Although he was sitting at his desk, Brucius Marino was asleep. He hadn’t meant for it to happen; he’d only closed his eyes to rub them, but his wire glasses had fallen into his lap, his arms slumped awkwardly across his lap, his chin heavy upon his chest.
Sometime after ten, one of his assistants had poked a head into the room and called his name, but Brucius hadn’t moved. The captain had repeated his name, this time more softly, but again had gotten no response. He listened to the SecDef’s breathing for several seconds, then silently left the room.
Brucius slept in his chair for almost three hours without moving, the longest period of uninterrupted sleep he had had in almost two weeks. At 0113, another man walked into the office without knocking. “Sir,” the four-star general said softly. Brucius didn’t move. The general took a couple of steps toward him and raised his voice. “Secretary Marino.”
Brucius finally woke. He looked up groggily and shook his head. “What time is it?” he wondered aloud as he glanced down at his watch. “Did I sleep here through the night . . . no, I mean, it’s not afternoon, it’s still nighttime . . .” He quieted himself to settle his brain and collect his thoughts.
“Sir,” the four-star said again, his voice now urgent. “She got him. He’s coming out!”
Brucius stared at the general. Neither of them had shaved and all of their eyes were red with fatigue. “Who . . . Sara Brighton . . . she got him?”
“Yes, sir,” the general said. “She found him this afternoon, yesterday afternoon now, I guess I should say. He’s coming with her.”
“Are they . . . ?”
“Yes, sir. They’re already out of Raven Rock. The helicopter met them up at the pickup point a few minutes ago. They’ll be here by midmorning.”
Brucius stared, almost unable to accept the good news. “You’re certain?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir. I talked to Mrs. Brighton myself. Got a patch through on the HF. She sounded pretty good.”
“And Jefferson is with her?”
“Yes, sir.” The general hesitated. “Apparently he’s not too happy, though.”
Brucius sat up in his chair. His legs had fallen asleep and he had to shift them with his hands. He stood up gingerly and smiled. “What did she do? How’d she do it? She never could have brought him out against his will. The old coot is as stubborn as a mule with broken legs.” Brucius started laughing with relief.
The general didn’t share the humor. Laughing wasn’t his job. “Sir, all I know is that she did it. She really did it. And both of them are okay.”
Brucius rubbed his hands across his face to wipe the sleep from his eyes. “All right,” he said. “They’ll all be here by morning. The other justices are waiting. I want them assembled by one o’clock. We’re going to lock them in a room and not let any of them out. We’re not going to interfere with their decision or deliberations in any way. We’ll provide any assistance they might ask for, give them anything they want, but we’re going to keep them locked up until it’s over. I want a decision from them. One way or another, I want to know.”
The general took a breath. “The good news is, Mr. Secretary, that we’ve got three justices now. Either way, it’ll be at least a 2–1 decision. There’ll be no tie vote.”
Brucius looked across the desk at him. “Yes, that’s the good news. The bad news is that we don’t know which way this thing will turn.”
The general stood with his eyes on the wall.
Brucius moved toward the low coffee table set between two leather couches on the other side of his desk. “I want to show you something, General Hawly.”
The general followed him around the first couch and looked down at the table.
The engineering charts, construction blueprints, and infrastructure layouts were piled two inches thick. Brucius tapped them eagerly.
“What are these?” the general asked.
“All the engineering blueprints of Raven Rock. We’ve got charts that show every access door, the ventilation systems, communications antennas, power generation stations, air purifiers, the whole bit. See, that’s the problem with a place like Raven Rock. It was always assumed that friendly forces would be up-top. But I’m not feeling friendly, General Hawly. And I’ll bet that you’re not either.”
Maybe for the first time since he had known him, Brucius saw the general smile. “What are you planning, Mr. Secretary?”
“Give me the right Supreme Court decision and I’m going to rock their world. We’re going to cut them off and kill them. We’re going to take their underground encampment and use it to trap them like the rats they are.”
“ . . . according to the Spirit of God, which is also
the spirit of freedom which is in them.”
—Alma 61:15
“The one great revolution in the world is the revolution for human liberty. This was the paramount issue in the great council in heaven before this earth life. It has been the issue throughout the ages. It is the issue today.”
—President Ezra Taft Benson
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rambo 53
Along the Pakistan/Afghanistan Border
One Hundred Forty Kilometers South of Kandahar, Afghanistan
At 0208, the helicopter landed at a remote fire base in the extreme mountains of Afghanistan to pick up the final members of the military team. The last of the Cherokees climbed aboard, two men who knew the local area as well as any men alive.
The team complete, the chopper lifted again and flew northeast.
The Cherokees, six of them now, were bunched together at the front of the helicopter, an Air Force Special Forces
MH-53J Pave Low, the largest, most powerful and technologically advanced helicopter in the world. The Pave Low was crewed by six: two pilots, two flight engineers, and two gunners who manned the powerful 7.62mm miniguns (6,000 rounds per minute, 100 rounds per second, a beautiful line of destruction in the middle of a firefight). The chopper was huge and ugly and all business, with protruding antennas and guns and in-flight refueling probes, darkened glass, flare and chaff dispensers, and protective armor. Unlike a modern fighter, it wasn’t sleek or sexy. Hardly. The thing was boxy and black, a barnyard dog begging for the fight. The two GE engines
generated almost 9,000 shaft horsepower between them. The Order of Battle communications package allowed for instant updates on target and threat locations while creating a bird’s-eye view of the battlefield. The terrain-following/terrain-avoidance radar, forward-looking infrared sensor, inertial
navigation system, global positioning system, and computer- generated moving map display enabled the crew to fly at night or in the weather (Special Ops rarely flew without cover of darkness) while following the contours of the earth at just a couple of dozen feet. Officially, the Pave Low’s mission was “low-level, long-range, undetected penetration into denied areas, day or night, in adverse weather, for infiltration, exfiltration, and resupply of Special Operations forces.” More simply put, the chopper was designed to sneak in and sneak out, avoiding the enemy when it was possible and engaging them when not.
Despite almost 40 million dollars in avionics upgrades, the inside of the helicopter was anything but luxurious. One of the most combat-proven assets of the Dark Side (as Special Operators were known), the chopper was bare-bones and well used: canvas seats, ratty paint, every piece of equipment worn but functional.
As the Pave Low flew northeast, the winds suddenly kicked up, gusting down from the mountains to the cooler valleys, swirling and circling between the enormous peaks to create turbulence so severe the men felt they were on some diabolical roller coaster.
Too turbulent to work. The soldiers quit talking and held on.
Two of them had already been sick. Azadeh hadn’t thrown up yet, but that was only because over the previous two days she’d been too nervous to eat anything more than a handful of nuts and a couple of bananas.
As they settled into the valley, the ride became suddenly smooth and th
e men went back to work.
Azadeh sat watching as they pointed to their maps, debated, sometimes argued, all the while scribbling in little notebooks. She was relieved to see that, as far as she could tell, Sam was one of the officers in charge. She watched him closely. He had cut his hair, dyed it darker and trimmed his facial hair into a neat beard. With his dark skin, he could easily have passed for a local. Watching him, she thought back to the battle on the streets of East Chicago, the episode having instilled in her mind a completely unrealistic confidence in Sam.
“Be cool,” he had told her.
She had a better understanding now what that meant.
Staring at him, her stomach fluttered and she quickly looked away. Her emotions for him were becoming far too complicated. Far too deep. He’s doesn’t care about you, Azadeh, a nagging voice inside her seemed to say. But something about the way he looked at her made her wonder, even hope, that maybe he did. And even if he didn’t, it didn’t change the way she felt. Like some mythical Greek god, he seemed invincible. She would do anything he told her to. She would place her life in his hands.
Which was exactly what she was doing now.
And she wasn’t the only one taking a risk. The other soldiers were placing their lives in her hands, too.
The responsibility was crushing. But it made her even more determined to do whatever it was they needed of her. After all that she had been through, she wouldn’t let them down.
She adjusted her headset to relieve the pressure on her ears and listened carefully as the soldiers talked.
The other officer, she thought his name was Bono, leaned across the large map the men had spread across the helicopter’s floor and shone his red-lens flashlight. “Okay, guys,” he said, pointing with his finger. “We’re here now. We’re heading here. Twenty minutes to the LZ.”
Sam glanced at his illuminated watch. “Almost three minutes behind schedule.”
Bono didn’t seem to care. “No worries. The pilots assure me they’ll more than make it up on the downside of the hill.”
Azadeh glanced through the tiny window cut into the cabin door to her right. The darkness was so deep she couldn’t see anything, which was a good thing, for if she’d been able to see how close the helicopter was to the ground, roaring along at more than 150 miles an hour and barely half a rotor’s length above the rocks and trees, she would have panicked.
Sam looked at her and it was as if he’d read her mind. “The mountains in this area form a rough triangle that meets at the Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iranian border,” he told her. “We’re following the contours of the mountains northeast, basically skirting between the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan.” He motioned at their feet, signaling the river valley they were flying over. “Not any good guys around us right now. The mountains ahead of us are as steep and treacherous as any in the world. We’re operating on the footstool of the Himalayas, the greatest mountain range on the planet.
K-2 is not too far from here. Mount Everest is off our right, though still a long way off.
“The only things below us right now are bad guys and rock.” He was talking to his team now. “This ain’t the place we want to go down. Not the place we want to have any problems. We all understand that. There isn’t going to be any cavalry coming to the rescue. We’re going in alone.”
Listening to him, the soldiers were attentive and serious. No bravado. No excitement. Like the chopper that was
carrying them, they were all business. It was a lousy job before them and the only thing they wanted was to get it over with.
Sam looked grim. “There are no rescue assets in this area,” he concluded. “There’ll be no Close Air Support, no suppressive or protective cover. With the exception of the weapons we’ve got in our hands, we’ll be on our own. Got some marines up north, but they’re way too far away to be any help. You understand what I’m saying?” He paused.
“Alone. Outgunned. Afraid,” one of the other soldiers snorted. “Pretty much a normal mission.”
The air force door gunner patted the Gatling gun positioned at the window. “A hundred rounds per second of burning slugs of joy. I’d hardly say that you’re outgunned. Not with this baby in my hands.”
A soldier named Slapper pointed to the ammo box beside him. “Yeah. Sure. At that rate of fire, you have, what? five or six seconds’ worth of ammunition? Anyway, what does it matter? You’re going to drop us off and head back to the carrier, where you’ll sip some coffee before getting on the computer to check in with your wife. After you unload us, we’re nothing but six pukes in the middle of the bad guys.” He snorted again. “Yeah, you drop us off, then take off with our miniguns. That’s when I get afraid.”
The gunner smiled. “Guess that’s why they give you all that combat pay.”
Sam nudged the sergeant on his knee to get his attention back. Slapper turned, then tilted his head toward Azadeh. “And the girl?” he asked as if she weren’t there.
The other soldiers turned suspiciously toward her. The expressions on their faces asked the question, What are we going to do with her?
“She’s going to get us close enough to the king to get him,” Sam told them. “She’s key to the entire operation. Without her, we don’t have a chance of pulling this thing off.”
Slapper shook his head. “I dunno, boss. Looks like you pulled her from the cover of some fashion magazine, but Abdullah’s used to beautiful women. I don’t think he’ll be all that impressed.” He kept his eyes on Azadeh but still spoke as if she weren’t there. “And she looks as soft as mud to me. I say she wets her pants the first shot that gets fired.”
Sam leaned toward the younger soldier. “She’s got a spine as solid as yours, Slapper. Don’t underestimate her because she’s pretty. She’s seen things, been through things, you could only dream about.”
“Yeah, like running up against her limit on the old man’s credit card?”
Sam’s eyes turned hard. “She’s part of us. I trust her. You’re going to have to trust her too. All of us are going to have to trust each other or this thing is going to blow up in our faces.” He nodded toward Azadeh but kept his words directed to the man. “You’re going to have to trust me that I know what I’m doing with this, okay?”
The soldier was silent.
Sam leaned toward him, his bulky shoulders creating a wide shadow against the aircraft’s bulkhead. “Any further questions on this topic?”
“No, sir.”
“Didn’t think so, Slapper.”
The soldier turned and smiled vaguely toward Azadeh. “Welcome to the team. If you screw it up, they’re going to kill you, but hey, that ain’t no big deal. Don’t go and worry your pretty little head about all that. Just be cool, little darlin’, and let’s get this over with.”
Azadeh only stared back at him.
There it was again. Be cool.
Bono moved toward the center of the group. “Okay, this is what we know,” he started. “We’ve got a resource somewhere here on the mountain. For lack of a better name, we’ll call
him . . .” he shot a look at Azadeh, his eyes illuminated by the red lights overhead, “ . . . tell you what, we’ll call him Omar, since that happens to be his name. He’s in contact with the Saudi prince. In fact, he’s the young boy’s protector. Over the past few days, he’s been moving him across the mountains, positioning the prince closer to the Afghani border where it will be a little easier for us to get to him.”
“Who is this guy?” one of the soldiers asked, his face hidden in the dim light of the bouncing chopper.
“Omar?”
“No, the kid. Who is he and why is it worth my life to save him?”
Sam leaned forward to take the question. “He’s the son of the crown prince of the House of Saud.”
The soldier shook his head. “The crown prince is dead. His brother got him. From what our Intel pukes told us, Abdullah pretty much took care of everyone in the family who had the guts to stand in his way.”
/> The soldier was a thirty-year-old enlisted man who was one of the best NCOs the Cherokees had ever produced. He had a bachelor’s degree in physiology and a master’s in international relations. He spoke four languages, including Arabic and Urdu, the predominant language of the region they were flying over right now (predominant in the sense that more people spoke it than most of the other forty different dialects and languages used by the Pushtin rebels, government soldiers, and nomadic herdsmen of the mountains). Yet he was willing to work in the grime and filth of one of the most hostile locations on the earth, all for something like $45k a year. Some things men did for love of country or adventure, not for cash. His name was Dallas Houston (his old man having been drunk when he filled out the birth certificate, and his old lady having been thrilled with the choice of names), and the soldier was like his namesakes: big, powerful, hot, and sweaty—in general, the kind of guy you wanted with you in a dirty fight.
Sam lowered his eyes, his mind flashing back. His father, Neil Brighton, had been close friends with the crown prince of Saudi Arabia. In fact, his father had sent a rescue mission to save the prince’s son after the prince had hidden him in the village in the mountains of Iran.
His heart raced at the memory, but he forced himself to focus his eyes on Houston. “You got it right,” he answered. “Abdullah popped everyone in his immediate family: all his brothers, their wives, their children. But the crown prince wasn’t stupid. He got his youngest son out before Abdullah could kill him. Took him to the remote mountains of Iran. But Abdullah soon found the location of the village where his older brother had hidden his son and sent an assassination squad to kill him.” He pointed toward Azadeh. “She was there. She saw it all. Her father was killed by the Iranian soldiers. It was Omar, one of her father’s closest friends, who got the boy out of the village before he could be killed. He’s been hiding him ever since, although we lost track of him up until a couple of days ago. That’s when Omar sent us word that he couldn’t protect the boy any longer. He needed the U.S. to come and get him.”
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