Two Turkish-made Cobra light-armored vehicles waited outside the gate. Most of the U.S. Cobras Crocker had seen were equipped with overhead Rafael Spike antitank missile systems. The Turks had armed theirs with Nexter 20mm M621 cannons with day and thermal imaging sights instead. Otherwise they had the same compact profile, with all-welded steel hulls and wide, fully opening side and rear doors that facilitated rapid crew entry and exit.
The two SEALs were directed into the rear of the second vehicle by a Turkish commando who looked like a ninja in his black uniform, black helmet, and black face mask.
“Batman,” Mancini muttered under his breath as he climbed in after Crocker.
The air inside was already cranked up, chilling the sweat on Crocker’s arms and neck. They sat opposite the ninja and four similarly outfitted soldiers on one of the rear benches. Almost immediately the driver powered up the turbo diesel V8 engine, put the auto transmission in Drive, and they took off at high speed following the Cobra ahead. Through the glazed side window Crocker saw that they were climbing into mist-covered hills.
“Any clue about our destination?” whispered Mancini.
“South Beach, I hope, for a couple cold Coronas at the Love Hate Lounge.”
“Any idea what this is about?”
“I thought you liked surprises.”
“Not when the guys taking me there are wearing face masks and armed with M5s.”
Crocker grinned. He was trying to remain calm and centered. One way or another he and his men were going to recover the sarin.
“The next surprise can’t be any bigger than the last one,” Mancini muttered.
“Yeah.”
His brain was burning. Had elements of ISIS or AQ followed them from Syria? Did they radio ahead to their colleagues in Turkey, who then raided the camp? Did they kill Hassan and dump his body? Did Hassan play some part in the plot? This seemed like a stretch, given how studious and physically cowardly he had appeared to be, but anything was possible.
The Cobras were hauling ass now, climbing into mountains. Feeling tired and empty, and somewhat discouraged, he fought the negative thoughts that floated into his head. Shit happens. I’ve dealt with it before. Even major fuckups.
He remembered one of his first missions with ST-6, when they had gone into Croatia in search of an HVT, a high-value target, during the Bosnian War. They were looking for a Serbian financier, drug and arms trafficker, and human rights abuser-a nasty guy who was said to keep a collection of human thumbs. They received intel that he was living in a villa on the island of Lokrum in the Adriatic Sea, just off the coast near Dubrovnik. Picturesque as hell.
Crocker and three other SEALs had swum in and raided the place at night, literally separating the guy from his girlfriend and carting him off. When they got back to the navy frigate they had launched from, they found out they’d nabbed the guy’s brother, a former professional tennis player and restaurateur. The government had had to pay him major bucks to keep his mouth shut.
He drifted off and woke to the sound of urgent Turkish voices over the radio. The Cobra slowed down. According to his Suunto, almost an hour had passed. Mancini sat holding his arms across his chest, eyes shut.
He shook his buddy awake as the commandos across from them lowered the visors on their helmets and readied their weapons.
“Something’s about to go down,” Crocker whispered.
“Yeah? What?”
Mancini sat up, blinked, and looked around. Immediately alert, he reached for his weapon only to realize he was unarmed. They both were.
The vehicle had stopped on an inclined gravel road. Not much to see out the side window except for a huge mound of gray gravel mixed with dirt. The back door flew open and the commandos hustled out. The ninja who had escorted them in indicated to Mancini and Crocker to stay inside.
The big doors shut behind them and they waited. They didn’t hear gunfire and couldn’t see the Turk commandos until two of them opened the back and waved them out.
“Now what?” Mancini asked.
“Showtime.”
The commandos pushed the SEALs up the incline and followed. Boots crunched against gravel. They passed the lead Cobra with one soldier inside talking excitedly on the radio, his boots up on the dash. Climbed another ten feet and smelled the sea in the distance.
From the summit Crocker spotted a large gravel quarry to their right, partially filled with still blue water. Reflected clouds floated across the surface, dreamlike.
He didn’t see the commandos at first, then heard Oz’s voice, rough and urgent. The Turks were standing on the continuation of the gravel road that curled along the other side of the gravel-and-dirt mound and wound downward. They had surrounded a parked Mercedes 2.5-ton truck-a deuce and a half. Dark blue, maybe ten years old, with a worn canvas cover over the back.
Oz saw Crocker and waved him forward. Other soldiers wearing light-blue plastic gloves were examining the inside of the cab and cargo area.
“This is the truck they used,” Oz pronounced. “It was abandoned here.”
“You sure?” Crocker asked, looking around and seeing not a house or a structure. It was a good place to hide a truck or do an exchange.
“Yes. This is it.”
“You find anything inside?”
“Not yet, but we’re looking.”
“How did you locate it?” Crocker asked, calculating that it had probably taken the hijackers about an hour to get here. That meant they had at least an hour and a half lead on them. Maybe more.
Oz pointed proudly to the sky. “Air surveillance.” The engine of the small spotter aircraft buzzed in the distance.
“Clever, Colonel. I assume they’re looking for the next one now? The second vehicle?”
“Or the third. Yes.”
Mancini whispered into Crocker’s ear, “Boss, this is a damn mess from a forensics perspective. Look.” He pointed to the soldiers inside the trucks who were touching every surface, smudging possible fingerprints, dragging their boots over the seats and across the cargo bed.
“You absolutely certain this is the truck?” Crocker asked.
“Yes,” Oz answered, puffing out his chest. “Why else would it sit here abandoned, with the keys still in the ignition?” He reached into his pocket and proudly held up a single key in a plastic bag.
“You find any witnesses? Anyone who saw anything?”
“No. No one. They’re too smart.”
“Who?”
“ISIS.”
“How do you know that?”
Oz grinned and pointed to his head. “We have information.”
“What information?”
One of the commandos handed Oz a Motorola radio, and he started speaking into it excitedly.
From the bluff where they stood, the SEALs could see the coast about a half mile away through the mist, which was starting to burn off. Mancini pointed to a relatively busy four-lane highway that snaked along the rocky shore.
The sarin was probably far away by now, hidden somewhere or on its way to its destination. Crocker felt the same way he did when he saw the World Trade Center towers tumble to the ground-devastated and filled with rage.
Oz continued barking into a handheld radio. A half minute later, when he pulled it away from his ear, Crocker pointed to the highway and asked, “What’s that?”
“The O-52 motorway. Of course, we’ve blocked it and are in the process of blocking all other roads. We’re inspecting everything. We’ll have the sarin back soon.”
Crocker wished he felt as confident, but “in process” didn’t sound good. “What about the coast?” Crocker asked.
Oz frowned before he answered. “It’s very rocky here. Very difficult currents. I don’t think so, because it would be hard to load anything there. But I’ll send up some helicopters to look.”
It wasn’t the answer Crocker wanted to hear. “Good idea,” he responded. “Maybe you should deploy some launches, too.”