The Way Home (26 page)

“Holy crap,” Taggart muttered under his breath.

Black continued. “Findings: Probability of said SF sergeant’s existence: 85 percent.

“Recommendations: Current political climate in Afghanistan during the draw-down coupled with increased Taliban activity in the area necessitates extreme care in handling this situation. Sanctioned military involvement is not advised. It is therefore recommended to deploy black ops and ITAP teams to conduct a surveillance mission, gather further intel on the existence of KIA/MIA service member and the Afghan subject who contacted the patrol and then report back to DOD for further orders, should an extraction of the SF sergeant, if he actually exists, becomes necessary.”

Black downed another sip of water. “Enemy Forces: Taliban, both foreign and local, are expected to inhabit the area and number fewer than fifty. They have conventional commbloc (Soviet) weapons including RPG-7s, RPDs (machine guns), AK-47s. No evidence of heavy weapons, including DShK 12.7mm heavy machine guns or mortars. Communication with their command staff is limited to radio and cell phones. They
utilize a wide variety of vehicles, including small to large pickup-type trucks, passenger vans, small buses, and cars. Their mobility is limited by road conditions, and they are often able to travel only by foot or using animals.

“Assets Available for Mission,” Black continued. “Troop assets will be available for a rescue of the SF sergeant, should he be found; however, there will be complete deniability and no participation by U.S. military sources to rescue black teams if it is not also in conjunction with the rescue of the reported KIA. Intelligence assets will be available as required, including drone, satellite, and Elint (electronics intelligence) to monitor enemy radio traffic. Air assets include aerial vehicles ranging from drones to fighter/bomber air strikes, B-52s, B-1s, and AC-130s. Further information on required air assets will be determined at a later date—by us,” he added pointedly.

“One Russian-made Mi-17 helicopter with Afghan military markings will be utilized for team insertion and extraction. Utilization of this particular aircraft has two advantages: it adds further deniability that no U.S. forces were directly involved, and the Mi-17 can transport required personnel and equipment to carry out the mission and provide its own air support with conventionally mounted weapons.”

Black paused again, and seeing that the men were all engrossed in the OPORD, continued: “A staging area will be provided at the Kandahar airport. Appropriate arms, ammunition, fuel, and other material assets will be made available to the team as specified. Assault and contingency plans will also be developed—again, by us.

“Finally, the subject of the search is Medical Sergeant Jeffery Robert Albert, U.S. Army Special Forces Group (Airborne),
C Company, 8th Battalion, 1st Special Forces Regiment, formerly believed KIA, February 2011.”

Black looked up from the report. “I’ll take questions now.”

Mike couldn’t have asked a question if he had a rifle pointed straight at his heart.

Medical Sergeant Jeffery Robert Albert.

It couldn’t be. It could
not
be J. R. Albert, the husband of the woman his brother, Ty, had fallen in love with and intended to marry.

But he knew Jess’s story. Her husband, J.R., Jeff, had been KIA by an IED in Afghanistan three and a half years ago. This could not be a coincidence.

Jeff Albert might be alive. In all probability, he
was
alive. And while Mike was happy as hell about the prospect of bringing a hero home, he knew what this would do to his brother. It was going to kill him.

He had to talk to Black. In private. He had to get more information.

“Has the family been notified of the possibility that Albert may be alive?” he asked abruptly.

“Negative,” Black responded. “That’s on hold until we either get eyes on him or confirm that this is a hoax.”

“But you don’t think it is. You think this guy somehow survived.”

“I do,” Black said simply.

Before Mike could ask more, the team started firing questions at Black like bullets.

“Where, exactly, are we inserting, sir?” Reed wanted to know.

Black grabbed a laser pointer from a shelf in the podium and made a circle on the wall map in the general area. There
were so many small villages scattered throughout the Afghan countryside that many of them weren’t even marked on the map.

“Beg your pardon, sir,” Bobbie Taggart, former Special Forces himself, spoke up. “But isn’t it a bit—how should I put this without mentioning the words
chicken shit
—let’s say,
unusual
that Special Forces isn’t all the hell over this, draw-down or not? If that was our guy out there, there’d be so many of us jumping out of planes to find him, the sky’d be white with parachutes.”

“
Unusual
is the key word, Taggart,” Black agreed. “Everything about this situation is unusual, starting with the fact that Sergeant Albert was listed as KIA and ending with the circumstances that brought his existence to DOD’s attention.”

“Can you expand on that, sir?” This from Gabe Jones, who sat with his arms crossed over his chest, his bad leg outstretched, a sober look on his face.

“February 2011, Sergeant Albert’s detachment was headed back to home base after completing a mission in Pakistan. The small convoy was met with overwhelming Taliban forces,” Black said, nutshelling the situation. “Two survivors of the attack reported seeing Albert’s GMV get hit by an IED and later by an RPG. The witnesses were fighting for their own lives and barely escaped themselves. Both were one-hundred-percent certain Albert was dead.”

“And no one recovered his body?” Green sounded both skeptical and pissed.

“There were extenuating circumstances,” Black said. “One, the ambush took place in Pakistan, where ‘officially’ no U.S. military actions were supposed to take place. Two, before a detail could sneak back across the border to recover the bodies,
a monster snowstorm set in. Add to that, beefed-up Pakistani forces on what had been a very porous border precluded the recovery of Albert’s body.”

“How bad does that suck?” Reed mumbled, and Mike knew every member of both teams agreed.

The room went quiet. It made sense, Mike thought. This mission was not going to be cleared with the Afghanistan government. They would never get permission, so they had to go in black. If things went FUBAR and any of ITAP or Black’s team were killed or captured, they could not be linked back to Uncle Sam. The U.S. would disavow their connection and insist that they were a rogue group, possibly mercs or private contractors hired by the sergeant’s family to explain away why Americans were running the operation.

“We all onboard so far?” Black asked the room at large.

He got nods all around.

Cooper had a question. “How the hell did Albert survive more than three years held by the Taliban? And why did they keep him alive in the first place?”

“That’s where it gets muddy,” Black said. “And this was not in the official report—for reasons you’ll understand when I’m finished. If we believe that the correspondence the Afghan woman gave the patrol was in fact written by our previously believed-to-be-KIA soldier, he’s the one who made the claim. And he states it wasn’t the Taliban that attacked the convoy. It was the ISI disguised as Taliban.”

“Why the fu—” Coulter cut himself off. “Why the devil would Pakistan’s secret service attack an American patrol? We all know that Pakistan only pretends to be our allies, but this makes no sense.”

“What about war has ever made sense?” Black pointed
out. “In any event, Albert—if it is, in fact, Albert—stated that ISI held him captive. He further stated that it was while they were making a deal with the Taliban to exchange him for some Pakistani prisoners that he escaped. The woman maintained she found him near death and has been hiding him for several months. She also states that he has multiple injuries and medical problems sustained during his imprisonment and escape that have precluded him from making an attempt to contact U.S. forces himself.”

“And we’re taking her word for it?” Mendoza looked incredulous. “The guy has been listed as KIA for almost four years. Ask me, this screams setup.”

Black nodded. “It could be. But the blood sample she provided was a match to that on file for Albert. The hair follicles provided more DNA match. The letter he wrote—if he wrote it—is compelling. Add in the letters on the roof—” Black stopped and shrugged. “Additionally, the woman repeatedly requested that the extraction be made in such a way that she and her father were not implicated in hiding Albert. It was clear she greatly feared retaliation by the Taliban.”

“How did she think we could keep her out of it?” Taggart asked.

“She was going to hide him in a location away from her village and reveal the location when she made a second contact with the U.S. patrol. After several days of waiting, she must have decided they weren’t coming back and bailed.”

“Why didn’t the patrol come back?”

“They did, once they decided her claim was legit, but it was more than two weeks later, and like I said, she’d bailed. And to answer the next question, why didn’t they come back sooner? That’s still under investigation. Either someone dropped the
ball, or there was a computer/network glitch at the FOB and they couldn’t immediately access their records of MIA and presumed KIA. As I said, it’s under investigation.”

“If they knew where he was, why didn’t they go get him?”

“Believe we covered that earlier. We were no longer looking at a clear-cut extraction in a remote location away from potential local casualties in case the situation goes hot. Now we presume he’s still in the village, and that’s why we go in stealth. Which means, if Albert is there we’ll have two additional extractions: the woman and her father.”

The room grew painfully quiet.

“We square?” Black glanced around the room again. “All right, then. Albert is one of ours. If he’s alive, we’re going to make damn sure he gets back home.”

Northern Minnesota, late October

H
ey. You’re back.” Jess walked
out of the grocery section of the store and into Ty’s arms when he shut the door behind him. “Did their flight take off OK?”

Ty’s mom and dad had recently spent a week with them to get to know Jess and to celebrate the engagement and upcoming wedding. He kissed her. “They did. And they both loved you.”

“That street goes both ways.”

She looked so happy. And she’d handled his family well. Last month, after he’d called his big brother, Mike, to ask him to be his best man, both Mike and his wife, Eva, had dropped everything and made a quick trip to the lake to congratulate them and, as was typical of Mike, to give Jess dire warnings about what she was getting herself into by shackling herself to Ty.

She, of course, had loved Mike and Eva, too. Ty hadn’t figured it would go any other way. Jess was vibrant and happy and
opening up to him and to life more and more every day. Her parents had even made a trip to the lake, and he’d seen where Jess had gotten her backbone and values.

He couldn’t believe it had been more than a month since she’d agreed to marry him, less than a month until their Thanksgiving wedding.

“Let’s not wait for Christmas,” she’d said two weeks ago, delighting him when he’d suggested they have a holiday wedding. “Let’s compromise and make it the Thanksgiving weekend.”

That worked fine for him. The sooner she officially became his wife, the better.

Since September, he’d been back to Florida twice. Once to hire an office manager to keep on top of things for him while he was here and a second time to make sure things were going smoothly.

Then he’d bought the float plane. She would be his winter project, but he had every intention of having her painted, spit-polished, and ready for the spring season. Jess had started advertising Kabby Charter Service on her Web site three weeks ago, and that had already generated several inquires.

Everything was coming up roses in the north land, and it was about to get even better. He’d been busting to get her alone to show her his big surprise.

“Come on. Let’s take a little ride. I’ve got something to show you.”

“I can’t leave the store.”

“Thirty minutes. That’s all I need. Put a sign on the door. Tell ’em you’ll be back at—” He glanced at the wall clock. “Four o’clock. Nothing’s happening this time of day, anyway. Come on,” he coaxed again when he could see her weakening. “You do not want to miss this.”

She gave him a studied look, then expelled a deep breath, and he knew he had her. “This better be good.”

He laughed and waited while she made her sign, taped it to the door, and locked up.