by Tom Clancy
Flash-flash-flash. Wait a minute. He remembered. He started counting …one one thousand, two one thousand …at nineteen, he was rewarded with three more quick flashes. He had a lock on the Turshian Mouth lighthouse.
Moore seized Kayani and rolled him around. Still drifting in and out of consciousness, the lieutenant took one look at Moore, at the fires around them, and panicked. He reached out, seizing Moore by the head. Obviously the man wasn’t thinking straight, and this behavior was not uncommon among accident victims. But if Moore didn’t react, the frantic lieutenant could easily drown him.
Without pause, Moore placed both hands on the front of Kayani’s hips with the heels of his hands against the man’s body, fingers extended, thumbs grasping the lieutenant’s sides. He pushed Kayani back toward the horizontal position, using this leverage to loosen the man’s grip. Moore freed his head and screamed, “Relax! I got you! Just turn around and breathe.” Moore grabbed him by the back of the collar. “Now float on your back.”
With the man in a collar tow, Moore began a modified combat sidestroke around the burning debris, the pools of burning diesel beginning to swell toward them, his ears stinging from the continuous thundering and drone of the spitting and whipping flames.
Kayani settled down until they passed through a half-dozen bodies, members of his crew, just more flotsam and jetsam now. He hollered their names, and Moore kicked harder to get them away. Nevertheless, the sea became more grisly, an arm here, a leg there. And then something dark in the water ahead. A turban floating there. The prisoner’s turban. Moore paused, craning his head right and left until he spotted a lifeless form bobbing on the waves. He swam to it, rolled the body sideways enough to see the bearded face, the black jumpsuit, the terrible slash across his neck that had severed his carotid artery. It was their guy. Moore gritted his teeth and adjusted his grip on Kayani’s collar. Before starting off, he looked in the direction of the submarine. It was already gone.
During his time as a SEAL, Moore could swim two ocean miles without fins in under seventy minutes. Collar-towing another man might slow him down, but he refused to let that challenge crush his spirit.
He focused on the lighthouse, kept breathing and kicking, his movements smooth and graceful, no wasted energy, every shift of the arm and flutter of the feet directing the power where it needed to go. He would turn his head up, steal a breath, and continue on, swimming with machinelike precision.
A shout from somewhere behind caused Moore to slow. He paddled around, squinting toward a small group of men, ten—fifteen, perhaps—swimming toward him.
“Just follow me!” he cried. “Follow me.”
Now he wasn’t just trying to save Kayani; he was providing the motivation for the rest of the survivors to reach the shore. These were Navy men, trained to swim and swim hard, but three miles was an awful long way, more so with injuries. They needed to keep him in sight.
The lactic acid was building in his arm and his legs, the burn steady at first, then threatening to grow worse. He slowed, shook his legs and the one arm he was using, took another breath, and told himself, I will not quit. Ever.
He would focus on that. He would lead from the front, drive the rest of these men home—even if it killed him. He guided them across the rising and falling sea, kick after agonizing kick, listening to the voices of the past, the voices of instructors and proctors who’d dedicated their lives to helping others unleash the warrior’s spirit lying deep and dormant in their hearts.
Nearly ninety minutes later he heard the surf breaking on the shoreline, and with every rising swell he saw flashlights moving and bobbing all along the beach. Flashlights meant people. They’d come down to view the fires and explosions offshore, and they might even see him. Moore’s covert operation was about to make headlines. He cursed and looked back. The group of survivors had drifted much farther back, fifty meters or more, unable to keep up with Moore’s blistering pace. He could barely see them now.
By the time his bare feet touched the sandy bottom, Moore was spent, leaving everything he had back in the Arabian Sea. Kayani was still going in and out as Moore dragged him from the surf and hauled him onto the beach as five or six villagers gathered around him. “Call for help!” he shouted.
Out in the distance, the flames and flashes continued, like heat lightning that printed the clouds negative, yet the silhouettes of both ships were now gone, leaving the rest of the fuel to continue burning off.
Moore wrenched out his cell phone, but it had died. Next time he planned on being attacked by a submarine, he’d be sure to pack a waterproof version. He asked one of the villagers, a college-aged kid with a thin beard, for a phone.
“I saw the ships explode,” the kid said breathlessly.
“Me, too,” snapped Moore. “Thanks for the phone.”
“Give it to me,” called Kayani from the beach, his voice cracking, but he seemed much more lucid now. “My uncle’s a colonel in the Army. He’ll get us helicopters here within an hour. It’s the fastest way.”
“Take it, then,” said Moore. He’d read the maps, knew they were hours away by car from the nearest hospital. The rendezvous had intentionally been located opposite a rural, sparsely populated coastline.
Kayani reached his uncle, who in turn promised immediate relief. A second call to Kayani’s commanding officer would summon Coast Guard rescue craft for those still at sea, but the Pakistan Coast Guard had no air–sea rescue choppers, just Chinese-built corvettes and patrol boats that wouldn’t arrive until mid-morning. Moore turned his attention back on the surf, studying every wave, searching for the survivors.
Five minutes. Ten. Nothing. Not a soul. Between the blood and body parts strewn across the water like some ungodly stew, it was a safe bet that the sharks had come. And quickly. That, coupled with the injuries of the other survivors, may have been too much for them.
It took another half-hour before Moore spotted the first body rising up on a wave like a piece of driftwood. Many others would follow.
More than an hour passed before an Mi-17 appeared in the northwest sky, its twin turbines roaring, its rotors whomping and echoing off the hillsides. The chopper had been specifically designed by the Soviets for their war in Afghanistan and had become symbolic of that conflict: Goliaths of the sky slain by slingshots. The Pakistan Army had nearly one hundred Mi-17s in their inventory, a trivial detail Moore knew because he’d been a passenger aboard them a few times and had overheard a pilot griping about how he was stuck flying a Russian pile of junk that broke down every other flight and that the Pakistan Army had almost a hundred flying junkyards.
Slightly unnerved, Moore boarded the Mi-17 and was flown with Kayani to the Sindh Government Hospital in Liaquatabad Town, a suburb of Karachi. While en route, the flight medics administered painkillers, and Kayani’s wide-eyed grimace turned to a more peaceful stare. It was sunrise by the time they touched down.
Moore stepped out of the hospital’s elevator on the second floor and ducked into Kayani’s room. They’d been at the hospital for about an hour now. The lieutenant would have a nice battle scar to help him get laid. Both men had been severely dehydrated when they’d come ashore, and an IV drip had been jabbed in the lieutenant’s left arm.
“How are you feeling?”
Kayani reached up and touched the bandage on his head. “I still have a headache.”
“It’ll pass.”
“I couldn’t have swum back.”
Moore nodded. “You got hit hard, and you lost some blood.”
“I don’t know what to say. Thank you is not enough.”
Moore took a long pull on the bottle of water given to him by one of the nurses. “Hey, forget it.” Movement in the doorway drew Moore’s attention. That was Douglas Stone, a colleague from the Agency, who stroked his mottled gray beard and stared at Moore above the rim of his glasses. “I have to go,” Moore said.
“Mr. Fredrickson, wait.”
Moore frowned.
“Is there a
way I can contact you?”
“Sure, why?”
Kayani looked to Stone and pursed his lips.
“Oh, he’s okay. A good friend.”
The lieutenant hesitated a few seconds more, then said, “I just want to thank you …somehow.”
Moore used a tablet and pen on the tray table to scribble down an e-mail address.
The lieutenant clutched the paper tightly in his palm. “I’ll be in touch.”
Moore shrugged. “Okay.”
He headed out into the hallway, turned, then marched forcefully away from Stone, speaking through his teeth. “So, Doug, tell me—just what the fuck happened?”
“I know, I know.” Stone had deployed his usual calming tone, but Moore would have none of that, not now.
“We assured the Indians that the rendezvous would be clear. They had to cross into Pakistan territorial waters. They were very concerned about that.”
“We were told the Pakistanis were taking care of everything.”
“Who dropped the ball?”
“They’re telling us their submarine commander never received any orders to remain at the pier. Somebody forgot to issue them. He made his usual patrol and thought he’d sailed into some kind of engagement. According to him, he sent out multiple challenges without response.”
Moore snickered. “Well, it’s not like we were looking for him—and when we did see him, it was already too late.”
“The commander also reported that he saw the Indians taking prisoners on their deck.”
“So he was ready to fire on his own people, too?”
“Who knows.”
Moore stopped dead in his tracks, whirled, and gaped at the man. “The only prisoner they had was our guy.”
“Hey, Max, I know where you’re coming from.”
“Let’s go swim three miles. Then you’ll know.”
Stone removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Look, it could be worse. We could be Slater and O’Hara and have to figure how to apologize to the Indians while making sure they don’t nuke Islamabad.”
“That’d be nice—because I’m headed there now.”
DECISIONS
Marriott Hotel
Islamabad, Pakistan
Three Weeks Later
LIEUTENANT MAQSUD KAYANI’S solution to repay Moore for saving his life came in the form of an invitation for an introductory meeting between Moore and Kayani’s uncle, Colonel Saadat Khodai of the Pakistan Army. Upon his arrival in Islamabad, Moore found the lieutenant’s intriguing e-mail in his inbox. Kayani’s uncle, the same man who had orchestrated their helicopter rescue, had confided in his nephew his ongoing battle with depression triggered by a crisis of personal ethics. The e-mail did not disclose the exact nature of the colonel’s crisis, but Kayani stressed that such a meeting might benefit both Moore and his uncle immeasurably.
Over several weeks of meetings and extensive verbal sparring, Moore came to suspect that Khodai could identify key Taliban sympathizers within the Army’s ranks. He drank liters of tea with the colonel, trying to convince him to disclose what he knew about the Taliban’s infiltration and exploitation of the country’s northwest tribal lands, most particularly the region known as Waziristan. The colonel was reluctant to commit, to cross the line. Moore was frustrated. It was a major stumbling block, the crux of their impasse.
The colonel was not only concerned about the possible ramifications to his family, but he now found himself up against his own deeply held personal convictions to never speak out adversely or otherwise betray his fellow officers and comrades, even though they’d broken their oath of loyalty to Pakistan and his beloved Army. His conversations with Moore, however, had ultimately brought him to the abyss. If not him, then who?
Then one evening the colonel had called Moore and said he was willing to talk. Moore had picked him up at his house and driven him to the hotel, where he would sit down with Moore and two of Moore’s colleagues. They pulled into the guest parking lot.
Khodai had just turned fifty, and his thick, closely cropped hair was woven with streaks of gray. His eyes appeared worn and narrow, and his prominent chin was dappled by a quarter-inch of snow-white growth. He was dressed in civilian clothes, simple slacks and a dress shirt, but his military boots betrayed his office. His BlackBerry was tucked tightly in its leather case, and he nervously twirled it between his thumb and middle finger.
Moore reached for his door handle, but Khodai raised a palm. “Wait. I said I was ready, but maybe I need more time.”
The colonel had studied English in high school and had then attended the University of Punjab in Lahore, where he’d earned a BA in engineering. His accent was thick, but he possessed a wide vocabulary, his tone always impressive and commanding. Moore could see why he’d risen so quickly through the ranks. When he spoke, you couldn’t help but gravitate toward him, and so Moore relaxed, removed his hand from the door, and said, “You are ready for this. And you’ll forgive yourself. Eventually.”
“Do you really believe that?”
Moore raked errant locks of hair out of his eyes, sighed, and answered, “I want to.”
The man grinned weakly. “The burdens you carry are at least as heavy as mine.”
“You assume a lot.”
“I know an ex-military man when I see one. And given your current office, you have seen a lot yourself.”
“Maybe. The question for you is—which burden is heaviest? Doing something? Or doing nothing?”
“You’re still a very young man, but I daresay wise beyond your years.”
“I know where you’re coming from.”
He hoisted his brows. “I have your promise that my family will be completely protected?”
“You don’t have to ask again. What you’re going to do will save lives. You understand that.”
“I do. But I’m not just risking myself and my career. Both the Taliban and my colleagues are ruthless. Relentless. I’m still concerned that even your friends won’t be able to help us—despite all your reassurances.”
“Then I won’t reassure you anymore. It’s your choice. We both know what happens if you don’t go up there. That’s at least one outcome we can predict.”
“You’re right. I can’t sit by anymore. They will not dictate how we operate. They can’t strip us of our honor. Never.”
“Well, let me remind you that the offer to bring your family to the U.S. is still on the table. We can better protect them there.”
He shook his head and rubbed the corners of his eyes. “I can’t disrupt their lives. My sons are in high school now. My wife was just promoted. She works right there in the tech center next door. Pakistan is our home. We’ll never leave.”
“Then help us make it better. Safer.”
Khodai glanced up, faced Moore, and widened his eyes. “What would you do if you were me?”
“I wouldn’t want the terrorists to win by doing nothing. This is the most difficult decision of your life. I know that. I don’t take this lightly. You have no idea how much respect I have for what you’re about to do …the courage it takes. You’re a man who wants justice. So, yes, if I were you, I’d open that car door and come up to meet my friends—and let’s restore honor to the Pakistan Army.”
Khodai closed his eyes, and his breathing grew shallow. “You sound like a politician, Mr. Moore.”
“Maybe, but the difference is I really believe what I just said.”
Khodai offered a faint grin. “I would have thought you had lived a life of privilege before entering the military.”
“Not me.” Moore thought a moment. “Are you ready, Colonel?”
He closed his eyes. “Yes, I am.”
They got out and crossed the parking lot, heading up the ramp, beneath the broad awnings, toward the hotel’s main entrance. Moore’s gaze surveyed the road, the lot, even slid along the rooflines of the buildings across the street, but all seemed quiet. They passed the cabdrivers, leaning on the hoods of their cars and smoking
quietly. They nodded to the young valets loitering near a small lectern and a box mounted on the wall, within which hung dozens of keys. They moved inside, past the newly constructed bombproof wall, and past the security checkpoint, where they were X-rayed for bombs and weapons. Then they shifted across ivory-colored marble tiles that gleamed and stretched out to the ornate check-in counters, behind which stood dark-suited concierges. A bearded man in a white cotton suit played a soft melody on a baby grand piano positioned off to their left. There were a few people at the counter, businessmen, Moore thought. Otherwise the hotel was quiet, tranquil, inviting. He gave Khodai a curt nod, and they crossed to the elevators.
“Do you have any children?” Khodai asked as they waited for the lift.
“No.”
“Do you wish you had?”
“That seems like another life. I travel too much. I don’t think it would be fair. Why do you ask?”
“Because everything we do is to make the world a better place for them.”
“You’re right. Maybe someday.”
Khodai reached out and put a hand on Moore’s shoulder. “Don’t give them everything. That’s a decision you’ll regret. Become a father, and the world will become a different place.”
Moore nodded. He wished he could tell Khodai about the many women he’d been with over the years, the relationships that had all become victims of his careers in both the Navy and the CIA. The divorce rates varied, but some said that for SEALs the numbers reached as high as ninety percent. After all, how many women could marry men they would barely see? Marriage became more like having an affair—and one of Moore’s ex-girlfriends suggested that’s exactly what they do. She wanted to marry a man while continuing her relationship with him, only because he provided her with the humor and physical thrills that the other man could not, while the other guy provided financial support and an emotional cushion. With a husband in the forefront and a Navy SEAL on the side, she’d have the best of both worlds. No, Moore wasn’t willing to play that game. And, unfortunately, he’d bedded too many call girls and strippers and crazy drunken women to count, though in more recent years his life had become a hotel bed with just one pillow ever used. His mother still begged him to find a nice girl and settle down. He laughed and told her that the settling-down part was impossible, which in turn made finding the girl impossible. She’d asked him, “Don’t you think you’re being selfish?” He told her that yes, he understood that she wanted grandchildren, but his job asked too much of him, and he feared that being an absentee father would be worse than not being a father at all.