Assassin's Sons: [#4] A Special Operations Group Thriller

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Assassin's Sons: [#4] A Special Operations Group Thriller Page 6

by Stephen Templin


  Chief slid down the rappelling rope into the boat. With twenty feet between the helo and the boat, plus twenty between the boat and the water, falling out of the helo would equal a bad day. Pig Pen, Quicksilver, and Pretty Boy followed.

  Hank went next, and Max waited for Rojin and Paris to take their turn, but Rojin balked at the rope. Paris chattered impatiently at her in Kurdish, and Rojin answered, but Max understood none of it.

  “What’s wrong?” Tom asked.

  “She won’t go,” Paris said.

  “What the hell?” Max said. “She’s holding us up.”

  Paris anxiously chattered at Rojin, but she wouldn’t budge.

  “Tell her she’s our senior sniper on overwatch, and we need her,” Tom said.

  Paris translated, but Rojin only raised her voice in Kurdish.

  The helo crew chief gave them a stern reminder: “We stay here; we get shot down.”

  Max became cross. “Move your ass, Rojin, or we go without you.”

  Tom asked Paris, “Why won’t she go?”

  Paris yelled at Rojin, who shouted louder.

  “She can’t swim,” Paris said.

  Tom’s face filled with concern.

  Max laughed.

  Rojin seemed puzzled.

  Max bent to Rojin and said, “You’re crazy. Falling off the rope will probably kill you before you drown.”

  Paris translated.

  Rojin grimaced as if her pride had been stung and grumbled something in Kurdish at Max.

  Paris didn’t translate.

  Then Rojin said something that sounded like “Geronimo” before holding her breath and sliding down the rope. Paris took her turn, and Max waited until she neared bottom. Then he grabbed the rope tightly and stepped out of the perfectly good helo. He loosened his grip to drop faster. Even while wearing tactical gloves and rappelling gloves, the heat from the friction warmed his palms. When he neared the bottom of the rope, he squeezed harder so he wouldn’t crash and burn into the boat deck. When his feet landed, he promptly stepped out of the way to make space for Tom to land. The smoldering leather of Max’s gloves smelled of awesomeness, but the sting of water droplets kicked up by the helo’s twin rotor blades didn’t feel so awesome.

  Chief started the SOC-R’s engine and diesel smoke stank up the night. The helo lowered until the boat nearly touched water. The cargo hooks released the boat’s slings, dropping the vessel in the Euphrates with a small splash. Pretty Boy and Quicksilver pulled in the slings and stowed them. The helo peeled off, and the SOC-R motored south. The diesel stench blew away with the wind, replaced by fresh air.

  Pretty Boy and Quicksilver swiftly set up two miniguns forward and Pig Pen mounted a .50-caliber machine gun aft. The three men manned their weapons. Hank, Rojin, and Paris scanned the starboard side with their weapons ready for enemies while Max and Tom covered port. Chief picked up speed to forty knots, hauling ten tons of whoop-ass. It was impossible for the enemies to defend every inch of the Euphrates from penetration, especially in a war-torn country like Syria, and Max and his team intended to penetrate.

  9

  Düster’s two favorite things in life were killing and sex, and although sometimes he confused the two, he enjoyed killing more. As a child, he’d enjoyed killing insects and animals, but as an adult, he discovered a divine joy—killing men. His father was a mercenary who’d assassinated numerous targets for various Arab factions, and Düster figured his thirst for blood was inherited from him.

  Inside the secret command bunker, he endured yet another meeting called by Commander al-Iraqi when burner phones rang like fire alarms: his own, Junior’s, Commander al-Iraqi’s, Captain Rashad’s, and others. Düster answered in German “Ja.” Yes.

  A voice answered in Arabic, “Sir, al-Raqqah is under attack from the north.”

  Düster switched to Arabic. “Kill them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Düster returned his phone to his pocket.

  Junior finished talking on his phone and asked, “Attack from the north?”

  Düster nodded.

  Commander al-Iraqi barked commands into his phone. “Feed me a live video of the battle.”

  “I’m not going to sit back here and watch a video,” Düster whispered to his brother before standing.

  Junior stood, too. “Los geht.” Let’s do this.

  Düster inserted his cane snugly between his belt and trousers. The cane handle hooked on his belt and helped keep the weapon in place. He went over to the rack of AK-47 assault rifles, took one, grabbed loaded magazines off a nearby table, and put the ammo in his pockets. Junior did, too. They walked out of the command center and proceeded down the corridor where men were running in both directions.

  “Organized chaos,” Düster commented.

  Junior grinned. “Organized chaos.”

  Düster led his brother up the stairs and out of the building. In the vehicle pool, they found a driver sitting in a black Mitsubishi pickup truck modified with a .50-caliber machine gun mounted high in the bed—a technical. Düster hopped in the passenger seat. “Take us into the city.”

  Junior jumped in back and manned the .50 cal.

  The driver looked like he was about to question Düster, then seemed to think better of it. He started the engine and took them out of the compound. Next, they rolled past moonlit harvested farmland before reaching a sprawl of buildings.

  Düster spotted a tall building that stabbed up through the darkness. “That would serve as a good observational tower.” He pointed to it and told the driver, “Take me to the minaret.”

  “Yessir,” the driver said. “Yessir,” he repeated.

  The driver stopped near the minaret’s base.

  “Wait here,” Düster ordered him. Düster and Junior got out of the technical and climbed the stairs up the minaret. At the top, they could see out across the city. Flashes and crackles of shooting came from both the north and the northeast.

  “We should flank our enemies on the west,” Junior said.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Düster said.

  The brothers descended the tower, returned to the truck, and Düster commanded the driver, “Take us northwest.” The driver sped northwest through the city as he was told. Gunfire intensified to their right, accented with the whistles and explosions of mortar rounds and rockets. When Düster found the right spot, he said, “Stop. And wait for us here.”

  The driver seemed nervous. Düster didn’t know if the nervousness was about the fighting or about him and his brother, but his bosom was warmed by the man’s anxiety.

  The twins exited the technical and moved tactically, rifles at the ready, stalking between buildings. As they neared the enemy’s position, Düster’s soul kindled with the anticipation of killing. He peeked around the corner of a building.

  Four Arab men wore American camouflage uniforms: one sat in the driver’s seat of a Toyota Hilux with the engine running, two stood guard, and the fourth, wearing an FSA patch on his shoulder, dug a hole in the road, as if preparing to plant a bomb—a common tactic to protect the flank of a fighting force.

  Düster pointed out the FSA men to his brother. Junior nodded. Düster was about to outflank the flankers. He crept at a crouch behind the FSA squad. Then he stopped and aimed at the IED beside the digger.

  Düster squeezed the trigger, anticipating the explosion and the thrill. Boom! Digger flew in the air, the guard closest to him was knocked back, and a sharp pain struck Düster’s thigh. The thrill of the violence was more exalted than Düster had anticipated.

  Junior popped the other guard in the back of the head.

  The fourth FSA man, the driver, shifted into gear, and Düster blasted through his window until he slumped over the wheel. The truck rolled forward slowly until it struck a house, and then came to a halt. If there was anyone in the house, they didn’t turn on any lights or make a sound.

  Düster returned his attention to the site of the explosion. Pieces of Digger lay scattered across the
road. The guard knocked back by the explosion writhed in pain and screamed. His weapon had flown somewhere, and he couldn’t walk, so he was no longer a problem. Düster looked down at his own thigh and noticed a piece of shrapnel in it. It hadn’t gone in too deep because he was able to pinch the end of it. He pulled the piece of metal out.

  “You shot the bomb, didn’t you,” Junior said.

  “Yes,” Düster said proudly.

  “And you caught a piece of it.”

  “It’s only shrapnel.”

  The surviving guard continued to scream.

  “It was a rapturous explosion,” Junior said.

  “Yes, it was.”

  Junior pointed at the enemy truck. “We should take it as a souvenir.”

  “You can have it.” Düster pointed to the screaming guard. “I’ll take him.”

  10

  The SOC-R cut through the Euphrates south of al-Raqqah. Riding like the breeze, they sailed just short of a hundred klicks. Reaped fields lay on both sides of the river, and the SOC-R slowed before reaching their GPS waypoint and a visual landmark that satellite maps showed to be an isolated farmhouse on the port side. Hank, Rojin, and Paris surveyed the starboard side, and Max and Tom scanned over the port bow, but the farmland appeared flat and nonthreatening. Chief parked the SOC-R beside a clump of reeds and oak trees near the bank. The Waynes and snipers slipped over the port side and into cold, shallow water up to their belly buttons. In spite of being so worried about not being able to swim, Rojin handled herself like a pro. Their team waded to shore and crawled up the bank, where they took cover in a patch of dense weeds covering the ground under the trees. They lay silent and shivering, watching and waiting for any unwelcome visitors. The SOC-R pushed further downstream and made several false insertions to fool anyone who might be listening or watching.

  An avalanche of gunfire and explosions rumbled several kilometers to the north of al-Raqqa. American special ops, FSA, and YPG hammered Daesh. Hopefully, Commander al-Iraqi would focus his attention on the fighting to the north while Max and his team snuck in from the south. After fifteen minutes without detecting any visible danger, Hank rose to a crouch and assumed the point, followed by Rojin, Paris, and Max in single file, with Tom at rear security. Max was stoked to get moving and raise his body heat above shivering. He used the trees for cover and camouflage as they pressed toward their rendezvous point. Hank stopped at the edge of the tree line, and they dropped to the prone in a line facing a dirt and gravel lot. A parked pair of black Toyota technicals, engines running and lights out, were the only vehicles in the lot. The technicals belonged to the Jazz militia, their allies. Arabs weren’t known for being punctual, but the Jazz militia broke the stereotype. So far, so good, Max thought.

  Max, Tom, and Hank studied the Jazz trucks while Rojin and Paris scoped the surrounding area for snipers or other gate-crashers. In the back of each technical was a man on a .50-caliber machine gun. In each cab was a driver and one more man, probably armed. Rojin broke squelch once, indicating that the surrounding area appeared clear. Now it was Tom’s turn to verify. He flashed a red light at the men in the vehicles and waited for the lead truck to flash its parking lights once. If it didn’t, or if the wrong signal was given, the rendezvous would be aborted. The lead truck gave the correct signal. Then one of the passengers, armed, stepped out, exposing himself in good faith. Hank rose and approached him.

  Max got to his feet and joined Hank. So did Tom. They kept their weapons at the low ready, so as not to appear threatening, but at the first sign of trouble they could shift to full fighting stance. Max maintained space between himself and his father as he walked so they wouldn’t bunch up into one easy target. Rojin and Paris remained behind—hidden in overwatch—just in case the rendezvous went sour. As the Waynes approached, Max noticed that the trucks were riddled with bullet holes. These trucks had seen the shit.

  Now that Dad was older and not 100 percent the Jedi Knight he used to be, Max felt responsible to protect him. Max’s heart rate accelerated, and his muscles tightened.

  Hank held out his hand. “I’m Hank.”

  The man beside the truck extended his hand. He had long, black curly hair and a dashing presence, but he bounced one leg up and down. Either he was naturally nervous or he knew something bad was about to happen. “I am Omar.”

  Hank shook his hand, longer than customary in the US but normal for the Arab world.

  When the handshake finished, Omar made a clawing motion, the Arab gesture for come here. “I take you to men and uniforms.”

  Hank smiled cordially. “And trucks.”

  Omar smiled nervously. “And trucks. We can take you to al-Iraqi’s bunker.”

  “How do you know where it is?” Hank asked.

  “My cousin sells them supplies,” Omar said. “We know. It’s in the old slaughterhouse.”

  Max wasn’t too roused to hear that Omar’s cousin worked for Daesh.

  The Waynes hopped in the back with the gunner, and Omar sat in front with the driver. Then the two trucks peeled out. Once the trucks left the area, Paris and Rojin would hoof it to the city and set up a sniper hide in the second floor of an abandoned building overlooking the south gate of Commander al-Iraqi’s bunker.

  “I ain’t getting a warm and fuzzy feeling about this,” Max said.

  “Me neither,” Hank said.

  Tom was calm. “We’ll see. We’ll see.”

  The gunner faced their way as if he was trying to listen in, but when he saw Max looking at him, he turned away.

  Omar’s driver took them a klick past blocks of flat-topped gray and brown houses to a neighborhood of white houses. They pulled into a large courtyard with fruitless fruit trees and halted next to a waterless fountain. To Max’s horror, they parked in the midst of two dozen black-clad terrorists, loading their AK rifles and affixing black Daesh flags on two black trucks, engines idling. Max brought up his weapon, but Tom put a hand on his barrel and pressed it down. “Relax, they’re on our side.”

  Max looked at him sideways. “You sure about this?”

  “Army intel said the Jazz had enemy uniforms,” Tom said.

  “And trucks,” Hank added.

  One of the black-clad men, who appeared too thin to withstand a strong wind, waved and greeted them with a toothless grin and an overly enthusiastic, “Hallo.”

  Tom gave him a friendly wave back.

  Mr. Overly Friendly posted a black Daesh flag on Omar’s truck.

  Omar was out of the truck now, and he clawed his right hand at the Waynes again. They popped out of the truck and followed him to a pile of uniforms. “Take. Please.”

  They sifted through the pile until they found uniforms that fit well enough, and they put them on over their regular clothes. Then Tom took out a photographic map and spread it across the hood of Omar’s truck, illuminated by another truck’s headlights. Hank looked over his shoulder at the map. Hank motioned for Omar to join them. Max tried to appear casual as he turned his back to the map and kept an eye on the courtyard.

  Omar brought two men with him to the map. He gestured at the younger man, who looked more like a lover than a fighter, and introduced him. “This is Durain.” The other lieutenant had bleeding-edge eyes and a scraggly beard. “And Emarat.”

  Hank shook their hands, but they showed no emotion. He asked Omar, “Can you show me the route we’ll drive?”

  With his index finger, Omar traced a route on the map from their current position, eastward, and then to the bunker.

  “Does Daesh drive with their lights on when they enter the compound?” Hank asked.

  “Yes. We will, too.”

  “Good,” Hank said.

  Omar pointed to a structure on the map. “Guard tower here, outside bunker. Daesh will think we Daesh, too.”

  “Good,” Hank said.

  “What we do about guard?” Omar asked.

  Max continued to face the courtyard and listen to their conversation. “I’ll call our snipers to take
care of the guard in the tower after we get inside.”

  “Snipers where?” Omar asked.

  Max didn’t tell him where. Just because Omar wanted to know, didn’t mean he had a need to know. “The snipers will be hidden. I’m waiting for them to report that they’re in position.”

  “Where will Commander al-Iraqi be?” Tom asked.

  “Al-Iraqi basement floor at far end,” Omar said. “We must move fast. Must kill al-Iraqi before Daesh know we not Daesh.”

  “We’re not here to kill Commander al-Iraqi,” Hank said politely but firmly. “We want to capture him alive and interrogate him. He’s more valuable to us alive. If he threatens your life or our lives, kill him. Otherwise, we want him alive.”

  “Alive,” Omar said with disappointment in his voice.

  “Make sure your men understand. Only kill him if he threatens us.”

  Omar relayed the information to his lieutenants, who passed the info to their men. Grimaces broke out among them. None of the Waynes let on that they were fluent in Arabic.

  “If we can interrogate Commander al-Iraqi,” Tom said, “he could give us information to help us kill or capture more of his men.”

  “We want to take them all down,” Max added, “not just al-Iraqi.”

  Omar translated to his militia. Some of the disgruntled faces cheered up but not all. Omar’s lieutenants remained poker-faced.

  Hank continued, “Once inside the compound, my boys and I will use sound-suppressed weapons to eliminate the guards. Save your machine guns and rockets until your lives are in danger or I ask for them.”

  Omar continued to relay the information to his men.

  “It’s going to get confusing in that building with everyone dressed as terrorists,” Tom said.

  “We should take off our hoods before we enter the building,” Max said.

  “Good idea,” Hank said.

  Omar told his lieutenants.

  Durain and Emarat gestured as if they understood. Then Omar pulled out a carefully handwritten map that looked like the interior layout of the bunker. “Two doors. This door go to al-Iraqi—downstairs. Other door go ground floor.”

 

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