by Gary Haynes
The substitute pilots would be waiting in the hangar. A couple of Pakistanis. Not ISI operatives, but ex-Air Force down on their luck, who had driven the fifty miles from Paris once Major Durrani had texted him from the States, confirming that they had air transport.
He drove up to the parked jet and got out. The two flight crew looked at one another.
“There’s been a change of plans,” he said.
“The hell are you?” the co-pilot said, a thickset man with pallid skin and a bald head.
Proctor pulled out his handgun still fixed with a laser sight, together with an added suppressor, and poleaxed him with a head shot. The pilot, a younger man wearing shades, dropped his cup of coffee.
“Oh, Jesus,” he said.
The round hit him in the throat and he fell on top of the co-pilot. Proctor popped the trunk and heaved both men in before driving back to the hangar, as casually as a man about to go on vacation.
As he reached the hangar, its curved roof painted a dull green, two Pakistani men dressed as civilian pilots stepped out, looking a little too nervous for his liking. But there was nothing to stop the secretary being flown to Yemen where she’d be beheaded. Later than planned, given Tom Dupree’s interference. But late or not, if that didn’t go viral on the Internet, he didn’t know what would. Besides, the major would have dispatched Dupree and his black sidekick by now. She’d drive back to Paris in the Ford, where’d she take a scheduled flight to Islamabad, dumping all four bodies en route.
His cellphone rang, a number he didn’t recognize. He hesitated before taking the call.
“Brigadier Hasni has been assassinated in Islamabad,” a woman’s voice said.
“What the fuck…?Who is this?”
“A water lily,” the woman said, the agreed code for a friend.
“Okay.”
“You will proceed as planned,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“Who killed him?”
“A Shia bitch.”
By the time Tom and Lester reached a small yew tree sunk into the hedge abutting the airfield, the jet was rising towards a mud-grey cloud miles in the distance. Tom cursed under his breath, slamming the butt of the MP7 into the tangle of bushes. With that, Lester slumped to the ground. Tom dropped the MP7 and crouched down beside him, cradling his head.
“I’m sorry, Tom.” Lester’s voice was wheezy and a sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead. He was struggling to find breath, his face contorting.
Tom put his hand over his friend’s wound, but the blood seeped between his fingers, black-red and pus-like. “Stay with me, Lester.”
Lester’s eyelids were fluttering and he was clearly close to unconsciousness. Tom knew that if he didn’t get his friend to a hospital soon, he’d bleed out. He pulled out his cell and called 112, the French equivalent of 911. He gave the operator their location and was told that a hospital-based ambulance would be on its way in less than five minutes. The ETA was thirty-five minutes.
After making Lester as comfortable as he could, covering his body with a blanket and giving him some water from a plastic bottle that was in the trunk of the Land Rover, Tom called Vice Admiral Birch and filled him in on the details. The head of the Bureau of Diplomatic Security simply listened until Tom finished. Tom had expected him to bark a string of expletives down the cell before telling him to turn himself in to the US Embassy in Paris. To his surprise, he didn’t.
“I’ll divert the SEAL platoon,” Birch said, calmly, referring to the US Navy’s Sea, Air, Land Teams, and principal Special Operations Force since their inception in the Vietnam War. “You will wait there until they arrive.”
Tom had no idea what a SEAL team were doing on French soil. “What about the French?” he asked, more than a little fazed.
“POTUS pulled in a favour from his French counterpart. The SEALs were on a joint training exercise with the British SBS,” Birch said.
Tom knew the Special Boat Service was the Royal Navy’s Special Forces unit, made up almost entirely of Royal Marines.
“The SEALs were going to liaise with French Special Forces and help out,” Birch went on. “But they ain’t carrying weapons. The French President was worried about political fallout if they killed French citizens. I guess, after what you’ve just said, I better tell her that three of her DCRI operatives are dead.”
“Can we get them to intercept the jet?”
“It’ll be outside their airspace by now. And why would it land? Those onboard know we won’t order it shot down.”
“What about Crane?” Tom asked.
“He’s dead, too. Killed in Saudi Arabia while collecting his blood money from a bank.”
Tom was stunned by Birch’s statement, taking a few seconds to focus. “Blood money?”
“He turned a CIA asset over to the ISI.”
Tom couldn’t help feeling sad that Crane had turned out to be a traitor, despite his previous suspicions. He swallowed hard as he joined the dots. “What was his name, sir?”
“What difference does it make?”
“I’d like to know, that’s all.”
“Sandri Khan. Crane got half a million dollars for betraying him. Khan was the one who told us where Lyric was being held in Karachi. I guess that signed his death warrant.”
“Who killed Crane?”
“ISI,” Birch said. “So stick with the SEALs. They’re just about the only people you can trust right now.”
Tom clenched his teeth, feeling rotten. Khan had saved his life and Crane had turned him over to be murdered at the hands of butchers. At least I have an answer, he thought. But it all seemed irrelevant now, given that he’d failed to save the secretary’s life. He guessed she was on the way to Yemen, just as the ISI major had said. He sank to his knees, watching Lester cough up blood.
98.
The SEAL operators arrived in unmarked helicopters just over fifteen minutes later. They were dressed in civilian clothes: jeans and windbreakers. Sixteen men whose ages ranged from about thirty to forty, with regular haircuts and facial hair in order to disguise the fact that they were military personnel.
As a medic attended to Lester the others checked the area methodically. One forced open the Ford’s trunk and hauled out the bodies of the two American pilots whom Proctor had murdered. Tom grabbed Lester’s hand just as the medic gave him a shot of morphine. He watched his friend blink erratically.
“You give people hope, Tom. You remember me saying that?” he said, his voice tremulous.
“I do, old friend,” Tom replied.
“And that’s a gift. Don’t ever change.”
As Lester was lifted onto a stretcher and carried to one of the helicopters’ cabins, Tom’s mind was reeling. But then he swore under his breath, “The major!”
Leaving her at the roadside had been a mistake, that and not interrogating her fully. He told himself that he’d been anxious to get back to the airfield, to be the one to save the secretary. At the very least, he should’ve brought her along, sucked up his contempt and thought straight. But if she was still there, he might be able to convince her to redeem herself.
And me in the process, he thought.
He watched the guy he took for the SEALs’ leader, a tall, sinewy man with three-day-old stubble, as he walked towards him.
“Dude, did you get hit by a truck or what?” he asked.
Tom said that it’d been a rough few days. The SEAL said he was a platoon chief and that his name was Nathan. He told Tom that his men were part of SEAL Team 7, with worldwide deployment duties, but it looked as if their shitty flight across the English Channel had been a waste of time.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Nathan shook his head and spat on the ground.
“Listen to me,” Tom said. “There’s a chance we can find out where Lyric is being taken. The exact location.”
Nathan thought for a moment. “My orders were to take Lyric to England.”
“So think outta the box.”
Nathan
stared hard at Tom. “Over my pay grade, dude.”
Frustrated, Tom called Birch once more. He asked him if he could follow the lead. Birch was reluctant, but said he’d make some calls.
After pacing around and doing his best to persuade Nathan that the delay was necessary, a matter of life and death in fact, Tom got a call from Birch. He told Tom that he should do what he could, but that a Navy commander was going to call the SEAL platoon chief and that it was their shout.
“And, Tom,” he said. “This isn’t official, but I think you should know. The head of the ISI, Brigadier Hasni, has been assassinated in Islamabad.”
“Hasni! Who killed him?”
“That’s classified.”
“It could be important, sir. I might be able to spook the major with that kind of info.”
Birch hesitated. “It’s still one step up from a rumour, but the word is it was the Saudis.”
That makes no sense, Tom thought, disconnecting.
Five minutes later, after Nathan had gotten the go-ahead from his commander, he and Tom, together with four operatives, flew in a red helicopter to the narrow road where Major Durrani had been left with a round in her foot. After the helicopter had landed in an adjacent field, Tom and Nathan exited first and ran across the grass to a two-metre-high bank, speckled with wild flowers, which abutted the verge on the other side. Tom had spotted Major Durrani still lying on her back about ten seconds before landing.
Major Durrani’s face was covered in a sheen of sweat. Despite the morphine that Tom Dupree had given to her just over an hour before, she was struggling to remain conscious. She’d felt ants start to crawl over her legs already and crows had perched on a nearby branch of an overhanging oak tree, squawking portentously. She guessed the helicopter contained French Special Forces and thought seriously about taking the razor blade she had concealed under her hair and ending it before they reached her.
But she had an extended family – impoverished farmers who lived in Punjab Province – who relied on her. She’d excelled at the charity-run school she’d attended from the age of eight, and had won a scholarship to Gurjat University. Ever since she’d joined the civil service, five years before being recruited by the ISI, she’d sent money home. Her father was ill. A rare form of colon cancer. He needed specialist treatment, which accounted for more than half her monthly salary. Picturing her mother cooling his emaciated face with a damp cloth, she decided to think of a story to tell the French.
She heard a rustling sound behind her, knowing it came from the movement of humans rather than rodents. Bracing herself, she turned her head and saw two men atop the bank. She recognized one of them instantly. It was Tom Dupree. Part of her felt relieved; the other part desperate.
Tom knelt beside the major’s head. He noticed that her eyes were turning a muted yellow, her skin pallid. Nathan stood above them, scanning the country road for any sign of a vehicle or pedestrian. The other four SEALs had stayed behind the hedge, so as not to draw too much attention.
“Where in Yemen?” he asked.
She made a dismissive hiss between her teeth. “Only Proctor knows that.”
“Brigadier Hasni is dead. Murdered by the Saudis. Betrayed.”
She looked strangely uninterested. She winced and wiped the sweat from her cheeks.
“So the old tyrant is dead. I never did like him. As for the Saudis, you’ve been courting them for years, even though you know they produce more jihadists than anywhere else.”
Nathan tapped Tom on the shoulder and pointed a calloused finger down the road. An ancient Renault was heading towards them. A few seconds later, it slowed to a stop as it reached parallel, exhaust fumes spewing over the rusted paintwork. A man in blue overalls poked his large head out of the wound-down window, his jowly face a mass of spider veins.
“Ce qui se passe ici?” What’s happening here?
Staying put, Tom said, “Si vous voulez frapper le bar ce soir, continuer à avancer.” If you want to hit the bar tonight, keep moving.
“Mademoiselle?” he said, staring at the major.
She made a pushing movement with her hand. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”
Reluctantly and swearing under his breath, he drove off.
“Whatever you gotta say, say it quick,” Nathan said.
“Tell me where they’re taking her in Yemen and I will vouch for you. Otherwise it’ll be life in a cage, or worse,” Tom said.
He saw her mind working, her eyelids blinking. Then she grinned.
“No, Tom. You’ll get me a presidential pardon and you’ll do it now. That and safe passage for my family to the US.”
99.
The helicopters had landed back in England on a disused runway illuminated by an infrared strobe at RAF Alconbury in Cambridgeshire, a non-flying facility under the control of the 423rd Air Base Group of the US Air Force in Europe. Lester was stretchered off and taken to a nearby hospital for emergency surgery. Tom had received stitches to his forehead and been told that the wound would heal with time, although, if he didn’t want a Frankenstein-like scar in the interim, he might want to opt for plastic surgery.
He sat in a small office now, surrounded by dull-grey file cabinets and framed photos of a young US Air Force officer’s family. He figured it was the end of the line. Birch was going to call him on a secure satphone that lay on the chipped wooden desk in front of him. He was convinced the head of the DS would order him to report back to DC, despite the fact that Major Durrani had pinpointed a location. Whether it was where the secretary had been taken, or a lie to buy her time, was something that would become clear soon enough. But she’d gotten her presidential pardon, although it was conditional upon her being accurate. She’d also agreed to undergo a polygraph, and be subjected to weeks of non-violent questioning about everything she knew. As a result, there was a general consensus that she was telling the truth. But whichever way he looked at it, Tom believed he’d failed personally in his mission. He figured the chances of the secretary being rescued were now close to zero.
When the phone rang, he left it a full ten seconds before answering it.
“You got friends in high places, Tom?” Birch asked.
“Not that I know, sir,” Tom said, wondering vaguely if his father had something to do with what Birch was going to say.
“You’ll accompany the SEALs to Yemen. But strictly as an observer. The platoon chief is in command. You so much as question his judgment, and he’s got orders to cut you loose. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t think that your illegal attempts to go it alone have endeared you to anyone. They haven’t. But given what you told me about her physical appearance, you’re deemed the only person capable of a positive ID. I suppose I should say good luck. But I’ll be honest with you, I was dead against it.”
Tom found it difficult to believe that the US authorities were letting him go along. But what Birch had said was true. If she was still alive, the White House sure as hell couldn’t afford the embarrassment of rescuing the wrong woman, and only he and Lester had seen the result of Proctor’s brutal handiwork. He guessed that that paranoia had been exacerbated by what he had told Birch about Major Durrani’s disguise. Anything was possible now, including another monumental screw-up of the facial-recognition variety.
Ten minutes later, Tom and the operators were sitting on plastic chairs in a blacked-out chow hall, with whitewashed cinderblock walls and blue tiles. A flat-screen monitor had been rigged up behind Nathan, showing the first slide of a hastily prepared PowerPoint presentation, a laptop perched on a stool by his side. The subject-matter of the meeting wasn’t so much classified as completely off the radar to all but a few people in the US intelligence community. As a result, a section of trucked-in Redcaps had been ordered to surround the building armed with SA80 A2 assault rifles. It wasn’t exactly a secured conference room, so US Secretary of State Linda Carlyle had been given the upbeat pro-word, Phoenix, and all the operators had been asked
not to use anything else. Tom had already come to the conclusion that they were the type of guys who didn’t need to be ordered around or told twice.
“I’ll do a Q&A at the end of the briefing,” Nathan said. “The most recent photographs we have of the rescue site are these.” He tapped a key on the laptop and the first satellite-generated image came up on the screen behind him. “You can gather round for the drone feeds later. Now the detail …”
The distance to western Yemen was almost three and a half thousand miles. A five-man reconnaissance and sniper SEAL team had been deployed there already. The country was ravaged by internal conflict, chiefly between the north-western Shia tribesmen and the al-Qaeda backed Sunnis in the south. At the behest of the State Department’s counterterrorism unit, the SEALs had been sent there to monitor the situation. If what Major Durrani had said was correct, the secretary was being held at a small hamlet in southwest Yemen on the Red Sea coast.
Opposite Yemen, a mere eighteen miles away across the Bab-el-Mandeb, the strait between the Red Sea and the Gulf of Aden, was the small African state of the Republic of Djibouti. An Islamic, US friendly country sandwiched between Eritrea and Somalia on the Horn of Africa, it had been used as a so-called black site in the Global War on Terror, housing secret prisons used by the CIA for the interrogation of jihadists. It regularly allowed US forces to strike at al-Qaeda sympathisers in Somalia and Yemen. Since the insurgencies in Mali and Algeria, the base had been deemed even more important and strategically placed.
An RAF Hercules would transport Tom and the operators to Camp Lemonnier, a former French Foreign Legion outpost, which occupied an area bordering the Djibouti-Ambouli International. Lemonnier was utilized as a base for the Combined Joint Task Force – Horn of Africa, the only US base on the continent. From there they’d cross to Yemen by sea. They’d meet up with the team inside Yemen, who were heading towards the rendezvous point, and the combined force of twenty-one SEALs would assault the hamlet, hoping to free the secretary in the process. The assault would be carried out on foot, with, if necessary, aerial back-up from armed Reaper drones. The Yemeni president was a friend of the US, but given the secrecy needed to secure any chance of a successful outcome, together with the possibility that innocent Yemenis might be killed in a firefight, it had been decided by the NSC that he wouldn’t be informed of the mission until after it had concluded.