by T. Ainsworth
“Command, Reaper Two radio check,” said Brian Larsen who was maneuvering the second drone south of the target area.
“Five by five,” Graham answered. “Go ahead.”
“Command, there are fifty or more vehicles now—mostly pickups and cars—scattered through the fields west of the cliffs, almost a forest of AKs down there. Estimating several hundred men at a minimum, no evidence of children. You should be seeing this.”
“Confirm,” Graham replied. “We’re getting them.”
The team in the operations room at Central Command in Tampa, Florida, would manage the mission timeline and coordinate every offensive and defense procedure.
A few minutes before, commanding the Joint Special Operation, Admiral James Llewellyn had sat down behind Graham in his raised chair and plugged in his headset, listening to the conversation. For the moment the communication loops were busy but not overflowing. As the mission progressed, however, every exchange channeled through the Pentagon, the Combined Air Operations Center in Kuwait, CIA, NSA, and Central Command would constrict to cryptic acronyms.
On the giant video screen beyond the trenches of individual computer stations, Llewellyn looked at the processed images taken from the drone seventeen thousand feet above the target area. He knew reality for that place would change soon after dark.
“Admiral.” Graham turned to speak off-mike with him. “I’ll open the link to the White House shortly.”
He nodded and looked at his watch. His world would get busy soon.
As sunset approached, the electric generator’s hum became more distinct. Minutes later several cars and SUVs stopped at the gate. Morgan removed his balaclava a final time and smeared black camouflage paint on his face, neck and hands before inching close to the edge. With his finger resting on the Vintorez trigger guard, he watched through the scope, evaluating the profiles of the passengers as they got out. With weapons by their sides, figures in dark clothing assisted arthritic men with long beards and flowing white robes into the building. From the SUVs, bodyguards escorted several men in suits.
“Wants everyone there first,” he said to himself.
The vehicles left the gate and went down the hill to park.
Morgan revised the tally.
“Nineteen guards…”
He rolled to his back. The night-vision scope on his Vintorez sniper rifle scoured the cliffs.
The glowing diode on a lookout’s scope betrayed him.
One.
Another slight illumination came across a chasm.
Two.
A match that flared against black rocks was shielded too late.
Three.
They hadn’t moved.
Morgan shut off the scope and sat with his back against the rock wall. With the rifle across his chest and the headphone covering an ear, his eyelids drooped to avoid fatigue as he waited for the guest of honor.
Morgan’s headphones crackled, jarring him. Through the binoculars he studied a procession of headlights passing the turnoff and continuing along the highway for several miles, then the beams went dark. At the extreme edge of the haze, the caravan seemed to be turning around.
“That’s damn curious,” he whispered.
Looking over the edge, Morgan saw the guards outside the wall step farther away. Their guns were no longer behind their backs but hanging from their shoulders horizontally by the slings, with the muzzles facing the directions they looked.
“Command, Reaper One…five new vehicles returning to target. Big SUVs.”
“Copy,” said Graham. “Admiral, the teams report ready.”
“Okay,” he said. “Tell everyone to stand by.”
He pressed a button and had a private exchange through his headset.
“Thank you, Mr. President.” Llewellyn nodded grimly to the men and women at the consoles.
“Ladies and gentlemen…” he said in a serene voice. “POTUS authorizes Hell-bound Chorus. I repeat: Operation Hell-bound Chorus is approved.”
In the expected momentary hush, the admiral prayed silently. Lord, protect us…and please forgive me…
“Commence,” he ordered.
The master command was relayed.
“Chorus initiated, sir,” said Graham.
In Afghanistan the rotor blades of the Kiowa Warrior helicopters began twisting, then the SEAL teams aboard four Blackhawks heard the rush of air compress out their idling engines. As they throttled up, whimpers of the turbine blades blended into accelerating howls. The pilots adjusted the pitch levers, and the aircraft lifted away from the ground.
To provide close air support, a duo of heavily armed four-engine Specter Gunships released their brakes and the Spookys, as they were called, began lumbering down the tarmac. Miles away a pair of Thunderbolts climbed out of Bargram Airfield. The fearsome jets would clear heavier weapons in the surrounding area and soften up the target.
All the planes headed to an invisible rendezvous box in the sky close to the Pakistani border. In planned sequence they would cross into that country’s airspace.
“Aircraft airborne, sir,” Graham informed Llewellyn. “All are in the green.”
The timeline instantly began to compress.
The five SUVs turned from the highway. The first two vehicles came through the gate, stopping close to the building’s front entrance. With their motors running, the others idled at separate locations on the rock-strewn road.
Morgan turned on the scope and watched heavily armed men with body armor emerge from the close SUVs. He released the safety on the Vintorez. A silhouette limped from one SUV and shuffled inside. Hearty voices greeted him and called his name.
It was Jamil.
Morgan’s attention immediately focused on the other SUV and the men clustering at the front passenger door. He had only a brief glimpse of a tall man who got out and immediately stooped, immersing himself in his guards while he walked. Morgan reset the safety.
No shot.
“Aircraft approaching the box,” said Graham. “F-15s at station. All refueled.”
Only one issue remained.
“Confirm Composer present,” Llewellyn said.
Graham already had the answer. “NSA and CIA concur. Bin Laden is present.”
Llewellyn pressed the button again. “Mr. President, the party has begun down there. Composer on site.”
The pause while he listened was momentary, then he said, “Yes, sir.”
The admiral nodded at Graham, hiding his tension. No matter the amount of planning, practice, or mayhem delivered, there could be no assurance anything would go right.
“Let’s go get him,” he said.
Argumentative conversations ignited with hilarity. The expansion of their voices told Morgan they had finished eating and were breaking into groups. Several men walked out the building’s rear door to the small building. Morgan looked through the scope.
A tall profile flashed past the doorway and was gone.
Bin Laden disappeared inside again.
SIXTY-ONE
Morgan looked down at the building. His opportunity was rapidly fleeting. Killing him was all that mattered. There was nothing more.
His knife picked at the satchel’s stitching. With a few sharp tugs, Caroline’s two-hundred foot climbing rope peeled away from the bag’s inner sack. He cut off a ten-foot piece and secured it around his waist. With the length that remained, he tied a running bowline slip knot, snared the loop over a stone arm, and cinched it tight.
Morgan rechecked his ammunition belt, felt for the holster and grenades, and let the rope’s tail drop to the ground. He turned toward the cliffs and looked through the night-vision scope. He switched off the Vintorez’s safety.
There was no breeze. The bullet would have no drift.
“For you, Cay.”
He exhaled and squeezed the trigger. The first lookout’s body writhed momentarily and became still. His companions died seconds later. Morgan swung the barrel toward the roof and took aim.
The guards on the back corners died next.
Morgan threw the long rope down the cliff face then plunged from the ledge. Using the rope to control his fall he met the ground running.
“That’s odd…” said Mike Powers.
“What’s odd?” Larsen said back.
“Just caught an infrared blip, maybe a second one from Target Four.”
“Maybe the dude’s firing up a smoke,” said Larsen.
“I don’t know.” He scratched his head. “Neither flared like a match.”
Powers surveyed the cliffs for the other heat signatures then panned back to the flash site.
“Hmm…Can’t see him anymore.”
“Probably got bored and went back under his rock,” said Larsen.
“Zooming out to three hundred feet. Getting an overview,” said Powers. “Yeah…they’re still grooving to the music down…”
He paused midsentence and focused on the roof. “Shit…Where are those guys up top? Brian, can you see them?”
“Trying…This far out is making it hard,” Larson answered, directing his system that way. “No visual,” he said a few moments later.
“Calling in.” Powers flipped a switch. “Command, Reaper One.”
“Go ahead, One,” said a flat voice.
“Had two quick blips from Target Four…now quiet,” reported Powers. “Other three targets remain in cliffs. Roof and rear sentries not visible. I’m blind from this angle.”
“Stand by,” said Graham. “Reworking vectors.”
Running low and fast, Morgan reached the gap in the barbed wire, looped the rope over the rebar, and hauled himself up until he straddled the edge. He pressed flat, searching for movement.
A man came around the south corner of the building, his machine pistol resting inaccessibly on his hip.
The Vintorez clicked.
The round punctured the man’s vest—its energy shredding his heart and lungs.
Morgan jumped down and went to the body.
It was one of the guards who protected bin Laden when he got out of the SUV.
While grabbing the man’s Heckler Koch submachine gun and extra magazines, Morgan heard water splashing on the ground. Someone ahead was taking a leak.
The guard stepped closer to see what was lying on the ground.
The Vintorez action clicked and another silent bullet found its mark.
Morgan took another HK and more magazines. The Vintorez could soon be empty, and, when needed, the HKs would deliver either a three-round burst or go automatic and carve a ferocious channel.
His search would begin from above. Jamming fingers between gaps in the mortar, he pulled himself up the bricks, each hand digging higher and higher. When his boots caught an empty joint, he pushed himself a few inches higher.
There were three men on the middle deck.
Click…click…click.
Eight rounds remained in the magazine.
Morgan catapulted over.
A Black Guard stepped out the door, preparing to fire.
Click.
Stealth remained Morgan’s only ally—and not for long.
Pinning his back against the wall, Morgan hid in the shadows. Focused and calm, he listened. A booming voice in his headset was calling names. The radios of the dead could only echo back.
A flashlight beam swept the stairs. Its holder took several steps up and moved to him. With the same gentle tug Morgan used to tie suture, he pulled the trigger.
Click.
The body landed with a dusty thud.
Morgan stepped into the second-floor hallway. A lantern glow slipped around the edges of a cracked door. He pushed the door open with his foot.
Several men near the table looked bewildered by the interloper.
“Who are you?” one asked.
“Looking for a friend,” Morgan said.
The Vintorez ended the conversation.
An arm grabbed him from the side, knocking the rifle out of his hands. Morgan spun around in the air, belting a foot into the man’s stomach, burying his knife up through the attacker’s chin.
Hurried footsteps were coming up the stairs. Morgan pulled out the Makarov and crouched along the wall of the room.
An HK muzzle came first around the threshold, then a head appeared. The lantern light drew his eyes to the tumble of bodies.
His Makarov puffed.
The dying man corkscrewed backward. His arm hit the wall, depressing his trigger finger. The drumming salvo showered stone and splintered wood until the magazine was empty. With the final tinkle of brass, Morgan’s radio erupted with a voice screaming for the SUVs.
He retraced his steps and vaulted to the patio roof.
Lights in the fields pierced the night. Vehicles from the meadow were moving toward the building.
Morgan dropped a grenade on each of the two SUVs parked at the front door. Whatever ordinance was hidden inside was detonated when they exploded. He sighted the machine gun on an approaching SUV. The tracer bullets created a red rope, making it easy to hit. The vehicle rolled over in flames.
The second SUV tried to pass it by driving off the road but it ran over a mine. Rockets inside launched multiple directions and exploded in the air over several dozen trucks and cars.
“What the hell’s going on?”
Powers’s monitor screen began to recover from the bleaching white light.
“That was at target!” Larsen shouted.
“Command, One here! Explosions!” Powers said quickly. “Phosphorus with secondary explosions…SUVs at compound destroyed.”
Llewellyn stared at the screen, listening to the accelerating chaos in the loops. The Thunderbolts were still twenty minutes out from the target. What was happening?
“Oh, fuck me! Good hit!” shouted Powers while he watched multiple RPGs launch in random directions.
Over two hundred people, including Zachary Reeves, heard him. Nobody cared. The dead air hung a second longer.
“Command, rooftop NSV fired tracers at one of the approaching SUVs! Don’t ask me why!”
Llewellyn spoke into his headset, “NSA?”
“Pickup in chatter shortly before, Admiral. Asking for help at the building. Confusion.”
“No shit. Welcome to the club,” Llewellyn said.
“Admiral,” Graham interrupted, “Predator Two reports increasing human and vehicle movement.”
“Any more, NSA?” Llewellyn asked.
“Sounds like a sniper inside.”
“Sir,” Graham interrupted again. “Pakistani airspace breeched…all green.”
“Bring the Predators closer,” Llewellyn said.
Morgan scaled down the outside of the building into thick smoke. Moving toward the door where the men had carried in the food, Morgan saw men approaching from two sides. He leveled his HKs toward each group. When the fusillade ended, he heard chairs crashing inside. He stuck a reloaded HK through the door, fired, and stepped in. Bodies lay scattered like discarded mops.
Inching through the smoke, he ripped an arc of bullets around the room, the staccato flash illuminating more men dropping where they stood. He stepped farther. A flare-up from a burning SUV blinded him.
He heard an accelerated exhale and turned toward the sound. Wood scratched across the floor, then stars in his head dissolved to nothing.
SIXTY-TWO
“NSA, Llewellyn here.” He would ask directly, knowing the final decision to abort would be his and that window was closing fast. “Update me.”
“Intercepts indicate gunman subdued. A number of guards and several guests are dead. Environment is quieting. Activity occurring inside the building.”
“Sergeant. Predators report.”
“Many vehicles moved toward compound and are blocking the road. No additional ordinance. Cliff lookouts, rear and roof sentries, other bodies on grounds not movin
g, in fact, appear to be cooling.”
“CIA,” Llewellyn mused, “Composer still there?”
“Affirmative. Impossible to ascertain more.”
“Graham, time to target?”
“Twelve minutes until assault team contact, sir, all green.” Her face wore the strain for them both.
Chewing his tongue, Llewellyn looked at the screen, thinking.
“Sergeant…is Captain Sherpao aware of the current events?”
In charge of the SEAL teams, Travis Sherpao was a Pashtun whose family immigrated to the United States three generations before. He was fearless and possessed an unforgiving temperament for those who chose to fight against the American flag. Strapped into the lead Blackhawk, he had been listening to the loops.
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “He says go.”
Llewellyn furrowed his eyebrows.
“Continue,” he said.
Morgan didn’t want to move.
He couldn’t move.
He heard a command in Saudi Arabic.
“Da’ouni Arah.” Let me see him.
Strong arms righted him. Blood ran down his face. Above a steel-wool beard, Morgan saw a smile widen beneath a hooked nose.
“Good evening.” The black eyes didn’t move. “Tea perhaps?”
Osama bin Laden uttered to a man who pulled a kukri knife from a chest sheath. He came behind Morgan, cut the rope binding his wrists, next poking the blade tip repeatedly in Morgan’s neck.
Pouring the tea himself, bin Laden handed it to Morgan. When he refused it, the knife nicked deeper in his skin.
“Jamil says you are CIA,” bin Laden said. “Clever. They have never gotten so close.”
When Morgan said nothing, the blade slashed his skin. He let the tea wet his lips. It had no taste.
“Not CIA,” he said. As he spoke, the blood adhered to his lips felt like tape holding his mouth shut.
Bin Laden looked at Sayyaf. An eyebrow rose and the pretentious smile became a frown. “Did he fool you so much? Is he a Zionist?”
Jamil shrugged. “I do not know.”