Warning Order: A Search and Destroy Thriller

by Joshua Hood

  He was thinking how things never changed, when the Iridium vibrated in his hand.

  “It’s not him!” Renee said breathlessly as soon as the call connected.

  “What do you mean, it’s not him? He had the phone.”

  “His name is Ali Hasa. He is a Syrian national. I checked it in two separate databases.”

  Zeus was leaning forward on top of the seat, but Mason ignored him.

  “Are you sure?”

  “A hundred percent, but that’s not the worst part. The George Bush was sunk in the middle of the Strait of Hormuz, and al Qatar is taking credit. The president wants blood.”

  “Wait, what?” Mason cried, appalled. “How does a militia leader sink an aircraft carrier?”

  “No one knows. They think he used some kind of mine. Things are crazy around here. There is a huge operation in the works.”

  “Ah, shit, don’t tell me that,” Mason said, although he realized that, of course, the United States couldn’t let that ride.

  “Look, I’m kinda out of the loop right now, but we have guys coming in from everywhere. We need you back here.”

  “I can’t right now,” he said.

  “Look, I will help you find this guy, but the task force is going to need you.”

  Rejoining the task force meant that Kane would have to take orders, and they wouldn’t be directed toward putting al Qatar’s head in a box. “I have to go,” he said impatiently.

  “Mason, don’t—”

  He hung up the phone, cutting her off, and announced to Zeus, “It wasn’t him.”

  “Fuck. I thought for sure I was going to get a vacation.”

  But Mason wasn’t listening. All he knew was that al Qatar was still alive. That meant his mission ahead was crystal clear.

  CHAPTER 41

  * * *

  Jacob Simmons drained the glass of Bushmills whiskey, and he was considering pouring another when his phone began vibrating across his desk. He checked his watch—it was only eight thirty in the morning, but he had been drinking since well into the night, and he knew that the wife was probably pissed that he hadn’t come home.

  He was drunk, and in no mood to talk to her, especially since he was expected to be in the Situation Room in an hour. Deciding that another shot of Irish whiskey wasn’t going to hurt, he poured another finger into the glass and ignored the phone.

  “Sir, I have your packets,” his secretary said as she entered the room and placed a thick binder on his desk. “Can I get you some coffee, sir?”

  “That would be nice,” he muttered, running his hands over his face as he headed to the bathroom.

  Simmons closed the door behind him and flipped on the light. He knew that Cage would go ballistic if he showed up to the briefing looking like a drunk, and a part of him almost didn’t care. But he knew that he was walking a fine line with his old friend right now and couldn’t afford to push it.

  He turned on the water in his personal shower, and as it heated up, he ran a razor over his face. The steam clouded up the mirror, forcing him to wipe it off to finish up the shave. In the rough oval he cleared out, he realized that he hated the man staring back at him.

  “How has it come to this?” he asked, running the blade over his chin.

  He undressed and stepped into the shower. The water felt great as it splashed over his body, and he let the heat wash over him for a few minutes. “Now to get sober,” he told himself. He turned the hot water all the way off and forced himself to stand under the suddenly freezing spray.

  The cold water stung his skin, and yanked the breath from his lungs, but he forced himself to take it until his skin began to turn blue. No matter how much he drank, or the amount of pain he inflicted on himself, the fact that he was responsible for almost three thousand American deaths would not go away.

  “Damn it,” he sobbed, turning the hot water back on.

  If not for his wife and daughter, he would have used the pistol he kept in his desk last night, but he knew that he’d already caused his family enough harm—even though they knew nothing about what he’d done.

  As Simmons began to warm back up, he knew that his part in the plot was going to get out eventually, and then what the hell was he going to do?

  He still felt a little drunk when he got out of the shower and dressed in the fresh suit he kept on standby. A cup of coffee sat steaming on his desk, and as he reached for it, his phone beeped, telling him he had a message.

  Jacob expected it to be an angry voice mail from his wife, but as he slid his finger over the phone, he saw it was a text message from his daughter. He took a sip of the coffee, clicked on the message—and then felt his blood turn cold.

  The coffee burned his hand as he dropped it, and he barely had time to grab the trash can before he vomited. The whiskey burned his throat with scalding force, and his secretary came into the room, a look of concern on her face.

  “Sir, are you okay?”

  “Get the fuck out,” he screamed. His hands scrambled for the phone, where the picture of his daughter’s tear-streaked face was still displayed starkly.

  A large arrow was centered over the strip of cloth tied across her mouth, and as soon as he pressed his thumb over the icon, her screams filled the room. The video had been shot in his dining room, and the camera slowly panned over his daughter, who was tied to a chair, before moving to his wife, who was similarly bound.

  Around her neck a note was attached to her blouse that read, “Come Home—Alone.”

  CHAPTER 42

  * * *

  Can you fix it?” Mason asked the back of Grinch’s legs as the sniper tinkered with the cargo truck’s engine.

  “Hell no,” his muffled voice replied from under the hood. “This thing is fucked.”

  “Damn it. Well, it looks like we’re walking,” he said to Sara. “You mind telling me where we are going now?”

  “There is a village a few miles from here,” she said anxiously. “My uncle has people there who can get us across the river.”

  “We need to hurry,” he said, gazing over at the group of civilians who were still sitting in the bed of the truck.

  “Boss, looks like we have company,” Blaine called out, his arm pointing to the south, where a dust cloud was growing in the distance.

  “Shit, we need to move, now.”

  Mason raised the ACOG and tried to see how many vehicles were speeding toward them, but all he could make out was the sun flashing off glass. He had known that it was only a matter of time before the insurgents found the bodies they had left behind, but he’d hadn’t planned on the truck breaking down.

  “How far is the village?” he asked again as Grinch hopped down from the front of the truck and wiped his grease-soaked hands on the front of his pants.

  “A few kilometers,” she said with a sinking voice.

  The civilians in the back of the truck began pointing at the billowing cloud of dust. Their panicked cries filled the air. Mason knew there was no chance that they could break contact and keep them safe.

  “I need you to take as many people as you can fit into the Land Cruiser and go,” he said to Sara.

  “You want me to leave you here?”

  “It’s either that, or we all die. Grinch, grab our gear and find a suitable position to fight,” he ordered as he hurried to the back of the cargo truck.

  There was no way everyone could fit in the truck, so Mason was forced to play his final card.

  “Get them to cover. I’m going to call Anderson,” he told Blaine, trying to judge how much time they had before their pursuers arrived. The medic began herding the civilians into the wadi, leaving Mason to swallow his pride and make the call.

  “I wondered if I was ever going to hear from you again,” Anderson said sharply after picking up. Where in the fuck is David?”

  “No idea, but we can talk about that later. Right now I need help bad,” Mason said, looking down at his wrist-mounted GPS.

  “What makes you think I’m
going to help you?”

  “’Cause you’re going to need me to pull off your little operation.”

  Anderson processed this claim for several moments before replying. “Fine, but if I do this, you play by my rules from now on.”

  “Whatever you say, boss man, but if you don’t launch an attack in the next fifteen minutes, I’m not going to be able to help anyone.”

  “Send me your grid.”

  Mason read the coordinates off the Garmin and then added, “I have five foreign nationals with me. They are going to need a ride too.”

  “Fine, but Mason?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you fuck me on this, I’m going to put you down. You hear me?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  He was putting away the sat phone as the Libyan walked up.

  “How hard was that?” Zeus asked.

  Mason’s old friend never failed to make him smile. “You don’t want to know,” he replied.

  “What is happening?” Sara asked, looking at both of them.

  “You need to go with the others,” Mason said simply.

  “Sometimes we must do what we have to so that we can survive,” she said inscrutably, and he realized she was paying him a compliment.

  “That’s true,” he replied.

  “You are not like all the rest.”

  “I told you people liked me,” Mason replied. “Now please, go join the others.”

  “You know,” Zeus pointed out, “she is just being polite.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Mason said, slinging his assault pack. He and Zeus walked over to the edge of the wadi, where Grinch was setting up their makeshift position.

  It was a good spot, several dozen feet north of the disabled cargo truck, where two of the dried rivulets came together to form a Y. Near the front of the trench was a small shelf that Grinch was already standing on, and just below him, the depression was deep enough for Sara and the other refugees to hide.

  Blaine had them crouched down along the gravel-lined bottom, and he was trying to find cover for them to use.

  Where the two fingers of the wadi came together, Mason realized, it was tight enough for them to set up a 360-degree perimeter, with enough cover for them to shoot from. It was too wide for a truck to drive over, so they didn’t need to worry about being flanked, but he knew that if he wasn’t able to direct fire from two sides, they couldn’t deny the fighters freedom of movement.

  “You guys hold here. Help is on the way,” he said, yanking an M18 claymore mine from the big pocket.

  “What the hell are you going to do with that?” Grinch asked.

  “I’m going to leave them a little surprise.”

  “Well, you better hurry your ass up—they’re getting close.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Zeus, no matter what happens, get them on the bird,” he said before moving back to the truck.

  The broken-down deuce-and-a-half was parked perpendicular to the wadi, and Mason quickly opened the claymore’s scissor legs and slammed them into the hard-packed sand near the back tire. He screwed the blasting cap into the mine, but after looking at the firing wire, he knew it wasn’t long enough to stretch back to the wadi.

  The only place for him to hide was in the cab, and after covering the wire with a long pile of sand, he began walking backward, paying it out. Then he climbed into the passenger side of the truck.

  “Mason, what the hell are you doing?” Grinch asked over the radio.

  “I don’t have enough wire. Just cover my ass.”

  “You can’t fucking stay there.”

  “It’s the only way. Shut up and get ready.”

  “Forget the claymore—” he said, but Mason turned down the radio’s volume, and silence filled the cab.

  He had set up a lot of ambushes, and Mason knew that the first deadly surprise would be the most crucial. All he had to do was hold out long enough for the cavalry to arrive. If he could do that, he might just make it out alive.

  Kane tried to get himself set in the passenger seat. He plugged the wire into the firing device and jammed a fresh magazine into his rifle. He could hear the trucks getting closer, and he nudged his head up to look through the back window.

  Approaching were two Ford F-250 pickups with their Iraqi markings painted over and a Humvee with a .50 caliber machine gun mounted to the top. Mason ducked back down and focused on slowing his heart rate.

  He knew that if he didn’t take out the machine gun, it was going to be a short fight.

  The Humvee’s supercharged engine whined as it struggled to keep up with the lighter Fords. He guessed that there would be at least twenty fighters in all and clicked the transmit button attached to his vest.

  “Grinch, you have the fifty cal.”

  “Time to make the grass grow,” the sniper whispered back.

  Mason wiped the sweat from his palms, making sure he had a good grip on the detonator.

  The lead vehicle began to slow as the driver spotted the stranded cargo truck. Instead of stopping short, the vehicles kept coming until they were just ten feet away.

  Mason realized that he hadn’t considered what to do if the trucks flanked him. He felt a whisper of panic creep up his spine. It was too late to move.

  “Time to roll the dice,” he muttered, gripping the olive-green firing device firmly.

  At the last minute, the heavily armored lead vehicle slammed on its brakes and the tires skidded across the rocky desert floor before finally coming to a stop. A cloud of dust washed over the area, obscuring Mason’s vision of the kill zone.

  He felt the sweat dripping down his back as the smell of exhaust drifted up to his position, and the heavy diesel engines rumbled behind the dust cloud. There was a metallic thump as one of the armored doors was unlatched, followed by the sound of voices.

  The dust cloud began to dissipate, revealing a knot of men walking up to the truck, clutching American M4s.

  “Check the truck!” one of the men shouted in Arabic.

  “Shit, c’mon, I need more than one,” Mason murmured as the fighter moved forward cautiously.

  He knew that if the first man saw the claymore, the ambush was fucked before it started. Luckily for him, the fighters were undisciplined, and instead of checking the area and setting up a base of fire, they began milling around.

  The range of the antipersonnel mine was about 110 yards. At that distance, the 680 grams of C4 plastic explosive would send the ball bearings out in a 60 degree killing arc. He flipped the safety bale off the M57 firing device. All he had to do now was squeeze the top and bottom halves together to detonate the mine.

  It was hot inside the cab of the truck, and his neck was beginning to hurt from craning backward. He wanted to see what was going on but knew he couldn’t risk exposing himself. Mason could hear the fighters’ boots crunching on the gravel, and he tried to visualize where they were.

  “Is it empty?” one of the men demanded.

  “Are you going to give me time to check?” another one asked, his voice no more than a foot away.

  Mason switched the detonator to his left hand and placed his right hand on the pistol grip of the HK416. Using his thumb, he snapped the selector switch to fire. The tiny click sounded incredibly loud in the tight confines of the cab, and he felt the truck sway as his target climbed up on the running boards and turned the door handle on the driver’s side.

  The door swung open with a groan, and then a head appeared. It took a second for the fighter’s eyes to adjust to the dim interior, but when he finally saw the barrel of Mason’s rifle, it was too late.

  The suppressor coughed as the round shot out of the barrel and plowed through the man’s forehead. Mason didn’t wait for him to fall. He gave the detonator a hard squeeze and ducked his head.

  The claymore went off with a flash of angry orange and a thump that jarred Mason’s teeth. He had aimed the antipersonnel mine about waist height, and the ball bearings sliced through the air at almost four thousand f
eet per second, but he didn’t have time to admire his handiwork. He climbed up to his knees and slammed the muzzle through the back window just as the gunner’s head erupted and his body dropped into the Humvee.

  Mason had to use the fixed sight, mounted atop the ACOG, due to the distance between him and his targets, and as soon as he got a decent sight picture, he began firing. He hit his target with a tight pair to the chest, but instead of going down, the man leveled his AK and began spraying the deuce-and-a–half.

  The rounds cut easily through the thin aluminum skin, blasting out the rest of the window and showering Mason with glass. He ducked behind the seats, flipping the selector to full auto, and fired back through the truck while trying to turtle down into the floorboard.

  A shard of glass sliced into his palm as he shifted to grab a fresh mag, and the rest of the fighters opened up on the cab of the truck.

  “Little help!” he yelled into the radio.

  Suddenly he smelled fuel drifting up into the cab. Then an RPG screamed from the back end of the truck. The warhead hit one of the cross beams that spanned the troop compartment and exploded in a cloud of shrapnel and black smoke.

  Mason kicked the passenger side door open and turned his body so he could see out. Fire from the RPG crept slowly toward the cab. His only option was to throw himself to the ground.

  Glass cut through his battle shirt as he pulled himself toward the opening. He was just about to throw himself to the ground when the .50 caliber opened up.

  The heavy machine gun ate lazily through the belt of ammo, sending its large-caliber rounds blasting through the cab. One of the rounds hit the open door, ripping it from the hinges, and Mason lifted himself up just as a fighter came into view.

  He was so close that Mason could see the muscles in his forearm as he worked the trigger, sending brass arcing from the AK. The first shots were high, and they shredded the dashboard, filling the interior with chunks of yellow padding. The suppressor of his HK got caught on the seat, and he tried to jerk it free when a round slammed into his chest.