Final Strike: A David Rivers Thriller (Shadow Strike Book 10), page 22
He squinted against the sunrise, the barrenness of the entire landscape now reflecting his team’s own lack of options. The situation had been going from bad to worse ever since their infil, and Ian had made no meaningful contributions to change that.
Retrieving the coin from his pocket, he looked blankly at the worn images and text. This item, this stupid fucking scrap of metal, was the only thing he had to show for the entire raid that risked the lives of his teammates. Now that the cell phones were found to be useless and the bulk of Malek’s AI left intact, they may as well have not conducted an operation at the wind farm at all.
His thoughts were broken by the sound of footsteps coming up the hill.
Expecting Cancer, Ian looked over to snap that he wanted to be left alone. Instead he saw Hass approaching, and found that his attitude immediately shifted. Hass had lost his entire team and would forever face the fallout from that event by way of survivor’s guilt that had probably set in already.
Ian said nothing as Hass took a seat beside him.
“Hey man, you all right?”
“No,” Ian said quietly. “You?”
“No. You should get some sleep while you can.”
“So should you.”
Hass snickered. “I can’t sleep.”
“Neither can I.”
A beat of silence followed, and Ian began fidgeting with his hands.
“What’s that?” Hass asked.
For a moment Ian didn’t know what he was talking about, then realized that Hass was staring at the coin. Ian held it up for him to see. “I found it during our last raid.”
Hass looked at the coin for a moment, then snatched it away and rose.
“Come with me.”
Ian followed his purposeful steps toward a rock overhang; beneath it, a portly figure was stuffed into a team sleeping bag.
Hass dropped to a knee and forcefully shook the man. “Shayan, wake up.”
He had to repeat the process before the Iranian man finally roused from his slumber, and the only indication that he was awake came when he spoke in a voice thick with sleep.
“What do you want?”
“Take a look at this.”
Shayan rolled over halfway, accepting the coin and squinting at it. After flipping it over, he handed it back. “Yes, it is authentic.”
“I didn’t ask if it’s authentic,” Hass said. “What is it?”
Shayan rolled back over. “The image on one side is a fire temple, the other an ancient leader. This coin is from the Sassanid era. A Zoroastrian stronghold before the Islamic conquest. You can find these for sale in Pir Hajat. Most are fakes. This one is real. I am sorry to inform you that they are not particularly rare.”
Ian asked, “What’s Pir Hajat?”
“Pir Hajat Rural District. Northwest of here. Many Zoroastrian ruins, many excavations.”
Hass handed the coin back to Ian. “There you go. Unless, you know, you have any better ideas.”
Ian was off like a flash, striding toward the satellite radio with long bounds.
When he reached it he waved Cancer away, kneeling to grasp the handset.
“Raptor Nine One, this is Angel.”
Chen replied, “Go ahead.”
“We have new intelligence indicating Malek is at a fallback location in Pir Hajat Rural District.”
She was quiet for a moment. “What intelligence?”
“Something we just pieced together from our previous raid,” he said, handing the coin to Cancer and jerking his head toward Shayan. “We need you to direct surveillance against remote facilities consistent with his previously known strongholds. Once you get a hit, and you will, we’ll set up surveillance to confirm positive identification. And then the airstrike occurs as planned.”
“What’s your level of fidelity on this?”
“Hundred percent,” Ian lied, determined to voice enough conviction for her to take this seriously. “Start running surveillance and you’ll see that I’m right. We’ve got about twelve hours until nightfall, and that’s how long you have to pinpoint a location for us to go in after.”
Chen hesitated. “We’ll give it a shot.”
“You’ve got to do better than that. Don’t you get it? This is our chance to complete the mission we came here for. We’ve already lost a lot of men to this, and now’s our chance to kill Malek before heading home. You wanted us to get him. I’m telling you that we can. Pir Hajat District. Malek’s there. Get to work.”
He’d barely finished the transmission before Cancer transmitted over the team frequency.
“Net call, we’ve got a lead on Malek’s general location. Long shot, but we’re working on a pinpoint location. Plan on moving out at nightfall to establish surveillance. I know we’re all running on fumes, but we’re going to have to delay exfil and push through one more night.”
“Who needs sleep?” Reilly transmitted back from his guard position. “I’ve got Modafinil.”
“The fuck is that?”
The medic explained, “Go pills. Got them off a B-2 pilot back at Whiteman Air Force Base. At least twelve hours of full energy. We can pop them at sunset and run through the night, easy.”
“We’ve been out here for three days with minimal sleep.”
“I know. I’ve been with you.”
Cancer looked at Ian, his eyes narrowing. “And you’ve had those in your pocket this whole time?”
“Well, yeah.”
Ian keyed his mic. “Doc, what the fuck?”
Reilly was unapologetic. “He only gave me five.”
37
I lay on the mattress, the room quiet except for the soft rustle of pages as I read. My body, for the first time in days, felt rested. I wasn’t hungry, my stomach full from the last meal. The stillness was unnerving, but my mind clung to the book in my hands, soaking in every word.
Agreeing to Malek’s deal, however reluctantly, had bought me an upgrade to a room/cell that was palatial compared to my previous accommodations—no longer was I shackled to a chair.
Instead I had freedom of movement within these four walls, a mattress, crate of water bottles, abundant food and snacks, and a latrine bucket in the corner.
And, of course, the reading material.
My mind was desperate to soak up any and all stimulation after the increasing isolation of my captivity, and it hadn’t taken me long to pore through the stack with increasing fascination.
I’d found titles like Perpetual War for Perpetual Peace and Democracy: America’s Deadliest Export. Noam Chomsky was well-represented, as were various historians and academics.
I now read the shortest book of the group, its spine so narrow that it couldn’t hold the title that I found the most interesting of all. That distinction was reserved for the cover and its blood-red letters.
War is a Racket.
I’d nearly finished the entire thing in the course of an hour, and found that it underscored nearly everything at the core of Malek’s discontent. War was continually perpetuated by a small group of American elites—corporations, politicians, arms manufacturers—who manipulated public opinion on military interventions through patriotic rhetoric. Industry thus made astronomical sums of money off government contracts while soldiers received low pay and almost no support after returning home, and the suffering of those who went to war and the profits of those who didn’t increased in direct proportion with one another. A fairly accurate representation of the world I’d known since 9/11.
I could easily dismiss the book as propaganda, pure and simple, selectively chosen by Malek to present a narrow and highly biased viewpoint.
There was just one problem: the author was Smedley D. Butler, a Marine Corps general and two-time Medal of Honor recipient, and the book was written in 1935.
The muffled thump of an explosion caused me to sit up, dropping my book as the echo spread through the building. My pulse quickened, ears straining for more, but the silence held—until it didn’t. A rapid burst of gunfire followed, distant but unmistakable.
I shot up from the mattress, eyes locking on the door. It was reinforced steel, not something that would give easily. I waited, counting the seconds, my mind racing through possibilities. Another explosion, closer this time, reverberated through the walls, rattling the metal bucket in the corner.
Then, the unmistakable scrape of a bolt being thrown back. The door swung open, and two guards rushed in, weapons raised. I threw my hands up, not comprehending their sudden aggression. Both were Americans, the same men who brought me food and emptied my latrine bucket.
Now they were in a near-panic, and forcing my wrists into handcuffs that they threaded through a metal loop on the wall.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
It was no use—they were gone as quickly as they arrived, bolting my door shut and leaving me shackled in place. I pulled against the restraints, frustration mixing with the growing sound of chaos. The gunfire was closer now, echoing through the compound in sharp, staccato bursts. An explosion rocked the building again, dust drifting from the ceiling.
Was this some militia attack? Was the Iranian government raiding the facility? No, I thought, Malek had all of the above in his pocket and his safe haven status was proof of that.
My mind raced—there was only one explanation for the noise closing in on me.
A hostage rescue.
It was hard to comprehend the sheer sense of hope that dawned on me then. There were no standing US military or paramilitary elements operating in Iran, and Chen certainly wasn’t sending backup to recover an unattributable contractor. That meant it was my team shooting their way through the building, drawing nearer with each passing second.
For a second I wondered how they could have possibly found me, and then the thought was eclipsed by the sheer audacity of their presence. There were five of them against who the fuck knew how many of Malek’s fighters. It was a suicide mission, plain and simple, but even if they and I were slaughtered in the process, nothing—nothing—could ever remove the sense of unity I felt with them in that moment.
Hass, Worthy, Reilly, Ian, and Cancer were in the building, were here with me right now, and no matter the outcome they were going to deal the maximum amount of death and destruction to reach my cell.
I heard the shouts of men outside, more gunfire, running footfalls. They were close now, another explosion causing me to wince, followed by shots in the hall outside.
“In here!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “I’m in here!”
Then the gunfire subsided, along with the racing footsteps. Holy hell, I thought, had my team actually killed everyone or, at a minimum, forced them to retreat? Or had all my men been killed? Neither would have surprised me, and my first indication that I faced the former rather than the latter came with the sound of a man's voice outside my door.
“David?”
I couldn’t identify the speaker through the steel door, but I didn’t need to.
“I’m in here, alone.”
The metal bolt screeched, and I was almost delirious with ecstasy as I watched the door open to reveal a lone figure in the hall.
I inhaled and held the breath, pressed my forehead against the chipped surface of the wall, and released a shuddering exhale.
“Thank you,” Malek began, striding into my cell, “for permitting me that indulgence, Mr. Rivers.”
He unlocked the handcuffs and my wrists fell away from the metal loop. I staggered a few steps back, staring blankly at him and then the hallway beyond the door. My guards were back in position as if nothing had happened.
Malek pocketed the cuffs, then the keys. “Flashbangs and blank ammunition, I’m afraid. It was an unfortunate, but necessary, demonstration.”
My gaze fell to the SIG pistol on his hip, and I had to force myself to look away. I didn’t attack him, didn’t react at all. How could I? My family would pay for the slightest infraction on my part, and Malek knew it as well as I did. He’d effectively neutered any chance I had at resistance, much less escape, with that looming threat more than any restraints or security measures.
I didn’t want to bring this evil any closer to them, almost wished that Malek would execute me and leave them be as an alternative to terrorism and high treason on an ongoing basis.
But of course, he wasn’t going to do that. I was more valuable to him alive.
“Why?” I asked.
“My parents named me Soren after Søren Kierkegaard. Are you familiar?”
I should have stood face to face with him, not ceding to any indication of weakness, however subtle.
Instead I stumbled away from the wall and fell to a seat on my mattress, placing my head in my hands without responding.
“He was a Danish philosopher, and one whose work is deeply important to me. Kierkegaard is credited with coining the phrase ‘leap of faith,’ although he did not use those exact words. He believed that true faith requires a leap beyond rationality and reason, into the unknown. Do you see the significance?”
I didn’t look up. “No.”
“Then I will explain,” Malek went on. “This leap cannot be made on behalf of someone else, nor can it be fully explained or justified to others. It is a solitary act that requires the individual to confront their own doubts, fears, and uncertainties, and to then choose faith over skepticism. Not a belief, then, but an existential commitment. The total surrender of one’s will to something greater.”
Running my hands through my hair, I clasped the back of my neck, staring at the floor. “Let me guess: you view the destruction of America as your leap of faith.”
“Not mine, Mr. Rivers, but ours. You made a deal—”
“I had no choice,” I shot back, finally glaring up at him.
His tone was that of a schoolteacher reprimanding a rebellious student. “Indeed you did. You could have prioritized your nation above your family. If America was everything she claims to be, then the death of three individuals as well as yourself would be an insignificant cost to sustain a beacon of hope and freedom to which the rest of the world should aspire.
“But deep down, you knew the truth. I merely placed you in a situation where you would be forced to confront this core belief, however subconsciously. If you truly deemed America worthy of saving, you would have chosen differently.”
“No,” I said, “I wouldn’t have. Any father would sign a deal with the devil to save his family.”
Malek leaned a shoulder against the wall, folding his arms. “I am not the devil, Mr. Rivers, but an accelerationist. America is an oppressive, crumbling institution, and instead of resisting we must intensify her contradictions to expedite the inevitable breakdown.”
“Why did you take my knife?”
“This?” he asked, pulling it from its sheath and examining the blade with great interest. “It’s an incredible weapon. Loyal as my guard force is to me, I suspect it would have been pilfered if I didn’t take it under my direct control. And I couldn’t risk it being lost. Because”—he sheathed the knife—“when we part ways, I will return it to you.”
“You’d goddamn better.”
He smiled, then glanced at the book beside my mattress. “I see you have been reading Butler. How appropriate. Have you or anyone at the CIA guessed my target for the nuclear warhead I obtained in Pakistan?”
I was momentarily at a loss on whether I should reply or not. What were the alternatives? Argue? Ignore him? Neither would help my family.
“DC,” I said.
Malek gave a soft chuckle at this, grinning at me with a subtle shake of his head.
“The national capital does not require twelve kilotons to be dealt with. I intended to strike at the heart of the US military industrial complex. Not DC, Mr. Rivers, but LA.”
His smile broadened and then faded, probably as he recalled that my team had contributed to stopping his warhead from leaving Pakistan.
Then he assumed the faraway look of recalling a particularly fond memory.
“A detonation in El Segundo would hit Lockheed Martin, Northrop Grumman, and Raytheon, all of them the lifeblood of America’s war machine, all of them working ceaselessly to ensure that conflict remains the most profitable industry in the world. And if that detonation occurred, the ripple effects across the defense and aerospace industries would have been catastrophic. Unnecessary, given what’s to come, but a symbolic blow nonetheless.”
I clapped my hands together a few times, to his seeming alarm.
“Yeah. Good work, Malek, that’d be a hell of a statement. Unfortunately it would also be a ‘symbolic blow’ to a half million innocent civilians, so you’ll understand if I don’t lose any sleep over the fact that the nuke was stopped.”
He recoiled slightly. “Of course. Not now, at least. Not with your current level of understanding, or lack thereof. In time, however, you will see the fight ahead as your true legacy—one you will never receive formal credit for, but one that elevates the world and humanity in the long run. When you realize the true insidiousness of the US military industrial complex, I expect you’ll change your tune.”
“I don’t know if you’re familiar with 9/11,” I replied, raising my voice for emphasis, “but catastrophic terrorist attacks aren’t synonymous with the lean years for defense contractors.”
“With one key distinction. This time the government will have no foreign boogeyman to point to, no xenophobic war cries against people abroad. Because when I launch my offensive, and launch it I shall, my acceptance of credit for the attacks will reveal that the threat has arisen from within. Unlike 9/11, Mr. Rivers, Congress will not sing ‘God Bless America.’ In fact, shortly after I tip my hand there will not be a Congress left to sing—as I said, I can handle the national capital without twelve kilotons.”
The weight of this entire situation hit me at once. Suddenly I was less concerned about the fate of the US government than I was about my own shock and outrage at what had occurred minutes earlier, a ploy designed to bring my hopes to a dizzying high point before pulling out the rug in a twisted mindfuck.
