Crusader One

by Brian Andrews

  National Counterterrorism Center TOC

  1500 Tysons McLean Drive, McLean, Virginia

  May 31

  1345 Local Time

  “What the hell do you mean you’ve got nothing?” Catherine Morgan said with exasperation. She was surrounded by technicians and equipment capable of reading a VIN number off a car windshield at night from outer-fucking-space, and yet they couldn’t find an entire American covert operations team and their Boeing 787 jet.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the boy—yes, a boy—at the console in front of her said. “I’m in contact with our Special Operations forces in Iraq, scanning all the OPORDS, checking satellite feeds and message traffic, and there’s absolutely nothing unusual to speak of. SOF teams are engaged in approved missions along the Iranian border for intelligence gathering and shuttling some of the clandestine services missions into place. Group Ten is also moving assets, but it’s all expected stuff.”

  Before she could fire back, CTC Director Brad Johnson—whom she didn’t particularly like—stuck his nose into the conversation. “We have word out to the JSOTF teams at all three border-operations sites as well as in Irbil to watch out for them. We’ve done what we can, but with all due respect, Ms. Morgan,” he said with a voice that implied rather little of it, “the workload here at present is insane. Not only are we trying to support our usual counterterror operations; we’ve got an exponential jump in requests to support the Persian conflict. I’m having trouble justifying using JCAT resources to hunt down one of our own task forces.”

  She turned on him, eyes blazing. “Director Johnson, this unit has gone rogue. They are off the reservation and engaged in activities that could easily escalate the tenuous standoff into a war that no one wants. It is my assessment that Task Force Ember represents a clear and present danger to the security of the United States. I am ordering you to find them.”

  “We did find them,” the CTC Director said softly. “In Israel.”

  “They were in Israel, but now you’ve lost them. I want to know where they went, and what they’re doing. This is a priority for the office of the DNI, do you understand?”

  “I do,” Johnson said. “Keep in mind, ma’am, they could have been killed in the attacks, or wounded and hospitalized. Certainly they’re using NOCs, solidly constructed NOCs, that is, which means finding Ember is like finding a needle in a haystack. And on top of that, I’d go so far as to say the Israelis are actively running interference for them. Mossad has been borderline obstructive since we started fishing.”

  “Why does that not surprise me,” she mumbled, holding the eyes that held absolutely no “all due respect” for her.

  “But I promise you, if they try to utilize any of our resources, we’ll hear about it,” he said, a backhanded assurance that there was little more he could—or would—do.

  “Find them,” she said again and turned and stormed off.

  The whole damn intelligence and Special Operations network was like some kind of fraternity—and Jarvis seemed to know just the right fraternity brothers he could trust to turn down the volume. She decided to head back to her office; Philips must have kept compartmentalized records on Ember and its operations. Ember was black, but she knew with confidence that they begged, borrowed, and stole from both the intelligence community and Department of Defense. As a former Tier One unit commander, Jarvis would be partial to tapping old relationships and leveraging trusted and familiar personnel pools and logistics chains. If she could identify which Special Forces assets they had utilized over the past year, she might be able to narrow her search.

  She would find them, and stop them. She would cut off their access to resources and asphyxiate their entire operation if she had to. She had no tolerance for cowboys and megalomaniacs. No one operated outside the chain of command. To do this—the job she was born to do—she needed complete control over all of America’s intelligence assets.

  CHAPTER 28

  One Mile East of Route 15, Iran

  The Islamic Republic of Iran

  June 1

  0115 Local Time

  Dempsey was a SEAL again, if only for a moment, and it felt good. He was number two in the diamond formation, moving quietly through the brush in the green-gray world of night vision, scanning his sector over a SOPMOD M4 with a comfortable familiarity. He listened to the regular boom boom of the artillery barrages meant to distract the enemy away from their track. It reminded him of another war, in another lifetime, in this very area. Elinor was behind him, to his left, fully kitted up—including helmet and NVGs—looking just like a SEAL, albeit a little on the small side. Chunk was lead, and his senior NCO was number three, off to Dempsey’s right. Munn was advancing parallel to Elinor in the formation, and three other SEALs completed the diamond behind them. Chunk raised a closed fist and they all stopped, taking a knee; they scanned their sectors while Chunk took time to deconflict whatever it was that had him worried.

  The terrain was brutal on the north side of the valley, so Chunk had elected to travel along the southern slope, where the hike was manageable. Taking this route was a double-edged sword. Agreeable terrain meant better speed over ground but also meant the odds of being spotted were greater.

  “The drone has a vehicle on Route 15,” came Chunk’s voice over the comms circuit. “Hold here.”

  “Can you describe it?” Elinor asked softly in his ear.

  Chunk didn’t answer immediately, and Dempsey knew the LT was talking with the Reaper pilot back at the TOC on another channel. After a beat, Chunk came back: “Old-model sedan, south of our position, headed north. Lights are off. We’ve had a few vehicles on 15, but none without lights.”

  “That’s the signal, but I expected them coming from the north,” she said. “I guess it’s possible they left Marivan early and drove past the rendezvous to scout the pickup.”

  “Not a bad idea . . . but if that’s your people, they’re gonna be fifteen minutes early.”

  “They won’t want to loiter long. Should we move toward the rendezvous?”

  “Negative,” Chunk said. “We hold here until we confirm.”

  A few minutes passed and then Chunk reported, “I don’t think it’s them. The vehicle passed the pickup and kept heading north.”

  Dempsey sighed and scanned the opposite ridgeline for threats while they waited.

  “The same car just pulled off the road and stopped about a click north as the crow flies,” Chunk reported a beat later.

  “Show me on the map,” Elinor said.

  Chunk pulled out the satellite image and pointed to a section of road north of the rendezvous.

  “I see what happened. They got confused. The valley bifurcates on the Iranian side of the border at Dezavar village. We went east, keeping south of the village,” she said, tracing her finger due east from Tawella until it intersected Route 15. “But they must have thought we’d take the northern spur. Both points are equidistant from Tawella, so it is a coin flip.”

  “I could see that,” Dempsey said, nodding. “But to get up there we’ll either have to walk the road or backtrack and hike north, which ends up being two legs of the triangle. That’s at least three miles.”

  Chunk held up a finger, silencing them, and pressed his hand to his right ear. “The driver is getting out . . . male . . . He just raised the hood.”

  “That’s the signal,” Elinor said. “Is there a woman?”

  Chunk called in the question, paused, and then said, “Yes, the passenger is female. She just got out of the car.”

  “Okay, that’s them,” Elinor said. “We need to go.”

  “What do you think—skirt the road or backtrack through the valley and north?” Dempsey asked Chunk.

  “We’re three hundred yards from the DPVs, and I don’t like the idea of following the road,” Chunk said, rubbing his chin. “I think stick to the valleys, but we drive.”

  “Roger that,” Dempsey said.

  Chunk rose and the formation rose behind him. The SEA
L officer led the team across the dangerously flat and open ground. After a few minutes, a flashing green strobe appeared ahead of them, an IR signal visible only in night vision that marked the position of the DPVs. As they closed the last seventy-five yards, their diamond collapsed on itself until the team formed up around the vehicles. The SEALs set up a perimeter as Dempsey, Chunk, and Elinor joined the four SEAL drivers who were waiting with the four DPVs.

  “’Sup, boss?” said the short SEAL beside the closest of the tactical dune buggies, which were circled like wagons in the Old West.

  “Hey, Buddha,” Chunk said in a low voice, shaking the man’s hand. The SEAL was not Asian and was definitely not shaped like anything resembling a Buddha, which suggested a great story behind the nickname. “Meet my buddy, JD.”

  “Any buddy of Chunk’s,” the SEAL whispered with a grin, “is someone with questionable judgment.”

  Dempsey smiled and shook the man’s hand.

  “So, eight pax and we leave four of my guys here, right?” Buddha asked.

  “Nah,” Chunk said. “I think we all go. I want SEAL gunners—the fifty is tricky in a bouncing DPV if you ain’t trained on it,” he said with a glance at Elinor and then back at Dempsey. “Cool?”

  “Cool, boss,” Buddha said.

  “JD, myself, and Mr. and Mrs. Jones back there will split up and ride shotgun,” Chunk said, pointing to Elinor and Munn as he spoke.

  “The Joneses, huh,” the SEAL said with a chuckle. “You spooks are a fucking trip.”

  Dempsey smiled at the dig that a year ago would have been coming from his lips.

  “I’ll ride in the lead vehicle and JD will be in the rear.”

  “Check,” the SEAL said.

  “All right, let’s load up,” Chunk said. “Their ride is waiting, so we gotta move.”

  “Hey, just want to make sure you loaded the packages we sent?” Dempsey asked, catching Buddha by the shoulder. He wanted positive confirmation that the two gray, bulky packages—like oversize folded blow-up beds—strapped under cargo netting on the rear stands of two of the DPVs were indeed his boats.

  “Yeah,” the SEAL said. “That’s them on three and four. I’d love to see them in action. Looks like pretty slick tech.”

  Moments later, they were strapped in to the DPVs and bouncing their way through the valley in a diamond formation. From the rear vehicle, Dempsey scanned the terrain through his NVGs, alternately looking left and right. Behind him on the raised gun platform, he knew the SEAL machine gunner was scanning their six o’clock position. He’d forgotten how quiet the DPVs were. In the Tier One, he’d rarely had occasion to use them, with most of their INFILs being via helicopter. He was happy to reacquaint himself with the remarkably effective four-wheel independent shock absorber system and “floating” suspension under each seat. The world should have been careening wildly around him, but as the vehicle’s chassis bobbed and rolled, his seat practically hovered over the ground. Thank God, too, because Dempsey wasn’t sure that the metal implants stitching his lower spine back together could have survived the pounding otherwise.

  They covered the distance quickly, and the next thing Dempsey knew, Chunk was halting the convoy at what Dempsey estimated was a quarter of a mile from the road. Although they were in separate DPVs, Dempsey could picture Chunk getting a report from their eyes in the sky. As they waited, an unfamiliar feeling suddenly washed over him. Nerves. The idea of stripping off his kit, helmet, and NVGs and then ditching his assault rifle and fellow SEALs to hop in a car with Elinor’s assets and drive off into the Persian night was horrifying. The only protection he’d have, the only protection at all, were a set of questionable papers identifying him as a foreign humanitarian medical worker and his fists—both of which were useless against a trigger-happy, AK-47-toting Iranian trooper. The little sedan was certain to be stopped at least once en route to Sanandaj, and if his NOC didn’t hold up—or Elinor’s assets sold his ass out—he would either be taken into custody or shot dead on the spot. He had always harbored a secret fear of being beheaded by an Islamic terrorist and broadcast on the Internet, but the thought of having his rotting body hanging for a week in a public square in Tehran was no less disturbing.

  “Shit, we have a problem,” Chunk said, pressing his fingers to his ear.

  Dempsey tightened the grip on his SOPMOD M4, the thought of forfeiting it now almost nauseating.

  “Drone’s got an Iranian patrol coming down from the north,” Chunk said. “It ain’t some local militia bullshit, either. They’re in a high-end armored personnel carrier . . . My eyes guy thinks it’s a Sarir with a twin-barrel KPV heavy machine gun on the turret up top.”

  “Most of the Sarirs are owned by IRGC,” Dempsey said. “They use them for border patrol and counternarcotics operations.”

  “Yeah, but it could also be Quds Force.”

  “That’s impossible,” Elinor snapped, but the tenor of her voice betrayed uncertainty.

  “Well, it’s happening,” Chunk said tightly. “And they’re hauling ass toward your assets. We don’t have enough time to drop you and bug out before they get there.”

  “Well, shit,” Munn said. “What do we do?”

  “We’re a quarter mile out. We can bug out now, back to the valley for cover, but then we lose line of sight. If we stay here, we’re exposed. We should assume they have night vision, especially if they’re Quds,” Chunk said, his tone making it clear he thought this op was quickly going to hell.

  “But if we back out and Elinor’s assets need our help, there’s no way we can intervene from down in the valley,” Munn said.

  “If the patrol interrogates the assets, we cannot intervene without jeopardizing the operation. They understand the risk. They’re on their own,” Elinor said, her voice making it clear that she owned the decisions on this aspect of the operation.

  “That’s some coldhearted shit, lady,” said one of the other SEALs.

  “The mission can recover from two burned escorts,” she said, her voice hard. “But if we get burned, it’s over.”

  “Hold on,” Chunk said. “We’ve got a troop truck coming up from the south now. Gonna arrive on scene a few minutes after the APC. Any chance this is a setup?” Chunk asked, his voice grim.

  “None,” Elinor said. “No one knows about this operation except our task force. Tell him, John.” Her voice was sharp and accusing.

  “She’s right,” Dempsey said. “This was planned completely in the black. The circle is tight.”

  “Well, I don’t like it. I could see this happening near Marivan, but down here in the middle of nowhere . . . seems like one helluva coincidence,” Chunk said. “I guess we’ll see what happens.”

  “Better to validate your assets’ NOCs now than when JD and Elinor are in the car,” Munn said. “If things go bad, we can intervene.”

  “Range here isn’t good for the grenade launchers,” Dempsey pointed out.

  “But we can tag their asses with the fifties,” Chunk countered.

  “Stop—no matter what happens, we cannot intervene,” Elinor said, her voice ripe with irritation that the SEALs didn’t seem to get it. “You’re not listening. Intervention signals that these people are something worth protecting, which burns their NOCs and makes them useless to us. But if they check papers and let them go, we can wait until the soldiers leave and see if the assets reposition for another rendezvous.”

  Chunk thought a moment.

  “Yeah, maybe, but only if that APC clears the hell out of here.”

  Elinor nodded.

  Chunk climbed out of the DPV and walked just north of their DPV circle. He lifted a pair of high-powered night vision binoculars to sight in on the assets.

  “Got another pair of those?” Dempsey asked the driver of his DPV.

  “Use these,” the SEAL said and handed Dempsey a pair from a box behind his seat. Dempsey stepped out of the vehicle and walked over to Chunk. He raised the binos to his eyes and zoomed in: a woman dressed in pants
, a loose-fitting shirt, and a hijab leaned casually against the car while a man bent over the engine under the raised hood. Dempsey could see the spotlights growing brighter as the armored troop carrier approached. Soon, two blinding spotlights lit up the car from the front, washing out Dempsey’s night vision and forcing him to turn it off.

  The female asset waved her arms at the Iranian APC as if summoning help—glad that someone had stumbled across them. Dempsey wondered what she was really feeling inside. Pure terror? The man came out from under the hood and joined her. As the APC braked to a halt, both the assets raised a hand in front of their faces to shield their eyes from the blinding lights.

  Dempsey watched two soldiers exit the APC, rifles up and ready. Both assets immediately raised their arms over their heads in surrender. Two more soldiers then jumped out and sprinted around the shooters to grab and force the couple to their knees in the dirt. Dempsey could see the larger of these men shouting at the female asset. The woman was saying something back, her hands trembling in the air. Then another pair of soldiers exited the APC. The first began walking a perimeter, while the other hung back and watched, his hands folded behind his back. Dempsey pegged this guy as the officer in charge.

  After an uncomfortable pause, the male asset lowered a hand, undoubtedly in an attempt to retrieve his papers. The nearest soldier reacted immediately, raising his rifle as if to smash the man in the face, but then froze and looked back over his shoulder at the officer. The officer, his hands still behind his back, said something, and the kneeling couple seemed to relax. The officer then tasked two soldiers to search the vehicle, and Dempsey watched as they opened the doors and trunk and began tossing items out onto the dirt. One soldier emptied a cooler of bottled waters onto the ground while the other was buried waist-deep in the trunk pulling up the liners.

  The officer began pacing slowly back and forth, talking as he did to the kneeling couple. They seemed reassured by whatever he was saying because they no longer had their hands up over their heads.

  “The troop carrier is pulling up,” Chunk said.