Scorched Earth

by George Galdorisi

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  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  This book is dedicated to my family: first and foremost, my wife, Becky; our son, Brian, and his wife, Annie; our daughter, Laura, and her husband, JT; and their three sons—our grandsons—Jack, Larkin, and Davis.

  Writing takes you away from the people who you care most about—often for countless hours. Having a family that can power through those times and offer constant encouragement and support makes the writing process infinitely more joyful.

  AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION

  The setting for this novel is the greater Levant. The term Levant is typically used by historians and archaeologists with reference to the prehistory, as well as the ancient and medieval history, of the region encompassing the countries we now know as Egypt, Iraq, Israel, Jordan, Lebanon, Syria, and Turkey. However, the term has made a recent resurgence. Indeed, there have been fresh attempts to reclaim the notion of the Levant as a category of analysis in the political and social sciences. The reason for this resurgence is due to the phenomenon sweeping the region—the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria—or ISIS.

  Few would argue against the statement that ISIS (or ISIL—the preferred term used by U.S. national security officials—the “L” standing for Levant) presents a profound threat to the West. As President Obama said in a widely watched speech in September 2014, “Our objective is clear: We will degrade, and ultimately destroy, ISIL through a comprehensive and sustained counterterrorism strategy.”

  Almost two years later, U.S. national security officials remain perplexed as to how to deal with ISIS. No one is talking today, in 2016, about defeating ISIS, only containing it. What is happening in the greater Mideast in areas where ISIS roams freely will not resolve itself in the next several years. For Western nations, and especially for the United States, today’s headlines are looming as tomorrow’s nightmare.

  ISIS will remain a threat to the West—and especially to the United States—years into the future because America has not come to grips with how to deal with this cancer. As Jessica Stern and J. M. Berger describe in their best-selling book, ISIS: The State of Terror, and as Michael Weiss and Hassan Hassan describe in their best seller ISIS: Inside the Army of Terror, the very nature of ISIS makes attempts to deal with it by employing the conventional instruments of national power all but futile. Here is how Michiko Kakutani framed the challenge ISIS presents in her Books of the Times review of these two books:

  The Islamic State and its atrocities—beheadings, mass executions, the enslavement of women and children, and the destruction of cultural antiquities—are in the headlines every day now. The terror group not only continues to roll through the Middle East, expanding from Iraq and Syria into Libya and Yemen, but has also gained dangerous new affiliates in Egypt and Nigeria and continues to recruit foreign fighters through its sophisticated use of social media. Given the ascendance of the Islamic State, it’s startling to recall that in January 2014, President Obama referred to it as a “JV team,” suggesting that it did not pose anywhere near the sort of threat that Al Qaeda did.

  In this novel, Scorched Earth, we believe life will imitate art for years to come. We’re certain the challenge ISIS presents today will remain fresh and relevant for years. Indeed, the issues driving what makes the greater Levant the center of enormous strife today guarantee that it will remain this way in the near-to-mid future. Simply put, from our point of view, as well as that of political officials, military leaders, historians, and many others, the Mideast will remain a petri dish, spawning and regenerating cancers like ISIS for as long as any of us can see into the future.

  It took President Obama only eight months to elevate ISIS from “a JV team” to an organization that the United States was committed to “degrade, and ultimately destroy.” And since the normal instruments of national power the United States can bring to bear cannot begin to degrade—let alone destroy—ISIS, this president, as well as future presidents, will have only one card to play. The president will need to call on the National Crisis Management Center, more commonly known as Op-Center, to protect American lives and freedoms.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Southeast of Al-Bukamal, Syria

  March 3, 0930 Eastern European Time

  Alan Burton’s head slammed into the overhead of the Humvee with eye-watering force. Nearly stunned by the impact, he dropped back into his seat, feeling his scalp for signs of blood. “Damn. That hurt!”

  General Bob Underwood suppressed a smile and held out a Kevlar battle helmet to his aide. “Try this. It’s harder than your skull.”

  Burton accepted the helmet and put it on, just in time to cushion his head’s next collision with the roof of the heavily armored vehicle.

  The ride in the army truck was rough as it stormed across the Syrian farmland that lay hard by the Euphrates River and close to the Iraq border, en route to the Syrian city of al-Bukamal. Their convoy had crossed the unguarded Iraqi-Syrian border a half hour ago. One Humvee led the one Underwood and his aide were riding in, while one trailed them. A total of eight special operations Rangers from the 75th Ranger Regiment provided security for Underwood and Burton.

  While Underwood and his aide were attired in much the same way as their Ranger Regiment escorts—Interceptor body armor bullet-resistant vests, MICH TC-2000 Kevlar Advanced Combat Helmets, M9 Beretta side arms and the rest—there was one distinct difference. Underwood had last hung up his Marine Corps’ uniform almost two years ago when he retired as the Commander of the United States Central Command—or CENTCOM.

  Now, he was back on familiar territory as the special presidential envoy for the Global Coalition to Counter ISIL—the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant. In his six months in this assignment, Underwood had spent time in Iraq, Jordan, Lebanon, Syria, Turkey, and Yemen. He was in Syria again because the Syrian refugee crisis was worse now than at any time since it began in the wake of the 2010 Arab Spring uprisings. The president had dispatched him to Syria to try to broker a cease-fire between the Syrian government and the forces opposing it—Hezbollah, ISIS, the Free Syrian Army and a number of fringe rebel groups. Underwood didn’t fancy his chances of success forging an agreement between and among the warring parties. Still, to Underwood, a presidential order was a presidential order.

  “How much longer until we get to al-Bukamal, Sergeant?” Underwood asked the driver.

  “About fifteen minutes, General.”

  “Thanks. Ask our lead vehicle to slow down after we make the next turn. Last time we ran this route we almost took out a herd of cattle.”

  “I remember, sir, and wilco.”

  Underwood returned his attention to the ruggedized Panasonic CF-29 laptop as his aide scrolled through their agenda for the meeting. “General, here are the players from the Free Syrian Army we’ll—”

  The sound of the rocket-propelled grenade hitting the side of their Humvee was ear-splitting and shook their three-ton truck violently. Flames shot along the side of their vehicle. Underwood and
his aide hung on as their driver tried to steady the burning Humvee.

  Seconds later, there was a deafening sound as an improvised explosive device detonated under the lead vehicle. Underwood and his aide both looked up in horror as the lead Humvee leapt into the air just yards ahead of them and crashed down on its side and then rolled over on its back. Fire began to consume that truck as thick black smoke billowed into the air.

  Their driver immediately started to take well-rehearsed evasive action and gunned his V-8 turbo-diesel engine as he tried to drive around the destroyed truck in front of them. Suddenly, Underwood’s aide cried out, “Look out!” as an AMZ Dzik “Wild Boar” infantry military vehicle barreled straight for the right side of their Humvee. It was too late. The Polish-designed truck the Iraqi Army once owned hit them square-on as Underwood and his aide tried to grab on to any available handhold.

  Gravity took over and their vehicle teetered—then landed on its left side with a sickening thud. The last thing Underwood remembered before passing out was their driver’s head hitting the bulletproof glass on the left front door, his helmet popping off, and blood gushing from his skull as it rebounded from the glass before hitting it again.

  The Rangers in the trailing vehicle did precisely what they’d been trained to do—they converged on Underwood’s Humvee, dismounted, and quickly deployed in a protective ring around it, their gun muzzles pointed in different directions, searching for threats.

  “Command, this is unit Mike-Hotel, taking fire from unknown hostiles approximately one-five klicks southeast of al-Bukamal!” the senior man in the trail vehicle shouted into his Motorola XTS5000R secure UHF radio. “One vehicle destroyed, one disabled. Hawk down, repeat Hawk—” the first lieutenant, the senior Ranger still alive, started to say. But his voice was quickly silenced as well-aimed shells from Browning M2HB heavy machine guns, fired from converging American-made M1117 Guardian armored security vehicles, ripped through him and also cut down his fellow Rangers.

  With all the Americans in the lead and trail American trucks dead or dying, the men in the attacking vehicles converged on the Humvee carrying Underwood.

  * * *

  “Major, I just got a radio call from Mike-Hotel, the 75th Ranger Regiment element providing security for General Underwood. Sir, it was a partial transmission—”

  The watch commander cut him off in midsentence. “What did you hear, Staff Sergeant?”

  “Sir, he said they were southeast of al-Bukamal and that Hawk was down—”

  The Army major standing the duty watch at the former Victory Base complex near Baghdad International Airport converged on the staff sergeant’s console and immediately barked, “Play it back now!”

  Every man and woman in the command center stood transfixed as they listened twice to the frantic call from the convoy.

  The watch commander turned to another man and said, “Call CENTCOM Headquarters on the command net. Tell them Hawk is reported down and request air cover.”

  “Yes, sir. Major, where should I request they get the air cover?”

  “Just tell ’em, damn it!”

  But the watch team knew there would be no air cover. The United States had pulled out of Iraq years ago. A skeleton U.S. military force remained in Iraq to train the Iraqi Army as well as provide security to people like the special presidential envoy for the Global Coalition to Counter ISIL. However, they had little more than a few dozen vehicles like the now-destroyed Humvees, a handful of helicopters, and a few crew-served weapons in addition to their personal weapons. The Americans in the convoy were on their own.

  * * *

  As soon as Underwood tried to move, he realized his left arm was broken. With the Humvee on its left side, his brain was in overdrive as he hung suspended by his lap belt and harness and looked out the smoke-blackened right-side windows of the smashed truck. What had just happened? They were attacked—but by who? He thought he knew, but he tried to banish the thought from his mind.

  “Sir, are you okay?” Burton said as he struggled to free himself from his belt and harness and come to Underwood’s aid.

  “I … I think so, Alan. Our driver is dead. What about the Ranger in the front passenger seat?”

  His aide looked into the front seats and replied, “I’m afraid they’re both dead, sir.”

  “My arm’s bunged up; help me unstrap. We’ve gotta get out before this truck explodes,” Underwood said, as he groped for his Beretta with his right hand.

  Just then, they heard loud voices and felt heavy thumping on their Humvee. They jerked their heads and looked as the right-side back door was yanked open. Several pairs of arms reached into the vehicle as first Underwood, and then Burton, were lifted out of the truck and roughly dropped to the ground. Other men grabbed them and dragged them a short distance away from their broken vehicle.

  A crowd of men surrounded the two Americans and began kicking them while shouting in a language neither understood. Suddenly, another man pushed his way to the front of the group and stood over Underwood. He held a tablet in his hand. He looked at Underwood, then looked at the tablet, then looked at him again.

  “That’s him,” the man said, drawing a pistol from his belt, as the other men nodded in agreement.

  Underwood looked on in horror as the man raised the pistol, took aim, and put a bullet in Burton’s forehead.

  The special presidential envoy recoiled in horror as blood, bone, and brain tissue from his aide’s shattered skull landed on him. Then he looked up at the flag flying from the nearest Guardian armored security vehicle. It was the unmistakable black flag with white Arabic writing. It was the flag flown by ISIS.

  Underwood cried out in agony as two of the men grabbed him, bent both his arms back, hog-tied him, and threw him into the Guardian ASV. Then the ISIS vehicles sped away.

  * * *

  “The special presidential envoy?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “His convoy was attacked?”

  “Yes!”

  “Where?”

  “Southeast of al-Bukamal, Syria.”

  The Air Force colonel conducting the interrogation was the watch commander at the CENTCOM command center at MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida. The report by the Navy chief petty officer manning the command net on their watch floor was far from complete. She knew only as much as the sketchy report she’d heard from the soldier at the former Victory Base Complex in Baghdad. It was still well before sunrise in Tampa and they were two of only five watchstanders in the command center. The partial report was enough to rouse the colonel to action.

  He turned to the Army master sergeant at the console on his left.

  “Call Beale. We need eyes-on at that location—now! Tell ’em to get a Global Hawk moving in that direction. We’ll give ’em updated position information when we get it.”

  The rest of the watch team sprang into action as chat windows opened and questions—but few answers—streamed back and forth between Baghdad and Tampa. Meanwhile, flash messages rocketed up several chains of command. Soon, other watchstanders, those manning the National Counterterrorism Center, the National Military Command Center, the White House Situation Room and other command centers processed what they heard and began to notify key seniors. In the Sit Room, the National Security Council senior staffer leading the watch team picked up the phone and called the president’s national security advisor, Trevor Harward.

  * * *

  Bound and gagged and with a sack over his head, Underwood tried not to let the sheer terror of the moment overwhelm him. As a Marine Corps first lieutenant he had led men in combat in Operation Desert Storm. He had served in other conflicts in the ensuing decades and had numerous tours as a commander in Iraq as well as in Afghanistan. He had never feared his enemy—but he feared those holding him now.

  The Guardian ASV bounced along near its maximum speed of sixty miles an hour. Underwood tried to keep track of time to somehow gauge how far he was traveling but random large bounces shot shards of pa
in into his broken arm that almost overwhelmed his senses. He became almost numb to the pain and tried to think through what over three decades of military training had taught him about how to react in a crisis.

  * * *

  It was morning in Washington, D.C., when Trevor Harward entered the Oval Office. He had called President Wyatt Midkiff in the family quarters shortly after the president’s normal wake-up time and told him the news, promising to bring him up to speed in the Oval later that morning.

  The president had worked with Harward long enough to know his national security advisor was giving him every detail he knew, but the lack of information about the situation still frustrated him. And there was a personal element. Midkiff had worked closely with Underwood when the general commanded CENTCOM and was especially cheered when he had accepted the position as special presidential envoy for the Global Coalition to Counter ISIL. He knew Underwood had dedicated his life to the Marine Corps, had served almost continuously in the Middle East and South Asia for the latter third of his career, and was a devoted family man who looked forward to spending more time with his wife, his children, and his grandchildren when he retired and came home to Great Falls, Virginia. But the man’s unique credentials made him the consensus choice to serve in this capacity and the president and his wife had courted the Underwoods—especially Mrs. Underwood—to entice the general to take on this assignment. Now he was missing and very likely kidnapped.

  “Trevor, I’ve listened to what you told me over the phone and I read your memo. I’m less interested in what’s happened than I am in what we’re going to do to find Bob Underwood.”

  Harward paused. He knew what the president wanted to hear: that the U.S. national and military intelligence agencies had located Underwood’s position and that a combat search and rescue mission was being mounted to snatch him away from his captors. That was not the case—far from it.