by Vince Flynn
Nash had experienced a lot of highs in his life. A Pennsylvania state football championship his junior year in high school, a wrestling title his senior year, falling in love with his wife, the births of his children, becoming an officer in the Marine Corps, successfully leading his men in battle, and countless other things. None of it compared, though, to the high-stakes game he now played. The stakes had never been so big, the challenge never so great. The big picture was pretty straightforward; keep America and her allies safe from the likes of Haggani and al-Haq. How they went about doing that was where it got complicated. There were those like Rapp who made no bones that the best way to accomplish their goal was to kill every last one of them. Keep killing until they were all gone, or they no longer had the will to fight.
Nash sympathized with Rapp. He knew someone had to have that attitude. Someone had to be willing to go toe-to-toe with these guys and beat them at their own game. Make them flinch, keep them up at night wondering when a bomb was going to fall on their heads or a team of commandos was going to sneak up on them and cut every last man’s throat. It had all been done, and it had kept the enemy off balance. It had not been localized to Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iraq, though. European, Middle Eastern, and Asian financiers had been targeted. Most had taken the warning, but a few who had chosen not to listen had fallen victim to tragic, accidental deaths. The same went for the arms merchants, the pimps of war. They knew the risky game they played by supplying the Taliban and al-Qaeda, but the allure was too much. Many had been killed and many more would forfeit their lives before it was over.
Nash would never admit it to his wife or friends, but there was no bigger rush, no bigger thrill, than when they took down one of the high-value targets. He’d helped arrest a few and killed just one, but it was the highest high he’d ever been on. It felt like all of his life’s victories rolled into one. Everything had been set to take the target down in the Pakistani border town of Chaman. He and Rapp had worked through unofficial channels, bribing Pakistani Intelligence officials left and right until they had located the man. They were operating with a small team of only six men, all of them trained shooters. The target got spooked as Rapp and two others came through the front door of the building. Nash was in back, alone, when the guy came flying out the door, a big, ugly AK-47 in his hands, ready to blow away anyone who tried to stop him. Nash stood in the shadows of a doorway, and as the man ran by he extended his silenced gun and sent a single hollow-point 9mm round into the back of his head. The man took a few more steps, his body running on autopilot, and then collapsed, skidding to a stop on his own face.
This time it was different in several ways. The most obvious was that Langley knew what they were doing. In Chaman they were operating on their own without a net. This was a victory they could share with the Hill. It was something the politicians could celebrate. They had captured a few people as important as al-Haq, but none of them had ever willingly cooperated. He had to work to squeeze every drop out of them, and even then the information they provided had to be treated with suspicion. Al-Haq was coming over without a fight. Sure, there had been a few threats, but no one had laid a hand on him.
Nash’s boss, Rob Ridley, was thrilled. He had given Nash the green light to proceed, while he got Kennedy to sign off on it and provide some type of legal assurance to al-Haq. Nash told Ridley of his idea to get al-Haq to go public. Get him to tell the world how al-Qaeda and the Taliban had strayed from the path. Ridley loved it. “If they could find a way to get his family out,” Nash told him, “I think he would do it in a heartbeat.”
“One success at a time,” had been Ridley’s comment before he congratulated Nash and told him he’d get back to him within the hour. Nash hung up the phone and checked his watch. He’d been gone less than five minutes. He didn’t want to rush this, didn’t want to seem too eager. He paced back and forth in the small office, calming himself and thinking of how he would play his hand when he went back into the room. He still had all the cards, and while he had General Dostum around, he should use him for leverage. Nash decided he’d push al-Haq a bit harder. He thought the earliest they’d have the assurance from Kennedy would be an hour. Probably two.
Nash thought of ways to push him. Tell him the big hitters in D.C. didn’t believe him, he thought to himself. Tell him the other two cells had been debriefed and hadn’t said a word about a third cell. That was a lie, of course. They had, and there was other disturbing stuff floating around out there, murmurs on the World Wide Web that something big was coming. Nash believed al-Haq, but for now he would make him think the deal was in jeopardy.
Nash checked his watch again and took a couple of deep breaths to try and ease off the natural high he was on. He yanked open the office door, set his jaw in a more grim position, and started down the hallway. As he stepped into the big observation room, he found himself staring at the backs of a group of men who were not supposed to be there. Up on one of the screens Rapp was yelling at a couple of MPs.
Nash turned nervously to his right and found Marcus Dumond, the young CIA hacker, looking like he was about to crawl under the desk.
Just then he heard General Garrison, the base commander, growl, “Did he just say Secretary of Defense England?”
“He did, sir,” the younger officer next to him replied.
“You’d better be right about this, Leland. If that man isn’t CIA and you get me in hot water with the secretary of defense, you are going to be shoveling shit for the rest of your tour.”
Nash felt his stomach turn, and thought to himself, These guys could screw this thing up real quick. How in the hell are we going to talk our way out of this? The very next thing he thought of was damage control. Dumond had been recording the sessions. The last thing they needed to do was hand over proof of their crimes.
Everyone else in the room was so intent on the TV showing the interrogation room that Nash saw an opportunity. He looked down at Dumond, pointed at his small external drive, and then jerked his head toward the hallway behind him. Dumond nodded, grabbed the drive, and quietly stood. As he passed by Nash, the general must have noticed the movement, because he began to turn around. Nash stepped forward quickly to block the general’s view and distract him.
In a booming voice Nash announced, “What in the hell is going on here?”
CHAPTER 14
ONCE the MPs were gone and the door was closed, Rapp turned and looked at his prisoner. What he saw pissed him off to the point of wanting to drive his fist through Haggani’s face—shove the cartilage behind his nose up into his brain and kill the bastard right on the spot. He felt the camera on his back, though, and knew he was already in enough trouble. Choking the man…he might be able to talk his way out of. Killing him…not a chance. He thought of Nash and Dumond. What was going on out there? Had Dumond been quick enough to erase his interrogation of Haggani and smart enough to save Nash’s with al-Haq, and just what in the hell was the base commander doing up and about? The guy was supposed to be an anal-retentive freak about his sleep.
“What is wrong?” Haggani asked in a mocking tone. “Are you in trouble?”
Rapp glanced at him for only a second. Just long enough to register the smug look on his face. He clenched his fists and told himself not to do it. He walked to the far side of the room, where one of his men, Joe Maslick, was leaning against the wall. Maslick was an inch taller than Rapp and tipped the scales at 220 pounds. He was too big for most undercover operations, but perfect for something like this, where intimidation and presence were more important. Rapp knew how sensitive the room’s recording devices were, and since he had no idea if Dumond had turned them off, he decided to be extra careful. He pointed back at the prisoner and then cupped both hands over Maslick’s left ear.
In a voice barely louder than a whisper, Rapp said, “I’m going out first. If I can talk our way out of this, great, but if I can’t, and you see me get up in that general’s face, I want you to get our people out of here. Grab Dostum, get back
to the plane, and get the hell off this base. Mike and I will deal with the fallout.”
Maslick cupped his hands over Rapp’s ear and whispered, “We can overpower these guys.”
Rapp knew this was the approach Maslick would take. The man did not know the meaning of the word retreat. Slugging their way out would be a short-term solution that would only make things worse. “No way,” he whispered, “that’ll just buy us a little time and then the shit will really come down. Trust me—you get everyone out of here, and I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m not leaving you behind to take the fall.”
“You are,” Rapp said firmly, “and don’t worry about it. I’ve got plenty of favors I can call in. Just get everyone out of here. End of discussion.”
Rapp and Maslick walked across the room. As they passed Haggani, the terrorist began laughing.
“Leaving so soon.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”
“No, you won’t.”
Rapp stopped and looked down at the prisoner. There was a definite change in the way Haggani met his stare. Gone was the rage and bravado, the stubborn defiance. It was replaced by something very different; something that embarrassed Rapp on a level he didn’t think possible. It was contempt; scorn for an opponent deemed unworthy.
“This is why you will never beat us,” Haggani said in a voice that was simple and matter-of-fact; one warrior to another. “You are not tough enough. Your country is too divided…too concerned with the rights of your enemies.”
“Don’t confuse me with those people back in Washington. I’m not done with you. Not by a long shot.”
Rapp led Maslick out of the interrogation room and down the short hall to the observation room. As he reached for the doorknob he reminded himself that these air force guys respected men who took charge. Unlike the civilian world, where leadership was a fluid concept, in the military there was very little gray. Rank ruled the day and there was only one man on the other side of the door who could beat the two black eagles on Rapp’s collar. He thought of General Garrison, the base commander. He’d skimmed the man’s personnel file on the flight over, and now he was cursing himself for not paying closer attention. He had a few vague recollections of him. He was an Air Force Academy grad and on the young side for a brigadier general, which meant he was either really good at his job, really lucky, or a really good kiss-ass. Whatever the answer, Rapp supposed it didn’t matter, since his only chance was to meet this thing head-on. He’d bluff them long enough to get the others out of there and then come clean, or at least partially clean.
Rapp readied himself and then pulled open the door. He stepped into the other room and was surprised to find everyone with their backs to him. Rapp moved forward a few steps and motioned for Maslick to continue to the right, where General Dostum was standing. Everyone’s attention seemed to be focused on the hallway that led to the offices and the main exit. Three men were talking. One was Nash, who was the only person facing him. Rapp couldn’t see the faces of the other two men, but they appeared to be rather upset by the way they were shouting and pointing.
“So you’re denying that man is CIA?” the taller of the two asked in a stern voice.
“Listen,” Nash said, “I think you two need to calm down.”
Rapp did a quick scan of the room. He found everybody on his team except Dumond. He looked again and still couldn’t find him. Unsure of whether this was a good sign or a bad sign, Rapp turned his attention back to the conversation.
“Calm down?” the older man asked more forcefully. “This is my damn base, Mr. Nash. If that man is CIA and he is impersonating an officer, I’m going to throw both of you in lockup.”
That had to be General Garrison. Rapp straightened up, cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention, and yelled, “What in God’s name are all you people doing here? This facility is in lockdown.”
One by one, heads turned and feet shuffled as everyone did a 180 to meet the new voice of authority. General Garrison eyed Rapp warily and asked, “And you are?”
“Who I am is not what’s important. What is important is that this facility is off-limits until oh seven hundred.” Rapp motioned from one side of the room to the other. “None of you are authorized to be here right now.”
“By whose authority?” asked the man standing next to the general.
Rapp took note of the two bars on the collar and said, “The secretary of defense, Captain.”
“Why weren’t we informed?”
“I don’t think the secretary of defense feels the need to go around explaining himself to captains,” Rapp growled. He directed his attention to the general and said, “Sir, I suggest for your own good that you vacate this facility and let me do my job. Trust me…this is not something you want to get in the middle of. Whoever got you out of bed didn’t do you any favors.”
General Garrison turned and gave Captain Leland a hard stare.
“Sir,” Leland said, “this man is CIA. I will stake my entire reputation on it.”
Rapp saw movement to his right, but didn’t want to look. He hoped it was Maslick leading Dostum and the others toward the door. “Your reputation is not what’s at stake here, Captain. It’s the general’s career.” Rapp turned his glare back to Garrison. “There are some very important people in Washington who are waiting for me to finish what I was sent here to do.”
“Does that include impersonating an officer in the United States Air Force?” Garrison asked.
Rapp didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.
“How about beating a bound prisoner to a bloody pulp?” Leland asked.
“That’s it,” Rapp growled. “Everybody out of here.” He turned away from the two officers. “I need to have a word in private with the general and his aide.” Rapp began shooing people down the hallway toward the exit. Everybody moved except Nash.
“Slow down there,” the captain said, “I don’t think you’re in any position to be giving orders around here.”
Rapp turned on him before he could say anything else, like telling the MPs to stay put. “General, I suggest you tell Dudley Do-Right here to shut his piehole. What I have to tell you is highly classified. The president, the secretary of defense, and only a few others have been briefed. I can’t very well tell a roomful of enlisted servicemen.” Not bothering to wait for a response, Rapp told the others to get moving and then said to Nash, “You too.” Rapp mouthed the words Get on the plane.
Nash shook his head. “No.”
“Don’t argue with me.” Rapp grabbed Nash by the arm and started walking him down the hallway. In a low voice, he added, “Get back to D.C. I can handle the political heat…you can’t. Tell them you verified the third cell and get Mohammad transferred to our custody.”
“Mitch, this is serious shit.”
“I’ve been in far worse. I’ll talk my way out of it.”
Nash looked back down the hall at the two officers and said, “Don’t count on it. That Leland is a real pick.”
“I’m not exactly easy to get along with,” Rapp said with a grin. “Just get everyone on that plane and get the hell out of here.”
CHAPTER 15
THE two officers watched the mystery colonel lead the CIA man down the short hallway, where they stopped and exchanged a few words. Without taking his eyes off them, Captain Leland said, “Sir, I don’t like this. I don’t trust these spooks.”
“It can’t hurt to hear him out.” Garrison had finally shaken the sleep from his head. The drastic swings of fate had helped push the dull fog away and he was now operating on a level that was more appropriate for command. The fog of war was not localized to combat, he thought. Only moments ago, his entire career had flashed before his eyes, corkscrewing downward in a tailspin that would surely result in a spectacularly tragic fireball. Now he was confronted with something entirely different. He watched the two men speak. He had never liked the idea of these spooks lurking around his base. They were insolent bastards who
seemed to be always looking for a way to cause trouble, but they were more important to this fight perhaps than any other in modern history. The one wearing the rank of colonel turned and was coming back to them.
“Sir, I think you should lock him up.”
Garrison put his hand out in a silencing gesture. “I want to hear what he has to say first.” The idea that the man might really be doing the bidding of the president was worth exploring.
“Don’t expect the truth.”
“It won’t hurt to listen to him, Captain.”
“General,” Rapp announced as he stopped a few feet in front of them, “I apologize for all of this, but this is a difficult situation.”
“There’s no excuse for what we saw you doing to that prisoner.”
“Captain, when I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”
“This is a United States Air Force base. You have no authority to tell anyone on this base to do a thing. I suggest…”
“I suggest you shut your fucking mouth,” Rapp snapped, “I’m a GS-Sixteen, Captain, so that makes me the equivalent of a flag officer. I’m a special advisor on terrorism to the director of the CIA, the director of National Intelligence, and the National Security Council. I’m on a first-name basis with the secretary of defense, and the president has me on speed dial, so unless you’re a hell of a lot more important than your entirely unimpressive appearance or those two bars would lead me to believe, I suggest you butt the fuck out and let me talk to the general.”
Leland’s complexion flushed with embarrassment. Rapp, feeling like he had finally got his point across, looked at the base commander and said, “I want to start off by apologizing for all of this. My methods aren’t pretty…Alerting you about what I was up to was not something you would’ve welcomed.”