“I don’t see how we can do anything else,” declared the vice president.
“Pakistan is going to be outraged,” Secretary of State Mark Grayson added, “but that’s to be expected, and you pay me the big bucks to take the heat.”
“This time, you don’t have to,” said the president, finally falling into a smile. “To further demonstrate how pissed off we are, they don’t even get to complain to you or to me about it. Give that job to Undersecretary Curtis of the Bureau of American-Islamic Affairs, along with my order to rudely brush them off.”
“They will consider that to be a great insult,” Secretary of State Grayson replied.
“Good, because that is exactly what is intended. If they are smart, they will grab the opportunity to let the whole sleazy incident disappear instead of flying into meaningless outrage. They got off easy with the surgical SEAL Team Six raid that did bin Laden. This time, not so much.”
The president turned to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “There it is, General Rauch. You have a go. Give the orders. And let me remind everybody here: no leaks, or you might be visiting Guantánamo Bay for a while. Friend or not, you must believe that I am serious.”
NORTH WAZIRISTAN, TRIBAL LANDS, PAKISTAN
AYMAN AL-MASRI WAS PUFFING with exertion as he climbed the final stretch of stairs that led to a square and unassuming block building that served as the local mosque, carefully working his way around pecking chickens that darted underfoot and seemed determined to hurl him off the cliff to his death. The only door was on the west side, so that all who entered would be facing east toward Mecca, the birthplace of the Prophet.
At the end of the room was a window with a startling view of a fertile valley shielded by steep mountains, where ridgelines gave way to terraced gardens that were still green, even this far into autumn. Monstrous boulders the size of trucks stood out like ragged statues. Shaggy buffalo, a commodity so valuable that they lived indoors with their owners, hauled huge loads of goods and produce along the dirt roads. The mosque overlooked a busy little village of adobe-style mud and log homes, and on one flank of the town was a special cemetery reserved for fallen warriors of the great cause. Long sticks marked each grave, and from each stick waved a piece of cloth made from the garments worn by the dead fighter. Al-Masri was pleased that nothing at all had changed since he had left the village a few days ago.
He bowed and touched his head to the warm burgundy carpet, then announced himself with one word. “Commander.”
Kahn was at the eastern window, looking down on the village, and out to the spectacular view of the rugged tribal lands of Pakistan, where he had built his reputation as a fearless military leader and a smart political star in the terrorist firmament. He had had seen his security chief arrive by automobile, be checked out at the guard post, and start the long climb up to the mosque. He was eager to hear the report.
Ever since the death of his rival Osama bin Laden, Commander Kahn had been interested in the bridge scheme that could become a safe and secure headquarters for his New Muslim Order, and a more permanent residence for him. It bore the promise of a better life for the next few years, with a sophisticated communications suite. Kahn did not buy the old saying by Mao Tse-tung that political power grew out of the barrel of a gun; in the twenty-first century, such power also grew out of microcircuits and the so-called social media. He led a new generation of terrorists, the invisible man behind the curtain who stirred the revolutions that were hammering the Middle East and accumulating power for himself and the NMO.
He turned from the window and made himself comfortable on his favorite resting spot of thick, soft cushions. Kahn was in his late forties, of medium height and a solid build, with only a stubble of a beard that was trimmed once a week. He smiled at al-Masri as a servant served tea and a plate of breads and cheese. “I understand that your trip was quite eventful,” he observed.
“Yes, Commander.” He gave Kahn folder containing a two-page written report and a number of photographs. “The Pakistanis failed badly with the bridge project. Security was laughable. I could never allow you to be placed in such jeopardy.”
“That is too bad. It seemed like such a good idea, and the Pakistanis were being extremely cooperative. Maybe they were too cooperative?” The terrorist mastermind flipped through the folder, then handed it back to his bodyguard. He was not interested in such minor details as why it had failed. Only the fact that a few American commandos had once again penetrated security screens gave him pause. Will they never stop? “Then I agree with your decision to discard it. This is a pleasant village. We should spend the winter here. My computer works from anywhere.”
As if in answer, a gust of cold wind spun through the nearby mountaintops and curled a chilled blast over the village and the mosque. The servant hurried back and wrapped a blanket around the Commander’s shoulders. Despite the confident tone, winter would be hard here.
Ayman al-Masri cleared his throat, then spoke. “Among those photographs is the American who led the raiding party. He almost killed me during his escape, so I came face-to-face with him; there is no question of his identity.”
Kahn reopened the folder and found the picture. He studied it and the identification tag. “Kyle Swanson. A United States Marine. I know this name.”
“Yes, Commander. He has long been a constant thorn, from raiding our training camps to destroying entire operations. He is a very lethal enemy, and the time has come to remove him.”
Kahn closed the folder again. “Have you found a weakness to attack?”
“Yes. The man is not really a machine. His soft spot is his heart; a killer with a conscience. You recall that he was captured in Islamabad a few years ago and foiled an al Qaeda coup attempt there?”
“And then escaped.” The dark eyes were now drilling into al-Masri, showing interest.
“The reason he was captured was that he stopped to save a woman and her two children from a collapsed building. He gave himself up for total strangers who were Muslims. That humanity is his weak point.”
“So you plan to exploit that?”
Al-Masri was ready with an answer. “According to our sources, Swanson came on this mission apparently as the guard for a woman soldier whose brother, a doctor, was killed at the bridge. Once they discovered what the bridge was about, Swanson tore the place up and left a lot of bodies behind.”
“I see.”
“I want your permission to activate our highest-ranking friend in the American government, William Curtis. He must find the woman soldier and use her as leverage to draw Swanson to him, and then kill him.”
“Bill Curtis is a strong man, but he is not capable of defeating a Satan like this Kyle Swanson alone.”
Al-Masri’s stone countenance broke into a slow smile. “It would be a suicide mission, Commander. Curtis will wrap his arms around the girl soldier and Kyle Swanson and blow himself up. There will be no question.”
“A new martyr.”
“Yes. To rid us of an old enemy who has done great harm.”
Commander Kahn weighed the scales for only a moment. Curtis was extremely valuable in his position in the State Department, and the source of important advice, but striking back directly against a Special Forces operative was a great opportunity. “Will doing so harm the Mars mission attack? That is more important. We have put a lot of money into that.”
Al-Masri had thought that one through during his long drive back from the bridge. “Curtis will not be anywhere near the rocket in any case, and his man carrying out the sabotage reports nothing unusual at this time. It’s still on, and we will claim responsibility as soon as it happens. The two plans are independent.”
Kahn was quiet, thinking. The one thing that he still lacked in trying to take over the Osama bin Laden legacy was a signature strike of huge proportions against the United States. Bin Laden had brought about 9/11 and had killed thousands; Kahn was still relatively unknown, which was both a blessing and a curse.
&
nbsp; The destruction of the Mars mission would put him on the throne of terrorism. When the space vessel died, credit would fall to him through a computer-powered campaign of publicity. Now he was being given an opportunity to make his claim even stronger. An American suicide bomber with a widely known political name would kill other Americans within the United States’ borders. The double assault would resurrect the fear of Islamic attacks, a fear that he wanted to permeate the United States and establish his supremacy as the new terrorist chieftain. And the troublesome Marine, Kyle Swanson, would die in the bargain.
“Very well, my friend,” he said. “You have my permission. Give Curtis whatever help we can.”
28
THE VAGABOND
LORD JEFF, LADY PAT, and Beth Ledford were at the table in the spacious dining salon, digging into the chef’s presentation of fish that had been caught only a few hours earlier. A pinot noir had been chosen from the wine locker to complement the meal, the French bread loaf was fresh and warm, and the vegetables and fruit tasted straight from a garden. No place had been set for Kyle Swanson, who had disappeared into his stateroom almost as soon as the helicopter landed on the fantail of the long white yacht that morning. Pat had gently told Beth to just leave him be and not spend any time worrying. Kyle had some odd ways.
The Cornwells were old hands at settling down warriors after a fight. Jeff had gone through the same decompression process while he was an officer in the British SAS and had developed a habit of hauling home young men who were stressed out and struggling. His leadership never stopped at the front gate of the base. Pat had watched them come and go, all thoroughbreds who needed some quiet time and a warm cup of tea, a mug of beer, or a bottle of whisky and a nonjudgmental ear. Gradually, most would climb out of their mental foxholes, reassemble their thoughts, and stop dwelling on the grinder of death and destruction they had survived, perhaps while some close buddy had not. Some soldiers had not been able to handle it, and Jeff helped them move on to civilian life.
Beth was now being led through the same recovery exercise, without realizing it. They spoke of little things at first, such as raising cattle and the coming interplanetary launch; then she opened her soul. Everything happened so fast! She had been on the yacht, then jumped from an airplane, then ran into the patrols, and then, and then, and then. With only an occasional question from Jeff or a prod from Pat, the small woman spilled out the bloody story. The words came faster, her voice rose, and the thunderclap of realization hit her.
“When I went in, I knew I could shoot, but I did not know if I could kill like that,” she said. “Then I discovered that not only could I do it, but it was easy. Even that wasn’t enough. I learned from Kyle to give them a head shot, a coup de grace, to be sure they were dead. Then that became easy, too.”
She crumpled the napkin and pushed away from the tables, with sudden hot tears bursting from her eyes and streaming down her face. “My God, what have I done? What have I become?” She ran from the salon.
Pat unobtrusively wiped some tears from her own eyes, then met the sympathetic stare from her husband. “Should I go and fetch her?” she asked.
“No. Not yet. She’ll be back. Our pretty petty officer has finally seen the elephant.” Sir Jeff wheeled his chair out and around to where Lady Pat was seated, then reached out and poured some more wine. “Our only job is to let her know we are here, remember?”
“It is easier when we’re dealing with a man,” she replied. “They have that whole special ops fraternity thing to help them adjust, other men who have been through hell. Beth is almost alone as a woman; much more fragile, and this could tear her apart.”
Jeff moved around and hugged his wife. “The hardest part is yet to come. She’s standing at the gateway, deciding whether to pass through and join an elite club of operators or stay out on the safe side, where apple trees grow and ponies frolic in the pasture.”
“I know. I saw it in her eyes, too; the gleam.”
“Right-o. Deep down, she enjoyed it.”
“Yes. Oh, without a doubt.” He placed his hand on Pat’s forearm and dropped into a booming stage voice to recite a favored fragment of Henry V: “And gentlemen in England now a-bed/ Shall think themselves accursed they were not here/ And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks/ That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.”
“So we should not hold her back?”
“No, my dear. We cannot. If anything, we must help and encourage her. She is what she is, and she wants more. This time, the elephant has met its match.”
KANDAHAR ARMY AIR FIELD, AFGHANISTAN
CHIEF ENGINEER MOHAMMAD AL-ATTAS, clad in cotton pajamas and a bathrobe, smiled broadly, a picture of cooperation. A cold soft drink in a bottle stood on the small table in front of him. His arms were free, but he was handcuffed and firmly belted to the chair. He lifted the soda bottle, examined it, then took a long pull.
Steve Longstreet, a longtime interrogator with the CIA, was struggling to remain pleasant and unruffled. He had been talking with the young man for almost an hour during this latest questioning session, and the conversation ebbed and flooded like the tides as the severe psychiatric disturbance surged back and forth within the captive’s brain. Looking into the bruised face, Longstreet was reminded that serial killers look just like everyone else.
When Longstreet had first met al-Attas earlier in the day, it was with an absolutely blank slate. The prisoner was allegedly the designer who had built a superbridge in Pakistan, and there was no doubt that he was capable of doing that. A few elementary tests indicated that the young man was a brilliant mathematician and engineer, a savant with numbers who freely gave details of the sophisticated construction design, right down to the weight-bearing girders, and then would describe weaponry and optics and communications. However, al-Attas was also something else. He had been found tied to a hospital bed and had unexpectedly attacked those who had rescued him.
During the first session, Longstreet had listened with stoic, professional patience when the engineer would stop spouting numbers to start shouting nonsense about being an Arabic fairy-tale demon that he called “the Djinn” and give an evil sigh when describing how it felt to look into the eyes of his victims as he cut their throats. The bridge was not a fortress built by man but a digital castle that the Crusaders would never conquer; or he might describe it next as a portal to the red planet, where the Djinn would wield his bloody sword for Allah, then return to earth to slay all of the infidels. In those moments, Longstreet was glad that the prisoner was secure. When that mental storm would pass, the engineer’s thoughts would return, and he would reach out and calmly snare another cookie. He had eaten almost the full pack.
The CIA man had interviewed hundreds of patients during his long career, sometimes resorting to extreme measures of physical punishment, and felt he had seen it all. He had been told to get as much information as possible from this captive about a possible attack on the United States, and to uncover details about this strange bridge, then also to delve into his mental history, political beliefs, and feelings toward the United States, plus his personal background. Easy enough. A standard assignment.
Once the conversation began, however, things quickly crossed the threshold of being standard in any way. Dealing with a brilliant mind that was also totally mad was tiring Longstreet, while the engineer seemed ready to chat about his evolving nightmare world, quite pleasantly, all day long—but he would not stick to the priority list. He wanted to share his personal information, and only reluctantly was he even willing to move away from talking about himself long enough to discuss the bridge. The possible attack drew only a blank stare. It was time for the CIA man to decide about the next step.
“Mohammad, you must excuse me for a few minutes. I have to use the restroom. If you have to go, I can have a guard take you, and we can start again in fifteen minutes.”
“You know, that is probably a good idea, Mr. Longstreet.” He patted his stomach. “Too much Pepsi and Ore
os.”
Longstreet called for a guard from outside the door and watched as al-Attas was taken away. He got up and paced the room, and a voice came over the speaker hidden in the ceiling. “What about it, Steve?”
“This guy will take months of work and still leave us in the dark,” Longstreet said, looking at a one-way mirror set into one wall. “You heard what he is doing. Yammering all over the place.”
“Any conclusions so far? Anything hard that we can pass along?”
“Only that we can’t really believe a damned word he says. Is it real, or some fantasy, and does he know the difference? One moment he hates the entire human race, and the next second he wants to marry the woman soldier who captured him. He confirmed my queries about Commander Kahn and the New Muslim Order, but can we believe him? Some waterboard sessions or other stuff might tighten that up, but how could we trust the information? This guy would tell us what he thought was true, or whatever we wanted to hear to make it stop, and he would be quite believable.”
Longstreet stretched his arms and twisted his torso as he thought. Sitting too long in that damned chair was slaughtering his back. “So far, I gotta say the only new gem of information is this name that he keeps mentioning, apparently a former employer named Bill Curtis. Let’s find him and see if he can give us some personal background on this nut.”
“OK,” said the voice on the speaker. “I’ll send it on up the line.”
Steve Longstreet headed out for his own bathroom break, taking the black notebook from the interrogation room. Stopping back in his office to check the e-mails and phone calls, he took another look through the early part of the questioning and made a note to himself. The special operators who brought him back had mentioned that the engineer had spoken of a coming attack on America. Enough of the bullshit. Longstreet knew that was the top priority for the next questioning session, and things might get rough.
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