Extreme Measures

by Vince Flynn

  “I do, and you’re going down…and you’re going to bring the rest of that den of rats down with you.”

  “You’re a big talker, Kline,” Rapp said in a confident voice. “I’ve seen your type come and go every few years. You’ve got your righteous gung-ho attitude. You talk tough about cleaning up crime and defending Lady Liberty, but we both know why you do it.”

  Kline looked amused. “I can’t wait to hear this. A knuckle-dragger from the CIA is going to impart a pearl of wisdom.”

  “It’s your ego. It’s not a sense of duty. You want to make a name for yourself. You want to climb the ladder of success. Maybe run for office someday or open your own law practice. You’re nothing but a big pussy in a suit. You wouldn’t last a day out there doing what we do.”

  “I would never stoop so low as to do your work.”

  “You mean killing terrorists and saving lives. Of course you wouldn’t, because you’re a selfish little prick.”

  “You know what I think?” said Kline hotly. “I think you’re a sick man. I think you get off on beating defenseless men.” Kline circled around and whispered in Rapp’s ear, “I think it’s a real thrill for you.” He placed his hand on the back of Rapp’s neck and began to squeeze.

  “I’m only going to say this once,” Rapp said in a firm voice. “Take your hand off me, right now.”

  “What?” Kline laughed loudly. “You can dish it out, but you can’t take it.”

  In an almost disembodied voice, Rapp said, “You have no idea who you are dealing with.”

  “I’m dealing with a guy who gets his jollies slapping around men who are handcuffed.” Kline playfully smacked Rapp across the back of the head with an open hand.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” Rapp asked, his anger building.

  Kline slapped him harder and then grabbed a handful of Rapp’s thick black hair and yanked his head back. “Why should I play by the rules when you don’t? Huh, Mr. Tough Guy?”

  “Because I got out of my handcuffs, you idiot.”

  Kline’s eyes froze for a moment and then moved from Rapp’s face down to his lap, where he saw the handcuffs and chains lying in his lap.

  Before Kline could move, Rapp’s right hand shot up and grabbed him by the tie. Spinning out of the chair, Rapp stood and drove the Department of Justice employee back into the corner and delivered a quick knee strike to the groin. Then, grabbing Kline’s tie with both hands, Rapp began to cinch the knot tighter and tighter.

  As Kline’s face began to turn purple, Rapp asked, “Who’s the tough guy now?”

  CHAPTER 39

  FLORIDA KEYS

  HAKIM turned on the surface radar, noted the location of several vessels sitting just on the other side of U.S. territorial water, and then turned the radar off. Everything seemed normal, at least compared to the other three test runs he’d taken with the boat. He’d decided months ago that they would make their run on a Monday. For the Coast Guard down in the Keys, every weekend was a pain. Thousands of boaters took to the waterways, and while the vast majority were respectful and law-abiding, there was still a significant number who drank too much, acted like idiots, and caused a lot of trouble. So the Coast Guard was always a little slow to start after a busy weekend.

  Now came the part that his friend would never understand. Karim was far too rigid. In many ways it was what made him such a great leader, but his lack of trust and inflexibility had also made things almost impossible. At some point they needed to move outside their group. Without help from within America, Hakim knew it would be impossible for them to succeed, so he had acted unilaterally.

  Pretending as if he’d dropped something, Hakim bent over and withdrew his mobile phone from his cargo pocket. He quickly punched in the number and held the phone to his ear. He counted the rings, each one making him more nervous. On the sixth, the person on the other end answered.

  “Hello.”

  “Mike,” said Hakim, “it’s Joe. How are you doing?”

  “Good.”

  “Are we still on for breakfast?”

  “Yes. I’m here waiting for you.”

  “Good. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Hakim stuffed the phone back into his pocket and stood. He looked over at Karim and gave him the thumbs-up signal. Karim, looking as serious as ever, gave him a slight nod. Hakim had a moment of hesitation. Not for himself, but for his friend. For all of Karim’s drive, intellect, and talent, he lacked polish. He was too stiff, and in a relatively laid-back country like America, Hakim feared he would stand out too much. He had a plan for that as well. At least to get them as far as D.C.

  Hakim grabbed the large headphones off the dash and held them high above his head. He waved them back and forth until Karim saw what he was doing and then he put them on his head. Once they started the engines it would be the only way they could hear each other. Karim put on the headphones as well, and after a brief radio check they turned the powerful outboard engines on. One by one they rumbled as the pistons started cranking. Outside of the offshore racing circuit these boats were about as fast as you could get. Even so, they could never outrun the helicopters the Coast Guard used.

  A gust of wind blew across the bow, forming ripples on the calm water. Hakim cranked his head around and looked to the east. The seas still looked pretty calm, but it wasn’t likely to last. Weather was one thing he did not want to have to contend with. If they had to open up the boats to near full throttle in rough seas, they were in trouble. Karim was nowhere near a good-enough seaman to contend with big swells.

  Thumbing the transmit button on the headset, Hakim said, “Charlie, I’ll race you in for breakfast.” Hakim had gone over the plan the night before. This was just like Afghanistan, where you had to assume the Americans listened to everything. “Remember, don’t stop for me.” He looked across the water at his friend, who gave him the thumbs-up.

  Hakim pushed the three throttles forward a fifth and marked his heading. He’d done this exact run before. Point the boat straight at Marathon and head in at a steady 20 mph. Karim fell in behind him, fifty meters back. Two minutes later, Hakim turned on the surface radar and left it on this time. As they prepared to leave international waters, Karim called down below for Ahmed. He handed the young Moroccan the binoculars and told him to start scanning the sky for helicopters.

  All of the drugs had been transferred onto Hakim’s boat, and all of the men, except Ahmed, were now on Karim’s boat. Hakim had revealed this part of his plan while they were at sea during the night and Karim had been none too pleased. He hadn’t realized until they had left Cuba that all of the cargo and all of the men could have easily fit onto one boat. Karim had learned firsthand in Afghanistan that the more simple the plan, the better chances there were of success. The idea of using two boats, when one would suffice, made no sense to him. Hakim explained his reasoning, but Karim, stubborn as always, held his ground and disagreed.

  “Why can’t we simply transfer everything onto one boat and set the other adrift?” he had asked.

  Hakim wanted to strangle him. They had ended up out on the bow of Hakim’s boat arguing in hushed angry tones. It finally ended when Hakim told his old friend he was acting like one of those overfed Taliban commanders who never ventured to the front, but claimed to know everything. Karim, having spent months without a soul questioning anything he said, almost threw his friend into the water. With great restraint, he calmed himself down and consented to allow Hakim to continue to run this part of the operation.

  The two boats crossed into American water without fanfare. Knowing that his friend was a bit overwhelmed with the task of staying on course, Hakim doubted he even noticed the significant event. They continued on for two more miles, heading directly for Marathon. This was the trickiest part. The American Coast Guard was very well funded, and had some of the best equipment that money could buy, but there were limits. With thousands of vessels coming in and out of the Keys every day,
the Coast Guard had to deploy its assets judiciously. If a vessel were on course to enter port at a decent-sized city like Marathon, the Coast Guard would deal with it when it got there or send one of its many vessels out to inspect. The helicopters were expensive and far more rare than the hundreds of patrol boats that were used to keep the waterways safe.

  At the five-mile mark, Hakim’s pulse began to quicken. He looked at the surface radar and then scanned the horizon. With the wind whipping through his hair, he noted the location of a half dozen contacts, none of them close enough to identify as Coast Guard or not. The sky was thankfully clear.

  As they neared the three-mile mark, Hakim could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. This was what it was like to live, to really experience the grand thrill of blazing a trail through life. Hakim laughed loudly as the wind buffeted his face. He looked over at his friend, who was hunched behind the windscreen frowning with intensity. Hakim laughed louder. His friend had never understood his fascination with Ernest Hemingway, but then again, Karim was anti anything American. Especially someone as American as Hemingway. But Hakim had read everything the man had written as well as a few biographies. He’d been to the house in Key West as well as the one in Cuba, but he couldn’t bring himself to visit the home in Idaho where he’d blown his head off with a shotgun. Hakim didn’t like to think of him in that phase of his life. He preferred the younger version of Hemingway who seemed to be running off on grand adventures every other month.

  Hakim glanced down at the navigation system. The turn to the north was a mere twenty seconds away. He was not sure if he had ever been this excited about anything in his life. He flipped the transmit button on his bulky headset and counted the seconds. At zero he began the turn. Karim stayed back on his port side and executed the turn as he’d told him so he was now the boat closest to shore.

  Hakim tapped Ahmed on the shoulder and shouted, “Get down below and get the rifle ready.” Hakim saw the Moroccan look nervously to the north. “Don’t worry, I haven’t seen them. I just want to be prepared.”

  Ahmed grabbed the railing and went down the four steps into the cabin. A moment later the triangular muzzle break of the .50-caliber rifle appeared. Ahmed adjusted the legs on the bipod and got behind the scope. When he was satisfied that he had a comfortable shooting position he set the butt stock of the rifle on the carpet and picked the binoculars up.

  Topside, Hakim gave Karim the signal to increase speed and then began to push his own throttles forward at a slow, even pace. The three Mercury Pro XS 250 HP outboards came to life, growling with power. The boats responded immediately. In less than five seconds they were slicing through the water at close to 60 mph. Five seconds after that they reached 80 mph and, as per the plan, eased back on the throttles and held the speed. The boats settled into a side-by-side tack, Hakim allowing his friend to take a half-length lead as they raced on a northeasterly heading.

  Hakim settled into a pattern. His eyes steadily swept from right to left 180 degrees, and then checked the surface radar before scanning skyward. The Coast Guard helicopters topped out around 150 mph, but tended to cruise close to 100 mph. Because of that he was less concerned that one of them would catch them coming up from Key West. The problem was straight ahead at Islamorada and even they were quickly running out of time. The navigation system ticked off the distance to the next course adjustment. It was now a mere four miles and the sea was still calm. If need be they could easily increase their speed.

  Hakim was half regretting that they wouldn’t have a run-in with the Coast Guard when he spotted the speck on the horizon. He almost missed it, but the sun caught the windscreen just right. The quick flash of light brought his head back around and he focused on the speck. They were so close, but now, if they got their next turn too fast, the helicopter would be able to report their new course heading, and he didn’t want that.

  Hakim made a quick decision and hit the transmit button on his headset. “Charlie, slow it down to forty miles per hour.” Hakim pulled back on the throttles and watched the helicopter come into focus. He could now make out the bulbous black nose, the windscreen, and the red housing that covered the engines. He’d considered his next move with great care. It was risky, but with the Coast Guard’s advantage in manpower, it was his best tactic.

  “Slow down to twenty miles per hour,” Hakim said.

  “But you told me to keep going,” said Karim in surprise.

  “I know, but I have changed my mind.” Hakim glanced over at this friend and smiled. “Trust me.”

  The helicopter was closing fast. So fast that Hakim thought for a moment that it might continue straight past them, but then it altered course a few degrees and Hakim knew it was preparing to loop around for a closer look.

  “Ahmed,” he shouted, “remember, you will probably only get one shot at this.”

  The helicopter changed from a nose-down attitude to a slightly nose-up attitude, another sign that it was slowing. Hakim watched it begin to slide to his starboard. He didn’t bother turning on his marine radio even though he knew they were trying to hail him. The chopper was now a quarter mile ahead and off his starboard side. Hakim held his course and waited for the chopper to do the move he’d heard about. As the two boats closed to within a few hundred yards, the helicopter started to loop around.

  Good, Hakim thought. Just like I was told. Keep coming…keep coming. He started to wave at the helicopter but made no effort to reach for the throttles. There were plenty of idiots on the water in Florida, and the Coast Guard dealt with them every day. They would not open fire unless they tried to run, which Hakim was not ready to do just yet. The chopper slid sideways through the air, keeping pace with the boats. A voice came over the loudspeaker and even though Hakim could hear it, he pointed at his headphones and shook his head. It would all happen in the next few moments. Karim silently urged them to circle around to his aft and take a look at his engines. Moving slow like this they could call in patrol boats easily and they’d be trapped.

  The HH-65 Dolphin was the king of these parts, though, and as long as they were here they might as well take a thorough look. The sleek red helicopter began to slide around to get in behind the two boats. Karim continued to wave and smile, and above the rotor wash, he yelled, “Ahmed, they will be coming into view from the starboard side!”

  As the boat moved past the helicopter, Hakim saw that they had a gunner with a sling-mounted machine gun sitting in the open doorway. He was wearing a flight suit and a helmet and was holding the weapon in both hands, but did not have it pointed at them.

  “Remember,” Hakim screamed, “the engines first.”

  He watched as the helicopter hovered at fifty feet and moved from four o’clock to five and then finally six. Hakim didn’t dare look down, even though he desperately wanted to. The first shot, though, almost caused him to leap out of the boat as the hot gas from the muzzle break swept across his feet and legs. With every ounce of control that he could muster he kept his eye on the helicopter, so he could count the hits. He was sure the first three struck the starboard engine of the twin-engine helicopter and possibly had torn through and hit the port-side engine as well. The big armor-penetrating rounds would burn at 3,000 degrees and pretty much slice through anything on the helicopter, including the engines.

  One more round hit the engine housing and then as the helicopter began to lose power and yaw, holes were punched, one after another, down the tail, and finally the fan blade on the rear stabilizer exploded. It was as if the hand of Allah came down and tossed the helicopter through the air. The nose lurched downward and then the tail whipped end over end, slamming the helicopter into the sea, and breaking it into dozens of pieces.

  Hakim was stunned. He turned to look at Karim and the two of them shared a brief smile. Then the moment passed and they both realized they needed to get moving fast. Hakim leaned on the throttles and tore off. Karim followed suit and seconds later they were racing again across the sea at speeds approaching 100
mph. Hakim glanced down at surface radar and was relieved to see that the closest contact was more than a mile to the north. With any luck they would be off the water before the Coast Guard confirmed that their chopper was down.

  CHAPTER 40

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  NASH’S Tuesday morning started out pretty much the same way his Monday morning did. He woke up with a screaming headache, grabbed Charlie from his crib, and went downstairs. Fortunately, there was no front-page story in the Post about his illegal activities, but there was another problem looming. Once again, his wife had decided to ignore him and had turned off his work phones. Nash’s sleep patterns were predictable only in the sense that he slept like shit most nights, but every three weeks or so the exhaustion would catch up and he would sleep for nine or ten hours straight. Last night had been one of those nights.

  Nash had put his ten-year-old son Jack to bed shortly after nine and had fallen asleep with him while they were reading a story. Sometime around midnight he made it into his own bed and went right back to sleep facedown. A few minutes before seven he’d awoken to Charlie’s morning wrestling match and it wasn’t until he had him settled in his high chair that he discovered his phones were off, as well as the ringer on the home phone. She came floating into the kitchen a few minutes later and when asked about it her response was that he was no good to his family or his country if he was run-down.

  Nash turned on both phones and watched the message indicators begin to climb. There were sixteen voice mails and forty-seven texts and e-mails. The first two messages were nothing too important, but the third kicked his headache into overdrive. The subsequent messages only made it worse. Half of them were from Ridley, asking for help. Nash felt like a fool. While all of this was going down he was sleeping peacefully in his bed.