Night Hush

by Leslie Jones

  When she was clean, dry, and dressed in a burkha, the man jerked his head in the direction of the door. The women hurried out. Each guard took an arm, forcing her back out the canvas doorway. Instead of turning left toward her cell, they turned her right. Heather struggled to stay on her feet. Thankfully, it was dark. Her eyes still burned. The younger guard pulled her into a small room, and she knew immediately these must be the sheik’s quarters. Tapestries and hangings covered the walls and floors. Not sumptuous by any means, it was nevertheless a far cry from the austerity of the rest of the compound. The guard pushed her through a sitting room and into the bedroom beyond. Unlike her own rusty cot, this room had a real bed. The full size seemed huge to her after the past few days.

  “Sit there,” the older guard snapped, pointing to a spot near the sheik’s bed. He moved his finger up to the younger guard and glared. “Beat her and tie her to the bed if she gives you any trouble.”

  Chapter Four

  August 16. 1:00 A.M.

  Kongra-­Gel Terrorist Training Site

  JACE CHECKED HIS watch, then scanned the area. Beside him, Archangel did the same. The camp lay still and silent, save for the lights inside the sheik’s enormous tent. They had worked their way down the mountainside to a point just above and behind the building housing the weapons cache. The Kongra-­Gel cell had made the classic M&M mistake—­they assumed the hard outer candy shell of the perimeter guard posts would adequately protect the soft chocolate innards of the camp itself.

  Leaving the rocky outcropping and descending toward the camp, Jace stayed in the deep shadows. Archangel remained where he was, rock solid and trusted, sniper rifle braced. He tracked Jace’s movements, keeping overwatch. A few times, Jace slithered like some great dangerous desert snake to the rear of the ammo dump. It wasn’t even a complete building. On the west side, invisible to their binoculars, part of the wall had crumbled or been blasted away. He could see two of the guards through the wall at the front of the building, smoking and talking, weapons slung over their shoulders. He backed up to the other corner, set the explosives, then took one of his grenades and wrapped the spoon—­the safety handle—­with several intricate knots of wire. He fashioned a loop at the other end and carefully pulled the pin, wrapping a knot around the handle to hold it in place. Once he hung the contraption on the inside of the western wall, gravity would start to pull the wire loose. He had roughly an hour at that point before the safety lever lifted, allowing the primer to explode and ignite the fuse. Three to five seconds later, the grenade would detonate.

  A scream rent the air, traveling clearly across the still desert air. Jace froze, every nerve in his body suddenly jangling. A female’s cry. One of the women who’d come in with the sheik? He recognized suffering when he heard it. She was in serious pain. His fingers brushed against the picture in his breast pocket. Not her. Thank God, not her.

  But someone.

  One of the three soldiers dedicated to the SCUD walked into view, and Jace melted into the shadows. The man was a mere thirty feet from him; he walked several yards away from the camp and stopped, not even bothering to glance in the direction of that single scream. A pause, then the sound of his pissing. The man finished, but lingered, leaning against a scrub tree as he lit a cigarette. Jace waited patiently while the man puffed. No muscle so much as twitched. At last, an impatient bark from inside the camp had the man flinging the butt into the dirt, grinding it with his heel, and walking back to his post.

  Before anyone could take the guard’s place, Jace hung his contraption over the inside of a broken part of the wall, lowering it incrementally and laying each section carefully, one eye on the two guards, who had now stepped a few feet away and could barely be seen. When done, he checked it visually one more time, then slid silently back up the hill to Archangel’s position.

  Date: Unknown

  Location: Unknown

  HEATHER SAT WITH her knees drawn up to her chest. Her guard stood by the door for a few minutes; then, watching her carefully lest she spring from the floor and attack him, he sat down, laying his rifle across his lap.

  Alone in a room with only one guard.

  “What’s your name?” she asked him in Arabic.

  For a long moment, she thought he would not answer her. Finally, though, he said grudgingly, “Ahmed.”

  “Ahmed, you know, don’t you, that they’re going to kill me?”

  Again, there was a long pause. “Yes.”

  “Do you have family? A sister?”

  It was the wrong question. Hostility flared in his face. “My family is dead, killed at the hands of Alevi dogs as they begged for their lives.”

  Heather forced herself to stay calm. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  He spat out a curse.

  The Alevi, she knew, were a Shia Muslim minority in Turkey. “Wouldn’t you have protected your sister from harm? I know you wouldn’t have wished her to go through what I have.”

  Her question was met with silence. Heather knew she was pushing too hard, but she was out of time. “You know what they’re going to do to me. Would you want your sister treated that way?”

  “Shut up! You are not my sister.” He stood abruptly, raising the rifle. “You will be silent now.”

  Her head throbbed. The boy might sympathize, but he feared the sheik more than he pitied the plight of an infidel. Her young guard pulled a pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket and lit one. He sucked deeply, letting the smoke stream from his nose. No doubt a trick he had learned from his role models, the stone-­cold killers who’d undoubtedly cheer the sheik on as he raped and beat her.

  As the minutes turned into more minutes, then still more, Heather examined the room. One window, one door. One guard.

  She’d never have a better chance.

  “Please, I need to use the facilities,” she said, feigning embarrassment.

  “No.”

  Great. Now he was sullen and hostile.

  “Please, Ahmed.” Heather pressed her legs together, eyes lowered. “I don’t want to foul the sheik’s sheets. Or . . . or his person.” Desperation tinged her tone, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Sighing loudly, the boy jerked the barrel of the rifle toward a smaller opening, the fabric door dangling loosely. “Be quick.”

  Okay. Okay. She heaved herself to her feet. Made her way into the tent’s small bathroom area on alarmingly shaky legs. She started to zip the door closed.

  “Leave it open,” Ahmed barked.

  She could not forget, she reminded herself sharply, that however young, her guard had probably killed by now. The bathroom area was large enough for a claw-­footed tub and a wooden seat arrangement. The faint smell told her it had probably been cleaned in preparation for the sheik’s arrival. The single window was tiny and covered in translucent plastic. She wasn’t getting out that way.

  “Hurry!” snapped Ahmed.

  She finished rapidly, pouring water from a pitcher into a bowl to wash her hands. Breath hissed from between her teeth as the water splashed over her wrists like liquid fire. She came out of the bathroom and started across the floor. And tripped and fell heavily in the middle of the room. Please, please, she pleaded silently. Have a shred of decency left. She groaned, not entirely playacting. “Oh, God! I think I broke my ankle!”

  Hesitation, then steps. A boot came into her vision. She felt more than saw him draw back his other foot to kick her in the ribs. And she exploded into action. She rolled sharply into his approaching foot, pulling her arms in front of her chest, protecting her ribs. She continued to roll, slamming the front of her own body against his knees, pushing him off balance, trapping his lower legs with one arm. He lost his balance with a surprised grunt. As he fell backwards, she continued on, rolling her back entirely onto his lower legs. She let her own momentum finish the turn, bringing her elbow over her body and down into his groin with all
her might. Adrenaline coursing through her, she slammed him again, rolling again so they met chest to chest. His eyes bulged in his head as the first wave of agony hit him.

  Without wasting any time, she crossed her hands over his throat, sliding her fingers deep into his collar and rotating her wrists into his neck, executing the reverse cross-­hand choke she’d learned in judo. His eyes widened as he realized she had cut off his air. He thrashed hard, emitting hoarse, grunting noises. Heather increased the pressure across his carotid artery, keeping herself centered across his chest. She twisted her wrists even further. It seemed to take forever, but the guard’s struggles weakened and finally stopped.

  When she sensed he wouldn’t spring up and grab her, she loosened her hold and finally relaxed. Trembling, she pressed her fingers to his neck. Yes, there was a pulse. She’d knocked him out, but he was alive.

  She ran to the plastic window. Soldiers clustered in groups around the compound, chattering loudly, passing opium pipes back and forth. Some simply sat, staring at the stars and not moving, high on poppies.

  Shit. Okay. She could do this.

  Scrambling back to the guard, she unbuttoned his shirt, wrenching it down his arms. She tore at his pants, her fingers shaking so much it took her three tries to unbutton his fly. Yanking and jerking them off his hips and down his legs, she realized belatedly she’d have to take his boots off first. Mentally cursing, straining to hear any movement from the hallway outside the door, she unlaced them, pulling them off.

  The stench of the unwashed uniform hit the back of her throat, nearly causing another round of dry heaves. Heather breathed shallowly through her nose, not hesitating one iota as she pulled on his pants and shirt. Unwrapping his turban, she twisted it awkwardly around her own head, pulling it across the lower half of her face. She stuffed her feet into the boots, then reached down and pulled the socks off his feet. Shoving them into a pocket, she returned to the window. She waited, her heart pounding triple time in her chest, until no guards remained close enough to hear before unzipping the window.

  She wanted to freeze. To listen. Instead, she forced herself into action. She had mere minutes to make this work. Someone would check on her, find her gone, and all hell would break loose. She picked up the light assault rifle and popping the magazine. Full. A nice bonus. If she couldn’t get clear, she could at least take some of them with her before she died.

  Back at the window, she waited, every nerve jumping, until the only guard turned his back to her, and she wriggled headfirst out the window. Tucking and rolling, the action on the rifle nevertheless smacked her chin, causing a ringing in her head. She came up onto one knee, finger on the safety of the rifle. Nobody shouted alarms or warnings.

  So far, so good.

  A guard came around the corner, weaving and muttering to himself. He took a drag off the bong in his hand, walked right past her, then wobbled to a halt. Turning, he waved it at her.

  “Hey! Want some?”

  Quaking from head to foot, Heather stood and shook her head, and made a you-­go-­on wave with her hand. The guard hesitated for another nerve-­shattering moment, then shrugged and continued on. Not long after, he stumbled to another halt and half leaned his head against a building. After a moment, Heather heard splashing as he urinated.

  Act natural. One of the guys.

  Straightening her shoulders, she stepped away from the building, using every ounce of self-­control she possessed to amble. She carried the rifle loosely, barrel down, as she had seen the others do.

  Slowly. Don’t run. Don’t. Run.

  She cut a path as directly as she could toward the north end of the camp, away from the enormous tent, toward a scrub of trees. Keep away from the guard’s hut to her left. What looked like a barracks squatted off to her right; stay away from it, as well. Maybe fifteen minutes had passed since the women had washed her. Too much time. Too little time. She needed to be as far away from the camp as possible before the sheik came for her.

  Measured steps. Stagger a little, as though high on poppies.

  You can do it, she chanted to herself, each step taking her closer to freedom.

  At last, she reached the edge of the trees. As she stepped in, she barked her shin. Heather swallowed the cry of pain, forcing herself to stand silent and let her eyes adjust to the night. So far, so good.

  The night exploded into chaos.

  Chapter Five

  August 16. 1:15 A.M.

  Kongra-­Gel Terrorist Training Site

  HIS METICULOUS PLAN to disable the SCUD and blow the munitions sky-­high without detection was chucked abruptly out the window as an enraged bellow carried clearly across the compound. A burly man hurtled out of the sheik’s huge tent, screaming at the guards, shoving and shouting. A young man wearing nothing but a loincloth as underwear followed much more slowly. Men came onto full alert, scurrying to fix whatever had gone wrong. When flashlights materialized and began sweeping the area, Jace knew they had to act fast.

  A handful of insurgents spilled from the main tent and scurried toward the barracks, where lights began to pop on. The compound turned into chaos as soldiers swarmed back and forth like beetles.

  Jace clicked his headset twice. “Do it, guys. Do it now.”

  Refusing to give in to the sudden doubts—­uncertainty could get his men killed—­he sprinted toward one of the two insurgents at the ammo bunker. The man never saw him coming. Jace slid up behind him, clamping a hand over his mouth as he efficiently slit his throat. Not far away, Archangel did the same to another guard. Jace let the body drop to the ground as he darted inside the ammo bunker. A quick glance told him exactly where to rig his grenades. Next to their box of hand grenades.

  Automatic gunfire ripped through the compound. Their teammates had engaged the enemy.

  “Move,” he ordered Archangel. “We need to get to the SCUD, now. That’s the first thing they’re going to try to protect.”

  The two operators zigzagged their way across the rocky terrain, joining the firefight with Sandman and Mace before breaking off for the SCUD. Behind them, their grenades blew, followed by larger and larger explosions. The ammunition began to cook off, the pop-­pop-­pop almost lost in the racket. Whatever had been in there—­rocket-­propelled grenades, rifles, and a buttload of ammo, by all reports—­could no longer be used to kill American soldiers.

  Across the compound, three explosions ripped the air, one on top of the other. Jace wished he could watch fire and brimstone rain down on these terror mongers as chaos exploded in the camp. One charge had detonated near the sheik’s tent, setting the heavy canvas ablaze. The other two blew apart the flimsy wooden barracks at the far end of the compound. Five or six insurgents staggered out of the wreckage, disoriented and bleeding, tripping the wire across the door. The Claymore anti-­personnel mine fired a curtain of seven hundred steel balls at a velocity of four thousand feet per second. The surviving soldiers fell, decimated by the barrage.

  More men charged from buildings and the sheik’s tent, half-­dressed, searching for their attackers from behind vehicles and other concealment.

  Leaving their teammates to engage the enemy, Jace and Archangel raced down the steep incline and over to the SCUD. Jace kept his weapon up and ready as Archangel studied the strapped-­on guidance system for a few seconds. They had only once chance at this. Without a guidance system, the ballistic missile could not be launched. However, the missile stretched almost thirty-­seven feet long, and the guidance system rested just below where the warhead should have been. Would be, if they did not disable the missile. Jace covered his six while Archangel took the rest of the C-­4 and shaped his charge, then clambered onto the vehicle’s back wheels to set it.

  A vehicle roared to life. It was the sheik’s own Jeep. The Sheik and a large man, as well as two soldiers, dove into the vehicle. Another soldier raced toward them, motioning for them to stop, and the veh
icle barely avoided hitting him as it roared down the dirt road. Jace and Archangel turned and ran straight up the hill, reaching the lip and tumbling over it just as the C-­4 blew. It pushed Jace the rest of the way to the ground as hands grabbed his uniform and dragged him behind the rocks where Alex and Sandman knelt.

  “Cut it a little close, don’t ya think?” yelled Sandman, pausing to swap out his magazine.

  “It was perfection,” said Jace, grinning like a maniac. His blood pumped, and adrenaline roared like fire through his body. He peered back down to the SCUD. The flight guidance system lay in wrecked fragments across the desert floor. “Mace, take out the Jeep.”

  Mace unstrapped the LAW—­light antitank weapon—­and snapped it open. If they fired it immediately, it would blow the Jeep, and anyone in it, straight to hell. Mace set it onto his shoulder and sighted through it. Three bullets pinged off the rock next to him in rapid succession. Shards of rock sprayed, one hitting Mace’s face. He flinched. His shot went wide, exploding harmlessly near the Jeep, which raced its engine and roared out of sight. He swore, loudly and inventively.

  Below them, the insurgents rallied. “Time to boogedy,” said Archangel. The four started running east, up the hillside and away from the camp.

  Jace keyed his mike. “Break off, guys. Rally point bravo. Let’s get the hell out of Dodge.”

  Chapter Six

  August 16. 1:41A.M.

  Somewhere in Sari Daru Province, Azakistan

  UNDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES, Jace would not doubt their ability to evade the enemy soldiers milling in the dark. By the time they organized and began to search in earnest, the A-­Team would be safely on board a bird and flying back to Camp Delta.