“That’s a fact,” Garner said. “Now I’ve just got to get my Ranger to the YMCA for swimming lessons. Okay, Mr. Coleman, I don’t think you’re here to shoot the shit. What can I do you for?”
“It’s Scott,” Coleman said with a smile. “How serious were you about owing me one?”
“Should have seen that coming,” Garner said. “What can I do for the fine men and women of the Central Intelligence Agency?”
Coleman paused to gather his thoughts.
Though he’d been expecting to hear from Rapp, the call had come from Irene instead. With the no-nonsense manner for which she was known, Kennedy had relayed what Rapp had learned from Moradi. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much. Moradi knew where the Iranians were crossing with their HIG militia members into Afghanistan, but he didn’t know the group’s targets.
Hopefully, that would be enough.
“I need some muscle,” Coleman said. “Bad guys are coming across the Pakistani border with bad attitudes and bad intentions. I need help showing them the error of their ways.”
Garner frowned before answering. “I’m all about bringing the wrath of God down on deserving souls, but why don’t you just put warheads on their foreheads and call it a day?”
“Excellent question,” Coleman said. “This is a mixed group of shitbags. Most of them are your garden-variety HIG operatives trained in Iran, but a couple are Quds Force officers. I need at least one of the Iranians alive.”
“For questioning?”
“Questioning is too gentle a term for what I have in mind,” Coleman said, his smile evaporating. “I plan to interrogate the shit out of them. They’re carrying time-sensitive information about an imminent attack against American interests using Iranian modified surface-to-air missiles, and they may not be the only group of fighters entering Afghanistan. If I don’t get answers, people will die.”
Garner spat another brown stream into his cup before speaking. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Scott, but are you sure my men are the ones for this job? If you need a compound leveled, we’re your guys, but Rangers are more baseball bat than scalpel. Maybe you want to talk to the special mission folks?”
If Coleman had had any remaining doubts about Garner, they vanished. Possessing the mental and physical toughness needed to survive the legendary special operations pipeline was rare.
Knowing when your particular set of skills wasn’t up for the task was rarer still.
“I appreciate the honesty,” Coleman said, “but a baseball bat is exactly what I’m looking for. I’ve got a crew of hitters who can take care of securing the high-value targets. I need a blocking force to keep them in place and a QRF standing by in case things go sideways.”
“Blocking force,” Garner said. “I don’t know that I’ve ever heard a SEAL use a doctrinally correct term. Maybe the End Days really are upon us. Give me the details on your target convoy.”
“We’re looking for three vehicles coming through the Torkham border crossing,” Coleman said, ignoring the Ranger’s dig. Sometimes, the truth hurt.
“Shit,” Garner said, frowning as he traced the route from Pakistan on the map. “You know that’s the most highly trafficked border checkpoint in the country, right? Most of what comes into Afghanistan by ground uses that crossing. Do you know where they’re headed? It would be easier to interdict them farther west once the traffic thins.”
“No,” Coleman said, “and there’s more bad news. We also need to find the convoy.”
“Seriously?” Garner said. “Usually, hits come to us with the full package—Preds overhead and signals intelligence-driven geolocation from phones or radios courtesy of the NSA. All we worry about is kicking ass and taking names.”
“Not today,” Coleman said. “No SIGINT and no Preds on station. The ISR bird had a malfunction and returned to base. The replacement is en route, but it’s still an hour or more out. Our intel says the convoy’s already moving. We can’t wait for ISR coverage.”
“You’re supposed to hit a time-sensitive target that you can’t find, and you have zero ISR assets to help with the search,” Garner said. “Did I miss anything?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Coleman said, his heart sinking.
“Then you need more than a blocking force. Someone’s got to do a zone reconnaissance to find your convoy.”
“Your boys?” Coleman said.
Garner shook his head as he studied the map. “I can’t cover an area that large. To be safe, the recon would need to begin ten or fifteen kilometers on the western side of the border and work east toward Pakistan. That’s a mission for the cavalry.”
“Cavalry?” Coleman said. “Like cowboys and Indians?”
“Forget what I said about you being an enlightened SEAL,” Garner said. “Yes, like cowboys and Indians, except the cavalry I’m thinking about uses helicopters instead of horses.”
“Helicopters?” Coleman said.
“Apache gunships to be exact,” Garner said.
“And you can task them?” Coleman said.
Garner laughed. “Not a chance. The flyboys don’t work for me, but I know the troop commander. I can put in a good word, but the mission request has to come from you.”
“Do I need to fill out paperwork?” Coleman said.
“Nah,” Garner said. “Gunship pilots love to do two things and one of them is flying. Unfortunately, they’re in the middle of doing the other thing right now.”
“I’m afraid to ask,” Coleman said.
Garner laughed again. “It’s better if you take a gander yourself. Two-Six Cavalry is set up on the non-SOF side of the compound. Turn right once you leave my TOC and follow the smell.”
“The smell of what?”
“Steak.”
CHAPTER 56
AS a SEAL, Coleman was certainly familiar with Army flyboys, but his experience had been almost exclusively with the 160th Night Stalkers, not general aviation. As such, he wasn’t sure what he would find as he followed the mouthwatering scent of grilling meat out the gates that delineated SOF country toward the section of airfield that housed the general aviation units.
