SEAL Team Six: Hunt the Fox

by Don Mann

  “It doesn’t matter,” Crocker said, checking his watch again. “Did he bring the supplies?”

  Oz shrugged and shouted at the driver, who was climbing into the cab. The driver shouted back and pointed his stubby arm toward the back of the truck.

  Crocker unlatched the doors and pulled them open. The tall cargo area was half-full of boxes of medical equipment—gauze, tape, Israeli bandages, IV bags, and syringes mostly, and some medicine. It would do.

  He heard Janice shouting from the top of the back stairway. “Wallace! Hey, Wallace!”

  “What?”

  She flashed a thumbs-up.

  “Green light?”

  “Yes.”

  He turned back to his men and said, “Looks like we’re going into Syria.”

  Akil shouted back, “Sweet!”

  Chapter Eight

  Change calls the tune we dance.

  —Al Swearengen, Deadwood

  A light rain started to fall as they rolled through the elaborate white-and-red structure that housed Turkish customs, Zeid and Babas in the open jeep in front of them flashing their headlights and shouting at the guards. On the Syrian side stood two grim-looking old men shouldering M1 rifles.

  Babas shouted, “Subhan Allah!” (Glory be to God!)

  The guard waved back. “Mawt al-Assad!” (Death to Assad!)

  They entered gentle verdant hills that reminded Crocker of western Virginia, one of his favorite locales. Except here the shoulders of the rough two-lane highway were littered with broken suitcases, empty boxes, strollers missing wheels, an ice chest, a smashed TV, pieces of clothing, plastic bottles and containers, and other junk that had been discarded by refugees and subsequently picked through by scavengers. Evidence of the thousands of civilian lives that had been upended. Families pulled apart; kids ripped out of communities and schools.

  The barbarity of the Assad government against its own people hit home. Crocker had read somewhere that the Syrian president and his wife had met in London, where they were both studying. She was a stylish woman who advocated for women’s rights and education, and they were parents of three children.

  How could educated, civilized people justify horrors like this?

  Low-lying clouds and precipitation limited visibility. The houses that dotted the hillsides appeared dark and uninhabited. Some were destroyed; others showed the ravages of war—collapsed roofs, walls decimated by artillery shells or rockets. Anti-Assad and jihadist slogans had been spray-painted in black on the remaining standing walls, forewarnings of an uncertain post-Assad future.

  Crocker wasn’t here to dwell on moral turpitude or political uncertainty. His focus was the mission, which was clouded with its own challenges. If he and his men did their jobs well, no one would ever hear about Captain Zeid, Fatima, Mr. Talab, or the sarin canisters. People back home would sleep peacefully in their beds and not have to worry about the terrors lurking in this corner of Syria.

  The landscape ahead appeared like a moonlit painting—still and eerie. An owl hooted in the distance.

  “This entire area is controlled by the FSA,” Hassan announced from the passenger seat.

  “That’s good, right?” Akil said from behind the wheel of the crew-cab pickup with its faded gold interior.

  “Yes. It should be.”

  More uncertainty. It was good to be moving. A low growl rumbled through the clouds.

  “What’s that?” asked Hassan nervously.

  “Sounded like thunder,” Crocker answered from the backseat, a loaded 416 with an M320 grenade launcher on his lap, a SIG 226 tucked near the door panel, an RPG-7 rocket launcher on the floor.

  “You sure?”

  “Deadwood, this is Breaker,” Crocker heard through his earbuds.

  Breaker was Davis’s radio alias. Deadwood was one of Crocker’s top TV shows, Al Swearengen his favorite character. Davis in the Sprinter was in charge of comms.

  “What’s up, Breaker?”

  “Nevada reports no Pred flights tonight on account of the weather. Just got that. I repeat, no Pred support.”

  Nevada was the name of the duty officer at Ankara Station, where Anders waited. Janice had stayed behind in Yayladaği and an S&R (search-and-rescue) team remained on alert at Incirlik NATO air base in southern Turkey. Logan was back in Ankara, monitoring rebel commander cell-phone and text message chatter for the NSA.

  Crocker hadn’t expected drones or air support, with the Assad air force controlling the airspace and D.C. not wanting to get drawn deeper into the conflict.

  “Nothing much the Preds could do anyway,” he answered. Six months ago he’d lost Ritchie on a mission to recover a downed Pred not far from here. He didn’t like the fact that some people put so much stock in technology and downplayed the value of human courage, training, and intelligence.

  “Guess not,” Davis replied.

  War isn’t a fucking video game, Crocker said to himself. Even though he had heard that the next generation of weapons out of DARPA would include robots equipped with cameras that could run, fire, carry equipment, and defuse bombs, they would never have the flexibility and intelligence of highly trained operators.

  Loud EDM music washed back from the jeep, which remained uncovered even though the rain and wind had picked up.

  “Goofballs,” said Akil.

  “It’s a strange war from a sociological perspective,” Hassan said as he wiped his round glasses on the front of his blue Adidas sweatshirt. “If it wasn’t for the destruction and death, sometimes you’d think these guys were on a playground playing.”

  “Some fucked-up game,” commented Akil.

  The red brake lights ahead flashed, and the jeep slowed to a crawl. Through the mist ahead Crocker saw several trucks blocking the road and a gathering of people with rifles.

  “Deadwood, Breaker here. What’s up?” he heard through his earbuds.

  “Company. Looks like a roadblock. Hopefully they’re friendly. Stay alert. Over.”

  From the seat in front of him, Hassan said, “We can expect more of them.”

  “Rebel roadblocks?”

  “Yes.”

  “Want do they want?”

  “Depends. Talk, trade gossip, maybe inspect the trucks, maybe they will ask for money.”

  “Whatever it is, let’s try to get through quickly.”

  Akil eased to a stop directly behind the jeep. Zeid was already out embracing a man in a blue rain parka. A skinny man with a very prominent nose and Adam’s apple wandered over to Akil’s side of the truck holding an AK. He asked him casually for cigarettes.

  “None of us smoke,” Akil answered in Arabic.

  “No cigarettes. You sure you guys aren’t Islamists?” the man asked with a smirk.

  “No, Canadians,” Akil replied in Arabic.

  The man looked at Crocker in the backseat and asked in English, “Mossad?”

  “No, not Mossad. Canadian medical workers,” Akil answered.

  “Mossad,” the man repeated confidently, nodding and turning away.

  The smell of roasting lamb wafted back. Crocker got out, stretched, and waved to Zeid, who was standing with a group that included a woman with short dark hair.

  “What’s the delay?” Crocker asked.

  “There is no problem,” Zeid answered.

  “If there’s no problem, why aren’t we moving?”

  “They want to check us out.”

  “Who are these people?” Crocker asked, nodding to the hodgepodge ahead.

  “Some…they are journalists and photographers…they wait for escort. Others… FSA. Assad airplanes no fly tonight. So people wait here…for news. For information.”

  “We don’t have time to sit around.”

  Five minutes later an engine started and one of the parked trucks backed out of the way so they could pass. The man who had called him Mossad mock-saluted Crocker as they drove past.

  “Wise guy.”

  “Typical,” said Hassan. “They believe every Wes
terner is a spy for the Israelis.”

  Crocker tightened his grip on the SIG 226. There was a strange casualness to this conflict that bothered him.

  Past the roadblock, they climbed a curved incline to a little agricultural hamlet that had been completely decimated by bombs. Buzzards picked dried flesh off the bones of an animal carcass that lay beyond the burned shell of a small Fiat sedan.

  “This is the work of Assad’s air force,” Hassan said. “If there are different gradations of evil, like in Dante’s Inferno, they belong in the lowest circle of hell.”

  After three more minor delays—two FSA roadblocks and an old Volvo truck loaded with metal scrap that had blown a tire, causing it to roll over—Hassan announced that they were two-thirds of the way to Idlib. Crocker’s mood brightened. He felt the adrenaline building in his blood.

  Akil was telling a story about the first time he had gone to an American movie, as an eight-year-old who had recently immigrated to Michigan. The film was Superman, starring Christopher Reeve, Marlon Brando, and Gene Hackman. He was a guest of his new friend Clyde Ketchup and his father.

  “You know that scene where Lois Lane is in a helicopter that’s taking off from the top of the Daily Planet, and it crashes, and the ledge it landed on is breaking, and Lois is trapped and trying to get out?”

  “I think so, yeah,” Crocker said, keeping an eye on the road ahead.

  “Well, it was so real to me that I stood on my seat and started screaming: ‘Superman, hurry! You have to save Lois! Save her now!’ ”

  “Crazy kid.”

  “Mr. Ketchup had to take me into the lobby. I was so excited, it took me a couple days to realize what I had done wrong.”

  “You haven’t changed,” Crocker cracked.

  “Reeve and the actress who played Lois Lane were great. I’ll never forget them.”

  “Margot Kidder,” Crocker remembered.

  “Great bod; terrific smile. Whatever happened to her?”

  “Next time you’re in Hollywood, you should look her up.”

  “She’s probably a grandmother now.”

  “Hasn’t stopped you before.”

  A minute later he braked again as they approached more trucks blocking the road and more armed men. This time when Captain Zeid got out of the jeep, the men he embraced wore long black beards and looked decidedly fiercer.

  “Islamists,” Hassan muttered under his breath, pointing to the black-and-white banner flying from one of the trucks.

  “Let’s waste ’em,” Akil responded.

  “Stay calm,” warned Crocker.

  “I am calm. But I can feel their hatred from here.”

  Through the open window Crocker tried to see what was going on ahead. Three men with black beards and black headscarves approached, carrying automatic weapons. He lowered the 416 below the seat but kept one hand on the stock.

  As the jihadists spoke to Hassan, Crocker wondered what they wanted. He had $500 in cash concealed in the soles of his Merrell boots and flash grenades hidden under the seat.

  “Deadwood, this is Breaker.”

  “Hold on, Breaker. We’ve hit an Islamist roadblock this time. Should be moving soon. Over.”

  “Here’s hoping you’re right.”

  Most people in his situation would have freaked out, but Crocker and his men remained calm, their heartbeats steady. The men of Black Cell had been selected, in part, because their bodies produced an abnormal amount of an amino acid known as neuropeptide Y (NPY), which regulates blood pressure and also works as a natural tranquilizer, controlling anxiety and buffering the effects of stress hormones like norepinephrine, also known as adrenaline. It gave them a major physical advantage in pressure situations.

  One of the bearded men leaned in the open passenger window and asked in Arabic, “Journalists?”

  “Humanitarian workers,” Akil answered.

  “British?”

  “No, Canadian.”

  “Jewish?”

  “No.”

  “Christian?”

  “I’m Muslim,” Akil said.

  The bearded man bowed. “Thanks be to Allah. Allah is great.”

  “Yes,” Akil repeated, “Allah is great.”

  “How do you pray?” the man asked. “You show me.”

  “I’m not going to show you,” Akil answered. “But if you want to know if I’m Shiite or Sunni, I’m Sunni, born in Egypt.”

  “Go with God, my brother. Allah is great.”

  As the three men shuffled away, Hassan said under his breath, “They’re foreigners. Probably from Iraq.”

  “Is that a problem?” Akil asked.

  “I hope not,” Hassan responded. “We’re all supposed to be fighting for the same cause.”

  Crocker remembered that Fatima had told him that her half brother was naive about politics. How could foreign jihadists not be a potential problem, given the nature of their mission?

  Recorded Arabic chanting drifted back from where the bearded soldiers were gathered.

  “That’s Anasheed,” Hassan explained.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s kind of like jihadist rap. Words with percussion. The lyrics have to do with Islamic beliefs and some current events. There’s no musical accompaniment, which they believe gets around the prohibition in the Ahadith that says music is sinful.”

  “What’s the Ahadith?” asked Crocker.

  “The sayings of Mohammad.”

  “Translate the lyrics.”

  “Oh, sons of Zionists, the wrath of God awaits like a powerful lion. Let them shed our blood and it will run over the soil, but they will never settle in the land of pilgrimage—”

  Davis, through the earbuds, cut in. “Deadwood, this is Breaker. Nevada recommends that we abort.”

  “Abort?”

  “Yes, that’s what they said. Abort. Over.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Grissom and Anders.”

  “Did they say why?”

  “Because we haven’t reached the target, and we’re already meeting ISIS resistance.”

  “Tell Nevada that this isn’t ISIS resistance. Not yet. Tell him that we came expecting resistance, and we’ll probably meet it. But we’re not going to let that stop us.”

  “Roger.”

  “Call them back and tell them. And ask them to stop calling us with bullshit.”

  “You sure you want me to convey the last part?”

  “No. Erase that.”

  “Good call, boss. Roger and out.”

  Captain Zeid started toward them, paused to light a cigarette, and stopped. He grinned and shook his head as though he was starring in his own movie.

  “Extremists…don’t smoke,” he said, slipping the Marlboro back into the pack.

  “What’s the holdup?” Akil asked.

  “We might have some problem,” Zeid said casually.

  “We kind of deduced that, Sherlock.”

  “What’s the problem?” asked Crocker.

  “ISIS is about to launch an operation, so they won‘t let anyone through. They think we could get in the way. End up what you call collateral damage.”

  “Nice of them to be concerned,” said Crocker. “Did you explain that we’re delivering medical supplies to some clinics in Idlib?”

  “I told them this, yeah.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They have orders from their leader not to let anyone pass.”

  “Tell ’em we’ll take full responsibility if anything happens.”

  “I did.”

  “Then tell them I want to talk to their leader.”

  Zeid nodded. “That’s not a problem; he’s on his way.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who?”

  “Not sure. But they are part of a group…loyal to Mohammad al-Kazaz. Maybe one of his lieutenants.”

  Crocker’s attention perked up. Al-Kazaz was a feared leader of ISIS and a member of al-Qaeda with close ties to Ayman a
l-Zawahiri, the Egyptian cleric who had cofounded the movement with Bin Laden back in 1989. He was born and raised in the nearby city of Aleppo, jailed by Assad for ten years, and was rumored to have fought alongside Bin Laden in Afghanistan. He had recently brokered a peace between al-Nusra militia groups and those allied with ISIS. In the jihadist world a major player, and according to Ankara Station the guy who had been posting plans to attack the West on jihadist websites that called him the Fox.

  “Al-Kazaz?” asked Hassan. “Oh, no.”

  “Okay if their leader wants to inspect the trucks?” Zeid asked.

  “As long as he doesn’t mess with us and is only interested in looking at the cargo in back,” Crocker responded.

  Zeid explained that militia commanders sometimes traded men, weapons, pieces of land, even hostages and captured boys like pieces of candy.

  “So he might want a portion of the medical supplies?” asked Crocker.

  “Either that or he will want to take one of you for his harem.”

  “That’s not happening,” Akil remarked.

  “Don’t worry. You’re too ugly anyway.”

  Ten minutes later Akil and Mancini were leaning back on the hood of the Sprinter, talking about the new Israeli Tavor TAR S21 assault rifle, equipped with a MARS integrated laser pointer and 4X sight for precision firing, that they had all test-fired recently. It was as if they were back at the firing range at the ST-6 base in Dam Creek.

  “I prefer the ergonomics of the Galil ACE,” Mancini said, referring to another advanced Israeli-made assault weapon. “And it can fire seven hundred rounds a minute, so it packs a nice punch. Yo, boss. You ever see a Soviet Korobov TKB-022?”

  “You mean that short gas-operated automatic with the reddish-brown plastic housing developed in the sixties?”

  “That weird-looking gizmo, right.”

  “Got a chance to fire one once at Fort Bragg. Had this messed-up ejection chute that pushed out spent cartridges above the barrel.”

  “Awkward.”

  “Looked cool, but never went into production, as far as I know.”

  “Nah. Never did,” Mancini said, shaking his head. “The Soviets had some real talented weapons designers. Korobov was one of them.”