Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

  The decision was made for him when four more Chinese pursuers emerged from the flow of cars fifty yards behind them. Two of the men carried electric-shock batons; two, Type 05 submachine guns. They spotted him and broke into a run.

  “Into the cemetery! We have more company coming from the right!” Logan said, and then dashed across the dirt shoulder and into what a sign informed him in Arabic and English was Khartoum’s War Cemetery. A perfect place for a modern-day showdown.

  Even as he sprinted across the open ground, the thought again popped into his head, prompted by the presence of the electric-shock batons—they don’t want to kill us. As he ran, he pondered which was worse—death or capture.

  CHAPTER 22

  US Embassy, Khartoum

  Wendell Sharp was still trying to piece together the information and orders he’d received from Langley only hours ago. As the chief of station and senior CIA intelligence officer, he was accustomed to having ultimate oversight of all intelligence operations in his region.

  He ran his hand through his graying hair as he paged through the late-morning traffic and updates from his case officers on his classified computer, but his mind kept turning toward the conversation he’d had with the deputy director two hours ago.

  A twenty-year veteran of multiple duty stations across the African continent, Wendell Sharp had requested his current assignment for his twilight tour, prior to returning to Langley for one last short assignment and then retirement.

  His interest in imperialism and his love for British history had led him to study England’s role in Sudan in the late nineteenth century. He knew that the British had conquered Sudan in order to prevent the French from controlling the waters of the Nile. But it wasn’t Britain’s conquering of the rich land that had fascinated him—it was the revolution that the British occupation had started, a slow and steady quest for freedom that had escalated over fifty-eight years, resulting in Sudanese independence in 1956.

  The son of a civil rights activist from Alabama, he identified with the Sudanese people who currently suffered under the oppressive regime in Khartoum. After the horrific, genocidal war crimes in Darfur, he’d hoped to at least make a slight difference, not only in the national security interests of the United States, but also for the people of Sudan.

  In the past three years, he and his case officers had made serious inroads into the various ministries. The DC politicians had been especially pleased with intelligence that resulted in the indictment of the current president for war crimes and crimes against humanity.

  Through it all, Wendell had operated with the utmost autonomy, which is why the current order from the director’s office to provide any and all assistance to the three men under cover who’d just flown in to Khartoum had him perplexed.

  What the hell is going on? Whatever it was had to be big, because they’d been able to arrange visas and travel arrangements on short notice. A coup? He’d once heard a rumor that the vice president had wanted to overthrow the president, but he’d never been able to confirm it.

  More than likely, it was probably the presence of a high-value target. Several Islamic extremist operatives were rumored to be hiding in Sudan, as Osama bin Laden himself had once done. I’ll find out soon enough.

  He was refocusing his attention on a report on a low-level minister who might make a good target for blackmail—he had two mistresses and serious financial troubles—when the secure phone on his desk rang.

  “This is Sharp,” he said, picking up the handset.

  “Sir, this is Holmes down in the communications office. I think we have a problem.”

  The words sent Wendell’s heart into tachycardia. The communications officer went on, “Mr. Cross just triggered his personal locator beacon in his SUV. The vehicle isn’t moving, and it’s located near the War Cemetery. Also, he’s not answering his satellite phone. I wanted to touch base with you before I activate the quick-reaction force—”

  Wendell cut him off. “Do it now. Get them moving ASAP. Also, launch the Draganflyer for overwatch and make sure the operator has a direct link to the QRF commander,” Wendell said urgently, referring to the compact rotary UAV the embassy used for force protection. “I’m calling Langley, and then I’ll be down in the command center.”

  He hung up and dialed the senior watch officer at CIA’s Operations Center in Virginia.

  ———

  Lau Gang dashed around the stopped traffic, intent on reaching his operatives who were now in pursuit of their targets. He’d watched the ambush from a parked SUV fifty yards away on the other side of the intersection, an elevated location that had provided him with a vantage point over the entire area. The ambush had unfolded exactly as planned, at least until the embassy driver had slammed the vehicle into reverse and tried to escape.

  As he’d exited his vehicle, he’d spotted two men moving toward the grounds of the cemetery, but once he’d run into the sea of traffic, he’d lost sight of them. This should not have been this difficult.

  As he ran through the honking, metallic chaos, he reminded himself once again that operations like this never went smoothly. True, but they always ended successfully, he thought, and redoubled his efforts to navigate the mass of angry and panicked drivers.

  He had to remove the Americans from the playing field and eliminate the threat that they posed. The physical compulsion to control the situation had taken over his actions. The fact that they’d made it this far, even in the face of his carefully crafted plans, was disturbing but not enough to send him into a panic. He was too disciplined for that type of irrational reaction.

  The next forty-eight hours would ultimately determine the success of his operation and add another notch in his belt as a Chinese operative, and he wasn’t about to leave anything to chance, especially the presence of US agents. Once he had them in his custody, he’d obtain what they’d learned about him, Namir, or the plan. After that, their only other purpose would be to serve as another diversion, ultimately ending up as permanent residents in the fertile soil of the Nile River—or worse.

  He smiled at the thought, the expression breaking up his normally impassive features, and ran harder.

  ———

  How the hell did we get into this situation? Logan thought as he weaved in and out between the white tombstones. Cole ran next to him, breathing hard.

  “I think David triggered an emergency beacon,” Cole said in between rapid breaths. “As soon as the ambush started, he flipped a switch inside the same panel where he had the SAT phone. I’m guessing that the embassy knows we’re in trouble, and they’ll be sending a QRF, if they haven’t already. If we can find a way out and a place to hide, we might make it out of this.”

  Logan opened his mouth to speak when another four-man team suddenly appeared at the cemetery’s perimeter fence one hundred yards to their left. A young, Chinese male with short black hair was barking orders.

  Logan suddenly stopped, and Cole pulled up beside him. Logan turned to see John thirty yards away, just entering the field of stone. The four men who’d chased them had closed the gap on John, and two men wielding shock batons were only twenty feet behind him. He’s not going to make it.

  “We’re almost out of options,” Cole said. “They’ve got us on three sides.”

  Ignoring Cole for the moment, Logan shouted, “Faster, John! They’re on your tail!”

  John raised his head to respond, but calamity struck first.

  Logan watched in horror as his closest friend’s right foot caught the edge of a tombstone and sent him flying across the cemetery lawn. Even in midair, it was obvious that John’s concern was for his unconscious cargo. John twisted his body, gripping David’s arm tightly, and curled his upper torso to protect David’s head and neck from the ground. They crashed onto the earth, their backs absorbing the brunt of the impact. As he slid still, John released David’s arm, and the unconscious man rolled off him and onto his back, eyes still closed, unaware of the chase in which he was an unwill
ing participant.

  John sat up as the four pursuers slowly surrounded them. He locked eyes briefly with Logan, momentarily ignoring his attackers. Years of combat experience and the deep friendship they’d developed lay exposed in the hot Khartoum sun. John knew what his friend would do for him, but now was not the time or the place. If they wanted any chance of finding the ONERING, some of them had to escape. And right now, Logan and Cole had the best odds. Today wasn’t the day they’d die together.

  “Don’t even think about it! Get out of here, regroup, and come find me,” John shouted. He grinned, looked at the nearest man wielding a baton, and said, “That is unless I kill these motherfuckers myself, in which case I’ll be along shortly.” He quickly looked back at Logan and screamed as loudly as he could, his voice carrying across the burial ground, threatening to wake the dead, “NOW GO!”

  The four men to Logan’s right had jumped the fence and were now slowly approaching them, carefully covering the entire width of the cemetery. The young man issuing orders spoke calmly into a handheld radio. He’s calling for more reinforcements. They must really want us.

  Voices suddenly emanated from the south side of their position, and Logan whirled around to see three more armed operatives navigating the tombstones. We’re surrounded.

  Logan glanced back at John, who now stood in the center of his attackers. Goddamn you, John. You always have to be the hero.

  “Let’s move,” Logan said. He didn’t look back as he fled toward the back of the cemetery where a smooth, white marble rectangular memorial stood near the back fence. The two other teams were in pursuit, executing a foot-mobile pincer movement designed to cut off their last chance of escape.

  CHAPTER 23

  QRF Convoy

  Retired Army Major Tim Greco watched the dash-mounted laptop screen in silence from the passenger seat of the beige MRAP, a mine-resistant, ambush-protected vehicle that laboriously worked its way through the Khartoum traffic.

  As the embassy’s regional security officer—commonly called an RSO—he was the senior officer assigned by the Diplomatic Security Service, the DSS, in charge of all embassy security and force protection, including the safety of all US personnel assigned to Khartoum.

  Less than five minutes ago, he’d been sorting through the daily intelligence, assessing the validity and severity of the multiple local threats the embassy received on a regular basis. Almost all turned out to be nothing, either the result of bad information or intentional disinformation from local bad actors hoping to probe the embassy’s security posture. The last real threat from a local Islamist extremist group had been neutralized by the Sudanese government after he’d fed the Sudanese National Intelligence and Security Service information leading to their safe house.

  A former enlisted Army Ranger with the 3rd Ranger Battalion, Tim knew the risks of complacency in enemy territory. He’d been a young Fire Team leader in Somalia in 1993 during the Black Hawk Down battle. His convoy had been sent into the city from the airport after the second Black Hawk had crashed. His Humvee had come under intense fire, and his radio operator had been killed in the seat behind him.

  To this day, he still blamed the presidential administration for denying the requests for Abrams tanks and Bradley armored fighting vehicles. There was no guarantee Specialist Mike Airesdale would’ve survived, but at least he’d have had a fighting chance. The Humvees of the early nineties hadn’t been built to sustain the kind of damage inflicted by Aidid’s militia.

  Months after the battle, he’d decided to become a commissioned officer and dedicate his career to providing the appropriate level of force protection for US personnel stationed around the world. It became his personal mission and ultimately landed him in the DSS, utilizing his knowledge and skills to become one of the best RSOs in the agency.

  When his phone rang and the chief of station told him an emergency beacon had been triggered by one of his case officers, Tim had been able to launch a two-MRAP QRF convoy comprised of both Marine Security Guard forces and civilian DSS personnel in less than five minutes.

  Training and preparation always pay off, he thought as he watched the live feed from the Draganflyer UAV hovering five hundred feet above the cemetery. Two small dark figures ran toward a rectangular marble building Tim recognized—he’d visited the cemetery multiple times; all warriors have a respect for the war dead—pursued by running figures from both sides. Two others remained near the main entrance, surrounded by four other attackers.

  Who were these guys? But the chief of station hadn’t told him, and it wasn’t relevant to his mission. All that mattered was their safe recovery.

  But then something else caught his attention from outside the fence in the back of the cemetery. What the . . . ? Oh no.

  “Brian, you better drive as fast as you can. Run them off the road if they won’t move. This is going to be over in the next few minutes, and we’re still a half mile away,” Tim said urgently.

  His second in command responded by pressing the accelerator to the floor. The 9.3-liter engine roared, a living beast eager to devour anything in its path. The MRAP struck a small white Toyota blocking the shoulder and flung it aside, its driver staring in amazement as the gigantic tactical vehicle passed it on the inside.

  Tough luck, buddy. Should’ve stayed on the road.

  Tim spoke into the microphone mounted on his Kevlar helmet and issued instructions to the second team in the MRAP behind him.

  ———

  John was itching for a fight. Getting ambushed in the middle of Khartoum had triggered a reaction he reserved for special occasions, ones usually involving the use of especially lethal force. To put it bluntly—he was pissed off.

  It wasn’t the assault on their Range Rover. It wasn’t even the fact that he was now surrounded by four men with modified electric-shock batons and submachine guns. He couldn’t blame them. They were following their orders, although how their enemy had so quickly identified Logan, John, and Cole when they themselves had only realized they were coming to Khartoum mere hours ago was extremely disturbing. He’d save that mystery for a later date.

  No, he was enraged—pure and simple—because he’d tripped. He was furious with himself for being so careless, especially when he’d charged himself with the safety of David Cross. I’m getting old, he thought, although he knew his “old” was good enough to take out most men decades younger. It doesn’t matter. I stumbled, and I shouldn’t have. Goddamnit!

  “Okay then, boys,” John said, assessing the situation. David was semiconscious where he’d fallen near a headstone, and he began to stir, a low groan rising from his form.

  One attacker with a baton was just out of John’s reach to his right, the other baton-wielding man to his left. The two men with submachine guns stood in front of him a little more than ten feet away. The muzzles were angled down, as if to remind him there was no point in fighting, that there was nowhere to go.

  Oh yeah? Fuck you. We’ll see about that. He picked his target.

  “Don’t just stand there with your dick in your hands, junior. Let’s get on with it,” John said icily.

  The man was the youngest of the four. John figured he couldn’t be more than twenty, maybe twenty-five. A brief flash of anger raced across the young man’s smooth forehead, and then he gripped his weapon tighter. He raised the submachine gun at John’s head and nodded slightly to John’s side.

  “Take him,” the young man said in crisp English.

  Gotcha, asshole, John thought, and smiled, waiting for the attack.

  The young man saw the smile and faltered, recognizing too late that it was what his target had been hoping for.

  The man with the black baton took a quick step forward. In a flash, John moved to the right and closed the distance between them.

  The electric baton came rushing toward John’s chest—as he’d expected—but he was too quick for his attacker. Like a professional boxer, he sidestepped as the baton sizzled past him in the air, and he loo
ped his left arm over his attacker’s, securing the baton against his side and protecting himself at the same time.

  John heard the other two men move behind him. He had to eliminate this threat before he could deal with them, unless they got to him first.

  Acutely aware of his vulnerability, he struck his human shield with a vicious punch to the shoulder, and he felt the man’s arm go slack, reflexively releasing the baton he held. John stepped into the man’s torso and turned, once more placing the man directly between him and the youngest team member with the submachine gun. He shoved his unwilling protector with both hands, flinging him backward before he could react.

  As the man fell, John reached down to his side and grabbed the cattle prod that had been left there, suspended under his arm. He grabbed it and launched himself forward, rushing toward the submachine gunner, using the tumbling figure of the first man as a diversion.

  The young man had been caught off guard, and as his comrade was thrust toward him, he moved to the side to avoid the collision. His right leg slammed into a headstone, and his upper body jerked to the right, threatening to topple him over the grave. He regained his balance at the last moment and swung his gun up toward John’s head.

  The first attacker fell backward, crashing into another tombstone. The sound of his head striking the hard surface was a sickening thwap. He collapsed against the grave marker, unconscious or dead—John didn’t care which.

  John had sufficiently closed the distance, and as the twenty-something shooter raised his weapon, John reached out and touched the tip of the baton to the barrel of the submachine gun. He pressed the trigger, sending a crackling jolt of low voltage through the black metal.

  Designed to stun large farm animals or torture humans, the baton’s charge caused the man to scream as white-hot pain shot up his arms into his body. The man stiffened, but when John released the button that served as the baton’s trigger, he collapsed to the dry grass below, the gun bouncing off a headstone and coming to rest at its base.