American Operator, page 27
part #4 of Tier One Series
“Shit, he’s turning, bro,” Dempsey hollered.
“I see him,” Raz said, braking hard as the last vehicle in the convoy abruptly turned left down a side road.
“Olympus, which vehicle is Allen riding in?”
Dempsey was almost certain she was in the rear vehicle, but the drivers had been changing positions like a street hustler playing “hide the marble” in a three-shell shuffle game. These guys knew what they were doing.
“Thermal imaging shows three bodies in that vehicle and only a driver in the others, so unless she’s driving one of the escort vehicles herself, there’s a ninety-nine percent chance—”
“She’s in the last SUV,” Dempsey shouted, cutting Baldwin off. “Turn now!” He braced himself against the dashboard as Raz jerked the steering wheel left, the heavy BMW tipping up on two wheels momentarily.
“What do we do?” Raz asked. “This street is too narrow to pass.”
Tiny one-story houses lined both sides of the street. The road could barely accommodate two vehicles passing each other north and south, and the target vehicle was hogging the middle of the road.
“That four-by-four is up-armored and has ballistic glass just like the Beemer. There’s not much we can do except try to force them off the road.”
“If I could just get beside them, I’d have them stopped already,” Raz said in frustration.
“The second escort has just turned north, parallel to you and six blocks east,” Baldwin said in his ear. “Wait . . . The third is doing the same, one block further east.”
Dempsey scowled, visualizing a bird’s-eye view of all four vehicles on a city grid. He knew exactly what these assholes were doing because it was exactly what he would do. The two escort vehicles were positioning for an ambush ahead. They would straddle the road, creating a kill zone between them. The target vehicle would turn east any minute now then sprint toward the trap, trying to create separation. The target would shoot the gap while the two escort vehicles unloaded on Dempsey and Raz. But these guys knew the BMW was armored . . . which meant they must be packing something heavier.
“They’re turning east,” Raz said, confirming Dempsey’s suspicion. A beat later, Raz whipped a right turn so hard that Dempsey almost landed in his lap. “This road is wider. You want me to get up beside them?”
“Not yet,” Dempsey said.
“Atlas, the other two vehicles have stopped and repositioned,” Baldwin said. “They are bookending the intersection a half mile ahead.”
Of course they are.
“Pickup complete. Titan is heading to you, Atlas,” said Munn, his voice cold steel. “Five mikes, maybe less.”
“Is that a spec op variant Osprey you’re flying?” Dempsey asked.
“Roger that, Atlas” came Munn’s reply.
Dempsey flashed Raz a devious lopsided grin. “Gonna need your Banshee gunner to put some fifty rounds into these assholes’ armored SUVs.”
“We can do one better. The pilot tells me our bird has an upgrade package,” Munn said. “Three mikes out.”
“We still need to stop this asshole in front of us somehow,” Raz said, piecing together Dempsey’s conversation. “Maybe they can put some rounds in the engine block.”
The thought of riddling the target vehicle with armor-piercing rounds with Amanda Allen sitting in the back seat seemed too risky, but what other option did they have? “You may be right,” Dempsey said.
“Shit, RPG!” Raz barked and juked the steering wheel hard left. Dempsey smacked his head hard against the passenger window as a trail of white smoke zipped past the BMW. The projectile detonated beside them, impacting the ground exactly where they would have been had Raz not reacted so quickly. The force of the explosion almost flipped the heavy BMW, but Raz cut the wheel hard right and the BMW slammed back onto the pavement with an impact that sent an electric stinger down Dempsey’s left leg.
The car skidded right in a screeching arc and came to a stop.
“Out, out, out!” Raz screamed.
Dempsey yanked the door handle, kicked the door open, and rolled out of the BMW as a second projectile hurtled toward them. The heat from the explosion engulfed him as the pressure wave bowled him over. His head and ears felt like they were stuffed with wet cotton. He forced one last complete barrel roll as bullets pounded the pavement beside him. Adrenaline and fury propelled him up into a kneeling firing stance; his weapon was in his hands a beat later, held steady and true by hands that had spent over two decades outgunning adversaries. His red targeting dot found the shooter’s forehead and he squeezed the trigger. The shooter’s head pitched sideways, smacked into the corner of the open door, and then the body crumpled.
Like the breath of God, wind buffeted his back as the CV-22 Osprey popped up over the buildings behind him, its giant nacelles turned vertical as the huge rotors kept the enormous bird steady in a low hover. A tongue of fire erupted from the GAU-17 Gatling gun as the pilot targeted the other escort SUV. The torrent of bullets cut a second shooter wielding a machine gun in half, the top half of his body spinning completely around like a figure skater before dropping and coming to rest beside the lower half. The CV-22 seemed almost to take a bow, rotating left again, and then a salvo of rockets streaked out from the launcher pod mounted to the cheek of the bird. The black armored SUVs erupted in sequential fireballs, sending burning hunks of debris in all directions.
“Stop the target vehicle before it gets away,” Dempsey shouted, his voice dull and far away in his pressure-injured ears.
The SUV with Allen was accelerating through the kill zone, shooting the gap between the burning escort SUVs. Dempsey said a silent prayer as the Osprey rotated fifteen degrees clockwise, and a short burp of fire leaped from the turret as the gunner shredded the nose of the speeding vehicle with an expertly targeted volley.
“Oorah, Marine,” he mumbled as the front of the SUV erupted in a cloud of steam and smoke and then drifted to a stop. The front passenger door opened a beat later, and the shooter inside popped out, dropping to a tactical crouch and bringing his weapon to bear on Dempsey.
Rounds whizzed past Dempsey’s head as he placed his targeting dot on the shooter’s forehead, dropped the man, then advanced in a combat crouch. An old back injury protested loudly, and his left leg felt dull and heavy. He felt the wind change as the Osprey pivoted yet again, this time rotating until the rear cargo bay was facing him and the ramp lowered, his Ember teammates visible inside.
Then the right rear passenger door of the crippled black SUV swung open, and Amanda Allen stumbled out onto the street. Her hair was matted and plastered to her head, her gray pants and shirt were caked in blood, and her face was streaked with dried gore. She stared at the ground, her arms limp at her sides. Dempsey stopped, steadying himself with his left foot forward, his hands tight and steady on his rifle.
“Amanda Allen!” he called. “We’re American operators and we’re here to take you home.”
Allen did not look at him, keeping her gaze fixed on the ground. A heartbeat later, a hulking figure stepped out behind her. He wrapped a heavily muscled arm around her neck and pulled her into his chest. She didn’t resist, and this time she didn’t do anything rash. She simply stood there, a rag doll held up by invisible strings.
He placed his red dot just left of Amanda’s right ear and onto her captor’s forehead.
Then he exhaled and—
A puff of red exploded behind Allen, and the big brute crumpled to the ground before Dempsey pulled the trigger.
“Shooter down,” Grimes called.
Dempsey glanced over his shoulder and saw Grimes laid out prone on the loading ramp, her WinMag set up on its tripod. She nodded at him, and he turned back to Amanda. Behind her, a shadow moved inside the SUV—the driver and last enemy fighter in the convoy.
“Amanda, get down!” he shouted and sighted over the top of her as she dropped to the ground. A head popped momentarily into view inside the vehicle. He flipped the selector on his rifle with his right thumb and advanced on the SUV, firing three-round bursts through the open rear door into the dark interior of the vehicle. He closed the gap quickly, his targeting dot dancing inside the cabin, looking for movement. Seconds later, he was peering into the vehicle where the driver was slumped over, chest and face covered in blood. Dempsey flipped the selector back to single shot and put one final round into the back of the driver’s head.
“Clear,” he reported and then turned back to Amanda, still on the pavement beside him, hands over her head. “Amanda, you’re safe. I’ve got you.”
She looked up, her face pale and slack.
Dempsey touched her cheek with his gloved hand. “Tell me again,” he said and smiled softly.
The girl tried to speak, sobbed, and then closed her eyes tightly. She opened them again and looked him in the eyes. “I tried to save the ladybugs,” she managed.
“That’s right,” he said. He felt Raz’s hand on his shoulder but kept his eyes on Amanda and helped her to her feet. “Let’s go home.”
She collapsed into him, her arms around his neck, her chest heaving with emotional release. Beyond them, the Osprey hovered expertly with the open rear cargo deck a mere foot off the ground. He saw Grimes waving him toward them.
“Let’s go, Atlas,” Munn said in his ear. “We gotta get the hell out of here.”
Dempsey turned to Raz. “Sorry about your car, bro,” he said, grinning. “But she needed a new paint job anyway.”
“So let’s see,” Raz said, grinning and rubbing his chin, “you owe me a new car, a lifetime of chiropractic care, and an unlimited supply of Budweiser.”
“That’s a bargain considering what you did for us. C’mon, let’s get the hell outta here.”
Raz shook his head. “Can’t, bro,” he said. “I’m not ready to go back. Which means I need you to expedite that fucking car because mine just got blown up. You have my cell number and you know where I live. We should be all set for delivery.”
With that, Amraz Demir, the Kurdish American vigilante of Manbij, turned and walked off, heading west away from the carnage.
Dempsey heard sirens in the distance. He wrapped an arm around Amanda’s shoulder and started guiding her toward the Osprey.
“It’s over, Amanda. Time to go home.”
“I think this is a long way from being over,” she said under her breath. “For me, anyway . . .”
He didn’t answer. She’d spoken gospel . . . The healing would take time.
Moments later they were on the ramp, and the tiltrotor aircraft was lifting into the air. Latif wrapped a blanket around Allen and led her forward. Grimes marched over and stood in front of Dempsey, arms folded across her chest, the sniper rifle slung over her shoulder.
“Pretty fancy shooting there, Your Highness,” Dempsey said.
“Good enough to save your over-the-hill ass,” she said and then wrapped him up in a hug.
Munn moved toward them as the ramp began to rise under their feet.
“You done, Rambo?” he asked, throwing an arm around Dempsey’s shoulders as Grimes released him from her bear hug.
“Almost,” Dempsey said. “We need to get back to that compound—see what we can grab off of the X to figure out who the hell these guys were.”
“Agreed,” Munn said.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Baldwin said in all their ears. “The compound is already swarming with what appears to be YPG personnel. But you have a bigger problem. I strongly suggest you turn north and head at low altitude toward the Turkish border with great haste.”
“Why?” Dempsey asked, following Munn forward in the spacious aircraft. He passed the workstation where a door gunner managed the Osprey’s weapons suite from a flat-screen monitor using what looked like an Xbox controller. He patted the man’s shoulder in gratitude.
“Because I’m tracking a flight of two MiG-29s heading your way at very high speed,” Baldwin said. “The airspace you’re in now is not protected by our no-fly zone, and I’m assuming these are Syrian jets intent on your destruction. We have no permission to be where we are.”
“Atlas, I have two F/A-18 escorts headed to you from the Reagan to take you through Turkish airspace back to the boat, but they won’t be within a hundred clicks before those MiGs get to you.” It was Smith’s voice on the line now, and he sounded tense. “I have your Osprey pilots coordinating with the escort, and their orders are to fly north with God’s speed.”
“What about the Turkish no-fly zone?” Munn asked.
“Lesser of two evils, and despite Erodan’s bluster, the Turks wouldn’t dare shoot down one of ours,” Smith said.
“Sure would suck to die now after all the hard work we put in trying to survive,” Dempsey said, his face deadpan. After a beat, Munn and Grimes both busted up laughing and held out their fists to be bumped. He accommodated, then turned to look at Allen, wrapped in her blanket and seated alone against the bulkhead.
“I’m going to go talk to her,” Grimes said, flashing him a knowing smile.
He nodded and watched Elizabeth take a seat next to the traumatized CIA agent and begin to comfort her. He couldn’t hear them, but it didn’t matter. He took a mental snapshot of the moment and filed it away . . .
Mission accomplished.
PART III
And remember: you must never, under any circumstances, despair.
To hope and to act, these are our duties in misfortune.
—Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago
CHAPTER 37
Safe House
Qamishli, Syria
Two Miles South of the Turkish Border Town of Nusaybin and 250 Miles East of Manbij
May 9
1630 Local Time
Valerian sat at the simple wooden table, his legs crossed at the knee, and sipped the sickly sweet tea that those native to this region seemed to love. He watched Mutla pace back and forth, her own tea cooling on the table in front of the empty chair beside him. She was angry and upset. They both were. The compound had been hit by the Americans shortly after their departure. Everyone had been slaughtered, including her brother, Samir, and the Russian GRU extraction team. He didn’t know if Amanda Allen had been recovered alive or dead; this little piece of intelligence he would have to wait for.
“How did you know?” Mutla stammered, eyeing him.
“How did I know what?”
“How did you know we needed to leave early? How did you know the Americans were coming?”
He laughed at this. “Mutla, they had already hit the first compound. I told you they were coming. We all knew this, which is why I arranged Allen’s sale at auction so we could be done and move on to the next mission. We simply ran out of time, that’s all. It could have been worse; they could have hit the compound before we left.”
She mumbled something and then kicked a chair, toppling it and sending it skidding across the floor. So much passion in this one. She was simple, but not dim-witted. In another world or another time, she could have been much more valuable to him. But in this world, he needed her to be a good little soldier and do exactly what he said.
“Do you think the Americans are still hunting us?”
“Of course.”
“Then why are we still here? We should move across the border where my people can hide us.”
“I told you,” he said patiently, “the border crossing is planned and scheduled. This is no small feat, and I cannot advance the timeline. I know you are upset about Samir, but I promise that those responsible will soon pay a very high price for what they have done. Now sit. Have some tea.”
“I don’t want tea. I want revenge.”
He nodded, his face a mask of patience and empathy. “I understand better than most. I lost everything in Chechnya, and that is why—”
His mobile phone chirped on the table. He stopped midsentence, picked up the encrypted device, and looked at the screen.
“They’re ready for me,” he said, getting to his feet and pocketing his phone. “Wait here. Do not leave this house under any circumstance. When I return, we will depart for the border.”
She nodded but continued to pace.
He grabbed her by the wrist and squeezed. She met his gaze, fire in his eyes.
“Do not do anything rash or stupid,” he said, his voice hard and cold. “Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Say it,” he barked.
“I understand,” she seethed through gritted teeth.
“We are the mission now,” he said, releasing her wrist. “And we cannot fail.”
He left her and the apartment, feeling very uneasy. He found the innocuous white sedan parked exactly where it was supposed to be. The vehicle was hot from sitting in the sun. When he climbed inside and started the engine, the air-conditioning chugged to life, and he let the cool air blow on his face as he clutched the steering wheel with a death grip. Feeling himself on the verge of losing control, he closed his eyes, focused on his breathing, and found his center. He pushed away the anxiety and worry about Mutla sabotaging the mission. He pushed away the desire to drive a blade through her right eye and be done with the trouble of having to deal with her. He needed her.
I am stillness.
I am focus.
I am a blade—honed for a single purpose.
I am Zeta Prime.
Feeling better, he opened his eyes, put the transmission in drive, and pulled away from the curb. He turned right onto Highway 23 and in minutes left the crush of buildings and people behind. Houses and businesses gave way to farmers’ fields, and five minutes later, he turned left onto a dirt road heading north. He checked his watch and then eased off the accelerator.
Not too early, not too late. Everyone must be present when the end comes.
The low buildings of the old homestead on acres of fertile farmland came into view. As he pulled up to the gate of the farm, two men approached the car, both gripping AK-47 assault rifles. He rolled down the window.
“I’m Malik,” he said in Kurdish. “I have business with Bayit.”
The closer of the two guards nodded, almost a bow, as the younger man hustled over to open the gate.
