Vince Flynn Collectors' Edition 2

by Vince Flynn

  “How so?” asked the president.

  “To go after a hardened target like this we need to use penetration bombs. The weapons bays of the F-117s are limited as to the size of the bombs they can carry. The largest penetration bomb they can deliver is the GBU-27/B. It’s a good weapon, and in most cases I think it would suffice, but with this strike, sir,” Flood adopted an uneasy tone, “I’m afraid we’re only going to get one chance to take these things out.”

  The president nodded. “I share your concerns, and agree that we are only going to get one chance at this. If we send in the stealth fighters, what are our odds for success?”

  General Flood looked first to his left and then to his right. “We have some disagreement on what the number might be.” The general nodded to a man in a dark blue air force uniform.

  “Mr. President, I’m Colonel Anderson. It is my opinion that a flight of four F-117s, each one armed with two of the twenty-one hundred pound GBU-27/B laser-guided paveway bombs, would be more than enough to destroy this target.”

  “So you’re talking eight bombs.”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “And you’re confident that the nuclear devices will be destroyed.”

  “I am, sir. This is the weapon we used on many of the hard targets during the Gulf War, such as aircraft shelters and command and control centers.”

  “How confident?”

  The colonel thought about it for a moment and replied, “Ninety percent, sir.”

  The president wasn’t sure he liked the answer. He noticed that one of the general’s other aides was frowning in such a way that it was obvious he disagreed with his fellow warrior. The man was a marine, and Hayes noted the birds adorning his epaulets. He looked the officer in the eye and said, “Colonel, you seem to be in disagreement.”

  Without hesitation the marine replied, “Yes, I am, sir.”

  “What’s the problem with Colonel Anderson’s plan?”

  The marine looked across the table at his friend and said, “I have a lot of respect for Colonel Anderson, but we are in disagreement as to what would be the more effective plan of action here. I don’t feel that a ninety percent success rate on this mission will cut it. If the stealth fighters don’t succeed in penetrating the bunker beneath the hospital all they will do is add a layer of rubble to the top of it, making the target even harder to penetrate if we need to conduct follow-up strikes.”

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  “Are you familiar with Deep Throat, sir?”

  The president was a little miffed by the question. The first thought that entered his mind was Watergate, quickly followed by the porno movie of the same title. He decided it was best to say nothing, and simply shook his head.

  “Deep Throat, sir, is the name for our super penetrator bomb, the GBU-28/B. Colonel Anderson is correct that the GBU-27/B was very successful against hardened airplane shelters and other low-level command and control centers, but it should be noted that the weapon was absolutely ineffective against Saddam’s big command and control centers.” The marine looked briefly at General Flood and then continued. “During the war the CIA located what they thought was Saddam’s main command bunker. It was at the al-Taji Airbase about twenty miles outside of Baghdad. Early in the air war we launched three separate sorties with F-117s carrying GBU-27/B laser-guided penetration bombs. We dropped over twenty bombs on the target, sir, and we barely put a dent in it.”

  The F-117 strike was sounding less appealing by the minute to the president.

  “We realized that if we ever wanted to get at Saddam and his generals we would need a bomb that could penetrate these superbunkers. The air force’s Air Armament Division was asked to find a solution, and do it quickly. In record time they came up with Deep Throat, a forty-seven-hundred-pound behemoth that was twice as long and twice as heavy as any other penetration bomb in our arsenal. It was so big, in fact, that the stealth fighter couldn’t carry it. The bomb was designated the GBU-28/B. On the last night of the war, sir, two F-111s took off from the Royal Saudi Air Force Base at Taif. They each carried one GBU-28/B. The bombs were dropped from high altitude. One missed, and the other scored a direct hit.”

  “What were the results?”

  “All five of the bunker’s blast doors were blown off their hinges, sir. From the inside out.” The marine paused to let the president think about the destructive force. “The target was obliterated.”

  “Who was in the bunker?”

  “Dr. Kennedy can answer that question better than I can, sir.”

  “Irene?”

  “At least a dozen of his top generals, some of Saddam’s family members and a number of high-ranking politicians.”

  The president momentarily reflected on how much easier his life would be if Saddam had been in the bunker on that night. Unfortunately, he wasn’t. “What would a bomb of this magnitude do to the hospital?”

  “It would completely level it, sir,” answered the marine.

  “What about the surrounding buildings?”

  “The collateral damage—” the marine caught himself and said, “If we hit the target, the number of people killed in the surrounding buildings would be minimal.”

  “And if we miss?”

  “Whatever this bomb hits, sir, it will destroy.”

  Hayes thought of the finality of such a statement and then said, “Taking into account the very real potential of missing the target, what are the odds for success if we use Deep Throat?”

  “One hundred percent, sir. We can stack the sorties and bring them in two planes at a time at whatever staggered intervals are deemed appropriate. The targeting pods on the F-111s can give us real time imagery. We’ll know within seconds if the first sortie was successful or not. If it fails, we green light the second one and so on until we get it right.”

  The president brought his left hand up and scratched his chin while he thought about these superbombs raining down on innocent civilians. He pushed the image from his mind and asked the obvious question. “Why would I go with the stealth fighters if at best you can only give me a ninety percent success rate?”

  General Flood fielded the question. “If we use the stealth fighters, sir, and the smaller penetrating bombs, it is a relatively simple, low-risk operation. The number of assets involved is very manageable. The stealth fighters can get in, drop their bombs and be on their way out before the shooting starts. If we decide to use Deep Throat it changes the scope of the operation significantly. The F-111 is the most stable platform we have that is capable of carrying Deep Throat. As you know, the F-111 is not a stealth aircraft. That means we would have to launch a major attack against Iraqi radar and SAM installations to make sure we don’t lose one of the planes. An attack of this nature would involve navy and marine F-18s operating off the USS Independence in the Gulf, cruise missiles launched from the battle group, air force units operating out of Saudi Arabia and Turkey, and it would also likely involve some units from the Joint Special Operations Command.”

  “So we’d have to let a lot of people in on our secret?”

  “No, not necessarily. We are constantly working these units up to conduct just this type of operation. We could wait until almost the last minute to hand down the target for the sortie of F-111s.”

  “How much time do you need?”

  The general hesitated for only a second. “If we’re up against the wall, we could get an attack under way in less than twenty-four hours, but I’d prefer to give my people a week to make sure all of our intelligence is up to date, and brief the air crews on a full list of targets.”

  The president looked to Kennedy. “What do you think?”

  Kennedy thought about the two options and said, “I think we should use Deep Throat.”

  “What if Saddam gets wind that we’re getting ready to hit him?”

  Kennedy shrugged her shoulders. “He expects us to hit him. Once a year we go in and clean out his SAM sites and a few industrial targets. Knowing Sad
dam, if he gets wind that we’re preparing to attack, he’ll slap himself on the back over how smart he was to hide his bombs under a hospital.” Kennedy shook her head. “He won’t move those bombs. He thinks they’re safe right where they are.”

  “All right.” The president looked at his watch and then stood. The general’s four aides leapt out of their chairs, but before anyone else could get up Hayes told them to sit. “I have to run to another meeting.” Hayes looked at General Flood. “I want both of these options on the table, and anything else you can think of. I want to be able to react quickly if we need to, so do whatever it takes to get these assets into position.” Looking to Kennedy, he said, “I want your people to get together with General Flood’s. Show them all of those photos, and try to give me a more definite answer as to whether or not we need to use Deep Throat.” Hayes turned to leave and then stopped at the door. “One more thing. No one is to mention this hospital as the target until I say so. If there are any leaks, heads will roll.”

  12

  TEL AVIV, WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

  What to do with Donatella? The director general of Mossad sat amid a cloud of smoke in his office and wrestled with the question. She had been a great recruit, one of his best. Ben Freidman was not a disloyal man, but he, like almost everyone else, had his price, and $500,000 was a lot of money. It would be a welcome addition to his personal pension plan. Freidman saw nothing wrong with taking money, as long as what he was asked to do didn’t go against the interests of Israel. He wasn’t so pure as to not take financial advantage of the significant power that he wielded.

  On the flight back from America, he had struggled with the dilemma of killing Donatella. Senator Clark wanted her dead, and he was willing to pay a lot of money. Besides, Freidman had to admit that the specter of Mitch Rapp finding out that he was involved with the good senator from Arizona made his skin crawl. Having Rapp mad at you was not a good thing. Freidman did not relish what he must do, but there was no doubt that the right thing to do was wipe out the trail.

  Donatella had been very loyal to him over the years, and more important, she had been one of his best kidons, an assassin of the first order. A dark-haired beauty, Donatella had lured almost a dozen men to their death, all of them enemies of Israel. After a number of very productive years Freidman had released her from her official commitment to the Mossad. The files in the basement stated that she wanted out, but the truth was that Freidman had urged her to enter into a partnership with him. It was all part of the colonel’s plan to set up a network for which there was no political oversight. The dark side of global economics was that there was always a billionaire or two who needed some dirty work done: A former employee who had gone to a competitor with valuable information, or worse, gone to the authorities or the press. A wealthy father who didn’t like the way his son-in-law treated his little princess. Accidents were arranged and these people ceased to be problems. The real global captains of enterprise acted no differently than their predecessors had for centuries. There wasn’t a problem that the right amount of money couldn’t solve. Freidman had made a tidy fortune brokering Donatella’s talents to this elite group. But now that would all come to an end.

  Freidman stabbed his cigarette out in an ashtray that two hours ago was clean, but was now brimming with stubby butts. He lit another and inhaled. Looking down at the photo of Donatella, he sadly shook his head. She really was a gorgeous woman. One of the most beautiful he had ever laid eyes on. And that was just on the surface. To watch the woman in action was almost indescribable. She exuded a sexuality that was truly intoxicating. She had even managed to seduce the great Mitch Rapp, although Freidman had wondered on more than one occasion who had actually seduced whom. Yes, she and Rapp had been lovers. Freidman had never even admitted it to himself, but he had been jealous. Rapp had acted where he had not. Freidman had been forced to restrain himself on many occasions. He desperately wanted to experience Donatella’s full range of passion, but he knew it would be a monumental mistake. He always knew that someday he might have to kill her, and he could not allow that decision to be clouded by love.

  Freidman reached down and touched the photograph. He admired her stunning mane of black curly hair, her sultry dark eyes and her high cheekbones. The woman was a goddess. Even knowing better, Freidman regretted more than ever that he had not acted on his feelings and taken her to bed. It was a shame to have missed such an opportunity.

  The intercom on the desk buzzed and a woman’s voice announced, “Mr. Rosenthal is here to see you.”

  Without taking his eyes off the photograph, Freidman reached out and pressed the intercom button. “Send him in.”

  The head of Mossad looked down at the image and sadly shook his head. What a waste, but it had to be done. Mitch Rapp could not be allowed to find out that he’d been involved in any of this.

  MARC ROSENTHAL was one of Freidman’s most trusted kidons. At thirty-two he had been with the Mossad for almost fifteen years. He had always been small and even now could pass for someone in his early twenties. When he had joined the Mossad at nineteen he could have passed for a twelve-year-old, and that was exactly what he did. Freidman used the teenager to run sensitive information in and out of the occupied territories and to scout out areas before raids were launched. By the time he reached his twenty-first birthday Rosenthal was garroting terrorists in the back alleys of Hebron and Gaza.

  Freidman had only a handful of people he could trust with this operation and Rosenthal was one of them. There were two others who Freidman could think of, but both of them had worked with Donatella, and he did not want her powers of persuasion to get in the way. Thus he was left with little Marc Rosenthal. He was a Mossad man through and through, and more important, he had been recruited and trained by Freidman himself. He would do as he was told and would ask few questions. And if things went wrong, he would keep his mouth shut.

  “Marc, I have something very delicate and important that I need you to take care of.” Freidman stabbed out his cigarette and closed the file. Picking it up, he handed it to Rosenthal and said, “Her name is Donatella Rahn. She used to work for us.” Freidman lit another cigarette and exhaled a billowing cloud of smoke. “She’s good . . . very good. Unfortunately, she’s been doing some things that could be very embarrassing to us.”

  Rosenthal nodded. Nothing more needed to be said. The boyish-looking man began looking through the file. “When do you want it taken care of?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Do you want me to do it solo or bring my team?”

  Freidman let loose an ominous laugh as he thought of Marcus trying to take Donatella down all by himself. It was possible, but not wise. “Bring your team, Marcus. This woman is very dangerous. She’s killed more men than both you and I combined.”

  The comment elicited an arched eyebrow but nothing else. “What about the body?”

  “Use your judgment. If you can, I’d like you to dispose of it yourselves. If things get hairy, leave the body and get out.” Having worked in the field for years, and detesting interference from HQ, Freidman tried whenever possible to give his people the freedom to make decisions themselves.

  While still looking at the file, Rosenthal said, “I can be in place by tomorrow morning.”

  “Good.” Freidman pointed the tip of his glowing cigarette at Rosenthal. “Use only your best people, and take care of it as quickly as possible.” The colonel leaned back in his chair, took a drag off his cigarette and then added, “And of course . . . don’t get caught.”

  CAPITOL HILL, WEDNESDAY MORNING

  SENATOR CLARK sat behind his massive desk in the Hart Senate Office Building. It was cold and windy in the nation’s capital. He stared out the window, studying the weather, putting off for at least another moment a more pressing problem. The last vestiges of fall hung stubbornly from the burly oak trees on the grounds across the way. Only a few dark sodden leaves were left. Winter was on the nation’s doorstep, and the thought of it broug
ht a sense of dread. Clark did not do well in cold climates. A native of the southwest, he thought that D.C.’s winters were anything but mild. To Clark, if it snowed for even a day the city was too cold.

  Looking out the window at the gray sky, he decided he would get out of town for the upcoming weekend: either Phoenix for golf or down to the island for a little fishing. Wife number three had something planned in New York, so he didn’t have to worry about trying to convince her. He would be on his own, which at present was what he preferred. Number three was becoming increasingly confrontational and demanding.

  This was something he couldn’t understand. He had come into the marriage knowing exactly what he wanted, and he had made his intentions very clear. For Christ’s sake, he was sleeping with number three while he was still married to number two. What did the woman expect, that after all these years he was going to change just for her? Well, he wasn’t going to change. Things would have to be managed. Another divorce at this juncture was out of the question. It would torpedo his chances at running for president. He would have to strike a deal with her at some point. He had, of course, made her sign an ironclad prenuptial. Under that agreement she would get a million-dollar lump sum payment and another $250,000 a year until she remarried. If things got ugly he could put some more money on the table and get her to play nice for a few more years. That would be a last resort, though. The real jewel to entice her with would be the White House. Being First Lady, after all, wasn’t a bad deal.

  A voice from the recesses of Clark’s constantly plotting mind came up with another option. Have her killed. No, he told himself, she’s not that bad, at least not yet. The morbid idea gained a little more weight with him as he thought of the potential advantages. The grieving spouse role might really help him connect with the soccer moms. The more he thought about the idea the more potential he saw. Wife number three was an extremely attractive and polished woman. They looked very good together. At least they did when she was happy, but she had a bitchy streak in her that was impossible to hide. When she was mad at him, she liked to make it a point to tell others. That could become a real liability during a long campaign. The press sooner or later would pick up on it and pile on. Clark doubted number three had the mental toughness to withstand such a barrage. No, he would have to decide on a course of action long before it came to that.