More and more men pushed out into the street, and a dazed al-Dosari quickly joined them. The road was now quiet, and the men looked to their leader for direction. “This may be the prelude to an air bombardment!” he shouted as memories of his son’s death welled up inside him. “You take as many men as you need and bring the trucks in front of the building,” he continued, pointing at one man. “The rest of you, gather up the families, get them out here, and load them into the trucks. No packing anything; we could be bombed any minute!”
Bruner’s diversion couldn’t have worked better. Inside, he entered the first room where he guessed his father might be held, his Mk17 at the ready, the infrared flood of his night vision goggles painting the darkened room with a bright green wash. The woman trying to dress two toddlers screamed and stepped in front of her children to protect them from the intruder. Bruner lowered his assault rifle, put his finger to his lips, and quickly exited the room. He headed down a long hallway, following the mental map he had burned on his brain. The next room he wanted to search was just around the corner from the end of the hallway.
* * *
More than seven thousand miles away from where a lone Navy SEAL was acting as a one-man army, two senior SEALs had been talking for almost an hour. They were no closer to the answer they sought than when they began their conversation in the late afternoon at the Naval Special Warfare Command training compound.
“Skipper, I know Lieutenant Bruner hasn’t been here long enough for us to really size him up, but he came here with a tremendous reputation. I’d say ‘this isn’t like him’ is kind of an understatement.”
“I know, XO, but he’s got to be pretty torn up over his dad being kidnapped and he was clear when we talked that he didn’t think the Navy was doing enough to find him. And there’s something else that’s been gnawing at me.”
“What’s that?”
“Bruner’s reputation with the teams was stellar. He was a leader and a fighter and a trigger-puller. But the book on him was he was pretty independent-minded. He would have been pulled up short by higher headquarters had they known in advance what he intended to do on some ops he commanded. But in every case, the op was successful, and he brought all his men back. Hard to criticize a leader who does that—”
“But you think he’s got enough of an independent streak that he’s more inclined to take things into his own hands than not?”
“Exactly; that’s what I’m worried about.”
“And you said Mrs. Bruner was just as firm that he said he was returning to Coronado? Any chance he came back here and just decided to stay on leave for a while? He flew out of here with two weeks of leave authorized. Dunno, maybe if I were worried about my dad I wouldn’t be in the right frame of mind to come back to work right away.”
“Maybe, but if it were me, and I wasn’t going to go back to work, I’d probably stay with my mom and sisters—that’s where I’d be the most useful—not come back to my apartment and stew alone. I don’t think he’s here.”
“That’s fine, Skipper, and he sure rates staying on leave for a while. But we texted and called him and said it was urgent he contact us. Even if he’s on leave, he’d reply.”
“Yeah, I agree. But his life is in chaos right now. He could have lost his cell phone for all we know. What we owe Mrs. Bruner is to find out whether he’s in Coronado or not.”
“There’s one way to find out,” his exec replied. “Bruner lives in an apartment over on C Avenue. I’ll check the recall roster for the address, but I’m pretty sure it’s between 7th and 8th streets. There’s no garage, so his Ford-150 should be parked outside. I’ll drive over there now and see if his truck is there, and then knock on his door.”
“Good idea,” Cummings replied, and then paused. “Bruner drives a truck?”
“Single guy, Skipper, what can I tell you? I saw it when he was leaving work one day. It’s all tricked out, and he’s got a gaudy Chargers stencil on the back window. I’ll call you when I get to his apartment.”
“Let’s hope he’s there.”
* * *
“Mom, what’s a ‘debrief’?”
Meagan Bruner climbed off the step stool and put down the streamer she was hanging up to welcome her husband home. “Katherine, do you remember when your dad was still flying? He explained how before a flight the pilots talked about what they’re going to do on the mission; that was a brief. Then when they returned, they had a debrief to talk about how everything went and what they could do better next time. This is pretty much the same kind of thing.”
“But he didn’t sign up for this ‘mission,’” Amber said. “Some assholes kidnapped him. Thank God someone—those Op-Center guys, whoever they are—rescued him. He doesn’t know anything except they almost killed him. Why can’t they just bring him home now?”
“Or we could go get him,” Katherine suggested.
Meagan wasn’t sure herself why there needed to be a “debrief” or how long it would take. All she could do now was keep her daughters calmed down while she waited for her husband’s return and worried about her son.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ISIS Compound: Mosul, Iraq
July 23, 0340 Arabia Standard Time
Dale Bruner pushed the door open with the barrel of his Mk17 and peered into the room. As he did, two fighters who were trying to gather up their families saw the armed man in the dim light of the room and instinctively reached for their weapons. Bruner saw both figures clearly in his NVGs and toggled his infrared sight, placing a green dot on the head of the nearest figure. He squeezed the trigger of his assault rifle and double-tapped first one, and then the other fighter, the sound suppressor on the Mk17 muffling only some of the rifle’s blast.
But the heavy 7.62 slugs did their deadly duty. As blood, skull fragments, and brain matter flew everywhere, the women and children in the room started to scream and wail. Bruner knew it was useless to try to silence them, so he just slammed the heavy wooden door shut. He ran down the hallway, found the stairway he was looking for, and headed up to the building’s second floor. He knew he didn’t have long to find his father.
* * *
At Op-Center, with another successful mission complete, the focus was now on getting Dawson, Rodriquez, and the JSOC team home and on returning the CIRG HRT team to Quantico. The Geek Tank was no longer in port and starboard rotation, and in Op-Center’s command center it was back to routine ops.
Chase Williams made a habit of having his teams debrief at Op-Center as soon after an op as feasible. Anticipating Dawson and the others would arrive back around midday tomorrow and would be exhausted after a long flight, he and Anne Sullivan had decided to have a debrief with all players the following day.
* * *
“Skipper, I’m at his apartment. I was right, it’s on C Street—715 C to be exact—and I’ve knocked on his door, but nada. There are parking spots designated for each unit and his truck’s not here.”
“Maybe he’s just out getting some dinner, or working out—” Cummings offered.
“Don’t think so, Skipper. There’s a mailbox next to his door, and it’s overflowing, and there are two UPS packages in front of his door.”
“Do you want to see if his car is at the airport? He told me he’d park in the long-term lot. You know what his truck looks like. That’s the only way we’ll know for sure.”
“Give me a half hour. I’ll call you from there.”
* * *
As Dale Bruner got to the top of the stairway on the building’s second floor, he revisited his mental map of what rooms were the most likely ones where his dad might be held. There was a dent in his confidence as the two rooms he had entered on the first floor of the compound were small, were clearly bedrooms, and had windows a person could climb out of. They didn’t seem like the kind of rooms where a hostage would be held.
As he cracked open the door at the top of the stairway, he saw light and heard shouting. He thought he knew what was occurring—the buil
ding’s occupants were evacuating because the explosion of his breeching charge had convinced them the building was under attack. As he paused to evaluate his options, he wondered if the ISIL fighters would take his dad out of the compound while they were evacuating their families.
Bruner knew this was the most fateful decision he’d make since he began his lone-wolf mission. He was still considering his options when he heard heavy footsteps, then shouting, and a general commotion on the other side of the door he was pressed up against. He looked to his right and saw a small alcove with a deep sink. He ducked into the tiny space and hunkered down.
* * *
“Whatcha got, XO?” Pete Cummings asked as he picked up his phone on the second ring.
“What I’ve got is a Ford-150. It’s here in the long-term lot. It looks like Bruner never returned to San Diego.”
“Are you certain it’s his truck?”
His exec paused before responding. I damn well am sure. “Skipper, I wanted his truck to be gone, but it’s not. It’s here. And I know his truck; it’s definitely his.”
“Okay, come on back. We can figure out our next steps as soon as you get here.”
Cummings didn’t like questioning his exec, but he needed to be sure. And while his XO was driving to the airport, he hadn’t been idle. He had done what SEALs are trained to do—hope for the best, but plan for the worst. The “best” would have been not finding Bruner’s truck in the long-term lot. Now it was the “worst,” and he’d decided what he’d do in the event this happened. He already had the number jotted down.
* * *
Within a minute of his jumping into his hiding place, Dale Bruner heard noise and footsteps as the door to the second floor burst open, and people began running down the steps. It was clear to him now that the compound was being evacuated. Maybe the explosions and the breeching charge had done their work too well. He wanted to create chaos and confusion and give himself enough time to rescue his dad. Would his mission consist of nothing more than finding his father in an otherwise empty building? For the moment, he could do nothing but wait.
* * *
“Navy Command Center, Chief Petty Officer Hudson speaking.”
“Chief, this is Captain Pete Cummings; I’m calling from the Naval Special Warfare Command in San Diego. May I speak with your watch commander, please?”
“Yes sir, wait one,” he replied. Then, turning to the captain sitting at a console across the room, “Captain, there’s a Captain Cummings from the Naval Special Warfare Command who wants to talk with you. Line two.”
“Got it, Chief, thanks.” Then he hit the button on his touch screen and spoke into the mic on his headset. “Captain Duffy here; I’m the watch commander.”
“This is Captain Pete Cummings. I’m CO of the Naval Special Warfare Command training component here in Coronado. I’m missing one of my lieutenants, and I need your help. I need to speak with the VCNO.”
Duffy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He muted his mic and called out to Chief Hudson. “Chief, read me the number this guy is calling from. I want to know if it’s legit.”
“Captain, its 619 537-1243.”
Duffy had had several tours in San Diego and knew 619 was an exchange in that city. He could press it further and insist on calling Cummings back to ensure it wasn’t some kind of crank call or a hoax, but he decided to hear the caller out. He took his mic off mute. “Captain, I’m listening. Would you slow down and tell me a little more. It’s late here, and I’m certain the VCNO has already departed for the day.”
Pete Cummings poured out everything he knew, and the two men embarked on a lengthy and detailed discussion.
Finally, Duffy said, “Look, Skipper, you’re a senior O-6, and you’re in command, and I gotta think you know how the Navy is supposed to work. The VCNO doesn’t see one-star flag officers unless his aide and his EA and God knows who else have massaged his schedule to death. I get the urgency of your situation and appreciate that you’re worried about your lieutenant. But I am going way, way out on a limb to do what you’re asking me to do. You said this guy is single, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If it turns out that this is nothing more than your guy finding some good-looking honey and shacking up with her for a few days, I’ll have your ass for this.”
“I know it’s not that, Captain. I’ll stake my reputation on it.”
“You just did. Stay by your phone.”
With that the line went dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ISIS Compound: Mosul, Iraq
July 23, 0415 Arabia Standard Time
Dale Bruner was torn. He was anxious to find his dad, but he needed the ISIL fighters and their families to clear out of the building—or at least stop moving about. He had been hunkered down for a while and hadn’t heard footsteps on the stairway for several minutes. He rose cautiously and walked a few feet until he was pressed up against the back of the door leading to the second-floor hallway.
He cracked the door open several inches. It was quiet. He stuck his head out into the hallway and looked left and right. His NVGs only delivered a narrow field of view so he swiveled his head so he could see the entire corridor. There was no one there. He turned left and began moving.
* * *
The U.S. Navy is like most bureaucracies when it comes to senior leaders taking only calls they want to take and being fully informed about who the caller is and what he or she wants before they speak with them—only perhaps more so. It was after 2100 when Captain Duffy had called Admiral Oldham at his quarters in the Washington Navy Yard. As Oldham had him relate the details of his call with Cummings, the VCNO connected the dots instantly and recognized Cummings was Dale Bruner’s skipper. With no aide or other assistant at his quarters to place the call for him and get the other person on the line first, Oldham had told Duffy to give Cummings the number of his government cell phone.
“Admiral Oldham here,” the VCNO said as he answered the phone on the first ring.
“Admiral, this is Captain Cummings. I’m CO of the Naval Special Warfare Command training component here in Coronado. Sir, thank you for taking my call. I’m mindful of my chain of command, and if this weren’t so urgent, I would’ve used that before calling you, sir. And I’m sorry to bother you in your quarters, but I’m worried about one of my men, and I hope you can help me.”
“Captain, to be completely honest with you, I’m not in the habit of taking calls late at night about missing lieutenants. But the command center duty officer said it had something do with Lieutenant Dale Bruner, and that’s what got you through to me. Now how about starting at the beginning and telling me what is going on and why you’re worried about him?”
Cummings poured out the entire story, telling Oldham even more than he had shared with Duffy. The VCNO, in turn, revealed what had occurred when he first called on Meagan Bruner and her three children. After an extended conversation, the two men validated each other’s fears: Dale Bruner may have embarked on a solo mission to rescue his dad.
Oldham wasn’t one to play it safe, but he needed the right trigger. “Captain, I’m going to say this carefully, so please think a moment before responding. Do you think your lieutenant has gone rogue—maybe to go to the aid of his father?”
Cummings didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Admiral, I do.”
“All right then. I want you to call the duty desk at NCIS there in San Diego,” he began, using the well-known acronym for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. “They’re at NAS North Island. Report this to them, and give them all the information you can. I’ll call the duty office at their headquarters over at Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling. Once we get the investigative wheels churning, we’ll be able to track him down.”
“I sure hope so, Admiral.”
“Just do your part, Captain, and leave the rest to us.”
* * *
Dale Bruner tried to not let his creeping doubts immobilize him. He wondered if his dad was in this bui
lding at all. What had happened already—his encounter with the two fighters he shot, the commotion of fighters and their families evacuating the building, as well as all the rest—told him this clearly was an ISIL-controlled building. And while he didn’t doubt the quality of the intel Zack Peters had given him about the geography of the inside of the building, he reminded himself it was based on a dated Golden Brigade survey of the building before it fell into ISIL’s hands.
There were three rooms on the second floor where he thought his dad might be held. Now that the building was empty, he could move quickly from room to room. He looked right and left to ensure no one was lurking in the hallway, and then took off in a trot toward the first room on his mental list. If he couldn’t find his dad, he might be able to find some evidence that he had been held in one of them.
* * *
Over a dozen trucks had sped off carrying fighters and family members. Now only two trucks remained in front of the ISIL compound, the drivers idling their engines. Mabad al-Dosari and a few of his key lieutenants remained behind, wanting to ensure all the others had dodged the likely air bombardment before they made their escape. Al-Dosari had waved away the urgings of his second-in-command that he be the first to leave.
It had been more than fifteen minutes since the breeching charge had gone off, and there was no sign of approaching enemy aircraft. Soon after the evacuation had begun, al-Dosari had alerted his military commander in charge of the radar batteries they had stolen from the Iraqi Army. Those radars now searched the skies, but had found nothing.
“Do you think it was a false alarm, and there won’t be an air attack?” one of his lieutenants asked. “Maybe it was the Iraqi Army, and they’re planning a ground assault—and this is just the beginning of that. When the front door to our compound refused to yield, they might have decided to back off and not attack.”
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