The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (4 page)

That was the way of the Order. It had been since the fourteenth century.

He was willing.

He had no choice.

“Yes,” Senator Faust replied. “I understand.”

“Good. Very good, Faust.”

“And the Iranians, they will be taken care of?”

“We will see to it that they are repaid. They will be of no trouble to you.”

His next question was impetuous, but he was a man who hated to wait. “What will it cost me, then?”

There was no pause in the response. “It is simple: when you are president, we will accept the same agreement that you made with the Iranians. There will be something else, too.”

“Something else? What?”

“In due time, Senator. Be patient. Someone will be in touch soon with the details.”

A dial tone filled the senator’s ear.

CHAPTER TWO

TYRANNY IS TYRANNY
PARIS, FRANCE

T
he old man gently set down the phone into its cradle and stared at the book that was laid next to it. He traced his bony and aged finger down its spine and over the title—Howard Zinn’s
A People’s History of the United States
.

History was his love.

To him, there was nothing greater than holding the knowledge of mankind in one’s hands, to be enlightened by the truth. He was a vociferous reader—from the classics to the obscure. The more he read, the more he realized how little he knew.

He loved the way the insignificance made him feel; he knew that it was by far mightier to be an insignificant genius—to be a philosopher among boys—than to be one of the masses that wallow in ignorant, listless credulity.

He knew the truth. It was his sworn duty to uphold it—it was the duty of the Order.

He was their leader.

The heavy book on America’s history was no longer his focus. His studies would have to wait.

With Faust now in their grip, the White House could be theirs.

Reaching again to the cradled phone, he picked it up and dialed.

When the call was connected to the man on the other end, he began to speak. There was no need for him to introduce himself; the man who had answered already knew who the caller was and listened.

“Seated on the cloud was one like the son of man with a crown of gold on his head and a sharp sickle in his hand.”

The old man’s words resonated loudly through the mind of the listener on the other end of the line. He had thought certainly this day would never come, but here it was.

He answered the old man. “The time to reap has come, for the harvest of the earth is ripe.”

And as abruptly as the conversation had begun, it ended.

Again, the old man gently returned the phone to its cradle. Picking up Zinn’s book, he started with chapter four:
Tyranny is Tyranny.

He smiled at the irony and continued from where he last read.

CHAPTER THREE—THREE WEEKS LATER

OPERATION MONGOOSE
SOUTHWEST
OF JALALABAD,
AFGHANISTAN

S
taff Sergeant (SSG) York paused at the base of the White Mountains and drew in a deep breath. The terrain was harsh; the day was as drought ridden as the previous thirteen that he had been in country. SSG York and the rest of his Alpha team, 7th Special Forces Group, were southwest of Jalalabad and west of the border that demarcated Afghanistan from Pakistan in a region known locally as Kofe Sofaid.

Operation Mongoose had just begun, and the team had its orders. York’s senses were on fire as he inched his way through the dirt.

Earlier that morning, at Forward Operating Base (FOB) Salerno, SSG York had risen from his cot at 0300 hours in preparation for the airborne insertion that would commence the day’s operation. From his metal canteen, he had sipped on his version of coffee—a thick sludge of Army-issued instant coffee grounds mixed with a splash of water—while studying a map of the mountain that jutted ominously before him now. Over his morning coffee, he had memorized every contour, crag, and line of the mountain.

There was no doubt in his mind: this was the place.

Before the team donned its pitch-black RAM air parachutes and boarded into the guts of a Chinook, the Special Forces team went through a standard pre-mission brief. It was fast, and their objective was made clear: find the cave complex that housed Abu Mohammed Ibrahim—the leader of the terrorist organization al-Qaeda—isolate and secure anything of intelligence value, and destroy the complex.

If possible, apprehend Ibrahim.

When their pre-jump checks were completed, one hour before the sun would peek over the horizon, the highly trained men of the twelve-man Special Forces Alpha team—Green Berets—loaded onto a MH-47G Special Operations Aviation (SOA) Chinook. The twin-engine, tandem-rotor helicopter rose quickly, reaching nearly eighteen thousand feet, and disappeared into the black ink of the early pre-morning sky at a speed just cresting one hundred and ninety miles per hour. At the precise spot over their drop zone and at the designated time, the Chinook tilted her nose slightly upward and the rear ramp opened. The Green Berets exited through the fully agape back and parachuted expertly to within a few clicks of their current location.

During their stealthy trek to the base of the forested mountain, the sun had risen and quickly stewed the morning air. It no longer amazed York how fast the crisp air of the Afghan night turned into the stifling heat of the day.

York couldn’t see the team spread out in a hasty defensive position behind him, but he knew that they were there. The Green Berets operated in a symbiotic relationship, nearly breathing for one another. There was never a question of ability or the need to waver one’s trust: Alpha teams took only the best.

And York was one of them.

Staggered covertly apart in a modified wedge formation, the other members of the highly trained Special Forces team had taken their appropriate positions and were conducting their own unique series of requirements.

York was prostrate with his weapon laid out in front of him. A small ghillie blanket, which blended in with the hellish environment, camouflaged his body; his face was painted to match the terrain. With the patience only a soldier in special operations can have, York raised his head one painstaking centimeter at a time. The only thing visible behind his painted face was the slight white from his eyes.

Rubbing across the back of his left hand, York felt a rough sensation that would have caused most people to jump from terror.

York wasn’t most people.

York didn’t move.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the yellowish-brown, stout body of a sand viper. York’s hairs stood erect, but not one muscle twitched to give away his presence. About twenty centimeters long, the hemotoxic snake—echis carinatus—bore fangs much larger than would seem necessary, but critical for the delivery of venom that could be fatal. York knew that unlucky recipients of the painful sand viper bite could expect bleeding from their gums to go along with the pain and swelling from the bite. For those that were most unfortunate, their organs and brain could be expected to bleed as well: an oft-fatal side effect.

York’s courtesy to the snake was necessary, and he melted in with the rocks and the dirt as the snake slithered harmlessly over his hand and on its way.

With the viper gone, and without moving any muscles other than those that controlled ocular movements, York diligently scanned the steep slopes of the forest in front of him, looking for anything that didn’t belong. Silently, he mused that it was the forest that abutted suddenly against the harsh and merciless terrain that didn’t seem to belong.

York’s moves were methodical as to not draw unwarranted attention from those he hoped weren’t there. Slowly, he brought his weapon closer and reached out to its barrel with his right hand. Quietly, he flipped the dust cover from the front and rear of the ACOG scope that adorned his 7.62mm SCAR-H combat assault rifle. He squinted heavily and peered through the compact but powerful scope that was mounted on the Picatinny rail of the weapon.

He moved the SCAR-H slowly from side to side, concentrating on the unforgiving terrain of the steep hill that rose up in front of him. The external light-gathering fiber optic rail of the scope gathered the newly available sunlight and illuminated its reticule, improving his field of view. Engineered to perfection by Trijicon out of Wixom, Michigan, the scope easily gave York another thousand meters beyond his own eyesight. York’s hands were as steady as a surgeon’s; he mechanically and efficiently scanned, not just for the faces of the enemy, but for traps, too; he scanned for anything that didn’t belong.

He processed the images coming through the ACOG as he scanned over the harsh terrain. As he panned back and forth, he worked his way up the rocky slope and into the forest. In his right ear, a barely audible squawk, coming through the bone-mic, interrupted his diligence.

“Go ahead,” whispered York.

“Point, this is Six, confirm location secure,” ordered the Alpha team’s commander.

“Stand-fast, Six, almost finished.”

York had scanned as deep into the forest and as high up the steep slope that the ACOG would allow him. He had nearly issued the
all clear
when he saw it. He jerked his eye away from the scope and shot a quick glance up the hill. Squinting once more, he put his eye tightly against the monocular scope and aimed the ACOG back into the woods; he studied the image in the reticule. Nearly one full click—a kilometer—up the slope and pushing the edge of the ACOG’s abilities, York saw a thin billow of barely visible smoke, wafting over the top of a small, round shrub. He traced the smoke downward to its source.

“Six, this is Point, over.”

“Go ahead, Point, what do you have?” asked the commander.

“A cigarette: unfiltered, lit, and hanging off the mouth of a local.”

“Pashtun or Tajik?” asked the commander.

Thirty-eight percent of the locals in Afghanistan were Pashtun, and 25 percent were Tajik; two-thirds of the time, the man squatting behind the shrub, smoking a cigarette, would have been a friendly.

York squinted a bit harder and stared at the man whose face was obscured by a thick, low-hanging, leaf-filled branch. Patiently, York waited; so did the commander. After a long moment, the man turned his head down-slope; York knew right away that the man wasn’t a local tribesman.

“Six, he’s an Arab!”

Afghanistan is one of the poorest and least developed countries in the world. With unemployment above 40 percent—even greater in rural areas—there are two viable options for rural tribesman: raise opium or join al-Qaeda. The farming of opium—from which heroin is derived—in Afghanistan accounts for 80 percent of the world’s inventory of the plant. The $3 billion in illicit and underground economic activity dwarfs the licit $890 million in revenues collected by the Afghan government. Without much support for rural and disenfranchised tribesman, raising opium or heeding to the manufactured Islamic rally-cry to kill Christians become the default choices.

But this man wasn’t a local. He was an Arab. York knew right away what this meant: he wasn’t an unemployed Afghan; he wasn’t a farmer; he was al-Qaeda. He was an imported jihadist, and the entrance to the cave was nearby.

“Point, confirm only one,” ordered the commander.

York didn’t respond and scanned the area near the smoking Arab. He felt the rate of his heart quicken and worked to keep his breathing under control. The adrenaline was starting to seep into his bloodstream; he could feel it. Looking left and then right, York methodically picked apart the foliage for other guards. Twenty meters to the right of the first Arab, York saw a second man. The men were facing in opposite directions, not paying any attention to each other. The second man looked drowsy, as if he were readying to sleep.

“Six, I confirm two targets at post, approximately one click in front of my position, upslope, and twenty meters apart. Both are armed with Kalashnikovs; request permission to engage targets.”

“Point, do you need help? That’s a long way for two shots with your SCAR,” asked the Alpha team commander, already knowing the answer York would give.

“Negative, Six. I can do this with my eyes closed,” was York’s response.

The Alpha team commander smiled at York’s confidence and responded, “Point, permission granted. Engage targets, confirm when eliminated.”

“Confirmed, Six; am engaging targets,” said York.

“And listen up, Point, I don’t want any of that John Wayne cowboy crap: one shot, one kill; keep it quiet.”

York smiled at the commander’s last request. York already had a growing, well-earned reputation among Special Operations Command (SOCOM) as the most proficient weapons specialist of all the Alpha teams in the 7th Special Forces Group, perhaps of all the groups. Not only did he know weapons, both foreign and domestic, but he could use them quite efficiently, too. Rumor had it that the Delta Force was sniffing around for a new sniper, and York was in their sights.