Warning Order (29 page)

“Then you figure out how to get my uncle's help.”

“Look, I can't take you with me even if I wanted to,” he tried to explain, but she wasn't having it.

“I am going.”

“If you go, then who is going to take care of all of them?” Zeus asked, jerking his finger toward the refugees.

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

“If we are not here, who is going to look out for them, make sure they get food?”

She considered that complication before finally lowering her head in defeat.

“Fine, give me the phone.”

The call lasted fifteen minutes, and at first, it seemed like her uncle was in no mood to help. From what Mason could gather from the one-sided conversation, the man had his hands full dealing with al Qatar's fighters, and he was afraid to send any of his men to aid the Americans. But Kane had to hand it to Sara. She seemed to always get what she wanted, and by the end of the call, her uncle had agreed to help.

As Mason studied the map, he hoped that the Kurd was a man of his word, because he had no idea how they were going to get to the airfield without him.

“Ten minutes,” the pilot said over the internal net.

Mason switched off the headlamp and took a deep breath. He could feel the effects of the previous days just on the edge of his consciousness. Renee had been right when she said he was running on empty. He was exhausted both mentally and physically. Still, this wasn't the first time he had forced himself past his limits.

Mason reached into the pocket sewed on the sleeve of his battle shirt and pulled out a vial of “go pills.” He shook one of the orange tablets into the palm of his hand before passing the small plastic bottle to Zeus.

“What's that?” one of the troopers asked from the other side of the Chinook.

“Vitamins,” he replied, flicking the pill into his mouth and washing it down with a sip from his CamelBak.

“Really? No way,” the man yelled back.

“It's speed. You want one?”

“Speed? Isn't that bad for you?”

“Probably, but it will keep you up,” Mason replied, taking the vial back from Zeus and snapping the cap back on.

“Shit, I've never done drugs,” the soldier yelled back.

“First time for everything.” Mason smiled as the helo began to slow.

The crew chief got up from the ramp and paused to untangle himself from his safety line before moving over to the control box. His thumb jabbed a button, and the ramp began to lower, letting in a burst of fresh air.

“Well, if you need one, let me know,” Mason said, getting to his feet.

The pilot waited until the last minute to flare the bird and then gently set the rear wheels on the desert floor. As soon as Mason felt the front wheels touch down, he flipped down his night vision and hustled down the ramp.

He kept his head low, holding his breath as the rotors beat down on him. The exhaust felt hot against his neck, and specks of debris slapped him in the face as he rushed out beyond the spinning blades and took a knee. The other soldiers piled out beyond him and moved expertly to their initial positions.

Mason scanned the terrain slowly as the pilot pushed the throttle forward, and the bird thundered into the distance. He checked to insure that they had 360-degree security set up and then depressed the illumination key on his GPS. The digital arrow pointed southwest, toward the coordinates where they were supposed to meet up with members of the Peshmerga.

He rose to his feet with a muffled groan. Back at the hangar, he'd heard one of the Pathfinders refer to him as the “old guy,” and it made him realize that he'd been at war for a very long time. The desert had become such a big part of his life that Mason almost couldn't imagine leaving it. What would happen the day he had to let it all go?

The Pathfinders' squad leader made his way over to Mason and whispered, “What's the plan?”

“We pray the Kurds show up,” he said simply.

“And if they don't?” the sergeant asked uncomfortably.

“Then we figure it out.”

“What about you? You want one of my guys to take point?”

Mason placed his hand on the squad leader's shoulder. “Don't worry about me, Skippy. You just try to keep up.”

There was a definite divide between the Special Operations world and the “regular army,” and Mason knew that the soldiers he was about to lead into harm's way were counting on him to keep them safe.

During his time in Afghanistan and Iraq, he didn't have a great deal of contact with regular army troops, and when he did, they were always supporting Delta. The men of the 82nd referred to all Special Ops, especially the Delta operators, as “cool guys,” and longed for the freedom that came with not having to shave or deal with the spit and polish of their daily lives.

Mason knew that they were seasoned warriors, but he wasn't sure what would happen when the shit hit the fan. Being a capable, conventional soldier was one thing. In the fight to come, though, his biggest fear was that he was going to let them down.

A
ll right, listen up,” the colonel said as he turned to the large screen and pointed the red laser up at the Mosul airfield. “Real quick, we are going to go through the phases of the operation.”

Renee stood off to the side as Anderson went through the key leaders' briefing that preceded the mission. Warchild and Parker were standing with their teams, but she saw no sign of Mason.

Next to her, the platoon sergeants and company commanders of the airborne assault stood nervously as they listened to the brief. Most of them had green notebooks in one hand and bottles full of dip spit in the other. This was going to be the largest airborne operation since the United States invaded Panama to overthrow dictator Manual Noriega in 1989, and none of them wanted to be the one who screwed up.

“The Ronin element and the Pathfinders from the 82
^nd
have already inserted here,” Anderson said, pointing at the northeastern edge of Mosul. “They will link up with members of the Peshmerga and move down to objective Johnny Walker, which is here.” He pointed to a spot on the map near the airfield.

The colonel motioned for his executive officer to switch slides. “Once they hit their rally point, the Pathfinders will break off and secure the primary drop zone in preparation for the drop, while Ronin moves onto objective Jack Daniel's to locate HVT one.”

“Who is going to be controlling the air assets?” Warchild asked.

“Strike Team Texas,” Anderson said, pointing at Parker, “will insert with members of the Marine Raiders at objective Wild Turkey, and set up an overwatch position, while Strike Team Nevada, augmented by Team Utah, will set the blocking position to the north.

“Once the high value target—call sign Elvis—is located, Warchild, it is up to you to prosecute the target.”

“Parker, I need steel on steel, you got me?” Anderson said, pointing at the bearded operator, who was trying to catch Renee's eye.

“Roger that, sir,” he replied, focusing his attention back on the colonel.

“Good. The first flight of C-17s will be over the drop zone no later than 0345, so the window to set up security isn't very big. I've been told that they will drop no matter what, so that area has to be clear.”

Anderson waited for the slide to change, revealing a satellite image of the airfield. Random gun emplacements dotted the perimeter of the tarmac, and groups of trucks were bunched up near fighting positions.

“We have preplanned targets on these known positions, but other than that, we have no idea what they have in store for us. I imagine we will take some fire on the initial assault, but the idea is to bomb the shit out of them and get them running for the hills. We will have an AC-130 Specter gunship on station, as well as a full complement of F-15s and F-18s coming out of Turkey. Parker, if you need them, we will also have an eighty-one-millimeter mortar section, but we need to leave that organic to the troops on the drop zone.”

Colonel Anderson dropped the pointer and looked hard at the soldiers under his command. “I want you to remember what these pieces of shit did,” he said fervently, “and all the Americans that are without loved ones because of them. There are no rules of engagement. If it moves, you kill it, and if it stops moving, make sure it stays dead.”

T
he stark stillness of the desert night invited doubt, and Mason found the utter isolation unnerving. Waiting had never been his strong suit, and he knew that the Pathfinders were getting edgy. Mason was well aware that fear could kill a man faster than any bullet, and while he wasn't afraid of death, he was terrified by the specter of his own failures.

“Do you think they will come?” he whispered to Zeus.

“I've never trusted the Kurds. They are a flighty people,” the Libyan whispered back.

Mason checked his wrist-top GPS for the tenth time, more out of frustration than anything else. He knew he was at the correct grid, but the Kurds were late, and the main assault was less than an hour away. If they didn't show up soon, he would have to move on without them.

Shifting the sling off the back of his neck, he squeezed his shoulders up toward his ears, holding the stretch for ten seconds before releasing it. The relief was immediate but lasted only a few seconds. He was running over the contingency plan again when a tiny flash of light emanated from a rocky outcrop to his south.

Kane waited to ensure that he wasn't imagining things, but when the light flashed again, he lifted his red lens map light and flashed two short beams in response.

Mason headed toward the outcropping. Zeus joined him, matching his pace to the right. Only the sound of their feet crunching over the desert floor filled his ears. When they were five feet away, a man materialized out of the shadows.

“Peace be with you, brothers,” the Kurd said, letting his AK-47 dangle from the sling around his neck.

“And to you,” Zeus replied in Arabic. “We were not sure you were coming.”

“Ahh, yes, we were held up on the road, but we took care of the problem,” he replied.

“What kind of problem?” Mason asked, lowering his rifle as they embraced in the traditional manner.

“We came upon a patrol coming from the city, but do not worry, they will not be coming back,” he replied, kissing the sides of Mason's cheeks.

The Kurd was the same height as Mason, with strong shoulders and a jovial, honest smile lit by the green hue of night vision. He pounded Mason firmly on the back as the American rotated his monochromatic NODs up onto his helmet and took measure of the men standing before them.

“I am forever grateful for what you did for my niece. It is a terrible situation, what is happening in Mosul.”

“Allah allowed us to be of service,” Zeus replied as he too embraced their new ally.

“His name be praised. You may call me Joe,” the man said.

Mason signaled the Pathfinders that it was safe for them to come up. “Okay, Joe, my name is Mason, and this is Zeus. What can you tell us about the defenses around the airfield?”

“The terrorists have been working hard since they took the city. We have been hard-pressed to keep them on their side of the river, but even now, they threaten to crush us. When the army fled, they left behind many big guns and tanks. It will not be easy getting close to them.”

“Can you do it?”

“Yes, but as I told Sara, the man that you seek does not leave the airfield.”

“Have you seen him?”

“I have not, but my son”—he paused to point at one of the fighters who appeared from behind the rocks—“he has seen him. They call him the Lion of Syria. He is an evil man.”

“Yeah, he's a real asshole,” Zeus said.

The Kurd was appraising them as well. “We can get your men to where they want to go, but for you two, taking out the Lion will not be so easy.”

“Well, Joe, if it was easy, everyone would do it,” Mason said.

That made Joe laugh. “As you say,” he replied. “But we are wasting time. I have brought trucks if you wish to leave.”

Mason followed Joe to the backside of the outcrop, where four pickups were waiting. The Pathfinders crammed into the beds of the last two, and the Peshmerga dispersed quickly between the vehicles.

“You will ride with me,” Joe said, motioning to the first truck, which had a 240 Bravo machine gun mounted to the roof.

Mason and Zeus squeezed themselves into the back while Joe got in beside his son, who quickly lit a cigarette.

“We took the machine gun off one of the fighters,” Joe noted. “It is much better than what we had.”

“I assume they have gotten into the armories?”

“Oh yes. All of their fighters are much better armed now than when they came. Your government has seen to that,” he said sadly. “Maybe next time, your president will take all of his guns with him.”

“Yeah, that would be nice,” Mason admitted.

“I cannot figure America out,” Joe's son finally spoke, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air while struggling to start the old truck. “They armed the Iraqis after they fought them but give us old trucks and battered AKs. How does this make any sense?”

“I have no idea,” Mason said honestly.

The route Joe took sent them wide of their final objective, but twenty minutes later, Mason could see Mosul's lights as the small convoy bumped along. In the front seat, Joe worked a handful of radios, checking in with the men he had scattered at various observation points around the city. Every time one of the outposts would tell them that an area was clear, Joe's son would steer the convoy in that direction, only to be waved off as they drew near.

Al Qatar's men were roaming the edges of the city in armed bands that seemed to pop up every time Mason thought they had found a way through. Finally, Joe ordered one of his commanders to make an armed feint four kilometers to the north of their current position, while the convoy moved south.