by Mark Greaney
“The future’s hard to predict.”
“That’s right. I guess I’m trying to decide, should this person in a position to do this thing to this bad actor act . . . or should he wait for someone with more knowledge of the situation to decide if the elimination of the bad actor is the right thing to do?”
Hanley said, “You want a vague answer?”
“I want an ironclad thumbs-up or thumbs-down, but I’ll take what I can get.”
“You are after my blessing, then.”
“Something like that . . . I guess.”
“Well, kid, I can’t just give you carte blanche to delete anyone in the world you want to delete. Officially or unofficially.”
“I understand.”
“Having said that,” Hanley continued, “I’ve learned over the years that you have pretty fair judgment.”
Court did not reply to this.
“And . . . if the question is, ‘do we take a bad actor off the game table, even if we don’t know what will come next,’ I kinda have a philosophy about that.”
“I’d be very interested in your philosophy, Matt.”
Hanley kept his voice low as his eyes flitted about the room. “If a bad guy gets dead, well, it might make the next bad guy think a little bit. It might not, there’s no silver bullet to fix every problem, but at the end of the day, a little street justice, an eye for an eye . . . well, that might be the most sure thing there is out there to hold back the monsters.”
There was a long pause. “I’ve been thinking pretty much the same thing.”
“I know you have. And you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. Officially speaking, though, I haven’t said shit, and you have not been tasked. You got that?”
“Got it.”
The connection crackled for several seconds.
“Court, old buddy, I’ve got a rib eye staring me down here.”
“I’ll let you get back to your steak. Sorry to bother you.”
“You kidding? Between you and me, this little phone call has made my week.”
“Guess that means you had a shitty week.”
“I’d say you have no idea, but you probably do.” Hanley sipped water now. “Your mom misses you.”
“Suzanne Brewer’s definitely not my mom, and I doubt she misses me. She probably was hoping I hadn’t checked in because I got hit by a bus.”
“Brewer knows she’s not that lucky.” Hanley laughed aloud, then adopted an authoritative tone. “I want to hear back from you again, soon. You copy? We still have an arrangement, if you remember.”
“Copy. Let me figure out my current predicament, then I’ll reach out.”
“Put a couple weeks in between,” Hanley said. “For the sake of plausible deniability.”
“Will do.”
Hanley added, “I guess I’ll keep one eye on the news for a few days to see what the hell you’re up to. Be careful, kid. Come through whole, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.”
Hanley disconnected the call and immediately put a call in to a number he had stored on his phone. It went directly to a desk at the Pentagon, and a watch officer answered on the first ring and sent Hanley’s call on from there.
While he waited for the transfer, he picked up his fork and took a bite of his sherry-glazed mushrooms. As he looked around the room, it occurred to him that no one else sitting in the restaurant could have possibly guessed that the thickly built man dining alone had just given tacit approval to the assassination of the president of Syria.
CHAPTER 66
Court Gentry sat alone in Captain Anderson’s hooch for twenty minutes, drinking water, eating rations, and waiting. A Green Beret medic came in and cleaned and stitched the vicious cut he’d received over his right ear from the exploding windshield glass in Damascus, then wrapped Court’s head with a dressing.
Finally the captain came through the door, followed by two other members of his A-team. He introduced them as Danny, a master sergeant, and Cliff, a first sergeant. Court did not introduce himself but shook their hands.
Once this was done, Robby said, “All right, mystery man. I’ve been told to hand you over whatever you want, equipment-wise, food- and water-wise, et cetera, and follow your instructions. I am then ordered to forget I ever saw you. Not sure if that means you have friends back at Langley, or enemies.”
“Yeah, our relationship status is complicated.”
Robby said, “We are staying here for the next several weeks, so unless you want to join our op, you’ll need to get extracted somehow. If your friends in high places can scare up transport for you, I’ll certainly get you safely to your LZ.”
Court shook his head. “Thanks, but I don’t need babysitters.”
“Sir, you’re smack-dab in what’s left of ISIS country.”
“Well, that blows. My travel agent said this was a clothing-optional resort.”
All three men laughed, but to Court it still appeared they were regarding him as if he were a unicorn. Robby said, “Seriously, you aren’t going anywhere without a lot of help.” Cliff unrolled a large satellite photo of the area and put it on a table in his hooch. He showed Court where they were in the hills, a few hours’ drive south of the highway where he’d been captured. “The FSA has technicals, but you’ll need a helicopter. The Iraqi border is one hundred twenty-five klicks east. The Turkish border is three times that to the north.”
Court just looked at the Army men. “I’ll be heading northwest, actually. To Palmyra.”
All three looked up from the sat photo. Robby said, “Now why would a smart fella like you go and do a thing like that?”
Court shrugged. “Work.”
Cliff said, “We’ve had our drone up north. Not to Palmyra, but east, over the M20. We’ve been seeing all the activity. A couple days ago the Iranians moved out of the area, then the SAA moved in, and yesterday the militia pushed east along the highway. We even spotted some Russian attack helos. You know anything about what’s going on?”
Court nodded. As far as he was concerned, an American A-team right here a few hours’ drive from enemy lines should know as much as possible about what was going on. “Ahmed Azzam is going to be visiting a small Russian Spetsnaz base located about two klicks east of Palmyra tomorrow, probably in the morning.”
“What Russian base?” the men asked simultaneously, and this surprised Court.
“You don’t know of a Russian base along the M20?”
Court looked down to the photo and put his finger on the place where he’d seen the nucleus of the security operation. “I saw it on an enemy map right here. Just north of the M20 highway. Also, there is something they want protected down here.”
Court remembered the “dumbbell” on the map and traced his finger down. There, displayed on the photo, were a few bombed-out buildings and the unmistakable shape of a single runway. “What’s this?”
“It was the Palmyra airport. It’s been shuttered for years. Since ISIS came in. The SAA hasn’t reopened it.”
“How old is this image?” he asked.
Danny checked the back. “Almost a month. That’s so far out of our sector we haven’t updated it. Mostly we use our UAVs for real intelligence, not sat images.”
Court’s eyes were on the airfield. “Holy shit!” he said aloud, as it came to him. “Not only is that airport back open, but I think the Russians are running it.”
Robby was incredulous. “Where are you getting this intel?”
Court said, “Can’t say. But I can say I’m pretty sure I’m right.”
Robby looked at him. “And you want to go there?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘want to.’ More like ‘have to.’”
Danny said, “Shit, sir, I wanna be you when I grow up.”
Court shook his head. “You really do not, Sergeant.”
&n
bsp; Cliff looked to his senior officer. “Hey, Rob. What about hooking him up with the Terp? He’s from Palmyra.”
Robby nodded. “An FSA soldier . . . he’s our interpreter. You met him this morning, sort of. He’s one hundred percent reliable, the bravest and hardest-working kid I’ve ever met. Seriously, I’m going to adopt the Terp when I get out of here, and he’s only a couple of years younger than me.”
“If he knows Palmyra, then I’d really like to talk to this guy.”
* * *
• • •
The Special Forces team’s FSA translator was called in over the radio, and he entered the captain’s hooch with a very worried look on his face. Court saw that he was the young man who wore the black Adidas jacket with the white piping that he’d seen earlier in the day. He was in his midtwenties, with a scraggly beard.
Robby said, “Meet Slick. He’s American. That’s all you need to know.”
The young man nodded and shook Court’s hand. “Sorry I hit you on the head when you had the bag on. I thought you were Desert Hawks Brigade.”
“No hard feelings,” Court said. “Why is your English so good?”
“My father grew up in the UK, then moved back to Palmyra. When I turned seventeen I studied languages at the University of Homs. French and English. But only for two years. Then the war came.”
Robby said, “Slick needs to go somewhere in Palmyra, high up enough in a building to where he can see this area here.” He pointed on the photo to where he’d been told by the stranger that a Russian base had been erected. “You know a way to get there?”
The Terp furrowed his eyebrows. “It is very dangerous. Maybe if you sneak across the desert you can get there, but the SAA is all over Palmyra since they took it back from Daesh.”
Court said, “Sometime tomorrow Ahmed Azzam himself will be two klicks east of Palmyra. I want to be close enough to see him.”
An astonished look crossed the Syrian’s face. Thinking a moment, he said, “Maybe we can get into the hills to the north. You will be able to look down onto that land. It’s very flat.”
Court shook his head. “They will be ready for that. This base will have berms and structures built up to protect against that high ground to the north. There’s no way we can set up there and expect to get a look at Azzam.” He spun the map around and put his finger on a point to the west. “But if we can somehow get into the city of Palmyra . . . they won’t be expecting eyes on them from that direction.”
The Terp said, “Of course they won’t. Why would they? It’s full of SAA and pro-regime militia units. I have friends who live in Palmyra; I lived there for three years fighting for it myself, before we lost it to ISIS. Then SAA came and took it from ISIS. Trust me, nobody knows the place like I do. But the FSA can’t go into Palmyra.”
“Maybe not the FSA. But what about a couple of idiots with a long rifle?”
The Terp looked at the Green Berets as if he did not understand.
Cliff said, “I think he’s talking about you and him.”
The young Syrian looked back to Court like he couldn’t believe the American was serious.
Court looked down at the area on the photo, checked the scale, and then touched a building on the far eastern side of the city. It was the only building of any size in the area; the next group of large structures was three blocks west.
“This building here looks like it’s about a mile and a half from the center of the camp, assuming it’s where I think it is. Farther to the runway.” He looked up at the others in the room. “I want to go to this building.”
The Terp puffed his chest out a little. “I am a proud fighter of Usud al-Sharqiya.”
Court looked at Robby. “What’s that?”
Robby said, “Lions of the East Army. It’s the name of his militia.”
“I thought he was FSA.”
“Slick, there are thirty different groups that make up FSA that I know of.”
Court addressed the young man again. “Okay, you are Lions of the East. What’s your point?”
“My point is that I have no fear. I will go with you, Mr. Slick.”
Court nodded at the young man. “I appreciate it.”
Cliff spoke to Court now. “I can gear you up, unless you were looking for a cold beer or a bottle of scotch.”
Court shook his head. “You got an M107?” He was speaking of the Barrett M107 anti-matériel sniper rifle.
Cliff shook his head. “Negative. But we have a TAC-50. The FSA has one, as well.” The McMillan TAC-50 was another fifty-cal sniper rifle.
“How pissed will the FSA sniper be to give his up?”
Robby said, “My command says to get you whatever you want, but no U.S. forces are to accompany you when you leave my base. I’ll get you that rifle, and I’ll straighten it out with the FSA.”
“Good. Other than the sniper rifle, I need an AK with a folding stock, a pistol, a technical, and some water. Fuel to get me fifty klicks.”
The Terp shook his head. “Others will want to come.”
“We have to keep this small-scale. If we’re detected, either we’ll be killed before Azzam comes, or they’ll cancel his visit.”
“If we are bringing a truck anyway, it doesn’t matter if we are two men or six men.”
“You have anyone in mind who might tag along?”
The Terp looked to Robby. “Yusuf and Khadir. Plus a driver and a man to protect the driver.”
Robby said, “Yusuf and Khadir are the Carl Gustaf team.”
Court knew a little about the Carl Gustaf recoil-less rifle, but not much. He did know that it was an 84-millimeter weapon that fired an array of standard and rocket-boosted munitions. “Trained by you guys?”
“Yep. U.S. Army ordnance, given to the FSA along with training. Those two guys are as accurate as you’ll get in all the FSA. They’ve been together for years as an RPG team. We outfitted them with the Carl and now they are rock stars around here. If you need a piece of armor hit at up to four hundred yards, Yusuf and Khadir are the ones to do it for you.”
“Sure,” Court said. “That might just come in handy.”
CHAPTER 67
Two Mercedes Viano vans, each carrying a driver and six passengers, arrived in Athens, Greece, in midafternoon. They parked in a lot near the Port of Piraeus, and then Malik, Drexler, Sauvage, Medina, and three of Malik’s men walked along Kastoros Street, while the rest of the GIS men did their best to melt into the neighborhood without being noticed.
Soon Drexler and his entourage turned into the doorway of an office building by the water, and they climbed three sets of stairs to a large office space overlooking the yachts in the marina.
The sign on the door read “Hellenic Carriers of Ocean Freight, Inc.”
It appeared to be a working office, but a key had been left under a mat for Malik, and when they all entered through the door, the lights were off and no one was inside.
Malik turned to Bianca after flipping on the lights. “Mademoiselle Medina, there are a few cubicles in the corners with some privacy, and there is a large corner office that is at your disposal if you would like to rest. I am sorry this is not more comfortable for you, but this office is owned by my department, and it is the closest and safest place near the marina. We will stay here until the boat from Syria arrives, early tomorrow morning.”
“It is fine, of course. Shukran,” she said.
Bianca sat down in an office chair and idly looked over some brochures, reading about the services of the freight forwarding company written in French. Malik saw her interest and said, “This is a front of ours. We use this place to help get weapons and supplies into Syria past the embargos. I don’t think the war would be going nearly so well for us without this office, and others like it in Italy and Croatia.”
Drexler had been standing by the window looking down on the
neighborhood below. Soon he asked Malik to join him there.
The Swiss operative said, “You can’t keep all your men here. They will stick out like sore thumbs.”
“It is my job to protect Medina until she gets on that boat tomorrow.”
“And you will have failed if someone calls the local police to tell them ten Arab men wearing jackets are standing on the hot streets at a port in southern Greece. Think, Malik. Medina can only be hidden here for the next twelve hours if we remain low profile.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting you send all your men home. Between you, me, and Sauvage we can watch her. When the skiff from the ship lands tomorrow there will be more GIS men to protect her all the way to Syria.”
Malik looked down at the port, then shook his head. “Not all of them. I’ll send some home, but I’ll keep my top three men here with me.”
Drexler nodded. “Thank you.”
Malik turned to him. “The policeman. You haven’t armed him, have you?”
“Armed him? If I armed him, the first person he’d shoot would be me.” Drexler smiled now. “Don’t worry about him. He’s my problem, and I’ll take care of him.”
And this was true. Drexler was not worried about Sauvage. Now he was only worried about the four men between himself and Medina. Malik and his three men. He’d managed to thin the herd by talking the Syrian operative into releasing most of his force here, but the four who were staying, Malik included, would be the best of the best.
He knew he could kill four men in most circumstances, but these were no ordinary men. Certainly he would be killed if he tried. He told himself he was just missing one piece to the puzzle, and then he would make his play.
Drexler and Malik left the office to go down to the marina to make arrangements for the boat to dock the following morning, so Sauvage, Medina, and the three Syrian GIS men remained in the large office space. Bianca and Sauvage sat across from each other at different desks, both with a view out the window to the port, and then beyond to the Aegean Sea.
