Willy tapped the remote, and the picture of al-Iraqi was replaced with a marked map of Syria. “Commander al-Iraqi cared more about the military than religion, and Daesh’s militant focus appealed to him, so when they reached out to him, he joined. Soon he rose in their ranks, and when Daesh looked to attack overseas, they sought al-Iraqi’s advice.
“The key terrorists in the September 11 attacks were born in the Middle East, but they were members of the Hamburg cell in Germany. Germany’s open migration policy and lack of oversight make it a prime target for infiltrating and recruiting, and when a German group calling itself Ringvereine contacted ISIL about joining, al-Iraqi volunteered to lead the cell. NSA intercepted comms that Ringvereine was responsible for the Georgetown University bombing. We’re still trying to find out more about Ringvereine. Your job is to cut the head off the snake.”
“Kill or capture al-Iraqi,” Max said to confirm.
“Kill or capture al-Iraqi,” Willy said.
Hank pointed to markings on the map. “Currently, Commander al-Iraqi is in the heart of Daesh territory, south of al-Raqqah, Syria—between the city and where the Euphrates River winds around to the south. The three of us will take a helo across the border into Syria, land at our forward operating base, and link up with local and US friendlies—”
“The three of us?” Tom interrupted.
“Your dad is going with you,” Willy said in a businesslike manner.
“Semper fi,” Dad said. Semper Fidelis was the Marine Corps motto: Always faithful.
Willy and Hank exchanged a knowing glance before returning their gazes to Max and Tom.
Max usually tried to obey Dad’s wishes. In this case, he figured any attempt to stop Dad from hunting Maman’s killer would be futile. And with Willy on Dad’s side, resisting the two of them would be downright impossible.
In contrast, Tom frequently questioned Dad, and this time was no different. “I thought there was a concern about Russian aircraft shooting us down,” Tom said, “but now you’re saying we’ll helo into Syria. I don’t understand.”
Max was puzzled about that part, too, but he figured Dad must’ve had ample reason.
“The Russians have air superiority in the vicinity where you rode your SilentHawks across the border to pick up the flash drive,” Willy explained. “That fly zone is still danger hot. But for this mission, you’ll cross the border further east, where we control the airspace.”
Hank pointed to the map, east of the Euphrates River. “We’ll land here at our FOB in Syria. There we’ll recruit any local assets that are available, boat down the Euphrates River, infiltrate Daesh’s base, and kill or capture al-Iraqi.”
“Can’t we just bomb him?” Tom asked.
“We’ve tried several times in the past,” Willy said. “This time Langley wants boots on the ground to verify his location and make sure the job gets done properly. Hank will be your team leader, and he’ll report directly to me.”
Max leaned toward Willy. “You said this is phase two of the mission. Will phase three be to kill or capture the other Ringvereine leaders?”
“You just kill or capture al-Iraqi,” Willy said impatiently. “Then we can talk about whether or not there’s a phase three.”
5
At a secret underground bunker in al-Raqqah, Syria, twins Düster and Junior met with Commander al-Iraqi and his lieutenants in a shadowy command conference room. The ground floor above them had been a slaughterhouse, and this floor, which was now the conference room, used to be the meat locker—the rails for meat hooks were still visible in the ceiling. Some of the meat locker’s odor lingered, and it reminded Düster of the humid smell in a rectangular open patio around which a house was built, a smell that raised his passion, and he wished he could bottle it like cologne—minus the Middle Eastern stink of the other men in the room. On one wall was hardware and monitors for viewing surveillance, battlefield video feeds, face-to-face conference calls, and CNN. On another wall hung weapon racks filled with AK-47 assault rifles.
The leaders sat in high-backed leather chairs around a long, black, polished table that reflected the scant light in the room. Düster and his brother’s clean-shaven faces and Western business attire clashed with the beards and militia uniforms of the others.
“Do we really need these religious nuts?” Junior whispered to his brother in German.
“We already decided this,” Düster said. “Our gang is more powerful working with them than working on our own. And Commander al-Iraqi needs us to recruit and operate in Germany for him.”
“That was when they were strong, but now they’re weak.”
“As long as they continue to support us with money, personnel, and supplies, we’ll continue to work with them.”
“That may not be much longer,” Junior said.
“We’ll see.”
Commander al-Iraqi stood at the front of the room, and all eyes focused on him. “Recently, someone hacked into our confidential files,” he began. “We suspect that last night the hacker may have succeeded in handing over classified information to two foreign agents before we succeeded in killing the hacker. Although we attempted to catch the two agents, they fled north. We do not know exactly what information was taken, so be careful.” He paused for a moment, as if to let his words sink in.
Then he continued, “I’m afraid I have more bad news. Lately, we have been losing territory, which means we are losing money—tax revenue, oil fields, and hostages. Without money, we cannot pay the fighters we have. The US is killing our leaders. Now our fighters are deserting. We execute the deserters we catch, but without money, we cannot recruit new fighters to replace the deserters and the dead. And foreign governments have cracked down on potential recruits travelling to Syria. Other Islamic groups are recruiting our people and attacking us, too. Two years ago we were able to recruit roughly two thousand foreign fighters each month; now, we’re down to about fifty a month. And if that isn’t bad enough, we’ve had to divert men to the fight in Iraq, where we’re losing more fighters. Soon, this underground compound we live in could be vulnerable.”
Captain Rashad raised his hand.
Commander al-Iraqi recognized him to speak.
Captain Rashad spoke with an academic air about him. “The infidels cannot reach us in this bunker. They do not even know it exists.”
Düster detested defenses and Captain Rashad’s academic nonsense, but he kept his tongue civil, out of respect for Commander al-Iraqi. “Captain Rashad, we should trust our ability to attack more than we trust our ability to hide in this bunker.”
Captain Rashad looked above Düster, as if he esteemed himself higher. “I’m not afraid of you. Where were you last night when the agents escaped? Your little Ringvereine group is nothing more than window dressing.”
Junior snapped to his feet. Wielding his black cane, he circled the conference table. As he approached, he cracked a line drive into Captain Rashad’s chest, knocking him out of his chair and onto the floor. Rashad wobbled as he tried to sit up, but Junior leaped on him and pinned his neck to the floor with his cane.
Rashad’s eyes widened, and the veins in his neck bulged. He wheezed and grabbed at Junior’s cane, but Junior was immoveable.
Düster didn’t raise his pulse rate or his voice. “I think you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Tension stretched across the room, so tight that it might snap at any moment.
“Enough,” said Commander al-Iraqi.
Junior continued to choke the officer. It wasn’t clear if Junior was slow to respond to Commander al-Iraqi or simply ignoring him.
“Let him go,” Commander al-Iraqi said.
“Yes, sir,” Düster said. Then he gestured to Junior to release Rashad.
Junior removed his cane from Rashad’s neck and rose.
Rashad pulled at his collar and gasped to let the air back in.
“We need to work together,” Commander al-Iraqi said. “Although we’re getting squeezed at
home, the Georgetown University attack and other attacks abroad are a transformative success, and I want more attacks on foreign soil. Düster, give me an update on Ringvereine’s activities.”
Düster stood. “We’re working on transporting explosives and twelve suicide bombers from Syria to Germany. Then we’ll sail to New York and attack Times Square on New Year’s Eve.”
6
Max was eager to get his hunt on. He staged his gear, often called “kit” in special ops, in the living room next to his brother’s and checked it over while Hank and Willy talked in the kitchen. Growing up, Dad often told Max, “Take care of your gear, and your gear will take care of you.”
Tom blew his nose in a tissue and looked at the brown sludge in it.
“Disgusting,” Max said.
Tom wiped his nose. “Moon dust.”
“Why do you always have to question Dad?” Max asked.
“Why do you always have to do everything he says?”
“’Cause he knows what’s best,” Max said.
Tom balled the dirty tissue. “Wouldn’t call our childhood best.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He raised us … he trained us … like soldiers,” Tom said. “We never had a childhood. I wouldn’t call that best.”
“He taught us how to defend ourselves from bad men. How to protect each other. How to kill bad men. He did the best he could as a single dad.”
“Most fathers are proud of their sons when they go to college, especially a university like Georgetown, but Dad couldn’t hide his disappointment in me.”
“In the Army, you had a shot at trying out for Delta Force—a tier-one unit like SEAL Team Six—but you threw it away to go to college,” Max said.
Tom tossed his balled-up tissue into a small trash container. “Dad didn’t approve, but Mom would’ve. She would’ve wanted us to go on with our lives.”
“You were too young to know what Maman wanted.”
“I know enough that getting revenge is what you and Dad want—not what she’d want.”
Max’s blood simmered. “Would Charlotte approve—of you looking for revenge?”
Tom became silent.
“I didn’t think so,” Max said.
“I want justice, not revenge.”
“Say it whatever way lets you sleep at night,” Max said. “The bad guys are going to get what’s coming to them—an eye for an eye—no plea bargains or discounts.”
Willy interrupted the banter. “Time to load up.”
Max, Tom, and Hank carried their kit out to a silver van with black tinted windows, and Willy started the engine. When everyone was on board, Willy put the van in drive. Max never knew when he would get to sleep on a mission, if at all, so he slept.
The whine of twin helo engines woke him. Max looked out the window and spotted the source of the noise—an MH-47G Chinook, a special ops variation of the CH-47 helicopter also known as the “flying school bus,” on the tarmac with its two rotors churning. They were on the Turkish air base at Incirlik. He’d slept for the two-and-a-half-hour journey west from the safe house.
“We good to go?” Hank asked.
Max and Tom gave him a thumbs-up.
“Later, Willy,” Max said.
“See you soon,” Tom said.
“Later, Bro,” Hank said.
Willy encouraged them in French. “Bon courage.”
Max unassed the van, opened the back, and grabbed his backpack filled with gear: ammo, explosives, sleeping bag, spare clothing, and additional items. Hank and Tom grabbed theirs, too, and Hank slammed the door shut.
Max led his brother and father across the tarmac to the Chinook, where its twin rotors whirled fortissimo, pushing air at Max and flapping the edges of his clothing. He pressed through the wind and climbed up the ramp into the bird’s fat butt. Once on board, they lowered their backpacks to the deck and took their seats on a bench. With only the three of them as passengers, there was still space for three or four dozen more men. The familiar scent of fuel and metal mixed in Max’s nostrils. The twin engines whined louder, and the helo lifted off the tarmac. Hank smiled as if he were taking the boys on a ride at Six Flags. Their family trips weren’t like other family trips, and Hank wasn’t like other fathers.
Max grinned at Tom, who grinned back.
The Chinook climbed above Willy’s van, clusters of hangars, and military cargo planes parked off the runway. The liftoff gave Max the feeling of being a superhero. As the helo ascended, he watched a fighter jet float down toward the ground, becoming smaller until it landed. Airport roads diminished and buildings disappeared. Gradually, patches of farmland and city surrounding the base created the quilt that was the town of Incirlik. Serenity and freedom filled Max as he rose above the noisy hustle and bustle of Turkey, the sounds replaced by the drone of the Chinook’s dual engines. The aircraft’s vibrations massaged him from his derriere up to his shoulders. He closed his eyes.
Someone tapped his leg. Max woke with a start. “We’re making our descent,” Hank said.
Tom already had his backpack on his shoulders, and he cinched the straps. Max and Hank grabbed their backpacks in front of them on the deck and put them on.
Contrary to the liberating feeling of lifting off from a NATO ally’s base, Max’s gut tightened as they swooped down on a newly constructed air base southeast of Kobani, Syria. The ground rose at Max formidably, and dirt and plant debris stirred up around two Toyota Hilux trucks parked shy of the landing zone. Three heavily armed Americans dressed in civilian clothes stepped out of one of the trucks. They were CIA Ground Branch officers, selected from the military’s baddest of the bad to defend the base.
The helo blades thumped in time with the drumming of Max’s heartbeat. He shuffled to the edge of the ramp and hopped off the chopper, which was still two to three feet above the ground. His boots hit the dirt at a jog before the bird landed. Hank and Tom were right behind him. At any moment they could be shot by rocket-propelled grenades, mortars, or a carefully placed sniper’s bullet—better to give the enemy a moving target than a stationary one.
One of the Ground Branch officers pointed his hand to a truck and bellowed in a bass voice, “Welcome to Kobani.”
They passed him and loaded into the truck; its driver sat behind the wheel with the engine running. The Toyotas peeled off the landing pad and kicked up dirt that the Chinook had already stirred up. The chopper’s blades spun faster, and it rose in the air again.
Max turned to Tom and quipped, “We ain’t in Kansas anymore.”
The driver followed the lead truck onto a gravel road toward a fortress that extended hundreds of meters. The walls were made up of HESCO barriers: man-sized blocks of wire mesh and heavy-duty fabric that were filled with sand by a front loader. The blocks were stacked two high. With concertina wire at the base and on top, there was little space on the walls that wasn’t covered with razor wire. Reinforced watchtowers rose from inside the camp.
“Looks like the Alamo,” Tom remarked.
“That’s an encouraging thought,” Max said.
Boom! Max ducked. He turned to face the corner of the firebase where the explosion came from. Boom! He recognized the outgoing sound of a howitzer’s 105mm artillery round hurtling through the air. A klick to the south, light flashed, followed by a small clap of thunder.
“Glad that wasn’t incoming,” Tom said.
Hank grinned. “I love a good fireworks show.”
Gunfire sparked and rattled near the vicinity of the small thunderclap. The shooting was one-sided, American M4 rifles overpowering the cracks from enemy AKs. It sounded like the AKs got ambushed.
“The YPGs are out there getting their freak on,” the driver said. Kobani was a Kurdish town, and the Kurdish People’s Protection Units (Yekineyen Parastina Gel) were America’s allies in the fight against terrorism.
Then, almost as quickly as the firefight began, it ended.
The driver weaved around serpentine concret
e Jersey barriers to the firebase’s entrance before the gate guard waved him through. Inside, they passed a maze of concrete buildings and Conex boxes fortified with sandbags. The driver pointed out buildings as he drove. “This is the mess deck. There’s the head. And that’s the gym. Over there is the hospital, which doubles as a mosque for the FSA.” He was referring to the Free Syrian Army fighters.
“Allahu Akbar,” Max said with sarcasm, mimicking the Arabic cry of Islamic terrorists. God is great.
Tom shook his head. “They’re on our side.”
“We’ll see about that.”
They parked in front of a small building and got out. A foul odor blew from the direction of the city. It smelled as if someone was burning his shit in a barrel to keep warm. Max frowned at having to inhale indigenous ass.
The welcoming Ground Branch officer with the bass voice stepped out of the vehicle. The Waynes followed his lead. He pushed the buttons on the cipher door lock, it clicked, and he opened the door wide for them.
They walked into a rundown room furnished with faded, stained, torn sofas.
“Grab a seat, and I’ll let the Chief know you’re here,” Bass Voice said.
They rested their bags on the deck and dropped their keisters on the funky-smelling sofas. Soon Bass Voice returned with a raven-haired woman dressed in khaki cargo pants and a charcoal-shaded shirt.
Tom stood.
She was murderously pretty, and Max understood that Tom was a Southern gentleman and all, but he didn’t understand why Tom was standing for someone who was probably just a low-ranking clerk.
Then Max recognized her and got to his feet, too. “Hannah!”
Hank stood, too.
Her smile lit the room like an illumination flare. “Max and Tom Wayne!” She remembered. She gave Tom a sisterly hug. Then she hugged Max, nuking him.
“I guess you already know the Chief,” Bass Voice said. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Assassin's Sons: [#4] A Special Operations Group Thriller Page 4