by Bentley, Don
All in all, it was a pretty good system, and probably completely unavailable to me for this mission. That was my assumption, anyway. General Hartwright’s edict had left no room for interpretation. Even if Frodo—or James, for that matter—was still pulling for me back home, an overt act on his part would risk not only his job, but his freedom. As of this minute, I was a private citizen operating in a foreign country without the blanket of protection offered by the United States government. While I had every intention of forcing this scenario to change, I knew that this was not yet the time or the place to do so. So, rather than click on the inviting icon that would have led me to the best all-source intelligence the world’s remaining superpower could generate, I did the next best thing.
I opened Google Maps.
The app returned imagery, but without context, it was only slightly better than nothing at all. The grid coordinates Frodo had provided were the location of several rambling buildings, connected by a large concrete thoroughfare, all ringed with cyclone fencing. No vehicles, or other signs of life, were present in the dated satellite picture, but that was hardly surprising. This part of Syria encompassed a type of no-man’s-land in which territory claimed by the Assad regime, ISIS remnants, and the various rebel groups all overlapped. Anyone who could leave had vacated the city long ago. Those who had been left behind weren’t likely to seek shelter so far from the city’s center.
“I have bad news, my friend,” Zain said, ending his latest cell phone conversation. “You will need to travel to meet your asset, yes?”
I looked up from the Internet search I was running. Bringing Zain into my trusted circle was one thing, but providing him with information about Einstein was something else entirely. I trusted Zain, but I was the only thing standing between my agent and a grisly death. Zain was an asset, but operational security was still operational security.
“Why do you ask?” I said.
“That was Akram. He manages our commerce flowing in and out of Assad-controlled territory. As of this morning, all land routes are closed.”
“Why?”
“Assad has mounted a new offensive supported by the Russians. We think they are attempting to capture several key road intersections. In any case, Akram reports that Russian aircraft are strafing any vehicles moving along these roads. For now, we are stuck, my friend.”
I swore and then read the Internet search results. Some years ago, the plot of land might or might not have been used for industrial activity—a ball bearing factory, if I was translating correctly—but I could find nothing of relevance now. As I was processing what the route closures meant to my hastily constructed plan, the icon for Einstein’s chat app alerted me to an incoming message. A single line of text appeared.
I have what you requested. Time is short.
I thought for a moment, thumbs hovering over the virtual keyboard, and then began to type.
I’m ready. Send meet location.
Just you?
Just me.
The cursor flashed as Einstein replied.
I copied the address he sent and pasted it into Google Maps. The coordinates were for a park about two kilometers south of the ball bearing factory. Score one for Frodo’s NSA girlfriend and Einstein’s truthfulness. So far, so good.
Confirmed, I typed. Stand by for instructions.
Has something changed?
Nothing has changed. Instructions coming.
I hit the Send button and then closed the app before Einstein could engage me in a more protracted conversation.
Nothing has changed. As a case officer, I’d told my share of lies, but that whopper might just take the cake. A more accurate response might have been Everything has changed. I have no idea how to get to you, much less rescue a half-dead operator from your terrorist friends. Wish me luck.
“My friend, I have something which needs your attention.”
“What?” I said, scrolling through the Google imagery as our car slowed to a stop.
“Them.”
I looked up to see four men leaving the safety of a bunker made of corrugated steel. The structure stood in front of a rusted barricade that barred entry to a vehicle-sized gap in a head-high, crumbling stone wall. The four men were dressed like locals and carried their AK-47s with the practiced ease of men who knew how to use them.
“What now?” Zain said.
I looked at the men and made a snap decision. Ray had provided me with this address for a reason. Either I trusted him or I didn’t. Time to roll the dice.
“Let’s drive over and say hello,” I said, infusing my voice with a confidence I didn’t feel.
Zain glanced at me before putting the car in gear and rolling forward. As we drew closer, I noticed he was mumbling under his breath.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“Praying.”
I wanted to give a witty reply, but my mouth had become strangely dry. The men noticed our approach, and while the AK-47s weren’t pointed at us, the rifles hung loose and ready. Zain nosed the car up next to the group. Two of the men planted themselves on either side of the hood, ensuring interlocking fields of fire, while a third wandered over to my side of the car.
Ducking his head down to my window, the man spoke a single sentence in heavily accented English.
“Rangers lead the way.”
“All the way,” I said.
At my reply, a grin replaced the man’s somber expression. “Welcome to COP Johnson, Mr. Matt. We’ve been expecting you.”
If only I could say the same.
TWENTY-SIX
The four guards, now more smiles than suspicious glares, directed our car into the compound after raising the barricade to the squeal of rusted metal on metal.
At first glance, COP Johnson’s security was not impressive. The steel barricade and small guard force might have kept children and the occasional stray dog from entering the compound, but not much else. Any serious threat, be it a dismounted force or a Vehicle-Borne IED, or VBIED, would make short work of both the barricade and whatever it protected.
My assessment stood for exactly ten seconds. That was how long it took for Zain to edge our vehicle around a makeshift guard shack fashioned out of sandbags and concrete.
On the other side of the shack, we faced a narrow alleyway constructed of cinder blocks, at the end of which sat a sliding blast door. Twin turrets housing crew-served weapons sat above the door. The turret on the left had dual .50-caliber machine guns, while the one on the right sported an MK-19 automatic grenade launcher. Instead of crew members, an optics cluster featuring day TV and thermal cameras topped each weapon. As our car entered the alleyway, the turrets swiveled in our direction, tracking us until we reached the blast door, which silently slid open on well-greased treads.
Remote-weapons stations oriented on a perfectly constructed kill zone with a state-of-the-art blast shield. These folks had taken the idea of hiding in plain sight to the next level.
A squad of hard-looking men met us on the far side of the blast shield and directed Zain toward a series of interconnected industrial buildings. Though the men’s unkempt hair, shaggy beards, and civilian clothes were meant to suggest otherwise, they were not natives. Neither were the HK416 rifles strapped to their chests. Unless I missed my guess, our parking attendants were Ray’s fellow Rangers.
Zain followed their hand and arm signals and parked our battered sedan next to several vehicles in similar condition. Except that, judging by the way the Land Cruiser next to me rode low on its wheels, these vehicles had undergone some serious retrofitting.
“Do you think I could buy one of those?” Zain said, staring at the up-armored Land Cruiser.
“This is Syria, my friend,” I said. “Anything is possible.”
“Mr. Drake?”
One of the parking attendants had followed us over and was now outside
my window.
“That’s me.”
“Great. We’ve been expecting you.”
“That’s what your indigenous guards said when we pulled up. But they forgot to introduce themselves.”
“Yes, sir. If you’ll follow me.”
I might not be the most astute of observers, but I could recognize a brush-off when I saw one. Besides, it wasn’t like I had anywhere to be. I climbed out of the car and motioned for Zain to join me.
“Sorry, sir,” my escort said, “but your driver needs to stay with the vehicle.”
“This isn’t my driver,” I said as Zain bristled. “His name is Zain, and he runs one of the largest intelligence networks in Syria. More important, he’s my friend. Anywhere I go, he goes.”
Arab pride is a notorious beast. The ancient Greeks might have started a nation-ending war because of Helen of Troy’s beauty, but that battle would have been a mere footnote in this part of the world. Here, tribal blood feuds sparked by long-forgotten slights could span generations. The last thing I wanted to do was to inadvertently alienate Zain and his valuable network.
Besides, I’d already been hosed once by my own government. If nothing else, when the chips were down, I knew that Zain would keep people honest. At the same time, I didn’t want to piss off our new hosts, whoever they might be. “Go ahead and call it in, Ranger,” I said. “We’ll wait.”
Our escort hesitated and then gave a quick nod. Pulling a radio from his pocket, he stepped a few feet away for a brief conversation. After a series of hushed words, the Ranger motioned us forward. “This way, gentlemen.”
Our guide walked at a brisk pace and didn’t seem interested in conversation. We didn’t exactly get a tour, but Zain and I did get to see some pretty interesting sights. In addition to the small fleet of vehicles, we walked past no fewer than three Russian cargo helicopters, a Hind gunship, and a small transport plane used for short-field takeoffs and landings. Each of these airships bore Syrian or Russian markings and seemed remarkably well maintained for its age.
Things were becoming more curious by the second.
After winding past an open bay filled with cots, chairs, and portable gym equipment, our silent guide led us to a door marked TOC in large block letters. He rapped on the door twice, and it was opened from the inside.
“That’s it for me, gentlemen,” our escort said, motioning us into the building. “Enjoy your stay.”
I nodded my thanks and crossed the threshold from one world to another.
While everything thus far had fit the motif of an abandoned factory, this room was something else. Laptop workstations and radios were everywhere. A series of old-fashioned laminated maps covered two of the walls with enemy positions outlined in red grease pencil. The final two walls held big-screen TVs—one tuned to Fox News while the other showed aerial footage from a loitering UAV.
Home sweet home.
“You Drake?”
The question came from a man standing in the center of the room, his hands on his hips like he was a captain manning a warship’s bridge.
“Matt Drake, sir,” I said, offering him a handshake. “This is Zain.”
“Great to meet you both,” the man said, pumping my hand with a viselike grip. “My name is Colonel Nolan Fitzpatrick, and I’m the commander of this task force. We’re the theater quick reaction force, and right now, I’m feeling pretty underused. Sergeant Ray Unruh gave us a call and said you had a lead on the CIA’s captured operator. That true?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, my lips edging into a smile.
“Hot damn. That’s the best news I’ve had in three days. We didn’t fly all the way from Fort Bragg to sit on our asses while those CIA prima donnas sort themselves out. Son, if you’ve got the intel, I’ve got the brawn. Let’s get to work.”
“Yes, sir,” I said again, this time feeling the smile all the way to my toes. After all the false starts, things were starting to move forward, and not a moment too soon. The DIA analysts thought that the jihadis intended to execute Shaw before the election. If they were right, the clock was not our friend.
* * *
—
So, that’s where we stand,” I said, finishing my summary.
To provide Colonel Fitzpatrick with the full picture, I’d given him a total accounting of everything that had happened, starting with my aborted shoeshine in the Austin airport what seemed like ages ago. Though my retelling had burned through twenty minutes, the time had not been wasted.
Midway through my narrative, Colonel Fitzpartrick—or Fitz, as he insisted I call him—had beckoned his intelligence and operations officers, who in turn had begun issuing quiet instructions to their subordinates as we talked. Now the largest plasma TV showed satellite imagery of the park that Einstein had designated as our meet site. The second monitor showcased a topographical map of the same coordinates with known and suspected enemy locations highlighted.
The two Majors, who served as Fitz’s planners, had already begun locating suitable helicopter landing zones close to the park. Now they were plotting aerial ingress and egress routes on their laptops. At the same time, Fitz’s battle captain had issued a quickly prepared WARNO, or Warning Order, to the troop of assaulters currently on duty and had sent a runner to wake their commander.
The contrast between what was happening here and what was happening at Charles’s command post couldn’t have been clearer. I didn’t know Sergeant Ray Unruh from anyone, but once this operation was over, I was going to rectify that shortcoming with a six-pack or two.
“What about the Syrian who tried to draw down on you?” Fitz said, leaning forward in his chair. “The one with the scar?”
I shrugged as I took a swallow of coffee from the cup that had magically appeared while I’d been talking. “The CIA Chief of Base intervened before I could get his biometrics, and my contact in the States hasn’t gotten back to me. I don’t know who the hell he is.”
“I do.”
Zain made the statement with such casual indifference that I almost choked on my second gulp of coffee. A part of me wanted to rip my asset’s head off for not volunteering this information sooner, but I bit my tongue instead. In the mad scramble to leave the safe house, Zain and I hadn’t had a chance to discuss the Syrian. In fact, this was probably the first time my asset had even heard my story in its entirety. So rather than vent my frustration, I took a breath and asked the obvious question.
“Who is he?”
“His name is Sayid. He’s been on the American payroll for the last two years.”
“Doing what?” Fitz said.
“The CIA was prepping his fighters for a covert mission. Sayid’s men were given all sorts of specialized American equipment, including intelligence products.”
“What kind of mission?”
Zain shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“Son of a bitch,” I said as several pieces of information suddenly connected.
“What gives?” Fitz said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“When I walked into the TOC and saw Sayid standing with Charles, I could have sworn he recognized me.”
“How?”
“That’s just it—I’m not sure. But it doesn’t bode well that Sayid’s been on Charles’s payroll the entire time. If he recognized a covert DIA case officer, what else does he know?”
“You think Charles is compromised?” Fitz said.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. What I do know is that Sayid led the men who ambushed me. If anything, this places an even greater urgency on my meet with Einstein. The entire CIA rescue begins and ends with that traitorous fuck. Somehow, I don’t think he has Shaw’s best interests at heart.”
Fitz nodded. “Ray’s been on loan to the Agency folks since Charles and his paramilitary guys arrived back in-country. When Ray called to let me know you were coming, he was short
on details but seemed less than thrilled at the pace at which the rescue operation was progressing.”
“Fitz,” I said, “don’t take this the wrong way, but why aren’t you colocated with the Agency folks?”
“Funny you should ask. Ceding operational control of the rescue to the CIA didn’t sit well with my bosses at JSOC headquarters. Officially, we’re here to augment the security for the aviators tasked with flying the CIA spooks in and out of country.”
“And unofficially?” I said.
“Unofficially, we’re standing by in case the CIA fucks this up. Like I said, if you’ve got the intel, I’ve got the brawn. But we’ve only got one shot. Once we cross into Assad’s battle space, all hell is going to break loose. So my question to you is simple—does your asset have the intel?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” I said with a smile.
TWENTY-SEVEN
An hour later, I was alone in a closet-sized mission planning room, prebreathing oxygen from an oxygen console. An Air Force physiological tech, or fizz, sat in the metal chair across from me, monitoring my vitals. Right now the tech’s job was fairly simple, but in another thirty minutes, his presence might make the difference between life and death.
The metal folding table in front of me was covered with maps, but at this point, they were more decorative than necessary. I’d verified the winds aloft, both current and predicted, every thousand feet from the surface up to twenty-five thousand. I’d planned my route, double-checked it, and then borrowed one of Fitz’s jumpmasters for a second look. Everything checked out. I had the necessary landmarks, headings, and altitudes memorized and the azimuths and GPS coordinates programmed into my jump board. I’d helped one of the Unit riggers pack my chute, stacking the canvas cells on top of one another, ensuring there was no fold or roll in the canopy’s nose or tail. In other words, the chute was rigged for a quick opening, which I would need.