Authors: Andrew Britton
Jason March waited, his back aching in the uncomfortable wooden chair. The past few days had been tedious: nonstop travel under assumed identities, the constant fear of discovery, the constant apprehension. Only now was it coming to a peak; he felt as though he was about to be tested, and his answers would determine not only his place within the organization, but whether he would leave this building alive or not. Through his supreme confidence, March retained a measure of caution. He had come too far to throw it all away now.
Low voices outside the door announced his visitors before they pushed into the room. Hamza entered, quickly followed by a surprisingly tall, gaunt individual whom March recognized immediately. The man had made few changes to his appearance despite the leaflets dropped by army helicopters that offered a reward in excess of 25 million dollars for his apprehension.
Saif al-Adel cursorily examined the person who had abruptly stood upon his entrance into the room. He was instantly suspicious, as the man's appearance seemed to embody Western decadence in its entirety. The eyes, on the other hand, told a different story altogether, the hatred visible deep within the vivid green irises. It was this hate he wanted to explore. Soon he would have the answers he needed to proceed.
I
t had taken all her powers of persuasion, but Naomi Kharmai was finally able to liberate the personnel file from Jonathan Harper's protective care. It lay closed before her now, although she had already examined it thoroughly. Naomi sipped at her tea in the deserted café as she recounted the information she had learned about Ryan Thomas Kealey. He was thirty-three years old, the last three of which had been spent in the Central Intelligence Agency as part of the Special Activities Division. Within those three years, the file confirmed that he had been awarded the Intelligence Star for courageous action in the field.
She considered this award for some time. Although the circumstances that had resulted in the conferrence of the medal were sealed, Naomi recognized immediately that Kealey must carry a fair degree of influence within the Agency as a result of his actions. She had noticed earlier, with some surprise, that he was on a first-name basis with Deputy Director Harper. Perhaps this also explained why Ryan was not attached to the CTC; certainly, they would have eagerly recruited him given the opportunity.
The file also recorded his activities before joining the Agency. Kealey had left the U.S. Army as a major in 2001 under pressure from Special Forces Command. Naomi took that to mean the Joint Chiefs of Staff, whose approval would have been needed in order to indict a soldier with Ryan Kealey's background. The 201 military record cited numerous awards: the Distinguished Service Cross, the Legion of Merit with one Oak Leaf Cluster, the Bronze Star with two Oak Leaf Clustersâthe list went on and on. Kharmai knew little about military decorations, but was aware that this man would be held in high esteem by anyone wearing the uniform.
Naomi could see that he was educated as well, holding a bachelor's of science in business administration from the University of Chicago. His graduate degree had been awarded by Duke University in 1994. By that time, Kealey was already a first lieutenant fresh out of Special Forces Assessment and Selection, soon to be followed by successful completion of the Q course at Fort Bragg.
Unbelievable,
she thought. He had achieved the rank of major in eight years, and that time included two years attached to another unit, the 1st SFOD-D, which she did not recognize. That was phenomenal advancement. The man was obviously being groomed for high command. She wondered what Ryan Kealey could have done to derail such a successful career.
She had a sudden insight and flipped open the file to the last page, looking for the signatory: MG Peter Hale, USASFC. With or without Harper's authority, Naomi Kharmai decided she would find a way to talk with Kealey's last commanding officer.
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It was fast approaching dark when Ryan finally returned to Cape Elizabeth two days later. There was little reason to wait around in Washington while the analysts did their work, so Harper had given him a brief reprieve. Katie had not answered her phone for the duration of the trip, so he couldn't help but feel slightly apprehensive when he saw her little car parked outside the house.
The interior was almost as cold as the air outside. He went directly into the living room, where he proceeded to carefully stack wood in the immense stone fireplace. It wasn't long before the fire began to spread a pleasant warmth throughout the house. He turned to find Katie leaning against the doorjamb wearing tight jeans, a loose woolen sweater, and a look of consternation. She was watching him quietly. It seemed to Ryan that the temperature of the room had suddenly dropped again. Judging from the scowl on her face, he wasn't about to receive a warm welcome home.
“Hey,” he said, after a brief, awkward silence. “I missed you.”
“I can tell, the way you rushed in here to talk to me.”
He lifted his hands in a gesture of exasperation. “I called you. It was a last-minute thing. Why didn't you answer?”
She was momentarily caught off guard.
That's a good question,
she thought. “You know why! I can't believe you just took off like that. It'sâ¦I don't know, it's like you forgot I was even here.”
A look of pain came over his face. “Katie, you know that's not true. And it's not fair.”
“Did you lie to me?”
“About what?”
The scowl became a skeptical glare. Clearly she wasn't buying it. “About leaving, Ryan. Did you really retire last year?”
“Of course I did.” Her arms were crossed, her expression doubtful. “Katie, I would never mislead you like that.”
She looked into his face for a long moment, gauging his sincerity. “If you left the Agency,” she said slowly, “why were you in such a hurry to get back to Washington?”
It was a fair question to which he didn't have an answer. She had won a small victory, but it didn't register in her unhappy features. When she spoke again, it was clear from her tone of voice that she was already tired of arguing.
“You know, I'm scared to ask where I rank in all of this. Is it below the CIA? Below a bunch of crazy terrorists in some shitty third-world country?”
“It's not a question of rank, Katie.”
She smiled sadly and lowered her glistening eyes. “That's a terrible answer, Ryan.”
He dropped his own head and silently cursed himself for the stupid remark. God, he had never been good at this kind of thing. It had cost him more than one good relationship over the years. It had never bothered him much before, but Katie meant more to him than the rest of them combined, and his chest tightened when he suddenly realized that he might be losing her. When she finally filled the silence, he was surprised by the intensity of the relief that he felt.
“Look, I know what you do is important,” she said in a small voice. “I would never say otherwise. I don't try to make you talk about itâthat can be separate from us. I'm not sure if I can deal with that yet, but I'm willing to try.”
She looked up at him hopefully. “That's the important thing, right? That we're both here and willing. I just want to know where I stand in this thing we have going. Where
we
stand.”
“I'm sorry,” he said. “You're right, I wasn't thinking.” A slight hesitation, the following words no less meaningful for it. “I don't think you know how important you are to me, Katieâ¦In fact, I'm sure of it.”
She desperately tried to hold on to her anger, but it was already slipping away. A small smile spread over her face. “Do you mean that?”
He held out his hand. She walked over to him, and they hugged gently at first, Kealey finding her lips with his. Then he pulled her closer, and suddenly they were holding each other tighter than was necessary, for reasons neither could explain. Ryan speaking quietly into her ear, “You're all I need, Katie. You and me, in this place, is all I could ever ask for.”
With her eyes squeezed tightly shut, arms wrapped around him, Katie wondered how she could have been so angry in the first place. She knew what he was trying to say, and for some reason it didn't matter that he couldn't get the words out.
“I love you, too,” she whispered.
About 28 kilometers south of Jableh on the Syrian coast, a casual observer would have noticed many things about the scenic beauty of the surrounding landscape. He would have likely described the orange sun high in the dying light of day, the fiery red sky contrasting sharply with the sparkling water of the Mediterranean. The gently sloping hills leading down to the water's edge would have been mentioned, as would the unpaved road slicing its way through the heavily wooded contours of the land. A description might well have been provided of the only building visible for many kilometers, a low-slung villa with whitewashed walls and a roof of Spanish tile that seemed to burn in the sunset. The observer would not, however, have been able to detect any sign of human life in the picturesque scene.
Beneath a heavy canopy of towering pine trees interspersed with the occasional oak, a figure lay perfectly still in the shade and the dirt. Captain Ryan Kealey listened attentively to the environment around him, waiting patiently for communication from the other members of his ODA over an encrypted radio. Glancing to his rear, he was pleased to see no sign of the five other soldiers.
“Sapper Six, Gold One, over.”
Kealey lifted his Motorola radio and spoke quietly, careful to avoid the staccato sounds of a whisper. “Sapper Six, give me your sit rep, Gold One.”
“In position, no targets visible at this time. I've got eyes on Blue Two on my left, over.”
“Keep me updated, Gold One. Six, out.”
Without looking back, Ryan lifted his right hand in the air and circled with his index finger, signaling the others to rally at his location. Within thirty seconds, he was surrounded by his team members. “Okay, guys, how we doing?” he asked in a low voice.
“Good to go, sir.” The speaker was the newest member of the team, Staff Sergeant Donald Bryant.
Kealey looked into the youthful, eager face and saw himself just four years earlier. He was grateful that this soldier's first combat experience would be a fairly straightforward operation. The other men nodded in the affirmative without saying a word. This was just an extension of training, as far as they were concerned.
“We're going to move up to the woodline. Remember, when our snipers give the word, we'll be moving down that hill pretty quick. There's almost no cover, so keep your distance. Thomas, Mitchell, check the car. Once you get a visual confirmation, move to your entrance point. In the house, don't pass any room without clearing it first. I mean that.” He fixed each man with a serious look, and then broke into a relaxed grin. “Piece of cake, fellas. You know why we're here. Let's take care of business and head on home.”
A few little smiles at that. There was a sudden burst of static from the radio, followed by a clear, calm voice. “Sapper Six, Blue Two. I have a visual. One vehicle, looks like a black Mercedes. No tint, I haveâ¦one driver, two passengers. Permission to go green light, over.”
Kealey responded immediately. “Gold One, do you have the target?”
“That's a Roger, Sapper Six.”
“Snipers, you have a green light. We're waiting on you. Sapper Six, out.”
Kealey gave a hand motion, and the soldiers around him moved from their improvised perimeter toward the edge of the treeline. The men picked their way quietly around the heaviest areas of vegetation; each had used electrician's tape to secure any loose pieces of metal that might give away their position. No one expected the enemy to send out patrols, but the elite soldiers comprising Operational Detachment Alpha 304 were not about to take the risk.
With the exposed section of the slope less than 50 meters away, the thunderous report of a long-range rifle could be heard through the trees, rapidly followed by two more shots.
“Six, Gold One! Vehicle is neutralized, I say again, vehicle is neutralized!”
“Let's go!” Kealey called out. The troops were already running, suddenly breaking through into open ground. A thought was calling for his attention, but he couldn't quite grab itâ¦something about the direction of those shotsâ¦
Halfway down the hill, Ryan realized there was no one in the car, and that it had braked to a halt in the middle of the road, unscathed. The windshield was intact. Automatically he called out, “Cover!” The members of his team immediately hit the ground in the prone position except for Bryant, who was slow in getting down. Kealey watched in disbelief as a ragged exit wound appeared in the young soldier's back, immediately followed by the echo of a rifle shot across the valley. The man did not make a sound, only taking two more faltering steps before crumpling to a heap on the ground.
The four surviving soldiers were pouring lead into the car on the road below. Ryan could make out two armed men crouching behind the vehicle and a third lying still by their side, streams of his blood mingling with the dust of the road. Peering through the telescopic sight mounted to his M4A1, Ryan fired a 3-round burst into the head of the primary target. Adjusting his aim, he could see that one of his men had already taken care of the other terrorist. Kealey was suddenly aware that Staff Sergeant Mitchell was not moving, and then saw the halo of blood around his head, the heavy M249 machine gun inches from his lifeless fingertips.
“Blue Two, what the hell is going on up there?” Kealey shouted into his radio. There was no response. “Blue Two, report!”
Silence.
“What the fuck is going on, sir?” yelled Sergeant Alvarez.
“Gold One, sit rep!” There was still no answer. Ryan had to struggle to keep his voice from shaking. The fear was thumping in his chest; he felt it and hated himself for it, but his men were completely exposed on the side of the slope, and he didn't have time to think about what had gone wrong. The decision came quickly.
“Thomas, Watson! When we open up, move back to the treeline as fast as you can! Alvarez, fire on March's location!” he screamed.
A look of shock and confusion crossed the sergeant's face. “Sir, we can'tâ”
“Do it!” was the vicious response. “Now!”
Intermittent streams of fire erupted from the barrel of Alvarez's M16A2. Kealey fired in the same direction, although he couldn't spot the sniper, whose ghillie suit allowed him to blend easily into the surrounding vegetation. He cursed the diminished range caused by the shorter barrel of his weapon, which would have been ideal for the close-quarter combat initially anticipated.
He called out to Alvarez: “Loading!”
Rapidly changing out his magazine, Kealey's eyes never left the ridge where his snipers were positioned. He guessed that the line of earth was 400 meters away, a difficult shot even under the best of circumstances, almost impossible with the standard iron sights. He saw a flash of light followed by the roar of the rifle, and out of the corner of his eye caught the awful sight of Alvarez's head breaking apart. That first fatal shot was followed by four more. It took all of Kealey's self-control not to flinch away as he pressed his cheek against the warm metal of his assault rifle. The heat shield encasing the barrel was perfectly balanced in his left hand as he eased back on the trigger, firing until the bolt locked back on an empty magazine.
A few minutes passed without any movement on the ridge.
“Thomas! Watson!” he called out.
There was no answer. A sick feeling clenched his gut as he realized that he was probably the only man alive on the hill. Easing his head slowly around, he could see the lifeless bodies of the other two sergeants in his detachment.
His
detachment. As the commander, he was responsible for the lives of these men. Was it right that he should be the only one to survive? Suddenly not caring, he got to his feet, a lone figure standing tall on the side of the hill, long shadows cast behind him by the fading sun. Feeling a sudden impact, Ryan looked down at the small hole in his chest, the sight almost blocking out the terrible sound of the rifle in his ears.
He fell to the ground, for some reason absorbed by the hissing of the radio inches from his outstretched hand. Presently he was aware of a man standing on top of the ridge, the image blurred by pain. Through the red haze creeping into the edge of his vision, Ryan thought he could make out the lightweight Parker-Hale M85 rifle held loosely in the crook of the man's right arm. The same weapon that, for the past eight months, had been lovingly attended to and cared for by one man, and one man only. The incredibly still figure of Sergeant First Class Jason March continued to blur as the pain intensified, and Kealey found he could no longer breathe.
He couldn't breatheâ¦