İncirlik Air Base, Turkey
A burnt orange sun slipped into the Mediterranean, setting fire to swirling particles of fine airborne dust as Maggie and the others waited on the tarmac to board the MH-60G Pave Hawk helicopter. With its long refueling nozzle poking out front, the chopper lingered in the falling shadows like a giant metallic wasp, ready to do battle. Waves of heat shimmered off the runway.
This was it. No going back. Maggie’s temples pulsed with anticipation.
Maggie, John Rae, Kafka, Bad Allah—all four decked out in Arab attire, John Rae and Bad in full black Jihad Nation gear, weapons slung over their shoulders, Maggie in a custom blue abaya, which she wore over a T-shirt covering her bra buddy and replacement pistol, and her yoga pants. Kafka wore a simple beige linen tunic over his khaki trousers.
Two pilots, one flight engineer, one gunner.
Three heavily armed PJs—Pararescuemen, including one woman, of the Air Force Special Operations Command 66th Rescue Squadron—dressed in khaki desert fatigues. Tan boots, helmets with cameras mounted on top, their bodies crisscrossed with harness belts loaded with ammo and grenades. A trio of M4A1 carbines, replete with night vision sights, stood in a short swivel stack nearby.
With the internal auxiliary fuel tanks inside the Pave Hawk, they had just enough room on the return flight for Akram and Fadila Tijani, Kafka’s parents.
Provided everybody came back, of course. And that Kafka’s parents were indeed still guests of Hassan al-Hassan. Everything pointed to it but they hadn’t been positively ID’ed by Creech drones as being at the Bunny Ranch. Langley’s code name for the Jihad Nation encampment had made Maggie shake her head when she first heard it.
When the sun fell they would take off, fly east along the Syrian border, refueling mid-air, and then into Iraq. Make the three-hour trip to the Bunny Ranch where, under the cover of darkness, they would find a way into the camp, locate Kafka’s parents, and then . . .
Maggie’s phone buzzed. She reached through the opening in her abaya robe, pulled the phone, hoping it might be Ed returning her call. Their last call had been more than tense, Ed unhappy with the fact that Maggie was once again heading off on an operation managed by the clandestine Directorate of Operations.
“Hey, Maggs,” he said and she could hear him smoking, his voice thick. It was early morning in San Francisco. “You guys still on the ground?”
“Just about to take off.”
“Just wanted to say good luck. Needless to say, I’ll be watching everything.”
She wondered if he was thinking what she was thinking.
“You still wondering about those two uninvited guests who showed up?” she said, meaning the suicide bombers in Paris.
“Oh, only every five minutes or so.”
“We need to get to the bottom of that,” she said.
“One thing at a time.”
“I like to worry.”
“But that won’t affect today,” he said. “Today is going to be a non-event.”
The sun was losing the battle against night. The Pave Hawk started up. The flight crew gathered around the chopper door as the twin turbo shaft engines fired up with a high-pitched whine. The rotor blades were not engaged yet.
Maggie stepped away, turned her back on the noise, one finger in her free ear, and shouted, “Ed, I don’t want to leave Forensic. Hopefully this op will help keep it afloat. But I’ve got to see this thing through.”
She heard him take another deadly drag on his smoke. “I know,” he muttered.
“I like working with you. I want you to know that.”
“Same here,” he said. “Take care of yourself, Maggs. I’ve got money on you.”
“Ciao.”
After all the pushing she had done, Abraqa had to pay off.
She turned back to the copter.
Heading into the crucible. The Pararescuemen had picked up their carbines and were climbing on board.