by Vince Flynn
“We’ve flushed them and they’re on the move. Driving them east and west—away from your corridor. You should be good.”
“Copy that.” Rapp looked over at Coleman in the dim red light. “We ready?”
The former SEAL finished arranging their ropes and gave him the thumbs-up.
“All right, Fred. Take us about two hundred yards north and then put us in a hover.”
The chopper sideslipped for a few seconds while Rapp gripped a handle on the fuselage to stabilize himself.
“That’s about two hundred yards, Mitch. Go!”
He and Coleman threw themselves from the aircraft, sliding fast down the ropes and crashing through the jungle canopy. There was no graceful way to get to the ground and they found themselves half climbing, half rappelling the last fifty or so feet.
“We’re clear, Fred!”
“Good luck,” he heard over his earpiece. “I’m out of here.”
They’d purposely set down in an area where the jungle was less dense, but the concept of less dense was relative in this part of the world. Both he and Coleman crouched and sighted through their thermal scopes, searching for any sign of life around them. For the moment, the only indication was the crack of intermittent gunfire.
“We’ve mopped up the stragglers,” Maslick said over Rapp’s earpiece. “Hanging thirty seconds out and waiting for your signal.”
“Roger that,” Rapp said, continuing to scan the empty jungle through his scope.
Another two minutes passed before he saw a glimmer of movement. “I’ve got one.”
“I see him,” Coleman confirmed.
It turned out to be not a single man, but a pair of them. One had his arm thrown over the shoulders of the other, stumbling and trying to contribute what little he could to their forward momentum.
“Lieutenant Grant. I’ve got eyes on your point man and the man he’s assisting,” Rapp said.
“That’s me,” came the response.
“Angle a few degrees to your right. Contact in less than one minute.”
Despite having warned him, Grant seemed a little startled when Rapp and Coleman melted from the jungle. The former SEAL took hold of the injured man and started north.
“Still six of you?” Rapp said.
“Yes,” the soldier responded, struggling to catch his breath. “But one more injured man near the back.”
“Okay. Keep going but slow the pace a little.”
“We’ll get bunched up.”
“It’s my party now, Lieutenant.”
It was hard to read his expression in what little light was able to filter to the jungle floor, but after a couple of seconds he responded. “Yes, sir. I guess it is.”
Rapp found a position next to a particularly thick tree, staying invisible while he counted the passing Americans. As Grant had predicted, the intervals between them were reducing. Not normally a good idea, but Rapp knew something they didn’t. Both he and Coleman had powerful infrared lights attached to their packs and aimed at the sky. The beams were invisible to the naked eye, but Joe Maslick and Bruno McGraw in the choppers weren’t using their naked eyes.
The last man passed and Rapp fell in silently behind him. Now the location of the American team would be clearly delineated by the beams at the front and back of the column.
“Mas, Bruno. I’m in position at the rear.”
Thirty seconds later all hell broke loose. Rapp could see the two flashing arcs of tracer rounds coming down into the forest around him. In a few seconds, there wouldn’t be anything larger than a cockroach alive for twenty-five yards in any direction around the column. His main worry now was one of the miniguns cutting a tree down on top of him.
17
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, DC
USA
THE buzz of the phone on Anthony Cook’s night table awoke him with a start. He reached over and picked up, trying to shake off his grogginess. “Go ahead.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, Mr. President, but Deputy Director Nash is on the line and he says it’s urgent.”
That was enough to wake him fully. Michael Nash wasn’t a man prone to hysteria or calling in the middle of the night over trivial matters.
“Put him through.”
There was a brief pause and then Nash’s voice came on. “I’m sorry to—”
“It’s okay. Get to the point, Mike.”
“Yes, sir. We’re getting reports of what appears to be a massive rescue operation in the mountains west of David Chism’s research facility.”
“Meaning what?”
“We don’t know exactly. Somewhere around ten helicopters were involved and there was a fair amount of shooting. But we don’t know at what.”
“What about Chism?”
“Unknown.”
“Was it Rapp and Coleman?”
An uncomfortable silence.
“Answer the fucking question, Mike!”
“Again, I can’t say for certain, sir. This is brand-new information and we’re working with less than reliable sources. But I don’t know who else it would be.”
“So, they didn’t leave.”
“We relayed your message, sir. But like I said, we have a limited ability to tell Mitch Rapp and Scott Coleman what they can and can’t do. Particularly outside the country.”
Cook sat up in bed. “I need to know what’s going on over there, Mike. Now.”
“Yes, sir. I’m on my way out the door and Irene’s in the process of trying to contact Mitch. We’ll be at the office in just over an hour and should know more by then.”
The mention of Kennedy’s name made Cook’s teeth clench. She’d stonewall, lie, cheat, and steal to protect Mitch Rapp. Nothing she said on this subject—or any other—could be trusted.
“I expect to hear from you ninety minutes from now. And I want answers. Do you understand me?” Cook turned on a light and saw his wife standing in the doorway to his bedroom. Years ago, it would have been startling, but now it would have been more startling if she hadn’t been there. Her mind no longer seemed capable of completely turning off. The best she could do was to enter something akin to a semiconscious trance for five hours a night.
“Yes, sir. I understand completely.”
He disconnected the call as his wife pulled her silk robe closer around her neck.
“What happened, Tony?”
“Mitch Rapp just ran some kind of rescue operation in Uganda.”
“Was it successful?”
“No one knows. No one knows shit.”
She disappeared back into the adjacent room where she slept as he slipped out of bed. He tried to quell the rage and frustration that so often overwhelmed him, concentrating on the simple task of pulling on a pair of sweatpants. He’d made strides in hiding his emotions but, like everything in life, it was a delicate balance. Passion translated into charisma, and charisma was what had allowed him to fill the power vacuum created by Christine Barnett’s death. It was what made leaders. And rulers.
Voters didn’t care about public policy or economics or even their own well-being. What they wanted was to connect with their leadership on a gut level. To feel a part of something. To believe that they had power. And he could make that happen because to some degree he felt the same things. He understood what they wanted. What they loved. What they hated. The difference was that he had the strength and intelligence to act on it while they wallowed.
Cook slipped a T-shirt over his head and walked into his wife’s bedroom. She had her back to him, tapping calmly on a laptop.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking at the investments I made when the Saudis assured us that they had the resources to get rid of David Chism.”
“And?”
“In the less than two weeks since his disappearance, we’re up just over twenty-three million dollars.”
Cook had enjoyed a close relationship with the Saudis going back to his days as the governor of California
and that bond had become even stronger since he’d taken control of the White House. The new prince had approached him through back channels to float the idea of using Gideon Auma to neutralize David Chism.
While Ward and Chism were unquestionably an existential threat to the general world order, they were a very specific threat to the Saudis. Ward’s research into renewables was accelerating the collapse of the Middle Eastern energy industry just as Chism’s research was undermining the royalty’s heavy bets on the pharmaceutical industry. Bets that they were relying on to pay for their eventual—and almost certainly inevitable—escape from their country.
Pledging not to interfere in their assassination plot had been risky, but also potentially very rewarding. The Saudis had unlimited financial resources, penetration into terrorist groups throughout the world, and a power structure that allowed them to move decisively. Most important, though, was their refreshing lack of pretense when it came to moral norms and international law. They were simple creatures who sought power and wealth. Period.
“How hard will it be to close out our positions?”
“Hard,” she responded. “I made these investments very carefully and over a fairly long period of time. If I were to suddenly reverse all of them, it’d be noticeable. The question is, does it matter? Your supporters in the general public don’t seem to care what we do as long as you tell them what they want to hear. Our senators and congressmen certainly won’t object as long as you help them stay in power. If the other party were to find out, though, it could cause legal problems that we’re not powerful enough to just make disappear. Not yet.”
“Would they get traction, though? We have majorities in both houses and complicated financial transactions don’t make good TV. Too hard to understand.”
“Maybe. Or maybe not. It’s hard to say what the press will be interested in.”
“But if we don’t close out those positions, we lose the twenty-three million we’ve gained?”
“Plus more. I’d say we’d take a thirty-five-million-dollar hit before I can completely extricate us.”
“Thirty-five million,” he repeated, confident that it would be almost exactly that. The icy analysis of probabilities, alternatives, and pitfalls was very much her realm. “And the Saudis’ debt to us isn’t going to be as great.”
“Why not? We promised them that we wouldn’t make any real effort to save Chism—not that we’d actively block a private rescue effort if they screwed up. This isn’t our fault.”
“It doesn’t matter. We were involved and there’s nothing human beings are better at than sharing the blame for their failures. And Mitch Rapp’s involvement makes it that much worse. We can say whatever we want about him working independently but no one’s going to believe it. He has too long a history with the US government.”
She sighed quietly. “It’s a brave new world.”
That was something they both agreed on. In fact, it was the shared belief that had brought them together. They’d come to power in an environment of massive international corporations and billionaires. Of strongmen in Asia, Eastern Europe, and Africa. Of constantly evolving technologies and a media that became more pervasive and malleable with every passing day.
An even cursory survey of history suggested that the unparalleled equality and freedom the average person had enjoyed over the last seventy-five years was an aberration. Nothing more than a bubble created by a perfect storm of the postwar economic boom, industrial revolution, and rise of workers’ unions.
Now, though, that bubble was bursting. An international ruling class was forming. Borders were becoming increasingly meaningless to that privileged group, as was citizenship and the rule of law. Going forward, alliances would no longer be forged between countries so much as individuals and private entities. Those shrewd, strong, and courageous enough to rule would be given that privilege. A privilege that would quickly become an unassailable right. Nationality, patriotism, and religion would go back to what they had been in centuries past—a convenient way to control the masses.
“So, do we take our losses?” Cook said. “Both financial and with the Saudis? Or do we try to salvage this?”
“I don’t know, Tony. We’re in a unique position and unique means there’s not a lot of data to help us. The attack on the power grid scared the hell out of people and made them more willing to cede power to a strong leader. On the other hand, we’ve spent the last six months digging out of it. We’ve been looking backward, not forward like we expected.”
“Three and a half years left before the next election,” he said. “We talked about controlling this office for sixteen and beyond. Now I’m starting to worry whether I can even count on a second term. At some point we’re going to have to stop making excuses and start making the kind of moves that are going to get us where we want to be.”
Catherine looked up at the blank white of the ceiling, collecting her thoughts. “Gideon Auma’s not a man who likes being denied what he wants. And it’s unlikely that Chism—or Ward for that matter—will leave Uganda. Their research is too important.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that they’re still within Auma’s reach. We know he’s motivated, and we know the Saudis have access to him. Maybe he just needs a little guidance.”
18
OVER SOUTHWESTERN UGANDA
RAPP leaned a little farther through the helicopter’s open door, straining against his safety harness. Below, the details of an elaborate compound built into the top of a mountain came into sharp relief. The terrain around it was the same green he’d become accustomed to over the past few days, but somewhat less dense than where he’d found Chism and the American soldiers. To the west, Lake Edward gleamed beneath a cloudless sky.
As they came overhead, he saw that the complex was surrounded by a primitive fence built from local trees. It looked like it had been designed more to keep animals out than people, but that was changing. Two bulldozers were busy building a berm that would both reinforce the barrier and provide a platform for shooters.
Buildings were largely obscured, tucked into stands of trees and connected by flagstone walkways. Various solar arrays were in evidence, as were a number of water towers that undoubtedly fed underground pipes. The eastern side of the mesa had fewer trees and was dedicated to a series of neat agricultural plots. The exception was an airy house surrounded on two sides by a swimming pool. Undoubtedly the residence of the man himself—Nicholas Ward.
To the west, Rapp spotted some buildings that didn’t seem to fit into the understated architectural theme—prefab structures that appeared to have been recently assembled and were fed by visible cables and hoses. Barracks for the men that SEAL Demolition and Salvage had contracted.
The chopper set down on a pad not far from the new structures and Scott Coleman jogged out to meet him.
“How are things shaping up?” Rapp shouted over the sound of the rotors winding down.
“Good,” Coleman responded as they moved along a path that looked newly cleared. “We’re plopped in the middle of about a hundred thousand acres that Ward bought a while back. No roads in or out and totally self-sustaining. Also, well outside of Auma’s operating area.”
“He has a way of deciding himself what his operating area is,” Rapp said.
“Agreed. But if he still poses a threat, we’re in reasonably good shape to engage him. Thank God Ward wanted lake views and put his compound on the high ground. I also convinced him to let us push some dirt up behind his fencing as long as I promised to plant local flora on it. We’ll mount some guns on the top and we’re installing sensors and cameras in the forest. Razor wire’s on its way but delayed because Ward insisted that it be painted to match the forest. I’ve also got to find a way to keep the local wildlife from getting hung up on it. Still working on that.”
“So, you feel confident?”
“Yeah,” Coleman said, drawing the word out a little longer than Rapp would have liked. “I mean, it’s a compro
mise. Ward doesn’t want to feel like he’s living in an armed camp and he thinks we’re going a little overboard with his cash, but I convinced him better safe than sorry. Particularly where Gideon Auma is concerned. Besides, it’s not like he doesn’t have money to burn.”
Rapp nodded, turning in a slow circle to take in as much as he could of the compound.
“How are Chism and his people?”
“Not bad. Ward already had a well-equipped infirmary up here and a doc on staff. Ricci’s in rough shape, but they say he’s going to pull through. Chism and Liu are a little malnourished, but otherwise barely a scratch. What happened in Kampala?”
Rapp had been in Uganda’s capital debriefing Jeremiah Grant and making sure his injured men got treatment. The silence from the US government had been deafening enough that Nicholas Ward was paying for their care and planning to fly them back stateside in one of his jets. Rapp had considered getting Danny Lombard at Africa Command involved, but then decided it would be better to keep his old friend as far from this train wreck as possible.
“Grant’s guys are going to be fine. Full recovery. What about the bodies they had to leave behind?”
“The news isn’t good. We went looking where he said they’d been killed and came up empty. Not to put too fine a point on it, but word is that Auma eats his enemies. He thinks it gives him their power.”
“Shit,” Rapp said.
“Yeah,” Coleman agreed. “What did Grant have to say?”
“Basically, that we were right. He was sent out to wander around with no backup and pretty much no intel. Orders came through his CO and originated from somewhere higher up. He doesn’t know where. His only contact was a voice on the other end of a phone. They’d been set up with a guide, but he disappeared when things started getting hot. Grant thinks they were being watched from the first day they walked into the jungle.”
“Auma probably thought they knew something and was hoping they’d lead his men to Chism.”
“That was Grant’s take on it, too.”