by Bob Mayer
"It's VZ!" he reported over the FM radio to the commander in the chopper hovering above. Two ropes, one from each side of the helicopter, dangled to the ground, where a half dozen men in environmental suits were combing the area.
"How hot?"
"We're clear now," the man reported. "VZ has a time on target of less than a minute."
"Stay suited and sealed," the commander warned.
"No shit," the man on the ground muttered as he dug the plastic toe into one of the bodies, noting the obvious signs of a painful death on the man's face. He pulled a small plastic container off his combat vest and sprinkled the powder inside over the body, covering it from head to toe. Then he pulled a thermite grenade off his vest, pulled the pin, and dropped it onto the body. With a hiss, the grenade began burning, igniting the powder, consuming flesh.
***
Twenty miles to the east, the Apache was closing on the Bell Jet Ranger, the Nighthawk right behind. The Apache pilot slid his finger over to the transmit button on his radio and the signal was relayed through the AWACS to Langley.
"We have visual on the target," he reported.
"Put it down," Hancock ordered.
The gunner, seated in front of the pilot, had several options with which he could follow out that order. Slaved to his helmet, the 30mm chain gun under the nose of the helicopter followed each movement of his head. He also had Hellfire missiles loaded in pods under the short, stubby wings that he could lock on target, fire, then forget about as they tracked whatever they had locked on to.
A small flip-down sight was over the gunner's left eye on which his firing data was displayed along with the crosshairs for target designation. He put the center over the rear of the Jet Ranger, his finger curling around the trigger for the 30mm cannon.
The gunner pulled back and the Apache vibrated from the recoil of the gun located just below the nose of the craft. A string of rounds crossed the distance between the two helicopters and ripped into the rear of the Jet Ranger.
"Target is down," the pilot reported as the Jet Ranger nosed over and smashed into the ground. A fireball consumed the wreckage and the Apache and Nighthawk came to a hover two hundred feet overhead.
***
Gereg turned off the computer feed from the Direct Action operations center. "He did it."
"What can we do?" Parker asked.
"The only thing we can do is throw ourselves on the mercy of the director," Gereg said. "With no proof, it isn't the recommended course of action." She shrugged. "But if we do nothing, you can be sure Hancock has more cards to play and I'd rather upset his timetable than let him play them when and where he wants."
She pointed at the folder. "If Mr. O'Callaghan is involved, he is the one who took a shot at Sergeant Major Dublowski at Camp Mackall. You can be sure that Hancock won't leave any loose ends."
"He's killed people," Parker said.
"We have no proof of that," Gereg reminded her. "I don't trust Hancock and I'm not even sure he's behind any of what has happened."
"I'm not going to sit by and do nothing," Parker said.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The magnesium burned hot, keeping the Nighthawk team from getting close to the remains of the Jet Ranger for over thirty minutes, even though they used fire extinguishers to put out most of the flames.
Working his way between the still-smoldering wreckage, the team leader approached the remains of the Jet Ranger's cabin. There were two bodies smashed up against the instrument panel, dark green flight helmets partially melted, flight suits charred black.
Using the tip of his MP-5 submachine gun, the team leader pried back the helmet on one of the bodies. The face revealed was battered and burned, but still recognizable. The team leader stared at it for a few seconds, then did the same to the second body.
There was no doubt.
He looked at his men poking through the wreckage. "Got the briefcases?"
He got their answer, then signaled for the Nighthawk to pick up the search team.
Chapter Thirty
The director steepled his fingers under his chin. "That's a pretty strong accusation you're making."
Gereg towered over the other three people arranged around the chair the director still occupied and she didn't react to the comment he directed at her.
"There are girls missing," Parker stepped in. "Girls kidnapped by the men that were just killed. They're the priority."
"Whatever Mr. Jawhar and Mr. Akil have been up to," Hancock said, "they no longer are a threat. My team has taken care of that."
"Very convenient," Parker snapped.
"Listen, Colonel—" Hancock began, but he was interrupted by a loud curse coming from the front of the operations center.
Dilken came rushing up. "It's not them. In the chopper. It's not Jawhar and Akil. And the VZ cases aren't there. Just a small dispenser."
There were a few seconds of silence as everyone digested that information.
"Looks like things haven't worked like you planned," Parker said, breaking the silence. "You've been double-crossed."
"We have to find the VZ." Gereg turned to Dilken. "Get the KH-14 and AWACS to backtrack to the airport that chopper took off from. Trace every flight that's taken off from there."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Wait a second—" Hancock began, but the director's sharp voice cut him off.
"Enough. Gereg, you're in charge. Mr. Hancock, you are relieved of your position until further notice." The director slapped his hand on the arm of the chair. "Find that nerve gas, Ms. Gereg. I have to inform the President."
***
There was always a Boeing E-3A Sentry AWACS on duty over the Balkans. A new model based on the 767 airframe was entering the system, but the current plane on duty was the venerable one based on the Boeing 707 airframe, painted dull gray with a thirty-foot-diameter radome piggybacked on top.
Using the radar inside the dome, the crew inside could paint an accurate picture of the sky for two hundred miles in every direction. Ever since the U.S. Secretary of Commerce had been killed in bad weather visiting the region, the workload for the AWACS had gone up considerably. The plane was the air traffic controller for all NATO flights in the region, from aircraft bringing in supplies to Sarajevo's main airport, to helicopters conducting local reconnaissance.
Coordinating with a KH-14 spy satellite, Lieutenant Jack Boorstin had tracked the helicopter thought to contain the two Saudis at the request of the CIA. Now, at the CIA's request, Boorstin was doing another search, backtracking through the tapes, to see if any other aircraft had taken off from the same airfield as the helicopter.
It took less than a minute and a half. Boorstin keyed his mike and his message was relayed back to the Direct Action operations center at Langley.
"I've got a fixed-wing aircraft that took off from Budapest twenty minutes after the chopper," Boorstin reported.
A new voice came over the radio. "This is Kim Gereg, Central Intelligence Agency director of Operations. Where is that aircraft headed?"
Boorstin reached up with a stylus and traced the path the craft had followed, south across Romania, over Bulgaria and Turkey to its current location over the Mediterranean just southwest of Cyprus, heading southeast. "Middle East somewhere. Maybe Egypt. If it continues past there, then it will be over the Red Sea, which gives us the Sudan or Saudi Arabia as options."
***
"They're going home with the VZ." Gereg was watching the electronic screen where a new red dot had just appeared over the Mediterranean. Parker felt helpless watching the symbol move across the screen. Hancock had left the operations center shortly after the director, and neither Gereg nor Parker had the time or the inclination right now to find out where he had gone.
"We could contact the Israelis," Dilken suggested. "They could scramble some jets and take the plane down."
"How fast is the plane moving?" Parker asked.
Dilken relayed that question to Boorstin.
"It's a je
t—got to be, at that speed—maybe a Lear," Boorstin's voice came over the speaker. "It's making about four hundred miles an hour."
"Jawhar's personal jet is Learjet 35A," Dilken added. "It's flagged as a Saudi air force jet."
Parker knew what that meant. "We shoot it down, we're committing an act of war."
Gereg nodded. "And we might make the same mistake. What if they aren't on board that plane either? And even more important than making sure we get Jawhar and Akil is making sure we get the VZ. We've got to be one hundred percent certain we've interdicted the nerve gas."
"There's only one way to do that," Parker said.
Gereg nodded. "I'll inform the director once we have an option. He'll have to get sanction for us to do anything." She claimed Hancock's seat. "What about the DAT?"
"Still on the ground," Dilken said. "They'd have to reboard their choppers, head out to the Nimitz and then take a flight from there to the Italian mainland to get a flight capable of transporting them and their gear to wherever the plane is going."
Gereg swiveled to face Colonel Giles. "What about your Delta Force team in Tel Aviv?"
"They should be ready to go wheels up," Giles said. He glanced at his watch. "If that plane is making for a landing somewhere in Saudi, it will do so just after dark. Our people—already closer—can be overhead as they land. Perfect time for a strike."
"U.S. Military forces assaulting an objective inside of Saudi Arabia?" Dilken was aghast. At least he appeared to be. Parker wondered how much allegiance he still owed to Hancock.
"Thorpe is in Tel Aviv," Parker said. "We need to get him up to speed on what is going on."
"Do it," Gereg ordered. "Have him hook up with the Delta Force team."
"That will clue in the Mossad!" Dilken objected.
"Get the Delta team in the air," Gereg ordered. "At least the director will be able to give the President an option."
***
Thorpe turned off his SATPhone and turned to stare at Rotzinger. "You were in on it with Hancock, weren't you?"
"What are—" Rotzinger began, but Thorpe cut him off.
"The mission to interdict the VZ failed. It's believed that the two brothers and the VZ are on a Learjet currently over the Mediterranean, heading for Saudi Arabia."
"That cannot be!" Rotzinger protested.
"But it is," Thorpe said. "It appears Jawhar and Akil are not playing their parts the way they were scripted. The Delta Force forward element will go airborne in twenty minutes. We're going to track the jet to its landing field and then interdict there."
"You cannot cross Prince Yasin," Rotzinger said. "He is too powerful."
"It's not Yasin we're going after," Thorpe said. "It's his two bastards. And I think they've already crossed him also."
The door to the room opened and Yaron walked in. He took the seat at the end of the table, steepled his fingers.
He waved a hand as Thorpe began to speak. "I know of the failure to interdict and the Learjet." He pointed a long finger at Rotzinger. "If I find out that you were part of the betrayal of my team in the Ukraine—" Yaron abruptly turned to Thorpe. "I have a car waiting to take you to the airfield. Please make sure you succeed or else we will have to take extreme action."
Chapter Thirty-one
Dublowski prowled about the Delta Force Ranch like a caged bear, thinking about the information Parker had relayed. Finally, he went into the electronics shack. He found Chief Warrant Officer Simpkins working over the innards of a computer.
Dublowski told the warrant officer what he wanted to do and, as he'd hoped, Simpkins had just the thing.
Two metal suitcases in hand, Dublowski left the Ranch in his pickup truck.
***
Thorpe felt in his element for the first time since he'd put his uniform back on. The throbbing roar of turboprop engines from the nearby combat Talon filled his ears. The smell of JP-4 fuel burning was a familiar one that brought back memories of being at many other airfields preparing to deploy.
The twenty men of the Delta forward element wore black fatigues with no markings. They were loading their gear onto the plane, MP-5 submachine guns slung over their backs.
Thorpe walked up to the man directing the loading. "You in charge?"
The soldier, a tall black man with a completely shaved head, checked Thorpe out, taking in the SOCOM patch on the shoulder, the Special Forces branch insignia on the collar, the combat infantry, scuba and master airborne patches on his chest, and lastly the name tag.
"No, sir. I'm Master Sergeant Grant. Major Dotson is in charge." Grant pointed to a younger white man standing near the back ramp of the plane.
Thorpe walked over. "Major Dotson."
"Yeah?" Dotson looked over Thorpe in the same manner as Grant. "So you're Thorpe. Heard you screwed the pooch in the Ukraine and we've got to close this out."
"I'll be coming with you," Thorpe said.
"Great," Dotson muttered. "What am I, a cruise ship director?"
"The Israelis lost four men 'screwing the pooch,' as you say," Thorpe said. "We stopped two-thirds of the shipment. I would like to be there to help finish the job."
Dotson sighed. "All right. See Grant to get some gear. Make sure you're sterile. Last thing we want is to leave a body that can be identified as American on Saudi soil."
Thorpe noticed something he had never seen before on a combat Talon—two pods bolted to the body of the plane, just forward of the wheel wells.
"What's that?"
Dotson followed his pointing finger. "Hummingbirds. Mixture of high-explosive and diversionary loads."
Thorpe almost laughed. It had come full circle from the rig in the Gulf of Mexico to here. He hoped their assault went better than the previous one.
***
"They're staying over Egyptian soil," Parker noted.
"They're not stupid enough to even get close to Israeli airspace," Gereg said. "What's the status on Delta?" she asked Giles.
"They'll be wheels up in two minutes."
"What else do we have on call?" Gereg asked.
Dilken ticked off the firepower. "The U.S.S. John C. Stennis just finished transiting the Red Sea en route to relieving the Lincoln in the Persian Gulf." Dilken hit a key and the small image of an aircraft carrier's silhouette appeared in the Gulf of Aden, just out of the Red Sea. "It has a full complement of combat aircraft along with its battle group, armed with cruise missiles."
"Scramble some air support to be on station farther north in the Red Sea."
"Yes, ma'am."
Everyone turned as the back door to the ops center opened and the director walked in. He went directly to Gereg. "We have National Command Authority Sanction for this mission. However, we must avoid escalation to direct conflict with Saudi troops."
"That might be hard to do, sir," Gereg noted.
"I don't care how hard it is, you make sure we don't start World War III here or piss off the number one oil-producing country in the world."
***
Terri had made her decision and when she heard the door clang open at the end of the corridor, she quickly padded across her cell to a position to the right of her cell door. She heard another door open, a yell from Leslie as she was dragged out of her cell. Then Cathy's door opening. Both girls were dragged away and still Terri waited, pressed against the hard concrete, her eyes on the door, her ears listening for any movement.
Two men were speaking in a foreign tongue; they laughed; then heavy boots walked away, the door at the end of the corridor slamming shut. Then a lone set of boots came down the corridor.
She heard the key in the lock, then the door swung wide, covering her behind it. A man in sand-colored camouflage stepped in, pistol leading.
Terri pounced, grabbing the arm holding the gun and biting down just above the wrist, her teeth tearing through flesh and bringing a yelp of pain from the man. The gun hit the ground with a clank.
The soldier turned toward her, but she was already moving, pushing off the w
all with all her strength, knee leading directly into his groin. A gargled yell came out of the man's throat, but Terri continued as her father had taught her, slamming the knee twice more into his groin. Then she swung her left elbow, hitting him in the face, snapping his head against the door.
The soldier staggered as Terri dropped to her knees, hands grabbing, wrapping around the butt of the pistol. She brought it up, business end pointing at the soldier's face. He was still moaning, hands over his groin.
Terri's finger curled over the edge of the trigger. She realized that the sound would bring others. She pushed forward, shoving the barrel into the man's ample stomach, and pulled the trigger, the flesh muffling the sound.
The man's eyes went wide, both in disbelief that a woman would shoot him and from the pain. Terri stepped back. She pulled back the slide—the pressure against the man's body having kept it from working properly after the first shot—and put another bullet in the chamber.
The man dropped to his knees, hands over his stomach, blood flowing over them. Terri waited, watching.
***
"This is the route we will take to the Red Sea." Major Dotson ran his finger along the map.
Glancing out the window to the left, Thorpe could see rocky outcroppings along a ridge at a height equal to that at which they were flying. The combat Talon was less than eighty feet above the ground, the plane bobbing and weaving to follow the contour of the earth along a canyon.
Dotson's finger had traced a route across southern Israel, where the country grew narrower and narrower until just a tiny part of it touched the Gulf of Aqaba between Egypt and Jordan.
"We go feet wet," Dotson continued. "The pilots will put us just about on the wave tops through the Gulf of Aqaba until we touch the Red Sea. Then we have to see exactly where our target goes."
"Won't we get picked up by Saudi radar when we go by Aqaba?" Thorpe asked.
"The Israelis run training flights along this route every day," Dotson answered. "The flights stay at least twelve miles from each shore, in international airspace. We'll get picked up, but the Saudis will assume we are just another training flight." The officer shrugged. "One aircraft—a transport plane, at that—flying alone will not raise much interest."
