It was starting to get light now and the helicopter was getting low on fuel. And the longer they hovered around the edge of the small lake, the more likely they were to be found, if they hadn’t been found already. Sophisticated as the combat helicopter was, nothing muted the roar of its engines or whine of its powerful blades, sending an audio signal that could be heard for miles.
“What happened to our landing zone?” Sam demanded into his intercom.
“Not here, man,” the copilot called back from the cockpit. Looking forward, Sam could only see the left side of his body behind the armor plate that was wrapped around his seat. “There’s nowhere to land,” the pilot said.
“What about the recon photographs?”
“You got me, Might be some distortion in the picture. Don’t know. Don’t really care. All I can tell you is that there’s no place to land down there.”
Sam checked the digital image of the satellite photograph once again. That was the problem with this area, so much of the terrain was vertical the photographs were easily distorted, making them impossible to interpret.
“Isn’t there anywhere along the beach?” he demanded of the pilots.
“Nothing boss. You can come up here and check it out yourself. There are no beaches around this lake, not in the traditional sense. The water comes right up to the rocks and trees.”
Sam turned to Bono. “Think we could try to fast rope?”
Bono immediately shook his head. “The trees are way too high. The ropes wouldn’t even touch the ground.”
“We could use the rescue cable to hoist ourselves down.”
“Yeah, if we had an extra hour.”
He turned back to the cockpit. “You following this guys?”
“Rog that, boss. Looks like we’re calling this mission an abort.”
Sam snorted. He knew the pilot was only kidding. Although they didn’t know any of the details about the mission, the pilots clearly understood this was the highest priority mission they had ever flown.
There was an awkward silence for a moment.
“Looks like we’re going to get wet,” Bono said.
*******
Two minutes later, the enormous helicopter thundered toward the northernmost edge of the lake, then started to slow. Fifty feet above the water, the nose pulled suddenly into an aggressive flare, the rotors spinning up as the pilot took pitch out of the blades. The helicopter settled quickly toward the water. Ten feet above the lake, with both side doors open, the helicopter came to a momentary hover, then descended into the water, kicking up three-foot waves. Aft, a wall of water moved across the metal floor. The pilot kept the helicopter light, keeping power in the blades, never allowing the full weight of the helicopter to settle onto the lake though it would have floated even if he had.
With the doors open, the six-man team evacuated the helicopter within seconds. The water was deep and cold. Bitter cold. With their packs and equipment weighing them down, they knew they only had a few seconds to get out of the water before cramps and hypothermia set in. The Cherokees started swimming, packs on their backs, ammo and weapons around their waist, rifles over their heads. Bono and Sam kept hold of Azadeh, pulling her along.
A couple of the soldiers disappeared below the water. The pilots watched, both of them subconsciously holding their breaths. The two men suddenly reappeared, this time much closer to the water’s edge. Approaching the shoreline, none of them were able to walk. The water was too deep. The pilots watched the soldiers struggle to pull themselves atop the rocky walls that descended into the water for hundreds of feet below.
Counting off, the pilot waited until the team was safe, then, getting a thumbs-up from Sam, the pilot pulled up on the collective in his left hand, applying greater pitch to the main rotor blades. Taking deeper slices of air with each rotation, the rotors drooped as the heavy helicopter lifted, gallons of clear water rushing out of both side doors.
Sam watched the helicopter lift, turn its tail to the right then climb higher, its dark image disappearing in the dim light.
Turning toward the rocks around him, Sam started climbing. He was shivering already, his body keeping in what little heat it could. But he didn’t even think about it. In a few minutes he would be sweating. It would be hours before they stopped to rest.
The last thing he had to worry about was being cold.
ELEVEN
Along the Pakistan/Afghanistan border, eighty-five kilometers east of Kandahar, Afghanistan
The Saudi soldier was dressed in combat gear, his face hidden among the low brush one third of a kilometer above the village. He kept his eyes on the two men and young boy who were talking below him. He hardly moved as he watched them, not wanting to give any indication of his position but the truth was even if he’d been lying beside the targets he’d have been impossible to see. Everything about him was camouflaged; his face, eyelids, teeth, clothes, hands, even the boots on his feet. Still, he hardly moved, lying prone across the wet ground, his shoulders and torso stuffed underneath a gnarled quince shrub, its low branches meeting the wiregrass that clung to the side of the hill, the only thing that kept the topsoil from washing away with every storm. It was barely light, but it was light enough for him to see and he watched the men through a long-range lens, the magnification bringing them close enough that he could have read their lips if he spoke the language they were communicating in right now.
But he didn’t. He was a foreigner in this land.
A foreigner and a killer.
The sniper rifle was heavy in his hand. It too was carefully camouflaged, tattered pieces of colored burlap wrapped around the stock and twenty-four-inch barrel. Above his fingers, the bolt was seated in the chamber. He was ready to fire.
He held the rifle close to his chest, wanting to keep it warm. It was suspicious, and kind of crazy, but legend had that it was bad fortune to kill a man with a cold rifle and he didn’t want to tempt the shooting gods.
The U.S. Marine Corps M40A3 long-range rifle was an outstanding weapon, one of the world’s best. When coupled with the M118LR ammo, the sniper rifle was capable of extreme accuracy out to one thousand feet, about the distance he was sitting at right now. He sniffed. No wind. The air was clean and cool and, up here in these mountains, very thin. At this range, give him three seconds and he could put a group of five bullets within a two-inch circle. Give him a couple seconds longer, and he’d group the same shells within three-quarters of an inch.
Three-quarters of an inch. Accurate enough to do this job.
He eyed the two men and small boy through his lens, then laid the rifle carefully to the side and touched a small button on the clip attached to his lapel. “I have the boy,” he stated clearly.
“You are certain it is him?”
The soldier wouldn’t have made such a mistake. He knew the danger to himself if he’d been wrong. His punishment for making an inaccurate call and diverting the other forces from their own searches would have been sure and swift.
No, the boy’s face was intricately and clearly etched into his mind. So was the face and outline of the fat one. It was part of the art of long-range sniping; accurately identifying the target. “I have him,” he repeated curtly.
The radio in his ear was silent for a full half minute. “We are ten minutes away,” his commander finally said. “Keep the target in sight. Kill the fat one if you have to, but don’t lose sight of the boy. If you have to, expose your position, but do not lose the boy!”
The soldier listened but didn’t answer.
“Pile Driver wants the boy alive!” the voice reiterated.
Pile Driver. The daily codeword for the king. The soldier listened, then dropped his hand to pick up his rifle once again.
“Confirm!” he was directed.
He quickly lifted his hand to his lapel and pushed the transmit button. “Confirmed,” he replied.
Adjusting his weapon, he watched the fat man through the scope. At this range it was as easy to watch him throu
gh the shooting scope as with his binoculars and quicker if he had to shoot him, which a significant part of him hoped he’d have the chance to do.
Nothing thrilled the shooter like the sight of an exploding target. Didn’t matter too much who or what it was; man, woman, animal or child, the surge of adrenaline was very much the same.
TWELVE
Offutt Air Force Base, Eight Miles South of Omaha, Nebraska,
(Headquarters, U.S. Strategic Command)
Brucius Marino leaned against the desk. Sara Brighton stood at one of the windows of the large and finely furnished executive office located on the second floor. Behind her there was a sitting area with two opposing leather couches and four wing chairs. To her right there was a huge wooden desk, an American flag behind it. A row of dark windows looked out on the military base. At one time the office had belonged to the base commander but no one had seen him in more than a week so it had been commandeered. Still, she felt like an intruder in the stranger’s office.
Leaning against the office window, she looked out. The shades were open, one of the windows even, and a late-night breeze was blowing gently against the wooden blinds.
They weren’t hiding any more, not literally and not figuratively, there was just no reason any longer. The men in Raven Rock knew they were here now, knew what they were up to, knew what they intended. The end game was close now, upon them really, and there was no purpose or advantage in pretending any longer. The path split in two sudden forks before them and the nation had to choose.
She glanced nervously at the wall. The clock stood still. She checked the watch that had been given to her by one of Marino’s aides, then sighed. Time was passing agonizingly slowly. Her mouth was so dry she had to work to swallow and her stomach was tied in knots.
Behind her, Brucius Marino adjusted his weight against his desk, sometimes reading, sometimes staring off in thought, but mostly watching Sara out of the corner of his eye.
She turned and looked at him. He seemed completely relaxed.
“They’ve been deliberating for almost six hours,” she said.
He nodded to her. “A little more than that.”
Sara thought of Justice Jefferson, his pride and exaggerated sense of worth. Were the other Justices like him? She didn’t know. Did they have the courage to do the right thing? Did they even have the wisdom to know what the right thing was to do? Again, she didn’t know.
By now, the men inside Raven Rock would know that Justice Jefferson had left their compound. By now, they would have realized that Marino had gathered the two remaining U.S. Supreme Court justices and brought them out to Offutt. By now, they would surely understand that the three Justices were meeting and that they would soon decide which path the nation ought to take. She knew their future was hanging in the balance, depending on what the three surviving members of the U.S. Supreme Court finally said.
Marino watched her, his thoughts much the same as hers.
If the Justices found against him, he didn’t know what he’d do. He wouldn’t have many options. But whatever action he took, he would remain within the law.
If, on the other hand, they found against the men in Raven Rock, Marino knew that they would fight him hand, tooth and nail. No way would they give up power without a fight. They’d destroy the country if they had to. For them, so much the better if they did. They’d do anything to stop him, no matter what the Justices said.
Which was why he was preparing for open war.
Sara put her arms around herself as she stared absently out the window. There were a few security lights around the base entry points and a couple lighted windows in the headquarters complex but beyond the perimeter fence that lined the base it was utterly dark, the stars and moon hidden by a layer of clinging clouds.
“Are you nervous?” she asked Brucius as she turned around.
Marino looked at her and nodded. “I’ve had a knot of fear inside my stomach since before the nuclear explosion over Washington D.C. It’s pretty much been the only thing I’ve felt for many weeks.”
“Funny, you don’t seem nervous.”
He hunched his shoulders. “All the fear’s been squeezed out of me, I guess.”
Sara interlaced her fingers nervously. “I wonder how things are going with . . . you know, Sam and the others.”
“Sara, if I’d heard anything I would have told you. I’m not keeping any secrets. Last we heard from them, they were on the helicopter making their way toward the village where the boy was supposed to meet us. Truly, if I had any information, especially any bad information, I would have told you.”
“I know you would.”
They fell into silence. Brucius moved behind the desk and started looking through the drawers until he found a small key. Standing, he walked to a locked cabinet, opened the etched glass doors and pulled down a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels bourbon. “You want something to drink?” he asked her.
She shook her head.
He started to open the liquor then changed his mind, screwed the lid back on and put the bottle back. Locking the door, he moved silently back to the desk.
The door to the office was open and there was constant traffic up and down the hall. Someone appeared in the doorway and both of them turned instantly, their eyes expecting. “Have they made a decision?” Sara blurted out before Brucius could even say anything. The young lieutenant looked at her, uncertain what she was even talking about. Information regarding the three Justices had been very tightly controlled.
Sara shot a quick look to Marino and looked embarrassed. “Sorry,” she almost said before he cut her off.
“Yes?” Marino asked the lieutenant.
“Sir, would you like me to bring you up some sandwiches?”
Brucius motioned toward Sara. “You must be hungry. Why don’t you let them get you something?”
She shook her head. She was far too nervous to eat.
Brucius waited, giving her a chance to change her mind, then turned to the young lieutenant. “You got any tuna fish?”
“I’m sure we could find some, sir.”
“That’d be nice. With horseradish sauce and mayonnaise. And lots of Tabasco™.”
Sara smiled. It reminded him of her husband and her sons. In her mind, she could hear them in the kitchen of the old house in Virginia knocking down plates of chips and salsa sprinkled with the various hot sauces Neil had collected from around world, some of them deadly to a normal person with any taste buds left.
Brucius studied her. “What are you smiling about?” he asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Just thinking.”
They fell silent once again. Marino bent down and placed the key back inside the desk drawer. Sara walked toward the door and glanced down the hall that ended at a set of double doors. Two guards were posted there, submachine guns (more effective if less imposing) held at the ready in their hands. She watched them, knowing the Justices were working behind the heavy wooden doors. Staring down the hallway, thinking of the court and the direction they would take the country, thinking of the men who had conspired to steal their freedoms, her husband’s whispered words came again into her mind, the sudden warning he had told her in the darkness of the night.
“There are men around the president who want to destroy our country,” he had said.
She had stared at him, unbelieving.
“He has put them in position within the government but he doesn’t know who they really are or what they’re willing to do. They will kill him if they have to. Our government survival isn’t assured.”
Looking back, she realized even her husband hadn’t understood how dangerous the conspirators really were.
Pulling her head back into the room, she glanced down at her watch again.
Sighing, she took a breath.
Why was time passing so slowly?”
THIRTEEN
Along the Pakistan/Afghanistan border, fifty-two miles east of Kandahar, Afghanistan
Omar turned t
o the village leader. He was a tall man, thin, his arms nimble but strong. He’d had a hard life – life on the mountain was hard – but his trials hadn’t hurt him; quite the opposite, they’d made him softer, more patient, more willing to suffer, more inclined to do good. His faith was strong, his gratitude for every day of life full and genuine. He had children of his own now and he loved them as much as any man.
Which was the only hope that Omar had; this man’s faith in his God and His love for His creations, especially those who were small and vulnerable.
But it could go either way. The love for his children could lead to compassion or it could lead to fear. If his compassion proved the greater, he would allow sanctuary for the child. If fear for his family was stronger, he would send them both away.
Omar held his breath and waited.
The sun was barely breaking over the sheer mountain peaks behind him. The ground was squishy and soft beneath his feet from three days of constant rain. The air was cool and clear like only the mountain air could be, cloudless and clean, with visibility of a hundred miles or more. Looking around him, Omar felt suddenly exposed. For the past week, he’d been traveling under cover of night or clouds, the fog and low clouds on the mountains as thick as the night, but he was standing in the open now, looking down on the village. He knew that it was foolish and he glanced toward the hut, wishing they were inside.
The village leader remained silent. Omar couldn’t wait any longer. “Sanctuary,” he pleaded.
The leader shook his head. “I have a family. They’d be in danger. It wouldn’t be right to jeopardize their safety. I’m sorry, my good friend, but the answer is no.”
Sunrise: Wrath & Righteousness: Episode Ten Page 6
