by Bentley, Don
Once more, my eyes returned to the battered Kia. With the Russians still flying close air-support missions in support of Assad’s ongoing offensive and rocketing anything that moved, driving to the meet site would be risky. Then again, so was jumping out of a perfectly good aircraft loitering five miles above the earth. At this point, the mission’s importance outweighed any potential risks, and my mission was to get to Einstein before the clock ran out on Shaw.
I hobbled over and opened the driver’s door. The interior lights responded with a cheerful glow, and I felt a renewed sense of hope. Functioning interior lights meant the battery was still charged. Step one to starting the car was complete. Climbing inside, I closed the door and started step two—looking for the keys. They weren’t in the ignition or under the dashboard.
My pulse accelerated.
A car with no keys was about as useful as a car with a dead battery. Suddenly, the dusty barn, with its hidey-holes and piles of assorted tools, didn’t look so quaint as I imagined all the possible places a suspicious farmer could secrete away a set of keys. I felt along the steering column, but stopped before doing anything more. Like most special operators, I’d attended a crash course on how to escape from restraints and hot-wire cars. Unfortunately, rewiring a car’s ignition took special tools and time, and I possessed neither.
Continuing the search, I ran my fingers along crevices and compartments, finding nothing until my fingertips discovered the latch for the glove box. I popped it open, and the plastic bin fell open with a promising jingle. Reaching inside, I probed around until I felt cold metal.
Keys.
I selected the correct one, inserted it into the ignition, and twisted.
The engine coughed to life, and my mission was once again viable.
I put the car in gear, gunned the engine, and made it exactly two feet before the unmistakable sound of metal on metal forced me to stop. Already knowing what I’d find, I put the vehicle in park, climbed out, and began to search for the culprit. I hopped along on my right foot while holding on to the car for balance. I didn’t have to hop far. Both front tires were completely flat, the rubber shredded by rocket shrapnel.
I might have found a car, but I was still going nowhere fast.
THIRTY-THREE
The twin flat tires were a punch to the gut. I’d been in this business long enough to expect that an operation would not go entirely as planned. Even so, this mission was starting to border on the ridiculous. I’d jumped early, landed in the wrong LZ, broken my ankle, and survived a strafing run by a marauding Russian gunship.
Other than that, things were going swimmingly.
My phone vibrated. I dug it from my pocket and saw a single word dominating the otherwise black screen.
Status?
The message was from Colonel Fitz, and in that instant, I realized my oversight. According to our communication plan, I was supposed to text him a brevity code word, letting him know my situation once I landed. Buckeye if the insertion had gone as planned and my meet with Einstein was still a go. Wolverine if I needed extraction.
I thumbed the message, preparing to reply, but felt confounded by the flashing cursor. Sometimes, even the most highly planned operation went down the shitter. The trick lay in recognizing when an op was heading south in time to keep from getting sucked down the commode with it. With a broken ankle, I physically would not be able to make the meet with Einstein on the agreed-upon timeline, or, more realistically, at all. With a car, the rescue operation had still been feasible. Not easy, or even particularly tactically sound, but doable, especially with a captured man’s life hanging in the balance. But without a way to get to Einstein, I was dead in the water.
Frustrated, I shoved the phone into a pocket and leaned against the Kia, surveying the inside of the barn.
The makeshift garage/storage facility held a great many things, but two spare tires weren’t among them. Letting my eyes wander across the dimly lit interior, I saw what I’d expected to see—unused lumber, piles of rags, cans of gasoline, and assorted tools. One of the gasoline cans was a different size and shape than the other three it was clustered alongside. That gave me the beginnings of an idea. I crutched over to the unique can, unscrewed the cap, and took a cautious sniff.
Diesel.
Just like my father, this farmer had learned the value of distinguishing diesel fuel from regular gas by using a distinct container. This precaution prevented careless farm boys, like me, from accidentally adding diesel fuel to a conventional engine. However, the battered Kia ran on normal gas. This meant . . .
I began a more thorough search of the barn, my heart pounding. After making a circuit of the rubble-strewn interior, I found what I was looking for. In a back corner, partially obscured by a pile of scrap wood and a portion of the roof that had collapsed during the rocket attack, was an object covered with a large canvas tarp. Holding my breath, I peeled back the tarp to reveal a tractor’s skinny front tire.
Hot damn.
Not wanting to declare victory just yet, I slowly worked the filthy tarp from the tractor’s frame, sneezing at the combination of dust and grit. After several minutes, I was looking at the familiar chassis of an older-model Ford tractor. Though not a farm equipment expert, I’d spent much of my childhood atop one tractor or another. Our family ranch was barely profitable, so Dad had never been able to afford the newer John Deere models with their climate-controlled cabins. Instead, we’d subsisted on a fleet of vehicles that had rolled off the assembly line long before my father had been a sparkle in my grandfather’s eyes.
At the time, I’d hated the underpowered equipment. Now the rusted metal frame and shoulder-high knobby tires felt like home. Somehow, in this desolate land that now more resembled the setting of Stephen King’s The Stand than a country once considered the cradle of civilization, I’d found a touchstone. Something that grounded me and perhaps reminded me of the man I’d been before my world had come undone. As oracles went, an ancient tractor was hardly as inspiring as Paul’s road-to-Damascus conversion or even Moses’s burning bush.
Still, it was undeniably a sign in the desert, and right now, I’d take what I could get.
Setting my good foot on the pitted metal running board, I grabbed the thin steering wheel and pulled myself onto the worn seat. The tractor’s simple cockpit consisted of a gearshift, a throttle, and two shattered gauges.
In other words, it was paradise.
Leaning forward onto the tractor’s narrow hood, I unscrewed the gas cap and peered inside. Three-quarters full—more than enough for what I had in mind. Easing back onto the seat, I reached under the gauges, found the dangling ignition key, and turned on the electrical system. A single red light bloomed and then was extinguished as the engine’s glow plugs finished preheating the viscous diesel fuel. I stomped on the clutch with my good foot, eased the gearshift into neutral, and pressed the stubby starter button. The engine turned over, sounding like a cranky old man unexpectedly woken from a deep slumber. I worked the throttle, coaxing the engine with more fuel until it caught. The tractor shuddered, belching a cloud of noxious diesel fumes.
I was in business.
Putting the tractor in gear, I eased off the clutch and was jolted in my seat as the massive rear tires engaged, pushing free of the rubble. It took both hands to turn the stubborn steering wheel, as I aimed for the gaping hole that the detonating rockets had opened.
Then I was rolling across the field.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and consulted the set of stored maps, matching the terrain around me with the satellite imagery. Once I was sure of my orientation, I angled the tractor’s nose toward a road on the other side of the field and cranked the throttle upward.
The engine responded, and the tractor shot forward.
Not exactly how I’d planned on traveling to the meet site, but it would do. Driving with one hand so that I could text with the other, I fo
und Colonel Fitz’s message and thumbed a one-word reply.
Buckeye.
THIRTY-FOUR
Spy-craft lore is littered with impossible and oftentimes unbelievable tales. Everything from ancient Greek warriors hiding in a wooden horse to a stunningly beautiful Russian agent plying her craft in New York City under the FBI’s oblivious nose. Many of these stories have even found their way onto the big screen. I had to believe that if someday someone made a movie about this goat rope of an operation, the part about my riding to meet an asset atop a smoke-belching 1940s-era tractor wouldn’t make the script.
Even Mark Wahlberg would have a hard time making this rattletrap look cool.
But cool or not, riding the tractor really wasn’t such a bad plan. In some ways, it was a variant of hiding in plain sight. After all, what sane spy would go to the trouble of a covert insertion only to trumpet his existence by rolling into Manbij on a roaring piece of farm equipment? The idea was so ludicrous, it might just work. At least, that’s what I hoped, because, with less than twenty minutes until my meet with Einstein, I had no plan B.
My phone vibrated. Fitz.
Roger. Standing by.
Three little words that represented the collective might of a task force of assaulters waiting to go into harm’s way. I thought through the plan once more as I guided the tractor by moonlight. My night-vision goggles, like my parachute and associated equipment, had been packed in an aviator kit bag and secured in the Kia’s locked trunk. Hiding in plain sight was all well and good, but I still needed to be able to pass for someone who belonged here. This meant I needed to sanitize myself of anything that would mark me as out of place.
The pistol resting in my lap, and the corresponding suppressor and two spare magazines in my right pocket, was my sole breach of this policy. The stubby pistol had fifteen rounds in its magazine and one in the chamber. Not exactly a full combat load, but if I found myself in a situation where fifteen bullets weren’t enough, another magazine probably wouldn’t make much of a difference.
In theory, I shouldn’t have to fire the pistol at all. The concept of the operation I’d hammered out with Colonel Fitz was relatively simple. I’d establish contact with Einstein and verify his identity. He’d take me to where Shaw was being held captive, and Colonel Fitz would track my every move via my phone’s GPS and a loitering UAV. Once I was satisfied that Einstein was on the level, I’d send the final brevity code. Then the Unit assaulters, even now kitted up and sitting in their helicopters, would be on the way.
At ten minutes out, Fitz would break radio silence by calling my phone, and I would talk him onto target while providing real-time intelligence updates. He and his lethal band of brothers would hit the target, rescue Shaw, and destroy the chem weapons facility. Einstein and I would climb onto one of the helicopters, and we’d all fly off into the sunset.
Simple.
Except that, so far, this operation had been anything but. As if to confirm this thought, I wound around a bend in the road to find a collection of vehicles occupying the crossroads in front of me.
By the moon’s weak light, it was difficult to see exactly how many men I was facing, but the spidery outlines of the crew-served weapons bolted to the beds of the two pickup trucks were plain as day. The vehicles were backed across the length of the road so that their rear bumpers were almost touching, allowing the DShK machine guns resting on improvised pintle mounts the freedom to traverse across all avenues of approach.
Wonderful.
Easing back on the throttle, I decreased speed while still maintaining my course toward the roadblock.
At this point, I had no other option. Though I could see the outline of the crumpled buildings that passed for Manbij’s outskirts somewhere ahead, I was still a good two kilometers from the city proper. This meant that the terrain on either side of the road was primarily abandoned farmland, giving me nowhere to hide.
The driver’s-side door of the truck on the right opened. A fighter climbed out and began walking toward me. After he covered ten or so steps, his red lens flashlight flared to life. The fighter played the beam over me first and then the tractor. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, the fighter directed me off the road with short, abrupt motions. His flashlight’s red lens moved up and down like an iridescent bobber against a sea of black.
I followed his instructions, pulling to the side of the road and bringing the tractor to a slow stop even as my mind raced. Much of what would happen over the next few minutes depended on the identity of the men behind those vehicle-killing machine guns. Or, more specifically, the identity of the organization to which they’d pledged their allegiance.
I was well within Assad-controlled territory, but that didn’t count for much. Battle lines here were about as permanent as footprints in the perpetual desert sand. With so many factions enclosed in such a small piece of real estate, the possibilities were almost endless.
Even so, mounting a roadblock along such a heavily traveled thoroughfare ruled out the possibility of bandits. If I had to guess, the people in front of me hailed from one of the big three: Assad’s army, the remnants of ISIS, or the conglomerate of tribal leaders and freedom fighters who called themselves the Free Syrian Army. Now I just had to figure out who was who before the fighters manning the checkpoint decided that I played for an opposing team.
This mission was nothing if not interesting.
The fighter walked toward me with quick, measured strides, his AK-47 held at the ready. Stopping about five feet away, the man gestured toward the tractor and made a slashing motion across his throat.
Not a good sign. I’d hoped to use the tractor’s laboring engine as an excuse to make the ensuing conversation brief, but this was not to be.
I eased back on the throttle, bringing the engine’s rumble down to a more manageable chortle, but the distinction in noise levels was lost on my would-be interrogator. He made the slashing motion again, this time with more vigor.
I reached down, found the ignition key’s cool metal, and turned counterclockwise.
With a final cough, the engine died, leaving only a metronome-like ticking as the metal frame cooled. The sentry stepped closer. His flashlight spilled across my face and then my body. The beam paused at the pieces of scrap wood and fabric holding my shattered ankle together before coming to rest on the tractor’s battered front tire.
“Brother, are you hurt?” the sentry said.
I nodded.
“In the helicopter attack?”
I nodded again.
The sentry spat before letting loose a stream of Arabic too rapid for me to follow. I picked up enough bits and pieces to understand that he was cursing the Russians, a sentiment I could appreciate. Finally, his words sputtered to a stop. He was looking at me expectantly, and I realized I must have missed something. Leaning forward, I pointed toward my ear and shook my head.
“Do you need to go to the hospital?” the sentry asked, stepping closer and enunciating.
“Inshallah, I do,” I said, not faking the roughness of my voice. Between the dirt and dust from the collapsed barn and the airborne grit that was Syria, my throat felt like I’d been gargling with shards of glass. Hopefully, my hoarseness would obscure my accent.
The sentry nodded. “We will take you. Welcome to the Caliphate, brother.”
So the good news was that I no longer had to worry about the ancient tractor giving up the ghost and leaving me stranded with a broken ankle kilometers short of my meet site. The bad news was that my newfound chauffeurs appeared to be ISIS foot soldiers.
Right about now, going head-to-head with a Russian gunship didn’t seem quite as daunting.
THIRTY-FIVE
The kilometers rolled by much faster now that I was in the front seat of a Toyota Hilux truck instead of the tractor’s open cabin. Even so, my newfound mobility had its own set of challenges—namely, that we we
re driving in the wrong direction. Each minute took me farther from the meet site while bringing me closer to a choice I didn’t want to make—whether to kill the teenage boy seated in the driver’s seat next to me.
Once the decision had been made to take me to an ISIS-controlled hospital, the men at the checkpoint became the epitome of efficiency. At the sentry’s shouted command, several more fighters had materialized from behind the modified technical trucks containing the crew-served weapons. One of the men offered me a drink of water from his canteen while two others helped me down from the tractor.
Their onsite medic performed a quick triage of my wounds, pronounced my ankle broken, and announced his admiration for the improvised job I’d done splinting the bone. After the medic had determined that I did indeed need further medical attention, a vehicle stashed in the ditch parallel to the main road rumbled to life.
I was helped into the front seat, given a handful of painkillers, and assured that doctors would be able to set my ankle and see to the contusions and cuts I’d sustained over the past two days. My driver was given explicit instructions in what seemed, even to my ears, to be rudimentary Arabic. Then we were off, heading down the road at fifty kilometers per hour.
In that moment, perhaps more than at any other time during the months I’d lived in this country, I understood the appeal of ISIS at a visceral level. Moments before, I’d been operating at the very ragged edge of civilization. My broken ankle had been splinted with scrap wood, and my transportation had been a rickety tractor. But all that changed once I’d entered ISIS-controlled territory.
Now my injury had been attended to and my thirst quenched, and I was on the way to an actual hospital. Far from shaking me down for money or executing me outright, these men projected a sense of competence mixed with order that I was certain hadn’t been seen in this country for the better part of five years.