by Sean Parnell
“It’s been eighteen months,” Steele said.
The pilot nodded.
Steele looked over his shoulder. Demo was passed out in his seat and Meg was chewing on her bottom lip, enjoying the view. From their altitude the Capitol building was lit up like a pale yellow jewel and he remembered Ronald Reagan’s final words before leaving office. America is a shining city upon a hill.
Steele believed it all the way to his core, just as the President had. It was why he’d made the decision on the way over that whatever it took, he was going to finish this.
The Aurora touched down and taxied to the waiting hangar. Ground crewmen chalked the wheels, the hangar’s heavy doors closing before the pilot cut the engine. Standing by himself at the nose of the plane was a man he didn’t recognize dressed in a faded pair of cammies with a pistol strapped to his hip.
“Sir, my name is Captain Starl, I will be transporting you and . . .” The captain stopped speaking and a confused look fell over his face.
Steele turned to see Meg and Demo approaching.
“Sir, I was told that I was transporting two, not three.”
“You are.”
“What?” Meg demanded.
“Demo, get with the captain here and figure out where we are going.”
“Got it, mano.”
“You told me that.”
“I told you that I wouldn’t leave you, which I didn’t.”
“This is bullshit, Eric.”
“This is a Program mission,” Steele said, grabbing her by the elbow. He was trying to pull her off to the side, but Meg wasn’t having it.
“Get your hands off me,” she snapped.
“You want to throw a fit here? Now? Why, because I don’t want you to get hurt?”
“I wasn’t in the Program in Spain, but that didn’t stop me from getting shot,” Meg replied.
“Yep, and you aren’t a hundred percent. Plus this isn’t Spain—this is the U.S. and you are in the CIA.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Even if I wanted you to, it is against the law for you to operate here.”
“Asshole,” she sulked, but he could tell she was easing up. She was angry, but wasn’t going to go to war over it.
“Maybe, but you love it.”
Meg smiled and pretended to pout. “Go play with your friends,” she said. “But, Eric, you better come back in one piece.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Steele walked over to a dark blue Bell 407 where Demo was waiting for him at the edge of the spinning rotors.
“Was she pissed?”
“Kinda, but then I told her it was illegal for the CIA to operate in the U.S. and she calmed down.”
“She believed that?”
“Looks like it.”
Steele hopped inside the helo, followed by Demo. They took a pair of headphones from the hook on the ceiling. Starl motioned for the pilot to take off and turned around so he was facing Eric and Demo.
“I was told to give you this,” he said, handing Steele a case that obviously held an electronic tablet.
Eric cracked the security seal taped across the case with his fingernail and pulled out the tablet. He typed in a security code and centered his eye on the built-in camera. A moment later the device was unlocked and the briefing packet from Cutlass Main began to play.
“Stalker 7,” a robotic voice began. “Your target is a ten-acre estate on Kent Island.” An aerial shot of the house was followed by satellite imagery that showed an expansive estate surrounded by a thick wall of pine trees. Steele zoomed in on what looked like the backyard.
“Bingo,” he said, tapping the airstrip.
“Cutlass Main has confirmed the deed holder to be Henri Baudin,” the narrator continued. A photo of a middle-aged man dressed in a dark suit, gold-rimmed shades, and flowing silver hair appeared. Steele tapped the picture and Baudin’s bio popped up.
“Says here Henri was French special forces and then went to the DGSE. He was relieved of duty October 14, 2014, on bribery charges. Two years ago he transferred a total of six million euros to an unlisted account in the Caymans. Looks like someone sent an anonymous tip to the Joint Special Operations Command. SEAL Team 6 just conducted a maritime assault on Baudin’s boat. They have him in custody.”
“Wow,” Demo replied, “aren’t we lucky.”
Steele exited the window and went back to the brief. A photo of Baudin’s airfield showed a C-130 backed up to a barn. A large tarp had been strung over the ramp, so Steele couldn’t see what was being unloaded, but they had failed to cover the tail numbers.
“The plane belongs to Kinetic Solutions, a PMC out of Virginia.”
“Private military contractors?” Demo said.
“Yep, no idea how many, though.”
Steele and Demo had gone through the brief twice by the time the pilot lined the helo up on a small square clearing cut in the midst of a forest of pine. Steele saw an aluminum building with a helipad already filled with three Little Birds and a modified Black Hawk known as a Direct Action Penetrator, or DAP, whose pylons bristled with rockets and miniguns.
“This is as far as I go, sir,” Starl said as they landed. “There is a NEST team and a Delta troop fresh from Syria waiting inside. “The Air Force also sent a present—check out the DAP before you go in.”
Steele extended his hand. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Roger that, and sir, good hunting.”
Steele and Demo followed the captain’s advice and got a closer look at the DAP before heading inside the pole building.
Demo let out a long whistle of appreciation. “I had heard they were building these bad boys, but never actually thought I would see one.”
Steele looked at the missile attached to the pylon. It looked like all the other Hellfires he had seen, except this one had a bulge in the middle—like a boa that had just swallowed a goat.
“Help me out here, Demo?” Steele asked, wondering what he was missing.
“That, my friend, is a Hellfire III. The little bulge is the thermite payload.”
“So if worst comes to worst . . .”
“You can put one of these puppies on the nuke and no big boom.”
“What happens if you aren’t clear?”
“You get turned into a charcoal briquette. Now let’s go inside.”
The interior of the pole building was as simple as they came: concrete pad for a floor, two bathrooms, a kitchenette with overflowing coffeepot and plenty of open space for the Delta operators to check their gear and conduct pre-mission checks.
To the untrained eye there was little difference between the operators and the NEST techs other than the gear they carried. Both took advantage of the relaxed grooming standards and had long hair, beards, and top-of-the-line kit. That was where the similarities ended.
The NEST, or Nuclear Emergency Support Team, were specialists whose only job was to deal with nuclear weapons. In Steele’s eyes they were like doomsday Special Forces, and while the operators checked and rechecked their lethal loadouts the NEST guys were poring over charts and computer models.
Steele found it hilarious how Hollywood typecast the D-boys. Every movie that had a Special Operations lead was played by a towering, thick-necked bodybuilder type. In reality the operators came in three universal sizes: short, tall, and wide. They were raw-boned tattooed warriors who had an average body fat index of eleven percent and couldn’t wait to get in the fight.
Up front the Delta team sergeant and their commander studied the Reaper feed, and the imagery pinned next to it. They paused now and then to jot a note in their green-covered books, snapping them closed when Steele and Demo approached.
“Demo, how the hell are you?” one of the men said as they drew near.
“They made you a sergeant major?” Demo replied with a laugh.
“I’ve got them fooled.”
“Eric, this is Sergeant Major Ron Siler. I worked with him back when he was a young private.”
&nb
sp; “Pleasure,” Siler said. “This is my commander, Major Jay Thompson.”
“Howdy,” the major said, extending his hand.
“This is for you,” Siler said, picking up a duffel and handing it to Eric. “If you wouldn’t mind getting dressed, maybe we can get this show on the road.”
Demo shot Steele a big smile. “Hurry up, we are waiting,” he said with a laugh.
Eric headed to the bathroom to change. Everything he’d asked for was in the bag, and after slipping out of the flight suit he suited up, laced his boots, and strapped the Winkler combat knife to his belt. Finally he clipped the pistol to his waist and pulled the plate carrier over his head, tightening the straps over his torso. When he was done, he jumped up and down to make sure nothing rattled.
Once he was satisfied he headed back out to the bay. Siler and Major Thompson were standing up front and the two teams were now formed into one.
“I’ll keep it brief,” Steele said, stepping up to the front of the room. The chitchat stopped immediately and pads and pens came out. “I know you guys are switched on, so I’m not going to belabor the point. This is a straight search-and-destroy mission. Anyone on that strip is fair game. We aren’t taking any prisoners.”
There was a murmur of approval from the men and Steele allowed himself a smile. “I want to be very clear about this, Nathaniel West is a bad mofo. If you see him, you put him down. West will have a bag with him. That is the package.” Steele paused. This part of the brief was classified even for Delta, but the men had a right to know what they were getting into.
“The package is priority one,” he said, looking at the NEST team. “The proword is ‘Jackpot.’ Delta will clear the path, you guys get the package and get the hell off the X.”
The men nodded.
“If you haven’t figured it out yet,” Steele said, addressing the group as a whole, “Nathaniel West has brought a nuclear weapon into our backyard. He wants revenge; we are going to give him lead. Any questions?”
There were not, so Steele grabbed his kit and rifle and headed outside.
He took his rifle, checked the optic, and dropped his night vision over his eyes to test the infrared laser. When he was satisfied he racked a round into the chamber. There was a modified ATV puttering silently in the dark with a Delta sniper and his spotter in the front.
“Be careful, mano,” Demo said.
“Yes, Mom.”
“I’m serious. If things go sideways, I will be a phone call away,” he said, pointing to the DAP. “Just get your ass out of the blast area and give me a call.”
Eric nodded and got in the back of the ATV, flipped his night vision down, and flashed Demo a thumbs-up. “See you on the other side, brother,” he said.
And then the driver hit the gas, speeding silently into the night.
Chapter 73
Rockford could see the lead vehicle, a gray Sprinter van, from the backseat of the Suburban. Instead of the usual motorcade, he had convinced the agent in charge of his Secret Service detail to let them travel low-profile: three up-armored Suburbans.
Mike hadn’t been happy about it at first.
“Mr. President, I don’t think that is a good idea.”
“Figured you would say that. Ted, do you have that video?”
“Right here, sir,” Lansky replied, placing the laptop on the seat.
“Mike, I know you guys have a hell of a job and I am appreciative of all you do. I’d like you to watch something for me.”
“Uh, yes, sir,” Mike replied.
The video began to play. It showed a young woman in an orange jumpsuit sitting at a table. A chain ran up from the floor, through the manacles around her feet, and up to the handcuffs on her wrists.
“This is from an FBI detention facility. That woman is—”
“Claire,” Rockford interrupted. He recognized her as Cole’s nurse from the White House Medical Unit.
“Yes, sir, Claire Moore.”
A second woman walked in wearing a blue polo and a pair of khaki pants. She carried a folder to the table and took a seat.
“Audio and video are rolling,” she said. “Ms. Moore, my name is Jane and I am with the FBI.”
“What is this about?” Claire asked meekly.
“I will get to that,” Jane said. “According to the report provided by the Capitol Police, you were found near the Lincoln Memorial and appeared to be under the influence of an intoxicant. The officer approached, and after you attempted to assault him, you were placed under arrest. Do you remember that?”
“No, I had taken some medicine. I don’t remember much of what happened.”
Jane nodded and flipped a page. “During transport you made a spontaneous utterance, and I quote: ‘The President is dead because of me.’”
Rockford was watching Mike for his reaction and saw that the statement hit home.
“Due to the severity of the statement a blood draw was authorized, and according to the toxicology report you had cocaine, three times the recommended dosage of Zoloft, and alcohol in your system.”
“I think I might need a lawyer,” Claire whispered.
“Claire, you are not in jail,” Jane began. “And I am not a cop. I work for a unit called the High Value Interrogation Group, and while I am technically with the FBI, I actually work for the Department of Defense. Do you understand what I am telling you?”
“I . . . I really think I need a lawyer.”
On the screen, Jane leaned forward, her lips thin and serious. “Claire, when I said that you were not in jail, what I meant was that because of the seriousness of this situation, the rights that come with the typical arrest of an American citizen have been revoked. You are being charged with treason, and attempted murder of the President of the United States. You will not stand trial and you will not be serving a sentence in the United States.”
Claire burst into tears and after a minute of intense sobbing she began to talk.
The story was simple but damning. Claire admitted to administering a placebo to President Cole instead of the prescribed dosage of Prolaxic, the drug that he was taking for cancer.
Halfway through, Mike looked at Rockford and said, “President Cole had cancer? How did I not see it? I was around him every day.”
Rockford laid his hand on the man’s shoulder. “He didn’t want anyone to know.”
On the video, Claire was still talking.
“It was Robin Styles, she made me do it.”
“You are referring to Director of the CIA Styles?” Jane asked.
“Yes, she . . . she said she loved me and if I—”
Rockford had hit the stop button and pulled a sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket.
“Mike, the rest of the video is top secret. But I am going to tell you what Claire says so that you will understand why I am asking you to take me to Georgetown.” He handed the agent the piece of paper.
“That is a federal arrest warrant. It charges Director Robin Styles with treason, terrorism, and about a dozen more crimes. In exchange for leniency, Claire agreed to give a written affidavit to the judge. She admitted her role in all of this and explained how Director Styles used her office as Director of the CIA to coerce and manipulate her. The judge agreed that Claire’s statement was enough to issue the warrant, and while it doesn’t change the fact that President Cole will probably never come out of the coma, I am asking you to allow me to be there when justice is served.”
In the Suburban, Rockford watched the van’s brake lights illuminate before making a right turn into a neighborhood.
“Here you go, sir,” Mike said, handing Rockford a small television screen. The monitor showed the inside of the van. “It is linked to the team leader,” Mike said.
Inside the van was a group of agents assigned to the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, or HRT. It was the most elite counterterrorism unit outside of the military, and the agents who made it through selection routinely trained with Navy SEALS and Delta. They were in high demand all ove
r the world, and while serving an arrest warrant in Georgetown wasn’t their most glamorous assignment, it was hard to say no when the new President of the United States asked for your help.
The lead Suburban pulled to the side of the road with Rockford’s vehicle right behind it. The drivers cut the lights and the interior went dark, except for the light emanating from the screen in Rockford’s hands. He watched the van’s taillights grow smaller and turned his attention to the screen.
Inside the van a red dome light bathed the heavily armed men in an amber glow. The helmet cam gave Rockford the feeling that he was sitting among them, and the video was so clear that he could make out every detail.
“One minute out,” the team leader said.
Rockford heard the sound of weapons being checked and saw the men tug the balaclavas they wore over their faces.
The camera turned to the door and a gloved hand reached for the handle.
“Cut the lights, we are going green.”
The screen went black for a moment, but then the infrared lens came on, giving the appearance that someone had put a green filter over the camera. Rockford watched the door slide open, and heard the sound of wind whipping past the microphone as the team leader got to his feet and stood in the door.
“Silver 1, I am marking the house,” a second voice said.
“Silver?” Rockford asked aloud.
“It is the call sign HRT uses for their snipers,” Mike answered. “They set up early.”
Rockford saw IR laser shine on the target house and nodded his head. Smart. Makes sure everyone knows which house to hit.
The team leader bumped the aiming laser on his own rifle at the house and made a figure eight with the beam.
“Confirm laser,” he said.
“You’re on it.”
The house was a modest brownstone fifteen yards from a streetlight. There were no other lights, but Rockford could see that it had a balcony on the top floor. There was a gentle hiss of brakes and the team camera bobbed as the team leader stepped out of the way and his men jumped from the van. He was the fourth man, and by the time he was on the ground his men were already jogging toward the target. Rockford saw a flash of light and heard the thwap of a suppressor. Glass tinkled from the shattered light and darkness fell over the street.
