by David Austin
“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kabbani stammered. “I’ve done nothing,”
Jacobs was just as stunned by Joe’s actions and hissed, “What the hell are you doing? Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Without taking his eyes, or his pistol, off Kabbani, Joe said, “Four military-style vehicles just entered the grounds.” Not one to believe in coincidences, he figured the Syrian had either set them up or got sloppy with his tradecraft and led the patrol right to them. “Did you set us up, Tariq?”
“N…no,” the Syrian stuttered. His eyes darted from Joe to Jacobs looking for support. “Greg, you know me. After all you’ve done for my family, I would never betray you. Tell him!”
“Put the gun away, Joe. Tariq didn’t turn on us.”
Remaining laser focused on Kabbani, Joe asked, “How can you be so sure?”
“Because,” Jacobs said, “a couple of years back, not long after Tariq had begun working with us, his wife had complications with her pregnancy. When we found out about her condition, I persuaded him to get her to Europe for a few weeks on a so-called vacation.” He made air quotes with both hands as he said the word vacation. “I met them in Germany and got her admitted to the med center at Landstuhl.”
Joe’s gaze began to soften, and his eyes drifted to the case officer as he spoke.
“The doctors were able to treat his wife’s condition during the two-week stay. Three months later, Rima gave birth to a healthy baby boy named Nabil. I have to admit, I’m still a little bummed they didn’t name him Greg. But hey, there probably aren’t a lot of Greg Kabbanis running around Damascus these days. Anyway, without the treatment at Landstuhl, there’s a good chance neither the mother nor the child would have survived. That’s how I’m so damn sure of Tariq’s loyalty.”
Holstering his pistol, Joe turned to Tariq and extended his hand. “I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions.”
“Apology accepted. I probably would have thought the same had I been in your position.”
“Now that we’re friends again and ready to sing Kumbaya around the campfire, what’s the plan?” Jacobs asked.
“I’m working on it,” Joe replied as the headlights of the lead technical extended around the bend at the base of the hill. He keyed his radio and raised the drone pilot. “Are you seeing any other movement around our location?”
“Negative Spartan. Other than the four vehicles, everything’s quiet.”
Joe looked to Jacobs and Kabbani, who had only been privy to his end of the conversation since they didn’t have radios or earpieces. “Tariq, are you coming with us if we have to bug out?”
In a thoughtful but firm tone, the Syrian said, “No. For many years the military was responsible for securing the citadel, and it was only recently that they relinquished that duty. I don’t know why these men are here, perhaps they still do random patrols, but I should be able to talk my way out of this if we’re not discovered together. My GID identification should be enough to intimidate even the most curious soldier.”
“What do you think, Greg?”
Tariq cut his case officer off before he could answer. “If I leave with you, and my government finds out, my wife and son will pay a terrible price for my actions.”
He knew exactly what horrors his family would endure because he had inflicted the same punishment on others in the name of suppressing dissent. He was also keenly aware that his friends and counterparts in the GID would not go lightly on his family because of their personal relationships. If anything, the fact that he was one of their own would make his family’s torture exponentially worse. The thought of Rima and Nabil being subjected to that type of cruelty shook the hardened Syrian to his core. “No, I’d rather take my chances here than have my family endure such consequences.”
“Maybe it won’t be necessary,” Jacobs said, his voice tinged with hope. “Let’s hang here in the shadows for a minute and see what happens. Like Tariq said, it could be just a routine patrol. With any luck, they’ll exit through the south entrance and go find a nice place to get some tea.”
Joe and Tariq exchanged skeptical looks. Both men had seen their fair share of action and knew one thing for certain – hope was not a plan. One way or another, they would know for sure in the next few minutes. If the convoy turned right, it would be heading back into town. If it continued straight it would only be a matter of minutes before four truckloads of armed men would be working their way up the switchback to the citadel’s parking area – and the Americans.
Come on, Joe thought, trying to work his best Jedi mind trick on the driver of the lead technical. Make the right. Nothing to see here. These aren’t the spooks you’re looking for.
CHAPTER 3
The men looked on as all four trucks bypassed the south gate and continued their methodical advance up the road.
Fuck! Joe was cursing himself for agreeing to the citadel as the location for tonight’s meeting. While it was a secluded, out-of-the-way spot, it had one major drawback. With the single road leading up to the parking area, there was only one way in, and more importantly, only one way out.
The situation reminded him of a story he had heard about another Protective Resource Group team who had gotten themselves into a similar predicament outside Baghdad in the early days after the war. The case officer had set up a meet with an asset on the western outskirts of the city. He had chosen a u-shaped area in the desert that was surrounded on three sides by a tall berm.
After being searched for weapons by a member of the PRG team, the asset was escorted into the back of an armored Mercedes G-550 SUV to begin the debriefing with the case officer. The meeting had only just begun when two Iraqi police cars eased into the open end of the berm.
The PRG team leader didn’t know if the asset was compromised or if he was just bad at his tradecraft and was followed by some curious cops. The one thing he did know was that they were surrounded on three sides by a wall of sand and that the only way out of this situation was straight ahead. While he didn’t particularly want to get into a shootout with some local police officers, he wasn’t about to let his team get arrested and hauled off to an Iraqi jail either.
Seeing the patrol cars blocking the entrance, the other members of the PRG team exited their Nissan Patrol and took up positions on either side of the SUVs. The Iraqi officers came out of their cars with guns blazing, leading the team leader to believe they had aced the class in shoot first and ask questions later at the academy. He would never know whether they were corrupt cops looking to loot the Americans’ dead bodies or diligent officers of the law investigating what they thought to be suspicious activity. As rounds from the officers’ AK-47s snapped past their heads, the CIA protective team returned fire with a volley of their own and dropped the four Iraqi policemen like a bad habit.
Knowing the gunfire was sure to draw unwanted attention, the team leader made the decision to end the meeting. He flung the G-wagon’s back door open, grabbed the asset by the shirt collar, and physically removed him from the truck. As he took his place in the right front seat of the Mercedes, he glanced down and noticed a hole in the unbuttoned plaid shirt he was wearing to conceal his gear. Pulling the shirt around he saw a matching hole in the back where a bullet had passed through the fabric. Had the policeman’s aim been an inch or two to the left, the round would have entered the team leader’s abdomen just below his trauma plate. Sometimes it was better to be lucky than good, he thought. Giving the order to move out, the two-vehicle convoy sped past the squad cars and headed for the safety of the Green Zone.
*
Joe ran through his options and determined they were all bad. He didn’t see any way they were going to avoid getting into a gunfight, so he gathered the team around and laid out his plan for a hasty ambush. If they were going to fight their way off this hill, it would be on his terms.
The only person with a question was Jacobs. “And what about Tariq? He can’t stay here and talk his way out of the situation if you
engage and kill a bunch of these guys.”
Looking at the Syrian, Joe said, “As I see it, you’ve got two choices. You can come with us and we’ll figure out how to get you home once we’re rid of these guys. Or, you can hide in the shadows and hope we draw them away as we make our escape. Either way, you need to decide quickly.”
Time was running out. Once the convoy made the sharp left at the switchback, it would be only about five hundred meters or so from the Americans’ position in the ruins. With the help of the trucks’ headlights, Joe could clearly see figures standing in the bed of the first and fourth trucks manning Russian designed DShK 12.7-millimeter heavy machine guns. Putting those two Dishkas out of commission immediately jumped to the top of his priority list.
Tariq considered his options for a few seconds, then said, “I will stay behind. My government has no reason to suspect me of conspiring against them. And I’m sure I practiced good tradecraft on my way here. I wasn’t followed. There’s a good chance this may be nothing more than a classic case of wrong place, wrong time.”
“For your sake, I hope so.” Joe said.
Reaching into his pocket, Tariq withdrew a small, black USB thumb drive. Handing it to Jacobs, he said, “The locations and security precautions in place around my government’s chemical weapons facilities. Research and manufacturing laboratories, storage warehouses, and the command and control structure – it’s all on the drive.”
Jacobs eyed the slim plastic storage device in the palm of his hand. “Thank you for this. Any issues accessing the information?”
“None. I used the login credentials of a scientist we were questioning on an internal matter. He was already under suspicion for corruption and sharing confidential information, so this will only dig his hole a little deeper if the breach is discovered.” Before turning to leave, Tariq paused, then said, “There’s one more thing you need to know.”
Intrigued, Jacobs asked, “What’s that?”
“It’s the Russians.”
“What about them?”
“As you know, they’ve had a large presence in my country for several years. Their advisors are assisting our military, and Spetsnaz units are running operations in support of the regime. Russian air support has been the single biggest reason the tide of the civil war has turned in favor of my government.”
Jacobs concurred, “Yeah, we know. They’ve been conducting operations out of the air base south of Latakia and the port in Tartus. We’ve been keeping pretty close tabs on them.”
Tariq continued, “I’ve attended several briefings with members of the GRU, their military intelligence, and it appears Moscow is becoming less tolerant of your actions in the region. I don’t know the details at this point, but I get the feeling that they are putting together an operation that will make meddling in your presidential election seem like child’s play.”
Jacobs let out a low whistle, and his imagination ran wild contemplating what the Russians might be planning. “Thank you for all you have done for us tonight.” he said, stepping forward to embrace Tariq. “Safe travels, my friend.”
“To you as well.”
With the intelligence gathering portion of the mission complete, it was time for Joe to focus on the team’s extraction. Tariq’s information would be actionable only if they were able to get it back to the analysts at headquarters. And the first step in that process was getting off this damn hill without being torn to pieces by the convoy’s heavy machine guns.
Joe reached through the pickup’s open window and grabbed his Ops-Core helmet. He turned on the night vision goggles attached to the front mount before putting it on and securing the chinstrap. Shaking Tariq’s hand, he said, “Find some cover and keep your head down. Once we open fire, all hell’s going to break loose.”
CHAPTER 4
The ambush had gone according to plan…right up to the point that it didn’t. There’s an old saying that a plan is only good until first contact, then the enemy gets a vote.
When the fourth and final vehicle in the convoy crested the hill, Joe gave the command, “Execute! Execute! Execute!”
Suppressed rounds from the team’s HK416 rifles cracked through the air. Joe sent a couple of controlled pairs into the gunner manning the lead vehicle’s Dishka. The first two bullets hit the man in the chest and were immediately followed by two more that snapped his head back as if he had been punched in the face by Mike Tyson.
Chris Ryan followed up, sending a stream of high-velocity rounds through the truck’s windshield, killing the driver and the soldier sitting in the front seat. The truck drifted to the left and broke through a low retaining wall that ran along the edge of the parking area. Before the two men in the back realized what was happening, the driverless technical crested the edge of the escarpment and began to pick up speed as it descended the steep angle of the mountainside.
Any hope the trapped men might survive this crazy rollercoaster ride evaporated when the truck’s headlights flashed across the scene below. They were rapidly approaching an area dotted with rocks the size of basketballs. Looking as if it had been rehearsed by a Hollywood stunt-coordinator, the front wheels hit one of the rocks and canted hard to the left, causing the back end of the truck to swing around. It was only a matter of seconds before the tires dug into the soil and the truck began a violent roll, throwing the men around the interior of the cab like a couple of kids who had crawled into their mom’s dryer. Their misery ended forty meters later when the truck slammed into a boulder as big as a house.
Through the green hue of his NVGs, Joe watched as men poured out of the next two trucks in line, looking around in the darkness for the source of fire that had just killed their comrades. Aided by their night vision goggles and infra-red lasers mounted on the rail systems of their rifles, the American operators began picking off the confused and unorganized Syrians one at a time. It was like shooting fish in the proverbial barrel. We may get off this hill in one piece after all, he thought, almost feeling bad for the soldiers.
But the feeling quickly faded when he noticed four men calmly exit the technical at the rear of the convoy. There was something distinctive about them. They looked confident and sure of themselves, not scared or disorganized like the rest of the soldiers. The men wore uniforms, but even through the NVGs, Joe could see they weren’t the same as the others. Their kit was different too. Unlike the ragged mag pouches and beat up AK-47s the Syrians had been issued, these guys wore top-of-the-line chest rigs and carried AK-74s and AK-12s outfitted with advanced optics slung across their chests. The kicker, though, was when the four men reached up to their helmets in unison and clicked their own night vision devices into place. Shit. Russians.
Rumors had been circulating through Western news organizations for quite some time that Russia was supplementing their forces and those of the Syrian military with mercenaries. Joe had read enough intelligence reports on the subject to corroborate the stories, but he hadn’t planned on coming face-to-face with them on a mission.
Even though private military contractors, or PMCs were illegal in Russia, the law seemed to apply only to companies that weren’t on the president’s payroll. The most prominent PMC in Russia was Wagner Group. It had deployed mercenaries in support of the conflicts in Ukraine and Crimea and appeared to be at it once again, bolstering Russian forces fighting on behalf of the Syrian regime.
The use of Wagner’s soldiers for hire benefited the Kremlin on two fronts. First, it allowed Russia to reduce the number of troops in theater. And second, the spin doctors in Red Square reported on casualty numbers only for official members of its armed forces. It didn’t include the dead and injured contractors in its releases to the media, thereby minimizing the appearance of Russian casualties in the conflict. Stories of mass graves and the burning of mercenaries’ bodies to hide evidence of their participation in the war were commonplace.
Joe didn’t particularly want to mix it up with the Russians, but his job description didn’t include worrying about
diplomatic relations with guys who were trying to kill him. As far as he was concerned, a hostile was a hostile, regardless of where they were from. And he would not think twice about smoking a bunch of mercs if they were a threat to his team or his mission. Besides, Washington was overflowing with eggheads who were getting paid a lot of money to deal with those big-picture issues. His primary concern was getting his team and the man they were there to protect out of this firefight alive.
Whether these men were hired hitters from Wagner, or a Spetsnaz team was of little consequence right now. The Russians had taken charge of the situation and were barking orders in Arabic to the rag-tag group of Syrians. The effect was almost immediate, and the soldiers regained some semblance of a professional fighting force. Once the men were organized and taking advantage of available cover, the Russians used their night vision devices to direct the soldiers’ fire on the Americans’ positions.
One of the Russians pointed and yelled something at the soldier manning the Dishka on the last truck. The big gun came to life and bright flashes erupted from its muzzle, lighting up the night like a powerful strobe as the gunner sent rounds slamming into the ruins lining the parking lot. Rightly assuming the stone structures were providing cover for the ambush, he continued firing, punching holes the size of softballs in the centuries-old walls. The withering barrage sent the CIA operators and their case officer scrambling for more substantial cover.
Kevin Chang leaned around a corner and fired a quick burst at the gunner but missed as the heavy 12.7-millimeter rounds chewed up the wall he was using for protection. Forced to retreat, he called for covering fire, then turned and sprinted for the remnants of a small building ten yards away. He had covered about half the distance when something struck his left shoulder. Feeling as if he’d been hit with a baseball bat, the impact spun him around and he landed hard on his back. Ignoring the pain, he rolled over, scrambled to his feet, and stumbled the last five yards to the building.
