A Touch Of War

by Isaac Stormm

  “I assume you all have been briefed on our meeting and how this proposal came about?” Anderson said. They nodded. “Good. Gentlemen, I want to know if we do this what kind of people we might be sending out on this. Afterward, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. Mitchell, go ahead and start.”

  “Did everyone’s thumb drives work alright?” he said.

  After everyone confirmed no trouble, the first face came up. “We looked over the records of different personnel from the Army and Navy. We looked for some uniqueness from each individual, mainly experience. We ended up selecting from both for a few reasons. One, language fluency. We found three in Delta and two in DEVGRU that speak fluent Farsi with one having been born in Iran. All have multiple deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan with the DEVGRU operators serving in Yemen as well. The first guy here, this is him without a beard, will be our overall commander. He’s from Delta.”

  Anderson looked at the man, his green beret perched proudly on an angular head with a squared jaw. Round sockets of brown eyes shown below a peak of burr brown hair shown skirting under the beret’s black sweatband.

  “This is Major Blayze Carlson, thirty six. Seventeen deployments. Wounded in Iraq 2007. two Silver Stars, five Bronze Stars. Purple Heart, Legion of Merit, Good Conduct Medal, and fourteen years in the Special Forces. His language specialties are Arabic, Russian and German. He graduated from West Point at the head of his class. A real go getter from Missouri.

  “Next is, Lieutenant Alijah Quinn. U.S. Navy. He’s the Iranian. Sixteendeployments. Three Silver Stars, four Bronze Stars. Under consideration for a Navy Cross for actions in his last deployment.”

  “Doesn’t sound like an Iranian name,” Anderson looked at his physical features, thick eyebrows, close eyes, a narrow nose and lips made him appear plain and as western as could be.

  “Not Persian. He’s Jewish. Emigrated about twenty years ago. Speaks Farsi and Arabic,” Mitchell went on, “he also had relatives killed by the regime before he got out. He’ll be second-in-command.”

  “Only of the Americans, I’m afraid.”

  Mitchell stopped “Oh, yes. That reminds me. What is the chain of command for this group?”

  “I want Carlson and his counterpart to be co-leaders, with the Israeli having sway on decision making, because they know this area better than we do. However, they will not have any input over our people if Carlson thinks something’s too risky.”

  “Think they’ll agree to that?”

  “They better if they want us along. If both become unable to lead, it will revert down the list. He puckered his lips a bit then said, “We’ll have to work something out.” If they went, he didn’t want rivalries happening in the group which, given if the Israelis were similar, contained Alpha males who never worked together. Though a distant possibility, bickering could cause problems and he could just see everything falling apart if these men failed for one second to overcome and adapt if theirs leaders were somehow lost. He had to hope professionalism was so ingrained, it would never enter their minds. “Continue please.”

  “Bobby Huffman. First Sergeant. Age thirty four. sixteen deployments. Wounded on a classified mission into Yemen in 2010.” He looked older than any of them, a round, firm face with an outline on cheeks and chin of shaved but perpetual stubble. “Speaks Arabic and Spanish.

  “Scott Wilson. Sergeant First Class. Age thirty one. Prior service with Naval intelligence of four years. Reenlisted U.S. Army, fourteen deployments.” His narrow face seemed paler than the others, almost sickly. He reminded Anderson of the kind of man who looked better in glasses. He spoke the languages of Arabic and Spanish.

  “Lawrence Mustin, Sergeant First Class. Age thirty two. fifteen deployments. This one was assigned to help track down WMDs in Iraq. He worked as a liaison for us with the IAEA. He’ll be the one who leads the team in.” Of brown curled hair, which perfectly matched his eyes, he had a slight scar running from his upper lip to the side of his nose, which indicated an operation in his past. He was the only one on the American side with fluency in Turkish dialect.

  “If all goes as planned,” Anderson remarked.

  Mitchell didn’t respond at first, then he added, “If not, the team leader will take his place, then second-in-command and so on.” He changed the picture to a gallery showing the five men. “There they are, Mr. President, hand-selected for the job. You make the call.”

  “Good.” Anderson looked them over quick, then said, “Along with Carlson, I’m taking Quinn.”

  “Then the rest of the men shall form a rescue party based in Azerbaijan should things go bad.” Mitchell then shifted everyone’s screen to show the route of ingress in blue and the egress in red. Both were colorized versions of the black and white he’d seen before with flight times added to each. forty seven minutes of flight to and from the landing zone. “The LZ will only change if we feel it is too dangerous. In which case, we will shift the LZ to no more than one mile difference in any direction. This will put them on hills with thick forests. Beyond that, we’re talking about climbing to the top of what looks like vertical sides of mountains. Very problematic.”

  Anderson threw out a suggestion. “What if we had air assets over Azerbaijan within the pickup time window, might they be able to reach the area quick enough if we found ourselves in trouble?” He was thinking of a certain plane, wondering if Mitchell would pick up the hint.

  “If we have their permission, we could. At supersonic speed, they would take about ten minutes to arrive on station.”

  “Suppose we don’t have their permission.”

  “Well, at the risk of causing more problems for ourselves, we maybe could get a few F-22s to skirt the border.”

  The F-22 was the one he thought of. One of, if not the best, fighters in the world, it combined angular features for stealth and the ability to cruise up to 1,200 miles per hour without using its afterburner. Its incomparable maneuverability aided by thrust vectoring engines and ability to carry a formidable payload internally was the obvious choice. Anderson was about to offer something certain to raise eyebrows. “I wouldn’t want them to skirt the border. I’d want them in Iranian airspace. Not too far over the border mind you, just much closer, say no more than five minutes out at pickup time. If they were detected, they should have enough time to get back into friendly territory.”

  “Still leaving our helicopters on their own,” Greene countered. “Possibly adding their jets to the mix.”

  “Yes. But if the choppers are detected, they’ll realize they’re slow moving and come anyway. With them, it gives us an added measure of safety.”

  “You would prefer they have an umbrella over them on the way back?” Greene said.

  “Why not. From what it seems, it gives us a much greater security measure than them not being there.”

  “If they’re caught on the ground it’s not likely they would be able to use any JDAMs or other smart weapons,” Mitchell said. “If the Iranians got to within a few yards, we’d be looking at gun runs only.”

  “It’s a shame the Warthog isn’t stealthy.” Greene referred to the magnificent and aged A-10. America’s tank buster originally intended for war against the Soviet Union in the 1970s and ‘80s. A much-loved and appreciated close air support plane, with a massive seven-barreled 30 mm cannon, it thrived at low level, yet was too slow to evade a fighter and showed up on radar as easy as a jumbo jet. Saved from extinction by allies in Congress, it was still at work in Afghanistan.”

  “I’m sure the Israelis wouldn’t mind some extra firepower coming to the party.” Anderson looked around the table trying to measure their stares, one by one by one, turning from screens to him.

  A sigh escaped as he inhaled. He was sure some still wanted more questions answered. He thought about it and surmised this had to be the worst kept secret of any security meeting he’d ever held. Since it was that way, everyone should know the answer; there was no need to hold back any longer.

  “All right. I know tha
t everyone here knows that my answer is going to be yes. However, I’ve changed my mind on one thing. I want us to lead this mission, to have the final say on the ground. Does that sound all right to you all?”

  “Does anyone have any more questions?” Mitchell asked.

  There were no takers.

  “Very well, then. Let’s call the prime minister.” The screen went black and Anderson looked down at the keyboard, going over what he was going to say. He didn’t care if Grozner had objections to the US leading the operation, he would stand firm no matter what. If bickering broke out, he would threaten to call the whole thing off, and wondered if Grozner would give in then, even though it would continue to confirm that he was indecisive.

  The screen blinked and showed Grozner sitting in his chair with his arms folded on the table like a teacher waiting for students to turn in a report. “Good evening, Mister President.”

  “Evening, Prime Minister. As you can probably tell, I’m in the situation room with my advisors. There wasn’t much of a debate among us. I want to tell you that I agree to this mission with one request,” he caught himself. “Well, a demand, actually.”

  “And that is?”

  “We want the team to be commanded by an American. I know your people have more knowledge about the subtleties of this operation than we do, yet we’ve never let any of our armed forces, no matter how small, be under the command of another flag. Your ranking officer will be second-in-command and it will revert to the other side and so on if more casualties occur. This provides a fair chain of command, and one acceptable to us.” He watched Grozner think for a moment, then stiffen his lips.

  “Alright. That is reasonable. I would suggest a debarkation time from Azerbaijan of no greater than one thirty a.m. their time. That gives both countries plenty of time for our units to rest and coordinate with each other.”

  “One more thing. I would like a protective air element provided by us to cover their pickup.” This is where he knew Grozner would object.

  “I see. I’m afraid Azerbaijan wouldn’t allow any foreign combat aircraft in their air space. Such a presence would probably destroy the good will we’ve worked hard to achieve. And turn out bad for both of us.”

  “I assure you it is unlikely they would ever know.” He imagined Grozner thinking how they could ever pull it off.

  “Such a proposal may be too dangerous, Mister President. Whatever trick you may have up your sleeve to pull this off may lead to many unforeseen problems that would jeopardize future Israeli missions from the country.” He watched Grozner look away just for a second then noticed his eyes blinking rapidly, a sign of agitation at the least. Was this their Mexican standoff? Was the mission dead? He waited for the man to speak with anticipation rising in him.

  “Well, I suppose, given the seriousness of the situation, I have no choice, do I?” He gave a tepid laugh “Alright. If you can keep your planes from being discovered, there shouldn’t be an issue.”

  “Thank you. I will give the order to assemble our team after the end of our call. My apologies for keeping you at the office late.”

  “It is no problem, Mister President. I’m glad we see eye to eye on this. I shall give the order for our team to depart within the hour. May God be with us.”

  “Amen.” The screen went dark again and Anderson asked, “I forgot, I never saw the name of this airbase we’re supposed to meet at. What is it?”

  “It doesn’t really have a name,” Mitchell said. “A3 is what its official designation is. It’s an old abandoned Soviet-era base, out of the way from any big cities. We did a quick rundown on what’s there and come to find out there’s no active military units based there apart from some military police. All in all, an ideal location to launch black ops from.”

  Anderson had all his questions answered. “Okay. Give the order.” He rose, with the others following. “Mitchell, I’ll leave it up to you to keep me apprised of any developments after they leave. I want an update every other hour they’re on the ground and at any hour if anything new develops. It’s your operation now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s under your control now,” Grozner said to him over the phone. “He wants to use air cover to protect the extraction. I agreed. In any case, I’ll see you back in a few days.” Foxmann was about to disconnect when he heard the man say, “Jessy…”

  “Yes?”

  “Besides saying good luck, my friend, I want to know that you’re okay with the leadership situation Anderson wanted.”

  He detected a note of sadness in his tone, or maybe concern. “I’m fine with it, and we’ll do our best.” He knew he didn’t have to say that. It was expected, almost to a guarantee, and he would see it through as his people had for thousands of years. He dialed a number, heard the phone pickup after the first ring, and a somewhat slow, groggy Captain David answered. Foxmann smiled at the man’s determination for rest. “Meet me at the airport in an hour.”

  “On my way.”

  A tingling shot up the nape of his spine. Something he, with all his years’ experience, had not felt since graduating basic training. His heart began to race more so than the quick jaunt provided to the elevator. As he entered, a young woman who he’d passed many times on the way to the office looked at him as he stepped in.

  “Good evening, Colonel,” she said with a refreshing smile.

  He saw the button already pressed for the ground floor. “Please forgive me, I’ve seen you a million times, I’m afraid I still don’t know your name.” The door shut.

  She extended her hand. “That’s alright, I don’t believe I ever told you.” As Foxmann shook it, she said, “Andrea Shapira. I’m a U.N. liaison to the government.”

  Wow. Could this be the traitor whose contact was the girl from Gaza? “Pleasure to know you.” He wanted to do a little background check with the conversation. Working late? Why? What’s your specific job? With no time, he’d have to notify somebody else to check her out. It was a shame if she was the one. A pretty young thing looking in her late twenties at the most. And as the door opened, he heard her say “Happy Independence Day,” before he acknowledged her with a nod and the two parted for their cars. He could still hear the click of her high heels as he reached his and got in. He lost her as she slid into a shiny cobalt blue BMW. Is that what they could afford these days? He expected some dirty company car with fading paint and an aged motor protesting in loud heavy idles before rolling. He fastened his belts and thought she must be pretty high up to afford such a machine. Yes, she’d have to be checked out.

  His body fought to release from its earthly bonds. Something refused it. There was pressure on his shoulders, numbing them. It was all he felt, though in his newfound consciousness, weak as it was, it seemed like something within it strained to explode under a tremendous buildup of pressure. When it did, he knew the screams urging him back would come much louder than before. Still, he was convinced he was on his way to heaven. His spirit was simply shedding the last of the world’s wickedness and freeing him at the same time. He rejoiced. In just a few more moments, he would open his eyes in paradise. Feel Allah’s warm and loving arms imbue him with energy for the eternal celebration, see those he’d loved and lost standing around him, tears streaming down their cheeks, welcoming him. He knew it was close as his weightless body came to rest on something soft. No more pressure. No feeling of duress. He was home. Ready. Now he must see its beauty.

  A hooded figure, half its face visible in a weak light that seemed to flutter under the surrounding darkness, looked at him. Its breath, warm with the scent of something he couldn’t identify, flooded over his face. It raised an arm, holding something that dappled his cheeks and forehead, sending icy fingers of cold through him. He shuddered, hearing his breath wheeze in pity. Heaven should be much more than this. Was all that he believed in now shown to be wrong? Was there no heaven? Surely it must not be hell, there was no mercy there. Each wipe the figure made on his face proved that. He was somewhere else.
He closed his eyes again, and recited the prayer through his mind. When he opened them again, he made out the face. A child. Someone he’d never seen before. It muttered something that sounded garbled yet familiar. Kurdish. My God, this was not the afterlife, it was still him as a mortal soul, attached to this withered body.

  He watched the young girl dip the washcloth in the cool water the bucket held. He listened and made out how the group of village men found him delirious, even singing to Allah in a loud raspy voice. They lugged him some four kilometers through the forest, listening to him carry on until one of them put a hand over his mouth. They knew the area remained active with Iranian patrols.

  His eyes lit with movement. He grunted then moved his lips. “Where?”

  The girl’s eyes bulged and she let out a shriek, running from the room. He blinked his eyes and tried rubbing his lips. They were enlarged, hardened and blistered. There was no sense of touch as his fingertips scraped grit away. No feeling as his fingertips coursed up his cheek. He noticed the light, a small candle on the dirt floor with the wax favoring one side and dripping into a rusty pan that it melded to. His eyes shifted to search more of the room. He noticed the large dark rug, part of which he lay on, covering about half of it. Several blankets side by side against the wall beyond the rim of his shoes told it was a family dwelling.

  A man, topped with a ragged black turban and wrinkled with a flowing silvery beard down to his sternum, entered, the girl at his side. To Wasir, it became clear he held some sort of important stature. At once, whatever reverence he contemplated vanished. For in the man’s right hand were a pair of pliers, with long handles resting back past his wrist. The girl stopped, kneeled down and tore fabric away from his shoulder. She dipped the cloth until it was sopping again and applied it in a soothing circle that tingled the numbness as the man reached down and patted and rubbed his forehead. He looked up into the man’s eyes when he kneeled down next to his head, and saw the pliers ease toward his shoulder. They touched the shoulder and began to bury the tip. The shininess of the pliers played with his eyes as they started twisting and probing deeper into the wound. Now he felt it. Stabbing then tugging, the bone itself moving. Pain shot into his throat and out his mouth in guttering roar. The girl stopped wiping and braced the other shoulder and his torso. He twitched and screamed as the pliers buried further, widening the wound. The girl’s lips quivered, staving off crying. The probe of the wound went further and sweat burst from every orifice followed by a scream which forced the girl to cover her ears, letting his torso writhe and leap with pain. She pressed back down as the pliers yanked something out. It hit against the wall then rolled back toward him. The girl placed the cloth down on his shoulder, mopping up the spurting wound until it ceased. A hand showed him his pain. A boat-tailed .308 round, rifling grooves impressioned into its length and the copper jacket’s shine dulled from its journey. It remained intact, nary a nick or scrape. It was placed beside the old man and he scooted down, the girl unbuttoning his shirt, revealing another wound the size of his thumbnail. Dried blood clotted in a small stump surrounded by a reddish circle of grime. Down came the pliers again once the girl cleaned the skin. Wasir pointed for the extracted round.