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Exfiltration
Bestselling Author
Jillian Anselmi
Table of Contents
EXFILTRATION
Works by JILLIAN ANSELMI
August 7th, 1999
August 8th, 1999
August 9th, 1999
August 10th, 1999
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Works by JILLIAN ANSELMI
THE CHASING OLIVIA SERIES
Drawn to You
Lost Without You
THE TEMPEST SERIES
When the Storm Ends
Surviving the Storm
Surpassing the Storm (coming Summer 2018)
THE FIDELITY WORLD
Infiltration
Exfiltration
A clandestine rescue operation designed to bring a defector, refugee, or operative and his or her family out of harm's way.
August 7th, 1999
I’VE SPENT MORE TIME IN airplanes than most licensed pilots, and I’m well aware of the statistics. The odds of a plane crash: one in every 1.2 million flights. Odds of dying: one in 11 million. Even higher, since I’m on a military transport aircraft flown by the most skilled pilots in the military. Still, this cold-air feeling on the back of my neck is making me uneasy.
Maybe it’s because I’m heading into hostile territory.
Maybe it’s because I have exactly seventy-two hours to extract an asset from said hostile territory.
Maybe it’s because that asset is the president’s daughter.
Why Kimberly Ryan decided to do charity work in the desert in the middle of a war is beyond me. What isn’t beyond me is the fact that I’ll have to drag her back, kicking and screaming if I have to, from a country she flew to willingly.
President Bartlett told my superior, in no uncertain terms, his daughter was to be brought home. I’m not even sure she knows we’re coming for her.
One single phone call, and I was on a plane two hours later, chasing the rising sun. I need to infiltrate Afghanistan and be out before detection.
Not an easy task.
Exfiltrations never are.
Swearing under my breath, I recall the conversation this afternoon that got me here in the first place. I had just gotten home from the office.
“Agent Witt, this is Deputy Director James Hayden.”
“Good afternoon, sir. To what do I owe this pleasure?” I ask, plopping down on the couch.
“Pleasure, no.” He’s cryptic, and I don’t like where this is leading.
“Sir?”
“Is your go-bag packed?” That’s a strange question. My go-bag is always packed.
“Of course, sir. What’s this all about?” I stand, my instincts screaming something’s wrong.
“You and agent McGuire are catching a transport to Afghanistan. That’s all I can say for now. There will be a car waiting for you in an hour with a briefing.” Then the line went dead.
I wasn’t surprised when I scooted next to him in my government supplied vehicle.
“This is a very important op,” he cautions as he hands me the briefings.
“Sir, I don’t understand,” I breathe, looking over the papers.
Taking a breath, he says, “This is classified, and I’ve gotten you clearance. There’s an alpha team inside Kabul, and they’ve found Atiyah Abd al-Rahman holed up in a bunker in the center of the city.” Holy shit. Osama bin Laden’s alleged second in command. It would be a huge victory for the United States if he’s taken out.
“That’s fantastic,” I answer, placing the documents in my lap. “But what does that have to do with me?”
“Kimberly went down to do some charity thing last month . . .” he trails off.
“She’s in Kabul?” I blurt, my eyes going wide.
Shifting in his seat, he confesses, “Not sure. She didn’t bring her cell phone, so she’s been hard to track. Last time we heard from her, she was volunteering in a makeshift hospital in Jalalabad, but she’s been moving around too much for the president’s liking.”
“When was that?” I ask, not wanting to know the answer. She should have secret service with her. Hell, she should be in the U.S., not the middle of a war.
“Last week. We have assets on the ground, and she’s with a reputable charity group, but still . . .” He doesn’t need to continue. She could have gone anywhere in a week.
“But why us? Isn’t there a SEAL team available?” CIA operatives don’t normally do these kinds of ops. Not when there’s a war going on. That’s why they pay SEALs the big bucks.
His forehead creases as he sighs. “For the past twelve months, al-Rahman has recruited truck bombers, killed politicians and journalists, and staged videotaped beheadings. Intel has it he’ll be presiding over a meeting of armed men. No telling what he has planned.” He pauses, then fakes a smile. “The president has given the go ahead to bomb the house we believe al-Rahman to be hiding in seventy-two hours from now. Once that happens, any American in Afghanistan is in danger. Especially the daughter of a sitting president.”
“Has she been compromised?”
“No, but I doubt it’ll stay that way for long. Besides, you have a history with her and she’ll listen to you.” Kimberly and I traveled the same circles when we were younger and became friends. He’s right; she’s stubborn. Gets it from her father.
He hands me a folded piece of paper. “What’s this?” I ask as I open it.
“Memorize that number. It may come in handy if things go sideways,” he insists.
Mulling over the digits in my hand, I mumble, “So, a quick in and out?”
“That’s the plan.”
Plans always have a way of unraveling.
After strapping myself into the Lockheed C-130 Hercules military transport aircraft, I roll my shoulders, sit back, and go over the classified documents for the mission.
The engines roar and the plane jerks forward as it rolls down the long runway at Andrew’s Air Force Base. I grip the netting attached to my jump seat as the aircraft lifts. Noah McGuire, my partner for this op, sits beside me, his eyes closed and earbuds in. He can sleep through anything—a trait I wish I had.
Once the aircraft has reached maximum altitude and I’m settled, I take out the Afghanistan maps. Sighing, I shake my head. This op is going to be difficult.
I can tell by the briefing.
There’s nowhere to hide.
I need to focus and worrying about something that hasn’t happened yet isn’t going to help anyone. She decided to use her mother’s maiden name, which I’m happy about. Maybe no one will realize who she is . . . or how important she could be if the wrong people got to her.
I throw down the files and pick up the maps. The village where she was last seen is close to the border, but there’s no guarantee she’s still there. Her mercy mission took her wherever help was needed. Jalalabad is around one hundred fifty clicks from the Pakistani border. Looking at the terrain, I see nothing. The surrounding areas are flat and barren. It’s a desert, after all, but no buildings or places to hide behind.
Just a whole lot of nothing.
Shit.
The hard part won’t be getting into Afghanistan; it’ll be getting out.
Shoving the maps an
d other papers back inside my go bag, I rub my temples, applying slight pressure to my impending headache. A nauseous feeling of dread washes over me, then disappears just as fast.
I’m good at my job, and I know what I’m doing.
So does Noah.
I just need to keep telling myself that.
I’m hopeful she hasn’t moved from the hospital designated to her charity group. There’s plenty of wounded civilians to help where she is. I just wish she would have at least brought her cell phone before going off the grid, then we’d be able to track her through GPS. She’s smart—she understood the risk she took when she refused her secret service detail—I just can’t shake the gnawing feeling of impending doom.
Once we land, we’ll need to check in with our assets and locate her. They’ve been proactive in keeping tabs on her, and with any luck, will have her pinpointed. There won’t be any time to spare. If we can’t get out within my three-day timeframe—boom.
August 8th, 1999
“DELORIS, WE’RE ALMOST TO THE drop point,” Noah alerts me as he nudges my leg. I must have dozed off somewhere over the Atlantic. Even in my sleepy state, I can’t help but notice how hot he looks in fatigues. He runs his hand through his short, chestnut brown hair as he waits for my reply. I nod, stretching my arms over my head. It’s probably the only sleep I’ll get until Kimberly Ryan is safe on a plane heading in the opposite direction. Noah moves across the cargo area toward our gear.
“Assets on the ground?” I ask, shouting over the droning of the engine as I gather up my things.
“Alerting them now,” he calls back, pulling out the huge rectangular Sat phone.
Since we can’t fly into Afghanistan, we’re doing what’s called a high-speed no-stop drop into Pakistan, right near the border, which is safer for everyone involved. The plane never lands, and once we’re over the drop zone, our vehicle along with all of our equipment strapped to a giant metal plate resting on rollers will be pushed out of the cargo bay doors. We’ll be strapped inside the vehicle and freefall a few hundred feet before a large chute opens.
We’re not in hostile territory yet, but the plane’s too big to go unnoticed, and no one is willing to take any chances—not the Army Rangers who flew us here or the CIA.
Ever since al-Qaeda struck the U.S. embassies in Kenya and Tanzania, things have been a bit sticky. President Bartlett launched a bombing campaign in Sudan and Afghanistan against targets associated with the World Islamic Front for Jihad Against Jews and Crusaders, so we’re not welcome there—one of the many reasons I’m feeling a bit nervous.
The cargo bay doors begin to open as the crew chief appears from the rear of the C-130. It’s our cue to strap ourselves inside the Humvee. “We need to move,” I shout over the wind whipping through the cabin. “They better be in position or we’re fucked,” I mutter more to myself. Slinging my go bag over my shoulder, I grip the netting attached to the sides of the plane and move toward the vehicle.
The crew chief positions himself behind the Humvee. “Ready?” I yell to Noah as I open the driver’s side door.
“Let’s do this!” he calls back, then enters the passenger side. I turn the key in the ignition and roll down the window, giving the crew chief a thumbs up.
I watch him nod through the side mirror, then push us toward the door. As we proceed toward our exit and I’m closing the window, I notice a cord attached to our chute hooked to another cord running parallel with the plane. It moves with us as we roll to the back of the plane.
“What’s that?” I ask Noah as we get closer to the drop.
“It opens the chutes once we’ve fallen far enough.” He turns to look out the window, and I follow his lead. The second I see the land below, my body is pinned to my seat and my stomach lurches as we freefall toward the drop zone. The last thing I see before I squeeze my eyes shut is the crew chief tossing the chute out of the plane. I send up a silent prayer the parachute opens on time. Within a few seconds, we jerk upward and drift toward the ground. I let out a deep sigh of relief. The chord did its job.
“That was fun,” Noah says, smiling. He knows I hate planes and anything to do with heights.
“Go fuck yourself,” I say sweet as pie, smiling back. I’m still gripping the steering wheel for dear life, and Noah chuckles.
Asshole.
We float for a few minutes in the darkness, then hit the dirt with a hard thud. Dust from the dry ground surrounds the vehicle, so we wait for air to clear before exiting.
“You good?” Noah asks, unbuckling his seat belt.
“Fine. You?” I ask, doing the same.
“Never better. I absolutely love going to a country that fucking hates our guts.” His sarcasm doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Don’t take this shit out on me. I’m in the same boat . . . or Humvee.”
“Yeah, I know,” he sighs. That’s the closest to an apology I’m going to get, so I take it. Noah exits the vehicle and surveys the area. We landed between two outcrops of rocks, so we’re shielded from the sides. I step out and check in front of us.
So far, so good.
It’s not that I’m worried about the Pakistanis; they’re our allies.
I’m worried about being so close to the Afghan border.
I’m worried our enemies heard the plane.
Once we’ve unstrapped the Humvee from the metal plate, I check to make sure our equipment isn’t damaged. Flipping through the large duffle in the back seat, I look over our night vision goggles. One thing I can’t stand is going in blind.
Noah digs out the secure Sat phone and calls in our position to a navy boat located in the Arabian Sea, where we’ll be exfiled to once we accomplish our objective. We have a direct line to the operational control center set up just for this mission. “This is McGuire. We’ve arrived at the drop site.” I scoot closer to Noah, placing my ear against his so I can hear the conversation.”
“Affirmative, Agent McGuire. We have a fix on your target,” our mission coordinator, agent Thomas Champlin, informs us.
“Where is she?” I repeat my earlier question, anxious to know how deep into enemy territory we’ll be going.
“Our assets on the ground have determined she’s just outside of Kabul,” he answers. Closing my eyes, I exhale deep.
That is a problem.
“You’re fucking kidding,” Noah snaps. “They expect us to pull her out of Kabul?”
“No, she’s not in Kabul, but a small village twenty-five clicks outside called Mosahi.”
“And that’s better how?” he growls, running his hand through his hair.
Kabul is where all the action is.
Where all the suicide bombers are.
Where most, if not all, of the casualties come from.
Where a bomb will fall in less than sixty hours.
Fucking fabulous.
“There’s an alpha team on the ground just in case things go tits up,” he divulges. I’m well aware of the team, but I’m not comforted in the least.
“Noah, stop worrying. We just need to be careful,” I assure him. “It’ll be fine. It always is.”
I’m not sure whether I’m reassuring him or me. Noah huffs, but doesn’t say another word about it.
“How long before we’re at the target?” he asks Thomas.
“Not too long. About an hour.”
“Great. Just in time for morning prayer,” he growls.
“Let’s get going,” I snap. “I don’t want to get caught on the streets when the sun comes up. Cover of darkness suits me just fine.”
“McGuire out,” he murmurs, and hangs up the Sat phone. “Let’s get this show on the road,” he quips, and goes for the driver’s side door.
“Oh no,” I object. “I know how you drive and I want to make it there in one piece.”
“Deloris, we don’t have time for this shit. Just get in the car and zip it.” He’s right, and every second counts. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t tolerate his tone with me, but we need
to get going. Narrowing my eyes, I move out of his way. I’ll deal with him later.
We arrive in Mosahi just before the sun begins to rise. Crossed the border without an incident, and no patrols to be seen on the way in. As we approach the city limits, we’re extra careful. I’ve already changed into traditional Kabul attire, as to not draw attention. Everything is covered, including my head, which is shielded with a hijab. Women wear solid-colored trousers and long kamīs shirts with belts, and I want to blend in with the crowd. Just in case.
Men have it easier and the rules are simple—no shorts out on the street, no sleeveless shirts. Noah wanted to coordinate, so he has on traditional Afghan clothing as well.
He parks the Humvee a few blocks from our temporary residence inside a garage, and we hoof it to the house. Darkness has not yet surrendered to the light, and we enter the safehouse unscathed.
Now, we wait.
It’s too dangerous to pull her out in the daylight, so we need to be patient—and that’s something I’m not good at.
The first orange-hued rays of sunrise kiss the dust-laden rubble as the Islamic call to prayer goes off. Noah takes up position at the window and watches, making sure we weren’t spotted. I glance over his shoulder. Dozens of bodies move through the darkness, heading toward mosques. When he’s satisfied we’re safe, he shuffles over to the bed and throws himself down. He’s out before his head hits the pillow.
I know I should use this time to sleep, but I can’t.
I’m anxious.
Instead, I study the maps again. Taking a seat at the table, I spread the papers across the top. We’re scheduled to hear from the station chief on the ground in about an hour, so I take my time and absorb every small detail I can.
According to the map, she’s within walking distance of our safe house.
If she’s still there.
Once the fiery red orb of light sinks below the horizon, we’ll make our way through the darkness to the makeshift field hospital Kimberly’s charity group wound up at. I trace the route with my fingers. This op is too important to be anything less than thorough.
Exfiltration Page 1