Something was nagging at Jack’s brain, something about this particular query. . . . He rolled his mouse’s pointer over the XITS folder on his hard drive, double-clicked it, and brought up the summary document he’d been keeping of XITS. And there it was, the same intercept reference number, this one attached to a trio of week-old e-mails, the first from an NSC staffer to the NSA. Seems somebody at the White House wanted to know how exactly the information had been obtained. The query was then forwarded to the DNSA—a billet for a three-star professional military intelligence officer, at the moment an Army officer named Lieutenant General Sam Ferren—who responded curtly: BACKPACK. DO NOT REPLY. WILL HANDLE AD-MINISTRATIVELY.
Jack had to smile at this. Currently “Backpack” was the NSA’s rotating, in-house code name for Echelon, the agency’s all-knowing, all-seeing electronic monitoring program. Ferren’s response was understandable. The NSC staffer was asking for “sources and methods,” the nuts and bolts of how the NSA worked its magic. Such secrets were simply not shared by intel consumers such as the White House, and for an NSC staffer to request them was idiotic.
Predictably, Ferren’s subsequent XITS summary for the NSC simply listed the intercept source as “overseas cooperative ELINT,” or electronic intelligence, essentially telling the White House that the NSA got the info from a friendly intelligence agency. In short, he lied.
There could be only one reason for this: Ferren suspected the White House was showing the XITS around. Jesus, Jack thought, must be quite a strain for a three-star to have to watch what he says to the sitting President. But if the spook world didn’t trust the President, who, then, was looking after the country? And if the system broke down, Jack further thought, whom the hell did you go to? That was a question for a philosopher, or a priest.
Deep thoughts for an early morning, Jack told himself, but if he was reading the XITS—supposedly the sanctum sanctorum of government documents—what was he not reading? What wasn’t being disseminated? And who the hell got that info? Was there an insulated communications link at the director level only?
Okay, so the Emir was talking again. NSA didn’t have the key to his personal encryption system, but The Campus had it—something Jack had bagged himself, by borrowing the data off MoHa’s personal computer and handing it over to Biery and his geeks, who’d transferred the data to a FireWire hard drive. Inside of a day they’d picked it apart for all its secrets—including passwords, which had cracked open all manner of encrypted communications, some of which had been read at The Campus for five months before being changed routinely. The opposition had been fairly careful about that, and/or had been properly trained by somebody who’d worked for a real spook shop. But not that carefully. The passwords were not changed daily or even weekly. The Emir and his people were very confident in their security measures, and that failing had destroyed whole nation-states. Crypto spooks were always for hire on the open market, and most of them spoke Russian and were poor enough that any offer looked good. The CIA had even dangled a few at the bad guys as consultants to the Emir. At least one of them had been found under a trash heap in Islamabad with his throat slit from earlobe to earlobe. It was a rough game being played out there, even for professionals. Jack hoped that Langley took proper care of whatever family the man had left behind. That didn’t always happen with agents. CIA case officers got plenty of death benefits, and their families were never forgotten by Langley, but agents were a different thing altogether. Usually unappreciated, and often quickly forgotten when a better asset came along.
It appeared the Emir was still wondering about the people he’d lost on the streets of Europe—all at the hands of Brian and Dominic Caruso and Jack, though the Emir didn’t know that. Three heart attacks, the Emir speculated, seemed an inordinately large number for fit, young people. He’d had his agents delve carefully into the medical records, but those had been picked clean, overtly and covertly—the former by lawyers representing the estates of the deceased, and the latter by bribing petty bureaucrats for the original documents and further checking for evidence of a hidden addendum that might be filed separately, all to no avail. The Emir was writing to an operative evidently living in Vienna who’d been sent to look into an odd case, the man who’d apparently stumbled under a streetcar, because, the Emir said, he’d been such a spry boy as a youngster with horses—not the type to fall under a moving vehicle. But sure enough, the Emir’s man replied, fully nine people had seen the incident, and by all accounts he’d just slipped right in front of a tram, something that could have happened to anyone, however sure-footed he might have been at the age of eleven. The Austrian physicians had been thorough, and the official autopsy had been clear: Fa’ad Rahmin Yasin had been carved rather messily into half a dozen chunks by a streetcar. His blood had been checked for alcohol, but nothing was found but some residual traces from the previous night—so the pathologist assumed—certainly not enough to affect cognitive judgment. Nor were there any traces of narcotics of any sort in such blood as they’d managed to recover from the mangled body. Conclusion: He’d slipped and fallen and died of blunt-force trauma and exsanguination—a fancy way of saying he’d bled to death.
Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, Jack decided.
8
ONE THING Driscoll and his Rangers had long ago learned was that distances on a map of the Hindu Kush bore little semblance to the reality on the ground. In fairness, even digital-age cartographers had no way of calculating the spatial impact of every rise, fall, and switchback in the terrain. In planning the mission, he and Captain Wilson had multiplied all their estimates by two, a variable that seemed to generally work, and though this mathematical adjustment was never far from Driscoll’s mind, realizing that their hump to the LZ was not in fact three klicks but closer to six—almost four miles—was almost enough to bring a string of curses to his lips. He quashed the impulse. It wouldn’t do them any good. Might even do a little harm, showing a crack in front of the team. Even if their eyes weren’t on him every minute, each of his Rangers was taking his cues from him. Both shit and attitude did indeed roll downhill.
Walking point, Tait stopped and held up a closed fist, bringing the staggered column to a halt. Driscoll dropped into a crouch, as did the rest of the team in near unison. Down the line, M4s came around, each man taking a sector, eyes watching and ears listening. They were in a narrow canyon—so narrow, Driscoll doubted the ten-foot-wide ravine actually qualified as a canyon—but they had little choice. It was either take this three-hundred-meter shortcut or tack another two klicks onto their route and risk a daylight pickup. They’d heard and seen nothing since the ambush, but that didn’t mean much. The URC knew this ground better than anyone, and knew from experience how long it took pack-laden soldiers to cover it. Worse still, they knew there were a limited number of LZs from which the enemy could be retrieved. From there, setting up another ambush was simply a matter of doing the math of moving faster than your quarry.
Without turning, Tait gave Driscoll the underhand move up signal. Driscoll did so. “What’s up?” he whispered.
“Coming to the end. Another thirty meters or so.”
Driscoll turned around, pointed at Barnes, held up two fingers, then gave the move up signal. Barnes, Young, and Gomez were there in ten seconds. “End of the ravine,” Driscoll explained. “See what there is to see.”
“Right, boss.”
They moved off. Behind Driscoll came Collins’s voice: “How’s the shoulder?”
“Fine.” The six ibuprofen Collins had given him had taken the edge off, but every jostle sent ripples of pain through his shoulder, back, and neck.
“Get your pack off.” Collins didn’t wait for Driscoll to protest, slipping off the shoulder strap. “Bleeding’s slowed. You feel your fingers?”
“Yeah.”
“Move ’em.”
Driscoll flipped him the bird and grinned. “How’s that?”
“Touch each finger to your thumb.”
�
�Jesus, Collins—”
“Do it.” Driscoll complied, but each of his fingers moved sluggishly, as though rusted at the joint. “Get your pack off. I’m distributing your load.” Driscoll opened his mouth to protest, but the medic cut him off. “Look, you keep that pack on, you can just about count on losing that arm later. Good chance you already got some nerve damage, and that sixty pounds ain’t helping.”
“Okay, okay ...”
Barnes, Young, and Gomez returned. Collins handed the pack to Barnes, who went back down the line to divide up the contents. Young reported to Driscoll, “Didn’t see nothing, but something’s moving out there. Heard a truck engine about half a klick to the west.”
“Okay, back in line. Collins, you, too.”
Driscoll pulled out the map and clicked on his red-hooded penlight. Not exactly standard-issue, but as good as their NV was for most things, it was shit for reading maps. Some old-school habits were hard to break; some shouldn’t be broken at all.
Tait scooted closer. Driscoll traced his finger along the ravine in which they sat; at its terminus was yet another canyon bordered on both sides by plateaus. The terrain was, Driscoll thought, not unlike an urban neighborhood: canyons were the main roads; plateaus the houses; and ravines the back alleys. They were essentially dashing across the roads, using the alleys between the houses to reach the airport. Or in this case, the heliport. Two more canyons, one more ravine, he thought, then up the side of a plateau to the LZ.
“Home stretch,” Tait observed.
Which is where most racehorses go down, Driscoll thought but didn’t say.
They sat at the mouth of the ravine for fifteen minutes, Tait and Driscoll scanning the length of the canyon through the NV until certain there were no eyes about. In pairs the team crossed the canyon floor to the opposite ravine while the rest provided cover and Driscoll and Tait played traffic cops. Young and his prisoner went last, and they had just slipped into the far ravine when a pair of headlights appeared to the east. Another UAZ, Driscoll saw immediately, but this one was moving at a leisurely pace.
“Hold,” Driscoll ordered. “Truck coming from the east.”
Like the one they’d encountered earlier, this UAZ bore an NSV 12.7-millimeter gun in the bed, but Driscoll counted only one man manning it. Same for the cab: a driver and no one else. They’d split their forces in hopes of cutting off their quarry. Small-unit tactics were often as much about instinct as they were rules, but whoever had dispatched this truck had made a mistake. The UAZ kept coming, tires crunching over the rubble, its headlights bouncing off the canyon.
Driscoll caught Tait’s attention and mouthed driver and got a nod in return. On the radio, Driscoll whispered, “Hold fire,” and got a double-click in reply.
The UAZ was twenty meters away now, close enough that Driscoll could see the NSV gunner’s face clearly in the green-white glow of the night vision. Just a kid, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with a patchy beard. The NSV’s barrel was pointed straight down the canyon, not traversing, as it should be. Lazy’s as good as dead, he thought.
The UAZ drew even with the ravine and ground to a halt. In the cab, the driver leaned sideways, reaching for something, then came up with a handheld spotlight. He pointed it out the passenger window. Driscoll laid his M4’s crosshairs just above the gunner’s left ear. He squeezed the trigger, softly, softly, and the M4 bucked. In the NV, a halo of mist appeared around the gunner’s head. He fell straight down below the truck bed’s side. The driver went down a split second later, his spotlight dancing crazily before coming to rest on the seat.
Driscoll and Tait moved out, crossing to the truck and taking twenty seconds to kill the spotlight and make sure no one was still alive before continuing on to the ravine. To the west, an engine revved. Headlights pinned them. Driscoll didn’t bother looking but barked, “Move, move!” and kept going with Tait a step ahead. The rapid, overlapping cough of another NSV started up, peppering the ground and rocks around them, but Driscoll and Tait were already in the ravine. On point, Gomez was moving deeper into the ravine. Driscoll signaled for Tait to continue and waved Barnes over. “SAW,” he said, and Barnes dropped prone beside a boulder, extended the SAW’s legs, and tucked the butt into his shoulders. At the mouth of the ravine they could see headlights coming closer. Driscoll slipped a grenade off his harness and pulled the pin. Out in the canyon came the skidding of tires; dust washed past the mouth of the ravine. Driscoll let the spoon go, counted one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, letting the grenade cook, then arced it high toward the canyon. The UAZ slewed to a stop. The grenade exploded ten feet over the cab. Barnes opened up with the SAW, hosing down the doors and sides. In the bed, the NSV’s muzzle spouted fire but went silent a moment later as the SAW’s fusillade cut the gunner down. The UAZ’s gears crunched, and then it was moving again and out of sight.
“Go,” Driscoll ordered, waited for Barnes to get a head start, then turned to follow.
By the time they caught up with the column, Gomez had split the team, one half across the canyon, behind cover and on overwatch, the other waiting at the mouth of the ravine. Driscoll made his way up the line to Gomez. “Activity?”
“Engines, no movement.”
Across the canyon, thirty meters west of the overwatch, was a natural ramp winding its way up the side of the plateau. Sure as hell looked man-made, Driscoll thought, but time and erosion did strange things to terrain. And they weren’t going to bitch about this oddity; it would make their final push for the LZ relatively easy.
“Peterson, get Blade on the line and tell ’em we’re ready. Call it hot.”
Their Chinook would be orbiting, awaiting their signal. Like most things in combat and certainly most things in Afghanistan, their LZ was suboptimal, partly due to the landscape and partly due to the Chinook’s design trade-off: a high operational ceiling but a big landing footprint. The 47 could get to troops at altitude but needed a fair amount of square footage to embark them. In this case, their LZ was hemmed in to the west and south by ravines and ridgelines so close that small-arms fire could reach it.
“Blade, this is Sickle, over.”
“Go ahead, Sickle.”
“Ready for pickup. Winds three to six from north to south. Lima zulu hot; composition and direction unknown.”
“Roger, copy lima zulu hot. Three minutes out.” Two minutes later: “Sickle, Blade is inbound, mark your location.”
“Roger, stand by,” Driscoll said, then radioed Barnes. “Chemlights, Barnes.”
“Roger, boss. I’ve got blue, yellow, red.”
Across the canyon the chemlights glowed to life, then sailed through the air and landed atop the plateau. Driscoll would’ve preferred an IR strobe, but S4 had been out when they’d left.
Driscoll called, “Blade, Sickle, I pop blue, yellow, red.”
“Roger, I see it.”
Now they heard it, the chopping of the Chinook’s rotors. Then: “Sickle, this is Blade, I have inbound vehicles three hundred meters to your west and closing. I count two UAZs, over.”
Shit. “Wave off, wave off. Mark the LZ and hold in orbit.” The only other option was to have the Chinook’s gunners light up the UAZs, but doing so from altitude would serve as a “here we are” flare for other enemy units in the area. The Chinook pilot would have his own ROE, or Rules of Engagement, but as he and his Rangers were on scene and in the shit, it was Driscoll’s order to give. That the UAZs weren’t racing toward them told him his unit hadn’t yet been seen. They’d been lucky so far with these things; there was no use pushing it.
“Roger, waving off,” replied the Chinook pilot.
To Barnes: “We got company to the west. Douse those chemlights. Everybody hunker down.” Behind him, the column dropped flat.
He got a double-click in reply, then a few moments later saw a pair of hunched-over figures scrambling up to the plateau. The chemlights went dark.
Down the canyon, the UAZ headlights were now stationary. Faintly, Driscoll heard the r
umble of their unmuffled engines. A long thirty seconds passed, then the engines revved up and the trucks began moving, separating into a staggered line as they headed down the canyon. Bad sign, Driscoll thought. On the move, the UAZs tended to prefer single-file formation. It was only when they were expecting trouble did they stagger.
“Cover,” Driscoll radioed the team. “Gomers are hunting.” Then to the Chinook: “Blade, Sickle, stay close. We may need you.”
“Roger.”
Preceded by headlights bouncing over the uneven ground, the crunch of the UAZ tires continued down the canyon until the first truck drew even with the ravine in which Driscoll and his column were hidden. The brakes squealed. The UAZ came to a stop; the second one, trailing thirty feet behind, also halted. A spotlight appeared in the passenger window and played over the walls, pausing as it reached the ravine. Move on, Gomer, Driscoll thought. Nothing to see here. Now the spotlight swung around, pointing out the driver’s window and scanning the opposite ravine. After sixty seconds of this the spotlight went dark. The lead UAZ’s transmission crunched and growled, then it began moving forward and beyond Driscoll’s line of sight.
“Who’s got eyes?” he radioed.
“Got him,” Barnes called. “Fifty meters away, continuing east.” Then: “Hundred meters ... They’re stopping.”
Driscoll eased himself up and hunch-walked out of the ravine, taking care to keep close to the canyon’s rock wall until he could see the halted UAZs. He dropped to his belly and peered through the NV. Each truck had taken up position at the northern and southern sides of the canyon. Their headlights and engines were off. Ambush position.
Dead Or Alive Page 7