CHAPTER 7
Night Crossing
Apo sat in the shade of the olive trees keeping watch in all directions. The farm fields seemed to go on forever in every direction—a patchwork of browns and greens that was bucolic and beautiful, and interrupted by slaughter and war. Apo wondered if the fields were so fertile from the blood and bones of his relatives a hundred years earlier, or the blood and bones of those newly slaughtered. At one point, a farmer walked in his direction and watched him for a while from a couple hundred meters away, but the truck bore the black marking of ISIS, so the farmer decided his best course of action was just to leave the stranger alone. Apo had drank the last of the bottled water and hadn’t eaten since the night before. He was tired, hungry, thirsty, and anxious to get out of the vulnerable spot he was in, but patience was required. He sat and waited.
The mortar barrage on the village was short lived, and the ISIS fighters pressed farther north to hold the line above the village. Occasional sniper fire popped in the distance, but it was otherwise fairly quiet. Once, two fighter jets at high altitude passed overhead, and everyone held their breath awaiting death to rain down on them, but they were bound for locations further west, and calm returned to Al-Yaroubieh. Both the Kurds and the Daesh fighters took occasional potshots, but neither side was making any offensive moves at the moment.
As the sun started to set, Apo grew more restless. There was one main dirt road that ran straight north from Al-Yaroubieh to the Turkish border, but that was in the middle of no-man’s-land. Apo would have to cross the dirt fields and use whatever local path he could find. He was only two and a half kilometers from the border, a short trip if he could just avoid land mines, IEDs, sniper fire, or a general assault. Most of the Syrian-Turkish border was guarded by regular Turkish Army. This particular sector was controlled by the Kurds, but since they were acting as a buffer between Daesh and Turkey, the Turkish government had decided not to make war on the Kurds for the moment. The entire area remained fluid, confusing, and violent.
Apo’s stomach grumbled. Somewhere, a few kilometers away, someone was cooking a lamb or goat. He could smell the food in the air with his empty stomach screaming for attention. He smiled and reminded himself that dead men don’t get hungry.
Apo turned the engine over in the truck, keeping the lights off, and slowly moved north. When he got close enough to the border to see tiny dots of light in the distance, he stopped the vehicle and got out. Apo stripped off his fatigue jacket and shoulder holster and removed the kaffiyeh from his head. It was getting colder, but without the jacket and kaffiyeh, he looked less like a combatant. He didn’t like being unarmed, but where he was going, he wasn’t going to be able to battle his way through the lines. He would talk his way through, or he would be killed—it was as simple as that.
When Apo was within the final kilometer, he slowed down. It was now completely dark, but it was quite possible that the Kurds had American-made night vision. He wished he did, as well. Apo walked in a crouch in the farmer’s tilled field. The farms of the Syrians and those of the Turks were separated only by a wide dirt road and barbed wire fencing. The possibility of mines and occasional patrols kept everyone on their own side, for the most part.
The furrows of the field provided cover for Apo as he crawled the final hundred yards toward the border. He was moving so slowly in the quiet night, the only noise was that of his heart pounding in his chest. When the farm field came to an abrupt end, he found himself in tall grass looking up at the road. The opposite side of the road ended at the fence, but he couldn’t see anyone. He sat and waited for several minutes, but there was no sound, no lights, no nothing.
“Fuck it,” he whispered to no one at all. Apo launched himself up out of the field and sprinted across the road to the base of the fence. He touched it gently to see if it was electrified, but there was no shock. It was an ancient barbed wire fence, and it had obviously been cut and repaired hundreds of times. Apo moved silently along the wire, doing his best in the dark to feel for an opening.
“Halt! Hands up!” commanded a voice in Kurmanji, a dialect of Kurdish spoken on both sides of the fence in this northern region. Three flashlights came on, aimed at Apo’s face. He couldn’t see much with the lights in his eyes, but he stood tall and raised his hands.
“Please do not shoot,” he said in Kurmanji. “I seek asylum in Turkey, and need to speak to local authorities.”
“You can speak to us, or you can get shot in the head,” came a terse reply.
“YPG? Syrian Free Army?” he asked.
“We are Kurdish, not Syrian,” said another voice, proudly. “The People’s Protection Unit controls this border. We kill all Daesh pigs who come here.”
“And you will receive a thousand blessings for it,” replied Apo, his hands still held high. “Please, I need to speak to local authorities. I need an officer.”
One of the men walked forward and pointed his M16 at Apo’s face. “Who do you think you are to demand anything? Get back to your side of the road.”
Apo took a deep breath and risked his life by switching to English. “I need to find American Special Forces.” The perfect English shocked the Kurd patrol. Apo switched back to Kurdish and spoke the lines he had memorized from what was commonly referred to as a “blood chit” in the service. “I am a citizen of the United States of America. Misfortune forces me to seek your assistance in obtaining food, shelter, and protection. Please take me to someone who will provide for my safety and see that I am returned to my people. My government will reward you.”
The Kurd with the rifle aimed at Apo’s face lowered his weapon suspiciously. “Who are you?”
“I’m an American here to help support the free people of Syria and your own people. I am formally requesting your assistance in finding American Special Forces.”
One of the other Kurds stepped forward, wearing proper camouflage fatigues and a beret. He was weighed down with lots of equipment. “Why do you think there are Americans here?” he asked cautiously.
“We’ve had ongoing support operations in this region for a year and a half. If you could take me to your officers, I am sure they would assist me.”
After a brief pause, the man moved the flashlight beam from Apo’s face. “Okay. You follow us. Stay close. Mines in this area.”
Apo let out a long, slow sigh of relief and began following the Kurds as they moved along the fence line to the opening that would take Apo to freedom.
PART II
CHAPTER 8
CIA Special Ops HQ
The Gym
The SEALs had been working out quietly in the gym. Moose was spotting Ripper on the bench, where Ripper was pressing two hundred pounds for his third set of ten. Ray, Pete, Jon, and Ryan were shooting baskets in a two-on-two game that was as much rugby as basketball. The mood was sullen, and the gym seemed quite empty with only the six of them there. Any hope that the four SEALs on the court could sweat out their sorrow and anger was futile.
The original team had been comprised of three CIA operatives, two Marines, two Army Rangers, and seven SEALs, including their team leader, Chris Cascaes, who answered to Chris Mackey. Theresa and Julia, two CIA agents, had been added to their crew during their Amazon mission. With Mack now retired, Hodges, Woods, and Koches recovering from wounds, and Jones and the entire CIA team killed in action, they were down to the original SEAL team plus the two late additions from CIA. Neither Julia nor Theresa was in the gym at the moment.
The squeaking of sneakers on the basketball court and quiet grunts from Ripper as he finished his set were interrupted by the sound of the metal doors opening. Cascaes walked briskly through the doors and whistled at his men. He was in street clothes, something very unusual for him while “at work.” He was followed by CIA desk chief Darren Davis and his assistant, Dex Murphy. Last in the line was a short, dark Arab dressed in traditional robe and the small taqiyah skullcap of a cleric. He was a stranger to the men, and all eyes were on him as they turned
their attention to the parade of heels on the wooden gym floor.
“Attention on deck!” barked Moose as he helped Ripper place the heavy weights back into the bench cradle. Ripper sat up and grabbed his towel, wiping his face and then standing up. Moose and Ripper were the two biggest men in the squad, and almost always worked together. They were best friends and had saved each other’s lives too many times to count.
The basketball game stopped instantly, and Jon placed the ball on the floor and stood back up at quasi-attention with his teammates.
“At ease,” replied Cascaes. “Huddle up.”
The six sweaty men walked over to the newcomers and stood casually, awaiting whatever was coming next. Their eyes kept darting back and forth between Cascaes and the small man with the very long brown beard and small round glasses.
“Morning, gentlemen,” said Cascaes quietly. Like his team, his mood had been dark and brooding since returning from Africa. “You all know Chief Davis and Assistant Chief Murphy. This is Apo Yessayan.”
The small man nodded, barely moving. He was maybe five foot seven, but wide at the shoulders. It was hard to assess his physique under his long robes.
“Apo will be joining you on your next mission. Apo—”
The short stranger began speaking a hundred miles an hour in Farsi. He stopped abruptly and switched to Arabic, looking from face to face to see if any of them understood anything he was saying. Seeing blank stares, he tried Pashtun, Kurmanji, and then finally French. In his five-minute monologue, none of the SEALs picked up more than a few words.
Cascaes held up a hand, and Apo stopped speaking. “Apo, these Frogmen aren’t very good with languages. You better try English.”
The man removed his small black spectacles. He then removed his head covering, which surprised the men, but not nearly as much as when he removed the long fake beard. He reached behind himself and unzipped the back of his robes, which he pulled off. Standing before them now was a short, dark man with a black goatee who looked Hispanic. He had blue jeans on under his robes, with a short-sleeve black shirt, unbuttoned enough to show a heavy silver chain with a large crucifix hanging from it. The stranger flashed a gang sign at them and began speaking quickly in Spanish.
All six of the SEALs stood in silence, their mouths all open in total awe. Slow smiles began to appear on their faces. The man was a chameleon. Apo continued in Spanish for a few more minutes and then stopped. He peeled off the goatee, which was harder to remove than the beard.
“I can also be an accountant,” he said, now sounding as if he had lived his entire life in the Bronx. “See what I’m sayin’? Not for nothin’, but if I walked into a bar and you guys were drinkin’, you wouldn’t even notice me. Am I right?”
They stood silently, mouths still agape.
Apo walked over to the blue floor mats and stood in the center of them. He looked over at Cascaes and nodded.
Cascaes looked at Moose. “You and Ripper put him down.”
Moose made a confused face. “Put him down?”
“Hard. Facedown on the mat. Now.”
“Aye, aye,” he said quietly. He looked at Ripper, his dive buddy on land or in the water, and chucked his head to follow him. The two of them walked over to the small man and stopped a little short. “Sorry, bud,” said Moose. He stepped forward with Ripper and extended his hand to take control of the man. Before his hand touched Apo’s shoulder, Apo kicked Moose in the solar plexus twice, then swept his feet before spinning back to Ripper and side-kicking his stomach. He flipped the giant man over his shoulders. Ripper landed with a loud thud on his back, with Apo kneeling next to him with his hand at his throat, ready to remove his larynx. He screamed at Ripper, something that sounded like “Keeeyyyaaaaah!” and then stood up and bowed quickly to the two stunned men. He helped Ripper quickly to his feet, and then ran over to help Moose up, who was still on his hands and knees, coughing profusely.
“I’m sorry, guys. That wasn’t nice. I’m sorry.” He pulled Moose to his feet, patted his shoulders, and fixed the bigger man’s T-shirt. “Dex made me. I’m sorry.”
Dex stepped forward and spoke with authority. “Gentlemen, meet Apo Yessayan. Or Bernard Goldberg. Or Eduardo Rodriguez, or whoever the hell he happens to be at the moment. Apo, the floor is yours.”
“Gentlemen. Again, I apologize for the harsh introduction. Dex and I spoke at great length, and he really wanted to drive home the point that appearances can be deceiving. You’re all a bunch of navy studs and look like you could play professional baseball, football, or fight in a steel cage. Me, on the other hand, not so much. James Bond convinced the world that secret agents are handsome and tall and suave and get all the chicks. While I do get all the chicks, I’m actually much more likely not to get noticed than Sean Connery or Daniel Craig, and therefore less likely to be captured and tortured to death.”
Apo paced back and forth a bit in front of the six men, lost in thought for a moment. He turned around and gave a fake smile to Dex and Darren. “Gentlemen, may I have the room?”
The SEALs were shocked. You didn’t just throw the boss out of the room. Dex and Darren both smiled and left in silence. Cascaes folded his arms and cocked his head as he watched the small man suddenly look larger as he took control of the entire gym.
When the door closed behind the two CIA officers, Apo walked over to the gym equipment. He motioned the men to follow him, which they did. They entered the area that had benches and chairs, and Apo took a seat on a weight bench and told the others to get comfortable. They all sat down, now quite close together.
“Gentlemen, with all due respect to our bosses, we have to chat candidly. While they probably agree with everything I’m going to say, they can’t verbalize it. No sense putting them on the hot seat.” He clapped his hands with one loud smack, then rubbed them together, very dramatically.
Leaning forward, with his hands now on his knees, he looked even shorter. Before he could speak, Moose interrupted. “I got beat up by Danny DeVito.”
Apo smiled and replied, “Don’t feel bad. I have black belts in three different art forms. When you’re five feet tall in high school, you either have to take a lot of shit or be prepared to defend yourself against larger opponents on a daily basis. I don’t take shit. Ever.”
He sat up straighter. “Now. What I’m about to talk about is, as usual, top secret. It’s also probably insubordinate. Here’s the deal—you and I have spent time in the field. We gather intelligence, we put our asses on the line, and we give vital information to our superiors to pass up the chain of command so ultimately, the president can make policy or take action based on the best information at hand. I have watched the current commander in chief ignore vital intelligence for seven years. Anything we give him that doesn’t fit his narrative gets ignored.
“Trust me, I understand my role in all this. I don’t get to make policy and decisions, and I don’t have to answer to the American public—but when we lose good friends in the field to gather intelligence, and then that information is ignored, I start to feel frustrated and angry, and that isn’t how it’s supposed to work.”
Cascaes leaned back in his chair, uncomfortable with Apo’s seemingly political speech. He remained silent, but wary.
“I spent almost two years in and out of Iran, Iraq, and Syria. These weren’t two comfortable years. I almost got killed a dozen times, and several good friends didn’t come home. I wrote extensive reports regarding Iran’s nuclear program and warned against signing any type of deal with those lying sacks of shit. So what do they do? They sign a deal that frees up tens of billions of dollars to a regime that we all know sells IEDs, weapons, and training to any terrorist outfit on the planet. With the war going on in Syria, Russia and Iran have plenty of new customers for their weapons and ammo. Russia and Syria are happy to sell to anyone who opposes the rebels we support, even if it means supplying to Daesh, who, in turn, shoots down a Russian plane.”
The members of the team listened in silen
ce. They didn’t even know this guy, and here he was spouting off against the commander in chief. They agreed with everything he said, but still, it made them uncomfortable. It was way above their pay grade.
Apo stood up and began pacing as he spoke. He was getting himself wound up. “It used to be that ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ Forget that now. The enemy of your enemy is your enemy over there. There are no ‘good guys’ other than us. Every cut-throat in the Middle East is converging on the caliphate to try and grab land and power. And Russia views Iran and Syria as strategically vital for their own security and access to warm-water ports. Turkey, who has been a major obstacle in facing down Daesh because they keep buying their damn oil and funding their army, is needed to counterbalance Russian presence in the area. So we’re stuck with an ally who is funding our enemy in Syria. It’s interesting to note that Daesh also sells oil to the Free Syrian Army, their enemy. Can you imagine that back in Desert Storm? You’re fighting in Iraq, and you buy the fuel for your tanks from the Iraqis? True story. But I digress.”
He stopped and scanned the room of empty stares. “Just stay with me—my rambling has a point. I’m not sure how much of the Middle East current events you guys have been getting wherever the hell you just got back from. Where was I? Oh yeah. So Turkey, our ally, is supplying cash to Daesh. I assume you guys know that Daesh is what we call ISIS or ISIL over there, right? Those fuckers hate that name, so it’s the only one we use. Right. Good. So Turkey gives cash for oil to these guys, who then buy weapons from Iran and Russia. We know where these giant oil convoys are, but our president won’t dare bomb them because it’ll piss off the Turks, and we need our air base there. So while Turkey, Daesh, Iran, and Russia are all making millions, we’re dropping millions of dollars worth of taxpayer dollars on mud huts and stone houses, but ignoring the oil fields. We’re getting poorer, they’re getting richer, and Daesh grows stronger every day.”
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