Raptor 6 (2 page)

Ismail Sidiq (Colonel)—
colonel in the Afghan National Army, Regional Command, North

Izzah Zarrick—
Zahrah Zarrick’s mother

Jahandar Haidary—
Zahrah’s uncle, father of Fekiria

Jahandar Peter Zarrick—
Zahrah Zarrick’s brother

Jeffrey Bain—
American journalist

Mr. Kohistani—
director of Kohistani School; older; has a long, graying beard; brown eyes; 5’5”

Razia Mustafa
—Rashid and Ara’s mother; not much older than Zahrah, married to Atash Mustafa

Sadri Ali
—a known opium supplier

Sajjan Takkar/ “Variable”—
an operative; a Sikh

Almighty GOD, Who art the Author of liberty and the Champion of the oppressed, hear our prayer.

We, the men of Special Forces, acknowledge our dependence upon Thee in the preservation of human freedom.

Go with us as we seek to defend the defenseless and to free the enslaved.

May we ever remember that our nation, whose motto is “In God We Trust,” expects that we shall acquit ourselves with honor, that we may never bring shame upon our faith, our families, or our fellow men.

Grant us wisdom from Thy mind, courage from Thine heart, strength from Thine arm, and protection by Thine hand.

It is for Thee that we do battle, and to Thee belongs the victor’s crown.

For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever.

AMEN.

Present Day

C
an’t breathe. Can’t breathe
.

He sucked in a hard breath. Fabric drew against his nostrils. Hot.
Can’t breathe
. No air! He thrashed, searching for freedom, for air …
I’m going to die!
At the thought, he jerked.

Where am I?
A bounce smacked his head against something hard. Metal. Captain Dean Watters groaned. Opened his eyes. But couldn’t see. The meaty rumble of an engine warned him he was in a vehicle. The tail of one by the roaring sound and steel digging into his shoulder. The way his breath coiled back at him told him he had a hood over his face. Mouth taped. Hands taped. Feet—he tested his leg—taped.

Get out or die!
Dean kicked. Tendons strained against his effort.

Brakes squealed. Gravity shifted and tugged him.
Rounding a corner
.

Again the engine roared.

Where are they taking me? Where’s Z?

Recollection swarmed him in a thick cloud of defeat. She’d walked out. Willingly. He couldn’t blame her. They’d been through the fires of hell and back since they were captured. The enemy had broken her. Gotten into her head and convinced her that helping them was the smart choice.

A sudden lurch made him slide.

Hands pawed at him as shouts erupted.

He was lifted….

The truck bounced.

Gravity pulled him left again—another corner. The truck must’ve turned. Then spinning …

Still blind and bound, Dean felt himself flying. Through the air. Unrestrained. He tensed, no idea where he’d land. What he’d hit. Or in what. And he prayed
—begged
—God to let him live. He had to live. Had to find her.

Down … down …

Crack!

He landed with a thud. White-hot fire shot through his shoulder and arm. He groaned around the tape over his mouth. Shoved aside the pain, reoriented himself. Brightness speared his eyes. Specks of light glittered through the thick fabric. He scrambled to his knees, desperate to know where they’d dumped him.

A siren wailed.

Shouts.

He knew those sounds, the shouts. The base. His captors had thrown him at the gate of the base. Armed with that knowledge, he remained still. Anything to let those with the weapons know he wasn’t a threat.

“Stay where you are! Hands in the air. Hands. In. The. Air!” The command came in English, Pashto, Dari, then Farsi.

Boots shuffled closer, along with more shouts to get his arms up. One service member came very close. It took everything in Dean not to move. One wrong twitch, and they’d put him down like a sick dog. A beam of light struck him. So much like the light torture.

The light vanished. “Dude’s tied up.” The voice was right over Dean. “Hold up.”

“Careful,” came another voice. “He could be rigged.”

Right
. Why hadn’t Dean thought of that before?
Am I?
Mentally, he patted himself down but felt nothing strapped to him.

Whoosh!

Glaring white seared his corneas. He grimaced and ducked. Dean squinted rapidly, trying to force his eyes to readjust.

A Marine frowned at him as several others gathered around, business ends of their weapons aimed at Dean’s head. The lead Marine pointed to the tape as if asking permission.

Dean nodded and his body swayed. He jerked straight. Then his body pulled him backward. Dizzy … so dizzy.

The Marine ripped off the tape.

After a moment of prickling fire, Dean stretched his jaw. “Watters …”
Breathe
.

“He needs water!” a grunt shouted.

“No.” Dean shook his head. Wet his lips, which tasted of salt and blood. “Watters, Dean … Patrick … captain.” His vision was ghosting. “Four f–four—“ His body surrendered.

Undisclosed Location, Six Months Ago

S
peed.

Surprise.

Violence of action.

The three principles necessary for successful engagement of an enemy in combat. Many times these three words carry through the grainy feed of the hidden camera. The men moving beneath the staticky image, unaware of the listening ear. Unaware of their vulnerability.

Their mission is not so different from mine, from those I fight for and with on a daily basis—to act without hesitation and with fierce action so the enemy can be caught unaware.

After verifying once more that the feed has gone live, I adjust the volume, punch the
RECORD
button, then settle back with my hot cup of tea to watch these elite special operators betray their every secret. Six men—only five in the room as of yet. I wait for their leader before putting on my headphones. The reception isn’t the best in the sub-base command center, but I worked out all the kinks, navigating the complications and smoothly rerouting around their jamming technology. Still there is an annoying static hiss I’d prefer to go without for as long as I can.

They really should update their systems. Then …
then
they might have a chance. But the orders to cut spending—well, any tech-savvy person knows cybersecurity is one of the first things in budgets to get axed. That right along with breakfast. No more promise of three squares when these idealistic punks joined up.

The whole thing makes me laugh. Why would
any
country cut its defense budget? Were they really that arrogant? They are the only country dialing down their military armaments while the rest of the world is ramping up.

Another man enters the command center. “And cue the entertainment.” I slip on my headphones and sip my tea.
Raptor Six himself
. Not real sure how he got that—Special Forces isn’t known for using the six designation on team assignments. Must be a personal thing with our fearless leader. Either way, it feels stupid to me. I mean, they sound cool—Mercy Six. Rainbow Six. Halo Six. Whatever. The military and their numbers and acronyms …

“So. Raptor team.” A guy with light brown, almost blond hair grins. He has this pretty-boy thing happening. Sort of reminds me of that guy who hunts demons with his brother on that one show … whatever it’s called. “I like it. Chicks’ll dig it.”

That’s Brian Bledsoe. Staff Sergeant. Now code-named Hawk—ha! Easy one to remember—Squawk Hawk. The guy quick with his tongue and his Glock. Not sure one could call him arrogant. He just isn’t afraid to voice his opinions. Which are many.

Their team commander, Captain Dean Watters, glares at the younger Green Beret. That’s something the team commander does quite well—glare. He isn’t big on words, but the dude can put some serious action behind the few words he utters. I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley. Or any alley for that matter.

“This isn’t about chicks.” Sergeant First Class Salvatore “Falcon” Russo—the meanest guy on the team—snarls. All bark, but I’m not sure he has much of a bite. Must’ve had a bad childhood or something to be that grouchy all the time. But he is a top-notch soldier. Holds his own. Watches out for his team. I guess that makes him an asset. The team’s Italian Stallion studies the documents on the table.

And with a twitch of this dial and a flick of that one, I zoom in and join them studying those documents. That’s what I do after all—study what they study.

Ah. Readiness profiles. Good to know.

“We have to assume these identities, the new roles in moving out of being Green Berets, out of liaising with villagers and into black ops.”

“It’s not about us.” Captain Watters leans forward, his fingertips pressing to the table. “This is about freedom, about securing innocent lives. Doing violence on their behalf.”

Cue the American national anthem
. Or should that be anathema? Aren’t Americans pretty much
eating
their young back on their own soil?

“Think this is right?”

See? This guy I like—Sergeant First Class Mitchell Black. Which is weird—he’s not black. He’s as white as they come with some good ol’ sun bronzing, compliments of the Afghan deserts. They’re calling him Hairier. Wait. Scratch that. Harrier. Birds of prey. Not hairy men—even though his thick, light brown hair is longer than most of the guys on the team. But look at him—picture of calm assurance sitting in a chair, his elbows on the table as he takes in the documents. You wouldn’t guess that since the guy had only joined the team in the last six months. Next to the captain, I think this guy could be the biggest threat. What’s the phrase—
it’s the quiet ones
?

“I mean, can we do this?” Black looks at the others. “Can we shift our specialties and work on a level we’ve never fully executed before?”

“We have,” Russo says as he folds his arms over his chest. “We did it with the MWDs and handlers.”

I grab my pen and scratch out a note to self:
Research MWDs
.

“Harrier wasn’t with us then,” Hawk says. “They stole one of our best guys out from under us.” Bledsoe huffs as he drops into a squeaky office chair. I think the dude could bench-press an oil tanker if he tried with the way his muscles tear at the desert-camo sleeves.

“No, terrorists did that”—Captain Watters the purist, the patriot—“when they blew his leg off.”

“Yeah,” Bledsoe says. “And that’s when they saddled us with the Aussie newb.”

“Oy, mate.”

Laughing loud doesn’t alert anyone to my presence, and that makes me laugh louder. Bledsoe is not afraid of anyone. And Aussie—I grab my notebook and flip back a few pages and find his name: Eamon “Titanis” Straider—is nobody to sneeze at. They call him newb mostly because he’s not American. That guy is as tough and rugged as they come. I mean, check out the black high and tight. Strong jaw and eyes that don’t miss a thing. He’s a close equal to the captain, but I’m not quite sure he’s there yet. Still, nobody in his right mind would refer to Australian Special Air Services corporal as “newb” to his face. Except Bledsoe.

Lifting my cup of tea toward the staticky screen where Bledsoe stands tall at six foot, I toast him. “Your funeral, not mine.”

“Mate, I’m not your enemy.” Ferocity laces the words of the Aussie, who’d received two Victoria Cross medals. Three if you count the one inked over his left pec—not that I’ve seen it myself, but that’s what his dossier says. That Oz native is as hardcore as they come.

“There is opportunity here,” Straider goes on. “To act swiftly and do justice. You’re a fierce fighter. Focus that energy on the combatants, Bledsoe. Not on me.”