by Joshua Hood
“We didn’t do anything,” Zeus pointed out angrily. “What have you gotten us into?”
CHAPTER 2
* * *
Turkish-Syrian Border
The sun was just beginning to come up over the airfield as Renee Hart hustled across the tarmac to the waiting Mi-17s. The rotors of the Russian helicopters whined, blowing her short blond hair against her cheek as they began to spin up, and forcing her to duck before she hustled up the ramp and took her seat.
She pulled her helmet over her head, catching her reflection in the small window set in the thin skin of the helo. She was pretty in a girl-next-door type of way, but within her clear blue eyes was a hardness forged in combat.
Renee was the last member of the strike team to board the helo, and she looked out of place among the burly, bearded warriors. Despite being only five foot six, she had gone through the same training they had, and she’d earned her right to be there.
Her heart was hammering from the short sprint across the flight line, and after tossing her assault pack onto the oil-soaked floor of the helo, she took a second to catch her breath and survey the cramped cargo compartment.
The task force borrowed a page from the CIA’s playbook by buying five Russian helicopters with the hope that they wouldn’t draw unnecessary attention. The agency was notorious for using a tactic until it proved ineffective, and figured since they’d successfully used it to insert the legendary Jawbreaker Team in Afghanistan, it should work in Syria, Renee saw. The only problem was that this time the team was operating without the official support of the American people.
Renee thought the birds were pieces of shit, and most of them hadn’t moved from the hangar since being delivered from Iraq. The fact that two of them were running was a testament to the skill of the CIA ground crews, but she still had serious concerns about their airworthiness.
From her place near the ramp, she could smell burning oil mixing with the clean smell of the early morning as the rotors roared overhead. A crisp breeze blew in from the west, carrying with it the smell of wood smoke. Renee knew that the women of the local village were already up, preparing the traditional flat bread the men would eat before beginning the day’s work.
The helicopter lurched forward as the pilots increased the throttle, and the helo began bumping down the runway, causing her assault pack to bounce on the floor. Using her feet to hold it in place, she glanced at the rest of her teammates, who were joking among themselves.
As usual they ignored her, but she knew that any moment the jokes would start. The alienation wasn’t anything new; it had been going on since she became the first female operator in the all-male Special Operations program. But the chauvinism was getting old, and sometimes she questioned why she even bothered trying.
“Hey, bleeder, you sure you’re ready for this?” Sergeant First Class Jake “Warchild” Carson shouted from his place near the front. Despite the fact that she had more combat experience than most people in the chopper, he never missed a chance to make her feel like an outsider. “We don’t need to stop so you can grab some more pads, do we?”
Renee felt a flush of anger creeping up her neck, and she fought the desire to punch her team leader in the throat. She had no doubt that she could take him down in a second, but she was still playing nice, wanting to avoid unnecessary conflict.
“He’s fucking with you. Don’t take it personal,” Master Sergeant Jonathon Parker yelled over the rotors.
Renee forced a smile and lifted the hand mike from the radio stuffed into her assault pack.
Like the rest of the team, Parker had been in the military for more than ten years, and he was a well-rounded operator. He was handsome in a rugged kind of way, and at six foot four, he was the tallest man on the team. He was also the only person who’d taken the time to get to know her or learn about what she had done before coming to the task force.
“Hey, Parker, you better not be moving in on Mason’s girl,” Warchild yelled.
Renee shook her head, knowing that Warchild was secretly threatened by Mason. The way he acted around the legendary operator was almost juvenile, and Renee knew enough about male psychology to realize that it stemmed from the fact that Mason intimidated the hell out of Warchild.
Sergeant Major Jason Mitchell leaned forward on the nylon bench, his titanic bulk squishing the operator next to him into the skin of the helo.
“Hey, shithead, why don’t you do everyone a favor and shut the fuck up?” he shouted.
The man was built like a tank, and as he glared at Warchild, Renee wondered if he had to get his uniforms specially made. The M4 rifle in his massive hands looked like a toy, but there was nothing childlike about the rage etched on his face. Mitchell had fought with Mason in Iraq and had no patience for those who sought to sully the warrior’s fragile reputation.
Renee knew it was all a one-way dick-measuring contest, and that Mason’s expertise was a sore spot, but it was nothing compared to how threatened her team leader was by the experience that she brought to the team. Warchild’s fragile ego couldn’t stand the fact that she’d once served as team leader for one of the army’s covert Terrorist Apprehension Teams, and it made him lash out whenever the opportunity arose.
Back then Renee’s job had been to find, fix, and finish suspected terrorist cells before they were able to strike. Her extensive knowledge of the different terror networks had made her a valuable commodity. But everything changed the day she met Mason Kane.
Renee had uncovered a link to a Colonel Barnes, along with the Black Ops unit he was operating out of the shadows in Afghanistan. When Barnes took his men off the reservation and decided to prosecute his own war on terror, Mason had helped her hunt the colonel and his rogue team from the foothills of Pakistan to the heart of Damascus.
She’d learned up close and personal that Mason was someone you wanted on your side in a gunfight. He was a coldhearted son of a bitch, but Renee knew that he also had a soft side. He was without a doubt the most loyal person she’d ever met. As for Warchild, well, she would soon see if he had what it took to back up his big mouth.
The helicopter thundered toward the objective, and her thoughts turned to the mission briefing they’d had before jumping on the birds. The analyst had informed them, “We have been looking for Khalid al Hamas for quite some time,” motioning at the Arab displayed on the monitor. “Our source on the ground has confirmed that he is in very tight with the Iranian Quds Force, and the reason he is in Syria is to meet up with this guy.”
The slide changed to a younger man with a closely cropped beard and a slender, almost feminine nose.
“This man is Jamal Latif, the ground commander for al Nusra. He’s become a serious pain in the ass after pushing the Syrian army out of Aleppo. Recently, he declared jihad on anyone refusing to adopt al Nusra’s particular brand of ideologically motivated hatred. Christians, Sunni, Shia—it really doesn’t seem to matter to Latif. He just likes to kill people. His handiwork is all over the internet, and he seems to be on a personal mission to bring mass crucifixion to the twenty-first century.”
He displayed a low-angle shot of ten naked, bloody men hanging from a row of makeshift crosses.
“Fucking animals,” Renee muttered.
“Yeah, the guy’s a savage,” Colonel Bat Anderson, the task force commander, said from his chair at the front of the room. “We got it. But tell me why this warrants breaking mission protocol. How do you know that either one of these guys are going to be there?”
“I’m glad you asked, sir. We have an ace in the hole on this one. Due to excellent cooperation between the DOD and the CIA, we have managed to insert a deep-cover asset within Abu Fariq’s camp, and our source has verified that the target will be at the objective no later than 0800 hours.”
Something told Renee that the source had to be Mick Boland. Besides Mason, he was the only person in Syria who had the skills to pull off something like this. She’d met him only a few weeks earlier after the operative
had shown up mysteriously at the task force’s hangar.
Mason had been surprised to see his old friend, and after a few beers, they began swapping war stories from their time in Iraq and Afghanistan. It was obvious that they’d been through some serious shit together. Yet the longer she watched Boland, the more Renee felt that something about him was off.
He appeared gaunt, filled with a nervous, almost fatalistic energy that made it impossible for him to sit still. She thought that the stress of combat might be finally getting to him, but since she knew that Boland had saved Mason’s life in Iraq, she didn’t want to say anything without some sort of proof.
Later that night, she hacked into the DOD database, hoping to find anything to calm her fears. Most of the files had already been redacted, and after fifteen minutes, she was about to give up. Just as she was getting ready to log out, Renee found a DOD communiqué that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
The document had been marked for deletion, and was labeled “Eyes Only,” which meant that it was way above her pay grade. However, Renee didn’t hesitate to open it. Like most interservice memos, it was brief and extremely vague, but the tone was urgent. According to reports from the field, Boland had slipped into Syria a week before showing up in Turkey with an unnamed piece of equipment that he was supposed to emplace. Before he had the chance, though, he was briefly detained by members of the Syrian opposition and relieved of his gear. There was no mention of what happened next.
“Hey, are you good?” Parker asked, jarring her back to the task at hand.
“Yeah, I’m just surprised we launched so fast,” she said.
“They must really want this guy,” Parker replied. “That analyst said the order came from the top.”
“Hey, bleeder,” Warchild hollered at her. “Are you going to do a radio check or gossip all day?”
Warchild had designated her the RTO, or radio operator, which was not only a totally unnecessary job but also the most menial job Warchild could come up with. Nevertheless, Renee was a professional, and she handled the responsibility as if it were the most important one on the team.
“What do you think I’m doing, dick?” she mumbled before depressing the mike’s talk button. With that, the small screen on the PRC-150 high-frequency radio lit up.
“Any station this net, this is Savage 7 Romeo, radio check, over,” she said into the hand mike.
Renee, having already double-checked the radio before getting on the bird, knew it had the correct crypto installed—which made the frequency secure from outside listeners—but she needed to make sure it was functioning properly before they hit the objective.
“Savage 7 Romeo, this is Tomahawk 6 Romeo, we read you, Lima Charlie,” a voice replied through the hand mike.
The Mi-17 shook, and cold air blasted through the cargo hold. Shivering, she flipped the radio to the air-to-ground net and tried to make radio contact with Mason.
“Ronin 6, Savage 7 Romeo, radio check,” she said.
She glanced at her watch, knowing that it was time for them to check in. After a full minute of waiting, she tried again.
“Ronin 6, Savage 7, radio check, over.”
She was about to flip to a different frequency when a man’s voice came through the net:
“Savage 7, Ronin 6, we have a problem—” Mason said.
The transmission was cut off as gunfire erupted in the background.
Something was wrong, Renee realized. This was supposed to be a simple smash and grab. Whatever the hell was going on, they were heading right toward it.
CHAPTER 3
* * *
It was late when President Bradley closed the black notebook containing the daily intelligence brief. He tossed it on the low mahogany table that separated the two immaculate white couches in the Oval Office. Secretary of Defense Winfield “Duke” Cage could tell his boss was tired as he rubbed his face.
Jacob Simmons, the national security advisor, looked at his watch before leaning forward in his chair. Cage knew that he was hoping to get an answer before the long day finally came to a close.
“Mr. President, the limited airstrikes are working,” Simmons began. “We are hitting them where it hurts, and I say we stay the course.”
“Jesus,” Cage said, trying vainly to control the anger he felt boiling up inside him. He knew Jacob wasn’t naïve enough to believe what he was saying, but he couldn’t listen to his bullshit a second longer.
“You are out of your mind, Jacob,” he said. “The airstrikes aren’t doing shit, and you know it. Please excuse my French, Mr. President,” he added hastily as the leader of the free world scowled at his profane outburst.
Bradley bore a striking resemblance to a young Robert Redford, and like the actor, he was usually very laid back. But one thing Cage was learning the hard way was that the president hated profanity.
“What I am trying to say is that limited strikes will not accomplish the mission.”
“You have to give it time,” Simmons responded.
“You’ve had almost a year. How much time do you need?” Bradley demanded.
“Gentlemen.” The president’s chief of staff, Craig O’Neil, interjected from the high-back chair to the president’s right. “It’s late, but let’s try to keep this civil.”
“There is nothing civil about this,” Cage replied, unable to fathom why he was the only one grasping the significance of what was occurring in Iraq and Syria. “We have intel that al Nusra is moving into Iraq to join up with ISIS. Do you want to wait until they dismantle everything our soldiers died to achieve before you make a decision?”
“Enough,” Bradley said finally, smoothing the front of his tailored jacket. “Seventy percent of the American people are glad that we are out of Iraq, and there is no way I’m upsetting my base by sending troops back to Iraq. End of story.”
Cage settled his muscled bulk back into the couch, realizing that this meeting was not going the way he’d planned. He had allowed himself to believe that the president was finally going to make a decision—finally do something to combat the violence flooding into Iraq—but it was obvious that he’d been wrong.
“What do you want to do, Mr. President?” O’Neil asked.
“Keep hitting the targets outlined in the brief,” he said, nodding toward the folder on the table. “Right now I think that is the safest option.”
“Yes, sir,” Simmons said, getting to his feet.
“Goddamn it, Jacob, you know better than that,” Cage bellowed, causing everyone in the room to stare at him. “This weak-ass strategy is all wrong, and you know it.”
“Mr. Secretary,” Craig began, but he stopped as soon as the president raised his hand.
“Let me remind you,” Bradley said, turning to Cage, “that you may be the secretary of defense, but you still work for me.”
Cage’s jaw muscles rippled as he absorbed the warning. Under the previous administration, he’d lost his temper in this very same room, and it had cost him his military career. He was about to make the very same mistake when the chief of staff got to his feet.
“Mr. President, I have no doubt that Secretary Cage will do as you wish. We all know how passionate he is about Iraq and know he means absolutely no disrespect.”
Only by sheer force of will did Cage place a stranglehold on his emotions. He had to take the olive branch that O’Neil was offering. Still, he felt his anger burning like a white-hot poker as he got to his feet.
“My apologizes, sir. I get carried away sometimes,” he lied.
“No worries, Duke,” the president said, pleased to see he was being reasonable. “It’s one of the reasons you are so good at what you do.”
• • •
Fifteen minutes later, Cage was back in his office, staring at the last sip of bourbon filling the bottom of a crystal tumbler. The glass looked fragile in his powerful hands, and as he watched the golden liquid swirling on the bottom, he wondered why he put up with this shit.
Before being sworn in as the secretary of defense, he’d been the youngest chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff in history. He was well versed in the art of war. The reason he’d agreed to take this damn job in the first place was because Bradley had practically begged him.
“If he’s not going to listen, then why the hell does he call me to these damn meetings?” he asked, looking over at Jacob.
“Duke, you can’t take it personal. You just have to realize that there are some things you can’t control.”
Cage drained the highball in one quick gulp, savoring the burn as the bourbon made its way down his throat.
“What time is it?” he asked, heading over to the half-empty bottle of Knob Creek waiting on the cherry credenza.
“It’s about 0400 in Syria,” Jacob replied.
Cage nodded, set down his glass, and grabbed the rectangular bottle. He twisted off the cork, which squeaked against the neck before popping free, and poured a generous amount of the amber liquor in the highball glass before offering it to Simmons.
During their time in Special Forces, Cage had preferred beer, but Jacob Simmons had always been a whiskey man. The SecDef was starting to understand why the National Security Advisor preferred the fiery taste of good bourbon.
“Want another hit?”
“Why not? I’m not going anywhere,” Jacob said, the leather chair creaking as he leaned forward to hold out his glass.
The two men had been friends since West Point, and had bled together in more countries than either one could remember. After Cage’s legendary blowout with the previous vice president, Jacob had stood by him when he was forced to retire early.
Simmons had also been there when his son was killed in Iraq, and then a few months later when his wife finally lost her battle with cancer. There wasn’t another man in the world that Cage trusted more.
“It would be so much easier if you’d stop pampering his ass,” Cage said after filling Simmons’s glass.