The Nostradamus Secret (Danforth Saga Book 3), page 14
Simmons and Biernacki had been instructed to escort the three members of the Metyar family to a rendezvous point about halfway between the village and Jackson’s insertion point.
Jackson scanned his surroundings. The terrain reminded him of his home in Socorro, New Mexico. Barren, dry, and mountainous. But that’s where the similarities ended. The most dangerous things in Socorro, he thought, are prairie dog holes, rattlesnakes, and speeding tourists. Here, there were radical Islamic fundamentalists who hated Americans, mujahideen who would shoot anyone—even an Afghani who wasn’t a member of their clan, and villagers who would fight to the death to protect their poppy crops. He and his men would try to move as ghosts, making no noise, using their night vision goggles.
They followed a rocky trail that was nothing more than a goat path roller-coastering along the side of a mountain. After a tedious trek to the rendezvous point, they found no one there.
Jackson considered his options, then ordered his men to spread out among the boulders, making sure that one man guarded the head of the trail, two hundred yards back in the direction they’d just come from. They would wait fifteen minutes and then break radio silence if Simmons and Biernacki and the Afghanis didn’t show. Simmons and Biernacki’s GPS readings indicated they were exactly two point four-three miles this side of Kaska and would probably appear soon around the corner of the hillside.
At 0240 hours, Jackson saw movement on the trail. One man. He used his nightvision binoculars. From the way the man walked on the outside of his soles, causing his shoulders to roll, Jackson knew it was Biernacki. What the hell had happened to Simmons and the Afghani civilians?
He motioned for two of his men, Wykowski and Lang, to maneuver down the trail. While they hustled toward Biernacki, Jackson trained his binoculars on them. After they met, Biernacki and Lang rushed back toward the village. They’d disappeared around the hillside before Wykowski returned to Jackson’s position.
“The old woman slipped and broke her leg,” Wykowski said. “Apparently, the old man is too frail to help carry the woman and their daughter is blind.”
“Take Foster and set up cover,” Jackson ordered, pointing toward a spot on the trail about fifty yards from where the group would first come into view.
Jackson realized making it back to the extraction point on time would now be very difficult. And the mujahideen tended to come out in the few hours before dawn. This area, so close to Pakistan, was popular with mujahideen moving back and forth across the border. The odds favored their being spotted before they could reach the extraction point.
While examining the trail, Jackson saw a flat area off to the right. Although there was sloping high ground on three sides, the flat area was just big enough to allow the helicopter to land. It could be on site in a matter of a few minutes. Jackson knew it was on the ground in Pakistan, engines running, ready to respond to his radio call.
Simmons, Biernacki, Lang, and the three Afghanis appeared on the path. Jackson keyed his radio intercom. What he said would be heard by each of his men and by the helicopter crew—and by the mujahideen if they were monitoring radio traffic. “Rescue Air, prepare for pickup at alternate location. One point five miles due west of original Rescue One rendezvous point.”
The chopper pilot acknowledged the transmission. Jackson saw two of his men on the path move with the Afghanis toward the new extraction position, one of them carrying the old woman in his arms. The third Delta team member back-tracked to the corner of the hillside to provide cover at that end of the trail.
Time seemed to freeze. Jackson and the four men still with him needed to secure the top of the trail until the Afghanis were safely aboard the stealth aircraft. Although it would make much less noise than a normal combat helicopter, it was by no means completely silent. This far out in the quiet of the boondocks, even a stealth helicopter would come in sounding like a brass band playing a Souza march.
Six minutes passed before Jackson heard the muffled whoop-whoop-whoop of the helicopter rotors. The chopper dropped like a shadow onto the flat area beside the path, directed by glow sticks one of his men had positioned on the landing site. In his night vision goggles, the glow sticks and the chopper engine’s heat signature shone bright green.
The two team members with the Afghanis helped the Metyars board the chopper. One of them followed them into the aircraft while the second member of the Delta team picked up the glow sticks and ran to join Jackson. Then the third man, guarding the village-end of the trail, raced to the helicopter and boarded.
Jackson exhaled. It looked as though things were working out. And then all hell broke loose.
“Rescue One, this is Rescue Seven. We got armed men coming down the trail. Three hundred yards from your location. Six, maybe seven of them. All armed with Kalashnikovs. Two horses carrying what looks like parts of an artillery piece.”
Rescue Seven was Tony Lucero, who was covering the top of the trail. Thank God for night vision equipment, Jackson thought. The artillery piece probably meant Lucero had spotted Taliban, Al Qaeda, or some other group. If the mujahedeen got past Lucero, they would be on top of Jackson before he and the four men with him could run to the chopper. And, even if they could reach the aircraft, the mujahideen might be able to blow it out of the air before it could clear the mountains.
“Okay, guys,” Jackson whispered into his radio, “let’s arrange a surprise for these party crashers. Rescue Seven, get back here. Rescue Air, fly out now.”
He knew the pilot wouldn’t like the order, leaving the time behind, but also knew he would obey. The mission always came first.
Jackson and his men, including Lucero, set up an ambush in the rocks. The staccato sound of the departing helicopter’s rotors roiled the air around them and must have carried to the mujahedeen, who suddenly took cover among the boulders on each side of the trail. For long moments after the chopper was gone, the only sound Jackson could hear was the faint clatter of stones dislodged by the mujahedeen’s horses.
Then the mujahedeen and their horses emerged from their hiding places and resumed their trek, slowly passing the boulders that concealed the Delta team.
Jackson waited until they vanished beyond the hillside farther down the trail before ordering his team to move from their hiding places. The Delta team moved quick-time toward their insertion location. To his relief, there was plenty of cover and concealment in the area. Jackson radioed the helicopter pilot and requested an extraction.
CHAPTER 44
Metin Saleh was a twenty-five-year-old half-Turk, half-Syrian citizen of Syria. Since graduating from Damascus University, he’d managed the family travel agency started by his father. On the side, however, he worked for the CIA. Saleh loved his country, but despised the Al-Asad family and the Ba’ath Party that had run Syria since 1970. President Bashar al-Asad had succeeded his father, Hafiz al-Asad, who died in 2000. In 1989, under Hafiz al-Asad’s rule, Metin’s father, older brother and an uncle “committed suicide” for the unpardonable sin of being related to a member of the dominant Ba’ath Party who had happened to wonder aloud at a dinner party whether democracy could work in Syria.
Since then, Saleh had burned with hatred for the al-Asads and thirsted for revenge. So he hadn’t hesitated for a moment when a CIA operative contacted him while he was still a student.
Now, on yet another mission for the CIA, he had driven from Halab, known in the West as Aleppo, in the far northeastern part of Syria, to Burj Haydar. After meeting in the late afternoon with the owner of a tiny travel agency whom he had heard might be interested in selling his company—a meeting that provided cover for his trip, he registered at a small hotel. He made a point of telling the desk clerk he was going to retire early and asked for a 6 a.m. wakeup call. At 11 p.m., he slipped out of his room and took the stairs to a rear door. He placed a piece of tape over the door lock, so he could re-enter without passing through the lobby.
Following directions provided by his CIA contact, he parked his car on a narrow, unlit road and walked a block to the Farouki home. The house was constructed of white-stuccoed adobe brick and surrounded by a ten-foot-high wall. Saleh was wearing a long, loose kafiyeh and a burnoose over his head to prevent anyone from getting a good look at his face, and to blend in with the locals. There were a few people about on the street, but no one who seemed to be paying him any attention. Saleh rapped on the wooden gate at the Farouki’s house, but didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed it inward and stepped into a square stone courtyard illuminated by two candle lanterns. He was halfway across the open space when an elderly man opened the door to the house.
“Wha . . . what do you want?” the man asked.
The elderly man started to step back to close the door, but stopped when Saleh touched his forehead and then his chest and bowed. “I have a message from Salim in America,” he said quietly.
Saleh quickly walked forward to embrace the elderly man, and whispered in his ear, “Are you Salim’s father?”
“Yes, I am Toufique Farouki.”
“I understand you and your family would like to join Salim in America?” Saleh said.
This was the moment of truth. Metin’s heart pounded like a jackhammer; he was aware he was holding his breath.
Farouki covered his mouth with a hand. He stood as though frozen for a few seconds and then waved Saleh into his home. He closed the door after Saleh entered and then led him to a sitting room. Toufique Farouki told a teenaged boy there to go join his mother in the kitchen, and then pointed Saleh to a chair. Farouki pulled another chair over two feet from Saleh and sat down facing him.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
“Who I am is unimportant,” Saleh answered. “Is it true you have tried to join your son in America and been prevented from doing so?”
The man closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. When he finally opened his eyes again, tears flowed down his cheeks. “Yes, we are hostages to the al-Asad family and their terrorist allies. And, yes, I want to be with my son, more than life itself.” But, then, Farouki suddenly seemed to shrink within himself and his hands trembled. Fear etched every feature of his face.
Saleh reached his hands toward Farouki and grasped the man’s forearms. “You must not be afraid, Mr. Farouki. I do not work for the Syrian government. If I did, based on what you have already said, you would be undone. I am here to help you join your son in America.”
Farouki seemed to relax, but only slightly.
“How would the other members of your family feel about leaving Syria?” Saleh asked.
“My wife, Fatiya, my oldest son, Faisal, my daughter-in-law, Soroya—they all have the same dream: To be with Salim. But my youngest son . . . .” The man hesitated. “We are careful not to discuss these things around Ahmed. He’s a good boy, but he’s only sixteen. They twist his mind in the madrassa. The teachers there are nothing but terrorist brainwashers. He was just a baby when Salim left Syria. He has no memory of his brother and has been taught by his teachers and the mullahs to hate the United States. To Ahmed, Salim is a traitor.”
“Do you want Ahmed to go to America with you?” Saleh asked.
“Of course,” Farouki said. “But he will never willingly leave Syria. This means I can never leave. I will not trade one son for another.”
Saleh nodded. “I understand. If I guarantee I can get you all out of the country tonight and Ahmed will go with you, can you be prepared to leave?”
A look of hope, really just a brief smile, crossed Farouki’s face. “Yes, of course,” he said. “But, I’m sure Ahmed will not go.”
“I was told he might be a problem.” Saleh reached into the pocket of his burnoose, pulled out a small white envelope, and handed it to Farouki. “Perhaps this will help.”
Farouki held the envelope up to the light and shook it. “Powder?”
Saleh nodded. “Sleeping powder.”
The two MH-6 Little Bird light assault helicopters—Night Stalkers—flew off the U.S.S. Nimitz in the Mediterranean Sea. They refueled clandestinely in Turkey and were now penetrating deep into Syrian airspace, flying low to avoid being detected by radar.
The first helicopter carried passengers—five members of a Delta team. The second helicopter had a pilot, co-pilot, and the sixth member of the Delta team aboard.
When the overhead lights in the cargo bay of the first helicopter turned from red to green, Captain Fritz Waddell, the team leader, raised his right arm and circled his hand in the air. The four members of his team immediately shifted their positions and checked their weapons. The metallic clanks of magazines being loaded and rounds being chambered filled the cargo area.
The chopper pilots knew the Syrians had sophisticated early warning detection equipment, purchased from the Russians and the Chinese. They also knew one of the Syrian Air Force’s largest fighter squadrons was located a short distance away, in Halab. If the American aircraft were detected, Syrian jets would be on them before they could flee back across the border. All the Syrians had to do was hit the choppers with an IFF signal and they would instantly know they were “foe,” not “friend.”
The helicopter pilots located the target location on their GPS systems and went into stealth mode. They homed in on a blinking light on a rooftop they had been told would identify the target. The intel briefing they’d received on the Nimitz informed them the Syrians being airlifted would be cooperative. They were not expecting trouble.
Toufique Farouki said a silent prayer for the man who had come to his home. After placing the strobe light the man had given him on the roof and turning it on, Farouki hurried down the exterior steps to the courtyard where his family members waited. “They’re coming,” he told them. “Do you hear?”
“Yes, Father,” Faisal replied, his voice sounding raspy with excitement or fear.
“We must wait here in the courtyard,” Farouki said. “They will come take us to the roof.”
Mrs. Farouki sat on the ground, her youngest son Ahmed stretched out beside her with his head in her lap. “What about Ahmed?” she asked. She rubbed the boy’s face and kissed his forehead. “He looks ill.”
“The boy is fine. You must be strong, Fatiyah,” Farouki whispered. Farouki turned to his daughter-in-law, Soroya, and said, “You will help Mama up the steps to the roof. Then Faisal will carry Ahmed. I will come last. Be ready.”
Sulaiman Nasser was a member of the Suriyah Youth Group, al-Asad’s version of the Soviet Pioneers. He and Ahmed Farouki were best friends. They spent many nights together acting as spotters for the American planes the mullahs said would some day invade their country, just as the Americans had twice attacked Iraq. Sulaiman and Ahmed often sat on a hilltop outside Burj Haydar, smoked marijuana cigarettes they bought from Italian construction workers, talked about girls, martyrdom, and the joys waiting them in heaven. Once in a while, they would watch for invading enemy planes.
As he walked, Sulaiman squinted up at the moon. It was so large and bright, it reminded him of one of the floodlights at the soccer stadium. He continued toward Ahmed’s house, wondering if this would be the night they would see the enemy planes. Sulaiman imagined how he would use the militia radio they had been given to sound the alarm. The jets from Halab would scream into the sky to destroy the American invaders.
Sulaiman pictured himself as a national hero. He would visit the presidential palace. He would appear on national television. That stuck-up girl, Mariah Ghitan, would no longer ignore him. He turned onto Ahmed’s street and was just one house away from the Farouki house when he heard a strange sound, a loud humming noise. He looked up and saw something move. He couldn’t make out what it was, but he continued staring, more fascinated than frightened. And then it crossed the face of the moon and Sulaiman saw an aircraft.
He knew the Syrian military didn’t have equipment of this type.
The aircraft landed on the roof of Ahmed’s house. Five figures leaped from the back. They had strange contraptions on their heads, over their eyes, making them look like aliens. Three men went to the sides of the roof and knelt, pointing what appeared to be weapons, while two other figures ran down the steps descending to the courtyard. Then Sulaiman saw two women climb onto the roof. One of the armed figures helped them into the helicopter. Then Ahmed’s brother came to the roof, carrying what appeared to be a body over his shoulder. Finally, Mr. Farouki and one of the armed figures followed the others into the aircraft, which immediately took off and disappeared. Four of the armed aliens remained on the rooftop.
Sulaiman was sure the invasion had begun. The enemy was kidnapping Syrian citizens. Why weren’t the Faroukis resisting? Maybe they’d been drugged . . . or worse. Maybe they were traitors. Ahmed had told Sulaiman many times about his traitorous brother who lived in the United States. Sulaiman was frightened, but he forced himself to move toward Ahmed’s house. Slowly, taking the smallest steps, radio in hand, he inched toward the Farouki front gate.
As the second helicopter swooped down for a landing on the rooftop to pick up the rest of the Delta team, the sole Delta team member in that helicopter saw movement on the street in front of the house. He immediately radioed the men on the rooftop. “There’s someone out on the street.”
“I copy,” Captain Waddell answered. He pointed at two of his men and directed them with hand-signals to deal with the intruder.
The two men, Sideman and Littlejohn, both wearing night vision goggles, climbed down to the courtyard and crossed to the street gate. Littlejohn peeked through a one-inch gap in the gate, then turned to Sideman and signalled that he would provide cover while Sideman rushed the man in the street. Littlejohn yanked the gate open and Sideman swept through with his rifle leveled.
