by David Austin
“I need you up here, boss.”
Joe leaned away from the screen, out of view of the camera, and said, “Kinda busy right now. Can it wait?”
“Nope. There’s something going on at the hangar.”
Joe vaulted off the couch and took the stairs two at a time. Mike came off the spotter’s scope and Joe slid into his position. Two SUVs, BMWs from the looks of the body style, were parked in front of the hangar with engines running. Once again, the doors slid open, but only a few feet this time, allowing just enough space for a couple of men to pass through. He saw Tariq, with his hands and feet shackled and a Russian soldier on each arm doing the prisoner shuffle toward the vehicles. When the trio reached the SUVs, the soldiers lifted Tariq off the ground and threw him into the back seat of the lead Beemer. One of them followed him into the back seat, while the other walked around the SUV and got in on the opposite side.
Without taking his eye off the scope, Joe switched channels on his radio and hailed the pilot of a U.S. Air Force AWACS patrolling the international air space above the Mediterranean Sea. Its crew was monitoring the comings and goings of Syrian and Russian military aircraft but were also on station to track the stolen Reaper the next time it took to the sky. “Major, am I correct in assuming you can track targets on the ground as well as in the air?”
The pilot’s voice in his ear almost sounded offended. “If your target moves across this planet in the air, on the water, or on the ground, we can damn well track it.”
Joe chuckled into his mic. “No offense, sir. Just checking.” He then went on to describe what he needed.
After a short pause to confer with the radar operators in the rear of the plane, the pilot came back on the air. “The SUVs are locked into the system. We’ll keep an eye on them for you.”
Joe thanked the pilot and got up, allowing Mike to get back on the scope and resume his watch. He gave the big man an appreciative squeeze on the shoulder before heading back downstairs to brief the group on what had just occurred. Things were starting to get interesting.
CHAPTER 36
“Is everything okay?” Director Sloan asked, as Joe’s image reappeared on the screen.
“Sorry about that, sir,” Joe said, before relaying the events of the last few minutes. “We’ll see where the SUVs end up, but my hope is that they’re taking Tariq someplace a little more secluded to continue the interrogation.”
With concern for his asset’s safety at the forefront of his priority list, Scott interjected, “Or they could be taking him to some out-of-the-way spot to put a bullet in his head and dump his body in a shallow grave. We need to hit those SUVs before they get to their destination.”
“We’re too far away at this point and have no idea where they’re heading,” Joe countered. “Racing headlong toward a heavily fortified military base or into a city we’re not familiar with to conduct a spur of the moment hit on an Alpha team is a recipe for disaster.” Joe paused a second, then softened his tone. “Look, I’m as concerned about Tariq’s well-being as you are. But let’s take a breath, find out where they’re going, then come up with a plan to assault the place and extract him.”
Director Sloan thought it over for a minute. “I agree with Joe. From Mr. Kabbani’s appearance in the video, it doesn’t seem as if the serious portion of the interrogation has begun. He’s a professional intelligence officer and wouldn’t have divulged any meaningful information after being slapped around a little. I think the real pressure has yet to be applied.”
The voice of the AWACS pilot crackled in Joe’s ear causing a slight grin as a plan began to form in his head.
Carl Douglas, the chief of SAD noticed the change in his demeanor. “What is it, Joe?”
“Do we have any rebel forces in the area?”
“Why? What have you got in mind?”
“The pilot of the AWACS just checked in. The SUVs stopped at a small compound near the southern end of the runway, about a mile and a half from the hangar. I need someone to create a distraction at the airport while we assault the compound and thought a group of highly-motivated rebels just might fit the bill.”
Douglas withdrew his cellphone and fired off a text requesting the status of rebel positions in and around the airbase. His phone vibrated with the response thirty seconds later. “There’s a small cell operating in the outskirts of Latakia. We can have them tasked to you within the hour. What else do you need?”
Joe thought for a second, then added, “We’re going to have our hands full with the assault and I’d feel a whole lot better if there was someone I know and trust coordinating the rebel cell. Can I borrow Ron Foster and his Ground Branchers?”
Douglas looked to his boss, Katherine Clark, then to Director Sloan for their approval. Both nodded in agreement, so he said, “Done.”
Director Sloan said, “I’ll inform the president of our plans and see how he wants to handle the drone issue.” He then went around the room asking if anyone had anything else to add.
“There’s one last thing, sir,” Joe said before the meeting wrapped. “When we assault the building to free Tariq, the soldiers holding him aren’t going to be happy that we crashed their party. They’re going to fight back, and when they do, we’re going to kill them. I want everyone on this call to be aware of that fact before we commit to this raid. I don’t want to come back and be grilled about why the other side took casualties or that I didn’t understand the greater diplomatic sensitivities at play.”
Sloan acknowledged Joe’s concerns and did his best to put them to rest. “As you may know, President Andrews was a Marine infantry officer and combat veteran prior to entering politics. After the losses we sustained during the attack on the base in Jordan, I doubt he is going to lose any sleep over the deaths of a few Russian soldiers. Do what must be done to rescue Mr. Kabbani.”
*
Having lost all track of time, Tariq had no idea how long he had been in the dimly lit house. When they had arrived at the triangular compound at the extreme southeastern end of the runway, he had been shoved into a back bedroom that would serve as his interrogation chamber. From the looks of the room, it was obvious that he wasn’t the first guest at the inn. Dried blood, appearing black in the poor light, stained the thick wooden table and the smell of urine permeated the room. It was not a scene he was unfamiliar with, but he was usually the one conducting the interrogation, not the subject of one. With his hands chained to the center of the table and duct tape wrapped just above his ankles securing his legs to those of the chair, he knew he was not going anywhere without some help. If nothing else, he had to commend the Russians for their thoroughness.
The soldiers took turns working Tariq over, rotating in shifts so they didn’t tire out or risk breaking a knuckle from repeated punches to his head. And there had been plenty. His face was so swollen, that he resembled a hideous black and blue jack-o-lantern. The left eye had closed the rest of the way. Its lid puffed out from the socket with a single line of eyelashes creasing the center. And it was official. His nose was broken. A constant stream of blood and mucus poured from his nostrils into his mouth causing him to gasp for air. Nauseated by the fluids running down his throat, Tariq had turned his head to the side and vomited onto the floor. But the relief to his stomach was only temporary as the bloody fluids continued to flow.
Sharp pain shot through his jaw, but he didn’t think it was broken. Two teeth had been knocked out during the continuous beating, but as he felt around the inside of his mouth with his tongue, Tariq noticed a third gap. He was momentarily confused because he only remembered spitting out the two molars. Had he swallowed the other one? Curious, he glanced over at the puddle of what had been the contents of his stomach but didn’t see the missing third tooth. Oh, well, he thought. You’ve got more important things to worry about right now.
One of the soldiers was winding up to throw another haymaker at Tariq’s head when the door opened and Kalugin entered the room. He dismissed the two men, sending them t
o the kitchen to put some ice on their fists and get some coffee and a shot or two of vodka. Kalugin grabbed a chair from the corner and dragged it over to the table. He took a seat and reached into his left cargo pocket. Withdrawing a bottle of water, he unscrewed the cap, then slid it across the table.
Tariq accepted the offering, then turned his head to the right and spit out a large glob of blood. He took a sip, swirling the water around in his mouth, and spit it out, adding to the vile puddle on the floor. The water burned as it entered his split lip and the holes in his gums where his teeth had been, but he took another long swig from the bottle, relishing every drop of the cool liquid. Knowing he had to stay hydrated, he was determined to keep as much of the water down as his stomach would allow. He took another draw, then set the half-empty bottle on the table and turned his attention to the man sitting across from him. “Thank you for the water.”
Kalugin remained polite, even though his patience was wearing thin. “It’s nothing,” he said, looking around the room, not bothered in the least by the disturbing sights and smells. “But there’s so much more I could do to end all this unpleasantness if you would only answer my questions.”
“I was under the impression I had been doing that ever since you detained me,” Tariq countered, finding it more difficult to speak as the pain and swelling in his jaw and mouth grew more intense.
Without warning, Kalugin erupted upward, the force of his action sending the chair flying back away from the table. Standing at his full height he looked down on his captive, then balled his hand into a fist and drove his knuckles onto the top of Tariq’s shackled hand. Three of the four metacarpal bones snapped as if they were toothpicks. Stunned by the suddenness of the action, the Syrian looked at his broken hand in disbelief. The pain registered in his brain a split second later and he howled in agony.
“Why were you at the airfield that night?” Kalugin demanded.
Still focused on the pain, Tariq did not answer right away, and his hesitance seemed to stoke an invisible fire inside the Russian. Furious and frustrated, Kalugin ground his knuckles into the top of Tariq’s hand, feeling the bones shift under the thin layer of skin.
Tariq screamed for him to stop, and whimpered, “I’ve told you a hundred times. I had been investigating some dissidents in the area.” He paused, trying to cradle his broken hand the best he could with it cuffed to the table. “It was late, I was tired, and I’d simply pulled over on the side of the road to make a phone call.”
“And who was on the other end of the call?” Kalugin pressed.
Reciting the cover story he had concocted to hide his call to Scott Garrett, Tariq scoffed. “No one. Just a woman I happen to visit from time to time when I’m in town.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Kalugin said, as he called one of his men into the room.
Confused, Tariq asked, “That I have a mistress?”
“No. That I don’t believe you.”
A steroid-enhanced soldier entered the room while another posted in the hallway closed the door behind him. Kalugin introduced the man. “This is Anton. I hope you don’t mind, but he’s going to join us for the next round of questioning.”
Tariq’s attention was initially drawn to the man’s nose. It had obviously been badly broken and didn’t appear as if it had been set. Anton grinned, revealing a set of shattered, jagged teeth that caused Tariq to recoil involuntarily.
Anton carried two items as he crossed the room to the table. The first was a pair of run-of-the-mill garden shears. Those, he handed to Kalugin. The other was a butane blow torch. As if the sight of Anton wasn’t enough, seeing the two items made Tariq’s blood run cold.
“You probably know this from personal experience,” Kalugin offered, holding the shears up for inspection. “But I want you to be fully aware of the consequences for not answering my questions in a truthful manner. First, I’m going to start taking your fingers. One joint at a time. Then,” gesturing to Anton, “he will use the torch to control the bleeding by cauterizing the wound. I can’t have you passing out from blood loss.”
Tariq had indeed witnessed the process used by members of the General Intelligence Directorate’s interrogation teams. And while his mind knew there was no point in resisting, his body involuntarily struggled as Anton grabbed his hand. Kalugin began applying pressure and blood seeped around the shear’s blades as they sliced through the skin of Tariq’s pinkie finger about a half inch from the bottom of his fingernail.
“No! Don’t do this!” Tariq screamed as the blades cut into his finger. Any second now, he knew the pain from the broken bones in his hand would be a distant memory.
CHAPTER 37
Using Ron Foster’s callsign, Joe whispered into his radio, “Texan, we’re in position.”
“Good copy, Spartan. Wait one,” came Foster’s reply.
As promised, Ron and his team had been made available to support the operation to free Tariq. The Syrian rebels had arrived on time and were split into three fireteams, each led by one of the Ground Branchers.
Ron had deployed the teams in a half-moon semicircle at varying intervals around the southern end of the runway. Using available structures for cover, the two Syrians assigned to each team unloaded a crate containing an M224 Lightweight Company Mortar System from the bed of their Toyota Hi-Lux pickups. After setting the baseplate and attaching the tube and bipod assembly, each team unloaded a second crate containing ten 60-millimeter high-explosive rounds. With the weapons assembled and ready to fire, Foster, Ivy, and Abrams checked to ensure the M64 sights on their respective mortars were set to the appropriate distances and elevations. The last thing they wanted to do was have one of the rounds come up short and land in the compound, killing the assault team or the man they were there to rescue.
Ivy and Abrams reported their status and were ready to fire, so Ron radioed the team. “We’re good to go, Spartan. Stand by.”
Foster counted down from three over the radio, and when he hit one, gave the order to fire. A rebel with each fireteam dropped a round into the tube and ducked away as it rocketed into the air with a familiar whoomp. As soon as the round left the tube, the second rebel pulled another from the crate and handed it to his partner to repeat the firing process.
The first volley impacted the concrete runway one hundred and fifty meters from the compound’s outer wall. Using the succession of ear-splitting booms to mask their entry, Joe ordered, “Execute! Execute! Execute!”
Chris initiated a small breaching charge that popped the gate’s lock. The rusted metal door swung open, and the five operators flowed into the compound. Their night-vision devices locked down and suppressed HK416 rifles at the ready, Mike led the tactical train across the open expanse. He saw the BMWs parked near the front door and angled for them. The distance wasn’t far. Less than fifty meters, but he was acutely aware that the team was totally exposed while they were in the open.
Advancing on their objective, Joe keyed his mic, “Texan, this is Spartan. We’re in.”
Foster acknowledged the call, “Roger that. Make your own luck, Spartan.” With their diversionary role in the mission complete, Ron had each of the fireteams launch their remaining rounds. The impacts of the high-explosives tore craters in the smooth concrete that would render runway 35-Right inoperable for the foreseeable future. Thirty rounds in roughly ninety seconds, he thought. Not as fast as an American infantry unit, but not bad for a bunch of kids fighting to free their country.
Out of ammo, Foster instructed the teams to break down the mortars and evacuate the area. He wanted to be long gone before the Syrians and Russians mounted a response that he and his small band of men were unequipped to deal with. As the rebels packed the weapons and loaded the crates into the beds of the pickup trucks, the Ground Branch officers swept their respective firing positions for anything left behind that would identify them. Satisfied their areas were clean, Foster gave the order, and the small irregular fighting force disbanded. The rebels melted back into the cit
yscape while the three SAD men took their own routes back to the safe house in the hills.
*
Sweat dripped from the tip of Kalugin’s nose as he listened to the first volley of mortars whistle overhead. Accustomed to the sound of battle, he could tell they were not aimed at his little hideaway. And while the first impacts were close enough for the explosions to rattle the windows, he knew he and his men weren’t in any danger. Deciding this was as good a time as any for a break in the interrogation, he left one of his men to watch over Tariq, then headed to the kitchen for a strong coffee and a cigarette. He was about halfway there when the sound of the front door opening caught his attention. Probably just one of the men going outside to watch the fireworks from the mortar barrage, he thought. But the telltale clink, clink, clink that could only be a flashbang bouncing across the floor told him otherwise.
*
The team paused a beat, waiting for the blinding flash of light and disorienting bang to stun anyone in the room. Mike was the first through the door, and the image of a soldier sitting on a couch in the center of the room filled his holographic sight. Dazed but recovering quickly from the effects of the banger, the Russian reached for his AK. Mike pressed the trigger twice, sending two rounds into the man’s chest. He continued left and moved along the wall, digging the corner.
Chris button-hooked through the door and went the opposite direction, clearing his own corner to make sure a bad guy wasn’t getting ready to shoot his partner in the back. A ragged love seat was positioned midway along the wall, so Chris went up and over it to keep the guys behind him from getting jammed up in the door. Known as the fatal funnel, doors tended to draw a lot of fire, so as a rule of thumb, standing in an open doorway was frowned upon. The rest of the team flowed into the main room, alternating left and right, until everyone was inside.