by Bentley, Don
Now there was nothing left to do but wait for the sun to set and hope that Syria’s fickle winds didn’t vary too much from the forecast. To say that this operation didn’t have much of a margin for error would be kind of like saying that the bottom of Niagara Falls was a little wet.
At first blush, the unexpected Assad offensive had left me with one hell of a problem. I could no longer travel by road to meet Einstein, since the Russians were strafing anything that moved. Helicopter insertion was out as well. Colonel Fitz could risk transiting through Russian-controlled airspace only once—on the way to rescue Shaw. But the rescue could happen only after I’d met with Einstein, verified his bona fides, and obtained Shaw’s location.
These constraints had left me back at the drawing board.
Okay, that wasn’t true. They had actually left me hoping that the Air Force weather forecaster, who looked all of seven days out of high school, was better at predicting the winds aloft than he was at growing a beard. I needed a way to slip past the Russian air force patrolling the Assad-controlled sector where Einstein wanted to meet.
Since the Army aviators couldn’t fly me, I’d have to fly myself.
If someone were to google the acronym HAHO, they would find dozens of cool pictures. These images would undoubtedly feature special operators wearing oxygen masks, and an assortment of impressive gear, as they glided across the sky beneath perfectly inflated parachutes. As I could attest, scores of otherwise intelligent young men had been seduced into becoming Rangers, SEALs, or Green Berets after seeing these recruiting-brochure-worthy HAHO pictures. In fact, the casual observer might come to the conclusion that the men depicted in these pictures were having the time of their lives.
And in this conclusion, the casual observer couldn’t be more wrong.
A HAHO—High Altitude, High Opening—jump was an infiltration method used to transfer special operators from friendly to contested airspace without the enemy’s knowledge. Put another way, the special operator jumped from a plane flying in friendly airspace, inflated his parachute, and glided to a landing zone in enemy territory up to twenty miles away. If everything went perfectly, the operator arrived at the landing zone undetected and no worse for wear.
But in the real world, HAHO jumps seldom went perfectly.
Conducting a HAHO was exceptionally risky. Special operators had to prebreathe oxygen before jumping in order to avoid hypoxia—a potentially fatal condition in which the jumper’s oxygen-starved brain ceased to function. Even after prebreathing, jumpers were still at risk for the various afflictions associated with altitude sickness.
Then there were the environmental conditions to consider. Air temperatures at altitude ranged from a balmy negative twelve degrees Fahrenheit at twenty thousand feet all the way to a downright frigid negative forty-seven at thirty thousand. If a jumper’s kit malfunctioned, he could literally freeze to death before arriving at the drop zone. And apart from the environmental and atmospheric concerns there was the inherent danger of dangling from a parachute, five miles above the earth, as the enemy did his best to find and kill you. A HAHO jump was a high-risk insertion used only when conventional methods weren’t available.
It was also my only hope of getting to Einstein before the jihadis sawed Shaw’s head off.
My phone buzzed. I fished the device from my pocket and stared at the screen. Another number I didn’t recognize. If this kept up, I was going to have to add myself to the do-not-call list, assuming they had one of those for spies. I took an intercom dongle from my oxygen mask, plugged it into the phone, and answered.
“Drake.”
“Matty?”
“Frodo! Where you been?”
“Shit’s gone crazy here, brother. I’ve never seen anything like it. General Hartwright called James personally. He wanted you pulled out of Syria.”
“Me specifically?”
“Yep. I was in James’s office. He took the call on speakerphone, and I heard every word.”
“And James just rolled over?”
“Come on, Matty. You know our boss. Does the Chief strike you as the roll-over type? He told the Director that if he wanted you out of Syria, he could goddamn well call you himself.”
“He did.”
“I had a feeling he might. That’s why I tried to give you the abort code before they burned our phones.”
“Say again?”
“You heard me. Right after James hung up, the burn notice came down. James held off the techs long enough for me to get the one call to you.”
“Looks like the burn notice didn’t stop you for long.”
“What can I say? I’m resourceful. Where are you now? Istanbul?”
“Not exactly. I’m still in-country. I linked up with a bunch of your old mates.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Nothing’s changed,” I said. “I’m gonna meet Einstein and see what he knows.”
“Are you kidding me? Everything has changed. You’ve been PNGed, brother. That means you have no official status. Do your new friends know that?”
“Not exactly.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I may have forgotten to mention the whole PNGed part to the Unit commander.”
Frodo sighed. “So the Unit guys are going to fly you to meet Einstein?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Matty.”
“Look, I’ve got one chance. Einstein is right smack in the middle of Assad-controlled territory. The roads are locked down due to the ongoing fighting. That means I’ve got to be damn sure that Einstein has a handle on Shaw before my new friends come busting through Assad’s airspace. I’ve got to go in solo.”
I could almost hear the wheels turning as Frodo considered what I’d said. It didn’t take him long to divine the meaning behind my words.
“Matty, this is starting to sound like a suicide mission. You have no idea whether Einstein’s on the level, and even if he is, you’re operating without sanction. The DIA is going to disavow you. You could find yourself cut off in Assad’s battle space with no way home. Don’t do this—we’ll find another way.”
“There isn’t time.”
“Bullshit. This is me you’re talking to. If you go in alone and get rolled up, what does that do for Shaw? Nothing. This isn’t just reckless—it’s stupid. You know I’m right.”
Maybe I did, but it didn’t matter. Not anymore. I’d finally come to that realization. Now it was time to help Frodo do the same.
“I see her,” I said, the words coming out as a croak. I’d wanted to say them to so many people, so many times, but I couldn’t. Not face-to-face, or maybe not while I was safe in the States while Fazil and his family were decomposing in the unforgiving Syrian sand. But this time, things were different.
Or maybe I was different.
“See who?” Frodo said.
“Abir. She waves at me from over her mama’s shoulder. You remember how she’d pop up and flash us that grin? I see her doing that all the fucking time.”
“Like a flashback or something?”
“No. Like she’s in the room with me. She smiles and plays peekaboo. Real enough that I could reach out and pinch her chubby cheeks. But I can’t. She’s dead. They’re all dead. I promised him, Frodo. I looked the man in the eye and promised him.”
“Matt, you can’t—”
“Listen to me, brother. I’m fucked up. I know it. Believe me, I do. And I also know that I’m not getting better. In fact, I think I’m getting worse. I get the shakes, I can’t sleep, and when I look at Laila, I see Abir’s mother. I’ve tried to make things right. I can’t. No matter what I do, Abir will still be dead, and you’ll still be a cripple. I understand that now, but I also understand that Shaw’s life is on the line. Maybe the rescue will turn out right. Maybe it won’t. Either way, I have to try. You understand, rig
ht?”
It surprised me how much emotion was wrapped up in my final question. How much I needed my best friend to say he understood, because if he didn’t, then maybe I really had lost my mind. So I stood in that tiny room, waiting for Frodo to grant me absolution.
But absolution wasn’t what he offered.
“I know you,” Frodo said. “We’ve been through more shit than any two people have a right to ever see, and we aren’t even married. I know you, and I know you’re gonna do what you’re gonna do regardless of what I say. So rather than try to talk some sense into your ignorant redneck ass, let me say this instead—how can I help?”
Instead of absolution, Frodo offered something better. Friendship.
“Here’s the thing, brother,” I said, trying to cover the hoarseness in my voice. “This is shaping up to be a shit storm of biblical proportions. I need to focus on Einstein and getting to Shaw before it’s too late. I don’t have the bandwidth to sort out Charles, Scarface, and the DIA Director making me persona non grata. Straight up—I need you watching my back, just like always. Can you dig it?”
“Hell yeah, I can dig it. I got you, Matty. Need anything now?”
“I do,” I said, remembering my new friend from East Tennessee. “There’s a DIA chemist back at the CIA safe house. Her name is Virginia Kenyon. Get in touch with her, bring her up to speed, and pass me her contact info. When Einstein starts talking about the chem weapon, I’ll need Virginia to validate what he says.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
“One more thing. I’m sorry.”
“I’ve told you a thousand times, you thickheaded hick: What happened in Syria wasn’t your fault.”
“Maybe that’s true,” I said, “and maybe it’s not. Either way, I’m not apologizing for Syria. I’m apologizing for not bringing you with me. You should be here. Now. This doesn’t feel right without you riding shotgun. For that, I’m sorry.”
A long pause and then, “Go take care of business. We’ll continue the Oprah shit over some beers once you’re back.”
“Thanks, brother.”
“Good hunting, Matty.”
The line went dead. I’d made peace with Frodo, but he was right. This was starting to look awfully like a suicide mission.
But maybe that was the point.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Spread your feet.”
I widened my stance, moving through the familiar routine I’d endured a thousand times. But this wasn’t like any of the countless prejump inspections I’d undergone before other operations.
Not even close.
The rucksack full of my equipment—radio, tactical harness, body armor, and rifle—was conspicuously absent. I was meeting Einstein as a spy, not as a soldier. That necessitated looking like a local, not a Ranger, so I’d traded my radio for a combination cell-satellite phone and a backup battery. A Glock pistol was secreted in a holster tucked deep in my waistband, and a suppressor, threaded for the Glock’s stubby barrel, was hidden in a pocket, along with two spare magazines. Underneath my cold-weather gear and disposable flight suit, I was dressed in clothes that would blend with the populace’s, including my long-sleeved shirt with its ever-present handcuff key sewn into the cuff.
I felt more than a little bit exposed, but that was the price of doing business.
“Turn to your right.”
I complied, the words familiar even if the voice was not. Normally, it was Frodo’s unmistakable baritone barking the jumpmaster’s prejump inspection commands.
Not today.
Today, one of Colonel Fitz’s Unit jumpmasters was pinch-hitting. While I was certain that he was more than qualified, he wasn’t accompanying me on the jump. For this insertion, I was a lone ranger in every sense of the term.
“Turn to your left.”
The jumpmaster’s hands were sure and quick. His precise motions were the epitome of efficiency as he checked and double-checked my rig.
“Arms over your head.”
I raised both hands in anticipation of the final checks, drawing a deep breath from my oxygen mask as I tried to settle my nerves and ignore the woman and toddler standing just to my left. They’d materialized while the jumpmaster was doing his checks, but for once, I refused to acknowledge their presence. Instead, I concentrated on what was real. I concentrated on Syria.
The sun was just now drifting below the horizon, and an orange half-light softened the jagged corners and hard edges of the slowly decaying metal buildings. A nearby hill boasted an ancient Roman fortification, the blocks of hand-cut cream stone still forming recognizable structures even after two thousand years of neglect. Vegetation sprouted from the fortress’s nooks and crannies, looking impossibly green against the burgundy sky.
Viewed through the twilight’s magical filter, the scene could have been torn from Ireland’s emerald hills.
But this wasn’t Ireland or Scotland, or anywhere else a person would choose to visit. This was Syria, and as Abir and her mother could attest, Syria was synonymous with just one thing—death. The deaths of my asset and his family. The thousands of innocents killed in the never-ending civil war. The dead men Frodo and I left in our wake after the ambush we nearly hadn’t survived. So it was with more than a little surprise that now, as I prepared to finally confront Syria at her most ruthless, I thought about life.
At one time, Syria had been known as a place of culture and learning. According to the Bible, the apostle Paul encountered the risen Christ on the road to Damascus. After his conversion, Paul’s writings became the bulk of the New Testament and inarguably altered history. Could it be that this war-torn husk of a country had within it the potential to experience its own road-to-Damascus conversion? A conversion away from the tyranny and death that currently held sway?
I didn’t pretend to know the answer to this or the multitude of similar questions swimming through the debris inhabiting my mind. What I did know was that until someone confronted the evil men holding this country hostage, the sunset drenching the surrounding buildings in burnished gold would be nothing more than a sunset. I couldn’t save Syria, but God willing, I might just be able to save Shaw.
That would have to be enough.
“All good,” the jumpmaster said, completing his final check. “You’re cleared to fly.”
I nodded my thanks and ran gloved fingers down the series of innocuous-seeming buckles and straps, paying special attention to the red cutaway pillow next to my sternum. If something unexpected happened, this four-inch-by-three-inch handle would allow me to cut away the main chute and trigger my reserve. If that happened, my insertion would be a bust, but a busted insertion beat becoming a lawn dart any day.
After verifying that my rig was in order, I knew that I’d delayed the inevitable long enough. Turning to confront the two phantasms, I saw only empty space. Abir and her mother had vanished. I wasn’t sure what their silent presence implied about my upcoming mission, but it couldn’t be good.
“Ready?”
This time Colonel Fitz asked the question. Though my prejump checkout had started with just me and the Unit jumpmaster, we’d slowly gained an audience. Now the large bay that served as a hangar was filled with men who had begun to appear in twos and threes as the jumpmaster had gone about his work. The commandos had stood silently, the normal banter and ever-present gallows humor consciously absent. Instead, they’d watched and waited as the jumpmaster’s commands interrupted the gathering stillness. Fitz had joined the throng moments ago, but he, too, had maintained the silent vigil right up until the point when the jumpmaster had issued his final command.
Now the time for silence was over.
“Ready,” I said, surprised to find that this was true. Even with the ambiguity surrounding what might happen next, I was ready. Ready to permanently put everything behind me, one way or another.
“Good,” Fitz said, r
esting a callused hand on my shoulder. “I’m not much for Braveheart speeches. Frankly, this organization doesn’t expect them. We pride ourselves on being the epitome of the quiet professional. We go about our nation’s business without fanfare or recognition. Our success is measured in hostages brought home and enemies removed from the battlefield. Even so, there is one ethos that we hold to above all else—‘I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy.’”
Fitz paused as if to allow his words the weight they deserved. “That phrase is part of the Ranger Creed, but it also embodies this organization. Almost three decades ago, two of our brothers laid down their lives to protect their fallen comrades in the streets of Mogadishu. In response, we secured the crash sites and didn’t leave until we’d recovered every forensic piece of our fallen. This profession offers very little in terms of guarantees—we run toward the sound of gunfire knowing that each and every mission might be our last. But this we hold to as our holy writ—if you go into harm’s way, you will not be forgotten. We will expend every ounce of blood and sweat, down to the last full measure, to bring you home.”
Fitz paused once more and the silence was now absolute. “Our entire task force is gathered for one reason—to bear witness as I make this same promise to you. You are going into harm’s way because a brother-in-arms has fallen into the hands of the enemy. There is no higher calling. I can’t promise you that you will survive this calling, but I will swear this—you will not be alone. When you call, we will answer. That is our vow. Questions?”
I shook my head, not trusting myself to talk past the lump in my throat.
“Good,” Fitz said, handing me an electronic device about the size of a dime. “You know what to do with this?”
I nodded, squirreling the miniature piece of equipment into one of my flight suit’s zippered pockets.