The answer had not been one to inspire optimism. Instead of a number, the pilot had simply radioed back in a low, calm voice. “Lots.”
Wynn glanced over at Rad who gave him a grim smile and a wink. Wynn knew he wasn’t just feigning a calmness he didn’t feel. Rad was a warrior. His character, his leadership skills, and his calm demeanor in combat had earned him the respect of everyone he’d ever worked with. Nothing ever fazed him.
Despite multiple airstrikes raining down from dozens of aircraft, the enemy column continued forward relentlessly. It became an agonizing waiting game for those on the team who were not directing aircraft. They could do little more than scan the ridges, listen to the cross talk from the radios—and hope for the best.
Tork, on the other hand was very busy. Perched on top of gear in the bed of one truck, he took the lead in directing aircraft coming in from all over the country. As word went out that a lone team was in contact with the enemy, flights were diverted from other missions to lend a hand.
Late in the morning, one of the pilots apparently noticed that the dust clouds from the convoy appeared to be converging on a pair of trucks sitting on a ridge just outside the nearest town. “I think I see two friendly victors,” the pilot radioed.
“Affirmative. That’s us,” Tork had responded calmly.
For a moment there was silence, then the pilot radioed back. “You mean that’s all you’ve got against what’s heading your way?”
Wynn, now half asleep, smiled to himself. That had been when things had gone from bad to worse. Not long after, the jet pilots came over the radio requesting permission to do strafing runs.
Wynn looked at Rad and stated the obvious. “Hey, dude. Sounds like they’re out of fucking bombs.”
Wynn remembered clearly how Rad had gazed out over the valley, his face striped with dirt and sweat, his uniform powdered with Afghan dust. He leaned back against the truck bed and sighed heavily, his piercing gray eyes standing out in stark contrast to his dirt-caked face. “Yep. Looks like we might be in trouble. Time to cowboy up.”
The next minute Rad was on his feet, calmly barking out orders and setting up defensive positions as if he ran into this type of problem all the time. No matter how intense the fighting or how chaotic the field of battle, he could be relied upon to be a steadying presence, a voice of reason, a guiding presence that exuded confidence.
Even now, Wynn could feel the indescribable rush of survival and victory that had enveloped them all by the end of that day when they’d left that mountaintop intact and alive.
With his eyes heavy and his thoughts drifting, Wynn wondered why that particular battle had stuck in his mind. Truth was, there were a dozen other missions just as big and perhaps more dangerous. The fight never happened how you assumed it would, or when or where you supposed it should. That was the soldier’s first challenge really, to be ready for the unexpected—especially when there was no reason to think it would appear.
The only reason a warrior is alive is to fight, and the only reason a warrior fights is to win.
This group of men was born for this. They were warriors.
Wynn’s head swayed with the movement of the plane as he finally drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 13
Washington, D.C.
The black limousine pulled up to the curb and a tall, distinguished-looking man with silver hair stepped out, his brightly polished shoes reflecting the light from the street lamps. It was Monday night—and late at that—but you would never know it by the size of the crowd inside the restaurant on M Street. This was where all of D.C.’s big hitters came to eat, drink booze, and schmooze. The day of the week meant little to those making their rounds inside.
Senator Gerald Powers nodded to his driver and proceeded into the restaurant with a graceful, confident stride. As far as Washington wealth and clout went, he was at or near the very top of the totem pole. After making a fortune on Wall Street that was more than a reasonable man would ever need, his attention had shifted to politics. As a senator he’d accrued the two things that were even more important than money in this town—influence and power. The Senator dominated the headlines with his likable, easy-going personality, and was mostly respected by both political parties, a rarity that made him somewhat of a celebrity.
When Powers entered the restaurant, there was a flurry of activity as both the general manager and hostess rushed forward to greet him. The Senator, who had just turned fifty-eight, was a handsome man and in relatively good shape considering how much he liked to eat, drink, and socialize. Deemed to be quite an athlete in his college years, he now kept his slightly-pudgy abdominal area well-disguised under expensive, tailor-made suits.
Powers leaned down to kiss the hostess on the cheek before taking the hand of the general manager.
“Senator Powers,” the man said, “how good it is to see you again. Your table is ready.”
“Wonderful. Wonderful.” Powers strode through the restaurant like a king, stopping to pat men on the back or shake hands as he made his way toward the quiet, secluded table in the back. People were drawn to him. He possessed the type of magnetism that captivates and enthralls no matter how much you wanted to dislike him. With little actual effort, he attracted lobbyists, other politicians, constituents—and the opposite sex—drawing them in with his charming, amiable manner.
The Senator was almost to his table when a woman wearing high-heeled shoes, a black pencil skirt, and a blue silk shirt came walking toward him from the bar area with a large smile on her face. She held a glass of wine in one hand and an expensive leather purse in the other. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a bun, but a few strands had come loose, framing her face in a way that added to her allure.
A hush fell over the restaurant as every man in the place stopped what he was doing and watched the woman move across the room. Her looks alone were enough to cause the pause, but the fact that she was a well-known reporter on CNN and the wife of Senator Gerald Powers, helped create the image of a superstar. She seemed to know she was in the spotlight, and it didn’t take a psychic to see she enjoyed every minute of it.
Senator Powers extended his hands and gave her a quick peck on the cheek she offered him before he turned to make sure she knew everyone at the table where he had paused. Then he reflexively put his hand on her back and guided her to their table.
Pulling out the chair for her, he noticed her half empty glass of wine. “Am I late?”
“No. I had a hard day and started early.”
He pulled out his own chair and sat down. “You do that a lot lately, don’t you?”
Before she could answer, a waiter showed up at the table with the senator’s usual glass of expensive scotch. He thanked the man graciously and then raised his glass while his wife followed suit. “To you and your continued success.”
“And to a successful campaign,” she said as she clinked her glass against his.
Powers rolled his eyes and took a big gulp at the mention of the upcoming election. One third of the senate was up for vote, including himself. It wasn’t something he was all that worried about, but finding donors and constantly trying to keep up with the Republican money machine did create added pressure to his already busy schedule.
After the waiter had taken their order and the two of them were alone, Senator Powers leaned in toward his wife. “Let’s get business out of the way. Why did you want to have dinner with me tonight?”
Angela Powers fluttered her eyelashes provocatively. “Do I have to have a reason to have dinner with a handsome, wealthy and powerful man… who, by the way, happens to be my dear husband?”
The senator gave a grunt as he took another sip of his drink. He knew his wife—perhaps a little too well. She was good at acting, or more to the point, pretending to be something she wasn’t. After less than three years of marriage, it was clear one of the things she pretended to be was in love with him. Sure, she loved his money and his power. And of course, she loved the lifestyle he pr
ovided. But no, she most definitely did not love him.
Angela responded by giving him a sad, pouty look that meant she was trying to get her way. “I don’t know what that was supposed to mean,” she said, referring to his grunt. “We’ve both been working long hours, and I never get to see you.”
“Then you didn’t want to see me just to find out what happened at the Intelligence Committee meeting today?”
Angela was in the middle of taking a sip of wine. She raised her eyebrows. “Oh? The committee met today?”
Powers sat back and laughed. He knew it bothered her to no end that she was married to the chairman of the Intelligence Committee and could never get him to reveal anything. But he didn’t become a wealthy and powerful man by not being able to keep secrets. It came easy to him. Besides, how hard would it be to track down a leak when the chairman of the committee was married to a news anchor? He had set those rules before they wed, and she had agreed to them—even though she spared no effort to let him know she didn’t like them. Powers knew, deep down inside, she had never thought for an instant he’d follow through once they were husband and wife.
“Good one, Mrs. Powers.” He leaned forward at her stony silence. “Did your boss at CNN send you, or did you hear something and want to find out on your own accord?”
Her eyes grew stormy, and she set her drink down hard enough that wine almost splashed over the edge. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Powers leaned back in his chair, completely composed as he watched his wife pretend to be offended. “Be careful Angie. You don’t want anyone looking over here and speculating that we don’t have the fairytale marriage they think we do.”
She forced a smile then and took another large sip of wine, obviously trying to look and act casual and in control. Her public image and the lie of their marriage obviously meant everything to her. “I don’t understand why you have to be so mean.”
Looking at her pouting face, Powers wondered why he had ever fallen for this charade. On second thought, he did. He had been blown away the first time he’d met her at a party in Georgetown and asked her to marry him six months later. He could hardly be blamed. She’d gone home with him after their first date, never bothering to inform him she was engaged to someone else at the time.
“Let’s stop the game, Angie. You married me for my money, my power, and the information I can provide.” He picked up his glass and studied the amber liquid for a moment. “Though I haven’t figured out in what order yet.”
“I resent that, Gerry,” she said, trying to smile while talking through gritted teeth.
He leaned forward. “You may resent it, Mrs. Powers, but it’s the truth. I was a fool to think a beautiful thirty-year-old had fallen in love with a man who was fifty-something.” He paused a moment. “Especially considering the man you were engaged to at the time.”
“That’s not fair,” she hissed. Then, without missing a beat, she leaned back and smiled when the waiter arrived at the table with their food. “Thank you, dear,” she said, in a smooth, even tone as she lifted her empty wine glass. “Could I get another one of these when you get a chance?”
The waiter bowed. “Certainly, Mrs. Powers. And another for you, sir?”
Powers just nodded, keeping his eyes on his wife. “Keep them coming, Casey.”
As soon as he departed, Angela started up the conversation again, but now that her act had been uncovered, she apparently decided honesty was the best policy. “I suppose I did know the committee met today.” She toyed with her napkin with long manicured nails, choosing her words carefully. “But only because I could tell something was afoot in the Senate.” She tilted her head and batted her long lashes. “Something big.”
Their drinks arrived, but neither spoke, except to mechanically accept them with a nod of the head.
“Even if ‘something big’ was afoot, I wouldn’t be able to talk about it, as you well know and understand.”
“But I’m your wife.”
“You’re a reporter.”
“I’m still your wife.”
“And I’m still a Senator sworn to secrecy,” he said, leaning forward. “I took an oath to defend the Constitution of the United States—”
“The Constitution?” She didn’t let him finish. “Seriously? And that’s more important than my career and reputation?”
Powers sat back in his chair and picked up his glass, studying it for a moment, as if it would somehow help him out of the mess he had gotten himself into.
“I may do a lot of things that aren’t above board,” he said, “but I’m not going to forsake the security of the United States by revealing foreign policy.”
“Then something is going down.”
“I didn’t say any such thing.”
“But why are you being so secretive?”
The Senator took a big gulp of his drink, set it down, and then rubbed his temples. “You can say whatever you want about how I conduct my business affairs, but I do love my country.”
“Yeah.” Her voice dripped with disdain. “More than you love me.”
He shrugged without answering. A year ago he would have tried to deny the obvious, but now it seemed useless. Besides, honor and duty to country weren’t principles she would ever understand.
Angela picked up her wine, took a few sips and looked away. “Duty to country,” she said under her breath as if she’d read his mind. “I never thought you’d end up being just like my ex.”
“It’s an honor to be compared,” Power quipped. “Now eat your food before it gets cold.”
The two ate their meals in silence, with no bantering, no teasing or flirting like before. But the peaceful interlude was apparently just the quiet before the storm. After only a few minutes, Angela put down her fork and patted her lips delicately with her napkin. “I know about the special operations team training for a deployment that involves a High Value Target.”
Powers washed down some food with a leisurely drink of water. “Good, then you already have an informant and don’t need any classified information from me.”
Angela’s face turned red with suppressed rage. “That is hardly enough information to do a story, Gerry. I need information on who the HVT is, where the team is going, and why.”
“Ask your source.” Powers felt something like jealousy overtake him. How would she know about an upcoming action of that importance unless she talked to someone in special operations—like her ex-fiancée for instance?
“My source told me everything she knows.” Angela wore her pouty, woe-is-me look again, and Powers relaxed.
Of course her informant wasn’t Michael Radcliff. It was probably some low-level aide over on the Hill who had heard bits and pieces of what was going on. He laughed to himself. He doubted Radcliff would give Angela the time of day, let alone be a source of highly-sensitive information.
“Are you going to finish?” Powers nodded toward her plate. “I have an appointment in half an hour.”
Angela pushed her plate away and crossed her arms on the table. “For some reason, I’ve lost my appetite.”
He leaned over the table and gently pinched her cheek. “Sorry about that, baby. But you know the rules.”
“I seem to remember someone telling me once that rules were meant to be broken.” Angela cocked her head. “Oh, yes, I remember now. That someone was you.”
“That had to do with business—not national security,” Powers said sternly. “There’s a big difference.”
“National security is my business. It’s my beat. It’s what I do.”
“Let’s be honest, darling.” He swiped his napkin across his lips and stood. “What you do is tell half-truths to the American public in such a way that it makes them a whole lie.” He walked over and kissed her on the cheek as she pursed her lips and looked away. “I’ll take care of the bill on my way out. Don’t bother waiting up for me.”
Chapter 14
Lauren stood on the dirt road and stared out at
the vista before her. What she saw was a stark and barren land that made her feel like she had taken a step back in time. Situated in Pakistan, but lying along the Afghanistan border, it was a desolate place—an ancient landscape made up of harsh terrain and inhospitable inhabitants who had witnessed nothing but bloodshed and violence for centuries.
The region was inhabited and known for its well-armed warriors—descendants and veterans of countless conflicts, who continued to carry on the same ancient customs and traditions as their ancestors. Having endured war and famine for generations, they survived with few resources in a daily struggle for their very existence.
The tribes themselves were bound by a strict code of honor that had lasted through the ages, but this land was now a safe haven for Islamic militants and criminals who had fled Afghanistan. Drug mafias had also moved in, and sectarian violence flourished as Sunni groups attempted to establish a Taliban-style government. The long tradition of war, pillage, and slaughter continued.
Although Lauren had been in Pakistan for almost five years, she had only resided in this mountain town for about a year. The nearest settlement to her was a smugglers’ town called Landi Kotal, about five miles from the Afghanistan border. Beyond that town lay a viewpoint that looked out across tank traps of closely packed cement pyramids—the unnatural remnants of former wars.
Lauren adjusted her dupatta, a loose scarf worn around her head and shoulders to cover her hair, and glanced down at the nondescript shalwar kameez she wore. The pajama-like pants and tunic were a far cry from the shorts and tee shirt she had grown accustomed to wearing in the States. Still, the outfit was comfortable, if not fashionable, so she could not complain.
Since it was not unusual for a woman to walk for miles to fetch fuel, she did not feel out of place strolling around in this mountain hamlet with an armload of wood. The main street she walked on was lined with traditional Pakistan homes—compounds really, composed of a central courtyard and a couple of small buildings surrounded by an exterior wall. The place where she resided now was further up the winding road, somewhat isolated, except for the large terraced property directly across the dirt street.
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