by Scott McEwen
The major put his hands on hips. “You do realize I’ll be stranding a two-hundred-million-dollar aircraft on an island not much bigger than a used car lot.”
“For what it’s worth,” Pope said, “I don’t think I landed on a jungle runway of the proper length more than once or twice. If your people strip this plane down and redline the engines, I’m pretty sure she’ll clear the end of the runway.”
“Not with me in the cockpit, she won’t.”
Pope held out the phone. “What’s it going to be, Major?”
The pilot shrugged. “Orders are orders, Mr. Pope. NAS Grosse it is.”
42
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA,
Edwards Air Force Base
“Where in Detroit?” the president was asking Tim Hagen. “Aren’t these al-Rashid brothers someone we can send the FBI after? Is it necessary to risk another fiasco like the one we just had in Las Vegas?”
General Couture hung up the phone. “Mr. President, NSA has just informed me the al-Rashids are not in Detroit. They’re in Amherstburg, Ontario, directly across the Detroit River from Grosse Ile. NSA pulled their names off a list of people to watch, and, apparently, Pope evaluated these two yahoos earlier this year—classifying them as low risk.”
“So Pope does make mistakes.” The president sat forward in his chair, feeling his acid reflux beginning to act up. “Okay, so where’s the plane now?”
“Just touching down on Grosse Ile, sir.”
The president looked at Colonel Bradshaw. “Get Pope on the phone.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sixty seconds later, Bradshaw had him on the line, and the president put the receiver to his ear. “Pope?”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“You are not—I repeat not—to enter Canada. Is that clear?”
There was a slight pause. “Yes, Mr. President.”
“I’m going to call the Canadian prime minister right now. You will wait for the Canadians to pick up the al-Rashids and deliver them to you there on Grosse Ile. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“I’m serious,” the president said. “This isn’t Afghanistan we’re talking about this time. It’s Canada!”
“We’ll stand by here, Mr. President.”
“You’d better.” The president hung up the phone and looked at Couture. “What are the odds he’s going to listen to me?”
Couture was thinking, You got in bed with these maniacs. I should leave you to them.
“Sir, I don’t think there’s any reason at all to assume he’ll obey that order. I recommend you send the FBI to Grosse Ile immediately with orders to take the entire team into custody. This has gone far enough, Mr. President.”
The president stood from the chair and hitched up his pants. “Do it.”
He looked at Tim Hagen and nodded toward the door. The two of them stepped into the hall.
“This will be the FBI’s operation from here on,” the president said. “So get in touch with Shroyer at CIA and see to it that all of Pope’s clearances are revoked. That man is unemployed as of right now. Also, make sure the FBI knows that he’s to be held for questioning in regards to the Lijuan Chow affair. My God, Tim!” He lowered his voice. “He was actually going to invade another fucking country!”
“What if the Canadians screw it up, Mr. President?”
“What?”
“Sir, we’re wasting time. For all we know, the RA-115 could be set to go off any minute. Pope is directly across the river from the al-Rashids. He can probably have his hands on them within the hour.”
“You’re not actually suggesting—”
“Mr. President, I’m suggesting that you allow Pope to disobey your direct order to stand down. We can have an observation drone over the target area within the hour. That will allow us to wait until the last moment before calling the prime minister to tell him that one of our special operations teams has gone off the reservation. By the time the RCMP can respond to the target area, Shannon’s people will already be back on Grosse Ile with the al-Rashids.” Hagen was referring to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. “Then we’ll not only have the brothers and whatever information they can provide about the nuke, but we’ll also have enough to put both Pope and Shannon where they belong.” Hagen smiled. “Unless, of course, we choose to turn them over to the Canadians, in which case they’ll be completely out of our hair for the next twenty or thirty years.”
“Christ, you’re a devious bastard.” The president held a hand to his abdomen, the burning sensation creeping up his throat. “Okay. Suppose Pope doesn’t disobey me? Then what?”
“We’ll know that within the hour, sir. If he does stand down, then we simply call the prime minister and hope for the best.”
The president thought over the plan, and he could find no flaw in it. “Couture isn’t going to like it.”
“With respect, Mr. President, there’s no reason for you to give a shit what the general does or does not like. He’s a soldier, and it’s his job to do what you tell him to do.”
43
MONTANA
Buck Ferguson was a sixty-seven-year-old rancher who lived across the valley from the McGuthry ranch with his three sons. They were a Marine Corps family, dating back to Buck’s father, who had fought on Guadalcanal during the Second World War, all of them serving with the First Marine Division. Buck had served in Vietnam in the province of Quang Tin. His oldest son, Hal, had served in Desert Storm, and his two youngest sons, Roger and Glen, had served in both of the recent Iraq and Afghan Wars.
They arrived at the McGuthry ranch in a red king cab pickup truck just as the Air National Guard Kiowa helo was lifting into the air to take Kashkin’s computer and passport back to Great Falls Air Guard Base. Dressed in their ranchers’ duds and holding AR-15s, they stood watching it fly away. The Ferguson men were avid sportsmen and gun enthusiasts who enjoyed hunting and fishing more than just about anything else.
Oso left Marie’s side and ran down from the porch to greet them, barking and jumping around, entirely unaccustomed to so much excitement late at night.
Buck walked up the steps and gave Marie a hug. “How are ya, darlin’?”
“I’m okay,” she said. “So good to you see. Thank you for coming. I told Gil it wasn’t necessary, but he insisted on calling.”
“It’s a good thing he did,” Buck said. “I’d’ve been madder’n a rattle snake if he hadn’t.”
She smiled and took him by the arm, leading him inside. Janet greeted Buck with a hug and a kiss to the cheek. The two of them had dated briefly many years earlier as juniors in high school.
She patted him briskly on the back. “You’re looking fit, cowboy.”
He chuckled. “Looks can be deceiving, Jan. I feel older than dirt—but not tonight. Tonight I feel forty years younger.”
“I’ll put some coffee on.”
“Sounds good.” Buck looked at Marie, lowering his voice. “Reckon we can see the heathen you gave what for?”
“Yeah,” she said solemnly. “Mama, we’re goin’ out back a minute.”
“That’s fine!” Janet called from the kitchen.
Marie led Buck out the back and across the ranch to the giant brush pile. His sons walked over, and Buck pulled back the sheet, shining his light on Kashkin’s face. He put back the sheet and switched off the light.
“Odd they’d send a fella my age,” he muttered. “I wonder was that the best they could do?”
“A bullet don’t care who pulls the trigger,” remarked Hal Ferguson. “What kind of rifle did he have, Marie?”
“I described it to Gil, and he said it’s a Mauser.”
Hal nodded, spitting tobacco juice. “That’s a good’n. Old fart likely knew his business.” He smiled in the light of the crescent moon. “Too bad for him you knew yours better.”
Marie felt no pride or sense of accomplishment, only that she’d done what was necessary to protect what she held dear. “Does either of you have a lighter?”
Buck took one from his pocket, and she used it to ignite the nest of tinder and kindling she had built in the center of the brush pile. The juniper branches were dry and sappy, and the pyre began to blaze quickly.
“Want me to say a few words?” Buck asked.
Marie shook her head, her face showing brightly against the rising flames. “He came to kill my husband—and for that, I hope he went straight to hell.”
44
MICHIGAN,
Grosse Ile
Pope stood in the cargo bay of the C-5, staring thoughtfully at the sat phone in his hand.
“What did he say?” Gil asked.
“They figured out what we’re up to. We’ve been ordered to stand down while the president calls the Canadian prime minister.”
“Shit,” Crosswhite muttered. “We can have our hands on the al-Rashids in less than an hour. Hell, it’ll take that long just to get the Canadians up to speed. Doesn’t the president realize the clock is ticking?”
“Of course he does. That’s why I think it’s a trap.”
Gil stole glances with Crosswhite. “What kind of trap?”
“After what we pulled in Afghanistan,” Pope said, “they have to think we’re as likely to disobey an order as we are to follow it. That’s why we’re the ones chasing the bomb: the more unstable the aircraft, the more maneuverable it is. Same principle.” He took off his baseball cap and stood scratching his head, beginning to see Tim Hagen’s fingers in the pie. “What do you think, Gil? Want to sneak over and grab them anyhow? I honestly think that’s what the president’s counting on, knowing he can’t order us to do it. And this way, he can disavow us all if something goes wrong.”
“I’ll take two men across in a Zodiac.”
“Actually, I’d rather you sent Crosswhite in your place,” Pope said. The implications of this were obvious.
Crosswhite flashed Gil a devil-may-care grin. “Me being the most disavowable of us all.”
“You’ll take Trigg and Speed with you,” Gil said. “They’re the best boatmen on the squad. Do you swim, or don’t they teach that in snake eater school?” “Snake eater” was a term used for Green Berets.
Crosswhite gave him the finger and called to Alpha, “How fast can you get that Zodiac inflated and into the water?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“Get Trigg and Speed ready to go!”
“Aye, aye!”
Crosswhite turned back toward Gil and Pope. “How’s that for delegation of authority?”
“No weapons,” Gil said. “You’ll work your way inland and recon the al-Rashid place. If it looks like you can snatch one of the bastards, drag his ass back. If not, no harm, no foul. Don’t take any risks. If you come back empty-handed, no big deal. We’ll just pretend like the mission never took place and wait to see what the president can work out with the PM.” He turned to Pope. “How much longer until that F-15 gets here?”
“Pretty soon now,” Pope said. “By the time it arrives, we’ll either have one of the al-Rashids or we won’t. If we don’t, that laptop’s liable to be our last and only possible lead. I believe we’re fast running out of time, gentlemen.”
45
DETROIT RIVER
Three SEALs set off into the night in a black Zodiac F470 CRRC. Crosswhite was forward on the port side in the team leader’s position, with Trigg on the prow as the forward observer. Speed manned the coxswain’s position at the stern, running the fifty-five-horsepower engine. They were dressed all in black, wearing Under Armour compression shirts and pants in case they needed to dive into the water to evade capture. On their feet, they wore Core77 Abyss boots, specifically designed for SEALs, with drainage holes along the sides and in the soles. They wore night vision goggles but carried no weapons.
They motored across a narrow inlet, making very little wake, as Crosswhite monitored a handheld GPS programmed with the exact address of the al-Rashid residence. The far shore was two miles away, but once they made landfall, they would be less than a half mile from the house. The plan was simple: snatch one of the brothers—by whatever means necessary—secure his hands and feet with flex cuffs, cover his mouth with duct tape, and carry him like a rolled-up carpet back to the boat.
Speed navigated the Zodiac through an underpass beneath Eastern River Road and gunned the engine out into the open water of the Detroit River. The far shore was not a straight shot across. They had to detour three-quarters of a mile northward around the tip of Boblo Island and then bear south again to reach their insertion point along a residential section of the shoreline. They tied up the Zodiac at a private dock behind a small cabin cruiser, where it would not be visible.
Silent as cats, they moved swiftly through the shadows, with Crosswhite leading the way, hopping the occasional backyard fence and skirting three different swimming pools to finally arrive at the backyard of the al-Rashid residence. The house was dark, and there were no visible security cameras—not so much as a privacy fence for even minimal security.
Speed knelt beside Crosswhite near a garden shed. “Either we got the wrong fuckin’ house, or these dudes feel totally secure.”
“We’re about to find out,” Crosswhite said. “You guys wait here.”
He moved forward across the back lawn and up onto a spacious wooden deck, and then peered in through a window. His night vision revealed a neat and tidy kitchen. A small silver coffee pot called a Rakwah Qahwah rested on the stove; it had a long spout and a straight, elongated handle. The pot was used specifically for brewing Arabic coffee, and Crosswhite had seen many of them during his time in the Middle East.
He signaled the other two men forward.
“Let’s find the alarm system.”
After nearly five minutes of searching, they found nothing to indicate the house had an alarm.
“I don’t buy that,” Crosswhite whispered. “This is a wealthy neighborhood. All these houses have to be wired.”
“If you were a terrorist,” Trigg said, “would you want the cops showing up at your house every time there was a false alarm? Or would you figure that since you were the biggest criminal in the neighborhood, you didn’t need one?”
Crosswhite peered in through the back door, seeing no keypad on the wall. He tried the knob, but the door was locked.
Speed stepped back from the house to examine the upper level more closely. It was a Cape Cod–style home with two gabled windows on the second floor. One of the windows was partly open. The autumn night was cool, and there were no flying insects this time of year. Trigg gave Speed a boost onto the roof, and Speed carefully made his way over to the window, looking inside to see a woman with dark hair asleep in bed. He signaled the others to follow him up.
Trigg boosted Crosswhite onto the roof, but the grade was too steep for Crosswhite to pull Trigg up after him.
“I’ll go down and let you in ASAP.”
The two commandos slowly opened the window and slipped inside to stand over the woman. Crosswhite gripped his own throat with one hand, signaling Speed to take her under control.
Speed gripped her throat and straddled her, squeezing with two hands. She immediately came awake, flailing about on the bed in horror, but Speed was easily twice her size and ten times as strong. She tried to scream, but couldn’t suck any air. With no oxygen getting to her brain, she blacked out in just a few seconds. They taped her mouth and secured her hands and feet with flex cuffs from a black pouch around Crosswhite’s waist.
Crosswhite went to the door and opened it a crack. Seeing a short, empty hallway in his greenish-black field of vision, he could hear a man peeing in the bathroom at the end of the hall, its door ajar. The toilet flushed, and Crosswhite closed the bedroom door, stepping
to the side.
“He’s coming back to bed,” he whispered. “I’ll grab him in a choke. You slug him.”
They stood in the dark waiting, but no one came into the room. Instead, a door opened and closed across the hall.
The two SEALs looked at each other for a couple of moments, giving the man time to settle back into bed.
The woman came awake and began screaming in the back of her throat, generating a hell of a lot of sound in the darkened room.
Speed whipped around, knocking her senseless with the back of his hand, but it was too late.
The door opened across the hall, and a dark figure burst into the room.
Crosswhite grabbed him in a rear naked choke, and Speed leapt forward.
A pistol shot rang out and Speed dropped to the floor. Crosswhite twisted at the torso to prevent the man from getting another shot off in Speed’s direction, at the same time sweeping his feet. They landed on the floor, with Crosswhite on top of the man’s back, flattening him out and sinking his arm deep beneath the chin to quickly choke him unconscious.
Speed got up holding his belly and grabbed the pistol, moving into the hall as Trigg appeared at the top of the stairs. They both moved quickly to clear the rest of the house. When they returned to the bedroom, Crosswhite had the gunman secured and ready to go.
He jerked the drapes closed and peeled off his goggles. “Trigg, hit the lights.”
Trigg flipped the light switch, and they saw that Speed was bleeding badly from the abdomen.
“I’ll make it back to the boat,” said the wounded SEAL. “Let’s go.”
Trigg shook his head. “No way can you run bleeding like that, dude. You’ll bleed out before we make it halfway. You need a fucking hospital.”
“Check the garage for a car.” Crosswhite grabbed a handful of white T-shirts from a dresser drawer and turned to Speed. “Sit the fuck down so I can dress that wound. We’re not losing another man!”