Hunt the Scorpion

by Don Mann

Crocker stole a look at his watch: 11:47. Thirteen minutes until the deadline.

  He slapped Farag on the shoulder. “Ready?”

  Farag flashed back a thumbs-up.

  “Let’s go!”

  They sprinted around the corner, spotted the five-story building, which looked badly damaged, and hid behind the six-foot-high compound wall.

  Akil whispered, “Most windows missing. There are some flashlights or other kinds of lamps on the ground floor but no other internal lights.”

  Crocker heard a car ignition start, then whispered, “Go!”

  They turned the corner, weapons ready—a mixture of Glocks, MP5s, AK-47s. Saw two dark-haired men getting into a black pickup. Crocker dropped to his knees and opened fire.

  “Not so fast, motherfuckers!”

  The men returned fire. Bullets tore into the ground and flew overhead. Crocker scrambled for cover behind the open gate. Heard rounds slam into the metal. Reloaded. Akil crossed to the left side so he could get a better angle. Farag ran inside the compound and hid behind a low concrete wall that led to a stairway at the front of the building.

  The dark-haired men directed most of their fire at Farag, to their left. Crocker saw that he was pinned and jumped out from behind the gate to try to pick off the shooters.

  Headlights blinded him.

  Akil shouted, “Boss! Get back!”

  He saw the Nissan sedan speeding toward him on its way out of the compound, its rear tires kicking up dirt. He jumped behind the gate and didn’t see Farag rise and toss something in the direction of the pickup. The two men kneeling behind it dove for cover.

  Meanwhile, the Nissan fishtailed out, men shouting and firing from the front and back seats. He heard it hurtle out the gate, then brake, followed by the sound of metal smashing into metal and shattering glass.

  Automatic fire ringing from the street behind him and in front of him, Crocker had taken two steps into the compound when a big explosion rocked the area in front of the building and threw him back against the wall.

  He came to gasping for breath, his head spinning, thinking Jesus Christ, they killed Holly!

  Everything started to break up inside him, but when the smoke and dust started to clear, he saw that the building in front of him was intact. The pickup lay on its side, and flames were shooting out of the hood.

  Akil screamed into Crocker’s radio, “Boss! Boss, you okay?”

  “What the fuck just happened?”

  “Farag threw a grenade.”

  “He could have fucking warned me,” he muttered, glancing at his watch. It was now 11:56. Four minutes!

  Akil reported, “Manny and Mohi are pinned down in back.”

  “There’s another shooter in back?”

  “Roger. Two at least.”

  “Cover me,” Crocker said urgently into the radio. “I’m going in.”

  He ran in a crouch past the burning pickup and saw Farag finishing off one of the downed men with his knife. He continued through the smoke and ran up six concrete steps into the building, which was a mess—bare concrete columns covered with graffiti, broken furniture, pieces of discarded cloth, plastic bags filled with garbage.

  “Holly!” he called.

  No answer. Just a hollow echo of his own voice, and gunfire.

  Something was burning near the back of the building. Ferocious fighting continued from both the front and back. He ran up a set of stairs to the second floor. Saw mattresses, empty tin cans and bottles. A filthy bathroom with a toilet filled with shit.

  Hearing footsteps behind him, he readied his MP5 and turned. Saw two feet through the drifting smoke. He was about to squeeze the trigger when he caught a glimpse of the wild tangle of dark hair.

  “Farag! I almost shot you.”

  “Your wife?” he whispered back.

  “I haven’t found her, no.”

  The Libyan pointed to the stairway and motioned upward. “I go.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll join you.”

  After he finished checking the second floor, Crocker hurried to the stairway, which was clogged with smoke.

  Akil shouted over the radio, “Boss, we can’t get in. Too much fire on the first floor. Something big is burning, sending up a lot of black smoke. Where are you?”

  “I’m on two, on my way up to three.”

  “Get out before you’re trapped!”

  “Fuck that.”

  “The fire’s spreading. We’ve got no way to put it out!”

  Crocker continued up the stairs two at a time. At the third-floor landing he heard Farag shout: “Crocker! Mista Crocker!”

  “Where are you?”

  “Here!”

  “Where?”

  All he could see was smoke and trash. He hurried to the back of the building and found Farag kneeling near a column. Tripped over a piece of thick rope and saw two backpacks lying on the floor. Another rope led to a digital timer that was counting down in hundredths of seconds—4:01.98, 4:01.97. Small green LED numbers descending fast.

  This floor is rigged to blow!

  Running out of breath, he reached for Farag’s shoulder. “Farag, we gotta get—”

  On the other side of the column he saw someone with long hair. He blinked to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. It was Holly! She was taped to a metal chair, with thick silver tape covering her mouth. As soon as she saw Crocker, tears started to fall from her eyes.

  “Holly, sweetheart! Oh, my God…”

  Farag opened a pocketknife and started trying to cut her free.

  Crocker squeezed her arm. He wanted to hug and kiss her, but there was no time.

  Emotion coursing through him, he saw Farag struggling with the tape and pushed him away. “Forget it! We’re running out of time!”

  He handed him his MP5 and picked up the chair with Holly in it. “Let’s get the hell out of here! Follow me!”

  He ran to the stairway with the chair and Holly in his arms. Thick black smoke curled around their heads. They’d made it down to the landing, eyes and throats burning, when Crocker saw flames shooting up and realized they couldn’t get through.

  He slapped Farag on the arm and pointed upward. Returning to the third floor, he thought fast. He found the rope, determined that it was long enough, and tied it around the top of the metal chair.

  Then he grabbed the radio from his back pocket. “Akil!” he shouted. “We’re trapped up here. Tell me, are you able to safely approach any part of the building?”

  “The front is the clearest, boss. How come?”

  “I’m going to climb out one of the front windows. Look for me. I’ve got Holly. I’m going to lower her down.”

  “You found her? Is she okay?”

  “Listen! You grab her and get as far away from the building as you can. The third floor is rigged to blow in less than two minutes!”

  “But—”

  “Do it! Now!”

  He picked her up again and ran to one of the front windows, using the cast on his wrist to punch away what was left of the glass. Black smoke was pouring out of the first- and second-story windows.

  He shouted and waved to Akil and Mancini below. They ran and positioned themselves under him.

  Crocker wrapped one end of the rope around a water pipe in the corner that ran from the floor to the ceiling and handed it to Farag. He said, “Hold this. Don’t let it go. Wait for my signal, then let it out slowly.”

  The young man looked confused.

  Crocker quickly demonstrated what he wanted him to do. “Like this.”

  “Okay.”

  With the rope around the chair taut to the pipe, Crocker picked up the chair and lifted it out the window until Holly was clear.

  “I love you, baby.”

  Silver tape still covered her mouth, so she nodded vigorously.

  Then, holding on to the rope, Crocker signaled to Farag to give him some slack. The rope burned his hands, ripping the skin off his palms, twisting the bones in his injured wrist.

  Gritt
ing his teeth through the searing pain, he watched Holly’s head disappear in the smoke. He hoped she could breathe.

  After what seemed like an eternity, he heard Akil shout, “We got her, boss! We got her!”

  Huge relief. Alright!

  Quickly pulling up the freed rope, he grabbed Farag by the shoulder. “You’re next!”

  “No!”

  “Hold on to the rope. Use your legs and walk down the side of the building. Like this.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You can do it. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Yes.”

  He helped Farag out the window, took a deep breath, then climbed out himself. Halfway down Farag stumbled and got caught in the rope. The thick smoke stuck like hot tar in Crocker’s throat. He couldn’t breathe, but he heard his colleagues shouting. He was too light-headed to make out what they were saying.

  Instead he focused on Farag, and climbed down as fast as he could to where he was stuck and hanging by one leg. He was reaching around to try to untangle him when the explosion went off. He saw a tremendous light and felt the oxygen being sucked out of his lungs. As he was flying through the air, he lost consciousness.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was close; but that’s the way it is in war. You win or lose, live or die—and the difference is just an eyelash.

  —General Douglas MacArthur

  He lay on his back in the dark, feeling as if he’d been there for years. He couldn’t move and was barely conscious. He couldn’t even feel his body, aware only of the blackness nestled around him.

  Maybe I’m dead and buried. This is what it is.

  It was like being stuck in a void, only worse, because part of him was alive enough to be aware of the state he was in.

  How long is this going to last…Forever?

  He’d deal with it; take what was coming to him, as he always had. Figure out a way to make the best of it, if that was possible.

  He kept repeating, “At least Holly’s safe.”

  It made him happy. I didn’t die for nothing.

  More darkness.

  After what seemed like hours he heard a sound that was barely perceptible, like a breeze stirring the grass, or a whisper.

  “Ka…Ka…”

  Or the sound of a bird calling.

  “Kr…Kr…”

  It took him awhile to realize that someone was whispering his name.

  “Crock-er…Crock-er…” Almost like a song.

  He tried to respond but nothing came out. So he focused on the sound, and as he did, the darkness around him started to move like a million moths waking up and taking flight. The flutter of their wings tickled his skin and brought it back to life.

  “Crocker…Hey, Crocker…” Sharper this time.

  As the darkness dispersed, he saw a gray light with touches of green and yellow around the edges. Tried to raise his arm, but it wouldn’t move. Tried to raise his head, but couldn’t do that, either.

  Made out a fuzzy dark object looming over him.

  “Crocker. Boss, can you hear me?”

  He felt himself blink, which brought him joy. Hope. Slowly, and with great effort, he made out a face with two dark eyes.

  “Crocker, can you hear me?”

  He blinked again and moved his head slightly.

  “Crocker, it’s me, Manny.”

  He blinked one more time and tried to smile. The pain he felt around his mouth and in his neck was welcome. Affirming.

  “Crocker, we’re in Germany. Holly’s here. The rest of the team is back in Virginia.”

  He smiled slightly.

  “Unfortunately, Farag didn’t make it.”

  He winced and shook his head.

  “That brave little man saved your life.”

  He tried to pull himself up.

  He heard Mancini say, “His body shielded you from the explosion.”

  Crocker stopped and sighed. Felt a tear form in his eye.

  “I’ll go call Holly. She’ll want to see you. I’ll get her now.”

  An enormous feeling of warmth and appreciation enveloped his chest and squeezed his heart. He started to weep.

  There were no medal ceremonies or parades. Just six weeks of convalescence for injuries to his wrist, lungs, back, neck, head, and ribs. Then another week with Holly on the Eastern Shore of Virginia, where they held each other, rested, took long walks on the beach, paddled their kayaks in the bay, and made love.

  Holly wasn’t ready to talk about her ordeal in Libya. Though she was okay physically and hadn’t been sexually violated, she’d been tied up and forced to witness the torture and execution of Brian Shaw. She said he’d been her friend and colleague, nothing more.

  It was difficult, ugly stuff. Both of them understood that the psychological wounds would take time to heal, if they ever did.

  Crocker was happy to be alive, but still pissed off.

  His first day back at ST-6 headquarters, he was in the team room unpacking his gear and talking to Ritchie about Harley motorcycles when someone summoned him to the CO’s office. As he slowly walked across the cement exercise area, teammates came over to congratulate him and shake his hand.

  He entered the CO’s office with a feeling of pride in being a member of ST-6 but also a sense of resignation. He didn’t care what came next. Even if he was going to be forced to retire for insubordination or taking too many risks, Holly and his men were alive. That’s all he really cared about. He wished Farag was alive, too. Planned to track down his family and help them somehow.

  Captain Sutter rose from behind his desk and shook his hand vigorously. “Congratulations, Crocker. Welcome back.”

  “Thanks, sir. It’s real good to be home.”

  “We’re all damn proud of you.”

  Crocker started to choke up. “That means a lot to me, sir.”

  He didn’t notice Jim Anders from the CIA until he stepped forward and greeted him, too. “You look rested and in remarkable shape, considering what you went through.”

  “I’m lucky to be alive.”

  “Sit down.”

  Sutter shut the door, then sat behind his desk. Anders popped open his briefcase and removed a yellow legal pad and a file filled with documents. “First,” he said reading from his notes, “let’s talk about the shipping containers.”

  “The shipping containers?” Crocker asked back.

  “Yes.”

  He had participated in post-op meetings dozens of times, but today he found it took real effort to retrieve the image of the white 727 and the six rust-colored containers.

  “What about them?”

  “The team from IAEA just finished their inspection. They found that those six containers held enough enriched uranium to make at least four five-megaton bombs.”

  Sutter: “What do you have to say about that, Crocker?”

  “Holy shit, sir.”

  “Holy shit is right.”

  Crocker recalled that a five-megaton bomb had hundreds of times the destructive power of the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki combined. “That’s a lot of enriched uranium,” he said.

  “A whole hell of a lot.”

  “That son of a bitch Iranian,” Crocker snapped, his anger stirring. “Did he escape?”

  “You mean the one you saw meeting with Salehi?” Anders asked, leafing through the stack of documents and locating the one he wanted.

  “That’s the one.”

  “You were right about him, too. We’ve identified that individual as Farhed Alizadeh of the Iranian Qods Force.”

  “I knew it. I wanted to grab him, but I was more concerned about whatever was in those shipping containers leaving the country.”

  “Understandable,” Sutter acknowledged.

  Anders: “According to confidential reports we’ve received from reliable sources, he escaped south and crossed the border into Niger.”

  “That’s the same place he was operating from before. Not far from the Libyan town of Toummo.”

 
; “Correct.”

  “I’m real sorry we didn’t get him.”

  Anders: “We are, too. And you’re going to regret it even more when you hear this.”

  “What?”

  “Remember the thumb drives you recovered from the tunnel? The ones belonging to the kidnappers?”

  Crocker winced at the memory of following Farag into the concrete room, then nodded. “Yes.”

  “Based on information we found on them, we believe that Alizadeh was working with Anaruz Mohammed the whole time. We think it’s possible he even had a hand in planning, directing, and financing Holly’s kidnapping.”

  Crocker pictured the Iranian’s intense, falconlike eyes. “That evil bastard.”

  “We also suspect he might have been behind the attack in Sebha.”

  Crocker was fully alert now and ready to fight. “Son of a bitch!”

  “Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  Sutter: “In a diabolical kind of way, yes.”

  Anders: “He knew you and your men were in Libya looking for the Scorpion program WMDs, and he needed to either kill you or distract you.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Somewhere, planning more attacks against the West, probably; looking for more ways to help his country build nuclear weapons. Where that is, specifically, I can’t say right now.”

  “What about Anaruz Mohammed?”

  “We expect the Iranians are still going to use him to forward their agenda in Libya and Niger. But he doesn’t have enough of a following to pose a political threat on his own.”

  “That evil fucking Alizadeh has got to be stopped,” Crocker concluded.

  Anders: “I wholeheartedly agree.”

  Sutter: “What would you say if I said you could get another shot at him?”

  Crocker leaned forward and said, “I’d love that, sir! I’d thoroughly welcome the opportunity.”

  Anders: “Good. Very good.”

  Sutter: “Pull your team together and come see me when you’re ready.”

  Crocker: “How about first thing tomorrow morning, sir, right after PT?”

  In his head he was already explaining to Holly that he had to leave to track down the man who had planned her kidnapping and had helped kill Brian. She was telling him that she’d miss him, but she wanted the bastard punished.