Crusader One

by Brian Andrews

  “Lieutenant Redman wants to meet here first. That way we can brief him separately before he briefs the rest of his platoon . . . if you catch my drift.”

  “And you’ve worked with him before?” Elinor asked, her eyebrows pinching together with concern.

  Dempsey got it. The two of them were putting their lives in Chunk’s hands, and she wanted Dempsey’s personal assurance Chunk and his team warranted that kind of trust. “Yes,” he said, checking the batteries for his holosite and the PEQ-4 IR target designator on his rifle. “He’s good. We’ve fought side by side—staged out of this very compound for a capture/kill operation. He saved my life on that op. After that, I pulled him and some of his guys to support some Ember black ops work. He is my number one choice for this INFIL. Trust me, we’re lucky to have him.”

  Elinor nodded, his assurance seemingly satisfactory to her.

  Munn stood and found a spot on the wall. He leaned back, folded his arms across the butt of his rifle slung over his kit, and looked very much the same eager SEAL that Dempsey had first met nearly two decades ago. “So, when do we meet the tadpole?” Munn asked with a sly grin, slinging a little jab at Chunk.

  “I’m right here, old man,” came a voice from the door as it swung open. “Feel free to sit and rest, that is, if your hips will let you.” Chunk winked at Dempsey and then flashed Munn a toothy, tobacco-stained grin.

  “Dan Munn,” Munn said, extending a hand.

  “Lieutenant Redman,” the SEAL officer said, shaking Munn’s hand. “But you can call me Chunk.”

  “I don’t usually trust Dempsey’s judgment when it comes to important things like tactics and people, but in this case your reputation precedes you . . .”

  Chunk laughed. “Ahh, I see you’ve been in the suck with Dempsey before, too. Now I get it.”

  “Oh yeah, nobody knows how to get himself into a jam like JD.”

  “Now that explains why he’s so good at getting out of them. He’s one Rambo, death-dealing motherfucker when he wants to be. I ain’t never seen anyone in action like him before.”

  “All right, all right, it’s clear you’re both jealous,” Dempsey said as the younger and older SEAL officers were sizing each other up. “Chunk, Dan is the SEAL doc I was telling you about earlier.”

  “That’s right; I’ve heard of you, bro,” Chunk said to Munn. “You’re quite the legend back at SEAL Team Four, especially with the eighteen-Deltas. Any operator who can kick ass and then has the smarts to become a surgeon is solid in my book.”

  Munn smiled and nodded but said nothing. Nothing else needed to be said. Ritual complete.

  Chunk turned to Dempsey, and they gripped forearms and pulled each other in—slapping each other hard on the back—for a Team-issue man-hug.

  “Good to see you, man.”

  “You, too, Chunk. They keeping you busy?”

  “Always,” he said, pulling out a can of Skoal. After quickly and expertly packing his lower lip with snuff, he said, “Hey, I don’t know if you heard, but they’ve just about got the Tier One stood back up. I’ve thrown my name in the hat, and I’m hoping to screen.”

  Dempsey nodded. “I mighta heard something about that.”

  “You know, I’d ask you for a letter, but I guess you’d have to write it in invisible ink or some shit, so they’d probably just throw it in the shit can.”

  “It is true that I don’t exist,” Dempsey said, looking Chunk in the eyes now. “But I happen to know a particular retired O-6 and former Tier One skipper who I hear can make shit happen.”

  “Well, ain’t that a thing,” Chunk said and then held a plastic water bottle up to his lips and dribbled a stream of brown saliva down the inside. “Thanks, bro.”

  Dempsey gave Chunk’s shoulder a squeeze. “It’s the least I can do for a steely-eyed frogman who shoots better than me.”

  Then, as if seeing her for the first time, Chunk looked Elinor up and down, his smile broadening. “Damn, you Ember guys love your hot chicks with guns . . . Hi, I’m Chunk,” he said, extending his hand to her.

  “Elinor,” she said, seemingly unfazed by the SEAL’s misogynistic bullshit. She was, no doubt, accustomed to being tested.

  “Speaking of beautiful operators,” Chunk said, looking around, “where’s Grimes?”

  The room fell quiet. Dempsey and Munn traded glances.

  “She is”—Dempsey said, hesitating—“temporarily out of commission.”

  “Elizabeth was wounded during the rocket and sleeper-cell attacks,” Munn said. “She took a high-velocity round to the chest. She’s in the surgical ICU in Jerusalem—stable and improving. We hope to have her chest tube out in another couple of days.”

  “Jeez,” Chunk breathed. “I’m sorry, guys. That sucks.” He nodded to Dempsey and then was all business, the mission at hand now maybe a bit more personal. “Before we get started, I need to tell you that you guys have definitely pissed off someone important back home.”

  Dempsey looked at Chunk, confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “We received a memorandum at the Joint Task Force to be on alert for a possible unauthorized spook mission that might come through for our support. Anything out of the ordinary, we’re supposed to route through the chain back to the DNI.” Chunk spit another mouthful of tobacco juice into his bottle. “I figured it was you guys even before Shane Smith reached out for our help.”

  “And?” Munn asked softly. “Was our request routed back through the DNI?”

  “What request?” Chunk said, the corners of his mouth curling up. “I know Director Philips supported you guys one hundred percent. Not sure what kind of turf pissing war is going on right now in DC, but until all the political bullshit gets sorted out, we’re standing by to support you.”

  “Thanks, man. I can’t tell you how much that means to us.”

  “No worries,” Chunk said. “But it would be nice if you read me into the basics of your op so we can provide some cover for you. If I’m gonna be your shit screen, I need to know where to hold the umbrella—you know what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah, of course,” Dempsey said. “It’s pretty straightforward. We need you to help get me and Elinor into Iran.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Chunk said, unfazed. “We’ve been running daily cross-border missions for a while—probes, intel gathering, shuttling the spooks over for asset building, prepping the battlefield . . . that sort of stuff. I’ve locked in a number of good crossing points. The Activity and Group Ten are working the border as well. Depending on where you need to go, and how long you need to stay, we might beg, borrow, or steal some help if need be.”

  “Good,” Dempsey said, nodding. “Very good.”

  “So, where you trying to get to?”

  “Tehran.”

  Chunk adjusted the Team Four ball cap on his head, spit more tobacco in his bottle, and then folded his muscular forearms across his “Bars of Virginia Beach” T-shirt. “Tehran! You know damn well I can’t get you to Tehran, JD,” he said and started to laugh.

  “Don’t worry; we don’t expect you to.”

  “What in the hell are you guys up to?” Chunk asked. Then, seeing Dempsey’s expression, he added, “I know, I know. You can’t tell me, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know anyway.”

  “You don’t,” Elinor said, her voice hard and serious. “And you can’t.”

  “Our actual mission is SCIF-level stuff,” Dempsey added, “but I thought it was important for you to understand what the stakes are for this op.”

  “All we need you to do is get us across the border safely and undetected to our meet location. I have assets embedded in Iran who will help us manage the rest,” Elinor said, signaling to Dempsey with a cold stare that she was not okay with how much information he’d shared with a SEAL she’d just met two minutes ago.

  “Yeah, well, like I said, I don’t want to know. But I do want to help,” Chunk said.

  Dempsey pulled a map from his cargo pocket and unfol
ded it on the table between them. He pointed to the area commonly known as Iraqi Kurdistan.

  “We want to stage in Halabja and then drive the back roads to Tawella, here on the border. That’s where we’ll cross. Tawella is set down in a valley and we can cross on foot. It’s only two clicks to Route 15, which is where we’ll rendezvous with local assets who’ll be waiting in a vehicle to pick us up. We’ll ditch our gear, change, and head north until we intersect Route 46. From there we head east to Sanandaj.”

  Elinor shook her head, beseeching him to shut up, but he met her gaze and just kept talking.

  “I want you to know this, because if our asset is a no-show, we’ll need help getting to Sanandaj.”

  Chunk stared at the map and then repositioned his ball cap. “Well, that’s a frigging haul, guys,” the SEAL said, tapping his finger on the map. “And this is some rugged-ass terrain, JD. We gotta hope you make the meet on 15, because I don’t think we can get you across this mountain range running north–south in a single night. We can’t travel on the road like your spooks can. If your asset doesn’t show, the cross-country trek to Sanandaj is gonna be a real bitch. We better hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “It won’t,” Elinor interrupted. “The asset will be there.”

  Chunk shot her his best cool-guy smile, probably more effective in the Virginia Beach bar scene than here. “I love your confidence, but in my experience, something always goes wrong in these types of operations. What’s your backup plan to get to Sanandaj?”

  “We don’t have one.”

  Chunk put his palms on the table and bent over the map again. “Got a satellite image, JD?”

  Dempsey opened another folded topographical map, this one generated from satellite imagery, which better illustrated the tortuous mountain terrain. Chunk traced his finger along a dirt road that intersected 15 and then zigzagged six miles to where it intersected a river that cut between the mountains, serpentining back and forth while creeping northeast.

  Dempsey knew exactly what he was thinking. “Up the river?”

  “Maybe,” Chunk said. “Wouldn’t be easy, and there could be a shitload of places we could get jammed up.”

  “But possible?” Munn asked.

  “Yeah, definitely possible. The idea here would be to avoid Route 15 altogether and intersect Route 46 fifteen clicks south of where it intersects 15. That way you keep as far away from Marivan as possible. It’s getting pretty hot there with the Kurdish riots and IDF strike on the nuclear facility. If I were the IRGC, I’d set up a checkpoint at that intersection because it’s a choke point for all the north–south traffic along the western border.”

  “So we would need a second vehicle?” Elinor asked.

  “Yes, you would need your assets to stage a vehicle here . . .” Chunk said and tapped the map at the bottom of the southern dogleg on 46. “For when we run out of water. Otherwise it would be a two-day op to get you to Sanandaj, and even that would be pushing it. We’d have to get small during daylight hours here”—Chunk tapped a finger on the north side of a mountain just west of Sanandaj—“and then finish the INFIL on foot by next dark. My EXFIL would be two days in reverse,” the SEAL said, leaning back and stroking the thin beard on his chin. He sighed. “It would be hard to keep off the radar. We’d need a ton of support . . . Shit, Dempsey, this is a lot of asset to keep quiet. It’s gonna raise some eyebrows.”

  “Yeah, but remember this is the backup INFIL plan. Hopefully it doesn’t come to that,” he said.

  “And what about supporting their EXFIL?” Munn asked, shooting Dempsey a hey, dummy, aren’t you forgetting something? look.

  “You mean, like, waiting in place?”

  Munn nodded and tapped a spot on the map.

  “We could dig in for twenty-four, maybe forty-eight hours tops. But that will require running this much farther up my chain. You’ve got me and my guys in Indian country for like four or five days at least. When a squad disappears for that long, trust me, people notice.”

  Munn pursed his lips and nodded. “Just an idea.”

  “I already have a plan for getting out,” Elinor interjected. “One that does not require nighttime border crossings and SEAL team support.”

  “I know,” Dempsey said, resisting the compulsion to roll his eyes. The Seventh Order’s Cold War–era plan was to drive out of Iran to Armenia and then work their way home from there. In theory, it sounded feasible, and Elinor had assured them it was a mature system that was time tested. But Iran was on the brink of war with the West. If they actually succeeded in taking Modiri, the nationwide manhunt for them would be on a scale never seen before. He’d rather retrace than try to go north. “Just plan the INFIL primary and backup, Chunk, and let us know what’s feasible. Okay?”

  “I’ll work up something to get you up to Route 46 West. It’s still thirty clicks west of Sanandaj, but it saves you thirty miles of driving and avoids that northern intersection near Marivan. What do you think?”

  Dempsey looked at Elinor. “Can you get a request to your assets to stage a secondary vehicle along 46?”

  “I’ll try, but no guarantees.”

  “I’m sure that unlike us Americans, Israelis never need a backup plan because your missions unfold seamlessly. But since your partner happens to be an American, my hands are tied on this one. I gotta cover my bases,” Chunk said to Elinor and then flashed her a disarming smile.

  She shook her head but relented with a smile of her own.

  “The more I think about this,” Chunk continued, shifting his gaze to Dempsey, “the more I’m convinced we should use DPVs.”

  “That could definitely work,” Dempsey agreed with a nod.

  “We have an advanced team make a hard crossing with the DPVs and we monitor the Persian response. If things go bad, they haul ass back and we reevaluate. But if everything goes well, the DPVs are prestaged if we need them. Then, we make the soft crossing on foot to the rendezvous. If your asset doesn’t show or things go to shit, we can either retreat back to Tawella or proceed with the backup plan,” he said, then, looking at Elinor, added with cordial, dry sarcasm, “again, in the very unlikely scenario something goes wrong.”

  “What are DPVs?” she asked.

  “They’re like badass dune buggies,” Dempsey told her. “They can do eighty miles an hour on flat open ground and are equipped with a fifty-caliber machine gun and grenade launchers on their rails. These things were conceived for ops like this.”

  “Well, don’t expect speed like that over terrain this shitty,” Chunk said, “but it would sure beat humping another six miles on foot to the boats if the primary falls apart on us. And yes, the extra firepower will come in very handy in case we run into an Iranian patrol.”

  “Okay, fine,” Elinor said, her tone suggesting she was still dubious about the whole plan but knew that arguing with this crew was pointless.

  “Then it’s settled; we use DPVs,” Dempsey said.

  “All right, I need to jump on the requisition, and I’ll need tonight to pre-position both the equipment and some manpower. Can your timeline allow for a twenty-four-hour hold? Dropping boats along that river is going to take some work.”

  Dempsey looked at Elinor.

  “I’ve already set assets in motion. A hold now would put my people in danger.”

  “If dropping boats is going to be a problem, then I might have another option. But I’ll need to call Jarvis to help with the logistics,” Dempsey said, rubbing his chin. When he was with the Tier One, they’d played around with a prototype inflatable water asset. The field tests had been a success, and he was pretty sure the tech had found its way into the service. The question was, where was the closest one, and could Jarvis get it here in time? “If I can solve the boat problem, the particular water asset I want to use can be loaded onto the DPVs.”

  Chunk nodded. “That would be way better. I wouldn’t want to risk an air insert with all the activity along the border. We could still use an air drop to position gea
r or transportation at the end of the river INFIL here . . .” He tapped a spot at the end of the winding river valley on the northeast side of the mountain range.

  Dempsey smiled; it was coming together.

  “I assume you have a NOC in place that will give you safe passage if you get stopped without your assets?” Chunk asked.

  “Yes,” Elinor said and then shot Dempsey a hard look: Don’t you dare say a thing.

  “Okay,” Chunk said and stood. “This is enough for my planners to get started.” He looked at his watch. “Meet me in our TOC at 1830? We can go over what my planners gin up and then fine-tune it for a briefing with new intel at 2000.”

  “Mission brief at 2200?” Dempsey asked.

  “Assuming you’re wanting to go tonight?”

  “Yes,” Elinor said. “We need to make it to Sanandaj before sunrise . . . one way or another.”

  The SEAL officer nodded. “Okay. Well, I should have you guys an answer by 1830 on what we can do.”

  “And you can keep the operation off the radar until then?” Dempsey asked.

  “What operation?” Chunk said with a huge grin, turning to leave. At the door, he paused and looked back. “Great getting to have my ass kicked beside you guys again. I love it when the spooks show up.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  Dempsey looked at Elinor and cut her off before she could lecture him.

  “You’ve gotta chill out about the OPSEC. These guys will get us there no matter what, or die trying, but you gotta show some trust.”

  Elinor opened her mouth, ready to argue, but then apparently thought better of it.

  “It’s a sign of respect, and that respect might be the difference between us getting out of Iran intact or in body bags,” Dempsey added.

  “Okay,” she said. And then, as if a light switch was thrown, her face transformed into his sexy, adoring wife from their NOC. “I trust you, baby.”

  CHAPTER 27