Sons of Valor Page 13

  Anywhere is better than the middle.

  When a convoy was targeted by insurgents, the middle always took the brunt of the attack. Today she’d avoided the proverbial short straw and was riding in the rear vehicle of their three-vehicle convoy: Humvee, truck, Humvee.

  “Whatcha thinkin’ about, Mimi?” a soldier beside her said, using the nickname she hated.

  She looked over and shook her head. “Just scan the road, Cortez.” She searched for movement among the boulders littering the rocky hills on both sides of Highway A1. “We’re in Tali country; these guys can climb and blend in like effing mountains goats.”

  “Five, it’s One—you there, Mimi?”

  “’Sup, LT?” The Mimi handle didn’t bother her from the Lieutenant. Maybe it was because he was an officer. Maybe it was just that he wasn’t trying to get in her pants like these new boys.

  “Just got a drone-pass feed—we’re all clear between here and J-bad. Got no one tucked in the hills waiting for us that we can see and no thermals.”

  “Good to go, sir,” she replied. Of course, you were never really safe in the ’Stan. Green on blue was the favored method of killing infidels after IEDs, and FOB Felty had been the site of an insider attack a few years earlier. Just because a passing soldier was dressed in an Afghan military uniform, didn’t mean he was friendly.

  As the Humvee rattled and shook over the pockmarked dirt road, she thought about the decisions she’d made to wind up in this seat and what her future held . . .

  It is what it is, she decided after beating herself up for a good long while. What am I gonna do? Work at Target and drink beer at the VFW? Like they even want women soldiers hanging around in towns like mine.

  No. She was career Army now. It was just math. She was already over the hump at twelve years in, and it would be stupid to stop now. She had once thought about going to medical school on the GI Bill, but that window of opportunity was behind her. Best option was to tough it out and retire at twenty.

  I’ll still be under forty years old. Just two years of school and I can become a PA.

  She knew plenty of medics who had done that.

  Seven and a half years . . . plenty of time to get ready for my next—

  Something streaked across the sky ahead of them—like a big brightly lit shooting star. At first she thought it was a magnesium flare falling from above, but it was too big.

  And it was too fast.

  She realized it was a missile just before the world in front of her became a fireball and both of her eardrums burst in pain. Then it was like being under water—hot water—but for some reason she could breathe it in. It hurt, but she could breathe.

  She couldn’t see though.

  The world had gone bright white. The glare soon began to fade, and she thought she saw shadows moving around her. Her left side hurt and so did her left collarbone. The right side of her face felt tight and numb.

  She blinked. Twice more.

  She heard a sound like someone shouting from inside a bucket. It sounded a little like “Mimi,” but she wasn’t sure. Hands tugged at her.

  Time warped.

  She saw light, then black.

  Then light again after minutes, maybe hours, or even days.

  She blinked, and the world came into slow focus.

  She was dangling from the shoulder harness of her seatbelt, and she was sure that her collarbone and several ribs were broken. The Humvee was on its side, and someone was pulling her out of the door, which was above her.

  It hurt like hell.

  She let herself be lifted, grunting when her knee hit something hard. As other senses returned, she gagged on the overpowering stench of burning fuel. Burning fuel and burning flesh.

  It was the same smell as in Fallujah in 2005.

  Her face and neck on the right began to burn in pain, and she realized the charred odor was coming from her.

  “This one is urgent surgical,” someone said.

  She thought of those burned, disfigured bodies she’d treated in Fallujah. She couldn’t tell the men from the women because their hair was gone and only black flesh tinged with red blood remained.

  Her stomach heaved, and she tasted blood and bile.

  “Who next?” another voice said.

  “No one else. Top gunner was cut almost in half when the damn thing flipped. Driver is dead. All the others are crispy critters.”

  She let her head loll as she gazed at the charred and bloody bodies, just like those in Fallujah.

  Am I one of them? One of the bodies? Just throw me on the pile . . .

  The pain was terrible, and she was ready, but there was something she needed to do first. Something she needed to tell them, so they understood what had happened here. She had to tell someone about the missile she’d seen. It took all her strength, all her will, but she forced her head up. Forced her mouth to form words.

  “What’s she saying?” a male voice said.

  “I don’t know. Take it easy, Staff Sergeant, we got you,” another said.

  “Dro . . .” she said, the word little more than a gurgle. With great effort, she pointed at the sky and tried to say the word again.

  “I can’t understand her. What’s she—oh shit, I think we’re losing her.”

  Suddenly, she couldn’t feel the arms supporting her anymore. She was falling, falling, falling to somewhere. Which was good because the pain was unbearable now. She said a silent prayer to God or the universe or fate that the dark pit she was plunging toward was death.

  CHAPTER 12

  wing loong pterodactyl ucav ground control unit (gcu)

  kanju, pakistan

  Before he could get to Hamza, Qasim knew it was too late.

  Everyone was awake and crowded around the charismatic al Qadar lieutenant, cheering, shouting, and backslapping.

  Hamza was all smiles, and when he saw Qasim, he waved him over. “Qasim, your timing is perfect. The strike was a success!”

  Qasim squinted as Hamza showed him a grainy image of a large explosion in the middle of a military convoy.

  “The pilot took this picture of the laptop screen at the moment of impact.” Hamza threw his arm around Qasim’s shoulders. “We did it, Qasim. We executed the world’s first drone missile strike against an American military target. Allah is smiling upon us today, my brother.”

  Looking at the image, a quizzical emotion washed over Qasim, one he did not expect: pride. The disgust and anxiety he’d been feeling in his dream was unexpectedly displaced. He was glad the Americans were dead. He was glad the operation had been a success. And in that moment, he wondered if he was losing his mind. How was it that he could flip-flop between revulsion and excitement so readily? How was it that two personas could occupy his thoughts at the same time? Which reality was true—Qasim, the law-abiding naturalized British aerospace engineer, or Qasim, the Afghan drone pilot and terrorist? Is this what it meant to be trapped in a duality?

  He looked up from the image and met Hamza’s eyes. “We really got a hit?”

  “Yes!”

  “Have the Americans shot the drone down yet?”

  “No, the pilot is flying it back into the Hindu Kush. The plan is to keep it airborne and as far north as line of sight will permit. If we can make it to nightfall, we will attempt to fly it across the border and land it at the Mingora airport. Do you want to pilot the landing?”

  Qasim nodded, eager to get back in the pilot’s chair.

  He joined the group, talking little but accepting words of praise and congratulations from the other al Qadar men, most of whom he recognized but still did not know. He’d made a point of not fraternizing with anyone other than Hamza these past twelve days. He didn’t feel comfortable with these men and suspected he never would.

  A breakfast of chai and paratha was served, prepared, and delivered by women he also did not know. It was that way with all the food since Qasim had arrived; it just showed up, and he’d never once been asked to pay for his share. Hamza maintained a strict policy of limiting traffic in and out of the building. Only Eshan seemed to be permitted to come and go freely, and Qasim wondered when his best friend would return. It had been three days since they’d spoken.

  After the meal, Hamza pulled Qasim aside, leading him to the boxy GCU, where he closed and locked the door from the inside.

  “So that we are not disturbed,” he said, turning to look at Qasim.

  “I figured as much.”

  “How are you feeling about all of this? The first operation can be . . . emotional for thoughtful men like yourself.”

  “When you sent me off to get some sleep, I had a nightmare,” Qasim said, looking down at his hands. “I dreamed about the strike. There were bodies, and pieces of bodies, everywhere. Charred and smoldering. I woke up in a panic. When you waved me over, I was coming to ask you to call it off.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” was all Hamza said.

  Qasim looked up. Instead of judgment, he found empathy in Hamza’s eyes. “Are you angry with me?”

  “With these other men,” Hamza said, gesturing outside the walls of the GCU, “I would not tolerate such behavior. But from you, I would be concerned if you were not conflicted. You have suffered great tragedy in your life. You have lived through a drone strike. You know the cost. You know the carnage. You’re not an evil man, Qasim, and neither am I. Only a sadist enjoys the torture and mutilation of others. That is not what we’re about. That is not what jihad is about. Under my leadership, al Qadar will not follow the path of al-Qaeda or the Islamic State. This was a tactical strike on a military target. We are professional
s, Qasim. We do not blow up women and children. We do not murder our fellow Muslims. I know such things have weighed heavy on your mind, but now you can sleep easy. You have my word on this.”

  “I’m not sure I can go back,” Qasim said, shaking his head. “Not after this.”

  “You mean back to work? Back to England?”

  Qasim nodded, the duality of his personas strained to the breaking point.

  “Why?”

  Qasim shrugged. He worried that if he said more, he would undermine all the goodwill he’d built with Hamza.

  “Because you’re a terrorist now? Is that it?”

  He nodded.

  “Does that make you ashamed?”

  He looked away, unable to hold the other man’s gaze any longer.

  “Do you think that an American soldier, a Navy SEAL, for example, is ashamed of the work he does? Do you think he calls himself terrorist in his own mind? No, of course not. He calls himself patriot. He calls himself warrior. He is a soldier fighting his enemy with a mandate from his country. We are soldiers too, fighting our enemy with a mandate from God. Which mandate do you think holds more weight? Which mandate do you think is more just? The one from Allah, or the one from President Warner?”

  “God’s mandate,” he whispered.

  “That’s right,” Hamza said, his voice hardening. “I want you to strike this word terrorist from your personal lexicon, Qasim. You are not a terrorist. Do you understand? Look at me.” Qasim found it difficult to lift his gaze, and for a moment felt like a child, his eyes now rimmed with tears. “You . . . are . . . not a terrorist. You’re a drone pilot and engineer. You’re a patriot and warrior in Allah’s army. These are things to be proud of. It’s time to purge your shame. It’s time to purge your guilt. When you go home to England—and you will go home, my friend—be proud.”

  Qasim nodded, empowered by the other man’s words. “Okay, I’ll try.”

  “Good,” Hamza said, giving Qasim’s shoulder a squeeze. “It won’t happen overnight, but think about my words. A man’s personal truth is the only truth that matters.” Hamza released his shoulder, then pulled a folded envelope from his pocket and handed it to Qasim.

  “What’s this?” Qasim asked, accepting it.

  “For your work, of course,” Hamza said with a laugh. “You don’t think I expect my people to work for free, do you? You’re a professional with an extraordinarily valuable skill set. You deserve compensation.”

  Qasim’s heart rate picked up as he opened the flap and peeked at the stack of notes inside.

  “Twenty thousand euros,” Hamza said. “I counted it myself.”

  Qasim refolded the envelope and stuffed it in his pants pocket. To his surprise, his mind went to Diba. He could buy a very nice wedding ring for her with this and still have money left over to pay for an extravagant, romantic holiday when this was all over.

  “Thank you,” he said, not sure what else to say.

  “You’re welcome,” Hamza said. “But that’s only the start. Assuming we recover the drone, if you and my cyber team can succeed in hacking the US satellite network and configure the drone for another mission, I’ll give you access to an account in Dubai with a starting balance of one hundred thousand.”

  “One hundred thousand?” Qasim said, his jaw agape.

  Hamza nodded. “As I rise, so do those who help me fulfill my vision. As your role and commitment increase, so will your bank—” Hamza’s mobile phone vibrated in his pocket, stopping him midsentence. He checked the message and his expression darkened.

  “Is everything okay?” Qasim asked.

  “It doesn’t concern you,” Hamza said. Then, tone softening, he added, “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Eshan should be arriving within the hour. Just make certain you’re back after sundown to pilot the drone . . . assuming it lasts until then.”

  “You can count on me,” Qasim said and meant it.

  CHAPTER 13

  team intelligence support

  tier one compound

  macdill air force base

  tampa, florida

  0635 local time

  Whitney massaged her temples, then looked at the Casio g-shock watch the command had issued her. It was a huge and hideous thing and looked ridiculous on her slender wrist. As she unfastened it and put it on her desk, she wondered if wearing it was obligatory.

  Well, if it is, too bad . . . I’m not wearing that friggin’ thing.

  She shifted her attention back to her monitor and the photographs documenting the aftermath of yesterday’s convoy attack outside Jalalabad. The preliminary reports were that a three-

  vehicle Army convoy had encountered two roadside IEDs, but something about the battle damage didn’t sit right with her. There was one picture that she couldn’t get out of her head, and it had ushered her down a bunny hole of sleep deprivation and speculation. She’d promised herself when she’d accepted this job that she’d stop doing this sort of thing and stay in her lane, but she simply couldn’t help herself. The more challenging the knot, the more driven she was to figure out how to untie it.

  It was in her nature to snoop.

  And it was why she’d pursued a career in intelligence in the first place.

  Her propensity to stick her nose into other analysts’ business—some might even label it a compulsion—had annoyed her contemporaries at NCTC. And it might have possibly, probably, earned her the nickname Woke Whitney, an honorific certainly born from envy at her uncanny ability to see connections that others were blind to. But for all the teasing and complaining it might have earned her from her peers, she was convinced it was the primary reason her boss had recommended her for the promotion. She worked longer hours, excavated more intel from background noise, and simply outperformed the other analysts. Know-it-alls with a respectable batting average were annoying. But a know-it-all who bats close to a thousand was downright despised.

  That person was Northern Virginia Whitney.

  Florida Whitney needed to chill . . . but could she?

  A rap at her door gave her a start. She swiveled in her chair to find Petty Officer Michelle Yi, dressed in green digital cammies unique to Special Warfare and EOD, standing in the door frame holding two cups of coffee.

  “You’re here early, Michelle,” she said, looking at the petite Asian American who Whitney suspected wasn’t a hair over four feet eleven. “When did you get in?”

  “I’m here when you’re here, ma’am,” the enlisted intelligence specialist said, addressing her as she would any officer.

  “Well, I’ve been here since two forty-five.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said, her voice and expression professional.

  “How do you even know . . . never mind,” Whitney said, shaking off the thought. “Come in.”

  Yi stepped into Whitney’s little office. “I brought you a coffee, ma’am. I figured you could probably use it. Take your pick. Either a mocha or a latte with two shots of espresso.”

  “The double latte, definitely.” Whitney graciously accepted the double-cupped creation that looked like it came from the “robo-barista” machine in the break room. When Yi remained standing, Whitney motioned for her to take a seat. “Michelle, how long have you been at this command?”

  “Just a couple of weeks, ma’am. I got here two days before you arrived.”

  “Look, this is my first military command, but from what I’ve observed around here, I think you can ixnay on the ‘am-may.’ ”

  Yi screwed up her face with incomprehension.

  “Sorry, pig Latin, just something stupid that me and my old boss used to do. What I meant to say was that you don’t have to call me ma’am. I don’t hear anyone using honorifics around this place. The SEALs all call each other bro, and my boss has insisted that I call him Chunk.” She shook her head. “I think we both might fit in a little better if we, you know, just chill.”