The wall behind the chair erupted in a spray of blood, brains, and hair. Placing the silenced Sig on the floor, the agent checked the exit wound at the back of Carey’s head and whispered, “That’s for killing my friends.”
*
Twenty minutes later, a lone Secret Service agent on a Segway motored along the inside perimeter of the Naval Observatory compound and out onto Observatory Lane. He didn’t stop or wave to the Park Police at the gate. Secret Services agents don’t wave.
After several switchbacks and turns onto Tunlaw, a dead-end street, the Segway stopped behind a white Toyota Tacoma at the end of the drive. The agent lowered the tailgate and deadlifted the 125-pound Segway into the back of the pickup, rolling it onto its side.
Two minutes later, the Toyota pulled onto Wisconsin Avenue and followed the directions from the GPS toward Rhode Island.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
0430L July 4, 2011
Djibouti-Ambouli International Airport
The Joint Special Operations Command liaison officer, the CIA’s Deputy Director of Operations, and a dozen senior agents from the NCTC sat in rapt attention. The only woman in the pit of the NCTC’s small auditorium was Nazy Cunningham, the Chief of Near East Division. She announced they had a significant lead on the newest, most-wanted terrorist on the planet, Ayman al-Zawahiri. Information received from recent sources confirmed there was a heavily fortified, isolated compound in Sana’a, Yemen, only a stone’s throw away from the country’s military hospital and military academy.
“The coincidence of the location near a major military facility and the basic construction of the compound are striking. There’s nothing else like in anywhere in Sana’a. It’s remarkably similar to the OBL compound in Pakistan. One noteworthy item—over a dozen of al-Zawahiri’s family members have transited the Aden International Airport over the last five years, and most of them haven’t left the country.
“Four hours ago, surveillance confirmed two of al-Zawahiri’s wives entering the compound.” She indicated a point on the screen with her laser pointer.
“It doesn’t look like it lends itself to a raid,” the JSOC colonel said to no one in particular.
“Or bombing,” the DDO replied.
“I’m surprised he’d still be there after Osama bin Laden’s much publicized death,” the NCTC deputy said, undressing Nazy with his eyes. She refused to make eye contact.
“We have some MQ-9s, some Reapers, in Djibouti,” the JSOC colonel said.
“And we have some capability in that area that might be able to provide nighttime close-ups from the air,” Nazy Cunningham added. “The request went out to POTUS for interagency coordination and SOCOM approval. We’ll have eyes on the target this evening.”
“What kind of capability would that be?” the JSOC colonel asked.
“I’m sorry, Sir. Special Access. Next question?” Nazy asked.
*
Bob and Bob sat in lawn chairs in the cool breeze outside the inflatable hangar, waiting for their pilots and bosses. Two days into the mission of locating Somali pirates and hostages taken from several ocean-going vessels, the Wraith was retasked by the Acting DCI to recon a compound of a possible terrorist leader in Yemen.
Hunter and Lynche, acknowledging the mission change, made the three-hour trip from Djibouti to Yemen to orbit the target compound in a calm, cloudless sky. Low-light video and FLIR images of the compound and surrounding area were streamed live to a satellite and returned to SOCOM command centers on three continents.
Two armed Reapers with a pair of Hellfire missiles orbited six miles high, their remote pilots sitting anxiously in their “cockpits” halfway around the world in a bunker in Nevada. After three hours on station, there had been no movement on the ground or within the compound.
Hunter maintained his left-handed turn at 2,000 feet of slant range, and Lynche radioed they’d be “bingo” fuel in fifteen minutes—their fuel reserves would be too low to continue the mission.
Just as Hunter was about to break off their shallow turn over the large town of Sana’a and return to Djibouti, the engine chip detector lit up, its bright-yellow light shattering the dull mood in the cockpit.
“Knock it off, Greg. We got a chip light. We’re out of here.”
Lynche barked into the microphone, “Hey, I’ve got movement.” He zoomed the FLIR to maximum resolution.
“Belay my last,” Hunter said. “We aren’t going anywhere.” He studied the bright-yellow light, then scanned his instruments for secondary engine indications. For the moment, all was well. Hunter shook his head and hoped the decision to stay wouldn’t kill them.
The image of an older man in a turban stepped out of the shadows of the house and into the doorway of the topmost room. The fourth-generation FLIR showed, in shades of white, the different temperatures of the man’s face, torso, and background. A pudgy face framed with glasses with a distinct cold spot in the middle of his forehead appeared in the FLIR scope. The momentary profile and head-on view of Ayman al-Zawahiri, al-Qaeda’s new leader, from his waist to the top of his head, stunned the SOCOM commanders. The low-flying aircraft delivered crisp FLIR video via a couple of satellites.
Hunter tried to reset the press-to-test switch of the chip detector. The bright yellow light remained on. Something metallic had likely completed the electrical circuit across the center post to the case of one of the three magnetic chip detectors, one of two on the engine. Something metal must have made the connection, something as tiny as an insignificant sliver of chrome off a bearing sleeve to a ball bearing from a failed main bearing. If the engine rotating and friction components were shredding pieces of metal, the engine could die within seconds. Crashing anywhere over a downtown city in Yemen would be fatal.
Looking at the image in the FLIR, Hunter tersely directed, “Paint the target.”
Lynche, selected the laser designator and mashed the button; he keyed his microphone over the encrypted carrier. “Laser hot!” He struggled to keep the dot on the cold spot in the middle of the man’s forehead.
*
“Fire!” shouted a dozen people in Tampa, Abu Dhabi, and Las Vegas. Two military and a CIA attorney conferred over the shoulders of the two remote pilots at Nellis Air Force Base, seemingly awaiting concurrence from the other two that the target was legitimate, and firing Hellfires was an ethical use of lethal force.
“Approved,” the attorneys said one after the other.
The two remote pilots launched two missiles, followed by two more, three seconds later.
“Fox four,” said the air-to-surface missile shooters. “Four birds in the air.”
Lynche rolled the thumb wheel to zoom out, as the terrorist stepped back from the doorway to highlight the building and make note of the large, overhanging roof that prevented any viable overhead imagery from satellites.
“I think that’s the shot they were looking for,” Lynche said. “We’re too close. We could get fragged.”
Hunter said, “Keep the heat on that room.” This could get real ugly, Hunter thought.
“Missiles inbound!” a voice erupted in their headphones.
Hunter kept his orbit with a potentially sick motor. The first flash completely blinded and washed out the FLIR. Three successive detonations and white-hot pulses immediately followed in the FLIR scope.
Hunter cheered, pumping his fist. He composed himself and focused on the yellow light of the engine chip detector. “Now we’re done! We’re getting out of here! Let base know we might need a pickup.”
They flew south-southwest toward the Red Sea, running through all emergency procedures and recovery scenarios.
Scanning his instrument panel, Hunter said, “No secondary indications that something is failing or failed. Oil pressure and quantity indicators are steady. The motor isn’t torquing or misfiring. I’m going to trim the prop to lower the torque on the gearbox and engine. We'll fly it and watch it.”
Reducing the pitch on the propeller meant they would dece
lerate, spending more time over the Red Sea on the trip back to Djibouti.
“We won’t land at any airport,” Hunter said. “There’s nowhere to put down in Yemen without killing both of us.”
“You’re crazy, you know?”
“What would you have done...differently?” Hunter offered.
Lynche stared silently at the brightly illuminated chip light. “So far, so good.”
Hunter tried to reassure Lynche that the light was either an electrical short or fuzz on the detector. “Still no secondary indications.”
He headed toward the island of Jazirat in the middle of the Red Sea.
An hour later, their aircraft was “feet wet.”
“We’ve got 250 miles to go at eighty knots,” Hunter said.
“This will be fun. ETA 0400 local. At least it will still be dark.”
Lynche stared at the yellow light, wondering if that was how their lives would end.
Hunter was concerned by the way his friend was obsessing over the chip light and not the great work they had done over Yemen. After their mission to track Afghanistan’s poppy seed stock ended with the Iranian missile force shooting a missile at them, the seventy-two-year-old Lynche became noticeably more cautious and worried about their missions. And the interrogation of Osama bin Laden completely changed him. Once vivacious and outgoing, Lynche became markedly introspective. Hunter tried to engage his friend in discussions to kill time and take their minds off the yellow light that dominated everything else in the cockpit. “I think you’re a hero, Mr. Lynche. Nice work.”
Hunter checked his mirrors and saw Lynche hanging his head in the rear seat. He waited for a minute without hearing a response. He wasn't going to give up on Greg Lynche, at least not yet.
“I finally received some e-mail,” Hunter offered. “That BlackBerry vibrated nonstop for five minutes. I should’ve stuck it in my pants and enjoyed myself.”
Lynche didn’t lift his chin from his chest, as he keyed the microphone and gave a forced laugh. “You got e-mail?”
“Yes, Sir. It’s Africa. I’m still amazed we can get e-mail here. After four days of no e-mail or service, I guess someone finally paid their frickin’ phone bill, and wa-la, we have service again.” He waited for Lynche to reply. When he didn’t, Hunter said, “Happy Fourth of July, Mr. Lynche. You look pretty good for being 235 years old.”
“Thanks.”
“Connie said not to let you get into any trouble.”
“My bride still sending you e-mail?”
“All the time. She wants me to take care of you. How come nobody ever takes care of me?”
“I took care of you. I zapped that fucker right between the eyes.”
“Yes, Sir, you did. I probably didn’t say thank you enough.”
“We’re even now. You saved my life, and I saved yours.”
Hunter allowed that to sink in. He didn’t think Lynche had been keeping score. They’d been through a lot together over a very long period of time.
“I get the sense from her note that you created a ruckus when you went to Africa. Something else you haven’t shared with me? I always took you for a gun runner or arms smuggler, for the good side, of course.”
“No need to know. No SA for you. Anything else interesting?”
“Nazy might be promoted out of the NE and into the NCTC as deputy director.”
Lynche sat up and raised his helmeted head in the spacious canopy. “Whoa! When were you going to tell me that? I didn’t see that coming. Maybe I should have. I guess it depends on who did what with her interview material.”
“Bullfrog gave me that sniper’s laptop, and I turned it over to Nazy. I’m not sure if anything was in there. We’ll never know unless she tells me. She’s getting more like you, starting to leave out some of the finer details or not say anything at all.”
“You know I promised to carry that stuff to my grave.”
“Me too, but how will the world know you were some CIA rock star? Dude, if you were in the military, they would’ve named a planet after you for all the stuff you did.”
“Now how would you know that?”
“I have my ways.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence. That was a long time ago.”
“Are you counting all the ships down there? It’s like a friggin’ parking lot at Wal-Mart on Saturday night, with all the Wal-Martians waddling up and down the aisles.”
“Did you say WalMartians?”
“That’s right. Do you even know what Wal-Mart is, Mr. Ivy League? If you did, you’d know that’s where all the democrats and liberals shop on Saturday night. It’s a show from outer space, minus all the freaky science sounds.”
“You’re yanking my leg.”
“When we get home, I’ll send you the link. Break, break. New subject. Did you hear anyone at JSOC say we have a new president?”
“That’s probably not news. What you did with those documents was a stroke of genius. Your little trick of sending them out the way you did probably sent him packing.”
“I’m not sure if you got the rest of the story. Connie sent us an e-mail. Basically, it read that a constitutional crisis was averted with the swearing in of the Speaker of the House. The president resigned and was last seen in Hilo, disembarking from Air Force One….”
“Speaker of the House? What are you talking about?”
“What I was going to say was, the new Republican President told the American people that a full investigation was underway on the former President. Congress agrees to fix the citizenship ambiguities in current law, secure the northern and southern borders, and establish a national identity card and harsh penalties for those who abuse the law. No one ever saw the murder-suicide coming.”
“Murder-suicide?”
“I’m reading between the lines. I think the Vice President was either the murderer or the suicide. We probably won’t know until we get home.”
“Holy crap! I didn’t know.”
“Sixty minutes out. Still looking good. For whatever it’s worth, I never had to fly over open water with a chip light before. Frickin’ spooky. I have newfound appreciation for helo guys flying over water. You never know when the beast will quit.”
“Tell me about it.” Lynche finally looked out over the Red Sea.
“Connie also said immediately after the new President’s speech, the ports of entry swelled with outbound traffic. Thousands of poorly or undocumented workers left their homes, businesses, and vehicles to get out of the country. Just think of all the new jobs available.”
“Anything else from my bride?”
“I think I covered it all. But I think we lost LeMarcus.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s election time in Liberia. I’ll bet the President throws the current director general of civil aviation into jail and offers the job to LeMarcus. He’ll be a Liberian national hero and will become the head of the ICAO or something. Maybe he’ll find a babe of his own, and we’ll never get him out of there.”
“He was fantastic. Our loss if it happens.”
“I also have bad news. Remember Chief Burgher?”
“I do. Good man. Big, tall fucker.”
“I got an e-mail from a retired Assistant Chief Patrol Agent that Chief Burgher’s funeral is tomorrow. He had cancer and didn’t want the chemo. He was a great guy. He was like you in a lot of ways, Greg. I’d do anything for him or you. I would’ve gone to his funeral.”
“I know you would've. While you were at the Air Force, Connie and I had dinner with him several times. I was very impressed.”
“The other piece of information from Jerry concerns my old buddy, Charles, the Chief Pilot.” He emphasized the man’s name. “I remember.”
“Jerry said Charles Rodriguez was found floating in a river in Canada. Since he was a fisherman and a drunk, they figured he had a heart attack or had too much to drink and fell in. What law enforcement didn’t tell the media was that he had a bullet hole in his head. His
skull was so thick, the bullet bounced around in his cranium until it got tired of turning his brain into gray pudding.”
“Did he say gray pudding? I think you’re ad-libbing.”
“It could’ve happened. What he did say was that during the funeral, my name and Charles' came up. Seems like everyone in the Border Patrol knew I had something to do with Charles’ quitting and running off to Canada. Jerry said one of the old Del Rio pilots was there, and he said, ‘Charles took a great interest in Hunter and started a file.’ He added when I was off auditing an aviation program. That was enough to make the chief pilot and some of his friends a little wary of the former Marine pilot with no apparent law enforcement background. Isn’t that wild?”
“Something didn’t make sense with that shithead. He probably figured out that somewhere down the road, whenever you left town for an extended period, the drug flow was severely curtailed or stopped for a while. Chief Burgher noticed. Charles couldn’t have known how you were doing it but suspected it was you. When I brought the Schweizer to Del Rio and you got assigned collateral duties with the DOJ’s Office of Internal Audit, it was probably enough for him to put two-and-two together that you were active in undercover counterdrug work. He couldn't have known who.”
“I often wondered how Bashir got my name. Maybe it was from Charles. If it was, it makes sense why those Muslims tried to knock me off.”
“It was probably Charles or one of his buddies.”
“No doubt. Lights of Djibouti on the nose, Sir. Thirty-five minutes.”
“I also got an e-mail from Bullfrog.”
Lynche hung his head, clicked the mic button, and asked, “What did he have?”
“Several things. He emails in bullets. You have to read between the lines. The first one was confusing. A bunch of mosques from Denver to Key West to Boston caught fire.”
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