Apocalypse Dawn Read Free Page A

Turkey. Something was up. Watching just wasn’t enough; Remington wanted-needed-to know what the enemy was thinking.
    “Captain Remington, sir.”
    Turning, Remington studied the man in civilian clothes who stood between two Ranger escorts. The man was tall, over six feet, but Remington stood two inches taller. The Ranger captain was also broader through the shoulders than the new guy, and at thirty-eight, probably a handful of years younger.
    “Sir,” the corporal said, throwing a sharp salute while standing at attention, “this is Central Intelligence Agency Section Chief Alexander Cody.”
    The CIA agent didn’t look happy about the announcement. He seemed to be fit, and his mouth looked habitually stem. He had short-cropped dark hair going gray at the temples. His light-colored slacks, white dress shirt, and tie showed a layer of dust, as did the tan jacket slung over one arm. Beneath a painful looking wind-and sunbum, his skin was pale. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes.

    “Come in, Agent Cody,” Remington said. “Corporal, Private, you’re dismissed.”
    The corporal saluted again, spun smartly, and departed with the private in tow.
    “Not exactly the kind of introduction I usually get in my line of work.” Cody crossed the room and held out his hand. “Or one that I would want.”
    Remington shook the offered hand. Cody had a firm grip and a callused palm. “In the regular army, we stand on formality, Agent Cody. Except for sometimes on the front lines, where a salute is considered to be a sniper magnet by our more experienced troops.”
    “I can understand their caution. I start to feel exposed when I get the full treatment. You can call me Alex,” Cody offered.
    “Fine. You can address me as Captain, or Captain Remington.”
    If Cody took any insult, he didn’t show it. “Very well, Captain. You’ve been briefed on our situation?”
    “Only that you’ve had an agent go missing, and that we’re supposed to help you get him back. If possible.”
    Cody reached into his shirt pocket and produced a miniature CD in a plastic case. “I’ve got an image of the agent here.’
    Remington took the disc and handed it to Lewis, one of the young techs. “Get this up for me.”
    .Yes, sir.” Lewis took the disc, pushed it home into a CD-ROM reader, and tapped the keyboard.
    Instantly, the monitor on the left scrolled. Thumbnails of images spread out in a simple information tree. All of the images were of a young, dark-complexioned man who looked Middle Eastern. He might have been Turkish, Kurdish, or Syrian; in fact, he could have been from any of a dozen countries in the area. He looked all of twenty years old.
    “He’s one of ours?” Remington asked.
    “Yeah.” Cody gazed at the young man’s photo. “An American, Captain. Not a recruit or paid informer.”
    “What kind of assignment has he been on?”
    Cody hesitated. “You don’t have clearance.”
    Remington mastered the wave of anger that flooded through him. “I just detailed a squad of men to handle the intercept your agency asked for, Cody. If my men are going to be in danger, then you’d better clear me.”

    Cody pursed his lips and removed his sunglasses. “Icarus is a covert operative we’ve managed to get into one of the PKK cell groups.”
    The PKK, Remington knew from his own briefings regarding the border patrol assignment, was the Kurdistan Worker’s Party. Organized in 1974 by Abdullah Ocalan, the PKK planned to establish an independent Kurdish state from land within Turkey, Iraq, or Iran. Over the years, the organization had turned to terrorism aimed at destabilizing the Turkish government. Often the PKK terrorists killed as many Kurds as they did Turks.
    “Infiltrating a single terrorist cell doesn’t seem like a good investment of manpower,” Remington stated. “The cells are kept small and independent, with relatively no interaction among other cells or the parent organization. The intelligence you’d get would be