Vince Flynn Collectors' Edition 2

by Vince Flynn

  Forester shook his head while Jackson said, “Several times.”

  “What’d you think of him?”

  Jackson seemed to consider the question carefully and then said, “I think he had a real hard-on for me and my boys. A big chip on his shoulder.”

  “Yeah,” Rapp agreed. “Like maybe he didn’t like Americans running around on his little island?”

  “That and the fact that he was always trying to prove that his boys were better than us.”

  Rapp sensed some potentially important information here. “Were they?”

  Jackson laughed. “No way.”

  Rapp hoped the answer was based on more than bravado and unit pride. “Be more specific. How’d they shoot? How were they in the jungle? What was their discipline like?”

  “They were extremely disciplined. Moro was a real sadist in that regard. They were in great shape. They could handle the long marches, with the big packs and not a one of them would piss and moan. I was a little disappointed in their shooting, but they don’t fire anywhere near the amount of rounds as we do on the Teams.”

  This was important information. “How were they in the jungle? Were they good trackers?”

  “It’s funny you ask that,” said Jackson, frowning. “They were great trackers. They’d pick up shit in the jungle before every single guy in my platoon with the exception of maybe one.”

  “Why’s that funny?”

  “Well, if they were such good trackers, why was it that they could never pick up the Andersons’ trail? A couple times we strolled into camps that had been hastily vacated, and I’d urge Moro’s men to press on, but there was always some excuse why we had to stay put. They’d sit on the radio for an hour waiting for orders while scouts fanned out looking for a trail.”

  “Did you ever try to pursue on your own?”

  Jackson shot a sideways look at Forester. “Hell, yeah. Moro threw a real shit fit. He actually climbed into a chopper and came out to where we were. He reamed me in front of my men and his. Then he got ahold of my CO back in Guam and reamed him out too. I ended up with a letter of instruction in my file, and now they won’t let me off the ship.”

  Rapp smiled. “Well, Lieutenant, I think I might be able to get that letter removed from your file.”

  “Huh?” asked a confused Jackson.

  “Just remind me when this is all over, and I’ll make sure the letter of instruction is purged … . In fact, I’ll make sure it’s replaced with a commendation.” Rapp could tell Jackson wasn’t following. “Your instincts were right, Lieutenant. General Moro was a traitor.”

  “Traitor?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I noticed,” started Captain Forester, “that you used the past tense in regard to the general’s status. Is that by accident or intentional?”

  This is where things got tricky. The problem was not in acknowledging Moro’s death. It would be public soon enough. The difficulty lay in who killed him and how they knew he was a traitor. Rapp decided to tell only part of the truth. “General Moro has been accepting bribes from Abu Sayyaf.” Rapp left out the information about China. “As you pointed out, Lieutenant, he has no love for Americans.”

  “So Abu Sayyaf was paying him not to pursue them?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Why that little—”

  Forester interrupted the junior officer’s cuss. “Did General Moro have anything to do with the ambush that was sprung on our men the other night?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Forester remained calm despite the anger that boiled beneath the surface. “So back to my other question. Is General Moro still with us?”

  “No,” answered Rapp without the slightest hint of remorse.

  Jackson, knowing Rapp’s reputation and that he’d been at the Special Forces camp this very morning, asked in a hopeful tone, “Did you kill him?”

  Forester cleared his throat loudly and eyeing Rapp said, “Lieutenant, I don’t think we want to ask that question.”

  Rapp appreciated the captain’s discretion. “That’s all right. No, I didn’t kill him. General Moro was shot by a sniper.”

  “A sniper,” repeated Jackson.

  “That’s right. The camp’s perimeter security was nonexistent. Abu Sayyaf got someone in close enough and they shot the general early this morning.” Rapp paused to see how this was going over and added, “That’s the official story. Now would you like to hear what really happened?”

  Both men nodded, Jackson more enthusiastically than Forester.

  “The information I’m about to share with you is highly classified. I can’t stress this enough.” Satisfied that they knew the stakes he said, “In the predawn hours this morning a U.S. Special Forces sniper team was inserted onto the island. They moved into position and sometime after sunup they took the shot.”

  Both officers took the news in silence.

  “That’s not all, however. While moving into position the team sighted the Anderson family and their captors. The four-man team split into two elements: one to follow the Andersons and the other to take out the general.”

  “We know where the Andersons are?” asked a cautious Jackson.

  “Yep.”

  Forester uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “We know precisely where they are?”

  “Precisely,” replied Rapp, “and we’re going to go get them.”

  32

  Light flurries floated down from the chill March evening sky as black stretch limousines cued up along Pennsylvania Avenue waiting to disgorge their important passengers under the north portico of the White House. The event was black tie; a state dinner for the Canadian prime minister. Irene Kennedy asked her driver to bring her around to the southwest gate. She didn’t have time to wait in line. A private word with the president was needed before the festivities started.

  Trust was not something that came easily to the young director of the Central Intelligence Agency. She worked in a profession where things were not always as they first appeared, where people and countries were constantly attempting to deceive her, and even when she did trust someone there were motives to consider. Mitch Rapp was one exception to her rule. He was one of the few people who Kennedy could rely on.

  God knows they had a different way of going about things, but Rapp was effective and his motives clear. He had nothing but disdain for the people who ran Washington. As the failed rescue mission in the Philippines had proved, the nation’s capital had a habit of getting too many people, and too many agencies, involved in matters that could often be handled by a very small group. It didn’t take a master of espionage to realize that the more players involved in an operation, the greater the chance for a leak.

  This in essence was why the director of the CIA needed to speak with the president and General Flood this evening. Rapp had called to give her the good news about the Andersons, but then had made a somewhat unorthodox request. At first Kennedy didn’t like it, but now, having had some time to think it through, she felt it held some real merit. It was classic Rapp and one couldn’t really argue with his track record.

  After a brief check by the Secret Service, the director’s limousine was allowed admittance through the southwest gate. It pulled up West Executive Drive and stopped. Kennedy stepped from the back of the car clutching her black velvet wrap tightly around her shoulders with one hand and holding up the hem of her full-length evening gown with the other. A uniformed Secret Service officer opened the door for her and she hurried into the welcome warmth of the West Wing.

  Kennedy walked through the ground floor past the White House Mess and the Situation Room and then up a flight of stairs and past the Cabinet Room. Outside once again, she walked quickly down the Colonnade. This was the way the president walked to and from work every day. She entered the White House and waiting for her in the tropical Palm Room was Special Agent Jack Warch, the man in charge of President Hayes’s Secret Service detail.

  “You look very nice this e
vening, Irene,” the always gallant agent said.

  “Thank you, Jack, and so do you.”

  Warch, like all the agents working the detail this evening, was dressed in formal attire. He offered his arm. “The president and General Flood are upstairs waiting for you.”

  Kennedy liked Warch. He was a hardworking professional who adored his family. “How are Sheila and the kids?” asked Kennedy.

  “They’re doing well. And Tommy?” Warch was referring to Kennedy’s seven-year-old son.

  “Growing like a weed … starting to get a little lippy.” She shrugged. “You know … all the stuff that goes along with being seven.” Kennedy thought of adding that it might be nice to have a father around, but she didn’t. It was not her style to act like a victim.

  They entered the elevator that would take them up to the second floor of the residence. Warch placed his back to the wall and clasped his hands in front. “How’s my favorite counterterrorism agent?”

  Kennedy looked at him sideways wondering if the comment was merely conversational or if Warch knew what Rapp was up to. He knew Rapp fairly well and in truth Warch could be trusted, but he was not in a need to know position. “He’s fine.”

  Warch looked uncomfortable for a moment and then said, “His wife cornered me just a few minutes ago. She wanted to know where Mitch is.”

  “And?” asked Kennedy.

  The elevator stopped and the door opened. “I told her I have no idea.”

  Kennedy stepped into the hall first. “Do you have any idea?”

  Warch frowned. “No.”

  “Good,” said Kennedy with a curt nod.

  They both walked across the wide hallway that was more like a living room and stopped outside the door to the president’s study. “Irene,” the agent said in a concerned voice, “I think someone needs to have a talk with Anna.”

  “How so?”

  “I just think you should talk to her.”

  “And tell her about what covert operations the CIA is running?” asked Kennedy in a sarcastic tone.

  “No.” Warch’s face twisted in disagreement. “Of course not. But someone needs to tell her to stop asking all these questions.”

  “She’s a reporter. That’s what she does for a living.”

  “I know, but it’s her husband, for Christ’s sake, so it’s only going to get worse. I think a little reassurance from you would go a long way.”

  Kennedy thought about what she might say. “She’s here tonight?”

  “Yep.”

  On second thought, with Mitch out of town this might be the perfect opportunity for her to set a few things straight with his wife. There had been a noticeable chill between the two of them and since both would be involved in Rapp’s life for some time, maybe now was a good time for them to talk. “All right, I’ll try to have a talk with her later.”

  Warch knocked on the door to the study, waited for a second, and then turned the old brass knob and opened the door. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the commander in chief were sitting by the fireplace playing a game of cards. General Flood had a glass half-filled with a brown liquid that Kennedy guessed to be Knob Creek bourbon. As for what the president had in his glass she had no idea. He was a social drinker with no particular favorite. She’d seen him drink wine, both red and white, beer, vodka, scotch and bourbon, but she’d never seen him exhibit a single sign of inebriation other than a tendency to get a little more vociferous than normal.

  Both gentlemen stood and complimented the director of the CIA on how nice she looked. Kennedy reciprocated and took a seat on the couch while the president poured her a vodka on the rocks. Kennedy had learned that it was better to accept the drink and nurse it rather than decline and have to reaffirm that she didn’t want a drink five more times.

  The president settled back into his chair and picked up his hand. Looking over the top of the cards he asked, “Whose turn is it?”

  “It’s yours,” replied the general.

  Hayes started to pluck a card and then decided to put it back. “So, Irene, what’s on your mind?”

  “We have a situation, sir, that I think you need to be aware of.” Kennedy looked briefly at General Flood to see if he’d told the president of their earlier conversation. He gave her no sign that he had.

  Kennedy looked back to the president, who had finally decided on a card to get rid of. “Several hours before dawn in the Philippines we inserted a team into the jungle of Dinagat Island to take care of the situation with General Moro. While en route to their primary objective, the team stumbled across hostile forces that they identified as a column of Abu Sayyaf guerrillas.”

  Hayes set his cards down. He did not like the way this sounded. The last thing he needed right now were more U.S. forces killed in the Philippines. “Please tell me there wasn’t another ambush?”

  “No, sir, there wasn’t. The team was not sighted by the opposing force. They allowed the column to pass, and then went on to complete their primary objective.”

  Hayes looked a little confused. “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Well”—Kennedy thought about it for a second—“I’d say it’s more of an opportunity, sir, than a problem.”

  The president looked intrigued. “Let’s hear it.”

  “The enemy column was transporting the Anderson family, all five of them.”

  “You’re serious?” asked a suddenly eager president.

  Kennedy found the question a little strange since she was not known for her sense of humor. “Yes, sir, the team split into two groups of two. One group went on to complete the primary mission while the other trailed the enemy column.”

  Now on the edge of his seat, Hayes asked, “Do we know where they are?”

  Smiling slightly, she answered, “We have eyes-on intelligence, sir. We know exactly where they are. GPS coordinates and all.”

  Hayes stood abruptly. A day hadn’t passed in the last six months where he hadn’t thought of that poor family. “I want the National Security Council convened in the Situation Room in one hour.” Hayes checked his watch. “I’ll find an excuse to get over—” The president noticed Kennedy wincing slightly. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t think we should go into crisis mode just yet.”

  Now the president was really confused. “Why not?”

  “Mitch has requested that we keep this very low-key. He’s onboard the Belleau Wood right now doing a tactical assessment while our team is on the ground giving him a constant stream of intel on the target.”

  “What exactly do you mean by low-key?” asked Hayes.

  Kennedy hesitated and then asked, “Do you trust Mitch, sir?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, he thinks that the Belleau Wood battle group has all the assets we need to pull off a successful hostage rescue, and in light of what happened the other night, he thinks it best not to get the entire national security apparatus involved.”

  Hayes folded his arms across his chest and stared into space for a moment. It was obvious he was torn between his trust for Rapp and his natural instinct to manage the situation. “What type of timetable are we looking at?”

  “The Philippines are fourteen hours ahead of us, sir. It’s tomorrow morning there.” Kennedy adjusted her glasses. “The earliest we’d launch a rescue operation is after sundown, which gives us at least eleven hours to prepare. Mitch is proposing that we give him the authority to put a plan together on-site, and then report to us tomorrow morning, our time, before we launch the rescue.”

  Hayes thought about this for a moment and then turned to General Flood. “What do you think?”

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs looked at Kennedy. “What are we up against?”

  “Enemy strength is estimated at sixty armed men … light machine guns mostly and a few RPGs.”

  As a soldier who’d been in battle, Flood was not a fan of micromanaging situations from thousands of miles away. He thought about the assets available and said, �
��The Belleau Wood has more than enough muscle to handle the job, sir. She has a task unit onboard, along with a platoon of Force Reconnaissance marines, and there’s also an entire battalion of marines onboard for backup if things get hairy.”

  Hayes shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “What’s your recommendation?”

  Flood checked his watch. “I’d say let Mitch put a plan together. We can convene in the Situation Room in the morning and get a briefing before we give it a green light. Until then the best thing we can do is stay out of their way.”

  The president stood in front of the fireplace considering the advice he’d just been given. He shifted his gaze to Kennedy. “Irene, I assume you agree?”

  Kennedy’s predecessor had taught her many valuable lessons. One of the better ones was that men of power were best persuaded by their own words. “You’ve said it yourself before, sir. Mitch has a way of getting things done. I’d say the best person to handle this situation is right where we need him.”

  Hayes agreed with a curt nod. “All right. Let’s plan on convening tomorrow morning. In the meantime I expect the two of you will monitor the situation closely.”

  Both Kennedy and Flood said they would.

  “Good.” Hayes nodded and then said, “All right, then, if you’ll excuse me, I need to pick up my date.”

  33

  Flood and Kennedy took the elevator down to the first floor. For reasons of decorum and tone, more than for national security, a little subtlety was now called for. It was only one flight, but the stairs opened out onto the wide Cross Hall, where visitors were gathered waiting for the band to play “Hail to the Chief” and watch the president, the first lady and the Canadian prime minister and his wife descend the long staircase. The crowd that was assembled in the Cross Hall consisted of foreign ambassadors, press, dignitaries, senators, congressmen, two Supreme Court justices and a bevy of celebrities and wealthy contributors.

  The sight of the director of the CIA and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs descending the stairs together would lead to endless speculation that a crisis was brewing.