The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (5 page)

The commander had said to keep it quiet, and that’s what York intended to do. Carefully, he reached around to the small of his back and, from a small pouch affixed to his web belt, pulled out a custom-made sound suppressor. Slowly, he screwed the suppressor to the tip of his weapon’s barrel. Pulling the weapon closer to his face, he pressed his cheek firmly on its stock and through the ACOG studied the terrain in front of him. Quickly, he mentally calculated the degree of the slope and the slant range to the target. The ACOG’s reticule crosshair was complete with a bullet drop compensator that would help him deal with the effects from gravity on the bullet.

He chose his first target: the man to his left and slightly up hill from the other. The Arab was facing toward York, but the other was facing away and would not see him fall. Letting out a long, slow breath, York squeezed the trigger at the slight pause that naturally occurs between exhalation and inhalation. The NATO round exited the weapon with only a slight sound made by the expelled shell that ejected from the SCAR-H.

York’s actions seemed to play out in slow motion, but really happened over the course of just less than two seconds flat. The first shot fired cut through the hot and dry air and found its mark between the eyes of the smoking Arab. As quietly and quickly as the first round left the SCAR-H, the second bullet was chambered, aimed, and fired, entering the right temple of the second, and oblivious, Arab.

The commander of the Alpha team watched York eliminate both targets through his field binoculars. He was amazed that the second Arab was shot more quickly than he could move his binoculars from the first target to the second. He chuckled quietly but proudly. He whispered to the Special Forces soldier who lay next to him, “Damn, Bryan, did you see that? He took those two out with a SCAR at one kilometer, uphill, and in less than two seconds!”

“The kid is unbelievable, a freak of nature. He’s come a long way since CORe. I think you created a monster, Captain,” replied MSG Bryan, as he shook his head and let out a short laugh of his own. “It’s a good thing you talked him out of quittin’ the Army.”

Just then, York broke radio silence and said, “Six, targets engaged and eliminated; area’s clear.”

Before CPT Scott could respond, MSG Bryan reminded him, “Don’t sound too much like a proud papa; you don’t want to inflate his ego any bigger than it already is.”

CPT Scott smiled at his long-time friend, depressed the talk button of his radio, and said, “Point, rally the team to your location. See you in a couple of minutes.”

York replied, “Yes, sir,” and then pumped his fist in the air followed by a couple of circular motions. The signal told the rest of the team to
rally on me.

Within moments, the slope leading into the forest came to life, and the rest of the Alpha team made their way to York’s position.

York stood up just as CPT Scott and MSG Bryan marched their way to him. York had a smile as wide as the Grand Canyon.

MSG Bryan looked at CPT Scott who just rolled his eyes and sarcastically bellowed, “Wipe that shit-eatin’ grin off your mug, York, there’s still a whole lot of mission left.”

A few of the other members of the Alpha team laughed, and one of them, Sergeant First Class (SFC) Musselman, the medical officer, gave York a hard, congratulatory slap on the back and said, “Fuckin’ A, York, you took those two out from a thousand meters and faster than two rabbits humpin’! Remind me to get a head start before I piss you off!”

“All right, ladies,” interjected CPT Scott, “You’ll have plenty of time to fawn over York’s pretty face back at the FOB. Right now, we’ve got a bit of climbing to do; double check your gear and move out!”

The captain turned to York and asked, “You sure this is the place?”

York pulled out a binder of maps from his BDU’s left pant-leg pocket. Spiral bound along its edge, it was the size of a small book. He opened it to the page he needed. He pointed to the rocks rising above the team and then to the map. “You see those striations, sir?”

CPT Scott nodded in the affirmative.

“That is metamorphic gneiss and schist; the angle of the markings and their coloration are the same as the images on this map.”

CPT Scott didn’t need to look at the map to know what York was saying was correct. He had studied the hyperspectral satellite imagery, too. The lithography and physical characteristics of the location’s rock formations, like a fingerprint, matched the satellite image striation for striation. They were in the right place.

“MSG Bryan, prepare the team to move!” ordered CPT Scott.

“Yes, sir!” replied MSG Bryan. Bryan then turned to the team and said, “Men, it’s only a mile to the cave entrance, but the terrain is treacherous. We will be slow moving. Watch your footing—if you twist an ankle or bust a leg, you’re gonna have to hop yo ass off this mountain, cuz I sure as hell ain’t gonna carry any of ya!”

CPT Scott knew MSG Bryan was serious, but that didn’t stop a few of the men from laughing a bit. This was good, he thought, it meant they were loose and confident, but focused.

The engineers sergeant, SGT Thelonius Rupert Dwayne, or Thad for short, unfolded the telescopic buttstock of his 12-gauge Benelli M4 semi-automatic shotgun. The weapon looked small in his oversized hands and just as diminutive next to his thick arms. He gave it a pump before saying, “Let’s move, I want to be back to Salerno before dinner. I hear they’re serving #12 MREs tonight: veggie burgers!”

Chief Warrant Officer (CWO4) Packard, Alpha team’s team leader and second in command to CPT Scott, looked quizzically at the beefy engineers sergeant and spat out, “Thad, I’ll never understand just how in the hell you got so big chewin’ on sprouts and leaves.”

Thad shot back, “The same way elephants and rhinos did, Chief.”

MSG Bryan interjected, “Alpha team, let’s move out!”

Obediently, and without question, the men of Alpha team fanned out in a well-trained choreography. The loose moments were over. Inside of each highly trained Special Forces soldier, an unseen switch had been flipped. Their demeanors shifted. Their faces bore the seriousness of the mission. Their professional sides took over. Each man took his place without order. Soon, the twelve men dissolved into the wood line of the mountain forest, and any sign of them quickly disappeared as if they had never been there.

York took the point.

About one kilometer to the team’s east, Abu Mohammed Ibrahim lowered his binoculars, closed his eyes, and whispered a silent prayer for the two martyrs on the hill. When he opened them, he turned around and looked with steely eyes from one soldier to the next. Not one man dared speak: they awaited only his orders.

Ibrahim’s gaze never weakened as he purposely found the face of each man; when he was sure that he had all of their attention, he said, “We will move out in one hour.”

Turning, he put the binoculars back to his eyes and watched the Green Berets disappear into the wood line. He thought quietly:
My men will not have died in vain.

Insha’Allah.

CHAPTER FOUR

PLACE DAUPHIN
PARIS, FRANCE

P
aris was unusually cold for this time of year; a surprise overnight gale from the north had brought a cold mass of low pressure. The snap of the chill from the swirling wind had a certain bite to it and stung as it slapped the already reddened cheeks of the hardened, young policeman.

Adjoint Brigadier-Chef of the meréechaussée—Master Corporal of the Gendarmerie Nationale—Philippe Jean Cocteau was in Paris’s 1st arrondissement standing—suffering really—in the middle of Place Dauphine. With futility, he squeezed the pale blue collar of his uniform shirt tighter to his neck, hoping that it would have some effect against the cold. It had none.

He wore the face of a man much older than his thirty-two years; the creases that started from the corners of his eyes and that ran the length of his cheeks told of his many days as a policeman who had been relentlessly exposed to the differing elements of nature. Under the brim of his round, distinctive kepi, his hairline told the same story: premature male-pattern baldness, thinning locks of once thick, curly black hair, and growing speckles of gray. His only prominent features were his above-average height, and sturdy, well-maintained frame. His shoulders were broad and rounded, his chest barreled: his physical capabilities were his one saving masculine grace.

The deputy chief stood in the square—which was really triangular in shape—and squinted his eyes at the fierceness of the bitter wind. He had been this way for the better part of the morning: Place Dauphine was his personal purgatory.

Upon rising early, as was his custom, he had looked outside and saw the ominous, dark cloud cover hovering overhead that warned him of the cold to come. It was his first mistake of the day to ignore its obvious warning; it was his second mistake to forgo the assured comfort of his standard-issue Gendarmerie overcoat. But his wife had been absolutely positive that the day was to become warmer; that the clouds were supposed to break and that he would be far too hot if he were to wear it and assuredly annoyed if he had to carry it wherever he went. Obedience was the hallmark of a good marriage; he had put the coat back on its hook in the hallway closet and then kissed his wife adieu for the day. He had loved her that morning, but now Deputy Chief Cocteau silently cursed her name under his breath.

He gazed angrily over at the western end of Île de la Cité, where there was certainly a structure or building that he could use to block the razor-sharp slices of cold wind. His nose was numb, and he could barely feel the sensation of the constant drips that hung from his nostrils. He had wiped his nose more times than he could remember, and it was due, again, for another swipe. He pulled the too-thin, form-fitting white glove off of the numbed fingers on his right hand and reached into his pocket to pull out his well-used handkerchief. He had trouble finding a clean spot that he could use to wipe away the newest drop of mucus. Not really caring any longer, he wiped his nose and wished the dreadful day to be at an end.

Pompous, arrogant Americans
, he thought.
All of this trouble for some American senator.

But Cocteau knew this wasn’t just some senator. She had just won the primaries for her party. A growing buzz in the international press claimed that she was heavily favored to defeat the extremely unpopular opposing party candidate, that she was destined to become the next president of the United States—the first woman to sit in the White House.

Finishing his thought, he said his next one out loud, “Regardless, all empires must come to an end, but, unfortunately, that didn’t come before today.”

Shoving the handkerchief back into his pocket, he put the white glove back on, leaned into the wind, and picked up his pace to get his blood flowing. Cocteau walked mindlessly around the square and nearby structures, paying little attention to his duties. He was reminded of his four-year old daughter’s hamster and its tendency to work itself into a frenzy as it relentlessly ran nowhere on its little metal wheel. His pacing was just as monotonous and never ending as his daughter’s hamster on its wheel. He wondered if the little rat was as unhappy as he was, or, perhaps, had just become resigned to its pointless lot in life.

At least I get paid.
He chuckled slightly at the unspoken quip.

As he headed toward the spot on Place Dauphine that was nearest the river Seine, he stared across the waters at the island—one of only two naturally occurring islands in Paris. It stood in the middle of the wide, flowing river and was dominated by Notre Dame—the cathedral of the Catholic archdiocese of Paris—and its two distinctive, rising gothic towers. Along the seven-arched span of Pont Neuf that joined the island with the right bank of the river, he saw the horse cavalry regiment of the Garde Républicaine, a ceremonial unit, practicing with an enviable prowess. They were making their way to the other side of the island to the bridge, the side that was held up by the five-arched span that led to the left bank.

Cocteau had had his chance to join the cavalry, but an untimely fall during the equestrian trials led to a severe concussion and an immediate dismissal from the regiment. His life was destined to be carried by the bottoms of his feet rather than the hoofs of a horse. It was of great consequence to his morale and the source of the quiet insolence to his duties.

As he indignantly marched into the wind and to the edge of Place Dauphine, the incessant rumble of the fast-moving air over the openings of his ears impeded his ability to hear most things short of a scream. He couldn’t hear the voice of his commander screaming across the radio waves for him to answer immediately. It wasn’t until he turned around and marched away from the edge of the square, with the wind at his back, that he could hear the high-pitched shouts of his sous-lieutenant coming through the small speaker of his radio.

Fumbling, Cocteau reached for the hand piece of his radio which was attached to his epaulet, but his semi-frozen hands didn’t respond properly to his wishes, and he had trouble gaining control of it. Finally able to grasp it firmly, he depressed a button and spoke into it. “Oui, Lieutenant, sorry, but I couldn’t hear you; the wind is strong here!”

“Cocteau, I have been trying to raise you for the past five minutes! I need for you to…”