Hunt the Viper

by Don Mann

  Anders started.

  Crocker wanted to dislike him, but couldn’t. As always, the CIA officer was reasonable and as forthright as he could be. “Not a lot. Some chatter referring to Ms. Hood coming out of Raqqa, al-Bab, Mosul, and Kirkuk. We figure the Kirkuk chatter is linked to Daesh’s propaganda arm, which is located there.”

  “Where’s al-Bab?”

  “It’s an ISIS-occupied town about forty klicks north of Aleppo, not far from where Ms. Hood was taken.”

  “What’s your best thinking on where she is now?” Crocker asked, his jaw tightening, the nerves in his forearm acting up.

  “We believe she’s somewhere between Aleppo and Raqqa. That’s roughly 160 kilometers of territory. We base that on the little intel we’ve received and the work of our analysts, who figure that Daesh has no reason to move her far from where they seized her, given that much of the land around both cities is contested.”

  “Sounds about right.” The bitter reality of the situation didn’t sit well in his stomach.

  “That’s all we’ve got. The Asayish, Turkish, and Jordanian intelligence have nothing specific, either. We’ve even appealed to the Russians, who might be privy to information from the Iranians because some Hezbollah militias are active in the area. But that’s a long shot.”

  “I don’t want to depend on them.”

  “No,” Smithson echoed.

  It sounded as though they were already preparing themselves for Ms. Hood’s execution.

  “Even if you deploy, it will be like looking for a needle in a very wide haystack,” Anders continued. “We think they’re keeping her in an underground bunker or some other highly secure location.”

  “Is there any possibility of a prisoner exchange of some sort?” asked Crocker.

  “You know our policy is never, under any circumstances, to negotiate with terrorists.”

  A long pause followed.

  Finally, Crocker groaned. “I’m not going to sit on my hands while the girl is killed. Me and my men are ready. We’re going to deploy!”

  “Not without orders,” Captain Sutter responded, strongly.

  “With orders or without orders, sir. We’ll commandeer a plane from the flight deck, if we have to,” said Crocker. “We’re going to Syria!”

  “The fuck you are!”

  Anders cut in. “Captain, Crocker…Let’s all take a deep breath.…I don’t see a problem with flying Crocker and his men to Erbil to be in theater…in case we uncover some specific intel at the last minute.”

  “Pride and stupidity,” Sutter protested.

  “Think about it.”

  “I see where this is going.”

  “I, personally, don’t have a problem with that contingency,” offered Anders.

  “Neither do I,” Smithson added.

  “Captain?”

  Sutter sighed. “All right. Crocker…let’s get you and your men to Erbil, just in case.”

  Crocker felt slightly relieved. At least they’d be moving. “We’re packed and ready, sir.”

  “All right. I’ll talk to the ship’s flight coordinator now.”

  “Tell him it’s urgent.”

  “I know what to say. Thanks.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The superior man acts before he speaks, and afterwards speaks according to his action.

  —Confucius

  Séverine had spent thirty minutes haggling with her ex-husband, reminding him that she hadn’t asked for a penny from him during their divorce. Now she needed help—at least $8,500 to add to the $3,000 and change she had in her bank account in France. That would give her around $11,500—$10,000 for bribes and information, and $1,500 to pay Asso up front. She wasn’t thinking about the remaining $1,000 she would owe him, which in her current state of exhaustion was understandable.

  She’d never had much interest in financial and banking matters, which Alain pointed out, explaining that the amount she had in her bank account in Paris was irrelevant because of the time and fees that would be required to transfer it to Kurdistan.

  Séverine suspected that was true, but didn’t care. She needed money, and threatened to call Alain’s mother, Madame Delage, if he didn’t get it to her immediately. That’s when Alain offered to wire $11,500 to the account she had set up at the International Bank of Kurdistan, with the promise that she pay back the $3,000 she had in Paris when she returned.

  “What I really think you need to do is come home and see a psychiatrist,” he said before hanging up. “You need professional help.”

  Because of local bank policy, Séverine wasn’t able to draw cash from a new account. So Asso got his cousin who worked at the bank to forward the cash in return for a $1,000 fee. He also arranged for the money to be converted into dollars, and provided a locked briefcase for Séverine to carry it in.

  Everything seemed to be working out. Now her Canadian DWB friend Kat was applying a box of dark-brown Revlon ColorSilk to her hair. She stood naked on plastic garbage bags in the bathroom of the DWB dormitory in downtown Erbil, shivering.

  “Why are you doing this?” Kat asked.

  Séverine lied. “For my boyfriend. I’m going to meet his parents.”

  “Where?”

  “They’re Syrian. They’re meeting us at a town on the border. It’s complicated.”

  “You’re going to Syria. It’s not safe.”

  “My boyfriend says it is.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you. You sure this has nothing to do with Dayna Hood?”

  Séverine covered her face in her hands. She didn’t want to mislead her friend further, but she couldn’t be dissuaded, either. And she still had a lot to do, including reaching out to residents of Raqqa through the “Raqqa Is Being Slaughtered Silently” Facebook page—something that had been suggested by Mrs. Bozarsian as a possible way to find out if her friend was being held there.

  Kat kneaded her shoulders and whispered in her ear. “I’m sorry, Séverine. I don’t mean to stress you out.”

  While she waited for the dye to set, she tried to reach Crocker via Skype and Viber. He didn’t answer. Asso called from his car.

  “It’s almost noon. We have to get moving. It’s a very long drive.”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “I’m downstairs in the blue Toyota Corolla. Make sure you wear your shayla.”

  The Gulfstream IV Crocker, Akil, Mancini, and CT rode in passed over the south coast of the island of Crete, which according to Greek mythology had been the birthplace of Zeus—god of the sky and thunder ruler of the Olympian gods.

  “Crete is where Athenian boys and girls were sent to be devoured by the half-man, half-bull monster Minotaur,” Mancini said from the seat across the aisle.

  Crocker had other concerns on his mind. “That’s great, professor.”

  “Until the warrior-hero Theseus entered the labyrinth to rescue them and slay the beast with his sword. Kind of like what we’re gonna do, right, boss?”

  “I hope so. Some things don’t change, right?”

  “Zeus’s mother, Rhea, hid baby Zeus in a cave on the island because his father had a thing about swallowing his children. When Zeus became a man, he forced his father to disgorge his brothers Poseidon and Hades. Generous guy, Zeus.…He shared the world with them. Gave Poseidon dominion of the seas and Hades the underworld of the dead.”

  “Thanks for the lecture.”

  “Any time, any subject.”

  Crocker sat next to Akil, who opened a digital map of Syria on his laptop.

  “I guess we should assume the girl’s somewhere between Aleppo and Raqqa,” Akil said.

  “Her name’s Dayna Hood.”

  “I know her name. I’ve seen her photos, too.”

  “Why the hell is the map taking so long to load?”

  “You gotta chill, boss.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “All right.…Here’s Aleppo. Here’s Raqqa,” Akil said, pointing at the map on the screen. “If we infil by roa
d, we’re looking at around seven hours of travel time from Erbil.”

  “Seven hours! Why so long?”

  “We have to cover 372 kilometers, or 231 miles, which doesn’t take into account the shit conditions of some of the roads and various roadblocks. You know we’re gonna run into militia checkpoints once we enter Syria.”

  “Right,” Crocker said, remembering the close calls with various militia members two years ago as they drove from Aleppo to Turkey—experiences he’d rather avoid repeating, if possible. “The 372 kilometers—is that to Raqqa or Aleppo?”

  “Raqqa,” Akil answered. “Aleppo is another 160 klicks west.”

  The Gulfstream hit an air pocket and bounced. Didn’t faze either one of them. “Looks like we’re gonna need a helicopter or two,” said Crocker.

  “Raqqa is on the Euphrates River. Maybe we parachute someplace east or west of the city and infil the city by boat.” Akil pointed to the patch of green and blue on the map that snaked northwest.

  “You know which militia group controls the territory east and south?”

  “Last I heard Daesh occupied most of it. Syrian armed forces and the Russians and Iranian militia groups are pressing them from the west. The SDF have control of a little piece of land near the Tabqa Dam…here.”

  Akil pointed to a spot along the Euphrates between Aleppo and Raqqa.

  “The SDF?” asked Crocker.

  “Syrian Democratic Forces,” Akil answered. “A coalition of Kurdish militia groups—the YPG, YPJ, Kurdish antiterror units, and Baggara tribesmen.”

  He knew the YPG, and had heard of the YPJ, which were Kurdish female militia units, but the Baggara were new to him.

  “They’re a tribe of cattle herders that occupy villages throughout northern Syria and into Iraq,” Akil explained. “They’re Arabs who oppose ISIS.”

  “Why?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  “I’ll huddle with Rastan soon as we land.”

  “He’s in Erbil?” asked Akil.

  “I hope so.”

  The bigger issue on both of their minds was the exact location of Dayna Hood. Without that, there would be no mission to rescue her.

  Crocker checked his watch. “We’ve got about twelve hours.…”

  “Plenty of time,” Akil shot back.

  “No fucking time to joke around.”

  “We’re gonna find her, boss. Relax.”

  Séverine tucked the dark-blue shayla under the shoulder of her jacket to hide her wet hair, and then swallowed two Percodan with a gulp of water. Her lower back and neck had been killing her since the incident at the clinic two days ago. The Indian doctor who examined her in Erbil and prescribed the Percodan told her the pain was the result of severe compression of the muscles caused by trauma and tension, and advised that she have an MRI to see if there was any structural damage to the vertebrae.

  That was the last thing on her mind now. All she could think about was who and what they would encounter on the road to Syria, and if Asso Bekas, seated beside her, would deliver on his promise, or betray her in some way.

  It was a chance she had to take. She knew she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if Dayna was executed and she hadn’t done everything she could think of to prevent it.

  Beyond that she worried that she hadn’t heard from Crocker in hours. She prayed he was on his way to Kurdistan, and the CIA was either negotiating a secret deal for Dayna’s release, or had a clear fix on her location.

  She’d brought two laptops, her own and one borrowed from Kat, her cell phone, and a satellite phone lent by the DWB office in Erbil.

  Via her own laptop she had posted a message on the “Raqqa Is Being Slaughtered Silently” Facebook page before they left, saying that she was a colleague of Dayna Hood’s from Doctors Without Borders and pleading for help in finding her. So far she had received thirty-two messages of sympathy, and requests from two people to communicate with her via Facebook Messenger.

  Asso warned her they could be ISIS trolls. Despite that she accepted their requests. One called himself Mohammad, the other went by BFOR. She lost cell phone and Internet coverage as they left the outskirts of Erbil heading west.

  “Merde.”

  “What’s wrong?” Asso asked.

  “No coverage.”

  “This isn’t France.”

  You can only control what you can control, she reminded herself. It was one of the things she’d learned during her study of Buddhism at the Sorbonne. Now she composed a list of things she could control in her head:

  My levels of exertion and honesty

  How well I prepare

  How I act on my feelings

  How I interpret situations

  Whether to give people the benefit of the doubt

  Whether to think negative or positive thoughts

  The time I spend worrying

  Asso, beside her, hummed to himself. She thought he looked like an engineering student, dressed in new jeans, a blue oxford shirt and sweater, a black leather jacket, and round, wire-rimmed glasses. He had impressed her with the way he’d coolly separated five hundred dollars, put it in the briefcase, and hid the rest of the money inside the spare tire in the trunk.

  He turned to her and half-smiled. “You okay?”

  “What do you do when you’re not working with the Asayish?”

  “I buy used cars in Germany and sell them for a profit in Erbil.”

  “How do you get them there?” she asked.

  “I drive them through Greece and Turkey.”

  “You do that yourself?”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  “You’re enterprising,” she said.

  “Many of us Kurds are. We have to be.”

  “I thought you said you were from Syria.”

  “Many Kurdish people live in Syria, you know. I’m from a city called Latakia on the Mediterranean Sea. The largest port in Syria. It was where some of the most violent protests against the Assad government took place in March 2011. The regime cracked down, arresting Sunnis, Christians, Armenians, and Kurds. Now it’s a peaceful sea resort. When you’re there you can’t believe there’s a war going on.…”

  The Percodan had taken effect and was making her sleepy. She closed her eyes.

  Major Fendo Jahani, a Peshmerga officer and aide to Colonel Rastan, and a middle-aged CIA officer named Baldwin “Bones” Doyle greeted the SEALs on the tarmac of Erbil Airbase as U.S. and UK jets taxied in the background. Bones was a tall, balding man with a slight paunch. He looked like he’d slept in his pants, shirt, and sweater.

  “Let’s talk inside,” he said.

  Crocker and his team followed them into a room with green walls at the back of the newly constructed concrete terminal. Armed soldiers guarded the door.

  “Colonel Rastan sends his regards,” Major Jahani announced. He cut a sharp contrast to Doyle—new camouflage fatigues, a maroon ascot around his neck, and a matching beret worn at an angle. Good-looking with black hair and a strong jaw. “He’s detained in Mosul. He told me to assist you in any way we can.”

  Crocker was disappointed that Rastan wasn’t there when he needed him. Instead of dwelling on that he asked the question foremost on his mind. “What new intel have you developed on Ms. Hood?” He and his men looked like members of a rowdy motorcycle gang with tats, beards, and long hair.

  “Well, sir—”

  Doyle cut Major Jahani off. “Not much.” He had a seen-it-all, no-BS manner. By no means the usual tight-lipped CIA case officer you encountered in the field. “Same worthlesss crap from the NSA. Rumors, but zero specifics. Fucking useless, if you ask me.”

  Crocker’s stomach started churning. “We’ve got ten hours until the deadline. Ten hours!”

  “We know that,” Bones Doyle countered out of the side of his mouth. “Don’t expect anything to change.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Chief Warrant, it means, even if we get something from one of our sources, there’s not gonna b
e time to confirm the information to the satisfaction of the suits in Washington, which means zero percent chance the White House approves a rescue mission in time.”

  “Call me Crocker.”

  “Crocker…I don’t think I have to tell you why.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “They’re gonna hope the Daesh savages don’t cut Ms. Hood’s head off because they’re afraid that will piss off the big, bad United States and we’ll bomb the whole place into oblivion. But Daesh will execute her exactly for that reason. And tomorrow the president and members of Congress will express their outrage, and approve more aid to the anti-ISIS rebels, and then they’ll all return to Chevy Chase and Fairfax to drink their cocktails, and watch mindless shit on TV, and that’ll be that.”

  Crocker considered Doyle’s blunt assessment, and concluded it was spot-on.

  “You see the plea from Ms. Hood’s family?” Doyle asked.

  “No.”

  “Brought tears to my eyes, and I don’t cry.”

  An aide in civilian clothes hurried in and handed Crocker a phone. “Sir, your commander.”

  “Crocker?” It was Captain Sutter at ST-6 HQ.

  “Yes, Captain. We just touched down in Erbil.”

  “I’m calling to tell you that we’re working on some things intel-wise and to remind you that we can’t make any moves without executive approval.”

  Crocker knew that already. “What are you working on?”

  “We’re looking at some links to Sheikh Abu Samir al-Sufi, a.k.a. the Viper. We’re trying to confirm them now.”

  “What sort of links?”

  “The possibility that he’s the commander holding Ms. Hood. Nothing confirmed, but the NSA has picked up a couple interesting things.”

  “Makes sense. He’s the chief Daesh commander in that area of Syria, isn’t he? And didn’t one of his wives die recently as a result of a U.S. air strike?”

  “That’s unconfirmed.”

  “Doesn’t matter if it’s confirmed or not, if you’re looking at the situation from his point of view,” countered Crocker. It was a skill he was still developing—seeing things from the other person’s perspective—and one that he continued to put more stock in.