“So no one was hurt?”
“No. Just threw a scare into them is all. Time is of the essence.”
Buchanan made a note. “When they come back to work, I’ll put a confidential ‘Attagirl’ letter into each of their files and have it signed by the director of Homeland Security.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Shafer. “I pulled the Marine personnel jacket on Gunnery Sergeant Swanson and confirmed he has no identifying tattoos.”
“So she called this other guy, who must be a close friend because they are on a first-name basis, and they agree that Swanson escaped the crash.” Buchanan steepled his fingers beneath his chin as he thought out loud. “This Sergeant Dawkins also saw my letter and gave it to his commanding officer, a Colonel Sims.” He hunched his fat shoulders and stared hard at his aide. “That is not good. You told me you destroyed the letter, did you not, Sam?”
“Absolutely, sir. After having Swanson open and read it, I then personally read, burned, and flushed it. Somehow while this big guy Dawkins was pulling me around the carrier on a wild goose chase, Swanson must have gotten to a copying machine. He’s a resourceful son of a bitch.”
“Not good. Not good at all. We must contain this circle of knowledge to only those four people. Where’s Swanson?”
Shafer shook his head. “We don’t know. In Syria somewhere, disobeying your order and apparently on a one-man raid to pull out General Middleton. He has shut down all electronic contact.”
“And Lieutenant Commander Towne. Why do we not have her in custody?”
“Can’t find her. Her apartment was locked, no lights or music on. The cell phone and her beeper were in a garbage can outside Starbucks. The gate log shows she never showed up at Quantico.”
“At least the master sergeant is confined to a boat in the middle of the Mediterranean, so I can safely assume that Dawkins is now in the brig?”
Shafer was clearly uncomfortable as Buchanan led him on, pounding with question by question like a criminal prosecutor, knowing the answers before he asked. “No, sir. He’s still on the carrier, we think, but the Naval Criminal Investigative Service agents have not found him yet. Dawkins is another one of those Special Ops types, and if he does not want to be found, we won’t find him. Plus he has a lot of friends on that ship who probably are helping him stay hidden. And it’s a really big boat.”
Buchanan doodled on a white legal pad. “Send an instruction to the Blue Ridge captain to make a shipwide announcement ordering Dawkins to report the bridge. He won’t disobey a direct order.”
“Good idea, sir,” Shafer responded. “But I think he will stay hidden if he considers the order to be illegal. Sooner or later, we’re bound to find him.”
“So that leaves us with Colonel Sims, the one carrying the letter itself.”
“Another blank, sir. We have him arriving at Andrews Air Force Base a few hours ago, but then it’s like he fell off the planet. The aircraft crew dropped him off at the dark end of the runway, didn’t see anything, and assumed it was part of a clandestine operation. No records in the tower of any military or civilian planes taking off from Andrews at that time. The only thing that left was an experimental NASA scramjet headed for California on a test flight. So we can assume Sims is still around Washington trying to contact somebody at the Pentagon. The phone call mentioned that he would deliver the letter to ‘someone higher up.’”
“Very well, Sam. Keep pulling out all the stops, on my authority. All four of them are now to be treated as national security risks. I want that letter back before the circle expands.” Buchanan waved his hand and Shafer took the hint to leave. “Don’t fail me, Sam. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get them.” Shafer left the office feeling small saddlebags of sweat growing in his armpits. A White House assignment was always a prestigious stop on the career path and usually paid off with a lucrative K Street lobbying position, but his job was falling apart. Damn that fucking Marine to hell!
After his aide closed the door, Buchanan went to the wall safe and opened it. A hundred thousand dollars was in a padded envelope along with a valid Canadian passport, birth certificate, international driver’s license, and authenticated work history under a false name, and several one-way airline tickets abroad with the flight dates left open. After making sure all was in order, he put the big envelope into his briefcase to keep it close for the next few days. He had no intention of letting these four small people ruin his lifetime plan to become the most powerful man in the American government, a strong Caesar needed for troubled times. Lock up Shari Towne, Swanson, Dawkins, and Sims in four prison cells, with no charges or trials or lawyers, and it would all be over. At least Gordon’s people still had Middleton and he would be killed and done with. That led him to another idea: Can I have them all executed, or killed while resisting arrest? Something to look into. It was comforting to know that his documents and the cash were at hand.
Back at his desk, he punched a button on a red telephone, an encrypted line, and automatically dialed the private number of Gordon Gates. It was time to get some help.
“Yes, Gerald,” Gates said in a calm voice, personally picking up the receiver after reading the identification number of the caller.
Without preamble and keeping his own voice as smooth as possible, Buchanan reported, “Gordon, it seems that we might have encountered some difficulty.”
CHAPTER 41
SWANSON CONTINUED TO SCAN the dirty room with a careful visual search. Although the space was small enough to be taken in with a single glance, he always assumed the worst in a combat situation. Death could be waiting in a closet or a corner, behind a door or curtain, in a shadow, and he had learned from experience that the little bastard can hide anywhere. Only after he was sure no one else was present did he approach Middleton and said gruffly, “However, as you so often told anybody who would listen, I’m not really a very good Marine. So I’m going to disobey a direct order from the White House and get you out of here.” Then he smiled. “Let’s go home, General Middleton.”
He examined the handcuffs. “One of the Americans put these on you? They’re Smith and Wesson.”
Middleton nodded, still numb from the sudden appearance of Gunny Kyle Swanson, the man he had considered too much of a weak link to be effective in special ops. True, he was good enough as a scout sniper, but he was not a team player at all, and Middleton had on several occasions witnessed the troubling sight of Swanson almost having a nervous breakdown after a battle. Those post-traumatic stress disorders following intense combat came on like thunderstorms, then disappeared just as fast and he would again be normal. Until the next time. The bottom line for Middleton was that he now had to put his life in the hands of an operator he did not really trust.
Kyle handed his pistol to the general, then rummaged through the butt pack on his web gear to get the survival kit, and from among the fishhooks, water purification tablets, bandages, and other items, he picked out a small plastic bag and opened it. “Standard issue. A Smith and Wesson universal key.” He unlocked the handcuff with a single, smooth click. A red, blistered welt had been ground around the general’s wrist.
“That feels good,” Middleton said in a croaking voice, rubbing his sore arm to restore some feeling and blood flow. He handed the pistol back, levered himself into a sitting position on the bunk and groaned. “They busted at least one of my ribs, Gunny, but I can get around. Let’s get out of here.”
Kyle held up his palm, then put a finger to his lips. “Keep the noise down, sir. I don’t think anybody is around to hear at this time of night, but we can’t take the chance. Anyway, it’s not quite time to leave yet.” Kyle handed Middleton a full bottle of water. “Drink this. All of it, to hydrate.” He unscrewed another bottle and drank it himself.
Middleton felt slightly better after the long drink, but when he tried to stand up, he was wobbly. Swanson steadied him until he regained his equilibrium.
“I’ll tape your ribs, then get you into these f
resh robes.” He pulled out the clothes he had stolen and tossed them on the bed.
Every movement seemed to aggravate Middleton’s broken rib, as if he were being prodded in his guts by a big needle. “Are you the only one here?” he asked.
“We sent in a Force Recon team to get you, but the helos somehow tangled up and crashed not far from here. I was thrown out through a hatch. Hold your arms out so I can wind this around you.” Swanson spun the duct tape tightly around Middleton’s stomach and lower chest. “I figured out later that we were flying into an ambush.”
“Jesus, that smarts!” Middleton hissed through clenched teeth, wincing in pain as the tape cinched tight. “Yeah, you were. I heard them talking about it.”
“Sorry, sir. I’m not a medic and we just need to get you mobile. Broken rib hurts like hell, but it won’t kill you.” Kyle tore off an end of the tape, then ripped off a smaller piece and untied the strip of cloth binding the broken finger. Tied it more securely with tape. “How’d that happen?”
“I had a disagreement with one of the mercs. He was beating up on a woman in the next room.”
“Yeah. I saw her before I came in here. Young teenager. He really worked her over before she died.” Swanson shoved the remainder of the roll back into his pack. “You need help getting the clothes on?”
The general cursed Logan. “I figured he had killed her. Poor kid.”
Swanson did not want Middleton to dwell on anything but their escape, so he held out the baggy pants and the general worked his legs in and tied them off with a loose belt, and they pulled the long shirt down over his torso. He found a pair of sandals and the general put them on. “Okay. Let’s get you out to the front room.”
Middleton took a shuffling step, and the next one came easier. By the time he reached a chair beside the table in the outer room, he was feeling stronger, and he sat down while Swanson gathered his gear. Jimbo Collins lay dead nearby, blood caking his face and chest. “The other guy, name of Vic Logan, will be back soon,” he said.
“We’ll be gone by then, sir. He headed out to the crash site with a bunch of Syrian Army types. We have a small cushion of time, but not much. Do you think you can fire a weapon?”
“Sure. Give me some more water, will you?”
Swanson handed him another bottle, then put some pita bread, orange juice, figs, and a Mars bar on the table. “Eat up, sir. We’ve got to wait a few more minutes before we take off.”
The general did not question why. He gulped down the food and liquid, feeling strength surging back to him. “What did you do, Gunny, stop by Wal-Mart on the way over?”
Kyle had spotted the AK-47 on pegs above the front door when he searched the house, and took it down. Loaded and clean. He laid it on the table. “Something like that. Now here’s what is going to happen. I planted bricks of C-4 around a house near here where a bunch of raghead fighters are sleeping. It’s timed to go off in about sixty seconds. Right after that, you and I are through the front door and into a white Toyota pickup waiting outside, you in the shotgun seat with the AK. The moving will hurt, but you have to force yourself to get in quickly.”
He rummaged through the room as he spoke, and ripped a good map off the wall and rolled it up. With the butt of his pistol, he smashed the satellite telephone, but when he started to wreck the two laptop computers, the general stopped him. “Wait! Take them along,” said Middleton. “They are probably loaded with intel and e-mails about this whole operation.”
Swanson stuffed the map and the laptops into his bulging pack and put it on. “Okay, here we go. Stand with your back against the wall beside the door. Keep the AK ready. I’ll do the same thing over here.”
Middleton hesitated, but got to his feet. “Watch your tone, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“General Middleton, let’s get this straight right now. Until we get out of this shithole, I’m in charge. You’re my passenger and you do what you are told. Now get your fucking back up against that wall!”
Middleton moved, but with a frown. It felt good to have a weapon in his hands and no longer be helpless. He thought about the poor dead girl in the other room, and about the Marine and Saudi guards and his aide who were murdered in the ambush. He wished Vic Logan would walk through the door right now.
The explosion came with unexpected violence, and the concussion rocked the area. Swanson and Middleton felt the wall shake with the pounding stress, and the falling debris sounded like a hailstorm as the blast wave rolled over the village.
“NOW!” Swanson barked. “Go, go, go!” He led the way out with his M-16 ready and ran to the driver’s side of the truck, throwing his big pack and Excalibur into the bed as he jumped inside. Middleton limped behind him and clawed into the passenger seat. The night had changed to bright, dancing light and shadows as fire mushroomed upward from the destroyed structure, where secondary explosions from ammunition stored inside the house joined the carnage.
Kyle propped the M-16 beside him and turned the key, and the little truck’s engine roared to life as people rushed out of their homes and into the streets. “You in?” he called over to the general as he pulled his night-vision goggles into place.
“Yeah. Let’s go,” replied Middleton. “Floor it.”
The figure of a man with a weapon appeared in the road ahead and Swanson knocked him down, gaining speed, heading out of town. Middleton fired several bursts at other figures running toward the truck.
Swanson jammed the transmission into second gear, the four big tires dug hard, and the truck lurched ahead as if it was a racehorse. Kyle blessed the care the Frenchman had lavished on the vehicle, keeping it unremarkable on the outside but with powerful mechanical guts. He could feel the strength of the machine through the steering wheel. This was no standard Toyota engine. As he shifted into third as they swung past the big Zeus, they spotted a man climbing into the gunner’s seat. With the accelerator on the floor, he sped away into the world painted green by the NVGs.
“Somebody’s on the Zeus!” shouted Middleton, raking the area with an automatic burst.
“He’s not a problem. I rigged it to blow up when the trigger is pulled.”
Middleton pulled his AK-47 back inside and took some deep breaths. He was free! Goddam! “ So what’s the escape plan, Gunny?” he asked.
“We just did it, General,” said Swanson. “From here, I got no fucking idea.”
CHAPTER 42
MAJOR YOUSIF AL-SHOUM walked slowly around the remains of the crashed helicopters saying nothing, his eyes taking inventory. He was a small, quiet man whose frail physique belied his importance. It was his brain, not his physical strength, that had won him attention and respect within the Security Directorate in Damascus. He had graduated at the top of his class from the Military Academy at Homs, had advanced training in the old Soviet Union, and won both the Medal of Military Honor and the Order of Umayyads during his extended work in Lebanon and Iraq. Later, as military attaché at Syrian embassies in London and at the United Nations, he developed flawless English. Al-Shoum was a loner with a secret passion for American mystery stories. He conducted his investigations like a slow, plodding, methodical Los Angeles private detective.
He had been assigned to head a special investigation into the American raid and recommend what his government should do with the captive American general. Damascus had known about the abduction from the start, but never officially sanctioned the kidnapping. By turning a blind eye toward the operation, they gained a favor from the Rebel Sheikh down in Basra and several hundred thousand U.S. dollars in military credits from Gates Global. Now the abduction had become a diplomatic problem and Yousif Al-Shoum was to gather the facts and make a recommendation.
He originally planned to drive over to Sa’ahn on his own, but when word came that the Iraqi hotheads were planning to decapitate the American, Al-Shoum decided to bring the extra guns. He got them without difficulty because he was not really a major, but a general, and head of operations for the Security Directorate. Al-S
houm had chosen to use a lower rank because ordinary people became nervous around generals, and he might want to ask some important questions of the citizens. His security team knew his true identity because it was made up exclusively of soldiers chosen because they were loyal to him. After examining the attack area, he would take custody of the American Marine general. His country was not willing to get sucked into a war over this incident, which had not gone as smoothly as promised.
“You examined this site carefully, correct? And you determined that someone lived through the crash and escaped on a motorcycle.” He spoke softly to the large American trailing him, who seemed elephantine in both body and mind.
“Yeah,” said Victor Logan, drawing a sharp look for his discourteous manner. “Whoever it was headed west, toward the Israeli border. That’s when he blew through those two idiots at the roadblock.”
The little officer stroked his thick mustache and continued his circular stroll. He knelt and let a handful of dirt trickle through his fingers. Easy to leave tracks in this loose sand. The Case of the Missing Marine. “ And you identified him.”
“Not me, but our people did. Absolutely. Pictures and dog tags. Doesn’t get any better than that.”
“Actually, it can, Mr. Logan. Photographs can lie. Identification tags can be misleading.” Al-Shoum turned to face the big man, rocking on his heels, looking up at him and motioning toward the horizon with a slow sweep of his right arm. “This land is filled with the bones of foreign soldiers who were never properly identified.” He looked up at Logan. “I think you made a mistake.”
“What?” Logan almost laughed in the midget’s face. “This was a no-brainer, major.”
“Suppose we postulate a new theory, Mr. Logan—that whoever got away wanted you to believe that he was someone else. Would he have had time to switch the dog tags?”
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