by Will Jordan
‘Come on, come on,’ Frost whispered, desperately willing the computer to work faster. The time between incremental movements looked to be growing longer, the seconds stretching out into hours.
‘How long?’ Mitchell demanded. She was just as edgy as her younger companion, but completely ignorant of how their efforts were progressing.
‘We’re at seventy-eight per cent on the first cell. Stay with him, Starke,’ she commanded the NSA director.
* * *
It was Cain’s turn to offer a faint, knowing smile. ‘You know, the last we spoke, you offered me a few words of advice. It seems only fair that I return the favour now.’
Starke sat watching him in silence.
‘Do you want to know your problem?’ Leaning forward, Cain rested his hands on the desk and looked him in the eye. ‘You think small, Richard. You view the world in such narrow terms, obsessing over the little details but missing the big picture. Maybe if you saw things as I do, we’d be in different positions right now.’
He saw something flare behind Starke’s eyes then as the man sat stock still on the other side of his desk. Anger, resentment, jealousy… perhaps all of those things. He couldn’t quite say, but it was there all the same.
However, he never got the chance to respond. No sooner had Cain spoken than his intercom buzzed.
‘Sir, your motorcade is waiting downstairs,’ Cain’s secretary advised. The tone of her voice warned him that time was growing short.
‘I’m sorry, Richard, but duty calls,’ he said, rising from his chair and flashing a charming smile. ‘Wouldn’t want to miss this one. You understand, right?’
‘Of course.’ Starke stood up stiffly. ‘We all have our jobs to do, and I wouldn’t want to keep you from yours.’ Rounding the desk, he stepped close and held out a hand.
Cain took it, noting the strength behind Starke’s grip.
‘Enjoy today, Marcus,’ he said quietly. ‘You deserve it.’
That look was there again, and Cain briefly wondered at the intent behind it. Had he mistaken jealousy and envy for something colder and more menacing?
Then he released his grip and the look vanished.
Cain was out of time. He had to leave now.
‘Thanks for coming over, Director Starke,’ he said, turning away and opening his office door so that his secretary could hear them once more. ‘Looking forward to working with you. Oh, and see yourself out, will you?’
* * *
‘Fuck, he bailed on us,’ Mitchell hissed. Twisting around in her seat, she looked at Frost, who was still staring intently at her computer screen. ‘Tell me you got it.’
‘Only had time to clone one cell,’ she replied, though her expression betrayed her familiar lopsided grin. ‘But we’ve got the son of a bitch. Give me a couple of minutes to reconstitute it here, and we’re ready to rock.’
Excitement and anticipation surged through her. They had him!
‘Keira, remind me to buy you a drink when this is all over,’ Mitchell said, switching channels to speak with Drake.
‘Make mine a tequila,’ Frost called back.
‘Ryan, come in. Over.’
‘Go.’
‘Cain bailed on the meeting. He’s got two phones, we only had time to clone one.’
‘Copy that. What’s his status?’
‘He’s preparing to leave Langley. His motorcade’s standing by.’ She looked around at Frost again, sensing the anticipation, the tension rising by the moment. ‘It’s your call. What do you want to do?’
Drake was silent for a few seconds, weighing up everything that was at stake, everything they stood to lose. Everything they’d given to get this far.
‘We’re going for it,’ he said firmly. ‘Get everyone into position. This is it.’
Chapter 50
A light rain was falling as Cain strode outside towards the waiting vehicle, typical of springtime in Virginia. He made no attempt to shield himself from the inclement weather, however. Instead he paused, closed his eyes and raised his face up to the sky, feeling the droplets of water on his skin.
This was the day, he knew. The day that would change everything.
‘Sir?’ the protective agent waiting by the car said uncertainly. ‘Everything okay?’
Opening his eyes, Cain gave a faint smile. ‘Sure. Everything’s just fine.’
Slipping into the vehicle, he dug his phone out and dialled an internal Agency number, waiting a few seconds before it was answered.
‘Franklin.’
‘Dan, it’s Marcus,’ he began. ‘What’s the status of Neptune Spear?’
‘We’re green across the board,’ Franklin confirmed, an edge of anticipation in his voice now. ‘The assault force is on ten-minute standby, just like you ordered. Say the word, and we’re ready to move.’
‘The word is given, Dan. Contact Vice Admiral McRaven at JSOC and tell him he has authorisation to proceed immediately,’ Cain instructed. ‘Alert all members of the National Security Council, and get the Situation Room prepped. They’re not going to want to miss this.’
‘What about you?’ Franklin asked. ‘Shouldn’t you be here for this?’
‘I’ve got business to take care of. You’re head of Special Activities Division. I want you to lead the session.’
Cain heard his subordinate let out a breath as the magnitude of what was about to happen settled on him. ‘I understand.’
‘Let’s make history,’ Cain said as the car pulled away from the main building.
Jalalabad, Afghanistan
It took less than five minutes for Franklin to put a call through to Vice Admiral William McRaven, the head of Joint Special Operations Command, and the man charged with overseeing Operation Neptune Spear on the ground.
From there, the deployment instructions were issued to the task force itself, stationed at a Forward Operating Base in the mountains of south-eastern Afghanistan. Night had already fallen there, the rugged peaks showing black against a starlit sky.
‘All right, hustle up! We have final authorisation, we go tonight,’ the SEAL team leader shouted as his men hurried back and forth inside the hangar that had been their home for the past several days, snatching up weapons and equipment. ‘This is it, gentlemen!’
Behind him, pilots strapped themselves into the cockpits of their transport choppers, quickly running through pre-flight checks, while high overhead, unmanned drones were repositioned, vectored in towards the target area. The entire might of the US special forces machine now mobilising behind their objective.
Washington DC
‘He’s on the move!’ Frost called out, studying her screen. ‘Heading south-east towards central DC. Right on the money.’
‘You copying this, Ryan?’ Mitchell asked.
‘Roger that,’ Drake replied. He was breathing a little heavier as he hurried to get both himself and his heavy load into position. ‘What’s his ETA on the bridge?’
‘About ten minutes.’
‘Understood. Dietrich, are you ready?’
‘Say the word,’ the German operative grunted.
‘Do it.’
* * *
The Theodore Roosevelt Bridge crosses the Potomac just north of the huge white marble columns of the Lincoln Memorial. One of the main arteries leading into the heart of the capital, its eastern side terminates in a complex series of junctions and off-ramps as the main highway splits in different directions, including Constitution Avenue, which runs along the northern side of the National Mall all the way to Capitol Hill.
Now heavy with evening traffic as weary commuters made their way home, few took notice of the garbage truck heading in the opposite direction. Most were trying to get out of central DC rather than back in, so one of the city’s municipal vehicles was of little interest.
However, rather than slowing down as it approached the eastern end of the bridge, where the roadway curves sharply right, the lumbering truck sped up, surging past the slower-moving cars in the right lanes. Horn blasts sou
nded in its wake from angry motorists forced to move aside, but still it continued onward, the driver seemingly oblivious.
At the last moment he swung the wheel hard right, causing the rear tyres to skid and lose purchase on the slick tarmac. Fishtailing out of control, the truck clipped the concrete lane divider and spun violently left, threatening to tip over as its own momentum worked against it.
With the crunch of buckling metal and shattered concrete, the truck shuddered to a halt, smoke and steam rising from the crumpled engine bay, oil leaking from the broken transmission. At a stroke, the entire eastbound side of the bridge had become blocked by the wreck.
* * *
In the motorcade heading south-west along the banks of the Potomac, lead protective agent Sarah Watts frowned as the report of the crash came through her comms unit.
‘Unit Two, be advised. RTA on the Roosevelt Bridge eastbound, traffic’s already building up on the western approach.’
Watts frowned. ‘Copy that, Dispatch. What’s the sitrep?’
‘Looks like a garbage truck hit the central reservation at the east end. Local PD are on it, but right now its FUBAR,’ the dispatch officer replied. ‘Recommend you take an alternate route.’
Watts felt a momentary sense of unease. One that she couldn’t quite articulate, but which stirred memories of a similar incident several years earlier. Road accidents were as common in DC as any other major city, but what were the chances of such a crash happening at this very moment, right on their intended route?
‘Understood, Dispatch,’ she confirmed. ‘Switching to Alternate One now.’
Switching radio frequencies so that each driver in the motorcade could hear her, she issued her instructions. ‘All teams, be advised. We have an RTA on the Roosevelt Bridge. Switch to Alternate One now. Repeat, switch to Alternate One now.’ She paused before adding, ‘And look sharp. Call out anything that doesn’t look right.’
‘What’s on your mind, Watts?’ the driver asked as she clicked off her transmitter. It wasn’t often she felt the need to remind her people of their jobs.
Watts was reluctant to voice her fears, born from the irrational belief that speaking of them would somehow make them more real and therefore more likely. And yet she couldn’t quite shake the sense of déjà vu, that something was coming for them. Just like several years earlier, when a routine prisoner transfer had turned into an absolute clusterfuck, ending with a CIA operative pointing a gun in her face.
That too had begun with a truck crash.
‘Just a feeling,’ she replied, scanning the highway ahead. ‘I hope I’m wrong.’
* * *
Overlooking the placid, muddy waters of the Potomac, the Georgetown Car Barn was a large, red-bricked structure dating back well over a century. Starting out as a streetcar manufacturing plant, it had fulfilled various roles during its long history before finally falling into disuse.
After years of neglect, it had eventually been leased by Georgetown University, who converted it to house their School of Arts and Sciences – a popular place for graduate students to continue their advanced studies. At this time of day, however, the academic work was winding down and most students were packing up for the day.
Amongst this general hustle and bustle, few took notice of the man in a drab grey maintenance uniform carrying a heavy tool bag as he made his way along the building’s central corridor. The campus and its facilities were old, and such maintenance personnel were a common sight.
His head was down, his face hidden by a baseball cap, his height and build unremarkable. Nobody questioned him as he ascended the stairwell, and nobody took notice when he produced a little handheld device, using it to pick the locked access door leading up to the clock tower. In a matter of seconds, he’d disappeared inside and eased the door closed behind him.
Alone in the narrow stairwell, Drake removed the hat, hoisted the heavy bag over his shoulder and started his climb. His heart was beating hard and urgent as he ascended, the bag and its bulky contents bumping and jolting against his back.
His radio earpiece crackled. ‘It’s done. The bridge is blocked,’ Dietrich reported.
‘Copy that. What’s your status?’
‘Had to get out of there fast before local PD showed up,’ he explained, panting. ‘But it’s out of action for sure. I can see tailbacks all the way to the western end.’
‘Good man,’ Drake said, satisfied. ‘Keira, what’s the ETA?’
‘Just a few minutes. Better hurry.’
‘I’m on it.’
Reaching the top of the stairwell, he tried the door. Just like the one at the bottom, it too was locked, but a couple of attempts with the lockpick gun was enough to ‘ping’ the tumbler system, forcing them to align as if a key had been inserted.
Gripping the handle, he stopped. ‘I’m at the door. Kill the rooftop cameras.’
‘Roger that,’ the tech specialist replied. ‘Looping external cam footage… now. You’re clear.’
Drake didn’t hesitate for a second. He trusted Frost’s technical expertise with his life. Opening the door, he emerged onto a covered walkway that ran along the rooftop, with arched gables set at intervals facing out onto the street below. These unusual architectural features were likely a holdover from the building’s original function, retained for cosmetic value only.
However, they provided a perfect vantage point over the bridge below, now shrouded in low-lying cloud. The rain was coming down harder now, dripping from guttering, running in tiny rivers down the tiled roof and sluicing down drainage pipes from the clocktower above. The air was warm and humid, typical of the time of year.
Staying low, Drake hurried over to the nearest gable and set his burden down, glad to be rid of the heavy weight. Unzipping the bag, he carefully removed the components of the dismantled sniper rifle and set to work.
First he inserted the barrel and breech assembly into the stock and trigger mechanism, exerting downward pressure until it locked into place, then working the action a few times to check the feed system was functioning properly.
‘Target’s approaching the bridge,’ Frost warned. The tension was almost palpable now. ‘Two minutes out.’
Drake didn’t respond; he just carried on working with the same quick, calculated efficiency. The high-powered telescopic sight was next, sliding easily onto the top-mounted rail. Last out was the large, heavy magazine, loaded with five rounds of high-explosive, armour-piercing incendiary .50 calibre ammunition. Each projectile powerful enough to bring down a low-flying chopper.
Five rounds. Five chances to kill Marcus Cain.
Drake paused then, contemplating everything that needed to happen in the next two minutes. The magnitude of what he was about to do. Another man might have been keyed up and anxious, filled with nerves, even shaking at the thought of what he was undertaking, but not Drake. Not now. He’d been through too much to let those kinds of emotions interfere.
His only sense was one of calm, controlled and absolute resolve. All fear and doubt had fallen away, leaving nothing but the mission. His companions had risked their lives to make this happen, to give him this one perfect chance, but the final step was for him to take.
Pushing the magazine home until the retainer pin locked it firmly into place, he reached forward and extended the bipod legs mounted on the underside. With the weapon now loaded and assembled, Drake set it down on the rim of the window and took up position behind it, sighting the bridge below.
‘I’m in position,’ he reported, his voice icy calm. ‘Standing by.’
Chapter 51
Afghanistan
The assault force of about two dozen operatives, loaded aboard a pair of stealth-modified Black Hawk choppers, lifted off from their staging area just before midnight local time. They were accompanied by two Chinook heavy transport helicopters, with a number of ground attack aircraft flying in support.
The Chinooks would fly only part of the way to the target, peeling away and landing in open
desert where they would remain on standby as a rapid-response force. When it came to the assault itself, the Black Hawks would be on their own.
As soon as they were airborne, the Black Hawks descended to less than a hundred feet and accelerated up to maximum cruising speed, flying nap-of-the-earth through the winding mountain valleys all the way. With no recognition lights and only a sliver of moonlight overhead, the pilots were forced to rely on night vision equipment and advanced avionics to avoid a fatal collision.
In the crew compartments of both choppers, the mood was tense and anxious as SEAL operatives went through weapon and equipment checks, readying themselves for what was about to happen. They had trained and prepared for this mission for months, had done everything they could to anticipate every scenario, but they were all veterans of previous operations. They knew how easily things could go wrong.
‘Time on target, sixty minutes!’ the team leader called out. ‘Sixty minutes!’
CIA Headquarters, Langley
Seated in the conference room on the top floor of the New Headquarters Building, Dan Franklin clenched his fists as he stared at the TV screen opposite, showing the position of the strike force as they approached their target with, it seemed to him, glacial slowness.
He could imagine the mood onboard those choppers. The tension, the anticipation, the adrenaline high. He’d been through it himself, had experienced the fear and the elation of combat, but this was different. The importance of this mission went far above anything he’d taken part in.
This mission could change the course of history.
‘National Security Council is convening right now,’ Kennedy reported, checking his laptop. ‘The president and his staff are in the Situation Room at the White House. They should be online any minute.’
‘Copy that,’ Franklin replied, acutely aware that some of the most powerful men in the world were about to get on the line. And he was the one who would have to answer to them.
