SEAL Team Six: Hunt the Fox (18 page)

“Why would the same person who warned us about the existence of the sarin and led us to it, at some personal risk, participate in hijacking it when it arrived in Turkey?” he wondered out loud.

Human motivations were often gray and murky.

Oz ran a hand over his smooth head and looked directly into Crocker’s eyes. “I don’t know the answer to this question, but we’ll find out. We have to. My country is now in tremendous danger.”

The question Crocker had posed to Colonel Oz burned in his brain as he and Janice huddled with the rest of the SEALs and the two schoolteachers in the lobby of the clinic, discussing what everyone had seen or heard that morning. Meanwhile, Colonel Oz went with his men to account for every single refugee in the camp to try to ascertain whether any of them had participated in the theft.

What should have been a happy morning had turned into a nightmare. Amira and Natalie were frightened and had little to say. In fact, Natalie completely shut down again. Amira explained that the women had been offered beds in the clinic housed in the old train station. They fell asleep immediately, heard nothing, didn’t see Hassan after they left the lobby, and were unaware that anything had happened until they were awakened by camp commander Nasar, who they claimed had treated them harshly. Now they worried that they would somehow be held responsible and forced to return to Syria.

“Why do you say that?” Crocker asked gently.

Amira covered her eyes with her hands. She had worn the same black stretch pants and a dark-red tunic since the first time they’d met. “Because the Turks are angry, and they’re men.”

He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, but he stopped himself, remembering what the two schoolteachers had gone through in Syria.

“Not to worry,” he said. “My men and I will make sure you’re treated well and never forced to return.”

“Thank you,” Amira replied, lowering her eyes. “You’ve been very kind…so far.”

Next he went to the visitors’ tent and asked each man to describe what he had seen or heard since their arrival.

“I slept in the clinic on a cot,” Akil said. “I don’t remember seeing Hassan after I left the truck. I went out like a light and didn’t hear or see shit. Don’t even remember dreaming.”

“I carried all the comms out of the van and set them in the corner of this tent,” Davis remembered. “I wanted to Skype with my wife and tell her I was safe but was too tired to even think. And I was scheduled to relieve Suarez at 0730, so I wanted to catch some z’s. Don’t remember seeing Hassan at all. I was awakened by shouts from the Turkish guards at around 0700 and saw them trying to revive Suarez. I looked for you, boss, but didn’t know where you were. That’s all…”

“Davis and I helped the women out of the van,” said Mancini. “Jamila and Hassan seemed to be squabbling about something. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but they both looked unhappy. I saw him checking his phone, which I thought was odd. Then one of Nasar’s men escorted Davis and me to the white visitors’ tent. I threw my gear in, and went outside to the latrine to wash up. When I came back, Hassan was sitting by the cot beside the door. I asked him if anything was wrong. He shook his head. I lay down and fell asleep.”

Hassan’s backpack, with a Spiderman pin attached, still lay by the cot. They searched it: a change of clothes, dirty underwear, toothbrush, toilet paper, and three thousand pounds in Syrian currency, which was worth about twenty U.S. dollars.

“Travels light,” said Davis.

Akil: “Not even a pack of rubbers.”

Interesting that Hassan was arguing with Jamila when they exited the truck, then went to the clinic a few minutes later, kissed her, told her he loved her for the first time, and disappeared.

Crocker sorted through the information in his head, thinking that he had to talk to Jamila again, when the light on the sat-phone lit up. On the other end of the line he heard the voice of his commander, Captain Alan Sutter, calling from ST-6 headquarters in Virginia.

“Crocker, you okay?” he asked in the raspy Kentucky drawl that evoked horse farms and bourbon.

“Been a whole lot better, sir. I’m here with my team trying to make heads or tails of a very troublesome and confusing situation.”

“I imagine you were halfway home in your head when it happened.”

“I was asleep, sir,” said Crocker. “Dead to the world. Most of us were.”

“How’s Suarez?” Sutter asked.

“Not so good, from what I’ve heard, but still alive. He was taken to a local hospital. Soon as I sort things out here, I’ll follow up.”

“Wait.…Good news. Just got word from Ankara that his condition has stabilized.”

Crocker felt relieved. “That means they’ve stanched the internal bleeding. That’s good.”

“He’s being medevaced to the NATO hospital in Diyarbakır.”

“When?”

“Soon. Hold on.” Sutter came back twenty seconds later and said, “Look, Grissom wants you out of the country. He’s pretty adamant about that. Anders seems too overcome by events to express an opinion.”

Crocker said, “I believe it’s a mistake to run away now. We’ve got a very dangerous situation here, and we need to help the Turks figure it out.”

“I knew you’d say that. And I know that if I tell you to take your tail straight to the airport you’ll find a way to stick around.”

“Sir—”

“Do what you gotta do, Crocker. But keep in mind that you’re the one who’s going to have to justify this at some point. This goes further south and guys like Grissom will feast on your throat.”

Crocker swallowed hard. “I know how it works.”

“Remember, he’s the chief and he’s under fire, so don’t expect him to be supportive.”

“I won’t.”

“Stay alert, be smart, don’t get led by emotion.”

“Sound advice, sir.”

“Godspeed.”

C
rocker felt
as though everything he had ever accomplished was slipping down the drain and the earth itself was shifting under his feet. On his way back to the clinic to talk again with Jamila, Captain Nasar—a tall man with a gray handlebar mustache—intercepted him and said, “Colonel Oz is waiting for you by the gate. He wants you to bring one of your men and go with him.”

Crocker looked down and saw that he was still wearing the medical robe over his black pants. “Where?”

Nasar shook his head.

“Did he say why?”

“No, but he asked you to hurry.”

If Akil hadn’t still been recovering from the wound to his shoulder, he would have chosen him, because even though he didn’t speak Turkish, he had a good understanding of people from this corner of the world.

He asked Mancini to accompany him instead, borrowed a black tee from him that he pulled over his head, and told Davis to monitor developments at the camp as best he could. Should he learn anything new from Jamila, he should communicate it to Captain Nasar, who seemed to be a smart guy.

“Inform me, too. I’ll carry my burner.”

“Where are you going?”

Crocker shrugged. “No idea. But I’ll let you know when we get there.”

Two Turkish-made Cobra light-armored vehicles waited outside the gate. Most of the U.S. Cobras Crocker had seen were equipped with overhead Rafael Spike antitank missile systems. The Turks had armed theirs with Nexter 20mm M621 cannons with day and thermal imaging sights instead. Otherwise they had the same compact profile, with all-welded steel hulls and wide, fully opening side and rear doors that facilitated rapid crew entry and exit.

The two SEALs were directed into the rear of the second vehicle by a Turkish commando who looked like a ninja in his black uniform, black helmet, and black face mask.

“Batman,” Mancini muttered under his breath as he climbed in after Crocker.

The air inside was already cranked up, chilling the sweat on Crocker’s arms and neck. They sat opposite the ninja and four similarly outfitted soldiers on one of the rear benches. Almost immediately the driver powered up the turbo diesel V8 engine, put the auto transmission in Drive, and they took off at high speed following the Cobra ahead. Through the glazed side window Crocker saw that they were climbing into mist-covered hills.

“Any clue about our destination?” whispered Mancini.

“South Beach, I hope, for a couple cold Coronas at the Love Hate Lounge.”

“Any idea what this is about?”

“I thought you liked surprises.”

“Not when the guys taking me there are wearing face masks and armed with M5s.”

Crocker grinned. He was trying to remain calm and centered. One way or another he and his men were going to recover the sarin.

“The next surprise can’t be any bigger than the last one,” Mancini muttered.

“Yeah.”

His brain was burning
. Had elements of ISIS or AQ followed them from Syria? Did they radio ahead to their colleagues in Turkey, who then raided the camp? Did they kill Hassan and dump his body? Did Hassan play some part in the plot?
This seemed like a stretch, given how studious and physically cowardly he had appeared to be, but anything was possible.

The Cobras were hauling ass now, climbing into mountains. Feeling tired and empty, and somewhat discouraged, he fought the negative thoughts that floated into his head.
Shit happens. I’ve dealt with it before. Even major fuckups.

He remembered one of his first missions with ST-6, when they had gone into Croatia in search of an HVT, a high-value target, during the Bosnian War. They were looking for a Serbian financier, drug and arms trafficker, and human rights abuser—a nasty guy who was said to keep a collection of human thumbs. They received intel that he was living in a villa on the island of Lokrum in the Adriatic Sea, just off the coast near Dubrovnik. Picturesque as hell.

Crocker and three other SEALs had swum in and raided the place at night, literally separating the guy from his girlfriend and carting him off. When they got back to the navy frigate they had launched from, they found out they’d nabbed the guy’s brother, a former professional tennis player and restaurateur. The government had had to pay him major bucks to keep his mouth shut.

He drifted off and woke to the sound of urgent Turkish voices over the radio. The Cobra slowed down. According to his Suunto, almost an hour had passed. Mancini sat holding his arms across his chest, eyes shut.

He shook his buddy awake as the commandos across from them lowered the visors on their helmets and readied their weapons.

“Something’s about to go down,” Crocker whispered.

“Yeah? What?”

Mancini sat up, blinked, and looked around. Immediately alert, he reached for his weapon only to realize he was unarmed. They both were.

The vehicle had stopped on an inclined gravel road. Not much to see out the side window except for a huge mound of gray gravel mixed with dirt. The back door flew open and the commandos hustled out. The ninja who had escorted them in indicated to Mancini and Crocker to stay inside.

The big doors shut behind them and they waited. They didn’t hear gunfire and couldn’t see the Turk commandos until two of them opened the back and waved them out.

“Now what?” Mancini asked.

“Showtime.”

The commandos pushed the SEALs up the incline and followed. Boots crunched against gravel. They passed the lead Cobra with one soldier inside talking excitedly on the radio, his boots up on the dash. Climbed another ten feet and smelled the sea in the distance.

From the summit Crocker spotted a large gravel quarry to their right, partially filled with still blue water. Reflected clouds floated across the surface, dreamlike.

He didn’t see the commandos at first, then heard Oz’s voice, rough and urgent. The Turks were standing on the continuation of the gravel road that curled along the other side of the gravel-and-dirt mound and wound downward. They had surrounded a parked Mercedes 2.5-ton truck—a deuce and a half. Dark blue, maybe ten years old, with a worn canvas cover over the back.

Oz saw Crocker and waved him forward. Other soldiers wearing light-blue plastic gloves were examining the inside of the cab and cargo area.

“This is the truck they used,” Oz pronounced. “It was abandoned here.”

“You sure?” Crocker asked, looking around and seeing not a house or a structure. It was a good place to hide a truck or do an exchange.

“Yes. This is it.”

“You find anything inside?”

“Not yet, but we’re looking.”

“How did you locate it?” Crocker asked, calculating that it had probably taken the hijackers about an hour to get here. That meant they had at least an hour and a half lead on them. Maybe more.

Oz pointed proudly to the sky. “Air surveillance.” The engine of the small spotter aircraft buzzed in the distance.

“Clever, Colonel. I assume they’re looking for the next one now? The second vehicle?”

“Or the third. Yes.”

Mancini whispered into Crocker’s ear, “Boss, this is a damn mess from a forensics perspective. Look.” He pointed to the soldiers inside the trucks who were touching every surface, smudging possible fingerprints, dragging their boots over the seats and across the cargo bed.

“You absolutely certain this is the truck?” Crocker asked.

“Yes,” Oz answered, puffing out his chest. “Why else would it sit here abandoned, with the keys still in the ignition?” He reached into his pocket and proudly held up a single key in a plastic bag.

“You find any witnesses? Anyone who saw anything?”

“No. No one. They’re too smart.”

“Who?”

“ISIS.”

“How do you know that?”

Oz grinned and pointed to his head. “We have information.”

“What information?”

One of the commandos handed Oz a Motorola radio, and he started speaking into it excitedly.

From the bluff where they stood, the SEALs could see the coast about a half mile away through the mist, which was starting to burn off. Mancini pointed to a relatively busy four-lane highway that snaked along the rocky shore.

The sarin was probably far away by now, hidden somewhere or on its way to its destination. Crocker felt the same way he did when he saw the World Trade Center towers tumble to the ground—devastated and filled with rage.

Oz continued barking into a handheld radio. A half minute later, when he pulled it away from his ear, Crocker pointed to the highway and asked, “What’s that?”

“The O-52 motorway. Of course, we’ve blocked it and are in the process of blocking all other roads. We’re inspecting everything. We’ll have the sarin back soon.”

Crocker wished he felt as confident, but “in process” didn’t sound good. “What about the coast?” Crocker asked.

Oz frowned before he answered. “It’s very rocky here. Very difficult currents. I don’t think so, because it would be hard to load anything there. But I’ll send up some helicopters to look.”

It wasn’t the answer Crocker wanted to hear. “Good idea,” he responded. “Maybe you should deploy some launches, too.”

“We’re taking care of everything.” Oz seemed to be getting annoyed.

“And check all local airports.”

He could tell by Oz’s expression that he hadn’t thought of that. In drastic, chaotic situations like these it was hard to stay sober and think straight.