SEAL Team Six: Hunt the Fox

by Don Mann

  “Where’s Crocker?” Akil asked when Mancini came back for the second round of canisters.

  “Dragging ass, per usual.”

  Akil smiled.

  They worked fast as military sirens sounded in the distance. By the time Crocker and Suarez arrived, everything was loaded.

  “That it?” Crocker asked.

  “Done. Where the fuck were you?” Akil responded.

  Mancini pointed to a Russian S-125 Pechora missile system on a truck parked at the entrance to B3. “Looks like two more there!” he exclaimed.

  “Two more what?”

  “Warheads. They contain sarin.”

  Crocker saw that they matched the size and shape of the canisters in the truck bed.

  “I can dislodge them,” Mancini said. “Spare some civilian lives.”

  “How long?”

  “Give me five to seven.”

  Crocker glanced at his watch and nodded. “Five. Davis, you help him.”

  The rest of them guarded the pickup as the fierce battle raging in the distance moved north. As Mancini handed down the first warhead, an armored vehicle appeared from the other side of B3, speeding toward them.

  “Incoming!” exclaimed Akil. “Three o’clock!”

  “Keep your heads down and cover my ass!” Crocker shouted.

  The .30 cal on the armored truck opened up, bullets tearing into the concrete around the pickup and ricocheting. Crocker knelt and fired one of the PG-7VR rounds from the RPG-7 he’d been carrying.

  Whoosh!

  The PG-7VR maintained a straight line four feet off the ground. The first 64mm round detonated against the vehicle’s reactive armor block, and the second 105mm warhead penetrated the gap created to take out the vehicle itself—just as it was designed to do.

  Within seconds the truck was a ball of flaming white-hot metal.

  “Bingo.”

  “What next?”

  “How about we get the hell out of here?”

  Seven minutes after the “launch” order had been given, they loaded the last sarin warhead into the pickup and packed into the cab, shouting, “Go, professor! Take us back to Turkey!”

  Mancini gunned the Ford F-250 through the gate and cut the lights. “Turkey, here we come,” he muttered.

  “Piece of cake.”

  They rendezvoused with the Mercedes Sprinter hidden in the concrete culvert where Hassan was waiting nervously, distributed the canisters between the two vehicles, and headed back toward the highway. Almost immediately they ran into problems. The combat between the Assad forces and the jihadists had resulted in impassable roads, which they bypassed by going off-road and driving across the flat plain—more difficult for the Sprinter than for the F-250.

  Crocker told Akil, now at the wheel of the Ford, to slow down and maintain a speed of thirty-five.

  Assad’s guys were pissed off, so they’d shot up some flares, which took away the SEALs’ cover. Now, to make things worse, attack helicopters were up in the air patrolling—at least one SA 342 Gazelle and a couple of Russian-manufactured Mil Mi-24s.

  “So much for what Katie said about there being no helicopters at the air base,” Crocker commented.

  “Who’s Katie?” Akil asked.

  “Katie, the analyst at Ankara Station. The Asian chick.”

  “She cute?”

  “Just keep your eyes on where you’re going.”

  One of the 24s bore down on them. Before its .50 cal guns opened up, Akil hung a sharp right on a little dirt path with homes strung along it. In the process he nearly flipped the truck.

  “Easy, cowboy!”

  “I’m trying to keep us from getting lit up.”

  Crocker turned to see whether the Sprinter was still behind them. Couldn’t see it through the swirling dust.

  “Slow down!”

  He heard the .50 cal on the helo open fire.

  “Breaker. Breaker, Deadwood here. You okay?”

  A few tense seconds passed before Davis answered. “We’re in the high grass about sixty feet to your right.”

  Another pass from the helo and more fire. The Sprinter found a parallel road.

  “You clear, Breaker? Report. Report!”

  “All good. Over.”

  Based on the light issuing from their windows, the modest homes they whipped past were occupied. A sniper in one of the houses fired a shot that whizzed past Hassan’s shoulder and ripped into the dash.

  Crocker picked up the 416 and returned fire. He was so focused on the windows of the houses, searching for other snipers, that he forgot the Mi-24, which had veered off in search of other targets.

  “Pedal to the metal,” Crocker shouted.

  “Make up your friggin’ mind,” Akil growled back.

  “Stay on this road,” Hassan shouted. “It will take us straight into Idlib.”

  They entered through streets piled with trash and rubble. It seemed unlikely that people still lived here, but lights shone from some of the damaged structures and they heard the occasional crack of small-arms fire in the distance.

  Crocker stuck his head out the window and saw the Sprinter. “Nice work, Manny,” Crocker said into his head mic. “See the bird? You good?”

  Mancini, who was driving the Sprinter, responded, “Yeah, Deadwood, high and tight. The bird has flown west. What’s the thinking at this point? You looking for real estate?”

  “You see something you like, you let me know. I got cash.”

  “I like the collapsed-roof thing with the jihadist graffiti sprayed all over it.”

  A very pregnant dog wandered in front of the truck and stopped. Akil had to honk repeatedly to get it to move.

  “You guys trying to wake the dead?” Mancini asked through the earbuds.

  “No, we’re trying to get your mother to move,” Akil responded.

  “Up yours with a rhino horn, douchebag.”

  “The good news is that we have the sarin, and aside from a couple of cuts and bruises, everyone’s intact,” Crocker reported.

  “I question, boss, whether Romeo is completely intact,” Davis said.

  “More together than you’ll ever be, surfer dude pothead,” Akil shot back.

  “Focus, guys,” Crocker said. “We’re still in Syria. Looks like we’ve lost our escort and probably have little chance of finding him. We’ve also got about an hour before the sun starts to rise.”

  “Rising sun means Syrian helicopters, and helos mean rockets,” Mancini said.

  “Thanks, grasshopper.”

  “So what’s the thinking, boss man?”

  Crocker turned to a shell-shocked Hassan in the front seat and asked him a series of questions about the streets ahead. Then he got back on his headset and said, “Hassan knows a completely bombed-out, deserted part of the city where we can hide till nightfall.”

  “Sounds like our kind of joint,” said Akil.

  “No electricity, no toilets, no running water,” Mancini responded. “The Idlib Hilton. Lead the way.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The greatest difficulties lie where we are not looking for them.

  —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

  That was almost too easy, Crocker thought as they entered what once must have been an upscale part of town, now completely destroyed. The Syrian air force had leveled everything. They traveled a half-dozen blocks beside a little park with shattered, dying eucalyptus trees without seeing one light or any evidence of life besides an occasional rodent. There were signs of phosphorus bomb damage on practically every building.

  Too fucking easy, Crocker thought. He had expected more resistance from the Syrians at the air base. Then remembered that Assad’s men were busy chasing ISIS jihadists. Our timing was perfect, for once.

  Hassan pointed to some wreckage ahead on the right. “Turn in there,” he instructed. “It used to be a primary school. I had a girlfriend who taught there.”

  “You had a girlfriend?” Akil asked. “I thought you were into guys.” But Hassa
n wasn’t laughing.

  The three-story modern structure looked as if it had been abandoned for months. Bombs had landed on the roof, collapsing the middle of the building so that the resulting wreckage formed a giant V.

  “Welcome to paradise,” Akil announced as he emerged from the cab of the Ford, farted loudly, and stretched.

  “First let’s find a place to hide the trucks,” Crocker said. “Then I want you and Suarez to do a quick recon of what’s left of the building.”

  “We looking for ghosts?” Akil was in a jaunty mood.

  “Ghosts, rats, busted gas lines.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Davis, you establish comms with Ankara Station. Let ’em know that we’ve got the sarin and we’re planning to stay here until it gets dark.”

  “Awesome.”

  They found a garage in back that was big enough to accommodate both trucks and made them impossible to spot from above. Several of the washrooms on the first floor still had a trickle of running water—dirty and undrinkable, but enough to rinse their faces. Crocker, Mancini, and Davis pushed the trash out of a classroom with a view of the street.

  “We’ll assemble here,” Crocker announced. “Soon as Akil and Suarez get back we’ll set up a sentry schedule and the rest of you bums can catch some z’s. I’ll take the first watch.”

  No vehicles had passed along the street so far, which was what they’d hoped for. Since all the structures around them lay in ruins, there seemed no reason for anyone to enter the neighborhood. The buildings had already been looted.

  When Ankara Station asked the name of the street and the building number, Crocker went looking for Hassan. He found him standing in a stairway, talking on his cell phone, which he found odd.

  “Who are you talking to?” he asked.

  “I was trying to reach a friend,” answered Hassan.

  “Probably not a good idea to use it. If the Syrians are looking for us, which I assume they are, they could be using scanners to pick up cell-phone signals.”

  “I’ll power it down.”

  “Do it now. Thanks.”

  He thought of taking the phone away from him, but decided against it. The kid had been useful and cooperative.

  Akil and Suarez’s recon of floors one, two, and three yielded nothing surprising. The classrooms and offices they had been able to reach had already been stripped of valuables—desks, computers, calculators, books, toilet fixtures, and maps. They were about to wind up their search when Suarez noticed what looked like fresh wax drippings leading toward the basement.

  Cautiously and quietly, they descended and entered a dark hallway that led to storage rooms, a laundry, and an electrical room. Here, too, doors had been ripped off their hinges and everything of value taken. Akil spotted water on the floor of the last storage area ahead. Strung from one wall to the other was a line containing items of women’s laundry, including two black bras.

  In the far corner, behind a large heating unit, they found mattresses, blankets, and two trembling women. One held a pair of scissors, the other a small kitchen knife.

  “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re not going to touch you,” Akil repeated over and over in Arabic.

  The women didn’t believe him at first. But when the one with the long dark hair and amber-colored eyes asked where he was from and he told her that he and his colleague were humanitarian workers from Canada, she started to relax.

  Her name was Amira, she said, and explained that the school had been destroyed with the rest of the neighborhood five months ago. She and her friend Natalie had both been teachers at the school. Along with many others, they tried to flee the country, but because they were young unmarried women, they had been picked up by pro-Assad forces and raped.

  After about three weeks of abuse, they managed to escape. Hiding during the day and traveling at night, they had returned to the school. They’d now been in the basement for a month and a half, surviving on emergency supplies the looters hadn’t managed to find.

  Akil told them that he and the men he was with were leaving for Turkey after sundown. When he asked the women if they would like to travel with them, they looked at each other and nodded.

  Amira said that her friend thought she might be pregnant and needed medical attention.

  “We’ll get that for you in Turkey,” offered Akil.

  The opening chords of the darkly beautiful “’Round Midnight” by Thelonious Monk played on Crocker’s iPod. There was something hauntingly sad about the way the angular chords built to the melody. Crocker had read somewhere that the jazz genius had composed it when he was eighteen years old.

  It might have been written for this moment—the broken, abandoned school, his men snoring gently behind him, the light from the sun slanting through the wreckage. Kids had played here. The rooms were once filled with laughter and young, eager faces. It bothered him that one man—one tyrant and his supporters—had been allowed to wreak so much damage. How did the world allow this?

  Birds chirped, unaware of the human madness around them. A breeze rattled aluminum roofing that had once covered the entrance to the playground.

  Where are the children now? he wondered, aware of an engine chugging in the distance. As it slowly drew closer, Crocker shouldered his HK416 and decided to take a look.

  Standing at the far end of the third floor where the roof was still more or less intact, he peered out the shattered windows and saw an old Corolla sedan approaching tentatively, stopping every ten feet as though the people in it were looking for a specific address. Nothing about it appeared alarming, but still he kept it fixed in the crosshairs of the EOTech 553 gunsight.

  As the Corolla drew within thirty feet of the school, a curious thing happened. Hassan emerged from the building and waved it down. Crocker watched as the Corolla stopped and Hassan ran to the back door, opened it, and helped a very pregnant young woman out. They embraced. Then a young man emerged from the driver’s side and kissed them both.

  What the hell is this? A family reunion?

  Crocker watched as the driver hurried to the back of the car, popped open the trunk, and handed the pregnant woman a suitcase. Then he returned to the Corolla, waved to Hassan and the woman, and started to back the car down the street.

  Who’s she? Crocker asked himself. Is she the person Hassan was talking to on the phone?

  His thinking was interrupted by the whoosh of an approaching RPG. The Corolla was twenty feet from where it had left her when it hit the car from behind and exploded, destroying the car and throwing Hassan and the pregnant woman to the ground.

  The pregnant woman screamed repeatedly in Arabic. The men downstairs stirred and reached for their weapons. Crocker flew down the concrete steps two at a time, his 416 ready.

  What the hell is going on?

  He found Hassan and the pregnant woman lying on the pavement, hugging each other and trembling. He helped her up first. She was bleeding from a cut to her forehead and was blubbering hysterically, pointing at the burning car and saying, “K…K… Khoya…”

  Hassan pointed to a piece of shrapnel embedded in his arm. “Look. Oh God!”

  “Get inside!” Crocker shouted. To the woman: “Lean on me. Hurry.”

  She struggled to walk. “Khoya! Khoya! My…brother!”

  “Come.”

  “My brother! My brother!”

  He had to pick her up in his arms. With his free left hand he reached out to stop Hassan, who was stumbling toward the burning car in a half crouch. He was holding his ears and appeared disoriented.

  “Hassan, get back inside the fucking school! Turn around!”

  Hassan pointed toward the car and mumbled something. Then a peal of automatic gunfire came from beyond the car and ricocheted off the pavement around them. Crocker ran the woman to the schoolhouse. He passed Mancini wearing running shorts and cradling an M7A1.

  “Incoming. Down the street! Past the burning car!”

  “Who are they?”

  “Un
clear! Get Hassan. Bring him in. He’s fucked up.”

  Mancini grabbed Hassan under one arm and scooped up the suitcase with the other. Hassan struggled, seemingly determined to rescue the man in the burning car even though he was surely burnt to a crisp by now.

  Akil ran out to help wrestle a very resistant Hassan inside. Crocker left Suarez to watch him and the pregnant woman, then returned with Davis to try to deal with the attack from the end of the block.

  “Who the hell are they?” asked Davis, slamming a mag into his automatic rifle.

  “Unclear.”

  “How many?”

  “Unclear again.”

  What they didn’t need was a big commotion, which could bring Assad army reinforcements and air support. They were completely vulnerable and didn’t even know their way out.

  “You two stay here and defend,” Crocker said to Mancini and Davis, who returned fire from the front of an adjacent structure that appeared to have been a church of some sort. “Akil and I are going to try to flank them from the right.”

  “What about Hassan?”

  “Suarez is guarding him and trying to calm him down.”

  He signaled Akil to follow him to an alley that ran behind the buildings. Much of it was blocked with rubble and garbage like broken bicycles and furniture, making it impossible for a vehicle to pass. They squeezed through, Akil in Marine Corps shorts and a white Hooters tank top, Crocker in his usual black tee and pants.

  None of the men had shaved in the past several days, so they didn’t stand out. Nothing to mark them as Westerners, or trained operators. Even their weapons weren’t that unusual. HK416s with attached grenade launchers, SIG Sauer P226 handguns, SOG knives, an RPG-7 with an assortment of warheads that Crocker carried in pouches on his black combat vest.

  The firing on their left was close. Sounded like mostly small-arms stuff, with the occasional boom of a grenade. Seeing a badly damaged apartment tower ahead and to the right, Crocker signaled that this was their objective. He veered right, breaking a sweat, hopped a low concrete wall, pushed past a bloodstained mattress, and entered the back stairway. The trapped, stale air tasted like bitter coffee.