Warning Order (28 page)

“Place your head back against the chair.”

As the president's national security advisor leaned back his head, David walked behind him and looped another zip tie around his neck. He used his left hand to run the free end through the plastic buckle and cinched it.

“Is that too tight?” the spy asked courteously.

“No, it's fine.”

David walked around to the other side of the table, where a large white napkin was draped over a row of objects. He pulled the napkin off slowly, revealing a long kitchen knife, a pair of pruning shears, and a clear plastic bag.

“I need to know who you are working with,” he said, taking the large plastic bag off the table and holding it up with his left hand. “Please resist the urge to lie.”

“Secretary of Defense Cage and General Vann.”

“What about Colonel Anderson?”

“He isn't involved in anything other than planning and execution.”

“And what was your plan, exactly?”

“SecDef Cage has been using his influence to direct national policy through the president of the United States. He used al Qatar to force the president to send the USS
George Bush
into the Gulf, and then alerted al Qatar to when it would be going through the Strait of Hormuz.”

“So you wanted the carrier destroyed to garner support for another invasion into Iraq?”

“Yes. But just disabled. Not sunk.”

“And then what happens?”

“After the invasion, we take enough losses on the ground to validate the use of more troops.”

“What did you two hope to accomplish by this?”

“Destroying the jihadist threat in Iraq and Syria.”

Jacob noticed that tears were flowing down his wife's face, and said, “Baby, I am so sorry. I never meant for it to get so out of hand.”

“Your wife didn't believe me when I informed her of your complicity,” David said, taking a tape recorder out of his pocket and turning it off. “But I promised to both her and your daughter that we would get to the truth.” David held up the recorder like a prize. “It is such a tragedy. You had everything a man could want, right here in this room.”

A
l Qatar was overseeing the emplacement of a ZPU-4 on the south side of a hangar when the phone in his pocket went off.

“Yes,” he said as one of his men took a seat behind the four-barreled antiaircraft gun and rotated the adjusting wheel until it was pointing skyward. They had found boxes of night-vision scopes in one of the armories. He shook his head in disgust as the gunner looked through the scope and said, “It is not working.”

“It is a night sight, you idiot,” one of the men berated him.

“The trucks are loaded and fueled,” Jabar said over the phone. “Are you sure you do not want them closer?”

“They will be fine here. I don't want the American drones to find them,” he replied.

“Has he called yet?”

“No, but he will. You just make sure the men are ready.” With that, al Qatar hung up.

He was annoyed that his source hadn't called yet to tell him when the Americans were planning to launch. He had to wonder if the man was going to keep his word. Forcing the thought from his mind, he gazed across the airfield, lost in thought momentarily.

Even if the man didn't call, al Qatar knew that he had more than enough guns for the Americans, and once the trucks were staged, there was nothing left for him to do but wait.

Sticking his hand in his left pocket, he could feel the remote control that would activate the electromagnetic pulse his man had hardwired into the cell towers. Khalid had told them that the device would slave itself to antennas, and when he activated it, they would destroy any electronic equipment the Americans had. The only problem was that it wouldn't take them long to figure out what was going on. So, in essence, he had only one shot to destroy the initial assault.

He knew this was his last battle, and all he had to do was live long enough to blow the dam and kill all the soldiers on the ground. It had been Ali's plan to blow the massive Mosul dam, and al Qatar thought that this would be the perfect tribute to his fallen comrade.

“Do not leave your position,” he ordered the men as he headed for the ladder that led down to the tarmac. Still the phone didn't ring.

I
think it is a mistake,” Zeus said. The olive-drab cot squeaked beneath him as he turned onto his side.

“Why?” Mason asked wearily. He had slept for more than twelve hours but still felt like crap.

“Because we don't know anything about her,” Zeus replied.

“If you can think of another way, then let me know. But as I see it, this is our only chance to get al Qatar.”

“Is that all you care about, your precious revenge?”

“Excellent question,” Renee said, stepping into their makeshift home. She had a tray of coffee in one hand and a black plastic bag in the other.

Mason got to his feet with a grimace and took the coffees from Renee before handing one to Zeus.

“What's in the bag?”

“Don't try to change the subject. What are you guys conspiring about?”

“The girl Sara,” Zeus offered.

“Fuck, man, you ever heard of operational security?”

Zeus rolled his eyes as Renee tossed the bag onto Mason's cot.

“I got you both fresh uniforms, but if you don't want to tell me what's going on, you can keep wearing that ratty shit.”

That was a good enough bribe for Zeus. “The girl's uncle has connections with the Peshmerga,” he began, ignoring Mason's icy stare, “and Rambo here wants him to sneak us into Mosul so we can kill al Qatar.”

“Are you fucking out of your mind? Just let them bomb the shit out of it and call it a day,” said Renee.

“Seriously?” Mason asked. “It doesn't matter how many bombs they drop or who they put on the ground. I need to see him die.”

“I know you blame him for Boland and Grinch, but—”

“He blew up a fucking aircraft carrier,” Mason almost shouted.

“For once in your life, let someone else help you.”

“Not going to happen,” he replied.

Zeus took a sip of coffee, frowning at the blind need for revenge. “Who made this shit?” he asked, pointing at the cup.

Renee laughed, “Is it that bad?”

“It is terrible. You Americans just don't know how to make coffee.”

“Whatever.” Renee laughed again. “Have you run your little scheme by Anderson yet?”

“Yes and no,” Mason replied. “I told him I could get eyes on the target, but didn't tell him how.”

“Well, I want you to hear it from me before anyone else says anything: I advised against you going out,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes.

“What the—?” Mason said, but she cut him off by raising her hand.

“Look, I'm not trying to screw you. I just think you're too banged up.”

“I told him it was a bad idea also,” Zeus muttered from his cot.

“Maybe you should listen, for once,” Renee said.

Mason rolled his eyes. “If I wanted to talk to my mom, I would go back to LA.”

“Whatever. At least someone cares about you, and I know if the roles were reversed, you would do the same for me. So stop looking all betrayed.”

“Fucking women,” he grumbled, lifting his soiled battle shirt and taking out his smokes. He lit the cigarette with his trusty Zippo and looked up at Renee through the haze of smoke.

“Oh, fuck you,” she said in exasperation. “If you don't want to listen to reason. I'm just trying to save you from yourself. And you're not supposed to smoke in here.”

“Okay,” Mason replied, taking another drag. “So what are you doing on this little jaunt? You still attached to that psycho?”

“Don't try to change the subject,” she said.

“I'm not.”

“No, I've been moved to the main assault.”

“The airborne assault?” he asked, almost choking on his coffee. “When was the last time you did a static line jump?”

“A long-ass time ago, but they sent me through a mini refresher.”

“Jesus. Too bad you're not on the dark side, or I would take you with me.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Anyone seen Blaine?”

“Last I saw of him, he was headed over to the morgue. He looked like hammered shit.” Renee said.

“What do you expect? He and Grinch were tight.”

Mason grunted in pain as he got to his feet and gingerly wind milled his arms before grabbing the battle shirt.

“How's the shoulder?” Zeus asked.

“Fine,” he lied while slipping the shirt over his head. “I know neither one of you agrees with my decision, but I'm standing by it.”

Zeus squinted from the cigarette smoke and studied his friend before answering. Mason couldn't meet his gaze. He knew that lately their relationship had been very one-sided, and deep down he wasn't sure why the Libyan stuck with him. He knew that he owed the man his life, and that by all rights, it should be the other way around.

“You know I'm with you, but I think Blaine is . . .”

“What?” Mason asked, taking a seat beside him.

“He's done, man.”

“I know, but I can't order him to stay behind.”

“Whatever you're gonna do, you better think of it fast, because here he comes,” Zeus said as Mason heard footsteps to his rear.

Just like Renee had said, Blaine looked terrible, with red-rimmed eyes and the same bloody uniform he had worn the previous day.

“I found you a new sling,” he said after dumping the medical supplies on the bed. He tossed the tan piece of nylon into Mason's lap.

“Where have you been?” Mason asked.

“Took a walk. Word is, they are going to bomb the shit out of Mosul before we even hit the ground. So, what's the plan?”

Mason grabbed his battered rifle, and, noticing the blood spatter on its upper handguard, shielded it with his body to keep the others from noticing.

“We were just talking about the op,” Renee said, trying to distract Blaine as Mason snatched his old battle shirt off the ground and used a sleeve to wipe off the blood.

“Fuck, man,” Blaine said softly, sinking onto his cot, his eyes locked on Mason's rifle. “I can't believe he's gone. Did you know that Grinch's wife was pregnant? It was going to be his first kid. How am I supposed to tell her she has to raise it by herself?”

Renee placed a hand on his shoulder as he lowered his head into his hands and began sobbing.

Mason knew that every man had his breaking point, no matter how hard he was. Some soldiers never bounced back from seeing their friends die, and in just a few days, Blaine had lost two of his brothers.

“We're going out again,” Mason said finally, knowing that the sullen shadow that had fallen over the group was unhealthy. “And you're not going.”

“Fuck that, Mason,” Blaine cried. “Who do you think you are, making that call for me?”

Mason knew he was being hypocritical, especially after the argument he'd just had with Renee and Zeus, but he wasn't about to put Blaine in harm's way when his head wasn't in the fight.

“Easy, bro. Someone has to take Grinch's body back to the States, and I don't want it to be a stranger.”

Zeus nodded at Mason, telling him that he was making the right call.

“I can't let you guys go out without me. What if one of you gets hit?”

“We'll have medical coverage. But that's not your concern,” Mason stressed. “You need to be the one who takes him home.”

The anger in Blaine's face dissipated as the logic of the idea sank in. A single tear trickled down his cheek before he nodded his assent.

“Okay,” he said finally.

“Get a shower and change out of that shit. I'll let the bosses know that you're going to help us out on this,” Mason said, walking over to Blaine and placing his hand on the top of his shoulder. “You did all you could. Don't ever forget that.”

A
s the Chinook raced across the ground, Mason used a red-lensed headlamp to check the map on his knee. Flashing the light onto the wrist GPS unit, he realized they were about twenty miles from the landing zone. He was more than ready to get the hell off the bird. His knee was hurting from bracing himself against the pilot's erratic maneuvers, and he cursed aloud as the helo suddenly surged up in the air and then dropped back down again.

Zeus sat up next to him, giving up trying to go to sleep now that they were across the border. “This is intolerable,” he yelled over the engine noise.

Mason pointed at his watch and held up ten fingers.

A group of US Army Pathfinders was seated on the nylon benches that ran the length of the Chinook. Unlike their World War II namesakes, the modern Pathfinders unit was part reconnaissance and part air-to-ground liaison. The men of Fox Company's Red Platoon had once been members of the Eighty-Second's long-range surveillance detachment, but during their last deployment to Afghanistan, they'd had been attached to an aviation unit.

The young paratroopers were instilled with the esprit de corps that comes with belonging to an elite unit, and they had a swagger that Mason appreciated. The men were masters at their jobs, but they had never operated on this side of the fence. He could tell that they were nervous, despite the fact that most of them had spent their entire adult lives in combat.

He turned away, and his mind drifted back to the conversation he'd had with Sara before leaving Turkey. She had wanted to accompany him on the mission, and it had gotten to the point where she'd almost refused to help unless he allowed her to go.

“You can't go; there is no way,” he'd told her, but the woman stared defiantly at him, her chin raised, her arms crossed over her chest.