Blowback

by Al Pessin

  “I know.” She squeezed his leg. “Don’t worry about it. And I’m sorry I was such a b . . .” Bridget’s voice trailed off, and her eyes closed.

  “Stay with me, Bridge.” He shook her shoulder. “Hey! Where’s the rest of that apology?”

  “Bitch,” she managed. Then her hand fell from his leg.

  He shook her again. “Bridget! Wake up. Don’t make me tell them your last words were ‘I was such a bitch.’”

  She snorted. He’d actually made her laugh as she lay wounded in the middle of a battlefield. Maybe it was the morphine.

  Bridget heard him talking as if from far away.

  “Eyes open, Army. You do not have permission to lose consciousness until we reach base.”

  She couldn’t open her eyes, but she felt his hand on her shoulder. She put her hand on top of it. Her words were slurred. “Yes, sir, Navy.”

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Faraz came to the edge of the small wooded area and looked out into the twilight. He couldn’t see much. He figured al-Souri faced the same decision he had faced during his escape that afternoon—which way to turn. The nearest bit of civilization was the gas station, and there was a village not far beyond. The other direction had nothing but desert for a dozen kilometers.

  He climbed up the embankment to the road and turned right. His ribs hurt with every step, but he ignored the pain.

  After two hundred meters, Faraz got a split second of warning—some movement from the edge of his peripheral vision—but not enough to avoid the blow across his back. Whatever hit him was heavy and had been swung with considerable speed.

  Faraz fell headlong into the ditch by the side of the road. His rifle flew well ahead of him. His hands broke his fall, but he was dazed and in pain.

  “Infidel!”

  Faraz heard al-Souri’s curse and turned his head in time to see the man rear back and raise a large tree branch above his head with both hands.

  Instinct took over. Adrenaline defeated pain. Faraz twisted his body out of the way just before al-Souri would have struck him again. The branch hit the ground where Faraz’s head had been. The force of the blow pushed it into the ground, and al-Souri had trouble lifting it for another swing.

  That gave Faraz the time he needed to shift his position. He got a good look at his attacker for the first time. Al-Souri carried a leather satchel over his left shoulder, with the strap crossing his chest so the bag sat on his right hip. But what impacted Faraz most was al-Souri’s face. The man’s skullcap had flown off. What little gray hair he had flew wildly, his cheeks were flushed under his beard, and his eyes showed an intense rage that further spiked Faraz’s fear.

  Faraz lifted himself onto one knee and tried to jump at al-Souri, but the pain in his ribs stopped him. Now, al-Souri had the advantage again. He reversed the branch, lifted it, and let out a grunt of effort as he swung it toward Faraz’s head.

  It would have been a death blow, but the aim was off. Al-Souri hit Faraz in the right shoulder. Faraz reached for the branch with both hands and knocked it out of the Qomandan’s grip. It flew off to the side, out of reach for both of them.

  Lying on his back, Faraz spun a quarter turn and caught al-Souri’s feet with his legs, bringing the man to the ground. Faraz made it to his knees and had a chance to land a punch. He aimed for al-Souri’s jaw, but the Qomandan turned his head to absorb the blow, then raised himself up on one elbow. Al-Souri swung a kick into Faraz’s stomach. The man might be old, but he hadn’t forgotten how to fight.

  Faraz fell forward onto all fours. His injured shoulder collapsed from the weight. Al-Souri went for the branch and came around swinging. This time, he hit Faraz on the right side of his head, spinning him around and knocking him onto his back.

  Al-Souri stood and raised the branch for a final blow. Faraz barely saw it coming, but even though his head throbbed and his ribs felt like they would push out of his chest, he launched himself at al-Souri’s midsection, tackling him as the branch swung too high. They hit the ground, and al-Souri lost his grip on the weapon.

  Faraz was dizzy. He felt blood dripping into his right ear. But he was on top of al-Souri. If he didn’t finish him now, he might not have another chance. Faraz used all his weight to pin al-Souri’s arms to the ground. He put a knee on the man’s crotch. Faraz gulped for air to clear his head.

  Al-Souri’s white tunic and trousers were soiled with mud and blood. Faraz’s blood. The Qomandan was struggling, cursing Faraz in Pashto and Arabic.

  Faraz saw the branch. To get it, he’d have to release al-Souri’s right arm, but he had to take the chance. Faraz couldn’t hold him much longer. He feared he might pass out.

  Faraz lunged for the weapon. Al-Souri used his free hand to grab Faraz’s face. He pressed hard, digging his nails into Faraz’s left cheek and pushing with surprising strength. His index finger searched for an eyeball.

  Faraz reached the branch, but it was too big to pick up with one hand. He pulled it along the ground as hard as he could and landed a sharp blow directly on the top of al-Souri’s head. That stopped the pushing. Al-Souri’s hand fell from Faraz’s face. Faraz used both hands now to raise the branch and bring it down onto al-Souri’s forehead with all the strength he could muster.

  Al-Souri grunted and his body went limp. Faraz raised the branch again, then pushed it down hard. “You are the traitor to the true will of Allah,” he screamed. “Murderer, murderer, murderer!” With each word, Faraz brought down the branch again. And with each blow, he smashed open the box of emotions he had so carefully built at Guantanamo. The grief, anger, and guilt poured out of him. And his strength, too.

  When Faraz stopped, he was exhausted and dizzy. Tears streaked the blood and dirt on his face, stinging the cuts al-Souri’s fingernails had made. Faraz dropped the branch and sat back to steady himself.

  Underneath him, the global jihad leader, terrorist mastermind, and radical spiritual icon was still. His eyes were closed. His nose and cheeks were broken. Blood gushed from his head, stained the leather strap he still wore, and soaked the ground.

  Faraz wiped his hands on his shirt, then ran them through his hair. He felt blood on the right side where al-Souri had struck his most effective blow. Faraz felt shaky. He reached to the right to steady himself against the ground. A wave of nausea came, and he vomited.

  He wiped his lips with his sleeve and looked back at al-Souri. The man was surely dead. But Faraz’s mission was not over. He had to make his report. He needed to get back to the Americans. He tried to stand, but he felt light-headed and suddenly very cold. Faraz tipped forward, his chest landing on al-Souri’s fractured face.

  * * *

  Carter, Lesher, and Barrett came to the edge of the woods. They saw nothing. Heard nothing. The daylight was all but gone.

  “Which way, Bulldog?” Lesher asked.

  “Nearest village is that way.” Carter pointed to the right. “Gas station, too, according to the sat photo. If this was the jihadi leader, he’d go there.”

  “All right. That way, then.” Lesher took point without being told, walking in the gully by the side of the road.

  Carter was in the rear, straining to see anything he could, forward or back.

  “Lights?” Lesher asked.

  “Night vision,” Carter said.

  The men stopped to take their goggles from the containers on their belts and mount them on their helmets.

  They walked a hundred meters, until Lesher stopped short. He had nearly stumbled over the two bodies in the gully.

  Carter rushed up from the rear position. His men were pulling one man off the other.

  “Lights,” Carter said. All three flipped the goggles up off their eyes and turned on their gun-mounted beacons.

  The man on the bottom in the bloodstained white tunic had almost no face. It had been smashed in, apparently with the large, bloody branch lying by his side. The other man was younger and dressed like a jihadi. They laid him on his back.

  Carter knelt next
to the younger man. He also had a head wound and blood on his face. His hair was matted, and his beard was longer than in the photo Bridget had showed them.

  “Abdallah?” Carter leaned in to try to feel his breath. “He’s breathing, I think.” Carter rubbed two knuckles against Faraz’s breastbone. “Abdallah! Can you hear me, man?” No response. Carter checked for a pulse on Faraz’s neck.

  “Is he alive?” Lesher asked, kneeling on the other side of al-Souri’s body.

  “Yes. Barely. Other guy?”

  “No way.”

  Barrett stood above them, doing a constant 360-degree scan.

  Carter took the canteen off his belt and poured water on Faraz’s face.

  Faraz moaned.

  “There you go, son,” Carter said. He wiped Faraz’s face and gently slapped his cheek. “You with me?’

  Faraz stiffened and raised a hand to defend himself.

  “Hey, it’s okay. We’re the good guys, come to take you home.”

  * * *

  Faraz had heard that before, with a not-altogether good outcome. But he lowered his hand. He blinked, trying to focus.

  “Can you give me your name and code name?” Carter asked.

  Faraz swallowed, grabbed Carter’s arm, and pulled him close. He felt weak. His head hurt. Everything hurt. He didn’t know how much time he had left. The guy seemed to be American. He would have to trust him.

  “Lieutenant . . .” Faraz winced as his broken ribs shot pain through his chest. “Faraz Abdallah. Code name Blowback.”

  “Now you’re talking. Let’s get you out of here.” Carter took Faraz’s injured right shoulder and helped him sit up.

  Faraz cried out in pain.

  “Sorry, but we gotta get you, and us, back to the choppers.”

  Lesher came around behind Faraz, put some gauze on his head wound, and wrapped it.

  “We’ll carry you,” Carter said. “Choppers aren’t far. But we gotta move.”

  Faraz grabbed Carter’s shirt. “Okay, but . . .” His hand fell from the shirt. His eyes closed, and his head lolled to the side.

  Carter took hold of Faraz’s cheeks and slapped him gently. “But what, Lieutenant? Come back to me, now.”

  Faraz opened his eyes. “MTO.” He stopped to breathe. “Children are the target. Unknown multiple locations.” His voice was raspy, his words slurred. “Timing uncertain. Financing from A . . .” He faded again, then came back. “Assali.” Faraz swallowed. “They call him al-Malik.”

  “Children?”

  “Yes.” Faraz stopped to take several breaths. “Schools, colleges, like that.”

  “Has it been launched?”

  Faraz leaned forward onto Carter’s shoulder, panting. “Don’t . . . think so. Not sure . . .”

  Now that he’d made his report, Faraz felt drained. Out of energy. Maybe out of time.

  “Okay, Lieutenant. I got it.” Carter looked up at his men. “Lift him up, guys, nice and easy.”

  Barrett and Lesher got Faraz into a two-man carry. Barrett had his legs. Lesher was behind, his arms under Faraz’s, trying not to put too much pressure on the bad shoulder. Faraz’s chin rested on his chest. His eyes were half closed.

  “We got you, sir,” Lesher said. “Try to stay awake.”

  Faraz heard him but couldn’t answer.

  Carter took out a phone and snapped a couple of pictures of al-Souri. He reached down, lifted the strap over the dead man’s head, and put the satchel on himself.

  “You guys ready?” They nodded. “I’ve got the lead.”

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Will sat on a white plastic chair next to Bridget’s clinic bed.

  She was sleeping, still feeling the effects of the anesthetic. She had a couple of dozen stitches total, front and rear, under her hospital gown and the crisp white sheets. A tangle of tubes and wires connected her to several machines monitoring her progress.

  In a few hours, she would be on a medevac flight to the U.S. military hospital in Germany, the same one where Will was treated after he was wounded a few months earlier.

  Bridget’s bed, machines, and visitor’s chair were surrounded by green curtains hung from tracks on the ceiling. The white-painted walls, clean windows, and freshly mopped floor resembled not at all the battleground she’d been lying on the previous evening when she’d violated Will’s order to remain conscious.

  Will wore a camo jacket against the breeze from the wall-mounted air conditioner. He had showered and changed at the nurse’s insistence while Bridget was in surgery.

  “You won’t be visiting my clinic with all that mess,” she had said, hands on hips, barring the door. The doctor had read him the riot act about the extra stress he had put on his leg, which continued to ache in spite of a heavy-duty shot of painkillers.

  Bigelow reamed him out, restricted him to his quarters and the clinic, and assigned another SEAL to his duties. Lumberjack, in Washington, had sent him a WTF email that included a threat to recall him to the Pentagon. It would be okay with Will if that was where Bridget was going. But he doubted it would happen. If you’re going to go rogue, it always helps to be part of a successful mission.

  Bridget opened her eyes. “Hi.” Her voice was soft and hoarse. She cleared her throat. Then coughed.

  “Hi,” Will said, leaning closer. “Howya feeling?”

  “Like I was hit by a truck.”

  Will smiled. “Not quite. An AK round, but same difference, I guess.”

  “Wait. Where am I? What happened? Is Faraz okay? Did he have intel?”

  Will put a hand on her shoulder. “Take it easy. Everything’s okay.” He told her what he knew about what had happened after Ferguson hustled them onto the chopper with Castillo’s body and four Spotlight guys. “I don’t know about the intel. All I know is Abdallah made it out alive, gave his report, and is on an urgent medevac to Germany.”

  Bridget let out a breath. “I need a phone, Will. I need to know what’s going on. There could be an attack—”

  “Knock, knock,” came a voice from outside the curtain. It sounded more like “Knawk, knawk.”

  Will tensed. Bridget held up a finger, signaling for him to stop whatever he was going to do or say.

  “Come in,” she said.

  Carter pushed the curtain aside and came into the cubicle. He, too, was cleaned up, wearing camo pants and a dark green T-shirt. “How’s the patient?”

  “I’m okay. And thanks, um, for everything. But how’s Faraz?”

  “I am told that Lieutenant Abdallah had emergency surgery and will have more when he gets to a larger facility. The doc said he’s unconscious but stable.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “Yes. He gave me some info, which I would describe as fragmentary but useful, broad strokes on an MTO.”

  “Have they launched?” Bridget tried to sit up.

  “Easy now. He wasn’t sure, but thought not. I’m certain your agency and others are all over it. I understand the lieutenant came around and gave a fuller report later.”

  Bridget eased back onto her pillow.

  “And I must say, my men gathered quite a trove of material in the jihadi camp.”

  “That’s great news,” Bridget said. “Please make sure they pass it to my office.”

  “That has already been done.”

  “Good. Thanks. What about al-Souri?”

  “Abdallah took care of that. I’ll show you the pictures when you’re feeling better.”

  Bridget smiled and closed her eyes.

  Carter spoke to Will. “Thank you for your assistance, Commander. Turned out you were in the right place at the right time, enabled me to take both my men with me to do what we needed to do.”

  “You and your men did a good job out there. Impressive unit.”

  “Truly, sir, that means a lot coming from a SEAL.”

  “And my condolences on the loss of your colleague. I know how hard that is. He seemed like a good man.”

  “The best. Thank yo
u, Commander.”

  Bridget spoke without opening her eyes. “You guys gonna kiss and make up now, or what?”

  The men didn’t answer.

  “Because if you are, I’m keeping my eyes closed.”

  “I think it’s safe to open them,” Carter said. “But . . .”

  Bridget opened her eyes in time to see him hold out his right hand. Will stood, leaned on his cane, and shook it.

  * * *

  In the White House Situation Room, President Martelli read the transcript of Faraz’s report for the third time, shaking his head. “Astounding. Even with everything we know about these terrorists, it is astounding.”

  Defense Secretary Marty Jacobs sat to his right. Jay Pruitt of the NSC and General Hadley of the DIA were among the many officials arrayed around the conference table. It was a rare day of good news in the war on terror, and it came just in time for the presidential primary season.

  “Marty, what’s the update?”

  “Mr. President, the nationwide State of Emergency you ordered last night is being implemented by all security agencies working with our local government counterparts. All schools, universities, day-care centers, and similar locations have been secured, with help from the National Guard. The military is on high alert worldwide and is assisting Homeland Security with transport hubs.”

  Jacobs gestured toward large screens on the far wall showing a color-coded spreadsheet of key U.S. military installations. “Those columns turn red as the emergency orders are implemented.”

  “No one wants to live in an armed camp,” Martelli said. “But we’ll have to until we crack the terror cells and find any bombs they already planted.”

  “Sniffer dogs and bomb robots are searching every facility,” Jacobs reported. “Intel and law enforcement agencies are using the info gathered in Syria to track down the operatives.”

  “What about the money trail?”

  Jay took that one. “Sir, the treasury secretary is on a call now with major bank chairs, and has EU finance ministers next. FBI is scanning the account numbers the team provided. They’re scattered all over the world, but we should get them locked down within a few hours. This Assali guy had his fingers in a lot of pots.”