ADANA, TURKEY
Jake knew there was more to the story than what Agency Special Agent Steve Nelsen had briefed him on. The military had been like that, hiding behind the obliquely defined “need to know.” The old Agency had even been more obscure in its definition of who should know what when. Jake even understood that Nelsen had probably wanted to tell him more about the mission prior to their departure, but he didn’t like it one bit. He wasn’t even sure what their intended objective was.
Sitting back in an old chair in the operations building on the first floor of the Incirlik Air Base air traffic control tower, Jake gazed across at the rest of the men. The six commandos were nearly identical in size and shape, dressed in dark camo, and currently spreading make-up on their faces like supermodels. None of them had any insignia on their uniforms that indicated which service they represented, or which country as far as that went. Yet anyone could tell that they were trained killers willing to die for any cause. Just following orders. They were good at it. They could have been Navy Seals, Army Special Forces, or even Air Force Special Ops. It was more likely that they were former military, Agency-trained commandos.
Off to one side of the commandos stood Steve Nelsen and Ricardo Garcia. They were dressed in civilian clothes. Garcia could have passed for a Turk, but Nelsen looked more like a middle linebacker at a church social. He seemed out of place in Turkey, even though he had worked there for so long and was fluent in the language. His eyes were intense. His jaw locked tightly. And then Jake thought of his own appearance. He too could have passed for a Turk, he thought. From a distance.
Jake looked out the window. It was completely dark outside. Only the red and blue ramp lights flickered like stars off a sea of concrete. It was overcast, with clouds and a light mist coming down. Either that, or the humidity, which was smothering, had escaped like tears from the clouds.
In a few minutes a helicopter’s familiar whapping of air sounded in the distance.
Nelsen came over to Jake. “Are you ready?” he asked.
“I’d be more ready if I knew more.”
Nelsen moved uncomfortably close, contemplating Jake’s words. “Listen,” he whispered. “The three of us,” he nodded toward Garcia. “We’re gonna take Baskale. The terrorist. They want him back in Washington to stand trial.”
The helicopter swooped down and rocked to a halt fifty yards from the building.
“Just like that? What about Sinclair Tucker?”
Nelsen sighed and looked away. Then he turned back toward Jake. “The Brits are trying to work a deal. They got caught with their pants down, and they’re back peddling.”
“I’ve got to find him, Steve. You know we’re good friends.”
“That’s personal. If we’ve got time, we’ll look for him.”
Jake knew that’s all he could hope for. He didn’t like it much though. “What else is going on here, Steve?”
Nelsen motioned for the commandos to head out to the chopper, and they quickly picked up their gear and were out the door.
“Their mission is to secure the weapons.”
“You mean to destroy the entire village,” Jake said.
Nelsen reeled around, pointing a finger at Jake’s chest. “God dammit. I’m not going to talk philosophy with you. They’re trained for a mission. Let them do their job. You of all people should understand. You saw Halabja. You know what chemical and biological weapons can do to a human body.”
There was a strange look on Nelsen’s face. Something Jake hadn’t seen before in the man. A caring perhaps. Caring for something more than simple ideology. Perhaps Nelsen was human, and not the carnivorous asshole Jake had always thought he was.
“Let’s go then,” Jake said without conviction.
Jake and Nelsen and Garcia hurried out onto the ramp and ducked under the slowly moving rotors. When they were aboard, Jake and Steve were handed headphones by a crew member.
On the way to the helicopter, Jake had noticed something interesting. The chopper was an Italian-made Augusta-Bell Huey, and had the symbol of the Turkish agricultural ministry on its side. The Turkish Army had purchased a bunch of the old choppers that dated back to Vietnam. They were a good old bird, especially in remote terrain. The outside might have been conventional, other than the bogus agricultural symbol, but the inside was completely different. There was high tech equipment everywhere.
“The headphones are for internal communications only,” Nelsen said. “You can talk to the pilot and co-pilot and the crew chief...or me.” He smiled.
“Great.”
Jake heard the final clearance from the air traffic controllers.
“That’s the last we’ll hear from the outside,” Nelsen explained.
In a moment they started to lift off. Jake looked down to the tarmac and noticed a master sergeant in air force blues trying desperately to get someone’s attention. He was waving a piece of paper at them, as if they had forgotten something. Nelsen saw the man and said nothing.
“What was that all about?” Jake asked.
“I don’t know,” Nelsen said. “We’re running silent now. Nothing can stop us.”
●
They had lifted off at three a.m. and had flown for over an hour through the darkness toward the east. Jake had checked his watch periodically and imagined where they were. They were flying just above the tree lines. They had caught the Euphrates River and followed it for a while. Not long ago he had made out the lights of Diyarbakir to the north, so the river below was the Tigris. The plan, as Nelsen had explained it, was to follow the Tigris until it was joined by the Batman. Then they would head north up the Batman River Valley. Just south of Lake Van, they would head east again, skirt around the lower foothills and head to the mountains above the city of Van. Nelsen had never even mentioned the name of the village they were heading toward. But Jake had been to Kurdistan many times, and he knew there were numerous villages that weren’t even on maps. It was the Turkish government’s denial of their existence.
Jake hated flying in helicopters. He had done it in the past reluctantly. He wished they had simply piled into rental cars in a caravan to Van, but knew they would have never made it through Kurdistan at night without being stopped and questioned. Flying was the only solution.
Nelsen had opened up somewhat to Jake. He had his eyes closed, and Jake wondered how he could sleep with all the shaking and pitching. Garcia looked like he had seen a ghost. His face was pale, and he seemed airsick. The commandos were all sprawled over each other, snoozing like puppies snuggling for warmth.
The pilots started giving brief comments about their location, the weather ahead, and estimated time of arrival. They were a little over an hour away. Crossing into Kurdistan now. Jake felt under his left arm the new 9mm Glock Nelsen had given him, fully loaded, with three extra magazines. He had stuffed the magazines to the inside pockets of his leather jacket. Buried into a secret pocket of the lining, was his only identification. A visa card. He could get anywhere in the world with that. Everything else, including his wallet and passport, he was forced to leave in the briefing room at Incirlik. The wonderful world of black ops.