Crocker wasn’t here to dwell on moral turpitude or political uncertainty. His focus was the mission, which was clouded with its own challenges. If he and his men did their jobs well, no one would ever hear about Captain Zeid, Fatima, Mr. Talab, or the sarin canisters. People back home would sleep peacefully in their beds and not have to worry about the terrors lurking in this corner of Syria.
The landscape ahead appeared like a moonlit painting-still and eerie. An owl hooted in the distance.
“This entire area is controlled by the FSA,” Hassan announced from the passenger seat.
“That’s good, right?” Akil said from behind the wheel of the crew-cab pickup with its faded gold interior.
“Yes. It should be.”
More uncertainty. It was good to be moving. A low growl rumbled through the clouds.
“What’s that?” asked Hassan nervously.
“Sounded like thunder,” Crocker answered from the backseat, a loaded 416 with an M320 grenade launcher on his lap, a SIG 226 tucked near the door panel, an RPG-7 rocket launcher on the floor.
“You sure?”
“Deadwood, this is Breaker,” Crocker heard through his earbuds.
Breaker was Davis’s radio alias. Deadwood was one of Crocker’s top TV shows, Al Swearengen his favorite character. Davis in the Sprinter was in charge of comms.
“What’s up, Breaker?”
“Nevada reports no Pred flights tonight on account of the weather. Just got that. I repeat, no Pred support.”
Nevada was the name of the duty officer at Ankara Station, where Anders waited. Janice had stayed behind in Yayladaği and an S &R (search-and-rescue) team remained on alert at Incirlik NATO air base in southern Turkey. Logan was back in Ankara, monitoring rebel commander cell-phone and text message chatter for the NSA.
Crocker hadn’t expected drones or air support, with the Assad air force controlling the airspace and D.C. not wanting to get drawn deeper into the conflict.
“Nothing much the Preds could do anyway,” he answered. Six months ago he’d lost Ritchie on a mission to recover a downed Pred not far from here. He didn’t like the fact that some people put so much stock in technology and downplayed the value of human courage, training, and intelligence.
“Guess not,” Davis replied.
War isn’t a fucking video game, Crocker said to himself. Even though he had heard that the next generation of weapons out of DARPA would include robots equipped with cameras that could run, fire, carry equipment, and defuse bombs, they would never have the flexibility and intelligence of highly trained operators.
Loud EDM music washed back from the jeep, which remained uncovered even though the rain and wind had picked up.
“Goofballs,” said Akil.
“It’s a strange war from a sociological perspective,” Hassan said as he wiped his round glasses on the front of his blue Adidas sweatshirt. “If it wasn’t for the destruction and death, sometimes you’d think these guys were on a playground playing.”
“Some fucked-up game,” commented Akil.
The red brake lights ahead flashed, and the jeep slowed to a crawl. Through the mist ahead Crocker saw several trucks blocking the road and a gathering of people with rifles.
“Deadwood, Breaker here. What’s up?” he heard through his earbuds.
“Company. Looks like a roadblock. Hopefully they’re friendly. Stay alert. Over.”
From the seat in front of him, Hassan said, “We can expect more of them.”
“Rebel roadblocks?”
“Yes.”
“Want do they want?”
“Depends. Talk, trade gossip, maybe inspect the trucks, maybe they will ask for money.”
“Whatever it is, let’s try to get through quickly.”
Akil eased to a stop directly behind the jeep. Zeid was already out embracing a man in a blue rain parka. A skinny man with a very prominent nose and Adam’s apple wandered over to Akil’s side of the truck holding an AK. He asked him casually for cigarettes.
“None of us smoke,” Akil answered in Arabic.
“No cigarettes. You sure you guys aren’t Islamists?” the man asked with a smirk.
“No, Canadians,” Akil replied in Arabic.
The man looked at Crocker in the backseat and asked in English, “Mossad?”
“No, not Mossad. Canadian medical workers,” Akil answered.
“Mossad,” the man repeated confidently, nodding and turning away.
The smell of roasting lamb wafted back. Crocker got out, stretched, and waved to Zeid, who was standing with a group that included a woman with short dark hair.
“What’s the delay?” Crocker asked.
“There is no problem,” Zeid answered.
“If there’s no problem, why aren’t we moving?”
“They want to check us out.”
“Who are these people?” Crocker asked, nodding to the hodgepodge ahead.
“Some…they are journalists and photographers…they wait for escort. Others… FSA. Assad airplanes no fly tonight. So people wait here…for news. For information.”
“We don’t have time to sit around.”
Five minutes later an engine started and one of the parked trucks backed out of the way so they could pass. The man who had called him Mossad mock-saluted Crocker as they drove past.
“Wise guy.”
“Typical,” said Hassan. “They believe every Westerner is a spy for the Israelis.”
Crocker tightened his grip on the SIG 226. There was a strange casualness to this conflict that bothered him.
Past the roadblock, they climbed a curved incline to a little agricultural hamlet that had been completely decimated by bombs. Buzzards picked dried flesh off the bones of an animal carcass that lay beyond the burned shell of a small Fiat sedan.
“This is the work of Assad’s air force,” Hassan said. “If there are different gradations of evil, like in Dante’s Inferno, they belong in the lowest circle of hell.”
After three more minor delays-two FSA roadblocks and an old Volvo truck loaded with metal scrap that had blown a tire, causing it to roll over-Hassan announced that they were two-thirds of the way to Idlib. Crocker’s mood brightened. He felt the adrenaline building in his blood.
Akil was telling a story about the first time he had gone to an American movie, as an eight-year-old who had recently immigrated to Michigan. The film was Superman, starring Christopher Reeve, Marlon Brando, and Gene Hackman. He was a guest of his new friend Clyde Ketchup and his father.
“You know that scene where Lois Lane is in a helicopter that’s taking off from the top of the Daily Planet, and it crashes, and the ledge it landed on is breaking, and Lois is trapped and trying to get out?”
“I think so, yeah,” Crocker said, keeping an eye on the road ahead.
“Well, it was so real to me that I stood on my seat and started screaming: ‘Superman, hurry! You have to save Lois! Save her now!’ ”
“Crazy kid.”
“Mr. Ketchup had to take me into the lobby. I was so excited, it took me a couple days to realize what I had done wrong.”
“You haven’t changed,” Crocker cracked.
“Reeve and the actress who played Lois Lane were great. I’ll never forget them.”
“Margot Kidder,” Crocker remembered.
“Great bod; terrific smile. Whatever happened to her?”
“Next time you’re in Hollywood, you should look her up.”
“She’s probably a grandmother now.”
“Hasn’t stopped you before.”
A minute later he braked again as they approached more trucks blocking the road and more armed men. This time when Captain Zeid got out of the jeep, the men he embraced wore long black beards and looked decidedly fiercer.
“Islamists,” Hassan muttered under his breath, pointing to the black-and-white banner flying from one of the trucks.