The Lions of Lucerne

by Brad Thor

  “First of all, Director Vaile, it was Vice President Marshfield who contacted the Syrian president, and secondly, I hardly think—”

  “No kidding,” said Harvath.

  DaFina glared at Harvath, and the CIA director took the opportunity to continue his attack. “You have absolutely no idea what you are doing. This whole operation may have been compromised.”

  “Director Vaile, the vice president and I are confident that the participation of the Syrians and the Israelis can only help this endeavor.”

  “Jesus,” said Harvath. “That’s it, isn’t it? Not only will the vice president look good if he can get the president back, but a U.S.–Israeli operation that involves the Syrians could go a long way on the world stage in helping to begin mending their fences. You and Marshfield are going to squeeze as much political juice out of this thing as you can.”

  “Agent Harvath, you are way out of line,” barked DaFina.

  “Am I? I don’t think there’s a person in this room who isn’t well aware that the president seriously doubts whether he will run for a second term. This whole thing stinks. This is a half-assed game to you, and you’re asking good men to put their lives on the line for it.”

  “Agent Harvath, you sound as if you don’t want the president to be recovered,” continued DaFina.

  “What I want is for the president to be recovered, but with no further American lives lost in the process.”

  “A commendable goal that I think we can all agree with. Good evening all,” said Vice President Marshfield as he strutted in.

  A chorus of “Good evening, Mr. Vice President” rang throughout the sit room. The assembled men and women took their places around the table, and as expected, the vice president sat at the head in the chair that had always been reserved for the president himself.

  “Gentlemen,” the vice president began, “I know we are on a tight schedule, so I think it’s best if we turn this over right away to General Venrick, commander of the Joint Special Operations Command. General?”

  The general stood. “Thank you, Mr. Vice President. As you all know, the intelligence we have been able to gather thus far indicates that the president was taken hostage by the Abu Nidal organization, the Fatah RC, to be ransomed in exchange for Egypt’s unfreezing certain assets and the return of the Disneyland bombers. Our attempts at gaining further intel as to the health and well-being of Abu Nidal, the group’s supposed leader, have been unsuccessful. What we do know is that the call the FBI received from the kidnappers was traced to a building south of Beirut outside the town of Saïda, or Sidon, as it is better known, on the Lebanese coast of the Mediterranean Sea.

  “According to intelligence provided by the Israelis, this building is believed to be tied to the FRC organization, though further information than that is not available, which is troubling.”

  “Troubling?” said the vice president, raising his eyebrows, his hands crossed in front of him.

  “Yes, sir,” continued General Venrick. “The only surveillance of the building we have been able to run is via satellite, which took us longer than we would have liked due to retasking and getting it into an alternate orbit. While the Mossad does have assets in and around Sidon, there has not been proper time to conduct full-fledged surveillance.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, General, but you were the one who said we needed to strike fast if we were to have any chance of getting the president back,” said the vice president. Chief of Staff DaFina leaned back in his chair with a smug look of satisfaction and stared at the general, daring him to defy the vice president.

  “Yes, sir, I did say that, but—”

  “Are you having second thoughts, General? I am sure you would agree with me that this is a time for action and not indecision,” said the vice president.

  “I do agree, sir, but going off half-cocked can result in the loss of not only lives on our recovery team, but also the president’s, if he is actually in that building.”

  “You have doubts as to whether the president is actually there? Why didn’t you bring these to my attention earlier?” said the vice president, knowing full well why the general had not been able to communicate his concerns.

  “Mr. Vice President, I tried to contact you several times, but Chief of Staff DaFina told me you were busy and that he would have you get back to me.”

  Marshfield looked at DaFina. “Is this true?”

  Feigning contrition, DaFina said, “Mr. Vice President, the past forty-eight hours have been absolute turmoil for all of us. If the general was having trouble getting through, I don’t know why he didn’t come to the White House to share these feelings with you in person.”

  Incredulous, the general answered, “Number one, I figured if I couldn’t get him on the phone, I certainly wasn’t going to be able to get in to see him here, and number two, I had an operation to assemble.” Turning his attention back to the vice president, he continued, “Sir, even with our most sophisticated technology, the building in question has not offered even the slightest clue as to who or what might be inside.”

  “And this troubles you because…?” asked the vice president.

  “It troubles me because our men will be going in blind. They don’t know how many terrorists are inside or where the president is being kept, if he’s there at all.”

  “Are we going to go through this again?” asked DaFina, pretending to be exasperated.

  The vice president silenced DaFina with a wave of his hand. “General, do you have any information that suggests that the president is not being held at this location?”

  “No, sir, but by the same token we don’t have enough to suggest that he is either. After lengthy discussion with my staff as well as Agent Harvath—”

  “Agent Harvath?” asked the vice president. “Is he now a member of the Joint Special Operations Command?”

  “No, sir, but his past experience in counterterrorism and JSOC coordinated operations I think more than qualifies him to—”

  The vice president raised his hand, this time indicating that he wished for the general to be silent. “Agent Harvath, do you have something you wish to add to this, because I’m sure we would all be very interested to hear it, considering everything that has happened already.”

  Ignoring the vice president’s sarcasm, Harvath stood as the general retook his seat. “Thank you, Mr. Vice President. I have to admit that I am in agreement with the general.”

  “And why is that?”

  “There are a lot of pieces in this puzzle that don’t make sense. We think we are making progress, when the truth is, the kidnappers are three steps ahead of us. They have anticipated every move we make and are ready for it. With the level of sophistication we have seen on their part, I find it suspicious that they allowed the ransom call to be traced.”

  Lawlor’s head tilted almost imperceptibly to the left as he pondered the implications of what Harvath had just said.

  “And you enlightened General Venrick with your wisdom?” asked the vice president.

  “Everything except my opinion about the trace.” Not wanting to admit that his constant headache might be affecting his judgment, Scot offered his excuse for not having come up with this insight earlier. “It wasn’t until I arrived here that this piece of information fell into place. It just doesn’t feel right.”

  “‘Doesn’t feel right’? You want me to forgo maybe the only chance we have to get the president back because it doesn’t feel right? Agent Harvath, despite your feelings, do we have any information that indicates the president is anywhere else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And have you thought about what kind of situation we might be in if we pass up this chance tonight and the president is moved tomorrow to another location from which the kidnappers do not make any further phone calls that can be traced?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And even if the recovery team does not find the president at this location tonight, have you thought about the intelligence
we might be able to gather if we are able to take into custody any operatives of the Fatah organization who might have some connection to the kidnapping?”

  “No, sir,” said Harvath for the third time. He could see exactly where the vice president was going with this reasoning. It was drastically flawed, but as he was the acting commander in chief, there was no way he could be overridden, no matter how many holes there were in his plan. The deck had been stacked against Harvath and General Venrick, but it had been used to make a house of cards. It wouldn’t take much to topple it, but by that time it would be too late.

  “Agent Harvath, as far as I can tell, you have not thought this mission and its consequences out in their entirety. We proceed as planned,” ordered the vice president.

  Choking on a response that would only have gotten him in deeper trouble and surely thrown out of the sit room, Scot sat back down. He reached for the carafe in front of him, poured a glass of water, and popped two more Tylenols. This was going to be a very long night.

  31

  So far, the JSOC mission was going according to plan. The recovery team rendezvoused with a small fishing boat off the coast of Israel just after 2 A.M. The contingent of Navy SEALs had been tasked to enforce a NATO blockade in the Persian Gulf. Since speed was of the essence for this mission, code-named Rapid Return, they were the best qualified and most readily available choice for the recovery.

  The dark, humid air hung over the south Lebanese coast like a wet blanket. It was stifling, yet the team members paid no attention to the heat. Their minds were focused on their assignment and the role each would need to play for it to be successful.

  Back in Washington, D.C., safely tucked away in the White House sit room, Scot Harvath knew exactly what the SEALs on that small fishing boat were feeling. Out of habit, his pulse picked up and the adrenaline began to surge as a quiet communication was relayed via satellite halfway around the world through the recessed speakers of the sit room.

  “Jonah, this is Ishmael. No bites. We’re headed in,” said the voice of the SEAL team leader.

  “Nothing on the nets either. Hope you land a big one. Happy fishing,” came the response from the JSOC command center.

  Even though General Venrick wore a headset that kept him continuously in the loop, he had been furious that the vice president had insisted he watch the operation from the sit room. The general trusted his people at JSOC command, but when it came right down to it, he was in charge and should have been there, rather than in the sit room as if it were a skybox at a Redskins game.

  The general had explained the codes and call signs to Harvath as they waited for the mission to begin. With that information, Scot was able to translate the exchange he was hearing.

  Harvath knew from experience that anywhere from one hundred to two hundred yards out, depending on the conditions, the team would slide over the sides of their inflatable and into the water. Unsheathing their knives, team members would rip holes in the craft, and its heavy outboard engine would pull it straight to the bottom. Before any wreckage could possibly be discovered, the team would be long gone.

  All eyes were glued to a series of monitors strategically interspersed across the front of the sit room. There were also individual monitors recessed at each setting in the table. Internal JSOC communications from the command center drifted down from the overhead speakers. The constant narrative relayed data on the mission’s progress and would be automatically interrupted any time a member of Rapid Return’s recovery force broke radio silence.

  Glancing around the room, Scot noticed that both the general and CIA director Vaile had laptops plugged into the White House’s secure communication links. Undoubtedly, each was keeping in touch with their respective offices through private means as well. A very smart idea.

  Harvath peered at the screens in the front of the room. They were considerably bigger than the monitor recessed within the table in front of him. Even though he could switch from picture to picture from where he sat, he preferred the wider panorama up front.

  Each of the SEALs was outfitted with a fiber-optic night-vision wide-angle-lens camera that relayed back exactly what was in their field of view. The largest of the monitors was a flat-panel device showing images collected by an NSA spy satellite network known as Chaperone.

  Chaperone was a highly sophisticated reconnaissance system designed to gather intelligence and assist in clandestine operations occurring predominantly at night. Chaperone incorporated night-vision capabilities unrivaled by any other intelligence-gathering system in existence. As it utilized several overlapping satellites, “loitering” time over a target had been greatly increased from times past.

  The main flat-paneled screen at the front of the room provided a picture-in-picture view. The largest and most prominent image was of the beach that the SEAL team was swimming toward. In the lower-right-hand corner of the screen was the satellite image of what Harvath assumed was the primary objective, the FRC compound.

  When the SEALs made land, they had just under a mile run inland, where a truck and two drivers would be waiting for them. Secreted in the back of the truck, the Special Ops team would be driven to within a few blocks of their target.

  No one in the room spoke. The chatter of the JSOC command center and intermittent beeps, presumably from the satellites, had an eerie NASA quality to it all, as if the group were waiting for a fragile capsule to return from the dark side of the moon and report in. Scot realized that there was nothing that could be said at a moment like this. Besides, the general was still in charge and things needed to be kept absolutely quiet so he could work. He had insisted that was the one condition he would not compromise on if he was going to be at the sit room instead of JSOC command when Rapid Return went into action.

  The minutes seemed like hours as the SEAL team made their way inland toward the truck. A monitor in the upper-right corner of the room showed a live picture of JSOC command. Harvath’s analogy of a NASA mission hadn’t been far off the mark. JSOC command looked very similar to what he had seen of Mission Control in Texas. JSOC operatives sat at long rows of computer terminals that tiered like amphitheater steps as they rose upward from the many screens covering the wall in front of them. Knowing the military’s penchant for organization, Harvath assumed that the operatives would be grouped according to their skills, such as communications and satellite technology, with the most important operatives being placed in the very back near the top brass.

  Each member of the SEAL team wore a special set of wide-view night-vision goggles. Recently developed for Special Operations Forces, the goggles not only improved the soldiers’ field and depth of vision, but also allowed for a small computer screen to be toggled on and off in a preselected part of the goggles. On that screen, a team leader could see whatever any of his men were seeing via the fiber-optic camera attached to the top of the goggles, and it also allowed team members to view any information that their commanders wanted them to see, such as directional maps or the images coming off the Chaperone network.

  Harvath stared at the intent faces of the SEALs shown in night-vision green via the cameras of their fellow soldiers sitting across from them in the truck. The detail in the pictures was astounding. The technology Scot had used as an active SEAL had been mind-boggling, but in the short amount of time he had been out, it had morphed to such an advanced degree, he almost couldn’t believe it.

  The narrative voice from JSOC command could be heard in the sit room once again, and everyone leaned forward into the table.

  “One minute to delivery,” said the voice.

  The small picture-in-picture on Chaperone’s screen grew, dwarfing the other as the Rapid Return team entered an area close enough to the objective that everything could be seen on one screen.

  Entering a street of decaying buildings flanked by the ever-encroaching desert, the truck slowed. Having used Chaperone to try to scan the immediate area for any potentially hostile targets, JSOC command queried Israeli intelligence as t
o their ground assets posted at both ends of the street. The word came back all clear, and JSOC hailed the SEAL leader.

  “Jonah, this is Ishmael. Time to enter the whale. Over.”

  “Enter the whale. Roger. Jonah out,” came the response.

  The team leader gave the go command. One by one, the SEALs jumped from the truck, rolled when they hit the ground, and immediately took cover.

  Except for the sound of the rapidly receding truck, the street was completely silent. Knowing that police and civil defense patrols were on sporadic and unreliable schedules, the recovery team did a quick check of their equipment and moved out.

  Each member of the team had memorized the satellite reconnaissance photos that showed their delivery point, objective, the extraction point, and two backup possibilities that would be used only if needed. Their silenced MP10s at the ready, Rapid Return’s recovery team picked their way through the rubble-strewn alley in front of them and headed east toward their objective.

  Advancing cautiously, the team froze sporadically at sounds coming from the windows above. Even though the men were disguised in the robes and headdresses of poor villagers, if any local got a good look at the heavily outfitted assault team, the alarm would surely be raised.

  Dangerously close to the objective, the team, as planned, readied to split up. Although the Israelis had cross-trained with the SEALs in the past, General Venrick had insisted they be on-site only for reconnaissance and support if needed. The actual assault would be carried out by Rapid Return’s American recovery team.

  “Ishmael, this is Jonah. We are ready to enter the whale. Can you give us a sit rep? Over.”

  “Roger, Jonah. Chaperone shows you are all clear.”

  Too clear, Harvath thought as he looked at the screen in front of him. If the FRC was hiding the president in this location, it would be much more heavily guarded. Maybe, though, the FRC thought posting guards would attract too much attention. What was odd was that U.S. satellites had been able to show people coming in and out of the FRC building, but had not been able to penetrate to see inside. These mud-and-brick houses were nothing for the NSA’s peekaboo technology, but the target building had been shielded with some sort of protective material, impervious to all the NSA’s gadgetry.