Threat Zero

by Nicholas Irving

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just tired. This is exhausting for all of us,” she said.

  He turned around, stepped toward her, and laid a hand on her shoulder. She put her hand atop his and said, “Vick, no.”

  Vick.

  Another step and he closed the distance. She was looking at him with weary eyes, her firm grip reflecting her conflict. He slowly rolled his wrist away from her hand and hugged her. She resisted at first but laid her head on his shoulder. His thick forearms framed her back and held her without pulling her any closer.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” he said.

  Her head nodded against his shoulder. “And I’m sorry about yours. Things don’t always go as planned, Vick,” she whispered. Her hand glanced against his cargo pants pocket as she hugged him. “But no matter what, don’t think I’m a damsel in distress needing to roll my hair out of some medieval tower.”

  Disregarding what she was doing, he thought, Samuelson. This could all be about Samuelson. Or maybe even Carly Masters.

  He stepped back and nodded.

  “All right then. Let’s execute.”

  She was wiping tears from her face, shaking her head in frustration.

  “Roger that,” she said.

  Harwood spun and walked away, wondering about Valerie Hinojosa and who she might be. Whose mission was this? And why was he involved? Plenty of snipers out there aiming directly at him. The crosshairs were always on him.

  He found his bunk in the old army barracks where they had a makeshift command post and inventoried his gear. They were going in overland to kill the family of Basir Perza. And yet, Perza was supposedly loose in the United States. They were taking the fight to the enemy in the most personal way.

  The mission, too, was impacting him in the most personal manner as well. Samuelson, his spotter, was now implicated in the Camp David Ambush, as the media was now calling the slaughter.

  He opened the bag Hinojosa had given him. Three arm sleeves that looked like an NFL quarterback’s forearm playbook were inside. He toyed with one, found some buttons. Lights came on. The words Sat Com flashed until they held a steady beam, indicating perhaps a connection. A small map spun and zoomed in until it geolocated him, indicating his position in Turkey with a flashing blue dot. He pressed the Off button and the sleeve powered down. He didn’t know what to make of the device. If they were off the books, why would some anonymous person or team need to be monitoring them? Perhaps the raid into Iran was a higher level of danger, requiring more immediate communications with the Navy SEAL team also in Turkey.

  His speculation was going to do no good, so he thought about Monisha and hoped she was okay. He missed her smart mouth and them knocking out homework together. His mind drifted to Hinojosa. Why was she so conflicted? It was right there on her face. She had aged ten years in the last forty-eight hours. They were all stressed out, but what burden was she carrying? What was her secret? It wasn’t all about Carly Masters.

  Or was it?

  He figured she would tell him in due time. Besides, he had his own secrets. Harwood was glad he was off the books and half a world away.

  He reached into his pocket and retrieved a handwritten note with one word written on it.

  BAKU.

  He looked up, thought about what she might be trying to communicate.

  Things don’t always go as planned, Vick.

  Before he could go ask her for clarification, Stone and Weathers were standing in the doorway.

  “We need to talk,” Stone said.

  CHAPTER 8

  Harwood knelt behind the large boulder with the Kurdish Peshmerga guide, Monsoor. Behind them were Weathers and Stone, who had acquired a new SR-25 sniper rifle.

  The men had rested and planned in their Turkish black site. Hinojosa, who had slept for three hours, efficiently organized the logistics and target folders for their next mission in a Tehran suburb. In addition to securing Stone a new weapon, the bag she had given Harwood included a TacSleeve Information and Navigation Systems, or TSINS, for each of them.

  Wrapped around Harwood’s thick, tattooed forearm was the flexible plastic communications device. He had rested and felt refreshed, though he kept coming back to Hinojosa’s reaction when talking about Samuelson. Hell, the entire situation ate at him. There was no way that Samuelson was a traitor. No way he would kill innocent civilians. But still, there was a connection he couldn’t place.

  And what was up with Hinojosa not being able to look him in the eye?

  The MH-47 that had rescued them from the Black Sea had just delivered them to this ridgeline overlooking two valleys, one to the south in Iran and one to the north into what Monsoor called “Kurdistan.” They were at the frontier between northern Iran and Turkey, only inhabited by Kurds. Anything beyond this point of departure was enemy territory. The plan was for them to link up with a white van where they would then infiltrate into their hide site by midnight.

  Harwood took a deep breath. Thought about the mission. Three men, two women. All adults.

  Did they have anything to do with the Camp David Ambush?

  We’re working it.

  Work harder, he thought. He was glad the child in Crimea had survived. Gave him some confidence that these missions were legit. Waiting was always the hardest part of any mission for an operator such as Harwood and his two teammates. There was no telling what thoughts would stroll through the mind, mostly personal, like lost children finding their way home. Others were mission focused. Monisha. Hinojosa. Threats against politicians. The morality of killing indirect combatants, a euphemism for family members.

  The silence buzzed with the distant rumble of an automobile engine.

  The black firmament was filled with a million pinpricks of light. His breath escaped in a smoky vapor. Stone was staring into the distance, ostensibly securing their northern flank. His new sniper rifle pointed into the valley below them. Wearing his trademark do-rag, a kerchief wrapped around his head and tied with a knot at the back of his neck, Stone looked every bit the arrogant operator that he was. On the contrary, Weathers’s high and tight glistened in the starlight. His black formfitting shirt and pants hugged his muscular frame. Even the outer tactical vest seemed to be Marine-organized with its ammunition pouches evenly spaced, like small nylon boxes.

  Harwood whispered into his microphone.

  “Target, one o’clock.”

  The Peshmerga guide nodded and stepped into the street, raising his AK-47. The man was dressed in baggy outer garments and traditional brown vest, which also served the same purpose of the more formal outer tactical vest U.S. soldiers wore. Harwood lifted his night-vision monocle to his eye and saw the two infrared blips emanate from the device secured to the AK-47.

  Instead of a return infrared signal, the dingy white van kept driving, the driver perhaps not wearing his night-vision goggles. Fifty meters away now, the van continued without slowing down. Monsoor remained standing in the road. Harwood leveled his SR-25 at the driver, could see him clearly through his sight. His bearded face and hollow eyes looked determined, almost biblical.

  Harwood thought, Suicide bomber.

  “Status?” Weathers asked, most likely seeing and thinking the same.

  “Don’t like it,” Harwood said.

  “Cap him,” Stone said.

  Harwood laid the crosshairs on the man’s temple. The bouncing van made for a difficult sight picture, but nothing he couldn’t handle. The time distance was the problem. He had only a few seconds to make a decision. Hinojosa had briefed them that the guide would take them to the precise location for their next mission. While she had uploaded the latitude and longitude of the sniper hide site into the TSINS sleeves, the route was fraught with danger. Manned checkpoints. Army bases. Helicopter overflights. Geopolitical tensions at an all-time high since the Shah was deposed in 1979 with 52 Americans held hostage in Tehran.

  “I have the shot,” Harwood said. The van was twenty meters away.
If it was a vehicle-born improvised explosive device they were already dead men. As good as technology was, they truly needed the human intelligence on the ground. Killing the driver was not optimal, unless, of course, he was a madman. Not out of the question here. The crazed driver gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. Leaning forward the man must have spotted Monsoor, because his eyes grew wide.

  Harwood had the crosshairs on the bridge of the driver’s nose. Easy shot.

  The van slowed.

  Monsoor said, “No!”

  Harwood kept his sight picture.

  “Take the shot,” Stone said. “Fucker looks crazier than Norman Bates.”

  Keeping in his zone, Harwood said, “Monsoor? Two seconds.”

  “Don’t shoot,” Monsoor barked.

  Harwood had already squeezed about a half pound of trigger pressure. He was closer to shooting than not.

  Stone adjusted and leveled his rifle at the vehicle.

  “Don’t fire,” Harwood said. The driver slowed, a look of confusion on his face. Not your typical suicide bomber reaction. After multiple combat rotations, Harwood knew the distant gaze, clenched jaw, and white knuckles of those who had already transported themselves to a place beyond this world. This was a confused driver with a dangerous mission, who had most likely been driving all night after being told last second to get on the road. Harwood finally saw what he needed to see. Through his night-vision device, he saw the wink of a small piece of infrared reflective tape.

  The driver’s eyes flitted from Monsoor to Harwood, though Harwood was totally concealed. Stone was now standing above Harwood, saying, “Die, motherfucker.”

  Harwood rolled into Stone as the SEAL sniper squeezed the trigger. The bullet smacked the windshield’s top right corner. Stone stumbled back, said, “What the fuck?” And then aimed his rifle again.

  Harwood stood, his back to the van and Monsoor, faced Stone, and snatched his SR-25 with a powerful sweep of his forearm. Stone actually squeezed off another round before Harwood could disarm him completely.

  “Want me to toss this one, too?” Harwood’s voice was granite. His chest was flexed. Could feel his pectoral muscles tighten, his usual response to the fight-or-flight instinct. Always fight. Harwood had never fled from danger. Just the opposite.

  Monsoor said, “Quick. We must hurry. This is the man.”

  Weathers stood and stared at Harwood and Stone.

  “Stone, you better get your shit together. I don’t think the Reaper’s going to give you a third chance. Steady, bro,” Weathers said.

  Harwood and Stone squared off until Harwood said, “We’ve got to get moving.”

  In the background, Monsoor was talking Farsi to the driver, most of which Harwood did not understand. Monsoor rushed toward them, pushed on Harwood’s shoulder, indicating for him to kneel. They knelt behind the rock that had been their cover at the small defile along the ridge.

  “This is Farza, your driver. I go no farther. He will take you to your location,” Monsoor said.

  Harwood and Monsoor did the hand-to-forearm warrior clasp as he noticed the van conducting a Y-turn behind him.

  “This trail takes you past the border control checkpoint, through a dry riverbed, and into a valley that goes into Ardabil Province. It’s about two hundred miles. You should make it before daylight. I don’t know your target, but I do know these people. Farza will be loyal. He is Iranian Kurd. He’s nervous, so you may need to coach him.”

  “Roger that,” Harwood said. It would be impossible to coach him, though, from their hide site inside the floor of the van. “Before daylight works, but we’ll miss our midnight target time.”

  Monsoor nodded and said, “Good luck. Inshallah.” Then he walked over the ridge toward the hidden truck they had used to ingress from the MH-47 drop-off site to this location. Harwood led Stone and Weathers to the back of the van where Farza had lifted the corrugated metal floor, which gave way to a false bottom.

  Weathers climbed in first, lying flat on the bottom of the sheet metal, his head toward the cab, feet toward the rear.

  “This is going to suck. Been five years since I did this,” Stone complained.

  Stone laid supine on the opposite side of the floor, leaving a small gap for Harwood. For a moment, Harwood considered riding shotgun, but that had not been the plan. The driver was good enough to get to their location without incident and therefore, Harwood figured, could get them to their sniper hide site.

  Farza lowered the metal floor on top of the three elite operators. A socket wrench clicked in rapid succession as bolts were tightened. There was exactly an inch of space between Harwood’s nose and the underside of the floor. His head was near the rear bumper. He hoped they wouldn’t die from exhaust fumes. Cradling his SR-25 to his chest and palming his Sig Sauer pistol, he closed his eyes and began to rehearse the mission in his mind.

  The van ambled down the road, Harwood visualizing the direction from which it had come. Shortly, though, he felt them slow and turn off the main road onto a bumpier secondary route. Two hundred miles.

  Stone said, “Fuck.”

  Weathers remained silent, as did Harwood. He would entertain himself with his TacSleeve, but he didn’t have the space to lift his arm. At some point, he drifted to sleep, his dreams vivid and harrowing. A small girl with a bullet hole in her forehead. His rifle bore wafting smoke like a leering ghost. He snapped out of his nightmare when the vehicle stopped.

  Had they already gone two hundred miles? It was possible. But he recalled the maxim, no plan survives first contact with the enemy. Voices dueled above them, one inside the van and one outside. Perhaps they were at a checkpoint. The TacSleeve had an interpretation function but again he couldn’t access it and wouldn’t risk the dim light shining through a seam in the flooring.

  The conversation became more heated. Farza was tired, Harwood knew that much. He didn’t look like much of a fighter but looks could be deceiving. A shot punctured the conversation. The conversation ended. The door opened, weight shifted. Was someone getting in or stepping out? Harwood tried to sense what was taking place by reading the movements. Door pushed, not pulled. Van rocking out first. Both indicated that Farza was initiating the moves, but there was no way to be certain.

  The back doors opened with a click. The ratchet spun in four locations. Harwood had his pistol ready, sure Weathers and Stone did as well. The floor lifted above his head. His view was upside down and backward.

  It looked like Farza, who said, “Quick. There is a checkpoint ahead.”

  Harwood pulled himself out of the van, grabbed his rucksack from the floor of the van, and helped Stone and Weathers out.

  “How far up the road?” Harwood asked.

  “A kilometer. A soldier tried to stop me and take money. Happens all the time. When I paid him, he insisted on looking in the van. I didn’t want to run the risk. Shot him and dragged him into the ditch. Your drop-off location is less than five kilometers from here. An extra three miles to walk.”

  “They heard the shot. They’ll be here fast. Where are you going?” Harwood said.

  “There is a cave a kilometer in the other direction. I’ll go there. After your mission, I will meet you there. My instructions are to wait twenty-four hours and then forget you existed.”

  Harwood checked his watch. It was almost 1 A.M. local time. They had planned their ingress to take two hours. Another five kilometers would add another hour, at least. They needed to be set up by sunrise, which was less than six hours away. The night was cool, but comfortable. The breeze carried the whiff of salt water from the Caspian Sea.

  Harwood powered up his TacSleeve and dropped a pin on their location, then powered down.

  “Okay, I’ve got this location pegged. One kilometer to the west is a cave. We will see you there before midnight. If we’re not there by then, like you said, forget we existed. Go about your business.”

  Farza ratcheted the floorboard into place. Harwood led Stone and Weathers to the si
de of the road, powered up the TacSleeve again, and used the map function to identify their route. They were only nine kilometers from their hide site, but the terrain was jagged and steep. It would be a difficult traverse.

  The van spun around and disappeared up the road. Harwood and team walked briskly into the narrow defile to the north, found or made a trail, and began the climb toward their hide location.

  Behind them, shouts in Farsi echoed off the valley floor. Within fifteen minutes, the Iranian army was on location. Helicopters were another fifteen minutes behind them. The search focused on the location of the dead soldier, expanding outward. As they climbed, Team Valid distanced themselves from the melee below.

  Stopping occasionally to check the TacSleeve, Harwood knelt after three solid hours of walking.

  “Drink water,” Harwood said. The team had hydration systems in their rucksacks with rubberized tubes so that they could hydrate on the move.

  “Distance remaining?” Weathers asked.

  “Just two kilometers, but it’s rugged,” Harwood said.

  “Can’t be any more rugged than what we just walked,” Stone whined.

  “Never say that it can’t get any worse,” Weathers said. “Because it always can.”

  Each man faced outward, scanning for threats as they spoke. Like a basketball team running a play, these operators intuitively knew what to do and when to do it as they conducted their long-range insertion.

  “Hate these things,” Stone said, pointing at his TacSleeve.

  “For some reason, Hinojosa wanted us to wear them. She’s in charge,” Harwood said.

  “Oh, fuck off, Reaper. You just want to tap that shit,” Stone said.

  “Enough,” Weathers said. “Stop the bullshit.”

  Harwood resisted comment. They needed to focus, not get distracted by Stone’s antics.

  “Okay, let’s move,” Harwood said.

  As they stood, Harwood’s TacSleeve vibrated against his forearm. In dim LED lighting, VH lit up on his device.