Carey nodded, waggling his jowls, as O’Sullivan showed him where the secret switch to open the passageway to the elevator was located. The elevator dropped quickly 70 feet to the bottom, where an underground bunker and modern communications center lay before Carey’s eyes.
“This is more like it,” he said, running his fingers along the walnut conference table and high-backed leather captain’s chairs. Wandering in and out of the naturally cooled spaces, he looked in the gym, bedroom, and kitchen. “This has a high coolness factor.”
O’Sullivan nodded.
“What’s the latest on the threat on the president?” Carey asked casually. “I haven’t heard of any new dead SEALs.”
“Mr. Vice President, the remaining SEAL from the Naval War College list is Captain Bill McGee. As of this morning, he was alive and well in Newport, Rhode Island. I spoke with him myself. He hasn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. It appears that the targeting of SEALs stopped with the Norfolk killing.”
The vice president turned cold. “Are you sure?”
“We remain on high alert. The Navy and DEVGRU know they’re being targeted. Once they think someone’s out there targeting them, they’ll do whatever is necessary to protect their own. If they find the shooter, they’ll move heaven and earth to find out who’s responsible. If they can discern the responsible party, they’ll hold them accountable. There will be hell to pay, and SEALs will extract revenge.”
Color drained from the portly man’s face.
O’Sullivan, trained in a myriad of behavior recognition techniques, read the vice president’s curious response. He decided not to show the man the remaining tunnels, safe rooms, and storage at the opposite end of the control room of the underground bunker.
“Maybe the reason they haven’t heard anything is that the SEALs took care of the shooter,” Carey offered, “so the threat to POTUS has been eliminated.”
“Time will tell, Mr. Vice President. Will this be sufficient?”
He nodded. “I’ll take one for the team and move in.” Carey walked toward the elevator. The tour was over.
O’Sullivan couldn’t begin to comprehend what was going on in the new VP’s mind. His response to a SEAL’s retribution for the killing of SEALs was more than odd. It signaled he knew more than he let on, but so had the discussion with Captain Bill McGee.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
1400 June 17, 2011
Roberts International Airport Monrovia, Liberia
Liberia’s main airport always played a key role in aviation and geopolitical history. Liberia’s air role during World War Two began when President Franklin D. Roosevelt directed the legendary head of Pan American World Airways, Juan Trippe, to expand and modernize the airline’s facilities in Africa, the Caribbean, and Latin America in preparation for war. He also required a Pan Am Clipper flying boat be dispatched to the Port of Monrovia to retrieve a world-altering cargo—sandbags of uranium ore from the Belgian Congo, from which Enrico Fermi would carry out the first successful nuclear chain reaction.
The president funded several improvement efforts for the upcoming war, which included expanding runways and tarmac and built officer housing for the Ferry Command of the US Army Air Corps. The airfield adjacent to the Firestone Plantation was assigned the code name “Thomas Jefferson” and later changed to Roberts Field in honor of Liberia’s first president.
Hamlets of grass huts sprang up near the airport, where locals made themselves available for whatever work they could find. Some harvested sap at Firestone just across the river. Cured natural rubber from Firestone was loaded onto planes at Roberts Field and flown to a dirt strip, offloaded, and trucked two miles to awaiting Pan Am Clippers for the flight to the United States.
In January, 1943, on his return from Casablanca, President Roosevelt visited the bustling Roberts Field and rested for several hours at the airfield’s commanding officer’s bungalow along the Farmington River. Liberia wasn’t subject to the various coups and wars its colonial neighbors were constantly engaged in. It was viewed as an American colony, the home of free slaves living in peace since the early 1820s. As Liberia grew, so did its place in aviation history.
In the 1970s, Roberts Field became a Pan Am Africa hub for 747s transiting from South America for the Middle East or South Africa. World-class catering from French chefs filled the cabins of the new transiting jumbo jets. In the early 1980s, the main runway was doubled in length after Roberts Field was designated a Space Shuttle emergency landing site.
The Roberts Field airport was run by senior Pan Am employees for over twenty years. The manager and his staff lived on the airport in houses along the river.
The airport closed during the civil war under Charles Taylor but was still active as a smuggling hub for Viktor Bout’s private fleet of Russian cargo aircraft, moving huge arms shipments into various civil wars in Africa in the 1990s and later.
Osama bin Laden, under the watchful eye of a heavily armed US Navy SEAL, sat quietly at a table, eating chicken and rice, in the same building that was once a staging point for uranium ore destined for America, which once accommodated a war-weary US president, several Pan Am station managers, and the Merchant of Death.
When he heard an approaching vehicle stop outside the house, he knew it was his last day on earth. “I’ve been waiting for this moment. I’m at peace.”
He tried to convince himself he was at peace, but his fingers shook slightly. He didn’t want them to see he was afraid. He overestimated the Americans’ ability to find him, as well as America's resolve to interrogate him. How could he have been so blind?
“alZawahiri; you betrayed me.
“alZawahiri; I trusted you, and you betrayed me.
“alZawahiri; how could I have been so blind not to have seen the signs? You betrayed me.
“alZawahiri; why did you wait so long to betray me?
“alZawahiri; I will be strong.” He would try to be strong. “Ayman was strong as a young man, and he broke. I won’t break. I won’t. I will not break. alZawahiri; I trusted you, and you betrayed me. I’ve given Allah everything, and the Americans took everything from me.”
After several minutes, he turned his head left and stared at the two grocery bags and automotive battery. He wondered what the Americans were waiting for.
Lifting his head, he turned to look at the big man with the big gun. “Kill me!” he shouted in Arabic. “Kill me!”
*
Twenty-five miles away, a rested Duncan Hunter walked under huge palms, scaring away dozens of large, green lizards with orange tails that ran ahead or over the sides of the elevated wooden walkway. Two white-headed crows hopped away before taking flight and landing a few feet away, scolding him for making them move.
Hunter’s footfalls loudly continued along the apparently Picasso-inspired bizarre walkway, where wood, elevation, and confusing directions conspired to keep one on his toes and on the path.
After checking in, an exhausted Lynche took a misstep off the walkway and tumbled eighteen inches below into a thorn-free succulent. The seventy-year-old former spookmeister hurt something, but, since it wasn’t fatal or oozing blood, he was too tired to worry about it. Dragging his tired ass back onto the elevated walkway, he shuffled to his room and to bed.
Thick, puffy clouds continued to race west to do mayhem as the seedlings of a hurricane. Hunter confidently strolled toward the table under the thatched roof gazebo. He counted noses in the distance, seeing Nazy, Lynche, and the SEAL who introduced himself as “Spock.”
Spock wore civvies, his olive T-shirt showcasing sculpted biceps. LeMarcus wasn’t there, because he had an airport to run. The three people at the table engaged in small talk, as Hunter approached.
They stopped talking as he took an open seat and tossed a pharmaceutical package on the table. Blue tablets sealed with metalized foil caught their attention.
“Remember to take your anti-malarials,” Hunter said. “I nearly forgot, but a tiny bastard kept buzzing in my ea
r and reminded me.”
Lynche took the card with plastic blisters, pushed a pill through the foil backing, and handed the card to Nazy. She took it without comment or expression. Lynche realized his mistake.
“What an idiot,” he said. “I’m sorry, Nazy. I should’ve offered it to you first.”
Cunningham took one and offered the package to the SEAL, who politely declined.
“No thank you, Ma’am. I’m already on the regimen.”
Greg tried to stifle a yawn but couldn’t. The SEAL yawned, followed by Hunter, then Nazy. She gently punched Lynche's shoulder.
“See what you started?” she scolded.
Hunter raised his hand toward the waiter at his stand near the main building. “Anyone order food yet?”
“Waiting for you, Sunshine,” quipped Lynche.
The foursome quietly ordered from the menu and accepted bottled water and juice for drinks. Two of the three men were exhausted from flying and traveling for days. Spock looked ready to run a marathon backward. Lynche falling off the walkway, despite his assurances he was all right, concerned Hunter. He was in great shape for his age, but they’d been through four days of physically nonstop, emotionally draining effort.
“How are you feeling, good Sir?” Hunter asked.
“Shoulder a little sore. Could’ve been a lot worse.”
Hunter patted his friend’s opposite shoulder, and Lynche feigned a new wound. There was plenty of fatigue but there wasn't much sympathy around the table.
“Everyone OK?” They nodded.
“Then we should eat and head to the airport to get started. Any idea how long it will take?” He looked into Nazy’s eyes, but Spock answered.
“He’s terrified,” Spock said. “I think he’ll talk freely. We stripped him of every ounce of protection. He saw one of his wives try to take a bullet for him. His sons were killed. We shaved and loused him. He begged me to shoot him several times.” Spock’s demeanor changed, as if he suddenly wanted to talk and get his information out.
“You speak Arabic?” Nazy asked.
“I understand some, enough to order a beer or a Coke. He’s a typical rich Saudi who’s had it easy all his life. He’s not very bright and is definitely a coward. He’s scared shitless. Excuse my language, Ma’am.”
Nazy nodded.
“I could’ve popped him ten times. He just stood there when we burst in like it didn’t compute that men in black were there to take him away. He just froze and pissed himself. Two wives rushed to protect him without weapons. I stepped through them and hit him with my Taser. My backups tased the women; his wives.
“I zip-tied him while he was still flipping and jerking around, then carried him upstairs to the helicopter. The rest of the team took care of the women and gathered evidence. We made the room look like he’d been shot. No one on the chopper knew he was just knocked out with a sedative.
“I cut off his clothes, inspected him, and wiped him down before putting him into a uniform. Even with the helicopter blades swirling around, he smelled really bad. We expected that, too.”
“You cut his hair and shaved his beard?”
“I did. Yes, Ma’am. Right there on the chopper. I wasn’t gentle.”
The men smiled. Nazy remained fascinated.
“I’ll bet that was tough. You were the point guy, Spock.” Hunter beamed with pride, his arms crossed.
“Yes, Sir. I was the belly button. I wanted to kill him for America, but it wasn’t his time to die. The team was very surprised when we got the go order. We’d been waiting for months.”
“That order was given because of Ms. Cunningham.” Hunter nodded to the ponytailed brunette.
“Thank you, Ma’am. I don’t know what you did to get the president off his skinny little ass. We could’ve done it months earlier. The team wasn’t a happy group, like stallions tied up in a burning barn. You guys Agency?”
“She is,” Lynche said. “I was, and he’s something—he pretends to be a pilot or an intellectual or an athlete. Or something.”
“Sir, I really don’t like flying. I don’t mind jumping out of airplanes or falling asleep to get somewhere. I don’t know what you did last night, but you scared the hell out of me.”
“Sorry, Spock. I guess I should’ve made one of those flight attendant courtesy calls.” Hunter looked at Lynche. “Is there even a way to make an announcement from the cockpit?”
The SEAL was confused when Hunter added, “I really haven’t been flying that long. I had no idea what I was doing up there. He wakes me up, and the next thing I know, we’re falling out of the sky.”
Color drained from Spock’s face, and his jaw dropped. “Don’t believe a word of it,” Lynche said, coming to the man’s rescue. “He’s an old Marine F-4 pilot, and he isn’t very funny. The asshole scared me, too.”
Nazy was confused.
The SEAL straightened and offered Hunter his hand. “Ooh-rah, Sir. My dad was a Marine.”
“Semper Fi, Spock.”
Lynche almost spoke but thought better of it.
“The real brains behind al-Qaeda was Zawahiri,” Nazy said. “Osama was the money man. He got a lot of praise for it. In the Middle East, if you dole out money to poor people, they’ll do just about anything you want.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Spock said. “Personal observation—the dude’s been forcibly extracted from his life and comfort zone. For the last six or seven weeks, he’s been completely terrified. He isn’t a soldier or warrior. He’s a coward who’s in way over his head. I think he’ll tell you everything without much prodding.”
Food was served. The conversation turned to banalities while the wait staff hovered nearby. Hunter pinched off pieces of toast, trying to lure birds close to the table. Gray-headed sparrows and European starlings flitted close by, fighting over the pieces, when a brown bird with bright-red eyes flew into Lynche's hair.
Everyone stopped eating and watched the bird try to gain purchase on his head. Its red-and-yellow bill raced around Lynche’s full head of grey hair, chasing an invisible bug before giving up and flying away.
“Did he crap on me?” Lynche asked, exasperated.
“It doesn’t look like it,” Nazy said.
“What kind of bird was that?” the SEAL asked.
“That was a yellow-billed oxpecker,” Hunter said deadpan. They broke up immediately and laughed aloud. Spock covered his eyes with one hand, turned his head, and fought to compose himself as tears filled his eyes. He dabbed them away with a napkin. The shift from serious work to levity was instantaneous.
“Ox...pecker,” Spock said with a mischievous grin, starting another round of infectious laughter.
Lynche and Nazy were confused by the laughter and coughing coming from the big, strong, powerful SEAL. Hunter grinned with amusement and understanding.
“I think his boss goes by Ox,” Hunter explained. “And I’m serious. I know my birds, and that really was a yellow-billed oxpecker. That’s funny.”
Another fit of laughter swept through the table.
Once the waiters and waitresses moved away, Lynche said, “I hope you’re right, Spock. Duncan knows I have issues with torture. I don’t want to be around, and I don’t want to know, but after watching Duncan handle that jet and get us here in one piece, I realized I’m not the smartest guy on the planet. Maybe I ought to be a little more open-minded on certain things. That’s my way of admitting that, because of the situation, I haven’t fully thought this out.”
Before anyone could respond, Hunter stretched and yawned. “The situation is this. These guys have been telling us day in and day out they’re going to kill us. One day you open your eyes and find some version of Dr. Evil holding a .44 Magnum to your forehead, with the barrel and front sight jammed against your skin.
“What do you do? If you’re a liberal, Marxist, socialist, communist, Islamofascist, environmental whack job, radical, or any of the other dumb-ass panty-waisted bed-wetters out there, I suppose you let the asshole sho
ot you. If you’re a conservative, a capitalist, a patriot, an American, an Israeli, or British Special Forces, or even if you have just half a brain, you snatch the gun from Dr. Evil and beat the shit out of him before shooting him six times. You put the film of what’s left of Dr. Evil on the Internet."
“If you have to piss up his nose to get him to tell you where they’re hiding the keys to the Mark Ten thermonuclear device, you keep water coming until he calls uncle. You title the film, Negotiating with Dr. Evil."
“So when this turd has not only been threatening me, my family, my friends, my fellow Americans, and my country’s friends, and I now find myself having that gun pressed against my head, I intend to do something about it. I won’t worry or second guess what the idiots on the other side of the aisle think of me. 9/11 was the day that opened my eyes.”
The outburst surprised them all. “Amen, Brother,” Spock said softly.
“I think the marvelous Ms. Cunningham can get our distinguished guest to spill his guts, and all talk of torture or enhanced interrogation techniques will be moot. But if we can’t get him to sing, we don’t have much time to dick with him. In this case, I want what’s in his head that’ll hurt our families, my fellow Americans, and my country’s friends. If he doesn’t respond to negotiation, then nothing ventured, nothing gained."
Hunter took a deep breath and continued. “As far as the world’s concerned, he’s already dead. There are places on this continent where it’s common to see human road kill. Life is cheap, and no one cares. There are no laws in this country or on this entire continent where flogging a dead man is a crime. I’ll bet Osama bin Laden will take one look at Ms. Cunningham, then at the car battery with jumper cables, and he’ll decide to say anything to keep talking to the mellifluous voice coming from her beautiful face.”
“You may be right,” Lynche said.
“I was the secret weapon at Gitmo,” Nazy said. “When all else failed, I could get them to talk.” She looked at Hunter with hurt and disdain. “And, I never used battery cables.”
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