“Uh-huh.”
“What if bringing Tariq in resulted in retrieving a hostage? Or some solid information about where a hostage-hostages- are being kept?”
Nicola calculated the odds. Then: “You can go. But I’m writing a memo to the file that this is being done against my better judgment because I believe your operation to snatch my valuable agent-which is how headquarters thinks of Tariq- is too risky. After all, Charlie, your operation could compromise him.”
20 June 004, 0410 hours. It took Charlie less than fifteen seconds to pick the lock on Tariq’s wrought-iron security gate. He eased it open and, with Fred’s infrared flashlight focused on the vintage lock of the front door, he picked that, too. Charlie’s op plan was basic. They’d made a silent approach. Charlie mounted an infrared flasher, visible from a thousand yards away, above the front door. Now they’d make entry stealthily, suppress any resistance, restrain Tariq, then follow up with a thorough SSE-a sensitive site exploitation-to discover any goodies Tariq might have lying around. Like his cell phones, his laptop, his PC hard drive, or any notes, phone messages, memos, or photographs.
Charlie would signal Harlan and Paul, who were in an Archangel truck two kliks north. They’d ID the house by its infrared flasher. Charlie’s team would bundle Tariq into the truck, pile in themselves, and haul butt to Baghdad in plenty of time for a Father’s Day breakfast of Egg McMuffin at the Camp Victory Mickey D’s. It was textbook. Classic.
0411. Charlie eased the inner door open. The beam of Fred’s IR flashlight swept the entry. He saw no trip wires or other booby traps. His left index finger pressed the switch of the IR SureFire attached to his M4 and painted the low-ceilinged foyer left-right, right-left, his eyes leading the muzzle.
All clear. He, Jose, and Fred started forward. Tuzz would remain outside, making sure they weren’t interrupted.
0412. The three men soundlessly cleared the sparsely furnished living room, then moved into the dining area.
That’s where the hair on the back of Charlie’s neck stood up. Something’s wrong.
He couldn’t put a face on it, but his instincts were screaming oougah-oougah, dive, dive, dive.
Screw ‘em. Back to work. Kitchen: clear. Jose’s upturned thumb told them that the small laundry room was okay, too.
The ground floor was safe.
0413. Charlie started upstairs. For someone packing sixty pounds of gear he moved with the nimbleness of a ballet dancer. He was climbing the marble stair treads one at a time when he stopped abruptly.
Realized what was wrong.
Realized he’d been an idiot. “Shit.”
He backed down the stairs, headed for the kitchen.
Jose: “What’s up, boss?”
“This, dude.” Charlie’s gloved left index finger swept the small kitchen table. Even through the NVGs, the trail of dust was clear.
“And this.” He went to the fridge. Opened it. It was empty. Pulled the curtains aside and looked under the sink.
Nothing. No knives, forks, or spoons in the drawers under the counter. No dishes in the cupboards. No food in the pantry. No laundry in the washroom. No signs of life.
Tariq Zubaydi didn’t live here. Nobody lived here. This was a safe house.
There was no wife, no crippled kid. Of course Tariq was good; of course he’d had training. Tariq was fricking AQI. A disinformation agent, just as he’d told Nicola.
Charlie shook his head, disgusted at Nicola’s naïveté and his own obtuseness. Abu Hadidi. That was the war name the sonofabitch had coughed up. It was probably his own fricking war name. How dumb can I be?
Charlie took a good look at the living room. A faux Persian was centered in the room. Atop it sat a couch, a coffee table, and two armchairs. The two lamps were attached to timers.
He dispatched Jose and Fred upstairs. They returned ninety seconds later to confirm what Charlie already knew: The place was empty.
0417. Charlie examined the furniture. Christ, there was something familiar about the armchair. The cabriole leg. He’d seen it in the Maupin video. Even through the green-tinged monochrome of his NVGs he could make out the faded fleur-de-lis pattern. AQI videoed Keith Maupin in this house. Tomorrow he’d come back with a forensics team to search for DNA.
“We’re on to something.” They moved the couch and chairs. Rolled the rug. And discovered exactly what Charlie thought they’d discover: a two-foot-square plug of plywood inlaid into the marble floor.
Then: gunfire. Unmistakable. AKs. Simultaneously: Tuzzy’s suppressed M4 and his voice in Charlie’s ears: “Hostiles. Two groups, I count eight muzzle flashes.”
“Fred, cover with Tuzz,” Charlie said into the mike. Then Charlie pinged Paul in the truck. “Get your asses up here.”
He pulled the Treo out. The infrared picture from the Predator showed one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten hostiles coming in a flanking movement, four from the west, the rest from the south. Bad news: They’d been suckered. And capture was not a viable option here.
Charlie hit the rapid dial. The Treo flamed out-dropped signal. He ran to the doorway, rolled outside, disregarding the AK rounds impacting the stone facade above his head, and tried again. On his flanks, Tuzz and Fred were proned out, squinting through NVGs, squeezing off two-shot bursts.
It seemed an age, then the phone connected. In an even voice, Charlie said, “This is Archangel.”
“Archangel, Ops,” came the reply. It was the operations center at the Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force.
Charlie spoke in shorthand. “SITREP hostiles. Running Bear.” SITREP stood for situation report and Running Bear was the code word for tonight’s contingency plan-CONPLAN in mil-speak.
“Running Bear CONPLAN,” the voice on the other end confirmed. There was a five-second pause while Archangel’s position was retrieved from the Predator s GPS display and his coordinates were punched into a computer. Then: “Fourteen minutes, Archangel.” That’s how long it would take for the pair of Apache attack choppers circling Camp Taji to reach Charlie.
“Roger that.” Charlie rolled onto his side and tapped Fred on the back. “Fourteen minutes, dude.” Then he stowed the Treo and scurried back into the living room on all fours. He pulled his combat Emerson from its sheath and shoved the blade tip between plywood and marble. Damn, it was tight. “Hoser- gimme a hand here.”
The two of them removed the plug.
Revealing a ladder.
Leading to a tunnel.
Leading who fricking knew where.
Nowhere good.
0420. Charlie focused the IR flashlight into the hole. The tunnel floor was nine, maybe ten feet below. Quickly, he started to shrug out of his gear. He’d made that mistake once-got himself wedged so tightly he’d had to cut himself loose. Almost got himself killed.
He peeled down to basics: body armor, mags, knife, pistol, flashlight, NVGs, and commo kit. Jose started to do the same. Charlie waved him off. Charlie was a master sergeant, and master sergeants led by example. “Twelve minutes until cavalry gets here, dude. You stay with Fred and Tuzz. If I need you I’ll call.”
Jose picked his M4 off the floor. “Stay safe, boss.”
“No other way.” Charlie rolled onto the ladder, tested the rungs, and when they held, eased his way down.
At the bottom, he scanned through his NVGs. Checked the compass on his watchband. The tunnel went north, and as far as he could see it was unoccupied. But the damn thing was just over a yard wide and less than four feet high.
Charlie stood five-eleven. Geezus H. My back and my fricking legs are going to kill me by the time I get through this. Charlie looked up. Jose’s bearded face peered down at him, green through the NVGs.