by Randy Singer
“We don’t want to take any chances,” Towers said.
To Kilpatrick, it sounded dismissive. He watched the president bristle.
“What are the chances that the Black Hawks will be shot down by surface-to-air missiles?” she asked.
“We don’t believe they have that capacity at the prison facility,” Towers said. The man exuded confidence, but he had lost a fair amount of credibility. This mission was crumbling as he spoke, the tension in the room escalating.
Kilpatrick knew that the president had dealt with some tough FBI agents and cops in her days as a prosecutor. He had never known her to back down.
“I hope you’re right,” the president said. “We’ve had enough surprises for one night.”
VIRGINIA BEACH, VIRGINIA
Kristen Anderson was trying to persuade her boys that it was time for bed. They were employing the usual excuses. One more story. Can we call Daddy? I’m not tired. Can Tiny sleep with me tonight? It was always this way the first two weeks after Troy deployed. He was the one who had bedtime responsibilities when he was at home. She had been with them all day; it was the least their father could do. When he deployed, it was hard for the little guys to adjust their routines.
But she took it one night at a time, one excuse at a time. And tonight, after fifteen minutes of arguing, she tucked them in bed and said a prayer for their dad. And then, before she went to bed herself, she crossed off another day on the calendar hanging on the refrigerator.
Paige Chambers shut down her computer for the night and turned on the television. It was eight o’clock, and she was already tired. It seemed like she was twenty-nine going on sixty. In college, she would go to bed at two in the morning, but now she was lucky to stay up until eleven. She curled up on the couch and pulled the blanket over her legs.
She switched mindlessly from one channel to another, her thoughts drifting to Patrick. Maybe she should send another e-mail before she went to bed. But she didn’t want to seem like a stalker. By her count, she had three unanswered text messages and two unanswered e-mails in the queue. She smiled sleepily. She would give him a piece of her mind when he finally answered.
15
SANA’A, YEMEN
The reports came in so quickly Patrick was having a hard time assimilating everything. The snipers were all surrounded and engaged. The other assault team, Alpha Two, was trapped in a stairwell and under heavy fire. Houthi soldiers were approaching the prison in trucks and transport vehicles. Drones would be unleashing more Hellfire missiles soon. And inside the prison itself, Patrick had no idea how many Houthis were lying in wait as part of this trap.
Patrick had four team members cornered with him in this third-floor pod, with two others providing cover in the stairwell at the other end of the hallway. Even now, those men were taking fire.
Patrick knew he and his men would have to fight their way out of the prison facility. The Black Hawks were on the way and would be there in a matter of minutes. Reinforcements from the QRF would take longer, but if he could just get his men out to the prison yard, there was a chance they could get extracted.
He decided not to go back to the same stairwell they had used to access the third floor. That’s what the Houthis would expect because that stairwell was still partially secured. Instead, he motioned two of his men forward to the nearest stairwell, at the west end of the prison. They would shoot their way down these stairs and then circle back to the north end of the building to exit.
He signaled for two of his men to approach while he and Beef provided cover, their sights trained on the two intersecting hallways that led to the stairwell. Once this near stairwell was secure, Patrick would radio the men at the other end of the hallway to retreat and join them.
He glanced over his shoulder as one of his men kicked open the door, but the Houthis were one step ahead. The opening door triggered a blast that filled the pod with heat and shrapnel and light. The force of it knocked Patrick to the ground and staggered Beef. Patrick felt piercing pain in his left shoulder and a burning sensation where the shrapnel had gouged his right cheek. He knew his two buddies at the doorway had not survived.
“Eagles down, west stairwell,” he gasped into his mic, struggling to get to his feet. “You okay?” he asked Beef.
Beef had his gun trained on the gaping hole where the stairwell door had previously been. He was expecting Houthis to pour through, but so far none had entered.
“Let’s make those bastards pay,” Beef said.
The reports of casualties were coming in too quickly for Patrick to process. Alpha Two was losing members fast. One of the men Patrick had left behind to secure the stairwell was down. Patrick and Beef decided to join the lone surviving member of the team. They would go out the same way they came in.
They moved quickly to the east-end stairwell, where their teammate was just inside the frame of the door they had blown off its hinges on the way up. He was stepping through, spraying rounds at the Houthis, and then stepping back.
“Up top and below,” he said breathlessly as Patrick and Beef came up behind him. The left arm of his shirt was drenched in blood.
“Beef, drop a grenade on the men below. I’ll step through and give you cover with the ones upstairs. You two take the steps and blast your way out.” It wasn’t much of a plan, but they were out of options.
Without hesitation, Beef tossed a grenade down the steps. The explosion rocked the stairwell, and the three men stepped onto the third-floor landing. Patrick began emptying rounds into the Houthis one flight up. They were returning fire wildly, a shower of bullets clanging off the grated metal staircase. Patrick was stacking them up, picking them off one at a time as his rounds slammed into their bodies, his night goggles providing a decisive edge.
But then a light flashed from the landing above him, some sort of battery-operated spotlight that lit up the stairwell for a split second before Patrick could shoot it out, enabling the Houthis above and below to find their marks on the three SEALs caught in the middle.
The world slowed down, frame by frame, as Patrick squeezed off a last round and felt the pain sear through the right side of his neck, just above his body plate. He stumbled down a step, dropping his rifle, and braced himself with his left hand, slumping onto the step below. He could hear the triumphant shouts of the Houthis mixed with the roar of blood rushing to his ears as they clambered down the metal staircase to execute Patrick and his fallen teammates.
The images were blurred, but his last sight was of his best friend sprawled across the steps below him, his mouth open and his gun still in his hand. Somehow Patrick pulled himself down a step, draped his body over that of his friend, and grabbed the grenade from his own belt. He pulled the pin free with his teeth. And just before the world went dark, he placed the grenade under his body, sandwiched between him and Troy.
His last thought was about the smallest of victories. There would be no desecration of these bodies. No weapons or information would fall into enemy hands. He had lived to be a warrior. Now he would die like one.
16
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Like the others in the Situation Room, Philip Kilpatrick had changed his computer to what he euphemistically called the “death screen.” It was a real-time aerial view of the prison compound with superimposed data that not only showed the location of each member of the extraction team but also their respiratory rate and heart rate. Each SEAL wore a monitor strap around his chest, relaying via satellite vital signs that were displayed on the screen in front of Kilpatrick. He had found it fascinating as the men went through segments of their mission to see the ones who remained the most calm. But now, he and the others watched in mounting horror as digital readouts all over the map began changing to zeroes.
In the last few minutes, the radio traffic had gone from calm reports of the enemy being engaged to more urgent calls for backup to total silence from the men on the ground. The members of the National Security Council had fallen silent as well, liste
ning and watching as Admiral Towers took charge, calling in the drones for strikes against the personnel carriers that were delivering more Houthis to the scene, preparing the Black Hawk helicopters for their insertion, talking to the QRF.
The overhead infrared views on the big screen showed the prison yard full of Houthis scampering around, and there was no telling how many troops were inside the building. With an estimated fifteen hundred prisoners in their cells, the drone strikes would have to be carefully calculated.
When the Black Hawks came under fire from surface-to-air missiles, Towers backed them off. The men on the ground were all dead. It was useless to land the extraction birds without the backup QRF troops who could secure the prison facility long enough to drag the bodies out.
“Pull back and stand down until QRF arrives,” Towers said, and Kilpatrick could see the fury on his face. Within minutes, a second strike force would descend on the prison yard. Special Forces teams would fast-rope to the ground, engage in a vicious firefight, and retrieve the bodies of their dead friends. There was no doubt in Kilpatrick’s mind that Towers would take out as many Houthi rebels as possible in the process.
Kilpatrick watched the second round of drone strikes do its damage, annihilating transport vehicles and pulverizing Houthi guards running across the prison yard. But after the smoke had cleared, dozens more were running to the roofs of the houses surrounding the prison facility and scrambling for cover inside the prison walls. There were hundreds of enemy troops, with more converging on the prison every minute.
“Insert at contingency coordinates,” Towers said to the commander of the QRF team.
The president looked at General Simpson. “What does that mean?”
Simpson was ashen. His voice was low and gruff, devoid of the bravado that usually characterized the big man’s tone. “The quick-response forces will fast-rope in at various locations about a mile from the prison compound. That way they can avoid the shoulder rockets the Houthis have at the compound.”
“What’s the likelihood they’ll meet resistance trying to get to the compound?” the president asked icily.
“Strong. But they should be able to blow through the resistance and secure the compound. The helicopters can land for extraction once the yard is cleared.”
The president turned her ire on Director Marcano. After all, it was technically his mission, and the faulty CIA intelligence had already cost twenty men their lives. “I thought there weren’t supposed to be any shoulder rockets,” the president said.
Marcano’s blotchy skin turned red, and his eyes narrowed. He wasn’t used to being addressed in such curt tones, even by the president. But he was smart enough to keep his own voice measured. “Our assets on the ground failed us,” Marcano admitted. “We checked them every way we could.”
It was a weak concession, but there were more important matters at hand. Kilpatrick knew the president would deal with the blame fallout later.
For now, she studied the video screen in front of her. “Admiral Towers, can you confirm that there are no survivors from the initial team?”
“That is correct, Madam President.”
“So now we risk another sixty lives to retrieve the bodies?”
Towers gave the president a wary look. “We have never in the history of Special Forces left a team member in hostile territory,” he said. Every muscle on his face was taut. “We’re not about to do so now.”
“I authorized a surgical extraction,” the president said. She looked at Towers on the screen and then directly at Director Marcano. “I didn’t authorize a military invasion, and I have no authority to do so.”
Towers didn’t wait for Marcano to respond. “Events have obviously escalated. We don’t leave our men behind.”
“You don’t make that decision,” the president shot back. “I do.”
For a moment, nobody spoke. The command net radio crackled as the Black Hawk operators changed course. “Five minutes from insertion,” one of the pilots said.
On the screen, Towers stared at the president and spoke into his mic. “Roger that,” he said.
The president slid back her chair and stood. She swiveled from Towers to Marcano. “Call them off.”
“With respect,” Towers started, “we’re not just retrieving the bodies. There is classified technology in the equipment—”
“Paul,” General Simpson said, cutting off Towers. “The president knows that.”
“Darn right I know that,” Amanda Hamilton said, her voice laced with indignation. “And I’ll take the blame for it. But if we lose sixty more men because we don’t have the guts to admit when we failed, I’ll get crucified for that, too.”
“Two minutes to insertion,” a pilot said over the command net.
“There will be no insertion,” the president said to Admiral Towers. “Tell your men to stand down.”
“Do as she says,” Marcano piped in. “And do it now.”
In response, Towers spoke to General Simpson. “General?”
“It’s not my mission. You have your orders.”
Towers waited just long enough to make his point. “Command to Hawk One, Two, Three, and Four,” he said. “Abort insertion. Return to base.”
There was a stunned silence over the command net as the pilots absorbed the order. “Roger that,” one finally said. The others did the same.
Towers took off his headset and leaned forward on his elbows, his presence looming larger than life on the screen at the end of the Situation Room. “With respect, Madam President, I think you’re making a serious mistake,” he said.
“On the contrary, Admiral Towers, I’m just trying to clean up yours.”
17
VIRGINIA BEACH, VIRGINIA
The phone call came at 9:05 that evening.
As soon as Paige answered the phone and heard Kristen’s voice, she knew something was wrong. Kristen was speaking in harsh, staccato bursts, her words racked by sobs.
“I just—just got done meeting with a chaplain—” She couldn’t speak for a moment, overwhelmed with grief.
Paige’s heart sank, her knees buckling. Something had happened to Beef!
“I wanted you to know,” Kristen continued between short and jagged inhalations. “But I hated to be the one to call you. Troy and Patrick’s team were on a mission tonight—”
Hearing Patrick’s name stunned Paige. She reached out a hand to steady herself, bracing her emotions.
“They were all—they were all killed, Paige.” Kristen inhaled sharply. “Twenty of them. I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”
The words knifed into Paige, disorienting her, jumbling her thoughts. Killed? They were all killed? Patrick said it was going to be a routine mission.
Paige slumped into a chair. Her world shattered, she could find no words to respond.
Killed.
“Some of Troy’s friends and the families of the other men are coming over to the house,” Kristen said. She seemed to have regained a shred of composure. “We want you to come, Paige. You shouldn’t be alone.”
Paige tried to gather herself, to keep the emotions at bay. The shock settled over her. “What happened?” she asked, her voice thin and fragile.
“I’m not sure about the details. The chaplain didn’t know. I just know . . . I just know they’re not coming back.”
Something about the way Kristen said it, her husky voice hollow with resignation, made the horrific finality of it sink in. Paige moaned and felt the weight on her chest—the pangs of regret and loneliness and nightmarish sorrow making it hard to even breathe.
“I’m so sorry,” Kristen said. “I still can’t believe this is happening.” She managed to murmur a few more words of comfort and regret and disbelief. She asked if Paige needed someone to come by and drive her, but Paige said she would be okay.
“You are coming over, aren’t you?” Kristen asked.
“Yes,” Paige said, though she just wanted to be alone.
She hung up the phone an
d the grief consumed her, ripping her heart from her chest.
She thought about calling her mother, but they were so distant that she had never even talked to her mother about Patrick. Her friends knew Patrick and loved him, but she had been guarded around them, and they could bring no words of comfort now. And so she curled into a fetal position on the couch, clutching a pillow, tears streaming down her face, her sobs coming in jagged, gasping fits.
The one person who could comfort her was gone. And just as Kristen had said, he was never coming back.
18
When Paige arrived at Kristen Anderson’s house forty-five minutes later, the driveway, the cul-de-sac, and the street leading up to the cul-de-sac were all lined with cars. Paige had expected a few extended family members and friends. But this looked like half of Virginia Beach had crammed themselves into the Anderson house. Paige immediately felt overwhelmed and had an urge to go back to her condo, where she could mourn in peace. But she forced herself to park and walk past all the other vehicles up to the Andersons’ front door.
She was let in by a man she did not know, who introduced himself. The place was jammed with other young women and kids and men whom Paige could tell were SEALs. She was struck by how young the women looked. They were all pretty much Kristen’s age—late twenties and early thirties—way too young to be widows. She didn’t know if all of the other team members’ spouses were here or whether the same type of thing was happening in other homes all over Virginia Beach.
She made her way to Kristen, and the two women hugged for a long time. Even without words, it was the first time Paige found any solace. She allowed herself to weep quietly on Kristen’s shoulder and she felt the sobs shaking Kristen’s body as well.
“Troy loved Q,” Kristen whispered. “They both would have died for each other.”