Black Ops #1 Read online

  “Sounds good, General. I won’t forget,” Art said.

  “Oh, and, Art, you do know about Ann’s penchant for matchmaking, don’t you?”

  Art smiled. “Yes, sir. She has made for some . . . memorable evenings.”

  General McCabe laughed. “You are a good sport to put up with it,” he said. “Meet us at Andre’s at 1900.”

  “Nineteen hundred,” Art repeated. “Will do.”

  Andre’s Restaurant sat high on a bluff, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The parking lot was far enough below the restaurant that it required a set of steps to get to the restaurant level. Normally, the restaurant provided valet parking, but they were doing work to the drive so a sign stated that valet parking would not be available tonight.

  That didn’t bother Art, since he would not have used valet parking anyway. He found a spot at the farthest end of the parking lot. He didn’t mind the extra hike up the hill, and he figured there would be other customers tonight who would need to park closer.

  Art was in uniform when he was met by the maitre d’ as he stepped into the restaurant.

  “Would you be Colonel Jensen?” the maitre d’ asked.

  “Yes.”

  “General McCabe told me you would be arriving,” the maitre d’ said. “He and his party are here.” He snapped his fingers, and a young woman came to him.

  “This is Colonel Jensen,” the maitre d’ said. “Please take him to General McCabe’s table.”

  “Right this way, Colonel,” the hostess said with a pretty smile.

  “Art,” Ann McCabe said, coming forward to meet him as he approached the table. “So nice to see you again. This is Lisa Dunn. She is the aerobics instructor at the gym that I use.”

  Art smiled as he extended his hand to Lisa. Ann McCabe had a problem with unmarried officers. She didn’t believe in them, and apparently had set out on a mission to single-handedly change that condition throughout the entire U.S. Army.

  Sometimes, it seemed that the only criterion she looked for was that both parties be single. He had to give her credit this time, though. Lisa was a knockout. But then, she was an aerobics instructor. How could she be anything else?

  “I know the colonel,” Lisa said.

  “You know me?” Art asked, surprised by the comment.

  “Well, let’s say I know of you. You broke my heart once.” Lisa ameliorated her comment with a broad smile.

  “Why, Colonel Jensen, I would never have suspected such a thing from you,” Ann said.

  “Miss Dunn, Mrs. McCabe, I don’t—” Art started, but Lisa cut him off with a lilting laugh.

  “It’s nothing like that,” she said, waving her hand. “You played football for West Point. I graduated from Wake Forrest, class of 1990, and Army beat us my senior year, fourteen to ten. I really thought we had a chance to win that game. The field announcer was calling your name all afternoon.”

  “I remember that game. It was a good one,” Art said. “But I’m sure he called Mike Mayweather’s name a lot more than he called mine.”

  “Did you know that Art Jensen and Mike Mayweather were the last two players at West Point to make the All American football team?” General McCabe asked.

  “I’d hardly put myself in the same category as Mayweather,” Art said. “He made first team All American, and finished tenth in the Heismann. I made honorable mention.”

  “Well, honorable mention is . . . honorable,” Lisa said, and they all laughed.

  “Let’s enjoy our dinner, shall we?” Ann said. “Colonel, you sit there, next to Lisa.”

  During the dinner the conversation covered many subjects, including the fact that both Art and General McCabe would soon be leaving for Iraq. But, as often as possible, Ann brought the discussion back to Art and Lisa, trying hard to get something started between the two of them.

  Art found Lisa very attractive, but was somewhat uncomfortable by Ann’s persistence. After dinner, as he walked Lisa to her car, he discovered that she was just as uncomfortable. They laughed about it, and made a vague agreement to get together at least one more time before Art deployed.

  Art opened the door for her, and not until she was safely behind the wheel did he start toward his own. But, less than thirty seconds later, he heard Lisa scream. Turning, he hurried back through the darkness toward her car. That’s when he saw two men with her. One had his arm around her neck, the other was standing in front of her. Both of them were holding knives.

  “Let her go!” Art shouted as he ran toward her.

  “Say what?” one of the two men said.

  “I said let her go,” he repeated.

  The man laughed. “And if we don’t?”

  “I’ll hurt you,” Art said easily.

  “You got a gun?”

  “No.”

  “You got a knife?”

  “No.”

  The man laughed. “Well, soldier boy. There’s two of us and only one of you. And we both got knives . . . ain’t we, Leroy?”

  “Yeah,” the one holding Lisa said. He held his up, and the blade glinted in the gleam of a nearby parking lot lamp. “And we got this here woman.”

  “So, soldier boy, maybe you just better get on with your business and not try to be a hero.”

  Art continued to come toward them and Leroy raised his knife to Lisa’s neck. “Are you blind, soldier boy? I told you, we got this woman. Now you come any closer, I’m going to cut her.”

  “Why are you bothering with her?” Art asked. She’s not your problem, Leroy, I am.”

  “What you mean, she’s not my problem?”

  “She can’t hurt you. I can.”

  “Man, are you crazy? You better get the hell out of here!” LeRoy said.

  “No, I don’t think I will.” Art took another step closer and was now just a few feet from them.

  “Cut him, Jason,” Leroy said to his partner. “Cut this mother real good.”

  Jason stepped toward Art and made a low, vicious swing with his blade. Art danced to one side, avoiding the slice, then brought the knife-edge of his hand hard against Jason’s Adam’s apple, crushing it. Choking, Jason raised his hands to his neck and when he did so, Art grabbed the knife, then, using the butt of the handle, hit Jason hard between the eyes.

  Jason went down.

  “I’m warnin’ you!” Leroy said, his voice now on the edge of panic. “You come any closer, I’m going to cut her.”

  “I told you, Leroy, she’s not your problem. Hell, she’s not even my problem. Right now there’s just you and me, and both of us have knives.”

  “Yeah, but I’m holding my knife against her throat,” Leroy said.

  “Well, see, that’s your problem. If you are holding it against her throat, that means you aren’t holding it against mine. You are a slow learner, aren’t you, Leroy?”

  “What . . . what do you mean?”

  “You haven’t figured out yet that, while you are cutting her, I’ll be killing you. He took another step toward them. “So, what do you say? Shall we get started?”

  Leroy hesitated for another second, then, pushing Lisa away, he turned and ran through the parking lot, disappearing into the darkness.

  “Are you all right?” Art asked.

  “Uh, yes,” Lisa said, still shaken by the event.

  “What were you doing out in the parking lot? When I left, you were safely in your car.”

  “I left my cell phone in the restaurant and I was going back for it,” Lisa said. “Would you . . .” She started, hesitated for a moment, then restarted her question. “Would you really have let him cut me?”

  “I had to let him believe I would,” Art said.

  “Colonel, you are a very frightening man. Maybe it isn’t such a good idea for us to see each other. I believe you really would have let him cut me.”

  “All right,” Art said.

  “What, no argument? No attempt to persuade me that I’m wrong?”

  “You have to go with your gut feelings,” Art said. �
��If you really are going back for your cell phone, let me walk with you. That is, if you aren’t afraid of me.”

  “Well, right now, I’m more frightened to go back without you.”

  Art walked Lisa to the restaurant, then waited as she retrieved her cell phone from the maitre d’ . He then walked her back to her car. Art noticed that Jason was gone.

  Not one word had passed between them from the time he offered to walk her back to the restaurant until now. Then, just before she got into her car, Lisa stopped and looked up at him. The pupils of her eyes were dilated, her lips were slightly parted, and there was a strange, almost desperate expression on her face. Art had seen it before, so he wasn’t surprised when she put her arms around him, pulled him to her, and put her lips against his. She opened her mouth for a tongue-tangling kiss.

  Art went with the kiss, letting her take the lead, practically swallowing her tongue before sticking his own tongue down her throat. She ground her body against his, and he could feel her breasts against his chest, her pelvis pressing urgently against his groin. Finally she pulled away and looked up at him.

  “Still find me frightening?” Art asked.

  “Terrifying,” she answered. Then she let out a sigh. “And God help me, that’s what I find so exciting. Follow me home, Colonel. I’ll fix breakfast for us in the morning.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Near Fallujah, Iraq

  “Hot damn! We’ve got ourselves a real juicy target here,” Sergeant Baker said as he peered through the thermal sight of a Long Range Acquisition System (LRAS), mounted on a Humvee.

  “What have you got, Sergeant?” Lieutenant Colonel Art Jensen asked.

  “I’ve got five Hajs, with weapons, in a building,” Sergeant Baker answered. He chuckled. “Look at the poor dumb bastards. Ole Habib thinks I can’t see him. Well, he can run, but the son of a bitch can’t hide.”

  It was 0230, pitch-black, and the Mujahedeen insurgents, called Hajs, or Habib by the Americans, were wearing black to fade into the dark interior of the building. They were shadows within shadows, unable even to see each other from no more than a few inches away. But with his thermal-imaging optics, Sergeant Baker could see them as clearly as if they were standing in the middle of the street in broad daylight.

  “Give me the numbers, Sergeant,” Art said.

  “Yes, sir, numbers coming up,” Sergeant Baker replied, punching them in.

  Art looked at the numbers, then keyed the mike. “Boomer Three, this is Tango Six. I have a fire mission.”

  The radio call sign, Tango Six, identified Art as the commanding officer of the Third Infantry Battalion, Thirty-second Infantry Regiment, Seventh Infantry Division.

  “Go ahead, Tango Six,” Boomer Three responded.

  “Coordinates 09089226, direction two-zero-two degrees. Range from this location is niner-fi-yive-zero meters.”

  Two miles outside Fallujah, Lieutenant Kirby, platoon leader of the Weapons Platoon, called out to his platoon sergeant.

  “Sergeant Caviness, we have a fire mission,” he shouted.

  “Yes, sir,” Caviness replied. “Squad leaders, ready your tubes!”

  The mortar men removed the tampons from the tubes of their 81mm weapons.

  “Mortar one ready!” the first squad leader called back.

  “Mortar two ready!”

  “Mortar three ready!”

  “All weapons ready, sir,” Sergeant Caviness reported to Lieutenant Kirby.

  Kirby was looking at a TAD, or target acquisition device.

  “Angle for mortar number one, three-zero-two degrees, three-zero minutes, one-five seconds,” Kirby called.

  “Two-zero-two, point-three-zero, point-one-five,” the first squad leader responded.

  “Angle for mortar number two, two-zero-two degrees, three-zero minutes, point-two-zero seconds.”

  “Two-zero-two, three-zero, point-two-two,” the squad leader replied.

  “Mortar number three, two-zero-two, three-zero, two-five,” Kirby called.

  The squad leader of the third squad responded with the numbers. “Range, two-five-zero-zero meters.”

  The squad leaders adjusted the angle and elevation of their tubes. Then the loaders picked up the rounds and held them just over the end of the tubes.

  “Fire!” Kirby called.

  The loaders dropped the rounds into the tubes.

  Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! was the sound as the rounds were fired.

  “Ordnance is on the way, Tango Six,” Kirby said into the radio.

  Art looked in the direction from which the fire mission would come, and he saw a few sparks as three mortar rounds climbed into the sky. A second later, three loud booms rattled the neighborhood as a great ball of flame erupted at the target building. The flame was followed by a huge, billowing cloud of smoke and dust.

  “Tango Six, can we have a BDA?” the disembodied radio voice asked.

  “Battle damage assessment?” Art repeated. He chuckled. “Nothing to assess, Boomer, you brought some heat. The building is gone. Thank you.”

  “We have enjoyed doing business with you, Tango Six.”

  “Tango Six out.”

  Art thought about the five insurgents who had just died. They died because they could not comprehend a technology that could find them from nearly a mile away, then unleash a deadly barrage from mortars that were over two miles away, and could fire for effect without ranging. In the current operation, scores of insurgents had died, simply because they took one curious peek over the ledge to see what was going on outside. That one brief second of exposure was all that was needed to kill them, and anyone who was with them.

  The sun rose the next day on a city that was nearly deserted. The melodic call to prayer, enhanced by a loudspeaker, intoned into the morning quiet.

  Allah u Akbar, Allah u Akbar

  Ashhadu all llah ill Allah

  Ash hadu all illha ill Allah.

  Ash hadu anna Muhammadan Rasululaah

  Ash hadu anna Muhammadan Rasululaah.

  Hayya lasseah, Hayya Lassaleah

  Hayya lalfaleah, Hayya lalfaleah

  Allanu Akbar, Allahu Akbar

  La llaha ill Allah.

  In a Baghdad suburb

  The three prisoners, two men and a woman, were brought into the room. They blinked at the bank of bright lights, but they couldn’t rub their eyes because their hands were handcuffed. Next to the bank of lights was a video camera, mounted on a tripod.

  There were six others in the room, but all six were wearing hoods so they could not be identified by anyone who might view the videotape later. One of the hooded men stepped in front of the video camera and began reading.

  “Some time has passed since the blessed attacks against the global infidelity, against America, where our glorious martyrs sent more than three thousand infidels to a fiery hell. Since that time, Americans have conducted a vicious crusade against Islam.

  “It is now evident that the West in general, and Americans in particular, are doing Satan’s work on earth, trying with bombs and the deaths of millions of innocents to destroy the Muslim faith.

  “But we are not without our own weapons, and we stand here before these cameras, with three pawns of the great Satan America.”

  The camera panned slowly across the faces of three terrified prisoners.

  “One is Italian, one is Jordanian, and the woman is Israeli. All are collaborating with the enemy in their fight against our people and our faith. It is for this reason that they have been condemned to die.”

  The hooded terrorist folded the paper and nodded toward the woman. Another hooded terrorist stepped up behind the woman and, quickly, drew his knife across her throat.

  The woman cried out, though her cry was quickly silenced. The terrorist grabbed her by the hair as he continued to saw away at her neck. Two other terrorists held her up until finally, the head was completely severed.

  “Allah Akbar!” the terrorist shouted, holding the woman’s severed head aloft,
blood pouring from the stump of her neck.

  In quick order, the heads of the other two prisoners were also severed.

  Finally, the three disembodied heads were put on a table while the camera focused on them, remaining for an extended period of time on each one. The eyes of the Jordanian and Italian were closed, but the woman’s eyes were still open in horror.

  The lights went dark and the camera was turned off. Not until then were all the hoods removed.

  “You took a great chance in coming here, Al Sayyid,” one of the men said, using a title of great respect when he spoke to the terrorist who had read the fatwa.

  “I will do what must be done to rid our region of the American infidels,” the leader said.

  The terrorist who was referred to as Al Sayyid walked over to the table to look at the severed heads. He felt a sense of excitement, almost sexual arousal, as he looked at the heads. Moments before they had been alive; now they were dead because of his orders. And he had not only given the order, he had witnessed the killing.

  What was it like? he wondered. Once the heads were severed from the bodies, were there a last few seconds of cognizance? Did they know, in those terrifying seconds, that their entire existence, or what was left of it, was confined to a single, bloody sphere?

  “What do we do with them now?” one of the terrorists asked. He was the one who had done the actual decapitation, and he still had blood on his hands.

  “Burn the bodies,” the leader responded. “Burn the bodies, and take the heads out to the road so that they may be found.”

  “Will you be returning to your home now, Al Sayyid?”

  “Yes,” the leader replied. He reached for the videotape. “Let me have the tape,” he said. “I will have a DVD made of the tape, and then we will put it on the Internet. Within twenty-four hours, nearly one billion people will witness what we did here today. The sword of Allah is terrible and swift, and all will learn that those who support the great Satan of America will be sent to hell for their sins. Allah Akbar!”