Syrian Rescue

by Don Pendleton

  When he was satisfied, Azmeh told Bolan, “They’ve destroyed the Jeep.”

  No big surprise there.

  “Let’s check out the truck,” Bolan said.

  He walked around and dragged the body out of the bloody driver’s seat. He used the dead man’s keffiyeh to mop up the blood, discarded it and slid behind the wheel.

  It took a moment for the engine to turn over, but Bolan got it running on the second try. It sounded all right—no strange noises beneath the hood, no red lights on the dashboard. Bolan left it running as he climbed down from the cab and circled the truck with Azmeh, checking out the tires, peering underneath in search of leaks. The truck had taken hits, beginning with its windshield, and the right side was scarred with shiny shrapnel wounds, but nothing Bolan saw or heard gave any indication that the vehicle wouldn’t go the distance.

  “Better move our gear,” he said, already heading toward the Jeep.

  Bolan’s mobile arsenal was still intact, tucked down against the rear floorboard. The transfer only took a moment, then he climbed back into the driver’s seat, with Azmeh beside him.

  He still didn’t know exactly where they were going, other than the general direction, but they wouldn’t have to walk.

  At least, not yet.

  4

  Deir ez-Zor Governorate

  Roger Segrest squinted at the blinding sun through his aviators, wishing he’d been smart enough to bring along a hat when he was packing for the trip to Syria. Of course, he’d planned on spending nearly all his time indoors, with air-conditioning, and hadn’t given any thought at all to being shot out of the sky over a freaking desert in the middle of nowhere.

  Next time, you’ll know, he thought, and nearly laughed aloud. Just smiling hurt, with lips so dry and cracked. Another vital thing he’d forgotten: lip balm. And, of course, sunscreen.

  The funny part was that there might not be a next time. He could die out here, from thirst, exposure, snakebite, take your pick. Rescuers, if they ever came, might find him mummified, a desiccated husk with insects living in his empty skull after they ate his shriveled brain. Maybe his friends at State would stick him in the Diplomacy Center Museum, assuming it ever got built. His wife could help them with the plaque.

  Thinking of rescue troubled him and made him angry. They’d only been ninety minutes out of Baghdad when the plane went down, but here it was, day two, and still no help in sight. The worry came from knowing that all planes these days had emergency locator beacons on board, airliners usually packing more than one. The anger—most of it, at least—was currently directed at himself.

  Segrest had been outfitted with a homing beacon of his own before he’d left DC. He’d put it in his suitcase, which had seemed like the best place for safekeeping until a rocket had ripped the guts out of their plane and left the baggage scattered God knew where.

  Of course, the beacon hadn’t been turned on. Why would it be?

  “Stupid,” Segrest muttered to himself.

  “How’s that, sir?” Walton asked him, standing at his elbow.

  “Nothing, Dale. Forget it.”

  “Do you want some water?”

  Did he ever! Segrest checked his wristwatch and shook his head. “Too early.”

  “I just thought—”

  “No. Thank you.”

  After pulling the dead and wounded clear, doing what little could be done for the copilot, they had sorted through their supplies and rationed the bottled water found in the wreck. It just made sense, not knowing when they’d be picked up.

  Or if, he added silently.

  The pilot had been killed on impact; his sidekick had a broken leg, an ugly compound fracture; and the flight attendant had gone flying when the rocket hit, slamming his skull against one of the overhead luggage containers. He’d drifted in and out of consciousness for a few hours, then he’d succumbed to his head injury.

  And then, the goddamned storm had hit them out of nowhere. Tareq Eleyan had called it a haboob, and hearing that it was a fact of life in Syria had done nothing to lighten Segrest’s mood while the dust and sand buried them, forcing them to dig out of the shattered plane a second time after they’d taken refuge there.

  Segrest was worried about rescue, but that wasn’t all. Someone had shot them down, either for sport or with intent. In either case, the shooter was still out there, likely to come looking for his prize and bringing friends along to pick over the wreckage. Segrest wished he knew who’d done it, what their motive was, and what he should expect when they showed up.

  Not if, but when.

  Trouble was coming. He could smell it on the breeze that kissed his blistered skin.

  * * *

  THE TRAITOR HAD a headache, a holdover from the crash that seemed beyond the reach of simple aspirin. He did not mind, particularly—life was mostly pain and disappointment, after all—but it annoyed him slightly, since he had been waiting for the rocket strike, strapped in when no one else had seat belts fastened, only to be struck a glancing blow from his own briefcase tumbling from the overhead compartment.

  Irony. The spice of life.

  He sat in the shade of the Let L 410’s left wing, or what remained of it. At least three quarters of it had been sheared off on impact; it was still better than nothing, though the shade provided only minimal relief from the pervasive desert heat. But, then, what was discomfort when he’d been prepared to sacrifice his life?

  There had been no schedule for the strike, no real way to prepare himself beyond keeping his seat belt fastened and pretending airplanes made him edgy.

  Which, in this case, had been true.

  He had been waiting for the blast, then plummeting to earth, uncertain whether he would die in the explosion or the crash. Imagining a midair detonation had been worse—well, nearly worse—than the reality when it occurred, but no one could suspect that he’d been waiting for it. His surprise had been absolutely genuine. His screams as they descended had been heartfelt.

  But here he was, essentially unharmed besides the purpling bump on his forehead and the dull ache just behind his left eye socket. He was thirsty, like the rest of them, but that would pass when his comrades arrived and took the others into custody. He would be treated as a hero of the struggle then.

  So, what was keeping them?

  Another problem: since he didn’t know exactly where the plane had been before the rocket strike, and he couldn’t calculate how far they’d traveled afterward, he could not estimate the time required for his comrades to overtake them.

  Truth be told, he wasn’t even sure who would be coming for him; he had not been entrusted with that information, nor did he require it to complete his mission. After being shot out of the sky, his twofold task was simple.

  First, deactivate the aircraft’s homing beacons, following instructions he’d been given prior to takeoff. One had been eliminated by the rocket’s blast; the other had been easy enough to disable in the chaos after touchdown.

  Second—and only as a last resort—he was to kill his fellow passengers should the soldiers he expected fail to find the plane and round up the survivors. There was no precise deadline for that, but in his heart, the traitor reckoned he would know when it was time.

  His tool, if it should come to that, would be a Liberator, the world’s first fully 3D-printed gun, invented by Defense Distributed, a US firm whose blueprints were available online from various file-sharing websites. While the original gun was a single-shot model, the traitor carried a four-barrel pepperbox version in .380 ACP. Only the cartridges were metal, and their size made them easy to conceal inside common objects: an electric shaver and hair dryer, in his case.

  He had eight rounds, total, but had already prioritized his targets, just in case he was disarmed before he could reload. If that happened, he would fight. Krav Maga was his specialty, and with any luck, he might be able to eliminate with his bare hands any enemy he failed to shoot.

  Four rounds, five targets. He felt good about those
odds.

  * * *

  “WE’VE LOST THEM, SIR,” Aziz Zureiq declared.

  “By design, Sergeant.” Captain Nasser al-Kassar tried not to snap at his subordinate, but it was often difficult to curb his tongue. “A beacon would have brought Crusaders in to save them long before we reached the crash site.”

  “Yes, sir. But we don’t know where the crash site is.”

  “We have their flight plan. That’s enough for now.”

  Zureiq chose not to argue, thereby proving his intelligence. There was no reason for a lowly sergeant to share the captain’s advance warning about the UN flight. Al-Kassar’s superiors at Free Syrian Army headquarters had briefed him, told him that a mishap was expected, and assigned him to retrieve any survivors from the crash. They did not share their source of information or their motive for dispatching al-Kassar with thirty men to find the downed aircraft.

  Why should they?

  Granted, Captain al-Kassar had been confused by his assignment, more specifically the order to detain all those aboard the flight and treat them all as prisoners of war. One of the passengers, Muhammad Qabbani, was a well-known opposition spokesman and should logically have been regarded by the FSA as an ally. In fact, headquarters’ gossip had it that the UN visitors were hoping to accelerate the removal of Syria’s president. Why hold them captive, then, instead of speeding them along their way?

  Captain al-Kassar knew it was not his place to ask such questions. And, in fact, he recognized his assignment to the mission as an honor, one that could result in his promotion if he pulled it off successfully, without embarrassing the FSA. Once he had climbed a little farther up the ladder, he’d be included in decision-making and could turn his mind to shaping policy.

  Always assuming that the civil war continued.

  Three years and counting, with no end in sight, and it occurred to him that certain leaders of the FSA might be reluctant for hostilities to cease. What would they do if the president was finally driven from his palace? Would they assume positions in whatever government displaced the current one, or would they just be cut adrift, no longer needed once the crisis was resolved? Would sane men act in concert to prolong the war, with all its suffering, simply to keep themselves employed?

  The sergeant’s voice cut through his gloomy thoughts. “Shall we move on, then, Captain?”

  “Yes. Proceed, Sergeant.”

  Their little caravan—two Russian ZIL-131s, plus al-Kassar’s staff car—was following the UN plane’s projected flight path, hoping for some sign of it along the way. If they found nothing in the next twenty-four hours, he would have to speak with headquarters and ask for new instructions.

  Which would look bad.

  The captain said a silent prayer for help and trailed Sergeant Zureiq back to their vehicle.

  * * *

  Syrian Arab Army Headquarters, Damascus

  COLONEL AREF JALLO snapped to attention, careful not to lock eyes with the man behind the broad, bare desk. “Reporting as instructed, General,” he said.

  Brigadier General Firas Mourad graced Jallo with a look of vague disdain and said, “At ease.”

  Jallo changed posture but did not relax. General officers unnerved him, and Mourad was known as one of the worst, capricious and vindictive, never one to overlook a slight—even imaginary ones—and quick to repay them tenfold.

  “Your report, Colonel?” Mourad prodded.

  Jallo swallowed a hard lump in his throat and said, “Captain Fakhri reports no contact yet, sir. His unit is proceeding on the course provided, but—”

  “But nothing,” Mourad snapped, cutting him off. “They’re looking for an aircraft large enough to carry nineteen people, downed in open desert, with the flight plan given to them in advance. It’s white and bears the name of the United Nations. How hard can it be?”

  “General, Captain Fakhri informs me that the area was swept by a haboob after the plane went down.”

  “Haboob,” Mourad muttered. “A breeze.”

  “Sir, if you’ve never witnessed a storm like that.”

  “I come from Kobajjep,” Mourad informed him. “Certainly, I’ve witnessed a haboob. Captain Fakhri has an assignment to complete. I am accepting no excuses if he fails. You made that clear?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “And his response?”

  “Of course, sir, he intends to carry out his mission as assigned. He observes, however—”

  “More conditions, now?”

  “Not a condition, General—an observation that when aircraft suffer damage during flight, they often deviate from their expected routes. Captain Fakhri has no way of knowing whether this plane remained on course, if it veered north or south—”

  “I understand the concept, Colonel.”

  “Yes, sir. If I may say, in the absence of a homing beacon—”

  “Stop explaining why the job cannot be done!” Mourad commanded. “You’ve been in the army long enough and risen high enough to understand procedures, have you not?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “I issue orders. You transmit them. Captains and lieutenants carry out those orders. Understood?”

  “Of course, sir.” If Mourad believed he was superior to nature or the laws of physics, it was neither Jallo’s place nor inclination to dispute him.

  “You will contact Captain Fakhri and express dissatisfaction in the strongest terms. Remind him, if he has forgotten, that his rank is nothing carved in stone. Failure has consequences, and they’re never pleasant.”

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s a lesson I learned early. All subordinates should keep it foremost in their minds.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed!”

  Jallo rose to attention once again, saluted, eyes fixed on the wall behind Mourad, a foot or so above his head. He pivoted and quick-marched to the door, drawing his next breath only when it closed behind him.

  Jallo knew the basics of the mission that was giving Mourad fits and threatening a young captain’s career. A UN plane had been shot down, and Captain Fakhri had been sent to find its passengers, collect them and await further instructions. Jallo was not sure what that meant, but he did not altogether like the sound of it.

  His homeland was in chaos, seething from within, harangued from every side by other, larger nations who believed they had the right to mold domestic policy. Jallo was no great fan of the president, but he had sworn an oath to serve his country. He was not a mutineer, would not forsake the service that had been his home since he enlisted at eighteen. Whatever history decided was the better course for Syria, Jallo had orders to transmit and to obey.

  * * *

  Deir ez-Zor Governorate

  “YES, SIR. I UNDERSTAND completely,” Captain Bassam Fakhri said. He gripped the sat phone tightly, to prevent it from slipping out of his sweaty palm.

  “And no excuses,” Colonel Jallo cautioned.

  “No, sir. Only positive results.”

  “We all hope so.”

  “Colonel, shall I continue to report if…there is nothing to report?”

  “By all means, Captain. But to me directly, no one else.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The line went dead, and Fakhri set the phone aside.

  “They’re hounding you,” Sergeant Ilyas Malki said.

  “Naturally. We’ve fallen behind schedule, disappointing some important people.”

  “On a simple rescue mission,” Malki said. “What does headquarters care about the UN, anyway? They smother us with sanctions for attempting to defend ourselves, then call us criminals if we avoid their illegal blockades. To hell with them!”

  The sergeant never failed to speak out in support of the president. Fakhri agreed with him in principle, had followed certain orders in the past that made him cringe a bit inside, and knew which side his bread was buttered on. Defeat meant death or exile for staff officers connected to what foreign journalists habitually called “atrocities.” War, by its very
definition, was atrocious, and the critics of his homeland did not seem to understand who’d started this one, which unwelcome outsiders had kept it going on for years.

  “Let’s just do the job and be done with it,” he advised the sergeant.

  “All I mean to say is—”

  “Yes, I heard you. Have the men fall in. We’re leaving now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Fakhri would keep on searching, hoping to detect a signal from the downed aircraft. Without it, he supposed the hunt might carry on for days, each fresh report with no results another nail in the casket of his career. Colonel Jallo seemed like a reasonable officer, but there were others high above him who would not forget a failure or forgive the man they deemed responsible.

  Eventually, Fakhri knew, he would locate the UN plane. If it had, in fact, fallen from the sky within the area assigned to him, discovery must be inevitable. He might spend the next five years searching for its remains, but somehow, someday…

  No. His impatient superiors demanded swift results, and failure to provide them would mean transfer to an active battle area, perhaps demotion to a lower rank. It was unlikely he would face a court-martial, but given the current atmosphere at headquarters…

  “Captain!” The shout came from a corporal, hunched in the open doorway of a BTR-152 armored personnel carrier. “Captain Fakhri!”

  “What is it?”

  “The beacon, sir. I’ve found it!”

  “What?”

  It seemed irrational, impossible. They had been scanning for the signal since they’d left the city, without result. Why should they suddenly detect it now?

  “Explain,” Fakhri commanded.

  “I cannot, sir,” said the corporal, sheepishly. “One moment I was scanning and had nothing. Then…see for yourself.”

  Fakhri took the scanner, glaring at it. The soldier was correct. They had a signal on the proper frequency, beckoning more or less in the correct direction, north-northeast.

  “How far away is that?” he asked the corporal.

  “Approximately thirty miles, sir.”

  “Very good.” He turned and shouted to the other men, “Hurry! We’re wasting time!”