Blowback

by Al Pessin

  At the foot of the grave was a small sign stuck into the ground, like a gardener might use. The piece of paper in its holder had a name scrawled in Pashto and English: Faiza Abdallah.

  “What?” Faraz said, too loudly for a cemetery. He fell onto both knees in front of the little sign and read it again. He could not believe it. His mother’s name, and a date—one month ago.

  Faraz knelt there, frozen, his mouth open. His mother had died, too? Oh, Allah!

  Still kneeling, he stretched his body toward the sky. He let out a scream. Angry. Pitiful. Primal. “Mohr!”

  A family across the cemetery turned and looked at him but kept its distance.

  Faraz sat back on his heels, his shoulders slumped. He felt the anger rise inside him, the anger he had felt at Guantanamo, and in Nazim’s shed, and when Amira died. The anger that had nearly killed him.

  He put his hands on his face and dug in his nails, much as al-Souri had done. He wanted to feel the pain, and he did.

  Faraz’s mother had died not long after losing her husband and, she believed, her only child. He bore responsibility for that. He wanted to throw something, to hit someone. But there was nothing and no one.

  A month ago. Where had he been a month ago? Living in a terrorist camp, making love to Amira, holding her lifeless body in his arms.

  That’s why they hadn’t told him. This was what Bridget wanted to tell him in person.

  He pounded his fist into the ground until it came up bloody. There were tears in his eyes, and a few escaped when he blinked. He thought he should cry more. But he couldn’t.

  Faraz wiped his cheek. What he had accomplished was important, world saving. But the cost was higher than it should have been, higher than he had ever imagined. Too high. His parents. Amira. So many others.

  He looked at the graves and imagined what his parents would say, what Johnny would say. For Johnny, it would be, “What ya gonna do now, little man?” Johnny was always great at cutting through whatever intractable problems confronted young Faraz.

  “What now?” indeed.

  One of the pearls of wisdom Johnny had taught Faraz was that he couldn’t do anything about the past, only the future. That’s why Johnny had enlisted straight out of high school, with plans to go to college on the G.I. Bill.

  Faraz took some airline napkins out of his backpack and dabbed the blood from his hand. He stood, brushed off his clothes, bowed his head, and for the first time in a long time, he prayed. Faraz prayed. Not Hamed or Karim.

  When he finished, he stared at his parents’ graves, and his own. Nothing was left but the question. What now?

  * * *

  Faraz didn’t know how long he stood over the graves, but it was so long that the taxi driver came to look for him.

  “There you are. I thought maybe you slipped out the back or something.”

  “No. Sorry.” Faraz reached into his pocket and counted out a hundred dollars for the man.

  Faraz looked back at the graves.

  There was only one answer to Johnny’s question, the same answer Johnny had had all those years ago. Faraz didn’t like it, but he couldn’t think of anything else that might someday, in some way, justify the cost.

  Faraz had expected to be home about now, having tea and sweets with mother. Instead, he had no mother, and no home to go to. No home except one.

  He took a deep breath and let it out, then touched two fingers to his lips for a farewell kiss.

  Faraz turned and walked toward the parking lot. “Come on,” he said.

  At the taxi, Faraz turned to the driver and spoke in a voice that sounded more confident than he felt. “Take me back to the airport.”

  He would catch a flight to Washington and see what Bridget and the major had in store for him.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  They say that for a writer, Book Two is always more difficult than Book One. I was very fortunate to have my support system well established.

  My wife, Audrey, is my first reader, critiquing my books part by part and encouraging me to forge ahead. Her support is invaluable.

  The next reader is Lourdes Venard of Comma Sense Editing. Her experience, honesty, and skill were again crucial in shaping this story and its telling.

  Also subjected to early drafts are the intrepid members of my critique group. We cheer each other’s successes, deliver praise and tough love as appropriate, and always provide a friendly and supportive eye. Thank you, dear friends, Porter Beermann, Caryn De Vincenti (Dana Ross), Jane Kelly Amerson Lopez, Marcie Tau, and Lou Ann Williams.

  For me, beta readers are essential. I have many friends in the military, the media, and academia who are more expert than I on a variety of subjects that make their way into my novels. They help me infuse the books with authenticity and save me from many errors. Many thanks to Robert Burns, Steve Boylan, Tom Collins, Marvin Diogenes, Greg Hicks, Joyce Karam, Vince O’Neil, and Thom Shanker.

  My thanks also to the terrific authors who have been gracious enough to take the time to read advance copies of my books and provide endorsements. Their kind words were like gold, and their willingness to put their names next to mine in asking you, the readers, to buy my books is humbling. Thank you, Steve Berry, John Gilstrap, Ali Ahmad Jalali, Jon Land, Ward Larsen, Daphne Nikolopoulus (D. J. Niko), Vince O’Neil (Henry V. O’Neil), Alan Orloff, Tony Park, T. Jefferson Parker, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Les Standiford, Admiral (Ret.) James Stavridis, and Tom Straw (Richard Castle).

  The team at Kensington Publishing has been great to work with, supportive, responsive, warm, and professional. It’s worth noting that we finished Blowback in the throes of the coronavirus pandemic and stay-at-home orders. But somehow they managed not to miss a beat. The Task Force Epsilon team is led by editor Michaela Hamilton, and also includes Lauren Jernigan, Alexandra Kenney, Arthur Maisel, Crystal McCoy, and Alexandra Nikolajsen. I am also eternally grateful to the boss, Steve Zacharius, for his faith in this series and his support for the effort to bring it to print.

  The characters and events in Blowback are fictional, but many grew out of people I knew and experiences I had during my time covering the Pentagon, the White House, the Middle East, and South Asia. My thanks to the many people over the years who facilitated my reporting, and to those on various sides of many issues who gave their time to provide me with some understanding of who they are, what they do, and why they do it.

  Finally, I must thank you, the readers, for trying this series. I hope you enjoyed Blowback and the first book, Sandblast. Please write to me through my website, alpessin.com, and let me know what you thought. If you feel motivated to tweet or write an online review on one of the bookselling websites or reader forums, that would be much appreciated. You can also find me on Twitter@apessin, Instagram @alpessinauthor, and Facebook at the Al Pessin Author page.

  I look forward to being in touch and to keeping you informed about the next book in the series, Shock Wave, scheduled for release in the spring of 2022.

  Stay safe.

  —Al Pessin, “Staying at Home”

  in Delray Beach, Florida,

  August 2020

  Don’t miss the next exciting thriller from Al Pessin

  SHOCK WAVE

  A TASK FORCE EPSILON THRILLER

  Coming soon from Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Keep reading to enjoy a preview excerpt . . .

  Chapter One

  The lone passenger felt every whitecap as the small boat crept toward the desert shore. He thought he might be sick. But he was determined not to show any weakness.

  He looked out the porthole but saw nothing. It was a moonless night.

  The man was sweating in the stale, hot air of the small forward cabin. The old, rusting bench with thin, plastic-covered cushions provided none of the creature comforts to which his unique capabilities had entitled him these many years.

  The cabin brought to mind the tiny apartment where he’d grown up, where he’d learned of his father’s murder, where his mother had
died for lack of medical care. He had worked hard to forget that apartment through the decades of plush furnishings and air-conditioning. He shook off the memory.

  A swell hit the boat and nearly knocked him from his seat. He put a hand on the bench to steady himself and let another wave of nausea pass.

  How had he come to this—on this scow, hat in hand, virtually on his knees begging for the seeds to regrow his operation? Begging for his life.

  Not long ago, this all would have been done with a phone call and an electronic transfer. Now, calls were more dangerous than ever. Moving money was impossible. Damn them!

  Assali’s anger and shame fueled a new determination to succeed, to impress his masters, to get back to the air-conditioning. If they let him live.

  A member of the crew opened the cabin door. “Two minutes, sahib,” the man said in Arabic, then retreated without waiting for an answer.

  Still clinging to the bench, Saddiq Mohammed al-Assali thanked God that he had survived the voyage. “Allahu akbar,” he whispered. God is great. But his tone was more sarcastic than reverent. Surviving this far was a victory, but perhaps a fleeting one.

  Assali stood, something a taller man would not have been able to do in the low-ceilinged cabin. His ample belly made it hard to balance in the rolling sea and strained the fabric of his sweat-stained traditional Arab qamis, an untucked long-sleeved white shirt that reached his knees and was buttoned all the way to his neck.

  He wiped his face and felt the three-day stubble. He ran a hand through his hair. It came out greasy. Disgraceful. But such was life on the run. He had only his small travel case, half a bottle of water, and an empty plastic bag that once held German pretzels. He wished he hadn’t eaten them.

  Assali put on the suit jacket he’d bought not long ago at the priciest men’s tailor shop in Amman. He picked up the carry-on, put the water bottle in a side pocket, and stepped to the cabin door, crushing discarded candy wrappers and cigarette butts as he went. For the first time he could remember, he had smoked his last. Perhaps, if this was the end, they’d at least give him one before the execution.

  Mounting two of the three steps to the deck, his face caught the breeze. It blew away some of the humidity and refreshed him.

  They called this the Red Sea, but all he could see was black. The small cabin cruiser was painted black. The three-man crew all wore black, and they had turned off the running lights. Looking toward the rear of the boat, he could hardly see anything.

  They had engaged the electric motor and so were running almost silently. They were invisible and inaudible. At least, that was the theory. Who really knew what technology the enemy might have?

  Assali mounted the final step onto the deck and turned to look around. His fist closed on a rail, and he peered into the darkness. In the distance to his left, there was a glow in the sky—the lights of Eilat and Aqaba, he reasoned. Staring ahead and trying not to blink, he forced his pupils to dilate. The shoreline appeared, dark gray against the blackness, maybe a kilometer away.

  “How can you be sure this is the place?” he asked.

  “From the satellite, sahib,” the man at the controls assured him.

  Assali looked toward the shore again and shrugged. He could only hope these men knew what they were doing.

  The next wave tossed the boat and splashed over the rail.

  Assali turned away but tasted the salt as water crashed onto the deck. He had two hands on the rail now, and was more concerned about going overboard than about vomiting. This had to be the longest kilometer in the world.

  Finally cresting the last wave, the boat surfed down to the shore and ran aground.

  This time, Assali’s “Allahu akbar” was sarcasm-free.

  “Here, sahib,” the crewman said, indicating a small ladder he had lowered over the stern.

  “Into the water?” Assali asked. This would be the final indignity. Final for now, anyway.

  “It is only half a meter,” the man said, barely concealing a derisive smile.

  Assali pursed his lips and moved toward the ladder.

  The sky brightened for a split second, as if from a distant bolt of lightning. All eyes turned north, toward the glow of the cities, in time to see a second flash. Then the sound reached them—a low rumble, barely audible. They felt it as much as heard it. The boat bobbed in the surf.

  Assali snorted at the irony that he was close enough to actually feel the impact of what he’d done. That would be a first. And also a last, he hoped. He preferred to run his operations from a safer distance.

  “It is done, then,” the crewman said.

  “Yes. So it would seem.”

  “Allahu akbar,” the man said.

  Assali did not repeat the blessing. His look said, “Give God credit if you want. This was my doing.”

  He took a deep breath and tried to shake off the last of the claustrophobia and nausea. He might yet survive this night.

  Assali took hold of the ladder’s handles and hefted himself over the rail. He pursed his lips and let out a curse, then stepped down into the warm water. His designer leather loafers hit the sand, and his gaberdine dress pants were wet past the knees. The hem of his qamis touched the water, but, praise God, his suit coat was spared. He held his bag high on his shoulder.

  As he made awkward steps toward dry land, the dimmed headlights of three vehicles blinked from behind the mangroves at the edge of the beach.

  Assali did not turn to wave or thank the crew. He climbed the beach incline and walked toward the cars with as much dignity as he could muster, his pants dripping, his shoes and socks caked with sand, and his heart pounding.

  He was sweating again, but not from the heat. A week ago, he would have been welcomed as an honored guest. Now, even after what he had just done, he wasn’t sure whether he would make it off the beach alive.

  Photo by Lucy Blase, ForeverStudios

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  AL PESSIN launched his Task Force Epsilon series with the acclaimed thriller Sandblast in 2020. A foreign correspondent for fifteen years, Al has covered U.S. troops in Afghanistan and Iraq, dined with anti-Soviet mujahideen in Pakistan, filed on-scene reports of bus bombings in Jerusalem, and interviewed Hamas militants in Gaza. He covered democracy movements on Beijing’s Tiananmen Square, Kiev’s Independence Square, Cairo’s Tahrir Square, and Manila’s EDSA Boulevard. He was also a member of the White House and Pentagon press corps. In all, Al spent four decades as a TV/radio broadcaster, correspondent, editor, and manager at the Voice of America. After the Tiananmen Massacre in 1989, the Chinese government expelled Al for “illegal news gathering” and “fomenting counterrevolutionary rebellion.” For his work in China, he received the Communicator of the Year award from the National Association of Government Communicators and won a Gold Medal at the International Radio Festivals of New York. Al’s writing has received several Royal Palm Literary Awards from the Florida Writers Association, and the Sandblast manuscript was a short-list selection for the 2017 Bosque Fiction Prize. Al lives in Delray Beach, Florida, with his wife and their yellow Labrador, Rory. Please visit www.alpessin.com.