“Not quite yet, Master Sergeant Turnbridge,” said Rawls. “We have some other hand-carried orders as well.”
Turnbridge, halfway out of his chair, paused at Rawls’s comment and plopped back down. “I knew this was too good to be true.”
Looking serious, Rawls held out a sealed white envelope. There was no smile on the little guy’s face anymore, either. The envelope was marked TOP SECRET. EYES ONLY. DETACHMENT COMMANDER. ISLAMABAD. Turnbridge ripped it open along one edge and unfolded a single sheet of paper.
The new men were to be accepted as part of the Marine detachment but were not under the control of the master sergeant, and no questions were to be asked. He was to provide all requested support, including arms. It was signed by the president of the United States.
Turnbridge folded the letter and returned it. “I’m not comfortable with this, Staff Sergeant Rawls,” he said. “I believe it may put my men and the embassy at risk. This is a sensitive post. Also, since we are talking of orders from outside normal channels, I have to point out that I work for the ambassador here.”
Travis Stone interrupted. “And the ambassador works for the State Department, and the secretary of state works for the president. So here we are.”
“In other words, I just shut up and do what I’m told, huh?” The man’s face reddened as embarrassment and anger crept into his tightly controlled demeanor.
“I know this puts you between a rock and a hard place, Top, and no offense is intended. We just had to get here in a hurry for a special job, and someone decided this was the quickest way.” Rawls paused. “We won’t be here long.”
“And when we leave, we won’t be coming back,” added Stone. “Like Staff Sergeant Rawls, I don’t like big-footing anybody, but we don’t write orders.”
Master Sergeant Turnbridge calmed down. “Okay. Okay. Just burned my ass for a moment there. The orders are legitimate, so although I don’t have much to offer other than cover, my armory is open to you. I’ll furnish whatever you need. We can go pick it out now, get the serial numbers, and you can sign it out.”
“Sorry, but we cannot do that, either, Master Sergeant. We don’t sign for things. We just get stuff and are not supposed to bring it back. When we go, we’re gone.”
“My name is on that inventory list. I’m responsible for it!” said Turnbridge.
“Right. After we pick out what we need, you just send a classified message to the man whose name is on those orders, and he will erase all traces of those weapons from your Serialized Inventory List. It will be as if they were never here. Then they will be replaced with identical weapons carrying the proper paperwork.”
Turnbridge rubbed the prickly hair on his scalp. “Ain’t that some shit. You know, boys, I’ve been around the Corps for a long time, and the only people I know of who can operate like that aren’t even from Force Recon. We talking Task Force Trident here?”
Darren Rawls and Travis Stone just looked at him. “What kind of groceries you want?” Stone asked.
18
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
WEDNESDAY
CIA D IRECTOR B ARTLETT G ENEEN arrived at the White House at two o’clock on Wednesday morning to personally brief President Graham Russell in the Oval Office. The only other person in the room was the president’s chief of staff, Robert Patterson, a popular former congressman who had been with Russell since their days as football teammates at the College of William & Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia. Patterson was a fierce protector of his friend and possessed a pit-bull, take-no-prisoners political temperament. The lights were subdued against the white walls, and small flames threw a soft glow from the fireplace. This was not the routine Presidential Daily Brief, which a ranking Agency official would deliver later in the day, but the president had wanted a final talk with Geneen before going to bed after the surprising release of the American captives.
“That was a slick piece of work, Bart,” said Bobby Patterson, shaking the CIA director’s hand as soon as he entered the Oval Office. “Congratulations.”
The president, sleeves rolled up, also gave him a warm welcome. “Have you spoken with the soldiers?”
“No, sir,” Geneen said. “We put them straight into Walter Reed Hospital out in Bethesda for thorough medical checkups. One has a bad cut on his arm, but other than that, there is only some bruising. We let them telephone their families, and that was how the news leaked.”
“Nothing but good,” said Patterson. “Other than allowing some family members in to see them, excellent photo op, by the way, it would be good to keep them under wraps and away from the press for a little while.”
Geneen nodded in agreement, the old spymaster already a step ahead. He knew how to orchestrate such events. “Of course. We will begin the full debriefing only after they are recovered. That will be a couple of days.”
Patterson softly clapped his hands. “Nothing but good.”
“How about the agents who were involved? Does this change anything on the strike against the terrorists who killed the other boy?” The president was clearly anxious to be kept up to speed with the pending assassinations.
“I spoke with the agent who brought them back, a bright young woman named Lauren Carson, and she says everything was in place for the hit when she left. We have had no word from the strike unit about any postponement. So we can assume it is still on.”
“That would make it quite a haul,” said President Russell. “Get both prisoners back and take out the terrorists who killed our soldier.”
“Yes, sir, it would. The situation is under control for now, and it is only noon over in Islamabad, so nothing is going to happen for a while. It would be a good time for you to catch a few hours’ sleep. Go ahead. I will be spending the night in the Situation Room to monitor events from there.”
Russell yawned in a reflex to the mere mention of some sleep. He was exhausted. He had been in office for less than a year, his long days dominated by the economy, which was slogging through a recession. There had been some slight increase in the gross national product during the past month, and the stock market had a solid upward bump, but the prisoner release would overshadow everything for at least two news cycles. He welcomed anything that would keep the news positive. “Yeah. I’m tired. What about you, Bobby?”
“I’ll stay with Bart. Good night, Mr. President.”
* * *
P ATTERSON AND G ENEEN WALKED down to the White House mess for some late coffee or an early breakfast. Scrambled eggs and fresh blueberry muffins, with a side of grits for Patterson, were on their plates when they settled in at a corner table. Unlike a regular cafeteria, the mess kept cooking all the time, for there were staff members coming in around the clock, and if the president suddenly decided he wanted a tuna salad topped with four-inch slices of coconut and olives stuffed with walnuts, he could have it. After two o’clock in the morning, though, even this place was unusually quiet.
“You think the Middle East will ever cool off?” Patterson asked the director.
Geneen looked up owlishly. “You mean will they ever settle down and live a Western-style existence like us? No. There’s really no solution for that tinderbox. Our goals have to be limited to keeping Israel alive and safe, sustaining the region’s oil production, blocking terrorism where we can, and preventing nuclear-tipped missiles from flying around. That’s the best we can hope for in our lifetimes.”
The chief of staff chewed his muffin and drank some coffee. “Defusing these incidents one at a time is like trying to drain a swamp with an eyedropper. Hard to measure progress. At least we’re doing something by keeping the fight focused over there.”
“Look, Bobby, I’ve been in this game for a long time, and I have seen incredible turnarounds in other countries that began small. We encourage the good guys. Tonight we take a couple more of the bad ones off the board. That cannot hurt our interests.”
Patterson smoothed his napkin. “It will be a surgical strike, right?
You trust these guys. No collateral damage. The Predator was a mistake.”
Bartlett Geneen let that pass. He did not need to let Bobby Patterson know that it was the CIA call to let that one fly based on Jim Hall’s contact from his old source. The Predator led directly to the release of the prisoners. “I know them both. They are the best at what they do, but there is a risk-reward situation in everything we do. I feel good about this one. I really do. It will rattle the cages of every fanatical leader by sending the message that he might be the next one in the scope of a long rifle.”
Patterson finished his coffee. He had another job to do today. Let the spooks do what they do, but he was also charged with keeping the president politically safe. The prisoner release was an unexpected bonus. He would build on that if the snipers picked up these scalps.
ISLAMABAD
1600 HOURS
K YLE S WANSON AND J IM Hall were hunched over a small plastic-topped table that was covered with equipment and papers, combing over the final details of the coming shoot. Outside, the heat of the day was waning as the sun drifted lower in the western sky. Swanson was ready, but Hall had spent the night at the hotel. He appeared rested, alert, eager.
“Selim gave me these two pictures of the targets. They’re pretty grainy because they were taken with a cellular phone, but there is enough definition to identify them when we see them.” Hall slid the photographs across to Swanson.
Kyle studied them carefully. “They sure don’t look like mountain men. Look at the clothes and the background. They are comfortable, which means they are getting a bit lazy. Outside of the battle zone, they obviously have lost their edge.”
“Good for our side,” Hall said. “Selim is more than holding up his end of the bargain.”
“If he’s not lying to us.” Kyle dropped the pictures and looked out the window to where the daylight was a thick orange color and losing its strength.
“Not the first time we’ve had to kill people without a formal introduction.”
Swanson would have preferred an exact, specific time to pull the trigger. The sun would take a while to vanish, which was a concern. The longer it took, the longer Kyle and Hall would be exposed to being discovered. He put his strong binos to his eyes and studied the balcony where his targets were to appear. No one was out there now, but a man who looked like a servant had been out for a few minutes and was now moving around inside, cleaning and preparing a table. “I’ve got a good view from here. How about your position?”
“Same kind of unobstructed clear view. We’re good to go. I better get on over there now, so I can settle down. We can do a final comm check then, and shut down outside radios.” Hall picked up the little suitcase that contained his own Accuracy International AW. “Good hunting, pal.”
“Yeah. Compensate for the downward angle on the shot. See you after work.”
“Right. And you remember on egress that your dark SUV with the blue flag on the bumper will roll up downstairs just as the sun is sinking. There will be a driver at the wheel, and one man as a lookout.”
“Got it.”
“Good, then. Let’s do it. Piece of cake.”
19
THE PENTAGON
WASHINGTON, D.C.
T HROUGH A WRINKLE IN the world’s time zones, Pakistan was ten hours ahead of Washington. Seven o’clock at night on September 30 in Pakistan would be 9:00 A.M. the same day in Washington and the headquarters of Task Force Trident. Not that it made any difference. When a covert operation was in progress, the office was always manned and available to support whoever was in the field.
In a city of vast bureaucracies and in a building that possessed endless chains of command, Trident was tiny by design, with only five people in the entire organization. It could pull together from any branch of service whatever forces were required to plus up for an operation, and had first call on a four-platoon Marine special operations company for its immediate needs. The tightness of the core group kept things simple.
While Swanson was in Pakistan, the remaining four members of the team had pulled rotating eight-hour shifts at the Pentagon. Rank made little difference behind the thick closed door with the big lock that required fingerprint and retina scans to open.
Master Gunnery Sergeant O. O. Dawkins, a Force Recon legend known as Double-Oh, was Trident’s administrative chief and had finished the overnight shift that started at midnight. He was relieved at 0800 by Navy Lieutenant Commander Benton Freedman, Trident’s unkempt but brilliant communications officer and the resident computer geek.
“No change in mission status,” Dawkins told Freedman. “The timeline is holding. Only thing is that the White House keeps calling for updates.”
“What did you tell them?”
Dawkins smiled, and big, bright even teeth shone in his square jaw. “That they had the wrong number. We are a logistics unit designing new Meals, Ready to Eat packets. Let the general handle those people. We say nothing.”
“We were not required by the previous administration to provide ongoing oversight of an operation to anyone,” Freedman said. “That would risk exposing plans. Gunnery Sergeant Swanson would not be pleased.”
“No,” Dawkins answered. “He would not.”
Once Freedman was plugged into the computers, Double-Oh left to get some breakfast and fresh coffee. By the time he returned, Trident’s operations officer, Major Sybelle Summers, had arrived, although she was not due until the afternoon shift. The commander, Major General Bradley Middleton, was at his desk. Everyone wanted to be on deck when the strike took place in Islamabad.
Summers was sipping coffee from a thick white mug and wearing a slim headset that was tuned to the encrypted channel the field operatives would use after the job was done. She glanced at Dawkins when the big Marine came back, but said nothing. Summers was concentrating on just listening, although there was nothing coming through the headset.
Freedman remained at his computer console, rapidly scanning through other frequencies and trolling for information from multitudes of possible sources. He had been tagged “the Wizard” by other midshipmen when his technical genius had been recognized at the U.S. Naval Academy, and the nickname stuck with him during his two tours aboard nuclear attack submarines. When Middleton created Task Force Trident and drafted him for duty, that nickname was changed to “the Lizard,” or just Liz, because saying “Wizard” did not adequately bust his balls, Marine-style. He might be a genius, but he was still a squid.
Digital clocks tracked the time, counting down on both sides of the world. Dawkins settled into a chair. He had been out on the sharp end of these missions too many times to get nervous.
“They gone quiet?”
The Lizard just shook his head to acknowledge the question. The radios would stay cold so the snipers in the field would be free from the chance that somebody, somewhere would try to mess around and micromanage the situation at the last moment without knowing what was actually happening on the ground. Swanson would reestablish contact when he was ready.
Double-Oh carefully put his spit-shined black shoes on the desk, leaned back, and was instantly asleep.
* * *
M AKHDOOM R AGIQ WAITED PATIENTLY while Mohammad Sial finished the lavish meal that had been spread for them by the servants, who had withdrawn to the kitchen. His eyes roamed the spacious apartment. Only to himself would he admit that he had come to enjoy the comfort of the place over the past few days. A warm and comfortable bed, and the delicious food, the cleanliness, and the subtle rhythm of the city beyond the window had been more like a vacation for him than a place in which to prepare for a combat assignment.
Siad dipped some bread in the hot sauce and gobbled it down, followed by a gulp of pure water from a clear pitcher on the table. “I know what you are thinking, my friend,” he said. “You are thinking that you like this place and that it will be hard to return to the mountains.”
“I have enjoyed the comforts, yes. I have not forgotten our mission. We are figh
ting men, Mohammed. We will die on some frozen hilltop in the name of Allah, killing infidels. So there is nothing wrong with having a few moments of enjoyment.”
“You feel guilty about taking such simple pleasures. Well, my friend, in just a little while, we will be surrounded by admiring students at the madrasah, and we will leave them spellbound with stories of how we have carried the banner.”
The dour, tall man actually laughed a little and passed his hand over the bowls and dishes between them. “I think we ate better than they did tonight.”
The final flare of the late afternoon gleamed like gold through the open French doors. “It is almost time for prayers,” he said. “Let’s go outside.”
* * *
S TAFF S ERGEANT T RAVIS S TONE was at the wheel of a black Land Rover Defender parked three blocks away, with the strong engine idling. Darren Rawls was in the passenger seat, giving a final check to the equipment they had taken from the U.S. Embassy: day- and night-vision gear, pistols, walkie-talkies and secure phones, and three of the little A-3s, the renovated M-16s with little scopes. A few bottles of water were in the SUV, but no food had been brought.
This trip was to be short and sweet. Both had small buds in their ears and were waiting for Kyle Swanson to take the shot, then to call them, using the code phrase “Dunkin’ Donuts.” By the time Swanson reached the pickup point, Stone and Rawls would be there. Maybe sixty seconds at the most.
About twenty miles beyond the city limits, a special operations heavy-lift CH-53E Super Stallion was circling over a safe area. The Marines would call for it to come get them as they raced out of Islamabad.
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