Into Darkness by Richard Fox Page B

wanted to hear. This wasn’t what anyone wanted, but it was what they’d expected.
    Young lost the wires in a tangle near a malformed power line. He snorted in disgust and turned around to help the lieutenant. He opened his mouth to speak, then froze. A thick wire ran alongside the building, held up by bent nails every few yards. Kilo, who’d been a foot behind him until now, had blocked his view.
    “Fuck it. We’re going,” Kovalenko said as he slapped the shoulder of the Soldier in front of him, who slapped Nesbitt’s shoulder, who slapped Morales. Morales gave a thumbs-up.
    “Go!” Kovalenko barked. The stack of Soldiers spilled into the warehouse.
    Young unsnapped the lock on his combat knife and unsheathed the blade. He slid the knife between the wire and the wall, and used the serrated edge to cut the wire.
    “What did you just do, Sergeant?” Kilo asked.
    “I’m not sure,” Young said.
     
     
    “ Allah akbar! ” (God is great!) Mukhtar screamed as he flipped the trigger. Nothing happened. His countenance shifted from rage to shock in a heartbeat. He flipped the trigger back and forth again. Still nothing. A low whine of frustration escaped his lips as he tore open the plastic box hosting the trigger and checked the battery connection.
     
     
    Kovalenko approached the black flag in the middle of the empty warehouse; white, cursive Arabic letters proclaiming the shahada, that there was no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet; this was an al-Qaeda flag. The profile of two men lay beneath the flag. Army-gray, digital-pattern camouflage peeked out from an edge. He didn’t want to do this. The last time Soldiers were kidnapped, their bodies were mutilated, the horrible details classified secret for the sake of the victims’ families.
    Kovalenko forced himself farther. Whatever was beneath that flag would haunt him to the end of his days, but such was the price of leadership. He grabbed a corner of the flag and lifted it gingerly. Two empty helmets tumbled back onto the floor, one spinning like a top.
    “What the hell?” Kovalenko said as looked down at what should have been Brown’s and O’Neal’s faces. Instead, there were two pillows. He pulled the flag back farther, then ripped the whole thing off.
    Artillery shells lay in the form of men, their oblong shapes laid out to approximate limbs and torsos. An electrical wire ran from the shells up into the rafters. His eyes followed the wire; more artillery shells were in the rafters. The entire building was rigged to explode.
    Kovalenko looked around their deathtrap, unable to form words.
    “Sir, is it them?” Nesbitt asked from the entryway.
    “Out!” Kovalenko screamed.
     
    Mukhtar smashed the trigger with the butt of his pistol as every single American sprinted back across the palm grove. He smashed the pistol again and again until the trigger assembly was reduced to fragments. He railed at this failure with a final roar. His prize was gone, and he knew who to blame.
    He holstered his pistol and spun around to face Hamsa, who had almost crept from the room during Mukhtar’s fit of rage. Hamsa froze like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
    “Abu Ahmet did this,” Mukhtar said, low and even. “He ran before his task was complete. He. Will. Pay.”
    Hamsa nodded emphatically.
    Mukhtar strode past Hamsa and down a corrugated steel staircase to their waiting sedan.
     
     
    Ritter sat on a gurney next to a field ambulance, subject to the ministrations of a medic. He was inside a corral of field ambulances and MRAPs, armored vehicles more akin to an armored bus than a Humvee.
    “Sir, did you lose consciousness?” the medic—Porter, according to his name tape—asked as he shined a penlight into one eye, then the other. This must have been the fifth time one of the many medics had asked the exact same question.
    “Yes, I’m sure. I was thirty yards from the explosion, and I haven’t puked.” Ritter telegraphed the next two