Far worse was the fact that Haneen had been killed by an unclean foreigner, one who fucked dogs, as it was said of Americans. The hands of an American infidel had snapped Haneen's neck, and such a death was an ignoble one.
The near-debacle at the surveillance post in the mountains had marked a clear turning point in Omega's
mission. From that point on the shit had began hitting the fan with a vengeance. Tensions in the Kurdish encampment had been inflamed by the loss of one of their own people. Rempt had intervened with the khadkhuda, the Peshmerga tribal council, to restore order with some success, but it was obvious that the blood of the Kurds was up and a thirst for vengeance went unslaked.
Rempt had come down hard on Breaux, blaming him for having stirred up a hornet's nest.
"There was no other way," Breaux had protested. "What was I to do, let him fire? The fucker was disobeying orders. There was no other choice. I had to take him out."
"They told me you were a hard case," Rempt said. "They warned me you were a crazy motherfucker. That you were out of control."
"You didn't answer my question," Breaux had replied.
Rempt repeated his meaningless catechism about Breaux being crazy, out of control, and several other things besides. Breaux would notify Rempt that he was pulling his people out. For Detachment Omega the mission was over, and fuck the CIA.
As Breaux continued on the winding path up the hillside to Rempt's yurt, the group of hostile hill men moved toward him. They now blocked Breaux's path. One of them stuck out his hand, giving Breaux the finger.
"Charra alaik! American fuck! Charra alaik!"
He spat on the ground, keeping his black button eyes glued on Breaux's face. He was saying "Shit on you" in Dari. The other men began circling, moving out of Breaux's direct field of view.
Breaux gave him the finger right back. He knew a few choice words in Dari himself. "Coos!" he shouted. "Tal hazi zib umak!" This meant, "Fuck you. Call your mother over to suck my dick."
"Telhazi teezi — Go suck my ass," shouted back the Kurd. "Coos, American. Coos! Coos!"
"Coos yourself, shitbag."
Breaux looked around for a rock to throw at the evil-smelling, foul-mouthed, rag-clad hill men whom he had come to regard by now as little more than a noisy species of two-legged, humanoid cockroach, when he caught a flash of movement in his peripheral vision.
Before the raghead to Breaux's left could bring the butt of his Kalashnikov down against the side of his skull, Breaux pivoted, sidestepped the blow and launched a spinning giri at the attacker's heart region. The karate foot blow shattered the Kurd's collar bone and sent him sprawling to the ground.
Breaux was already centered on the follow-through, turning to face the vengeful cousin who had raised his Kalashnikov to fire a burst into Breaux's chest. As the cousin pulled the trigger, Breaux grabbed a knife-wielding rag head by the beard and one arm and heaved him around right into the line of fire.
The cousin's automatic burst punched a ragged hole in the hill man's stomach. Breaux launched another foot blow and knocked the rifle to the ground. A couple of well-placed punches to the cousin's face reduced his nose and cheeks to red, pulpy custard. The would-be killer howled in pain as he tried to hold his busted nose together amid the blood pouring out of his smashed septum, then ran off into the encampment.
The staccato sounds of automatic fire made all the parties to the brawl turn and look up at the source of the sudden report. Rempt stood outside his yurt on a rock ledge about thirty feet above them. He clutched a Kalashnikov in his right hand, barrel upraised.
The beard-and-turban contingent picked up their wounded and limped off, muttering curses in their local dialect and directing angry looks at Breaux.
Breaux walked on, reaching Rempt on the precipice above, still clutching his AKS just outside his yurt.
"What the hell was that about?"
"Take a wild guess. A couple of rag heads ambushed me on the way over. One of them said he was the cousin of the clown I had to take out. He said they were going to do some nasty things to my pecker with their knives."
"Shit, fuckin' shit," Rempt cursed. "Just what we need here. A vendetta. I want you to know I hold you responsible, Breaux. If you hadn't —"
"— Hadn't what, Rempt?" Breaux had taken two steps toward the spook and grabbed him by the collar. "I've taken enough crap from you and from them. What I came here to tell you, my friend, is that I'm pulling my force out of this quagmire as of three hundred hours."
"You can't do that." Rempt had squirmed free of Breaux's grip by this time. "I'm in command of this operation."
"You're in command of diddly squat, Rempt," Breaux shouted back. "I don't take my orders from you. I, and my forces, only liaise with you. My orders come down through the military chain of command, and you're not one of the links." Breaux reached into his shirt pocket. "This is a printout from Washington."
Rempt read the telex, which had been delivered over satellite downlink less than an hour before. The orders stated that Colonel Breaux would keep his force in theater at his own discretion.
"Unless you have a very good reason to the contrary I'm yanking my people out of this hellhole in three hours."
Rempt stood dumbfounded for a few minutes, his eyes darting to and fro. Here was a guy whose mental gears you could almost see turning inside his skull, thought Breaux.
"Okay, look," he said. "I can contest these orders. The DCI will have one of his deputies camping out in front of the Oval Office before the page comes out of the printer at Meade. But I agree that your mission's been compromised by the events of last night and SFOD-O should pull out. Except not tonight."
"Why not?"
"Tonight is important," Rempt said. "Tonight is the culmination of a lot of behind-the-scenes work. Trust me, Breaux. We have to do this."
"I'd sooner trust a rattlesnake. Convince me."
Rempt tried. Breaux listened to the intelligence field asset talk about the planned mission. Another mission up in the hills of the Elburz watching big Russian planes dance on the thermals. But it was more than watching this time. Much more.
The plan was pure spook. Insane. Yet it was precisely the kind of operation that would in fact have the DCI's hatchet men camping out on the White House lawn if necessary. Breaux knew this for sure. Were he to balk and insist on extraction, Rempt would make his calls and the Eagle Patchers' orders would change.
"Let's assume I were to agree to keep the force in this shithole another twenty-four hours, Rempt," Breaux began. "What would keep the whole camp from going ballistic. You saw what happened on my way over. The Kurds have their tits in an uproar. They won't let it alone."
"You leave that to me," Rempt advised. "I'll handle it."
Breaux told Rempt that he doubted he could, but he would keep SFOD-O in theater an additional twenty-four hours in order to conduct the night's final mission into the Elburz.
"There's something else besides," Breaux added. "In my opinion the entire support operation here's been compromised. Those Hinds last night — I don't think they just happened to be there by coincidence. I think the Russians knew, or suspected, that something was shaking."
"That'll be my problem too, Breaux," Rempt answered. "After tonight's mission you and your force will be history."
Something about the look in Rempt's cold blue eyes as he said that gave Breaux the creeps. It could just be common, garden variety spookery — every one of them had a streak of James Jesus Angleton in his soul— but then, again, maybe it was more than that. Breaux would keep his guard up, and pass the word to his men.