Son of Syria Read online

  SON OF SYRIA

  A Kyle Hoyek Novel

  BY BEN SCHAFER

  Copyright © 2017 by Ben Schafer. All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is dedicated to my father, William Schafer, my sounding board and my first fan

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SPECIAL THANKS

  CHAPTER ONE

  “TAADI!” the rough-hewn man yelled as he shook a well-worn AK-47 in his bony hands.

  He imbued the single word with a sense of urgency and used a tone that needed no translation. Hurry! The men removing unmarked boxes from the back of a military surplus cargo truck redoubled their efforts, unwilling to incur the displeasure of their commander. Members of the Taliban possessed short tempers, and even tribal loyalty would not protect the workers if they did not perform to expectations.

  With his black turban and long beard, the Taliban commander stood out from the rest of the men assembled in the valley. He was in an obvious rush to get the supplies transferred from the large cargo truck to his small fleet of pickups before any of his enemies discovered where he was.

  But he was already too late.

  From a hide site near the crest of a hill two hundred yards away, I watched the scene unfold through a spotter’s scope. The scope was the kind used by military and police sniper teams around the world, and it gave me a great view of the commotion in the valley. While I had some skill in long-distance marksmanship, my purpose here was information rather than assassination.

  I took my eye away from the scope to make a quick notation in the notepad beside my right arm. The notepad was a treasure trove of intelligence and, combined with the video recorder on the tripod beside me, would provide my employers with a better picture of the situation that was developing along the lawless Afghanistan-Pakistan border. This narrow valley a few miles from the border town of Spin Boldak saw a lot of traffic from insurgents and smugglers and made the most logical place to observe all the comings and goings.

  My employers had obtained intelligence about a significant transfer of weapons from a unit of hardened Taliban fighters in Pakistan to an affiliated tribal militia based in the Spin Boldak region. I was here to document it so that the players could be identified and tracked later.

  Even from this distance, the professional jihadists were easy to pick out of the small crowd of workers. The heavily armed men wore olive-drab chest pouches full of spare magazines. I knew that these men or others like them would use the guns, rockets, and other weapons contained in those crates to kill hundreds of innocent people.

  When I looked through the eyepiece again, I saw that the situation had changed. In addition to the Taliban commander and a handful of native Afghans, there were two new figures, one man and one woman, standing beside the truck. These newcomers had thick black hoods covering their heads and their hands were tied behind their backs. Their skin was sallow where it wasn’t marked with ugly purple bruises.

  While approaching the truck, the woman stumbled and fell. One of the Afghan workers reached down to help her get to her feet, but the commander slapped him across the face and shouted more commands in Pashto. The worker retreated, unwilling to meet the big man’s gaze. The commander enjoyed watching his captive struggle to stand up without any assistance. Slow and unsteady, the woman finally managed to rise onto her hands and knees. But the Taliban commander flicked his boot and caused the woman to fall over once more. The man struggled against his captors but was held firm in their grasp. A few of the fighters laughed at the prisoner’s torment as she clawed at the rocky soil.

  I frowned as I considered the scene. Our information made no mention of any prisoners. But our sources were not as well-placed as we believed. The revelation made the whole situation much more complicated.

  The new intelligence limited the possible force that could be brought to bear against these terrorists. The idea of sending an attack helicopter to obliterate the Taliban forces was out of the question now. There was a limited amount of time in which a rescue could be mounted before the captives died of starvation or were executed.

  I made sure to take notes about the details regarding the captives: estimated height, weight, age, ethnicity, and any unusual elements of their appearance. The sacks over their heads prevented me from seeing their faces, so a positive identification was out of the picture. This information needed to be relayed to my superiors at once.

  I pushed the button on my two-way radio. The little box squawked as I spoke into it. “Central, this is Kyle. I have visual on seven vehicles: one deuce-and-a-half cargo truck, four Toyota Hilux pickup trucks, and two technicals with .50 cals providing fire support.”

  Technicals were pickup trucks, but instead of carrying men or supplies they each had an M2 Browning machine gun bolted to the bed. The improvised fighting vehicles were ubiquitous throughout Africa, the Middle East, and Central Asia, giving any would-be warlord rapidly deployable firepower at discount prices.

  “I see workers unloading crates of weapons from the back of the cargo truck and dividing them among the pickups. I estimate twenty-five enemy combatants in the target area.”

  “Roger that, Kyle,” came the reply. It was a male voice that spoke English, albeit with a pronounced Italian accent. “We will relay the data to NATO commanders in the area.”

  “Be advised, it looks like the payment for the weapons is two captives, one male and one female. Repeat, the enemy is in possession of prisoners.” I relayed the data I had collected about the prisoners.

  If they had any information about the captives, the man on the radio didn’t mention it. The response was simply, “Understood. Stand by for further orders.”

  As I waited for Central to return with more information, I noticed a new sound, a sort of low buzz that filled the air. Years ago, it would have been reassuring, but now it meant trouble. I activated my radio. “Central, are there any Reaper flights scheduled for today?”

  There was a brief pause as they accessed the information. “We have
no information on any drone flights.”

  “Well, there’s one overhead right now, and I’d like to know what the hell is going on.”

  “Hold on while we contact the local commander.”

  “Why do I feel like I’m calling my bank? ‘Press nine if you would like to speak with a live representative.’” There was nothing I could do but wait. Central was at the center of a web of information, but it would take time to find specific details.

  My organization was not an official part of operations in Afghanistan. If things went wrong and Congress asked, no one had any knowledge that I was here. We offered key military and intelligence leaders a unique resource and complete deniability if things went south. In exchange, they were more than willing to give us mission-critical information when we needed it. To the Department of Defense and other government agencies, we were simply a private security company that specialized in hostage negotiations. It was close enough to the truth to suit our purposes.

  Central came back on the radio. “The United States Air Force launched an MQ-9 Reaper drone one hour and ten minutes ago from Kandahar on a search and destroy mission. They were not informed of your deployment to the area.”

  The MQ-9 Reaper was the weaponized version of the more famous MQ-1 Predator drone. Over the past few years, drone strikes had become the scourge of terrorists around the world. The Air Force planned to turn this convoy into a twisted pile of wreckage.

  Under normal circumstances, I would love to sit back and watch the magic of modern technology wipe some scumbags off the face of the earth. When the pickup trucks were fully loaded, the insurgents would split up and disappear into the heart of the country until it was time to use those weapons to kill innocents. Now was the logical time to strike. But there were two prisoners down there who would die, and I could not allow that to happen.

  “Have you informed the Air Force about the prisoners?”

  “We relayed your information. Even if they believe it, it’s too late to stop the attack. The decision has been made.” There was a brief pause, then Central added, “I am sorry.”

  “Are you telling me to let these people die?”

  “That is a cruel way of putting it, but—”

  “Put Cuvier on the line,” I interrupted.

  There was a resigned sigh on the other end of the line. “Mr. Cuvier is on assignment and out of contact. He would only tell you to stand down, anyway.”

  “I’d still like to hear it from him.”

  The man at Central put more steel into his voice. “Your mission is to observe and report, not to engage. You are not authorized to participate in direct action against the target. There is nothing you can do. Radio when it is clear to—”

  I turned the radio off. “Maybe there’s nothing you can do.” He had a point. Any sane soldier knew well enough to follow orders, unpleasant though they might be, and allow events to take their course. One soldier could not possibly face such a well-armed force of Taliban fighters and even hope to survive, much less achieve victory. But I was not a soldier.

  I was a Knight.

  I was a member of the Order of St. Adrian, a modern-day military order and spiritual successor to the Knights Templar. I was one of only a handful of elite operators, known within the Order as “Knights,” who traveled around the world to save innocent lives. If this wasn’t a situation that called for my unique skillset, I didn’t know what was.

  I crept out of the hide site to avoid attracting attention. I grabbed my M4 carbine and started to descend the hill. It was steeper than it looked, and I nearly lost my footing more than once. I had to be careful not to cause a rockslide that could give away my position, but I only had a short window to act. I knew it may already be too late. But if there was even a chance that I could save those prisoners, I had to take it.

  When I reached the bottom, I could not believe that the Taliban forces were still trying to load up the convoy. Maybe the rumble of engines had drowned out the sound of the incoming drone. Perhaps these men did not associate the sound with danger. Whatever the reason, the men seemed relaxed. As it was, none of them were concerned about what was about to happen.

  Then the first missile struck.

  CHAPTER TWO

  HELLFIRE missiles were designed to penetrate the armor of the most advanced battle tanks in the world. It ripped through the chassis of the pickup truck like it was paper and set off a massive fireball that billowed up to the clear blue sky. The men sitting inside the truck died in an instant. Those who were stacking boxes in the back were not so lucky. I saw three people running around in a panic as fire consumed their bodies. The breeze carried the unmistakable scent of cooked flesh, and I felt bile rise in my throat.

  I increased my speed to a full sprint. If the Taliban spotted me, I’d be in trouble, but they had bigger concerns at the moment. Another missile detonated and flipped one of the technicals onto its roof. Whoever was controlling the drone knew what they were doing. The rest of the vehicles were trapped in the valley by burning wreckage and would be easy targets for the Reaper.

  The Taliban fighter manning the M2 machine gun on the surviving technical loosed a barrage on the American machine that rained death from the sky. It didn’t do him any good. As my boots crunched on the uneven ground, he must have seen me coming. The distinct chugging sound of the heavy weapon grew louder and huge pieces of metal whizzed by my head. Clouds of dust and debris whipped into the air as rounds impacted the hard, rocky soil behind me.

  Without slowing down, I lined up a quick shot and pulled the trigger. A 5.56 millimeter NATO round is puny when compared to the mighty .50 caliber, but accuracy proved the difference. Of the six rounds I fired, four managed to hit the gunner in the chest, and his powerful weapon went silent. The gunner hadn’t been the only one to notice me, and a moment later bullets filled the air, each fired with the same carelessness demonstrated by the fallen gunner.

  Raging flames ignited something in one of the trucks. I was close enough that the shock wave from the secondary explosion caused me to stumble and land hard on the rocky ground. Something in my left arm popped and sent lightning through my nerves, but through some minor miracle I maintained my grip on my rifle. I would have to worry about the damage to my arm later.

  As bullets ricocheted around me, I scrambled for the relative safety of one of the pickup trucks. I had to keep moving. If the Reaper fired another missile, I’d be charcoal. From there, I scanned the area for the captives. I found them kneeling to the right of the Taliban commander. The bearded man screamed orders to his men, trying desperately to be heard over the roaring flames.

  I crawled out from under the truck, placing most of my weight on my right side to favor my injured arm, and crept toward the prisoners. They trembled with fear. Their clothes were filthy and smelled like human waste. With the bags over their heads, there was no way for them to know what was happening. They only knew that someone was shooting, something had exploded, and even the Taliban commander was scared. That fact by itself made them terrified.

  As I approached the captives, a Taliban soldier appeared from my blind spot and swung his AK-47 at me like a club. I swept my own rifle in a frantic block, but the force of the blow sent the M4 flying from my weakened grip. My opponent, weapon still in hand, recovered and pointed his gun at me, but I pushed the barrel away from me with my left hand and threw a fast punch at the other man’s throat. I followed that with an ankle sweep that knocked him to the ground. He fell hard and didn’t get back up.

  The fight attracted the Taliban commander’s attention. While I was engaged in the melee, he shoved the prisoners into the large cargo truck and started the engine. His eyes were wild, desperate, and I knew I had to get to him now before the prisoners were lost forever.

  I ran toward the truck as fast as my legs could carry me. My lungs burned from the effort. Billowing clouds of dust and black smoke clogged the air. I prayed that no one would take advantage of my vulnerability and shoot me in the back.

/>   I shouldn’t have worried. The fighters who weren’t engulfed in flames were too busy fleeing the carnage to care. They also failed to notice that their commander had abandoned them to their fate. One man in a tactical vest was trying to find a way out of the valley when the heavy truck slammed into him from behind. The commander didn’t slow down as the wheels crushed the life out of one of his loyal followers.

  Burning, twisted metal obstructed the narrow mouth of the valley. It didn’t faze the Taliban commander. He smashed his vehicle into the wreckage and succeeded in shaking it loose from the rocky hillside. It still blocked the path, but it wasn’t wedged in place any longer. The commander threw his vehicle into reverse just as another missile obliterated a third truck. The surviving men surrendered any pretense of discipline and scurried on hands and knees to ascend the rocky hillside to flee the jaws of death.

  Before the commander shifted gears, I leapt onto the side of the truck by the driver’s door. I barely managed to hang on to the climbing handle beside the door. The commander spotted me and pulled his pistol out of its holster. He stuck his left arm out of the open window and started shooting. I wedged my body into the gap between the cab and the cargo bed and the shots sailed into the stony soil.

  I grabbed his wrist with my free hand and pulled his arm out of the window as hard as I could. The commander struck his head on the door and was stunned for a critical second. Taking advantage of the opportunity, I opened the door and tossed the commander out of the driver’s seat. He fell to the ground in an ugly heap and I slid behind the wheel.

  I shifted into drive and slammed the accelerator as hard as I could. I had just enough time for a whispered prayer before the truck slammed into the debris at the entrance to the valley.

  The truck smashed into the barricade again. I held fast to the steering wheel trying to keep some level of control, but this was a contest of physics at this point. We won. The huge truck tossed the wreckage aside in a scream of metal scraping against metal. The cargo truck bounced and shook and sprayed clouds of dust into the air. Then we were back on solid ground. With that, I was out of the kill zone.