Book News, Finally

I've completed edits and revisions on Book One (formerly SCORPION, now WEAPONS GRADE). Keeping in mind author Steven Hildreth, Jr. 's criticisms on showing vs telling, I've ended up adding 14,000 words. I made numerous changes and added some new stuff (like Avery being detained for interrogation by Tajikistan's KGB) throughout to make a more cohesive narrative and tighter story, as well as tweaking some technical details, like swapping out the Ground Branch team's MP5 subguns for M4A1 CQBRs. Suffice to say, if you already have the old edition, I'd highly recommend replacing it with the new edition, especially since it will be free the first week week it is published (sometime in the next two weeks). VIPER will be next and probably published the following month.

Books Relaunched

After a trademark dispute earlier this week, the books will be re-launched as new editions, this time without the "Scorpion" series branding. The books will be up on Amazon shortly. Each week for the next three weeks, one of the books will be available for free, so even if you already have them, now is a good time to get the new editions. Plus, I've done a lot edits and re-writes on them over the years to clean up the text.

Book One, now called WEAPONS GRADE, will likely be up this weekend, and free. TARGET VIPER will be free the following week, followed by SUBVERSIVE ACTION on the third week. 

Given how some Amazon reviewers operate, hopefully I can avoid a slew of 1 star "reviews" from people complaining that they bought (re: downloaded for free) the same book with a different name (despite identical plot summaries and being able to read the free preview).

If you previously left a review for the original editions, please consider re-posting them if you have the time.

With that out of the way, it is time to continue writing ROGUE STATE, which is at 100,000 words and awaiting a conclusion.  

Also,  be sure to follow my Facebook page here: https://www.facebook.com/author.ross.sidor/

character age and longevity

I saw this review on Amazon for SCORPION: SUBVERSIVE ACTION, which got me thinking.

 

 

At this point, since Avery joined the army before 9/11, he's somewhere in his 40s, or very late thirties at best. 

These types of protagonists in action thrillers can generally continue indefinitely, and often do, if they're profitable. While Mitch Rapp's lack of aging isn't something I care or think about as a reader, age and literary longevity is something I've been thinking about when it comes to my own character and series. 

Other authors, like Daniel Silva, who have aging protagonists have been making a point of saying the new story is set just days, weeks, or months after the previous one, but one can only keep that up for so long. 

From the first book, I'd always intended that at some point Avery will need to retire and fade into the background, likely to be replaced by a new character, who has not been introduced yet, but he won't necessarily need to retire from my writings. 

Inspired by David Hunt and RJ Pineiro's book, WITHOUT FEAR, which is a historically-set prequel to their contemporary novel WITHOUT MERCY, I've been toying with the idea of setting stories within the past decade or two, both as a means to keep Avery alive, as well as to cover subject matter that's interesting to me but no longer topical or current. For example, I have a story in the back of my mind that involves Ghaddafi's WMDs during the 2011 Libyan Revolution.

Either way, that still's not not likely to happen anytime too soon, so we shall see.   

nearly there

Broke 90,000 words on ROGUE STATE, and now moving the pieces in place for the climactic setpiece battle in the Sudanese desert and what will be the biggest action scene in this series.

Follow me on Facebook

Just a reminder that anyone interested should follow my author Facebook page at: https://www.facebook.com/author.ross.sidor/ 

I post a lot of updates, articles, and content related to the books there that I do not always cross-post to this blog. 

observation

Despite my protagonist being a CIA Global Response Staff security contractor, or "scorpion," I have yet to actually write about him bodyguarding a CIA case officer in a hostile environment. Maybe this needs to change in a future book...

Scorpion: Rogue State - Chapter Three

The jumpmaster said something, but Avery couldn’t hear a word over the howl of the C-130’s four giant turboprop engines. The jump light in the back of the darkened cargo hold continued to glow red, still over ten minutes out from their release point, and none of the other contractors reacted to the jumpmaster, so Avery thought it couldn’t have been too important. 

Breathing the tinny air through his oxygen mask, Avery resumed checking his rig, making sure the various straps and laces were tight and secure on his web gear and harness. He’d already done so twice before takeoff and once after, obsessively and thoroughly, but one could never be too cautious, not if the alternative meant splattering against the desert at fifty-three miles per second.

A former Airborne Ranger, Avery had jumped out of plenty of planes, but HALO—High Altitude, Low Opening, freefalling for over thirty-thousand feet—was different and always instilled some level of dread. At least the ordeal always ended quickly, as it only took two minutes to freefall that thirty-thousand feet.

HAHO—High Altitude, High Opening—would have been more appropriate for this type of insertion, allowing the element to glide nearly as much as forty miles from their release point to their drop zone, but that would have left them exposed in the air for a much longer duration of time, substantially increasing the risk of detection by one of the two Saudi Airborne Warning and Control System (AWACS) platforms, American-supplied Boeing E-3 Sentries, that were constantly on patrol over Yemen.

Avery preferred HALO anyway. Although far more intense, it greatly reduced the time spent floating through the air. The “airborne” part of Airborne Ranger had never terribly appealed to him, and in retrospect he sometimes wondered what his younger self had been thinking when he fought to get into Ranger Selection and Assessment, which, upon graduation, meant Airborne School, all those years ago.

Without warning, the pilot popped a crack in the hatch to depressurize. The temperature in the hold dropped instantly. The outside air would be somewhere in the -20°F range. Even through the thermals he wore beneath the heavy Nomex flight overalls, Avery felt the frigid bite of the cold throughout his body. His fingers even started to go numb beneath his gloves, so he flexed and squeezed them to keep the blood flowing. His goggles frosted over a little, partially obscuring his already limited vision.

Perched next to Avery on the uncomfortable, flimsy, red mesh seating, Sam and Gomez were likewise silently performing redundant ritualistic checks of their equipment and rigs, unfazed by the cold. Hix sat motionless, possibly asleep, with his head resting back against the vibrating bulkhead.

They were all equipped with short-barreled AKS-74Us rather than the usual SOPMOD M4A1s, HK416s, or UMPs with advanced optical sights that would identify them as American special operators. Yemen was awash with Soviet-made weapons.

Gomez, a trained sniper, carried ad Dragunov SVD marksman rifle, chambered in 7.62mm, with a PSO-1 telescopic sight. This was his first “deniable op” using non-standard kit, and, though he’d trained on the Dragunov at Harvey Point, he’d expressed his displeasure with the weapons Streib had procured for them.

In response, Avery had told him, “All the more reason to make sure we stay out of a gunfight, right?”

Avery wasn’t one to shy away from a fight, but his idea of a perfect op was one where he could get in and get out without firing a shot. Shooting tended to complicate matters and attract any number of undesirable parties.

Minus the parachute rigs and Nomex suits, which would be promptly disposed of in the desert, all of their gear was foreign-sourced. Their encrypted radios were Czech-made. The GPS tracker they’d rely on to lead them to the target was the product of Israel’s Elbit Systems. Even their rations were Russian. They would even switch to local dress once on the ground. Additionally, the gear was all sanitized, all traceable serial numbers removed.

Each man also carried plenty of dollars, euros, and Yemeni rials to bribe, barter, and buy their way out of any trouble.

The multi-ethnic makeup of the element would further help disguise their origin. Gomez was Salvadoran. When he first came to work for the Agency as a contractor, he’d been forced to have his tattoo of the Marine Corps Eagle, Globe, and Anchor emblem removed from his deltoid, where there was now just light scarring.

 Sam would obviously have no trouble passing himself off as an indig.

Avery’s dark hair, tanned and weathered face, unkempt black hair, and shaggy beard did not bring to mind one’s image of an American soldier.

Hix was more fair-haired, but his Arabic was better than Avery’s, and he knew the local dialects.

International mercenaries were running ops all over Yemen and the Horn of Africa these days, on behalf of a variety of state and non-state actors. Latin American mercs were especially common in the employ of the Saudis and Emiratis. Even if caught, no one would have cause to link Avery’s team to the Agency.

The cargo hold was otherwise empty, even though the C-130 was ostensibly delivering aircraft parts from Camp Lemonnier to al-Adeid Air Base in Doha, Qatar. At least that was the flight plan the air force had filed with the Saudis, who controlled Yemeni airspace. Somewhere near the midpoint in the flight, the pilot deviated slightly from course to deliver Avery’s stick on target.

Finally, the tailgate slowly lowered to the hiss of hydraulics. The roar of the engines instantly grew louder as a torrent of cold air filled the cargo hold. The pilot cut speed to lessen the gap between jumpers when they exited the aircraft.

Following the jumpmaster’s hand signals, Avery and the others disconnected their masks from the plane’s oxygen supply and plugged into the individual tanks on their harnesses. Then they stood up and shuffled into line before the open tailgate, moving past the crewmen whose harnesses were tethered to the bulkhead. Edging toward the ramp, they shifted somewhat clumsily on their feet, burdened by the heavy weight of the chest packs and the bags tethered between their legs, stuffed full of weapons, ammo, and equipment.

First in line, Avery saw nothing but a cold black void below an expanse of stars. A cold blast of air whipped against him.

The jumpmaster carefully looked over each man, watched the seconds on the onboard clock tick by, then slapped Avery on the back.

Avery stepped off the tailgate and threw himself out the back of the aircraft, tumbling face first into space, hurtling through the air, feeling for a second like he’d left his stomach behind, with Sam, Gomez, and Hix scant seconds behind.

For a second the roar of the engine rocked Avery’s ears and pounded inside his head, but the sound faded quickly, replaced by the sound of the air whipping past him, as the aircraft disappeared from sight somewhere in the black masses of clouds.

Clearing the turbulent slipstream, Avery immediately adopted the stable position, pressing his hips down to create an arch in his back, making his arms and legs symmetrical, with his elbows and knees bent, head up and facing into the horizon.

A light sheen of frost and tiny ice crystals formed over his Nomex, from the moisture of the clouds.

After twelve seconds and about 1,500 feet of freefall, he reached terminal velocity, 174 feet per second. He didn’t feel like he was falling, though. The sensory illusion was such that he felt more like he was floating weightlessly in place, and if it weren’t for the instruments strapped to his forearm, he’d have no idea he was even moving, but that would soon change.

There was nothing to see; total darkness all around, so he concentrated on the altimeter and GPS module. He didn’t even bother looking up at the stars overhead. He knew plenty of guys who enjoyed the adrenaline rush, the exhilaration of freefall, and who liked to relax and enjoy the ride. Not Avery. He hated every second of the experience. He wouldn’t relax until he was back on the ground, intact.

The infrared strobe light attached to the back of his harness was flashing, a beacon visible only to the other jumpers through their night optics. They’d be spaced about seventy feet apart in the sky, and they’d try not to become scattered too far apart on the way down, which was sometimes easier said than done, but fortunately there were low crosswinds tonight and they were all experienced with HALO.

Avery broke cloud level at roughly 10,000 feet, and the veil of darkness was lifted. Below, he saw shadowy, indistinct masses of land formations and a few scattered clusters of lights that denoted villages to his left, south.

As he continued to fall, topography grew increasingly delineated. He recognized land features, including the stretch of empty highway in front of him, from the satellite overheads he’d studied during the pre-mission prep work. Once acclimated, he adjusted his course and steered closer over to the landing zone.

And now that he had an unobstructed view of the desert floor rushing toward his face, he was removed of any illusion that he wasn’t falling.

His parachute deployed automatically at 3,000 feet, abruptly jerking him upright, giving his whole body a forceful jolt, especially in the groin, instantly reducing his rate of descent to twenty-five feet per second as the static lines went taught. He released a gasp when the harness snapped hard into his crotch, and he felt aches spread throughout the rest of his body from the blunt opening shock.

Looking up and listening carefully to the sounds around him, he checked his lines and risers and verified that his canopy had fully and properly unfurled and inflated, with the airfoil free of cuts or holes, because the tiniest laceration could quickly spread and collapse the entire canopy. Such a mishap at this altitude left one with precious little time to deploy the reserve.

But Avery had a good full and expanded canopy overhead and he was sailing smoothly through the air now. Gripping the toggles on his risers, he controlled his direction, staying away from the highway.

Glancing down, his boots were parallel with the desert terrain whipping by less than a mile below. He kept his eyes open for movement. They were supposed to be fifteen miles from the nearest village, which was on the other side of the low mountain ridge to the north, but that didn’t eliminate the possibility of landing right on top of an enemy patrol or bandits, or even civilian travelers.

Then something caught his eye, and he swore.

He was at 2,360 feet when he spotted the four figures, in flowing white thobes and turbans, guiding a pack of goats, slowly traversing the terrain to the west, less than a mile away. One goat pulled a wooden cart covered by a tarp.

Fuck knew what they were doing out here or where they were going at this time, but they could compromise the mission.

That was a problem because Avery sure as hell wasn’t in the mood to kill a bunch of noncombatants tonight. Plus, civilian or not, there was a good chance they were armed, because this was Yemen.

Fortunately, though, even if these nomadic goatherders happened to look skyward, Avery and his compatriots would be practically invisible until they were right over the goatherders.

Avery pulled his toggles and banked sharply to the left. Holding the flight pattern in a line above and behind him, with seventy feet between each man, Sam and Hix caught the sudden course change and followed suit.

Avery steered the element away from the goatherders, slipping behind their backs and increasing the gap from them to over a mile.

Bleeding off altitude quickly, Avery scanned the terrain, found his intended landing zone, and aimed for it. A nice flat open patch of heavily shaded land clear of dunes. At seven hundred feet, he squeezed his brakes, cutting his speed by half.

The ground came up at him fast now.  Lots of rocks, he noted as he drew closer. He’d have to look out for those, because now was not the time for a broken foot or sprained ankle.

Avery drew a deep breath, made his body tight, bracing himself. Descending to the desert floor, he stepped smoothly out of his landing, pulled off his helmet, and ripped off his oxygen mask to take deep breath of fresh air. The canopy deflated and collapsed behind him. He disconnected the lines and snapped his rifle off his vest. He brought his AK-74 into his shoulder and swept his surroundings.

Several seconds later Sam hit the ground fifty feet to his right.

Hix landed seventy feet back.

Where the fuck was Gomez? Avery thought looking around.

Finally, over a hundred feet away, he spotted another figure making landfall, his parachute canopy collapsing behind him and blowing off the ground. The former Marine disconnected from his rig, collected his chute, and hustled over to the others, who were scanning their surroundings, making sure they were alone.  

“Everyone good?” Avery asked softly, his voice barely rising above a whisper when Gomez reached them.

Sam nodded.

Hix flashed a thumbs-up as he sorted through his gear.

   Gomez looked a little haggard, breathing heavily. He shook his head. “My fucking chute tore. I had to pop my reserve at, like, two thousand feet. Scared the fucking shit out of me, man.”

Hix rolled his eyes as he reached for his tin of chew tobacco. “That’s why they shouldn’t send Marines to Airborne School.”

Gomez extended an upright middle finger in the former Green Beret’s direction.

Avery found nothing humorous in the situation.

“Shit.” He looked into the direction of the wind, which blew toward the mountain ridge. He tried to visualize where the nearest population centers were and in what directions they lay. Their chances of recovering the parachute where next to impossible. “Nothing we can do about it now.”

“FIDO?” asked Hix. Fuck It, Drive On. An old Ranger adage.

“FIDO,” said Avery. “Best we cover our tracks and get underway.”

They took a few minutes to gather their bearings, scan their new environment through night scopes and binos, and waited and listened.

The desert temperature was in the forties but it felt warm compared to the freezing temperatures at the top of the troposphere. There was a strong breeze and they could smell the burning tobacco from the goatherder’s pipes. Nearly everyone in Yemen smoked.

Satisfied no one saw them, they wordlessly collected their parachutes, bundled them, and stuffed them back into their containers. Moving swiftly and silently, they changed out of their Nomex and into Arab dress. Cotton and wool keffiyeh headdresses with colored patterns to denote local tribal affiliation. Shawls to conceal their faces. Thobes and bisht cloaks over their plate carriers, with slits cut into the folds of the loose-fitting garments to allow for easy access to their weapons.

The garments looked weathered, raggedy, and well-worn, and smelled of dokha, a type of tobacco widely smoked in Yemen. Streib’s people had made sure that Avery’s crew would not only look the part but smell it, too. That’s why Avery liked working for Streib. She had a good eye for detail and never missed a thing.

Next, they probed the ground, finding malleable soil to dig in and bury their discarded Nomex and HALO gear, which also lightened each man’s load to more comfortable levels.

Satisfied that all was in order, Avery selected the Israeli-made handheld GPS locator and got a reading, confirming they were right where they needed to be. They still had a lot of ground to cover and short time in which to do so. They set out at a measured pace, hiking southwest across the rugged land, under the night sky in a diamond formation, each man alert and covering his quadrant, with Avery taking point.

___

On the other side of the mountain ridge, the Yemeni militiaman in the back of the roving technical detected movement in the still night.

Putting a FLIR monocular to his eye, the Yemeni caught sight of the billowing shape blowing across the ground a hundred meters ahead and called out to the driver, who accelerated, turned off the road, and cut across the desert toward the mystery object.  Along the way, his compatriots in the truck’s bed scanned their surroundings with their rifles and the heavy onboard machinegun.

These militiamen were members of a Sunni tribe allied with the Saudi-UAE ground coalition. They routinely patrolled the rugged outbacks of Yemen in search of terrorist caravans and weapons smugglers.

When the technical braked to a stop, the militiamen jumped down from the bed, with one staying on the machinegun to cover them. Three spread apart and took up defensive positions. The fourth man walked forward, picked up the parachute, and examined it for a second before holding it up and calling out to his compatriots. The parachute was torn. Moisture on it suggested it had not been long laying in the desert. The wind betrayed what direction it came from. 

After a brief exchange among the militiamen in Arabic, they piled back into the technical, turned around, and headed back in the opposite direction at speed. After executing a broad sweep over the surrounding terrain and finding no signs of life, they decided to return to camp immediately and show their discovery to the American “advisers” stationed there. 

Past, Present, and Future Antagonists

The Spy Guys and Gals page for my books notes that series protagonist Avery is something of a cypher, but the bad guys are very good and given a lot of attention. This is deliberate on my part, and the reason why is perhaps the subject for a future blog post.

This trend is set to continue in the next two books. 

SCORPION: GRAY ZONE will heavily feature a real-life apocalyptic Russian neo-Nazi terrorist group called The Savior. More on that later.

First up, though, will be SCORPION: ROGUE STATE. 

Here, the primary antagonist is a former SEAL Team Six/CIA Ground Branch operator turned war criminal turned mercenary in the employ of the Saudis, after being blacklisted by Western government agencies and private military contractors. His work for the Saudis includes training terrorists to strike inside Iran, staging false flag attacks on Arab oil tankers, organizing an aborted coup in Qatar, running guns to al-Qaeda, and leading a mercenary army in Yemen. Psychotic, self-serving, and amoral, Rogue State will ultimately find Brett DeVane setting his sights on a Pakistani freighter delivering a covert shipment of nuclear warheads to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. 

Progress

Number Four is approximately halfway complete. Wrapping up the Yemen section of the story, and moving on to Part II (called "Empty Quiver"). Following a brief interlude in Pakistan, the remainder will take place in Sudan. Normally, I hate my own writing, but I'm actually kind of liking this so far, so I'm not sure if that's a good sign or not.

Book Review: EXILE by James Swallow

I've just read and reviewed James Swallow's EXILE, the sequel to NOMAD. There are currently four books in his Marc Dane available in the UK, but the first two have just recently been published in the US (with the third coming in February).

Both books are highly recommended, especially if you like international thrillers in the vein of Clancy, Ludlum, Forsyth, and Bond.

------

While "Nomad" mostly followed conventional thriller territory, "Exile" goes in a more imaginative direction, despite the central premise of Soviet nukes, both real and fake, floating around the black market

"Exile" is also very current and modern. James Swallow depicts a world where the actions of disparate non-state actors, including corporations, mercenaries, terrorists, and warlords, determine the global balance of power while traditional governments are reactionary bystanders.

Instead of the standard CIA agents, navy SEALs, or SAS soldiers pursuing jihadists and Russian spies, James Swallow's lead protagonists Marc Dane, former MI6 technical specialist, and Lucy Keyes, former Delta sniper, work for the private security arm of Rubicon, an international corporation. In "Exile," the responsibility of recovering the aforementioned rogue nuke falls to Rubicon, because Western governments simply do not believe Soviet suitcase nukes even exists, and European and UN bureaucrats won't risk their careers by even entertaining such an outlandish premise. Also on a mission to recover the nuke is a team of mercenaries in the employ of the Combine, a shadowy international cabal that seeks to manipulate conflict and world events for their own financial profit.

The stand-out character, however, is Abur Ramaas, the Somali pirate warlord who harbors a bitter and legitimate grudge against the West. He is absolutely ruthless, cunning, and dangerous, but his worldview and motivations are surprisingly sympathetic. He is not the typical generic terrorist one often finds in these novels.

The first quarter might be somewhat slow, especially for readers who expect the action to kick in early, as the beginning of this portion of the story mostly sets up the characters and the scenario, but once the (real) nuke comes into play and Marc Dane is reunited with Rubicon, the pace picks up and doesn't stop. The action scenes are superb and very creative, with plenty of detail on weapons, ammo, vehicles, structures, and geography. The Mission Impossible-esque infiltration of a CIA black site to abduct a prisoner and the battle on Ramaas's pirate haven aboard an oil rig are especially highlights.

"Exile," as well its predecessor and subsequent installments constitute a superlative international thriller series that is ideal for fans of Clancy, Ludlum, Brad Thor, 007, Splinter Cell, and many others. James Swallow draws elements and themes from all of these, but also subverts genre tropes and adds his own unique flare. Highly recommended.

Scorpion: Rogue State Chapter Two

The CIA Air Branch Gulfstream descended from the sky over Camp Lemonnier, home of the US military’s Combined Joint Task Force-Horn of Africa (CJTF-HOA), in the tiny Republic of Djibouti.

Looking out through the cabin porthole, Avery spotted F-15E Strike Eagles, a C-130 transport, and CH-53 helicopters lined up on the tarmac. Concrete sidewalks and gravel roads weaved through the rows of identical Quonset huts and containerized housing units (CHU), where the Marines, SEALs, pilots, technical specialists, and spies were billeted. Surrounding the 500-acre base was flat, tan desert, except on the east side, where the land receded into the cerulean waters of the Gulf of Aden, which was patrolled daily by over half-a-dozen of the world’s navies.

CJTF-HOA’s mandate was counterterrorism and counterpiracy. Regional threats included al-Qaeda, al-Shabab, Somali pirates, and anti-ship missiles launched from Houthi-held coastal territory in western Yemen. From this remote outpost, the US launched drone strikes, hostage rescue missions, and direct action in Yemen, Somalia, and elsewhere.

Without warning, the pilot executed a corkscrew landing, putting the jet in high altitude over Lemonnier, then descending in a rapid spiral. This made it harder for someone on the ground to track them with a shoulder-fired surface-to-air missile. More than a couple shots have been made against aircraft landing and taking off here, and the Chinese, who have a base at the Port of Doraleh, have taken to flashing blinding lasers at American pilots.

Though he hated the jarring, gut-wrenching maneuver, like being on the world’s fastest and highest rollercoaster, Avery didn’t show his discomfort in front of the other three contractors with whom he shared the cabin. One of them, a former Marine named Gomez, sat silently in his seat, clinging to the ends of his armrests, looking like he was focusing solely on not upchucking all over the cabin.

The ordeal ended quickly. The Gulfstream’s wheels soon bounced against the tarmac, giving its passengers a little jolt, and taxied to the hangar.

A crew member appeared and popped the hatch on the Gulfstream’s cabin. The sweltering 95° desert instantly sucked the cool air out of the plane. In addition to the heat, Djibouti was notorious for its humidity, now pushing eighty percent.

By the time he ambled down the airstairs with his rucksack slung over one shoulder, the first beads of perspiration were already seeping from Avery’s pores and trickling down his face into his beard, which already felt grimy and crusty after Iraq. He hadn’t even time to shower before boarding the first plane in Baghdad fourteen hours ago.

He averted his gaze downward, away from the burning glare of the sun. No matter how much time he’d spent in Middle Eastern deserts, there was no getting used to that initial shock when you first stepped off the plane in the middle of the afternoon heat.

Sam and Hix were right behind him, their boots clanging against the metal steps. The former muttered an obscenity in Arabic, clearly sharing Avery’s sentiment.

Sam was short for Samir, the son of Egyptian immigrants, sometimes a practicing Muslim, former army Special Forces and former Intelligence Support Activity, a classified special mission unit that collected human and signals intelligence and conducted direct action.

Sam spoke flawless Arabic and could easily pass himself off as a native almost anywhere in the Middle East. Once, he spent six nerve-wracking months undercover as a jihadist in Egypt, producing actionable intelligence on an Iranian-sponsored false flag terrorist plot against the US Embassy. Consequently, his mates bestowed the call sign “Wahabi” upon him, which, to an outsider, might seem rather ignominious, but Sam wore it with pride, as it spoke volumes of his abilities.

Hix was former Fifth Special Forces Group, former Delta. Green Berets, as SF soldiers are commonly referred to by outsiders but by no one in the community, are required to pick up a second language. Most took on even more than that. Hix had good Arabic, specifically the southern Arabic dialects spoken across southern Saudi Arabia, Oman, Yemen, Djibouti, and Somalia. His last assignment with the army placed him in Syria and Iraq as a translator with a specialized DIA interrogation unit targeting ISIS’s foreign fighters.

Avery didn’t know much about Gomez. The Salvadoran was former MARSOC Raider Regiment, former scout sniper. Like Hix, he also had prior experience in the region from his time in the Corps—Djibouti, Ethiopia, Somalia, on top of a deployment to Afghanistan. But Avery had never worked with the man before, had just met him on the tarmac at Baghdad before they took off.

At least Avery had worked with Sam before, the previous year, escorting case officers through war torn eastern Syria. He also knew people who knew Hix, which put him at ease with the former SF master sergeant.

Like Avery, they were all independent/private contractors working under CIA Global Response Staff’s Scorpion Unit. This was their first time working together, and no one had been told anything about why they were here.

At least Sam and Hix’s presence on the element, and Camp Lemonnier’s proximity to Yemen and Somalia, gave Avery some clue as to what this op was about and where they were headed.

Avery had worked Yemen in the past, when the US still had an embassy in Sanaa and special ops units and drones stationed at al-Anad Air Base. Hix had been there even more recently, after the current outbreak of fighting between Iranian-backed Houthi rebels, named after their fallen leader, and the Saudi-backed government of exiled President Abdrabbuh Hadi.

The country was a mess. On the flight over, Hix shared plenty of horror stories about the godawful place. Famine, drought, disease, mass civilian casualties. These days, by comparison, Yemen made Iraq or Syria look like first class vacation spots.

Throw in the fact that the fifth man on the team had come down with a brutal fever and was pulled off the op last minute, with Langley failing to find a qualified replacement in time, and they were already off to a less than stellar start.

Avery wasn’t regretting taking the job, though. At least not yet.

The reason he’d felt compelled—no, obligated—to take this job was because Carolyn Streib was mission controller. She was one of the case officers he’d escorted through Iraq last year. He’d fought and bled beside her in combat, during one brutal close call with ISIS in Fallujah. He’d also seen the way veteran Ground Branch and JSOC operators at Forward Operating Base Tampa, near Mosul, treated her as a rare equal rather than as someone to try to fuck

Streib was now a GS-11, something of a rising star in Near East Division, having gone from running agents to now running ops.

The thirty-seven-year-old woman who met them on the tarmac had shortly cut light, reddish hair, fair skin, and a lithe, athletic physique that was shaped by hours of indoor rock climbing, running, and tennis each week. She wore tan cargo pants, hiking boots, a drab T-shirt, polarized Oakley sunglasses, and a blue badge that hung around her neck, identifying her as OGA, or Other Government Agency, the CIA’s preferred cover name when operating out of military facilities.

“Welcome to Lemonnier, gentlemen,” Streib greeted them. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Avery, a pleasure to work with you again. I’m really glad you’re here. I was told it might take some convincing to bring you onboard.”

“Not at all. After Fallujah, I told you I’d be there be if you needed me. Anywhere, anytime.”

Fact was, he might not have even made out of Fallujah if it hadn’t been for Streib’s quick thinking and sharp reflexes.

“You might come to regret that.” Her tone suggested that she wasn’t completely joking.

“I don’t doubt it,” said Avery. “That’s Gomez. That’s Samir. And that’s Hix.” The former Marine nodded blankly, looking impatient. Sam gave a little wave with his free hand. Hix loaded a wad of chew tobacco inside his lip.  

Streib said, “You all come highly recommended. A pleasure to make your acquaintances, no doubt, but I’m sure you’d like to know what we’re doing here, and we’re running short on time since Air Branch decided to drag ass getting you guys here, so let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

Fifteen minutes later, she showed them to a plywood hut set behind a chain-linked fence topped with barbed wire. Tattooed, bearded men, armed with MP5s, stood guard at the gates. Nearby were other huts and a larger barracks-type compound, plus a couple Humvees and blacked-out, up-armored SUVs. This was the little corner of Lemonnier where the intel officers from the three-letter agencies plotted their spookery.

They sat down in old, dingy metal folding chairs at a table. Streib set up her laptop, spread out satellite overheads, and set down a platter of assorted mini-sandwiches with chips and Coke from the base’s dining facility, where there was a Subway restaurant, a rare amenity afforded to the men and women stationed here. 

Not knowing when his next meal would come, and by nature not a picky eater, Avery grabbed a plate, going for the turkey and bacon. He always horded calories and carbs before he launched, never knowing when the next opportunity might come. Plus, he carried little fast on his frame as it was.

“What’s the job?” asked Hix.

“Recovery and extraction.”

“Guess we’re not going hunting after all.” Hix had guessed that they were going after a terrorist HVT—high value target.

“Is it an asset?” Avery asked Streib.

“Not exactly.”

“What, then?”

“This is where it gets complicated.”

“How so?”

“Gamal Nasri is a Saudi opposition journalist. He’s actually the son of Palestinian refugees who made their way to Saudi Arabia many years ago We have in fact approached him in the past with a recruitment pitch, after we’d positively identified him from the numerous articles that he has anonymous written, but he shot us down cold. Although he despises the House of Saud, he’s by no means a fan of the US Government, mostly over Washington’s support for Israel. His political leanings seem to align with non-violent Islamism. Regardless, we still like to keep tabs on him.”

“What does that mean?” Avery asked.

“NSA monitors his phone, financial, and Internet activity. That alone has led to a couple juicy bits of intel over the past year.”

Streib laid down a photo of the man in question and slid it across the table.

Avery studied the face closely. He was looking at a light-skinned Arab with short, dark hair, an angular, almost gaunt face, glasses, and a beard. He looked to be in his mid-thirties.

Avery handed the photo to Sam and asked, “So why are we giving him a free ticket out of Yemen?”

“The details are classified, but NSA believes that Gamal Nasri is in possession of politically sensitive information. Information that the Saudis are willing to kill to suppress, as evidenced by the high priority termination sanction MBS placed on Nasri last week.” 

By MBS, Streib referred to the initials and common nickname of the controversial young man who served as crown prince and deputy prime minister, the heir to the throne of the House of Saud.

MBS was known for his hardline positions against Iran. After kidnapping the Lebanese prime minister and extorting the man of his personal fortune, plotting a failed a coup in Qatar, overseeing war crimes in Yemen, and ordering the murder of a journalist in the Saudi consulate in Istanbul, MBS has increasingly tried Washington’s patience.

Recently, the US Senate passed a resolution condemning MBS, which in turn infuriated the Saudis.

Avery knew State, Langley, and Congress would be relieved if King Salman kicked MBS to the curb and selected his brother as his successor. MBS’s increasingly brazen actions made it difficult for the politicians to justify taking Saudi money and not impose punitive sanctions on the Kingdom

It wasn’t difficult to read between the lines.

Avery said, “You think Nasri has something that can bring down MBS?”

Streib pursed her lips, making it clear she couldn’t answer that question while at the same time telling Avery all he needed to know. “Whatever it is, it’s important enough that MBS’s Tiger Squad chased him out of the Kingdom last week. We believe it’s related to the recent arrest of Badr Rahman, a deputy defense minister whom we long believed to be a part of silent cabal opposed to MBS’s impending rule.”

The Tiger Squad was the crown prince’s personal security force and death squad.

“So, where do we find this guy?” Gomez asked, reaching over the table to grab another sandwich.

“Geo-tracking places Nasri in Yemen,” Streib said.

“Yemen?” asked Hix. “Sure as shit wouldn’t be my first choice of spots to run to if the Saudis were after me.”

“His options were limited since his passport was flagged. Plus, he’s spent a lot of time in Yemen covering the war. He has contacts there and knows the lay of the land. Probably thought he could go to ground there or reach the coast and buy a ticket out aboard a smuggler’s trawler. Regardless, we know the Saudis and their local allies are looking for him, and they will find him sooner than later. I want you to get to him first and bring him out.”

“Oh, is that all?” asked Sam sarcastically. “Sure thing. Piece of cake.”

“Where in Yemen?” Avery asked Streib. He didn’t like the sound of this op either, but he was already committed.

“A place called Dartun, between Tarim and Qasm, in central Hadramawt Governate.”

Avery glanced over to Hix, who visibly tensed and said, “Hadramawt is infested with AQAP.”

Al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula was the largest and most dangerous al-Qaeda branch. Numbering several thousand fighters, plus allied Yemeni factions, AQAP controlled vast swaths of territory in parts of central and southern Yemen, where many of the biggest terrorist plots against the US and Europe over the past several years have originated, like the 2010 plot to explode American cargo planes in the sky, the 2015 Charlie Hebdo shooting in Paris, or the attempted assassination of Saudi Arabia’s intelligence chief by way of a double agent suicide bomber who had a wad of plastic explosives hidden in his rectum.

 “You have a rendezvous and contact procedures in place with Nasri?” Sam asked.

“We have not been in contact with him. In fact, he doesn’t know we’re coming for him.”

Avery exchanged uneasy looks with Sam.

“Sounds more like a snatch-and-grab than an extraction,” Hix observed.

“Also gives us a boatload of problems if he doesn’t want to come with us,” Avery added. “Maybe he’s happy hiding out in Hadramawt.”

“That’s not an option, whether he realized it or not,” Streib said. “Under the circumstances, though, I think you can convince him to come along.’

“What makes you so confident about that?”

“Nasri’s prospects of escaping Yemen on his own are bleak, and it’s certainly not safe for him to stay in Hadramawt. The Saudis will reach him eventually, or AQAP will. We’ve reached out to the Turks. Istanbul is willing to offer him a passport and asylum, to stick it to the Saudis, so you do have a bargaining chip to work with. We’re waiting to hear back from the Qataris about a similar offer. Additionally, Langley’s willing to pay good money him for his information.”

“He doesn’t sound like the type willing to sellout to the Americans,” Avery said.

“He doesn’t need to know you’re Americans, does he?” Streib replied. “But if he thinks you’re mercs sent by one of his influential benefactors in the Saudi exile community…”

“Nice.”

“Devious,” Sam said, nodding approval. “That just may work. I like it.”

“Does us no good if we can’t pinpoint his location,” Hix pointed out. “Yemen’s a big place.”

“Of course.” Streib smiled. “No Such Agency has triangulated his phone to this location, where the phone has remained stationary for the past forty-eight hours. Specifically, somewhere in the northeast corner of this building. Nasri, or at least his phone, has not moved more a than a hundred feet during that time.”

She sorted through the contents of a file folder, selected a satellite overhead, and laid it out on the table. The sat photo depicted a centuries-old, walled, fortress-like compound, or maybe a prison. Two technicals sat outside the main building—civilian pickup trucks converted into fighting vehicles with the addition of metal plates welded to the panels for armor and a heavy machinegun mounted to the bed. Armed guards stood outside the gates.

Additional overheads in the stack captured the surrounding area. Residents covered in robes and turbans were visible on the narrow, twisty streets, along with goats, donkeys, and cars. The area was comprised of mud-brick structures and dwellings that appeared to be stacked on top of one another. 

“Who’s running this compound?” asked Avery. “How do we know Nasri isn’t being held captive there?”

“The town is under the control of tribal militia whom Nasri worked with when he was covering the Yemeni war,” Streib said. “Maybe they are holding him prisoner, to work a deal with the Saudis, but more likely they’re protecting him. Don’t worry. I’m providing you with plenty of spending money.”

“This might be a dumb question,” Gomez said, “but has anyone considered just calling this guy? I know you spooks always get off on hatching up some brilliant, complex scheme. The simplest solution is usually the best, know what I’m saying?” 

“Spoken like a true jarhead,” Hix muttered.

“Regardless of what Avery may have told you,” Streib said, “not everyone in the Clandestine Service is quite that dense. Nasri’s phone has been powered off since he arrived in Yemen, maybe to save battery, maybe because he’s hoping no one will be able to track him that way, which is a common misconception. Lucky for us, Nasri didn’t remove the battery, which isn’t always possible to do with most smartphone models these days. A while back NSA remotely installed a nifty little Trojan on his phone. Dubbed ‘The Find,’ NSA’s app forces the handset, even if it’s turned off, to continue emitting signals every fifteen minutes, making it trackable at all times.”

“Who would have thought?” Sam quipped. “Maybe No Such Agency is good for something, after all.” 

Streib handed over an electronic device the size of a tablet. “You’ll be able to track the signal with this GPS device.”

“Why us, though?” asked Sam. “Sounds like a routine job for Ground Branch.”

“Or those Special Forces A-Teams Washington pretends we don’t have embedded with Yemeni militias, “Avery added.

“Trust me, I tried. I couldn’t get authorization from the Seventh Floor, and Special Activities Division wouldn’t take this op anyway.”

This also was to be expected, Avery thought, understanding full well what they were doing here. The situation was politically sensitive, as the suits and diplomats liked to say. Washington didn’t want any fingerprints on this, and they sure as hell didn’t want to risk upsetting the Saudis. That meant using outsiders. Private contractors.

Contractors had the enticing appeal of being deniable. Expendable. Exposable. 

Deniability was the reason the Saudis and Emiratis hired foreign mercenaries to fight in Yemen, like those forty Blackwater contractors who were killed when a Houthi ballistic missile struck their desert base. Deniability was the reason neither the White House nor the Kremlin gave a damn when American bombs and artillery pulverized over five hundred Russian military contractors and pro-Assad Alawite militiamen who were caught advancing against an American forward operating base in eastern Syria’s Deir ez-Zor region.

Of course, such arrangements carried certain benefits for the contractor, too, not the least of which was often a decent paycheck. Since everything was deniable anyway, independent operators like Avery weren’t bound by the same oversight and restrictions imposed on Ground Branch.

In the past, Avery had found it necessary to push that operational freedom to the max to fulfill his objectives, like last year, when he infiltrated rebel-held Donetsk in eastern Ukraine to have an off-the-books chat with a high-ranking FSB spymaster.

“Okay,” Sam said. “Cover for status? Method of insertion? Yemen’s not an easy place to get into these days.”

“No, it certainly is not,” Streib agreed. “With the Arab naval and air blockade in full effect, and the land borders with Oman and Saudi locked down, Yemen is one of the most isolated pieces of real estate in the world. It’s nearly impossible for foreigners to enter the country, unless they have diplomatic passports or special clearance—reporters, aid workers, UN officials, most of whom are then confined to Sanaa or Aden. Only specially approved charter flights or government flights are permitted in. Additionally, a special travel permit is then required to leave Sanaa and clear military checkpoints.”

“Fuck,” Gomez muttered. “And I thought dealing with the jihadis would be the worst of our problems.”

“No, the jihadis will be the least of our problems there,” said Hix. “I’m far more worried about the Arab coalition.”

 Streib said, “We’re lucky if we can get a case officer in Sanaa or Aden once a month or two, and most of the time the Arabs already have them pegged as CIA. For all intents and purposes, we’re blind and deaf in Yemen.”

“We’re obviously not getting diplomatic cover,” said Avery, “so I take it we’re going in as journos, or sneaking in aboard a humanitarian flight?”

But Streib shook her head. “Not feasible on such short notice. Visas are required thirty days in advance to enter Yemen. Also, once in country, journalists and aid workers’ freedom of movement is tightly restricted. All foreigners have government escorts who stay on them the entire time and report to the National Security Bureau and the Central Security Force. You wouldn’t get very far.”   

The State Department and groups like Amnesty International have extensively documented the Yemeni security services’ numerous human rights violations. Paramilitary raids, repression of political opposition, arrests and detentions without charges or trial, secret prisons, torture, and extrajudicial executions were all standard operating procedure. And it had only gotten worse since the outbreak of civil war. 

“You’ve partly been selected for this op due to your collective experience and skillsets,” said Streib, looking from one man to the other. “You’ll need to blend in and pass yourselves off amongst the local populace, stay off the Arab coalition’s radar, and go unnoticed by the aforementioned security forces and their allied militias, whom you will need to view as hostile actors. Beir Ahmed is not a place you want to end up.”

Avery knew Streib was referring to the UAE-run prison in Aden, where torture, rape, and mutilation were part of the daily regimen for inmates.

Gomez shook his head. “No fucking wonder Special Activities didn’t want to touch this.”

Unfazed, Streib said, “I can provide you access to an old Ground Branch safe house in Hadramawt. It will be stocked with MREs, bottled water, medical kits, fuel, weapons, ammo, and encrypted satellite communications.”  

“We’ll take it,” said Avery. “It’s better than nothing.”

“If it hasn’t been compromised yet,” said Sam.

“You still haven’t told us how you plan to get us in-country on such short notice,” Gomez told Streib.

“Doesn’t look like we’ll have enough time to insert by sea,” Avery noted. Disguised as a civilian trawler or something, he supposed it wouldn’t be too difficult to slip past the Saudi blockade, though. Hell, the Iranians managed to smuggle disassembled anti-ship missiles plus Kalashnikovs and RPGs by the hundreds past the blockade.  

Studying the satellite overheads of the terrain surrounding Dartun, recalling all the planes he’d spotted outside on the tarmac, Avery started to develop an unpleasant feeling in his gut. If inserting by land or sea wasn’t an option, given the time constraints and lack of official cover, that really left only one option.

“Shit,” he thought out loud.

“What is it?” asked Gomez.  

Streib told them, confirming Avery’s suspicion. Then she checked the time and said, “I’ve already arranged for the equipment you’ll need from the local SOCOM detachment. You launch in eight hours.” In response to Avery’s visible unease, she told him, “After this, you can consider all debts paid for Fallujah.”

“Damn right I can.”