Extreme Faction (30 page)

He glanced down at the phone. He had wanted to call secure from the office, but that would have been out of the question. He didn't know who to trust, so he decided to go straight to the top.

In a moment there was a click on the other end.

“What can I do for you?”

Who was that? “I'm sorry,” Quinn said. “I was holding for the Director.”

“Who is this?”

He hesitated. “This is Quinn Armstrong. Deputy station chief in Odessa. I must speak with the Director on an important matter.”

“This is Kurt Jenkins. I'm sure you've heard of that name. You can speak freely.”

That means he was being recorded by the CIA Director of Operations himself. “Sorry, sir. I didn't recognize your voice. But I'm not calling secure.”

“I know that. What do you have?”

Quinn quickly laid out what he knew for sure and what he suspected he had stumbled across. When he was done, he asked, “What should I do?”

“You can go to Turkey.”

“But—”

“Go to our office in Ankara. I'll leave orders for you there. Be careful.”

Quinn was about to ask another question, when the line went blank. He slowly set the phone back in its crevice, slid back on the sofa, and ran his fingers through his hair. How in the hell had he gotten himself into this mess?

He was about to get up, when the front door burst open. The first round hit him in the forehead before he even saw the flash. The second and third rounds from the silenced gun hit him in the shoulder and the stomach. Rounds four and five went into his thigh and ankle. Three more rounds hit the wall behind him and the sofa next to his flaccid body. For the average investigator it would look like a gang hit with random fire. However, the first shot would have been enough.

The door slowly swung shut, and the shooter walked off down the hall.

ADANA, TURKEY

Jake knew there was more to the story than what Agency Special Agent Steve Nelsen had briefed him on. The military had been like that, hiding behind the obliquely defined “need to know.” The old Agency had even been more obscure in its definition of who should know what when. Jake even understood that Nelsen had probably wanted to tell him more about the mission prior to their departure, but he didn't like it one bit. He wasn't even sure what their intended objective was.

Sitting back in an old chair in the operations building on the first floor of the Incirlik Air Base air traffic control tower, Jake gazed across at the rest of the men. The six commandos were nearly identical in size and shape, dressed in dark camo, and currently spreading make-up on their faces like supermodels. None of them had any insignia on their uniforms that indicated which service they represented, or which country as far as that went. Yet anyone could tell that they were trained killers willing to die for any cause. Just following orders. They were good at it. They could have been Navy Seals, Army Special Forces, or even Air Force Special Ops. It was more likely that they were former military, Agency-trained commandos.

Off to one side of the commandos stood Steve Nelsen and Ricardo Garcia. They were dressed in civilian clothes. Garcia could have passed for a Turk, but Nelsen looked more like a middle linebacker at a church social. He seemed out of place in Turkey, even though he had worked there for so long and was fluent in the language. His eyes were intense. His jaw locked tightly. And then Jake thought of his own appearance. He too could have passed for a Turk, he thought. From a distance.

Jake looked out the window. It was completely dark outside. Only the red and blue ramp lights flickered like stars off a sea of concrete. It was overcast, with clouds and a light mist coming down. Either that, or the humidity, which was smothering, had escaped like tears from the clouds.

In a few minutes a helicopter's familiar whapping of air sounded in the distance.

Nelsen came over to Jake. “Are you ready?” he asked.

“I'd be more ready if I knew more.”

Nelsen moved uncomfortably close, contemplating Jake's words. “Listen,” he whispered. “The three of us,” he nodded toward Garcia. “We're gonna take Baskale. The terrorist. They want him back in Washington to stand trial.”

The helicopter swooped down and rocked to a halt fifty yards from the building.

“Just like that? What about Sinclair Tucker?”

Nelsen sighed and looked away. Then he turned back toward Jake. “The Brits are trying to work a deal. They got caught with their pants down, and they're back peddling.”

“I've got to find him, Steve. You know we're good friends.”

“That's personal. If we've got time, we'll look for him.”

Jake knew that's all he could hope for. He didn't like it much though. “What else is going on here, Steve?”

Nelsen motioned for the commandos to head out to the chopper, and they quickly picked up their gear and were out the door.

“Their mission is to secure the weapons.”

“You mean to destroy the entire village,” Jake said.

Nelsen reeled around, pointing a finger at Jake's chest. “God dammit. I'm not going to talk philosophy with you. They're trained for a mission. Let them do their job. You of all people should understand. You saw Halabja. You know what chemical and biological weapons can do to a human body.”

There was a strange look on Nelsen's face. Something Jake hadn't seen before in the man. A caring perhaps. Caring for something more than simple ideology. Perhaps Nelsen was human, and not the carnivorous asshole Jake had always thought he was.

“Let's go then,” Jake said without conviction.

Jake and Nelsen and Garcia hurried out onto the ramp and ducked under the slowly moving rotors. When they were aboard, Jake and Steve were handed headphones by a crew member.

On the way to the helicopter, Jake had noticed something interesting. The chopper was an Italian-made Augusta-Bell Huey, and had the symbol of the Turkish agricultural ministry on its side. The Turkish Army had purchased a bunch of the old choppers that dated back to Vietnam. They were a good old bird, especially in remote terrain. The outside might have been conventional, other than the bogus agricultural symbol, but the inside was completely different. There was high tech equipment everywhere.

“The headphones are for internal communications only,” Nelsen said. “You can talk to the pilot and co-pilot and the crew chief...or me.” He smiled.

“Great.”

Jake heard the final clearance from the air traffic controllers.

“That's the last we'll hear from the outside,” Nelsen explained.

In a moment they started to lift off. Jake looked down to the tarmac and noticed a master sergeant in air force blues trying desperately to get someone's attention. He was waving a piece of paper at them, as if they had forgotten something. Nelsen saw the man and said nothing.

“What was that all about?” Jake asked.

“I don't know,” Nelsen said. “We're running silent now. Nothing can stop us.”

●

They had lifted off at three a.m. and had flown for over an hour through the darkness toward the east. Jake had checked his watch periodically and imagined where they were. They were flying just above the tree lines. They had caught the Euphrates River and followed it for a while. Not long ago he had made out the lights of Diyarbakir to the north, so the river below was the Tigris. The plan, as Nelsen had explained it, was to follow the Tigris until it was joined by the Batman. Then they would head north up the Batman River Valley. Just south of Lake Van, they would head east again, skirt around the lower foothills and head to the mountains above the city of Van. Nelsen had never even mentioned the name of the village they were heading toward. But Jake had been to Kurdistan many times, and he knew there were numerous villages that weren't even on maps. It was the Turkish government's denial of their existence.

Jake hated flying in helicopters. He had done it in the past reluctantly. He wished they had simply piled into rental cars in a caravan to Van, but knew they would have never made it through Kurdistan at night without being stopped and questioned. Flying was the only solution.

Nelsen had opened up somewhat to Jake. He had his eyes closed, and Jake wondered how he could sleep with all the shaking and pitching. Garcia looked like he had seen a ghost. His face was pale, and he seemed airsick. The commandos were all sprawled over each other, snoozing like puppies snuggling for warmth.

The pilots started giving brief comments about their location, the weather ahead, and estimated time of arrival. They were a little over an hour away. Crossing into Kurdistan now. Jake felt under his left arm the new 9mm Glock Nelsen had given him, fully loaded, with three extra magazines. He had stuffed the magazines to the inside pockets of his leather jacket. Buried into a secret pocket of the lining, was his only identification. A visa card. He could get anywhere in the world with that. Everything else, including his wallet and passport, he was forced to leave in the briefing room at Incirlik. The wonderful world of black ops.

KURDISTAN

Sneaking through the darkness of the small Kurdish village, Chavva paused for a moment behind a stone wall that lead to the mosque butted against the mountain. She was tired, but wouldn't think of sleeping. It was far more important for her to have that shaky edge. That feeling of pure energy that most would associate with hunger and fatigue, but what she had always felt as an inner power. Something like a wolf that hadn't killed in a week.

It had been a long journey from Odessa. After seeing Jake Adams at the Istanbul airport, she had taken the flight to Diyarbakir, acquired the truck, and rode the bumpy dirt tracks into the heart of Kurdistan. All the while she had thought of Jake, wondered what he was doing at the airport. Hoping he was still safe. She couldn't get him out of her mind.

She pressed her shoulder against the stone wall and listened carefully to voices from her past. There were screams of horror and wonder. How could this be happening? Tears rolled down her cheeks and she sobbed with pain. A pain that would end only with her last breath.

●

Deep within the catacombs of the mosque, Mesut Carzani, the new Kurdish sultan, set the phone down and smiled. He turned to Baskale, his trusted
Gazi
.

“Everything is working as planned,” Carzani said. “The Americans are on their way. The same man who had chased you across Texas.”

Baskale looked surprised. “They sent that man after me?”

Carzani nodded.

It was more than Baskale had dreamed for. A chance to meet up with the American again. “How do you know?”

“Let's say...we have friends in interesting places.”

Sitting back in the shadows of the dimly lit room, the man finally rose from the chair and approached the two Kurds. “What about the other American from Odessa? Jake Adams? Is he with them?”

Carzani smiled. “Of course, Omri. He's the last one to...take care of from there.”

Omri Sherut gazed at the two men for a moment. He knew there was another, but he didn't want to mention that person's name. He would take care of that one on his own.

Carzani put his hand on Baskale's shoulder. “Go to the men and let them know the Americans are on their way.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Allah is with you.”

●

On the outskirts of the village a lone woman in a long peasant's dress, with a scarf covering her hair, made her way along the dirt road. She had kept to the side of the road since dropping off the Fiat, but her feet were sore and she couldn't help feeling tired. She was traveling on adrenalin and nothing else. Her mission was too important to let a little pain stop her.

Suddenly a man stepped out of the bushes and trained his M-16 on her. “What are you doing here old woman?” the man asked in Kurdish.

She didn't understand him, but she slowly stepped toward him.

He pulled the bolt back and let a bullet slam into the chamber.

She was now just inches from the muzzle.

He asked her to move along, shifting the muzzle with a nod of his head. He was young. Shaking. Scared.

As the barrel turned, she caught the end with her left hand, and straight kicked the man in the crotch. He sunk to his knees in pain, dropping the rifle into her hands. She jammed the gun butt into his skull and he immediately crashed to the ground. She dragged him back into the bushes and checked his pulse. He was alive. She thought about letting him live, but changed her mind. She couldn't let anyone know she was there. She pulled the man's knife from the sheath on his hip, and with one quick jab, penetrated his chest and drove the blade into his heart.

He wiggled for a moment, and then went limp.

CROSSING KURDISTAN

The Huey chopper swooped low across the mountains. Jake looked out the window and could see the first glimmer of morning in the silhouette of the mountains to the north. They were crossing Kurdistan now. He could barely make out the snow on the caps of the volcanoes. He had been here before. They were close now.

The commandos were checking their weapons, slapping loaded magazines into them.

The pilot came over the radio. “Hang on folks. We're going a little lower.”

Shit, Jake thought. How could they get much lower?

“Five minutes for the first drop.”

“First drop?” Jake asked Nelsen.

“That's us.”

Jake thought they would be together. All nine of them.

“I'll explain on the ground,” Nelsen said.

The chopper dipped down and seemed like it would surely crash into the side of the mountain, but at the last second the nose popped up and they were slipping along the tree tops, with a rocky ledge to their right.

“The Brits were shot down a mile ahead,” Nelsen said. “They came in too high and too far to the west.”

In a few seconds the chopper lurched to the left.