Exfiltration

by Jillian Anselmi

  “This is Witt,” I say into the phone.

  “Christ, it’s good to hear from you,” mission coordinator Champlin shouts. “You guys okay?”

  “Yeah, we’re fine. We’re shacking up with a bunch of frog men,” I tease as I pace in a circle.

  “Good. We’ll coordinate with Lieutenant Commander Bradburn for progress updates,” he informs me.

  “This just made everything more complicated,” I mutter.

  “That’s affirmative,” he answers. “I have faith you and Noah will get the job done.”

  “Thanks,” I say as I smile.

  “All further communications will be made through the Alpha team’s secured lines,” he advises. “Although, I’ll see what I can do on my end.”

  “Witt out,” I say and hang up.

  Taking a seat, I ask Noah, “What do you think about all of this?” I keep my voice down. The last thing I need is for them to know we’re talking about them.

  “Seems straight forward,” he answers. “As long as the bad guys are preoccupied, shouldn’t be a difficult task.”

  “Well, that hasn’t worked for us so far, what makes you think it’s going to get any easier?” I pull my Colt out from underneath my tunic and unload it. We’re safe enough here, and I don’t like keeping ammo in my gun for long periods. Besides, if we’re going to be hoofing it through the depths of hell, I’ll need a bigger gun. I place the Colt in my go-bag and retrieve my Glock. I haven’t used this gun in a while and need to clean it. That should keep my mind occupied for a bit.

  “Need help with that?” Noah asks as he takes his Glock 19 out of its holster.

  “Nope. I got really good at this at the Farm. Piece of cake.”

  Normally I’d remove the magazine and rack the slide to remove the chamber, but this gun isn’t loaded. I point the pistol in a safe direction and press the trigger. Then I begin to disassemble it into its four main component parts: slide, barrel, guide rod/recoil spring assembly, and frame/receiver. Noah watches me in awe. He’s never seen me clean a gun before. “Impressive,” he breathes.

  “Focus on your own gun,” I order. “I wouldn’t want yours to malfunction on the account of me.” With a wink, I go back to focusing on my pistol.

  Reaching back into my bag, I retrieve the items I need to clean my Glock.

  I thread a wet patch through the slotted tip on my cleaning rod. Working the wet patch back and forth through the entire length of the barrel, I rotate the cleaning rod clockwise. I push the patch all the way forward and continue to rotate the rod clockwise, then pull the patch all the way back through the barrel and out of the chamber.

  Next, I clean the slide, then the receiver. When I’m satisfied, I inspect the barrel for dirt, lead deposits, bulges, obstructions, and cracks. Finding none, I double check the firing pin and safety. Finally, I lubricate all the parts and reassemble. I rack the slide once more, making sure it moves smooth. Once again, I point the gun away and fire.

  Total time: fifteen minutes—and I took my time.

  Noah is still working on reassembling his.

  I place my Glock back inside my go-bag and lie down. As much as I try to fight it, my eyelids won’t stay open, and I’m asleep in minutes.

  August 9th, 1999

  I WAKE UP TO A flurry of action. Jumping from the cot, I shuffle over to the men hovering around the table. “Change of plans, Agent Witt,” Dalton confesses.

  “Change of . . . what?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.

  “Orders have been changed,” Spencer informs me. “They’ve called off the bombing.”

  “That’s great news!” I blurt.

  “It is, and it isn’t,” Miller mumbles.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I cross my arms, waiting for an answer.

  “It means,” Dalton reveals, “we’re now tasked to retrieve not only Savior, but Atiyah Abd al-Rahman as well.”

  “They want him alive,” Spencer adds.

  “Fuck,” Noah breathes from behind me, making me jump.

  “Fuck is right. We’re not prepared to bring any captives back with us,” Dalton growls as he paces back and forth.

  “Cap, bringing him in alive could be an intelligence bonanza,” Perry mentions.

  “He’s not gonna give anything up,” Spencer snaps, banging his fists on the table. “They’re fucking radicals and will die for the cause.”

  “While I agree with Spencer, Perry makes a good point,” I interject. “It is rare to break radicals, but if he were captured, he would be the most significant Taliban figure to be detained since the war started. He could provide a treasure trove of information. If the CIA were able to get their hands on him and interrogate him, that is.”

  Shit, if he’s caught, Noah and I could be tasked the job of breaking him.

  That would be a career milestone.

  But it’s no secret the military and CIA don’t really get along. Dalton raises a brow and gives me a subtle nod.

  He knows I’m right.

  “All right,” Dalton sighs. “Let’s figure out how we’re going to raid the compound.”

  All eight of us take a seat around the table and discuss strategies. Noah and I just listen, interjecting words of wisdom here and there. This is what they’ve trained for, and he’s right, we are just along for the ride.

  A large part of the day is occupied with maps—discussing ways in, and most importantly, ways out. Dalton is on the phone with Bradburn sporadically throughout the day, trying to plan their exfil. He’s trying to get us an interior map of the compound, and time is of the essence.

  The SEALs, for the most part, already have a way in. Once it was found that Kimberly was taken there, they discussed it at length. They’re not concerned on how she’s going to get out—that’s our job. We had an original exfil plan, but it didn’t include a world-renowned terrorist. Now, they have two more straps to worry about.

  The major problem is most of the roads are destroyed from the artillery shelling and air strikes. Hoofing it in isn’t what they’re worried about. They can’t exactly walk out of Afghanistan with an unwilling terrorist.

  No.

  They need to drive out.

  Or fly out.

  A little before fifteen-hundred, Dalton starts to gear up, but not ordinary military garb. He’s got on civilian clothing. Khaki pants, and a shirt and vest with a blazer over it. “Where are you going?” I ask as I cross the room toward him.

  “Gonna do a little recon,” he answers, bending down to tie his shoes.

  “Good. I’m going with you, and I’m not taking no for an answer.” Standing in front of him, I cross my arms.

  He stands straight to look at me, his jaw clenching and eyes narrowed. We glare at each other for several seconds, before he answers, “Fine. Let’s go.”

  I was preparing for a fight, but he caved.

  Just like that.

  He walks past me to a case on the floor by the communications computer. Opening it, he retrieves a gun and magazine. The gun has a silencer screwed to the barrel. “Just in case,” he admits, placing it inside his jacket.

  “I like how you think,” I say with a smile.

  “C’mon. Follow me,” he insists.

  “Just a sec,” I call back as I jog over to my bag and pull out my scarf. “Can’t go without this,” I comment as we exit the warehouse.

  “No. No, you can’t,” he mutters.

  Dalton leads me to a car covered with a tarp on the side of the building. Pulling off the cover, he reveals a beat-up piece of shit. “Driving around in a Humvee’s a sure way to blow our cover,” he teases as he opens the driver’s side door.

  “You sure know how to take a girl out for a good time,” I chuckle as I enter the passenger side.

  He pulls out of the alley and heads toward the compound. We won’t be able to get real close, but close enough to determine how many guards are on the perimeter.

  “Any assets in place?” I ask

  “Here? No,” he chokes out.
“Hell, I don’t even wanna be here.”

  “There has to be someone here. Are you sure?” I ask, surprised. Without assets, we’re essentially going in blind.

  He thinks about my question for a few seconds, then smiles. “There is one . . . but I’m not sure if he’s already gotten the fuck out of dodge. Guess there’s only one way to find out,” he says, making a sharp left.

  “Why did you give in to me so easily?” I ask as he makes another turn.

  “I thought about saying no fucking way, but in all honesty, we look like a normal couple instead of a SEAL and a spy,” he admits with a shrug.

  “Makes perfect sense,” I agree.

  A few turns and ten minutes later, we’re parked on the side of what looks like a market. We exit the car and stroll to the entrance. Dalton opens a weathered red door and a bell sounds, announcing our arrival. He surveys the room, taking all precautions as he moves around the small store. I follow a few steps behind, observing my surroundings. It doesn’t appear to be a typical bazaar. It reminds me of a deli from back home, but with more spices and dried goods. A box fan sits in the window and hums as it vibrates, moving around the stifling hot air. Two voices come from the back, both speaking in Dari.

  An older gentleman with dark hair and a salt and pepper beard exits from a room through a curtain at the rear of the store with a younger man following him. Dalton and the older man exchange looks, both cautious. Without warning, they both reach for their side arms and point them at each other.

  “Where did you get a gun in Afghanistan?” the older man asks in excellent English.

  “An asset who picked us up came prepared,” Dalton answers with confidence, his Glock still aimed at the mystery man. “Where did you get yours?” he asks, his focus on the older man’s pistol. I stand, frozen, wondering if I should pull out my gun. The younger man hasn’t moved, watching the same show I am. I determine Dalton knows what he’s doing and decide to wait it out.

  “Some hot shot frogman gave it to me as a gift a few years back,” he answers, his lips twitching.

  Dalton raises a brow and shrugs. “Guy’s got good taste,” he brags.

  Before I can call him out on his bullshit, the older gentleman starts laughing and lowers his gun.

  I look at Dalton and roll my eyes.

  He gives me a quick wink.

  Fucking macho bullshit.

  Dalton smiles, putting his gun back in its holster. “How long’s it been?” the older gentleman asks, reaching out to embrace Dalton.

  “Too long,” he answers, pulling him in for a hug.

  “It’s so good to see you,” the gentleman says, beaming.

  “I thought you’d be a ghost by now,” Dalton mentions, releasing the man.

  “I know. I thought so too,” he says, shaking his head. Turning, he puts his hand on the younger man’s arm. “You remember my younger brother, Aazar?”

  “Yes, of course,” Dalton answers, shaking the young man’s hand.

  I stand in the corner like I’m not even there.

  It’s as if I’m the ghost.

  Folding my arms over my chest, I clear my throat.

  Dalton turns toward me, and I narrow my eyes, pursing my lips.

  Waving his arm toward me, he says, “Agent Deloris Witt, this is Ramin Nabi.”

  “Mr. Nabi, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say with a smile, even though I feel slighted.

  “Nice to meet you, Agent Witt,” he answers, a bit confused. “So, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Dalton’s smile fades. “Atiyah Abd al-Rahman.” As the words tumble out of Daltons mouth, Ramin’s face drops.

  “Yes. I’ve heard he’s somewhere in Kabul,” he murmurs, running his hand through his dark hair. “Why don’t we go in the back and discuss it without worries of being overheard?” Ramin moves toward the entrance with the curtain without waiting for an answer.

  Nodding, Dalton places his hand on my arm and gives me a gentle shove. “Ladies first,” he insists. I roll my eyes again and move toward the entrance with a huff. “Aazar, watch the front,” he tells his brother. With a dip of his head, Aazar listens to his older brother and stays back.

  The three of us walk through the covered doorway and down a hallway with a bookcase at the end. Ramin pushes on the bookcase, revealing a large room.

  “Nice digs,” I comment, getting a good look.

  “It’s someplace to hide when the Taliban comes through here with their AK-47’s,” he informs us.

  “It’s more common than you’d think,” Dalton adds.

  We enter the room and sit around a square table in the center. “What do you need to know?” Ramin asks.

  “He has an American hostage,” Dalton informs them. “And not just any hostage.”

  “Who?” Ramin asks.

  “Who isn’t important,” I interject. “What is important is we get the hostage back, unharmed.” I know this is Dalton’s asset, but I’m not comfortable with anyone else knowing who Kimberly is.

  “Yes, of course,” Ramin agrees. “What do you need from me?”

  “We know he’s holed up in the center of the city. What I need to know is how many men are inside. I don’t like going in blind.” Dalton places his elbows on the table and intertwines his fingers, resting his chin on his thumbs

  “I don’t have many friends left here,” Ramin informs us. “Most abandoned their homes when the bombing began, taking refuge in Pakistan, but I will see what I can do.”

  “Good. Deloris and I are going to do a little recon and try to see how many guards are outside the compound,” Dalton says as he stands.

  “If I find out anything, I’ll contact you,” Ramin says, getting up as well. Reluctant, I stand. My gut says Ramin isn’t going to tell us anything. I hope I’m wrong. “Are you in the same location as last time?” Dalton nods.

  Dalton says his goodbyes and we exit the bazaar. “Nice guy,” I comment.

  “He’s a little skittish,” he acknowledges as we stride toward the car. “He’s not used to seeing women in a position of authority.”

  “I keep forgetting where I am,” I mutter, opening the passenger door.

  Afghan women have always been marginalized and accorded subordinate status. The rights of women were eroded even further when the Taliban came into power in 1996. With such fundamentalist religious forces taking the dominant position in society, women suffered a major setback and even took a retrogressive turn. Afghanistan is ranked the worst country in the world to be born a girl, and some parents are bringing up their daughters as sons.

  Dalton grunts, but makes no comments.

  There’s nothing to say; nothing he can do.

  Nothing but hope—hope that democracy can take hold here and give these women the lives they deserve.

  Dalton heads toward the center of Kabul, driving down sideroad after sideroad. When the compound is within sight, he pulls over. “Let’s get a good look at what’s going on at casa de terrorist,” he breathes as he takes his binoculars out of its case.

  “Do you think they’ll have the same amount of guards tonight as they do now?” I ask, straining my neck to get a better look.

  “Probably not, but I’ll at least get a look at their patterns,” he murmurs as he scans the grounds.

  The compound is gated with a brick wall surrounding the building.

  The only way in is through the front or scaling the wall.

  It’s got to be twelve feet tall—not an easy feat. There are four floors total, leaving plenty of places to hide. The compound doesn’t have many windows, so what’s behind the walls, or who, is a mystery.

  Dalton pries his eyes away from the lenses and scans the surrounding area. “Spence is our sniper. He’ll set up on that roof,” he says, pointing to a concrete building a couple blocks away from the compound. It’s a few floors higher; perfect for seeing everything. “He’s got a McMillan TAC fifty long-range sniper rifle he nicknamed Eagle,” he says with a chuckle.

  “Eag
le?” I ask.

  “Yeah. It comes equipped with thermal vision, so he can see through walls. You know, like having eagle eyes.” I smile, understanding the implication.

  I don’t know much about sniper rifles, but I do know a little bit about the McMillan. It takes fifty caliber rounds and leaves the muzzle at twenty-seven hundred feet per second. It’s not only powerful, but amazingly accurate. It’s capable of taking out a vehicle twenty football fields away. While I was at the Farm, I heard a story about a sniper taking out a target over a mile and a half away. This distance from the roof to the compound is much shorter, maybe five hundred feet or so.

  Piece of cake for any decent sniper.

  I’ve also heard this particular gun has a hard recoil, like getting kicked by a mule.

  I’ll stick with my puny hand-held gun, thanks.

  “He’ll be able to see everyone in the compound?” I ask, amazed.

  “As long as they’re not standing in front of a window,” he replies. “Not sure why, but you can’t see thermal heat signatures through glass.”

  Dalton continues to look through the binoculars at the compound. Two guards stand vigil at the gate’s entrance, but my vision is blocked past that. His angle is better than mine. “Six guards including the two at the gate, all carrying AK-47’s,” he acknowledges.

  “That doesn’t seem too bad.” I admit. “I was expecting a lot more considering what’s inside.”

  “Yes, it does seem rather light. We’ll see what happens in the early hours of tomorrow morning,” he murmurs.

  We stay for a little while longer, seeing if anyone enters or exits the compound. As the sun begins to set, it casts its golden rays down upon the clouds of billowing filth, turning them bright red. The Islamic call to prayer is rung for Maghrib, sending music through the thick, dusty air. We watch, waiting to see if anyone goes to Mosque, but no one enters or leaves.

  “All right, I’ve seen enough. Let’s get out of here before they start dropping bombs on our heads,” Dalton says as he starts the car.

  We drive back in silence. My head is spinning with all the ways this op can go wrong. The compound is huge, and we don’t know what floor or room Kimberly is being held in. I do know if shit goes sideways, there’s no way in hell I’m going back to DC and telling the president his daughter is dead.