one, pulling over to the side of the asphalt road. The doors of each vehicle opened in unison, and Cain Frost’s personal security force of fifty highly trained operators exited the vehicles to set perimeter security.
Each man had been chosen specifically for this mission, and each one was committed to its success. Several had lost friends to IED attacks that had been linked to Iran. But just to ensure their loyalty, Cain had promised each one a $400,000 bonus, a small sum considering the vast wealth he’d protected in numbered accounts in the Caribbean.
Cain stepped out of the lead vehicle and looked east across the road. There was nothing but flat desert sand that dropped away to the Euphrates River approximately a quarter mile away. A lone tree stood guard at the edge.
Good.
He checked the coordinates on the laptop one more time and scanned the desert floor. His heart beat rapidly as he saw the rock formation one hundred yards ahead.
It dumbfounded him that a nuclear device was buried so close to where he stood. He felt a surreal sense of calm wash over him as he focused on what he had to do in the next few minutes.
Have to remain calm. Stay focused, Cain.
He looked back to the dam and counted to sixty. No reaction. Looks like we’re in the clear.
“Scott, grab four men and follow me. Let’s get this over with.”
Cain moved toward the rocks, holding a small, portable GPS. Scott Carlson and the small security detachment followed, carrying an assortment of shovels and pickaxes.
Two minutes later, Cain stopped and said, “This is it. We’re on top of it.”
He looked around and confirmed that he stood at the precise intersection of the five large boulders that marked the spot. He glanced down, and his handheld GPS also confirmed it.
“Start digging. We need to be out of here within minutes.”
All four men dug furiously as Cain and Scott silently watched.
After a few minutes, as a hole slowly materialized in the desert floor, Cain finally spoke. “Scott, we’re about to take possession of a tactical nuclear device built by a tyrannical Middle Eastern country that was aided by North Korea, all in violation of international law and UN sanctions.” He paused.
His chief of operations said nothing.
“When I say it out loud, it sounds ridiculous. I still can’t believe this day has finally come to pass.”
“I know, sir, but it has, and within forty-eight hours, you’ll have your justice, and the rest of the world will know that your conviction has done what the rest of the international community could not.”
“Well, Scott,” Cain said thoughtfully, “that’s one way to look at it, but unfortunately, I don’t think the rest of the world will see it that way. Some will, but our own country most definitely will not.”
Before Scott could respond, there was a metallic clang as one of the shovels suddenly struck a buried object.
“Sir, you may want to take a look at this,” said the man who’d swung the pickax.
The rest of the team brushed the dirt away as Cain approached and looked into the shallow pit. He revealed no emotion as he mentally reviewed every action he’d taken—the lives he’d ended, the lies he’d told—over the past few years to reach this point. It was all worth it.
Steven—it’s almost time, brother.
One side of a large, aluminum suitcase was exposed, covered in a fine coat of dust and dirt. Cain immediately identified it as a Zero Halliburton, one of the most widely recognized suitcases in the world. In addition to being featured in dozens of Hollywood movies, it was incredibly sturdy and extremely airtight in dusty conditions. Such as this godforsaken desert . . .
“Congratulations, sir,” one man with a shovel said.
“Thank you, Jackson. Now please get it out of there and place it in the container in the back of my vehicle.”
Jackson nodded, and the four men cleared the remaining sides of the suitcase. Within seconds, the tomb of dirt and sand was no more. In one anticlimactic move, Jackson bent over, found the handle, and hoisted the nuclear device out of the Iraqi ground that had been its home for the last few years.
None of the men uttered a word as they returned to the vehicle and loaded the suitcase into the back of the lead Cougar, securing it in a large, dark-green, rectangular container lined with black foam.
Scott issued a signal to the rest of the security force, which then entered the vehicles and waited for the lead Cougar to move.
Cain nodded at Scott, who once again picked up the radio transmitter and said, “Haditha COC, this is HRI Actual. Over.”
The same voice as earlier responded. “This is Haditha COC. Go ahead, HRI Actual.”
“COC, turns out it was just some loose wires on the engine. I’m not a mechanic, but our men can fill your maintenance guys in, if they’re willing to take a look. Regardless, we’re inbound with an ETA of less than five minutes. Over.”
“Roger, HRI Actual. I’m sure our guys would be happy to help. See you shortly. Out.”
“Roger, COC. Out here.”
Cain turned to Scott once more. “One last item before we move . . .” He pulled out a secure phone, typed a short text message, hit send, and said, “Okay. Let’s go.”
Just as quickly as they’d stopped, the convoy moved out, its mission accomplished, Cain confident that his plan was on the brink of success.
Now for the hard part.
He was comforted by the fact that he was a superb liar. He’d be utilizing that skill to push through the remainder of the day to tomorrow morning, when his security force would finish its site visit and begin its return to Camp Frost—without him or his chief of operations.
As the convoy departed, none of them heard the sound of engines on the Euphrates as a single rigid-hull boat powered up and crept back up the river toward the dam.
CHAPTER 49
THE HADITHA DAM
2 NOVEMBER 2008
A mile and a half away on top of the Haditha Dam, five men in Marine Corps desert digital c
amouflage uniforms lay prone, observing the convoy’s actions.
A sixth Marine sat fifteen feet behind the men on the concrete, a military radio in a backpack at his feet. A Marine captain and forward observer—FO for short—for the artillery unit deployed in direct support of the 7th Marine Regiment, he was particularly skilled in calling in artillery support and had recorded over fifty call-for-fire missions in the Battle of Fallujah. It was more than any other FO in the Marine Corps.
He’d just conveyed the convoy’s status to the group, the COC having immediately relayed it to him.
Colonel Anderson Walker, a fit, midfortyish man from Texas who wore a boonie cover on his head, pulled back from a pair of military binoculars and said, “Looks like they got what they wanted, gentlemen, and they’re heading here.”
“That’s good for us, colonel, as insane as it sounds,” Mike Benson replied. “Once they arrive, we stick to the original plan. Once you separate Cain and his deputy from the rest of the men, your Marines take them into custody and then secure the nuclear device.”
Logan, John, and Mike had arrived at Al Asad earlier in the morning. They’d caught a headwind across the Atlantic and refueled in the Mediterranean, completing the flight in a little more than ten hours.
The secretary of defense had personally called Colonel Walker on a secure telephone and briefed him on the situation. He’d ordered him to provide any and all support to the small contingent of guests he now hosted.
In Logan’s opinion, the colonel was doing everything he could to assist them, even enthusiastically so. He hadn’t needed the secretary of defense to emphasize the gravity of the situation. This was Colonel Walker’s third deployment to Iraq. He’d lost thirty-four Marines under his command. As he put it, “This asshole wants to start another war that will only get more Marines killed. That’s all I need to know. Hell. If I get the chance, I’ll put a bullet in his head myself.”
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