Arctic Wargame (Justin Hall # 1)
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ARCTIC WARGAME
ETHAN JONES
Also by Ethan Jones
The Interrogation: A Justin Hall Story
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Arctic Wargame (Justin Hall # 1)
Tripoli’s Target (Justin Hall # 2)
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Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3)
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Justin Hall Series Collectors' Edition # 1
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Double Agents (Justin Hall # 4)
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The Diplomat: A Justin Hall Novella (Justin Hall # 4.5)
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Rogue Agents (Justin Hall # 5)
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Shadow Agents (Justin Hall # 6)
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Homeland (Justin Hall #7)
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The Saudi Strategy (Justin Hall #8)
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Priority Target (Carrie O’Connor # 1)
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Codename: Makarov (Carrie O’Connor # 2)
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out on April 12, 2016
The Secret Affair (Jennifer Morgan # 1)
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The Last Confession
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Burying the Truth
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Praise for Arctic Wargame
“Arctic Wargame puts unique characters in an unusual place, which is becoming more important to the entire world. There's a lot of action in a very cold, but very important part of the world.” -- Larry Bond, author of New York Times bestselling thrillers Vortex, Cauldron, and The Enemy Within, and co-author of Red Storm Rising with Tom Clancy.
“Loved the book and would like to read the next one.” -- D. P. Lyle, MD, author of the Samantha Cody thriller series and the Dub Walker thriller series.
“Laden with action, compelling figures, and intriguing settings, this is a great read.” -- David Freed, author of Flat Spin and a Pulitzer Prize winner.
“Always looking for new series, and this one is a great intro to Canadian Special Forces man, Justin Hall. . . . Smooth with dialogue and paints a vivid picture, with great pace.” -- Adrian Magson, author of the bestselling Harry Tate spy thriller series.
To the brave women and men defending our country,
whose names we will never know
Prologue
Ghadames, Libya
Six months ago
October 10, 3:00 a.m.
The sand dunes sank into darkness as a curtain of clouds dimmed the glow of the crescent moon. Justin limped closer to the small barred window of his prison cell. His bruised chest pressed against the rough surface of the bloodstained wall. He squinted and tried to stand on his toes for a better look. The rusty shackles clawed against the scarred skin of his ankles, and the heavy chain rattled on the cement floor.
“Quiet. Be quiet, you bastard infidel,” a guard growled in Arabic from down the shadowy prison hallway.
Justin stood still and drew in a deep breath, the cold night air of the Sahara desert filling his heaving lungs. Everything went silent again. No rapid steps rushing to his cell. No swearing bellowed by other inmates. He lifted his head, wrapped his free hands around the iron bars, and clenched his teeth, ignoring the jolts of pain from his fingers. With his eyes about an inch over the windowsill, Justin scoped the landscape, searching for the long-awaited rescue team.
Abdul, his connection within Libya’s Internal Security Agency who lay in the cell next door, had confirmed their escape was to take place early that morning. Their previous attempt the day before had failed, despite the inside help of one of the terrorists. Justin hoped this time their plan would be executed with no glitches.
At first, he noticed nothing except the rugged outlines of the steep dunes and the whitewashed walls of the sleepy town. Straining his eyes, he peered again. A small shadow slithered toward the prison wall. Justin blinked to clear his vision and stared at the approaching figure.
Bent at the waist, the shadow advanced at a rapid pace. It quickly disappeared from his sight, and he wondered whether the man had encountered a guard.
Justin’s heart pounded. He placed his ear to the wall and sensed a low grating noise. Someone—the shadow he hoped—was scaling the wall.
The window was at least twelve feet above the ground. He wondered how long it would take the shadow to reach it. A long minute dragged by and Justin was still alone. He breathed faster and faster and urged the man on the freedom side of the wall to make good time.
Finally, a hushed voice whispered in Arabic, “Abdul, Abdul, it’s me, Bashir. Are you there?”
“I’m Justin,” he replied softly.
“You’re the Canadian agent. Where’s Abdul?”
“In the other cell, around the corner, but that one has no windows.”
“When did they move him?”
“A few hours ago, after they gave him a good beating.”
“Can he walk?”
“I think so.”
Bashir went silent for a moment.
Justin looked up, but could not see the man’s face through the window. He asked after a pause, “Bashir?”
“Shhhh.”
A few seconds later, he heard a scraping sound. Bashir was offering him a large metal key through the window bars. “That’s for the shackles,” Bashir said under his breath, “and this is for the guard.” He produced a black dagger.
Justin grabbed the handle and weighed the weapon in his weak hand. A ray of moonlight glinted off the ten-inch blade.
“Can you do this?” Bashir whispered.
“Yes.”
“You have only one chance. I’ll wait for you and Abdul in two black Nissans by the main gate. Then we’ll drive across the border to Tunisia.”
Justin frowned. “What about the hostages? The two Canadian doctors?”
“The Algerians moved them from their safe house to another location, out of the prison but still in town. My men are on their way there.”
“And Carrie?”
“Yes, your partner is with them.”
Justin breathed a sigh of relief. “OK. I’ll make sure Abdul and I meet you by the gate.”
“You’ll have to be quiet. About twenty men are guarding the prison, and you can’t defeat them all.”
“OK.”
“Abdul knows the way, but if you can’t free him, walk down the stairs and go left. The hall will take you to a small courtyard on the ground floor. There will be a guard or two by the gate. You need to cross into the house next door.”
“Downstairs, then left, then to the house,” Justin said, finding it a bit difficult to concentrate on Bashir’s words.
“Yes. Get to the roof of the house and drop down along the side facing the mosque. Follow the road leading to the main gate. Is it clear?”
“Yes, it is.”
Bashir’s clothes rubbed against the wall, and then silence returned to Justin’s cell. He stared at the key and the dagger in his right hand. Stepping back from the window, he was careful not to jerk the chain and alert the guard beyond the solid metal door of his cell. The key fit into the shackles’ padlock. He coughed loudly as he turned the key to cover the dull clunk of the lock snapping open. Now almost free, he removed the metal loops from around his ankles.
Justin and Abdul were first imprisoned in Tripoli after their hostage rescue operation went wrong. They were tortured by the Algerian hostage takers for two days before their failed escape attempt. The Algerians––with the help of the Libyan secret police––moved them to Ghadames, in their minds an isolated and less risky place.
Justin wasted no time. He took a deep breath, gripped the dagger tightly, and called out to the guard, “Hey, open the door.”
“Shut up,” the guard roared back.
“I need to talk to you.”
“No. Just shut up.”
Justin banged twice on the heavy door.
The guard’s voice grew louder as he drew nearer to the door. “What’s the matter with you? You want me to break your leg?”
Justin slammed his fist against the door.
“That’s it. You asked for it,” the guard shouted.
Keys clattered as the guard struggled to find the right one to unlock the door. Justin stepped to the side and lifted his dagger high, waiting for the right moment. His hand shook. The weapon felt heavy, straining his muscles.
“I’m going to beat some sense into you now,” the guard barked.
As the guard shoved open the door, Justin thrust his hand toward the man’s throat. The blade slashed deep under the man’s thick chin, severing his windpipe. The guard dropped dead into his stretched arms, blood sputtering from the man’s mangled neck.
Justin used the guard’s black robe and turban to wipe the bloodstains from his face and his arms. He stripped the man of his keys, his side arm—an old Beretta 92 pistol—his AK-47 assault rifle and two magazines. Justin dragged the body to a corner of his cell and closed the door behind him.
He tiptoed to Abdul’s cell. On the second try, he found the right key. As he opened the door, the powerful stench of sweat and urine almost twisted his stomach inside out. Abdul was lying against a wall, asleep.
“Abdul, Abdul, wake up.” Justin shook him.
“Huh? What?” Abdul mumbled with a big yawn.
“Time to go, man.”
“Justin, how did you . . .” Abdul sat up slowly and stared into Justin’s eyes.
“Bashir gave me a key and a knife.”
“Bashir? When did he come?”
“Tell you later. Let’s go. Can you walk?”
“Yes, yes, I can.”
Justin unchained Abdul’s bruised legs and helped him to his feet. Abdul leaned against the wall before taking a few unsteady steps.
“I’m good. I can do this,” Abdul said.
“OK, follow me.”
“First, give me that.” Abdul pointed to the assault rifle.
“Bashir said we need to break out in silence. Too many fighters for us to kill them all.”
Abdul held the AK-47 in his hands with difficulty and fumbled with the safety switch. He switched it to full automatic. “Just in case,” he mumbled.
“Let’s go.”
Justin threw a glance down the hall and signaled for Abdul to follow him. They moved quickly to the end of the narrow hallway, their bare feet tapping lightly on the concrete floor, grains of sand grinding under their toes.
“We go to the first floor, then left,” Justin said as they came to a spiral staircase.
“Then what?”
“Left through the hall until we reach the courtyard. We have to go through the door taking us to the house next to the prison. Bashir will wait for us at the main gate.”
“What? That’s Bashir’s plan? There’s always a group of guards in the back.”
“He said there should be only one, two at the most, and we have to get rid of them quietly.”
“That’s impossible. They’ll see us as we go outside and kill us.”
“Maybe they’re dozing off.”
“If not, we shoot first.”
“No. We’ll have the rest of the Algerians coming after us.”
Justin winced as his left foot landed on the coarse surface of the first stair. He took two more steps and turned his head. Abdul nodded and followed behind him. Holding the dagger ready in his hand, Justin continued down the stairs. He reached the bottom. The hall forked right and left. A light flickered from the right. Justin stepped back, gesturing for Abdul to stop.
“What’s that way?” Justin asked in a hushed tone, pointing toward the light.
“A kitchen and a dining area. And someone’s awake.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’re slipping out the other way.”
Justin glanced at the dim light, then at the opposite side, and began creeping down the hall. He saw a door about twenty steps ahead and figured it was the one opening into the courtyard. Pressing on, he quickened his pace. Abdul’s feet shuffled loudly behind him.
“Quiet, quiet, Abdul,” he whispered.
“That’s not me.”
Justin turned his head and looked over Abdul’s shoulders. He stared right into the eyes of a gunman standing five or six steps behind Abdul and pointing a pistol at them. The gunman was of a small, thin stature, clad in a white robe and a black headdress.
“Stop or I’ll blow your head off,” he said in Arabic.