SANCTION: A Thriller (27 page)

“Here we go.” Avner said.

“The ‘Sea Wind’ has an Iranian registration and is listed as being owned by Anwar Al-Ajlani, Iran’s Minister of Defense.”

The two men sat through another round of silence.

Al-Ajlani had attended Nazari’s mad conference. Ben now knew where Nazari was getting his substantial funding. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He looked to the man on the floor once more, he still wasn’t moving.

Schweitzer thought of Emily on the back of the ship. He remembered the stunned reporters he had left up in the attic back in the auditorium. Lastly, he pictured the hundreds of Arab terrorists who would love nothing more than to wrap their hands around his neck and squeeze, just a couple thousand yards away.

“You should be able to pull up the GPS on the navigation system. We can cross reference the longitudinal and latitudinal grid coordinates.” Avner said.

“It won’t be quick but I can route an aircraft to your position, if you can manage to stay hidden until then.”

Ben walked over to the control room’s wall of windows and peeked through. He saw a few of the crew members milling about the deck on the port side, in the spot above where he had wrecked the small yacht. No one on shore seemed interested in the ship anymore. Ben watched as men walked along the water’s edge looking up and down the beachhead. He assumed they were waiting for his body to wash up.

He walked over to a display of touchscreen monitors that controlled everything on the ship and pressed his index finger against the center screen. Avner walked him through the procedure and within a couple of minutes he had the Latt/Long lines.

“Don’t send an Evac-team. Send troops. If you don’t, we stand to lose everything we’ve worked for. It’s the only way to stop Nazari.” Ben said, a sober resolve settling in his mind.

“We can’t do that. It would be political suicide.” He said, almost pleading.

“One of two things is going to happen. Either Nazari gets off of this island with the largest terror network we’ve ever faced, or we end him here. We end him here and suffer the political blood loss, or we run scared and become victims of the Imam.” Ben said abruptly. He was incapable of patience or tact at the moment.

He placed the handset back in its cradle and turned the radio selector switch to the off position. There was nothing left to be said. He had done what he could to convince Avner of what ultimately needed to be done. He doubted that his boss or anyone else from the Israeli Prime Minister down would have the daring to commit such a preemptive strike.

Schweitzer would have to get to Nazari himself.

T
he prison was dark, damp and saturated with the musty odor of rain and mildew. Several of the prisoners suffered from a persistent, rattling cough that sounded close to bronchitis.

Brad lifted his head as he heard the door to the hallway open and shut. Boots pounded on poorly constructed, uneven concrete as a guard approached his cell. Brad had tried to rest but his mind and body gnawed at him. His stomach ached from lack of substance and his hands shook with low blood sugar. His thoughts were cluttered with images of his wife and brother, as he contemplated dying alone in a Syrian prison. His brother would never know that he had come for him.

The Defense Intelligence agent focused on a blurry version of the guard who had brought him to the prison, sixty one hours earlier. The man forced a large key into the aging wrought iron lock that separated them and twisted. There was an audible click as the door swung in. The guard reached down and scooped Brad up under his arm. The two walked down a long corridor and up a flight of stairs. As they left the main holding area, the stench of the facility faded. They passed through a series of doors and ended up in the warden’s office. Papers were piled high on the man’s desk, some of them had spilled onto the floor, as if they had been discarded without the benefit of a trash can. There was a loud hum coming from a mini-fridge in the corner of the room, where a short, rail-thin, old man was rummaging through its contents.

Brads eyes shifted to one of two chairs that faced the warden’s desk. Even from the back of his head, Brad recognized Tom Kingsley instantly.

His blonde haired friend turned around in his seat and nodded to Brad as the guard escorted him to the empty chair.

The warden took his attention off of the refrigerator to look at Brad. A wide smile blanketed the bottom half of his face. He quickly turned off the expression and dismissed the guard with a wave of his hand, then returned to his search through the fridge.

Brad looked at Tom who was facing forward. The Green Beret was dressed in khaki pants and a beige vest with cargo pockets over a white long sleeve button down shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, their crisp edges forming a wave of cotton creases around his lean, muscular forearms. Kingsley was a stark contrast to Brad’s disheveled under nourished appearance.

The warden finally stood up and closed the fridge. He sat a generic, fruit flavored soda on the edge of his desk close to Brad.

“I knew that I had that somewhere. It was in the back.” The man said, reproducing his megawatt smile and taking his seat behind the mountain of paperwork. Brad shook his head, he didn’t want anything from the warden.

“No thanks.” He said.

“Then, as soon as you sign this, you are free to go.” The warden said, sliding a single piece of heavy grade white paper through the only clear space on his desk.

Kingsley looked down and read the two double spaced sentences.

“Sign at bottom.” The prison chief stated plainly.

“He’s not signing this.” Kingsley protested.

The Syrian’s smile evaporated and he scooted his chair in closer, until he was under the opening in the desk. Interlacing his fingers together so that his hands became a lump of knuckles and flesh, he placed his elbows on the desk top.

“You may have paid the appropriate fine for Mr. Ward’s crime but this paper is equally necessary to secure his release. Otherwise, he will remain in my custody until trial.” The man said holding his balled hands out in front of him.

The paper stated that Brad acknowledged an egregious yet, unnamed crime, against the Syrian state and specifically the city of Al Suwayda. Of course there had been no crime. It was nothing more than modern day Gestapo work. They’d rounded up ‘suspicious personnel’, and were detaining them indefinitely. The most they could possibly muster a charge on was him holding the gun on Abbas.

“I’ll sign it.” He said, as the warden handed him a black pen.

Though Kingsley would never sign it himself, or approve of Brad doing so, he remained silent. He knew his friend well, there was no use talking to him about something he had already decided to do.

This made the warden’s twinkling grin reappear. He took the autographed paper and slapped it down on a stack to the right of an overflowing ashtray and headed for the door to his office.

“Gentlemen, you are free to leave. Thank you for your patience.” He said like a groomed salesman. He held on to the doorknob and stepped to the side to allow his guests to pass.

Brad got to his feet and followed Tom out of the room. The same guard showed them out of the prison to the parking lot where Tom had parked a dilapidated Mercedes sedan.

They left the Syrian compound and headed north-west. Once they were a few miles from the prison, they began to talk.

“Thanks, Tom.” Brad said, truly grateful for his friend’s intervention.

“You came up on an assets radar. That’s how I found you. Be glad this is Syria. Coming up with a wad of money is a whole lot easier than blowing a hole in a prison cell wall.” Kingsley said with a chuckle.

“Where are we going?” Brad asked.

Tom Kingsley detected a hint of defeat in Brad’s voice, no doubt a result of the confinement and deprivation techniques they’d employed. The Army soldier reached into a small khaki colored knapsack on the passenger floor board and pulled out a manila folder. He laid the folder on the dashboard and flipped it open. There were several glossy, color photos of a destroyed city, its garish concrete remains an eerie sight. Brad stared at a white vehicle in the picture that was parked in the middle of the street. Two more vehicles sat near one of the few buildings in the photo that was still standing.

Kingsley’s out stretched finger rubbed the image of the auto in the middle of the road.

“This is a Land Rover, as well as these two others. We believe they belong to the University of Jerusalem.” Kingsley said, watching his friend’s reaction to the news.

Brad just stared at the images.

“It’s Quneitra, Brad. They’re being held in Syria, 50 miles north of here.” Kingsley said.

“How do you know they are being held there and that these vehicles haven’t simply been stolen or abandoned? They could have gotten rid of the trucks days ago.” Brad said, as he set the photos back on the dash.

Kingsley pulled the vehicle over to the side of the road and slid the shifter into park.

“Get out.” He said to Brad as he opened his car door.

Brad slowly got out of the car and met Kingsley at the rear, near the trunk.

“Brad, I know you have been going on nothing for days now. No sleep, no leads and by the looks of it, no food. All that is about to change but you need to get your game face on.”

Kingsley inserted a key into the trunks lock. The compartment popped open, its rusted coil springs squealing as they pushed the door straight up. Inside of the enclosed space Brad saw two camouflaged bags and a long plastic rifle case.

Kingsley bent over the trunk and flipped the case’s lid open, revealing the rifle inside.

“A Cheytac .408. We can control the field from more than a mile away with this.” Kingsley said.

Kingsley looked at Brad. His face was dull and pale, his expression void.

“You know I can do it myself but I’d rather not. You’re the better shooter.”

Brad looked at the weapon. It was long, black and menacing with sharp angles on the sparse grip and stock.

The Cheytac’s accuracy was guaranteed for over twenty one hundred yards. Such long range effectiveness opened a whole array of new techniques in tactical shooting. The increased distance meant that a sniper could take out an enemy soldier long before they knew they were there and have plenty of time to pack up and leave.

Brad picked the rifle up and bounced it lightly in his hands. At thirty inches, the rifle’s barrel took up the bulk of its eighteen pounds. A heavy barrel countered a sniper’s natural inclination to shake, due to the nerves and muscles in the torso and arms as well as the tiny jarring effect of the heartbeat.

Brad placed the rifle back in the case and clamped it shut. He slammed the trunk and got back into the car on the passenger side.

Brad grabbed the satellite photo he had been looking at and pulled a pen out of the knapsack on the floor. He traced a broad circle around one of the buildings. A perfect rectangular shaped shadow covered more than half of the adjacent rooftop. The facility with the Land Rovers parked in front was casting a much smaller silhouette on the building next to it.

“This building here, across the street, is a good two stories taller than this one.” Brad said tapping the pen to the center of the structure.

“We’ll put the rifle up there.” He said.

Kingsley watched as his friend’s emotions began to be replaced by his extensive combat experience.

“Then we can send in a decoy, perhaps this car, followed by a flanking assault through the side of the building, here.” Brad drew another circle.

“We’ve identified this building as the former Quneitra hospital. It’s small, no more than fifty rooms but if I had hostages, that’s where I’d take them.” Kingsley said.

“Oh…I almost forgot.” Tom said as he reached behind Brad’s chair.

Kingsley’s hand returned holding a sealed, plastic one gallon jug of warm water. He reached back behind him for a second time. He threw two MRE, (Meals Ready to Eat), bags on his lap.

“There you go buddy, six thousand calories ought to start you off on the road to recovery.” Kingsley said as he put the shifter into gear and steered them back onto the road.

Brad rolled down the window and laid his head against the headrest. The temperature outside was unseasonably cool. He opened the first of the brown plastic bags and removed a thin gray aluminum pouch. The words ‘Ham Slice’ had been printed on the outside. He tore the pouch from the side and extracted a three quarter inch thick slab of pink ham covered in a thin gelatinous membrane of fat. The smell permeated the car. Brad scarfed the meat and opened up a packet of M&M’s. He dumped the bag into his mouth and moved onto the rest of the food.

Brad and Kingsley rolled out the miles in silence. The particular stretch of road they were on reminded Kingsley of driving out west in the states. The landscape that surrounded them was beige and crisp with a smattering of green trees too scarce to call a wood line. The occasional camel caravan was all the entertainment they got.

After half an hour, Kingsley noticed an object off in the distance. He pulled the car over to the shoulder and veered into the high, burnt grass and wild wheat tares that sprouted along the highway to Quneitra.

Brad was alerted to Kingsley’s sudden movements, as he stopped the car next to a bulbous cluster of overgrown lilac bushes and opened his door. Kingsley hopped out and removed the rifle from the trunk. He set the steel feet of the bi-pod legs down on the rusted hood of the sedan and hunched down behind the weapon. The Green Beret found the road with the optic that was mounted on the upper receiver and slowly moved the rifle following the road through the lens. His eye roved until it landed on the object he had seen from the car.

Tom Kingsley was looking at the turret of a T55 tank. The tank commander stood out of the hatch, periodically pivoting at the waist to glance behind himself at the column of tanks that trailed him. Behind the formation of heavily armored track vehicles was a large chalk of support vehicles. Behind that was what appeared to be an entire division of infantry soldiers, all sitting peacefully, in the back of large transport vehicles.