before heading to the secure express elevator.
Placing his hand on the biometric scanner, Vann waited for the stainless steel doors to slide open and then inserted his keycard into the magnetic reader mounted to the panel. The small LED light switched from red to green, the doors closed, and the elevator shot up toward the top floor.
The car came to a silent halt, and the doors opened, revealing the generalâs aide standing patiently with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.
âHere you go, boss,â Captain Chad Brantley said, offering the cup to the general.
âWhere are we?â Vann asked while they walked down a nondescript hallway, passing his office on the left.
Captain Brantley looked every inch the soldier, despite wearing civilian clothes. His dark beard was neatly trimmed, and his skin held the burnished bronze of a man who spent most of his time outdoors. His thick neck and broad shoulders gave him the look of a college linebacker, but he possessed a catlike grace that hinted at a deeper, predatory nature.
âItâs a shit show, sir,â he said, waving his identification card over the reader attached to the solid steel door.
The lock disengaged with a metallic click, and Vann took a sip of coffee before stepping into the chaos of the tactical operations center, or TOC. The general had developed a taste for strong Arabian coffee during his time in Yemen, and insisted that his staff keep a pot going at all times. He drank five or six cups a day.
As the deputy director of the DIA, Vann had the unenviable burden of keeping tabs on the jihadists who flowed into Syria like water from a broken dam, and the TOC was the nerve center of his unenviable task.
He had made a name for himself in Iraq. As a member of Task Force 121, his crowning moment came in 2006, when his men found and killed Abu Musab al-ZarqawiâOsama bin Ladenâs heir apparent in Iraq in 2006. Vann was known for getting results, and he had left a trail of bodies as proof of his lethal abilities.
But this was different. Unlike his time in Iraq and Afghanistan, he didnât have the assets to get his people out of trouble. Worse than that, the general knew that there was no end in sight to the war he had been fighting since 2001. America was finally learning that there was absolutely no way it could kill its way out of this war, but that didnât mean the United States wasnât going to try.
The TOC was always a frantic place, but with an active mission under way, it bordered on chaotic. Individual monitors covered the walls, but the room was dominated by a large screen, upon which the Reaper drone beamed a clear feed back to the States. Vannâs team members either sat before their monitors or moved briskly from station to station, passing pertinent intel. At the moment, everyone was focused on the two smoking birds lying stricken on the ground in Syria.
âThey really fucked us on this one, sir,â Captain Brantley said while Vann took his place at the center of the bustling room.
The general studied the downed helos and took another sip of the coffee. There was way too much movement on the edges of the crash site. Jihadistâs flooded the area, but it was the lack of movement from any friendlies around the birds that made his stomach sink.
âWhat happened?â
âWe think they used a MANPAD on the first bird.â
âWhere the hell are they getting surface-to-air missiles?â
âNo idea, sir. We assume they must have limited numbers because they used an RPG to knock out the second bird. I have no idea how the pilot managed to get it on the ground,â he said, pointing to the second craft, which was lodged between two buildings fifty feet from the first.
As Vann stared at the mangled tail section of the Mi-17, a figure slowly emerged from the cargo compartment. Instead of elation, the general felt a weight slowly begin pressing down on his shoulders, because he knew
Placing his hand on the biometric scanner, Vann waited for the stainless steel doors to slide open and then inserted his keycard into the magnetic reader mounted to the panel. The small LED light switched from red to green, the doors closed, and the elevator shot up toward the top floor.
The car came to a silent halt, and the doors opened, revealing the generalâs aide standing patiently with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.
âHere you go, boss,â Captain Chad Brantley said, offering the cup to the general.
âWhere are we?â Vann asked while they walked down a nondescript hallway, passing his office on the left.
Captain Brantley looked every inch the soldier, despite wearing civilian clothes. His dark beard was neatly trimmed, and his skin held the burnished bronze of a man who spent most of his time outdoors. His thick neck and broad shoulders gave him the look of a college linebacker, but he possessed a catlike grace that hinted at a deeper, predatory nature.
âItâs a shit show, sir,â he said, waving his identification card over the reader attached to the solid steel door.
The lock disengaged with a metallic click, and Vann took a sip of coffee before stepping into the chaos of the tactical operations center, or TOC. The general had developed a taste for strong Arabian coffee during his time in Yemen, and insisted that his staff keep a pot going at all times. He drank five or six cups a day.
As the deputy director of the DIA, Vann had the unenviable burden of keeping tabs on the jihadists who flowed into Syria like water from a broken dam, and the TOC was the nerve center of his unenviable task.
He had made a name for himself in Iraq. As a member of Task Force 121, his crowning moment came in 2006, when his men found and killed Abu Musab al-ZarqawiâOsama bin Ladenâs heir apparent in Iraq in 2006. Vann was known for getting results, and he had left a trail of bodies as proof of his lethal abilities.
But this was different. Unlike his time in Iraq and Afghanistan, he didnât have the assets to get his people out of trouble. Worse than that, the general knew that there was no end in sight to the war he had been fighting since 2001. America was finally learning that there was absolutely no way it could kill its way out of this war, but that didnât mean the United States wasnât going to try.
The TOC was always a frantic place, but with an active mission under way, it bordered on chaotic. Individual monitors covered the walls, but the room was dominated by a large screen, upon which the Reaper drone beamed a clear feed back to the States. Vannâs team members either sat before their monitors or moved briskly from station to station, passing pertinent intel. At the moment, everyone was focused on the two smoking birds lying stricken on the ground in Syria.
âThey really fucked us on this one, sir,â Captain Brantley said while Vann took his place at the center of the bustling room.
The general studied the downed helos and took another sip of the coffee. There was way too much movement on the edges of the crash site. Jihadistâs flooded the area, but it was the lack of movement from any friendlies around the birds that made his stomach sink.
âWhat happened?â
âWe think they used a MANPAD on the first bird.â
âWhere the hell are they getting surface-to-air missiles?â
âNo idea, sir. We assume they must have limited numbers because they used an RPG to knock out the second bird. I have no idea how the pilot managed to get it on the ground,â he said, pointing to the second craft, which was lodged between two buildings fifty feet from the first.
As Vann stared at the mangled tail section of the Mi-17, a figure slowly emerged from the cargo compartment. Instead of elation, the general felt a weight slowly begin pressing down on his shoulders, because he knew
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