Clear by Fire: A Search and Destroy Thriller

by Joshua Hood

  Mason leaned in to get a better look. The photos had been taken with a telephoto lens, and the date and time stamps were visible at the bottom. He frowned at the first picture and idly flicked his cigarette as he studied the eyes then the nose and ears. Mason knew that if they wore a disguise, these would be the hardest parts to change.

  “I don’t know this guy,” he said before moving to the second image. After studying the second photo for a few moments, he shook his head and, using his forefinger, pulled the final picture to the center of the table.

  As soon as he laid his eyes on the final picture a jolt of recognition rose up his spine like an electric shock.

  It was Decklin.

  Mason could feel his heart beating faster in his chest as he leaned in farther to make sure. Ash drifted from his lit cigarette and fell like gray snowflakes on the picture.

  Mason stared at the image with a visceral hatred, focusing on Decklin’s eyes, which looked like two piss holes in the snow. The man had ruined his life, and he felt the edges of the picture slice into his hand as his fist closed around it. How well he remembered every single detail of that fateful day.

  • • •

  He and Decklin were in the lead vehicle as they drove over the pitted Libyan roads toward the town of Sirte. They were following a low-level asset to the city, and due to the danger outside the vehicle, inside the cab of the truck the mood was tense.

  “You shouldn’t have gone against the colonel like that,” Decklin said as he tried to keep the target vehicle in view.

  Mason had been watching his teammate stew for the last hour and was relieved that he’d finally broached the subject.

  “What did you expect me to do? He murdered those people.”

  “That’s not your call to make. I’m telling you that you fucked up big.”

  Mason knew that Decklin really didn’t care what happened to him. The man had hated him from the moment he joined the unit and had been waiting for him to fail since the first day. He could see the outskirts of the city ahead and would be glad to get out of the truck and stretch his legs. If Decklin knew that he’d reported the colonel, then he was sure that Barnes knew, and it made him uneasy.

  Barnes had handpicked him to join the unit, and most of the senior guys resented him for that. While the rest of the team held Mason at arm’s length, the colonel had taken a personal interest in him, even promoting him above guys like Decklin.

  Turning on the colonel was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. The man was like a father to him, but he’d lost touch with reality, even if no one wanted to admit it. Barnes was more focused on Libya than Iraq or Afghanistan, and now that their team had been sent into the country to overthrow Gaddhafi, Mason was having serious doubts about how much more he could take.

  The target vehicle made a turn ahead of them, and Decklin hit the gas to keep from losing it around the corner.

  “Pay attention, you’re getting too close,” Mason said.

  Decklin ignored him and cut the wheel to avoid a gaping hole in the dirt road. The maneuver put them too close to the wall, forcing them to take the corner blind. As soon as they made the turn, they saw the target vehicle speeding through a checkpoint that had been set up on the road.

  “Contact front,” Mason yelled into the radio as the Gaddhafi loyalists opened up on their vehicle from twenty-five meters away. Bullets shattered the window, peppering Decklin with glass as a burst from a PKM hit the engine block of the Toyota Land Cruiser and the truck shuddered to a stop. Mason brought his rifle up from between his knees, bumping the muzzle on the dash as he flipped the safety to full auto. Getting the rifle centered on his chest, he held the trigger down and sent a long burst through the shattered glass.

  His ears were ringing, but adrenaline numbed the pain as he threw the door open and rolled out onto the road. Getting caught in a near-side ambush was something they trained for, and Mason knew that his team had to gain fire superiority if they were going to break contact. He could smell the gun oil burning off the rifle as he hammered through his first magazine and began looking for a better position.

  “Moving,” he yelled as Decklin ran to the rear of the vehicle and tossed out a frag. Once his teammate started firing, he sprinted across the road toward the cover provided by a dilapidated warehouse five meters away. Changing magazines on the run, he found a position along the wall and reengaged the blocking position.

  Mason needed to keep his head down while the rest of the team moved up.

  Jones was on the radio calling for an emergency extraction as the team flowed into the building, firing as they moved, and Mason counted each one as they passed him.

  Decklin was the last man to make it across the street, and after Mason touched his shoulder and added him to his count, he tossed a smoke grenade out into the street.

  The team was already finding positions to defend their small perimeter when Mason entered the building. Decklin was directing Hoyt to blow an improvised firing port in the wall with a breaching charge, and Mason began looking for work.

  There was an open window on the south side of the warehouse and Mason took his position next to the opening just as the charge went off. He was turning to get Decklin’s attention when he came under fire from an open field, outside the window.

  Mason ducked out of the way as the heavy rounds chipped shards of brick off the windowsill that pelted him in the face. Firing two quick bursts at his attackers, he dumped the magazine out of the rifle and was slipping a fresh one into the mag well when he heard the unmistakable sound of a grenade bouncing off the concrete floor to his rear.

  Tink, tink.

  He could hear the metal body rolling toward him and, without hesitating, dove through the window. Mason hit the ground awkwardly. He felt a sharp pain in his shoulders as the explosion blew a brown cloud of shrapnel and stucco over his head.

  Dazed and bleeding, he tried to get to his feet. Just then an AK round slammed into his chest plate and knocked him on his back. Lying on the ground, gasping for breath, he could hear the sharp crack of bullets breaking the sound barrier above his head. Concrete dust and rifle frag rained down on him as the rounds thumped into the wall behind him.

  I’ve got to move.

  Breathing in deep raspy breaths, Mason dragged himself behind a pile of rubble and began firing as two of the loyalists maneuvered on him. The deep, slow hammering of their AKs echoed off the buildings, and he could hear the rounds smacking into the precarious pile of bricks.

  Mason’s heart was pounding and his hands were slick with sweat. He knew, without a doubt, that the frag had come from inside the warehouse. Decklin had just tried to kill him.

  Gaddhafi’s men were swarming around his position like fire ants emerging from a disturbed anthill. The sun burned down on the back of his neck as he came up to a knee and snapped two rounds into a man who’d just broken cover.

  Pivoting to his right, he fired four shots at two men who’d made it within twenty feet of his position and then ducked to prep a grenade. He felt slow and vulnerable as he ripped the pin from the grenade. He was aware of the cold sweat soaking the back of his shirt. Releasing the spoon, Mason counted to three before tossing it out.

  The explosion was immediate and a wash of hot dust and grit exploded up and out. Mason stayed on his knees and scanned for targets. He leaned out beyond his cover and acquired a fat jihadist in a torn polo shirt who’d stopped in the open to fumble with an RPG. The man went down hard and Mason tried to get a good look at the battlefield.

  Dented pickups were bringing men from the city, and as soon as one unloaded, another truck would appear. The new arrivals formed a rough perimeter from east to west, forcing Mason to find a new position. The only cover left was the low wall of a bombed-out shed a few feet away.

  Bouncing up to a crouch, he flipped the selector to full auto and darted to the wall. He held the trigger down as he ran, and the HK416 hammered through half of the magazine before jamming. Diving into cover, he felt
a heavy blow strike his leg. His lower body twisted out from under him and he slammed hard into the brick floor.

  Mason wasted no time clearing the malfunction. The rifle smoked in his hands, threatening to burn his fingers as he slammed another magazine into the weapon and prepped his last grenade.

  He prepared himself for a good death and swore to go down fighting. Mason tried to come up to a knee, but his leg wouldn’t support his weight. Grabbing the wall with his left hand, he pulled himself up to a throwing position. Tossing the frag long, he knelt and keyed up his radio.

  Nothing.

  He switched through the radio frequencies, but they were all static. The firing in the warehouse had stopped, and he knew that his team had left him to die.

  • • •

  “Mason, you were saying?” Zeus’s voice pulled him back to reality. The cigarette had burned down to the filter in his hand, and he mashed it into the ashtray and grabbed the bottle of Johnnie Walker Red.

  Get your shit together.

  Taking a pull off the bottle, he composed himself and asked, “Where is he now?”

  “He is in Benghazi. We have a man on him, but there is a problem. According to the French, he is working for the CIA.”

  “Wait . . . what did you say?”

  “According to my source, at the French embassy, this man,” Zeus said, pointing at the picture of Decklin, “is a CIA agent.”

  The new development didn’t make any sense. The CIA was still reeling from the Benghazi bombings and the secretary of state had directly forbidden any American involvement in the country. If the CIA had agents on the ground, they were operating without presidential approval.

  “Do you have a problem killing a CIA asset?” he asked Zeus.

  “Not especially, but is that wise? I thought you were trying to go home,” the Libyan said with crossed arms.

  Mason looked back at the picture and took another shot from the bottle. Once his resolve was set, he turned to Zeus.

  “You and I both know that I’m never going home.”

  CHAPTER 15

  * * *

  Washington, DC

  “I don’t understand how something like this is even possible,” President Bradley yelled as he slammed his hand on the table.

  “Sir, they are claiming it was a weapons malfunction, but the facts tell a different story,” the national security advisor said, placing a black folder on the president’s desk.

  “Duke, what am I looking at?”

  “Sir, this is a joint report between my office and Director Hollis. We believe we’ve found the SecDef’s source.”

  “Go on,” the president said, skimming the memo.

  “Sir, we believe that Secretary Collins has been using Master Sergeant Mason Kane to run guns from Libya to Syria. Besides the fact that this is extremely illegal, and a job typically handled by the CIA, we have learned that Kane was once a member of a decommissioned DoD project called the Anvil Program.”

  “I don’t know what that is, Duke. I have never heard of the Anvil Program.”

  “Sir, right now I think we need to keep it that way. If any of this gets out you’re going to need plausible deniability. You shouldn’t be held accountable for policies enacted during another administration.”

  The president looked at Duke for a moment, weighing what his most trusted advisor was telling him.

  “Okay, I’ll go with that for the time being. What do I need to know?” he asked.

  “The DoD lost contact with Kane two days before the attack on Karzai and didn’t bother to let anyone know.”

  “Jesus, where was his last location?”

  “Afghanistan.”

  The president slumped back in his chair, his eyes raised to the ceiling as if he was seeking spiritual guidance. Duke almost felt sorry for the man, but deep down he knew he had to keep moving forward.

  “Sir, the CIA had an officer keeping tabs on Kane, and yesterday I was advised that he had been murdered. Per CIA protocol, Director Hollis initiated an in-depth investigation on Kane, which has turned up some very interesting information. If you will turn to page two, you will see a list of accounts that are tied to the DoD’s Special Actions Division. The CIA has advised us that this is how the DoD is funneling money to Kane. We tracked the funds to a Libyan national acting as Mason Kane’s handler. A man we know only as Ahmed.”

  “So the United States was paying the American who assassinated the president of Afghanistan. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Jesus, what am I going to do?”

  “Sir, I can fix this, but I’m going to need some room to work.”

  The national security advisor had the president right where he wanted him, and he knew it was time to drop the hammer.

  “What do you need? Just name it and I’ll make it happen.”

  “General Swift has flown to Bagram to meet with General Nantz, and they are in the process of setting up an operation to take out Mason and whoever else might be involved. Right now all of this is circumstantial, but—”

  “Duke, do what you have to do. If you need a presidential order to go get this guy then that’s what I’ll give you. Just get it done.”

  “What about Secretary Collins, sir? I know we don’t get along, but I don’t want to be the guy who ends his career by accusing him of treason.”

  “Don’t worry about that, just find Mason Kane, get the truth, and we can figure out what to do with the secretary after that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cage said solemnly.

  CHAPTER 16

  * * *

  Jalalabad, Afghanistan

  Renee sat in the hangar, staring at the flat-screen attached to the plywood wall with two metal hooks. Everyone not performing mission-essential duties was crowded in front of the TV, watching the story unfold on CNN.

  A reporter was standing on the roof of the Kabul Hotel as dark columns of smoke billowed up from the whitewashed city behind him. An explosion went off in the distance, shaking the camera and causing the reporter to duck and cover his head.

  A few moments later, he regained his composure, and he began talking into the camera. “With the death of President Karzai, US military troops are flooding into the city. We have received footage of an American soldier taking credit for the assassination, and right now, as you can see, the city is awash in violence.”

  The camera panned away from the gray-haired reporter as another car bomb exploded near the center of the city, followed by a long burst of gunfire. Renee could hear the faint screams of rockets as they arced in from the hills surrounding the capital.

  “It is the largest uprising we have seen since the invasion, and things are only going to get worse, as world leaders rush to an emergency meeting at Camp David. Sources close to the president tell us that this could be the last nail in the coalition’s coffin. In the wake of the Arab Spring, it appears that America will soon be supporting the war effort on its own.”

  “Shit,” Renee swore as Kevin walked in and stared up at the giant television.

  “The bird’s ready, but we have to go now. They are diverting all the flights.”

  She nodded and grabbed her gear before heading out to the flight line. Renee had wanted to talk to General Swift before heading out, but the man had gotten on a flight to Bagram before she had a chance. Things were moving quickly now, and without the general there, they could get out of control fast.

  • • •

  Renee sat inside the UH-60 Black Hawk and let her feet dangle out the open door as the pilot lifted off. The wind whipping into the troop compartment caused her pant legs to snap and pop as the bird picked up speed.

  The crew chief and the gunner rotated their 240 Bravo machine guns up and out, ensuring they had unobstructed fields of fire. Renee rested her hand on the black rubber case that held her level-three gas masks and wondered what lay ahead.

  Two dual-rotored CH-47 Chinooks pulled up alongside the Black Hawk before the pilot
pushed the throttles forward and thundered off toward Kamdesh. The pilot kept the bird low and fast, and as the landscape raced beneath them, she could make out the oblong shadow of the Black Hawk on the brown earth. Reaching an open spot on the outskirts of the city, the gunners test-fired the 240s by sending two short bursts into the ground before putting them back on safe.

  Kevin sat to her right and looked relaxed as the pilot rolled and dipped the bird, changing speed and altitude in an attempt to confuse any asshole on the ground with a gun.

  Renee swallowed hard as her stomach knotted up. The locals loved to shoot at low-flying helicopters, and she knew it only took one lucky shot to ruin a perfectly good day. One of the lessons taken from Somalia and reinforced in Iraq was the fact that a slow-flying helicopter was a hard target to resist.

  She could hear the pitch of the rotors change as the helicopter fought to gain altitude. The hilly ground gave way to the foothills of the mountain range and the blades struggled for purchase in the thinner air.

  “Ma’am, I’m looking at the grid you gave me and there’s no FOB on the map,” the pilot said over the internal channel.

  “Trust me, it’s there,” she said confidently.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” he said with a shrug.

  Renee ignored the pilot and switched over to the team channel. It was too loud to talk inside the helicopter and even if she yelled, they wouldn’t hear her.

  “I know that Kevin already briefed you, but I’m going to go over it again. General Swift doesn’t want us to go to the village until it has been cleared by the bio team. There is a Special Forces team already on site at the FOB. We are going to link up with them while the other team secures the convoy. I don’t think Barnes is still in the area, but if anyone sees anything, let me know.”

  “Roger,” the team repeated in unison.

  “Guys, we need to stay frosty.”

  “Renee, we’ve got this, don’t worry,” Kevin said as the rest of the team nodded.