Warning Order (3 page)

Something told Renee that the source had to be Mick Boland. Besides Mason, he was the only person in Syria who had the skills to pull off something like this. She'd met him only a few weeks earlier after the operative had shown up mysteriously at the task force's hangar.

Mason had been surprised to see his old friend, and after a few beers, they began swapping war stories from their time in Iraq and Afghanistan. It was obvious that they'd been through some serious shit together. Yet the longer she watched Boland, the more Renee felt that something about him was off.

He appeared gaunt, filled with a nervous, almost fatalistic energy that made it impossible for him to sit still. She thought that the stress of combat might be finally getting to him, but since she knew that Boland had saved Mason's life in Iraq, she didn't want to say anything without some sort of proof.

Later that night, she hacked into the DOD database, hoping to find anything to calm her fears. Most of the files had already been redacted, and after fifteen minutes, she was about to give up. Just as she was getting ready to log out, Renee found a DOD communiqué that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

The document had been marked for deletion, and was labeled “Eyes Only,” which meant that it was way above her pay grade. However, Renee didn't hesitate to open it. Like most interservice memos, it was brief and extremely vague, but the tone was urgent. According to reports from the field, Boland had slipped into Syria a week before showing up in Turkey with an unnamed piece of equipment that he was supposed to emplace. Before he had the chance, though, he was briefly detained by members of the Syrian opposition and relieved of his gear. There was no mention of what happened next.

“Hey, are you good?” Parker asked, jarring her back to the task at hand.

“Yeah, I'm just surprised we launched so fast,” she said.

“They must really want this guy,” Parker replied. “That analyst said the order came from the top.”

“Hey, bleeder,” Warchild hollered at her. “Are you going to do a radio check or gossip all day?”

Warchild had designated her the RTO, or radio operator, which was not only a totally unnecessary job but also the most menial job Warchild could come up with. Nevertheless, Renee was a professional, and she handled the responsibility as if it were the most important one on the team.

“What do you think I'm doing, dick?” she mumbled before depressing the mike's talk button. With that, the small screen on the PRC-150 high-frequency radio lit up.

“Any station this net, this is Savage 7 Romeo, radio check, over,” she said into the hand mike.

Renee, having already double-checked the radio before getting on the bird, knew it had the correct crypto installed—which made the frequency secure from outside listeners—but she needed to make sure it was functioning properly before they hit the objective.

“Savage 7 Romeo, this is Tomahawk 6 Romeo, we read you, Lima Charlie,” a voice replied through the hand mike.

The Mi-17 shook, and cold air blasted through the cargo hold. Shivering, she flipped the radio to the air-to-ground net and tried to make radio contact with Mason.

“Ronin 6, Savage 7 Romeo, radio check,” she said.

She glanced at her watch, knowing that it was time for them to check in. After a full minute of waiting, she tried again.

“Ronin 6, Savage 7, radio check, over.”

She was about to flip to a different frequency when a man's voice came through the net:

“Savage 7, Ronin 6, we have a problem—” Mason said.

The transmission was cut off as gunfire erupted in the background.

Something was wrong, Renee realized. This was supposed to be a simple smash and grab. Whatever the hell was going on, they were heading right toward it.

I
t was late when President Bradley closed the black notebook containing the daily intelligence brief. He tossed it on the low mahogany table that separated the two immaculate white couches in the Oval Office. Secretary of Defense Winfield “Duke” Cage could tell his boss was tired as he rubbed his face.

Jacob Simmons, the national security advisor, looked at his watch before leaning forward in his chair. Cage knew that he was hoping to get an answer before the long day finally came to a close.

“Mr. President, the limited airstrikes are working,” Simmons began. “We are hitting them where it hurts, and I say we stay the course.”

“Jesus,” Cage said, trying vainly to control the anger he felt boiling up inside him. He knew Jacob wasn't naïve enough to believe what he was saying, but he couldn't listen to his bullshit a second longer.

“You are out of your mind, Jacob,” he said. “The airstrikes aren't doing shit, and you know it. Please excuse my French, Mr. President,” he added hastily as the leader of the free world scowled at his profane outburst.

Bradley bore a striking resemblance to a young Robert Redford, and like the actor, he was usually very laid back. But one thing Cage was learning the hard way was that the president hated profanity.

“What I am trying to say is that limited strikes will not accomplish the mission.”

“You have to give it time,” Simmons responded.

“You've had almost a year. How much time do you need?” Bradley demanded.

“Gentlemen.” The president's chief of staff, Craig O'Neil, interjected from the high-back chair to the president's right. “It's late, but let's try to keep this civil.”

“There is nothing civil about this,” Cage replied, unable to fathom why he was the only one grasping the significance of what was occurring in Iraq and Syria. “We have intel that al Nusra is moving into Iraq to join up with ISIS. Do you want to wait until they dismantle everything our soldiers died to achieve before you make a decision?”

“Enough,” Bradley said finally, smoothing the front of his tailored jacket. “Seventy percent of the American people are glad that we are out of Iraq, and there is no way I'm upsetting my base by sending troops back to Iraq. End of story.”

Cage settled his muscled bulk back into the couch, realizing that this meeting was not going the way he'd planned. He had allowed himself to believe that the president was finally going to make a decision—finally do something to combat the violence flooding into Iraq—but it was obvious that he'd been wrong.

“What do you want to do, Mr. President?” O'Neil asked.

“Keep hitting the targets outlined in the brief,” he said, nodding toward the folder on the table. “Right now I think that is the safest option.”

“Yes, sir,” Simmons said, getting to his feet.

“Goddamn it, Jacob, you know better than that,” Cage bellowed, causing everyone in the room to stare at him. “This weak-ass strategy is all wrong, and you know it.”

“Mr. Secretary,” Craig began, but he stopped as soon as the president raised his hand.

“Let me remind you,” Bradley said, turning to Cage, “that you may be the secretary of defense, but you still work for me.”

Cage's jaw muscles rippled as he absorbed the warning. Under the previous administration, he'd lost his temper in this very same room, and it had cost him his military career. He was about to make the very same mistake when the chief of staff got to his feet.

“Mr. President, I have no doubt that Secretary Cage will do as you wish. We all know how passionate he is about Iraq and know he means absolutely no disrespect.”

Only by sheer force of will did Cage place a stranglehold on his emotions. He had to take the olive branch that O'Neil was offering. Still, he felt his anger burning like a white-hot poker as he got to his feet.

“My apologizes, sir. I get carried away sometimes,” he lied.

“No worries, Duke,” the president said, pleased to see he was being reasonable. “It's one of the reasons you are so good at what you do.”

  •  •  •  

Fifteen minutes later, Cage was back in his office, staring at the last sip of bourbon filling the bottom of a crystal tumbler. The glass looked fragile in his powerful hands, and as he watched the golden liquid swirling on the bottom, he wondered why he put up with this shit.

Before being sworn in as the secretary of defense, he'd been the youngest chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff in history. He was well versed in the art of war. The reason he'd agreed to take this damn job in the first place was because Bradley had practically begged him.

“If he's not going to listen, then why the hell does he call me to these damn meetings?” he asked, looking over at Jacob.

“Duke, you can't take it personal. You just have to realize that there are some things you can't control.”

Cage drained the highball in one quick gulp, savoring the burn as the bourbon made its way down his throat.

“What time is it?” he asked, heading over to the half-empty bottle of Knob Creek waiting on the cherry credenza.

“It's about 0400 in Syria,” Jacob replied.

Cage nodded, set down his glass, and grabbed the rectangular bottle. He twisted off the cork, which squeaked against the neck before popping free, and poured a generous amount of the amber liquor in the highball glass before offering it to Simmons.

During their time in Special Forces, Cage had preferred beer, but Jacob Simmons had always been a whiskey man. The SecDef was starting to understand why the National Security Advisor preferred the fiery taste of good bourbon.

“Want another hit?”

“Why not? I'm not going anywhere,” Jacob said, the leather chair creaking as he leaned forward to hold out his glass.

The two men had been friends since West Point, and had bled together in more countries than either one could remember. After Cage's legendary blowout with the previous vice president, Jacob had stood by him when he was forced to retire early.

Simmons had also been there when his son was killed in Iraq, and then a few months later when his wife finally lost her battle with cancer. There wasn't another man in the world that Cage trusted more.

“It would be so much easier if you'd stop pampering his ass,” Cage said after filling Simmons's glass.

“It can't be obvious,” Simmons replied.

“Fucking politics. Bradley has no idea what's going on over there. He's as bad as the last guy, scared of his own fucking shadow.”

“He's new; give him time. But you have to stop thinking that I'm on his side. I'm the one who raised the issue with the president in the first place.”

“How much longer?” Cage asked, ignoring the Rolex Submariner on his wrist.

“Thirty minutes, max,” Simmons said, taking another sip. “Try to relax. You've done everything you can do.”

A lot was riding on the president's decision. Cage always fought his own battles, but now he was the one sending the warriors into harm's way, and it was a heavy burden. The two men stood alone in their assessment of ISIS, and Cage knew that President Bradley desperately wanted to avoid another war. In fact, the only reason he'd agreed to the operation was because he hoped that if they cut the head of the snake, the body would die.

Cage, on the other hand, knew that this was just the beginning. If the president refused to face reality, Cage was going to have to force him to make the right decision.

M
ason was turning toward the door when a bullet cracked past his ear—so close that he heard the 7.62 round snap as it cut through the air. He dove to the ground, searching vainly for the shooter. As he landed, he felt a sharp sting cut across the back of his arm.

He'd been hit.

The roar of the Kalashnikov echoed off the gray concrete walls, making it impossible to locate the direction of fire.

“Where is he?” Mason yelled as the rounds slammed into the wall above his head like hammer blows, sending shards of cement cutting into the back of his neck.

One of the computer monitors exploded in a shower of sparks just as Zeus dove behind the table for cover and the shooter traversed his fire across the room. Zeus cursed loudly, unable to locate the source of the gunfire.

Mason knew he had to move.

He scrambled away from the wall, leaving a smear of blood as he pushed off. Directly across from him, a piece of brown and red fabric had been nailed over what he'd thought was a window, but from his place on the floor, Mason could see the base of a concrete step behind the curtain.

He flipped off the safety, noticing the fabric snap as another burst cut through, and fired three quick shots through the center.

“The curtain. He's behind the curtain,” he shouted, scrambling out of the line of fire. Mason's knees burned as he scraped the floor, tearing his pant leg.

Once out of range, he scrambled to his feet. He ignored the sharp pain from the bullet wound that refused to heal, and ripped the curtain from the nails securing it to the wall. Knowing the gunner was less than five feet away, he flipped the AK to full auto and stuck it around the corner. Yanking the trigger to the rear, he let the muzzle climb as the Kalashnikov chewed through half a magazine.

His ears were already ringing from the first salvo of fire, and Mason could feel the pressure driving back from the muzzle, slapping him in the skull like the palm of an invisible hand.

A flash of reddish mist splattered across the wall perpendicular to his line of sight, followed by the sound of a man shrieking in pain. Mason released the pressure on the trigger, and for a second, silence fell over the room. So much for the surprise element, he thought grimly. Everybody for blocks around had been alerted by now.

He reached down to rip the mag out of the rifle and was just about to slip a fresh one into the mag well when he heard a metallic
tink
above his head.

Mason rocked the magazine forward, yanking it to ensure it was secure, just as a dark green orb bounced out of the hidden stairwell. The Russian grenade seemed to hover at eye level, and before he even realized that he was moving, Mason snatched it out of the air and hurled it back up the stairs.