Hunt the Scorpion

by Don Mann

  Saw a light and heard murmuring voices from inside.

  This was starting to remind him of a movie scene where the husband returns home unexpectedly to find another man sleeping with his wife.

  Holly would never do that.

  Right?

  He followed the light and voices up two steps and stopped. His heart seemed to be beating in his throat.

  He tried to prepare himself. Took a deep breath.

  What if I find them together? What will I do then?

  He blocked out these thoughts and concentrated instead on the sounds: a rumble of waves crashing in the background, the low murmur of voices from the room. Bracing himself, he entered. The light came from a lamp on the far side of the bed. The sheets and coverlet had been pulled aside but the bed was empty. The murmuring sound was coming from a television on the opposite wall. He looked for signs of Holly and saw an open lipstick on the dresser alongside the white-handled brush she always carried in her purse, a pair of her running shoes on the floor.

  She’s still here!

  Where?

  Turning, he crossed along the front of the house through a long kitchen and dining area to a hallway on the far end. The bathroom door was open, the toilet inside running.

  One door at the end of the hall; another behind him. He opened the one ahead and entered, let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The place was a mess—clothes, men’s shoes, and papers strewn across the floor, the sheets pulled off a bed, a chair turned over. The dresser drawers emptied.

  Crocker pulled aside the curtains so the moonlight streamed in and quickly confirmed that there was no one in the room.

  His heart beating wildly, he spun and doubled back to the front of the house. Alarms were going off in his head.

  A faint bluish light spilled out the bottom of the door. He clenched his fists and entered.

  The first thing he noticed was the light from the desk lamp filling the small rectangular room with strange shadows. Next, his eyes focused on a single bed. In the folds of the covers Crocker saw a shiny object he identified as a six-inch kitchen knife.

  Then he noticed a pool of blood on the floor near the desk. Stepping past the bed, he saw a man’s body lying facedown. The back of his head had been blasted off, indicating an exit wound.

  Instinctively, Crocker felt for an artery on his neck to confirm that he was dead. No pulse.

  Lifting the body under the shoulders, he turned it over carefully.

  It didn’t resemble Brian Shaw or anyone else he recognized. Poor fellow looked to be a local—dark skin, hair, and eyes, a couple of days’ growth of beard.

  Crocker set the body back down, relieved and unsettled—relieved that his worst fears hadn’t been confirmed, unsettled because he realized that something equally terrible had happened. A man had been killed, and Holly and Brian were missing.

  He wanted to run and find her but had no idea where to go.

  He also felt violated.

  Nobody touches my wife and gets away with it. No one!

  The whoop-whoop-whoop of the helicopter blades still echoed in his head as he sat in a comfortable leather chair in Ambassador Saltzman’s office. Air-conditioned air tickled his nose. He wanted to sneeze but caught himself. The ambassador sat behind his desk speaking into a cordless phone.

  Crocker had remained in Sirte the previous night with a group of Canadian soldiers who worked the scene. Canucks, they called themselves. Good guys who loved the North African weather but missed their girlfriends back home. All the female residents of the city were hiding, they reported as they gathered evidence from the house, searched the area, and set up local roadblocks, all in a frenzy.

  They’d come up with practically nothing. The deceased man in the house turned out to be the caretaker, a Libyan engineering student named Ali ak-Riyyad, twenty-one years old. The owners had fled to Morocco before the war and hadn’t returned. When friends and family members weren’t using the place, they rented it to visitors.

  Holly and Brian Shaw had learned about the house from the man who ran the information desk at the airport. They had driven there in a cab two afternoons ago. Judging from the condition of Ali’s body, the attack had taken place in the early morning hours of the following day, approximately eighteen hours before Crocker arrived.

  Shoe marks and handprints indicated that the attackers had climbed over the front wall and entered the house through an open kitchen window. They had exited out the front door. Someone had been injured, because drops of blood were spotted leading outside.

  Now, sunlight streamed in through a crack in the curtains of the ambassador’s office. A quick glance at his watch showed Crocker it was almost one in the afternoon.

  “Please, general, this is a priority. You must do everything in your power,” Saltzman said into the phone, “and act quickly. The last thing we want is for this to reach the press.”

  The last sentence jarred Crocker’s attention. Who gives a shit about the press?

  He looked up. Remington sat across from him, next to a framed photograph of the ambassador standing next to the Clintons. He was writing something on a yellow pad as the ambassador spoke.

  “No. Absolutely not,” the ambassador continued. “We haven’t heard anything here. I’ll let you know as soon as we do. Remember, speed is of the utmost importance. Yes. Yes. Thanks.”

  He hung up, undid the top button of his white oxford shirt, and called, “Nancy, find Leo Debray and tell him I want to see him.”

  Crocker was picturing Holly—the way her long brown hair framed her face, the warmth in her brown eyes, the fullness of her lips. She was strong, but delicate inside.

  Amazing woman…Grace under pressure…A beautiful, compassionate soul…

  He jerked his head up when he heard his name. “Crocker? Warrant Officer Crocker?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This is a terrible situation. I wish I knew you and your wife better.”

  Strange thing to say.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” The ambassador pulled up a chair, sat directly in front of him, and adjusted his suspenders. “Sometimes people in authority are put in a godawful position. So please excuse me for asking, is there any chance that your wife and Mr. Shaw ran off together?”

  It was like a slap in the face. “Why do you ask?”

  “Not that I’ve heard anything. No. I’m referring to a spur-of-the-moment decision. Maybe they realized they had some time off and chose to explore the country together.”

  “Where would they go?”

  “I don’t know. Misrata? Benghazi? One of the towns along the coast?”

  Crocker’s throat had turned so dry that he found it difficult to speak. “Why, sir? Has someone said something?”

  “No. No. Not at all. I don’t want you to think…”

  “Think…what?”

  “The fact is that we’ve seen very little residual violence in that area. It’s been more or less completely calm.”

  Crocker felt his fists clenching. He wanted to shout something but held back. He took a breath and said, “Sir, the house was attacked. There’s no doubt about that. The caretaker was killed. My wife and Mr. Shaw left behind a good number of their personal belongings.”

  “But not their suitcases, correct? Did you find their suitcases?”

  This line of questioning was pissing him off. “No, I didn’t, but—”

  “It makes one wonder…”

  “What, sir? I found my wife’s favorite hairbrush. She takes it with her everywhere. Her grandmother gave it to her. There’s no way in…”

  Remington crossed his long legs. He was clearly uncomfortable.

  The ambassador rubbed his chin. “I see.”

  “See what, sir?”

  “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

  Crocker said, “The obvious one is that they’ve been kidnapped.”

  Remington jumped in. “Let’s not rush to conclusions. Transportation and communication in this country
are both problematic. It’s something we deal with on a daily basis.”

  “This is clearly more than a transportation problem.”

  “Jumping to conclusions doesn’t help.”

  He wanted to shout “Fuck you!” But before he could, the ambassador spoke.

  He said, “Crocker, I can assure you that we’ll do everything in our power. Everything. We’re currently deploying all our in-country assets, which are considerable. We’ve got on-the-ground assets; we’ve got drones we can deploy in the air. We’ll find your wife. I promise.”

  “Yes, we will,” Remington echoed.

  “You can count on us, dammit. I’ll stake my career on that.”

  It’s exactly what Crocker wanted to hear. Gazing down at the coat of arms in the rug, he said, “I appreciate that, sir.”

  “What good are we, if we can’t look after our own?”

  “I agree, sir.”

  “Try and get some sleep. You must be exhausted.”

  True, he hadn’t slept. But it seemed like a ridiculous idea. Crocker muttered, “I’ll try, sir,” and rose to his feet. His head hung like a huge weight on his shoulders. He wanted to do something to help recover his wife but didn’t know what.

  The ambassador said, “I have one request before you leave.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Under no circumstances are you to talk to the press.”

  The press. The press? Why would I talk to the press? He didn’t trust what they reported and did everything he could to avoid them. Besides, the presence of SEAL Team Six operators in Libya was supposed to be top secret.

  Doesn’t Saltzman know that?

  Someone drove him to the guesthouse in a black sedan. An Amy Winehouse song was playing on the stereo. He opened his eyes as the tire wheels crunched on the gravel drive. Birds were singing. Two green parrots with red beaks chased each other past the windshield and into a nearby tree.

  He thought he might be dreaming, but then saw the grim, determined faces of Ritchie, Mancini, Akil, and Davis emerging from the house to greet him. They’d heard the news and crowded around him, expressing their sympathy.

  Akil: “We’ll get her back.”

  Mancini: “Holly’s a tough lady. She’ll be fine.”

  Davis: “Just tell us what to do, boss. I’m in.”

  Akil: “We all are.”

  Ritchie: “Whatever it takes.”

  He knew that if he could count on anyone at a time like this, it was his men. “Thanks, guys. Where’s Cal?”

  “He went home. Remember?”

  Feeling a hundred years old, he sat at the kitchen table and drank a cup of bitter coffee. Mancini stood before him with his hand over the receiver of a satellite phone. “It’s the CO. You want to talk to him?”

  “Who?”

  “Our CO back at headquarters in Virginia. I’ll tell him you’ll call back.”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Hand me the phone.”

  He recognized Alan Sutter’s smooth voice, the distinctive Kentucky accent. Remembered that he had bought land in his native state and planned to retire there and raise horses. Racehorses.

  Their CO was saying all the right things—about loyalty, sticking together, praying for Holly, doing anything that could possibly be done.

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”

  “We’re family, Crocker. Holly’s one of us.”

  “I know.” Emotion built in his chest.

  His CO paused. He was a no-nonsense guy. Sentimentality didn’t figure into his decisions.

  He said, “Crocker, this is a difficult situation for all of us. I pray that the whole thing’s a misunderstanding and Holly shows up untouched.”

  “Me, too, sir.”

  “But here’s the hard reality. No point pussyfooting around.”

  He sensed what was coming and steeled himself.

  “You and your men are there to complete an important mission.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Mancini told me that you’re under way but still have a few more sites to inspect.”

  “One or two more, sir. That’s correct.”

  “Under the circumstances, I should recall you, relieve you of your duties there.”

  “Sir—”

  His CO raised his voice. “Let me finish!”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “But I can’t.”

  “Can’t what, sir?”

  “Order you back. I know you want to be there close to your wife. I would, too. So I leave that decision up to you.”

  Crocker started to get choked up. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me.”

  Sutter said, “Here’s the situation. I want you to turn over the inspections to Warrant Officer Mancini. I know that you also lost Calvin, so I’m sending two other men.”

  “Sir, that won’t be necessary.”

  “I think it is.”

  “I disagree, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “First, I have sufficient men with me to complete the inspections. Secondly, I’m perfectly capable of continuing to lead them myself.”

  The CO paused, then said, “That doesn’t sound realistic.”

  “Trust me, it is, sir.”

  “Seriously, Crocker. You mean to tell me you think you can ignore the situation with your wife and continue?”

  “A mission is a mission, sir.”

  “Dammit, Crocker. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t get in the way.”

  “I won’t, sir. The ambassador has assured me that he has people out there looking for Holly. Frankly, I don’t know the country well enough to know where to start.”

  Sutter: “I should probably have my head examined.”

  “You make perfect sense to me, sir.”

  “If I hear about any interference from you, you’re out of there.”

  “I understand.”

  “Alright, Crocker. My prayers are with you and your wife. Godspeed.”

  Chapter Ten

  Because we focused on the snake, we missed the scorpion.

  —Egyptian proverb

  The two Ambiens Davis gave him knocked him out. In the morning he couldn’t remember anything except the Lord’s Prayer, which he repeated over and over in his head.

  Our Father who art in heaven,

  hallowed be thy name.

  Thy kingdom come.

  Thy will be done

  on earth as it is in heaven.

  Give us this day our daily bread,

  and forgive us our trespasses,

  as we forgive those who trespass against us,

  and lead us not into temptation,

  but deliver us from evil.

  Amen.

  Crocker had never been much of a believer in prayer or organized religion, but this morning he got down on his knees beside the bed and said out loud: “God, please look after Holly and deliver her from whatever evil might await her. Don’t let anyone harm her. She’s a good woman, filled with love and light, and worthy of your mercy and compassion. Amen.”

  He was still repeating the Lord’s Prayer to himself like a mantra when they arrived at the airport. As he stood with his cell phone waiting for Remington to come on the line, Akil, wearing a tight black T-shirt, said, “Doug Volman stopped by last night.”

  “Who?”

  “Volman. You know, that goofy guy from the State Department.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He said he wanted to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “Wouldn’t say.”

  Remington picked up, sounding hoarse and tired, as though he’d been speaking all night. “What’s up?”

  Crocker said, “I want to let you know that we’re assembled at the airport, about to leave for the military base in Sebha.”

  Remington provided background, explaining that Sebha was nearly five hundred miles almost directly south of Tripoli, a transportation hub in the middle of the Sahara tha
t Gaddafi had transformed into an agricultural oasis thanks to the Great Man Made River, a network of 1,750 miles of pipes that transported fresh water from wells to cities throughout Libya. It was the largest irrigation project on earth, described by Gaddafi as the eighth wonder of the world.

  “Interesting. In all the confusion about my wife, I forgot to tell you about our trip to Toummo, particularly our discovery that Iranians are stirring up trouble along the border with Niger.”

  “We knew that already.”

  “What about the fact that Farhed Alizadeh is down there directing things?”

  “It’s got our attention.”

  “What do you think Alizadeh’s presence there means?”

  “It means that the Iranians want uranium, which we already knew.”

  “I’m not an expert,” Crocker said, “but it seems significant.”

  “Are Lasher and Dr. Jabril there yet?” Remington asked, changing the subject.

  Crocker saw a black sedan crossing the tarmac. “I think they’ve just arrived.”

  “Good. Oh, and, regarding Holly, we’re following up on a lead now. I’ve had my men out working since we met with the ambassador. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate all that you’re doing and wish you good luck.”

  He wanted to trust Remington, the ambassador, and the people who worked for them. Wanted to believe that they had a network of dependable sources throughout the country that would find Holly and Brian Shaw and quickly bring them back unharmed. But he had doubts, most of which related to the Sheraton bombing. He chased them away by running through Colonel Boyd’s OODA loop in his head, which he had committed to memory as a young SEAL and repeated to himself every time he launched a mission.

  1. Observation—the highest priority. Find the threat before it finds you.

  2. Orientation—take in the situation and surroundings. Anticipate steps that will be difficult for your enemy to predict.

  3. Decision—trust your subconscious mind to weigh all the variables and present your conscious mind with the option that will offer your highest chance of success.

  4. Action—act and don’t worry about your chances of survival. If you’re wounded, you’ll receive medical care once the threat is neutralized.