Blowback

by Al Pessin

  “And thank goodness for that. I’m afraid you’ll be eating with a spoon for a while. No more knives for you. Nor forks, either. The doctor will be in to see you shortly.” Julie leaned in and put a hand on Faraz’s shoulder. “Seriously, sir, stick around. We’d hate to lose you.” She squeezed his arm, then left him alone.

  * * *

  Promptly at 1700, Harrington sat in Bridget’s office, feet on the floor, back straight, looking freshly dressed and shaved after his flight. “Abdallah is awake and has no permanent injuries,” he reported. “The doctors predict a long road back. You should have it in writing shortly.”

  “All right. What do you have for me?”

  Harrington presented his candidates, all Arab Americans, using old-school paper files with eight-by-ten glossies of each man and a one-page career summary. “Top man is Staff Sergeant Daoud Osmani, age twenty-six. Palestinian origin, decent Arabic. He’s Three -Five-Foxtrot, same as you, so he knows the basics.” The military designation for intelligence analyst was 35F.

  “No combat experience or training,” Bridget said, perusing the info sheet.

  “Abdallah didn’t have any deployments, either. I say give this guy and the two others a try. Let’s put them through the grinder, same as we did for Abdallah, and see who comes out the other end . . . unless you have any better ideas.”

  “No, unfortunately, I don’t. Okay, start with these three, and let’s see what happens.”

  After Harrington left, Bridget could easily have filled several more hours with work, but she was determined not to break her promise to Will. So she pushed back from her desk and left, feeling guilty about going home for a romantic evening while Faraz lay injured in a hospital bed and the file for her highly touted Blowback mission, also in bad shape, sat idle in her safe.

  * * *

  Will served the steak and fries, and Bridget made sure he knew she was impressed. He had opened a bottle of Bordeaux and found a couple of candles to put on the table.

  Bridget picked up her glass and took another sip. She looked across at Will, his clean white T-shirt stretched across his chest. He cut himself a generous piece of meat, looked up at her, and smiled before popping it into his mouth. Sarge rubbed along Bridget’s ankle and curled up under the table. “This is nice,” she said.

  “Nice? You’re too kind.” It sounded like a typical Will wisecrack, but it might have had some of the previous night’s tension behind it.

  Bridget stood and walked around to his side of the small table. “I mean really nice.” She put her hands on his chest from behind. He turned to look at her and reached up, put his hands on her back, and pulled her in for a kiss. Her hands slid down along his chest.

  Bridget pulled back and slapped him playfully on his back. “Finish your dinner, sailor. You’ve got to get your strength up.”

  “I don’t recall any complaints about my strength.” She moved to his side and pointed a finger at him. “Let’s keep it that way.” She kissed him again, then licked her lips. “Hmm, I do love that wine.” Bridget returned to her chair and looked across at Will.

  They were both grinning so hard they could barely eat.

  Chapter Twelve

  Early evening in Washington was the middle of the night at the small base in northeastern Syria that the Americans called Outpost Brennan. U.S. troops weren’t supposed to be in Syria. But after the attacks ten days earlier, President Martelli had ordered them in anyway.

  Major Ed Reister was finishing a surprise two a.m. walkaround. He was pleased that his Syrian militia trainees were at their posts and keeping their eyes on the dark terrain outside the base, rather than smoking and chatting as they used to. These men had joined up years ago for the seemingly impossible task of fighting both the Syrian government and the militants.

  This was Reister’s third deployment. He was about to miss yet another holiday season with his wife and son.

  Reister finished his circuit at the west observation tower, where he found Staff Sergeant Rodney Jenkins and a Syrian militiaman. The Syrian snapped to attention. He looked to be in his fifties, thin with sunken cheeks and graying hair. He gave the Americans a British-style salute, his palm toward them. Reister figured this guy had seen more than his share of fighting various enemies over the decades. He noticed that the man’s hand shook a little.

  “You all right, Haitham?” Reister asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Up you go, then.”

  Haitham saluted again and started climbing the tower steps to take over duty scanning the perimeter through the sights of the large, fifty-caliber machine gun. Jenkins stayed on the ground to talk to his boss.

  “You teach him to do that?” Reister asked.

  “Oh, sir. You know that’s not my style. That’s all him.”

  Jenkins was the best trainer in the American team of twelve. He was also the opposite of Reister in many ways—brown skin, black hair, and an infamous player at any coed base he visited.

  “Your men seem to be coming along nicely,” Reister said.

  “Better be, sir. And if they’re not, they’ll hear from me.”

  “And this guy?” Reister asked, pointing up the ladder.

  “Haitham? He’s okay. Handles the weapon, follows orders, salutes every two seconds. But you know, sir, I hate to turn my back on any of these guys.”

  “Roger that.”

  The trainee who was relieved from tower duty came down.

  “Good job, Abed,” Jenkins said. “Get some sleep, now.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” The man nodded toward Reister and trotted off toward his tent.

  “I’m going to do the same,” Reister said. “See you in the morning.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  “Night.”

  * * *

  The woods half a mile from Outpost Brennan were lush for this part of Syria, watered by a stream that ran during the rainy season along the edge of the hill behind them.

  Standing under the first row of trees, al-Souri took the binoculars from Nazim and surveyed the target from left to right. From here, on the moonless night, the base shined like a beacon, even with its lights dimmed. The men looking back at him from the towers would have no idea he was there.

  It was unusual for al-Souri to go on an operation. At age fifty-five and still recovering from his injuries, he had to admit his best fighting days were behind him. In recent years, he’d drawn his gratification from being the puppet master, making plans and sending men, and indeed, women and children, to their deaths in service of his cause. Allah’s cause, he’d say.

  But he wanted to be there for this one. He wanted to escape the relative safety of his base, to feel the adrenaline of the attack, to show his men that, old and injured though he was, he was still a fighter.

  Through the binoculars, al-Souri saw the main gate and the illuminated signs starting a hundred meters out that read, in English and Arabic, “STOP,” “LIGHTS OFF,” “WAIT FOR SIGNAL TO PROCEED, LETHAL FORCE AUTHORIZED.” He also saw the concrete barriers that forced approaching vehicles to slow down and zigzag around them.

  The driver and his partner had practiced that maneuver on the road outside al-Souri’s camp to ensure they could do it at the maximum possible speed.

  Al-Souri made a sharp exhale through his nose, a scoffing sound, and handed the binoculars back to Nazim. “Is it time?”

  Nazim checked his watch. “Yes, Commander. The shift has changed.”

  “Keep a close watch,” al-Souri said. Although he’d been home for several weeks, it still felt strange to be speaking his native Arabic rather than Pashto, as he had for decades in Afghanistan.

  He left Nazim and walked past two rocket launchers and his team’s SUVs to the large van they had brought with them. The chassis sat low, weighed down by its cargo. Several of the men were finishing the job of covering its windshield, windows, and tires with metal plates. A senior fighter made the final inspection, using a wrench to ensure that the bolts were properly tighten
ed.

  Behind the vehicle, al-Souri found two young fighters on prayer rugs on the ground while four others stood guard. He waited for the men to finish.

  When they got up, he could see the fear in their eyes. He put his hands on their shoulders in an embrace. “Allahu akbar,” he whispered.

  “Allahu akbar,” they responded.

  “Wal aa tah-saban . . .” al-Souri began the Koranic verse, and they joined him. “Do not think of those that have been slain in God’s cause as dead. Nay, they are alive.” Then he led them in the Shahada.

  The man who had moved to the top of the United States’ Most Wanted list of terrorists kissed each fighter on both cheeks and led them to the van. The driver got behind the wheel and peered through the narrow slit in the plate covering the windshield, finding the right angle for the best view. His partner got into the passenger seat, tasked with helping the driver find his way and taking over if he got injured or if he panicked.

  “Seat belts,” al-Souri ordered. They were likely in for a rough ride. There was no point having them thrown from their seats or hurt and unable to finish their jobs, if it could be avoided.

  “You are ready, my brothers.” Al-Souri closed the driver’s door.

  He looked toward Nazim, who signaled “all clear.” The guards stepped back as the driver started the engine, put the van in gear, and moved forward. Al-Souri and the others walked alongside.

  At the edge of the woods, the driver stopped, and al-Souri heard him through the metal plates, faintly at first, “Allahu akbar.” Then he shouted it. “Allahu akbar!”

  The tires threw up dirt and leaves as he floored the accelerator and the vehicle leaped forward out of the woods.

  * * *

  Sergeant Jenkins was doing his own walkaround to keep the militiamen on their toes. He stopped to speak to each man on watch, using all of his severely limited Arabic.

  Jenkins was at the far end of the compound when he heard the rumbling. He turned toward the main gate and took off at a sprint.

  “What do you see? What do you see?” Jenkins shouted at the men in the observation towers.

  “Nothing, sir,” came the response.

  “Hit the lights!” Jenkins reached the stairs to the nearest tower and took them three at a time.

  The perimeter floodlights came on with the clunk of a large circuit breaker. Only then did they see the van approaching at high speed.

  “Fire! Fire!” Jenkins screamed, and they did. But it kept coming. Jenkins could hear their bullets pinging off the steel plates as the van navigated the barriers at impressive speed.

  The fifty-cal gunner, Haitham, joined the firing, but Jenkins saw he was way off.

  “Hit the target! Hit the target!” Jenkins screamed at him.

  The man turned toward Jenkins. He had a strange look on his face—arrogant, satisfied, far from the obsequious manner he’d put on a few minutes earlier. Haitham swung the gun around to spray the compound, hitting two Americans who were running from their posts to help at the wall.

  It took Jenkins a split second to realize what was happening. By the time he raised his weapon, the big machine gun was pointing at him. Jenkins only had time to think “fucking asshole” before a burst of large bullets cut him down.

  * * *

  Major Reister had bolted out of bed as soon as Jenkins started yelling. He pulled on his pants and stepped into his boots just in time to hit the floor when the fifty-cal rounds swept through, piercing the walls of the trailer that served as his quarters.

  He got up, grabbed his M4, and opened the door.

  The van smashed into the gate and exploded. The blast threw Reister back against the footrail of his bunk at an awkward angle, injuring his right side. The rifle flew out of his hand.

  Reister retrieved the weapon and limped back to the doorway. He saw several of the outpost’s rudimentary buildings on fire. The charred remains of the van had continued into the camp after the explosion, spreading fire and debris. The site of the main blast was a three-foot-deep crater of vehicle parts, what was left of the gate and guardhouse, and bodies.

  He dove to the ground at the sound of the first incoming mortar. The shell hit at the back of the compound and destroyed a storage building. Reister knew the gunners would adjust their aim. “Defensive positions!” he shouted to whoever might still be alive to hear him.

  His surviving men and a few militiamen were already running to sections of the wall that were still standing. His two medics, an American and a Syrian trainee, had their bags in hand, and each was crouched down by a wounded, or more likely dead, comrade.

  The only good news was that the explosion had knocked Haitham and his weapon to the ground. But he took an M16 from one of the dead Americans and resumed firing.

  “Take cover!” Reister yelled. He stood, bent over, and ran to get behind the sandbagged walls of the clinic. Breathing hard, he emerged, spraying gunfire in Haitham’s direction.

  More mortars landed, crisscrossing the camp in a standard pattern. Haitham was still shooting. Reister saw several Americans fall, along with more of the Syrians. He fired toward the gunman again and forced him to hit the ground. Reister fired one more burst and saw Haitham’s prone body jump. Got you, you bastard.

  The mortars were still coming, and a terrorist ground assault could be on the way. Their only hope was air support. Reister ran for the comms shack. Power was out, but the backup battery was good. He grabbed the mic and squeezed the transmit button. “Mayday, Mayday. Outpost Brennan truck bomb, incoming fire. Air support Echo Papa. Repeat, air support Outpost Brennan, Echo Papa, Echo Papa.”

  “EP” were the initials for Emergency Priority, a request that takes precedence over all others. It would indicate to command that his troops were in imminent danger.

  Reister released the mic button and listened to the static. Another mortar shook the building.

  “Roger, Brennan,” came the remarkably calm voice on the radio speaker. “We copy air support Echo Papa. Over.” Reister took a moment to catch his breath before rejoining the fight. The voice on the radio returned. “Outpost Brennan, be advised, command reports air support ETA eight minutes.”

  Reister’s shoulders slumped. Headquarters would consider eight minutes an excellent response time. But he knew it was a death sentence.

  * * *

  Al-Souri had watched the attack through the binoculars with Nazim at his side. The men did well, keeping to the road as gunfire bounced off the metal plates. Praise Allah, one of them hit the detonator button as the van broke through the gate.

  “Allahu akbar,” he whispered. Nazim and the other men mumbled the same in response. Then the teams on the mortars had started their work.

  Now, al-Souri called a halt and scanned the target one more time. No one was firing at them anymore. He turned to his men. “One more barrage. Then we go.”

  “But, Commander,” Nazim objected, “the assault team is ready.”

  “No. We have struck a great blow for jihad. Now we must preserve our resources.”

  Nazim’s men fired their mortars, as ordered. Then they picked up the remaining shells but left the launchers, which were too hot to handle. They were inside the vehicles in seconds. Their drivers carved a path through the woods and turned onto the road, lights off, heading away from the outpost and staying as much as possible in the shadow of the trees.

  By the time the helicopter gunships swooped low over the tree line, the terrorists were gone. And Outpost Brennan was, too.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bridget woke up the next morning pleasantly sore from the long, passionate night they’d had after dinner. Will was still sleeping, so she threw on a T-shirt and went to make coffee.

  She smiled when she saw the dishes still in the sink and remembered why they hadn’t been washed. Will’s mobility was improving, providing them with more options, and his energy level was better. His physical therapist was definitely getting a Christmas present.

  Bridget measured ou
t the grounds and the water, turned on the machine, and hit the TV remote.

  It was all the newscasters could talk about. Twelve Americans and twenty-seven friendly Syrian militiamen dead, a remote outpost ambushed and destroyed, senior officers criticized for not providing enough protection or rapid air support, and of course, a failure of intelligence to detect the threat. It was one of the largest U.S death tolls of the war on terrorism.

  And, the analysts asked, what were U.S. troops doing in Syria without congressional authorization?

  Bridget wasn’t sure how the White House would answer that one. Martelli’s approach these days was “seek forgiveness, not permission.” But there wasn’t enough forgiveness in the world for this one.

  She leaned back against the fridge and hung her head. This kind of thing always hit her hard. These were her people. Bridget had been out there as an army officer. She was supposed to be helping protect them as an intelligence official.

  Bridget saw Will limping toward the kitchen. He was smiling until he saw her. “What’s wrong?”

  She gestured toward the TV.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Yeah,” Bridget said. She stepped toward Will, and they embraced. “I gotta go.”

  “I’m getting that on a T-shirt for you.”

  She snorted a laugh. “Too many T-shirts. I’d have more use for a new travel mug.” She tilted her head toward the coffee maker dripping its magic into the carafe.

  “Sure,” Will said. “I’ll take care of it.” He pointed toward the sink. “And that, too.”

  “Thanks. Sorry.” Bridget headed for the bathroom.

  In the shower, she was hit by a cold blast of water. She had no time to wait for it to warm up. She’d face more pressure for quick results from what was supposed to be the long game she was playing. The secretary was going to want to know what was happening with Blowback.

  * * *

  The cinder-block building half a world away was nondescript. It sat well off the road in a field of sand and rocks. Three white SUVs were parked outside. Dirt from the woods near Outpost Brennan was still on their tires.