KBL

by John Weisman

  Bolin’s voice was strong. “We’ll do you proud, Mr. President. We will prevail.”

  “I know you will, Admiral.” There was a pause on the line. “God bless you, Admiral. You and all of your people. And God bless America.”

  “Thank you, sir. And God bless you, too.”

  The line went dead.

  Vince sat, transfixed.

  They’d gotten a go. The president had done the right thing.

  Vince’s mind was churning. Why now? Had the polls come in? Had they changed his mind? Had—

  “Hot damn.” Vince slammed the desk with his palm.

  Because it didn’t fricking matter. However POTUS had come to the decision didn’t matter. He’d signed the Finding. The president hadn’t said it on the phone, but the full designation of what he’d put his signature on was Lethal Finding. A Lethal Finding is a document that gives the CIA authority to launch an operation in which they cause fatalities. In this case, the Finding gave CIA permission to use military assets to fly into Pakistan and kill Usama Bin Laden.

  How POTUS got to that point was completely unimportant. What mattered was that they were finally in business. And as for the poll, well, it was supposition on Vince’s part that the president had one taken: secondhand intelligence. RUMINT. Certainly, Vince wasn’t going to talk to anyone about it.

  Besides, poll or no poll, it didn’t fricking matter anymore.

  What mattered was that POTUS had signed off on Neptune Spear.

  Keep your eyes on the prize. That’s what he’d said to Stu Kapos back in February. This had always been about KBL. Nothing else.

  He hit the intercom. “Get Kapos and Hallett up here, please. And get me Admiral Bolin on a secure line. Pronto.”

  JSOC Joint Operations Center, Jalalabad, Afghanistan

  April 29, 2011, 1759 Hours Local Time

  “Yeah, Vince, we’re in business. But not for twenty-four hours. I’ve got a weather hold here. Huge weather front. Thunderstorms running all night right across our route in Pakistan. Can’t risk the electronics.” Wes Bolin held the receiver to his ear with one hand while he flipped through papers with the other. “But the good news is that the weather’s bad enough so that Crankshaft probably ain’t going anywhere tonight, either.”

  He listened to the CIA director’s hearty laugh. “Couple of things. First, your man Fedorko will go out as part of the package. He’ll ride with Tom Maurer in the enabler aircraft. Second, what’s the true name of your undercover? McGill thinks he may know him—worked with him at the Regiment.” Bolin scribbled a note. “Becker. Thanks. I’ll pass it along.”

  He paused. “Vince, what was the hang-up? Why did he make us wait?”

  The admiral frowned. “C’mon, whatta ya mean you don’t know. You run a fricking intelligence agency. You’re supposed to know everything.”

  The CIA director’s answer made Bolin roar with laughter. “No, you’re not J. Edgar Hoover, Vince. At least I’ve never seen you in a dress.” He grew serious. “Please make sure your guy’s there to rendezvous. Zero-one-hundred hours, plus or minus thirty seconds. Make sure he’s holding a firefly. That way he won’t get shot.

  “Yeah. Me, too. We’ll talk later—set up the comms network so the White House will get the Sentinel video. Joe Franklin, my deputy, will handle it. Okay, bye.” Bolin dropped the receiver back onto its cradle. There was nothing to do now but wait.

  He pressed the intercom. “Get General McGill, Captain Maurer, and Commander Loeser up here, please.” He’d schedule PT—a lot of it—over the next few hours. Bolin knew that idle minds were the devil’s workshop, especially the devious, cunning, resourceful minds of DEVGRU SEALs, hormonal Rangers, and TF 160 aircrews. Exercise would keep them all occupied, their bodies challenged and their minds in neutral. He would need them to be sharp tomorrow. Might as well work ’em hard and put ’em away wet. That would guarantee they’d get a good night’s sleep.

  Abbottabad, Pakistan

  April 29, 2011, 2352 Hours Local Time

  Charlie Becker scrunched away from the water that was dripping onto his bedding and read for the third time the text he had received two hours ago. Valhalla Base had been closed down for good at 2100 Hours. Their final text to him: Meet for morning prayers at nine in four days at the Big Mosque. Bring one of the little brothers.

  The codes were simple. Subtract one day and eight hours from text messages; subtract three days and add an hour and a half to all burst transmissions. That meant 0100 Hours on May 2. The big mosque? That was the Khan compound.

  And the little brothers? Had to be the leftover fireflies. Charlie knew what they wanted—they wanted him to be able to identify himself.

  They were coming. And about time, too.

  By Monday, Shahid would be no more. Gone. Vanished.

  And about fricking time. After six months and countless cups of tea and scores of zam-zams, Charlie allowed himself to think of an ice-cold beer and a good cigar and the thought made him smile.

  Tomorrow was going to be as tough a day as he’d ever had. Not displaying anything—not anticipation, nor joy, nor relief, nor impatience for that first fricking beer—as he made his normal rounds. But he’d do it. He’d give the performance of a lifetime.

  43

  JSOC Joint Operations Center, Jalalabad, Pakistan

  May 1, 2011, 1500 Hours Local Time

  “Execute CONOP Hotel 53.” That was the official language that set everything in motion. It was generic-sounding language, too, no different from the dozens of CONOP, or contingency operation plans, released every day.

  That way, no one would know what it stood for.

  Indeed, at the same time CONOP Hotel 53 was released, other elements from JSOC Tier One units—SEALs, Delta, and Rangers—were receiving their CONOPs.

  Hotel 53 was not the only high-value target CONOP executed the night of May 1. It may have been the most important, but fewer than a dozen people knew its significance. To most in the JOC, it was just another of the eleven other high-value target capture/kill operations Admiral Wesley Bolin and General Eric McGill had scheduled that night. They were, after all, simply following Sun Tzu’s dictum that all warfare is deception.

  At 1535 Hours, DEVGRU CO Tom Maurer picked up the mission brief from the JOC and went over it in detail with Red Squadron’s CO, Dave Loeser, Ranger element commander Lieutenant Colonel David Brancato, and Task Force 160 lead pilot Chief Warrant Officer Tom Letter.

  The only unusual detail about Hotel 53 that Letter and Brancato noticed was that Maurer said he’d do the BUB himself. Two nights ago, the Battle Update Brief had been Dave Loeser’s chore.

  1700 Hours

  Troy Roberts’s iPhone foghorned him awake. He rolled over, got his bearings, and stretched.

  One-Alpha’s master chief Danny Walker didn’t waste any time. He switched the overhead lights on, then drill-sergeanted, “All right, ladies, drop your cocks and grab your socks.” He received a barrage of pillows and “Screw you’s” in response.

  Troy could hear the others next door. It was a bigger space. The remainder of 1-Alpha as well as Heron Orth and Cajun Mistretta were bunked down there. He peered over at Walker. “This gonna be more hurry up and wait?”

  Walker shrugged. “Can’t say.”

  “Hope not.” Troy moved side to side, then bent over, placed his palms flat on the deck, held the position for fifteen seconds, then released. “Oh, that felt good.” He watched as the master chief did the same. “Not bad for an old guy.”

  “Old enough to kick your ass, baby-face.”

  “You and all of AARP?”

  “Yeah—assault with a deadly Walker, and that would be me.”

  “Very funny.”

  The master chief cracked a grin. “I think so.”

  Padre shrugged into his ACU trousers and, yawning, shuffled off toward the head. Like the others, his biological clock was still on U.S. time.

  It had been a long few days. Late on the twenty-sixth, the entire package,
including three of the 160th’s MH-60J stealth Black Hawks, had loaded onto a quartet of Globemaster-IIIs at Fort Campbell for the long, long ride to Jalalabad. They’d arrived, inventoried gear, checked weapons, and begun premission preparation only to be stood down twice, last night because of weather.

  Padre was anxious to get to work, finish the job, and go on to the next one. Like most of his shipmates, he’d completed more than fifty capture/kill missions in the past nine months—and that included the two-month shutdown after Norgrove. And he hadn’t worked as hard as some people he knew. Towel in hand, he headed down the hall, yawning as he went. Maybe a shower would wake him up.

  1816 Hours

  They could have been eating an early breakfast or a late dinner at an IHOP or Denny’s. It didn’t matter—the mess hall had it all. Bacon, eggs, toast, coffee, steak, hamburgers, chicken nuggets, and French fries. Yogurt in individual containers, hot and cold cereal, orange and apple juice, and fresh milk and butter flown in from Germany.

  As usual, Cajun had double-stacked his tray. So had Heron, Padre, and Troy. It was a tradition: bulk up because you never knew when you’d eat again.

  “On the usual diet, I see.” Rangemaster’s tray held a single bacon and egg sandwich and a cup of black coffee.

  Cajun gave the lanky SEAL a hurt look. “You need some meat on them bones, sailor.” He pointed to his own overloaded tray. “The condemned man ate a hearty meal.”

  “And you’ve been condemned to?”

  “Eat with you, man. You eats like a bird. Ain’t good.” Cajun scrunched his chair to make room for his shipmate. He nodded toward a table by the far wall where Tom Maurer sat with Dave Loeser and a huge Soldier with a single star on his ACU blouse tab. “Wonder what they’re up to.”

  “That’s McGorilla with the boss.” Rangemaster cut his sandwich into two perfectly equal portions. “Probably doing what the brass always does: Figure out how to get us in trouble. Complicate our lives. Toss a few hurdles in our direction.”

  “That’s what I love about you: you’re always so optimistic.” Heron yawned. “Full of Christian love and trust.”

  “If I weren’t an atheist, or a Buddhist, or a Wiccan, I’d be full of Christian love and trust,” Rangemaster said. He cut each half of his sandwich into two more precise portions, picked up one, and devoured it in a single bite. “But I’m not, and I ain’t.” He looked at Padre. “Which one am I again, Padre?”

  “Pagan. I keep telling you. You demand human sacrifices, therefore you’re a pagan.”

  “I thought human sacrifices were a SEAL thing.”

  “They are—that’s why they invented Hell Week.” Fish elbowed his way toward the table bearing a tray of steak and eggs and hash browns.

  Rangemaster made room for the newcomer. “Pull up a throne, your lordship.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” The SEAL set down his tray and scratched at his beard. “Anybody seen Gunrunner?”

  Cajun: “He’s working out, Fish. Says he has to lose weight.”

  “Good,” Fisher grunted. “Because he was behind me on that last stick at Knox. Came down the rope and pancaked me.”

  Heron: “Gotta be faster, Fish.”

  “I do better in a maritime environment.” He stirred sugar into his coffee. “Don’t like to be a fish out of water.”

  Rangemaster: “Original. I’ll bet you’ve never said that before.”

  “Absolutely.” Fish held his left hand up in a three-fingered salute. “Scout’s honor.” He glanced over at the table of officers. “Who’s the supersize general?”

  “McGill.”

  “The Ranger? Seventy-fifth Regiment?”

  “That’s him.”

  “How can he be a Ranger general? He’s too big. Looks like he needs a cargo chute.” Fish hooked a thumb in McGill’s direction. “That man does not eat only one meal a day.” Wes Bolin’s predecessor, the ascetically thin Ranger General Stanley McChrystal, was legendary for eating only one meal a day.

  “Let the truth be told,” T-Rob said. “Not all Ranger generals eat only one meal a day.”

  Fish laughed. “And here I thought that was the Army’s latest deciding factor for general officers rank.”

  44

  JSOC Joint Operations Center, Jalalabad, Pakistan

  May 1, 2011, 1915 Hours Local Time

  “Okay, listen up.” Captain Tom Maurer stood in front of a three-by-five-foot flat screen to conduct the BUB. Taped to the wall and surrounding the screen were photographs of the Khan brothers and their wives and children that had been taken by the crews at Valhalla. There were also ground-level photos of the compound gates and the concertina-topped walls with the main structure rising behind them. “Tonight our CONOP is Hotel 53. It’s a deep end-run into Pakistan, so nobody get lost and miss the tour bus on the way back, okay?”

  He waited for the laughter to subside. He punched up the first PowerPoint slide. “Because it’s a deep run and there’s the possibility that we may have to fight our way out, weapons tonight will be four-sixteens for the assault package. I want us to be able to reach out and touch people should we have to. If the Rangers want to bring some seven-sixty-two stand-off weapons, that’s fine with me. And we’ll be breaching, so prepare for up to six doors or gates.

  “As usual, an HVT. Name: Hamid Gul Muhammad, code name Undertaker—same target as two nights ago. And still just as nasty a piece of work. Bomb maker, trained in Iran. Responsible for more than twenty American KIAs.” Maurer looked out at the faces of the SEALs, Rangers, and aircrew. “So how about let’s put his head on a pike tonight. Hoo-yah!”

  He waited for the hoo-yahs and hoo-ahs to subside, then he hit the remote and the second slide popped up. It was a surveillance photograph of the Khan compound. “He lives here, with his family and two other families. So watch out for wives and children. We don’t want collaterals tonight. You see a weapon in a woman’s hand, or her hand reaching for one, you shoot her dead. Same for the kids. Otherwise, cuff ’em and stow ’em.”

  Maurer pulled up the third screen. There were a pair of X’s at positions on the south side of the outer wall. The one on the right had a green circle. “Clean zone. That’s for people we know and have searched and identified.” The next screen had a red circle. “Dirty zone: everybody else.”

  He looked toward the back of the room. “We have two Soldiers from Delta’s intelligence package with us tonight. They’ll ride with me in the enabler helo. They speak Pashto and Arabic, so they’ll handle the on-site TQ and lead the SSE.” TQ was tactical questioning and SSE was sensitive site exploitation: mining for intelligence materials and taking DNA samples and photographs of prisoners, corpses, and leave-behinds. The more you could learn, the more effective your hunt.

  He continued with screens that showed photographs and diagrams of the locations where the helos would land, where the walls had to be breached, and where the Rangers would set up their blocking force and security perimeter. “Because it’s Pakistan, we’re worried about neighbors,” he continued. “So we’ll link up with an OGA asset at the target site.” OGA stood for “other government agency,” which is how most of the military referred to CIA. “He’s an undercover and looks like a local, but he’ll be holding a firefly, so nobody shoot him, okay?” Maurer paused. “The slim guy with the white beard sitting in the back of the room—stand up, Paul—is Paul Fedorko, who works at OGA’s Ground Branch. He knows the asset and he’ll provide him with a vest, a cover, and NODs. The OGA guy will handle the neighbors.”

  Maurer looked over the room. “Any questions?”

  There was silence.

  “Okay,” he said. “Dismissed. Let’s go get the job done.”

  2030 Hours

  By 2000 Hours the assault package was broken into smaller working groups, studying overhead imagery of the target, marking overlays, and making up their grid reference guides, or GRGs, which many of the assaulters would wear on their wrist the same way NFL quarterbacks write their plays on their wrist.
>
  Rangemaster traced the distance from J-Bad to Abbottabad. “Captain said we were going deep?” He shook his head. “This is fricking halfway to San Francisco.”

  “Asshole’s killed more than twenty Americans,” Geoff Ziebart said. “Worth the trip.”

  “We’ve never gone this deep before, Z,” Rangemaster said. He rubbed his mustache. “Strikes me funny.”

  “Me, too.” Padre tapped the map. “Plus, all our prep? Not normal.”

  “Neither are the sixty-Js,” said Gunrunner. “This smells funny to me.”

  “You smell funny to me,” Cajun said. “But it makes sense. Maybe Gul is a cover name. Maybe they found Cyclops.” Cyclops was the code name for the one-eyed Taliban chieftain, Mullah Omar.

  “Or the Doctor. Just like we said at T-Rob’s that night.” Doctor was Ayman al-Zawahiri, Usama Bin Laden’s Number Two.

  “Or the big guy himself.” The SEALs looked at one another. Padre whispered the code name: “Crankshaft.”

  Danny Walker had been off with the brass. Now he walked up to the knot of SEALs. “Gents?”

  T-Rob: “Master Chief. You know anything special about this mission?”

  “Yeah, I do: you guys are on it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “No. I actually have some information you might want to know. Like our call signs tonight. Troop leader—that’s Commander Loeser tonight, although he’ll be riding in Chalk Two, replacing Jack Young—will go by X-ray India One. Captain Maurer’s call sign is X-ray Romeo One. I’m the assault leader, call-sign Jackpot.” He watched as the men took notes. “We clear?”

  Rangemaster: “Crystal, Master Chief.”

  Walker: “Good. TLPs are in effect as of now.” TLPs, or troop leading procedures, were the overall term for ensuring that the assault element was properly jocked up and all their equipment was checked, double-checked, and triple-checked before the load out.

  The master chief checked his watch. “Listen up. PCI at twenty-one hundred and PCCs starting at twenty-one thirty.” PCIs were the precombat inspections during which the assault leader and officers checked the troops’ equipment. PCCs were precombat checks, an ongoing procedure of SEALs checking one another’s equipment to make sure everything was functional and nothing had been forgotten. It was during the PCCs that they’d clone their radios, synching one with the other to ensure that everyone in the assault element was on the same frequency.