Paul McKellips - Jericho 3

“Alright, listen up,” Brick said as he called the meeting to order. “Manson has pegged our movement at point-six kilometers per hour based on the terrain maps and satellite imagery of the trails. We’re 100-percent snow-covered up there, but we have to move in and move out. We’ve got 22 miles from ingress to target at Datta Khel Village in Miran Shah District. People, that’s 59 hours of high-terrain hiking and one four-hour sleep break on the way in and the same thing on the way out.”

“No trips to the bazaar, Brick?”

Brick didn’t even acknowledge Staff Sergeant “Dex” or his wise-ass attempt at humor.

“Geek, you’ve got the floor,” Brick said as he took a seat next to Camp.

“Human intelligence is a major component of this mission. We can’t simply rely on the Terp’s recollection of a particular house in some alley. Nothing from the birds can really help us out at this point. Omid?”

Geek’s eyes lifted and a man of solid build entered from the back of the room.

“Good afternoon, Alpha, Camp… Finn,” Omid said as he took center stage in the chilled room.

Finn quickly put his glasses on and gave Omid the once over inspection. Omid looked to be about Camp’s age. His chest was well-developed and he carried himself with poise and bearing. He was shorter than Camp. His boots were new and his clothing was both rugged and stylish. Omid’s eyes didn’t dart around the room, but rather focused in on each subject with laser-guided precision.

“Persian?” Finn asked Omid who was not given the chance to reply.

“Details are not important, Finn. Omid will be helping us with this mission. He knows the route, the people, the risks and the village in Miran Shah District. We’ve been working with Omid for several years and his HUMINT work is second to none, reliable above reproach,” Geek said as both he and Omid sat down.

“At 0400 our rehearsal goes green. We’re going four miles up and only half a click in to the Paki’s side of the border. We’ll simulate the extraction, load the Tac4 with 200-pounds of rocks to simulate Banks, and egress. Total mission time is 24 hours. We may encounter hostiles so we’re lock and load, yellow and red, as needed. If the rehearsal goes according to plan, I’ll brief Command, and if we get the approval, we go. Questions? Get some chow, hit your rolls, and we go at 0400,” Brick said as Omid stared at Camp.

“Navy SEAL now a doctor?” Omid asked.

Camp picked up his things and stood. “I believe the man said details are not important.”

Ham and Dex walked back into the open room carrying a huge pot of steaming soup and placed it on the open fire. The ODA team lined up followed by Omid, Finn and Camp. They all filled their tin cups with hot soup and found places around the abandoned house to sit on their folding metal tripod ruck stools. Omid ate quickly as Finn looked over somewhat disgusted by his hunger and his etiquette.

“You know there’s pork in the soup, right?” Finn teased as Omid stopped eating for a second and then increased his eating speed.

“Really?” Omid said as he continued eating. “I cooked this soup, but I don’t remember putting pork in the pot. We were short of broth, so, yes, I did have to piss in the kettle first, but I don’t remember adding any pork.”

Finn looked over at Omid then down at his soup as Finn’s appetite escaped the room. Camp was finally smiling.

“Let me guess, Iranian Revolutionary Guard,” Finn said triumphantly as though he had made a significant investigatory discovery.

“You’re good,” Omid said not taking his eyes off the next spoonful of soup. “And you?”

“Retired,” Finn said.

“Finn… when you were in the FBI’s New York field office, was Dalton Fischer still the director?” Omid asked.

Finn looked shocked but said nothing.

“I worked for Dalton on many occasions. Tell him Pablo says hello,” Omid finished his soup and ladled out some more. Camp looked over at Finn as the dynamic had just taken an unexpected turn toward exciting.

“You know Pablo?” Finn finally stuttered.

Omid looked up and into Finn’s eyes.

“I am Pablo.”

“Okay will someone clue me in here,” Camp injected. “The Iranian intelligence officer from the Revolutionary Guard who pissed in our kettle of soup knows your former boss?”

“For the last 15 years or so, the FBI has had some noteworthy double-agents from Iran, none more accurate or trustworthy than a man they simply called Pablo. Dalton Fischer and one of our intel guys met with this Pablo a few times in Europe and even twice in New York.”

“It wasn’t a guy, Mr. Finn. You must be talking about Susan Francis. She was the intel specialist Dalton brought along. Last I heard from Susan, her father had cancer,” Omid said as he devoured another cup of soup.

Finn leaned back on his ruck stool.

“He died… Susan’s father died of colon cancer.”

“Okay Finn… so I’m guessing you’re okay with all this now,” Camp asked. “So are you Omid or Pablo?”

“Neither actually, but you probably could figure that out by now.”

“So how do you manage to just waltz out of Iran and into other countries for these covert assignments?” Finn asked.

“I tell the authorities that my father needs constant help, Finn. He was wounded in an attack in 1981 and left a paraplegic. He’s in a convalescent home in Islamabad.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that,” Camp said.

“Don’t be, not anymore at least. The truth is that he died in 1981 after the attack. I was only six, just after the Revolution began. He was ambushed, shot, and then died several months later. I kept him alive in my reports and it became a convenient story. I even have nurses, doctors and caregivers who call and send letters from my father to the authorities. Works out nice.”

“How did you get in this time?” Finn asked.

“Commercial flight to Islamabad, rode out with Pakistan troops to the Federally Administered Tribal Areas, and they dropped me off in Miran Shah District. Did a little business then changed and geared up in my safe house and rode over to Datta Khel Village in the back of a truck. Spent a few hours, located where I think your major is, hiked through the Hindu Kush and then pissed in your soup.”

Finn and Camp looked at each other in utter amazement. Finn got up. “I’m gonna hit my roll. Early morning coming.” Finn placed his dirty cup in the ammo box and found his place against the back wall of the room as the rest of Operation Detachment Alpha were winding down with iPods and PS3 portable play stations so they could play combat war games until they fell asleep.

Camp moved closer to the fire as Omid stoked the flames.

“So tell me Omid, why do you do this? For the money?”

His brown eyes fixated by the fire, Omid smiled and shook his head.

“I love my country. I love the Iranians and the Persian people. I would gladly die for my land. The revolution in 1979 hijacked the soul of the Iranian people and plunged all of us into a black hole of religious fundamentalism under the Ayatollah Khomeini. But we have never lost hope; there will be a Persian Renaissance… someday… inshallah.”

“Before or after you drop nukes on Israel?” Camp asked with no hint of pleasure in his voice.

“You Americans,” Omid scoffed as he kicked a small branch into the fire pit. “You still have a Cold War mentality. You still act like Kremlinologists, you read the tea leaves, listen to the rhetoric as sabers rattle and then try to interpret events with no evidence at all, no understanding at all.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. We’ve got inspectors from the IAEA and satellite imagery of your nuclear facilities and our intel is somehow tea leaves, interpretation without evidence? Give me a break.”