The second Osprey remained in airplane mode to fly cover. Captain Les Richter banked slightly as the bridge came up fast. “Bounty Hunter Bravo, this is Limo Three-Two. Any friendlies down there?” Richter was not worried about small-arms ground fire, which was almost inconsequential to an Osprey, but if he had to make a gun run, he did not want innocent people caught in the .50 caliber shit storm. There was a village several klicks beyond the east end of the bridge, and that was far out of the danger zone.
Beth paused before answering. Better to be honest. “I have no contact with Bounty Hunter Actual,” she said. “I don’t see him topside. Everyone I see on the bridge has a weapon.”
“Good enough,” said Richter, whirling his big plane in closer. “Limo Three-Two will make one recon pass, then cover your extract. If you need help, we’ll hose the place down.”
* * *
Kyle heard the transmission. If he could get the Osprey to sweep the bridge, he still might get out of this mess. “Break! Break! This is Bounty Hunter Actual. Consider the entire bridge a free-fire zone!” He was still too far underground for his little radio to transmit properly, and no one heard him. Then another blast of gunfire erupted from down the hall, and he pressed his back into the alcove.
First things first. He had put up with about as much of this being pinned down crap as he cared to endure and was flat out of time. Swanson grabbed his last round M-67 hand grenade, holding it in close to his belly, simultaneously securing the safety lever with his right hand while picking out the pin with his left. He heard the covering Osprey roar by just as he released the safety spoon to activate the four-second fuse.
Instead of stepping out into the line of fire to throw the grenade, Kyle underhanded it across the corridor, where it clipped the opposite wall at a forty-five-degree angle and banked back toward the corner where the gunman was shielded. The metal baseball skittered across the stone and exploded at the man’s feet, blowing him backward, lacerated with metal shards.
Kyle had turned from the blast, but as soon as the concussion passed, he was out of his hideaway, charging for daylight.
* * *
AL-MASRI WAS MOMENTARILY FROZEN. At the west terminus of the bridge, a blossom of yellow smoke had flashed on the road and was expanding into a thick cloud that hung like a curtain. Then a plane with propellers like giant windmills dashed overhead, and its prop wash kicked up such a storm of dirt and debris that everyone around him hit the ground, and he turned away, covering his face. Americans! Ayman al-Masri recognized the aircraft as being the futuristic Ospreys, and the Americans were the only ones who had such aircraft. It was not Zionists after all.
“Get up and shoot at them,” he yelled to his small group. “Kill the Americans. Fire at them, damn you. Shoot.” He swatted the nearest one on the head. “Get up and fight or I’ll kill you myself.” The man he slapped got to his feet with his weapon, but his eyes were wide in fright. Al-Masri moved to the next one, screaming over the sound of the aircraft.
A second Osprey had appeared and was gently lowering itself toward the flat surface of the bridge, and he momentarily wondered why the team that he had seen take position down there was not shooting at it. Instead, he watched the two figures emerge from among the heavy equipment and hurry toward the hovering aircraft.
“There they are!” Two of the Americans had somehow gotten into the western column but were finally out in the open. “Kill them now!”
His men were responding, although sluggishly, and a few were snapping off some shots. Al-Masri had a vision of actually destroying an Osprey and watching the Americans burn to death in the wreckage. He pulled his own pistol and ran forward, firing at the big plane. If they could get close enough, there might be a chance.
* * *
BETH STUMBLED TO THE rear of the Osprey through the hard wash of the propellers, hauling al-Attas along. The gunner behind the ramp-mounted .50 caliber machine gun jumped down to help her wrestle the prisoner inside. He was used to surprises on these special missions but had never before encountered an operator who was a beautiful, almost petite, woman with short blond hair, and especially one who tossed him the leash to a flex-tied captive whose blue jeans were falling down over his skinny legs.
Ledford gained her footing and ran through the fuselage as fast as she could, feeling the vibration as the Osprey’s rotors turned. Since the machine had never actually touched down, it was already flying, and Major Jameson was just waiting for confirmation from the gunner that the two passengers were safely aboard.
Beth Ledford plunged onto the flight deck and grabbed the pilot’s shoulder. “Don’t lift off yet,” she screamed.
“What?” he yelled back.
“Don’t lift off!”
“We have to. We’ve made our pickup, and now we are getting the hell out of here.”
“You hang right here. Bounty Hunger Actual is coming.”
“Sorry, but he’s on his own.”
“Like hell he is.” She jammed a pistol hard into the ribs of the pilot. “That was not a request. We wait.”
* * *
SWANSON BOLTED FROM THE tunnel in a full sprint. The attention of everyone was locked on the aircraft, allowing him to run up unseen behind them. Within ten meters, he was in the middle of the group before someone finally noticed him.
Ayman al-Masri saw movement at his side, thinking that it was one of his men, but when he looked, he was staring straight into a face he knew well from studying intelligence photographs: The strong jawline and cheekbones, the hard gray-green eyes, the light brown hair, and the lithe body matched the characteristics of the infamous American operator Kyle Swanson, who had been causing trouble for years. At that moment of recognition, Swanson punched him in the face with the butt of a rifle and sent the New Muslim Order security chief crumpling to the roadway.
Now he was in front of the crowd, and Kyle knew the rest of them would start shooting at him. He dodged into a zigzag to create a moving target and flung a green smoke grenade back over his shoulder. Not far away, the Osprey was still hanging there, waiting for him, against orders and operational practice.
He saw someone leap from the rear of the plane, go to a knee, bring up a rifle, and start firing. A man to his right keeled over into the spreading emerald smoke, his face a mask of blood, and then a second man rolled forward in a somersault, hands grabbing at the bullet wound in his stomach.
He had only thirty more yards to go when he recognized that it was Coastie covering his approach with methodical bursts, and he couldn’t think of anyone he would rather have doing the job. She fired, and another man fell, then he ran past her, patting her shoulder to signal that it was time to leave.
Swanson jumped into the Osprey and pulled Beth up right behind him. Both had big smiles on their dirty faces.
“Everybody’s aboard,” the gunner called to the pilot, who had been balancing the Osprey in a delicate position as he watched the show from the cockpit. The swirling cloud of yellow and green smoke had covered the enemy, but he had seen at least four of them fall, and the only person who had been shooting was the girl who had threatened him. They could talk about that later. He fed the Osprey power, and the machine lifted off in a typhoon of wind, climbed rapidly on the rotors, which were already moving back to airplane mode, and banked away from the bridge.
27
SWANSON AND LEDFORD DROPPED into canvas-strap seats, side by side, as the Osprey curved away from the bridge that could have been a death trap for both of them. They were filthy and stained, streaked with sweat, but their eyes still glowed with excitement from the action. Beth had a fresh purpling mouse beneath her left eye, and her lower lip was split, seeping blood. Kyle was bruised and scraped from being slammed about by explosions. They smiled, then broke into peals of laughter and slapped their palms together in a high five. They had made it.
“What’s with the kid?” Swanson asked, shedding the now useless combat gear and taking a long drink of water.
Across the aisle
, Mohammad al-Attas had been lashed into a seat, his hair matted and tangled, his eyes rolling wide, and his head twisting all around. His nose was bloody, a big bruise colored his left forehead, and his pants were around his knees. Plastic flex-cuffs bound his wrists, and when he kicked at the gunner who fastened the seat harness around him, the gunner spun a few turns of duct tape around the ankles. The belt was still looped around his neck. He tried to bite the gunner and was put to sleep with a strong sedative injected with a syringe in the medical kit.
“He went weird about ten minutes after we left you. We were running along just fine, and the next thing I knew, he was snarling and snapping like a dog, punching and knocking me to the ground. It was like he was flying on some super coke high. I had to slap him about a little bit and hogtie him.”
“Shoulda just shot him.” Kyle shrugged.
“Yeah,” she agreed, “but you said bring him back alive, and his intel might be worth trying to save. Maybe the shrinks can straighten him out.”
“Whatever. Just glad you made it out with the extra luggage.”
Kyle waved to the gunner, who was seated near the engineer, facing them. “Hey, dude, thanks for waiting for me.”
The big man looked out beneath his olive drab helmet and pointed at Beth. “Didn’t have much of a choice,” he yelled over the noise of the churning propellers. “We were ready to haul ass until your friend pulled a gun on Major Jameson, the pilot. He ain’t none too happy about that, neither. You ought to have heard him cussin’.”
Beth leaned back and closed her eyes, lacing her hands behind her head. “Won’t leave my BFF behind.”
“What?”
“Girl talk. Best Friend Forever. I’m probably going to get court-martialed, huh?”
“Naw. They’ll make you stand at attention and gnaw on you for a while, but if you don’t laugh in their faces, you’ll walk away OK. General Middleton protects the Tridents, and you done good. We’re bringing back a hell of a lot of information. We tend to piss off some people, time to time.” Swanson looked at her face. Ten minutes after coming through a major action, she was damned near asleep.
“I’m not in Trident,” she said, somewhat wistfully, lifting her chin in defiance of the fates.
“I am, and I would have been in a world of hurt back there if this bird had left without me. Then you jump back out there and do your Little Sure Shot routine on the guys chasing me? Outstanding, Beth. What was that you just said? BFF?”
“Yeah.”
“BFF it is, then.” He reached over and playfully mussed her dirty hair. “I owe you. Go to sleep.”
KANDAHAR ARMY AIR FIELD, AFGHANISTAN
LIEUTENANT COLONEL SYBELLE SUMMERS and Master Gunnery Sergeant O. O. Dawkins led the debriefing of Swanson and Ledford, with a half-dozen specialists from various intelligence agencies making notes and asking questions. The Lizard was patched in from Washington on a secure video link. A large screen on a wall of the room glowed with a map of the region, with the grid location of the bridge painted in red.
Kyle was hydrating with a cold fruit juice, while Beth sat quietly with a fresh bottle of water. Her tongue felt glued to the top of her mouth. “We never did determine exactly who was fighting us, but one of the guys that we brought down was wearing the uniform of a Pakistani army sergeant.”
“That doesn’t really prove anything,” observed one of the nameless men at the table.
“I’m not here to prove shit to you, Suit. Just telling you what I saw and showing you the pictures we took. The bridge is in Pakistan. That proof enough that they are involved, or at least knew about it? Of course they will deny it. No different from their denials of hiding Osama bin Laden in a mansion by an army camp.”
“What about you, Petty Officer Ledford?” the man asked. “Did you see anything that could be incontrovertible proof that the Pakis were in on it?”
She shook her head, and her voice was soft. “No. Just the guy the gunny mentioned, and a whole bunch of guys with a lot of guns. We didn’t exchange business cards.”
Sybelle steepled her fingers. “Side issue. The prisoner confirmed the ISI, the secret police, was involved, and as Swanson said, the thing is inside Pakistan. There is absolutely no way they weren’t in on it.”
For an hour, the questioners picked the brains of the two tired warriors, and Summers let the topic ramble but always brought it back to the bridge. The maps and papers the team had gathered, the computer hard drive, plus their personal on-site observations, photographs, and sketches, gave the situation a tight focus. “So as high-tech as this place is, the purpose was simply to be the new, protected lair for Commander Kahn. It was created for the New Muslim Order. Are we agreed?”
“Looks that way from back here in Washington,” said the Lizard. “I will pull some intercept logs to see what the boys in Islamabad have been talking about. It would be a big help if that captured engineer could give us details on the bridge itself, the weaponry, and that array of sensors and cameras in the valley.”
“Don’t count on that, Liz,” said Kyle. “The man has definitely slipped into his own scrambled little world. The shrinks will have a hard time separating fact from fiction with him, because he apparently believes everything he says is real.”
Freedman chewed on a thumbnail. “General Middleton wants to get that guy down to Guantánamo as soon as possible and turn the experts loose on him. Chemistry can do wonders.”
Sybelle Summers cut in and pointed to the Central Intelligence Agency representative. “That will take too long. My friend here says they have much of the same capability right here at Kandahar, primarily used for time-sensitive, tactical interrogation.”
“That’s correct. Let’s see what we can do to supplement the information about the bridge and its defenses, and then ship him to Gitmo for deeper work.”
“Fine,” the Lizard replied. “Colonel Summers, the general also wants your report and recommendations ASAP, so he can take them to the White House. He gave them a heads-up that he’s coming over.”
“I’ll get him a summary within the hour; then we can link up again and do the details.”
“Sounds good. Oh, yes, the general wants to pass along his compliments to Petty Officer Ledford for her outstanding work.”
“What about me?” Kyle laughed. “I was there, too.”
“He didn’t mention you.”
THE OLD EXEC WASHINGTON, D.C.
THE PRESIDENT OF THE United States, hands in the pockets of his dark suit, strolled nonchalantly out of the basement door of the White House, beneath the maroon awning, between some parked cars, and across the narrow street to a similar basement entrance to the Old Executive Office Building, a baroque gray giant. At the moment, the entire news media corps was corralled in the White House Press Room for the routine daily briefing by his press secretary, who was giving an update on the upcoming Mars mission and confirming the president would be at the Cape for the historic launch. Camera crews were at their tripods on the front lawn, preparing for the stand-ups by the TV correspondents. No one noticed the sudden unannounced departure from the president’s public schedule, and he was in view for less than a minute, alone, as he crossed the protected street without obvious Secret Service protection.
The tall Californian was alone in numerous ways on this day, for he was facing one of the toughest decisions of his presidency—the absolute need to order a direct military attack on Pakistan, an allied nation that was an anchor in the overall war on terror in a fiery region. Only someone who knew him well could discern that the slightly hunched shoulders were actually bowed with worry. He had been pacing the Oval Office, trying to walk off the fury of once again feeling double-crossed by the Pakistanis—Osama’s compound all over again, but bigger and better—but he had calmed little by the time of this meeting just after lunch.
Members of the Secret Service detail that had unobtrusively shepherded him across the street met him at the door of Old Exec and gave verbal confirmation of the handoff to
the agents at the seldom-used White House exit and to agents in the parked cars that he passed. He led the way to the second floor of the musty building, and another agent opened a normal-looking door into a comfortable large room that was thoroughly soundproof. Several easy chairs and two large sofas formed a large, loose circle. Senior administration officials had come in earlier through various entrances and were gathered in small groups. They turned to face him, and a repeated murmur of “Mr. President” acknowledged his presence. He did not shake anyone’s hand and did not flash the famous smile but proceeded to an armchair, sat, and crossed his legs. The others took seats. All eyes were on him.
There was no preamble. “Each of you has been privately briefed within the past few hours concerning this latest event in Pakistan. It is an intolerable situation. A vital ally that already had given shelter to our single biggest enemy, Osama bin Laden, has been busy creating a new and possibly worse threat to our security, and as usual, intentionally keeping it secret from us.
“There is no way to sugarcoat my decision. As you were briefed, I intend to launch a military strike to wipe out that new sanctuary, and by doing so, to send a clear message to our friends throughout the Middle East. Any new terrorist leader will never be beyond the reach of the United States, and neither will any country that gives him sanctuary.” He paused, hands clasped before him, looking from face to face.
“We will hit it hard—very hard—and that once again includes boots on the ground for a short window of time, for I consider this to be a matter of utmost national security. Our military leaders predict that if all goes well, we will be in and out of there within three hours, leaving behind nothing but a smoking ruin. Consider it to be a surgical operation to remove a deadly cancer. Pakistan has to learn that this must stop! Before I give the final order, I wanted you all together to thank you for agreeing that this course of action is necessary. Any further discussion? Questions?”
Running the Maze s-5 Page 22
