by Ronie Kendig
“But you believe we’re wrong to believe in Allah.”
Toeing a treacherous line, Zahrah prayed for inspiration. She had not expected this conversation. And she could do serious damage to her relationship with Fekiria. And yet she could not deny a conviction she held dearer and truer than life itself. “Does it not make you wonder why even the Qur’an mentions Isa as the Messiah, and all others are mentioned as a messiah?”
Her cousin studied her.
A thought lashed through Zahrah and she sighed, shaking her head. “You’ve done it again.” Just when she thought her cousin sincerely wanted to engage in reasonable dialogue about their lone difference …
Fekiria frowned.
“You’ve turned this on me when I asked about you. What are you hiding, Fekiria?”
Silence held them in a tight grip, her cousin’s grim expression deepened then flashed into a smile. “Nothing.” She punched to her feet. “I’m hungry. You?”
If only Zahrah could figure out what was going on in that pretty head. But she’d been here long enough to know there was no prying out of Fekiria Haidary things she was unwilling to discuss.
“No. The last thing I want right now is food.” She rubbed her thumb over the phone.
Fekiria slipped out without another word.
Heart heavy, Zahrah sat with her back against one wall, her shoulder against the side wall. Knees pulled to her chest, she wished she had a friend to talk with. Someone to help her sort what was happening at the school, someone to reassure her she wasn’t alone, to figure out what on earth was going on with Fekiria. A friend. I just need a friend.
She flipped open the phone and scrolled down … down … Heart pumping a little faster than it should, she hesitated for a second, thumb poised over the TALK button, then pressed.
A woman answered, her words so rapid and riddled with acronyms that Zahrah couldn’t process them.
Zahrah sat up, gathering her thoughts. “Uh …” What am I doing? “May I speak with Captain Watters, please?”
CHAPTER 14
Hindu Kush, Afghanistan
02 June—0230 Hours
Temperatures had dropped to a biting forty degrees. Enough to chill a guy but not kill him. But Dean chose to appreciate the cold elements. Keep his focus. Remind him he was alive.
“Oy,” Titanis grunted, tapping Dean as he nodded toward their objective. “Lights out.”
On his knees, Dean traced the darkened compound. Just as the Aussie had said—no more lights in the large building, their focus considering the security and the number of ins/outs.
“Hawk, Harrier, and Knight, on me,” Dean said, nodding to the handler. “Falcon, Titanis, you have overwatch.” The three nodded as Dean went through a gear check, his mind replaying the facts: at least a dozen unfriendlies, two leaders, possibly more. The large building at the back had a lot of foot traffic, along with more than average security measures. That was his focus. Get in there, find out what was drawing the terrorists like flies to a carcass.
On his haunches, he pivoted to face Hawk, Harrier, and Knight. “Quick sneak-peek. Keep it tight and clean. Do not engage. Again, do not engage.” He met their eyes, all but glowing—whereas Ddrake’s did glow beneath the bright moon—to make sure they got the point. “Take a look-see then hoof it out.”
“We’ll cover, be your eyes and ears,” Falcon said.
“If we get separated, rendezvous two klicks south of our present location.”
“At the well?”
Dean gave a quick assent, remembering the stone well with the wood planks over it. Like something right out of biblical times. “Stay sharp.” With a hand signal, he pivoted and pushed up into a crouch-walk. Weapon trained on the surroundings, Dean slid his NVGs down. The dark blue night washed green.
A double-pat to his shoulder stopped him. He glanced over his shoulder.
Knight stood. “Ddrake and I should take lead.”
Considering the soldier’s comment forced Dean to also weigh what could happen. Another IED. A bomb. Getting limbs blown off, if not his entire body, blown past the pearly gates.
Dean relinquished point but not control. “Stay close.”
Step by step, gut cinched inch by inch, Dean made his way forward. The pant of the dog went almost unnoticed. Rocks slipped and crunched beneath his boots. Each sound like the report of a weapon in the still, dark night. The incline worked against him, forbidding him from making a 100-percent-stealthy approach. He counted on the enemy’s belief that they were here unnoticed. That the UAV they shot down two klicks west didn’t get the skinny on their compound.
As the path wound out to the north, Dean stepped off the beaten earth and headed south. More treacherous but it’d deliver them down the backs of the terrorists. They sidled up to a rock and knelt, eying the compound. The dark alley straddled the gap between the long line of huts built together.
Dean tapped Knight.
The handler nodded. “Ddrake, heel.”
Dean scouted the compound, made sure they hadn’t been spotted, as Knight moved into position. “Go.”
Knight hopped down the three-foot drop, landing with a soft thud. He crouch-ran into the shadows of the building. Dean swept up the east and west end with the muzzle of his weapon. “Clear.”
“Ddrake, hup.”
The dog sailed silently through the night to the ground.
“Hawk,” Dean said, but the Raptor team member was already in motion. As soon as he made solid footing, Dean followed. Hustled up to the building and pressed his shoulder against the plaster. “Bravo, we’re in.”
“Copy that. You’re clear,” Falcon said.
Dean turned on his helmet cam and eased around the wall, clearing the corner and holding it while Knight and Ddrake hustled across the open to the first large truck. Dean signaled for Harrier to follow. Then Hawk. Bound and cover. Until they established a secure perimeter. With Hawk as his cover, Dean eased aside the tarp on the first truck’s cargo area. His NVGs revealed nothing. “Empty,” he whispered.
They moved to another. Using as little motion as possible in case someone waited inside one of the trucks, Dean peeked inside. Nothing but an empty bed. “Same.” And the next.
The mission just escalated. They’d have to breach the buildings. That shot up their chances of getting seen, of being engaged. He keyed his mic. “Going in.”
“Copy, going in.”
Dean moved to their primary target—the larger building. To get to it, they had to pass through three smaller buildings, all attached and with only one entrance. The one right in front of him. He blew out a thick breath. Nothing like a bottleneck to get good men killed.
He moved into position. Hand on the door, he waited for the others to group up. He tested the handle, relieved when it twisted without objection or noise. Kicking in a door didn’t make for a quiet entrance. They slipped into the dark hall, grateful for the darkness.
With stealthy movements, he and his team snaked into the building. Moving quickly. Quietly. Farther into the building. Farther away from the exit. Farther from safety.
Safety doesn’t exist.
They navigated past a series of closed doors. Dean noted the doors, knew the possibility that armed Taliban were in each and every room. Like walking into a veritable lion’s den. Bound and cover delivered them to a door.
With Hawk, they breached.
Two conference tables stretched the length of the room. Parts strewn over the surface raised the hair on the back of his neck. He walked the length, staring down at what he, at first glance, thought had been a mess. Now, standing over the pieces, he saw a deliberate pattern. His gut tensed.
“SCIF,” Hawk whispered, eyes wide.
Dean nodded, his gaze on another door. He pointed to the table. “Photos.” He signaled to Knight to follow him as he moved to the next door. Angling toward it, he listened. A strange thrum oozed from the space beyond.
He sent Harrier to secure the first door, then once it was closed, Dea
n and Hawk breached the second. Hustling right, he pied out to ensure there was no threat. The night vision’s green illumination marked squares atop dozens of tables.
Hawk’s curse, though a whisper, carried like a rocket and echoed the tightening in Dean’s gut. A dozen or more SCIFs-in-a-box stared back. Dean hurried toward the closest one, traced its outline. Verified it. Then … His gloved finger found a hole. Heart thundering, he rushed to the next. Another hole in the side of the box.
Hawk caught on. Saw the same thing.
Drill holes.
Ticked, Dean stared at the room. At the representation of a lethal, imminent threat against the American military. Those drills holes meant someone was hacking. But it also meant that amateurs weren’t doing this. Drill holes meant someone knew the DOD’s largest network for transmission of classified information was tamperproof. If they tried to remove the outer casing, the box would pretty much render it useless. Self-destruct.
Hawk hissed more curses. “Do you know what this means?”
This … this … if they broke the code, so to speak, the entire American military could be taken down. Every mission compromised. Every operative endangered.
Get out. Get out. Now!
“D’you get pictures?”
Hawk nodded.
“Clear out.”
“We can’t leave these!”
“No choice,” Dean ground out. He keyed his mic again. “Mockingbird, this is Raptor Six.”
Static crackled in his ear. “You are not cleared for chatter.”
“Copy that. We need Glory One and three packages at our location in ten.”
“Negative, Raptor Six,” the response finally came. “You are ordered not to engage and clear out.”
Rapid footsteps silenced Dean as he turned toward the noise. Hawk and Knight slipped up alongside the door. Dean joined them. They couldn’t engage. Knock the guy out then run like crazy. The steps were getting louder. In the seconds before the man would appear, Dean darted through options: killing the guy would raise alarms. So would knocking him out.
Again—no choice. Optimal success would include escaping without the man knowing they’d been here. Second runner-up would be exiting without the man being able to raise an alarm, though when he came to or was found unconscious, they’d know someone had been there.
“Psst!”
He shot a glance to his three. Hawk stood by an open window, waving him that way.
Dean sprinted and, with more stealth and grace than he’d ever thought he possessed, threw himself through the window. He rolled through the landing. Came up, hearing the slight scrape of the window as it closed. On a knee and shielded, he covered Hawk, Harrier, and Knight as they bolted out of the compound.
CHAPTER 15
Camp Marmal, Mazar-e Sharif
02 June—1023 Hours
Armed with information and a really ticked-off attitude, General Lance Burnett stalked into the command office of General Ramsey.
Peering over his glasses, the sixty-something man continued scribbling on a stack of papers. “How d’you like life in the desert, General?”
“Hate it,” Lance admitted. “But I like being where my men are and where intelligence isn’t lost in translation.” He let the insinuation hang in the air. Ramsey hadn’t gotten to this station by missing innuendos.
Ramsey tossed his pen down and leaned back in his chair. “I’m still trying to figure out how you ended up with a black-ops team.”
Lance shrugged. “Why not? You have spooks.”
The man’s face was a wall of granite—but a dark shade that colored his expression. “What do you want, Lance?”
“You know what I want to know.”
“Maybe there’s a reason you don’t know.”
“I deserve an explanation on this, since I have more clearance than you.”
Leaning forward, Ramsey, a man who stood no more than five-eight and had a mound of grayish-white hair, folded his hands. “Clearance doesn’t fight wars. Soldiers, sailors, airmen—”
“I don’t need a lecture.”
“You need something. You’ve sent your men into hostile territory without being fully informed.”
“Ah, there again is that information I’m missing. The reason I haven’t been informed—care to enlighten me?”
“All you had to do was ask.”
“Ask what? Your permission to send my men where they needed to go?” Lance’s blood pressure boiled. “You’re messing with lives, thousands of them.”
Ramsey said nothing. Did nothing.
“There are a dozen SCIFs out there—”
“I’m late for a meeting.” Standing, Ramsey lifted his head cover. “Good day, General Burnett.”
Lance shoved to his feet. “Son of a biscuit box!” He stormed out of the command office and stalked down the hall after the general. “If one more man gets hurt, I swear on my mother’s grave, you’ll answer for this.”
Ramsey stilled. Turned. “There is no danger.” His gaze slid around the open room where a half-dozen desks cluttered the space. Wide-eyed grunts pretended not to hear the exchange. “There are things you don’t know. Never will.” His lips tightened. “And let’s remember that I am in command of efforts in this country. Go back to the Potomac and push some paper.”
Lance drew up beside the general. “A dozen secure computers with drill holes and you’re going to sit there and say there’s no danger?”
Ramsey hesitated, uncertainty lurking in his muddy eyes. “They saw them?”
Could strangulation under duress be expunged from his record?
“Actually set eyes on the boxes?”
“Haven’t you been listening?”
Pivoting, Ramsey said, “Come with me.”
Sub-base Schwarzburg, Camp Marmal
Mazar-e Sharif, Balkh Province Afghanistan
03 June—1408 Hours
Arms folded, Dean stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, watching the interrogation in the middle of the warehouse. The fully bearded Afghan sat with his hands cuffed to the chair and legs secured. A cut on the man’s cheek looked fresh. “Where’d he come from?”
The prisoner’s muscles and whimpers trembled.
Sal glanced at him, dark eyes ripe with conviction. “The village we visited.”
Dean snapped his gaze to his friend.
“Apparently, the boxes were more lost than originally thought. They sent in a team, extracted him, and blew the place sky high.”
With a snort, Dean shook his head. So much for “do not engage.”
Dampness thickened the air, left over from the early morning rain. A bright light shone in the man’s face, glinting off the sweat from the humidity.
“Where did the boxes come from?” an interrogation agent asked.
“I know nothing,” the man muttered, not lifting his head. Bloody spittle dribbled down his chin.
Dean sighed. They’d been at it for an hour. The interviewer clearly planned to wear the guy down through exhaustion and redundancy.
“I know you were there, know you saw things—”
“No. They kept me outside. Would not allow me in the building.”
“What building?”
Skittish eyes bounced to the questioner.
The interrogator chuckled. “See? Guilt shows in your eyes. You do know what I want.” He leaned forward. “There were what, fifty men in that compound?”
“Seventy,” the suspect countered.
Game over. He’d given information without realizing it, which meant the beginning of the end. They’d worn him down. If the guy would cooperate that easily, this shouldn’t take much longer. Though Dean could think of a thousand other things more entertaining, he stayed. And though this setting smothered him with some seriously bad memories, he wanted to know everything this man knew. He was the enemy. Playing ball with an even greater, shrewder enemy. Secretly, Dean wanted to be the one to hunt down whoever had done this. Whoever was trying to dismantle the military and
kill his brothers in arms.
“Seventy,” the questioner said nodding. “And you do not think I can snatch your family just as easily?”
“We will kill your family!”
Dean could still hear the words they shouted at him as they drove a burning iron into his shoulder again. The pain had been so great, he went numb. The thing of it was, the threat they tried against his family didn’t work. He didn’t have family. They’d left him, every last one of them. One way or another.
This line of dialogue always made Dean’s gut knot. They had to get information and time was short, but the threat against innocents didn’t sit well with him. Then again, some family members were more notorious and dangerous than the men being interrogated.
“Please.” The man shook his head. “I don’t know what you want.”
“You do.” The interrogator lifted a small instrument.
Dean tensed. Lowered his arms, hands balling. Fiery pain sliced through his back. Nausea roiled.
Wide, frantic eyes bounced around the room, searching for a sympathetic soul. “I don’t know him. I haven’t seen him.”
“A name then.”
The man whimpered.
“A name!”
“They will kill me!”
Sadly, the man was already a dead man no matter what he did or didn’t say. Nobody would trust him again. Especially not the kind of people involved in an intricate plan like this.
“You are already a dead man to them.” The interviewer’s words bounced off Dean’s thoughts. “If you help us, we will get you and your family to safety.”
The man’s head came up. “My family? America?”
“It depends on your information.”
“Zmaray. That is all I know.”
Dean straightened. Zmaray. That was one of their months, right?
“The fifth month of the Afghan calendar,” the questioner said. “Is something going to happen then?”
“I do not know.” Wild, black, stringy hair trembled as the man shook his head. “I tell you everything. I only work as guard to make sure it stay safe in compound.”