by Mel Odom
Pete had roped his arms protectively around the notebook computer on the table. He held his position for a few moments, then leaned back and studied the ceiling with some trepidation.
“You know,” he said, “I’m beginning to wonder if we should take this meeting down into the wine cellar.”
Shaking, Danielle studied the cuts on her bare arms. Glass fragments glittered on her clothing. She started to brush at it, then realized that she’d only cut up her hands. She took a napkin off the table and knocked the glass from her lap.
“If we go down there,” she said, “we’ll lose the Internet connection. We’re lucky we have it now.”
“Yeah, but part of me keeps wondering if the Syrians are using Internet hot spots as targets.”
The thought chilled Danielle. She swept her gaze over the people around them. She didn’t like thinking she was responsible for bringing death closer to them.
“That’s not what’s happening,” Pete said. “I didn’t mean to drop that on you. That wasn’t fair.”
Danielle nodded.
The screen pixilated again. This time the image reformed even sharper than before. She stared hard at the faces of the two men revealed in the video footage. The driver remained mostly hidden behind the glare reflecting off the windshield. The man on the passenger side of the vehicle held a rocket launcher over his shoulder.
Three-quarters of his face showed.
“That rocket launcher blocks a lot of his face,” Danielle said.
“We knew that when we started this. So did your friend. We all agreed that this was the best image we had.”
“I know.”
“If we don’t get anything from this photo, it’s not going to happen. And we’re lucky to get this much.”
Danielle glared at the image and willed it to give up its secrets. “Do those men look Syrian to you?”
Pete shook his head. “No. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t hired by the Syrians.”
“Whoever those men were, they singled us out. They knew which helicopter Icarus evaced on.”
“You’re assuming that.”
“It’s a safe assumption. No one else on any of those helicopters would have been a target.”
“What about you?”
“Me?” That thought hadn’t occurred to Danielle.
“Sure. You’re a reporter. OneWorld NewsNet. You’ve been hotdogging screen time out here, becoming the voice of the people of the free world. At least for American television.” Pete grinned sheepishly. “The Syrians might like the idea of taking out a significant member of the American press.”
Danielle hadn’t thought of herself in that way. It was flattering, she supposed. And maybe even a little true.
“You were doing spots from Harran,” Pete pointed out. “They knew you were there.”
“They wouldn’t hire an assassination team to come after me.”
Pete nodded at the image on the computer. “Like you said, those men don’t look like Syrian military. Somebody hired them. That’s why you wanted to take a closer look at them.”
Danielle knew that was true. But she’d also concentrated on the men because it was all she could do. Remington had given orders that the press were to stay out of the street and out of the way of his men. The Rangers had orders to take into custody any press members they found roaming and lock them up for the duration of the attack.
Many of the reporters felt certain that being placed under such “protection” would actually turn out to be a death sentence. All of them had cleared immediately.
Abruptly a line of script ran across the bottom of the computer screen.
Mystic:›TALK TO ME, MUCKRAKER.
Danielle slid forward, placed her hands on the keyboard, and opened up a chat application. She went immediately to a private room she’d arranged with Mystic.
Muckraker:›YOU THERE?
Almost immediately a response appeared on the screen.
Mystic:›YES. GLAD TO KNOW YOU’RE STILL ALL IN ONE PIECE.
Another nearby explosion shook the hotel.
Muckraker:›SO FAR. DOESN’T APPEAR HOPEFUL.
Mystic:›I’M WATCHING THE COVERAGE ON CNN.
Danielle knew that OneWorld NewsNet and others continued carrying the story through a few automated cameras set up throughout the city.
Mystic:›I SAW A MODEL REENACTMENT OF SANTA ANNA’S ARMY TAKING THE ALAMO. LOOKS A LOT LIKE WHAT YOU GUYS ARE GOING THROUGH NOW. VASTLY OUTNUMBERED.
Muckraker:›AREN’T YOU FULL OF GOOD CHEER.
Mystic:›WELL, AT LEAST I COME BEARING GIFTS.
Danielle’s heart leaped.
Muckraker:›YOU IDENTIFIED THE MEN IN THE IMAGE.
Mystic:›ONLY ONE OF THEM. BUT HE’S A BIG PIECE. I’M SENDING YOU A PACKET. LOG IN TO YOUR FTP SITE AND PICK IT UP. I SQUEEZED IT AND DRAINED IT. SHOULD DOWNLOAD FAST FOR YOU.
Danielle opened up another window and accessed the FTP client she had on the computer. Once activated, the program searched for new packages and found one immediately. She started the download.
Muckraker:›GOT IT.
Mystic:›YOU’RE GOING TO LIKE THIS.
Muckraker:›THE SHOOTER TIES BACK TO OUR CIA SECTION CHIEF.
Mystic:›IMPRESSIVE. PSYCHIC MUCH?
Muckraker:›NOT HARD TO FIGURE OUT WHO AROUND HERE WOULD HIRE AN ASSASSINATION TEAM TO TAKE OUT THE MAN ABOARD THAT HELICOPTER.
Mystic:›TRUE. THAT’S HOW I WAS ABLE TO TURN THIS SO QUICKLY. I HAD MY SUSPICIONS TOO.
Muckraker:›WHO IS HE?
Mystic:›GOT THE PACKET?
Danielle watched the last of the transfer take place. She opened it and saw thumbnail images pop up in neat rows. Some of the images were of people. Others showed newspaper stories and official-looking documents.
Muckraker:›LOOKING AT IT NOW. HIS NAME IS MARCUS ALLEN? REAL OR ALIAS?
Mystic:›EVERYTHING I’VE BEEN ABLE TO DIG UP SAYS THAT IT’S HIS TRUE NAME. GUY HAS A HISTORY. CAREER SOLDIER GOT BOOTED FOR PLAYING HARDBALL WITH PRISONERS. HE QUIETLY MUSTERED OUT AS THE HEAT STARTED TURNING UP. THEN HE STARTED HITTING THE MERCENARY SCENE. IT DIDN’T TAKE ME LONG TO FIND OUT HE’S ONE OF THE GUYS YOUR SPY GUY HAS GONE TO IN THE PAST. USUALLY FOR BLACK-BAG AND DIRTY-TRICKS ASSIGNMENTS. AND FOR ASSASSINATIONS.
Beside Danielle, Pete grimaced and cursed. “You know what? I didn’t think, given the fact that we’re getting bombed, that I could feel any worse. But this?” He shook his head. “Thinking these guys are still walking around out there gives me the willies.”
Danielle silently agreed.
Muckraker:›YOU’VE GOT EVIDENCE OF THIS?
She pulled some of the news stories up.
Mystic:›NO. I DON’T HAVE SOLID EVIDENCE. WHAT I HAVE WOULD NEVER MAKE A COURT CASE. BUT I DO HAVE SUBSTANTIVE. CONNECTING THE DOTS IS NO PROBLEM.
Danielle’s mind flew. If Goose was still alive, this man in the image- Marcus Allen, she thought, putting a name to the fear she felt-could still be alive also.
Mystic:›YOU NEED TO THINK ABOUT GETTING OUT OF THERE. THIS GUY MIGHT NOT BE THE ONLY ONE YOUR SECTION CHIEF HAS IN MOTION. I TRIPPED A FEW ALARMS GETTING THIS GUY’S INFO.
Muckraker:›NOT LIKE YOU TO BE LESS THAN GRACEFUL.
Mystic:›YOU CAN HAVE STEALTH OR YOU CAN HAVE SPEED WHEN IT COMES TO THESE THINGS. IT’S HARD TO ACHIEVE BOTH. SINCE THERE’S A BIG CHANCE THE SYRIAN ARMY IS GOING TO INVADE THAT CITY AT ANY MOMENT…
Muckraker:›UNDERSTOOD. CAN YOU KEEP WORKING WITH THIS NAME? MAYBE GET ME A LIST AND PIX OF KNOWN ASSOCIATES.
Mystic:›I CAN. I WILL. BUT IF THIS THING STARTS GETTING DICEY AGAIN, I’M ALL ABOUT DISCRETION BEING THE BETTER PART OF VALOR.
Muckraker:›I KNOW.
Someone had already tried to trace Mystic through Internet connections during an earlier investigation.
Muckraker:›TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF.
Mystic:›I ALWAYS DO. WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?
Muckraker:›WHAT I CAN. SEE IF I CAN FIND THE SECTION CHIEF AND STIR
UP TROUBLE. IF HE’S STILL IN THE CITY. HE’S GOT A HABIT OF DISAPPEARING WHEN THINGS GET REALLY DANGEROUS.
Mystic:›ACTUALLY I CAN HELP YOU WITH THAT TOO. I’VE BEEN TRACKING SOME INTERNET TRAFFIC COMING OUT OF SANLIURFA THAT’S NOT COMING OUT OF THE ESTABLISHED MIL-NET.
Muckraker:›MIL-NET?
Mystic:›MILITARY NETWORK. I’VE BEEN WATCHING SOME OF THE TRAFFIC GOING INTO AND OUT OF THE AREA THERE. FIGURED IF I COULD GIVE YOU SOME EARLY HEADS-UP WARNING, IT MIGHT HELP.
“Wow,” Pete said. “I’m even more impressed.”
“He’s an impressive guy.”
Muckraker:›THANKS FOR THAT. I’LL BE MONITORING YOU WHEN I CAN.
Mystic:›COOL. I’VE GOT A COUPLE OTHER PEOPLE THAT I’M SHEPHERDING IN THAT PART OF THE WORLD.
Danielle’s curiosity came to the forefront immediately.
Muckraker:›ANYONE I SHOULD KNOW ABOUT?
Mystic:›…
Mystic:›SORRY. I’M TIRED. TYPED THAT BEFORE I THOUGHT. FINGERS WORK FASTER THAN MY BRAIN SOMETIMES. I CAN’T TALK ABOUT THOSE PEOPLE.
Danielle cursed. For years, Mystic had been a ghost. He’d never asked for anything, but he’d aided her from time to time with key pieces of information. She’d have given a lot to find out more about him.
Muckraker:›YOU SAID YOU KNEW WHERE I COULD FIND MY GUY?
Mystic:›YEAH. HE’S HOLED UP AT A HOTEL THERE IN THE CITY. LET ME GIVE YOU THE ADDRESS.
35
United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 1318 Hours
Hell descended on Sanliurfa. The war, snarling and blistering hot, ravaged the city and sucked the marrow from its broken bones despite the pounding rain. A few of the SCUD missiles the Syrians were firing had gotten past the Patriot defensive systems, and Remington felt the explosions shake the earth and quiver through his boot soles.
He stood at parade rest in front of the ops board and kept the battlefield in view in his mind even when the satellite systems occasionally failed and the screens went dark. Fear came at him harder then. His dependence on technology left him crippled and floundering.
It’s not me, Remington told himself, struggling for a calm, clear head. It’s war the way it’s fought now. Battles these days move too fast for an unaided man to keep up with. No one could adequately track developing fronts and unit strength without computers.
Back when war had first been invented, generals had peered over a battlefield from a cliff or a hill, or they had led their troops from the front lines. They’d been able to see everything they needed to.
Remington had studied war, from the Chinese texts to the Romans to MOUT battles staged inside cities. In the beginning, war had started in communities as one faction inside a metropolitan area- no matter how large or how small-had fought to contain or destroy another. Then war had gotten too large and was waged outside the city, partly to make sure there was still something left standing for the victor to claim. From there war had spread to the struggles between the cities, where economies and religions threatened to conquer all.
War was still waged for the same reasons. Spin doctors simply tried to put different faces on it.
The Greek city-states had battled each other. The nations comprising the German confederacy had battled each other. The North had battled the South in the United States. Remington believed it was man’s nature to battle other men.
There could, in the end, be only one conqueror, one world leader.
He gazed at the ops board in disbelief. The Syrians seriously outgunned and outnumbered his troops. Sanliurfa had been under constant attack for almost three hours. The Syrian military and air force had settled into the ridges around the city and contented themselves with shelling and bombing the Turkish, American, and United Nations forces into submission. Time was on their side.
At least the rain that continued to fall slowed them. The huge tract of land in front of the city’s walls had become a lake of mud that jammed the Syrian cavalry units. A few of them that tried to cross the expanse became targets for Remington’s artillery squads. Those squads hadn’t hesitated about blowing tanks, APCs, and field artillery to pieces.
Remington knew that several Syrian units sat out there in smoking ruins. He took pride in those small successes. What he needed was a way to turn those into more and larger successes.
What he needed-though he was loath to admit it-was Goose. Whenever circumstances had threatened to get out of hand in the past, whether in Iraq or Bosnia or in one of the African countries where they’d fought for survival in the early years, Goose had always been by Remington’s side.
Don’t you think about him, Remington commanded himself. Goose is part of the problem these days. He’s picked up Baker’s slack and has split the attention of this army. These men need to stay worried about saving their butts, not their souls.
“Captain,” the com officer said. He was young and bright faced.
Remington looked at the man.
“I’ve got Doyle.”
Remington nodded, then reached up and switched his headset to the frequency he used for Corporal Raymond Doyle. “Go.”
“I found your bird.” Doyle’s voice carried the lilt of New Orleans in it. Before entering the army, he’d been a street enforcer in that city and a part-time bounty hunter for a bail bondsman. His attorney had gotten him a sweetheart deal into the army to settle a manslaughter charge the DA’s office had leveled against him.
Before the army, Doyle had been a violent man conditioned to using his fists and a gun to solve problems. After Remington found out about him, he’d put the man’s talents to work. He still employed his fists and gun, and he did the dark, dirty jobs behind the scenes that Goose wouldn’t.
The “bird” was CIA Section Chief Alexander Cody.
“Where is he?” Remington asked.
“North end of the city.”
That didn’t surprise Remington. “Is he getting ready to run?”
“He’s still here, but I’m willing to bet if things turn much more sour, he’ll bolt like a striped ape.”
Remington wasn’t sure what the colloquialism meant, but he understood the sentiment. “He’s probably afraid to head out of the city with the SCUDs dropping out there.” The other end of Sanliurfa was easily within reach of the Syrians’ missiles, and some of those who had chosen to flee late in the game lay dead on the highway now.
“That’s the way I figure it too. But if he decides he likes his chances better out on the open road, what do you want me to do?”
“Prevent that. I’m not done with him.”
“Yes, sir. Probably be better to bag him and bring him in.”
“Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir, but it’ll be bloody. He’s got him a squad of hard-core boys around him.”
Remington’s mind flipped that around. “He’s not waiting here to see if he can get out of the city. He’s waiting to see how things turn out with Goose and Icarus.”
“You could be right, sir. But seeing as how we haven’t had any radio communication with Gander, there’s every chance that-”
“Goose would keep radio silence at this point,” Remington said. “He’s behind enemy lines. He’s not going to want to call attention to himself.”
“No, sir. I reckon not. If I was in his shoes, I wouldn’t want nobody to know where I was either. Out in that brush, he’ll have a chance.”
If he’s still alive.
Even though Doyle didn’t say the words, Remington knew the man was thinking them. Remington wasn’t going to believe Goose was dead till he saw the sergeant’s body.
“Keep a loose watch on your target,” Remington said. “I don’t want to lose track of him in the confusion.”
Another SCUD landed nearby and shook the earth. Particleboard dropped from the ceiling and landed on soldiers as well as the floor. A flurry of curses ran through the room, and a few of the men hit the deck and went flat. The electronics we
nt out for a moment, then came back on.
“Are you still there?” Remington asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Remington let out a tense breath. He needed the communications array to stay intact. “Did you copy my last instructions?”
“Stay on top of the target. Don’t engage.”
“Right. He’s probably waiting around at least till nightfall. That’s when Goose will most likely try to make it back into the city. If Icarus is still alive, Goose will bring him in at that time too.”
“Yes, sir.” Doyle’s calm tone told Remington he’d already thought of that. “The target’s wired into a communications array himself. He’s staying on the horn to some of his people.”
“He’ll have spotters around the city.” Remington’s mind flew, working out everything Cody would probably be planning for. Remington turned and gazed around the room. “He’s probably going to have someone on me.”
“Yes, sir. If I was the target, that’s what I’d do.”
Remington hated the insecurity that fell over him. He hated having to accept that he didn’t control everyone in the room. Cody, and the agency the man worked for, had enough resources to buy any one of the soldiers in the command center who wasn’t convinced his future lay in Remington’s hands. At the moment, there were probably a lot of soldiers like that.
“The good thing is,” Doyle said, “the target doesn’t appear willing to leave the city till he deals with his objective. It’s easier to hunt something that has a reason to stay around. That way you don’t have to worry about just one chance to get it right. Him hunting that Icarus guy, that’s just a honey pot to a bear. I got a feeling this guy won’t jump till he’s settled his target’s hash. Works out for us.”
“I’m relying on you,” Remington said.
“Yes, sir. You’re in good hands.”
For the kind of work he was doing, Remington knew that was true. Goose would have asked too many questions, insisted on knowing too many things.
Making himself breathe, Remington started to flip the headset back to the frequency carrying the main information for the army maneuvers. Doyle’s next announcement stayed his hand.
“We got a problem,” Doyle stated in a flat, dead voice.