“I’m so sorry about Amira’s father,” Jake said sincerely. “But I need you to hear me: you have to keep Baker alive. I need to brief the president, and then I’m going to call you back in five minutes. I’m about to step into the Oval Office. We’ll figure out the next step. Trust me. I have to go.”
“Understood,” Logan said. “I’ll let the rest of the team know. We’ll stand by for your call, but I think I have an idea. I’ll know for sure in the next few minutes.”
“Logan, listen to me. Don’t kill him. Please.”
“I won’t. And no one else will, at least not right now,” Logan replied. “Go talk to the president. Out here.”
Cole was the first to ask, “What happened? Are they alive?”
Logan scrutinized Baker and tilted his head to the left like a wolf studying a dying doe before he pounced to deliver the killing stroke. “They are,” Logan said, his jaw clenched as he spoke.
“Thank God,” Cole said, relief in his voice.
“Then why do you look like you want to tear him apart?” Jack asked, hesitant to hear the answer.
Logan stepped forward and lashed out before anyone could prevent him. He grabbed Baker’s jacket collar and placed his face within inches of the terrified vice president’s. “Because this monster’s men just killed Amira’s father, and I desperately want to end his life, right here, right now.”
“Oh no,” Cole said, sorrow and empathy for Amira hitting him all at once, a numbness that blossomed in the pit of his stomach.
“And it’s all your fault,” Logan spat accusatorily into Baker’s panic-stricken face. Logan suddenly shot his right leg behind Baker and swept forward, struck the man’s wounded calf, knocked his legs out from under him, and sent him to the ground. Logan stood over the cowering, wounded man and drew his Glock. He pointed it at Baker’s face and said, “I want nothing more than to end your reign of terror and misery this very moment.”
Baker instinctively held his hands up in front of his face, as if the skin and bones would magically stop the 9mm slug from killing him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he pleaded.
“Your apology is not accepted,” Logan answered quietly. “You deserve to die. You’re a blight on this earth, and you contaminate everything you touch. But you’re going to live, at least a little while longer, because I think you can serve a higher purpose.”
Logan holstered the Glock, turned on his heels, and walked away toward the command post in the middle of the base.
“You really have no idea how lucky you are,” Cole said to Baker. “If Amira were here, I think she would literally cut you to shreds with her stilettos. Get up. We won’t be here long.”
Logan’s Iridium chirped loudly, breaking the somber silence. He stopped in his tracks so that the rest of the group was within earshot, hit the talk button, and said, “Jake, what do you—”
“It’s not Jake, Logan,” President Preston Scott said.
Logan cleared his mind and forced his anger to abate, at least slightly, so as not to cloud his judgment as he conferred with his commander in chief. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s been a little hectic here.”
“That might be the understatement of the night, from what Jake told me,” President Scott said. “I feel like I just said this about Mike, but I’m sorry for your loss. I’ve been told that John is with her. I’ve also been told that the two officers that were shot are going to be okay after some surgery and serious therapy. They’re lucky that your friends were there.”
Unfortunately, Amira’s father wasn’t, Logan thought, as the rage surged once again. Get control.
“That’s who they are, sir. It’s who we all are, even Jack,” Logan said, referring to the retired commandant of the Marine Corps who’d joined their alliance after the events in DC weeks earlier.
“I know, and I’m grateful for it. But right now, we need to figure out what to do next, now that you have Baker. How fast do you think you can get to the airfield and get back here?” the president asked.
“We can be wheels up probably within thirty to forty-five minutes from now, if there’s been no damage to the runway,” Logan replied. I can’t believe you’re going to say it, but you have no choice. You have to give him the option to do the right thing.
“Sir, there’s another play we can make here,” Logan said, and left the words hanging in the digital space between them.
“What’s that?” the president asked, his curiosity piqued. He trusted Logan West and his task force with his life and the highest level of national security of the republic. He owed it to him to hear him out.
“How bad is the coverage of the earthquake, sir?” Logan asked, changing the topic.
“It’s bad. Hundreds, maybe a few thousand, dead. Power outages, food shortages—if that’s even possible down there—violence, looting, you name it. The worst that humanity has to offer during a time of crisis, all exacerbated by a government that failed its primary mission—to care for and protect its citizens. Why do you ask?”
“Because as bad as it is on TV, it’s that much worse in person,” Logan said. The images of the shell-shocked bystanders from the earlier ambush on the highway were still fresh. Their eyes had a glossed-over, distant look—a look he’d seen in Iraq—and not just from the urban combat between the tunnels. It was the same look of desperation and hopelessness from the knowledge that their government couldn’t help them. “What if there was a way to help the people in this country? I have an idea, and if it works, it might bring a little bit of light to the despair and suffering that’s a constant condition down here. It’s going to require a ton of coordination once it’s over. But more importantly, I can’t do it without your approval.”
There was silence from the other end, and Logan waited patiently. Come on, sir. I know you. You’re a good man, even if you are a politician. Just hear me out.
“Go ahead. Tell me,” the president said.
Logan West did, instinctively aware of what the president’s answer would be even before he was halfway finished explaining his bold and aggressive plan.
CHAPTER 46
Airfield South of Caracas
2100 Venezuelan Local Time
Lieutenant General Victor Cordones stood inside the black cloth walls that had been erected in the back of the hangar to create an area for the execution. After the earthquake, he’d changed the location for the final phase of his plan to the secret airfield south of Caracas. Initially, he’d considered infiltrating the main Globovision studio on the north edge of the city, but he knew he’d never be able to successfully execute the president in the newsroom, escape the TV station via a helicopter from the rooftop, and then fly to the airfield undetected. As a result, he’d decided to minimize the number of moves that might potentially lead to failure. He’d had an epiphany that made significantly more tactical sense and increased his chances for survival. Why not just do it at the airfield? You can fly away on the private jet the moment it’s done, and they won’t be able to stop you.
The SEBIN security hadn’t even scrutinized the black Range Rovers as the six vehicles driven by his detail entered the airfield. All wore civilian attire they’d changed into after the executive kidnapping, and the president and Victor lay concealed in the back of the third vehicle, never under the slightest threat of discovery. Clandestine locations served their purposes, and Victor was taking flagrant advantage of them.
A Globovision satellite truck was parked at the entrance to the hangar, ready to broadcast to the country and ultimately the world the fate of dictators that subjected their citizens to cruelty, poverty, and suffering, wielding them like social engineering weapons designed to preserve power.
His detail prepared the Gulfstream G550 for the trip to Switzerland. A Russian oligarch at the private request of the Russian ambassador had provided the luxury business jet for Victor’s last trip out of Venezuela. Surprisingly, not all the soldiers on his detail had decided to leave with him and the American vice president. Ther
e were several who ideologically believed that once the president was dead, the country would escape the abyss into which it had already fallen. Victor wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t want to discourage their hope: it was all they had. Thus, he kept quiet and wished each of them well, thanking them for their patriotism and service. In his mind, they were all men of honor and nationalism, regardless of how the world would judge them.
Victor had borrowed the idea of the public execution from the extremists in Iraq, and he knew that the black background would mask their location, at least until he was out of the country.
“No matter what happens to me, you will never get away with this,” President Pena said defiantly as he sat on the ground. His chief of security, Antonio, was bound and gagged beside him. “The people won’t stand for it.”
Victor couldn’t help himself and snorted derisively in laughter. His voice rose in anger. “Are you listening to yourself? The people are fleeing the country in droves, starving in the streets, and rioting to overthrow you. If you think the people are going to mourn you when you’re dead, you’re more delusional than I thought. No one is coming to save you. Tonight, you pay for your crimes, for the deaths of so many, for the death of my son, and the whole world will watch and see you for what you are—a man whose only true guiding principle is power, power for its own end. But your run is about to end, and you’d better make your peace with it, because it’s coming soon and it’s coming fast.”
Victor looked at Antonio, as if the presence of the man was an afterthought. “I know you’re only doing your job. So when this is over, I’m going to give you a choice, and I hope you make the right one. Between now and then, think very hard about whether or not you even want a future.”
He ignored the stare of the president, turned around, and walked away from the two captives, which was when he heard the sound of the helicopter approaching, low and in the distance. The distinctive sound of the rotors grew in strength and intensity, and he was relieved the Hind had arrived. He smiled to himself as he walked to the hangar doors, which two members of his detail had begun to slide open. Right on time.
He’d radioed the base to fly the vice president to the airfield. They’d been expecting his signal in his command post. Once the American had joined him, he’d execute President Pena and leave his beloved country, once and for all.
CHAPTER 47
As the Russian Hind helicopter approached the airfield, Logan studied the ground below, the multiple hangars awash in the glow of external floodlights, and the assortment of aircraft parked along the perimeter fence that surrounded the large, rectangular air operations center. Too bad the US doesn’t have something like this in northern Virginia, a way for external allies and adversaries to enter the country for secret meetings without dealing with US Customs and Border Protection agents. But he knew risk-averse politicians would never go for it. It was practical, and they were political.
Logan glanced around the passenger compartment at the assorted raid force and figured they had a better than fifty percent chance of success. Beats the house odds at a casino, he thought. Logan, Cole, Jack, Santiago, Marcos, and the two assassins, Thomas and Frederico, were all dressed in Venezuelan army uniforms they’d found at the base. For Logan’s plan to work, they only needed seconds to retain their tactical surprise, and he was confident the uniforms would provide it.
The only occupant in normal civilian clothes was Joshua Baker, his wounded leg wrapped and bandaged. The seven men—Santiago was in the cockpit with the pilot—sat on both sides of two small benches mounted in the middle of the passenger compartment. The design permitted troops to unload faster, from both sides of the gunship and from two doors rather than one choke point that an unseen enemy could target.
Logan tapped Baker on the left knee, leaned into the man, and shouted above the raging sound of the rotors, “If you do anything, and I mean anything, that jeopardizes this mission, I swear to God that I will kill you first. Even if someone else is shooting at us, I will take you out, step across your dying body, and then return fire. Do you understand me?”
Baker turned his head, looked directly into Logan’s camouflaged face, and nodded.
Logan, satisfied with the response, sat back and waited as the ground rose up to meet the descending mechanical bird of prey. The target hangar was in the back of the airfield, and the nose of the helicopter lifted slightly on its final approach. The world outside tilted to the right as if on a gargantuan seesaw, and Logan anticipated the touchdown seconds away.
One last time, Logan. One last time, and then you can go home to Sarah and a new life, or so he hoped.
The Hind hit the ground with a soft thud, and the view through the side windows straightened. The compartment doors on the sides of the aircraft lifted out and away on their hinges.
First in line at the end of one side of the bench, Logan stood up and led the small chalk of men out the starboard side opening. He jumped down onto the tarmac and waited for the vice president and the remaining members of the elite raid force to join him.
Santiago remained inside with the pilot, the soldier that Cole had wounded when he’d realized the vice president was staging another diversion. The gunshot wound to his right calf hadn’t hindered his ability to fly the helicopter, but someone needed to ensure he did as he was instructed.
The small force formed a bubble around the vice president, weapons held at the ready position, and waited. Logan stepped toward the hangar, less than two hundred feet away, and the armed band of men followed.
* * *
Victor stood in the middle of the hangar and watched the small group of his soldiers approach. The area outside the hangar was illuminated, but not enough to reveal the men’s features, which were darkened with camouflage paint. Camouflage paint? Why? The men moved tactically and spread out into an upside-down V formation reminiscent of the fighter plan formation that originated in World War I. But something about the way they carried themselves set his nerves on edge, and he studied the group, which had closed to within one hundred and fifty feet of the enormous hangar entrance. Their weapons rose slightly as one in a barely perceptible motion, and alarm bells sounded in his head.
It’s not my men. Whoever they are, they’re not mine. After years of relentless training, the general recognized the moment—men seconds away from engaging in combat. They’re about to fire, which means they know why I’m here. They’re waiting until they have a clear line of sight on everyone, he realized, and he was forced to make a decision, one that ended in death no matter which way he chose. He could alert his soldiers who stood on both sides of the hangar, or he could grab President Pena, try to escape, and use him for leverage.
Anger soured with resentment taunted him. He’d been so close to avenging his son, but in order to fulfill his vengeance, he had no choice—he had to have custody of the Venezuelan president.
Victor suddenly spun on his heels and walked toward the back of the hangar and the hanging-black-cloth execution set. There was only one way out, and he needed President Pena as his human shield and battering ram.
* * *
Logan squeezed his grip on the 7.62mm AK-103. He’d swapped out his H&K MP5 submachine gun for the long gun since it was what the soldiers on the mountain had carried. As he moved toward the hangar, he calculated their odds against the assembled opposing force. With a little bit of luck, not too bad.
Four men stood on each side of the hangar entrance, weapons held but not as vigilantly as they should have been. A Globovision satellite truck was parked outside to the right of the door. Inside the hangar, a large private jet waited on the left side, and movement from inside the cockpit caught his eye. An additional four men stood inside the hangar, four near the plane on the left and four on the right near several parked black Range Rovers, once again the villain’s vehicle of choice. But it was the main stage that had been erected in the back of the hangar that grabbed Logan’s attention.
An area twenty-five feet long by fifteen
feet deep was enclosed by hanging black cloths. Two men sat on the gray-colored epoxy floor of the hangar inside the black curtains, and Logan recognized the man on the left as President Pena. A professional camera was mounted on a tripod in the middle, just outside the enclosed three-sided stage, and cables ran from it down the right side of the hangar to the truck parked outside.
Memories of the torture and execution chambers in Iraq similar to this one sent shivers tumbling down his spine. This is a thing of evil. The purpose is the same, just in a different country. It reminded him of the barn in which they’d found the Iraqi flag, a moment that had kick-started a chain of events that would change the course of his life years later. He realized with a bitter sense of irony that everything had come full circle. What had started in Iraq would end tonight, one way or another.
Logan’s assault force closed the distance to one hundred feet, which was when General Cordones abruptly turned around and began to move toward the execution area. The general glanced over his shoulder and picked up his pace, transitioning into a shuffle as he closed the final feet to the sitting Venezuelan president. He knows. Somehow he knows, but he’s not raising the alarm. And then it hit him: he’s trying to escape with President Pena. He still thinks he can pull it off. One word resounded in Logan’s head in big, dark-red letters that matched his fury—NO.
Without breaking his stride, Logan raised the barrel of the AK-103 and snap-sighted on the first soldier in civilian attire on the right side of the hangar, just outside the doors. Like the precision drill team equivalent of an execution squad, the other five members of the team raised their weapons at preselected targets, coordinated beforehand and based on their position in the formation.
Rules of War Page 27
