Warning Order (16 page)

Al Qatar knew that he had to press the attack home or risk losing everything he had worked so hard to build. He hated to admit that his men might not be able to stand up to a disciplined American force when it came, but that was a problem for a later date.

“You there! Why are you hiding? Go fight them!” he berated the men hiding behind a stalled-out truck.

“But, Emir, they have—”

Al Qatar shot the man through the chest. Turning the rifle to the next man, he lined up the sights.

“Fight them, or I will kill you.”

The men nodded and filed out toward the tanks.

“Jabar, I will take out the tanks,” he said, catching sight of an approaching RPG team. “Tell the men to use the mortars on the infantry once they get out into the open.”

Rounds cracked and hummed past al Qatar as he weaved across the battlefield, grabbing as many men as he could along the way.

One of the Russian-built T-72s stopped in the middle of the field, shielding a mass of infantry. The main gun barked as it fired at one of his technicals, and a split second later, the round smashed into the hood of the unarmored truck, tossing it into the air like a toy.

Al Qatar dove to the ground, covering his head against the burning debris that slammed into the dirt around him. He got quickly to his feet, sprinting past the burning vehicle, and slid down the embankment at the edge of the road.

Five of his men were hiding behind the embankment, watching the T-72 traverse on the artillery piece. Furious at their cowardice, he slapped one of them in the back of the head, yanking the RPG-7 from his grasp.

“Give me that!” he yelled as the T-72 fired over his head.

The sound of the shell reminded him of a cargo plane preparing to land. Yet the gunner undershot the target, and that allowed al Qatar to step out onto the road. He brought the RPG up to his shoulder, centering the reticle on the turret before pulling the trigger. The armor-piercing round shot from the launcher with a shriek and danced through the air before impacting the turret. The warhead hit the steel with a sharp
thwang
before punching through and exploding inside.

He yelled for another rocket just as the hatch flipped open, releasing a billowing pillar of acrid smoke. One of the crewmen appeared, looking dazed. His face was covered in blood and soot, and he tried to climb out of the burning tank, only to be shot in the head for his troubles.

Another RPG screamed from al Qatar's left as his men began to press the attack. The rocket slammed into the second tank but failed to pierce the armor.

“Allahu Akbar!”
a dark-skinned fighter cried, hefting an American AT-4 antitank missile onto his shoulder. His tongue protruded from his mouth, and he carefully lined up the sights before depressing the red firing button.

The rocket shot from the green launcher in a rush of flame. The back blast jerked the launcher off his shoulder, knocking him off balance. He stumbled, caught himself, and then cheered when the 84 mm rocket hit the tank and detonated—stopping it dead in its tracks.

The Iraqi soldiers suddenly found themselves without any cover—they tried to run back to the city, but the emboldened jihadists fell on them with a vengeance. Some of the soldiers had already dropped their weapons when the first mortar round arced silently overhead and exploded ten feet above the ground.

Shrapnel cut through the men like an invisible reaper, bowling them over in clouds of blood. The tide had turned, and over the roar of the battle, the fighters began chanting al Qatar's name.

  •  •  •  

By late afternoon, the killing finally ended. Al Qatar sat on a camo camp chair, studying the fat general kneeling before him. Automatic fire and the hollow
thump
of grenades marked the killing pits his men had set up. He held the blade before the trembling man's face.

“I thought my instructions were clear, General Husam. Was I mistaken?”

“You must understand, I have a family,” the general pleaded.

“All of these men have families,” al Qatar replied, motioning to the lines of men who were being forced to kneel on the edges of the hastily dug pits. “Does that make you special?”

“I . . . I . . . ”

“You what?” he asked, sliding the blade under the general's chin. Firmly he raised the man's head until he was looking into his dark eyes. “You're special, is that what you are saying?”

“No, Emir.”

“I have no use for a man who will not listen, and I believe that your family would feel the same.”

“Please.”

Al Qatar spat at the man's fat face, soiling his clean uniform. They had found him cowering in one of the houses, and, to his shame, he hadn't even tried to fight for his life.

Al Qatar slowly moved the blade into place on the man's throat, putting more pressure on the point until it broke through the skin. The general tried to edge away, but two of his own officers were holding him in place.

Behind them, Jabar had his pistol pressed to the back of one of their heads, and ominously pulled back the hammer with an audible click.

“Hold him tight, you two,” he warned.

Al Qatar let off the pressure until he was sure that they had a good grip on their superior. Then he slowly pressed the blade all the way through his skin.

He yanked the knife from the man's throat, allowing the general to fall face down on the ground. Blood rushed from the wound in a torrent of crimson spray, and Husam lay there, a ghastly, choking sound emanating from the back of his throat.

“Now, you hold him,” he ordered, pointing at one of the officers, whose face was a mask of pure horror.

“I—”

“The emir said to hold him,” Jabar said, pressing the pistol to his skull as the soldier slowly forced his comrade to his knees.

“Do you see what happens to people who betray me?”

T
his is bullshit,” SecDef Cage said, glancing out at the reporters packed inside the Pentagon's briefing room.

“Just stick to the talking points, and you'll be fine,” Simmons replied, handing him the seating chart that identified those reporters who were considered safe and the ones he should avoid.

“Why don't
you
take this one?”

“'Cause it's not my job.”

The first thing that Cage felt when he stepped onstage was the heat radiating off the high-intensity lights mounted to the ceiling. He started to sweat immediately as he took his place behind the shiny oak podium centered on the Pentagon's seal. Part of the reason was nerves, but there was more to it than just that.

Cage was about to force the president into a corner.

“Good morning,” he began, glancing over at the American flag, which stood proudly before the light-blue curtain hung behind him.

“Good morning, Mr. Secretary,” the reporters replied enthusiastically, despite being crammed together in their tiny metal chairs.

The notoriously suspect press corps had been smitten with him ever since his very first press briefing, and Cage had no idea why. It was like a one-sided courtship, and the more he resisted their charm, the more they wanted to be accepted.

He found it strange because no matter how much affection they showed him, Cage hated the press.

“At approximately 0400 local time, the DOD, in collaboration with the CIA, launched a raid into Syria and eliminated two high-value targets. The mission was a success, and I am pleased to report that the objective was cleared with minimum casualties on our side. I will now take any questions that you might have.”

“Can you tell us about the operation?” a pretty reporter from the
New York Times
asked loudly.

“Like I said, it was a combined DOD-CIA operation centered on two targets who had extensive links to al Nusra and a group calling themselves the Islamic State of Iraq,” he replied over a barrage of snapping cameras.

He grabbed a glass of water from the top of the podium and took a sip, fighting the urge to wipe the sweat collecting on his brow.

“Yes, James,” he said pointing to a reporter from the
Washington Post
.

“Can you tell us a little about the intel that drove the operation?”

“You need to be more specific.”

“Did the intel come from a drone, signal hit, or an asset on the ground?”

“We utilized all of those methods, and I have to say that the CIA did an excellent job collecting the necessary intelligence, which allowed the president to make an informed decision,” he lied.

“Mr. Secretary?” a middle-aged woman asked from the edge of the room.

Cage didn't need to look at the seating chart to know who the woman was, because he had handpicked her for this exact question.

“Yes, Wendy?” he said casually.

“Is there any truth to the rumors that an unknown group of fighters have conducted an armed incursion into northern Iraq?”

“I'm not sure where you are getting that information,” he replied.

“Well, sir, according to my sources, combined al Nusra and Islamic State fighters have already taken Rabia and are currently besieging Tal Afar. Can you confirm that?”

“At this time, the Pentagon has no knowledge of any incursions, but as I have said before, the region as a whole, and Iraq in particular, have become a hotbed of insurgent activity since we left.”

“Well, on that same note, a video was posted on Al Jazeera that shows what they claim is an American operative from the DIA having his head cut off. The video claims that this man was taken during the operation you spoke of in Syria. Does your office have any information on that?”

Cage took another sip of water, feeling the electric current arcing through the room. He knew he was playing a dangerous game, but he was all in, despite the cost.

“Wendy, on the record, I know nothing about the video. But off the record, I can promise you that it is just a matter of time before we get hit again. If we do not take a more proactive approach, there will be another attack—I can promise you that. The two groups you spoke of, al Nusra and the Islamic State, have had nothing to do but plot their next move since we pulled out of Iraq. Syria has become a breeding ground for radical jihad, and as much as we want to hide our heads in the sand, the fighters there are just waiting for an opportunity to strike.”

  •  •  •  

Thousands of miles from Washington, David Castleman handed a roll of dinars to the taxi driver and stepped out into the street. He'd been traveling for most of the day, and he needed a shower almost as badly as he needed a drink.

There was a special place in his heart for Beirut, a city that had seen better days. The spy had his first posting here, and for some reason he had never let go of the apartment he had bought so many years before.

The smell of the ocean greeted him like a long-lost friend, and he wished he had time to walk down to the beach. Instead, he veered into an alley and headed west toward his destination.

Like everything else in David's life, the apartment was small and unassuming, and as he made his way up the familiar paint-chipped stairs, he had the feeling that he was finally home. He paused outside the light-blue door. Immediately he became alarmed when he noticed the seal he'd put on its side hinge was gone. His hand slipped to the Colt .45 stuck in his waist.

He brought up the pistol. The knob turned easily, and the door swung silently open on well-oiled hinges. The spy stepped silently over the threshold, the barrel of the .45 leading him into the entryway.

A solitary ceiling fan spun lazily in the center of the main room. The curtains billowed gently from the breeze coming off the ocean. The view was breathtaking, but his attention was absorbed by the man sitting on the couch.

“Hope you don't mind I let myself in,” Captain Brantley said, holding up a bottle of beer.

“You could have locked the door,” David replied.

“Yeah, sorry. I can't believe you still carry that old tack driver,” Brantley said, getting to his feet.

“It's a classic, just like me.”

“Hey, whatever works, boss.”

M
ason sat in the passenger seat trying to sleep as Zeus drove them east toward Iraq. Even though he was exhausted, sleep refused to come. Instead, all he could think of was finding Boland's disembodied head in that shitty farmhouse in Syria, staring sightlessly up at him.

The horrors of war weren't anything new, but this demon wouldn't let go. The guilt was the worst part, and he couldn't shake the feeling that it should have been him.

Mason knew that there had to be a reason, a link between the cause and the effect, but he couldn't see it. Both Renee and David had the innate ability to extrapolate the big picture from random bits of action, but he didn't dare call them. He still didn't know whom he could trust.

The question at the forefront of his mind was, why? Anderson had to have an angle, something that justified launching the mission in the first place. Mason knew that if he could just figure that out, he might be able to get in the game.

He had no doubts that someone had tried to kill him with the Hellfire strike. But that was nothing new. Mason knew he had more enemies than friends, but what in the hell could Anderson gain by killing Boland?

Opening his eyes, Mason glanced in the rearview mirror and caught the edge of the coarse blanket peeking over the backseat. Boland deserved a better shroud, but that was all they could find. As he stared at it, he felt a helpless rage boiling up inside him.

“Did you sleep?” Zeus asked.

Mason didn't answer. He bounced a smoke out of the pack of Pine cigarettes he had taken from Boland's pocket. He snapped open his dull gold Zippo and touched the flame to the end of the yellowed cigarette.

The first drag was acrid, burning the back of his throat as it rushed to his lungs. The smokes were made in South Korea, and they reminded him of his time in Afghanistan, when he'd first started smoking. Boland had bought a carton from a local man, and told Mason they were American. He'd never smoked before, and his teammate had laughed hysterically when he almost puked on the dirt floor.