A checkpoint manned by a solitary Daesh soldier in his early teens blocked the path at the far end. The youth leaned against a Toyota pickup, one hand on the AK-47 slung from his shoulder. He wore a black uniform two or three sizes too big; they looked like pajamas on him. The boy frowned at the women, but did nothing; they were too old and too worn for him to bother with.
Chelsea drifted into the half of the crowd turning toward the market area. Vans and small trucks were parked haphazardly on the sidewalk; a few were delivering goods; others were selling or setting up to do so. In most cases their wares were pathetically small — the best-stocked merchant could offer only a half box of vegetables. Prices were set by a local Daesh council, which, in theory, kept them within reach, but added to the scarcity by making it not worth the risk for many merchants to brave government forces west and south to bring goods in.
Chelsea walked around the market area. While she’d studied the overhead images and the view from the bugs, it was far different in person. After a few turns, she walked down the street to an open grove at the edge of the bazaar. She was not alone; in fact, the grove was crowded with women gossiping and watching children, waiting for a favorite store to open or a specific merchant to arrive, or just hoping to pass the time. Children played in the dirt between the trees. Others squatted in the shade, staring at the world with eyes made blank by the fear that what they had seen in the past would soon be done to them.
“You’re looking good,” said Christian over the radio. “Our girl just left the hotel.”
“Mmmm,” said Chelsea, clamping her teeth tight against the fear-induced bile rising in her throat.
“Just stay where you are,” added Christian. “I’ll let you know when she’s close.”
56
The bombing attack by the Russians worried Johansen not because the aircraft presented an immediate danger to his operation, but because it portended a change in strategy that might force him to pull the plug.
Over the past few months, the Russian air force had stopped attacking Daesh sites, concentrating on rebels closer to Damascus, where the puppet dictator was holed up. An attack here might just be a random “hey, we’re still here” thing. Or maybe it heralded a new push by the Syrian army, and its Iranian and Lebanese mercenaries.
The latest briefings noted some troop movements in the area, but he wasn’t concerned until he saw a set of IR images that showed a half-dozen Land Rovers had moved overnight into positions fifteen to twenty miles south of the city. Though not identified, Johansen knew from experience the trucks would belong to Hezbollah commandos, scouting for positions the Syrians could use for their heavy artillery.
The Syrians always used artillery at the start of an assault; they had been known to bombard a city for weeks on end before moving in. Their big guns were currently parked in depots only two hours from Palmyra.
Johansen dialed into the intel net to get the latest assessment of Russian bombing targets. The assessment was a CIA “product”; the Russians refused to share their target list ahead of time with the U.S. Palmyra did not appear on the list. But a note added that the Russians had flown new refueling and UAV assets into the southern quadrant — something they would do if they were planning a major assault.
Johansen could call the Russian staff liaison and ask if activity was planned in the sector. He might even get a truthful answer. But doing so would tell the Russians he was planning an operation.
Tell the Russians, and you told the Syrians. Tell the Syrians, and Daesh would know within the hour.
“The girl’s about a block from the market,” said Krista, sitting at the console on the other end of the command room. Johansen heard the wince in her voice: they’d taped her ankle and given her crutches but no painkillers; she needed a clear head to work the com gear. “Chelsea’s ready.”
57
Chelsea ducked her head as she slipped out of the shade, eyes blinded by the sun. A hum rose from the street as she walked past the buildings: cars and trucks rode up and down the road, one of two major highways that ran through town. Women milled around the storefronts and tables, even those that were bare or closed.
Her language translator whispered in her ear as it picked up snippets of nearby conversation:
“…two houses destroyed, all dead…”
“…chickens at Ahmed’s but so expensive…”
“…he raped her, then left her for dead…”
“…my brother called. They are safe but…”
This must be what LSD is like, she thought. A babble of voices in your head, scattering your own thoughts and simply adding to your confusion if you try to focus on any one of them.
A man lurched in front of her.
“Ladayna alkhudar alkhus,” he said.
“We have greens,” whispered the translator.
“Yawm ghad,” she answered. “Tomorrow.”
She spoke the phrase perfectly, but the man gave her a confused look.
“We have lettuce greens you will want to buy,” he insisted. “Very rare. Gone tomorrow.”
Chelsea turned, looking in the direction the man was pointing. The storefront was empty.
“No,” she told him.
He raised his hand, moving it toward hers. Fearing he was going to pull her inside but not wanting to draw too much attention to herself, she took a step back and raised her hand.
“Leave me, brother,” she said sternly in Arabic. “God be with you.”
The man froze, then put up his hands, waving them and stepping back. She hurried on.
“What was that?” asked Christian, who’d heard the exchange.
“Nothing,” she said under her breath, not sure herself.
Johnny felt his heart begin to race. He picked up his pace, walking quickly in case the man went after her. But instead, the merchant ducked back into the doorway.
“I’m trying to sell greens,” said the man, speaking to no one and everyone. “I have a good deal. They are rare.”
Johnny crossed the street, closing to within a few yards of Chelsea. Men were only allowed here during the morning if they had some business, but his fake wounds would make it appear as if he were a Daesh soldier, and it was therefore unlikely he’d be questioned by anyone other than an ISIS soldier.
Daesh troops came through the district at least every half hour during the day, ostensibly enforcing the laws of dress and conduct; more often they were simply shaking down the locals for whatever contraband they could take. Christian was watching for them on the UAV.
A man leaning against a doorway held up a cigarette to Johnny. Though cigarettes were theoretically outlawed, many men smoked them openly on the street, and even the Daesh enforcers didn’t go out of their way to reprimand people about them — unless they were confiscating them for their own use.
Johnny shook his head and pointed to the bandages, then gesturing with his hand as a thank-you.
He turned back to look for Chelsea. In the time it took to shake his head and look apologetic, she had disappeared.
Chelsea turned the corner and quickened her pace, trying to put some distance between herself and two women who seemed to be following her. She could hear the clip-clop of their shoes as they turned down the alley behind her.