Al-Tanf

Homs Governorate, Syria

US Special Operations Command Compound

October 13th, 2019

0125B

Alexander POV

Back in July, I'd actually found the location of Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi's Barisha compound, and sent the intel up the chain. Surveillance assets were deployed to the location and they confirmed the self-proclaimed caliph's presence there. And ever since July, that scumbag has been sitting in there... but Special Operations Command didn't send over an assault force because they were worried about al-Qaeda affiliates in the area and the airspace being controlled by the Russians and Syrian government. Central Command was also giving a bunch of excuses as to why an assault hadn't been launched yet—though considering how much the Russians hate ISIS, I don't really think they'd care if we send the Rangers and D-Boys to kill al-Baghdadi... hell, they'd probably give us a little intel, close air support, or even troops setting up blocking positions as a "go get 'em, boys" gift.

But as happy as I was to have that find under my belt, our intel folks had something much, much better.

"We've got him," Captain O'Connell said before guzzling down some coffee—packed with enough creamer, sugar, and pumpkin spice syrup (I don't even want to know where she got it) to kill a moose. The redheaded woman had been working day and night on this, and though she looked absolutely exhausted with some of the darkest eye circles I'd ever seen, she seemed very confident in her find.

And what was that find, you may ask? None other than the very reason I was here: Ben Ripley, once believed to be killed in action, and in reality taken hostage.

"You sure?" Dad asked, skeptical as he nursed his own cup of joe: black, like a perfect CIA op.

"Signals intel we intercepted two days ago confirms it. Human intel from that courier we nabbed last night confirms it. We're trying to get a drone over the location right now... plus, our frogman friends are also providing eyes on the ground, along with the secret squirrels they're augmenting."

"Remind me again what the SEALs are doing in Syria," Master Sergeant Garner groaned as he leaned back in his chair, the shiny-headed Green Beret-turned-Gray Fox sounding as beat as CPT O'Connell. "Ain't no way they're helpin' F6..."

"Garner, they could be trying to start a circus out here. I don't give a damn," I interrupted, looking back at CPT O'Connell. "Are you sure about this, Captain?"

"I am, Alex. Seriously, this is the most solid thing we've gotten so far. It's a fairly short distance southwest of Al-Sayyal," she explained. "And yeah, it's not territory we're technically cleared hot to go into... yet State Department is in on it."

The area we were trying to enter was controlled by the Russian-backed Syrian Arab Army... who weren't exactly our allies. So CPT O'Connell had talked to the commander of Task Force Brown Fox—Lieutenant Colonel Hendricks—who in turn talked to the commander of Special Operations Command Central, who then rang up the Secretaries of Defense and State. Next thing we knew, the US Special Envoy to Syria had established a dialogue with the big cheeses in Damascus. And in case that wasn't enough, the Ambassador of the USA to the Russian Federation was set up to chat up a storm and get Moscow to convince the Syrians to not shoot at us when we spun up to rescue Ben.

But in all honesty, I didn't give a shit: if the CIA/NSA Special Collection Service team and the SEAL Team 6 operators backing them up could get in there, then Dad and I could easily get a few CIA and Delta/Brown Fox shooters, load up into an indigenous vehicle, and drive there. I wasn't leaving Syria without Ben, geopolitics be damned.

"Colonel, are you in contact with State?" Dad asked the clean-shaven lieutenant colonel, who was reviewing a file.

"Soon as they give me the green light, you're launching," LTC Hendricks rasped out, pointing at the corded telephone labeled "STATE" on the table next to him. "Night Stalkers fly y'all in. You n' Delta will handle the entry while Rangers provide the perimeter. Find your boy Ripley, hand 'im off to the PJs (Air Force pararescuemen) if he's fucked up, then get your asses back here."

"Roger that. Alex, you briefed Ghost for positive ID of Ripley?"

"Yeah, already printed out some stuff for the assault team leaders, troop commander, and sergeant major. Went for obscure details, stuff only Ben would know, just in case the photo won't cut it," I replied. Why the security questions, you may ask? Because it had been a little over 18 months since Ben "died," and considering how much intel about the Agency had been leaked, he'd probably been roughed up a decent amount by his ISIS captors. So any pictures we had of him weren't exactly recent, and the fog of war all but guaranteed confusion if we went solely by facial ID.

"Okay then... let's kit up."

"Yeah, we got things here," CPT O'Connell replied to my father, returning to her computer as MSG Gardner, Dad, and I left the Joint Operations Center to gear up for a quick launch.

On the runway, the Night Stalkers were preparing a group of their signature black-painted Little Birds and Chinooks: four AH-6s to provide close air support, two MH-6s to serve as aerial sniper platforms, four MH-6s to carry the Delta Force assault teams, and two MH-47s to carry the two Ranger platoons that would provide our perimeter and the PJ team that would provide on-site medical. Further back on the runway were four Black Hawks that would serve as the quick reaction force: two in the Direct Action Penetrator configuration (basically the armament of an attack helicopter in the fuselage of an MH-60) and two in the standard troop transport configuration, carrying additional Rangers and PJs.

We were ready for a serious gunfight: the fighters of the Islamic State were getting increasingly desperate, since they had basically no territorial control in Syria, and we'd already nabbed the former head of their spy network.

Speaking of guns, while MSG Garner and I locked and loaded our MK18 carbines and Glock pistols, Dad opted for his MK14 EBR and M1911, though this time, he carried more magazines of 7.62 than .45 ACP. He was going to be one of the sharpshooters aboard the MH-6s serving as aerial sniper platforms, assisting the three Delta snipers that would be raining precise death from above. That being said, he still carried a few mags and a suppressor for his M1911, ready to go full-tunnel rat once again like he did during the numerous direct action raids we'd gone on since May.

"Still can't believe you're using that shit, old man," one of the Delta assaulters remarked as we loaded up. "What're you, some type of fudd?"

"Someone who's been runnin' n' gunnin' longer than you've been alive, boy," Dad replied, not even sparing the operator a glance. "They worked in every shithole of the world I've been in."

"Don't try arguing with him, it'll only get worse," I joked. "I've tried to convince him time and time again—"

"Boy, if you need more n' eight rounds with your sidearm—which you shouldn't be usin', since you've got a damn rifle—you need to spend more time at the range."

"That's got to be one of the dumbest pro-.45 arguments out there."

"Gentlemen, as fascinated as I am by this conversation," Captain Merrick—callsign "Ghost 6," the commander of the Delta Force assault troop—interjected, sounding amused. "We gotta figure out who's on what bird."

"Okay, Cyrus, you're with Neptune on Vulture 2-1. Grim and Keegan on Vulture 2-2. I'll be with the first assault team on 2-3, Alex, Logan, and Riley augments Team 2 on 2-4, Sarn't Major on 2-5, and Gardner on 2-6. Should balance out the weight limits."

"Check," each man said, acknowledging the troop commander's words.

"Uh, Kick, jump with Team 4, buddy up with Gardner since you're both tech nerds."

"Roger that," the Delta operator replied with a nod, with him and Gardner sharing a no-look fist-bump: the two had evidently worked together in the past.

"Okay, and Torch? Is your backblast area clear?"

The assaulter let out an exasperated groan as the rest of us (except for Dad, of course) restrained our chuckles. "Dammit Cap, I told you, Doc Holliday cleared me."

"Don't worry, sir! His explosive diarrhea has been rendered safe!" an explosive ordnance disposal tech in the back shouted, eliciting a round of laughter from everyone but Dad and Torch.

"You motherfu—"

"All stations, Irene. I say again, Irene," LTC Hendricks' voice suddenly rang out in our ears, raspy yet clear as day. He'd uttered the codeword that I'd wanted to hear for hours: the initiation of the mission.

"Fuckin' Irene!" I said with a grin, looking at my stone-faced father, who cracked the tiniest of smiles for a tenth of a millisecond. "Let's go get our boy."

We ran for the Little Birds, jumping aboard and hooking in. Behind us, the Rangers and their augmenting airmen ran for the pair of Chinooks. Once every last man was aboard, the AH-6s lifted off, followed by the MH-6s and the MH-47s, beginning the flight to the compound outside Al-Sayyal.

It was time to bring Ben home.

Cyrus POV

We'd been flying for nearly an hour, low and fast through the chilly Syrian airspace.

I sat on the port side bench, secured to the Little Bird by the monkey tail attached to my harness, while the sniper nicknamed "Neptune" sat on the starboard side bench, his SR-25 designated marksman rifle at the ready. Peering through my binocular night optical devices, I could see the Little Bird "Vulture 2-2" carrying the snipers Grim and Keegan. Looking to my right, I could see the four AH-6s, codenamed "Buzzsaw "8-1" through "Buzzsaw 8-4," loaded for bear with miniguns and 2.75-inch rockets, flying ahead of us. Looking to my left, I could see the rest of the Vulture flight carrying the assaulters, and even further back, the Chinooks—codenamed "Prowler 2-5" and "Prowler 2-6," carrying the Rangers that would seal off the entire area, preventing anything from getting in or out.

And just for good measure, we had one of the famed Angels of Death orbiting overhead: "Hammer 3-4," the AC-130 that had been operating in theater ever since we got here, would be handling anything too big for the Buzzsaw flight.

"One mike out!" the pilot shouted to us.

"One mike out!" Neptune and I shouted in acknowledgement.

Fifteen seconds later, I could hear gunfire, rocket launches, and explosions as the Buzzsaw flight strafed the target area, clearing out landing zones for the assault and cordon forces. The AH-6s tore through the enemy fighting positions, targeting machine gun nests, lookout posts, and potential sniper hides identified by the CIA Predator drone codenamed "Wildfire 1-5."

"Thirty seconds!"

I flipped my weapon off "safe" and cracked my neck. The pilots were staying on target and the AH-6s had ceased fire for now, so it was on the snipers to take down enemy personnel on and near the main buildings within the compound. Everything was danger close to the main buildings, but these targets were too much within danger close for the attack helos to hit... meaning that it'd take some well-placed 7.62 to drop them.

"Here we go! RPG, Building One!" the co-pilot warned as our helicopter began its orbit over the target area.

"Got 'im," Neptune said, opening fire until the RPG carrier was down. But by the time he'd dropped that terrorist, I'd taken down an enemy machine gun team targeting us.

I'd done this plenty of times before, but in that moment, as I repeatedly sniped enemy personnel below, I felt as though I was back in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia as a Marine. Whenever we had a hot extract, I was blasting NVA and VC with my M14, searching the treeline for machine gunners and RPG carriers while the door gunner rained hell with his M60.

I remembered it all at that moment: the Willie Pete (white phosphorus), the Agent Orange (a tactical defoliant), the calls for Barbecue (napalm). The VC, the NCA, the Spetsnaz. The moving trees, the Hueys, Puff the Magic Dragon. My fellow Devil Dogs, Company Men, and MACV-SOG commandos.

My body was in Syria, but my soul was in 'Nam... and yet, my mind had never felt clearer than in that moment. All the recon, all the strikes, all the rescues, all the sabotage, all the psychological warfare... some of the greatest years in my life.

With a well-placed round of 7.62, I blew the head off an ISIS fighter carrying an RPG, who fell backwards, with the rocket firing straight up and exploding midair—apparently on airburst mode—which had happened once before when I killed a Viet Cong soldier in Laos.

With another round, I dropped an AK-toting tango on the roof on Building Three, with his corpse falling off and landing atop his comrade below. This too had happened once before in Cambodia, when I blasted an enemy sniper hiding in a tree, with him landing on his buddy below.

And as we buzzed Building Four, my MK14 had run out of ammo when another ISIS fighter aimed an RPG at us. I drew my M1911 and emptied the magazine, with one of my rounds successfully knocking him down—just like in 'Nam, during a hot extract, when I used my .45 ACP handgun to take down an NVA soldier from the helicopter when my M60 and M14 were dry.

I let a chuckle slip out as I holstered my sidearm and reloaded my rifle. This was definitely a good night, playing duck-shooting at a jihadist jamboree. And yet, deep down in my gut, I had a feeling that something wasn't right.

Well, there's a good chance the compound's rigged to blow... happened plenty a time in Iraq and Afghanistan, I thought to myself. But we got the K-9 and EOD for that, so that ain't necessarily the biggest concern...

But there was no time to worry about that. There didn't appear to be anything else moving, so I radioed the rest of my team. "All snipers, check in. Confirm no movement, over."

"I'm not seeing any tangos," Grim replied.

"Negative movement below," Keegan agreed.

"Affirmative. All stations, I pass Clementine," Neptune called, uttering the codeword which roughly translated to "assaulters, get your asses on the ground and get to work."

"Copy Clementine. We're thirty seconds out," Alex replied as our Little Birds steadied out their orbit. Thirty seconds on the dot later, the remainder of the Vulture flight was touching down: Vulture 2-3 set down atop Building One, 2-4 atop Building Two, 2-5 atop Building Three, and 2-6 atop Building Four. Meanwhile, Prowler 2-5 dropped off their "customers" (pilot-speak for passengers) just north of the compound while 2-6 deployed their customers just south of the compound, with the two Ranger platoons establishing blocking positions while embedded sappers (expert combat engineers) began breaching the compound walls in case the Delta operators required support.

From my perch on Vulture 2-1, I watched the Ghost teams conduct a top-down assault on the four buildings within the compound, tossing in flashbangs before rushing in as fast as possible. Our intel indicated that Ripley was in one of these buildings, and if the assault teams were too slow, we'd be carrying him out in a body bag instead of a litter. Not even two minutes later, the Ranger sappers were already blowing holes in the compound's walls, with each platoon sending in a squad to surround the buildings from the inside. A few ISIS fighters squirted out of the buildings, but were cut down by the Rangers within the walls.

"This is Ghost 4-1. Negative on Building Four," the fourth assault team's leader reported.

"This is Ghost 3-1. Negative on Building Three," the third assault team's leader added.

"All teams, this is Falcon. K-9 has found a trapdoor. Proceeding down it," Alex reported from inside Building Two.

"Falcon, Klondike. Watch out for IEDs in the tunnel," I warned. Sure, it was common sense, but every time we'd hit a target and go down a tunnel, I was with him. And I was a tunnel rat in 'Nam, so I knew a thing or two... there wasn't a single man in this outfit that knew tunnel ops like I did, not Alex, not Gardner, not even the Ghosts.

"Much obliged, Klondike. Falcon out."

Watch yourself, son...

The first assault team was oddly silent as they worked through Building One. I supposed there was more to it than there was the others... but they hadn't reported in at all, not a tunnel or even a makeshift rabbit hole.

Maybe they got themselves an IED... I thought. Some IEDs could be triggered by signals, so if they ran into one, they'd need runners relaying messages. Looking within the compound, the two Ranger squads had already established a loose perimeter, posting up just outside of the egress points of the buildings. But the Rangers could probably spare a fireteam to help Ghost 1 with Building One... especially 2nd Platoon, since they had less ground to cover.

So I radioed the leader of 2nd Platoon. "Bravo 2-6-Actual, this is Klondike, over."

"Roger, Klondike. Got ya lima charlie. Send traffic, over," the platoon leader replied.

"Send a fireteam into Building One to assist assault team, over."

There was a pause, likely due to the young lieutenant (a Hershey bar, at that—not as bad as a butter bar, but holy hell) being confused. "Klondike, interrogative: why am I sending a fireteam in, over?"

"We've received no traffic from our end, 2-6-Actual. Suspecting potential signal-triggered IED. Send a fireteam and tell them to watch their step and radio discipline, over."

"Copy your last. Sending fireteam. Out."

I shook my head as I watched four men with IR strobes on their heads—the Rangers sent by the lieutenant—maneuvered from their blocking position outside the compound to the only ingress point into Building One. The fireteam leader used a short-barreled M870 loaded with breaching shells to blast the lock before kicking it open and standing aside, letting his privates (you know what I mean, damn it) move in before he followed inside.

Fun fact: in the 75th Ranger Regiment, junior enlisted men who haven't yet gone through Ranger school (as such, they are not "tabbed") are referred to as "privates," even if they are in fact E-4 specialists. And I was willing to bet money on the fact that the fireteam that I just indirectly ordered in was a tabbed specialist leading three privates, of which one was a specialist that failed to go to or pass Ranger School yet... and even better, this particular fireteam was the only full-strength one in the whole platoon, if not the entirety of their parent unit, Bravo Company.

I oughta ask 'em later... maybe see if my prediction was right.

Nonetheless, after four minutes, one of the Rangers came out the front door and appeared to use his squad net to tell his squad leader, before the squad leader relayed the message to the platoon leader, who then relayed the message to me. "Klondike, this is Bravo 2-6-Actual. Be advised, there is a signal jammer inside and it's hooked up to an IED. Break, break. Ghost 1's EOD augment is working the problem now, over."

Huh, as expected, I thought to myself, a little befuddled by the presence of a signal jammer, but hey... this was ISIS we were talking about. Contrary to popular belief, plenty of terrorists have technical, bachelor's, and even advanced degrees, so they know a thing or two about acquiring and using signals systems, as well as creating all manner of explosives. Thus, I wasn't terribly surprised, and my response was nonchalant. "Roger, 2-6-Actual. Tell your fireteam to back out unless Ghost 1 wants 'em there, over."

"Copy your last. Bravo 2-6-Actual out."

And at that precise moment, Building Two decided to explode.

Alexander POV

When the explosion above ground went off, I was pretty sure that the men of Ghost 2, the K-9 team, and I were toast. But we weren't: the tunnel was reinforced well enough that we weren't hurt.

"Damn," I muttered, thanking my lucky stars for that. But no time to think: just time to keep moving. If Buildings Two, Three, and Four were cleared, that meant there was a 50% chance that Ben was somewhere down this tunnel... either that or in Building One.

We moved as quickly as we could while watching out for IEDs, following Logan the Delta dog handler and Riley the German Shepherd. Right behind me were the four assaulters: Ghost 1-1 through 1-4, ready to make their HK416s sing. Maybe it was weird for a CIA guy to take point (after the dog team, of course), but my focus was on getting to Ben as quickly as possible. I was here to bring him home no matter what, but that didn't mean I was okay with bringing home a corpse.

We'd been going down this thing for a while now... no IEDs, no other booby traps, not even a random bucket of water. If I had to guess, this was an escape tunnel of some kind... but then why wouldn't they have a scuttling charge or two to seal off the tunnel and keep pursuers out?

Then again, we got the drop on these assholes.

"Wait, wait, wait," Logan said as Riley suddenly signaled. "Got a tripwire up here. Can't move around it."

"Stand clear, I got it," I said, with the K-9 team moving past me as I stepped forward, kneeling to inspect the tripwire. I was no EOD tech, but thanks to me spending a hell of a lot more time training at the Farm, the Point, and the gym (of course), I knew a few basic things. One application of wire cutters and a few strips of duct tape later (because, of course I did), the tripwire was neutralized.

"On me," I ordered as I got my gun back up and pushed forward, only for Logan to tap my shoulder after a few steps.

"Whoa there, spook. Riley first. Don't need you getting blown up, y'hear?"

I rolled my eyes, but let the sergeant and his fur missile take point. Seconds turned into minutes as we kept pushing down the tunnel. No IEDs, no other traps, nothing... just seemingly endless tunnel.

Where the hell is this going, Al-Jalaa?

"Contact front!" Logan shouted as he opened fire with his HK416, putting three rounds in an ISIS fighter ahead before he let Riley off the leash. Once Riley started going at the speed of Mach Jesus, me and the rest of my fellow humans charged. The German Shepherd leapt over the dead terrorist and launched himself at a seemingly unarmed man... unarmed, that is, until you realized that he was reaching for a detonator and the only thing stopping him was Riley's teeth clamped down on his arm. Logan and I saw the enemy combatant first, opening fire and turning him into Swiss Cheese a la 5.56.

"Get a flashbang up there!" the assault team leader ordered, shining his infrared laser on the open trapdoor at the end of the ladder on the far side of the room. Another assaulter ran up, tossing a 9-bang up before switching to his pistol and making the climb. As soon as there was enough room, I switched to my own Glock and began climbing up after him. Not even a millisecond I popped my head up, I could see a pistol-toting ISIS fighter coming into the room, and the assaulter who came before me had his back turned as he engaged another fighter. I opened fire—it wasn't super stable, as I was firing a pistol one-handed, but it was effective at this close range—and dropped the bad guy to the ground.

As I clambered to my feet and brought my rifle up, I took notice of the fact that the lights had just come on and I was freaking blind, so I raised my night vision goggles and was greeted by a very plush-looking room: exquisite carpets, pillows, shiny objects, and the like. It reminded me of a fancy living room I'd seen once, except of course, Syrian style.

"Room clear?" I asked the other assaulter as we waited for the rest of the team to come up.

"Yeah!" he said.

"On me." And with that, we pushed through the room into a well-lit hallway. By the looks of it, we were in a mansion, or at least a very fancy house. The ISIS cell had either taken a rich family hostage, they knew a guy who worked for the family, or the family was directly involved as a wealthy benefactor. All three were possible, honestly.

We reached a door made of fine wood, kicking it in and throwing in a flashbang before flowing in, greeted by two tangos with AKs and three screaming teenage girls. We blasted the gunmen right as Riley and Logan ran in, the German Shepherd sniffing around for explosives and only finding a few grenades on the dead fighters' persons. Obviously, the teenage girls were scared shitless and had no idea what these big, pale-skinned American commandos (and a barking German Shepherd) were doing in this house, and there was a language barrier bigger than the Great Wall of China... but it was clear that they had no affiliation with the gunmen that were holding them here.

Option 1 then: rich family taken hostage, I thought, kneeling to meet the girls' eye level before attempting to calm them in broken Arabic—as well as with a chemlight, of course, cracking and shaking it before handing it to the youngest of the bunch, hoping the light would redirect her mind elsewhere. "[Worry not, daughters. We are good. These men Caliphate?" Caliphate?]"

"[Y-yes,]" one girl stuttered out, appearing to be the oldest of the bunch—no more than a couple years younger than Erica—trying to keep her sisters close. "[They're Caliphate.]"

"[Where's mother, father?]"

"[Father is dead. Don't know where Mother is.]"

They seemed to calm down somewhat, so I changed my line of questioning, opening up my quarterback sleeve on my left forearm to show them a picture of Ben. "[Did you see this? Boy, little older than you, hurt, white skin, brown hair? Prisoner of Caliphate?]"

The girls shook their heads, with the eldest replying, "[No. Our mother, can you save her?]"

Dammit, I thought to myself. But then again: there was a possibility they simply didn't see him. "[Wait here, be quiet.]" I said before turning towards the assaulter I'd initially stormed the room with. "Can you hold things here? Anyone running for the trapdoor has to go past you, so you can handle these girls too."

"Roger that," he said as Logan, Riley, and I flowed out of the room to join the rest of the assault team in clearing the house. But the other three operators (Ghost 1-1 through Ghost 1-3, I think) appeared to have already finished off the ground floor and were moving to second deck. As we ascended the ornate staircase, I could hear gunfire and a screaming woman—the mother, I supposed—and things were all quiet.

"Falcon, this is Ghost 1-1. House secure. We've got a female civvy here, need you to translate," the assault team leader said.

"Roger, en route," I replied as I made my way over to the room, where a middle-aged woman was sitting on the floor being cut free from her bonds, surrounded by four dead ISIS fighters and three American commandos. I switched to my crappy Arabic (seriously, I'm garbage at foreign languages) and knelt to reach her level. "[Sister, please calm. We are help to here you.]"

"[Where are my daughters? Where are my daughters?]" she asked immediately—not that I could blame her—but I still needed intel. That being said, it'd probably be easier to get her to talk if I gave her something first.

"[Down the stair. Come.]"

I led the woman downstairs, reuniting her with her daughters. But after a brief reunion, I interrupted the females to once again show the picture of Ben. "[Did you see this boy? Did you see him? Prisoner of Caliphate?]"

But the mother had the same answer: a resounding no, and she was much more coherent than her daughters.

"Fuck!" I hissed before switching back to Arabic. "[Are you certain? Do not lie on Caliph's behalf!]"

"[They had no prisoners! They murdered my husband! I am not lying!]" she replied.

"Alex, there's nothing here," Logan said grimly, the dog handler's voice simultaneously monotone and apologetic. "Objective Smokescreen is not here... maybe never was. We can't do anything else here, and there's no intel warranting a follow-on. We've run it up the chain, we've got Syrian troops inbound to handle the civvies. Vulture 2-4's inbound for exfil."

"Fucking hell—"

"Falcon, calm down," the assault team leader said, invoking my callsign. "We're fucking done here. Exfil'll be here in ten minutes, Syrian Arab Army in eleven. Tell the females and go help with SSE."

"Roger that, Ghost 1-1," I grumbled, using his own callsign before informing the females that soldiers would be here to take care of them soon, after which I joined the other operators in sensitive site exploitation: anything that would be useful. We found some radios, munitions, and phones on the persons of the ISIS fighters we'd killed, throwing them all into plastic bags before tossing those plastic bags into a body bag carried by Ghost 1-4.

And ten minutes later, to the second, the MH-6 bearing the callsign "Vulture 2-4" landed on the street. Circling overhead was one of the AH-6s from the Buzzsaw flight, the little attack helicopter providing armed overwatch as we ran for the Little Bird. Riley the German Shepherd leapt into the space behind the pilots while myself and the five Delta operators sat on the benches, clipping on our monkey tails as the helicopter took off, beginning the flight westward back to Al-Tanf.

But as the disappointment and frustration began to set in, I suddenly heard it.

"All stations, this is Ghost 1-1. I pass Jackpot. I say again, I pass Jackpot," the leader of Ghost 1 called in.

I had to confirm it. "Ghost 1-1, this is Falcon! Confirm: PID on Objective Smokescreen, over?"

"Affirmative. Positive ID of Objective Smokescreen. PJs have him now. A little banged up, but alive... just had to unrig him from a bunch of signal-sensitive IEDs and destroy the signal jammers, over."

I may have been flying, but I was over the moon, looking at Logan to my right and excitedly slapping him on the shoulder. "They got him! THEY GOT HIM!!"

"Hell fuckin' yeah!" he replied, giving me a fist-bump.

We'd found Ben... after a year of thinking he was dead, and nearly an entire year of searching... we'd found him. We were bringing him home!

Heavenly Father, thank you so fucking much, I said in my head as I looked up to the sky through the spinning rotor blades. Sacrilegious, maybe, but I'd gotten what I'd come here for. Okay, how to tell everyone that Ben's actually alive? Fake documents, paper trail, and a new identity? Or just come up with a bullshit story and reverse the declaration of his death?

But I shook the thoughts away. Dad and I could figure the logistics out later. For now, I was just happy that Ben was not only found, but alive, and in the good hands of the USAF PJs. And once he was admitted to the hospital back at Al-Tanf, he'd be squared away in a matter of weeks or months, depending on the severity of his injuries.

And so, ninety minutes later after touchdown, stowing away most of my kit, and a quick debrief with LTC Hendricks and CPT O'Connell, I ran for the base hospital, with Dad right behind me. And after getting some directions and waiting outside the room for around a quarter of an hour (medical procedures and whatnot), the doctors finally allowed Dad and I to enter and see him.

And there he was, laying back on the bed with the back inclined, allowing him to drink water. He looked pale—as though he hadn't been in the sun for a while—and quite thin, but nothing a few meals and some physical therapy wouldn't fix. There was just one problem.

"Holy shit, if it isn't the Hales!"

It wasn't Ben.

"Murray Hill," I said to nobody in particular, frozen in shock. His mop of hair had grown, along with a short, scraggly beard from being held in captivity for a long time. He was skinnier than I'd last seen him, and had a few bruises and patched-up-wounds, but it was definitely the same little rat bastard that nearly blew up the Academy, assisted in the attempted assassination of POTUS and the prime minister of the UK, assisted in the attempted destruction of several bridges in NYC, and lest we forget, convinced a Chinese national to attempt to nuke a goddamn mine in Colorado. "What the hell is this?"

"Hey, thanks for the rescue! Holy shit, you have no idea what it's like being held by those fuckin' cultists, I swear," the ex-SPYDER operative-turned-mercenary said nonchalantly. "No bacon or anything—"

"Hill, how the fuck did you get captured by ISIS? Our intel said—"

"Our intel said an Agency asset was supposed to be there, not an ex-asset," Dad interrupted, evidently not wanting to betray the fact that we were searching for Ben. "How the hell are you here?"

"I dunno... what'll you give me to tell you?" he asked, the conniving personality we all knew and hated seeping back out. The absolute nerve of this little shitstain, I swear...

"We'll let you live," Dad said, his tone harder than chromium, making Murray's confidence waver slightly.

"Alright, alright, Grandpa, calm down... I was running with some arms dealers, if you must know. Ended mixing up with some guys that provided arms to the Islamic State—shit, you know I don't give a fuck about their jihad, just the cash from the guys backing them—then one deal when I'm helping to hand off some old Soviet MANPADS, the fuckers jump me and kill my associates. Next thing I know, they're shuffling me around like a kid with custody split between each parent, 'cept the grandparents, aunts, and uncles are also in on it."

I shared a look with Dad, whose face was the quintessential "Are you kidding me?"

"Of course, I'd be happy to give up all my former associates... for a pri—"

"Oh, shut the hell up!" I snapped, tired of his scheming as I strode up to his bedside, gripping the sidebars of his bed as I loomed over him, utterly pissed off. "Hill, you listen here and you listen good. I'm going to ask you some questions and you're going to answer them fully: no bullshit, no half-truths, just the full truth. Got it?"

"Oh, okay Alexander. Please don't hurt me," he replied mockingly, evidently not taking this seriously. Behind me, Dad sighed, sounding exasperated. But I was done with this shit.

"Dad, lock the door."

A brief moment of silence, then some footsteps and the sound of the deadbolt sliding shut before he leaned on the door, covering the window looking in and providing an extra barrier before he began to whistle—it sounded like one of Johnny Cash's songs. I grabbed the lever allowing me to change the include of the bed, yanking it back and dropping it so that Hill's back was completely level in an instant.

"Ow, what the—" he began as I elevated the side of the bed with his feet before yanking his entire body down, putting his head in a lower position. After disconnecting the sensors responsible for monitoring his vitals—nobody would notice, considering the hospital was dealing with too much bullshit and the charge nurse was dead asleep—I grabbed a towel and the bottle of water sitting on the table next to his bed.

"Were there any other prisoners?" I asked, speaking loud enough for him to hear me while remaining quieter than Dad's whistling rendition of "God's Gonna Cut You Down."

"The fuck are you—"

"Do you lack the ability to understand English, you little shit?! Answer my fucking question!"

When he didn't answer, I could feel my vision turning red. I didn't give a fuck anymore. We were doing this as it seemed, even in the middle of a military hospital. I unscrewed the water bottle and slapped the towel on his face, holding him down as I began to pour.

It was time for me to use what I learned in Gitmo.

Cyrus POV

The only sounds to my right were the sounds of water pouring and Hill thrashing on the bed, held down by Alex. Continuing to whistle, I pulled out the secure phone issued to me by the Agency (ugh) and looked at the application that allowed me to send messages to the officer-in-charge of the CIA's Special Activities Center: my immediate boss, and a fellow graduate of the now-defunct Academy (or as the special access program was codenamed, GRAY CASTLE). I sent him an update while Alex continued trying to forcefully coax intel out of Hill.

Me: NEGATIVE JACKPOT.

OIC: Confirmed?

Me: Affirmative. Not him.

OIC: Who is it?

Me: Former GRAY CASTLE, S156-TR8R. Aliases "WASHOUT," "HAMBURGER," "WEASEL."

OIC: Escort team updated. Exfil?

Me: No.

OIC: BROWN FOX's mission is complete.

Me: Negative. CHARLIE MIKE.

There was a pause in the messaging, likely as the OIC was wondering why I was so insistent on continuing the mission (hence the phrase "Charlie Mike"). I whistled as I waited, blocking out the noises of Alex waterboarding Hill. I wondered if Alex would accidentally asphyxiate the bastard—he was shit at normal interrogation, so he'd probably be worse at enhanced interrogation—though it's not like the medical staff would be rushing in to save the little weasel, since they were all busy anyway.

OIC: Roger Charlie Mike. Updating SOCOM/JSOC. Escort team ETA 30 min. They'll handle the rest.

Me: Acknowledged.

I put away my Company-issued phone (no pun intended) as Alex finally decided to allow Hill to come up for air. It was honestly amusing to see the little rat bastard scared shitless of my son—once an incompetent buffoon, now a proper soldier-spy who fit right in with the Special Activities Center.

"Speak now or never speak again," Alex growled, sounding like a pissed-off dog more than a man.

"Th-there was one other prisoner! Don't know who the fuck he was, he just got moved to some place called 'Mayadin' three d-days ago! A-a-a-a compound belonging to some guy called Hassan al-Hafiz! That's all I fuckin' know, I swear! What more do you want? M-My contacts, my associates? Whaddaya want?!" Hill stammered out at a rapid pace. But Alex wasn't satisfied, moving to put the towel back and continue. "Waitwaitwait, nononono—"

But Alex, as it seemed, was out of fucks to give, holding down the thrashing Hill as he clamped the towel back over his face and poured out a second bottle of water as slowly as possible. Not my preferred interrogation method, but hey, he was trying to be quiet... so it worked, I suppose.

Since it was pretty quiet outside, I opted to cease my whistling to remind Alex. "We do need him alive... so don't go overboard."

It was just a little funny: Alex's indignant "don't tell me what to do, Dad" expression, combined with his no-look waterboarding of a literal terrorist with a criminal record longer than King Kong's arm. But he did let up, allowing Hill to come up gasping for air.

"Aw, fuck! Fuck, I'll do whatever! No more... please!" the rat bastard begged, sounding on the verge of a panic attack.

"Alex, take a hike. I got things here," I ordered. My son opened his mouth to protest before closing it again and silently storming off, leaving the room and slamming the door behind him. With a smile, I turned towards the quivering traitor, picking up the still half-full water bottle and damp towel, watching him begin to squirm and plead for his life again. "Oh, shut the hell up, you little shitstain. Just answer all of my questions. No bullshit, no nothing. If it turns out your intel is bad or sends our teams on wild goose chases... well, you'll be getting the spa treatment again. And it'll be with someone who actually knows what he's doing. Or maybe something else. Capiche?"

With the traitor properly terrified, I began questioning him on his activities over the past few years: his contacts, his business deals, his various associates, and so on. By the time I had everything I wanted to know, there was a knock on the door. Four bearded men in a mixture of civilian clothes and tactical gear, who'd pass as private military contractors—probably because they were PMCs.

"Lovely weather, Mr. K," the lead man said, uttering the challenge code, I was to be on the lookout for: this was the escort team.

"Really? You need a fucking rebreather for this shit," I replied with the appropriate countersign. The lead man stepped into the room while the other two remained outside. Once we were secure, I gestured towards the damp Murray Hill—who appeared to have both pissed and shit his pants. "Here he is."

"How come you're Charlie Mike, sir?" the lead man asked curiously.

"Do you need to know?" I countered.

"No."

"Then why would you ask?"

"Fair enough. Anything I should know?"

"This little shitstain steps out of line... you're free to go Hollywood on him."

"Hollywood" being a little-known running joke at the Agency: basically acting as the movies portray us, with extra emphasis on torture.

"Roger that, sir."

"Destination?"

"Gitmo. Where else?"

"Consider Gitmo-adjacent... he's a slippery one."

"We'll handle it, sir. Have a good one."

I shook the lead man's hand and shot a warning glance at Murray Hill one last time before leaving the room, nodding at the other three PMCs before leaving the hospital altogether and returning to the Joint Operations Center, where Alex was in furious discussion with LTC Hendricks, CPT O'Connell, MSG Gardner, and CPT Merrick. Alex wanted to conduct a raid on the compound belonging to whoever "Hassan al-Hafiz" was in Mayadin. The lieutenant colonel, captains, and master sergeant were all skeptical, while Alex angrily argued with them.

"It's a single source! You know more than anyone that conducting a raid on just that is not advisable!" LTC Hendricks said.

"The intel is actionable, Colonel! But we need to move fast before they can move him again!" Alex shot back.

"Look, I've done follow-on raids with limited intel before, but that's just it: they were follow-ons directly from the dry hole," CPT Merrick said. "Where the intel was fresher."

"This little shit was a prisoner of ISIS who had a decent grasp of what was going on. And considering that your men killed everyone else on target, this is the best we've got!"

"God's sake, Alex! We can't just send everyone out!" MSG Gardner said.

"Motherfucker, then give me two assault teams, two Vultures, and two Buzzsaws, and we'll take care of it real quick! TF Brown Fox hasn't completed its objectives, and you know it. We need to lock this shit down now!"

"I've already verified the intel," I interjected as I stepped between the squabbling four. "Got the boy to tell me some shit I already knew, which I knew his gang was involved in. The intel's good enough to send out a small element."

The three officers and one senior NCO raised their eyebrows at that, but finally relented, with LTC Hendricks making the order. "Well, State Department did say we'd be in that general area for a while... there's a whole big window where we know for certain Syrian Arab Army won't shoot at us. Okay, Merrick? Any of your assault teams green to go?"

"Ugh... yeah, Ghost 1 and 2 are good to go."

"Alright. O'Connell, go ahead and get Wildfire 1-5 and provide ISR."

"Wildfire's peeled off. They're supporting the SEAL team elsewhere in the region," CPT O'Connell replied, checking her computer. "But Hammer 3-4 is still operational. Estimating another two hours of playtime before they need to RTB."

"Okay, have 'em get eyes on Mayadin. Tell 'em assault teams will be there in an hour."

"Yessir."

"Uh, Gardner? Ghost 1-4 took a hit, so they're down a man. Can you roll with 'em, assist with intel shit on the ground?"

"Yeah, on it," MSG Gardner replied, leaving the JOC to kit up. Everyone else split off, but I caught Alex before he left to kit up.

"Alex, I've talked to the O.I.C. We're cleared to Charlie Mike... but the brass could come down eventually if they think Murray was the guy leaking Agency intel."

"I don't give a damn what they think!" he raged, stomping off. "We're tearing this country apart until we find him!"

And so we went: me, Alex, MSG Gardner, and nine 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta operators aboard two MH-6 troop transports escorted by two AH-6 gunships. Hopefully we'd find Ripley at the compound Hill identified. But that hope was small, overpowered by the simple fact that it was far too implausible. Alex was being emotional, going off his heart and gut rather than his head.

And truthfully: I hadn't verified shit. All the intel Hill gave was yet to be confirmed, and I'd only said what I said to get the Army personnel to go along with Alex's line of thinking—it's not like the soldiers could interrogate Hill themselves, since he was already on a PMC-flown civilian plane to Guantanamo Bay (or wherever the Agency decided to keep him). As much as I didn't believe that Ripley was alive somewhere in Syria, I'd nonetheless opted to enable Alex in continuing the search.

Because as unlikely as it was that the boy was alive, it was still likely. Alex had a gut feeling that he was, and I trusted Alex.

Charlie Mike.

Murray Hill's back... for all of five minutes before getting hauled off to Gitmo!

Before anyone asks, yes, torture ("eNhANceD iNTerRogAtiON") is morally abhorrent and should not be conducted. That being said, this is unfortunately the CIA we're talking about, with the main CIA guys here being Alexander (a desperate man trying to save someone he sees as his son) and Cyrus (the desperate man's father, who's done enough crazy shit to scare the pants off of Freddy Kreuger). Moreover, from what information I've found from research papers and testimonials (Wikipedia and a "CIA Spy Reacts" YouTube video), when it comes to other interrogation techniques versus torture, the former yields solid intel more often while the latter yields leads more than anything else.

That's the key word here: LEADS.

So while you can get more information faster from using enhanced interrogation, you'd have to do a lot more work to verify the intel. Something like rapport-building is more reliable, but takes far more time to accomplish. So even if we were throwing morality out the window (which we shouldn't, as that separates us from the bad guys), from an efficiency standpoint, non-enhanced interrogation is better than enhanced interrogation... though that isn't to say that the latter is always ineffective (again, based on research papers and testimonials). So-called enhanced interrogation can yield actionable intel, but it remains highly unreliable and clumsy, making it non-ideal for extracting information (once again, if we were to ignore the obvious fact that TORTURE IS UNETHICAL).

I'm not going to repeat this blurb later on, I'm saying it now to make things perfectly clear (as well as to provide some info on the real-life circumstances of espionage/intelligence gathering).

But I'm just a Level 66 Keyboard Warrior, so what do I know? You can check this guy out (it's one of the more interesting videos I've seen):

https://youtu.be/XXrxAMIULBo

But yeah, Alexander just committed a war crime out of rage and desperation to find Ben.

Speaking of, remember that time Alexander disobeyed Cyrus's orders in Mexico, went on a rampage against SPYDER and cartel operatives, killed Joshua Hallal, and committed at least one war crime (only technically, however, as the "victim" was a sadistic/psychopathic serial pedophile/rapist)? Yeah, expect more of that Alexander as the story goes on. He has no more fucks to give in his quest to save Ben.

And yes, Cyrus does not care about Alexander committing war crimes, considering that he made the British SIS (MI6) commandos help him cover up Alexander's own actions in Mexico—not to mention the fact that he's definitely committed a few himself over the course of decades working at the goddamn CIA, and maybe when he was operating in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia whilst in the Marine Corps—but disobeying orders? Believe it or not, straight to jail.

Alexander's really putting the "gray" in "gray man" over the course of this story... expect a little bit of madness on his part as he brings out some of the worst parts of the CIA in real life. He's definitely a protagonist and "good guy," but he's not above doing some bad things to get what he wants: Ben, back home and alive in one piece.

I hope this chapter was to your liking. Let me know what your thoughts are in the comments below, and I look forward to seeing you in the next one!

Until next time,

- ADF-2