Primary Target
Page 27
The aide cleared his throat.
“Uh… as of eleven hundred hours Eastern Daylight Time, May eighth, Russian Strategic Command appears to have mobilized far-reaching military assets in response to American activities in the Middle East. Russian bombers and fighter planes are patrolling at the edge of American airspace in the Bering Strait, and have penetrated across the Arctic Ocean, testing British RAF response in the North Sea, and buzzing Canadian airspace over Newfoundland and Labrador.
“Russian bombers and jet fighters have been sighted over the Sea of Japan, and are moving eastward across the Mediterranean Sea toward the Levantine coast, hugging the contours of North Africa. Russian MIG-21s have entered Iranian airspace, at the invitation of the Iranian Supreme Islamic Council, and in an unprecedented provocation, are patrolling the borders between Iran and Iraq, as well as Iran and Afghanistan. American fighter jets have made visual contact—repeat, visual contact—with Russian fighters in both of these regions.”
The aide turned over the page, and skimmed the next one before reading aloud. He appeared to be a man of about thirty-five. His face had blushed red while reading the first page of the intelligence report. He cleared his throat again and breathed deeply.
“Perhaps most worrisome, more than two hundred missile silos across the Russian heartland and Siberia are reporting states of combat readiness. These include launch silos for nuclear-equipped intercontinental ballistic missiles targeting the United States. Russian Strategic Command has issued a communiqué stating that any American or NATO attack on Syria or Iran will constitute an act of war against the Russian Federation, and will be treated accordingly.”
He looked up from the paper and stared at Lawrence Keller. He raised his eyebrows as if to say: Satisfied?
“Thank you,” Keller said.
“They’re bluffing,” General Stark said.
“What makes you think that, General?”
Stark raised a bound sheaf of paper from the table in front of him. Stark was a man who was fond of paperwork.
“I’ve brought a Pentagon intelligence assessment of Russian strength relative to our own, which was developed over the past eighteen months. I brought it because I anticipated the possibility that they would pull these kinds of antics in an attempt to get us to veer off course. I’d like to summarize its findings, if I may.”
Mark Baylor nodded. “Please do.”
Stark nodded. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
It irritated Keller to hear Stark calling Baylor by that title. He should call him Mr. Interim President, as unwieldy as that might sound. David Barrett was the true President of the United States, and as soon as this meeting was over, Keller was going to get started on a plan to reinstall him.
“Fact,” Stark said, raising a finger. “Russian Air Force, naval, and ballistic missile capabilities have degraded significantly since the collapse of the Soviet Union. As of December 2003, more than fifty percent of the MIG fighters in their arsenal are legacies left over from before the collapse. Maintenance on them is suspect, and we believe that at least five percent and possibly as many as ten percent are not even flight-worthy as of this moment. In any event, MIGs, new or old, are no match for our modern F/A-18 fighter jets. Their pilots are no match for our pilots. The Russian jets patrolling the skies are so much window dressing.”
Stark barely paused for breath. He raised a second finger.
“Fact,” he said. “The Russian Navy is in worse shape than their Air Force, if that’s possible. Many Russian ships and submarines are rusted hulks that can barely leave port. In August of 2000, less than five years ago, gentlemen, the Russian nuclear submarine Kursk exploded and sank during naval exercises in the Barents Sea, the first major exercises the Russians had attempted in ten years. All one hundred eighteen crew were lost. Russian communications systems, and command and control, were so poor that for six hours the Russian Navy didn’t even realize the ship had gone down. An internal assessment conducted by the Russian Navy, which we intercepted, suggests that sailor morale is as low as it’s been at any time in the modern era.”
He raised a third finger. “Fact. Russian infantry units performed so poorly, and so chaotically, during the two recent Chechen Wars, that we do not anticipate them being deployed against us in any theater at the current time. We would welcome it if they were. Their leadership corps are some of the same people responsible for the humiliating debacle in Afghanistan during the 1980s. The vast majority of their foot soldiers are either young, inexperienced, and poorly trained, or have gone through adverse experiences in Chechnya, with the attendant psychological damage that suggests.”
He stopped speaking. It was quiet in the room.
“Thank you, General,” Mark Baylor said. He looked around at the faces gathered there. The last face he reached was Lawrence Keller’s. “I like it,” Baylor said. “I think we need to strike while the iron is hot. Let’s go forward with the attacks.”
Lawrence Keller sighed.
“Mr. Interim President,” he said, trying the title out. It sounded fine to his ears. It sounded almost emasculating, as though Baylor was the caretaker of a small nonprofit organization for children, while the executive director was recovering from hip replacement surgery.
“Mr. Interim President,” he said again, more forcefully this time. “That’s all well and good, and I’m certain we can defeat the Russians in any conventional theater of combat. But we haven’t heard anything from the general about their nuclear and ballistic missile capabilities. General?”
“You already know what I’m going to say about their ballistic missile capabilities,” Stark said.
“Well, a few moments ago this gentleman to your left told us that more than two hundred Russian missile silos are reporting full combat readiness. I’d like to hear more about that, if I might, before we launch a war against the world’s other major nuclear-armed power.”
General Stark’s voice suddenly rose in anger. “In what capacity are you acting that you think—”
Keller pointed at Stark. “I already told you what capacity. I am the representative of the duly-elected—”
Stark looked at Baylor. “Mr. President?”
Baylor shrugged and nodded. “Just give him the assessment,” he said. “So we can all get out of here.”
“Okay,” Stark said and sighed. He turned to a new page.
“Give us all of it,” Keller said. “Don’t hold back.”
Stark stared at him.
“Russian ballistic missile capability is a shadow of its former self,” he said. “Many of the weapons systems have not been maintained or upgraded since the late 1980s. Command and control has degraded, as have general communications system-wide. We believe that some silos are reduced to making telephone contact with Russian Strategic Command. Their missile defense and distant early warning systems are Cold War–era leftovers, and may be nonfunctional by any modern standard. However, the sheer size of the original Soviet arsenal is a matter of some concern. If even fifty percent of the original arsenal is still operational, and we believe it is, then it’s clear that an even, toe-to-toe nuclear exchange would be a disaster for both them and us.”
Keller shook his head. “And you would like to instigate a war with them, General?”
Stark’s face turned red. He raised a single finger. “The Russians are not going to risk a nuclear war over Iran and Syria.”
“Is that a fact, or is that your opinion?”
Stark’s eyes were on fire.
“Sir, if it comes to that, we can win a nuclear war against the Russians. My intelligence shows that a massive preemptive first strike on the Russian mainland, with simultaneous launches from our ballistic missile silos as well as our nuclear equipped submarines and destroyers, would overwhelm—”
“General, are you insane? Should we really risk a nuclear war just because you want to attack Iran? I remind you that the President’s daughter has been kidnapped. We should be sifting through intelligence data
about her whereabouts, rather than—”
Stark’s voice rose almost to a shout. “Completely overwhelm their missile defense capabilities, resulting in the loss of more than ninety percent of their—”
Keller didn’t know what to say. He stood and pointed at the general again.
“Behold a pale horse!” he shouted, quoting the Book of Revelation. “And its rider’s name was Death, and Hades followed close behind! And the two were given dominion over the Earth, to kill by sword and famine and plague, and by the wild beasts.”
Stark stopped. He gaped at Keller.
“Did you just ask me if I was insane? Listen to what you’re saying.”
A man at the conference table stood. He was a tall man with wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a light blue dress shirt and khaki pants. A dark blue blazer was draped over his seat. A wire hung from his right ear, suggesting he was listening to information coming from somewhere else. He was clearly not military, but he was also dressed a little bit casually for normal government work. He had been sitting there quietly this entire time. His appearance was utterly nondescript. He was not a man who stood out or would be easily remembered. He could be anyone.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “If I may interrupt, I’m Special Agent Smith with the Central Intelligence Agency. I was sent here to participate in these discussions, but I haven’t felt I had anything to offer until now. I’m receiving real-time updates indicating that in the past several minutes, the President’s daughter may have been located. No one is sure yet. But if it’s really her, she is in the mountains of northwestern Iraq, she is alive, and ad hoc rescue attempts are already underway.”
He paused and looked at Mark Baylor.
“Sir, I’d like to suggest that we stand down from a nuclear war footing for the time being, and focus our deliberations on…”
Baylor nodded, not even missing a beat. One minute he was ready to bring about Armageddon, the next, he was ready to discuss a rescue operation. He was a chameleon. They all were. It made Lawrence Keller sick.
“Yes, of course,” Baylor said. “That’s very good news. Let’s get Elizabeth out of there.”
A silence drew out. It seemed to last a long moment. Keller was still standing, frozen in place, his finger pointed like a gun at General Stark. Stark’s mouth was open as if he was about to speak.
“Are you gentlemen okay with that?” the CIA agent said.
“I’m fine with it,” Keller said. “Of course. I welcome it.”
“General Stark?” the agent said. “We need to act fast and assist the rescue attempt in any way we can. At the very least, we need to put the assets in place to secure the region where we believe she might be. We need to do that now.”
Stark shrugged. He turned the paper over in front of him.
“Okay,” he said. “But I think we’re losing an opportunity.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
7:12 p.m. Arabian Standard Time (11:12 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time)
Sinjar Mountains
Nineveh Governorate
Northwestern Iraq
Run!
The thought repeated itself like a mantra.
Run!
Over and over again. It was all she could think.
She had lost the sandals that were on her feet. They had been too big, and now they were gone. She ran as fast she could in bare feet, stumbling over sharp rocks. Her legs pounded, her arms churned, her lungs screamed for air.
RUN!
It was cold out, but she was hot. They were right behind her. Her feet screamed in pain, cut to ribbons on jagged stone. It was dark out. The cliff was up ahead somewhere. She would run straight off the edge, rather than let the men catch her again.
Ahmet was dead. She was sure of it. She had seen it happen. After he freed her, she ran out of the stone building and immediately headed west. But the men saw her right away. There was a group of them down the ridge. They chased her, but then Ahmet came out and started shooting at them.
She turned and looked back, just as the men started shooting at him. In the last of the dying light, she saw…
It didn’t matter.
Ahmet didn’t matter. He didn’t make sense. He had helped them capture her, and then he had died helping her escape.
She couldn’t think about that. She had to run.
That was all she could do.
Suddenly, a burst of light zipped by her from behind. She heard it whistle as it passed. She tripped over something sharp and fell to the ground.
“Annhhh!”
It hurt. She tore up her hands, her forearms, her knees.
BOOOOM!
An explosion rent the night maybe a hundred yards in front of her. They were shooting missiles at her! Oh my God. They would blow her up rather than let her kill herself. There was a sound above her now, in the sky, loud and growing louder.
“Get up!” she said to herself through clenched teeth. “Get up and run.”
A burst of machine gun fire passed over her head.
It was too late. They were shooting now. She couldn’t stand or they would blow her head off. So she started to crawl. She squirmed over the rocks like a snake. It was too slow. She was never going to make it.
A strong hand grabbed her by the collar of her jumpsuit. The collar was tightened by his grip, choking her. The man spun her over onto her back. She hit her head on the hard ground as she landed. It was a man with a thick beard. His eyes seemed to glow.
He said something but she couldn’t understand.
He raised a pistol to her face.
“No!” she screamed and kicked at him.
Suddenly, a bright blinding light enveloped them both.
* * *
“Kill that guy!” Ed Newsam shouted. “Kill that guy!”
The man was illuminated in the bright front light from the chopper. He stood over Elizabeth Barrett, gun pointed at her.
Luke leaned out the bay door onto the outside bench. He let it rip with the MP5.
He sliced the man in half just above the waist. The two parts, upper and lower, separated and fell apart.
“Nice,” Ed said.
“We gotta get down there,” Luke said.
“Incoming!” Ed shouted.
It wasn’t the response Luke had hoped for. He dove back inside the chopper, even as it whirled away, banking hard, taking evasive action. A rocket zipped out of the darkness, hit the chopper with a solid metal GONG, and bounced away.
Luke was on the floor of the cabin, next to the former Greg Welch.
“What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know,” Ed said. “Must have been homemade.”
“Gentlemen, we can’t be here anymore,” Jacob said. He sounded almost calm, but not quite. “The next one’s going to put a hole right through us. You wanted a peek, and you got one. I hope you’re satisfied.”
“Negative!” Luke shouted. He clambered to his feet, despite the sharp angle the chopper was taking. He stumbled to the cockpit.
“We have to go down there. She’s there. Elizabeth Barrett. I know it’s her. The place is crawling with Al Qaeda.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Rachel said.
The chopper was moving fast, very close to the ground.
“Okay, Stone,” Jacob said. “Okay. We’re going to put you down, but you have to meet me halfway. We’re nearly out of fuel. I don’t like that terrain.”
“That’s fine. Get us close. We’ll jump. Then get out of here. But do me a favor and launch those Hydras and squirt those guys with your cannon before you go.”
Jacob nodded. “Okay. Good luck. Ten seconds.”
Luke stepped across the cabin to Ed. Ed was crouched in the bay door with the M-79 grenade launcher, looking for a target.
Luke clapped him on the back. “Come on, man. We’re going in.”
“Out of sight,” Ed said. He went out the bay door and clambered over the outside bench. Already the chopper was hovering. An instant later, Ed was gone.
A rocket came screaming out of the night, headed straight for the chopper.
The chopper lurched away and banked hard, just as Luke was about to jump. His foot got snagged, and he tumbled off the bench. The rocket zoomed by. His gun clattered away. He grabbed for anything; he was falling. The chopper was out over nothing. Upside down, he caught the landing gear of the chopper with one hand and swung wildly. The cliff face was way over there. Below him the sky fell away into the darkness.
“I’m still here!” he screamed. “Jacob! Rachel!”
A blat of machine gun fire hit the side of the chopper, tearing up metal.
“Jacob!”
The chopper banked again and raced back toward the mountain. Luke dangled, hanging free by one hand. His body swung crazily. He reached to get his other hand on the landing gear. The chopper zoomed toward land.
Suddenly, they were past the cliff and over hard-packed earth again.
Another rocket came sizzling toward the chopper.
Luke let go. His legs hit hard, and he bounced into the air, his momentum carrying him along. He hit again, tucked his body, and rolled over the stony ground. He lay there, breathing hard. He tried to do a body scan, but everything hurt right now.
Had his head hit? No.
Could he feel his legs? His arms? Yes?
Okay, he was operational. All he had left was his sidearm. He got up and ran, heading toward where he thought the girl might be, north along the cliff face.
Behind him, the Little Bird launched its Hydra rockets toward Al Qaeda. Whoooosh! They screamed across the night, just above the ground, throwing insane shadows.
BOOM-BOOOOM! Double explosions as they both hit. Luke though he saw the remains of a body fly through the air.
An instant later, the chopper opened up with its M230 chain gun. The ugly metallic blat of automatic cannon fire was music to his ears. The thing fired armor-piercing, explosive thirty-millimeter rounds, designed to shred on impact—three hundred of them a minute.