Infidels (6 page)

“We’ve
had new intel come in from a confidential source well-placed within the Saudi
government that confirms the prince has indeed betrayed his government and his
faith,” said Morrison. “The attack heard at the end of the broadcast was
apparently Houthi rebel forces from Yemen attacking. He apparently now is
indeed a hostage.”

“Are the
Saudi’s planning a rescue operation?”

“No, their
agreement with us is to not cross international borders with equipment sold to
them by us.”

“So that
basically means everything,” interjected Eppes.

“True,”
resumed Morrison. “They’ve asked
us
to rescue him.”

There
was silence over the speakerphone for a moment as the implications set in. It
was Leroux that broke the silence.

“Sir,
what if they have the Black Stone?”

“What do
you mean?”

“Well,
if our forces recover the Prince and this relic, then that means infidels will
have the stone in their possession.”

“Uh huh.”
Morrison paused as he apparently mulled over Leroux’s statement. Fanatics the
world over were always looking for some way to blame the West, especially
America, for all their ills, and if it were to come to light that American
soldiers had the Black Stone in their possession, even with the best of
intentions, he shuddered to think how it could be twisted by those fuelled by
so much hate. Yet there was one piece of intel he hadn’t had a chance to
impart, and once he had, he was pretty certain any question on whether or not
to mount a rescue would be settled.

“Sir,
there’s one more thing.”

“What’s
that?”

Leroux
moved closer to his phone.

“Intel
reports indicate that those who attacked the mosque were all speaking English.”

“Jesus
Christ!” exclaimed Morrison. “Meeting adjourned, I have to talk to the White
House.”

Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, USS Iwo Jima, Gulf of
Aden

Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme watched the split screen display
with his boss, Colonel Thomas Clancy in one panel along with several others
including a CIA analyst he had dealt with in the past named Chris Leroux.

He
looked like shit.

Hell,
he looks worse than I did.

Red had
just finished commanding his first op since infected with Ebola a few months
ago. It had been rough going but he had recovered and had been begging the
Colonel to put him back into the rotation for weeks now.

It
wasn’t until Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson had cleared him three
weeks ago that he had been put back on the board. He hadn’t expected his first
op to be in command, but with Dawson on vacation in Paris with his girlfriend—the
Colonel’s personal assistant—he had been tasked to lead an op recovering some
moron millionaire with connections who had sailed his yacht off the Horn of
Africa and found himself captured by Somali pirates.

He and
seven of the Bravo Team had successfully rescued the hostage, plus two others,
killing pretty much the entire group of khat chewing criminals the
international community had yet to figure out how to combat.

“The
White House has approved the op,” said Clancy, “but this is completely
compartmentalized. Only a handful know you’re going in so try not to get
caught, gentlemen. And for God’s sake don’t kill the prince. The last thing we
need is it getting out that he died by our hand.”

“Yes,
sir,” replied Red. “How recent are these satellite images?”

Leroux
moaned out a reply. “These are less than two hours. It looks like they’re down
for the night. We’ll have a UAV over the area to give you live intel when
you’re inserted.”

“Thank
you, sir.”

The
young man seemed to flinch at the formality. The man was younger than him,
though not by the couple of decades Clancy had on him. Special Ops was a young
man’s world, and young men in the military grew up fast if they wanted to make
sergeant, faster still if they wanted to make Delta.

There
were no boys in The Unit.

“Be careful
on this one, Sergeant. There’re a lot of rumors flying about, including the
possibility that some Islamic relic has been stolen, and if that’s the case,
then Prince Khalid was behind it. If this cell you’re about to hit has the
relic, they’ll fight to the death to keep it out of American hands.”

“We’ll
watch our sixes, sir.”

“You do
that. Clancy, out.”

The
various squares of the screen went black as the teleconference ended, leaving
Red to look at his second-in-command for the mission, Sergeant Leon “Atlas”
James. “So, what do you think?”

Atlas,
his nickname earned by looking like his muscled self should take a knee then a
planet on his shoulders, responded in his ridiculously deep voice. “I think if
this mission goes south, we’re going to be hung out to dry.”

Red
frowned, nodding.

“So do
I.”

Qarmatian Camp, Saudi Arabia

Abu Tahir al-Qarmati stifled a yawn, it now well past dark, the only
light from the fire and several candles. They had a generator but it was
powered down for the night, it a waste to use it for something as trivial as
light, it reserved to power computer equipment and charge cellphones and
laptops.

His head
drooped as he drifted off, his body beginning to fall forward, the sensation
enough to startle him awake.

The
sound of whispered words outside gave him a jolt of energy, the flap to the
tent pushed aside as the man he had been waiting for finally arrived.

“Sir, I’m
sorry I’m late, but there was a patrol near the border. We had to go around
them.”

Al-Qarmati
waved off the excuse, motioning for the man to sit near the fire and for tea to
be brought. “What have you found?”

“It is
as we suspected. They are camped just across the border, not ten miles inside
Yemini territory.”

“And
they have the Black Stone?”

The man frowned.
“We saw no sign of it but they must have taken it.”

“But it
could have been moved beyond their camp?”

The man
shook his head. “I’d be surprised. We weren’t far behind them, maybe an hour. I
have a feeling the illiterate fools believe the story the government is feeding
them—that what they have is fake.”

“If so,
then they
may
just accomplish what
we
had planned.”

“They
might.”

“It
would be unfortunate. I had hoped to capture the event on camera. It will be a
glorious moment in history.”

“True,
very true. But you still may. I left two men behind with the necessary
equipment. They’ll film anything should it occur.” The man took a sip of his
tea, sighing. “How do you plan to get it back?”

Al-Qarmati
smiled.

“A plan
is already in motion.”

Houthi Rebel Encampment, North-Western Yemen

Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme crawled on his belly to the top of
the sand dune, taking up position just enough over the crest to see the camp
below. Peering through his night vision goggles, the hazy green glow showed
half a dozen tents with waning fires glowing at the entrances and two
technicals, old Toyotas with rear mounted .50 calibers.

Exactly
what the UAV had shown, though the perspective was always different from the
ground, the terrain a little more obvious than the bird’s-eye view.

He
flicked a switch and the view changed to infrared, their hostiles now visible.

“I’m
counting fourteen targets, two guards, one on the south side, one on the north,
the rest inside the tents, sleeping or lying down. Confirm.”

“Confirmed,”
came Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James’ low rumble beside him. “But which one is the
Prince?”

“Let’s
assume anyone without a gun,” replied Red.

“And if
he’s got one?”

“Then
he’s on the wrong side.”

Atlas
chuckled. “So wake ’em and bake ’em?”

Red
nodded. “Yup. But look at those tents. Two of them have four men each, lying
side by side. There’s no way they’d have a prisoner sleeping with them like
that. Two other tents have just two guys in each, sleeping far enough apart
that at least one of them could conceivably be the Prince, but…”

“But it
just doesn’t make sense,” said Sergeant Will “Spock” Lightman. “If they’ve got
a high profile prisoner, he should be guarded, and that guard should be awake.”

“Agreed,”
said Red. “I have a funny feeling he’s either no longer here, or never was.”

Spock
grunted. “My bet’s on never was. Vehicle engines are cool and the UAV
overflight a few hours ago showed the same two vehicles.”

“And the
same fourteen heat signatures,” added Atlas.

“Okay,
second-guessing gets us nowhere. Two teams of two, one on the north side, one
on the south. Two sniper teams positioned here, take out anyone with a weapon
that moves. We’ve got four tents with occupants. Spock, you’re with me. We’ll
take out the guard on the north side then enter the nearest tent with the two
occupants. Atlas, you’re with Jimmy. Take out the south side guard and the
other tent with two inside. Confirm your targets before eliminating them. If we
get our target, fall back to the ridges here and here,” he said pointing at
dunes to the north and south of the camp. “If we don’t get our hostage, fall
back to the same ridges and we’ll fire a couple of rounds. That should get the
eight remaining hostiles up and at it. Take out anyone with a gun, and if
someone’s left alive, he’s either a hostage or a coward. We’ll interrogate him
to find out where our Prince actually is if he’s not down there. Questions?”

Head
shakes from his team of eight.

He
activated his comm. “Control, Bravo Zero-Two. Ready to proceed, over.”

“Bravo
Zero-Two, Control. UAV shows the area clear beyond the target zone. Clear to
proceed, over.”

“Roger
that Control, Bravo Zero-Two, out.”

Using
hand signals, he sent Atlas and Sergeant Gerry “Jimmy Olson” Hudson heading
south, he and Spock racing north. He kept an eye on the camp but was relying on
the two sniper teams to be watching the guards, telling them to drop if they
turned toward their approach vector, taking the hostiles out if necessary.

It
wasn’t necessary.

They
made it to the ridge, both hitting the deck with Jagger and Sweets, both
spotters for the sniper teams, giving the all clear.

“Zero-Seven,
Zero-Two. Report, over.”

Atlas
responded instantly. “Zero-Two, Zero-Seven. In position, over.”

Red
surveyed the camp below, the two guards still within sight, no movement evident
within the tents. “Zero-Seven, Zero-Two. Execute in Three… Two… One… Execute.”

He and
Spock jumped up, rushing silently down the dune toward their target, a guard
who was busy unsuccessfully lighting a cigarette, his lighter sparking
repeatedly in the dark, no flame appearing. The man spun, whipping his lighter
in anger just as Red reached him. Red plunged his knife deep into the man’s
stomach, jerking it up hard as he clasped a hand over the man’s mouth and used
his momentum to bring the struggling man silently to the sand. He yanked his
knife free then slit the man’s throat as Spock covered them with his MP5.

“Zero-Two,
Zero-Seven. Target eliminated, over.”

“Roger
that Zero-Seven, proceed to next target, over.”

Red
wiped his blade on the man’s shirt then sheathed his knife as he drew his Glock
22, threading the suppressor in place. Rushing toward the tent, Spock on point,
he listened as Jimmy and Sweets continued with updates over the comm.

Atlas
signaled he was in position with a thumbs up to the spotters, not able to
verbally confirm without possibly waking those sleeping inside their tent. Red
gave a thumbs up.

Jimmy’s
voice came over the comms. “Execute in three… two… one… execute!”

Spock
swung the flap of the tent aside and Red stepped inside, his night vision
goggles in place as he took a bead on the first sleeping man.

Thick,
long beard, not our man.

He swung
his weapon to the second man.

Thirty
years too young.

Both had
weapons lying beside them.

He
double tapped the younger man in the chest, quickly swinging his weapon to the
bearded man who woke from the sound, his eyes wide.

A double
tap put him down permanently.

“Bravo
Team, Zero-Two. Two hostiles eliminated, we don’t have eyes on the target,
over.”

“Zero-Two,
Zero-Seven. Two hostiles eliminated, no eyes on target, over.”

“Roger
that. Fall back to the ridgeline, over.”

“Hold!”
came Jimmy’s voice. “I’ve got movement from the western tent, someone is
getting up. Zero-Seven, you’re clear. Zero-Two, hold, over.”

Red
squawked twice on his comm, taking a knee as he listened, flipping his night
vision goggles out of the way.

“Target
has left his tent, he appears unarmed. Walking toward your position, Zero-Two—”

“Zero-Seven
in position, over.”

“He’s
rounding your tent, he’s going to see your target any second now.”

Red
handed his Glock to Spock, unsheathing his knife. Using the blade to open the
tent flap, he peered out just as the late night stroller shuffled past, his
feet bare, dragging in the sand. Red flipped his night vision goggles back into
place.

Not
the prince, but is he a hostile?

The
man’s eyes were half closed, it clear he was barely awake. This was a piss
break and nothing more. If they were lucky he might walk right by the body, do
his business, and head back.

But
they’d never get a better chance to take this guy out safely, leaving them with
only seven to deal with.