Wilde looked to the American side and locked eyes with his team leader, Captain Deforest, who was speaking to the team’s interpreter,Ajax, who was in turn speaking with a Saudi major. Wilde walked past Deforest and nodded. The team leader of an ODA was always a captain, and generally spent eighteen months to two years on a team, meaning that Wilde had seen four come and go during his tenure. Oftentimes they arrived full of ambition and good intentions and the veteran sergeants, known as noncommissioned officers, or NCOs, had to temper their expectations and bring them back down to reality. Deforest was an exception, as he had worked several years as a firefighter before joining the army and was a bit older and more experienced than the officers the team was usually saddled with. Though it was Deforest’s first deployment with the team, he was smart and levelheaded, and Wilde liked him.
Wilde continued walking toward the back of the tent, where he spotted Captain Ahmed Malik with a group of other Saudi officers. Ahmed and Wilde had become close over the last several months, utilizing each other to practice their English and Arabic skills, respectively. They were both intellectuals and found a sense of shared satisfaction in their conversations about history, politics, religion, and philosophy. The two were kindred spirits born worlds apart into different cultures, yet still found more than enough common ground to create a solid friendship.
“Marhaban,” Wilde greeted his friend in Arabic. “Kayfa haluk?”How are you?
“I am good,” Ahmed responded in Arabic. “How are you, my friend?” The two men embraced in traditional Arab fashion.
“Jayid jidan, shukran,” Wilde responded.Very good, thank you. Wilde greeted the other Saudi officers in turn, and they made small talk for several minutes before the other officers bade farewell and retired for the evening.
“How is the family?” Wilde asked once the others had left. “Farah and the children?” Ahmed had shown Wilde pictures of his familyseveral times over the last few months, which included his wife and three children.
“Very good,” Ahmed said. “Thank you. Farah says that young Nasir is growing very fast. A good family is its own reward. You should find a good woman and settle down, my friend.”
Wilde laughed. “Perhaps one of these days. When there is no more war and there is peace on Earth.”
“Well, then,” Ahmed said chuckling, “I think you will be an old man before we see this.”
“Perhaps,” Wilde said, changing gears. “Speaking of war, what happened during the attack last night?”
“Ah, yes,” Ahmed responded in English. “The vehicle was ambushed on the highway as they turned north about fifty kilometers outside of town. The attackers appeared to be Al Qaeda.”
“How many terrorists did the locals kill?”
“Three. And the team sustained no injuries.”
That was good news. Wilde knew that if anything serious had happened he would have been alerted, but it was still good to know that there wouldn’t be any minor injuries plaguing them. The Special Forces medics on the team were some of the best in the world at dealing with trauma, but they despised clinical care. As such, bedside manner was not exactly their strong suit.
“Fucking right there weren’t no injuries!” a heavy British accent exclaimed from behind him.
Wilde turned to grin at the owner of the voice. Sergeant Benjamin Walton of His Majesty’s SAS, called “Wally” for short, was smirking nearby. The special operations medic’s tall, lanky frame and shaggy brown hair and matching beard hid a lethal capability that Wilde’s team had first observed in Syria a year earlier when they teamed up with Wally’s troop. It was sheer coincidence that the two elements were deployedtogether again, to the same location, but one that all parties were exceedingly pleased with.
The SAS was Britain’s highly specialized counterterrorism force. They recruited primarily from the Parachute Regiment and put candidates through a grueling selection process before pumping them through a training course that made the king’s men even more efficient killers. The island nation used the SAS like a Swiss Army knife, throwing them against difficult problems knowing that these extraordinary men would die before failing their country. It was an attitude shared by their American partners and made for a seamless pairing of forces.
“So your guys were out there last night,” Wilde more stated than asked. “I should have known.” The fact that there were zero friendly casualties and all of the enemy were killed was unusual for a purely indigenous patrol. Wilde knew that his team hadn’t been out there, so it could only have been the Brits.
“That’s right, mate. We find it important to keep all our former colonials safe,” Wally said, patting him on the shoulder. “Even the Yanks while they sleep.”
Wilde smiled and shook his head. Wally was trying to coax him into a friendly debate over America’s uprising against the British Empire. It was a near-daily occurrence.
“I’m not taking the bait, Wally,” he said, still shaking his head. “Too much to do today.”
Wally made atsksound with his mouth before proclaiming, “You’re no fun at all, mate.”
From across the room a voice boomed out from under a table, “I’ll take that bait!”
Rising from the shadows under the table, Shane Price unfolded his large frame from the small space, closed a crate that he had been rummaging through, and stood up. The team’s senior engineer sergeant wasan intimidating sight to the uninitiated. He stood six three, weighed 220 pounds, and kept a closely shaved head and scruffy beard. His size may have been the initial sign that the average ruffian would do well to steer clear of him; however, upon closer examination the misshapen nose and cauliflower ears told a deeper tale.
Price had spent his early years competing in mixed martial arts tournaments and had fought in over a dozen professional fights with the Ultimate Fighting Championship league. In his mid-twenties he had made a career change and joined the army with a contract to try out for Special Forces, the same way Wilde had joined years prior. While Price spent his days as the team’s engineer sergeant either building things, blowing them up, or tracking the team’s equipment, his real passion was long-range shooting. Like McBride, Price had attended the Special Forces Sniper Course. Unlike McBride, he was maniacally obsessed with the finer points of sharpshooting.
Wally held his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Take it easy, big fella.”
Wilde laughed. After a minute, a crooked grin spread across Shane’s face. There was a shared history between them, and it was all in good fun. Besides, there wasn’t a man in the room who wouldn’t go toe-to-toe with Price, regardless of the inevitable outcome. It was the reason Wilde enjoyed the special operations community so much and the men who served in it.
Ahmed stood and watched with amusement. After several seconds of suspenseful silence, he remarked in heavily accented English, “You guys are crazy.” They all broke out in laughter.
The tent flap opened, and John Kendall walked in. Kendall was the team sergeant and was charged with ensuring that the day-to-day operations of the ODA ran smoothly. While Deforest was an officer who was technically in charge, the team sergeant ran the show, and everyone knew it. Kendall was tall and lean, running several marathons a year.He was also an avid motorcycle enthusiast. As his assistant operations sergeant, as well as the team’s intelligence sergeant, Wilde worked closely with him and the two had developed a strong friendship over the years. Kendall was a good leader; tough, organized, and friendly. But when he cracked the whip, it was time to get to work. Now was one of those times.
“Shane,” he called out to Price. “Is that monthly inventory finished yet?”
