Hunt the Fox

Chapter Nine

He clung to the back of the Yamaha 450 dirt bike as it ripped up a narrow path, rain pelting his face, like a teenage kid on a nighttime adventure wondering if the fat lady was about to sing. Maybe he was taking his last wild ride. Maybe he should have heeded Holly’s pleas and never gone on this mission. Maybe she was right when she’d suggested in one of their sessions with Dr. Mathews that he had a death wish.

No, part of him argued back. I love life. I celebrate it and defend the freedoms it offers.

Whatever the truth, it was too late now. He was heading into something he had no control over, holding on to the back of a motorbike ridden by the enemy.

Someone had once told him that people were divided between those who took action and worriers. The worriers were often more intelligent because they considered all the possible dangers and outcomes before they did anything. But those who took action got a hell of a lot more done.

He was definitely heading into something now, recalling all he had learned in hand-to-hand combat and at SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape) school. No way was he going to be kidnapped, interrogated by some fucking jihadists, and held for ransom or beheaded-even if he only had a SOG knife on him.

Refreshed by the wet night air and exhilarated by his circumstances, he focused on the vague outlines of a house ahead. He saw yellow light peeking through windows half hidden by the branches of cypress trees.

He wondered how Holly and Jenny would manage without him. Pretty well, probably. Holly seemed like she was halfway out the door, and Jenny was only a few days away from high school graduation. It’s not as if they hadn’t considered the possibility before. They’d have a new house and plenty of money from his bereavement allowance and navy pension.

The strange things that pass through your head at times like these.

“Man plans, God laughs.” It was a Yiddish saying an ST-6 commander had repeated to him when they were pinned down on a beach during his first mission to Somalia.

He remembered it now as the bike braked and slowed to a stop. Two men ran out of the house to greet al-Kazaz. He pointed behind to Crocker. A tall man in a black robe and long black beard bowed to Crocker, then took his medical pack and led him inside.

So far, so good. They seem friendly.

At the door two armed jihadists frisked him and took his knife. One pointed to a cell phone and asked Crocker if he had one on him.

He shook his head. “Kalla.” No.

The main room was lit by candles. He saw dirty mattresses on the floor, a radio transmitter in the corner, PRKs and AKs propped against one wall and a framed and filigreed Islamic quotation leaning against another. Al-Kazaz waved him forward and ducked into another room.

It stunk of feces, paraffin, and rotting flesh. A man with a gaunt face was on his knees beside the mattress, praying. Past his shoulder, newspaper was taped over a window. An Arabic slogan had been scrawled in black paint across the wall.

If this is where the ISIS leader is planning attacks against the West, the West has nothing to worry about, Crocker said to himself.

Al-Kazaz stood beside him and pointed to the swaddled figure on the bed.

Ibn, he whispered.

Crocker thought it meant “son.” He nodded. Whoever it was, he was clearly important to al-Kazaz, who knelt beside the gaunt-faced man alongside the bed and started to pray with him. Their low voices merged into one.

The still figure lay on his back, his face and head covered with towels. A simple brown blanket had been draped over his torso and legs. Kneeling beside al-Kazaz near the head of the bed, Crocker started to remove the coverings.

As he did the smell grew thicker and more intense. Setting aside layer after layer, he reached dried blood and the boy’s badly damaged and swollen face. His neck had been injured, too. He appeared young, maybe early teens, with thin wisps of mustache and beard.

First thing Crocker noticed was that the kid’s breathing was very shallow, because whatever had hit him had entered his neck, damaging his larynx. As with other gunshot wounds to the face he’d seen, there had probably been a substantial loss of blood. This was confirmed by the kid’s rapid, thready pulse and low body temperature. Fortunately, his cervical column and major arteries hadn’t been compromised. Still, he was a mess.

Crocker took a step back to assess the damage. Compressible hemorrhage, tension pneumothorax, airway and ventilatory damage were the leading causes of preventable combat death. He would have to close the wound, clean out the infection, and remove the bullet or shrapnel that seemed to be resting near the boy’s temporal bone along his right jaw if the kid were to have any chance of surviving.

It would be a delicate procedure, and judging by the kid’s weakened condition, there was a high likelihood that his body wasn’t strong enough, or he had lost too much blood, to withstand it. Also, since he was working with a DA-Med bag, the tools he had were limited. Nor was he in an operating room.

Al-Kazaz stopped praying and rested a hand on Crocker’s shoulder. “Labass?” (What do you think?)

There was no point trying to explain the challenges. His Arabic wasn’t good enough for that. Besides, he had accepted the assignment and had no choice but to see it through the best he could.

“Bad-a.” (I start.)

“Inshallah.” (By the grace of God.)

“I need clean towels and hot water,” he said in English, pointing to the aluminum sink in the corner and the dirty towel hanging beside it.

“Tahir! Tahir!” (Clean! Clean!) Crocker growled, grabbing one of the towels. “And the water…Harr.” (Hot.)

Al-Kazaz nodded.

“You understand?”

He nodded again, then barked orders at the gaunt-faced man, who hurried off on bare feet and came back five minutes later holding a basin of near-boiling water.

Crocker washed his hands, donned nitrile gloves, and proceeded. Using the cervical collar he had in his kit, he tilted the boy’s head back and held it in place. Then he used a clamp to hold his mouth open and inserted his middle and index fingers to sweep the mouth and throat for bone fragments. He located several broken teeth, removed them, and in the process noted that the kid’s tongue was swollen, indicating that it had probably been injured, too.

Crocker faced more immediate challenges.

The boy’s pulse remained rapid and his body temperature low, indicating that he was on the verge of going into hypovolemic shock. That meant he had to get some fluids into him, fast.

Among the supplies al-Kazaz had purloined from the Sprinter were several hypertonic saline solution drips. Saline wasn’t as effective as blood or plasma, but it would have to do. He hooked up one of the drips to a vein in the boy’s left forearm and monitored his pulse, which slowly started to stabilize.

“Hasan” (good), Crocker said, handing the bag to the gaunt-faced man and showing him how to hold it.

“Alhamdulillah” (thanks to God), al-Kazaz said.

Given Crocker’s limited supplies, the best he could hope to achieve was to remove the bullet, disinfect everything, and close up the wounds to the face and neck, providing adequate drainage. After that, systematic doses of penicillin and the body’s natural defense and healing mechanisms would have to do the rest.

What he didn’t want to do was tax the kid’s system to the point that he succumbed right in front of him. In part because of the lack of ventilation, Crocker had already sweated through his black shirt and pants.

A tall man offered him a glass of tea and another glass with water. Crocker downed the water, nodded to the man, and replaced the glass on the tray. “Shukran” (thanks).

The man bowed and backed away.

Crocker replaced the nitrile gloves with a fresh pair and considered the next problem-closing up the wound to the kid’s larynx. He decided to sew it up before he administered morphine, because of the respiratory-depressing effects of the drug. Inserting a rubber shuttle in the kid’s mouth, he showed al-Kazaz how he wanted him to hold the patient down by the shoulders.

With the kid immobilized on the bed, Crocker carefully cut away the damaged tissue around the larynx. Luckily, the cartilaginous skeleton was stable and the only serious damage was a fracture to the thyroid cartilage. Given the poor light, it was impossible to determine whether the projectile had done any damage to the kid’s vocal cords or the larynx nerve.

There was no wire in the basic Tac Med surgical kit contained in a pocket of the Med Pack, so Crocker used a needle and strong nonabsorbable CRS suture to repair the cartilaginous fracture. He wasn’t a surgeon, but he closed the fractured cartilage as well as he could.

Then he stood back and watched with satisfaction as the kid’s breathing returned to near normal. So far, so good.

He mopped the sweat from his own brow, then administered a shot of morphine, waited for it to take effect, and used a smaller-gauge suture to close the larynx skin. That completed, he took another drink of water and started working on the boy’s face, a chore that was much more painstaking. The projectile had traveled along the hard palate and done damage to the soft tissue along the jaw.

Crocker had to perform a surgical debridement to remove as much dead, damaged, and infected tissue as he could. As he did, he was careful not to dislodge any blood clots that might result in significant new blood loss. It was difficult, tense work. The closest experience to this he’d had was working on an injured goat when he attended Special Forces medical lab at Fort Bragg, North Carolina.

The light wasn’t ideal and the conditions sucked, but Crocker worked his way along the palate to the mandible bone, where he located the bullet, a.22-caliber probably fired from a pistol and more or less intact. He disinfected everything and started to sew up the wound, al-Kazaz beside him, praying in Arabic, whispering encouragement, and even using a towel to mop the sweat from Crocker’s brow.

An hour after he started, he applied the last bandages to the boy’s face and neck, and rechecked his pulse and breathing. Both had improved. When he tried to straighten up, his neck barked. He cracked it, left, then right, and flexed his shoulders.

Miraculously, the kid appeared to be okay. Some luster had returned to his eyes. But the chances of him surviving in his current location were minimal at best.

Crocker looked back at al-Kazaz, who was grinning broadly, and said, “That’s it. I think I’m done. Intaha.” (Finished.)

“Sadiq” (friend), the burly al-Qaeda leader said, pulling Crocker into his arms and kissing him on both cheeks. This was the savage terrorist who had beheaded many of his enemies and spread fear throughout Syria and Iraq.

Crocker pointed to the box of penicillin and used his fingers and watch to explain the dosage. “Two, every four hours.”

Al-Kazaz nodded.

“As soon as you can, move him to a hospital.”

He looked confused.

“Mustasfa” (hospital), Crocker said.

“Mustasfa, na’am.” (Yes.) Al-Kazaz nodded, embraced him again, and escorted Crocker into the living room, where he wrote a note on a piece of paper that Crocker hoped would guarantee safe passage through any ISIS roadblock, then handed him something wrapped in a blue velvet cloth.

“What’s this?”

Inside was a brand-new five-inch wooden koppo martial stick-a pocket self-defense tool.

“Ihsan” (gift), al-Kazaz answered. “Shukran, shukran.”

Wait till I show this to my teammates, was the first thought that came to him. As exhausted as he was, the irony still pleased him immensely. A terrorist has gifted me with a koppo martial stick. Imagine that!

Back in the Ford F-250, Crocker dreamt it was a beautiful spring morning. He lay in his bed in Virginia Beach listening to the birds chirp outside. Golden puffs of pollen swirled through fresh new leaves. He saw the green flash of a hummingbird and lifted himself to get a better look.

The bird represented good luck, according to Holly. Beautiful, he thought. The creative magic of nature; amazing variety and wonder.

The Ford hit a pothole and jolted him awake.

“What the fuck!”

He looked sternly at Akil, behind the wheel.

“Sorry, boss, but you kept calling me sweetheart, and the road’s real torn up.”

Through the windshield he saw that they were winding down from the hills onto a flat dry plain. A few lights sparkled in the distance through the mist.

He didn’t remember the return ride on the motorcycle or any events since then. He flashed back to the kid and his swollen face in the candlelit room, al-Kazaz looking pleased, tears welling in his eyes. No threats, no Once we finish our work in Syria, we will attack the West. Just genuine gratitude.

“Boss, you with us?” Akil asked.

“Sort of. Yeah.”

Looking to his left, he saw his medical bag on the seat, which confirmed that the whole thing hadn’t been a dream.

“What happened to al-Kazaz?” he asked.

“We had to rip him off your back at the roadblock.”

“Get off.”

“Seriously. The guy was embracing you so much, we were afraid he’d never let go.”

“But he did.”

“Yeah, waved us through. Wished us good luck.”

Crocker remembered the koppo martial stick al-Kazaz had given him and found it stuffed inside the medical kit with the folded note.

Crazy surreal place, he thought.

Hassan was telling Akil how the Assad regime used malware to penetrate opposition websites. Syrian intelligence would distribute a link to a video of Assad soldiers beheading someone. When you clicked on it, it would prompt you to update your Adobe Flash software. Instead of Flash you’d be downloading malware, which would take control of your computer.

“Sophisticated mofos,” Akil said.

“That’s Idlib,” Hassan said, pointing toward the left to the lights ahead.

“Already?”

Crocker quickly checked his watch: 0148 hours.

“How much farther to the air base?” he asked.

“Another ten, fifteen minutes tops.”

If they could secure the sarin within an hour, or even two, it would give them ample time to return to Turkey before dawn. The problem was that they had no detailed map of the air base, which consisted largely of a runway and underground bunkers, and no definitive intel on the deployment, number, and disposition of Syrian Army troops and pro-Assad forces. Without the above, it was hard to even conceive of a plan until they got there.

“Breaker, Deadwood here,” he said into his head mike. “We’re approaching the road to the air base.”

“Copy.”

A huge explosion lit up the sky in front of them and shook the ground.

“What was that?” Hassan asked.

“A big bomb or rocket,” Crocker responded.

“Could be one of those Chinese FN-6s, right?” Akil asked.

“Maybe.”

The jeep in front of them pulled over to the shoulder and braked to a stop. Captain Zeid walked back and leaned in the driver’s-side window. As Crocker got out, he caught a whiff of rotting animal in the grass behind him.

“That’s no-man’s-land ahead,” Zeid said. “Dangerous territory. Assad and ISIS fight there. It’s as far as we go.”

Crocker wanted to grab him by the neck and call him a coward, but restrained himself. They might need his and Babas’s help getting back.

“Where’s the cutoff?” he asked, hearing something stir in the brush behind them.

“The cutoff for the road to Abu al-Duhur?” Zeid responded. “You will see it; maybe three hundred meters ahead.”

“What happens then?” Crocker asked, peering past Zeid to the high grass and brush behind him. Something was in there. He sensed it.

“We wait for you over there.” Zeid pointed to the burned-out remains of a petrol station fifty feet ahead and on the left.

Seeing something move in the grass, Crocker held a finger to his mouth, removed the SIG Sauer P226 stuffed in a back band of his pants, and flashed a series of hand signals to Akil. Moving simultaneously, the two men slid down a gravel embankment and circled through the low scrub brush and grass in a crouch, Crocker from the rear of the pickup, Akil from the front. The smell of putrefying animals was so thick it stuck in Crocker’s throat. On his right something moved, and he jumped and grabbed a kicking, struggling person. After pinning his ankles, he brought his right hand up to the boy’s throat. Caught him in half scream, yanked him up to his knees, and quickly swept him for explosives or weapons. The kid wasn’t armed, but he had a black stocking pulled over his face.

“What the fuck’s he doing?” Crocker asked.

The kid grunted something.

Akil held an older man, who wasn’t bothering to resist and wasn’t armed either.

The two of them wore filthy clothes and sneakers. The older man had a pair of surgeon’s shears and two different types of pliers hanging from a belt around his waist. Both carried black sacks that hung behind their backs.

Crocker and Akil dragged them over to the trucks, where Zeid leaned lighting a cigarette.

“Scavengers,” he said with disgust. “If ISIS finds them, they cut off their balls.”

Akil reached into the sack the trembling old man was carrying and retrieved a handful of teeth with gold fillings, earrings, pins, and rings.

Zeid booted the old man in the ass so he fell forward. Then he held a pistol to his head. The man whimpered as he pointed into the bushes and offered an explanation in Arabic.

Crocker pushed in front of Zeid and said, “Leave him alone. What did he say?”

“Assad’s troops stopped a truck of refugees,” Akil translated. “Raped the girls and women in front of the men, then shot them. Every last one.”

Zeid aimed a kick to the older man’s stomach, then said, “These pigs loot the bodies.”

Crocker shoved him back this time. “Leave him alone! How old’s the boy?”

“Sitta,” the boy grunted. He was only six years old.

“Claims he’s the old man’s grandson. They’re all that’s left of an extended family of twelve, originally from Aleppo. The men joined the resistance. When the pro-Assad gangs found out, they tortured and raped the women. Some of them drowned themselves in the river. Others were killed and beheaded. The boy had his eyes gouged out.”

Crocker removed the black stocking from the kid’s head and held his chin up. Indeed, his eyeballs were gone and the sockets covered with scar tissue. He reached into his pocket, found a twenty-dollar bill, and pressed it into the old man’s hand.

“Here, take this…May God be with you.”

“Alhamdulillah…Alhamdulillah.”

“Leave ’em. We can’t afford to waste any more time. Let’s go.”