by Al Pessin
The men were silent.
Faraz’s mind was racing. “And that is why that man, Assali, came to the camp?”
“Yes. These things do not come cheap. But when his masters heard our leader’s plan, they could not say no. And now . . . well, preparations are already being made. We do not have long to wait. But, my brothers, I have said too much. We must sleep now.”
Nazim turned off the lantern and laid down on his mat.
Faraz wanted to press for details, but he dared not.
“Allahu akbar,” one of the fighters whispered in evident awe. Faraz joined the others in echoing the sentiment.
Chapter Forty-six
Faraz hardly slept, and throughout the following morning of village visits he couldn’t focus on his duties. He had no reason to doubt Nazim’s words. He was desperate to find out the details. But he knew that might never happen. What was most important now was to get out of there, to make contact with Washington.
Nazim’s words echoed in his brain. “We do not have long to wait.”
On the way back at midday, they stopped at the gas station near the camp. The rickety building looked like it might fall down at any moment. The owner, his skin darkened by long days in the sun and etched by years of hard work for little pay, bowed to Nazim. He rushed to fill the vehicles and half a dozen jerry cans.
Faraz and the other fighters stood guard. Nazim paid the man, who made a show of not wanting to accept money from the defenders of Allah. But he took it anyway.
As they boarded the vehicles, Faraz saw the gas station owner finish counting the money, and then, with a big smile on his face, take out his phone, apparently to tell someone about the large sale he had made.
* * *
Back at the camp in early afternoon, dismissed from duties to wash and eat lunch, Faraz started to formulate a plan. There was no more waiting now. He had to make his way to the American outpost.
He’d have to get past the guards somehow. The outpost was a long walk, and if they were chasing him, he’d never make it. Ideally, he’d steal a vehicle, but that would be impossible without raising an alarm.
His plan was not coming together. Every time he thought it through, it ended with him dead by the side of the road.
Crossing the camp from the showers to his tent, he berated himself, pushed himself to come up with something. From the corner of his eye, he saw al-Souri emerge from the headquarters building onto the porch. The commander shouted, “Nazim!”
Faraz turned to see Nazim come out of his own tent shirtless.
“Come here!” al-Souri shouted, and he went back inside.
That was unusual. Normally, al-Souri would send someone to retrieve whoever he wanted to see. Faraz was trained not to ignore anything, to focus on what was not usual and find out why. Rarely was a departure from habit or protocol irrelevant.
Nazim disappeared back into his tent and came out again, buttoning up his shirt. He must have also sensed the urgency of the summons because he jogged to the headquarters building—another thing Faraz had never seen.
Faraz ducked into his tent and dressed. Then he made his way toward the headquarters along a side path behind some tents. He came up alongside the building, under al-Souri’s office window.
The window was closed, muffling the conversation inside. But Faraz could hear someone shouting. He realized it was Nazim shouting at al-Souri. Another departure from the usual. Why would he do that? Al-Souri would not tolerate such disrespect. Faraz expected Nazim to be marched out of the building and punished.
He caught a few words of Nazim’s tirade. “Qiltilak haik!” I told you so.
What? What had Nazim told al-Souri?
Faraz heard al-Souri speaking, but couldn’t make out the words. He was not shouting back at Nazim. Rather, his tone sounded subdued, defeated.
Then Nazim spoke again, louder. “Sawf ‘aslahah.” I will take care of it. Or maybe, I will take care of him. In Arabic, it was impossible to know without hearing what came before.
A million questions flew through Faraz’s mind as he stood there, frozen in place against the wall. But he had no time for questions. He had to assume they were talking about him—that Nazim had been right about him, that Nazim would take care of him.
He had to get out of there. Now.
Faraz couldn’t take the chance that he could convince al-Souri again that whatever information he had was wrong. Not with what he knew, what he had to report.
He moved to the rear corner of the building. The side gate was in front of him, but it was locked. He was sweating. His heart rate spiked, and he was breathing fast. His fight-or-flight instinct took over, and he knew he would not win a fight against Nazim and the whole camp.
Faraz turned right into the alleyway along the wall and walked quickly toward the back of the camp. He didn’t want to draw attention by running.
He came around a corner and saw his destination, the refueling area. Two men were refilling an old, rusted pickup truck from a jerry can. One of them had leaned his AK-47 against the side of the vehicle.
The men took no note of Faraz as he moved toward them. He grabbed the AK and hit the nearest fighter in the back of the head. The man fell, dropping the jerry can on its side and starting a flow of gasoline into the dirt. His colleague froze in place long enough for Faraz to flip the rifle and kill him with one pull of the trigger. The shot drew the kind of attention Faraz didn’t want, but he had no other options.
He jumped into the truck. The key was in the ignition. He started the engine and stepped on the accelerator. Faraz held the rifle out the window. He fired at the puddle of gasoline, setting it on fire.
As he brought the truck onto the camp’s main road heading for the gate, he saw two things. He saw that the gate was closed, and he saw Nazim come out of the headquarters building and take an AK from one of the guards.
“Hamed! Where is Hamed?” Nazim yelled.
“There!” shouted one of the guards, pointing at the vehicle.
“Stop him!”
Behind Faraz, the open jerry can exploded. With his left hand out the truck window, he turned his gun toward the front of the camp, firing at random, scattering two fighters who were running to follow Nazim’s order.
Faraz floored the accelerator and turned the AK toward the passenger side of the pickup, firing through the open window toward the headquarters. Nazim and the guards dove for cover. Faraz sped past them and hit the gate at high speed, breaking it open.
The truck’s bumper caught on the left side of the gate, swinging the vehicle around. Faraz found himself facing Nazim, who was running at him from the headquarters. He threw the truck into reverse and ducked his head as Nazim strafed the windshield. The ancient transmission screamed in protest.
Faraz turned the wheel to spin the vehicle again, shifted gears, and pressed the pedal to the floor. Dirt flew, but the truck jumped forward. He looked up to see the road, then lowered his head again as gunfire shattered his rear window.
The vehicle went into an open field. Faraz had to raise his head again to get back onto the road, but now he was far enough that their bullets couldn’t reach him. He held on tight and leaned in hard, trying to coax more speed from the straining engine.
In the rearview mirror, just before the road turned and the camp went out of sight, Faraz saw Nazim gesturing wildly, issuing orders. Faraz assumed he was calling for vehicles. The camp’s SUVs had big engines. He’d never make it all the way to the outpost.
He could think of only one option. It wouldn’t save him, but it might enable him to complete his mission.
* * *
At the first intersection, he went right. The road took him past a grove of trees, which would obscure Nazim’s view. Maybe he’d guess wrong at the crossroads. Faraz needed more time than he had.
He arrived at the gas station less than two minutes later, slamming on the brakes and startling the owner, who came running outside.
“What is it? What is it?” the man asked
in a panic.
“Inside!” Faraz ordered, emerging from the truck AK-FIRST and pushing the man backward into the one-room building—part office, part bedroom. It stank of gasoline and dirty sheets. “Give me your phone.”
“My brother—”
“Now!” Faraz screamed, leaning in close and pushing the rifle’s barrel into the man’s chest.
“Yes, yes,” the owner said, reaching into his pocket. His hand shook as he handed over an old flip phone. Faraz took it, turned the gun, and hit the man in the face. He went down hard.
Faraz went out the back door, leaned against the wall, and opened the phone. His adrenaline was surging. This is what he had trained for, to do his job under unimaginable stress. A few months ago, stress had almost killed him. Now, it fueled his determination.
The phone had plenty of battery power but only one bar of service. Faraz forced his shaking fingers to dial the number.
The call seemed to take forever to go through. Praise Allah, it was answered on the first ring.
“Operator.”
Chapter Forty-seven
Bridget was at her desk, searching the intercept logs for anything that could refer to a jihadi prisoner. She hadn’t seen Will since his fight with Carter except for one quick visit to the clinic to tell him he was an asshole.
So much for cutting him some slack.
She felt bad about it afterward. He was at least a chivalrous asshole. Her chivalrous asshole, if he was still hers. Maybe that should count for something. Damn. Would she ever get this right?
Carter had sent an email, apologizing for pushing Will to the floor and saying his unit was on standby duty all week, so he would not be able to see her. Just as well.
Her phone rang.
“Davenport.”
“Ma’am, this is the ops center. We’ve had a call, code word Blowback. Recording is on the secure server. Transcript is in the works.”
Bridget dropped the handset on her desk and typed her password so fast that she got it wrong. Finally, she had the file. She heard Faraz’s voice, breathless, scared, speaking quickly. He must have been in imminent danger because he didn’t go through the authentication codes.
He said only, “Blowback. The target is ch—”
Faraz was interrupted by a thud, perhaps a punch. She heard the phone clatter to the ground. There was angry shouting in Arabic. Then it sounded like something hit the phone, and it went dead.
Bridget put her hand over her open mouth. She got the chills. She might have just heard the final seconds of the life of the young lieutenant she met a year and a half ago, the guy who was so green, so fresh-faced, that he could hardly comprehend what she was asking him to do—that young man who had reminded her of herself. She had convinced him to accept not one but two incredibly dangerous missions. Incredibly important missions. He was the only person who had any chance of accomplishing either one of them.
She knew him at his best. She had seen him at his worst at Gitmo. And she had seen him come back from that to fool the world’s top terrorist a second time and have a chance to stop his next vile attack.
Faraz’s death was too awful to contemplate. But beyond that, if Faraz was dead, she was sure a lot of other people would also die soon. And it would be on her.
Bridget listened again. Faraz had come frustratingly close to telling them what they needed to know. But what was “ch,” and when was the attack coming? She picked up her phone and dialed the ops center.
Within two minutes, she had General Hadley and Liz Michaels on the line from Washington, along with General Bigelow at the Baghdad Special Ops HQ, a few buildings over from where she was sitting.
“This is not the same as last time, sir,” Bridget said. “If he’s alive, he has vital intel. If he’s not alive, we must hit these guys now to have a chance of blocking the MTO.”
“I agree,” Hadley said. “But we can’t be sure where he is.”
“We have to assume he called from the camp we’ve seen on the sat photos, or that they would have taken him there. I’m betting it’s al-Souri’s headquarters.”
“Bit of a leap, but I’d make the same bet. We need that intel. Just have to hope that’s where they took our man.”
“And that he’s still alive.”
“Right. General Bigelow, we need an op in the air ASAP to the location Ms. Davenport will give you. Bring our agent home alive if at all possible, gather all intel material, lethal force authorized, expect heavy resistance.”
Bridget heard Bigelow say, “Yes, sir. I will activate the team, but we’ll need clearance through the regular chain before departure.”
“You’ll have it,” Hadley said.
Bridget said, “Thank you, General.” Then she hung up and sent the info on al-Souri’s suspected location to Bigelow.
Bridget turned to the cabinet next to her desk and unlocked it. She took out a classified file and put it into her small backpack. She grabbed her body armor and helmet from under her desk.
Was there was anything else she needed? What she needed was an M16, but as a civilian, she hadn’t been issued one.
She slipped into the vest and took off at a sprint for the Special Ops HQ, dodging pedestrians on the narrow walkways.
She was winded when she came around a corner to find Carter in full battle gear, yelling, “Move, move, move!” His fifteen-man Spotlight crew trotted in rough formation toward a row of vehicles.
“Carter! What are you doing?” Bridget asked.
“Doing your mission, it seems. As I told you, we are the standby unit.”
“Oh, shit.”
“You want to wait for someone else?”
“No, no. We gotta go.”
“We?”
“Yes, we. This is my op, my man out there, vital intel on the line. You know I have the training, and I’m going”
“We will need authorization.”
“Then I’ll get it. Meanwhile, load ’em up.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, with evident sarcasm. But he stepped back to let Bridget board the lead vehicle. He hefted himself in after her and shut the door.
“This is not a good idea,” he said.
As the vehicles started moving, Bridget called Bigelow. A few seconds later, she handed the phone to Carter.
He listened. “Yes, sir, General, if that’s what you want.” He listened some more. “Yes, sir, understood, mission has a green light.” Carter handed back the phone. “Welcome to Spotlight, Ms. Davenport.”
* * *
It was a short ride to the helicopter landing field, where the twin overhead rotors of a huge Chinook were already turning at idle speed and waiting for them.
“Not that thing,” Bridget said.
“It’s all we have for the first leg,” Carter told her. “We’ll get Black Hawks at al-Asad.” Al-Asad was the Iraqis’ desert air base in Anbar Province, a hundred miles west of Baghdad and about halfway to the Syrian border.
Bridget was not happy with the extra time it would take, but with the priority Hadley had given the mission, she had to assume this was the best option available. At least they were on the move. She stepped onto a milk crate provided by the aircrew and boarded the chopper, taking a canvas seat along the wall, with one of the team members on her left and Carter on her right.
His second-in-command, Castillo, walked the length of the cabin, checking equipment and getting a thumbs-up from each man. Castillo gave a final thumbs-up to Carter, who turned toward the pilots and shouted over the rotor noise, “We are good to go. You boys know how to fly this thing?”
“I guess we’ll find out,” came the muffled reply from behind the pilot’s oxygen mask. In the same second, something like twenty-five thousand pounds of machine and men lifted off the ground. And one woman.
Bridget turned to Carter and shouted into his ear. “You got the brief?”
“Yes. We are to get an agent out alive. Expect heavy resistance.”
Bridget shrugged. “That about covers it.”
<
br /> “And we are crossing a border we’re not supposed to cross, to go where exactly?”
“Heart of the beast.”
“Pardon?”
“Al-Souri’s HQ. The agent has been undercover.”
“You know where al-Souri’s HQ is?”
“Pretty good idea,” she said, pulling a satellite image out of her pack. “We’ve been holding off, waiting for our man to get the info and call it in. Now, if he’s still alive, he won’t be for much longer. We need to get him out, or a lot of people are going to die.”
Carter studied the photo. It showed the camp, the grove of trees, the gas station, the roads, and lots of nothing around them. “Your man, he’s an Arab?”
“Afghan American. Army lieutenant.”
“But . . . never mind. Okay. How will we know him?”
“Here.” Bridget took a picture of Faraz out of the file. It showed him shortly after his return from Afghanistan, in full jihadi mode. “Pass this around. Code name Blowback.”
Carter looked at the back of the photo, saw Faraz’s real name, age, rank, and serial number. He flipped it again to memorize the face, then passed it down the line. “Just another day at the office, then.”
Bridget didn’t laugh.
“Listen, Bridget, you stay on board when we get there.” She started to object, but Carter cut her off. “My guys know what they’re doing. One wrong step and you’re in the cross fire.”
Her shoulders sagged, but she knew he was right.
“Hey, I have a present for you,” Carter said. He reached into a supply duffel and took out an M4, the smaller version of the U.S. combat rifle, and a couple of magazines of ammo. “I assume you know how to work one of these.”
Bridget took the weapon and gave it a quick inspection. “Well enough. And thanks.”
“That’s for self-protection only. Don’t go all army crazy on me.”
Bridget pursed her lips.
“And this.” Carter gave her a handheld radio the size of a brick with a long retractable antenna. “It’s set to our frequency.”
“Thanks.” She clipped the radio to her belt. “What’s your call sign, anyway?”