Scorched Earth

by George Galdorisi

  Al-Dosari considered this. While the thousands of ISIS fighters he controlled roamed freely through wide swaths of Iraq, Syria, and other countries and struck terror in all those they faced, when it came to defending their own families and dwellings, they were at a decided disadvantage.

  “I’m not sure what kind of attack it might be,” he replied. “Our first priority is to ensure our families’ safety. Have we gotten everyone out?”

  “Yes, I think so,” one of his men replied.

  “That’s not good enough!” al-Dosari snapped. “Take three men with you and do a sweep of the building. Once you tell me we’ve gotten everyone else out, we can leave. Until then, we wait.”

  * * *

  Inside, Dale Bruner had cleared two rooms on the second floor and was heading toward the third. The compound had six stories, but the intel Peters had given him strongly suggested that hostages would be held on lower floors. If his dad wasn’t in the room he was approaching, there were two rooms on the third deck on his mental map.

  * * *

  The ISIS fighters al-Dosari sent into the building knew they needed to do their job quickly. They had been living in this compound for over a week and they knew the building well, even with only flashlights to illuminate their way. Their plan was to dash up to the sixth floor—there were no elevators—search room to room in teams of two, and work their way down the building floor by floor. They started up the steps of the stairway closest to the front door of the compound on a dead run.

  * * *

  Dale Bruner flung open the door of the room on the second floor—but it was empty. His heart sank. Was his dad in this building at all? ISIL controlled any number of buildings in central Mosul. Maybe they were holding him in a different one. Get moving, Bruner. The only easy day was yesterday.

  He moved quickly toward the door leading to the nearest staircase. Now that he was convinced the building had been evacuated, he didn’t throw caution completely to the wind, but he worried far less about stealth than he did about speed.

  He entered the stairwell and started climbing. He had scaled a half a dozen steps when suddenly he heard heavy footfalls below him that sounded like they were moving his way. He also heard men talking. Decision time, Bruner. Retreat to the second floor or keep climbing? The need to find his dad overwhelmed all his other emotions. He moved toward the third floor.

  But the men below him were taking the steps two at a time, and as Bruner got near the landing on the third floor, the footfalls were right behind him and he heard shouts. He grasped the door handle and was about to pull it open when the light from a flashlight overwhelmed his NVGs and shots rang out.

  The wild shots missed, and instinctively Bruner fired his Mk17 toward the light and the sound as he flipped his NVGs up. He heard a groan and the sound of a falling body, as one attacker was hit and fell down the steps.

  More shots rang out from the attackers at the bottom of the steps as Bruner expended his last bullet and reached for another clip. Just then, he felt a hard slap in his left thigh, followed immediately by searing pain—a pain more intense than anything he’d ever felt. Seconds later, a second bullet found his right shoulder, and the force of the shot knocked him down, and he tumbled down the stairway. Then it all went black.

  * * *

  Eric Oldham believed Pete Cummings and wanted to help find Dale Bruner. The SEAL lieutenant was the son of an admiral who was a family friend, but he didn’t intend to turn the Navy upside down with the search. He called NCIS at Anacostia-Bolling and talked to the watch commander as he had promised he would. That complete, he did the only other thing he could think to do: he called the Op-Center watch floor. He then returned to the Larry Bond novel he was reading.

  * * *

  Mabad al-Dosari and the men in front of the main compound building heard the gunshots coming from inside the building and rushed toward the front door. They were about to open it, when four ISIS fighters emerged. Two were half-carrying, half-dragging Bruner out of the building, and another man was helping his wounded comrade walk upright.

  “I heard the shots. What’s going on?” al-Dosari barked.

  “We found him in the stairwell. He shot at us and hit Rabah. He’ll be all right. But we put at least two bullets in him—”

  “His weapons and gear are military. Who is he?” al-Dosari asked.

  “We looked through all his pockets but found no ID. He’s been lapsing in and out of consciousness. Do you want us to take care of his wounds?” the man asked.

  “See to Rabah’s wounds first, then his. Tie him up and put him in the truck once you’ve done that.” Then pointing to the other two men, he continued. “You two go back inside and see if there’s anyone else there, especially anyone who looks like him.”

  * * *

  Fearing an encounter with other armed men, the ISIS fighters sent back into their compound searched more methodically. When they finally returned to the courtyard, the wounded fighter had been attended to and Bruner’s wounds had been bandaged. The American was in the back of one of the trucks, with his hands bound, and was drifting in and out of consciousness.

  “Is the building empty now?” al-Dosari asked.

  “No,” one of the men replied. “Two of our comrades are inside, dead. The man we captured must have killed them. Do you want us to bring their bodies out?”

  “No, we don’t have time. Get into that truck. We’ll drive to the safe house where everyone else is. But if there’s no air attack by midmorning we’ll return here. This guy had explosives and breeching charges on him; it looks like he’s the one who set off the explosions and then snuck into our compound.”

  “We need to know who he is and why he did this,” one of his men said.

  “We will. But we need to get to the safe house and get the bullets out of him. If we lose him, we’ll learn nothing,” al-Dosari replied.

  As the two trucks left the compound and Dale Bruner bounced around in the back of one of the trucks, he passed out from the pain of his gunshot wounds.

  * * *

  As the black SUV pulled up to the front of their home, Meagan Bruner rushed outside, followed by her two daughters. Jim Wright had remained on scene while Admiral Bruner had been cleaned up and debriefed. His soiled orange jumpsuit had been replaced with a blue one, with FBI stenciled on the back in big white letters. He had talked with the FBI psychologist who pronounced him okay. Wright had called Meagan Bruner when they left BWI and alerted her that her husband would be coming home that night.

  As Jay Bruner emerged from the truck, even in the darkness, his wife could see the broad grin on his face. Meagan ran at him and embraced him.

  “Oh, Jay; you’re all right. Thank God!” she began, tears welling up.

  “Hey Megs, it was just a rough day at the office,” he replied as he held her.

  Bruner looked over his wife’s right shoulder and saw Amber and Katherine approaching.

  “Dad!” Katherine shouted as the two sisters ran toward him.

  But Bruner didn’t see who he thought he’d see emerging from the house. He didn’t see his son.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Op-Center Headquarters, Fort Belvoir North: Springfield, Virginia

  July 23, 0645 Eastern Daylight Time

  When Chase Williams arrived at his office, Anne Sullivan was waiting for him.

  “Mornin’, boss.”

  “Good morning, Anne. All quiet last evening?”

  “Our watch floor got an interesting call; that’s the first thing I wanted to discuss with you.”

  “Sure. But if you don’t mind, first tell me whether we’ve got Brian, Hector, and the JSOC team headed back this way yet.”

  “Their C-17 should be landing at Baghdad International soon. I think the schedule slipped a few hours because the aircraft had to take a longer route to avoid some weather, but we’re pretty much on track.”

  “Good, so what is it we need to discuss?”

  “Last night, Admiral Oldham, h
e’s the VCNO, called our watch floor with a bit of an odd story—”

  “Odd? I knew Eric Oldham from my active-duty days. He’s a pretty straight shooter.”

  “I didn’t mean ‘odd’ as in we didn’t believe him. I meant odd in that it involves Admiral Bruner’s son, Dale.”

  “Involves?” Williams asked.

  With that, Sullivan detailed the entire story.

  After Sullivan had finished, Williams paused to frame his reply. “From what you’ve told me, Admiral Oldham knows the Bruner family well and is concerned Dale might be desperate enough to take matters into his own hands. I agree we need to look into this; I’ll call the VCNO right now.”

  * * *

  An hour later, less than twenty miles from where Williams and Sullivan were talking about Dale Bruner, at Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling, two men—the director of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service and his chief of staff—were discussing the SEAL lieutenant.

  “The VCNO himself called, not his deputy or his EA?” Jason Gunn asked.

  “Yes sir, I got that from the watch team chief myself,” his chief of staff replied.

  “And this lieutenant’s command thinks he’s gone AWOL; that’s the long and short of it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But he’s on authorized leave, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And all this was triggered because his mother was worried about him.”

  “That’s what they said.”

  The interrogation continued, with Gunn sounding more and more incredulous each time his chief of staff related another fact he had gleaned from the electronic log his watch team had compiled regarding the VCNO’s call the night before.

  Jason Gunn didn’t consider himself a bureaucrat—far from it. And if you asked anyone on his core staff at NCIS Headquarters, they would agree: he was an open and even caring boss. But he hadn’t climbed to the top of government civilian service by taking risks and ignoring rules. He thought the VCNO was correct in alerting his command, but he didn’t see the need to take immediate—or perhaps any—action. And he certainly wasn’t about to break any of the rules and regulations that governed the Naval Criminal Investigative Service.

  “It’s been a while since we had this kind of case. Doesn’t someone have to be AWOL for seventy-two hours before they’re declared a deserter?”

  “That’s right, boss.”

  “And we’re not close to that.”

  “Correct.”

  “Look, if the second-senior guy in our Navy chain of command says to do something, then we have to do something. Have the ops division open a file on this—what’s his name?”

  “Bruner, sir. Lieutenant Dale Bruner.”

  “Bruner, right. Get a file going and do what we normally do in cases like this—nothing more, nothing less. Come in and give me an update this afternoon, fair enough?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  At Baghdad International, it was still predawn when the Globemaster rolled onto its final approach. Dawson, Rodriquez, and their JSOC team had been awakened two hours earlier by a call from the Op-Center watch floor. They were ready to load up once the C-17 was refueled and made ready for its return flight.

  For Volner and his JSOC team, the good news that Admiral Bruner had been found was tempered by their brief, one-sided skirmish with the ISIL fighters in Mosul. It had been little more than a holding action. Yes, they could have been overwhelmed by a large force, and withdrawing to Baghdad was the only sensible option. And they had gotten their beaks wet and taken out a number of the terrorists. But all that said, it was a less than fully satisfying encounter.

  * * *

  Roger McCord and Aaron Bleich appeared in Chase Williams’s doorway. “You wanted to see us, boss?” McCord asked.

  “Come in, fellas. Coffee?”

  “No thanks, sir. Something up—is this about Admiral Bruner’s son?” McCord asked. “Last night’s watch team put a message in Aaron’s queue. It was waiting for him this morning.”

  “It is. And since you all are up to speed, what are your thoughts?”

  “I think, at a minimum, we ought to start sniffing around and seeing what we can find out about the lieutenant,” McCord continued. “But isn’t this in the Navy’s swim lane? Don’t they do something when someone is missing?”

  “They do,” Williams replied. “Admiral Oldham only called me as a courtesy because he knew we were involved in rescuing Admiral Bruner. He said he’s turned this over to NCIS. They’re the ones who are supposed to investigate these things.”

  “Boss, you said ‘supposed to’ but you didn’t sound so sure,” McCord said.

  “I’m not saying NCIS does a bad job, only that they have to live within certain rules and regulations, and that they do things methodically. If the worst concerns about Lieutenant Bruner—that he has taken on finding his father on his own—are true, then I think we’ll need to get involved—and pronto.”

  “We get it, boss,” McCord replied. “You don’t think he’s left the country, do you?”

  “I’m not sure, but we have to play worst case.” Then, turning to Bleich, he continued. “Start your own file on Lieutenant Bruner, and also get whatever NCIS has on him. Don’t ask, they won’t give it to you; just get it. And check the records of any MAC flights leaving the country from the time he was last seen until now, Aaron. My gut tells me he might be trying to get to Iraq.”

  “What about Brian and Hector and our team? They should be leaving Baghdad to come home any time now,” McCord asked.

  “We’re playing worst-case gentlemen. I’ll call Brian myself. For now we need to keep them there.”

  * * *

  Even though he was exhausted from his days of captivity, as well as mentally drained from his near-death ordeal, Jay Bruner was so stoked up on adrenaline that he couldn’t sleep. He and Meagan had sat in their family room for hours after their daughters had gone to bed, talking about everything and talking about nothing.

  No matter how many times Meagan had explained their son’s disappearance, it didn’t track for his father. The fact that the “case” had been turned over to NCIS made even less sense. He wanted to do something, but it was the middle of the night. His wife finally convinced him to go to bed, but it took several Benadryl pills before he was finally able to sleep.

  Bruner finally awoke at 1030. Once Meagan had filled him with coffee and a big breakfast, he considered his options.

  “Are you going to call Eric Oldham?”

  “I’d like to go in and make an office call on him, plus I’ve been away from OLA—”

  “Whoa, hold it there, cowboy,” Meagan interrupted. She knew her husband well enough that she wasn’t surprised that he wanted to return to work less than twelve hours after nearly being killed. “The doctors from Bethesda said you needed at least several days rest—maybe even a week—before you climbed back into the trenches. I’ll be the sheriff if I have to.”

  Bruner pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. “Well, maybe I’ll call VCNO. But I need to do something Meagan. My son is missing and—”

  “Our son is missing,” Meagan interrupted. “And people are doing something. And I know you don’t want to hear this, but what they’re doing will probably work best if we don’t interfere.”

  “Okay, you may be right. But after I call Eric Oldham, I want to call Admiral Williams at Op-Center. He was the admiral in charge of Deep Blue during our last tour in the Pentagon. His people rescued me, and I owe him a thank you. If Dale is in trouble and needs help, his outfit may just be the ones to do what no one else can.”

  “Come on. I bought that great Aeron executive chair for your office. You can sit there and put your feet up and make your calls—that way I can lie to the docs and say you’ve been resting,” Meagan said with a wink.

  * * *

  The object of Jay and Meagan Bruner’s worry was sitting in a chair in an otherwise bare room in ISIS’s building, his arms pull
ed behind the chair and his hands and legs bound. After a morning with no air attacks, and convinced all the mayhem at their compound was caused by this one man and was not a precursor to an attack, Mabad al-Dosari had ordered his fighters and their families to return to their compound. Bruner had had the two bullets removed and his wounds patched up soon after they arrived at the safe house. The heavy sedative the doctors had given him had knocked him out and he had just regained consciousness about thirty minutes ago.

  Al-Dosari wanted to know who he was and why he was here—and he wanted to know now. He sent in his most experienced—and most brutal—interrogator to extract that information from their captive.

  The man was built like a linebacker and stood a foot from Bruner. “We’re going to keep doing this until you talk. You clearly know who we are and you know what fate can ultimately await you if you don’t cooperate. But I assure you, if you don’t answer my questions, what I can do to you will make you beg to have your throat slit. Do you understand?”

  Silence, as Dale Bruner just stared straight ahead.

  “I said, do you understand?” the interrogator shouted as he smashed his fist into the left side of Bruner’s head, knocking his chair over. The man picked the SEAL’s chair up and asked again.

  “Are you American?”

  Silence was met with another fist to the head, knocking his chair over again. His captor righted the chair once more.

  “Are you special forces?”

  Silence.

  The man drew his fist back and smashed it into Bruner’s nose, shattering it. Blood gushed everywhere, but the hostage still had a defiant stare.

  “Our doctors removed the bullets and bandaged your wounds. This after you killed two of our comrades. I think I need to check on their handiwork,” the interrogator said, and, as he did, he wrapped both his hands over the bandage covering the wound on his captive’s right shoulder.

  The pain was excruciating, but Bruner wasn’t going to satisfy his torturer by yelping out. He bit his lip hard and soon a wide rivulet of blood streamed off his chin, joining the flow of blood from his nose.