EACH TIME YOUSIF AL-SHOUM received another report of a white pickup truck being spotted, the position was plotted on the plastic overlay of his map with a red thumbtack pushed into the corkboard backing. After a few hours, the map was littered with the little pins, each a sharp point of failure in his massive search. Several dozen white Toyota trucks had been stopped at checkpoints or by search teams, but all were legitimate, except for one fool who had been trying to steal the vehicle when he was apprehended. It was almost noon when he decided to abandon all efforts to the north and toward Lebanon, peel away some of the strength watching the routes to the Israeli border, and take Victor Logan’s advice. He would saturate the southern region all the way down to Jordan.
With a black marker, he slashed a boundary line from the southernmost point of the border with Israel, curving over to Dar’a, then northeast to As Suwayda and back down through El Adnata to Jordan. It was a kill box that had the look of an inverted cup. They had to be in there somewhere, and he would construct a net of roving search parties and scour the area like a broom.
Members of his staff had arrived from Damascus and he told them what he wanted, leaving it up to them to draw up the grids and issue the necessary orders. One by one, the helicopters and the road units would be reassigned and move into southern Syria. Al-Shoum had never failed, and was absolutely determined to find the elusive sniper. The chase had become a challenge to his pride and his ability, while back in the capital, competitors probably were already measuring his office for their own desks. If the Marines got away, they might be taking his career along with them. That could not be allowed to happen.
The heat was growing. Even beneath the tent, the air was thick and stale and unmoving. He put on his beret and sunglasses and stepped into the sun to have a word with Victor Logan and two mercenaries who had come down from Lebanon aboard a Huey that was parked in the distance with its rotors pegged tight. Logan had told him in advance that the tall man with the dark tan was from South Africa, and that the pilot was a former Russian Spetsnaz commando with big arms that bulged from a skintight muscle shirt.
Al-Shoum paid no attention to their names when Logan introduced them. The mercenary added, “We have two more men driving over from Israel. They should be arriving in about an hour.”
“Good,” said al-Shoum. “Will you be in charge, or do I have to talk to someone else?”
“Anything doing with Gates Global still comes through me,” Logan said, careful not to appear impolite. He had not forgotten to whom he was speaking, and had warned the new men to watch their mouths or they would all end up in a Syrian jail.
Al-Shoum explained the changing search patterns. “There is no need for you to be out flying without a target. It would only waste your fuel and time, for your expertise will be needed soon enough. Brief your team and be ready to move as soon as somebody spots the Americans. When they start to run, as I anticipate, you will go get them.”
Logan shifted the strap of his rifle. “Good plan, sir. We’ll be ready.”
“Very well,” al-Shoum said. “I’ll call you when something turns up.” He turned on his heel and went back to the tent, where more pins had been stuck in the map overlay. He issued a new order: Every Toyota pickup in the new search area would be halted and immobilized until the Marines were found. There was no use counting the same ones twice. The pins seemed to mock him.
“Sir! I’ve got something here!” A sailor at a communications console inside the Combat Command Center of the Blue Ridge remained calm, although it took everything he had to keep from standing up and shouting. The chief petty officer in charge and the CCC officer of the watch moved to the console and plugged in their headsets.
“What’s up, Armstrong?” asked the lieutenant.
“We’re picking up a repeater sat phone signal, sir. Call sign is Long Rifle.”
The bosun tapped a computer to scroll a list of recent call signs. “That’s Gunny Swanson from the rescue mission!”
“I’ve got it.” Lieutenant David Garvey immediately depressed his TALK key. “Long Rifle… Blue Ridge… Do you copy?”
Kyle Swanson gave a thumbs-up sign to General Middleton. “Loud and clear,” he responded. “I have a package and need a FedEx pickup.”
“What is your address, Long Rifle?” The call was encrypted but was still over an open frequency, which required both parties to use code whenever possible.
“Simple Shackle,” Swanson said, then read off a line of numbers in an encoded format specified in the operational orders. The Simple Shackle was a l-to-10 box grid, horizontal and vertical, that could be interpreted only if the recipient had a similar code sheet. The little code in 100 squares repeats hashed versions of the alphabet. Any specific letter might appear in three or four different boxes that are used at random. “THE” might read 1-12-16 on first use, but 36-98-53 the next time. As an added safeguard, it would change at specified times. Even computers as powerful as those at the National Security Agency would have to put in some time to break it.
“How long can our driver expect you to remain at that address?”
“No more than a few hours, then we are going to see March of the Penguins.” The brevity code, also from the original ops order, specified that “penguins” meant south.
“Roger on the March. Come back in sixty mikes to confirm pickup time.” Garvey unplugged. “Chief, I’m going up to see the captain. Keep two men on that frequency at all times.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Chief Petty Officer Dwight Marshall made the personnel arrangements. When Garvey was gone, he switched to a private internal net.
A wall telephone rang deep in the stern of the ship. “Yes?” answered a deep voice.
“Double-Oh. We just picked up traffic from your boy Gunny Swanson. He’s coming out with a package. I think you need to be in on this. I’ll pass the word for a five-man protective detail to bring you up to meet with the MEU XO.” Marshall clicked off, found a Marine, and passed along the instructions. A team saddled up in full combat gear, locked and loaded, and headed down the ladders to escort Dawkins to the CCC. The executive officer of the Marine Expeditionary United would want his top hand in on planning whatever happened next, and no NCIS civilian investigators would be allowed to interfere.
Dawkins pulled on his boots. He had been comfortably whiling away the hours in a secluded area carved out deep belowdecks by creative sailors. It had a locked door, a television set with a lot of interesting videos, access to a nearby head with a toilet and a shower, a comfortable bunk, a tattered easy chair, a bunch of books and magazines ranging from Playboy to Sports Illustrated to Vogue, and shelves holding clean sheets. On a table was a bowl with fruit and candy bars gathered from the mess tables and the ship’s store. He had taken refuge in perhaps the most pleasant place on the entire ship, a hidden love nest to which boy and girl sailors could retreat, grossly violate naval regulations, and fuck like rabbits.