Target Deck - 02 (57 page)

“What about moving people around the battle space? What about the Arabs moving in and out.”

“What Arabs?”

“They know all about it Chris,” Ed said, peering through the door. “They know about The Arab.”

“Jesus, Ed! You are working with these people?”

“I am now,” the pilot said stepping inside. “Those people are butchers. I saw what they did.”

“You can't be serious,” Chris snorted. Danny held his injured hand and whimpered to himself.

“Did you know we were ferrying death squads in and out of Mexico?”

“I didn't know and didn't ask Ed. I knew better and thought you did too. We both knew we were not playing paddy cake down there so don't pretend you are innocent in all this.”

“Where?” Deckard interrupted. “Where are they being flown back too? Where the hell are these guys working out of?”

Chris took a deep breath.

“Area 14,” he said with a sigh. “The Nevada test site.”

“No fucking way,” Pat snarled. “You are trying to tell us that some group of Arab terrorists is being housed on a US government facility?”

“You know where that is?” Deckard asked.

“Yeah, it's a Department of Energy Facility where they used to do test detonations of nuclear bombs back in the old days. It is separated into different areas but there is nothing much out there today. There is an aircraft bone yard where we used to train up on aircraft take downs when I was with Delta. There are a few other facilities out that way but like I said, it's pretty empty.”

“We are not told where the flights are coming from,” Chris said. “But between me and Danny, we've put two and two together over the years. They are being flown out of the airfield at Area 14 and then flown back after their missions are completed.”

“The Department of Energy is putting them up?”

“Who knows?”

It wouldn't be the first time that a covert operation was buried behind official cover. It was actually a common practice for CIA agents to operate under official cover as State Department employees. By some estimates, more than half of State Department employees were actually working under the auspices of the CIA. DOE was nondescript enough to offer plausible top cover for a foreign fighter terrorist cell operating in Mexico, no one would look for a covert operation of that nature hidden inside the DOE.

“Are they there now?”

“The Arabs? Yeah. We had another pilot fly them back to Area 14 about seven or eight hours ago,” Chris said.

“You thinking what I'm thinking?” Pat said from behind Deckard.

“I sure am,” Deckard replied.

Chris saw the expression on their faces.

“They must have an entire compound over there full of those guys. With the amount of different faces we've seen over the last couple years coming through from Area 14 there must be a platoon if not a company strength element. You'll be shot to pieces.”

“I'll fly,” Ed offered.

“I appreciate that Ed, I really do,” Deckard said sincerely. “But I lost an airplane full of my men the last time I tried to air land on a hostile airfield that hadn't been cleared. I won't ask my men to do that again.”

“Before I took off today I saw that the Golden Knights are here. I got to talking to one of them and they are here at Bliss to train up for a parachute jump into a Texas Rangers game next week.”

“Sky trash,” Aghassi snorted. “I was doing solo HALO infils into Pakistan while those sky divers were telling the girls war stories in the bar.”

Pat laughed. He had been on a few similar infils with his Delta team. Some went better than others.

“Yeah,” Ed said. “But you guys are like some kind of black ops team that takes out the trash so why don't you just borrow their parachutes and jump into Area 14? They left everything in the hangar next door.”

“Aghassi, go make that happen,” Deckard began assigning tasks. “Four parachutes, one tandem rig since Nikita has never done a free fall jump. Ed, get your plane refueled and warmed up. Pat, start preparing weapons and equipment for the jump.”

“What about me?” Nikita asked.

“You can hog tie these two knuckleheads,” Deckard said pointing to Danny and Chris. “And dump them both in a mop closet where they won't be found until our business has been concluded.”

49

Hot air rippled up from the surface of the Nevada desert.

Even in the darkness of night, the mirage could be seen with the naked eye, obscuring the hills far off in the distance. The desert nights could be brutal but not as brutal as the one The Arab had lived in.

He couldn't sleep. Tossing and turning, he was always restless, always had to keep moving. Whenever he stopped, the world came crashing in on him. As he looked out across the desert, The Arab ran a hand under his shirt and across the uneven grooves lined over his belly. The deep scars continued all the way up his chest, the horizontal slash marks matching those on his arms. More scars ran down his thighs and some on his back, as far back as he had been able to reach with his blade.

Sometimes the scar tissue tightened and pulled at his skin, becoming extremely painful. Once a year or so his masters would have him visit a plastic surgeon to help relieve the tension.

Lighting a cigarette, he thought about that night seven years ago. Finishing a bottle of whiskey he wandered the back streets of Baghdad, stumbling and falling every few steps. He was ready to check out. A life of poverty, petty crime, murder, and prostitution had left him with nothing. The Arab knew that he was spiraling out of control, consuming everything in his path.

He had killed people for no reason at all, stalking them down the dark streets and sinking a knife into them. Men and children alike were his targets, whoever was vulnerable and alone. With his gang of thieves they had tracked down a man who had owed them money in a neighborhood. The Arab held him down while they took turns gang raping him.

The Arab couldn't feel anything anymore, the alcohol didn't numb him, it but made him disoriented. Reaching for the razor blade he carried he decided to end it. The sharp blade parted skin and flesh up and down his arms, legs, and torso. Bleeding and alone he screamed, laying in the street in a drunken mess.

Closing his eyes, he let go and the darkness took him in.

His next memory was hazy. He woke up in a hospital bed with attendants looking over him. He came to find out later that he was in Camp Ashraf north of Baghdad. As it had turned out, the followers of a radical Sheik named Massoud had found him and taken him in. He would come to learn that they had use for a man like him.

The following months were painful in more ways than one. As his wounds healed, he was also compelled to confess his sins to Massoud. Massoud had been a quiet and patient man, the only father figure that The Arab had ever really had. The Sheik was the leader of the group housed at Camp Ashraf, a type of refugee camp established after the 2003 American invasion. There lived the People's Mujaheddin of Iran, or MEK as they were known to the occupation forces.

Once Massoud was convinced of The Arab's loyalty, his skills were then put to use. With additional training and access to weaponry, he spent much of his time in Iran conducting midnight border runs. MEK had been a Marxist terrorist organization that had fought inside Iran since the 1960's. Saddam had given them refuge, and now the Americans. He did well in Iran, launching kidnappings, assassinations, and bombings against government officials.

Later, he was sent elsewhere in the Middle East. He even did a six month job in Chechnya. Massoud gave him orders and The Arab did not question. For the first time in his life, he had a purpose. The criminal skills he had acquired, the brutal ways of the Baghdad streets were actually seen as an asset. What once made him an outcast now made him a trusted fighter that other MEK members looked up to.

From Libya, to Saudi Arabia, to Bahrain, The Arab did what was asked of him. Today it was Mexico, but his communications with Massoud indicated that they were just closing the net, preparing the battlefield to finally finish off Iran. The Arab looked forward to that day, the day when a piece of Iran would be handed over for him to rule over as a warlord.

The dead gave him no cause for concern. The motivations behind the kill orders were immaterial. There were no humans involved.

Looking up at the moon, The Arab turned and walked back to his dormitory.

Deckard ate shit when he hit the ground.

First his feet collided with the desert floor and then he belly flopped right into it. Spitting the grime out of his mouth, he groaned, his entire body feeling like it needed a tune up. Night landings were always rough when you couldn't see the ground and had to judge it by looking at the horizon. He should have pulled his toggles halfway down to slow his forward momentum a lot sooner.

From the sound of things, his comrades were not fairing much better. Pat slammed down somewhere to his front. He came down heavy as he had to tandem jump with Nikita strapped to his parachute harness. Aghassi touched down beside him, apparently lighter than a feather as he pulled down on his toggles to slow the parachute's forward drive and executed a stand up landing. The black and gold colored parachute collapsed behind him.

Grimacing, Deckard shrugged out of his parachute harness and balled it up with the parachute. They would have to hide them somewhere before moving on to their objective. Ed had lowered the ramp and put them out right over Area 14. Apparently, there was another black flight corridor established from Bliss to the Nevada test site so they did not have to worry about being picked up on radar.

Jumping at 12,000 feet, they froze at the high altitude before they pulled their rip chords at 4,000 feet. With parachutes stolen from the Army's Golden Knights demonstration team, it was a little awkward when it came to rigging equipment. They wore the parachutes over their plate carriers and secured weapons under the chest and leg straps. Additional equipment had to be jerry-rigged as carefully as possible.

They were right in the center of the airplane bone yard that Pat had told them about. The rusting hulks of 747 jumbo jets all the way down to private Lear jets littered the desert all around them.

“You okay?” Aghassi asked as he carried his own chute over to him.

“It is never enough to kill me, just enough to hurt really, really bad,” Deckard complained.

“I hear you.”

Up ahead, Nikita got to his feet and dusted himself off while Pat unclipped him from the parachute. They looked none the worse for wear.

“How was your first jump?” Deckard asked Nikita.

“Cold.”

“Have you seen Kurt?” Pat said.

“Shit,” Aghassi said. “No, we haven't.”

Just then they heard someone shuffling up behind them. The four mercenaries struggled to free their rifles and chamber a round from the magazine. Putting their weapon into operation should have been the first order of business once they hit the ground, but this wasn't exactly a traditional jump.