AZERBAIJAN PROVINCE, IRAN - Colonel Heston began to slowly regain consciousness and discovered he was in an upright sitting position, gagged with his feet tied, his hands bound behind his back and fastened together behind a wooden support. Heston was in the middle of a room that appeared like any other one would find in the average Arab household, only this one had no windows and only one doorway. The room was dark, hot and lit only by a single light bulb hanging from an electrical cord above his head. His vision remained somewhat blurred, both eyes swollen from the beatings that began soon following his arrival. Heston was just able to make out the Lieutenant two meters to his right, gagged and tied to a wooden post.
Colonel Heston now heard the faint sound of a woman’s voice coming from the doorway. She was American by the tone of it. Probably from the northeastern seaboard by the inflection. What the hell is going on here?
The woman’s voice was all of a sudden replaced by a commercial for…
A tractor commercial! What in the world would those bastards be watching American television for?
The Colonel now saw the Lieutenant motion for him to look in his direction. The young man was in just as bad a state as he must have been, his eyes nearly shut, lacerations and bruising to his face caused by the crash, the beatings, or both. Just the same, the Lieutenant was making an effort to blink his eyes...to send Morse Code! Blinking eyes furiously, the Lieutenant issued the warning.
“Z…A…R…Q…A…”
The Colonel did not need the rest: Abu al-Zarqawi! Heston had not seen him during the interrogations! The Colonel began to panic uncontrollably. Other than Osama Bin Laden, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi was the second most sought after Al-Qaeda leader in the world. The fanatic had once been a reporter for an Islamist tabloid and joined Osama Bin Laden in Afghanistan and was now heading up his terrorist operations on targets in Iraq. Al-Zarqawi was notorious for the video footage that he posted on the internet showing in graphic detail, how seventh-century Muslim justice was meted out to “Western Infidels.”
Colonel Heston now recognized what was in store for them if they could not find a way to escape. How long have I been unconscious? What is this? The first or second day? Heston could not tell, as his surroundings and lighting remained unchanged.
The Lieutenant then began motioning with his head again, this time in the direction of a dark corner of the room. The Colonel shook his head to help clear the cobwebs and then he saw them. Three bodies, two in Iraqi Police uniforms, a third buried under the other two and not clearly visible. Heston strained his eyes, then he caught sight of them, combat boots. It had to be the body of an American soldier; they were clearly Army issue.
Heston would not realize it, but the terrorists holding him had made several raids across the border and resulted in the capture of two Iraqi Police officers and an American private from his battalion. Their bodies were heaped up in the corner of the room attracting flies, the byproduct of the fanatic’s attempts to intimidate Americans and their western allies. Bad lighting prevented the Colonel from determining how the men had died. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know, it would only make matters worse in his mind.
The US Military sent officers through training for such events, but nothing could prepare someone for the panic and horror one experienced knowing that their lives were about to end in the most horrific of ways. Heston became frightened and began to scan his surroundings looking for some means of getting free. The Colonel tested the tension of his bindings. They were so tight that they cut off the circulation to his hands when he attempted to move them. The Colonel began to run through a mental checklist of what he needed to do if given a chance. Heston was desperate.
The Colonel asked himself, What have I overlooked?
The presence of the dead men’s bodies meant he and the Lieutenant had little time. Heston shuffled his weight again trying to slacken the tension of the ropes. The Colonel noticed the Lieutenant was attempting the same thing. No good.
Heston had not seen how many of the terrorists there were. Their one chance might be to overpower the captors if they released them from their bindings. Did the Lieutenant know? Heston caught the Lieutenant’s attention, but before the Lieutenant began to send the message, the two captives suddenly heard a familiar female's voice coming from the doorway. The Colonel and Lieutenant’s eyes met with the same thought.
Deena Crawford...World News Network nightly anchor?
The Colonel strove to send the Lieutenant word by blinking his swollen eyes.
“N...U...M...B...E...R.”
The Lieutenant blinked a response.
“S...I...X."
----------
KURDISTAN REGION, IRAQ - It was pitch black out as the SAD officers waited in a shallow stream bed for the pair of unmarked MH-6 Little Birds. Their mission, to save two Army officers, a Colonel and Lieutenant believed held in an Iranian border town.
This team of men had been operating deep behind Iranian lines since the cessations of major combat operations. Their missions surrounded intelligence gathering and disruption of Iran's weapons smuggling operations, missions that conventional forces could not undertake without congressional approval.
Middle East Command suspected Al-Qaeda fanatics were behind the event and, if true, could have only been carried out with Iranian support...most likely by the Quds Force.
The Quds Force was the arm of Iran’s Revolutionary Guards responsible for exporting the Islamic Revolutionary movement. The "Quds" portion of the title stood for 'al-Quds', the Arabic name for Jerusalem. Translated, they were the "Jerusalem Force." It was a body of soldiers who had developed a reputation for barbarity among Iran’s neighbors and were the reason U.S. Military was still engaged with the Taliban, almost seven years later. The Iranians had picked up where Saddam's Iraqi intelligence service, Jihaz Al-Mukhabarat Al-A'ma, had left off. They were now the nation in the region harboring and training terrorists for attacks in opposition to the ‘Western Infidels.’
The SAD team waiting to embark was part of the Special Operations Group (SOG), a tactical portion of the organization that often operated in high-threat military, or intelligence-gathering operations. It was a tactical team that wore and carried nothing that could be overtly tied to the U.S. Government...if captured they would be entirely on their own.
The Political Action Group (PAG) made up the other side of house with missions that were more strategic in nature, ranging from managing indigenous spy networks to backing political opposition of belligerent regimes. The two groups often worked together, and in this case this team was supported by PAG Officer Allen Sinatra out of Baghdad. Both groups reported up to Operations Command, buried three levels under CIA's facilities in Langley and was simply referred to by both groups as “Mother.”
Officer Marcus McQueen was leader of this six-man team known by the code name “Black Angel.” Marcus was in his early thirties, of average height and sturdy build. His nose was skewed slightly off-center as a result of hand-to-hand combat in one of his past missions. Marcus had seen frontline service for nearly a decade; his background included a stint in Delta Force and time as an instructor at “The Farm,” the CIA training center for field agents.
Marcus checked his watch and then tapped the communications specialists, Officer Hunter Jefferies, to his immediate right, “It’s time to contact Mother.”
A few moments passed before Hunter responded, “I have Mother on the line."
“Mother, this is McQueen. Is the mission still a go?”
“Marcus, your target is stationary...your target is stationary. Mission a go...mission a go.”
“Understood, Mother. Mission is a go. Out.”
President McKinley, unlike his Democrat predecessor, had taken the leash off this pack of killers when the attack of September 11th occurred. Today, the Black Angel Team had a free hand in missions centered on stopping weapons shipments coming from Iran into Iraq. “Classified Authorization” placed no restr
ictions on the Rules of Engagement, which meant the gloves could come off. The Middle Eastern brand of terrorism Marcus and his team faced, likewise, recognized no such laws. To throw about pleas for the protections of the International Humanitarian Law, the Geneva Conventions, or the Hague Conventions would have simply drawn laughter from the combatants the team encountered. The kind of war Black Angel was fighting was a no-holds-barred conflict where barbarity was the nature of the game.
Marcus checked his watch again and pressed the contact in his ear. “Transport arriving in ten mikes. Prepare to depart.”
Thirty meters behind Marcus in a shallow wadi sat an idling M2A2 Bradley that delivered his team to this rendezvous point. Mother confirmed earlier on-ground intelligence; heat signatures of three vehicles had shown up on satellite, crossing the border from the crash site and were monitored until the point where they disappeared undercover in the Iranian border town of Qsar Shirin.
The minutes ticked by.
Marcus peeked at his watch again and lowered his night-vision headgear into place and peered Southwest, the direction the Black Ops choppers would take. The team leader could now see four of his five officers who had taken up defensive positions in an arc facing the Iranian border.
Just to Marcus’ side was Officer Hunter Jefferies, average height, average build and former big-wave surfer from Santa Clara whose youthful appearance belied the trained killer from the Army Rangers. Blond hair, blue eyes, Hunter would have stood out like a sore thumb during night time missions if not for the protective camouflage and paint he wore.
Behind Hunter and off to the left ten meters lay Officer Karl Hagman. Similar in build to Marcus, Karl was a former Greco-Roman wrestling champion at Penn State with a broad chest and limbs like steel. He was slated to take over as team leader when Marcus retired in the not-too-distant future. A Pittsburg native, Karl was the team's number-one sniper.
Officer Sean Crutchfield lay off to Marcus’ right. Sean was less athletically built, tall, thin and wiry and had come directly from the CIA, an unusual path. What qualified Sean for SAD was his time inside Delta Force. Sean was the team’s technical specialist, and a high-strung New Yorker.
Officer Elijah Lee lay prone off to the right of the metal monster. Like Sean, Elijah came from CIA, was a former Navy Seal and graduate from the U.S. Naval Academy. Elijah’s dark-brown hair was always cropped close to the scalp and blended in uniformly with is naturally dark, native American skin color. Part Cherokee, part Irish, Elijah was a Nevada native and the team's number-two sniper.
Completing the six-man team and positioned farthest from Marcus to the left was Officer Joe Bogart. Joe was a recent arrival coming from the 75th Ranger Regiment. Medium height, talkative and a jokester, Joe was quickly fitting in and was the team's surveillance specialist.
Each officer wore desert camouflage uniforms that bore no symbols. They carried no personal effects. The protective headgear and combat outfit appeared like the types worn by Russian Special Forces, only SAD equipment was of a much higher quality. Ceramics doubled the protective power of the Kevlar vests, helmets and combat boots. Their night-vision hardware was of the latest technical design, but was modified to appear as low-cost Russian models.
The material of the combat suits was treated with a light-sensitive chemical agent that changed the outward appearance of the men to match the changing surroundings. In blackout conditions their exteriors became midnight-black, in moonlight, silver-grey. In the desert and on a cloudy day, the camouflage pattern was of muted shades of grey and tan; in bright sunlight, everything became a tan and brown camouflage pattern.
Elijah’s voice came over Marcus’ earpiece, "Birds approaching from the southwest.”
Ten minutes later, the team was aboard two Little Birds and were making their way east across the border.
Two hours, fifty-five minutes after the officers were reported missing, the Black Angel team touched down in Iran. The objective was a sparsely lit village they glimpsed from the air, Qsar Shirin.
It was a dark, moonless night, and the outer layer of their combat fatigues turned jet-black. They looked like some kind of twenty-second century Ninjas. Off to the right a short distance was a chain of rocky hills the team would intercept and use to approach the town unobserved.
Qsar Shirin was a small village of about three dozen buildings and was now believed to be a launching point for Iranian-backed terrorists into Iraq. All inhabitants were to be considered hostile. Intelligence made several high altitude passes over the area and analysis of the RQ-4 Global Hawk data pinpointed several adjoining buildings as the most likely location of the captives.
The plan called for Marcus' team to split up into three groups; two teams of two would enter Qsar Shirin from different directions using their German HK417 assault rifles fitted out with night vision adapters and sound suppressors.
The two snipers carried the Russian OSV-96 and would position themselves on high ground and provide cover fire. The OSV-96 was a monster of a weapon weighing in at just under thirty pounds, and it fired a fifty-caliber projectile that created enough kinetic energy to take out an engine block, never mind a human being.
Behind the cover of a berm, Marcus pulled the latest reconnaissance map giving some last minute instructions.
"Joe, you and Hunter will come in from the north.” Marcus passed his gloved index finger over the map, depicting the route they were to take.
“Sean and I will come in from the southwest.” Marcus pointed to the spot on the map, a group of buildings in the center of the village. “Here is where Intelligence is convinced the captives are being held; it is the objective.”
“Karl, you and Elijah will cover us from that position over there.” Marcus pointed to a rock promontory, about one thousand meters to the west of town. “Open up when I give the word.”
“Roger.”
“Again, our mission is to rescue two officers believed to have been captured and brought here alive. Everyone else is to be considered hostiles. Those bastards have to be imagining they’re safe this far into Iran, so they aren’t likely to be expecting us. Everyone got it?”
The officers nodded in agreement.
“Everyone to your positions."
----------
Two dark-robed figures entered the room holding the Colonel and Lieutenant. The shadows prevented their faces from being seen, the two terrorists talking with one another as if the two American captives were not even present. In any other situation, they would have appeared like a couple of businessmen standing about casually discussing the weather. Something caught the Colonel’s eye. One of the men’s robes was discolored, darker than the other robed figure. Heston now saw a trail of blood running from the dark group of bodies to beyond the doorway.
Colonel Heston’s immediate thought, Okay, this is it.
The erect posture and hand gestures of one of the men, the way one of the terrorists cut off the other in mid-sentence convinced the Colonel that man was the ring leader. He was also the one with the blood-drenched robe. The two men’s conversation became a whispered discussion followed by the suspected subordinate leaving.
The terrorist leader turned in the direction of the Colonel and stood as if waiting for something. Three dark-robed men now entered the room, pausing for a moment as if waiting for a command. The Colonel froze in terror as the solitary figure made a motion with his hand in the direction of Lieutenant McFarland. The Lieutenant was also watching the man's actions and made a desperate effort to wriggle free when the Lieutenant saw he was the one who would be next to be butchered. It was the only likely outcome, as the interrogations were all done and they had got nothing.
The Colonel could not control the tears that swelled up in the eyes as he watched the Lieutenant's efforts to struggle free being met with brutal kicks and punches from his captors. The pummeling went on until the Lieutenant at long last succumbed to the blows and the cowards began to untie
his now limp body from the wooden post.
The Arab who remained standing now stooped down, so the Colonel could see his face. Heston had seen a photo of this man many times on American television and internal military reports: Abu al-Zarqawi. This was the same man who openly professed his actions were being guided by Allah, which was bullshit. The Colonel had read an English rendition of the parts of the Quran these extremists professed to be following, and it would take someone who was mentally deranged to interpret their brutal actions as something condoned by God.
That was when the Colonel heard the terrorist leader say in broken English, “Are you ready to meet God?” Al-Zarqawi then gave the other men the signal to carry the American soldier into the other room. The Al-Qaeda leader was savvy on how his cruelties would be portrayed by the American media. Either through sheer foolishness, or their own hollow beliefs, the news networks would send the American people his message. His objective was simple. The Al-Qaeda leader wanted to dispirit and break the resolve of the American people. The fanatic wanted to help the Democrats succeed in their demands for withdrawal from Islamic lands.
As he was being lifted to his feet, the Lieutenant turned his head to look at the Colonel one last time. His eyes said more than any words could, it was a pleading gaze that seemed to say, "Tell my parents I love them! Tell them that I will see them in the next life!"
The Lieutenant's eyes disappeared into the shadows and the Colonel watched on with tears as the terrorists blindfolded him. After a minute-long struggle, Heston watched the Lieutenant dragged off through the single doorway, his white, blood-drained hands tied tightly behind him, his boots bound together. The Lieutenant had no chance of escape.
The Colonel now struggled against his bindings, hoping upon hope, his ropes had somehow become loose, but it was to no avail. In the time that followed the Colonel heard the muffled yelling of the Lieutenant as the bastard, al-Zarqawi, began going through the ungodly ritual that preceded all his previous human sacrifices. The time arrived when the Al-Qaeda leader all of a sudden stopped his horrible diatribe. Moments later, Colonel Heston heard the horrifying, agonizing scream of his Lieutenant. This was the moment when the cold blade of steel was swung into the American's neck!
Nearly inhuman screams followed...short tortured screams suddenly replaced by another horrifying noise, the breathing action of the Lieutenant’s still-functioning lungs, air escaping and being drawn in through his exposed windpipe. The grisly sound kept on for what seemed an eternity. Then, the bastard started again with his lunatic ravings.
The mad man finally stopped and a few moments later the Colonel could hear the shuffling of feet approaching the doorway. The Lieutenant's still quivering body was being dragged along the dirt floor. Then the two dark-robbed men dragging the body threw it into the corner of the room with the other dead like a sack of flour.
The Colonel now saw the lower portion of one more dark-robed man enter the room. The head of Lieutenant Tim McFarland was barely being held by a tuft of hair, blood still dripping to the floor from the exposed, severed neck. The Colonel had to avert his eyes; it was the most horrifying sight he had ever seen: the horror etched upon the Lieutenant's face...it was indescribable.
The dark-hooded figure tossed the Lieutenant's head up on the pile of bodies and turned to face the Colonel. His time had arrived! All of a sudden the reality of the situation overwhelmed him. Heston began to tremble uncontrollably. One of his captors laughed at the sight. The Colonel felt shame at his irrepressible behavior. All the while, the Al-Qaeda leader remained quiet watching the American officer, as strong, rough hands now grabbed and held the Colonel's arms firmly in place. Heston’s bindings were cut free from the post. It was futile to resist at this point, to do so would have resulted in the same punishment the Lieutenant had received. No, the Colonel needed to preserve his strength for the right moment...he could only pray that break would arrive in time.
Heston was brought to a semi-standing position. A strip of coarse fabric was harshly put into place to blindfold him and tied off behind his head, pulling a clump of Heston’s hair out in the process. Heston was dragged through what must have been the single doorway and forced into a kneeling position. Two burly sets of hands held him in place by his upper arms and shoulders. The Colonel tried to remove himself from his earthly surroundings. Heston began thinking of his wife and daughter; he wished he could see them one last time. Thoughts of their first date together, their daughter's first birthday, the day of his daughter's college graduation all raced through his mind.
The Colonel could hear his captors talking about him, as the Arab pronunciation of “American” came up various times. Suddenly, the blindfold was yanked off from over his head. The Colonel now saw several men dressed in Iranian Military uniforms, proof positive the Iranians were involved in support of al-Zarqawi and his network of insurgents! One Iranian soldier was adjusting the lighting fixtures, while another peered through the focal lens of an antiquated, tripod-mounted, video recorder. Both Iranians seemed indifferent to their tasks, just one more day on the job. Heston saw the still-hooded terrorist leader casually walk over to the third Iranian soldier, an officer by the look of the piping on his lapels, and strike up a conversation, his Lieutenant's blood still on his hands!
The Colonel's terror was, by now, nearly overwhelming. His time was fast running out. Colonel Heston needed to do one last thing before his end came, he began to recite, in spite of his gag, the first thing to pop into his mind: the 23rd Psalm. Heston closed his eyes and concentrated, focusing like he had never before, with all his internal might.
Heston half heard his muffled words as he spoke, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me...”
One of the captors now decided to sucker punch him hard to the right side of the head nearly knocking him unconscious. These were going to be his last words...before he met his maker, he needed to get them out!
His head spinning, Heston continued, “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.”
The Colonel ignored the heavy handed brut who was yelling something incomprehensible then spat in his face. Heston was rocked by one more blow to the side of his head. Someone yelled out something in Arabic. The tormentor's howling ceased for the moment, Heston’s surroundings were starting to become quiet. The American’s thoughts were not clear, as his head now ached almost to the point he felt he might throw up. Heston now heard sandaled footsteps making their way from in front of him to a position to his rear. The treading stopped just behind him then nothing. The terrorist leader was waiting...waiting for something.
Colonel Heston kept his eyes tightly closed; he then felt the heat of the camera lighting come on as it might on any Hollywood film set. The American got a whiff of the stench of the un-bathed figures around him.
“Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”
Cold sweat beaded on the Colonel’s forehead.
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD, for ever.”
Colonel Maxwell Heston was now resigned to his fate...he was powerless to change it. Only God could intervene at this point.
“Amen.”
Heston tried to clear his mind of thought, to give himself one last bit of courage, but it did not work! The Colonel heard his muffled screams as he struggled haplessly against the strong hands of his captors.
This is it, he thought, I’m going to die!
BOOM!
There was a sudden explosion!
The Colonel’s eyes darted open, his senses heightened, his body tensed. More adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream giving him a tremendous surge of raw animal power. The two men holding him in place were shouting, distracted by the turn of events. Heston felt their grip weaken momentarily!
It’s now, or neve
r!
BOOM!
One more detonation!
BOOM!
Using his captors’ hold to steady himself, the Colonel leapt to his feet. Heston’s actions were as quick as the strike from a cobra. Heston felt the men's vice-like grips break free just long enough to knock one of the terrorists off balance. The Colonel threw his full weight, all two hundred pounds of it, at the teetering Muslim and they both fell hard to the dirt floor. Heston’s luck held, and he managed to fall on top of his assailant. The fall knocked the wind out of his assailant!
The lights suddenly went out!
The racket of automatic fire was now going off close by.
Rata-Tat-Tat!
The American’s position was highly precarious: his legs, hands bound. Heston had to try to maintain his position on top as the Arab was fighting to get free, kicking, biting and clawing at him. The Colonel was helpless to respond.
BOOM!
BOOM!
The percussion wave and flash of two more explosions ripped through the room. The Colonel expected to feel the sharp pain of a steel blade, or the biting penetration of a bullet at any moment.
Everything was pitch black.
The report of more machine gun fire...more grenades going off. All of it was getting much closer.
The terrorist underneath him had half worked himself free when Heston heard the man shudder violently in pain! The Colonel heard someone yell out in English, "Fire in the hole!"
The Colonel could only shut his eyes, as he was in no position to do anything more. The blast and bright flash of the percussion grenade instantly stunned him. His ears were ringing and he was temporarily deaf. The Colonel opened his eyes to see the flashes of gun reports coming from what seemed every direction; it was like the 4th of July and he was right in the middle of the fireworks.
Am I going make it? Has God really answered my prayers? Crap! The guy under me, he’s...
----------
McQueen and Sean were on opposite sides of a heavy metal door that had just been blasted from the hinges. First Sean, then McQueen, tossed stun-grenades into the entryway. Moments later, the bright flash of each exploding went off.
Both Americans recognized they did not have much time. First one, then two men dressed in Arab garb were sawn down. The blinding flash and the percussion wave rendered them helpless. They were easy meat.
The two officers rapidly made their way into the building when the lights went out following the distant crack of another detonation. The second SAD team had cut the power as they came in through the rear entrance. Marcus and his men were now at a distinct advantage, as both he and Sean pulled their night-vision goggles into place. The team leader motioned to Sean who tossed one more percussion grenade down the hallway, the two men averting their eyes as it went off.
Sean cut down one more robed man who, blinded by the grenade, aimlessly fired 7.62mm rounds in all directions as he stumbled down the hallway. This fanatic died instantly as three to four rounds hammered him backwards.
Marcus heard another explosion toward the rear of the complex, as Hunter and Joe cleared more rooms; the bad guys were trapped. Sean threw a second grenade down the hallway for good measure. Again, both SAD men averted their eyes. Sean swiftly followed up the detonation, moving quickly to the first doorway, rapidly glancing around the corner before peppering the room with rounds from his silenced weapon. Sean motioned to the team leader the ‘all clear’ signal as he pulled a magazine from his belt to rearm. Marcus moved rapidly past him to the next doorway. Marcus could make out someone yelling out in Arabic, "اقتلوا الأمريكية!" ("Kill the American!"), he had to act quickly! Glancing around the corner, the SAD leader saw only two men in an unfair struggle on the floor, as one was hog-tied. Marcus took aim, squeezed the trigger and all hell broke loose, brass rounds flying everywhere. Ducking back behind the doorway, he stooped down to make a smaller target; the team leader recognized this opponent could not see in the dark.
He yelled, "Fire in the hole!" and threw one more grenade into the room, his toss placed clear of the two men on the floor. There was a deafening explosion and blinding flash of light, which Marcus rapidly followed up with short, sustained bursts. One, then another assailant was caught in his gunfire. Marcus looked in the direction of the two men engaged in the one-sided struggle and saw the robed terrorist was reaching for his sheathed dagger fastened to his leg. The two combatants were thrashing around too much, and the SAD officer could not get a clear shot without risking hitting the American. Instinctively the Black Angel leader pulled his serrated-bladed knife from its sheath and made several catlike strides toward the two men yelling, "Move aside!"
Marcus was just about to drive home his blade when the officer felt as if he had been punched by a sledgehammer one, two, three times to his right. Marcus fell uncontrollably off to the left, pushed by the kinetic energy of the brass-plated projectiles. His special reinforced armor had just shaken off the blows of a 7.62mm round at close range. Marcus hit the floor hard, but instantly reached out and angled the knife with his extended right arm and thrust it into the side of the terrorist, now with dagger in hand. Marcus plunged the cold steel blade just under the Arab’s armpit, who let out a shriek of pain, but the leader realized he had not dealt a death blow.
“Move aside!” he yelled.
Marcus wrenched the blade out of the man's chest at the very moment the American Colonel was clear, and drove the blade home again with all his might, piercing the fanatic's abdomen a second time. The blade passed completely through the victim’s ribcage, the point of the blade not coming to a halt until it was buried in the victim up to the hilt. Marcus twisted and wrenched the cold steel sideways to disembowel, and the terrorist let out another inhuman scream. That Muslim was now on his way to meet up with those seventy-two virgins.
While this was taking place, Sean had been covering his boss from the doorway, taking several insurgents under fire as they ran through a second doorway, before moving into the killing room. Marcus examined the Colonel for wounds, then noticed Sean pull one more stun grenade from his belt. Both Marcus and the Colonel responded instantly by covering up, a fraction of a second later there was a blast as plaster from the ceiling rained down upon their heads. Sean followed up as before with gunfire.
Just when Marcus ungagged the American officer he yelled out, "Al-Zarqawi!" The heavy smoke of cordite filled the room as the Colonel coughed uncontrollably whilst trying to catch his breath. “Zarqawi is here!”
Marcus did not respond and instead instantly looked in Sean's direction, and motioned with his gloved index and middle fingers to the second doorway. Marcus knew the back room was not likely to be a dead-end, because the rats usually had tunnels dug for themselves for just such an event.
Marcus' partner, his weapon leveled, fired short bursts as he cleared the back room.
Marcus scanned the room, picking up an assault rifle laying next to a dead terrorist, pulled back the slide and saw the weapon was hot, then grabbed the Colonel by the arm and led him in the direction of the hallway. A moment later, another explosion went off, both men instinctively covered up before quickly rising to their feet. Marcus guided the colonel toward the front of the building. With the total darkness of his surroundings, the Colonel stumbled several times when he stepped onto the now cooling corpses.
Once clear, Marcus pressed the contact in his earpiece, "Listen up, al-Zarqawi is here. Let's get that SOB if possible!"
Marcus grabbed the Colonel by his arms and helped him up into to a semi-prone position yelling, "Colonel, is there anyone else alive?"
Heston shook his head.
Marcus placed the Colonel in the cover of a low wall facing the dirt thoroughfare. The hubbub of weapons fire and grenades had stopped.
"Colonel, take this." Marcus handed him the assault rifle. “Do you know how to use it?”
The officer nodded that he did.
?
??Okay, now stay here. I will be right back.” Marcus pressed the contact in his ear, "Karl, you and Elijah maintain your position. Keep an eye out for company.”
“Roger that,” came Karl’s voice over the audio, a little static obvious due to distance.
“Sean, any sign of Zarqawi?"
A static-free response came back from Sean, "All clear, looks like the shit went out the backdoor.”
Tunnels, thought Marcus. “Listen up everyone, we’ve still got terrorists running around.”
“This is Hunter, the place is booby trapped in spots. Keep an eye out.”
Several affirmatives could be heard over the communications link.
Marcus touched his earpiece, “Sean, you, Joe and Hunter reconnoiter the premises. See if you can find anything important.”
"Roger that," responded Sean.
A moment later Sean's voice came back over the link, "Marcus, I think I’ve found the Lieutenant."
"Roger that, I'm headed in your direction," Marcus responded turning on his helmet-embedded video recorder.
Rather than take time photographing the area for later study, Marcus' equipment would capture both audio and video records of the event. Marcus poked his head into each room to examine the contents. The only thing of some interest was a television set, which lay strewn in pieces about one of the rooms.
Marcus now came to the room where he almost bought it, taking time to examine some of the bodies before making his way back to Sean's position. That is when the officer discovered the Iranian Military were involved; three of the slowly cooling bodies were wearing military uniforms. Marcus took a closer look at the insignia, the gold eagle with lightning bolt in its claws embroidered into the officer's collar. Quds Force, he thought.
Joe's voice came back over the leader' headset. "We're going to have company. I'm looking at a Chinese transmitter. It was recently turned off, it's still warm."
Marcus' first thought, Got to hurry, no time to waste.
"What is it Sean?" Marcus asked as he came through the doorway.
"Two of our men and a couple of Iraqi Police by the look of their uniforms."
The team leader tapped his earpiece again. "Hunter, request immediate extraction. Confirm transport for the casualties, one living, two dead!"
"Marcus, this is Joe. I've come across something else, a cache of weapons."
"Anything interesting?"
"Yes, looks like they've got something that looks like our Stinger. There have to be a half-dozen of them."
Marcus looked again at his watch. So far, they had been lucky, but that luck might change at any moment.
"Joe, bring one of them and blow the rest."
"Will do, out."
Karl's voice came over the leader's earpiece. "We've got military vehicles approaching from the east! Estimated time of arrival, ten mikes (minutes)."
Marcus tapped his earpiece. "Are they armored?"
"No, soft skin."
"You and Elijah take them under fire when in range. See if you can cripple the transports first."
"Roger, that," responded Karl.
Marcus peered at Sean, "There’s no time to take the Iraqis back. I've got them on video for later identification!"
Marcus then heard the distant crack of a high velocity rifle firing once, then one more, and another.
"Time to clear out!"
----------
WASHINGTON, D.C. - Director Derrick J. Mitchum sat behind his office desk with the phone to his ear. The call to President William W. McKinley would update the leader of the free world on the results of the rescue mission.
Derrick was the fifth person to serve as Director of the Special Activities Division, his path beginning some fifteen years earlier as the number one of a six-man SAD team. As a result of his exemplary performance abroad, Derrick became a Field Operations officer before becoming the head of SAD. The Director was also a recipient of one of the CIA’s highest awards, the Intelligence Star.
The SAD Director was handsome in a rugged sort of way, a shade over six feet, thinning hair, his trimmed mustache was a mix of grey-brown and he stayed fit by putting in an hour a day at the agency dojo five days a week. Derrick’s line of work did not lend itself to a normal family life, and the result was two failed marriages and no one to carry on the family name.
His results as Director were impeccable. Derrick was a man of substance, not an empty suit, and was held in high esteem by his people, as he had been one of them. Years ago, before coming back to the States, Derrick had doubts on whether he could make the transition from a field operative to someone behind a desk. Derrick was happiest on missions, and it had been difficult becoming simply an observer.
Derrick's real joy in life was seeing justice meted out to the villains of the world, especially those who thought themselves untouchable. Gradually adjusting to the life of a bureaucrat, Derrick found he still needed an occasional trip into the field to bring back those memories of far more exciting days, back when he was in the Special Operations Group.
President McKinley answered from the Oval Office using the direct line with SAD.
“Mr. President, I am calling to inform you of the mission results.”
“Go ahead Derrick.”
“The team succeeded in rescuing the Colonel, we were too late to save the Lieutenant.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Derrick. Was it bad for him?"
The Director had watched the video Officer McQueen sent showing the work of the terrorists: dismembered human bodies. Derrick could make out the abrasions to their wrists where their hands were once bound. The Director felt his anger well up as he looked at the display of barbarity.
"No more than usual, Mr. President."
"Those bastards are going to pay for their actions one of these days. Did your team get back okay?"
“Yes, Mr. President.”
"Damn, this is a nasty business we're in, what else?"
"Abu al-Zarqawi was present as were three members of the Quds Force."
"The Quds Force? I suppose you've got video of their involvement."
"Of course."
"Damn, I hate that we can't use any of it."
"It goes with the territory, Mr. President."
"I'm guessing al-Zarqawi managed to escape."
"Yes, we ran out of time."
"Too bad, ending that madman's life would have saved the world a lot of misery."
There was a short pause on the line.
“Derrick, was this McQueen's team again?"
"Yes, sir, it was."
"Is it true, he’s retiring?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Do me a favor. When Marcus returns to the States and before being discharged, tell him I want to see him up here at the White House. I would like to give him my personal thanks for the work he’s done for the country.”
“I will make the arrangements.”
“Very good Derrick, and as for yourself, keep up the good work.”
Derrick hung up once the line went dead. There was no reason to mention any of the details on how the captives had been put to death. The atrocities committed by Muslim barbarians were something the Director expected. If captured, SAD personnel could expect no less. It took a different breed of man to take that kind of risk, and Derrick had been one of them. Derrick understood the risks his men were taking. The Director also knew that the cyanide capsule each man carried on each mission was the only thing that stood between them and those most horrible of deaths.
For the first two decades of SAD's existence, it was cloaked in secrecy, so much so that it was hidden to all, but the sitting President and Secretary of Defense. Times had changed and the anonymity it once held was exposed during the term of the Democrat Evenson. Today, depending on the political persuasion of a President, the Special Activities Division could be used as either a rapier, or political prop.
Derrick's loyalties would change depending on the
nature of the man in the Oval Office. When the wrong kind of guy was in charge, Derrick’s priorities would change; the President and his mission orders would not be followed to the letter. This, of course, remained unknown to the politician in the White House.
Secretly, Derrick would ensure his men’s safety remained the top priority, and as for the fool’s errands, they were given secondhand treatment. The Director had been around Washington a long time and he understood most popularity-seeking politicians. It was not results that they were after, not real meaningful results. No, they wanted only the appearance of results, props the press could use to display their prowess in office. When someone like Evenson showed up, when called for, the appearance of results are what SAD delivered. Nothing more, nothing less.
FUTURE PRESIDENT