from the rotor wash as they hurried toward the waiting vehicles.
The dust began to clear as they approached, revealing half a dozen soldiers in civilian clothes and three battered Toyota pickups. The soldiers were spread out in a loose perimeter around the vehicles, which were parked next to the train station, a low-slung building marked by bullet holes and large areas of blackened cement. Located just north of the city, the station had been carefully selected for its value as a defensive position and its proximity to the meeting point. Kealey adjusted his load as he waited for Walland to catch up, slinging his AK-74M over his shoulder so that the black plastic grip of the rifle dangled a mere few inches from his right hand. When Walland appeared at his side, they walked over to the lead Tacoma. A lanky, dark-haired individual was leaning against the passenger-side fender. He straightened as they approached.
“Good to see you, Ryan,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”
Kealey took the proffered hand. “You’re right about that, Paul. It’s good to see you, too.” He gestured to Walland and made the introductions. The two men shook hands in turn.
Paul Owen was an army officer based out of Camp Fallujah, the marine base located fifteen miles east of the city. As a lieutenant colonel in the 1st SFOD-D, he’d been one of Kealey’s commanding officers during the younger man’s time at Fort Bragg. Due to the peculiar relationship between the CIA and the Special Forces community, the thirty-three-year-old Kealey now more or less shared command with the man who had once been his superior officer. On the ride east from Habbaniyah, Kealey had wondered, with some trepidation, about how this turn of events might play out, but his fears were soon abated. With the introductions out of the way, Owen turned back to him and said, “So, how exactly do you want to handle this?”
“What have you been told?”
“The bare minimum. We have a location and a guarantee of safe passage on your end. At least, that’s what you said when you called to set this up.”
“And that still holds.” He caught the Delta officer’s skeptical expression. “Look, Paul, we’ve dealt with this guy before. It’s in his best interest to get us in and out of there without an incident. He definitely has the influence; he could probably lock down the entire district if he wanted to.”
Owen nodded in reluctant agreement. “Fair enough. I’ve heard the same thing. How long will it take?”
“About ten minutes.” Kealey slapped the hand guard of his weapon. “I’ll be leaving this with you. They’ll disarm me when I go in, anyway.”
“Okay. You said you had some imagery for me.”
Kealey was carrying a black Jansport backpack in addition to his rifle. Shrugging the pack off his shoulders, he unzipped the front compartment and extracted a thin manila folder. The folder was placed on the warm hood of the first Tacoma, and the contents withdrawn. Both Owen and Walland leaned in for a closer look.
“These shots were taken when we first set up shop in Fallujah,” Kealey explained. “Two years ago this guy was low priority, and nothing’s really changed in that department. The DO was never able to justify satellite imagery, so all we have are digital shots from the air.”
Selecting one of the closer shots, he pointed out a squat, dun-colored two-story structure. “This is it. I know it looks like every other house on the street, but they’ll have armed guards posted outside and possibly in the buildings across the road.” He fixed Owen with a serious look. “Tell your men to watch how they handle their weapons. These guys will be jumpy, and I don’t want any accidents.”
“I’ll tell them, but I didn’t bring rookies.”
Kealey cast a glance around, reappraising the faces. His twelve years of experience told him that Owen had chosen well. They all had dark hair and complexions, and the weapons they carried, combined with their style of dress, would enable them to blend into the city landscape. “Are they yours?”
“Every one of them.”
The younger man was satisfied. “You already have your route, right?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty straightforward, but we set up the GPS just in case. It’s easy to get turned around if the bullets start flying. I figure it’s about three minutes in, once we cross the tracks. Then ten minutes for you to take care of business, and another few minutes out.”
The Delta officer straightened and seemed to hesitate. “This is a bad place to waste time, Ryan. I want to limit the risk to my men.”
“I know,” Kealey replied. “I’ll make it quick.”
Another hesitation, as though Owen could see through the younger man’s façade. “This is just a drop, right? I mean, we’re not equipped for—”
“It’s just like I told you,” Kealey said. “A simple drop.”
It was something new for him. He had made a decision back at the air base, a decision that, at the very least, would likely cost him what was left of his career. With the helicopter blades already turning, he had tracked down the necessary materials…He had lied to Owen, lied to all of them. A year earlier he would not have considered it. He waited for a tinge of guilt, but it didn’t come.
He realized that Owen was staring at him. To break the awkward silence, he said, “Are the patrols still going out?”
“No. I personally spoke to the brigade staff for the 1st MEB. We’re gonna be all alone out there.”
“Good.” Kealey closed the folder and handed it over. “Show this to your guys. Maybe they’ll have some suggestions. Let me know when you’re ready to move.”
Owen took the folder and walked off. Kealey picked up his pack and started walking back to the last vehicle.
“Where are you going?” Walland called out.
“I saw a cooler back there. I’m going to grab some water. Just sit tight.”
The small convoy rolled out a few minutes later. Kealey rode in the first vehicle with Owen, who was behind the wheel. They pulled away from the train yard, wheels bouncing over the twisted remains of the rails as they crossed the 300 yards of open ground leading into the densely packed warren of the Jolan district.
The state of the city grew steadily worse as they headed south through the narrow streets. The rubble-strewn roads were bordered on both sides by shattered buildings and scorched cement. Although most of the damage could be attributed to the fighting, Kealey doubted that Fallujah would have been much to look at before the American invasion. The mosques in the city center were hardly visible from his location, the skyline obscured by thousands of drooping power lines. The buildings all looked alike; the only color to be seen was the occasional green of the date palm and olive trees that had survived the bombing runs.
Kealey was lost in thought as he watched the passing structures for movement. It had been four days since the failed assassination attempt on Nuri al-Maliki, four days since Harper’s call. Since then, he had talked to two other men, both of whom were prominent figures on the American payroll, but neither of whom could be trusted. Sitting across from him, they had plied him with strong tea and offered their justification for the monetary assistance of the Central Intelligence Agency. When pressed for specifics, they were quick to provide what appeared to be hard numbers, but it was all meaningless. The Agency’s lack of assets and infrastructure
