The Sixth Martyr, page 22
part #1 of Alpha Squad Series
A familiar figure was walking through the door. The flabby, out of condition reporter, Charlie Savage, the man he’d met at Sarah’s ranch. He walked over to Tyler, and they shook hands.
“Good to see you again, Joe.”
“Charlie, you, too. You managed to get out okay before they attacked?”
He shrugged. “It was more by luck than judgment. It was still dark, early in the morning, and I woke up. Couldn’t get back to sleep, so I decided to take a walk to clear my head. I was about half a klick away, and everything went crazy. They came out of nowhere, and there must’ve been forty or fifty of them, blazing away with assault rifles, so I hid behind some rocks.”
“You saw it all?”
He nodded. “I saw it all. They went from building to building, room to room. Shooting anyone they found, looting, and then they threw grenades to demolish the place. That wasn’t enough, and then they poured petrol everywhere and set fire to it. I started walking, anywhere to get away, and bumped into the military. I got on the phone and fixed up with my newspaper to attach me to General Pike’s outfit, and send regular reports back to the States. Which is why I thought I might be able to do something to help your situation. After all, if our senior military men are making a habit of ignoring strong intelligence on enemy movements, my readers want to know what’s going wrong.”
General Pike had stopped looking at the wall map. But from the way he cocked his head, it was obvious he was listening.
Hammett and Tyler kept their expressions neutral. Joe said, “What do you want to know?”
Charlie swiftly produced a portable recorder. He pressed the record button and said, “Everything.”
Before he could speak, Pike gave a loud sigh and turned to face them. “Okay, forget the bullshit. General Khan is elsewhere, so what have you got for me?”
* * *
Captain Jason McGrath, Missouri Air National Guard, was already on station leading his flight of for A-10s on patrol. The mission was to fly over the conflict area and seek out targets of opportunity. So far, they’d seen nothing. The Taliban had learned to fear the awesome aircraft that owned the skies above them.
He was about to give the order to abort the mission and return to base, when the radio crackled to life, and he listened intently. With rising excitement, he punched the coordinates into his navigational computer and watched the time to target appear on-screen. Less than four minutes at current speed, and he hit the transmit button.
“You all heard that. They’ve handed us a nice, fat, juicy target. There are no reports of air defense missiles, so this one should be a breeze. Alter course to 225, on my mark… Now.”
The four aircraft carried out perfect wingovers to vector onto the new course. McGrath surveyed the instruments, and they were traveling at four hundred and fifty knots at a height of two hundred meters from the ground. They’d told him overhanding cliffs from a high-level strike protected the target, but if they went in at low-level, it would be laid out for them on a plate. Three minutes later, he saw the hills and the narrow slash in the rocks that marked the valley. Another half minute, and he saw the enemy. They’d heard the sound of the approaching aircraft and were already scrambling for cover.
Too late, motherfuckers, you shouldn’t have joined the party.
The A-10s approached the entrance to the valley, and the guns spoke. Powerful GAU cannon roared, tearing into what had been a carefully prepared ambush, with scores of men waiting to slake their thirst on infidel blood. The four A-10s had other ideas, and after three separate attack runs, they turned for home, leaving behind them a mass of bloody rags and broken bodies. The Taliban ranks had been decimated, and although they’d recruit more men to continue their insane drive to force the cruelties of medieval Islamic fundamentalism on the country, for these corpses, the battle was over.
* * *
They were driving back to Sarah’s ranch to survey the damage, to see what remained, and whether it would be possible to pick up the pieces. Afterward, they’d help her decide on her future. Whether to rebuild her business, and recreate the comfortable home she’d enjoyed and shared with Junior, or to start again. Maybe elsewhere, maybe back in the States. Joe was driving, and she was in the passenger seat, darting questioning glances at him. On the rear seat, Javed and Maryam were sandwiched between Tony Hammett and Chris Murphy.
No one had spoken some time. Sarah would be dreading what she was about to see. Tony and Chris were somber, thinking about the loss of their men. Half of their Alpha Squad, Diaz and O’Donnell, and soon Hammett would have to contact his bosses to advise them of the disaster. The worst part would be fixing up the long-distance calls, and speaking personally to the relatives. The least he could do, and yet of all the tasks he’d faced during his service with Special Forces and with CIA, it was the hardest.
Tyler was battling with conflicting emotions. Yes, he’d been part of an effort to give the unholy alliance of Taliban and Al Qaeda sharp kick up the backside. He wasn’t a man to enjoy killing, but when he’d fired that last shot and seen Mullah Ahmadi and his Taliban pals blown into a thousand fragments, he’d enjoyed a certain sense of satisfaction. Revenge, at least in part, or maybe it was justice. Not that he cared. It was payback, of a kind, for what they’d done to the World Trade Center, and in the other attacks on the United States.
His mind went blank, and then he thought of Chuck, perishing in that terrible blazing chaos of the Twin Towers. The problem was, he’d taken a form of revenge, but it wasn’t enough. He was aware of Sarah’s penetrating glances, and knew she had questions for him. Some he could answer, and some he couldn’t. He’d promised to help her rebuild, and he’d keep that promise. She wanted more, and he wasn’t sure he could give it. Wasn’t sure of anything. He also had doubts about Junior. He looked so much like his Joe Junior, and he’d worked out the dates. It was possible. But Sarah had said nothing. Perhaps he was wrong, and it was wishful thinking that he had someone left.
He couldn’t shut it out of his mind, that long, thin, sallow face he’d seen ride past him in that fetid alleyway. The pale eyes staring into a future crowded with the bloodied corpses of the innocent. The long straggly beard, the white robes. The man had become an icon for the lunatics and the insane. A beacon of blood stretching out a hand to beckon others to join him in his mad dream of World Islamic domination.
As long as he was alive, he’d continue to pervert the minds of young men, and many would die. Ahmadi’s death was a good start, and probably they’d taken down a good chunk of the Taliban command structure when that building went up after the bomb vests exploded. Many Taliban fighters had died, and many others had scattered, after their plans were again thwarted, courtesy of the information they’d given to General Pike. Thanks to the best efforts of the United States Air force. But still, there was always that question. Was it enough?
“What are you thinking?”
“About things.”
She didn’t ask for an explanation, for she understood immediately. “The killing has to end, Joe.”
He nodded. “Yeah, the killing has to end. That’s what was on my mind.”
Once again, she understood. It was almost like they had a mental connection, and sometimes they knew what the other was thinking without a word being spoken.
“Osama.”
“Osama, yes. I want him.”
“Don’t go back, Joe.”
“Back?”
She blazed with anger. “You think I don’t know? You worked with Tony and Chris, and they’ve lost men. They’ll be looking to replace them with someone skilled in the art of covert killing. Someone like you, who’s good at it, and who can target the enemy commanders, all the way to the top. Don’t tell me it hadn’t crossed your mind.”
“I…don’t know.”
“We could have a life together, the three of us.” Her voice was bitter, “Anywhere in the world. Why stay here, in this place where life is cheap and death as common as hot dogs at a Red Sox game?”
He didn’t have a reply for her, and her hot words slashed at him again. “What’s it gonna be? Life with me and Junior? Or death?”
He didn’t get a chance to reply. A horse was standing in the road, and a man was lifting its front hoof to remove a stone. He stopped the vehicle and climbed out. Tony and Chris joined him, followed by Javed. The boy went up to the man to greet him.
“Uncle Nasrat.”
His jaw dropped, and he darted him a worried glance. “Javed, my nephew. I’m glad you’re safe. Thank God.”
“Yes, thank God. But no thanks to you.”
“Excuse me?” He chose not to notice the three men crowding around him. Nor did he look directly at the three rifles pointed at him.
“We saw you in Mazari Sharif, Uncle. You supplied horses to the enemy.”
“The enemy? I did not.”
Javed sighed. “Do not lie, Uncle Nasrat, we saw you helping them. We saw him as well.”
There was no need to ask whom he meant by ‘him.’
He looked afraid. “What will you do to me?”
The boy shook his head. “I don’t know. Did you tell the Taliban about Sarah’s ranch? Tell them there’d be easy pickings, that it was unguarded, and they could find horses to help Osama escape the Coalition attack?”
He stared back dumbly at the boy, but they could all read it in his eyes. Then he spoke, in a whisper, “They threatened me, and said I had a choice. Help them, and they’d pay me well, and keep me safe. Otherwise they’d kill me.”
“What did they pay you?” Tyler asked, “Thirty pieces of silver?”
“Eh? I don’t understand.”
“You soon will, my friend.”
Javed looked at Tyler. “What should we do?”
“What do you want to do?”
“This man doesn’t deserve to live. He has too much blood on his hands. Too many people died because of him.”
Once again, the image of the Al Qaeda warlord flashed across his mind.
Blood on his hands.
Those were the words Javed had used, and helping that monster to escape would cost much more blood, too much blood. He eased off the safety of his rifle and fired a single shot. Uncle Nasrat slumped to the ground. The bullet had impacted the center of his heart, so there was little blood.
Javed caught the reins of the horse, and he regarded the others. The Alphas, Tony Hammett and Chris Murphy, staring back at him. They knew the score. Sarah looked older and very tired, clutching Junior, who was all she had left. As for Tyler, he still had a man to hunt down. Pursue him to the depths of hell, if necessary. And on the way, kill as many of his fanatics as possible. He’d chosen the way of the Alpha Squad. He’d chosen death.
Eric Meyer, The Sixth Martyr
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“Good to see you again, Joe.”
“Charlie, you, too. You managed to get out okay before they attacked?”
He shrugged. “It was more by luck than judgment. It was still dark, early in the morning, and I woke up. Couldn’t get back to sleep, so I decided to take a walk to clear my head. I was about half a klick away, and everything went crazy. They came out of nowhere, and there must’ve been forty or fifty of them, blazing away with assault rifles, so I hid behind some rocks.”
“You saw it all?”
He nodded. “I saw it all. They went from building to building, room to room. Shooting anyone they found, looting, and then they threw grenades to demolish the place. That wasn’t enough, and then they poured petrol everywhere and set fire to it. I started walking, anywhere to get away, and bumped into the military. I got on the phone and fixed up with my newspaper to attach me to General Pike’s outfit, and send regular reports back to the States. Which is why I thought I might be able to do something to help your situation. After all, if our senior military men are making a habit of ignoring strong intelligence on enemy movements, my readers want to know what’s going wrong.”
General Pike had stopped looking at the wall map. But from the way he cocked his head, it was obvious he was listening.
Hammett and Tyler kept their expressions neutral. Joe said, “What do you want to know?”
Charlie swiftly produced a portable recorder. He pressed the record button and said, “Everything.”
Before he could speak, Pike gave a loud sigh and turned to face them. “Okay, forget the bullshit. General Khan is elsewhere, so what have you got for me?”
* * *
Captain Jason McGrath, Missouri Air National Guard, was already on station leading his flight of for A-10s on patrol. The mission was to fly over the conflict area and seek out targets of opportunity. So far, they’d seen nothing. The Taliban had learned to fear the awesome aircraft that owned the skies above them.
He was about to give the order to abort the mission and return to base, when the radio crackled to life, and he listened intently. With rising excitement, he punched the coordinates into his navigational computer and watched the time to target appear on-screen. Less than four minutes at current speed, and he hit the transmit button.
“You all heard that. They’ve handed us a nice, fat, juicy target. There are no reports of air defense missiles, so this one should be a breeze. Alter course to 225, on my mark… Now.”
The four aircraft carried out perfect wingovers to vector onto the new course. McGrath surveyed the instruments, and they were traveling at four hundred and fifty knots at a height of two hundred meters from the ground. They’d told him overhanding cliffs from a high-level strike protected the target, but if they went in at low-level, it would be laid out for them on a plate. Three minutes later, he saw the hills and the narrow slash in the rocks that marked the valley. Another half minute, and he saw the enemy. They’d heard the sound of the approaching aircraft and were already scrambling for cover.
Too late, motherfuckers, you shouldn’t have joined the party.
The A-10s approached the entrance to the valley, and the guns spoke. Powerful GAU cannon roared, tearing into what had been a carefully prepared ambush, with scores of men waiting to slake their thirst on infidel blood. The four A-10s had other ideas, and after three separate attack runs, they turned for home, leaving behind them a mass of bloody rags and broken bodies. The Taliban ranks had been decimated, and although they’d recruit more men to continue their insane drive to force the cruelties of medieval Islamic fundamentalism on the country, for these corpses, the battle was over.
* * *
They were driving back to Sarah’s ranch to survey the damage, to see what remained, and whether it would be possible to pick up the pieces. Afterward, they’d help her decide on her future. Whether to rebuild her business, and recreate the comfortable home she’d enjoyed and shared with Junior, or to start again. Maybe elsewhere, maybe back in the States. Joe was driving, and she was in the passenger seat, darting questioning glances at him. On the rear seat, Javed and Maryam were sandwiched between Tony Hammett and Chris Murphy.
No one had spoken some time. Sarah would be dreading what she was about to see. Tony and Chris were somber, thinking about the loss of their men. Half of their Alpha Squad, Diaz and O’Donnell, and soon Hammett would have to contact his bosses to advise them of the disaster. The worst part would be fixing up the long-distance calls, and speaking personally to the relatives. The least he could do, and yet of all the tasks he’d faced during his service with Special Forces and with CIA, it was the hardest.
Tyler was battling with conflicting emotions. Yes, he’d been part of an effort to give the unholy alliance of Taliban and Al Qaeda sharp kick up the backside. He wasn’t a man to enjoy killing, but when he’d fired that last shot and seen Mullah Ahmadi and his Taliban pals blown into a thousand fragments, he’d enjoyed a certain sense of satisfaction. Revenge, at least in part, or maybe it was justice. Not that he cared. It was payback, of a kind, for what they’d done to the World Trade Center, and in the other attacks on the United States.
His mind went blank, and then he thought of Chuck, perishing in that terrible blazing chaos of the Twin Towers. The problem was, he’d taken a form of revenge, but it wasn’t enough. He was aware of Sarah’s penetrating glances, and knew she had questions for him. Some he could answer, and some he couldn’t. He’d promised to help her rebuild, and he’d keep that promise. She wanted more, and he wasn’t sure he could give it. Wasn’t sure of anything. He also had doubts about Junior. He looked so much like his Joe Junior, and he’d worked out the dates. It was possible. But Sarah had said nothing. Perhaps he was wrong, and it was wishful thinking that he had someone left.
He couldn’t shut it out of his mind, that long, thin, sallow face he’d seen ride past him in that fetid alleyway. The pale eyes staring into a future crowded with the bloodied corpses of the innocent. The long straggly beard, the white robes. The man had become an icon for the lunatics and the insane. A beacon of blood stretching out a hand to beckon others to join him in his mad dream of World Islamic domination.
As long as he was alive, he’d continue to pervert the minds of young men, and many would die. Ahmadi’s death was a good start, and probably they’d taken down a good chunk of the Taliban command structure when that building went up after the bomb vests exploded. Many Taliban fighters had died, and many others had scattered, after their plans were again thwarted, courtesy of the information they’d given to General Pike. Thanks to the best efforts of the United States Air force. But still, there was always that question. Was it enough?
“What are you thinking?”
“About things.”
She didn’t ask for an explanation, for she understood immediately. “The killing has to end, Joe.”
He nodded. “Yeah, the killing has to end. That’s what was on my mind.”
Once again, she understood. It was almost like they had a mental connection, and sometimes they knew what the other was thinking without a word being spoken.
“Osama.”
“Osama, yes. I want him.”
“Don’t go back, Joe.”
“Back?”
She blazed with anger. “You think I don’t know? You worked with Tony and Chris, and they’ve lost men. They’ll be looking to replace them with someone skilled in the art of covert killing. Someone like you, who’s good at it, and who can target the enemy commanders, all the way to the top. Don’t tell me it hadn’t crossed your mind.”
“I…don’t know.”
“We could have a life together, the three of us.” Her voice was bitter, “Anywhere in the world. Why stay here, in this place where life is cheap and death as common as hot dogs at a Red Sox game?”
He didn’t have a reply for her, and her hot words slashed at him again. “What’s it gonna be? Life with me and Junior? Or death?”
He didn’t get a chance to reply. A horse was standing in the road, and a man was lifting its front hoof to remove a stone. He stopped the vehicle and climbed out. Tony and Chris joined him, followed by Javed. The boy went up to the man to greet him.
“Uncle Nasrat.”
His jaw dropped, and he darted him a worried glance. “Javed, my nephew. I’m glad you’re safe. Thank God.”
“Yes, thank God. But no thanks to you.”
“Excuse me?” He chose not to notice the three men crowding around him. Nor did he look directly at the three rifles pointed at him.
“We saw you in Mazari Sharif, Uncle. You supplied horses to the enemy.”
“The enemy? I did not.”
Javed sighed. “Do not lie, Uncle Nasrat, we saw you helping them. We saw him as well.”
There was no need to ask whom he meant by ‘him.’
He looked afraid. “What will you do to me?”
The boy shook his head. “I don’t know. Did you tell the Taliban about Sarah’s ranch? Tell them there’d be easy pickings, that it was unguarded, and they could find horses to help Osama escape the Coalition attack?”
He stared back dumbly at the boy, but they could all read it in his eyes. Then he spoke, in a whisper, “They threatened me, and said I had a choice. Help them, and they’d pay me well, and keep me safe. Otherwise they’d kill me.”
“What did they pay you?” Tyler asked, “Thirty pieces of silver?”
“Eh? I don’t understand.”
“You soon will, my friend.”
Javed looked at Tyler. “What should we do?”
“What do you want to do?”
“This man doesn’t deserve to live. He has too much blood on his hands. Too many people died because of him.”
Once again, the image of the Al Qaeda warlord flashed across his mind.
Blood on his hands.
Those were the words Javed had used, and helping that monster to escape would cost much more blood, too much blood. He eased off the safety of his rifle and fired a single shot. Uncle Nasrat slumped to the ground. The bullet had impacted the center of his heart, so there was little blood.
Javed caught the reins of the horse, and he regarded the others. The Alphas, Tony Hammett and Chris Murphy, staring back at him. They knew the score. Sarah looked older and very tired, clutching Junior, who was all she had left. As for Tyler, he still had a man to hunt down. Pursue him to the depths of hell, if necessary. And on the way, kill as many of his fanatics as possible. He’d chosen the way of the Alpha Squad. He’d chosen death.
Eric Meyer, The Sixth Martyr
