by Jason Elam
“Scott, get the Kauffman on the horn and let them know our situation.”
“Already done. They’re steaming our way; ETA is about two and a half hours. In the meantime, they’re turning the Seahawk around to pick up any wounded.”
“Good work, Scott,” Riley said. “Let’s get ourselves downstairs and see what we can do.”
As Riley took the last of the five flights of steps, he found himself off-balance and fell hard against the side of the tower. After steadying himself against the railing, he looked out toward the black water and could see that the boat had already begun listing heavily starboard.
The deck was a flurry of activity as several crewmen hustled to make sure everyone was accounted for, while others readied the lifeboats. Riley was pleased to see a number of his men taking orders from the ship’s personnel.
Excellent! This is definitely not a time for pride or attitude.
“Botox 1, I found the SEALs,” Kasay’s voice said in Riley’s ear. “Schab’s bad, but he’ll live. Rasenjunge’s dead.”
“Get them both to the aft boats as quick as you can!”
“Roger.”
Another man gone under my command. You’re like a walking death sentence!
“I know what you’re thinking,” Scott said from next to him. “It’s not—”
“If you tell me that it’s not my fault, Scott, I swear I’ll deck you right here.”
The two men stared at each other as men ran all around them.
Finally Scott said, “Let it go, man. Let it go and lead.” Then he turned and walked away.
Scott’s right. You’ve got a whole team here that you need to watch out for. Beat yourself up later.
Li’s voice broke into Riley’s thoughts. “Radiation levels are negative, One. Repeat, levels are negative.”
“Got it,” Riley answered. “Get yourselves back to the boats.”
Smoke was billowing from the forward hold, and Riley heard an ominous creaking from the bowels of the ship. The listing was getting more and more pronounced, and Riley felt the uphill angle in his calves when he walked toward port.
“Come on! Move it; move it,” he yelled to anyone he passed.
The insanity on board continued until the last person was safely on the boats. Everyone accounted for, Riley finally stepped into a lifeboat and closed its door behind him.
He quickly secured himself and gave a nod to a member of the crew. The crewman released a lever, and the freefall lifeboat plunged down to the water. The impact jarred them all, except the experienced crewmen, one of whom proceeded to start up the diesel engine and race the lifeboat away from the sinking ship.
Out his window, Riley was gratified to see two other boats bouncing across the waves. Turning around, he looked at the faces of those inside his own craft. There were two members of the ship’s crew, plus Captain Blanco, who was only now regaining his wits. Scott and Khadi flanked Riley, while Skeeter sat next to the captain. Toward the front of the boat were the wounded SEAL and Carlos Guitiérrez, who was busy working on him.
Beyond them, in the absolute fore of the boat, lay the lifeless body of the other SEAL. Skeeter had covered the man with a Mylar rescue blanket, but Riley could still see his outline very clearly. Riley closed his eyes. Rasenjunge’s face floated behind his eyelids. Quickly he opened them and locked them on the dead man.
I didn’t even know him. Did he have a wife? Does he have any kids? Where’s he from? I know nothing about him, except that he was just a piece in my plan—a pawn for me to move around.
“I didn’t even know Rasenjunge’s first name,” Riley said aloud.
“Wes,” Khadi said softly. “His name was Wes.”
Riley turned to Khadi, who had a soft, sympathetic smile on her face. He nodded, then lowered his head in his hands.
The mission had been a qualified success. On the positive side, they had destroyed one of the containers.
The negative list was much longer. First, they had strong suspicions that there were still three more containers out there somewhere, but they had gained absolutely no information about where they might be.
Second, the lack of any radiation told them that whatever had been blown back there, it was probably not one of the two primary targets.
Third, the loss of the satellite phone and the container itself meant they had come away with scant evidence of the overall plot.
And finally, he had lost a member of his team. Another death to add to your tally. Another one to put on your shoulders. How many more can you handle before you break under the weight?
As he sat there hunched over, Riley felt Khadi’s hand on his back. He appreciated her sympathy, but her touch only made him think about what Wes Rasenjunge’s wife or mom or kids would be feeling tonight. It also made him wonder just how long it would be until it was Khadi’s lifeless body he was looking down on.
Tuesday, September 8, 9:15 a.m. IRDT
Tehran, Iran
“So, we see that there are two jihads spoken of in the Koran,” Ayatollah Beheshti told his students. “There is the Greater Jihad and the Lesser Jihad. Rahim, tell me the difference between the two.”
Rahim stood next to his chair. “The Greater Jihad is the struggle of the believers against the wrong beliefs, evil, and desires that fill their hearts. The Lesser Jihad is the struggle of Islam against the infidel.”
“Very good,” Beheshti said as Rahim returned to his seat. “Another way to say it is that the Greater Jihad is internal, while the Lesser Jihad is external. The question I have for you is whether, in a sense, these names are reversed. In other words, should the internal jihad be lesser, and the external be greater? Namvar, give us your thoughts.”
Namvar looked down as he pushed his chair back, but Beheshti could see the smirk on his face. “Sayyid, I think they should stay the same. These are the names given to the two struggles for centuries. It would be arrogant and presumptuous for anyone to put himself above our forefathers.”
Beheshti threw the erasable marker that he had been holding, hitting Namvar just above the eye. “Impudent child! Go sit in the hall until I call for you! This is an academic exercise, and I will not have you challenging my integrity in such a way!”
For good measure, he threw an eraser at the boy as he was hustling out the door, missing to the right and leaving it lying on the floor. All the other students looked stunned. The ayatollah was well-known for his verbal outbursts, but very rarely did they turn physical in any way.
Beheshti scanned his students as he sought to regain his composure. He could tell they were all praying he would not choose them.
“Now, Yahya, please try to give an intelligent answer to my question.”
Hesitantly, the young man answered, “The Greater Jihad is well named because it is an epic battle in the heart of all men. It is the lifelong struggle to draw closer to Allah.”
Beheshti stroked his beard. “Very true. There is an internal battle within every soul. And it is very important. But is it the most important? Youness, tell us what Surah 4:95 says.”
Youness slowly rose to his feet. Beheshti could practically see the wheels turning in his student’s brain. Then a smile appeared on the boy’s face, and he said, “‘Not equal are those who sit at home and receive no hurt, and those who strive and fight in the name of Allah with their wealth and their selves. Allah has favored those who strive and fight with their wealth and their selves above those who sit at home . . . um . . . To both hath Allah promised good; but to those who strive and fight hath he favored with a great reward above those who sit at home.’”
Proudly, Youness started to return to his seat, but Beheshti stopped him. “So, my young student, according to our present definitions, which group is fighting the Lesser Jihad?”
“The ones who are striving and fighting?”
“Very good; and which ones are fighting the Greater Jihad?”
“The ones who are sitting at home.”
Beheshti nodded as he walke
d to the whiteboard and picked up another marker. Everyone in the room tensed. “You may sit down, Youness. Now, Yahya, would you please stand again? Which group does the Prophet, peace be upon him, say that Allah favors with special reward?”
“Those fighting the Lesser Jihad.”
“So I ask you again, are the names reversed? But don’t answer me now.” Turning to write an assignment on the whiteboard, he said, “I want all of you to spend the next hour writing your thoughts on the subject. I expect your answers to be well thought out and to have scriptural backing.”
Normally there would have been a collective groan at this type of written assignment. However, the memory of Namvar’s recent departure kept the room silent except for the rustling of notebooks and the clicking of pens.
The ayatollah rounded his desk and was about to sit when his assistant, Bahman Milani, entered the room. Hustling to where Beheshti stood, he leaned in and whispered, “Saberi is in your office.”
“In my office? Now?” Nouri Saberi was the leader of the team Beheshti had put together for the project. For him to show up in the middle of the morning could mean only one thing—trouble.
“Class, I must leave you for a moment. I expect you to continue quietly with your assignment until I return.” Then, turning to Milani, he said softly, “Call Namvar’s parents and tell them that I am fed up with his attitude, and unless they can come up with a sizable reason why I should keep him at the madrassa, he is finished at my school.”
“Yes, sayyid,” Milani said, following Beheshti out the door but halting to confront the humbled young man.
All sorts of scenarios ran through the ayatollah’s mind as he hurried down the halls. Did the shipments not make it? Have the packages been compromised? Please, don’t let it be serious! We don’t have the resources to start over!
His heart sank when he entered his office and saw the man waiting for him. Saberi looked pale and very nervous. As soon as he saw Beheshti, he leaped to his feet.
“Sayyid, I don’t—”
Beheshti silenced him with a wave of his hand. He closed the door, then sat behind his desk.
“Get control of yourself, Nouri; then tell me what has happened,” Beheshti said in the calmest voice he could muster.
“Yes, sayyid; I’m sorry. As you know, we have four containers on four ships, all currently nearing the American coastline. We have placed a man among the crew on each vessel. A little over an hour ago, I received a satellite call from one of our men. His ship had been boarded by what he believed to be American forces. I instructed him to destroy the container. Then I heard gunfire, and the line went dead.”
The ayatollah slammed his hand on his desk. He took a deep breath to calm himself, then asked, “Was the container destroyed?”
“I don’t know for sure, sayyid, but we did receive a report that distress signals were being sent out from a cargo ship that was sinking in the eastern Atlantic.”
“Which container was it?” Beheshti asked, afraid to hear the answer.
“It was one of the delivery systems. It was not one of the warheads.”
Beheshti exhaled a huge sigh of relief. Then another frightening question struck him. “How did they know, Saberi? If it was the Americans, how could they possibly have known? This was no routine search and seizure, particularly if the ship was in international waters!”
Saberi, whose face had started to return to normal color when he saw Beheshti’s relief, immediately went white again. “Sayyid, I . . . I have no idea. I’m certain it didn’t come from us . . . or as certain as I can be.”
The ayatollah knew Saberi’s team. All good men. All true believers. But the leak had to come from somewhere. If we don’t find it and plug it, all our future efforts could be in vain.
In the meantime, though, keep moving forward. If you stop the momentum, you may never gain it again. And if you give your team too much time to think, fear will creep in.
“Get word to your men on the ships. Tell them to increase their vigilance. They must be ready at a moment’s notice to destroy any evidence of our plans.
“Then get back to our connections at Hezbollah. Tell them to contact North Korea immediately. I want them to know I hold them personally responsible for what has happened. Order another rocket. Make sure they know we want it expedited so that it will meet the other shipments. You figure out the logistics of getting it to its destination; then have Hezbollah dictate them to the Koreans. Tell them that if they receive any pressure from the DPRK, they should threaten to go public with their selling of weapons specifically designed to harm America. If they still refuse, we can use our contacts to acquire a Shahab-2 missile from our own military. These are the same as the Hwasong Scuds—we just renamed them after North Korea sold them to us. So the warhead will be transferable. But that is only a last resort!
“Also, I want the Koreans to know they have a leak. They must be reminded that if word gets out and our effort fails, they will be rebuked by the world and quite possibly destroyed by America. However, if this plan succeeds and America is taken down, they will be hailed by all nations as true and courageous heroes.”
Wednesday, September 9, 3:30 p.m. EDT
Washington, D.C.
Riley sat at a picnic table in the large, square courtyard. Surrounding him on all four sides was the Homeland Security building that contained in one small corner the Room of Understanding and in another the tactical team of Scott’s special operations group. Riley’s sweaty head was in his hands, and his cell phone lay on the table in front of him.
He took a deep drink from a bottle of Gatorade that sat next to his phone. The humidity of the September day was sucking the fluids out of his body, and Riley needed the electrolytes from the green liquid to keep his mind sharp and his body ready.
That was a rough one, he thought as he took another pull from the plastic bottle. I can’t imagine what she’s going through.
Riley had just got off the phone with Kellee Rasenjunge, the widow of the SEAL who had died under his command yesterday. It had been a frustrating conversation, but not because of Kellee. She had been wonderful—keeping her Southern dignity through the whole conversation, even telling Riley a few stories about Wes from when their little daughter had been born. She seemed genuinely appreciative of the fact that this football player and American hero would call to give his condolences.
But that’s what had been so frustrating. Riley could only talk to her as if he were on the outside looking in. He couldn’t tell her that he had been there when her husband died. He couldn’t explain the man’s heroism right up to the time that his life was snatched from him. He couldn’t reassure her with the knowledge that he himself had stayed with Wes’s body on the USS Kauffman, keeping his hand on the man’s forehead until the time he had to pull it away so they could finish zipping the bag. He couldn’t confess to her that he was the one responsible for his death.
Instead, he could only offer platitudes about her husband’s bravery and generalizations about things he had “heard.” Lord, grant peace to that family. Watch over Kellee as she starts a new life as a single mother. Be with those two little kids, who are now facing the future without a father. God, it’s such a tragedy; I’ve got no other words. Just be there.
Riley looked up and caught the eyes of two young ladies who were watching him from behind some windows that were just beyond a narrow sidewalk. They quickly turned away, but Riley could see them whispering back and forth as they pretended to be doing their work.
He felt a bit like a zoo exhibit. What am I, a trained monkey, here for your amusement? Want me to juggle some bananas? He picked up his phone and his bottle and moved to a table on the other side of the courtyard—one that had a beautiful view of a redbrick wall. Just a little privacy—that’s all I’m asking for!
When he cooled down a bit, he began spinning his phone on the recycled-plastic table as he prepared himself for his next call. Whitney Walker had been leaving him messages since last Tuesday, when
he had been attacked on the D.C. street corner. At first the messages had been full of concern. Lately, though, she had begun sounding more annoyed than anything else.
Gotta be careful with what you say. Remember, no matter who she is or what remarkably unique shade of green her eyes are, she’s still a reporter. Give her just enough to let her know that you’re okay, then plead the Fifth on everything else.
Whitney answered on the first ring. “So you do still have my number.”
Something about the way she said it made him want to say, “Yeah, because you’ve left it on my phone twenty times in the last eight days.”
Instead, he said, “Sorry, Whitney. As you can imagine, things are pretty weird around here right now.”
“How are you feeling?” she asked, still with the same edge in her voice.
Someone is definitely not herself today, Riley thought as he stood and walked to the path that ran the perimeter of the courtyard. “Doing okay. Getting better. I plan on being at the New York game on Sunday—not playing, obviously.”
“Obviously. Listen, Riley, I’m going to get right to the point.”
Riley decided to take the let’s-get-it-all-out-on-the-table approach. “Please do, because right now, honestly, I’m not getting the best vibe from you.”
“You’re not getting the best vibe? Really? I wonder why that could be. Can you think of any reason?”
Riley stopped on the path. Having been on the receiving end of female attack mode enough times to gain a touch of practical male wisdom, he kept his mouth shut. He did a couple of deep knee bends to release some of his tension, then continued his slow walk.
After ten seconds of silence, Whitney apparently decided to answer her own question. “I’ll tell you the reason! You get attacked, and I have no idea what happened to you! I try to get information, but there is none to be found. You just disappeared! I call the police, I call the FBI, I call Homeland Security; I explain to them that we’re . . . close. But nobody knows anything about you.
“So I call the hospitals, and I learn that you were not admitted anywhere within a hundred-mile radius. That’s when my reporter ‘something-smells-fishy-around-here’ sensors started going off.”
