Blowback

by Brad Thor

  Harvath, on the other hand, was already focused on what would happen during the first three minutes after they touched down. With only Schroeder and one other team member to exit the plane with him, they would be naked until reinforcements started landing. Even then, they would total only fourteen shooters against a security force three times that size. On top of that, he’d have to keep one eye on Rayburn, who would remain flexicuffed until just before they touched down, while Claudia kept Jillian safe from any hostile fire. Regardless of Schroeder’s opinion, the odds were definitely not in their favor. The only thing they had going for them was the element of surprise, and Harvath prayed it would be enough.

  As they neared their objective, the pilot gave the three-minute warning. Harvath ran through the objective once more in his mind as he checked his weapons and then took a moment to try and steady his breathing and slow his heart rate. The adrenaline had already started pumping through his bloodstream and along with it came the same feeling that always visited him before he went into harm’s way—fear. He had learned early on that anyone who said that he wasn’t scared before such an undertaking was either a liar or a fool. Absence of fear didn’t make you brave; it was what you did in spite of being afraid.

  Having conducted all of his final checks, Silo One’s pilot entered the airspace above the small mountain plateau from downwind, lowered the craft’s landing gear, and began his descent. Harvath retrieved the Benchmode knife from his pocket and cut Rayburn’s flexicuffs loose.

  The approach was perfect. It wasn’t until they were about ten feet off the ground that they all noticed something that hadn’t shown up in any of Harvath’s reconnaissance photographs. Their landing area was cratered with potholes and littered with rocks the size of basketballs.

  Silo One’s pilot tried to pull up, but it was too late. He was already committed to the landing, and there wasn’t enough lift. Like it or not, their aircraft was going in.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  T he first thing to go was the forward left landing gear, which caused the wing to tip all the way over to the left and gouge into the ground. With the left wingtip acting as fulcrum, Harvath expected the entire craft to spin in a violent circle, but instead, the left portion of the wing sheared completely off, and the plane kept racing forward.

  Immediately, Silo One’s pilot tried to create a ground loop—a whipping corkscrew maneuver—in the hopes of halting the aircraft. He rapidly rotated the wheel to the right, right up to the stops, while mashing the right rudder with the force of a bat slamming into a base-ball. As that was happening, Rayburn took advantage of the chaos and lunged for Harvath’s silenced H&K MP7. Instantly, the cockpit was filled with the weapon’s distinct pop, pop, pop as a three-round burst was discharged in the mêlée. Two of the rounds shattered the Plexiglas canopy above them, while the third creased the back of the pilot’s head.

  The pilot stayed at the controls for only a second or two more before collapsing over the aircraft’s yoke. With help from Schroeder, Harvath wrestled the weapon away from Rayburn and with no choice delivered a sharp, open palm strike to the man’s nose. A torrent of blood poured out, and the ex-Secret Service agent roared in pain. His weapon back, Harvath simply ignored him.

  One look out the shattered canopy confirmed what he already suspected—the Icarus was picking up speed and they were quickly running out of meadow. Rushing forward to meet them was the edge of the cliff and its drop-off thousands of feet into the valley below. This was a contingency they hadn’t planned on.

  Based on the reconnaissance photos, they had all known that the landing would be extremely treacherous. The only way it would work was if each pilot began putting a lot of pressure on the brakes the moment they touched down. With all the extra weight they were carrying it would be dicey, and even then, their best projections were that they would stop with just feet to spare.

  With a landing strip that only allowed for one aircraft at a time, the idea had been for the team members to unload while each pilot opened the nose of his aircraft and extended the prop back outside so he could taxi back up the meadow, turn around, and come rushing back toward the edge of the cliff for takeoff.

  Harvath leaned forward over the seat in front of him and tried to aid Schroeder’s commando, Gösser, in peeling the pilot off the aircraft’s yoke. It was too late for the brakes. Their only hope was to steer the glider away from the cliff, which they were racing closer and closer toward.

  Getting his hands underneath the pilot’s arms, Harvath wrenched backward with all his might. As the pilot came free, Gösser grabbed hold of the yoke and yanked hard to the right toward the balance of the meadow and the château.

  The remaining tires groaned against the ground in protest as they bounced over several large rocks. The cliff face was less than twenty meters away. Harvath thought about opening what remained of the shattered canopy and bailing out, but he knew that at their rate of speed, all it would take was for his head to hit one rock and he’d be killed instantly. Even if he was able to avoid the rocks, he’d hit the ground so fast, he wouldn’t stop rolling until after he had gone over the edge. There was only one way out—they had to turn that aircraft, and that meant not only using the yoke, but the rudders as well.

  “To the left!” yelled Harvath as he unbuckled the pilot and struggled to pull him over the seatback and into the second row, where he was sitting. “Turn the yoke the other way as hard as you can and pin the left pedal to the floor!”

  “But we’ll crash into the side of the mountain!” screamed Gösser.

  “Do it!” shouted Schroeder, who understood what Harvath was trying to accomplish. In its current condition, there was no way the Icarus was going to give one inch in turning to the right toward the little expanse of meadow alongside the château. Their only hope was in steering into the damage. Better to hit the side of the mountain than to go over the cliff.

  Gösser strained with his whole body and pulled the yoke to the left as hard as he could, but the aircraft refused to respond. Harvath glanced forward, calculated the distance until the drop-off, and prepared for the worst. They were going over the edge.

  Then slowly, ever so slowly, the clipped glider started to nose in the direction they wanted it to go. It was almost imperceptible at first, but then the craft made a marked shift to the left. Harvath was about to breathe a sigh of relief when he saw a pile of granite rubble directly in the center of their path.

  With no other choice, he braced for impact, using the pilot’s body as a makeshift airbag.

  The jagged pile of rocks met the plane and acted like a ramp, tearing away half the glider’s nose as it was catapulted right at the face of the mountain. Harvath’s stomach caught in his throat, and he knew that they were airborne. The mountain stood poised to meet the tiny aircraft head-on, but just as they were closing in on impact, something happened.

  They had cut almost a ninety-degree turn. Everything they had going for them was on the right-hand side of the aircraft, which included the remaining wing and the thermals rising up from the floor of the valley. It was one of those thermals that caught beneath the wing and pitched the glider into a barrel roll.

  After one complete revolution, the remaining portion of wingspan dug into the rocky ground and completely snapped off, sending the fuselage rolling back up the meadow until it finally came to rest on its side. The smell of cordite in the cockpit from the discharge of Harvath’s MP7 was quickly replaced by another, much more terrifying scent—jet fuel.

  Harvath lowered the pilot to the leeward portion of the Icarus, then planted his feet on the seat supports and unbuckled his seat belt. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Can everybody move?” he asked as he unlocked the canopy.

  Schroeder responded first, followed by a grunt from Rayburn. Even Gösser, who hadn’t had time to fully buckle in, was alive and literally kicking. The canopy was pinched shut by a large rock, but after several thrusts from the man’s heavy boots, it sprang open, and they were able to flee t
he aircraft and get the pilot to safety before the relatively small fuel tank of the Icarus exploded in a significant fireball.

  Safely away from the wreckage, Harvath asked if everyone was okay. There was a chorus of yeses, capped off with the motorglider’s groggy pilot coming to and saying, “So much for all-terrain tires.”

  Rayburn’s security men were already swarming out of the château, as Harvath hastily wrapped a makeshift bandage around the pilot’s head.

  “You don’t need to do that,” the man said as he tried to get up. “I just want to know which one of you assholes shot me.”

  “That would be this asshole,” said Schroeder, wrapping his beefy hand around Rayburn’s arm and jerking him upward.

  “Okay,” interrupted Harvath, handing him the radio, “you’ve just been promoted to combat controller. I don’t care how you do it, but you’ve got to find a way for those other gliders to land.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Schroeder. “There are too many rocks. Those planes will crack up just like we did, or worse.”

  “Maybe not,” said the pilot. “A couple meters more to the right, and we might have had a smoother area to land.”

  “I don’t care what you do,” said Harvath as he removed the remote detonator from his pocket. “Just figure it out. “Then, arming the remote, he looked at Rayburn and said, “You’re on, sunshine. Do everything you’re supposed to and you could live to see a ripe old age. Fuck around and they’ll be playing ‘Great Balls of Fire’ at your funeral, if you know what I mean.”

  Subconsciously, Rayburn’s hand moved toward his groin and the explosive device Harvath had forced him to duct-tape beneath his shorts.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Harvath, and Rayburn quickly removed his hand. “I’d try also not to think about Elle Macpherson either, “He added as he shoved Rayburn toward Château Aiglemont and its advancing troops.

  Convinced that even under duress Rayburn could talk them into the château, Harvath had provided him with a script, any derivation from which he had guaranteed would result in the worst case of jock itch Rayburn had ever had.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  C all everyone into the dining hall,” commanded Rayburn. “Someone is preparing to move against the Aga Khan. They tried to take me out while I was in Sion last night. I have more reinforcements coming in via air. Make sure they get to the dining hall ASAP. Let’s move. The briefing is in five minutes. Go!”

  Rayburn then rushed Harvath, Schroeder, and the other Stern commando past several of the security personnel and up the front steps of the former monastery. Though many of the security personnel looked as if they had questions about what the hell was going on, they obviously knew better than to question a direct order from their boss and immediately went into action.

  Inside, Château Aiglemont looked more like an English manor house than a former monastery turned health spa. Medieval tapestries, antique furniture, and even suits of armor accented every inch of the heavy stone walls. “Which way to Tokay?” asked Harvath as he withdrew the map Rayburn had drawn for him.

  “At the end of this hallway you make a right, and you’ll find a stairway that leads to the subbasement.”

  “How many guards?”

  Rayburn looked at his watch. “Only two, but they will have heard about the meeting in the dining hall by now, and one of them will stay while the other comes up.”

  “What about the Aga Khan?” replied Harvath. “Where do I find him?”

  Rayburn hesitated a moment and then pointed the opposite way and said, “To the right of the stained glass window is a staircase that leads up into the bell tower. Halfway up is a statue of Saint Nicholas von Flüe.”

  “The patron saint of Switzerland,” said Harvath. “How appropriate. What about it?”

  “He holds a rosary in his hand. Gently pull down on it, and a door will open. That doorway leads to the monastery’s second floor. The Aga Khan’s rooms are at the very end.”

  “Is there any other way to get up there?”

  “Not unless you’ve got a very tall ladder.”

  Harvath had no intention of climbing a ladder to get to the Aga Khan. Looking at the timer on his Kobold Chronograph, he tossed Schroeder the detonator and said, “We’ve got less then two minutes. You and Gösser take Rayburn with you and find Tokay. If he doesn’t cooperate, blow his balls off.”

  “Wait a second,” said Schroeder. “I thought we were here to rescue your hostage. Where are you going?”

  As important as Emir was, Harvath couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get his hands on the Aga Khan himself. “I want the guy behind all of this.”

  “You can’t go by yourself. Let’s get the hostage first. After that, we’ll be able to watch your back,” said Schroeder.

  Harvath shook his head. “We don’t have time to discuss this. Get Emir, and I’ll meet you outside.”

  Schroeder could tell he wasn’t going to get anywhere by arguing with Harvath and so he nodded his head and took off.

  Harvath found the doorway at the end of the hall and beyond it the smooth stone steps, which led up to the second level. At the statue of Saint Nicholas, he pulled on the rosary beads, and the statue moved back to reveal a narrow entryway onto the second floor.

  Posted outside the Aga Khan’s rooms at the end of the frescoed hallway were two husky, ex-military types who reminded Harvath very much of the security guards he’d encountered at Sotheby’s in Paris. “Who the fuck are you?” barked one of the men, obviously American by his accent, as he snapped his weapon to attention and pointed it in Harvath’s direction.

  “FNG,” replied Harvath, using the military acronym for fucking new guy. “Rayburn wants both of you in the dining hall for a meeting. I was sent to relieve you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until Rayburn gives me the order himself.”

  “What are you, the only guy without a fucking radio in this place?” said Harvath. “Do you know what just happened outside? Didn’t you hear that a meeting has been called?”

  “Sure but—”

  “Sure, but nothing, asshole. I was on that plane outside, which is now in flaming pieces, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t feel like debating this with you.”

  “Maybe we should go to the dining hall,” replied the man’s partner.

  “Fuck that. Until I hear from Rayburn, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Harvath as he turned and began walking down the hallway. So much for taking the compound without a shot being fired, he thought as he readied his MP7 and prepared to turn and fire.

  “Hold it a second,” said the sentry just as Harvath was about to spin around and pull the trigger. “I’m already on Rayburn’s shit list. I don’t need any more trouble. Besides, I could use a cup of coffee.”

  Harvath eased his finger off the trigger and gently lowered his weapon. So far, so good.

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  O nce the guards had left the hallway and disappeared behind the statue of Saint Nicholas, Harvath prepared to kick in the door of the Aga Khan’s chambers. At the last minute, though, he stopped himself and decided to try the handle—it was unlocked. Bringing his MP7 up to the firing position, Harvath pushed open the door with the toe of his boot and carefully stepped inside.

  Just like the rest of the monastery, the Aga Khan’s rooms were sumptuously appointed. Thick velvet draperies were drawn tight against the windows while ornate chandeliers and Tiffany-style table lamps cast the room in a dim orange glow. Logs stacked upright, A-frame style, blazed in the fireplace. There was a moldy, bookish smell to the place.

  At the far end of the main sitting room, which looked more like a study or a library, Harvath found the Aga Khan at a large wooden desk covered with scrolls and old pieces of papyrus. The flat-screen TV behind him was tuned to one of the twenty-four-hour cable news networks.

  Dressed in a plaid button-down shirt and khaki trousers, the Aga Khan looked nothing like a stereotypical Musli
m spiritual leader. He sported neither flowing robes nor a long unkempt beard. Balding and slightly overweight, his appearance was deceptively placid, more like a grandfather than a fabulously wealthy international power broker. His true character, though, came through when he lifted his head and spoke. Born in exile, the man was completely westernized, and his sharp words were pronounced with a crisp British accent. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing in here?”

  Harvath knew the Aga Khan was dangerous and wasted no time taking control of the situation. Pointing the MP7 at him, he said, “I’m here to ask you a few questions. Now stand up and put your hands where I can see them.”

  The Aga Khan refused to move. “Do you know who I am?” he stated.

  Harvath didn’t care. All he was thinking about at this moment was the possibility of mass American casualties from the bioweapon that had been tested in the village of Asalaam and that the man sitting in front of him somehow was the key to all of it. Flicking the fire selector of his MP7 to single shot, Harvath put a silenced round through the top of the man’s leather desk chair, inches from his head. “Apparently, you’re someone who doesn’t listen very well.”

  With his gold Rolex and matching cufflinks glinting in the light from his desk lamp, the Aga Khan placed his palms on the desk and pushed himself up to standing. “You’re going to pay for this, “He said as he held his hands up in the air. “I swear to you, you are going to pay.”