by Ward Larsen
“I heard the recording. I can remember almost everything, word for word.”
Salma came forward and gave Slaton a kiss on the cheek. Naji was in tears. He could have no grasp of what had just happened. Slaton hoped his mother had shielded him from the worst of the firefight. Kept his face buried in her abaya until the killing was done. Even then, he would have heard the noise and the chaos. Sensed his mother’s fear. Slaton took solace in the fact that the alternative would have been far worse. Had he not acted, everyone would have been captured. Ludmilla could have expected a one-way trip to Moscow. The others would have been taken into custody by the Syrian Mukhabarat, interrogation and execution a virtual certainty, at least for the adults. Naji’s life might be spared, but only at the crushing expense of losing his mother.
Achmed beckoned the others, and they set out along the wadi on a fast walk. He was forced to carry the still-sobbing Naji. They quickly fell to silhouettes in the darkness, and then nothing at all. The tiny group of refugees disappeared into the night.
* * *
Slaton got straight to work.
He checked the survivors one last time. The man who’d been holding the spotlight had died, but the commander was hanging on. Slaton removed his hoodie and wedged it beneath the man’s shirt over the primary wound. The man said nothing.
Slaton hauled two of the other bodies to the UAZ and put them in seats, one in front, passenger-side, the other in back. He could have put a third in back, but decided it wasn’t necessary. When reinforcements appeared, as they certainly would, and if they had night optics, also likely, they would see a vehicle with multiple occupants making a run for the border. That would be enough.
He strapped the bodies in using seat belts, but they slumped like the dead weight they were. He searched the truck, and beneath the back seat found a set of jumper cables and a first aid kit. He used the jumper cables to strap the man in back upright. The first aid kit contained two rolls of stretch bandages and a spool of surgical tape. He used these to bind the second body in place.
It would have to do.
He unhitched the donkey, slapped it on the rump again, and watched the beast amble away. One more element to add to the confusion. Or so he hoped.
He cranked the UAZ, flicked on the headlights. In the beams a flicker of motion caught his eye. His hand was on the MP5 before he realized what it was: the night breeze had picked up a plastic grocery bag. He breathed a sigh of relief and watched it roll across the desert, a modern-day tumbleweed.
Slaton set a course northward. He passed the still-trussed commander on the way out. The man had wormed his head out of his upturned jacket and was leaning on one elbow. It looked awkward, but Slaton understood—he was contorting himself to minimize the pressure on his injury. He watched Slaton drive by, seeming more lucid now. Slaton didn’t wave, didn’t slow down, but he tossed the remainder of the first aid kit toward the man as he passed.
The UAZ’s headlights strobed the desert in front of him. The terrain was rough but manageable. It would be slow going until he reached the highway. With any luck he might come across a semi-improved road, something that wasn’t on the map.
Slaton saw a tactical radio mounted in the dash, and it brought back to mind the events of two nights ago. The radio was on, but the volume had been turned down. He spun the knob and heard a conversation in rapid-fire Arabic. He was sure it was the driver who had gotten away coordinating with backup units.
Slaton cursed under his breath.
Someday I really need to learn this damned language.
FIFTY-THREE
After ten minutes, Slaton came upon a dirt trail. It wasn’t anything improved, no raised bed or crushed gravel, but simply a well-worn path through the brush. The truck he was driving, he imagined, had probably helped create it, a thousand patrols over the same channel of earth.
He followed the trail north using his phone for navigation. He wanted to give Achmed and the others at least thirty minutes. Slaton did his best to be obtrusive. He kept his headlights on, high beams engaged. He turned on the spotlight and jammed the handle into an empty tube near the spare tire. It spun in circles like a drunken lighthouse.
Even more conspicuously, the UAZ’s engine would be nice and hot. To anyone using infrared optics, it would stand out like a lone star in a black sky. The only thing Slaton didn’t do was lean on the horn—but he might if anyone got close enough to hear. At one point he weighed the idea of getting on the radio and broadcasting his coordinates in English. It would get everyone’s attention, but he deemed it too obvious. A red flag that would soften his diversion.
Careening toward the main road, Slaton decided he was doing everything he could to highlight himself. One way or another, he was going to be seen.
* * *
Things went well for another five minutes. Slaton found the main road and turned left, putting the border with Lebanon only a few miles ahead.
It had always been a coin toss from which direction reinforcements would come. He’d expected they would appear in the north, ideally once Lebanon was within reach. In that scenario, he could put the accelerator to the floor and make a run for the border. The UAZ wasn’t fast, but he reckoned that any unit chasing him would be driving the same make and model. If he could reach the border first, he would drag any pursuers along the edge. Once they got uncomfortably close, a quick turn would put him safely into Lebanon. That would buy all the time the others needed.
As it turned out, with less than a mile of the main road behind him, things began to go wrong.
He saw two sets of headlights ahead and to his right. Not on the road, but making a beeline for it from the desert. Slaton pushed the UAZ harder. The angle of the headlights didn’t change; they were fixed solidly at his two o’clock position. He didn’t need a radar to know what that meant—they were on a collision course. The unit had a visual on him, and they were taking an intercept angle to cut him off.
He put the accelerator to the floor, but not much happened. Ninety kilometers per hour became ninety-eight. It was all the vehicle would do. The angle was almost steady, the enemy perhaps falling back slightly toward three o’clock.
As they closed in he could make out the shadowed vehicles attached to the paired headlights. The geometry was inescapable—they would merge in less than two minutes. Slaton thought he might be able to get out ahead, but only slightly. He fully expected a barrage of fire as he passed. The odds of not taking a hit, from what were probably minimally trained conscripts shooting from a vehicle speeding over rough terrain, were heavily in his favor.
But odds had a way of biting you.
Surviving that, there were further problems. He was already at maximum speed, so he might get some separation while his pursuers fell in behind and accelerated. But the road would give them a more stable platform. The idea of taking potshots all the way to the border was hardly appealing. He might get away with it. Duck low and hope for the best. Send an occasional round in return. Yet there was also the chance of further reinforcements. The radio had gone silent, and he guessed the Syrians had either changed frequencies, or more likely were using mobile phones to coordinate. That would be the smart move—they knew he had one of their vehicles, and therefore one of their radios. These might not be elite troops, but they weren’t stupid.
It all went through Slaton’s mind in a matter of seconds, a tactical decision process. One final factor had to be considered. If anything went wrong, if the adverse odds added up, he would be stopped. Fighting his way out of that jam wouldn’t be an option—this time they would have numbers and he wouldn’t have the element of surprise. Given what happened earlier, he’d be lucky if they didn’t shoot him on sight. Either way, they would realize he was alone, the bodies of their comrades strapped in as decoys. From that point, regardless of Slaton’s fate, the hunt for the others would commence. Which meant he might not accomplish his primary objective. The same would be true if he dashed across the border into Lebanon.
; In either case, Ludmilla and the rest might not reach safety.
There was no choice.
Slaton slammed on the brakes.
Through a skid, he steered for the right shoulder. Once he’d slowed enough, he threw the wheel hard left, hairpinning into a reversal. The little truck bounded across the tarmac onto the opposite shoulder, fishtailing through dirt, spewing gravel and dust. Straightening out in the opposite direction, he accelerated again for maximum speed.
Slaton glanced over his shoulder. Two sets of headlights were straightening out behind him. Locking on like targeting beams. They were half a mile back, but he had no doubt they were talking to other units, reporting the new vector.
Slaton got out his phone, opened the special applications using the retina scan feature—no small feat of multitasking under the circumstances. He didn’t try to send a message. Texting while driving is probably illegal in Syria, he mused. Instead, he thumbed down on an app he’d not yet used. Sorensen had explained what it was—an emergency voice line that would cut straight to the CIA/SAC operations center.
The software programmer who’d built it, apparently, had a black sense of humor. The icon was labeled 911.
With his right foot pegging the accelerator to the floorboard, Slaton waited for the phone to do its magic as he shot back once again into the heart of Syria.
* * *
At 7:15 in the evening, Langley’s hallways were quiet. The rank and file had gone home, and those who remained fell into one of two general categories: the beginnings of the graveyard shift, and a few overtime heroes. Anna Sorensen, of course, was in neither category. She had an ongoing op in Syria that was reaching resolution.
The Special Activities Center had recently been blessed with its own proprietary command center, a reflection of the increasing scope and secrecy of its missions. The one going on at that moment, west of Damascus, was a case in point. Minutes ago, Sorensen had been sitting in the cafeteria, jabbing a plastic fork into a half-eaten chicken Caesar salad, when a message buzzed to her phone: Slaton had called for help.
She burst into the ops center, passing beneath a door topped by her agency’s motto: Tertia Optio. It was Latin for The Third Option, an apt moniker for an agency whose missions fell in the gray area between diplomatic and military responses.
“Where is he?” she asked breathlessly.
There were six people manning “the boards,” referring to the three primary wide-screen displays. A comm tech behind the center console answered. “Five miles from the Lebanese border. He just did a one-eighty—he’s heading back toward Damascus now.”
“Toward Damascus?”
“We don’t have eyes on,” the technician said, referring to a lack of real-time satellite coverage. “His previous message said—”
“I know what it said. He was going to take a stolen vehicle to act as a decoy while the others made for the border on foot. Is there any word from our unit in Lebanon?”
“The station team is in place. I have an open line with them, and so far they report no contact. They asked again how many to expect.”
“Tell them three is most likely, but to take whoever shows up. Kravchuk is the one we have to get out.”
The technician began typing.
Sorensen sided up to a young woman at another console, the keeper of the bigger picture.
“Where’s my Reaper?” Sorensen asked.
“Thirty-five nautical out.”
“All right. Set up a link with the crew flying it—I want to follow this.”
FIFTY-FOUR
There comes a time in most ops when every bit of planning, every well-thought contingency plan, goes soaring out the window. It came for Slaton shortly after he turned back east. He wasn’t surprised when he saw a second unit bearing down. He was very surprised to see how big it was.
There were five sets of headlights—multiple intensities and configurations. Different vehicles for a different type of unit. He guessed they were military. Syrian regulars, perhaps, who’d been diverted from a nearby assignment. Most likely, checkpoint duty on the outskirts of Damascus, searching for a Russian defector.
Now I’m up against the army, he thought. Worse than the numbers was the geometry—the new force was bearing down from the road ahead. Caught in a pincer, Slaton checked his phone. The only choice was to go off-road. Unfortunately, the path he’d taken earlier was nowhere near. He remembered catching a glimpse of an unimproved trail minutes earlier.
But where was it?
In dim light he scanned the left side of the road, willing the offshoot to appear. The headlights were getting bigger, brighter. In less than a minute they would merge. He saw nothing for twenty seconds. The headlights coming at him were blinding. He gave it ten seconds more. Slaton was about to give up, simply turn into open desert, when a break in the scrub appeared. It was a pure ninety-degree turn. Best of all, it led away from the wadi where he’d started. Away from Achmed, Ludmilla, and Salma. Away from Naji.
Slaton whipped the wheel left, and the UAZ skidded onto the side road. The passenger in his right seat shifted, the body slumping halfway out the door. There was no point in keeping up appearances, so he unbuckled the corpse’s seat belt and gave it a shove. The body tumbled out onto the dirt siding. If his pursuers saw it, they might slow to take a look. A few seconds bought.
The road was in fair condition, and Slaton kept up his speed. The UAZ battered ahead, throwing him on and off the seat like a carnival ride. On one pothole he went completely airborne, two hands on the wheel his only connection to the truck. He saw a flash of motion to his right. The landing was violent, and he heard a terrible crack in the chassis. The truck kept going. Slaton looked down and realized what had gone flying—his MP5 was gone. He’d wedged it between the seats as best he could, but clearly not well enough.
It didn’t matter. The force he was up against now was overwhelming. His eyes strained to see the path ahead, stones and ruts caught instantaneously in the flickering beams of the headlights. He had no idea where the trail was taking him. Wherever it was, he knew more backups might be there to greet him.
Through the bumps, Slaton realized the phone in his pocket was vibrating. How long had it been going off? He pulled it out and saw a call.
With one hand fighting the wheel, he hit the green button and shouted, “A little help would be much appreciated right now!”
“We’re working on it.” Sorensen’s voice, steady and clear. “Are you okay?”
“Just great. But I do have an army breathing down my neck.”
“We don’t have eyes on you yet.”
“I’m northbound on a minor road, roughly five miles northwest from where I split with the others.”
“Hang on … we’re pinging the phone.” A long pause. “Okay, we’ve got you.”
“Look, I’m a little short on ideas right now. What about that contraption from the ACME Corporation you mentioned?”
“Yeah, it’s on the way.”
“I haven’t been trained on how to use it.”
“It’s intuitive. Just grab hold and hang on.”
Slaton paused. “If that’s your complete operational briefing, Deputy Director, it does not instill confidence.”
“I’m not here to instill confidence. I’m here to get your ass out of harm’s way. Now listen closely…”
* * *
The pilot looked calmly at his displays. His Reaper was cruising at twelve thousand feet, cutting effortlessly through the black sky.
Two CIA employees were directing the mission from a trailer at an airbase outside Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Having the controllers in theater was a CIA quirk, more to do with legalities than any operational advantage. Yet there were minor technical benefits to the arrangement. The Air Force ran drone operations from Creech Air Force Base, north of Las Vegas, twelve thousand miles and, more critically, 1.2 seconds removed from its aircraft. As it turned out, that lack of signal delay could tonight prove critical.
The Reape
r was flying with its lowest possible electronic signature. At that moment, the only emanation was a single link to a satellite. No radar, no navigation lights, no laser designator. The primary sensor was a thermographic camera mounted in the aircraft’s chin, video from which streamed upward via a secure satellite link. The Reaper carried no weapons. Indeed, all external hardpoints had been removed in order to keep its weight and radar return to a minimum. The only external store, at that moment stowed in a conformal pod, had never been operationally deployed. That was about to change, and once it did the radar cross section of the aircraft would be hopelessly ruined.
“Any air defense activity?” the pilot asked, addressing the sensor operator in the chair beside him. Both were sitting at consoles bristling with flight information, sensor data, and the controls for their respective duties.
“Nothing yet. This model was upgraded with a new radar absorbent coating. They say it’s pretty effective.”
“Let’s hope.”
As insurance, the pilot had flown a wide arc around Damascus, although it might not have been necessary. Drones had long been a fixture in the skies adjacent to Syria. On any given day they scouted and probed and wandered the borders, and occasionally strayed across. Everyone was doing it—the Americans, the Saudis, the Russians, the Iranians. For the most part they were only here to look, although the one exception was Israel—for Syrian air defenses, anything approaching from the Golan was viewed as nothing short of an invasion. Aside from that, little fuss was made. The regime only cared about the regime, which meant protecting Damascus. More to the point, anyone who wanted to go pyrotechnic on the royal palace would use something with far greater punch than a Reaper. A barrage of cruise missiles, a gorilla package of fighters with smart bombs. Altogether, it meant the Reaper crew had some leeway for tonight’s mission. One misguided drone, even if it were to be spotted, wasn’t likely to draw a response.