The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels)

by Joseph Nagle

  The captain clenched his teeth. This was the old, impatient, and insolent York. There was a noticeable shift in his demeanor that was reflected in the way he glared at York.

  The rest of the team looked back at the two men in confusion and then at one another.

  Under his breath, SFC Musselman asked Chief Packard, “Hey, Chief, what in hot-damn is going on between those two?”

  “Hell if I know, but York should just do what he’s told—the captain looks like he’s about to put his foot up his ass.”

  Captain Scott abruptly bolted at York; York stood his ground. The captain grabbed York by his LCE straps, yanked him so close that their noses nearly touched, and repeated his command, “I gave you an order! Call it in, York! I won’t tell you again! Division will handle it!”

  When the captain let him go, York did as he was ordered and radioed FOB Salerno with what he had found. Captain Scott moved away from York and stood as far from the rest of the men as was possible in the round room. His hands were placed firmly on his hips, and his head hung low.

  A few minutes later York told Captain Scott, “Sir, I let the S-2 know what we found. He asked me to send the file electronically. The extraction team is en route. The Blackhawks will pick us up at the rendezvous site. They want us back ASAP.”

  Captain Scott wasn’t surprised. He nodded his head in acknowledgement but didn’t look at York.

  York stepped up to Scott and repeated his question from earlier. “Sir, what the hell is going on?”

  Captain Scott slowly lifted his head and looked into York’s face, but not into his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing would come out. Instead of words, the loud crack of a large-caliber weapon being fired replaced what Captain Scott was about to say.

  Both York and Scott snapped their heads toward the tunnel. Captain Scott shouted into his mouthpiece, “Thad, what the hell is happening?”

  Thad shouted his response; he was no longer concerned with the quiet approach. “Sir, the cell is back! The fucking rats are crawling up the slope. It was a goddamn trap! I count more than a hundred, and they’re reinforced with heavy weapons!”

  York knew it the moment the captain did: they were trapped.

  They were like fish in a bowl.

  They were stuck in a room that had an exit shared with its entrance. The only way in or out was through a thirty-meter tunnel, a tunnel that was lined with weapons. One well-placed bullet, grenade, or rocket would set off the cache and destroy the cave and everything and everyone in it.

  Scott shouted, “Everyone, out now! Get up, and get out! Stack formation!”

  With expediency, the men rose to their feet and raced through the tunnel with their weapons at the ready. One by one, they made their way through the door and behind the protection of the rocks just to its exterior. Thad was meticulously picking off the approaching terrorists.

  Almost all of the team had made it out safely before the sound of exponentially growing small-arms fire could be heard. The terrorist cell was getting closer and was returning Thad’s fire.

  SFC Musselman was in front of York, and Chief Packard was in front of him. The chief was nearly through the door when a bullet pierced his neck; he fell back into SFC Musselman, who quickly laid the gagging Green Beret onto the dirt floor. His carotid artery was severed. SFC Musselman dropped to the ground to help. He pressed his hand against the chief’s neck but knew that there was nothing more that he could do.

  It took only a few moments before the chief died. SFC Musselman was on his knees next to the chief and was as rigid as the rock that surrounded them.

  “Leave him,” commanded Captain Scott. He grabbed Musselman by his arm and yanked him to his feet. “Get out there and help the rest of the team!”

  SFC Musselman hesitated and looked at the chief. With a fire in his tearfilled eyes, he shouted a blood-curdling scream that raised the hairs erect along York’s arms. SFC Musselman bolted away from them, and then he dove out of the door and rolled to a stop. Within moments, the angered Green Beret was in a prone position and taking aim with his 5.56mm M4A1. The fourteen-and-half-inch barrel was all that he needed to line up his sights on the enemy. Before York could leave the tunnel, Musselman had already emptied one of his thirty-round magazines and was slapping in a second. From the first thirty rounds, nineteen had found their mark, and the attacking al-Qaeda cell was fewer by as many Arabs.

  York heard two dull thuds; both were followed by larger detonations. SFC Musselman’s M4A1 had a 40mm M203 grenade launcher attached beneath the barrel. Musselman was possessed. His movements appeared frantic, but his aim was true. Chief Packard had been a close friend. The two grenades easily ended the lives of five more enemy combatants.

  The attack by the terrorist cell came heavy and vicious; the Alpha team was severely burdened by their numbers. York and Scott had to crawl out of the tunnel as bullets riddled the face of the cave’s entrance.

  Once he was out of the cave, York looked over at Thad and knew that what he saw wasn’t good. Thad was no longer firing and was slumped over the Betty. York low-crawled over to the engineers sergeant and pulled him off the large-caliber weapon. Thad’s body rolled onto its back and exposed the nature of his death: part of his lower jaw was missing. A bullet, either well aimed or errant, had penetrated Thad where his face was pressed against the weapon.

  York moved Thad out of the way, which was no easy task: the engineers sergeant was a large man. He wished that he could have been more delicate with his dead friend, but this wasn’t the time. Thad’s body rolled roughly away and ended in an awkward position. York sunk in behind the Betty and quickly inspected it for functionality. Satisfied that it would fire, he reloaded the weapon and peered through the Leupold Mark 4 telescopic sights.

  York looked for targets.

  Approaching from his left and two hundred meters downhill, three Arabs were crouched one behind the other. They were ill-trained and sloppy. They were too easy as a target. The third Arab was holding a portable rocket propelled grenade (RPG-7) launcher. York could easily see the sinister green TBG-7V anti-personnel warhead. The other two al-Qaeda were spotting for the man with the rocket, but they were out in the open; their efforts were futile. York took aim, and when the man holding the rocket launcher stood to fire, York pulled the trigger. The fifty-caliber bullet barreled through the air at twenty-eight hundred feet per second and through all three Arabs at once.

  The man holding the RPG-7 fell to his knees, but was able to squeeze the trigger. It was either one last heroic effort on the Arab’s part, or a neurological reaction from the shock of death. It didn’t matter. York knew that at a range of two hundred meters, an RPG is only fifty percent effective at finding its target, and even less when the man pulling the trigger has a six-inch hole in his stomach. The round split the air and was followed by a thin, white contrail. York watched as it curled upward and passed harmlessly above the top of the cave.

  York scanned the slope and found four more members of al-Qaeda approaching; four more corpses fell to the earth.

  York looked for more targets, but they seemed to be less haphazard with their approach than moments ago. They were learning. It took a few seconds, but he found one of them squatting behind a tree. It was nearly a foot in diameter, but York was sure that the wood of the tree was no match for the Betty. Aiming, he squeezed off his last round. The tree exploded at its base. Slivers and chunks of wood shot out in every direction.

  One more lay dead.

  Overhead, the distinctive, heavy thump from the blades three Blackhawks began to drown out the small-arms fire from the cell. Help had arrived.

  From behind and rising nefariously overhead of what remained of the Alpha team, the noses of three voluminous attack helicopters lifted above the cave complex and tilted downward at the enemy. The four rotor blades of each Blackhawk cut ominously through the air as if to warn of what would come next. An unseen signal was followed by the unleashed power of the mounted M240H machine guns�
��six in total—releasing a torrent of 7.62mm rounds onto the advancing terrorist cell below. The tree line was soon washed with a waterfall of cascading rounds at a rate of nine hundred and fifty per minute. The sound was deafening. The onslaught lasted just under a minute; each Blackhawk rocked slightly right and left as it strafed the wood line. When it was over, nearly three thousand rounds had cut into whatever was in their path: trees, rocks, earth, and bodies. They didn’t discriminate.

  The members of the al-Qaeda cell that had survived dared not return fire and were smart enough to race back from wherever it was that they had come. They were fewer than one-third of the number that had first attacked.

  York was breathing fast and hard, and the Blackhawks hovered low overhead. The captain was screaming, but all sound had been sucked from the air.

  To his left and to his right, York saw that a number of his teammates had perished, and most of the others were wounded. The able-bodied were helping those that were not so able. Some were being carried.

  York stood to his feet.

  Sound came back.

  Captain Scott shouted out, “Get to the choppers and leave no one behind, I mean no one!”

  York looked over to where Thad’s body was lying and ran over to him, dropping to the ground at his side. He grabbed his dead teammate’s arm and leg and wrapped the body around his shoulders. Rolling to his stomach, he placed his own legs underneath himself and grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. He carried Thad over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry and raced to the waiting choppers.

  Behind him, York heard one of his teammates yell, fire in the hole! Two loud explosions quickly followed. The cave complex and everything in it was destroyed.

  The rest of the team—the living, the dead, and the wounded—were aboard the three Blackhawks. Two of the helicopters were already flying away. Captain Scott was waiting at the third Blackhawk for York and motioned with his arm to get in; York ran to the open door, handed his SCAR-H to the outstretched hand of the Blackhawk’s crewman, and laid Thad heavily on the floor. Quickly, he climbed into the chopper’s belly. Captain Scott followed. He had nearly made it all the way in when he screamed out and fell backward onto the ground.

  Behind Captain Scott, the growling face of an Arab was visible behind a smoking pistol. He was running toward the Blackhawk and still firing when York grabbed his own 9mm from its holster and returned fire. It took only one shot of the nine York fired. His 9mm was empty, and the Arab was dead.

  York jumped out and grabbed his captain. The bullet had hit Captain Scott in his lower back, near his right kidney.

  York shouted, “Sir, you okay?!”

  The captain let out a long grunt, more like a growl, and painfully screamed, “Get me in the chopper, York!”

  York pulled the captain to his feet and then got under him and put his shoulder into the captain’s ass. He forcibly lifted the captain into the Blackhawk and then quickly scrambled in, collapsing on top of his commander.

  Looking up at the crew of the Blackhawk, York shouted, “Get us the hell out of here, now!”

  The pilot pulled the cyclic, and the Blackhawk jerked higher into the sky at a rate of nearly three and a half meters per second. It didn’t take long to hit the helicopter’s ceiling near nineteen thousand feet. York worked frantically on Captain Scott’s wound. He ripped off the commander’s LCE and yanked up his shirt. The hole was neat with no exit wound, but it was intermittently spilling blood that matched the pulse of the captain’s heart. The captain was going into shock; his eyes had rolled upward, exposing the white underneath.

  York anxiously looked around the helicopter and soon found what he needed. An emergency medical technician (EMT) kit hung against the wall. York yanked it down and rummaged through it. The CELOX Hemostat 35g bag was easy to find. Putting the top of it in his teeth, he grabbed a wad of gauze with one hand and ripped off the top of the CELOX with his other. He poured the powder onto Captain Scott’s wounds and then roughly pressed the gauze on top. Scott let out a sharp scream and bit down on his lip. It took less than thirty seconds for the bleeding to stop: CELOX is an impressive coagulant.

  Captain Scott passed out.

  York exhaled and then looked up and out of the window; the other two Blackhawks were flying just off the port side. The sliding door of the bird nearest his was open and a large dark mass was falling away from it. York’s eyes widened at what he saw, but his brain couldn’t make the connection right away.

  Turning to the pilot, York wanted to shout out that something had just fallen from one of the Blackhawks, but just then, his eye caught a second mass falling from the third Blackhawk. This time his brain processed the image—it was one of his teammates. He snapped his head back to the window and screamed as his eyes followed the body as it plunged downward. He recognized the mass; it was the body of MSG Bryan.

  “What the fuck?” York screamed.

  Another body fell, and then another.

  From the corner of his eye, a quick movement grabbed York’s attention.

  Out of instinct, York parried to his left. A sliver of silver disturbed the air in front of his face: the swinging blade had just missed his throat.

  In front of York was the Blackhawk’s crewman. In his hand was a twelve-inch serrated blade, and on his face was a twisted, evil grin. In the blink of an eye, York studied his opponent and his surroundings. Thad was on the floor, dead; Captain Scott was sitting up but had slipped into unconsciousness; and York’s weapon, the one he had handed to the crewmember without question, was nowhere to be seen.

  “What the hell are you doing?” screamed York.

  “Give me the flash drive and your map book!” growled the crewman.

  York couldn’t mouth his thoughts. The flash drive and map book?

  “Now!” shouted the crewman, his hand outstretched.

  The pilot looked back at the unfolding scene and then banked the helicopter to the right. York felt himself being thrown toward the crewman: the pilot was helping!

  Reaching out, York grabbed at the thick nylon webbing attached to the seats and stopped himself from being thrown right into the outstretched knife in front of him. The maneuver by the pilot caused York’s feet to come out from under him, and he used this to his advantage. While holding the nylon webbing, York swung his boot at the crewman’s head. The steel reinforced toe of his boot met the bridge of the man’s nose. Blood instantly poured through his broken nasal passages. He dropped the knife just as the pilot leveled out the Blackhawk.

  York didn’t hesitate; he lunged at the crewman and threw his elbow into the man’s throat, crushing his larynx. The crewman fell to his knees and then onto his elbows. He writhed on the floor; his eyes begged for air and then rolled into the back of his head. York jumped on top of him just as the man started to cough, a telltale sign that his larynx was relaxing enough to let in some air.

  “What the hell is going on, who the hell are you, why do you want the flash drive and my map book!?” interrogated York.

  The man didn’t respond.

  York picked him up by his hair and then shoved his thumb deep into the man’s left eye. The crewmember let out what little scream that he could through his smashed throat and clawed at York’s wrists. At that moment, the pilot reached back with a pistol in his hand. It was a fortunate twist that the Blackhawk hit a pocket of denser air, causing the fuselage to bounce wildly. The pilot pulled the trigger, but his aim was no longer steady and no match for the turbulence.

  There wasn’t any time to think. York was outmatched; his instincts took over. A pen stuck out from the crewman’s shirt; in one balletic movement, York grabbed the pen, sunk it deeply into the pilot’s ear, extracted it, and then plunged it into the crewman’s neck.

  The Blackhawk bucked wildly as the pilot struggled with its controls, life fast draining from him.

  York felt the Blackhawk sharply losing altitude. The scream of the helicopter rose above the sound of its rotors as it began to plunge toward the ear
th. The pilot’s motor skills were waning fast, if they weren’t already gone. York reached over to him, undid his four-point safety harness, and yanked him into the back. The pilot’s protests were weak; he was unable to contest what was happening. York flipped him over and pulled off his parachute.

  The fear running through York sped up every one of his actions. It was as if he were removed from the danger, somehow looking in at himself, guiding himself.

  He put on the chute.

  He hit the button that automatically opened the door.

  He grabbed Captain Scott.

  He jumped.

  CHAPTER SIX

  HOME OF DR. MICHAEL

  STERLING DEPUTY

  DIRECTOR OF THE NCS

  OAKTON, VA

  Dr. Michael Sterling—deputy director of the National Clandestine Services (NCS) of the CIA—reached over to his glass of Chardonnay. Without looking, he picked it up and put it to his lips. Expecting a mixture of aromatic oak with a slight hint of crisp apple, he received nothing.

  The glass was empty.

  He set the glass down and looked at the bottle: it was empty, too.

  Laid out in front of him were the challenges of being the deputy director of the NCS. The desk of his home office was laden with performance reviews, budgetary suggestions, and reports in need of his approval. The most glaring document was the thick binder from the Intelligence Oversight Committee. He already knew what it said; Michael had read the report at least a half-dozen times. The committee was leaning on him hard to slash his budget and cut his staff. It was enough to worry about the careers of his staff, but, even more troublesome, the Intelligence Oversight Committee was also pressing the NCS with very strong fingers to divulge the details of a very black operation, one that Michael had been a part of; one that had broken a number of laws of more than one country.

  It didn’t matter that the black operation had saved countless American lives or that it had stopped a full-scale nuclear war and halted Iran’s production of nuclear weapons. No: it only mattered that Senator Elizabeth Door’s opponent—the two-term incumbent president’s hand-picked selection as his replacement, and the only person in her way to becoming the next president—had authorized the clandestine and reckless, borderline illegal mission.