Raqqah was located sixty miles south of the Turkish border on the Euphrates River in north-central Syria, at the crosshairs of every fighter bomber and missile the Crusaders could fire at it. Shaw knew full well that trying to get there was exceedingly dangerous if not suicidal. He had to pass through an open war zone contested by ISIS, the Syrian Army, the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, Russian tanks and their elite Speznaz troops, Kurds, Turks, and a dozen different opposition militias, not to mention gangs of common bandits.
Looking around the rocky, utterly barren countryside, it was hard to imagine why anyone would fight over it. Central and northern Turkey and the Euphrates River valley in Syria and Iraq were reasonably hospitable, but the flat, arid landscape between resembled the far side of the moon. Not even a chicken, a goat, or a cactus could live here. Like the rugged Zagros Mountains in western Iran, perhaps God put them there as buffers between people who flat out hated each other. There was no other explanation he could think of.
It was only 2:00 p.m., and already sweltering inside the cab. High in the sky to the south he saw the white contrails of jet fighters. One of ISIS’s many enemies, no doubt, which meant they had finally crossed into Syria. Excellent! As the road turned left, the grizzled driver reached into the door-well and pulled out an old pottery water bottle. He pulled out the cork with his teeth, took a long drink, and passed the bottle to Shaw. By then, he was so thirsty he’d accept almost anything, and took several deep swallows of the bitter, foul-tasting water. Dysentery or a Russian bullet? Some choice, he thought, as he handed the bottle back and watched as the old man had the nerve to wipe the mouth of the bottle on his filthy sleeve before he put it up to his mouth for another drink. Shaw was tempted to pull out his gun, and shoot the old bastard right then and there.
The rough track turned again, before it suddenly ran down a steep hill that disappeared into a rocky ravine. At the bottom, it snaked left around a hill, where they came face to face with a battered Russian Ural-375 flatbed Army truck and a squad of Syrian soldiers. Their uniforms were badly worn and none of them appeared to have shaved or washed in days. They didn’t look like much, nor did they appear to be very enthusiastic about being here. Half of them were sleeping up in the truck bed, while the others sat on the rocks or leaned on their rifles, all except their burly sergeant. He stood in the middle of the road, legs spread, and pointed his AK-47 at the Toyota truck as it came around the bend.
The old man quickly stopped in front of the sergeant and motioned for Shaw to sit back and relax. Fat, mustachioed, and arrogant, the Syrian sergeant pulled back the bolt on his automatic rifle and sauntered around to the driver’s side door, and motioned for two of his men to back him up. He poked his AK-47 in the window, as several of his men ran around back and rummaged through the vegetables in the rear truck bed. The old man smiled, pulled a wrinkled set of papers from his pocket, and handed them to the sergeant. It was unlikely that either man could read, but they both went through the motions, pointing at the papers, and using more hand gestures than words. Meanwhile, the men in back began tossing melons and fruit to the others in the truck, who also came running over, unarmed, pulling out their shirts to make baskets to carry away an assortment of cucumbers, cabbages, and dates, probably the first fresh food they’d seen in days.
After more bargaining, the old truck driver shrugged, took his papers back, and reached inside his kaftan. He pulled out a small roll of Turkish money, counted out several bills, and handed them to the sergeant, which appeared to conclude matters. The big Syrian shoved the money in his shirt pocket. Rather than walk away, however, he glanced across at Shaw, and it soon became clear he wasn’t quite finished with them yet. There was no telling what he had seen or suspected, but he walked around to the passenger side and stuck his head in the window, his face only inches from the American’s.
Shaw flinched. He doubted the big Syrian had bathed, washed his clothes, or brushed his teeth in a week or more, and the mix of odors was enough to make Shaw gag. With a suspicious grunt, the sergeant reached inside and touched Shaw’s nose with his index finger, wiping off some of the skin dye. He then pulled the Ray-Ban sunglasses down, revealing Shaw’s bright-blue eyes. He then shouted something to the others, shoved the barrel of his AK-47 through the open window, and tried to back away. Shaw didn’t wait. He grabbed the water bottle off the seat with his left hand and smashed it into the sergeant’s forehead, while grabbing the rifle barrel with his right. The sergeant stumbled backward and released his grip on the AK-47, as Shaw reached inside his kaftan for the Walther PPK. In one smooth movement, he extended it in front of the old man’s nose and out the driver’s side window, firing twice at the two armed Syrians the sergeant had posted there. They were still fumbling with their rifles as they each went down with a bullet in the forehead. Before they hit the ground, Shaw was out the door with the Walther and the sergeant’s AK-47. He tucked the Walther in his waistband and put both hands on the Kalashnikov, firing a series of three-shot bursts at the four Syrians who had remained up in the bed of their own truck. Shaw fired from the hip, just as they taught him to do at Parris Island all those years before, and he didn’t miss. Nice to know he hadn’t lost the touch, he thought.
Those four Syrians went down hard, falling over the side or dropping in the truck bed before they could get to their own rifles. As they did, Shaw turned around toward the three who had been picking through the veggies in the back of the Toyota. The AK-47’s magazine had a capacity of 30 rounds, but he wasn’t the one who loaded it and the last thing he wanted to do was rely on the fat sergeant. The three remaining Syrians were already jumping off the back of the Toyota and running, so Shaw brought the Russian rifle up to his shoulder for a series of single shots. It took him five rounds to drop the three soldiers, but he continued to advance to the back of the truck and shot each of them in the head with another round to make sure they didn’t get back up. The fourth time he pulled the trigger, it clicked empty.
Figures, Shaw thought as he tossed the empty AK-47 aside. Still, not too shabby, old man, not too shabby, he smiled to himself. As he turned around, he saw that the Syrian sergeant had already gotten to his feet behind him. Wobbling back and forth, the man was bleeding from a bad cut on his forehead, where Shaw hit him with the water bottle. Wiping the blood from his eyes, he saw the rest of his squad lying dead around the two trucks and the skinny, blue-eyed bastard who did it walking toward him. The sergeant growled, lowered his head, and charged, intending to tear Shaw apart with his bare hands.
Shaw was surprised at how fast the fat Syrian could move; he was on him in seconds. He was shorter than Shaw, but had him by at least a hundred pounds. As the Syrian drove him backward, Shaw managed to get his hand on the hilt of the K-bar knife he had hidden up his left sleeve. As the Syrian got his powerful hands around his throat and knocked him down, Shaw pulled the eight-inch knife out far enough to get it upright between himself and the big Syrian as he crashed down on top of him. The impact knocked the wind out of Shaw, but with their faces only inches apart, he saw the effect was much worse on the sergeant.
The Syrian’s eyes went wide as a loud, painful groan escaped his lips, and he went limp on top of the American. Shaw finally pushed him off and lay there for a moment, gasping for breath. Finally, he turned his head to the side and saw the Syrian lying next to him, with the dead expression of a large mackerel in the fish market and the leather-wrapped handle of his Ka-Bar knife sticking out under his ribs. Slowly, Shaw managed to roll over, get to his knees, and finally to his feet. He stepped on the Syrian’s chest with one foot, grabbed the handle of the knife, and used all his strength to yank it back out. With the bloody knife dangling from his right hand, he reached down with his left and pulled the Turkish money out of the Syrian’s shirt pocket. No sense leaving any clues behind, or witnesses. Let them think this was an ISIS attack, or maybe one of the militias. Finally, he turned and looked around at the small, body-strewn battleground. Did the Syrians have a radio in their tru
ck? Or were they were expecting relief or a chow truck anytime soon? No telling, but he wasn’t going to wait and find out.
Shaw quickly strode back to the passenger-side door of the Toyota. He pulled his Walther PPK pistol out of his belt and glanced across at the old man. He was sitting wide-eyed, staring out the front windshield with both hands on the steering wheel in a white-knuckled death grip, clearly in shock from having the pistol go off twice right in front of his nose. There was no sense wasting any time trying to talk to him, Shaw thought, as he stepped around the front of the Toyota, checking the magazine in the Walther. It held seven .380 ACP rounds and five were left. He still had the knife, and intended to leave no witnesses to tell the tale as to who or what happened here. He walked over to the two he had shot through the truck window. Neither was moving, but he shot them both in the head to make sure. Of the four men lying around the Russian truck, two were clearly dead, and he used the Ka-Bar knife to slit the throats of the other two, ending that risk as well. Finally, he looked at the sergeant and the three men lying behind the Toyota, but they were clearly dead.
Shaw stood there for a moment taking in his work and enjoying the emotional release it gave him. Fights, killing, and kinky sex were the only things that had gotten him through the Marine Corps and Iraq. Since then, he’d had to compensate with just the sex, not that he’d denied himself; but this was so much better. Maybe it was the sight and smell of fresh blood and gunpowder, but to him, it was better than an orgasm. He walked back to the driver’s side door of the Toyota and looked in at the old Turkmeni. He appeared in no condition to drive. Shaw nudged him and finally got him to move over to the passenger seat. As he did, Shaw pulled off the heavy kaftan. Enough was enough, he decided, as he wiped the blood off his knife blade on its rough material and tossed it in the back of the truck as he got behind the wheel. He ground the reluctant transmission into first gear, pressed the gas pedal to the floor, and bounced away from the Syrian checkpoint into the flat, featureless desert beyond. The rutted dirt road began to flatten out, enough to let him pick up speed. Two hours later, Shaw saw a hazy, brown cloud of dust on the far horizon, crisscrossed by white contrails in the sky, and what looked like dim flashes of light.
“Bombs,” the old man said as he pointed a brown, wrinkled finger toward the horizon.
Bombs? They’re bombing Raqqah, Shaw thought. They had at least thirty more miles to go before they reached the city and it was far too dangerous to continue in daylight, so he turned off the rutted track and parked the small truck in the shade of a large boulder in a dry streambed. “Here,” he muttered to the old man and pointed to the ground. “Until night… until dark.” Shaw stared at him and thought the old man finally understood.
It has been one hell of a day, Shaw thought; but the old man would report each and everything he had done to the people who sent him, probably embellishing it and building him into a blond killer, a superman.
Yes, for the first time in years, Henry Shaw knew precisely where he was and what he was doing. This wasn’t like that bullshit war in Iraq he never understood, nor was it some phony research trip. In the morning, he would meet with Abu Bakr al-Zaeim, the Caliph, the Guide, and the Leader of ISIS, and join the other “True Believers” on the battle lines of Islam. He had the perfect story to tell them about why he came, one even they would believe. And now, with the old man as a witness, he could add some legitimate fighting credentials. After all, he had just wiped out an entire Syrian squad single-handedly, hadn’t he? He closed his eye, imagining the “selfie” he would take once he got to Raqqah, with his arm around the Caliph and an AK-47 held high over his head. Then he could return to the University of Chicago triumphant, look their faculty members in the eye, and sneer at them for a change.
CHAPTER THREE
Fayetteville, North Carolina
Fayetteville’s an Army town of 200,000 located on the Cape Fear River in the “sand hills” of Cumberland County, North Carolina. Its small airport is located on the south side of the city and is appropriately called a “Regional” airport, not “International,” “Carolina Heartland,” “the World’s Greatest,” or any of the other ridiculous names Chambers of Commerce often dream up. Well, Bob thought, they can call it whatever they like, as long as it isn’t O’Hare.
Getting away from the “cleanup in aisle five” he’d left in the long-term parking lot was surprisingly easy. The airport was ringed by I-95, Business-95, and several other major highways, and they were all empty at that time of night. With a few quick turns, he was up on the Interstate and headed east across the Cape Fear River. The first exit took him north on a series of curving, two-lane roads that passed through the farms and woods on the eastern bank of the river opposite Fayetteville, until he came to the entrance of the 600-acre farm they had named “Sherwood Forest.”
A farm? No matter how hard you shake the Burke family tree, you won’t find any farmers, lawyers, or bankers falling out. Their “family business” was the US Army, and Bob Burke’s connection to this lovely rural area was when he rotated in and out of Fort Bragg during his career, his father’s, and his grandfather’s before them. And like Henry Ford’s model T, the Burkes only come off the assembly line one way — wearing the crossed Springfield muskets and pale-blue neck scarf of the infantry. Like his father, Bob attended West Point, not that he gave it any thought. There weren’t many Harvard alumni lurking in the family either, so “Uncle Sam’s Home for Wayward Youth on the Hudson” was the only school he knew anything about or even considered. Besides, it made his mother happy. As she said, at least she knew where he’d be at night. When he arrived at West Point for his Plebe Summer, he was only five foot nine inches tall and 150 pounds. Later, he was often asked how he managed to pass the entrance physical. “By standing on my toes and eating a lot of bananas,” was his usual reply. When they wondered how a quick-tempered, smartass like him managed to survive up there for four years, much less be selected First Captain, the highest leadership position in the senior class, he would usually shrug and offer his infectious, self-deprecating smile, as if he didn’t have a clue either.
As it turned out, the “Army thing” was something he was pretty good at. After the 82nd Airborne Division and the 75th Ranger Regiment, he was handpicked for the elite 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment, or Delta Force, as the writers in Hollywood liked to call it. That always cracked up his father and grandfather, but Bob had frequently been tasked to “off book,” black ops assignments with the CIA and other “alphabet soup” joint operations during his career. However, after twelve years and six long deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan, plus more “week-enders” than he cared to think about, enough was enough. After one particularly bad Op in Afghanistan, when things went very bad due to poor intelligence, unreliable local support, and no coordination at headquarters, he knew it was time to hang it up. Knocking three teeth out of the armchair colonel who had vetted the intelligence and was supposedly in charge of the Op probably helped make his decision for him. Bob had friends in high places, some with stars, but they could only protect him so far. A month later, after a rotation back to the states and a red-hot R&R in Hilton Head, he walked into the S-1 personnel office and filed his retirement papers. That didn’t amuse anyone, especially not the Army, and especially not his father or grandfather. Still, with his record, he didn’t need to apologize to anyone.
His weren’t the life experiences or job skills most corporations were looking for in a resume. As it turned out, he didn’t need one. After his marriage to his first wife, “the fierce and dreaded” Angie Toler, her father, Ed, offered him a top job with Toler TeleCom, his hi-tech telecommunications security software company in Schaumburg, northwest of Chicago. They provided hardware and software for the Department of Defense. It wasn’t exactly the kind of work Bob Burke was used to, but it had its challenges and Bob quickly adapted. That astonished “Ace” Randall and his other Delta pals back at Fort Bragg, but that was how one of the deadliest killing machines
the US government ever produced quietly morphed into the innocent-looking “telephone guy.”
Bob discovered how much he liked his new Ford 150 when he drove the country roads around Fayetteville. He’d never bought a new vehicle before, and he loved the “new car” smell and the tight feel of its suspension and steering. He had owned it for less than two weeks and he was still very much in love with it when the bikers smashed his window. That definitely added to his aggravation that night. When he bought it, all he added to the standard package was a high-end Sony MDX audio system. His musical taste had always run to classic cool jazz — Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, and Ella. Maybe it was the pickup truck, but no sooner had he gotten behind the wheel of the Ford 150, than he felt a sudden craving for Doctor Pepper, a toothpick, Alison Krauss, and Rascal Flatts on the CD player.
His new wife, Linda, couldn’t believe he bought a pickup truck until he drove it up to the house that first time. “A pickup truck? Really?” she sighed, making it obvious she wasn’t buying his story.
“Come on, we own a farm now, and there’s dozens of things we need it for… honest.”
Burke's Revenge: Bob Burke Suspense Thriller #3 (Bob Burke Action Adventure Novels) Page 3
