Hunt the Scorpion

Chapter Sixteen

He lay on his back in the dark, feeling as if he’d been there for years. He couldn’t move and was barely conscious. He couldn’t even feel his body, aware only of the blackness nestled around him.

Maybe I’m dead and buried. This is what it is.

It was like being stuck in a void, only worse, because part of him was alive enough to be aware of the state he was in.

How long is this going to last…Forever?

He’d deal with it; take what was coming to him, as he always had. Figure out a way to make the best of it, if that was possible.

He kept repeating, “At least Holly’s safe.”

It made him happy. I didn’t die for nothing.

More darkness.

After what seemed like hours he heard a sound that was barely perceptible, like a breeze stirring the grass, or a whisper.

“Ka…Ka…”

Or the sound of a bird calling.

“Kr…Kr…”

It took him awhile to realize that someone was whispering his name.

“Crock-er…Crock-er…” Almost like a song.

He tried to respond but nothing came out. So he focused on the sound, and as he did, the darkness around him started to move like a million moths waking up and taking flight. The flutter of their wings tickled his skin and brought it back to life.

“Crocker…Hey, Crocker…” Sharper this time.

As the darkness dispersed, he saw a gray light with touches of green and yellow around the edges. Tried to raise his arm, but it wouldn’t move. Tried to raise his head, but couldn’t do that, either.

Made out a fuzzy dark object looming over him.

“Crocker. Boss, can you hear me?”

He felt himself blink, which brought him joy. Hope. Slowly, and with great effort, he made out a face with two dark eyes.

“Crocker, can you hear me?”

He blinked again and moved his head slightly.

“Crocker, it’s me, Manny.”

He blinked one more time and tried to smile. The pain he felt around his mouth and in his neck was welcome. Affirming.

“Crocker, we’re in Germany. Holly’s here. The rest of the team is back in Virginia.”

He smiled slightly.

“Unfortunately, Farag didn’t make it.”

He winced and shook his head.

“That brave little man saved your life.”

He tried to pull himself up.

He heard Mancini say, “His body shielded you from the explosion.”

Crocker stopped and sighed. Felt a tear form in his eye.

“I’ll go call Holly. She’ll want to see you. I’ll get her now.”

An enormous feeling of warmth and appreciation enveloped his chest and squeezed his heart. He started to weep.

There were no medal ceremonies or parades. Just six weeks of convalescence for injuries to his wrist, lungs, back, neck, head, and ribs. Then another week with Holly on the Eastern Shore of Virginia, where they held each other, rested, took long walks on the beach, paddled their kayaks in the bay, and made love.

Holly wasn’t ready to talk about her ordeal in Libya. Though she was okay physically and hadn’t been sexually violated, she’d been tied up and forced to witness the torture and execution of Brian Shaw. She said he’d been her friend and colleague, nothing more.

It was difficult, ugly stuff. Both of them understood that the psychological wounds would take time to heal, if they ever did.

Crocker was happy to be alive, but still pissed off.

His first day back at ST-6 headquarters, he was in the team room unpacking his gear and talking to Ritchie about Harley motorcycles when someone summoned him to the CO’s office. As he slowly walked across the cement exercise area, teammates came over to congratulate him and shake his hand.

He entered the CO’s office with a feeling of pride in being a member of ST-6 but also a sense of resignation. He didn’t care what came next. Even if he was going to be forced to retire for insubordination or taking too many risks, Holly and his men were alive. That’s all he really cared about. He wished Farag was alive, too. Planned to track down his family and help them somehow.

Captain Sutter rose from behind his desk and shook his hand vigorously. “Congratulations, Crocker. Welcome back.”

“Thanks, sir. It’s real good to be home.”

“We’re all damn proud of you.”

Crocker started to choke up. “That means a lot to me, sir.”

He didn’t notice Jim Anders from the CIA until he stepped forward and greeted him, too. “You look rested and in remarkable shape, considering what you went through.”

“I’m lucky to be alive.”

“Sit down.”

Sutter shut the door, then sat behind his desk. Anders popped open his briefcase and removed a yellow legal pad and a file filled with documents. “First,” he said reading from his notes, “let’s talk about the shipping containers.”

“The shipping containers?” Crocker asked back.

“Yes.”

He had participated in post-op meetings dozens of times, but today he found it took real effort to retrieve the image of the white 727 and the six rust-colored containers.

“What about them?”

“The team from IAEA just finished their inspection. They found that those six containers held enough enriched uranium to make at least four five-megaton bombs.”

Sutter: “What do you have to say about that, Crocker?”

“Holy shit, sir.”

“Holy shit is right.”

Crocker recalled that a five-megaton bomb had hundreds of times the destructive power of the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki combined. “That’s a lot of enriched uranium,” he said.

“A whole hell of a lot.”

“That son of a bitch Iranian,” Crocker snapped, his anger stirring. “Did he escape?”

“You mean the one you saw meeting with Salehi?” Anders asked, leafing through the stack of documents and locating the one he wanted.

“That’s the one.”

“You were right about him, too. We’ve identified that individual as Farhed Alizadeh of the Iranian Qods Force.”

“I knew it. I wanted to grab him, but I was more concerned about whatever was in those shipping containers leaving the country.”

“Understandable,” Sutter acknowledged.

Anders: “According to confidential reports we’ve received from reliable sources, he escaped south and crossed the border into Niger.”

“That’s the same place he was operating from before. Not far from the Libyan town of Toummo.”

“Correct.”

“I’m real sorry we didn’t get him.”

Anders: “We are, too. And you’re going to regret it even more when you hear this.”

“What?”

“Remember the thumb drives you recovered from the tunnel? The ones belonging to the kidnappers?”

Crocker winced at the memory of following Farag into the concrete room, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Based on information we found on them, we believe that Alizadeh was working with Anaruz Mohammed the whole time. We think it’s possible he even had a hand in planning, directing, and financing Holly’s kidnapping.”

Crocker pictured the Iranian’s intense, falconlike eyes. “That evil bastard.”

“We also suspect he might have been behind the attack in Sebha.”

Crocker was fully alert now and ready to fight. “Son of a bitch!”

“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Sutter: “In a diabolical kind of way, yes.”

Anders: “He knew you and your men were in Libya looking for the Scorpion program WMDs, and he needed to either kill you or distract you.”

“Where is he now?”

“Somewhere, planning more attacks against the West, probably; looking for more ways to help his country build nuclear weapons. Where that is, specifically, I can’t say right now.”

“What about Anaruz Mohammed?”

“We expect the Iranians are still going to use him to forward their agenda in Libya and Niger. But he doesn’t have enough of a following to pose a political threat on his own.”

“That evil fucking Alizadeh has got to be stopped,” Crocker concluded.

Anders: “I wholeheartedly agree.”

Sutter: “What would you say if I said you could get another shot at him?”

Crocker leaned forward and said, “I’d love that, sir! I’d thoroughly welcome the opportunity.”

Anders: “Good. Very good.”

Sutter: “Pull your team together and come see me when you’re ready.”

Crocker: “How about first thing tomorrow morning, sir, right after PT?”

In his head he was already explaining to Holly that he had to leave to track down the man who had planned her kidnapping and had helped kill Brian. She was telling him that she’d miss him, but she wanted the bastard punished.

Sutter: “Eight a.m., Crocker. I’ll see you back here.”

“Very good, sir. See you then.”