SEAL Team Six: Hunt the Fox (16 page)

First he wanted to take a quick look at Akil’s shoulder to see if the tourniquet was working.

He said, “Hassan, take the wheel.”

“But—”

“Take the fucking wheel and maintain current speed!”

Hassan grumbled something as he grabbed the steering wheel. Akil slid closer to him, then they squeezed past each other and changed places, Akil holding his left shoulder.

Crocker shone a light on it and leaned forward to look.

“Bad?” Akil asked.

“Hold the flashlight and keep quiet.”

“As long as my dick is still working.”

Crocker cut away the wet T-shirt, cleaned the wound with an alcohol prep, applied some local anesthetic, smeared in some QuikClot, and covered it with a Battle Wrap compression bandage. Blood was spattered all over the driver’s seat and window. He didn’t know if it was Akil’s or the jihadist’s, or both.

“Ugly mofo,” Akil said, “with stinking breath.”

“Lean back. Drink some water. How do you feel?”

“Like I want to kick ass.”

Crocker grinned, slapped him gently on the side of the head. “You’re just as fucked up as you were before.”

“Lousy doc. I ought to sue.”

“For what? Listening to your BS?”

Through the earbuds he heard: “Deadwood, the jeep in back is within fifty feet of us.”

“Slow down,” Crocker ordered.

“Can you repeat that?”

“Ease up on the accelerator. Slow down.”

“Ill-advised, boss,” Mancini responded. “Could be a suicide bomber.”

“Could be. But I don’t think so.”

“Not a chance we should take.”

Mancini had a point. Crocker into the head mic: “Manny, you still got those portable StunRays?”

“Affirmative.”

“They functional?”

“The lithium batteries are pretty hardy, so should be. Want me to test them?”

“No time. What’s the range on those suckers?”

“They incapacitate at up to one hundred fifty feet.”

“All right. Slow down, then direct ’em behind you and blind the fucker!”

“Like that idea. Will do. Over.”

Crocker craned his neck out the window and looked back as the Mitsubishi pulled within sixty feet of the Sprinter. Suarez, Davis, and Mancini each held one of the XL-2000 handhelds out the window and switched them on at the same time. The intense light turned the road and jeep completely white.

It nearly blinded Crocker, too. He steadied his 416 against the rear windowsill and tried to fix a bead on the driver, just in case.

Whoever it was seemed to be losing control of the jeep, swerving left, then right. The Mitsubishi hit the right shoulder, dipped into a ditch, hit the ground grille-first, and flipped over. One complete turn, then another, and then it stopped roof-down in some shrubs.

“Stop!” Crocker shouted. Akil slammed on the brakes, and Crocker jumped out and ran back, weapon ready. He was joined by Suarez cradling an M5. Together they examined the overturned vehicle through their NVGs but couldn’t find the driver. Suarez pointed into the weeds ahead. Through the smoke Crocker saw a large figure lying on his belly and groaning. He had been thrown and landed chest-first. They couldn’t see his face.

“Yadahu! Yadahu!”
(Hands!), Crocker shouted in Arabic. “Let me see your hands.”

The guy wasn’t moving. Still, Crocker remained cautious. “He reaches for anything, waste him.”

Both of the big man’s arms were trapped underneath him and he wasn’t moving. Suarez stepped over him to get a look at his face.

He leaned closer and exclaimed, “Boss! Boss, look. I think it’s Babas!”

“Babas? You mean Zeid’s friend?”

“I think so, yeah. Check it out.”

Crocker knelt down to get a good look and recognized the thick brow and long nose. Also saw that the man’s spine had snapped near his neck.

“Shit,” Crocker said with a groan. “He’s toast.”

They listened to him breathe his last. Watched his body tremble and relax.

Suarez: “What do you think he wanted?”

“Unclear, poor guy,” Crocker answered, shouldering the 416. “Let’s check the jeep.”

Nothing except a loaded AK on the floor, a Glock 9mm in the glove compartment, and an old copy of
Penthouse
stuffed under the seat, along with a half-eaten falafel. The vehicle itself was unsalvageable, with a broken rear axle.

Suarez: “I think he was trying to help us, boss.”

“Could be. Yeah. If he was…damn shame.”

The light Suarez was holding washed across Crocker’s head. “Hey, boss. What happened to your face?”

Crocker ran his hand along it, finding shallow slashes and coagulating blood. “Grass back there sliced me good. Let’s go.”

Davis, in the Sprinter, was on the phone. Seeing Crocker, he put his hand over the receiver and said, “Ankara’s sats picked up our GPS signal, and they’re mad as hell. Want to know why we’re moving and where.”

“Have they cleared air rescue?”

“Negative. But they informed me that they tried to put up a Predator but were overruled by HQ because of the heavy Syrian air force activity.”

“So nothing’s new.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Tell ’em they’re fucking useless, and we don’t need their help!”

T
here was
no room in the trucks for Babas, so they buried him as well as they could, uttered a prayer, took his weapons, and proceeded. A Syrian helicopter passed low overhead. Nerves were fraying. Hassan and the women were almost delirious with fright. Crocker asked Suarez to sit with the latter and try to keep them calm, and instructed Hassan and Mancini to keep driving in the direction of the border. He kept an eye out for headlights, roadblocks, and anything in the air.

He used gauze and peroxide to wipe the blood off his face and arms. Stung like hell, especially along the side of his mouth. His watch showed that it was approaching midnight. The handheld Garmin GPS indicated that they were less than twenty miles from the border.

All they needed now was a little luck.

Just when it looked like the road ahead was clear, they heard the roar of jet afterburners as three MiG-21s tore past at low altitude. A panicked Hassan almost steered the F-250 off the road.

“What was that?”

“Ignore everything else and drive.”

A minute later the landscape ahead lit up with multiple large explosions. Then the road itself jumped as if it was trying to shake something off.

“You think they saw us?” asked Hassan.

“Likely,” replied Akil.

“Pull off,” ordered Crocker. “Hide the trucks.”

“Here? Again?” Akil said.

“Yeah, again.”

“Where?” Hassan asked. “I can’t see anything.”

“We’ll find a spot.”

“Deadwood, it’s Breaker,” heard Crocker through the earbuds. “Ankara reports that Assad’s jets are pounding an FSA convoy ahead.”

“Great.”

“What do we do now?” Hassan asked.

“Stop asking questions, and keep your eyes on the road.”

They watched the MiG-21s climb high into the clouds, then dive for another pass. The land ahead lit up again and shook.

Akil pointed to the Ford’s heat gauge and said, “We’ve got another problem, boss. This baby’s overheating.”

Crocker leaned forward and saw the thermostat had reached the danger zone.

“What should I do?” Hassan asked.

Crocker saw a dirt road ahead that snaked into some hills. He pointed to it. “Turn off there. Pull into that clump of trees and stop.”

“Then what?”

“Then we try to fix this shitbox.”

Mancini, who knew vehicles and engines, did a quick inspection under the hood and came back with bad news. It wasn’t a hose he could patch. Instead, a round had torn into the radiator and done extensive damage.

“Give me a solution.”

“All the fluid has leaked out,” Mancini replied. “I might be able to rig something around the radiator, don’t know what. But it’s gonna take time.”

Crocker didn’t like the idea of sitting there with the MiGs so close and Assad’s units maybe moving into the area for some kind of mop-up operation.

“Guys, we’re gonna have to pile everyone and everything into the Sprinter.”

“Don’t know if we’ll fit,” said Davis.

“Either that or we leave you here and come back for you tomorrow.”

“Very funny, boss.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Screw that.”

“Then let’s start unloading.”

The men were sweating hard, stripped to their waists, arranging and rearranging, taking special precautions with the sarin and the baby. It reminded Crocker of packing the family station wagon for a vacation when he was a kid.

Eight canisters, a baby, three women, Akil, and Davis all crammed in back. Jamila held little Tariq like he was the most precious thing in the world.

We’ll find a way,
thought Crocker.

Suarez siphoned out the remaining diesel fuel. He even took the spare tire, just in case. Then squeezed himself into the cargo bay against the door.

Mancini, Hassan, and Crocker sat shoulder to shoulder in the cab, Mancini at the wheel. No room to scratch an itch.

“Hey, Akil, how are you doing?” Crocker asked into the head mic.

“Bleeding’s stopped. I might live.”

“Good. Keep drinking water.”

“Tell Manny he drives like shit.”

“Manny, Akil says you drive like shit.”

“Tell Akil to stop whining like a little girl.”

The badly potholed road they were on didn’t appear on any of the GPS or sat maps Ankara Station had provided.

“You want me to call Ankara and ask if they can pull up something better, or send us some better sat imaging?” Davis asked through the earbuds as they approached a moderately steep hill.

“First let’s see if this baby can handle the weight.”

The 161-horsepower engine whined and struggled. They chugged uphill at twenty-five miles an hour sounding like a tugboat. Passing over the crest and into a little valley Crocker spotted a farmhouse with a bombed-in roof to the right. A wooden shed with a faint yellow light in the window stood near a patch of willow trees.

More bombs exploded to the northwest. Crocker said, “Stop, Manny. Pull over.”

Then he grabbed Hassan’s wrist. “Let’s take a look.”

“Why me?”

“I need your language skills. Akil’s hurt.”

“But—”

“Davis, you come too. I’ll hold your hand.”

Crocker was already outside, weapon ready and in a crouch, holding Hassan by the arm with his free hand.

“What’re we looking for?” Davis asked.

“Help, a road map, directions, a fucking helicopter. You back us up.”

He and Hassan ran hunched over and came up under the window. Inside they saw a skinny old man with a dog, listening to an old cassette tape player and darning a pair of socks. Strains of “Hey Jude” by the Beatles passed through the weathered wooden slats. Crocker flashed back to his high school girlfriend Kelly, who learned the song on the guitar and sang in a whispery, sweet voice. She had the prettiest mouth he’d ever seen and green eyes.

He signaled to Davis to kneel to the right of the door, then handed him his 416 and hid the 226 in the back waistband of his pants so he wouldn’t look too intimidating, even though he was stripped to the waist and covered with dirt and sweat. He knocked twice, then backed up and knelt on the ground so that if anyone fired through the door, he wouldn’t get hit in the chest.

Someone inside groaned something.

“What did he say?” Crocker whispered.

“He says he’s an old man,” Hassan whispered back. “We can go in.”

Crocker stood, turned the knob, and stepped inside.

The little room smelled of old leather and BO. The gray-bearded man looked up as if ready to accept anything. “Welcome,” he said in Arabic. “I won’t ask questions. If you have any food, I’ll be very grateful. Otherwise, take what you want. There’s hardly anything left.”

Crocker turned back to tell Davis to bring the last couple of MREs from the van while Hassan explained that they were humanitarian workers carrying wounded refugees to Turkey. Highway 60 was under attack and they needed to find an alternative route.

The old man had heard the explosions, even though he was deaf in one ear. All he had left was his dog and a couple of tapes for his cassette player. He showed how he had jerry-rigged the radio to work on AA batteries.

When Crocker handed him the MREs he smiled, revealing only two remaining front teeth. “Rest here for the night,” the old man said. “We can talk about the women in our lives and listen to music.”

The old man offered to brew coffee on a burner made from an ashtray filled with some kind of anise-flavored liquor. He showed them how he collected the melted wax from his candles and reused it, inserting strips of fabric to serve as wicks.

“You’re a generous man,” Crocker said in Arabic. “But we’re in a hurry to get back to Turkey. Can you show us the way?”

“Of course,” the old man said as he drew a map on the back of an old piece of paper. “I was hoping you could stay a while. Because the only thing I haven’t been able to solve is the loneliness.” He showed them that if they followed the road they were on it would link with another and then a third that would take them to the Turkish border town of Kilis.

Crocker patted the dog’s head. “You’ve got him.”

“My friend Arak is even older and more feeble than I am. Maybe before we die things will change again, and people will come back.”

“I hope so.”

“How long will it take us to reach Kilis, approximately?” Hassan asked.

The man considered and held up a crooked finger. “Maybe one hour.”

Mancini drove while Crocker sat with his 416 ready by the passenger window and Hassan slept between them with his head back and his mouth wide open.

“Big day for the young man,” Mancini commented.

“Yeah.”

Davis reported that baby and mother were resting peacefully in back. Akil was running a fever.

“Give him a couple Advils from the medical pack.”

“Roger.”

The Sprinter engine labored hard as they climbed slowly through winding hills. Olive and fig groves glistened in the moonlight. A breeze carried the scent of rosemary. The dull thud of explosions continued in the distance to their right.

As they chugged along at thirty miles an hour, Mancini said, “This land was controlled by the Macedonians, then the Romans, the Ottomans, and ceded to the French after World War I.”

“All that nonsense, and it probably hasn’t changed much.”

Mancini changed the subject. “You hear about the blonde who put lipstick on her forehead so she could make up her mind?”

Sometimes the problems came so fast and from so many directions that all you could do was laugh.

“I like that one, Manny.”

He looked at the fuel gauge, which showed they were down to less than a quarter of a tank.

“Why do blondes wear underwear?” Mancini asked, rubbing the tribal tattoo on his neck.

“Why?”

“To keep their ankles warm.”

“Really?”

“What do you call the skeleton in the closet with blond hair?”

“Give up.”

“Last year’s hide-and-seek winner.”

Crocker liked that one. His back burned, his face and arms itched from the scratches, and his whole right side ached, but none of that mattered. He was looking for the last turnoff, which the old man said would be past two burned-out tanks and a barn on the left.

He and Mancini had been working together for nearly ten years now. They’d witnessed almost every kind of tragedy imaginable—from drownings to bombings, plane crashes, and beheadings. They’d shared a lot of good times, too—hot-air balloon racing in New Mexico, surfing in Hawaii, climbing Mount Kilimanjaro, marlin fishing off the coast of Chile. They’d seen colleagues marry, have children, and watched them die. Even though they weren’t close friends off-duty, Crocker thought of him as his brother. He couldn’t imagine going on a mission without him.

Seeing Mancini yawn, Crocker asked, “You want to rest while I take over?”

“No, boss. As long as you stay awake and talk to me, I’m good.”

“Pretty land.”

“Yeah, reminds me a little of Tuscany.”

“Good wine and pretty women.”

Mancini shook his head and smiled.

“What?” Crocker asked.

“Remember the time you, me, and Ritchie grabbed that Libyan terrorist and his girlfriend outside of Assisi?”

“Yeah. We had to drive to Milan dressed as priests.”

“That was Ritchie’s idea,” Mancini said.

“Pissed the Italian authorities off. Fucking Ritchie.”

“I miss him.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

An hour and a half later, Crocker spotted yellow-and-orange signs warning that Syrian customs stood ten kilometers ahead. The lack of roadblocks had induced a state of complacency that was quickly replaced by concern.

What if the Syrians try to stop us? We don’t know which rebel faction controls the
border. If they’re Assad’s people, we could be screwed.

His anxiety grew as they drew closer. Red-and-yellow warning lights flashed ahead.

“What do you think?” Mancini asked, the bold colors washing over his face. “You want to turn off the road and find a way around it?”

Crocker looked at the fuel gauge, which was already in the red. “Don’t want to get stuck here. No. Fuck it.”

“Should we stop and contact Ankara?”

“What are they gonna do?” asked Crocker, craning his neck left and right, looking for an alternate route.

“I don’t know. Call ahead, maybe. Tell us who controls the border.”

“They’ve been useless so far,” Crocker responded. “Let’s pull closer and take a look.”

They approached within two hundred feet of the border. Mancini paused outside a boarded-up store while Crocker checked out the facility through the Steiners. Saw that the barriers were up in both directions and no one appeared to be manning the checkpoint.

“Looks unoccupied,” he said, relieved. “We should be good.”

They readied their weapons just in case, then passed an old man sweeping the little guard shack, and a sleeping dog. Neither looked up.

“Sweet.”

“Now what?”

“Look for an IHOP and order a big breakfast.”

“Pancakes, eggs, bacon, coffee.”

The Turkish side was quiet, too. A couple of young soldiers with M1s looked at the blue cross on the hood of the van and nodded.

They stopped in a parking lot past the blue-and-white customs building and called Janice on the satellite phone.

She answered on the sixth ring from Yaylada
ğ
i. “Who’s this?”

“It’s Crocker. We made it.”

“You’re back in Turkey?”

“Yeah. Just arrived. Where’s the closest IHOP?”

“Excellent. Fantastic news. Where are you?” Janice asked.

“The town’s called Karbeyaz,” Crocker answered, reading the name off a sign and mispronouncing it. Somehow they had missed the turnoff to Kilis.

“That’s northeast of here. Hold on. I’m going to go get Colonel Oz.”

Ten minutes later she was back on the line. “Where precisely are you now?”

“We’re parked in a lot just past the Turkish checkpoint.”

“You’re in possession of the sarin?”

“Yeah, we’ve got it, a newly delivered baby, a mother, and an injured colleague who needs medical attention.”