SEAL Team Six: Hunt the Fox (8 page)

Time flew past, with more wounded arriving by the minute. Then, as though someone had turned off a tap, the flow of incoming stopped and the entire hospital and all the people in it seemed to relax.

Crocker was leaning over a gurney applying a cold compress to a minor burn on an old man’s arm when Hakim tugged the back of his shirt. From the expression on his face, Crocker could tell that he had found his family.

“Where?” Crocker asked.

“Floor three. Room 312.”

“Good. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Ten minutes later, he climbed the steps and found a large rectangular room packed with beds and cots. Some patients rested on mats on the floor. The Syrian family stood beside a bed in the far corner by a window covered with old mustard-colored curtains. The sun through the curtains cast a golden hue over their heads and shoulders.

Mother and father greeted him with hugs and kisses. Both pointed proudly to their daughter, lying on her back with her eyes closed. An IV drip fed her right arm, and her left foot was wrapped in bandages, indicating that the doctors had treated it in time.

Crocker nodded with relief and turned to the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Gannani beside him, each clutching one of his hands and smiling and weeping at the same time.

“I’m very glad,” he said.

“
Allahu akbar
,”
the father muttered. God is great.

“Yes,
Allahu akbar
,
” Crocker repeated. It didn’t matter that he was Christian and the Gannanis Muslim. They were all giving thanks—whether they were referring to a divine creator, karma, or random good luck. The Gannanis had no home to go back to, no country, and little more than the clothes on their backs, but they were grateful to be together with their children and alive.

Through Hakim, the parents asked Crocker about his own family and nodded with affection and muttered blessing to Allah as he described Holly and Jenny back in Virginia.

After he had confirmed with a Turkish doctor that the girl’s foot had been saved and she was out of danger, it was time to say goodbye. Mrs. Gannani insisted on pressing a little white embroidered handkerchief into his hand as a token of thanks. They hugged and kissed him again. He wished them well and walked back to the military compound feeling fulfilled in an important way.

Maybe what Jared had said back in the Me
ş
ale Café was right. Maybe larger commercial interests really were pulling the strings. But he lived by his own code, and that included protecting humble people like the Gannanis wherever they lived in the world, even if that made him naive, or romantic, or a renegade in some people’s eyes.

W
ith a
renewed sense of purpose, he huddled with Logan, Colonel Oz, and Mancini back at the military headquarters to plan the mission. They quickly decided that the men of Black Cell would need some kind of cover to give them the best chance of reaching Idlib without resistance. Mr. Asani suggested that they play the role of foreign humanitarian workers delivering medical supplies to the besieged city, which the clinics badly needed.

“That will work,” Crocker said. “But we’re going to need uniforms, medical supplies, and the proper kind of trucks to pull that off.”

Logan used the phone and fax in one of the offices to communicate with Ankara Station. Returning to the conference room, he reported four things: One, Anders was on his way to Yaylada
ğ
i. Two, Ankara Station would coordinate with the Canadian consulate to produce identities, passports, other documents, and even appropriate clothing for the five men. Three, the president still hadn’t approved the mission. And four, FSA Elite Battalion soldiers under the command of Captain Zeid were on their way from nearby Reyhanli to help escort Black Cell into Syria.

“What do you know about Captain Zeid?” Crocker asked.

“He’s a former Syrian Army 17th Regiment soldier who defected in early 2012,” Colonel Oz answered. “One of about five hundred. They formed the core of the armed resistance against Assad.”

“Can he be trusted?”

“As much as you can trust anyone fighting in Syria,” Oz answered.

“How much is that?”

“About sixty percent.”

By 1500 local time, the men’s physical dimensions were recorded and photos were taken and sent back to Ankara. By 1720 hours a helicopter had landed at the back of the compound, with the required uniforms, passports, documents, and other gear. Also aboard were Anders, Mr. Talab’s assistant Fatima, Janice, and the young engineering student named Hassan who had shot the video of the soldiers carrying the sarin canisters into the tunnel.

Fatima, on whom Crocker focused first, wore a tight olive uniform with no insignia. As she and Hassan retreated to a nearby office to confer via telephone with Mr. Talab, the rest of them discussed vehicles. It was assumed that Captain Zeid and other members of the FSA escort would be traveling in their own truck or jeep. The question then was, how many vehicles did Crocker and his men need, what was available, and of those available, which ones best suited the mission?

Mancini spelled out their needs. “Since we’re going in as humanitarian workers delivering medical supplies, we need delivery-type trucks. They also have to be big and strong enough to accommodate the sarin.”

“How many canisters are we talking about?” Crocker asked.

Logan, who had carefully studied Hassan’s video, answered, “Anywhere from six to ten.”

“Then we need two trucks,” Crocker responded.

“Cobras?” Colonel Oz asked. The Cobra was a Turkish-made armored vehicle.

“No,” Crocker said. “Armored vehicles will attract attention.”

“But they offer more in terms of safety,” Anders added.

“I’m thinking more along the lines of covered extended-cab pickup or transport trucks,” said Crocker. “Something that will pass for medical transport.”

“Yeah. One that doesn’t have visible ordnance mounted on it,” Mancini offered.

Oz: “We’ve got the Turkish-made 25 Kirpi 4x4.”

Mancini said, “I’m gonna have to see it.”

“Follow me.”

Behind the barracks, Colonel Oz pointed out various vehicles in a fenced-in, guarded lot. Crocker and Mancini picked out a mine-resistant, ambush-protected 25 Kirpi 4x4 and a 2.5-ton BMC covered transport truck. Then Crocker changed his mind and decided in favor of an extended-cab Ford F-250 pickup and Mercedes Sprinter van.

“Why, boss?”

“They’re more low-profile. If we’re going in in-alias, we gotta play that all the way.”

“But they give us no place to take refuge if we’re attacked.”

“We’ll manage.”

The Sprinter was beige, but the pickup sported military camouflage, which Crocker didn’t like.

“You have one in a neutral color?”

“You want leather seats and air conditioning?” Colonel Oz asked back with a grin.

“Yeah, tilt-back steering and moon roofs, too.”

Oz chuckled. “I’ll have my men check with the highway department. Their trucks are gray.”

“Solid. And find a cover for the pickup.”

“Canvas okay?”

“Aluminum is better. Slap some crosses on them if you can, so they look official.”

“You want petrol in them, too?” asked Oz.

“That would be nice. We’re also going to need to load them with medical supplies,” Mancini added.

“Medical supplies.…I’ll talk to Dr. Ebril.”

Crocker: “Who’s he?”

“Head of our medical department.”

“How many klicks to Idlib?” Crocker asked.

“Klicks?” Oz asked.

“Kilometers.”

“About one hundred twenty-four kilometers. Without delays, it should take no more than two hours.”

“That’s seventy-seven miles, boss,” Mancini said, doing the conversion in his head.

“He’s our combination computer, dictionary, encyclopedia, technical manual, and atlas,” Crocker said, nodding toward Mancini.

“Where’s Cape Arnauti?” Oz asked, testing him.

“It sits at the northwestern tip of Cyprus,” Mancini answered. “Nice beach and offers excellent snorkeling, but the roads suck.”

“Impressive,” responded Oz. “I could use someone like him.”

That task completed, Mancini went to the arsenal to look at weapons. He chose his favorite HK416 assault rifles, but these were the A5s, with the 5.56x45mm NATO-caliber ammo. He made sure they had M320 grenade launchers attached to the rails and AAC M4-2000 suppressors. Backing them up, he selected two MP5 machine guns, a Browning M2HB .50-caliber heavy machine gun, and a couple of Soviet-made RPG-7Ds with a variety of warheads—PG-7VRs for taking out tanks and armored vehicles, OG-7Vs for fragmentation, and Gsh-7VTs for penetrating bunkers. As sidearms, they’d pack the SIG Sauer P226s that they were familiar with.

Back in the conference room of the main building, Crocker started to feel the tension building in his stomach. Anders had brought Phoenix IR strobe beacons, grenades, SOG knives, Tri-Fold handcuffs, M3X weapon lights, tactical wristbands with a pouch that contained maps of Idlib and Arab-language translations, and INVISIO M4 in-ear conduction headsets. The latter used bone-sensing conduction to allow operators to whisper to one another, while eliminating ambient noise.

The last two items were black T-shirts with red Doctors Without Borders (DWB) insignia and Dragon Skin SOV-4000 Level V body armor, which was lightweight, tough enough to withstand up to twenty direct hits from an AK-47, expensive as hell, and not available to the general public. Each vest was made of overlapping ceramic disks enclosed in a sonic skin textile cover and weighed about five pounds.

Pointing to the DWB insignia, which featured a figure in motion, Akil said, “This dude looks like he’s running.”

“So?” asked Crocker.

“I don’t run from anything.”

“We’ll see what happens when the Syrian Army or ISIS is on your ass.”

Everyone assembled to listen to Hassan talk about conditions in Idlib and the location of the tunnel. He was in his early to mid-twenties, with round glasses, short bushy hair, eyebrows, and beard, and spoke perfect English, which he had learned attending one year of engineering school at the University of Delaware. Dressed in jeans and a striped Izod shirt, he looked like a nervous, determined grad student, Crocker thought.

“University of Delaware. That makes you a Fightin’ Blue Hen,” Akil said.

“How the hell do you know that?” Mancini asked.

“I dated a coed from UD once.”

“You mean you got her too drunk to notice your ugly mug and slept with her.”

“All right, guys,” Crocker warned, nodding toward Janice, who was still in the room. “That’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not,” said Janice.

“Sorry,” Mancini responded.

“He gets all macho when he’s not being browbeaten by his wife,” added Akil.

“Enough,” Crocker said.

“Fighting blue hens have a reputation for being ferocious cockfighters,” said Hassan.

“I’m not touching that,” said Akil.

“Me either,” added Mancini.

“When’s the last time you were in Idlib?” Anders asked, turning to Hassan.

“Uh…two weeks ago,” he answered. “Two weeks exactly.”

Anders pointed to Janice, who hit a key on her laptop that projected a satellite map of Idlib on a screen at the front of the room. “Can you show us the exact location of the tunnel with the canisters?”

Hassan turned to Fatima, who was sitting to his left, shrugged, and muttered something in Arabic. She said something back.

“Is there a problem?” Anders asked.

“He never said the tunnel was inside the city of Idlib itself.”

“Then where is it?”

Anders knew this information already, but wanted to make sure Hassan’s story remained consistent.

“It’s located in the province of Idlib, farther southeast,” Hassan answered. “Near the town of Abu al-Duhur, inside the perimeter of the Abu al-Duhur military air base.”

Fatima nodded. “Can you show us on the map?” asked Anders.

Hassan moved the cursor on the laptop and zoomed in closer. Two long runways appeared against a flat green-brown landscape. A rectangular building rose in the distance, the only major building in sight.

“That’s the air base headquarters,” Hassan said, pointing.

“Where are the aircraft and barracks?” Crocker asked. “Where’s the control tower?”

“The control tower, I believe, is housed in the headquarters building,” replied Hassan. “The aircraft and barracks are contained in four large underground bunkers. Here, here, here, and here.”

“Is the base still operational?” Mancini asked.

Hassan looked confused. “If you mean, is the Syrian air force still flying planes and helicopters from there, the answer is yes.”

Katie at Ankara Station had told them the aircraft were no longer stationed at the air base. If they made it there, they’d find out who was right.

“What kind?” Crocker asked.

“MiGs and helicopters.”

MiG-25s and 29s; Mi-24 and SA 342 Gazelle attack helicopters,” Oz answered. The latter were small, versatile, French-made, and originally designed for reconnaissance, sometimes armed with HOT-3 antitank missiles. Crocker had seen them deployed by Saddam Hussein during the First Gulf War and by the Serbians in Kosovo.

A military aide with an elaborate handlebar mustache pushed in a cart with tea, olives, cheese, and crackers.

“And where exactly is the tunnel?” Crocker asked.

“The entrance is here, near Bunker 3,” Hassan answered, pointing at the map. He seemed precise and intelligent.

The entrance wasn’t visible on the satellite map. Crocker did make out a sandbag guard station and a tank stationed nearby.

“If we go in, we’re going to have to create a diversion,” Mancini offered. “Maybe an attack on one of the other bunkers.”

“C4 here and here,” Akil remarked, standing and pointing to the two ends of Bunker 3.

“We’ll leave that to Suarez,” offered Crocker. Suarez, who wasn’t present, was the explosives expert on the team. He and Davis were currently checking the gear Anders had brought via helicopter.

“How stable is the area?” Crocker asked.

“You mean safe? It’s not safe at all.” Hassan pointed to the map. “Most of the area west of the air base is controlled by ISIS. You know who they are, right?”

“Since they overran Mosul in Iraq, they’ve been a constant subject of discussion by counterterrorism experts on CNN. So, yes.”

“If we can, we should avoid them,” said Hassan.

“We’ll try.”

“Most of the territory between the border and Idlib is controlled by different FSA commanders,” Hassan continued. “Some of them are Jabhat al-Nusra, but I know most of those guys, and they shouldn’t give us problems.”

“Isn’t Jabhat al-Nusra allied with al-Qaeda?” asked Crocker.

“Most of these guys behave like gang leaders. They have two things in common. They all hate and are trying to overthrow the Assad regime, and they’re all Sunni Islamists. The jihadists of ISIS are the most extreme. But most leaders cooperate. What differentiates them in terms of power has to do with who has the most weapons and money at a particular time. If you’re a militia leader and you have cool weapons and lots of cash, you attract men to fight with you.”

“So what you’re saying is that a particular antigovernment fighter might be allied with FSA one week, al-Nusra another, and ISIS the next,” Mancini offered.

“Yes. The makeup of ISIS is slightly different. They have more foreign fighters and religious fanatics. If they see infidels like yourselves, they’ll probably kidnap you and sell you for ransom, or cut your heads off.”

“That’s not happening,” Akil commented.

“How do we get from Idlib to the air base?” Crocker asked, trying to shift the focus to practical tasks.

“We follow Highway 60 through the city of Idlib until we reach a local road. I’ll show you,” Hassan answered, nodding toward the map.

“What about the town of Abu al-Duhur, north of the air base?” asked Crocker. “Who controls that?”

“Some FSA groups have been attacking it, but it’s still firmly under the command of the Syrian Army and the pro-Assad Shabiha militias.”

At the mention of the Shabihas, Crocker felt a shiver go up his spine.

He sat cleaning and reassembling his NATO-issue HK416 and listening to the Stones’
Exile on Main Street
on his headphones when Colonel Oz walked in to inform him that Captain Zeid had arrived. Glancing at his Suunto watch, which had adjusted automatically, he saw that the local time was 1944.

“Do you think these guys are necessary?” Crocker asked as he set the weapon on a nearby cot.