by Brad Thor
My thanks go out to the marvelous booksellers around the world who have been so instrumental in turning new readers on to the Scot Harvath novels.
The idea for this novel came from time spent with my good friend Barrett Moore. He is an amazing warrior, patriot, and one of the wisest men I know. Thank you for all the help.
In addition to Barrett, Mr. Red, Mr. White, and Mr. Blue provided exceptional background for this story. I very much wanted to name them here, but they asked me not to, content to remain in the shadows where they so professionally ply their trade.
Keeping Scot Harvath on the cutting edge is a 24/7 job and I couldn’t do it without James Ryan and Rodney Cox. I am much indebted to you for both your help with my novels and the service you have rendered our great nation.
Scott F. Hill, Ph.D., and Ronald Moore have given much to our country, and I can always count on them to provide invaluable assistance with my writing. Gentlemen, thank you.
Rob Pincus and Carl Hospedales, as usual, provided exceptional subject-matter expertise. Drinks are on me next time.
My core group of warriors: Chad Norberg, Chuck Fretwell, Steve Hoffa, Jeff Chudwin, Mitch Shore, Gary Penrith, and Steven Bronson were there for me once again with answers to all my questions. To them (and my other friends who asked to remain nameless) I want to say thank you for all you do for us. Stay safe.
I also want to thank John Giduck and Joe Bail, who gave me some very special assistance this year, as well as Stephanie Dickerson.
In Washington, David Vennett and Patrick Doak continue to be great resources and even better friends. Thank you.
Father C. John McCloskey, III, helped as I developed the life and background of Padre Peio. Thank you, Father CJ.
I am blessed to be on one of the best teams in the business and wish to thank everyone at Atria and Pocket Books: my wonderful editor, Emily Bestler; my fantastic publishers, Carolyn Reidy, Judith Curr, and Louise Burke; my remarkable publicist, David Brown; the incomparable Atria/Pocket sales staff, art and production departments, and audio division, as well as the invaluable Michael Selleck, Laura Stern, Sarah Branham, Irene Lipsky, Esther Bochner, and Lisa Keim.
I also wish to thank my outstanding literary agent, Heide Lange, of Sanford J. Greenburger Associates, Inc., as well as the amazing Jennifer Linnan, Rachael Dillon Fried, and Tara Singh for all that they do for me.
Scott Schwimer continues to be not only a superb attorney, but also a very good friend. Thanks, Scottie.
Finally, every step of the way and every minute of the day I am able to do what I do because of the support of my beautiful wife, Trish. None of this would be possible without her. Thank you, honey. I love you.
ATRIA BOOKS
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Brad Thor
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First Atria Books paperback edition June 2011
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Cover design by Jae Song
ISBN 978-1-4165-8660-9
ISBN 978-1-4165-8675-3 (ebook)
Please turn the page for an excerpt of
The Athena Project
PROLOGUE
SOMEWHERE ABOVE FRANCE
1944
The sound of suppressed gunfire in the narrow fuselage was drowned out by the roar of the slipstream coupled with the plane’s engines. The soldiers accompanying the crates of documents back to Berlin lay dead and dying, their uniforms soaked with blood. Twenty-two-year-old Jacqueline Marceau ejected the spent magazine from her MP40 and inserted a fresh one.
Keeping an eye trained on the cockpit door, she shackled her prisoner, then retrieved her parachute and struggled into it.
She pulled a cap over her head and tucked her long blond hair inside so it wouldn’t whip her face on the way down. Next came goggles and a pair of leather gloves. It might have been summertime on the ground, but at this altitude it was bitterly cold.
She gave her gear one final check and then helped her prisoner to his feet. “Time to move, Herr Stiegler.”
The SS officer tried to fight back, but Marceau was ready for him. She slammed her weapon into his groin and as he doubled over, wrapped a webbing harness around his torso.
Stepping behind him, Marceau grabbed his chin and yanked his head back, causing him to stand up straighter. As he did, she ran the two final straps between his legs and clipped them in to the back of the harness.
“I hope you’re not afraid of heights,” she quipped, shoving the man toward the Arado’s rear loading ramp.
Displeased with his pace, Marceau jabbed him in the kidney with the MP40 and told him, “Mach schnell!”
Stiegler tried to call out to the cockpit for help, but it was no use. Marceau gave him another punch with her weapon and drove him to the edge of the ramp.
The Arado 232 might have been the Luftwaffe’s general-purpose transport aircraft, but this one was armed like a Messerschmitt. The navigator operated a 13 mm machine gun in the nose, the radio operator a 20 mm gun in a rotating turret on the roof, and the loadmaster—now deceased—another 13 mm gun from above the cargo bay at the rear ramp. They’d be floating ducks until they hit the ground and were able to take cover. The best thing they could do was get out before anyone knew they were gone.
At the ramp, Marceau looked for the wiring that led to the cockpit and the indicator lamp that would light up as soon as she opened the hydraulically powered clamshell doors. She fished a diagram from her pocket and tried to zero in on the right wire to cut. That’s when Stiegler tried to overpower her once more.
Using his shoulder as a ram, he charged right into her, toppling her over backward. Marceau lost her grip on her weapon and threw her hands out, looking for something to grab as she fell. What she found was the cargo door release.
A red light began flashing as the doors started to open. Marceau was about to let a curse fly when the red light was obscured by something else—Stiegler’s head snapping forward right toward the bridge of her nose.
Marceau moved, but not fast enough. Stiegler’s head glanced off the side of hers, sending a searing bolt of pain through her skull. What was worse was that he was on top of her now. Nearly seven inches taller and almost twice her weight, he definitely had the advantage, even in manacles.
She tried to bring her knee up to get him in the groin again, but he had her legs and arms pinned. He knew he had won, and his lips began to curl into a smile. Marceau relaxed her body and turned her head away. The message could not have been any clearer. I give up.
Stiegler bent down, his mouth hovering inches away from her face, and she could smell the red wine he had been consuming before they took off from Paris. With the thick parachute between her and the floor, she felt like a turtle that had been flipped onto its back.
“You have been a very bad girl,” he began to whisper to her. That’s when she struck.
Whipping her head to the side, she grabbed as much of Stiegler’s right ear in her mouth as she could, bit down, and tore.
The SS officer screamed in pain and scrambled to get off the twenty-two-year-old.
Blood gushed from the side of his head, down his neck, and onto his coat. Marceau spat a
portion of Stiegler’s ear out and leaped to her feet. As she did, she was greeted with a hail of bullets.
Hitting the deck, she rolled and recovered her weapon. Raising it to engage the threat, she saw that the copilot had emerged from the cockpit, most likely in response to the cargo doors having been engaged. He had emptied the magazine of his Luger and was hastily trying to insert a new one when Marceau put a tight group of rounds into his chest and he fell to the floor.
The navigator would be out next, followed by the radio operator. It was past time to bail out.
Rushing over to Stiegler, she clipped herself to the back of his harness and began dragging him toward the rear of the plane. When he tried to swing his head backward and connect with her face, she slammed her MP40 into what remained of his right ear.
The pain must have been intense. She felt the man’s knees buckle, and she almost lost her balance trying to keep him upright.
Dragging Stiegler back to the cargo doors, Marceau activated the ramp and watched as it slowly began to lower.
One of the dead soldiers at the rear of the plane had two stick grenades tucked inside his belt. With Stiegler still woozy from the blow, Marceau planted her feet, then carefully reached down and withdrew both grenades.
Hobbling back to the ramp with her captive, she could now see daylight behind the plane. It was maddening how long the ramp lowering process took. She couldn’t afford to wait any longer. Pushing Stiegler forward, she began walking him out onto it.
Once there, she gave the briefcase a final tug to make sure it was still firmly attached to his wrist. Ten seconds more and the ramp would be down far enough for them to jump. After that, all that mattered was that her primary chute open. With the auxiliary chute, or Belly Wart as it was known, sandwiched between them, there was no way it would deploy if she needed it. She’d have to cut him loose and let him fall to his death, which wasn’t an option.
As far as she knew, a “tandem” jump, as she had termed it, had never been done before, but her mission was to bring back both Stiegler and the briefcase he had chained to his wrist. It had been considered suicidal. In fact, no one in her organization actually believed it could be done. That had only made Marceau more determined to succeed.
With less than five seconds left, she inched Stiegler forward. It was then that she suddenly heard a shout from behind.
“Halt!”
Marceau spun her captive around just in time to see the navigator, armed with an MP40 like hers, bring his weapon up and fire.
Bullets ricocheted and punched holes along the fuselage. They also punched holes in Josef Stiegler.
Marceau felt him begin to slump forward. As strong as she was, there was no way she could hold him up and return fire.
The navigator advanced. He was using shorter, more controlled bursts. Almost all of the rounds were now hitting Stiegler. Marceau dragged him backward, only feet from the edge of the ramp.
Stiegler’s body went limp and the dead weight caused her to stumble. When she did, she caught not one, but two rounds through her right shoulder, and her weapon clattered to the deck. There was no time to pick it up.
Ignoring the pain, she wrapped her arm around Stiegler’s midsection and continued to drag him. How was she not at the end of the ramp already? How much farther could it be?
Stiegler’s legs finally gave out and his body folded in half. The only thing keeping him up was Marceau’s remaining strength, coupled with her intense force of will.
The navigator looked at Marceau and smiled. It was the same smile Stiegler had given her. Marceau smiled back as the man leveled his weapon, steadied his aim, and pulled the trigger.
Whether it was a lack of training, the noise from the engines, or the heat of combat, the navigator had failed to notice that his weapon was empty.
Raising the stick grenades, their base caps already unscrewed, Marceau put the priming cords between her teeth. The navigator’s smile instantly disappeared and the color drained from his face.
Jacqueline Marceau yanked both cords at once and tossed the navigator a wink as she threw the grenades over his head into the interior of the plane. She then stepped backward with Stiegler and leaped off the ramp.
As the Luftwaffe plane erupted into a billowing fireball, Marceau deployed her chute and steered herself and her captive toward a long, green valley dotted with a handful of cows and a small chalet.
CHAPTER 1
PARAGUAYAN CHACO
TRIPLE-BORDER “SANCTUARY”
SOUTH AMERICA
Present Day
The heat was unbearable. Ryan Naylor was drenched with sweat and the butt of his Glock pistol chafed against the small of his back. Some might have said it served him right. Doctors shouldn’t be carrying weapons; even here. But Ryan Naylor wasn’t just a doctor.
As the thirty-two-year-old surgeon slapped another mosquito trying to drain the blood from his neck, he wondered if he was being led into a trap.
“How much farther?” he asked in Spanish.
“Not much,” said one of the men in front of him. It was the same answer he’d been given repeatedly since they’d gotten out of their Land Cruisers to push deeper into the jungle on foot.
In the canopy of trees above, multiple species of birds and monkeys called down, upset at the alien presence.
Half of Naylor’s Camelback was already empty, but he’d yet to see any of the Guaranis he was traveling with raise their canteens.
The men marched in small-unit fashion, keeping five yards between each other in case of ambush. They carried rifles that looked like relics from the Gran Chaco War of the 1930s. How they managed to keep them from rusting in the oppressive humidity was beyond him. But as he had learned early on, the Guaranis had a much different way of doing just about everything.
Naylor had been sent to Paraguay by the U.S. military to gather intelligence. He was based out of Ciudad del Este, Spanish for City of the East and capital of the Alto Paraná region.
Begun as a small village originally named after a Paraguayan dictator, it had grown to a bustling city of over 250,000 and was an illicit paradise, with trafficking in everything from pirated software and DVDs to drugs, weapons, and money laundering. But there was something else that had attracted the U.S. military’s interest. It was also home to a large Middle Eastern community.
Upward of twenty thousand of the city’s inhabitants were either themselves from or descendants of people from places like Syria, Lebanon, the West Bank, and Gaza. The city even boasted two Arabic-language television stations.
Set against the backdrop of Paraguay’s corrupt government, Ciudad del Este’s Middle Eastern community provided the perfect human camouflage for transient Arab men involved in Islamic terrorism.
Organizations such as al Qaeda, Hamas, Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad, Al Gamaat, and Al Islamiyya had all set up shop there. The Hezbollah operation alone was believed to have sent more than fifty million dollars back to the Middle East. In the remote deserts and jungles of the shared border area of Paraguay, Argentina, and Brazil were multiple terror training camps, more extensive and professional than anything ever seen in Afghanistan or Sudan.
Techniques for building IEDs and explosively formed projectiles were taught and perfected daily with instructors from the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, Syrian secret service, and Libyan intelligence service whose operatives rotated in and out as “visiting professors.”
As if that wasn’t enough to worry American authorities, Sunni and Shia extremist groups had joined forces to work and train together in the region.
A team of over forty FBI agents had been permanently encamped in Ciudad del Este to map out and dismantle the business dealings of the terrorist organizations, but it was the U.S. military, in particular Army intelligence, that had been charged with locating the terrorist training camps and gathering as much information about them as possible. That’s where Ryan Naylor came in.
Born and raised in New Haven, Connecticut, Naylor had served in
the National Guard and attended college on the GI Bill. The Army then paid for him to attend medical school where he trained as a trauma surgeon. Like most surgeons, Naylor had a healthy ego, but it had never blossomed into arrogance. He was actually a very well-grounded doctor.
He stood a little over six feet tall, had brown hair, green eyes, and a handsome face. His mother had been of Dutch descent. He never knew his father.
After completing his residency, he’d pursued a fellowship in plastic surgery. He wanted to do more than simply repair damage, he wanted to make people normal, make them whole again. During his fellowship, he’d found himself drawn to facial surgery, in particular fixing cleft lips and cleft palates. Whether or not the Army felt this was a waste of his time and their money, they never said. All they cared about was that he complete his training and report for duty.
Having done tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, he fully expected to be sent back to a field hospital, but the Army had other plans for him. They wanted Naylor to become a missionary.
He spent the next year in what he euphemistically referred to as “Spy School.” His high-school Spanish was taken to a level he never would have thought himself capable of, he learned to pilot a variety of light aircraft, the ins and outs of tradecraft, how to conduct deep reconnaissance assignments, radio and satellite communications, and at night, he attended church and Bible study classes.
When his training was complete and he was activated, Naylor volunteered for a Christian medical organization with missions scattered throughout South America. One of their locations was in Ciudad del Este.
There were very few ways an American could get far enough into the Paraguayan sticks to gather effective intelligence. Posing as a doctor was one of the best. By delivering medical care to remote communities, Naylor was in a position to build effective relationships with the people most likely to hear and know about terrorist activities. And that was exactly what he had been doing. He had quickly developed an exceptional human network throughout most of the villages he served.
