Asset Seven

by James E Mack

  He took a series of rapid breaths, clamped his teeth together and pushed himself up from his seated position. His eyes widened and he screamed as his wounds stretched and opened but he used the pain, exploited the enormous surge of adrenalin that flooded his system. He lurched toward the direction of the rotor wash, staggering on stiffened legs, mouth wide open in a vain attempt to inflate his crumpled lung. The wash was strong now, the snow and small rock particles stinging his face and as he shielded his eyes, he saw movement and identified a group of men jogging towards a black hulk of a shadow that was barely visible against the dark mountain. Several steps nearer, Sergeii halted and stared at the sight before him.

  The helicopter was a Black Hawk.

  He’d found the Americans.

  His expression went blank and his arms dropped to his sides. Without any conscious thought, he reached to his thigh holster for his pistol, but the weapon wasn’t there. He couldn’t remember what he’d done with it or with his rifle. Assumed he must have dropped them somewhere as he’d stumbled about in a state of semi-consciousness. He opened up two pouches on his vest and withdrew two cylindrical devices. Without dropping his gaze from the helicopter, Sergeii removed the pins from the phosphorous grenades and clamped one in each blood-soaked hand. Maintaining his fixed stare on the aircraft he staggered forward once again, skidding and stumbling on the rocks and ice. Even as the debris from the rotor-wash assailed his face, the Russian did not blink, the bright blue eyes focused on the men clambering into the open door of a Black Hawk helicopter that hung off the edge of an Iranian mountain. He could see that there were only two more men making their way to the door of the aircraft and a warm, calming sensation infused Sergeii as he realized he was going to succeed. Walking forward, he brought his arms up and crossed them over his chest, the lethal cargo clasped in his hands now tucked hard against his shoulders in a vice-like grip.

  Sergeii threw one leg in front of the other and began to run toward the helicopter in a stiff, jerky motion, regaining his balance every time his feet skidded or slid. The last man was climbing into the helicopter as Sergeii reached it and screamed.

  A noise shocked Ned and he turned to see a crazed man staggering towards the bird. Ned was positioned awkwardly and tried to bring his carbine up to bear but then saw what the man was carrying. Time seemed to slow for Ned, and he realized several things at once: He wouldn’t get his rifle up in time to neutralize the threat. That even if he did, the grenades would probably still take out the bird. And that only he could do something about it. Without pause for further thought, the Delta Master Sergeant leapt from the doorway of the Black Hawk and threw himself at the man. As they collided, Ned gripped the man in a tight embrace but continued driving forward, pulling the man in tight and pinning his arms against Ned’s chest. Ned used all his strength to maintain the momentum and propelled the man backward as they stumbled on rocks. The man was screaming something unintelligible in what sounded like Russian and his face was a grotesque mask of rage and pain. Ned could feel him trying to pull his arms free and release the lethal grenades, but the Delta Master Sergeant held fast. He saw the edge of the precipice approaching and knew they were still too close to the tail rotor to risk his plan. Knew that if the Russian loosed even one of the grenades, the damage to the chopper would see it plummet into the chasm below. His throat hitched as the reality of what he was about to do dawned on him and he closed his eyes, focusing his mind on a picture of Cathy and the girls. A sad smile contrasted with the tears rolling down his face and the warm flood of emotion that flooded his senses. Ned shook his head and roared from the bottom of his lungs, tightened his grip on the Russian and powered forward driving them over the edge of the dark abyss.

  Vic yelled as he watched the pair fly over the edge of the precipice and into the darkness below. There was a humming in his head as he tried to come to terms with Ned’s last actions. Someone was slapping his shoulder, but he ignored them, staring at the void into which his friend had plummeted. There was a brief flicker of light, but it was soon swallowed once again by the darkness. Vic felt his chin grabbed and looked up to see Deke’s face close against his own.

  ‘We’re moving. Got hostile aircraft inbound. Ned’s gone man. Give the order.’

  Vic nodded and relayed the order to the pilot to lift off. Ned was gone. Another ten seconds or so and he would have been safe. Safe in the Black Hawk making his way back to Iraq and eventually to his wife and kids. Ten seconds. Fuck.

  Affan watched Vic as the man’s head dropped into his hands and he knew the pain that he was feeling. He too, had felt this heartbreak when Karim had died. The feeling that something warm and sad had flooded into your chest. Affan discreetly noted that the other Americans were also sad. No one was speaking and they were all looking at the floor of the helicopter. He gripped the edge of the seat hard as the helicopter dropped suddenly before swooping back up and weaving its way through dark passes that Affan couldn’t see. The man who spoke his language was not in this helicopter so Affan couldn’t ask any questions. But he wanted to know. He turned to the soldier next to him and tapped him on the shoulder. When he looked up Affan pointed at the floor of the helicopter, then the front of the machine and spoke.

  ‘America?’

  It took Deke a couple of seconds to work out what the boy was asking and when he got it, in spite of everything, he managed a small smile. He stretched out a hand and gave the kid’s hair an affectionate tousle. ‘No man. America too far. We’re going to Iraq. You understand? Iraq.’

  The boy nodded solemnly. ‘No America. Yes Iraq.’

  Affan leaned back in his seat as the warmth of the helicopter and the rhythm of the rotors lulled him into a state of weariness. He didn’t know Iraq, but Karim had said he would be safe there and if Karim said it then Affan knew it would be true. As his breathing deepened and limbs relaxed Affan gave silent thanks to whoever was listening for the day he had stumbled across Karim on the cold slopes of a mountain in western Iran.

  38

  6 MONTHS LATER

  TIJUANA, MEXICO

  The man finished his chalupa with a small sigh of contentment and wiped the corners of his mouth with the paper napkin. His hands he merely rubbed on the thighs of his grimy jeans. Taking out his wallet, he removed several bills and placed them under the plate before standing, adjusting his sweat-stained baseball cap and walking off down the quiet street, his worn cowboy boots kicking up small puffs off dust in the afternoon sun. Turning a corner at the end of the street he saw himself being assessed by an optimistic hooker, but only for a moment as her professional judgement deemed the wiry, dark-skinned Mexican as not having enough money to spend on such a luxury. The man continued along the street, long legs covering the distance with ease, moving aside for other pedestrians, old-school manners prevalent in his actions. He crossed a road and took a quieter side-street to where it met with an intersection which he crossed and made his way into a hot, dusty park, the grass and plants almost as brown as the baked earth from where they sprouted with admirable determination. Taking a seat on a bench that had colonized the only shade from a nearby wall, the man pulled a brown bag from his back pocket, reached inside and removed the cap from the bottle. He took a furtive swig, gave a contented sigh, smiled and leaned back on the bench watching the cars as the passed him. Bringing the bottle up to his mouth again, he spoke softly.

  ‘This is Lopez, Standby, Standby, Standby. That is Victor 1 mobile west from my location. Driver plus three.’

  A soft buzz in his concealed earpiece preceded the reply.

  Copy that Lopez, Victor 1 mobile. Driver plus three.

  Lopez continued to drink regularly from the paper-clad bottle that contained nothing more alcoholic than iced tea, as the updates on the operation came through his earpiece. After around five minutes he stood and began walking through the park until he reached the road at the other end. A shabby grey van that had seen better days pulled up and Lopez waved at the driver before climbing into th
e passenger seat. To all intents and purposes just another tired, down at heel laborer getting a ride from a friend. As the van moved off, Lopez turned to the driver.

  ‘Where we at?’

  The driver continued to monitor his mirrors as he replied.

  ‘We have Victor 1 and looks like they are going straight for the tunnel. Victors 2 and 3 showed up earlier to make sure everything was good, and our intercept picked them up confirming the time over the phones.’

  Lopez was quiet for a moment as the van picked up speed. ‘So, this is it? It’s on?’

  The driver nodded. ‘Yeah brother. Looks like it’s the real deal today. No more dummy runs.’

  Lopez reflected on the information. This would be the third time that the Unit had deployed to get these motherfuckers but up until now the only activity the group were carrying out was entering and leaving the United States illegally through a tunnel system in Tijuana. But they always came back. Same journey every time: Entry point a collection of old storage units in the parking lot of an abandoned KFC then under the border to an industrial unit in Otay Mesa, San Diego. While the activity had Homeland Security and the Feds scratching their heads, it was Vic who’d identified that these were dummy runs; rehearsals to identify any problems or issues before they carried out the live operation.

  Lopez had been impressed; he’d never worked the criminal gangs. Had done a few operations against the cartels in their backyard but these Barrio 18 boys behaved far more professionally than he would have given them credit for. The gang members had been under surveillance for almost a month and stuck to very strict procedures. They kept their drinking and whoring discreet, didn’t frequent the bars and clubs like Lopez and the guys had expected. But Vic had explained that some of the gang were former security henchmen of Marduro, the Venezuelan president, real nasty pieces of work but professional with it. And they were key to the operation; no way were the Iranians going to entrust getting a dirty bomb into the US to a group of Venezuelan barrio thugs. No, the Iranians would have hand-picked the crew for this job with the blessing of the Venezuelan president. No doubt about that.

  It still amazed Lopez that an operation they’d carried out on a mountain in Iran six months ago had led them directly to a Quds plot to build, bring and detonate a dirty bomb on US soil. The intelligence that had been downloaded from those small drives had been the biggest haul of tactical information ever to come out of Iran. Targets, personalities, timings, agents, planned operations, ongoing operations. But what had been sobering to them all was the amount and extent of planned attacks against the US, all of which would have been attributed to Islamic extremism. ISIS sympathizers and networks held responsible through the trail of crumbs the Iranians would leave, leading the investigations down a mess of rabbit holes. These were well-planned operations that had been covered in every detail and without the trove of intelligence from Vic’s Asset, the dirty bomb attack would have worked.

  The Iranians and Russians had been helping prop up Marduro’s government for some time, keen to keep a foothold in America’s back yard. And when the sanctions bit Venezuela hard, the Iranians had all the leverage they required. The Asset’s intelligence detailed the deployment of senior Quds officers to the Central American country and the millions of dollars in gold they ‘donated’ to Marduro. But the payoff was a steep one; help the Iranians in hitting the yanqui neighbors to the north with a blow that would rattle them severely. According to the intelligence, Marduro had actually been happy to provide any support his Middle Eastern friends required as long as there was plausible deniability. The Quds officers had assured the dictator that this would be the foremost consideration. While everyone was on board with punching the great USA on the nose in its own backyard, nobody wanted to be the recipient of its wrath if suspected of involvement. So former members of the regime and the cream of Barrio 18, Venezuela’s premier mega-gang, were placed under the authority and direction of the Quds team entrusted with the operation.

  The raw materials for the device made their way from the Natanz nuclear facility in Iran through various channels and cut-outs to Venezuela where they were assembled into the viable device. Criminal and cartel networks were exploited to provide safe passage of the bomb to the US border, a loose cover story of smuggling an important person north and staggering sums of money changing hands ensured the route was safe. Then a few weeks in Tijuana conducting rehearsals and making sure they hadn’t been compromised. An Iranian officer masquerading as a Trade Delegate visiting Tijuana Province from his embassy in Mexico City oversaw the operation with clinical precision. Vic had briefed the team that this guy was definitely a seasoned Quds officer with overseas experience. The CIA watchers identified that this man routinely carried out counter-surveillance drills and left tells and triggers in his accommodation. A sharp operator leaving nothing to chance. On the US side, the Joint Task Force of CIA, FBI, Homeland Security and DoD had identified a network of Iranians and Venezuelans in communication with one individual who linked the group in the north to the Iranian officer in Tijuana. Again, the drills were good; burner phones, veiled speech, short calls, driving large distances before making contact and constantly switching locations where they called from.

  But they were against a Task Force that had been given the Presidential go-ahead to do whatever it took to stop this attack. Unlimited budget, unlimited manpower, every asset made available to them with a mere phone call. The gloves were off on this one. Which Lopez was grateful for. He’d never been a fan of joint task forces and didn’t enjoy inter-agency operations. But for Delta to have had any role in this operation within the US, it had been necessary to embrace the union. The posse comitatus law that forbids US military to operate on US soil given an exception due to the severe nature of the threat and the inter-agency composition of the task force. It was a non-issue while Lopez and the Delta squadron were operating in Mexico but once back on home ground, they would just have been bystanders. And nobody wanted that, particularly after the loss of their brothers on that damned Iranian mountain at the hands of the same people who were now trying to massacre hundreds of innocent Americans.

  He was brought out of his thoughts by the transmission from the surveillance team watching the tunnel entrance.

  All Victors present. I say again, all Victors present.

  Lopez listened to the acknowledgements and felt the excitement building within him. These fuckers were going to go through with it. Another transmission confirmed his thoughts.

  Victor 2 distributing backpacks to six individuals. Three coyotes up front, armed and with radios, three at rear armed and with radios. Mules also armed with assault rifles.

  Lopez could see the scene in his mind. The coyotes, the guides, leading the way, looking for any problems and clearing the way for the mules and their precious backpacks. But they wouldn’t find any problems in the tunnel. The tunnel had been entered by a team from Delta and the CIA some weeks before and microphones, sensors and cameras secreted through the entire length of the subterranean avenue. So there was no need to put men in the tunnel, the devices would cover the entire journey of the Venezuelans and their lethal payload.

  Lopez imagined the tension building in the Situation Room as the feeds from the drone and static camera systems were relayed onto the array of large screens. All the representatives from the various agencies staring hard at the images before them, willing the Venezuelans to commit to the tunnel. As the van took a left towards the Forming-Up Area, Lopez heard the transmission they’d all been waiting for.

  Coyotes and Mules into tunnel. Coyotes and Mules into tunnel.

  With that, the driver accelerated and in under a minute they entered a large yard and the gate was hauled closed behind them as they came to a halt. Lopez moved fast, exiting the van and hauling open the side door where he reached in and began donning his assault gear. The lightweight Kevlar protection followed by his Tac-Vest, pouches stuffed with magazines and grenades of varying capabilities. He switched radios to
his ATAK-configured system and checked in with Control. The driver joined him, hauling out his own bag and suiting up for the task. The pair then jogged over to a group of similarly dressed individuals who were waiting at the corner of a tall metal fence. They peeled a corner of the fence aside and Lopez and the driver ducked under and through the gap, entering the yard where the entrance to the tunnel was. With Lopez on point, the remaining soldiers fell into line behind him. As he approached the storage unit he spoke into his mic.

  ‘This is Foxhound, are we clear to enter?’

  The response was instant.

  Yes Foxhound. You are clear, clear, clear.

  Without a pause, Lopez led his team into the open door of the storage unit. He maintained a fast pace, carbine up on aim as he entered the darker interior of the unit. Making his way to the back of the room he pointed at a cluster of oil drums.

  ‘Pete, Rusty. Get the cover off the tunnel, Mac and Paulie, first entry.’

  The nominated individuals moved around him and took their assigned roles. They’d all seen the footage of how the Venezuelans entered and exited the tunnel and were familiar with the routine. Pete and Rusty maneuvered a gear lever and the cluster of barrels slid smoothly and silently to one side, revealing a hatch in the floor. Through the transmissions from the team monitoring the cameras, the men knew the Venezuelans were far enough along the tunnel that they wouldn’t hear the Foxhound team’s entry. Pete and Rusty opened the hatch and Mac entered first, descending the ladder into the depths below. Paulie went next and the moment his head was below floor level, Pete and Rusty followed the first pair. The remainder of the team conducted the same drill until all were into the tunnel other than the two who pulled above-ground security. A precaution in case anything went wrong while the rest of the team were below.