by Isaac Stormm
“Affirmative,” Quinn said. “I like the way you talk.”
“The Israelis would’ve said the same thing. I imagine they already have. Oh yes, one more thing. The White House has informed me that whichever way this assignment goes down, anyone who even attempts to speak to the press will be prosecuted. I know all of us have signed a nondisclosure agreement and we consider ourselves bound to that. I normally would not even have brought up but they insisted that I do given what’s happened lately or I'd right be reprimanded. Anyway, do you have a problem with questions about the command structure they want with the team?”
“Just one. If something should happen to you and we’re being led by this guy Jessy Foxmann and he tells us to do something that all of us would look at as being questionable or even suicidal, what should we do?”
“Follow his orders as if he was one of your own. If something is downright outrageous, that’ll be a judgment call.” Carlson expected a question like this. He didn’t foresee anything coming to a point where leadership came into question.
The C-5 began a slow bank to the left retarding its throttles as the landing gear doors opened and undercarriage unfolded. Once they completed one slow and complete circle around the base, the plane steadied its approach to bring its nose a little skyward as it came into a feather soft landing which barely produced smoke from the tires hitting the pavement. The reverse thrusters howled and the jet’s momentum slowed at a pace boggling for such a massive size. It came to rest three-fourths the way down the runway and proceeded at walking pace to turn to the right to enter the apron.
A hundred meters to its left sat the white A330 with a large cargo door opened and its fuselage and its contents being unloaded in stacks by a massive forklift. Foxmann and American Jason Martin both stood just outside the door of a hangar waiting for the C-5’s massive ramp to lower.
“How long you been director?” Martin asked Foxmann. The question took him by surprise since Depth Corps personnel identities and positions were closely guarded state secrets.
Foxmann just looked at him for a second pretending not to notice the question. He didn’t want to offer any hint to his position. He would’ve loved to figure out how he got that information though as if he would ever reveal it.
“Aw, come on, Colonel. We’re all friends here You know as much about us as we do about you. At least let’s not play games with ourselves.”
“How long have you been in the C.I.A.?”
“Eleven years. I’ve worked this part of the world for seven.”
“Good. I’m sure the Azerbaijanis walking around here would love to know about you and I.”
Martin looked around seeing no one. “Don’t worry, Colonel. I’m not that foolish. I’m just trying to make conversation, that’s all.”
He reminded him of that drunk sponsor in The Hunger Games movies he’d seen with his daughter. The one that looked after Katniss Everdeen, the seriousness only came about after a few shots. This guy couldn’t have been doing that even if he couldn’t dismiss it entirely.
The C-5’s ramp came down and the assembly crew came out stretching and yawning, all heading for the C-5’s ramp which led up into a dark and spacious interior. Foxmann then saw the team emerge from the bowels. Some of the crew gave a curious look at the men in strange dress that looked part of the region. Maybe at a distance that’s what they would think they were. The team didn’t look back and instead walked toward the hangar.
“Major Carlson, I’m Jason Martin, C.I.A. contact for this region.” They shook hands and Foxmann offered his.
“Jessy Foxmann.” He shook the hand of each man as they filed by then opened the door. Walking in the hangar, he nodded to a base worker who pressed a button to open the hangar. The sound reverberated around the room and Foxmann led them past two wooden crates and opened another door at the rear of the building. The room was long and narrow with a dirty concrete floor and a small fan running full speed on a beat up desk. This was where we would stay for now.
Both sides began speaking to each other in English, exchanging greetings and handshakes.
“I’m sorry this is all we could find with the privacy we needed,” Foxmann said. “Everywhere else on this base has a window.” The team formed a tight semicircle. “I’ll have food brought to you. Until that time, you can remove some of your clothing to make yourself more comfortable. You may leave the room for the latrine which is in the small building to the left of us. Don’t expect any amenities. It’s basically a hole in the ground with a roof over it, much like the outhouses you have in America. Also, and this is very important, Mister Martin and I have agreed from this point on it is best to speak anything other than your native language to any base worker you may run into. Please try to avoid them if possible. Again, no Hebrew, no English, just anything else. If anyone gives you a hard time, report to either me, Mister Martin or your team leader. Use the same masquerade and procedure if you have to deal with the assembly crew.” He looked at Martin. “You want to add anything?”
“Just that it’s time to get you your equipment.”
“Khali koob,” (very good) David proclaimed in Farsi.
“Ah, yes.” Foxmann turned. “Follow me.” They walked back out to the two crates. Foxmann picked up a crowbar and jabbed in and up on the four corners of the first. Carlson and Martin lifted off the lid. The sour smell of cosmoline packing grease filled nostrils and they saw the upper part of the interior was filled with 4 VSS Vintorez silenced rifles, 9x39mm caliber with 20-round magazines. Excellent for taking out sentries.
They all reached for the weapons. Once in hand, Foxmann tore away the white wrapping paper hiding the rest of the cache. He withdrew two odd looking weapons in clear warp and held them up. “One member of each team needs to carry this.” He set one down and pulled the other out of the wrapping. “It’s the VSS silenced rifle, 9x39mm. Good for sentry removal and hard to come by.”
It didn’t look like a typical rifle. Skeletonized woodstock connected to a pistol grip and oversized barrel which was really an integral silencer connected to a receiver that held the metal magazine. Used successfully in places like Chechnya and the Caucuses, its round featured the same cartridge length of the AK-47, but was 2mm bigger in diameter, traveling at subsonic speed. The squat receiver showed its Kalashnikov origins though, as the entire weapon looked more like a submachine gun than an assault rifle. Both of which it were not. With a 4x power scope, it was a specialist weapon tailor-made for that most desired method of termination. Silence.
Looking over the stacks of other merchandise, most of it was the curved 20 round clips of the VSS. He suspected there were at least two dozen or so VSS mags among the pile.
He moved aside, letting the team forage the gear. In another pile came canvas three-magazine-pouch ammunition vests. The two side pockets would be used for grenades found at the very bottom of the cache. These were old Soviet F1 style World War II fragmentation jobs looking much like the famous American pineapple once hurled by G.I.s.
Martin removed the cover of the next crate. Inside were the stacks of anti-radiation suits, a gray coverall featuring booties and gloves attached to the square-shaped hood and clear plastic visor. Camelbak hydration pouches of the 100 ounce variety with water purifiers followed the suits out. Next came the small medical kits, American-made and much better than the Israeli versions.
Carlson reached down and pulled up the first of four miniature tablets encased in black synthetic rubber with a stub of a metal antenna folded to the side. Wrapped around the screen were headphones and a mike plugged into a jack on the side. He handed one off to Carlson and gave the other two to David and Quinn.
“I thought they were supposed to be radios?” Carlson said. “Somebody screwed up somewhere.”
They looked out at the tarmac and saw a forklift commandeered by one of the crew pulling the Stealth Hawk down the C-5 ‘s ramp. Covered all over with what looked like butcher paper, only the front gear and the tail wheel was visible. Oth
er crew were on either side guiding it to the hangar.
“Ever seen one before?” Martin asked Carlson.
“No. First time. Only heard rumors of its shape. It’ll be interesting to see what it looks like.”
“Looks a bit sci-fi,” Martin added. “Especially in the nose area. A friend who worked on the program showed me a picture of one, once. Completely against policy, but he owed me.”
“Sir.” Both men turned. It was Quinn holding up a shiny pouch. “Chicken ala King? Who still makes this stuff?” He couldn’t find a name on the pouch or the cardboard covering. It had to be some mom and pop shop, probably located in Colorado or someplace like that who still made the dish. The Army got rid of it years ago.
“There’s other stuff,” Carlson replied.
“Not much.” Quinn held up some more packets. “Some lasagna and two MRE heaters per man. We’ll be eating cold before it’s over.”
Foxmann shook his head. “I’m sorry, Major. I was told we’d have everything needed.”
“Don’t let us fool you, we’re supposed to survive hardship, remember? A few cold bites will taste like a luxury if they have to eat the grub the villagers offer.”
The forklift unhooked the tail wheel and rotated, speeding back to the C-5. The men began tearing away the shipping wrap in front of their meager audience. They started at the bottom pulling the wrap away like a massive Christmas present and casting it aside. First thing everyone noticed during the process was the color. A dark gray without any kind of camouflage mottling. Darker than the pictures of the blown up tail taken after the bin Laden raid. Hands pulled more wrap off the rear rotor and everyone saw a different design then conventional looking blades. This rotor was within a circular hub that was part of the tail itself. A free hand manipulated the blades and Foxmann counted seven which turned clockwise with little resistance. He and Martin walked toward the front noticing what looked like a seam running the length of the tail boom which created an angle between of the upper and lower skins to deflect radar waves. The wheels weren’t fixed and during flight retracted underneath saw-toothed edge hatches. The passenger compartment was closed with another angular seam running down the middle, recessing the windowless sliding door into a subtle arrowhead shape. There was a crew chief window just forward also angled and tinted in a dark gold coating to absorb waves. Coming out front to face the cockpit, they saw it divided into four windows by exterior braces. Also tinted, they looked down on the nose angled like a diamond. Foxmann saw the abstract of their faces in the pane and noticed more people coming up behind them. He turned and noticed a gray–haired gentlemen of at least his late 40s with two much younger men in tow. Experience told on his face, easy to discern he didn’t belong to the assembly crew, and that he got his knowledge elsewhere, like racing above the trees at night in terrible weather.
“Lieutenant Colonel Tony Ashford. I’m with the 160th.” He shook hands and said, “I’ve flown these since the beginning. Good birds.”
He seemed familiar to Foxmann. Not that he’d seen him, just his description. He knew the 160th was the Spec Ops version of Army Aviation and played major roles in the war on terror. That was neither here nor there though. This man he knew, and needed to ask, not that he was the only gray hair in the force.
He motioned for the man to come closer, then cupped a hand to his ear. “Bin Laden 2011. Correct.”
A smile lit up Ashford’s face and he whispered, “Had to set the bird down on the wall, almost crashed.” Of course. That’s who it was. Foxmann remembered reading about the Stealth Hawk in ‘No Easy Day,’ the account of the mission from one of the SEALs aboard. He had described a gray-haired pilot doing a masterful job of setting his bird’s tail down on the wall that skirted bin Laden’s house. The way he did it was nothing short of genius. He got the chopper oriented at just the right angle so the main rotor couldn’t dig into the ground and come flying off. His effort allowed the SEALs to disembark without casualty.
They looked at the helicopter’s entirety. The last of the shipping paper was being chased and gathered on the floor and piled against the wall. The craft’s main rotors, five in all, remained folded back toward the tail. Even they were painted gray with what Foxmann reckoned had to be a stealth absorbent coating. This helped give the overall impression, not of a menacing penetrator, but rather one of a well-thought out utility bird. It seemed a little wider than the Black Hawk and looked more in line with the civilian S-70, the Black Hawk’s civilian counterpart. Maybe no surprise then if, underneath, these choppers were S-70s instead of a new design and skillful hands sculpted add on parts that formed an almost continuous outer shell giving it its capability.
Two men positioned a ladder up to the engine hatch below the rotor hub which was a faceted circle with a pointed top like a hat. More of the crew gathered, watching the one with a tool open the hatch and inspect its surface. He twisted something then sealed the hatch giving a twirling motion with a finger. The crew took up positions on the end of the main rotor, reached up, grasped the edges and starting walking forward, pulling the rotors into their proper positions, stationing each blade in perfect alignment to form a circle above the fuselage.
The chief nodded his head, looked over at them, and said, “She was refueled and checked before we left. We’ll do an engine run up again just before you board.”
“Good.” Martin looked at his watch. “A little over six hours ‘til takeoff. Come with me Foxmann, I’m going to show you where our command post to run this thing is. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
Chapter Eight
Sounds of ancient typewriters filled the main office. Three such machines, not even electric, stammered under the clerks’ racing fingers, only stopping when the machine wrapped with a resounding ding to a new line. Two weeks before June 14, the supreme council, in fact the Ayatollah himself, decreed all military transmissions from this headquarters considered secret were to be typed and passed through couriers until it reached Tehran. Phone reports on anything other than routine and expected traffic were also forbidden. The occupants of this building took the order with great diligence, for one of their own was caught using a cell phone in the bathroom, taken outside and shot in the back of the head. Everyone inside was forced to watch as the shot came from their boss, Zarin. Since then, no one looked at him the same. They realized his authority over them became absolute that instant. And those assigned to the station, fifty-four in all, often made an extra effort to avoid eye contact unless he spoke first.
Zarin passed his clerks, listening to the typewriters become faster, almost morphing into a single sharp and painful tone. He turned and looked at them for a moment, waiting for them to slow. They did not. He knew they wouldn’t dare slow until they heard his door click. He thought about faking entry just to see the terror on their faces when they turned around and saw him. Perhaps later. He had another priority. A glowing report that he intended to lie about.
Opening the door, the light shone in on a portrait of Ayatollah Khomeini staring back at him beside a small window with a louvre blind. On his desk sat another mechanical typewriter, and an unplugged computer monitor. Flipping the light on, the papers on his desk were neatly arranged by the dates they were written. A sheaf of twenty-six pages featuring his signature sat stapled and awaited the courier expected to arrive at sundown. He parted the blind and saw the sun already three-fourths through its downward arc. This final report he needed to write would go with the others.
He scooted his chair over to the typewriter and began recounting the successful action that netted him dead guerrillas. His fingers’ pace was much slower than his more experienced clerks and he slowed even more trying to avoid typos. He gave the date, the course of the action, and the number of dead. He did not mention that one may have gotten away. He knew such sloppiness was frowned upon by those expecting more from a man of his caliber. He reassured himself that if any of his team spoke to his superiors, they feared him enough to know what would happen.
Walid Zarin was a short, somewhat portly man reaching 5 feet 7 inches tall. His face was round with a squat nose and hairline whose black character was beginning to show gray around its edges. He was 42 and much older than other men of his rank. But his military path didn’t come from a military academy or college. It came by the good graces of having connections in the political world. Mainly, that Supreme Chancellor Rustani happened to be his first cousin.
For Walid Zarin, this meant he could leave his scientific world which he despised and enter the most elite of organizations. Of course he had to pass the training. But there were enough shortcuts provided that he passed the test and was allowed to enter AL-Quds. This was his dream assignment, for it meant the one thing he had in spades, which was his patriotism, could be revealed with regularity through his demeanor and violence. This is what comforted him whenever he pulled the trigger. To him it was a justifiable method to the madness. And he didn’t care if no one understood. But killing was getting old. It no longer gave him the same rush of satisfaction it once did. It was the new project he was working on, one that he knew would change the face of warfare, that filled him with pride, for he suspected nowhere else in the world, including America, had the research come so far. It was his brainchild. His testament to the world. A theory he had perfected.
The drones. Or more specifically, swarms of drones. A program he’d gotten classified to the same level of secrecy as nuclear weapons research.
He smiled as he thought about the progress he’d obtained. Demonstrating to the Supreme Council a new weapon to use against the ‘Great Satan,’ the United States and the ‘Little Satan,’ Israel. He was given essentially unlimited funding to see the project to his conclusion. And right now, it hit him where he would give the final proof of concept demonstration.
Wasir came out of sleep. He remembered the short interval between the last. She still squatted by him. He saw the shadow on the ceiling of someone else moving toward him. The man who’d worked on him stood looking.