by Don Mann
“Give me a solution.”
“All the fluid has leaked out,” Mancini replied. “I might be able to rig something around the radiator, don’t know what. But it’s gonna take time.”
Crocker didn’t like the idea of sitting there with the MiGs so close and Assad’s units maybe moving into the area for some kind of mop-up operation.
“Guys, we’re gonna have to pile everyone and everything into the Sprinter.”
“Don’t know if we’ll fit,” said Davis.
“Either that or we leave you here and come back for you tomorrow.”
“Very funny, boss.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Screw that.”
“Then let’s start unloading.”
The men were sweating hard, stripped to their waists, arranging and rearranging, taking special precautions with the sarin and the baby. It reminded Crocker of packing the family station wagon for a vacation when he was a kid.
Eight canisters, a baby, three women, Akil, and Davis all crammed in back. Jamila held little Tariq like he was the most precious thing in the world.
We’ll find a way, thought Crocker.
Suarez siphoned out the remaining diesel fuel. He even took the spare tire, just in case. Then squeezed himself into the cargo bay against the door.
Mancini, Hassan, and Crocker sat shoulder to shoulder in the cab, Mancini at the wheel. No room to scratch an itch.
“Hey, Akil, how are you doing?” Crocker asked into the head mic.
“Bleeding’s stopped. I might live.”
“Good. Keep drinking water.”
“Tell Manny he drives like shit.”
“Manny, Akil says you drive like shit.”
“Tell Akil to stop whining like a little girl.”
The badly potholed road they were on didn’t appear on any of the GPS or sat maps Ankara Station had provided.
“You want me to call Ankara and ask if they can pull up something better, or send us some better sat imaging?” Davis asked through the earbuds as they approached a moderately steep hill.
“First let’s see if this baby can handle the weight.”
The 161-horsepower engine whined and struggled. They chugged uphill at twenty-five miles an hour sounding like a tugboat. Passing over the crest and into a little valley Crocker spotted a farmhouse with a bombed-in roof to the right. A wooden shed with a faint yellow light in the window stood near a patch of willow trees.
More bombs exploded to the northwest. Crocker said, “Stop, Manny. Pull over.”
Then he grabbed Hassan’s wrist. “Let’s take a look.”
“Why me?”
“I need your language skills. Akil’s hurt.”
“But—”
“Davis, you come too. I’ll hold your hand.”
Crocker was already outside, weapon ready and in a crouch, holding Hassan by the arm with his free hand.
“What’re we looking for?” Davis asked.
“Help, a road map, directions, a fucking helicopter. You back us up.”
He and Hassan ran hunched over and came up under the window. Inside they saw a skinny old man with a dog, listening to an old cassette tape player and darning a pair of socks. Strains of “Hey Jude” by the Beatles passed through the weathered wooden slats. Crocker flashed back to his high school girlfriend Kelly, who learned the song on the guitar and sang in a whispery, sweet voice. She had the prettiest mouth he’d ever seen and green eyes.
He signaled to Davis to kneel to the right of the door, then handed him his 416 and hid the 226 in the back waistband of his pants so he wouldn’t look too intimidating, even though he was stripped to the waist and covered with dirt and sweat. He knocked twice, then backed up and knelt on the ground so that if anyone fired through the door, he wouldn’t get hit in the chest.
Someone inside groaned something.
“What did he say?” Crocker whispered.
“He says he’s an old man,” Hassan whispered back. “We can go in.”
Crocker stood, turned the knob, and stepped inside.
The little room smelled of old leather and BO. The gray-bearded man looked up as if ready to accept anything. “Welcome,” he said in Arabic. “I won’t ask questions. If you have any food, I’ll be very grateful. Otherwise, take what you want. There’s hardly anything left.”
Crocker turned back to tell Davis to bring the last couple of MREs from the van while Hassan explained that they were humanitarian workers carrying wounded refugees to Turkey. Highway 60 was under attack and they needed to find an alternative route.
The old man had heard the explosions, even though he was deaf in one ear. All he had left was his dog and a couple of tapes for his cassette player. He showed how he had jerry-rigged the radio to work on AA batteries.
When Crocker handed him the MREs he smiled, revealing only two remaining front teeth. “Rest here for the night,” the old man said. “We can talk about the women in our lives and listen to music.”
The old man offered to brew coffee on a burner made from an ashtray filled with some kind of anise-flavored liquor. He showed them how he collected the melted wax from his candles and reused it, inserting strips of fabric to serve as wicks.
“You’re a generous man,” Crocker said in Arabic. “But we’re in a hurry to get back to Turkey. Can you show us the way?”
“Of course,” the old man said as he drew a map on the back of an old piece of paper. “I was hoping you could stay a while. Because the only thing I haven’t been able to solve is the loneliness.” He showed them that if they followed the road they were on it would link with another and then a third that would take them to the Turkish border town of Kilis.
Crocker patted the dog’s head. “You’ve got him.”
“My friend Arak is even older and more feeble than I am. Maybe before we die things will change again, and people will come back.”
“I hope so.”
“How long will it take us to reach Kilis, approximately?” Hassan asked.
The man considered and held up a crooked finger. “Maybe one hour.”
Mancini drove while Crocker sat with his 416 ready by the passenger window and Hassan slept between them with his head back and his mouth wide open.
“Big day for the young man,” Mancini commented.
“Yeah.”
Davis reported that baby and mother were resting peacefully in back. Akil was running a fever.
“Give him a couple Advils from the medical pack.”
“Roger.”
The Sprinter engine labored hard as they climbed slowly through winding hills. Olive and fig groves glistened in the moonlight. A breeze carried the scent of rosemary. The dull thud of explosions continued in the distance to their right.
As they chugged along at thirty miles an hour, Mancini said, “This land was controlled by the Macedonians, then the Romans, the Ottomans, and ceded to the French after World War I.”
“All that nonsense, and it probably hasn’t changed much.”
Mancini changed the subject. “You hear about the blonde who put lipstick on her forehead so she could make up her mind?”
Sometimes the problems came so fast and from so many directions that all you could do was laugh.
“I like that one, Manny.”
He looked at the fuel gauge, which showed they were down to less than a quarter of a tank.
“Why do blondes wear underwear?” Mancini asked, rubbing the tribal tattoo on his neck.
“Why?”
“To keep their ankles warm.”
“Really?”
“What do you call the skeleton in the closet with blond hair?”
“Give up.”
“Last year’s hide-and-seek winner.”
Crocker liked that one. His back burned, his face and arms itched from the scratches, and his whole right side ached, but none of that mattered. He was looking for the last turnoff, which the old man said would be past two burned-out tanks and a barn on the left.
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He and Mancini had been working together for nearly ten years now. They’d witnessed almost every kind of tragedy imaginable—from drownings to bombings, plane crashes, and beheadings. They’d shared a lot of good times, too—hot-air balloon racing in New Mexico, surfing in Hawaii, climbing Mount Kilimanjaro, marlin fishing off the coast of Chile. They’d seen colleagues marry, have children, and watched them die. Even though they weren’t close friends off-duty, Crocker thought of him as his brother. He couldn’t imagine going on a mission without him.
Seeing Mancini yawn, Crocker asked, “You want to rest while I take over?”
“No, boss. As long as you stay awake and talk to me, I’m good.”
“Pretty land.”
“Yeah, reminds me a little of Tuscany.”
“Good wine and pretty women.”
Mancini shook his head and smiled.
“What?” Crocker asked.
“Remember the time you, me, and Ritchie grabbed that Libyan terrorist and his girlfriend outside of Assisi?”
“Yeah. We had to drive to Milan dressed as priests.”
“That was Ritchie’s idea,” Mancini said.
“Pissed the Italian authorities off. Fucking Ritchie.”
“I miss him.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
An hour and a half later, Crocker spotted yellow-and-orange signs warning that Syrian customs stood ten kilometers ahead. The lack of roadblocks had induced a state of complacency that was quickly replaced by concern.
What if the Syrians try to stop us? We don’t know which rebel faction controls the border. If they’re Assad’s people, we could be screwed.
His anxiety grew as they drew closer. Red-and-yellow warning lights flashed ahead.
“What do you think?” Mancini asked, the bold colors washing over his face. “You want to turn off the road and find a way around it?”
Crocker looked at the fuel gauge, which was already in the red. “Don’t want to get stuck here. No. Fuck it.”
“Should we stop and contact Ankara?”
“What are they gonna do?” asked Crocker, craning his neck left and right, looking for an alternate route.
“I don’t know. Call ahead, maybe. Tell us who controls the border.”
“They’ve been useless so far,” Crocker responded. “Let’s pull closer and take a look.”
They approached within two hundred feet of the border. Mancini paused outside a boarded-up store while Crocker checked out the facility through the Steiners. Saw that the barriers were up in both directions and no one appeared to be manning the checkpoint.
“Looks unoccupied,” he said, relieved. “We should be good.”
They readied their weapons just in case, then passed an old man sweeping the little guard shack, and a sleeping dog. Neither looked up.
“Sweet.”
“Now what?”
“Look for an IHOP and order a big breakfast.”
“Pancakes, eggs, bacon, coffee.”
The Turkish side was quiet, too. A couple of young soldiers with M1s looked at the blue cross on the hood of the van and nodded.
They stopped in a parking lot past the blue-and-white customs building and called Janice on the satellite phone.
She answered on the sixth ring from Yayladaği. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Crocker. We made it.”
“You’re back in Turkey?”
“Yeah. Just arrived. Where’s the closest IHOP?”
“Excellent. Fantastic news. Where are you?” Janice asked.
“The town’s called Karbeyaz,” Crocker answered, reading the name off a sign and mispronouncing it. Somehow they had missed the turnoff to Kilis.
“That’s northeast of here. Hold on. I’m going to go get Colonel Oz.”
Ten minutes later she was back on the line. “Where precisely are you now?”
“We’re parked in a lot just past the Turkish checkpoint.”
“You’re in possession of the sarin?”
“Yeah, we’ve got it, a newly delivered baby, a mother, and an injured colleague who needs medical attention.”
“How did that happen?”
“Which, the baby or the injured colleague?”
“The baby.”
“It’s a long story. How should we proceed from here?”
“Continue a couple kilometers on the same road,” Janice instructed. “You’ll see a refugee camp on the right with a big AFAD sign.”
“What’s AFAD stand for?” asked Crocker.
“Turkish Disaster and Emergency Management Directorate. Pull up to the front gate and ask for Captain Nasar. He’s with the Askeri Inzibat—the Turkish military police.”
“He knows we’re coming?”
“Yes, Colonel Oz just informed him. He’s awake and expecting you.”
“Cool.”
“There’s a clinic there and a contingent of guards and soldiers. They’ll take care of you—feed you, tend to your wounds, whatever you need. Oz and I are on our way. We should be there in about two hours.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Sorry about your colleague.”
“Nothing serious. He’ll be fine.”
Chapter Fifteen
“To mystify, mislead, and surprise the enemy,” is one of the first principles in war.
—Sun Tzu
Once arrived at the AFAD camp, Crocker left Suarez guarding the Sprinter and made sure the women and baby were taken care of and his men were shown to the visitors’ tent, where they could wash up and rest. Then he escorted Akil to the clinic, which was housed in an old train station. In the entryway he stopped to receive grateful hugs from Amira and Natalie, who were being shown to an empty room with beds.
A male nurse cleaned the wound on Akil’s shoulder and summoned a doctor to stitch it up. While they waited, Crocker put his feet up on a chair and fell asleep. He dreamt he was back in the Himalayas sharing a tent with his old friend and climber Edyta Potocka. As a kerosene lamp burned in the corner, she ran a hand over his chest and sang a Polish lullaby.
Oh, sleep, my darling,
If you’d like a star from the sky I’ll give you one.
All children, even the bad ones,
Are already asleep,
Only you are not.
So sweet he wanted to cry.
Didn’t she die in an avalanche? Crocker wondered.
She seemed happy and vital now, kissing his face, snuggling up against him and laughing. Snow fell outside the tent, and the wind howled like a wolf, but he felt warm and safe. Then, realizing someone was calling his name, he opened his eyes into the fluorescent light and blinked.
“Crocker. Crocker, sorry to bother you,” a woman’s voice entreated.
She looked down at him with brown eyes, not light-blue ones like Edyta’s. Mancini stood by her side.
What is he doing here?
“Crocker?”
“Go away.”
“We can’t. Wake up.”
It took him a couple of seconds to realize that she was Janice, the CIA analyst he had first met in Istanbul. He looked at his watch: 0726. That couldn’t be right. “Is it really after seven?”
“Something like that,” Janice answered. “Crocker, we have a serious problem.”
He’d slept almost three hours in the waiting room, totally unaware of where he was or of the passage of time.
“Where’re the rest of the men?” he asked Mancini as he sat up.
“They’re in the visitors’ tent.”
“Good. Very good. So what’s up?” He wiped the spittle off the side of his mouth and adjusted the light-green medical robe the nurse had given him when he arrived. Saw the long scabs on his arms from last night, and remembered that they were safe inside Turkey. By the grace of God.
“It’s a very serious situation,” Janice said.
“What?”
“The sarin canisters are missing.”
“What did you say?” Crocker asked, not su
re he had heard correctly.
“The canisters have been taken.”
“Taken? What are you talking about?”
“According to Mancini, you arrived with eight canisters of sarin.”
“That’s correct.”
“Well…they’re missing,” Janice stated.
“From the van? From the Sprinter?”
“Yes, from the Sprinter.”
“How the hell did that happen? Who took them?”
“Unclear.”
“You mean they’re not in the van?”
“They’re not in the camp.”
“Holy shit!” He jumped to his feet, ignoring the soreness that ran from his neck to his ankles. “Where’s Suarez? He was guarding them.”
“Suarez was shot,” Mancini said. “Two bullets in the back.”
“Oh, fuck. Bad?”
“Yeah.”
He ran out with them to look. Turkish EMS officials were wheeling a stretcher to a red-and-white ambulance with blue flashing lights. Suarez, immobile, lay on his back with an oxygen mask over his face.
Crocker was torn between going with him and staying. “Where are they taking him?” he asked one of the EMS workers.
“To…hospital,” the man answered in broken English.
“From the local hospital he’ll likely be medevaced to one of our NATO facilities,” Janice added. “Depends on his condition.”
“Who shot him? How the hell did this happen?”
He had too many burning questions to be able to leave the camp. As soon as the ambulance left he returned to the Sprinter, where Mancini and Janice were standing. Saw a pool of Suarez’s blood on the pavement and four Turkish soldiers guarding the back of the vehicle. The mattress Jamila and Tariq had rested on had been pulled out. Inside, all that remained were discarded wrappers, MREs, and a few boxes of medical supplies.
“Did anyone see what happened?” Crocker asked.
“Most of the Turkish guards were sleeping over there,” Janice said, pointing to a large camouflaged tent fifty feet away. “One of them says he heard an engine.”
“What kind of engine?”
“A truck engine.”
“He hear shots?”
“He claims he didn’t. Maybe the weapons the attackers used were suppressed.”