The Shadow Patrol

“I didn’t know you guys ever went out under NOC in teams that small.”

“Not before this. It’s kind of a pilot project, and there’re only a few guys who can do it anyway. You have to have the language down.”

Something about what Stout had said bugged Wells. He wasn’t sure why. He moved on.

“What about Francesca? You said he’s odd.”

“You know snipers. How can that not get to you? Plus he’s on his third tour. He and Alders call themselves the Shadow Patrol. It’s sort of a joke, but sort of not, you understand. And he has this weird high-pitched giggle that comes out sometimes, not necessarily when anybody’s made a joke. Like he’s a hyena or something.” Stout demonstrated.

“I can see why you wouldn’t want him babysitting.”

“Definitely not.”

“These 71 teams live in your barracks?”

“Yeah. You know where we are?”

Wells shook his head.

“This high-sec compound close to the main airfield terminal. Called Bengal. On the maps it’s just listed as extra officers’ housing, but if you walk by you’ll see fifteen-foot walls, barbed wire, lots of aerials. We even have a helipad inside, although we can’t use it except if we declare CMS.”

“CMS?”

“Critical Mission Status, like we think we can catch Mullah Omar but we have to go immediately. Otherwise the Air Force controllers hate any air traffic south of the runway. For regular missions we go from the helo ramps on the north side like everybody else. Anyway, the 71 teams almost never go out by helicopter. They have local vehicles and they wear local clothes outside the wire. True black ops. When they’re at Bengal, they hang out a little bit, eat with us and work out sometimes, but mostly they stick to themselves and practice speaking Pashtun.”

“And you have different missions anyway.”

“Right. You know what we do. Go out in traditional teams, mostly on modified Black Hawks that can refuel in the air. On my first tour, seven years ago, we rode in GMVs.” The GMVs were the Special Forces equivalent of Humvees, modified with smoke-spouting canisters and.50 caliber rifles on top. To save weight, they had lighter armor, sometimes no armor at all.

“Dune buggies.”

“Maximum speed and firepower. Those were fun. Too bad we can’t use ’em now, but a big IED will just vaporize them. So mainly we go airborne, these night raids. But the 71s, they just take their pickup trucks, drive off base, and disappear. Sometimes they support us, sit on an exfil route for a house or villa we’re targeting, pick off stragglers once we get them moving. But mostly they just go their own way, do whatever it is they’ve been tasked for, come back a few days later needing a shower and a hot meal.”

Stout turned right and headed east along the northern edge of the base. To the north, a blimp hung eerily in the night sky. Its cameras watched the mountain where insurgents tried to set up rockets to fire at KAF. Wells wondered what the Afghans — most of whom had never seen a plane that wasn’t a threat to bomb them — made of the blimps.

“I’m guessing they don’t keep their vehicles inside your compound.”

“Heck, no. They mostly enter and leave at night. We’ve got a side entrance that dumps guys into the back of a DFAC. In case somebody’s keeping an eye on the front gate. You know, going outside the wire the way they do, no armor and soft-skinned vehicles, they’d be dead in an hour if they got made.”

Stout had just given Wells the break that he needed. “They use local weapons?”

“From what I can see, generally no. They like the.50 for the range. Their pickups have a hidden compartment welded underneath the bed for their rifles, their uniforms, whatever else they’re using.”

“They carry American uniforms?” Wells didn’t understand, and then he did. “If they get to the point where someone is checking that closely, their covers won’t hold anyway.”

“Correct. They’re not trying to live in a village for months or anything. Not looking to infiltrate AQ like you did back in the day. Just get scalps and go.”

Francesca was in an ideal position to move the drugs, Wells saw. He could move freely on both sides of the wire. Wells wondered why he didn’t pick the stuff up himself instead of depending on Weston and Rodriguez. But snipers preferred to keep their distance from the enemy. Francesca might figure he and his spotter wouldn’t be safe in a face-to-face meet.

Stout reached the eastern edge of the airfield, made another right turn and bumped south, toward the center of the base.

“One last question and then I have a favor. I know you don’t know him that well, but does Francesca strike you as the kind of guy who could do this?”

Stout was silent for so long that Wells thought he didn’t plan to answer. Then he laughed, a short, sharp bark. “I’m not sure what kind of guys any of us are anymore. What’s your favor?”

“I need to see where Francesca parks his pickup.”

“You said you weren’t planning to do anything.”

“I’m not. Not unless he gives me reason.”

Stout went quiet again. Then he pulled the pickup to the side of the road. A Humvee behind honked and flashed its brights and he waved it by. “You want me to hang one of my own out. Detachment 71, it makes no difference, the guy’s Delta. On no evidence, no photos, no SIGINT, nothing. Gaffan asked me to talk to you and I’ve known him a long time, so here I am. But I got to tell you that inside the community, a lot of guys don’t like you. The whole Muslim thing, it’s just weird.”

Wells felt his temper rise. “Ask me what you want, but don’t question my faith.”

“Guess what I’m asking you is, which one, John? Which faith? Islam or America? The way you quit the agency, went to work for the Saudis.”

The ones who don’t know me, is this how they see me? Even now? Wells had thought he put these questions to rest on his very first mission after coming home, when he’d stopped the Times Square bombing. And maybe he had for a while. But the way Duto used him in the Midnight House mission, and then the way he’d quit and gone solo afterward, had obviously started the whispers again. Wells felt a lowing in his stomach. Even among these men, he was an outsider.

Wells could have explained everything. But Stout hadn’t earned the right to ask. “Gaffan’s friends with both of us. He’ll tell you who I am. I’ve been straight with you, every word. If I’m right about Francesca, he’s gonna go after the sergeant who made him. I promised that guy I’d protect him and I’m gonna keep my word. As for Francesca, I’m telling you I won’t lay a finger on him unless I’m sure. My word’s not enough, then we’re done talking. I’ll find another way.”

Stout exhaled, long and deep, like a truck releasing its air brakes. Wells didn’t say another word. Neither did Stout. Didn’t tip his hand. Just put the Jeep in gear and rolled south, toward the heart of the airfield.

PART THREE

24

LANGLEY

Colonel Gary Cunningham commanded the unit officially known as 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment — Delta. He was only a full bird, but plenty of generals would have given their stars to have his job. His conversation with Shafer went three minutes, two minutes longer than Shafer expected.

“Colonel.”

“Mr. Shafer.”

“Thanks for taking the time to talk.”