Extreme Measures

by Vince Flynn

  CHAPTER 37

  FLORIDA KEYS

  THE sun rose brilliantly, casting its rays across the vast expanse of blue water. All nine men were on deck to witness the glorious power of Allah as another day of their blessed journey began. They’d spent the night lashed together, the two boats gently rolling in the shallow swells. Even with the calm water, though, four of the men had vomited. Hakim took a bit of perverse joy in seeing these land-loving freedom fighters buckle so easily to the gentle motion of the ocean. Even more joy knowing that it bothered his old friend Karim that he had failed to prepare them for this relatively short jaunt.

  When they were done praying, rations were handed out and the men were encouraged to drink plenty of water, especially those who had thrown up. Hakim checked their position again and then climbed out onto the long bow of the fast boat. He looked through a pair of binoculars at a speck on the western horizon. They were sixteen nautical miles almost due east from Marathon, Florida. To the north an almost equal distance was the U.S. Coast Guard Station at Islamorada. Farther to the south and the west was the Coast Guard Station at Key West. Both bases were equipped with enough air and surface assets to make this a miserable morning, but it was Key West that he feared most. That was where the command center for the new Helicopter Interdiction Tactical Squadron was located. The farther north they went, the more they could mix in with the pleasure boaters and sport fishermen coming out of Miami and the day trippers crossing back and forth from southern Florida to the Bahamas.

  Hakim scanned the surface first and then tilted the binoculars skyward. There were a few contrails from commercial planes flying at higher altitudes, but no sign of any helicopters at the moment. From his past excursions Hakim knew they were most active in the dead of night and then later in the day when the boat traffic picked up. The boats didn’t worry him as much. There were only a few that could keep up with them and they weren’t armed with the bigger guns of the cutters and coastal patrol boats. The problem would be the helicopters. They were faster than his boats, and worse, they could keep an eye on them from a distance and radio for help. If they weren’t careful they could end up with a bunch of police units converging on them when they reached shore.

  This had been the most difficult aspect to plan, but Hakim thought he had it figured out. Karim joined him on the bow, and Hakim asked, “Are you nervous?” He asked the question knowing how his friend would answer.

  “Only fools and liars say they aren’t.”

  “Well, my friend, then which one am I?” Hakim continued his search of the sky, now turning back toward Key West.

  “You are not nervous?” Karim asked with concern.

  “No. Not in the least.”

  “Why do you tempt fate like this? You know you shouldn’t say such things.”

  Hakim laughed. “I am excited. Why aren’t you excited? This is what we have been working for. This is a great day.” Hakim pointed toward the spit of land on the horizon. “There, my friend, is the great Satan. In a few minutes we will fire up these engines, and we will penetrate their defenses. Defenses they have spent billions on, and there is nothing they can do to stop us.”

  Karim frowned. “You are assuming they will not stop us.”

  “Yes, I am.” Hakim lowered the binoculars. “When will you begin to have faith in your destiny? I have been telling you for years that this is what awaits you.” Again he pointed toward the shore of America.

  “Allah prefers us to be humble.”

  “Then you can be humble, but I will be excited. This is something they will write about. In a few days the entire Arab world will be talking about these new lions of al-Qaeda and their leader, the great Karim Nour al-Din, who have struck at the heart of America.”

  “We have done nothing yet.”

  “Is it wrong to hope?”

  Karim made a brooding face and finally said, “I suppose not.”

  “And think of the faces those old women will make when the news finally reaches them in the mountain hideouts. Zawahiri will be furious that he and his millionaire boyfriend do not receive the credit.”

  “Do not speak of him that way,” Karim said angrily.

  “I’m sorry, but you know I think Zawahiri has poisoned him.”

  “He still deserves our respect.” Karim was disgusted with the al-Qaeda leadership, but his fellow Saudi Arabian did not deserve to be spoken of in such a manner. “So,” Karim said, “tell me of your grand plan. Do you really think we will just sail ashore and unload your drugs?”

  “That all depends on the Coast Guard.”

  “And if they show up?”

  “We will outrun them.”

  “What if it is a helicopter? Like you mentioned last night.”

  “You keep going straight, and I will worry about the helicopter.”

  “That is it? That is the extent of your grand plan?”

  Hakim showed off his bright white smile. “No, I have a few tricks.”

  “Ahmed?”

  “Yes, he is one of them, in fact now is the perfect time to show him the present I brought along for him.” Hakim climbed around the windscreen and went below deck. A moment later he appeared with a long, black rectangular case. He looked into the other boat and said, “Ahmed, I have something for you.”

  The twenty-four-year-old Moroccan hopped from one boat into the other as the others came to the edge. Hakim set the case on the flat cushion just aft of the cockpit and popped the clasps. He swung the case open to reveal a very large gun.

  Ahmed gasped as he said, “A Barrett fifty-caliber. I have dreamt of shooting such a gun.”

  “Can you handle it?” Hakim asked.

  “Of course,” Ahmed said enthusiastically. “Where did you get it?”

  “Nashville, Tennessee.”

  “Isn’t that where they are made?”

  “Near there.”

  Ahmed picked it up and looked through the Barrett Optical Range Scope. “When do I get to fire it?”

  “Hopefully not anytime soon, but just in case you have to, are you familiar with the weapon?”

  “There is not much to know. It is one of the finest rifles ever constructed. Robust…accurate…very easy to shoot.”

  “Good. There are three ten-round boxes already loaded.” Hakim pointed at the case.

  “What type of ammunition?”

  “Fifty-caliber BMG, armor-piercing incendiary.”

  Ahmed tore his eyes away from the gun and said, “Only NATO troops have that ammunition.”

  “And you.” Hakim laughed loudly.

  “Where in the world did you get…?”

  “I’ll tell you on the long drive to Washington. We’ll have plenty of time, but now we must get moving.” Hakim turned and looked up at his old friend, who was standing on the other side of the windscreen. “Are you ready, my friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” Hakim said with unbridled enthusiasm. “Just like we practiced last night. Everybody get in your proper place and we will start the engines.” The men started scrambling into their assigned boats. “Remember,” Hakim said, “keep your weapons hidden unless Karim or I tell you to get them out.” He then turned to Ahmed and whispered, “Stay close to me, and make sure your new toy is ready to use.”

  Hakim started his engines one at a time and waited for his friend to do the same. After another minute Hakim ordered the lines to be undone and then got under way at a leisurely fifteen knots. With the wind whipping over their heads, Hakim turned to Ahmed and asked, “Are you familiar with the MH-65C Dolphin helicopter?”

  Ahmed shook his head.

  “Not to worry.” Hakim popped the small glove box on the dashboard and retrieved several pieces of paper. “Here are the schematics. I’ve circled the three places where it is most vulnerable. If we come across one it might be useful information.”

  CHAPTER 38

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  RAPP had to laugh at the irony of the situation. Here he was in an orange prison
jumpsuit shackled to a metal table in a room that reeked of urine. The cinder-block walls of the ten-by-ten-foot interrogation room were covered with a variety of body fluids that Rapp did not want to attempt to identify. The fact that America treated terrorists better than its own citizens was just another example of how upside down things were. He was in the Central Detention Facility, or D.C. jail, as it is more commonly known. A place located in one of the most run-down, crime-ridden neighborhoods in America. Every year for the last thirty, Southeast D.C. helped the capital city finish in the top five for most murders—usually number one. The jail was filled with gangbangers and crackheads and every other kind of reprobate that roamed the not-so-safe streets of the nation’s capital.

  It was obvious that the political forces behind his arrest thought they could somehow unravel him by sticking him in this place, which was proof that they were either very stupid or very petty or probably both. When they’d finished fingerprinting and photographing him, they took away all his clothes and gave him the orange jumpsuit and the paper slippers and stuck him in general holding. No lawyer, no phone call, just Ridley standing there, doling out threats like a kindergarten teacher on a field trip. Ridley warned them it was a mistake. Told them over and over not to dump him in general holding, but the jailers stuck with their official line that everyone gets the same treatment.

  Rapp lasted less than five minutes in the big thirty-by-ten-foot cell. A wiry black perp, all strung out on drugs, got in his face almost the second he walked in the door. Rather than engage the man in conversation, Rapp hit him with a quick jab to the solar plexus and sent him to the floor, where he lay gasping for air like a fish out of water. Two slightly larger and younger black men took umbrage at this and strolled across the cell hooting and hollering about all the hurt they were going to put on their new bitch. In five seconds Rapp sized them up, drew them in, and dismantled them. The man on the left got a half a step ahead of the other guy and threw the first punch. Rapp moved his head a mere six inches and let the fist sail past. With a slight pivot he brought up his right leg and then sent his foot crashing down on the outside of the man’s right knee. Having thrown his punch and missed, the man was left for a second with ninety-five percent of his weight resting on that front foot. When Rapp’s foot made contact and pushed through the target, the man buckled as if he’d been walking on a pair of flimsy stilts.

  The second guy was on him almost immediately and actually got ahold of Rapp’s jumpsuit for a second, before Rapp broke free with a series of quick rabbit punches to several vital organs. He then took the man by the wrist, twisted the hand 180 degrees, and straightened his arm so that his elbow was in a locked position pointing directly up at the ceiling. One quick kick to the stomach sent the man to the floor. There was a moment where the entire room was still. Rapp looked across the cell at the other gangbangers and tried to gauge their mood. They were all paying rapt attention, and a few looked like they might join in. Rapp decided that the easiest way to stop the violence was to make an example. With the perp’s arm still in a straight and locked position, Rapp dropped to his right knee, brought his left arm up above his head, and brought his elbow smashing down. When the blow struck, the other man’s elbow socket exploded, sounding like a two-by-four snapping from too much weight.

  When the guards showed up, the first perp was just regaining his ability to breathe, but the other two were rolling around on the ground screaming in pain with limbs pointed at very unnatural angles. The guards had a quick conference and decided to move Rapp to one of the interrogation rooms. That was where he had been sitting from roughly one in the morning until now. He was shackled around his wrists and ankles and chained to the metal table. The cinder-block walls were blank. With nothing to look at and nothing to do but wait, Rapp rested his head on the table and tried to sleep. He lost track of time but it felt like he’d been in the room for close to ten hours, which meant it was probably closer to five. Alone with nothing but his thoughts, he wondered how Kennedy was taking things. There was a good chance that she was raising holy hell, but one never really knew in this town.

  When the door finally opened, Rapp looked up and saw a man roughly his age, wearing a blue suit and a mint green and blue striped tie. He was handsome, but not in a masculine way. He was too perfect, too deliberate. Like he put a lot of effort into his grooming and appearance. He entered the room holding a cup of coffee, a scone, and a leather briefing folder under one arm. He kicked the door closed and sat down across from Rapp.

  After straightening his tie and taking a sip of coffee he said, “You have managed to get yourself into a lot of trouble.”

  Rapp stared back at him with his brown eyes that were so dark they were almost black and said nothing.

  “Striking an officer of the United States Air Force is a very serious crime.” He glanced at Rapp with his most serious expression and flipped open the briefing folder. “Not to mention this part about you donning the uniform of colonel and sneaking around a United States military installation without authorized access. I would say you’ve finally run out of luck, Mr. Rapp.”

  Rapp said nothing. He stared back at the man and wondered if he really thought he was going to somehow scare him.

  “You’re looking at ten years…maybe more.”

  Rapp chuckled.

  “You find this funny?”

  “I find your theatrical bravado funny.”

  The man took a sip of coffee and in a morose tone said, “I don’t think you’re going to be laughing when you’re sitting in a federal prison getting buttfucked by a bunch of hard cons.”

  Rapp’s eyes narrowed, the creases in his forehead deepening. He sensed something in the man across the table. Something he should be leery of. “Who are you?”

  The man straightened his tie and said, “I’m Wade Kline…Department of Justice Chief Privacy and Civil Liberties Officer, and I’m your worst nightmare, Mr. Rapp.”

  “Really?” Rapp asked in a not-impressed tone.

  “Yes. I’m incorruptible, and I don’t like people who think they don’t have to play by the rules.”

  Rapp nodded. “Speaking of the rules,” Rapp glanced up at the camera in the corner, “would you mind telling me why I haven’t seen my attorney?”

  Kline grinned at Rapp and with an arched brow said, “Sometimes it’s hard to track down a lawyer in the middle of the night. I’m sure he’ll be along in time for your arraignment.”

  “Well, it is very considerate of you to come in here and talk to me without my lawyer present, but I think I’ll pass.”

  Kline plucked a chunk of the scone from the wax paper and popped it into his mouth. “What if I were to tell you I could make this all go away?”

  “How?”

  “You cooperate with my investigation. You talk to me about your superiors at Langley. You fill me on your illegal domestic spying operations. It’s your only chance.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Mr. Rapp, do I look like the type of person who jokes around?”

  Rapp thought to himself that it was a valid point. This guy took himself far too seriously to screw around. “You know what I think, Kline? I think there’s a real shit storm brewing outside this room right now. I think there’s a lot of pissed-off people at the Pentagon and the White House.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep…I think you got wind of this little misunderstanding between Captain Leland and myself and you decided to run with it before checking in with your superiors. I think the attorney general has had his ass reamed by the president, which means the AG has now turned around and reamed your ass, and since you’re a desperate type of fellow and you hate to lose, you’ve now decided the only way you can save face on this deal is to try this lame-ass Hail Mary attempt…promising you’ll go light on me in return for me telling you about all the nasty shit I’ve seen the CIA do over the last eighteen years.”

  “I can promise you, Mr. Rapp, I don’t make empty threats,” Wade said ser
iously. “I’ve spent too many hours in a courtroom to say something I can’t follow through on.”

  “Then help me understand your situation, because you don’t have a case against me. This little scuffle between Captain Leland and myself…there’s two sides to how that went down and even if you believe everything he’s telling you, which would be a mistake, all you’ve got is a misdemeanor assault. You and I both know I’ll never see the inside of a jail, let alone have to endure all these boyfriends you’re talking about. And as far as me putting on the uniform of a colonel”—Rapp shrugged—“that’s what we do in the Clandestine Service. So unless you’ve got something you’re not telling me, you’re wasting my time.”

  “Well,” started Kline with a big smile, “there is this other matter.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “The part about you beating and torturing a bound prisoner.”

  A small grin spread across Rapp’s lips. He was waiting for this card to be played. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do. Captain Leland and General Garrison have already filed their official reports.” Kline consulted his notes. “The prisoner’s name is Abu Haggani. We have photos of his cut and bruised face attached to the report.”

  “Didn’t happen.”

  “I have a security tape that says different.” Kline stared unflinchingly at Rapp. “You’d better make this deal with me or you’re going to get caught up in a media firestorm that is going to make Abu Ghraib look like a twenty-four-hour scandal.”

  If Rapp hadn’t already spoken to Marcus Dumond, who had assured him that all recordings had been destroyed, he might have been slightly anxious, but even if Kline did have the tape he would never flip. Rapp glanced down at Kline’s notes and said, “Show it to me.”

  “What?”

  “The tape.”

  “The FBI,” he said calmly, “is analyzing it for evidence.”

  “Sure they are.” Rapp smiled and gave Kline a look as if they were both on the inside of a joke. “You don’t have shit, Kline.”