by Mel Odom
Remington placed his thumb on his pistol’s hammer and rolled it back. The clicks as it locked into place sounded ominous in the quiet cellar.
“I’m thinking,” Remington said, “that there are caves out there in the mountains that the Syrians are using. Either to the west or the east of the route they’re using to get to Sanliurfa.”
“Caves,” Abu said. “Yes, there are many caves.”
“Have you seen the fuel stores?” Remington’s plan was thin, but if successful—even though there would be “acceptable losses”—his plan would net the defenders of Sanliurfa a few more days’ grace. The present military engagement could turn around in minutes if he could buy enough time to convince Turkey and the U.S. to invest more troops in the Sanliurfa theater of operations.
Abu licked blood from his lips. “I know where the Syrian fuel stores are, Captain.”
Remington held out the map, careful not to occlude Hardin’s field of fire. “Show me.”
With a trembling hand, Abu shoved a forefinger at the topographical map. “There.”
Looking at the map and estimating the distance, Remington saw that the Syrians were west of the road into Sanliurfa. “Are the fuel stores in caves there?”
“Yes. But that is not all that is there, Captain.” Abu shivered. “There are also the ruins of a city.”
Remington examined the map again. “There’s no city on the map.”
“Captain, several cities in this part of Turkey died out hundreds and even thousands of years ago. This place is a very old place. I am told some of the first cities in the world were here.” Abu shrugged. “Only Allah knows if this is true. But I do know the bones of an ancient city are there. The Syrian dogs have dug hiding places in that dead city to store their gasoline and diesel.”
Lowering the map, Remington looked at the man.
Abu held his gaze fearfully. He licked his lips again. “Please, Captain, I swear in Allah’s name that I am only telling you the truth.”
After waiting a beat, Remington said, “I believe you.”
Relief flooded through Abu. He almost collapsed in the chair. “Thank you, Captain. You will not regret this.”
“No,” Remington said. “I won’t regret it.” He pocketed the map, holstered his pistol, and walked away from the man. “Hardin.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Make certain I don’t regret this.” Remington thought his voice sounded cold and distant and alien even in his own ears.
“Yes, sir.”
Silhouetted by the electric torch behind him, Remington saw the long black shadows on the stone wall in front of him, saw the shadow of the man seated in the chair and Hardin’s shadow as he stepped forward with his assault rifle ready. In that instant, Abu must have realized that he was the only one outside of the Rangers who knew Remington was planning to target the Syrian fuel depot. He traded with the Syrians. Releasing him was out of the question. How could Remington trust the man to keep his silence?
“No! Captain! Please! I beg you! Cap—”
A quick burst of gunfire hammered Remington’s ears as he started up the wooden steps. The muzzle flash momentarily erased the shadows on the wall to his left, even as the bullets permanently erased Abu Alam. When the shadows returned, the dead man’s shadow was missing. Only the shadow of the empty chair stood between the Rangers.
“Thank you, Corporal,” Remington said without turning around.
“Yes, sir,” Hardin said.
“Stay here until we make arrangements to get rid of the body.”
“Yes, sir.”
Outside the burned-out husk of the building, Remington slid his sunglasses back on. He tried to control the nausea that squirmed through his stomach, but he failed. The image of Abu’s shadow getting eradicated by the muzzle flash from the M-4A1 bounced around inside his skull like a pinball. Sour bile tainted the back of Remington’s throat. He managed to hold off the worst of it until he reached the alley; then he bent forward and threw up.
The gut-churning purging left him weak, shaking, and lightheaded, but the feeling soon passed. He hadn’t wanted Hardin to see that reaction in him. The sickness over one more meaningless death was a weakness in himself, and Remington hated it. But he’d had no other course of action. He had to hold the city. The Joint Chiefs had trapped him into taking the steps he had.
During his years as an officer, he’d seen men die horrific deaths. He had found their bodies after violent passings. But he had never so coldbloodedly ordered an execution. There had been times when he’d had a chance to take a person alive, and he’d given orders not to risk his men, but he’d never had a man killed who had been so defenseless.
This time, though, he’d walked into that cellar knowing he was going to leave a dead man behind. He hadn’t thought it would bother him. He had told himself that it wouldn’t. He was only doing what he had to do, and he expected himself to do it.
The life lost in that cellar could save the lives of dozens—maybe hundreds—of the men in his command. He forced himself to remember that. He wasn’t a murderer. He was a man in command accepting the responsibility of that command. An officer who accepted the burden of keeping his men alive and able to fight. Abu had to die so that his men had a chance to live.
And also so that he had a chance to win with the losing hand he’d been dealt by the powers that be. In the game of war, losers died. Winners lived and got to fight another day. And they had a chance at glory. Captain Cal Remington didn’t intend to blow his chance.
His stomach spasmed again but nothing came up. He felt certain there was nothing left to lose. He cursed his weakness. It wasn’t like he’d had a choice in whether or not to kill Abu. The Joint Chiefs had pushed him into killing. They’d sat back on their duffs and played war games, sacrificing his unit because they were afraid to risk what they were ordering the Rangers to put on the line every minute of every hour of every day that the 75th occupied the city.
He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, then turned and walked back toward the waiting RSOV out of sight around the corner. A quick scan of the street showed him no one was around to witness his loss of control.
He thought about Corporal Dean Hardin waiting down in the cellar so patiently with the dead man. Hardin didn’t act like killing the man had meant anything to him, hadn’t even flinched when Remington had told him it would be necessary.
There was still, Remington knew, a huge difference between himself and Hardin, but the Ranger captain didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. He only knew that the difference existed.
Remington was glad he had men in his command like Hardin, men who would see every nasty job done that needed doing and wouldn’t hesitate about getting it done. Goose and men like him—which most of the Rangers tended to be with their sense of fair play and honor, even on terror-ravaged battlefields fighting enemies fueled by insane rage and selfish fear—wouldn’t do what Hardin had done.
Of course, the upside of that was that Remington would never have to worry that Goose or those men would start up an illegal enterprise that might come up and bite their captain on his nether regions. Unlike Hardin.
Remington buttoned the flap over his pistol holster as he turned the corner in front of the burned-out shell that had once housed the restaurant. He pushed all thought of Abu and the man’s execution from his mind. Maybe in the quiet of night that memory would return, but he knew why things had to happen the way they did. He’d stepped over the line, but he could live with it because it was for a good reason.
The RSOV’s driver stood at the front of the vehicle smoking a cigarette and holding his assault rifle in one hand. His attention was focused on a midnight-blue Mercedes sports coupe idling in the street beside the Ranger vehicle.
Remington’s adrenaline spiked as his gaze swept the luxury car. No one was supposed to be here. Certainly not some media geek with a camera. He scanned the nearby rooftops, wondering if Hardin or his team had somehow tipped off one of the bro
adcast groups. With the dead man in the cellar, the Ranger captain knew his career might end in the next few seconds.
Taking a deep breath, Remington pushed the throbbing fear from his mind. He was in control. No matter what, he was going to stay in control. He continued forward.
4
United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0628 Hours
Black-tinted windows masked from Remington’s view whoever sat inside the blue Mercedes. The German engine ran so quietly it couldn’t be heard over the distant noises of the city, the vehicular traffic as well as the earthmovers. A helicopter buzzed overhead, but the pilot gave no indication of interest in the Mercedes.
A chill ghosted through Remington as he surveyed the vehicle and looked for clues about its origin. The vehicle gave the air of being an alien creature plopped down in the middle of the city’s ruins. It looked too complete and too powerful to be touched by the vagaries of the war that had left Sanliurfa broken and shattered. The vanity plate on its front bumper read DEALZ.
“Captain Remington.” The RSOV driver caught sight of Remington and wheeled around. He flicked the cigarette from his fingertips, crushed it underfoot, and stood immediately at attention. He snapped off a quick salute.
Remington returned the salute. “At ease, Private.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We have company,” Remington observed.
“Yes, sir. A man to see you, sir.”
“What man?” Remington never broke stride, but his hand drifted down to the holstered M9. No one had known in advance that he was going to be at the restaurant other than Hardin’s handpicked crew. The driver hadn’t known before Remington had given him instructions. Until Hardin and his team got rid of Abu’s body, Remington couldn’t afford to be tied to this site.
“The man didn’t give his name, sir,” the private answered.
“You didn’t ask, Private?”
The private hesitated as if confused. “I confronted him, sir. I asked his name. That’s SOP. He told me he didn’t have to give me his name. He said that you would understand.”
The statement made no sense to Remington. Getting names of people in a secure area was one of the first things a soldier working a post did—standard operating procedure.
“What does he want?” Remington asked.
“To speak with you, sir.”
“Why?”
The private shook his head and looked lost. “I don’t know, sir.” His brow wrinkled in frustration. “I know I should have asked. I was going to ask. But he told me everything was going to be all right.” A perplexed look twisted his features. “I guess—I guess that I believed him, sir.”
Closer to the Mercedes now, Remington peered at the black glass and wondered who would be stupid enough to drive a Mercedes sports coupe into a war zone. He wondered even more how the car had stayed in showroom condition. Dust hadn’t even settled on the midnight blue exterior. The finish gleamed like fresh-poured metal. Only Remington’s reflection showed in the black-tinted window that was as shiny and nonreflective as oil pumped from a deep well.
Then the passenger window rolled down, sliding easily in its grooved channel, like the smoothly articulated movement of a trained athlete. Remington’s reflection melted away and revealed the man sitting behind the steering wheel.
“Captain Remington,” the man called out in a thick accent. The man had a shaved head and a rounded goatee of rich copper hair. His complexion was pale, as blemish-free as young, clean bone. Wraparound sunglasses hid the man’s eyes. He wore a charcoal, pin-striped suit that fitted him as if it was tailor-made. In fact, Remington was pretty sure it had been.
“Do I know you?” Remington asked.
The man grinned, splitting the goatee and creating dimples in both cheeks. He didn’t look older than twentysomething.
“No. You don’t know me yet, Captain Remington,” the man said. “But you’ll be glad you met me.”
Remembering the vanity plate on the front of the car, Remington said, “If this is a sales pitch, I’m not interested.” He walked behind the RSOV and up to the passenger seat, standing between the Ranger vehicle and the Mercedes.
“Not a sales pitch,” the man promised. “A deal.”
“I’m not interested in any deals either.”
The man leaned across the seat toward the open window. “I think you’ll be interested in this one, Captain.” He paused. “I guarantee you that it will be much better than the deal you gave Abu Alam just now.”
Anxiety ripped through Remington like a Bouncing Betty land mine. The initial surprise leaped up at him just as the deadly booby trap was designed to do, then shattered into a thousand screaming pieces that ran throughout his mind.
Dropping his hand to his hip, Remington drew the M9 pistol, thumbed off the safety, and pointed the weapon at the driver of the Mercedes.
Still grinning, showing no fear at all, the man lifted his hands before him in surrender. Black driving gloves encased his hands.
“I assure you, Captain, you have no need for weapons. Or for violence of any kind.”
Wary, knowing he was somehow trapped, that Hardin hadn’t been as circumspect in his delivery of Abu Alam as he’d thought, Remington held the pistol in a Weaver stance, left hand cupped under the right. He rolled the hammer back with his thumb. The menacing click of the action was louder than the Mercedes’ engine.
“I’m a friend, Captain,” the man said.
“I know all my friends’ names,” Remington said. “It’s a short list.” He glanced around at the building rooftops, thinking that maybe the guy wasn’t a media person after all and that the Mercedes was a decoy to catch him off guard.
“There’s no one else here, Captain,” the man said. “Just us. I give you my word on that.”
“Private,” Remington said to his driver.
“Sir.”
“Secure this vehicle.”
“Yes, sir.” The private moved forward with his M-4A1 at the ready.
“I want the driver out, facedown on the ground.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If he resists, shoot him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Annoyance colored the Mercedes driver’s face. “Really, Captain, this isn’t at all necessary.”
“Who sent you here?” Remington demanded.
“A friend.” The man shrugged slightly. “I was a bit hasty in calling myself a friend of yours. I see that now. You’re obviously a very careful man. But after we get to know each other, I know that we will be friends.”
“Are you with the media?” Remington asked.
“No. But I do have a rather unique relationship with the media. I have … talents that they find useful, and that I find helpful in strategizing my other labors.”
The private set up on the driver’s side door. He reached for the latch but the door wouldn’t open. Instead, seemingly of its own volition, the driver’s window slid down.
“Private Horgan,” the driver said in a calm voice.
“Yes, sir,” Horgan responded. The private halted, frozen in his tracks.
“Your presence here won’t be necessary. Return to your vehicle and await the captain there.”
The private stood for a moment longer, then shook his head. Without a word, he lowered his weapon, turned, and walked back toward the RSOV.
“Private,” Remington called. “Private. Follow the orders I gave you.”
Horgan kept walking.
“Private, I gave you a command.” Incredulous, Remington watched the private return to the RSOV and take his seat behind the wheel. Horgan sat still and silent and peered straight ahead as if oblivious to everything going on around him.
“Captain.”
Turning to face the man in the Mercedes, Remington asked, “What did you do to him?”
“Merely convinced him that I’m not a threat to him. Or to you. I was able to do that because I am not a threat to y
ou or to him. He knows the truth. I only wish I could convince you as easily.” The man opened his hands and smiled again. “Please, Captain, time presses all of us. I’ve got a number of things to accomplish today.”
Remington wanted to do nothing more than squeeze the M9’s trigger and put a bullet through the man’s smiling face. But he couldn’t. As yet, the man had only shown some kind of hypnotic effect over Private Horgan. Probably the man had already given the private a hypnotic suggestion before Remington had ever returned to the RSOV. Maybe he’d even received a mind-control drug through brief physical contact. The man driving the Mercedes wore gloves, and Remington knew that the CIA and DARPA had experimented with all kinds of mind-control weapons over the years.
If Hardin were here, Remington would have ordered the corporal to shoot the man and be done with it. But he wasn’t the corporal, and he had yet to kill a man in cold blood.
At least you haven’t killed one with your own hands, a voice whispered inside his head.
Remington felt guilty. He slipped his finger from the M9’s trigger. “I’m going to walk away. I suggest you put that vehicle in drive and go.”
“I can’t, Captain Remington. I’ve been assigned to help you.”
“Who are you?”
“Felix,” the man said. “You can call me Felix. It’s a name that will serve as well as any other, and I’ve gone by that name before.”
“All right, Felix, I want you to go away now.” Remington kept the pistol pointed.
Shaking his head regretfully, Felix said, “I don’t know what I’m going to have to do to convince you that I’ve been sent here to help you, Captain. We’re on the same side.”