Crusader One

by Brian Andrews

“Sir,” the woman said sheepishly, reluctant to break the plane of the threshold with any part of her body.

  “Yes, what is it, Abby?” he asked. At least the cerebral portion of his nervous system was still functioning normally, he thought, flexing his tingling left hand.

  “I have a call for you. Is it okay to forward it?”

  Jarvis smiled and swallowed his impatience. Of course it was, and he wondered who at CTC had conditioned her to fear expediency.

  “Who is it?”

  “A Mr. Smith,” she said, her sarcastic tone telling him she suspected otherwise.

  “Put it through,” he said, and then before she closed the door, “Oh, and Abby?”

  “Sir?”

  “Luck or skill?”

  She gave him a deer-in-the-headlights look at the non sequitur.

  “If you could only have one, which would you choose—luck or skill?”

  “Skill,” she said without hesitation.

  He nodded at her. “Thank you; that will be all.”

  Skill. He chuckled to himself. When I was her age I would have answered the same. Now, I’m not so sure.

  The desk phone chirped and he picked up the receiver. He cursed again the fact his encrypted cell phone wouldn’t work inside the NCTC nerve center, scrambled by the same energy waves that disrupted any unvetted signals going in or out.

  “Jarvis.”

  “Hey, boss, it’s Shane. We’ve got issues. Are you watching the satellite feed?”

  “No,” he said, afraid he was about to regret his decision to delegate.

  “Harel’s guys found the van we think Dempsey’s in. We’ve been following it since the outskirts of Tehran.”

  “And?” Jarvis asked, not liking where this was going.

  “And he’s going the wrong way, and they’re about to run into a checkpoint. You need to pull this up, sir.”

  “Wait one,” he said, sprung from his chair, and threw open the office door. “Abby, I need you,” he snapped, but the young analyst was already heading his way. He put Smith on speaker, and the two of them worked together to get the Israeli satellite feed patched to CTC and streaming on his desktop monitor.

  “Shit,” Smith said as they watched the scene begin to unfold in ultra-high-resolution detail in real time.

  “Oh my God,” Abby mumbled as they watched Dempsey defy the odds and kill three Persian soldiers in less than a minute. Dempsey and his Persian driver then proceeded to gather the assault rifles and spare magazines from the dead Iranian soldiers and load the weapons into the back of one of the armored assault trucks.

  “Is that a Gatling gun in the back of that pickup?” Smith said.

  “What the fuck is he doing?” Jarvis growled as Dempsey climbed into the passenger seat. “Where is Modiri?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Smith said. “Hopefully still in the back of that panel van and the asset is going back to get him.”

  But when the Persian driver got into the pickup truck with Dempsey and the two of them sped away into the desert, Jarvis’s heart sank. “I didn’t see Agent Jordan. Has Elinor checked in?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Goddamn it!” Jarvis barked and slammed his fist on the desk, making Abby jump. “If Modiri is not with them, then it means he got away, or he’s dead.”

  “I fear you may be right,” Smith said.

  “And what the hell is Dempsey doing?”

  “I think he’s just trying to survive, sir. The Artesh has these checkpoints set up all over the country. It didn’t matter which direction they went; it was inevitable that they’d get stopped. I don’t think he had a choice, and now he’s just trying to get enough firepower to fight his way out.”

  “Then what the hell are you waiting for? Stand up an operation to get him out of there.”

  “Yes, sir, but that’s the other thing I needed to talk to you about. Our friend sitting in the DNI chair is fucking that up,” Smith said. “There’s a stand-down order for the EXFIL mission I was prepping to get Dempsey out.”

  “What?” Jarvis roared. “And you traced it to the acting DNI?”

  “Yes, sir,” Smith said. “Baldwin actually has the order in hand—he snagged it off the OGA server. It went out to all theater assets.”

  Jarvis tamped down his rage and let the analytical part of his brain take control. There was absolutely no way that Morgan knew details of this operation. All she knew was that Ember was in Israel and Iraq, and she was doing everything in her power to fuck them, with no thought to what her actions would have on living, breathing operators in harm’s way.

  What a bitch.

  “Where are we?” Jarvis asked.

  “I have Chunk on board, but the stand-down order is curtailing our access to other assets. We could use drones, air, and satellite support. If it wasn’t for the Israelis we’d be blind. We’re about to lose the feed we’re using now in just a few minutes. We won’t be able to see him at all if I don’t get some support. I’m struggling to even get—”

  “I’ll handle it,” he said, cutting Smith off. “Give me ten minutes and you’ll have everything you need.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you don’t hear from the JSOTF commander by then,” Jarvis said, “call me back. And Shane?”

  “Sir?”

  “From what I just saw, Dempsey’s about to have the entire Iranian Army hunting his ass down. He’s not going to make it to Iraq. We’re going to have to go get him.”

  “Understood, sir. Smith out.”

  He hung up the phone with a look that told Abby he needed the room.

  “I’ll be right outside if you need me,” she said.

  He nodded at her and then dialed a five-digit number. The phone clicked live in half a ring.

  “Century,” a crisp, calm voice said.

  “I need to speak with the President,” he said. There was no need to identify himself. That he had the number was enough.

  “Yes?” said President Warner two minutes later.

  “Mr. President, it’s Kelso Jarvis. Sir, I need your help to shut down Catherine Morgan before she gets my people killed.”

  The President sighed. “I thought I told you two you needed to work together.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President, and that’s a work in progress, but right now I’m out of time.”

  “What exactly are you asking for, Captain Jarvis? And be precise.”

  “Respectfully, sir, I need her offline for the next four hours. I need unhindered JSOTF cooperation in Iraq to organize a rescue operation. Can you help me?”

  There was a short pause and then, “I’ll take care of it, Kelso, and in exchange, I expect you’ll deliver good news—the kind of news that will save many, many lives.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jarvis said.

  The President clicked off.

  Jarvis tapped the receiver again and then dialed 2 on his keypad.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Abby, I need to speak with Tom McCaffery, the JSOC commander, immediately.”

  “Right away, sir. Do you have a message you want me to pass?”

  “Tell him Kelso Jarvis needs a favor and that it’s urgent.”

  “Understood,” she said in a flash.

  Jarvis placed the phone back in its cradle and massaged the palm of his left hand with his right thumb. McCaffery was a good man. The General and Green Beret always put the mission ahead of politics. He’d free up whatever theater assets Jarvis needed.

  Besides, Jarvis had been holding a favor chit with Tom for over twenty years. As young officers in JSOC, Jarvis had bailed the Green Beret out of a situation during a joint op that had nearly cost McCaffery his life.

  Time to finally cash that chit in.

  CHAPTER 41

  Route 17

  Southwest Iran, 250 Miles from Tehran and 40 Miles from the Iraq Border

  June 2

  1615 Local Time

  Dempsey glanced at the driver-side mirror and the massive cloud of dust billowing skywa
rd in the distance behind them. From the looks of it, the entire Iranian Army was after them. Despite being barely able to maintain control of the truck on the pitted and pocked desert road, he pressed the accelerator down just a bit more. The machine gun mounted in the bed of the truck was formidable, but it alone was no match for the force coming after them.

  “We have a problem,” Farvad said, his voice tight.

  “You think so?” Dempsey said with all the fatalistic sarcasm he could muster. Then he saw the new threat that Farvad had been referring to through the windshield—an armored troop carrier racing up from the south on an intercept course.

  “Oh shit,” Dempsey said, but at this point did it really make any difference? They were fucked. Totally and completely fucked. And it felt surreal. And it felt like nothing. Or maybe, it just felt like destiny . . .

  “Slow down; we’re almost at the turn,” Farvad said, grabbing his shoulder.

  “Where?”

  “Right there,” he hollered. “That dirt road!”

  Dempsey slammed the brakes and jerked the wheel hard to the right. Farvad flew across the bench seat and nearly into Dempsey’s lap as the truck careened around the corner. Because of the machine gun, the vehicle’s center of gravity was higher than Dempsey anticipated, and the right wheels lifted off the ground. The truck yawed, and his gut tightened in preparation for the inevitable roll. But his reflexes took over, cutting the wheel left and reversing the moment of inertia. The right tires slammed back down onto the earth, and Dempsey flashed Farvad a victory smile. He guided the heavy pickup through the rest of the turn and avoided skidding off the road into a deep, rocky ditch by no more than six inches.

  “We have one last hope,” Farvad said. The young Persian’s face was pale with fear, but his eyes were on fire with the will to live. “If PJAK is here, they’ll fight with us.”

  Dempsey grunted acknowledgment as he bounced violently, unable to keep his ass planted on the seat as they raced over the rock-strewn road. As abysmal as this road was, the fields on either side were categorically impassable, with deep gullies and boulders the size of Volkswagens. Dempsey glanced in his mirror. The troop carrier had reached the turn, but there it had stopped, probably calling in for instructions on what to do next. Given he’d just killed Amir Modiri, Dempsey suspected that Iranian higher authority would prefer to take him alive. They’d want to interrogate him and then make an example of him to the world. There was no way in hell he would let that happen.

  Farvad leaned forward, squinting through the dirt-covered windshield at a brown, two-story house, which appeared to be practically carved into the side of the rocky hill that rose behind it.

  “This is the place,” Farvad said.

  “The number one priority is getting that sat phone. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I can’t call my friends, we’re dead, Farvad.”

  “I know, I know,” the Persian said. “But will your friends make an incursion this far over the border?”

  Dempsey exhaled loudly through his nose and said, “Yeah—that’s what they do.”

  They have to, he thought to himself, because we have a nuclear bomb to stop.

  Dempsey braked and pulled the truck along a low rock wall in front of the house; then he backed it into position so it blocked the entrance to the short driveway. Farvad was out the passenger door in a flash, sprinting toward the house.

  “I’ll hold them here as long as I can,” Dempsey hollered after him and then turned to look out at the approach. Then he had a thought and said, “Set a fire by the house to mark our position!” Farvad gave a thumbs-up over his shoulder.

  The Iranian trucks and the troop carrier were now formed up in a semicircle at the entrance to the dirt road, maybe three-quarters of a mile away. He could see soldiers climbing out of the vehicles and fanning out, taking positions in the ditches along the road and behind the scattered rocks. Dempsey climbed out of the driver’s seat and into the bed of the truck. They’d acquired four KH-2002 Khaybar assault rifles from the soldiers they’d killed at the checkpoint, and three of those weapons were in the bed; the fourth was with Farvad. He picked up one and checked that it was ready. He was happy to see two extra magazines of 5.56 in a pouch on the stock. Assuming all the Khaybars were fully loaded, they had roughly 350 rounds of ammunition. That sounded like a lot, but it would go very quickly.

  Next, he checked the Muharram heavy machine gun and verified it was loaded and ready for combat. The Muharram was a modern Gatling gun, similar to the US military’s M134 Minigun that utilized six rotating barrels to help prevent overheating. But unlike the Minigun, which fired 7.62×51 mm NATO rounds, the Muharram used 12.7 mm ammunition—making it arguably the most badass .50-caliber machine gun on the planet. Dempsey checked to see that the two wooden ammo boxes sitting on the truck bed were full and was relieved to see that he hadn’t lost his ammo on the wild ride up the dirt road. He had no idea the maximum effective range of this weapon, but if it was like other .50 cals, fifteen hundred to two thousand meters would not be a problem. That meant he could not only reach the entrance to the dirt road, but he’d be able to strafe approaching vehicles coming in from either the north or south along Route 17.

  He had the range. What he needed was time.

  He watched as dozens and dozens of Iranian troops scattered in the fields, taking up positions behind rocks and boulders on both sides of the dirt road. If they wanted him dead, this battle would not last long. He was hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned. But if they hoped to take him alive, and he could get Chunk on a sat phone, he might just have a chance.

  But if the Iranians had air assets en route, then it was game over.

  Dempsey shook his head and smiled. This situation reminded him of his father’s favorite movie—Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid—a film they’d watched together countless times when Dempsey was a kid. This standoff was shaping up to be a real-life reenactment of the final scene of the Hollywood classic, all except for the nuke, of course.

  He heard commotion behind him, turned, and saw Farvad sprinting toward him, Khaybar rifle in his right hand, a Russian made AK-47 slung over his shoulder, and a satellite phone held out in his left hand. Dempsey looked back toward the battlefield, scanning for new developments, and saw two clusters of soldiers on either side of an APC setting up mortars.

  Great . . . Not this again.

  “It’s for you,” Farvad said, panting as he jumped up into the truck bed beside him.

  “How did you—” Dempsey asked, staring wide-eyed at his Persian accomplice.

  “I called my Mossad contact, who called the Chief, who called a man named Smith, who called somebody called Chunky,” Farvad said, handing him the sat phone.

  “Chunk,” Dempsey corrected, smiling broadly as he took the phone, pressed it to his ear, and said, “Crusader.”

  “I thought I told you if your ass needed a rescue not to call me,” Chunk’s voice came back, along with the distinctive sound of MH-60s spinning up in the background.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I have a problem following directions.”

  “I’m spinning up two birds right now. We got you on satellite, and I’m in the air in two mikes. We’re coming to get you, bro.”

  “Bring lots of friends, cuz it’s going to be a party.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Remember that time when we crashed that Russian bird in the Wild West and we were completely surrounded by bad guys with machine guns and rocket launchers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is way worse.”

  “In that case, you just do that Rambo shit you do, and hang on as long as possible. The cavalry is coming.”

  “Roger that. I’ll give you smoke just west of our position. We are the heavy pickup in front of the fire near the house, and everything east of us is the enemy.”

  “Copy,” Chunk said. “Before I go, Eagle has a question. Do you have the package?”

  “Neg
ative,” he said. “We are two. I repeat, we are two.”

  “Copy.”

  “There’s more, Chunk. We have another problem—”

  But before he could tell the SEAL about the nuke, white smoke streaked skyward from a mortar tube beside the Persian troop carrier.

  “Oh shit,” he exclaimed. “Gotta go.”

  Dempsey dropped the phone and dove into the bed of the truck, taking cover inside the armored bedrails. The rocket exploded harmlessly well right and at least sixty yards short.

  Dempsey scrambled to his feet, taking position behind the Muharram and turning to Farvad as he did. “Great job with the phone,” he said. “And I see you got yourself an AK. So, how many PJAK fighters are here? Are they going to help us?”

  Farvad shook his head. “I’m afraid I have bad news. The only one here is the old man. All the others are off conducting raids.”

  Dempsey nodded. “Okay, then what are we waiting for?” he said. “Let’s get this party started.”

  He pressed his torso into the weapon’s shoulder braces, grabbed the gunner handles, and squeezed the trigger. The heavy gun whirred to life, and the truck rocked backward as a dragon’s tongue of fire and red tracers erupted from the ends of spinning barrels. A cloud of dust kicked up along the ground in front of the southern mortar team. Dempsey walked the fiery death onto his target, letting the stream of 12.7 mm rounds cut one man in half and then explode the neatly stacked cache of mortar shells into a giant fireball. He released the trigger and the six barrels stopped spinning. He swept right and sighted in on the northern mortar squad, on the other side of the APC. These guys—having just witnessed what happened to their comrades—were already running, but Dempsey cut them all to ribbons.

  He released the trigger and the Muharram coasted to a stop.

  “They’re advancing,” Farvad yelled, pointing to the Iranian troopers in the field who sure enough were slowly but steadily closing in on the house.

  Farvad knelt beside the front of the truck to Dempsey’s right, sighting over his assault rifle. In his peripheral vision, Dempsey saw a figure walking toward them from the house. He glanced back over his shoulder and locked eyes with an old Kurdish fighter sporting a thick pepper-gray beard and clutching an AK-47. The proud, battle-hardened PJAK warrior smiled at him. Dempsey smelled smoke and burning kerosene and saw that the entire house was on fire. Tendrils of black smoke snaked skyward from the windows.