by Brad Thor
“How could he not?”
“He’s the President. He operates at a completely different level of calculus. There are always other factors. I think he gets it, though.”
“He’d better,” replied Nicholas.
“Listen, one other thing. When we ran Damien, there were mentions about his involvement in pharmaceutical companies. See what you can find. If there is some sort of antidote or vaccine, there may be some connection there.”
“Got it.”
Harvath was about to reassure him when another call came in.
It was the Old Man.
CHAPTER 36
* * *
THE WHITE HOUSE
Harvath’s plans for Lara were shelved as soon as Carlton called and told him he was wanted at the White House. In all fairness, the morning was actually already shot the moment he heard from Nicholas that there was a third likely case of African Hemorrhagic Fever in the United States.
He hated to leave her alone at his place, but she was a big girl, and it wasn’t like he had any choice. Guests did not bring guests to the White House, and especially not under the circumstances by which he had been summoned.
He had barely gotten a sip of coffee before he had to dash upstairs and hop into the shower. Lara playfully offered to join him, and it took all he had to turn her down and ask for a rain check.
After a quick shampoo and running soap over his body in record time, he used his perpetually fogged “fogless” shower mirror to shave and then threw the water from hot to ice-cold and forced himself to stand there for thirty seconds. If he wasn’t fully awake before, he definitely was now. It was like downing three rapid espressos.
When he stepped out of the shower, he found that Lara had picked out an outfit for him. All he had told her was that he had to go to the White House. That was all she needed to know. What she chose was perfect—dark suit, white shirt, dark tie.
“Is it like this every morning?” she asked as he moved through the kitchen and kissed her.
“That’s the President for you,” he said. “Can’t live without me.”
She knew he wasn’t serious and grabbed his ass. “Tell him he needs to go through me from now on, or I’m not voting for him again.”
Ever since he had come to the realization that he loved her, everything she did or said seemed to back it up.
“I’ll tell him. Reed Carlton won’t like being cut out of the loop, but he’ll learn to live with it.”
“Let him know he doesn’t have a choice.”
He smiled and kissed her again before grabbing his keys and heading for the door.
“Hey!” she shouted from behind him.
When he turned, he saw her holding up a roadie. “Black. Two shots of espresso.”
Smiling, he crossed back over to her. “I love you. You know that?” he said, trying to take the cup from her.
“Wait. What did you just say?”
Shit. It had totally slipped out. He meant it, of course, but this wasn’t the way he wanted to say it for the first time—not rushing out the door.
It was a watershed moment. He could make it better, or he could make it worse.
Setting down the mug, he took her face in his hands and said, “I love you.”
Lara was speechless. She had only truly loved one other man, her husband, and had watched him drown right before her eyes. Now, here she was with this SEAL, whom she teasingly referred to as James Blond, and he had just told her that he loved her. For a moment, it felt like she couldn’t even breathe.
“This sucks,” he said.
“No, it doesn’t,” she replied. “This definitely doesn’t suck.”
“I thought we’d at least have the morning together. I didn’t think I’d be saying this and running out the door.”
She looked at him. “You were actually planning how you wanted to say that to me?”
He didn’t know how to respond. Was “planning” to tell her a bad thing? Didn’t women like when men planned?
He decided to explain how he had planned to do it and why, but all he could get out was, “Yes.”
Lara put her arms around his neck, pulled his lips to hers, and gave him the longest kiss they had ever shared.
Then, she was the one who broke it off. “You’d better get going,” she said. She was smiling from ear to ear. Slapping him on his backside as he picked up his coffee, she added, “Remember what I told you to tell the President.”
All he could do was shake his head and laugh. It was another moment; another brief, wonderful moment where nothing else existed and nothing else mattered. Then he climbed into his SUV and the real world crowded in with him.
He did the time difference in his mind with his mother in California, as well as a former SEAL buddy of his who ran a remote fishing lodge in Alaska. It was too early to call either of them. He decided to put those phone calls on hold.
It was also too early to call Ben Beaman, but that call couldn’t wait. There were some things about Congo that needing sorting out. He also needed a favor. A big one.
By the time Harvath rolled up to the White House security checkpoint at the West Gate, the biggest item on his personal list already had a check mark next to it. It was a good start and with that done, he could focus on work and why the President had called him in.
Pulling into one of the parking spaces near the West Wing entrance, he turned off the ignition and hung the badge he had been issued around his neck. It always felt weird coming back. He had practically lived at the White House at one point. He didn’t miss the Secret Service, though. Leaving the SEALs hadn’t been a mistake. He had learned a lot, met a lot of people, seen and heard some incredible things, but protecting a President had meant playing defense. That wasn’t his strong suit.
Offense was what he did best—finding the bad guys and taking the fight to them before they could bring the fight to us. With the SEALs and the Secret Service, he had gone through the best training the United States had to offer. Then, the Old Man had shown him what else was out there and had taken his game to a level he never before could have imagined. He had gone from being an Alpha dog to an Apex Predator—a species that sat astride the top of the food chain with no competition.
He radiated a calm, effective confidence that had nothing to do with arrogance, but rather an effective ability to handle anything that was thrown at him, no matter how fast. It was a good thing too, because things were about to speed up. Dramatically.
The Marine Guard outside the Situation Room waved him to the blast-proof door, which was so well engineered that it opened without any perceptible hiss of its locks releasing or any sound of its bolts sliding back.
Reed Carlton was already inside, as was the President. At the long, mahogany conference table were Lydia Ryan; her boss, CIA Director Bob McGee; General Ian McCollum, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; and Colonel Sheila White, MD, the Director of USAMRIID.
Absent were any other members of the President’s national security team. His own Chief of Staff wasn’t even there. Per the Old Man’s suggestion, he had kept this meeting highly compartmentalized.
There was something in the wind, something he didn’t like. Seeing those government personnel assembled at Damien’s Virginia estate troubled him. It had looked like a conclave of third-tier royal functionaries, and, historically, when that many functionaries assembled outside a palace, it usually meant that they were up to no good.
The Old Man pulled out the chair next to him and waved Harvath over. Their briefing was already in progress.
Sitting down next to Carlton, Harvath reached for the carafe of coffee in front of them, poured himself a cup, and listened as Colonel White spoke.
“The STAR team’s drone shows zero activity at the Ngoa facility. In fact, it looks completely abandoned. We’re getting the same thing from the satellite.
“Normally, we’d conduct this kind of operation at night, but all things considered, we decided to advance the timetable. With your permission, Mr. President?”
President Paul Porter nodded. He had a glass of orange juice in front of him and looked like he had been up all night.
General McCollum picked up his phone and gave the command to begin the operation. “This is Wedgewood,” he said. “Raptor is a go.”
The raid on the Ngoa facility, where the African Hemorrhagic Fever had allegedly been weaponized, would be coordinated by the United States Special Operations Command out of a highly secretive TOC, also known as a Tactical Operations Center, at a far corner of MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa. The large, acoustically protected, darkened, raised-floor room was packed with flat-panel monitors, electronics, and rows of desks. On the outside of its door, there was no name, no number. None of the personnel who worked there ever spoke of it. It was a black hole from which some of the countries’ blackest operations were conducted. For all intents and purposes, the TOC and what happened within it didn’t exist.
The Situation Room back at the White House was similarly adorned with flat screens. Synched with the TOC at MacDill, each of them showcased a variety of images.
In addition to the satellite and drone footage, there were feeds from the helmet cams being worn by the STAR team.
A voice from the MacDill TOC came down through the Situation Room’s overhead speakers. “Raptor Actual, this is Raptor Main. You are clear to commence.”
“Roger that, Raptor Main,” said a voice from the team in Congo. “Raptor is clear to commence.”
Considering the distance it had travelled up the satellite and back down to the United States, the transmission was clear with almost no delay.
As the team emerged from the tree line and approached the facility, Harvath set his coffee down and leaned forward. It reminded him of his own approach of the Matumaini Clinic just six days ago.
The Ngoa facility was composed of similar one-story buildings clustered around a sizable clearing hacked out of the jungle. Unlike Matumaini, though, Ngoa had layers of perimeter security. The first was a tall, chain-link fence capped with razor wire.
Harvath, the President, and everyone else watched from the safety of the Situation Room as a STAR team member cut through the fence. The rest of the team stood in the open clearing behind him, exposed.
Though they were armed, they were suited up in full biohazard gear, which meant that their ability to detect and react to threats was severely impaired. In other words, they were sitting ducks.
It put everyone on edge, but particularly Harvath, who knew exactly what it felt like to be in their boots at that moment. If they were spotted, it was game over.
The Team in the MacDill TOC seemed to be reading Harvath’s thoughts and called for SITREPs from the two sniper teams that had been sent ahead to provide overwatch. Each team reported back that the coast was clear.
Once an opening had been cut into the fence, the operator with the cutters tucked them in his pack, transitioned back to his weapon, and held the curtain of chain-link open for everyone else to pass through.
The operator with the handheld mine detector got back on point and led the team forward.
As he had done when leading them out of the jungle, he swept the device back and forth, careful to keep his eyes peeled for trip wires or other improvised triggers. This was Congo, and Ngoa wouldn’t be the first time they had encountered antipersonnel devices. The other members kept in tight formation behind.
The second ring of perimeter security was a concrete wall about ten feet high. Along the top, set into the cement, were shards of glass from broken wine and beer bottles. Though inelegant, the message was clear—this facility was not open to unauthorized visitors.
The team made their way to a set of large gates secured by a padlock and chain. The operator with the bolt cutters stepped forward and after another SITREP from the snipers, the team was authorized to make entry.
Once the chain was cut, the STAR team members swept into the compound in perfect coordination, their weapons up and at the ready.
With all of the video feeds coming into the Situation Room, it was like trying to drink from a fire hose. Harvath kept his attention focused on the satellite imagery, only occasionally glancing at one of the helmet cams when he needed a better idea of what the team was seeing.
Their primary target was the largest and most central building in the compound. Based on analysis of the reconnaissance imagery, it was deemed to be the most likely location of the laboratory.
Harvath checked his watch. The STAR team had to be burning up in those suits. They had covered much more ground than he and Decker had getting to their objective, plus the temperature was higher because it was broad daylight. They weren’t going to be good for much longer.
Arriving at the main building, the bulk of the team formed a stack, or as it was sometimes called, a Conga line, while several other members took up defensive positions outside.
When everyone was in place, the team leader announced they were ready to make entry. Colonel White nodded to General McCollum who relayed permission to the MacDill TOC.
With a final sweep of the structure by satellite and the sniper teams once more radioing their all clear, a voice came over the speakers in the Situation Room.
“Raptor Actual,” it said, “this is Raptor Main. You’re good to go.”
“Roger that, Raptor Main,” the voice from Congo replied. “Raptor is good to go.”
With that, the STAR team leader made sure his team was ready. Then, counting down from three, they breached the building and rushed inside.
CHAPTER 37
* * *
Harvath had no idea how the patient who had escaped the Ngoa facility had gotten out. With a ten-foot-high wall and a razor-wire fence, it wouldn’t have been easy. Did he stow away in a vehicle? Did he have help? Did he simply walk out the back gate when no one was looking? There was no way to know.
What Harvath did know was that as the crow flew, a healthy person could walk from the Ngoa facility to the Matumaini Clinic in a day. This guy, though, hadn’t been healthy. He was on death’s doorstep the minute he arrived at Matumaini. Did he steal a bicycle? Did a Good Samaritan come across him and help deliver him to the clinic?
That was probably an even more important question than how he got to the clinic. Anyone he came in contact with would have been exposed to the virus. Had Hendrik and his men reverse-engineered his route? They had murdered everyone at Matumaini as well as at the adjacent village to prevent the disease from spreading; what about anyone else he had come in contact with along the way?
Harvath made a mental note to make sure the question got transmitted to Vella and his interrogation team at the Solarium site in Malta.
Drawing his attention back to the video feeds, Harvath listened to a chorus of “Clear! Clear!” ringing out as the STAR team secured room after room of the Ngoa facility’s main building. All of them were empty.
Not only were they devoid of people, but they had been stripped clean of furniture, equipment, computers, everything. The only things left were the paint and light fixtures.
Like Matumaini, Harvath figured it had been bleach bombed as well. In fact, as this was alleged to be ground zero for the new, highly communicable strain of African Hemorrhagic Fever, they had probably taken bleach bombing to a completely new level.
Based on the building’s layout, there appeared to be two patient wings—likely one for men and one for women— communal bathrooms, showers, and a series of examination rooms. This wasn’t where any actual experiments on the virus would have been conducted.
On the far side of the compound, they discovered the lab— or at least what was left of it. The structure had been burned to the ground. All that remained was the charred hulk of some sort of walk-in freezer
.
“That can’t be a Level 4 lab,” Colonel White said. “It’s too small.”
Level 4 was the highest, CDC-spec’d biocontainment safety level possible. It was reserved for the most dangerous and severely lethal pathogens researchers might come in contact with.
Harvath saw something on one of the team member’s helmet cams and asked McCollum to have MacDill back the man up and return to where he had just been.
“What do you see?” the General asked.
“Those depressions in the ground,” he replied, before looking over at Colonel White and asking, “What if the lab was mobile?”
“As in a trailer? Like the Iraqis allegedly had?”
He nodded.
“I don’t know how the hell you’d move one on the roads in Congo,” she stated, putting the word roads in air quotes. “And God help you if it flipped over.”
“But it could be done.”
“Positive pressure suits, a segregated air supply, showers, a UV light room—building a mobile Level 4 would be a ton of work, not to mention a ton of money.”
Something told Harvath expense wasn’t something Damien and the Plenary Panel worried about. “But it could be done,” he repeated.
“Seeing as how we’ve dropped some pretty high-tech shipping container expeditionary labs into war zones, anything is possible.”
The STAR team was reaching the threshold of how long they could stay in the suits before heatstroke began to set in. They needed to break off and get to the decontamination showers they had set up back in the jungle.
Harvath had seen enough. The Ngoa facility was a bust. When Colonel White looked around the room and asked if anyone needed to see anything else, everyone shook their head. General McCollum notified the MacDill TOC that the STAR team could come off station and proceed to decon.
Once the team had exfiltrated the Ngoa facility and retreated into the jungle, President Porter opened the floor for discussion.
