“This is why I demanded Langley rein him in last year in Iraq.” Petras shook her head. “They didn’t listen to me then…so here we are.”
A part of her wanted to defend him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not with everything that was on the line. Not with the promises she had made—promises she’d known even then couldn’t be kept.
Why? It was how they taught you to work an asset. Tell them what they need to hear. And yet you were supposed to do that without ever crossing the line.
Might as well try to cross the Grand Canyon on a tightrope.
“I was told to report,” a man’s voice interjected and they both glanced up to see a tall blond man in a flight suit standing in the door of the Iwo’s comm center. A red bandanna encircled his throat, bright against the tanned skin. “What’s the situation?”
“The situation, Major Jorgenson,” Petras replied, acid in her tones, “…is disintegrating. The Israelis just overran the primary. Judging by the satellite imagery, they’ve run into heavy resistance from Hezbollah fighters, but they’re pushing forward in force. I’d say we just lost an hour, maybe more.”
He shook his head and Iraida could see the doubt in his eyes. She’d pulled his officer record brief only hours before—Eric Jorgenson had been a veteran helicopter pilot when she’d been in high school, long before the Towers had crumbled, before the beginning of the War on Terror—finally volunteering for the elite of the elite, the Army’s 160th Special Operations Regiment. The Night Stalkers, as they had become known.
In early 2002, flying with the 160th’s 3rd Battalion, he’d earned the Silver Star, evacuating an encircled Special Forces team from a desolate mountaintop along the Pakistani border. And he’d brought them all out, every last one—despite the fire sieving his Black Hawk with bulletholes, despite taking two Taliban machine-gun rounds through his own right leg. If this op gave him pause…
“What’s the status of the field team?”
Iraida butted in before Petras could speak. “Still active so far as we can tell, but non-responsive. It’s safe to assume they’re unable to establish comms.”
Jorgenson met her eyes, nodding his understanding as he turned to leave the comm center. “I’ll make sure my men are briefed and ready. We can be airborne in ten mikes, at the secondary extract point in another twenty-five.”
Petras’ voice arrested his footsteps. “I need you to understand, major—if the Israelis complete their envelopment of Bint Jbeil before extraction can be effected, I will be scrubbing LODESTONE. Nichols and the field team will have to make their own way back out…with or without the asset.”
Iraida stared across at the older woman, disbelief in her eyes. “You can’t do that.”
“I can, and I will,” Petras responded, folding her arms across her chest, steel shining from her eyes. “Langley put me in charge to keep a lid on this, to not cause an international incident. And that’s exactly what we’re on the brink of right now. Once the window closes—I’m cutting our losses.”
Iraida saw the major stiffen at the words, drawing himself up almost involuntarily. “All due respect, ma’am,” he began, his icy tone belying the words, “we don’t leave people behind—not in my Army. Night Stalkers don’t quit.”
12:01 A.M.
Bint Jbeil, Lebanon
“Room clear,” Harry announced, staring down the sights of his Colt at the corpse of the Hezbollah militant lying on the floor of the basement, blood seeping from his head into the faded, dirty carpet.
He raised his eyes to the TV on the wall, taking in the Chuck Norris movie still playing on-screen—glancing across at the militant’s AR-style carbine, propped up by the couch several feet away from his lifeless fingertips. He’d never had a chance, but he’d tried all the same.
War.
Harry ejected the half-empty magazine from the butt of his Colt, slipping it into a pocket of his jacket as he replaced it with a fresh one. Not a round to waste.
“Ready, mate?” Crawford demanded from the hallway behind him. Clearing a house with only two men was not considered ideal—but they were almost done. Three more bodies in their wake and still no sign of Massoud.
“On your six,” he acknowledged, moving in behind his partner as they moved toward a closed door near the end of the basement hallway.
Holding his suppressed Sig at the ready, the British sergeant reached forward, testing the handle with his hand. “Locked.”
“Not for long.” Harry took a step back, aiming a kick toward the door—his jump-booted foot connecting just below the bolt. Wood splintering, the door slammed inward and he stumbled into the room, bringing his pistol up as Crawford followed him in.
The body of a woman hung there half-way into the room, her wrists tied to the rafters above her head with thick rope, her weight barely resting on her toes, head lolling to one side. Her clothing—what remained of it—was torn, bloody, as if it had been whipped from her body. Her hair was hacked short, as though with a knife, and matted with blood.
Nearly unrecognizable, but it was Layla Massoud. And for a moment, he found himself wondering if they had been too late.
Holstering his weapon, he stepped closer as Crawford stood guard by the door, pressing his fingers against her throat in an attempt to find a pulse.
Her eyes flickered open, a weak moan escaping her lips at his touch. She raised her head and for the first time, he saw the rude lettering that had been carved into the soft flesh of her cheek. Zionist whore.
Their eyes met and he could feel her shrink away from him, withdrawing within herself. “Salaam alaikum,” he whispered, running his hands gently down her body, checking for explosives, any sign of a booby-trap. Nothing. “Iraida sent us to find you—to get you out of here. Just like she promised.”
A tear escaped her eyes, whether of grief or pain, it was impossible to say. A wordless sob. Pulling his combat knife from its ankle sheath, he wrapped an arm around her tortured body, holding her gently as he reached above her head, slicing through the ropes securing her wrists one after another.
She sagged into his arms and he lowered her to the floor of the basement, wrapping his jacket carefully around her lacerated shoulders. Her head fell back and he could see she was drifting in and out of consciousness. Fighting desperately against the pain.
“Come on, Layla, you’ve been so brave—don’t give up on us now,” he whispered, reaching for the canteen of water at his hip.
Unscrewing the cap, he raised it to her lips, cool water splashing over her bloodstained face as she drank greedily, struggling to swallow. “Easy there.”
Her eyes lifted once more to his face, whispering a weak “thank you” in Arabic.
He managed a reassuring smile, adjusting his jacket to cover her. “Now we just have to get you out of here.”
“I’ll…try—to walk.” He nodded, pulling a small pill bottle from the front pocket of the jacket and shaking out a couple of Motrin.
“Take these, they’ll cut the pain. And if you can’t walk…I’ll carry you.”
The shelling was continuing unabated when they emerged from the front door of the house where Layla Massoud had been held prisoner with Crawford leading the way, his pistol extended in front of him like a part of his body.
Harry brought up the rear, moving slower—Layla’s left arm flung over his shoulder, the other hanging limp at her side as she struggled to walk. The painkillers hadn’t kicked in yet—her legs still rubbery from the hours of disuse, of torture.
“Took your bloody good time getting back, didn’t you?” Hale exclaimed, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and reaching out to help Harry with the Lebanese woman as they reached the Range Rover. “Nearly thought you’d bought it.”
“Not yet,” Harry retorted grimly, unclipping the satphone from his belt as he moved around the side of the Range Rover, leaving Massoud with the sergeant.
“EYRIE, this is EAGLE SIX. We have the package, I repeat, we have the package. Do you copy?”
It was a moment before Iraida’s voice came back over the line. “I copy, EAGLE SIX. You haven’t been answering your phone.”
“I was a little busy,” he shot back, sliding into the driver’s seat of the Range Rover. “What’s our situation?”
“The primary extract point has been overrun by the Israelis. They’re moving in faster than our intel indicated.”
“Imagine that.” Over six years in this business, and things never went as planned. Never.
“What’s your ETA to the secondary?”
He glanced at the face of his watch. “We’re twenty, twenty-five minutes out.”
“Good.” Her voice was calmer than it had been all night. Measured. “Make your way there and take up defensive positions. DARK HORSE will be coming for you.”
He heard Layla say something from the seat behind him as he turned the key in the ignition, looked back to see a desperate fear in her eyes.
“What did you say?”
She leaned forward, nearly collapsing against the back of his seat as her fingers dug into his shoulder. “…my children. You are—going to get them out too…aren’t you? That was the deal. That was my deal.”
He closed his eyes, knowing in that moment what had happened. The promises that had been made, the faith which would have to be broken. But he had to hear it from her own lips. “Are you getting this, EYRIE?”
12:14 A.M.
The USS Iwo Jima
“I am,” Iraida responded, remorse washing over her. She could still remember that meeting—the photos of Layla’s children. A little girl, age seven. A little boy, not yet five. Nour…and Ali, if memory served. It had seemed so easy at the time. The right thing to say.
“Then do you mind reading me in?” There was a dangerous edge to Nichols’ voice, an edge she had heard before. She knew what it portended.
Now wasn’t the time for weakness, for hesitation. “I told her what she wanted to hear, what she needed to hear. That’s all.”
“You told her that if she was compromised, we would ensure the safety of her children. You made a promise you couldn’t keep.”
“Langley refused to sign off on it, but I couldn’t admit that to her. It was the only way—she was providing intelligence vital to our national security. I did what I had to do at the time.”
“No,” he replied, a cold finality in his voice. Condemnation. “That’s the line you don’t cross. Ever.”
She started to protest, to explain, but he cut her off. “We’ll be at the secondary extract point. Get the bird in the air.”
12:19 A.M.
Bint Jbeil, Lebanon
He hadn’t spoken a word since last contact with the Iwo Jima, sitting stone-faced behind the wheel of the Range Rover as he navigated through the bombardment toward the edge of town.
The streets of Bint Jbeil’s Old Town dated back to the time of the Seljuks—an age when no one had even conceived of the demands of automobile traffic.
Streets which were now filled with rubble and bomb craters, wreaking havoc on the vehicle’s already weak suspension. He could feel every stone beneath the tires, every half-destroyed brick.
They weren’t being pursued—at least not yet, Harry thought, glancing into the cracked rear-view mirror. His eyes met those of Layla Massoud and he could see the hollow, pleading despair written in their depths.
Look away. He glanced over to where Crawford sat, his Kalashnikov across his lap as he rode shotgun.
“Do you have children?” came the question in Arabic. Soft, yet insistent. A strong woman beneath the tears.
“La,” he responded. No. He didn’t look at her—couldn’t, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the road ahead. On the mission he’d been given.
“I can’t leave them behind,” she whispered, stifling a moan with the back of her hand as the Range Rover’s wheel hit a crater. “Not in the middle of this war. Not with him.”
He could feel Crawford’s eyes on him. No doubt the SAS sergeant was picking up just enough of the conversation to catch the drift. “My orders were to bring you out,” he replied simply. “And that’s what I’m going to do. I’m sorry.”
She closed her eyes, shuddering as if caught in the grip of a fever. “You don’t understand—you don’t know my husband. It’s what he taunted me with when they were raping me, when he carved this,” she touched the ragged gash, “into my cheek. That my precious son would grow up to fight alongside him. To die shahid in his war against the Jew.”
Martyr. He could feel the anger building once more inside him, helpless fury at what this woman had sacrificed for supplying the Agency with intel—at the way she had been deceived.
It was nothing new—he knew that. Assets were expendable. Deceit was a way of life for a spy…but this?
Reaching down with his left hand, he pulled the satphone off his belt, handing it across to Crawford.
“Get the Iwo on the horn, Nick. Tell them to hold off on the chopper. We’re going to be late.”
The look on his friend’s face was one of astonishment. “What are you playing at, mate?”
Harry swung the Range Rover off the main road and down a side street. Heading deeper into Bint Jbeil.
“Just make the call.”
12:22 A.M.
The USS Iwo Jima
Ready. Jorgenson half-turned in his seat, watching as his flight engineer finished running a disintegrating-link belt of 7.62mm into the loading port of the starboard window minigun, the brass cartridges gleaming in the lights of the Iwo’s flight deck.
Behind the engineer, he saw their PJ, Airman First Class Nate Carson, rigging IV bags in the back of the cargo compartment, an M4A1 carbine slung across the pararescue jumper’s chest—only inches away from his gloved hand. They’d been warned that one of their passengers was going to be in bad shape.
The major nodded at his co-pilot, then turned his attention to the flight deck officer, his yellow shirt clearly visible through the rain pelting down on the glass of the Black Hawk’s windshield as he guided them to taxi forward, wheels rolling on the deck.
His radio crackled with static. “DARK HORSE, this is EYRIE, do you copy?”
It was the voice of the younger CIA woman.
“Loud and clear, EYRIE,” he responded, “what do you have for me?”
“Your orders have changed. The field team has been,” she hesitated, “…delayed. Take your bird in, but do not—I repeat, do not enter Lebanese airspace until you receive the final go-mission.”
“DARK HORSE, copy. We’ll keep it right above the wavetops.”
Even as he spoke the words, he glanced out through the glass at the rain, the wind buffeting the chopper as it moved to take-off position.
That was going to be easier said than done. And as the Black Hawk lifted off, its rotors beating the air as it rose into the darkness—Jorgenson raised the pendant of St. Michael hanging around his neck to his lips, whispering a prayer. For the protection of himself and his men.
For the men out there…in the night.
“Non timebo mala,” he whispered, banking the helicopter to the east as it swept back over the Iwo Jima’s escorts, heading toward the Lebanese coast.
I fear no evil…
12:28 A.M.
Bint Jbeil, Lebanon
The residence of Abdel Hamza Massoud had been marked on their maps as a tertiary target—their last objective should they have failed to find his wife at the first two locations.
It was the objective they’d hoped not to have to hit, nestled as it was deep inside Old Town. But here they were.
“You’re bloody crazy, mate,” Crawford announced, vaulting over the rubble of an ancient wall to join Harry near the back of the house. “But you knew that, right?”
He didn’t respond immediately, casting a critical eye at the buildings around them. Knowing that any window could conceal a Hezbollah sniper—knowing that one false move could mean their deaths.
Knowing that their odds of making it back ou
t without their cover being blown were treacherously slim. Crawford was right.
“It’s the right thing to do,” he responded, looking his old friend in the eye. “We owe her that much.”
The SAS sergeant didn’t reply, simply drew his Sig-Sauer and moved to one side of the building’s back door. “What’s the plan?”
Harry moved up beside him, reaching out to test the handle. Locked, just as he’d expected. “She said that in one of the main first-floor rooms, there’s a trapdoor leading to a small cellar; said that’s where they started sheltering the kids when the Israeli shells started landing.”
A nod. “Are we giving quarter?”
Harry just looked at him. “What do you think?”
“Room clear.”
Harry backed out of the room the way he had come, his pistol sweeping the darkness. There were no artificial lights on inside the house. The bombardment had cut the power to Bint Jbeil days before, and if Commander Massoud had a generator, he was choosing not to make himself a target.
“Room to the right. Cover me,” Harry whispered, motioning for Crawford to again remain in the darkened hallway as he pushed the door open with his hand.
The room he found himself in was large—a dining room, he realized, making out the table in the dim light. The room to which Layla had been referring? Plaster had fallen from the ceiling during the bombardment, coating the furniture in a chalky dust as he moved forward, his jump boots scraping among the debris.
A voice. Something there, something faint. It seemed to come from the air around him, close at hand—the hair on the back of his neck prickling with danger. He slowly swung the muzzle of the Colt from one side to the other, scanning for threats. Nothing.
And then he heard it, the muffled report of Crawford’s pistol, a strangled cry from out in the hallway. Followed quickly by another suppressed shot.
Then silence. “You okay, Nick?” he demanded softly, moving carefully back to the door.
“Tango down,” came the sergeant’s voice and Harry exited the room to find Crawford staring down the barrel of his semiautomatic at a crumpled body near the end of the hallway. “You got this?”
“Aye—you find anything?”
LODESTONE: A Shadow Warriors Novella Page 3