“Absolutely not. I don’t like guns, and I don’t know what that thing is. Leave them.”
The deputy director took a deep breath and said, “Hank, I need thirty minutes of the director’s time. You can resume packing when I leave. Thank you.”
The secretary was taken aback. Rarely had anyone been so rude to him. When Carey nodded, the effeminate Hank left the office.
Deputy Okine handed papers to the DCI, one by one, summarizing each. “Sir, I need your signature on these documents. The red X marks the spot. On these, you agree not to divulge any information, including hints, of ongoing SAPs. Thank you. This one is to respond to a State request for some help to discern the whereabouts of a handful of hostages held by Somali pirates. This one’s for a mission in Peru to locate the remaining Shining Path leadership….”
“Can’t you do those?”
“No, Sir. DCI only, and you’re still the director. I’ll have to go to the president to get authorization for the SAP, and that might take weeks or months. It may take months for your replacement to be confirmed by the Senate. These are very time-sensitive, as others have been.”
“OK.” The DCI signed two dozen documents, including ten-year funding authorization for the front company Quiet Unmanned Aircraft Research Laboratory. Carey avoided any snide comments. He just wanted the deputy out of his office and out of his hair.
When all the documents were signed, Deputy Okine offered his hand. “Thank you, Sir. Congratulations, and good luck.”
“Thank you, Wayne. Good luck to you.”
Deputy Director Okine sped from the office, almost knocking over one of his colleagues.
“Hank, get back in here!”
Instead of Hank’s voice, he heard three knocks on his door. “What!?” shouted Frank Carey.
Nazy Cunningham stuck her head through the doorway.
“Excuse me, Director Carey. I have the information you requested.”
Carey stopped packing and tried to remember what he needed from that woman.
When his confusion became obvious, Nazy said, “You asked me to do a quick check of the file database.”
“Yes! Yes! Come in. Close the door. Thank you. What do you have, Nazy?”
“I know you’re busy, Sir, so I’ll be brief. There was a file, and it appears your predecessor took possession of it. It hasn’t been returned to active files, nor is it in the archives. It wasn’t sent to the FBI. That’s all I have.”
Frank Carey tried to make sense of Nazy’s report, quickly running scenarios through his mind. Did he have the only file on the president? It sounded like it. In that case, it was time to get Nazy out of there. “Thank you for your service, Nazy. That’ll be all.”
“Director Carey, the White House informed the deputy my medal ceremony has been postponed indefinitely. Thank you for your help, and congratulations, Sir.” She turned, unlocked the door, and left.
Carey plopped his bulk into his chair wrinkling his brow as he tried to recall what medal ceremony she meant. Finally, he remembered.
He raced to his door and stopped when he saw no one at Hank’s desk. He needed Hank to open his safes, so he could check the contents. “Where’d that little cocksucker go?”
Nazy hurried down the stairs, swiped her access card to leave the stairwell, and walked into her office. She glanced at her Rolex for the time and saw she had plenty of time to reach Reagan National Airport. Extracting her diplomatic and tourist passports from her top desk drawer, she thrust them into her suit pocket, ensured all her safes were locked and spun the dials one last time before checking the handles. Grabbing her purse, she went out the door to leave the building.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
0100L June 15, 2011
Navy Support Facility, Diego Garcia
“Neptune one zero zero, you’re number one, clear to land, runway one three.”
“Roger. Neptune one zero zero, clear to land, one three.”
Forty seconds later, the jet crossed the algae-covered beach and the instrument landing system. The jet's white underside was momentarily bathed in the floodlights designed to illuminate the landing gear without blinding the aircrew. No wheels watch was on duty at the end of the runway at that late hour, as the airfield was officially closed.
After six hours of overwater flying, the white-and-red jet was feet dry. Two puffs of vaporized rubber signaled the landing, followed by the lowering of the nose onto the centerline. Hunter controlled the trajectory down the runway with his toes on the rudder pedals. No thrust reversers were needed for the two-mile- long concrete strip.
As the jet passed midfield, the tower controller said, “Neptune one zero zero, maintain this freq. Turn off far end and report clear of runway one three.”
The man standing beside the tower controller unclasped his hands, giving two thumbs-up. “OK. Can you activate his clearance to Djibouti using this call sign?”
The controller took the script and read it. “Easy.”
As the jet decelerated toward seventy knots, Hunter lightly touched the brakes to slow the Gulfstream to a crawl, as he approached the red lights marking the end of the runway. He and Lynche were hyper-alert, as they didn’t want to do anything stupid after getting that far, like overrunning the runway or missing a taxiway, or dropping a landing gear off into the sand or dirt. Hunter controlled the left turn with differential braking and thrust, depressing the left brake pedal while advancing the right throttle a little. He didn’t take any chances with nose wheel steering, which could have sent the jet one way or the other.
“Neptune one zero zero, clear one three,” he said. “Neptune one zero zero, proceed to marshal with wands.”
“Tally on wands.”
“Roger, Neptune one zero zero. Maintain this freq. Services on scene.”
“Roger, Tower. Hope to be off in fifteen mikes.” Hunter unbuckled his lap and shoulder belts. Lynche started the auxiliary power unit, as Hunter guided the jet to a stop and placed both throttles to cutoff and turned off the external lights when the taxi marshal crossed his wands.
“Your jet,” Hunter said, climbing from his seat into the cabin, wincing with pain from any quick movement. “I hope we don’t get arrested,” he muttered. “That would piss me off.”
With the cabin depressurized, Hunter turned off the cabin lights, unlocked the door, and lowered the air stairs, again grimacing from muscles pulling across bruised ribs. He stepped out into the darkness and down the stairs one at a time and came face-to-face with a shadowed man with a flashlight covered by a red lens.
“Bullfrog sends his regards,” Hunter said.
“Ox. The pleasure’s all mine, Maverick. Thank you for coming. I have a fuel truck if you can just show us where it needs to go. When we’re done, we’ll load the cargo.”
“This way, Sir.”
A shadow emerged from abeam the aircraft, where an R-11 refueling truck unwound a refueling hose. A man dragged the nozzle toward the refueling panel, as if he had refueled many Gulfstreams in his day, though not one in the middle of the night without its lights. Then again, maybe he had.
He attached the single-point refueling nozzle to the aircraft, ran to the truck, and engaged the power takeoff and fuel pump.
Thirteen minutes later, the R-11 offloaded 2,500 gallons of JP-8 and filled the Gulfstream's fuel tanks. The man uncoupled and retracted the hose, stowing the nozzle in the truck. He drove off quickly without saying a word or even looking at Hunter.
Ox flashed his red-lensed light into the night. Seconds later, two men carrying a stretcher with a body passed Hunter and Ox. As the men wrestled the stretcher up the airstairs, Ox spoke to the ground.
“You want to ask me a question, Maverick?”
“I do. Why’d you do it? Bullfrog wasn’t sure.”
“The president called me in Afghanistan and strongly suggested he die in Pakistan. We trained for months to take him alive, so we could interrogate him. At the last possible moment, POTUS said, ‘Kill him.’ With all the in
trigue surrounding our commander in chief, and the fact that I saw a file on him at Langley, killing our man was probably an illegal order or, at the least, a high crime."
“I was convinced there was something inside that asshole’s head that our very liberal POTUS wants squashed. My SEALs were the instruments to make that so. Americans deserve to know the truth about their president, especially this one. What about you? How’d you get pulled into this?”
Hunter was surprised. “Me? Bullfrog and I were at the Naval War College. I’ll let him fill you in on the rest of the story. Let’s just say it’s been a long, strange journey to get here. My view is that I see what our enemies are doing to good people. Fighting them is a full-time job. Whatever flavor of enemy—liberal, Marxist, socialist, commie, radical, Islamofascist—I'm beginning to see them for what they really are and what this is; a battle between good and evil.”
“The democrats have the devil as the head of their party.”
“You’re right, Ox. Something’s definitely wrong with that guy. You did the right thing, Sir.”
“Welcome to the fight, Maverick.”
“You’re a great American, Sir.”
“Thank you. Now let’s get you out of here.”
“I hope we can finish what you started and gave us.”
He offered his hand. Hunter tried not to have his crushed as SEALs were wont to do, giving the hand a good shake before saluting the patriot.
“I have all the trust and confidence you can,” Ox said. “Fair winds and following seas, Maverick.”
“Semper Fi, Ox.” Hunter turned and ran up the airstairs, pulling them up behind him while trying not to look like a wimp, as his damaged ribs screamed at him. At the sound of the door closing, Lynche started an engine.
Hunter saw two men in black discarding their gear to get comfortable in the huge chairs. In the aisle rested a stretcher with a man on it.
Hunter gave the two SEALs thumbs-up, and they responded quietly.
Four minutes later, Hunter raised the landing gear as they passed 200 knots and said into the microphone, “Feet wet.”
Lynche, nodding, scanned the instruments bathed in red light.
When they passed through 10,000 feet, Lynche chortled, “That wasn’t so bad. Now what do we do?”
“I hope you set a course for Djibouti.”
“Of course. I understand they have a nice hotel now.”
“Maybe we’ll check that out next trip. Your turn to sleep. I’ll wake you in four hours.”
“Do we really have Osama back there?”
“It was dark. I didn’t see a beard. I have to take their word for it.”
“Could be a rumor.”
“I hope he doesn’t piss on the carpet.”
“Ugh. Don’t fall asleep.”
“Good night, Dear.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
0200 June 15, 2011
The Bedford Park Islamic Center Boston, Massachusetts
Assad Tammam and his brother walked out of the mosque and across the parking lot to his car. He was exhausted and frustrated. For the last two days, he and his brother tried to determine the whereabouts of fellow mujahidin last heard from near Newport, Rhode Island. Cell phones went unanswered. Apartments hadn’t been visited. Two brothers disappeared.
Assad, the trusted one, was the one to contact as a last resort. It took ten years to reach the pinnacle of airport security at Boston International Airport as TSA shift supervisor. As a key law enforcement and supervisory official, Assad had unfettered access to several databases, as well as the instant messaging system for law enforcement and intelligence community officials. The No-Fly List, the Terrorist Watch List, All-Points Bulletins, and other information generated from local law-enforcement activities and the Terrorist Screening Center were very useful for the Brotherhood to monitor the success of their operation and for his standing as a mujahidin behind enemy lines. American infidels were so stupid.
*
“No, Sahib, I have no new information. No BOLO. Forgive me. There have been no be-on-the-lookout announcements for anyone unusual. The wires have been very quiet, Sahib.”
The imam glared at the man, sighed, and slowly shook his head. “No information at all?”
“No, Sahib. Our brothers have not checked in, and there has been no announcement of an untimely death. Your brother may have been caught, but I have no information. Normally, I have access to all information. I’m very good at my job. Imam, there was, however a report of a shooting and a vehicle fire in the area our brothers were watching,” Assad said.
“Thank you, my son. Please leave me. Contact me if there’s any change in the information.”
Imam Abdul shuffled behind his desk, as a disappointed Assad wheeled from the little office and closed the door behind him. Thick cigarette smoke whorled the air as he left.
The little man crushed the smoldering butt, fished out a pack of cigarettes from the center drawer, lit the Camel, took a long drag, and placed the cigarette in an overfull tray. He swiveled ninety degrees to face a computer monitor, keyboard, and mouse.
After several keystrokes and mouse clicks, he was in the private chat room in the United Arab Emirates. Lack of sleep and worry contributed to his inability to focus. He struggled to find the right phrasing to report their failure.
Abdul noticed one other online, probably one of the prince’s many sons. He began typing. Our brother did not arrive today. I’m most concerned we haven’t heard from him. I hope he’s safe. Inshallah.
He sent the message without hope of a quick response. The message was on its way with an overexaggerated pointed index finger pressing the Enter key. He crossed his arms on his chest, reached for the smoldering cigarette, and was about to leave the room when a window popped up to announce, A is typing.
Moments later, Abdul was horrified to read, Leave McGee. He sat transfixed. The response wasn’t in passive code designed to thwart American intelligence-gathering methods. Confusion was replaced by more anger.
As his leathery hands balled into fists to pound the sides of the computer stand, he became aware of noise outside his office. Something ululated, growing in intensity.
“What’s that?” he muttered in Arabic.
Reaching for the stubby cigarette, he tried to ignore the wailing siren and deal with the problem facing him on the screen. His benefactor and sponsor had just broken a twenty-year protocol. Two mujahidin from his flock and a brother-in-arms were missing. The local target was apparently not neutralized.
“What’s going on?” he wailed, clasping his hands in prayer. His cell phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. It was Aasim, one of his lost sheep.
“Why have you not called?” he shouted. “Hello? Aasim?”
There was no side tone. Staring at the phone, he realized he just received a text message. He pressed buttons, making several mistakes, until he opened the correct screen and read, Fire.
“Fire? What does that idiot mean by fire? What’s that noise?”
He took one more drag from the cigarette dangling from his mouth before jamming it into the ashtray. Smoke billowed around him, as he rushed around the desk to the door.
When he threw open the heavy wooden door, white smoke eddies raced into his office, and the fire alarm claxon increased in intensity by thirty decibels. He looked at the cell phone again and read, Fire.
His eyes bulged, and his lips puckered as he tried to move his frozen legs. The first molecules of burned wood entered his nicotine-saturated sinuses, as the smoke in the hall increased in intensity.
Abdul tried to move, torn between self-preservation and immolation. The coward in him galvanized his legs to function. He raced down the hall, robes flowed with each step, away from where the smoke billowed until he reached the exit and was about to press the crash bar and step outside when he realized he couldn’t leave things in his office.
“Passport, books, money…. Computer!” His thoughts raced, taking inventory of what he needed and where
the items were. He had to retrieve them if possible.
Spinning around, he saw the smoke thickening. “I can make it,” he muttered.
Taking a deep breath, he coughed and raced back into the cloud.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
1300L June 16, 2011
Roberts International Airport Monrovia, Liberia
LeMarcus Leonard and his airport employees had the arrivals and departures of airline aircraft down to an art form. Unlike American or European airport managers, LeMarcus met every arrival aircraft that landed and offloaded, and he monitored the departure operation as the airlines worked to herd their passengers from the lounges onto the aircraft to meet departure schedules. The arrival of the United Airlines Boeing 777 was routine, except that one passenger required special handling by the airport manager. Duncan told LeMarcus that the woman would find him.
In a sea of blue, tan, and white shirts and coveralls, she saw him first. After watching thousands of passengers embark and disembark, few piqued Leonard’s interest. Those who did were subject to enhanced screening. Most who were pulled off to the side were hauled off to jail for various infractions—carrying concealed weapons, exotic animals, diamonds—or for submitting a bogus or stolen passport at Customs. Trained in the observation of people and their behavior, LeMarcus Leonard was one of a handful of specially trained profilers able to discern the microexpressions and microbehaviors of criminals, and he was nearly as effective as a polygraph interviewer.
When the striking woman with long, black hair gingerly stepped down the stairs onto the tarmac and looked straight at him, she rang all his bells. He tried to concentrate on the other passengers, but his gaze kept returning to the woman until she walked right up to him. “You must be LeMarcus,” she said. “I’m Nazy Cunningham.”
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