“Thanks.”
“Let me know if you need an alternative.”
“I will.”
“Crocker, NSA and TA (threat assessment) are reporting a lot of rebel and government activity around Idlib, so watch the roads,” she added.
“We will, Janice.”
“One more thing: this call didn’t take place.”
“No, it didn’t. I owe you one.”
The problem would be getting to the farm undetected during daylight. He was sure that Ankara Station would strenuously advise against it. Given the fact that he would be delivering a baby soon and didn’t want to do it in a compromised location, he decided to risk moving. The other members of Black Cell agreed.
Hassan was the only one who objected. Crocker asked him to cooperate and stay calm, but the kid continued to act like a nervous father-to-be.
They set out at normal speed-Crocker, Akil, Hassan, and Suarez in the lead truck, and Jamila, the two schoolteachers, Mancini, and Davis in the Mercedes Sprinter-navigating bomb craters and local roads piled with rubble.
The small groups of armed men they passed didn’t seem to pay much notice. They looked young, hollow-eyed and exhausted.
“SFA rebels,” Hassan pronounced, “waiting for the next bombing run or counterattack.”
Up ahead they spotted a column of smoke rising from the middle of a row of houses. Gathered around were a small group of angry people chanting in Arabic, “The people want to execute you, Bashar! The people want to topple your regime!”
A beat-up white-and-red civil defense truck blocked the road. A man Hassan identified by his white helmet as an unpaid volunteer explained that the regime was dropping barrel bombs out of low-flying jets. Their job as civil defense workers, he said, was to uncover the bodies and get the wounded to a house that served as a clinic.
Crocker decided to give them the balance of the medical supplies they were still carrying. The grateful men thanked them with several Allahu akbars, and they continued.
Another five minutes of passing through narrow streets, and a wider road with a public park appeared ahead, with a large soccer stadium on the right. “The turnoff should be a couple of klicks from here, on the left,” Akil said.
Davis through the comms reported that Jamila’s contractions were now three minutes apart.
“Good,” Crocker responded. “We still have time.”
“Problem,” grunted Akil, pointing to a roundabout that marked the intersection with a road that circled the outskirts of the city.
Through the windshield Crocker saw a roadblock. One of the jeeps that formed it flew the Free Syrian Army’s green, white, black, and red “independence” flag-the official flag of Syria before the Ba’athist coup of 1963 that had brought the Assad family to power.
Crocker said, “Slow down. Tell them we’re looking for Captain Zeid. They might be able to help us.”
Just in case, he held his 416 in his lap and told the men in the Sprinter to lock and load.
Akil spoke in Arabic to a young fighter with a peroxided Mohawk. He looked like a skateboarder, and had an Element brand sticker affixed to the stock of his AK-47.
“Who are you?” the kid asked, the AK balanced on his right hip so it pointed skyward.
“Humanitarian workers from Canada, carrying a pregnant woman and some wounded civilians back to Turkey,” Akil responded. “We’re looking for Captain Zeid, who is supposed to escort us back to the border.”
“You know Captain Zeid?” the skinny man asked.
“Yeah. He’s been helping us.”
“No more, brother, because he’s dead. Killed in a gunfight with some Assad thugs last night.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, man, tragic. Like everything else.”
Akil glanced back at Crocker, who gestured that he wanted to keep moving.
“You know anyone else who might be willing to escort us?” Akil asked.
“Not today, brother. We’re on alert. Assad’s got his killers out. Some crazy ISIS motherfuckers hit the Abu al-Duhur air base last night. They’re looking for them.” He pointed to the slogan on the Element sticker and said in halting English, “Make it count.”
“You, too, brother.”
Past the roadblock, they found a dirt road on the left that led them to a clump of trees with a small house and a string of chicken coops behind it, along with the nauseating odor of chicken feces and putrefying birds.
“This must be the place,” Akil announced as he tied a scarf over his nose.
“It’s disgusting,” said Hassan.
“Nobody’s gonna look for us here,” Akil responded.
Just to make sure, Crocker got out with Suarez to recce it. They found no one.
The smell was a powerful deterrent. So was the completely ransacked state of the coops, main house, and outbuildings. They chose a barn with a partially intact roof to hide the trucks, then camped out in the farmhouse and quickly established sat-phone contact with Ankara Station.
Nothing had changed. Decision makers in D.C. were still dragging their feet. They wanted Black Cell to remain at the school until they could be rescued. There was logic to their argument. Black Cell had recovered the sarin; they were now safely in FSA-controlled territory. Aside from the threat of being discovered by Assad’s air force, they seemed relatively safe.
But Crocker’s instincts told him that D.C. and Ankara weren’t taking into account the wildly unpredictable situation on the ground. Boundaries and alliances were shifting constantly. No one, except ISIS, seemed particularly interested in holding territory, since most of it had been destroyed and looted, and most of the residents had fled.
“Tell ’em, boss,” Mancini argued. “Explain the situation. Maybe they’ll send a helo now that we’ve got a pregnant woman.”
When Crocker got on the sat-phone and told Grissom that they had moved from the school to a chicken farm outside the city and were carrying a woman who was going into labor, the station chief became apoplectic.
“Screw you, Crocker. If you can’t obey orders and keep us informed, we can’t help you.”
“Sorry you feel that way, but I have to trust my own judgment.”
“Your judgment sucks, Crocker. A pregnant woman? Who do you think you are, Mother Fucking Teresa?”
“It was unavoidable. But I have no time to explain.”
Anders, when he got on the line, was slightly more understanding. “Be sensible, for Christ’s sake. Leave the woman if she’s an impediment. Don’t move again until it turns dark. And before you move, check with us.”
“Okay. What’s the status of the air rescue?”
“Nothing’s happening, Crocker, until it turns dark.”
“That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking if it’s been approved.”
“Approval is still pending. HQ continues to consider all circumstances and contingencies. I’ll inform them now of your new location, see if that changes anything. We’ll let you know when and if we get the okay. Stay safe.”
“We’ll try.”
He took a deep breath and sucked it up. Dissatisfaction from HQ, Anders, and even the White House was something he’d dealt with before. He knew how this worked. If the mission turned out to be a success and he delivered the sarin, he’d get scolded and given a slap on the wrist. But if the mission went south, he’d be seriously screwed. Possibly court-martialed and dismissed from the service.
He couldn’t worry about that now. There were practicalities to deal with, including the fact that Jamila’s contractions were growing more frequent and intense.
Hassan was practically hysterical when he found Crocker on the front porch. “We need to leave immediately and get Jamila to a hospital in Turkey.”
“What about the clinic they were taking the wounded to in Idlib?” asked Crocker.
“It’s even more disgusting than this. Don’t you think I thought of that? Are you serious? Why are we staying here? Why are we waiting?”