by Marc Cameron
“I’m not a big believer in coincidences,” Ryan said. “I can’t shake the thought that the meeting between Elizaveta Bobkova and the Iranian protest leader has something to do with this.” He looked at Foley again. “Mary Pat?”
“Nothing new yet, Mr. President,” she said. “But feelers are out and hooks are baited.”
“I recommend a show of force,” Burgess said. “Before Yermilov is entrenched.”
Ryan nodded. “It may come to that,” he said. “Where do we stand in Cameroon?”
Burgess looked at his watch. “Eighty personnel from Task Force Darby traveled down by truck last night from the north. The Cameroonian rapid response troops are naturally worried about their own necks. They stayed behind at Garoua so they won’t have to make a decision about who to support in the event of hostilities.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. “I imagine Njaya will see that in and of itself as a decision.”
“I’m sure of it,” Foley said. “Considering his record.”
Ryan looked at the notepad on his desk. It was important to give people involved in this kind of incident a name. “And how about Mrs. Porter?”
Scott Adler spoke next since State was his bailiwick. “The same four men from the Cameroonian Army have been with her for the duration. She’s not been harmed physically, though they have been rough on her, according to Adin Carr and Ambassador Burlingame. Water but no food, infrequent bathroom breaks. A lot of verbal abuse. Carr wants to go in guns blazing, and Burlingame isn’t any different. Can’t say I blame them, and I’ve been in my comfortable office and sleeping in my own bed. They’ve been on station for this entire ordeal.”
Burgess spoke next. “Two recce teams from Sabre Squadron B arrived in Yaounde three hours ago. They’re linking up with Special Agent Carr now.” The secretary of defense rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Delta Force soldiers against four exhausted Cameroonian bullies—that should take about a millisecond. They are awaiting compromise authority from you, sir.”
“Understood,” Ryan said. “If any move is made to harm Mrs. Porter, then they have my authority.” He sighed. “Let’s see if Njaya is familiar with the Battle of Pharsalus.”
“The Battle of Pharsalus?” Foley said, admitting, where others would not, that she wasn’t up on her Roman history.
“Caesar’s troops versus Pompey’s. Pompey thought he had the upper hand, but rather than throwing their pila”—he smiled at Mary Pat—“their javelins, as Roman soldiers customarily did in battle, Caesar ordered his legion to march up and thrust directly at their opponents’ faces. This tactic so demoralized Pompey and his men that they fled the battlefield.” Ryan looked at Burgess. “Our assets in the Atlantic?”
“En route now, Mr. President,” Burgess said.
“Good,” Ryan said. “Let’s move this to the Situation Room. It’s time to poke Njaya in his face.”
* * *
—
Five hundred seventeen nautical miles off the coast of Liberia, U.S. Navy Carrier Strike Group Two found themselves the closest American muscle of significant size to Cameroon. The 7,542 personnel, one cruiser, two destroyers, and Nimitz-class carrier USS George H. W. Bush with eighty aircraft had been steaming toward São Paulo, Brazil, after a brief port call in Dakar, Senegal. Flash traffic from the commander of the Sixth Fleet turned them back to the east.
On the flight deck of the 1,092-foot carrier, Lieutenant Sean Jolivette sat in his F/A-18 and conducted a final left-to-right scan of his cockpit. There were just over a thousand Hornet and Super Hornet pilots in the Navy and Marine Corps. Competition for each slot was more than fierce, giving the men and women who won the opportunity to fly them the bona fide right to a little swagger. Jolivette was twenty-seven years old, five feet nine inches tall, and, like all the others in his squadron, “living the dream.”
Both the Hornet’s GE F404 engines were running. Each was capable of delivering 18,000 pounds of thrust—approximately one-quarter of the power of a Mercury rocket. He was in his own airplane today—never a sure thing since schedule rotation and maintenance required pilots to fly whatever bird was available when their number came up. Today, however, Jolivette had drawn 420, the nose of which bore his name, rank, and call sign. While the Air Force seemed to go for cool-sounding call signs, Navy tradition dictated pilots keep one another humble. More often than not, call signs stemmed from some embarrassing incident during training. Lieutenant Jolivette earned “Swipe” after a Tinder date during his time at Naval Air Station Lemoore, which, unfortunately, turned out to be with the base commander’s daughter. The old man himself had given him the name, a reminder that swiping right didn’t always turn out like you thought it would.
Like the other twelve carriers in the U.S. Navy, CVN 77 had the job of projecting American foreign policy around the world—and the four F/A-18s in Lieutenant Jolivette’s division today formed the forward force of that projection.
Lieutenant Commander Mike “Gramps” Wertin, the oldest member of the division, was flying 406 from the starboard catapult off Jolivette’s right wing. As strike lead, Wertin had briefed the division earlier in the ready room, filling in the blanks left by the Intel O who’d described the mission.
Each F/A-18 had a full warload, including AIM-120 AMRAAM, AIM-9 Sidewinders, and GBU-24 Paveway III laser-guided bombs, along with the wing and centerline tanks for extra fuel. Cameroon had a few old antiaircraft guns, but the intel officer said there was not likely to be any pushback from the ground or the air. Still, when it came to fuel and weapons, Jolivette subscribed to the “Better to have it and not need it” school of thought, right down to the SIG Sauer 228 nine-millimeter pistol in his survival vest.
The assistant Air Boss in the tower—known as the Mini Boss—ran the forward cats, but an officer in a yellow shirt—catapult officers were made famous from their exaggerated dancelike nonverbal communication movements to Kenny Loggins in the movie Top Gun—gave the go to launch. Each catapult worked independently, and Gramps’s plane was propelled down the deck next in a cloud of steam. All four F/A-18s in the division—Gramps, Swipe, Minion, and Frodo—would join up at an Air Force KC-135 at coordinates roughly a hundred miles off the Cameroonian coast, prior to going what Navy pilots referred to as “in country.” The bar attached to the nose gear of Jolivette’s airplane was already affixed to the shuttle that would take him down the cat-track. He was good to go. Martin-Baker of the UK offered a membership in the Ejection Tie Club, featuring a commemorative necktie to those elite souls whose lives were saved during an emergency ejection in one of its company’s seats. It was a cool tie, but not something Jolivette aspired to own. Still, he made certain the seat was armed.
He glanced left at the catapult officer, then performed a “wipeout” of the controls, to be certain the fly-by wire computer system and hydraulics that controlled the flight surfaces all functioned as they should. Satisfied, Lieutenant Jolivette turned to salute the catapult officer, who saluted him back, took one final look to make sure everything was good to go, and then dropped to one knee, pointing down the catapult.
Left hand on the throttle, Jolivette reached up with his right to grab the metal bar on the upper right side of the jet’s canopy. Six seconds later, the steam catapult worked in tandem with the aircraft’s engines, accelerating the jet from zero to 150 knots in roughly two seconds, flinging it off the end of CVN 77 and over the surface of the ocean. The tail dipped slightly as the onboard computer began flying the jet the moment it left the deck. Jolivette felt the sudden lack of acceleration. His right hand dropped from the bar on the canopy to the stick at the same moment he pushed the throttle forward with his left.
The flight deck crew could launch a plane every couple of minutes. Minion and Frodo would follow in seconds. Counting the time it took them to refuel, the four-person strike team would be doing their thing over Cameroonian airspace in less than ninety minutes.
3
2
President Ryan kept his tone conciliatory, caging his true feelings behind the knowledge of what was about to happen.
“The problem with the United States and our fights is most generally what we call ROE. Are you familiar with that term, François?”
“I am, Mr. President,” Njaya said. “Rules of Engagement.”
“Exactly,” Ryan said. “The rules under which our warfighters can unleash the devastating force at their fingertips get muddled. In our zest to be the world’s police force and protect the weak, we try very hard not to harm civilians, to use a measured response. Our airmen, soldiers, sailors, and Marines often go in with one hand figuratively tied behind their backs. They act as advisers, trainers, and whatnot—when they are in actuality trained very well to inflict maximum damage on the enemies of the United States.”
“Mr. President, I can assure you—”
“Hear me out,” Ryan said. “The United States tries to fight fair. You know that.” His words took on a foreboding timbre, resolute, unyielding. It was the voice he used when Jack Junior had taken the car without permission. The one each of Sally’s boyfriends had heard when he’d first met them. Cathy said it sounded like he’d been gargling rocks. “But here’s the deal, François, war with the United States will always be asymmetrical. When our men and women go in with clear objectives, they do not falter and they do not lose. Do you understand what I am saying, François?”
“I do, but you must understand—”
“Men loyal to you fired on a United States embassy,” Ryan continued. “They took innocent Americans hostage. I am sure you were not complicit in this travesty. And I will help you restore peace to your country. You can have the exact numbers later, but late last night, United States Marines arrived in Niger. About that same time, an additional company arrived in Chad. An undisclosed number of U.S. Special Forces personnel flew in last night as well. No less than eleven MQ-9 Reaper drones, each armed with Hellfire missiles, loiter over your skies. But I find the best way to deal with tyrants is through their pocketbook. Ten hours ago, I issued an executive order to what we call the Office of Foreign Assets Control to—”
“Mr. President, please—”
“You see, there are very few monetary transactions in the world that do not in some way touch an American bank. The OFAC has frozen sizable accounts. But with all the aliases used by your generals, mistakes will take some time to sort out. So far these seized accounts amount to the tune of . . . let me find the exact figure . . . One-hundred-nine-million-three-hundred-eighty-one-thousand-nine-hundred-fifty-three dollars and seventeen cents.”
Ryan leaned back in his chair, giving the other man time to do the math. Like most tyrants, he would have a very good idea of how much money he had skimmed from the coffers of his country.
“Mr. President,” Njaya huffed. “Your negotiation tactics are brutish—”
“We do not negotiate with terrorists,” Ryan said matter-of-factly. “You said yourself, François, these men have acted on their own, outside the bounds of your authority—outside the law. If you have a method of contact, you must tell them to stand down immediately. Tell them you have called the United States to assist you.”
“But I did not—”
“Really?” Ryan said, dismissing the notion. “I am sure you did. In any case, that die is cast. Tell your men.” Ryan’s tone grew darker. “Or as God is my witness, Mr. President, they will face the unfettered wrath of the United States of America. This will not be an invasion of occupation. It will be punitive. Do I make myself clear?”
“Jack—” Njaya was pleading now, as if he might break into tears.
A uniformed Air Force aide whispered something to the chairman of the joint chiefs, who, in turn, spoke to Bob Burgess. The secretary of defense gave Ryan a confirming nod. He held up both hands, opening and closing his outstretched fingers twice.
“François,” Ryan said. “If you have a way, I’d suggest you contact your men in the next twenty seconds—”
* * *
—
None of the twelve men had told Adin Carr who they were with—though he suspected they were not normally the type to carry handcuffs. They had Special Forces written all over them, but the Diplomatic Security agent didn’t really care who they were. They were Americans, and his boss had sent them to help in a matter of hours from the time the proverbial balloon had gone up.
The D-boys, as Carr began to think of them, wore civilian clothing—a mixture of 5.11 tactical khakis and blue jeans, muscle-mapping polos, and loose cotton sports shirts. It took them less than an hour to set up four cameras, three through tiny cracks and holes in the warehouse’s metal siding and one through a broken window at the rear of the building. Two showed a clear view of Mrs. Porter, sitting defiantly but still hooded and handcuffed.
Carr had gone from white-hot anger at the moment of the kidnapping to a simmering indignation over the past hours. The sight of Mrs. Porter and the five-gallon bucket they’d had her use as a toilet brought back the rage. They’d made no move to rape her, or even touch her. It appeared that they were just lazy and didn’t want to take her to an actual bathroom. They did, however, take every opportunity to make fun of her predicament—like junior high school bullies, kicking someone when they were down.
The bearded D-boys performed their duties with detached perfection, but Carr could tell from the periodic flashes in their eyes that they felt as he did—these guys needed their heads pulled off their necks.
Most of the newcomers carried HK MP5 sub-guns, though two produced Remington 700 rifles with powerful Leica optics. They were short-actions and Carr guessed them to be chambered in .308. He caught a glimpse of a few of the men’s pistols, and found they carried an assortment, from 1911 .45s to Glocks similar to his.
The apparent leader of the team, a bearded, grizzly bear of a man who identified himself only as “Gizzard,” had two flash-bang stun grenades on a load-bearing vest he’d thrown on over his polo. He’d winked when he’d handed Carr an MP5. “I believe in all the force multipliers I can get. Your boss said you’re good for this.”
The ambassador was more than a little grouchy when he’d not been given a gun as well, but he got over it quickly. Gizzard told both men to grab some much-needed rest. Their orders, the team leader said, were to sit tight and wait.
It seemed like seconds later when Carr’s eyes flicked open to Gizzard’s gloved hand on his shoulder.
“We’re about to go kinetic,” he said. “Wait for the signal.”
“What’s the signal?” Burlingame asked.
Both Carr and Burlingame couldn’t suppress their smiles when Gizzard explained.
Carr took up a position behind the rusted semitrailer while two teams of four men—including Gizzard—flanked the door to the warehouse. The remaining four set up at cardinal points, facing outbound to pull security. The kidnappers, apparently feeling safely ensconced inside their own country, had neglected to check outside even once.
Three minutes after the D-boys had taken their positions, the warehouse door opened a crack and one of the kidnappers—the most junior from the looks of him—poked his head out. He was just two feet from Gizzard, who stood on the other side of a small extension of the entryway. Had the man come out another inch, Gizzard could have reached out and touched him.
Instead, the kidnapper took a cursory look as if he was expecting something. Completely oblivious to the presence of the nearby Americans, he sniffed the air a moment, and then ducked back inside.
Thirty seconds later, the air shook with a tremendous roar. The ground, the trees, the warehouse itself, trembled as four F/A-18 fighter jets ripped overhead in a finger-four formation, turkey-feather exhaust nozzles open. They flew just five hundred feet off the deck at six hundred ninety miles per hour—almost but not quite the speed of sound. Breaking the sound barrier at that altitude would have shatter
ed windows, but a sonic boom would have been too quick. The pilots wanted to maximize the duration of their engine noise. Carr knew it was coming and he still jumped. Watching, hearing, the four jets scream overhead, seeming close enough to touch, was the epitome of “shock and awe.”
Three of the kidnappers rushed outside to investigate the terrifying noise. Bald Spot remained inside.
Gizzard gave the one in the lead a rabbit punch in the back of the neck, grabbing him by the shoulder to swing him around and to the ground, like a matador’s cape. The next two Cameroonian soldiers in line received similar treatment, and were facedown and flex-cuffed before they had time to cry out.
Gizzard pointed a knife hand at the semitrailer where Carr and Burlingame were positioned and motioned them forward. The ambassador stayed on Carr’s tail as he crossed the thirty feet of open ground to the corner of the warehouse.
Gizzard held up a small tablet computer strapped to his forearm, showing the video feed from inside.
Bald Spot had left his weapon against the wall and now paced in front of Mrs. Porter. It was a simple matter for three of the D-boys to breach the door, plow the hapless soldier to the dirt floor.
Carr heard one of the men inside shout, “U.S. Army! We’re here to get you out, Mrs. Porter.”
Gizzard gave Carr a nod. “It’ll be less traumatic for her if someone she knows removes her hood.”
Carr and Ambassador Burlingame rushed inside.
“Sarah!” Burlingame said. “It’s me, Chance.”
“Mr. Ambassador,” she said from beneath the hood. Her chest finally gave way to sobs.
Burlingame gently lifted away the hood.
Carr’s jaw convulsed when the cloth came off to reveal an ugly black bruise under Mrs. Porter’s left eye.
The DS agent wheeled on the downed kidnapper, kicking the man hard in the ribs, rolling him so he was faceup. “You bastard!” Carr screamed, falling on top of the man and pummeling his face with blow after blow. He expected one of the D-boys to pull him off. No one did, so he kept hitting until he got tired—and he was in better-than-average shape.