by Ben Coes
The other Arab shuddered as he stared at his dead partner and tried to process what had just happened. Momentarily confused, he struggled to regain his composure and began to look for the source of the bullet. Dewey, invisible in the darkness, steadied his firing arm and aimed. Before the man could collect himself enough to run, he triggered the .45 again. A silenced bullet whistled through the same space and struck the terrorist in the right eye. His body was jerked violently backward, thrown into the air, pummeled in a roll onto the crowded street.
Dewey ran down the cool sand of the beach, beneath the protection of the boardwalk. After several hundred yards, he climbed up from the beach, back onto the boardwalk, and sprinted toward the bar.
Behind him, the sound of screams ricocheted across the crowded street. Sirens pealed in the distance. People ran in every direction, trying to get away from the violence.
At Whitey’s, Dewey opened the door to the crowded bar. It was loud, and the drunken crowd had no clue about the chaos just outside the door. He pushed through the crowd, looking for Talbot, but he was gone. He looked for Charlotte. He saw the back of her head, the long brown hair, halfway through the room. Her arm was held tightly by a tall man with long black hair, who was forcing her from the bar stool. He had her arm twisted behind her back and with his other hand he pressed what was almost certainly a handgun against her side. The boisterous, drunken crowd was oblivious to it all.
Dewey pushed hard through the crowd, elbowing aside anyone in his path. One man, a large, overweight tourist in a bright yellow golf shirt, sunburned, pushed back, yelled an obscenity at Dewey, but Dewey simply raised his right arm and brushed him to the side. By the time Dewey reached her and her abductor, Charlotte was near the door. Dewey reached down to his ankle and pulled the knife from its sheath. He approached the terrorist from behind, slipping past a blond woman giggling with her friends.
Dewey wrapped his right arm around the killer’s front, plunged the knife between his third and fourth ribs, yanked sideways, and ripped the blade through the man’s heart. Just as quickly, he pulled the blade out. The killer grunted, then tumbled to the hardwood of the barroom floor. Dewey left the killer in a bloody clump on the ground.
The blond woman looked to her right. Her laughter turned to shock as she saw the terrorist falling to the ground and she screamed. The crowd split and several more screams pierced the air as people realized a killing had just taken place in front of them.
Charlotte stared at the dead man on the ground. Then her eyes drifted up to Dewey’s arm, covered in crimson, his hand clutching the blade. Her fear was pure and innocent and there was nothing he could say, there wasn’t time. Dewey grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the door.
“What’s happening?” Charlotte whispered slowly.
“Where’s Talbot?” Dewey pulled her past a line of patrons, frozen in fear, out through the front door onto the street.
“They took him. Just now. Two men.”
“Where’s your car?” he asked calmly.
She pointed and they walked quickly down a side street as the sound of sirens, now coming from all directions, filled the night air. The sidewalk was emptying quickly now, as people ran from the scene of the dead men in the middle of the street. Charlotte caught sight of the two dead terrorists, lying in the street across from the bar, blood pooled on the blacktop. She audibly gasped.
“What are you going to do to me?” she asked.
“I’m not going to hurt you, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Dewey as he led her away.
“You just killed a man.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He was a terrorist,” said Dewey as he directed Charlotte down a side street, toward where she had pointed.
She tried to pull away from him, but he held her hand tightly with his clean hand. In his right hand, now covered in blood, he pulled the .45 from the small of his back. They were a block off the main street and Dewey glanced around, searching for other terrorists who might have marked him.
“It’s hard for you to understand this,” Dewey continued. He stopped in a shadow, scanned the darkened side street quickly with his eyes, then looked at Charlotte. “There’s a war going on. It’s mostly invisible to you, but that’s an illusion. Tonight, you’re seeing the real world, Charlotte.”
“My head is spinning,” she cried softly. “I’m scared.”
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
Charlotte pointed to the next block. Dewey picked up the pace, keeping hold of her arm.
“I need you to do something for me, Charlotte.”
“What is it?”
“I need you to trust me.”
A low yell came from down the street. The voice was unmistakable: Talbot. Then, a door slammed, an engine started, followed by the screech of tires. Dewey turned his head and saw the flash of the car’s red lights crossing the road less than a block away as it tore away.
“How many men did you kill?” Charlotte asked.
“I’ve killed five men tonight,” said Dewey, running now, still holding her arm. “Those men were all part of a team that came here to kill me. That man would’ve tortured you for information, then killed you. All because you spoke with me.”
“Why do they want to kill you?”
“I killed one of their leaders.”
They reached a black Porsche. “Is this yours?”
“Yes,” she said.
Dewey pointed to the car in front of the Porsche, a sedan.
“Climb under that car,” said Dewey. “Wait for the police to arrive. Don’t move until they get here.”
“Who are you?” Charlotte asked as she looked at Dewey one last time. “You’re not a rancher.”
“No,” Dewey said as he quickly surveyed the dark street, his blood-soaked hand clutching the steel of the Colt in front of him, cocked to fire. “I’m not a rancher.”
29
AIR FORCE ONE
The Gulfstream G650 tore into the sky over New Delhi. Within five minutes, the jet was at 18,000 feet, flying through a thin cloud line, tearing back home at 700 miles per hour, protected by an invisible triangle formed by a lead F/A-18 U.S. Navy war jet, and trailed at each wing by two more Navy fighter jets.
The small cabin of the jet contained eight leather seats, a leather sofa, a work area with a table, and an aft bedroom. President Allaire, Secretary of State Lindsay, and Jessica occupied the table. Harry Black, the secretary of defense, and Hector Calibrisi, the CIA director, sat in leather seats. Two Deltas and two Secret Service officers were in the leather seats closest to the front of the plane. A couple of aides, who had stayed aboard the jet during the meeting in New Delhi, were seated in the back of the Gulfstream.
“I’m not sure if you deserve a pat on the back or a kick in the ass,” said Lindsay, looking at Jessica. “We didn’t discuss the concept of a coup. As you know there are significant political considerations.”
“She bought us time,” said Black. “Your arguments were not working. In fact, they were antagonizing the Indians, Ghandra especially.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Lindsay. “We were progressing them.”
“Bullshit,” said Calibrisi. “If you had kept talking Ghandra would have started dropping bombs just to get you to shut up.”
“I’m not going to dignify that comment,” said Lindsay, shaking his head. “Look, I was three feet away from Allende in 1973 when we removed him. My point is, there are serious consequences from a coup. There are consequences if we’re successful and if we fail. We haven’t debated it much less tried to figure out those consequences. That’s my point.”
“There is nothing that a coup could do, successful or not, that is worse for America than for India to proceed on its present course,” said Jessica. “We know what will happen if they retaliate with nuclear weapons. Pakistan, the sixth-most-populous country in the world, will be effectively wiped out. In addition, let’s assume Pakistan is more capable
of launching a counterstrike than the scenarios suggest. Tens of millions of Indians, perhaps hundreds of millions, will also die. It will be a humanitarian crisis on a scale that has never been seen before. And that’s before China is brought into the mix. We can threaten China all we want but the fact is, America will be unable to deploy troops in time, or in quantities, sufficient to deter the Chinese. We’re spread too thin in Iraq and Afghanistan. Are we really ready and willing to stop the Chinese with our own nuclear weapons? I mean, come on. Will we start nuclear war, a war that could lead to nuclear Armageddon, over India?”
“Removing Allende and installing Pinochet required more than a year of planning,” said Lindsay.
“You make a valid point,” said Calibrisi. “But an irrelevant one. We don’t have a year. We have less than two days. We play the cards we’ve been dealt.”
“Jessica bought us time,” said the president. “If Ghandra didn’t like you, Jess, the answer would’ve been no. He gave you two days. Probably a credit to the trust you built during your visit last year. Tim, this is a pointless debate. We have forty-six hours. We are going to take down Omar El-Khayab. Failure is not an option. The questions before us now are who and how.”
“Who is obvious,” said Black. “SEAL Team Six or Delta.”
“That’s not at all obvious,” said Calibrisi. “This isn’t a military exercise. Special Operations Group, Mr. President.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” asked Black.
“I’m on your side, Harry. But we can’t take the risk that a member of SEAL Team Six or Delta is captured. This is a CIA job. This is a tight kill team operation with deniability, black-on-black. Special Operations Group is untraceable. If, God forbid, one of them is caught, America will not be implicated.”
“You’re naïve if you think they won’t know Special Operations Group is American,” said Black.
“A captured American soldier will bring the wrath of the Muslim world to our doorstep,” said Calibrisi.
“It’s already at our doorstep,” said President Allaire. “Come up with a plan and let’s move.”
“Am I the only person here who thinks this is a terrible idea?” asked Lindsay. “We should redouble our efforts to give diplomacy a chance.”
“This is grown-up time, Mr. Secretary,” barked Black. “The time for diplomacy ended when that nuke dropped. The question before us now is who is going to give us the best chance of removing Omar El-Khayab.”
“We need to make the call,” said Jessica, impatiently.
“We have less than forty-six hours,” agreed Calibrisi. “The team, whoever it is, needs time to plan. If it’s CIA, Political Activities Division needs to plot the targets. For chrissakes, we don’t even know who we would install in place of El-Khayab.”
“Indra Singh was right,” said Black, leaning back, closing his eyes in resignation. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “El-Khayab is going to be impossible to get to. Add to that the basic fact that his countrymen love him. We just don’t have enough time. I’m sorry. It’s a suicide mission.”
President Allaire stared at Black, then Jessica. His face flushed red. He was angry.
“We’re going in!” yelled President Allaire, exasperated. “Giving up is not an option! I don’t like what I’ve heard. Neither of you is giving me a hell of a lot of confidence.”
“I’m not trying to give you confidence,” said Calibrisi. “This is a Hail Mary at best. Leveling with you, Mr. President.”
President Allaire stood up. His face still colored red, his nostrils flared in anger. He took a sip from his bottle of water. Then, he hurled the bottle down the row of seats, where it struck the back of the cockpit door and fell to the ground.
“Goddamn it!” Allaire barked. “The clock is ticking.”
“You need to make a call,” said Jessica.
“I don’t like the choices!” shot back the president. “Harry, where would a Delta team come in from?”
“Afghanistan,” said Black. “Kabul. It’ll be patchwork. I’ll be pulling them from another operation.”
“Will any of them have coup experience?” asked Allaire.
“No.”
“What about knowledge of Islamabad?” asked Allaire.
“Yes, that won’t be a problem.”
“What about CIA paramilitary?” asked Allaire, looking at Calibrisi. “You mentioned Special Operations Group. Where are they? How long to get a team in here?”
“We’ll stitch a team together out of Iraq, Afghanistan, and Europe. On the ground in eight to ten hours.”
“Same question,” said Allaire. “What about coup experience?
“We’ve been out of the coup business for some time, Mr. President,” said Calibrisi. “That being said, these guys are good.”
“Not good enough,” said the president, still angry, shaking his head.
The president took a deep breath, walked toward the back of the plane. He turned near the tail end of the seat rows, walked back to the conference table. He sat down.
“Okay,” he said calmly. “I’m looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“If you ask me, we use Delta out of Kabul,” said Jessica. “At least they could get started soon.”
“But is there anyone out there better than what we have?” asked President Allaire. “What about MI6? Mossad? Private contractors? I know that’s crazy, but—”
“That’s not your profile here,” said Black. “No other country is going to have any better options than America. Hell, they would have the same exact debate we’re having right now but with dramatically inferior options.”
“As for hiring a private kill team,” added Calibrisi. “As someone who does that from time to time, I can tell you that will not work. This must be a team of Americans. Patriots. Because when the shit hits the fan, they need to be willing to die for their cause. And that’s the bottom line.”
“I agree,” said Black.
The president nodded and looked at his watch. “Very well,” he said. “Hector, it’s CIA. Your operation. Your mission. Harry, give ’em whatever he needs. Get going.”
Calibrisi nodded at President Allaire. He looked briefly, blankly, at Harry Black. Then his eyes moved to Jessica’s. He stared for a moment into her eyes.
The president started to walk toward the front of the plane.
Calibrisi grinned to himself, then cleared his throat.
“There is someone, Mr. President,” Calibrisi said. “I hadn’t thought of him until now, until this very moment.”
The president turned. He looked at Calibrisi. “Who?” he asked. “Does he work for the CIA?”
“No, he’s not CIA,” said Calibrisi. “But he’s American and a patriot. The one person alive who would make this, well, maybe a little less than a Hail Mary.”
“Who?” Allaire asked, impatience in his voice.
“I’m sorry, Jess,” Calibrisi said, looking into Jessica’s eyes. He turned to the president. “Dewey Andreas.”
30
COOKTOWN
Talbot sat in the middle of the backseat of the M5, which sped at more than eighty miles an hour away from Cooktown. His head rested against the seat cushion. Blood coursed from his now broken nose, from his mouth, and from the back of his head.
“What’s the name?” the odd-looking, blond-haired terrorist screamed from the front passenger seat. He struck Talbot again in the head with the butt of the pistol, this time harder, at a spot just above his temple. More blood.
The first strike—the one to the back of the skull—in a quick moment, altered everything. Talbot was extremely dizzy, nauseous, and tired.
On some level, even though he didn’t know the words “subdural hematoma,” Talbot knew he was about to die. When he had been forced at gunpoint from the bar and into the backseat of the BMW, Talbot still harbored some hope that he would escape from this bizarre episode with his life. But the blow to the head had changed everything. He felt tired, a dull, deep pain that was too severe
, and a wetness of blood flowing down his back, which he knew was coming from his skull.
“Where do you work?” said the blond, yelling at him in a fervent, high-pitched voice. “Just give me the name of the ranch and we’ll drop you at the hospital.”
“You hit him too hard, Youssef,” said the driver, looking in the rearview mirror. “He’s going to die before he tells us the name.”
“Fuck off,” said Youssef. “Drive the car and shut your piehole.”
Youssef aimed his pistol at Talbot’s right knee and fired. A slug tore into the front of his knee, ripping a hole in the jeans and splattering bone and blood.
Talbot screamed and felt himself coming back from the gauzy brink of unconsciousness. He felt the intense, sharp, searing burn of the bullet in his leg. It focused him. He could do this. Hold on, he told himself.
“Start talking,” screamed the blond terrorist from the passenger seat. “You fucking dumb fuck, start talking.”
The blond reached to Talbot’s jacket and found his wallet.
“What kind of name is Youssef?” asked Talbot, breathing hard, sweat mixing with blood on the front of his face.
“It’s a beautiful name,” said Youssef, pulling apart the wallet. “Now shut the fuck up unless you’re telling me the name of the ranch.”
“What’d he do? Why do you want to hurt him?”
“Andreas killed someone,” said the blond. “Tonight he’s going to die.”
“What’s the name of the fucking ranch?” yelled the driver.
“I have something,” said Youssef. “Who is this?” He held up a photo of a girl with short brown hair and freckles. It was Talbot’s little sister, Lolly. “Cute kid. Your little sister?”
