The President's Daughter

by James Patterson

  That unit, he thinks, has experience in killing innocent Asians.

  He gives a quick glance at the photo of Zhen, taken during their honeymoon in Hawaii. Right now she’s in Beijing, visiting her ill father. She works at the ministry’s headquarters at 14 Dongchangan Avenue as a personnel manager.

  Jiang’s grandfather—Jiang Yun—had been an illiterate peasant until he joined the Red Army, fighting both the Japanese and the Kuomintang and then becoming a quiet yet powerful party functionary in Shanghai. He had lived long enough to see how successful his son had become, and Jiang feels a pang of regret that the Americans prevented his father from seeing his own son’s success.

  Jiang touches Zhen’s photo for a moment. He has vowed many times that their future child will grow up in a peaceful and strong world, a global community recognizing the proper place and strength of China.

  Whatever it takes.

  He opens the center drawer of his desk, takes out a detailed map of Libya, and goes to the cold, carpeted floor, where he spreads it out. There are hundreds of high-quality digital maps available for him here in the secure ministry computer system that can show an individual flower in the White House Rose Garden, or the upturned faces of American sailors on the bridge of a nuclear armed ballistic missile submarine, departing Kitsap in Washington State.

  But accessing such maps leaves digital traces for others in his ministry and elsewhere to see.

  He is skilled at not leaving any traces.

  A finger moves from the Gulf of Sidra to the mountains of Nafusa. Jiang looks at the legend at the base of the map, marking distances in kilometers. He goes to his desk, returns with a metal ruler, places it on the map.

  He wishes he knew the exact location of that American Navy ship—named, he still cannot believe, after a stinging insect—but asking that question would raise too many others later down the line.

  The night-duty officer here—Liu Xiaobo—is correct. The Americans will be very shortly landing in these rugged mountains without much of a fuel reserve. Oh, they can get refueled midair, but in Libya there are plenty of electronic eyes and ears from the Middle Country, Russia, Iran, and others. Curious eyes and ears that can cause a lot of questions to be raised.

  He rubs the little triangles of the marked villages. Liu is doubly correct: Jiang does have an interest in someone living there, and now he wonders what to do.

  He leaves the map and ruler on the floor, goes back to his desk. He removes a thin chain from around his neck that holds a small rectangular digital key and inserts it into the lower right-hand desk drawer. A faint click, and he opens the drawer. This device came directly to him from Schlage—avoiding the ministry’s supply system—and he is certain that this drawer cannot ever be tampered with or opened without his permission.

  Among papers, thumb drives, notebooks, and other possessions is the latest limited-edition satellite phone, made by Iridium, an American company, and it’s special in that it can be used inside a building. The West is finally beginning to learn that all those cheap electronics they purchased from the Middle Country over the decades contained spyware and electronic back doors for his employers, and Jiang needs a secure way to make phone calls without being tracked by his own people.

  A small notebook comes out, with certain numbers written inside.

  He powers up the satellite phone, waiting a few seconds to calculate his next move.

  Kill Americans, he finally decides, as the phone blinks to life.

  What he has been destined to do, ever since that May night in 1999.

  Chapter

  6

  Two forty a.m. local time

  Nafusa Mountains, Libya

  In the clear and cold mountain air, Nick Zeppos holds up his closed fist, signaling to everyone within eyeshot to keep quiet. Fury builds inside of him. Shit, not again.

  The third time isn’t going to be the charm.

  He scans the small buildings, sees a stone-strewn path leading up to a rise. He stares at it, knowing that their rides home are out there, circling in the distance, waiting to take them back to the Wasp, hopefully carrying satchels full of intelligence info and a body bag holding the warm remains of Asim Al-Asheed.

  But their hands are empty of such prizes. And Spear One and Spear Two up there are going to be empty of fuel soon enough.

  Decision time.

  He’s reaching for his mic, ready to send out the recall request, when he thinks he hears a bell.

  What?

  He starts up the path.

  The tinkling noise grows louder.

  He knows the fuel tanks of the two Black Hawk helicopters are getting emptier.

  But he keeps on moving.

  Chapter

  7

  Seven forty p.m. local time

  White House Situation Room

  In the increasingly tense atmosphere of the Situation Room, Vice President Pamela Barnes speaks up for the first time.

  “Why aren’t the SEALs leaving?” she demands. “Isn’t the fuel running low for their transport? Wasn’t their time on Libyan soil limited…and their presence illegal, I might add?”

  I want to respond but I keep my mouth shut. Years ago, when I was a member of the teams, BUD/S (Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL) Class 342, I could answer her question within seconds.

  But I’m no longer a SEAL.

  Just POTUS.

  Others will have to answer her inquiries.

  At my side, Admiral Horace McCoy, head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, says, “Madam Vice President, the situation still remains…fluid. I imagine the SEAL teams are exploring and exploiting the situation, to see if there are any possible targets within their vicinity.”

  I say, “Any other questions, Pamela?”

  She glares at me, and I stare right back at her. She does a good job as vice president, did a fairly good job as governor of Florida, and nearly got to the Oval Office as a candidate two years ago, but she’s reactive and doesn’t know much when it comes to the military. My vice president thinks SEAL members and others are windup toys that, once dispatched, go in one direction, follow their orders, and quickly return.

  And if they get broken or destroyed along the way, well, so what? There are plenty more where they came from.

  “Sir,” Admiral McCoy says. “Look at the screen.”

  I turn away from Vice President Barnes and look at the ghostly moving images coming in from our overhead drone assets. The white shapes of the SEAL fighters are stretched out in a skirmish line, and the drone follows their movements.

  Other buildings come into view.

  Along with an enclosure with small animals milling about.

  Other ghostly white shapes begin to show up on the roofs of these new buildings, weapons in hands.

  Admiral McCoy says, “I think the situation is evolving, sir.”

  I say, “Good.”

  Chapter

  8

  Two forty a.m. local time

  Nafusa Mountains, Libya

  Once they approach the crest of the small rise, Chief Zeppos’s attack force, acting as one, flattens out on the rocky soil and clumps of stunted grass and shrubbery, so as not to be silhouetted against the night sky. Zeppos peers over, his HK416 assault rifle firm in his gloved hands, the ground cold against his body.

  He whispers, “I’ll be damned.”

  Over to the left is a small stone corral, with goats, some with bells around their necks.

  A louder tinkle-tinkle reaches him.

  But what really gets his attention is the layout of this compound.

  It’s a mirror image of where they landed several long minutes ago.

  A mapping error.

  What a goddamn surprise.

  A whisper in his headphones from one of his team members, who uses the word for terrorists: “This is Blake. Two tangos in sight at building to the southwest. Engaging.”

  “Roger that,” Zeppos says, his whole mood and attitude changing, thinking, Yes, here we go, we�
�re at the right spot. Asim Al-Asheed, we’re coming for you.

  A muffled pfft pfft pfft comes from the area of the smallest building to the left. Two men carrying AK-47s crumple to the ground.

  Not a peaceful tribal compound now, is it? An element of surprise is gone, if it ever was really there.

  Semper Gumby, he thinks. Always flexible.

  He gets up from the rise, and the platoon quietly, quickly, and efficiently moves into action, moving as one combined unit, none of the yelling and shrieking of “Go, go, go!” you see in bad video games. Just a tightly knit group moving as they were trained, getting the job done with as little drama as possible.

  A man, also armed, runs out of the closest small building and Zeppos takes him down with two shots, and as he moves quickly by the motionless form, he puts two more into the man’s chest.

  Closer now to the larger building, and Zeppos thinks that with drones and other intelligence assets overhead, every move, whisper, and shot fired in this small compound is being witnessed by personnel at the combined Special Operations center at Bagram, in viewing rooms at the Pentagon and Langley, and in the White House Situation Room.

  He hates to admit it, but he feels just a bit of pride and pressure at knowing that the president of the United States is watching their progress tonight from thousands of miles away. After all, the former vice president and Texas congressman had once done this same work, having served in the teams years ago, just after the Twin Towers came down.

  We won’t let you down, sir, Zeppos thinks.

  “Breach team,” he whispers. “Go.”

  Two of his SEALs peel off and approach the larger building. It’s in view more clearly now, and Zeppos feels himself becoming cool and composed. In another minute or so, there’ll be a dynamic entry, and any male person in there is going to get two taps to the chest and one to the forehead. Photos will be taken of the target corpse, the body will be measured and fingerprinted, and DNA swabs will be taken later for positive analysis.

  Asim, he thinks, we’re coming for your ass.

  The two SEALs are at the door.

  Zeppos sees that the door is heavy metal, padlocked.

  It’s going to take a bit longer if the windows are similarly secured.

  They move around to the side, seeking an opportunity.

  Another whisper from Miller, another team operator: “Tango engaged.”

  Pfft, pfft.

  The SEALs are at a window at the larger building, their target, and they begin their work, and—

  The light and sound of the explosion knocks Zeppos back—hard!—on the ground. He coughs up blood and dirt and rolls, getting to his knees, HK416 in his hands, blind.

  He blinks, flips up the night-vision goggles, shades his eyes from the sudden light with his hands.

  The target building has collapsed from an explosion, flames and smoke billowing.

  Gunfire rattles out from the other two buildings.

  Zeppos flattens his position, starts returning fire.

  “Status,” he says. “Status.”

  No answer from his SEAL members.

  He fires twice more.

  “Status,” he calls again, louder. “Status.”

  Rounds come whining in and about him, striking nearby rocks.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” he mutters, switching out an empty magazine with a full one for his assault rifle.

  Sorry, sir, he thinks, firing again at the winking lights on the closest building, we failed.

  Chapter

  9

  Seven forty-five p.m. local time

  White House Situation Room

  Admiral McCoy says, “Contact. The SEALs are engaging armed men in the second compound. It looks like the other landing site was a mistake.”

  I just nod.

  What else could I do?

  There’s a thought in the back of my mind.

  Is this going to be a Carter moment?

  Or an Obama moment?

  Unlucky Jimmy Carter, learning in April 1980 that the bold plan to rescue the Iranian-held hostages has ended in a flame-filled debacle in the desert.

  Or lucky Barack Obama, learning in this very room that the bold plan to kill OBL in May 2011 has ended in triumph with the words from Abbottabad, “For God and country—Geronimo, Geronimo, Geronimo. Geronimo EKIA.”

  The corner of the large video screen briefly flashes with the image of the helicopters due in minutes to pick up the SEALs, hopefully uninjured and carrying out loads of computer hard drives, papers, thumb drives, cell phones, and—

  A large flare of light appears in the upper right of the screen.

  Some people in the room murmur, and Vice President Barnes calls out, “What just happened?”

  I pick up another pen, hold on to it.

  All I can do.

  It’s out of our hands, it’s out of all of our hands, and like so many times before, a carefully planned military operation has failed upon contacting the enemy.

  The bad guys always get a vote, I recall from my Navy days.

  Admiral McCoy says, “Something’s gone wrong.”

  “I can tell,” I say.

  “The target building…we all saw it. It just exploded.”

  Vice President Barnes says sharply, “Was it the SEALs?”

  “No, ma’am,” the admiral says. “The explosion seems internal. It wasn’t caused by our forces on the ground. Nor by any of our air assets in the area.”

  More whispers to him from the Navy captain and the Army colonel.

  I say, “Understood.”

  Up on the screen, the collapsed building comes into better view. More ghost figures move around. One, and then two, fall.

  Our nation’s finest, falling on foreign soil, wounded or killed.

  Sent in by me.

  McCoy says, “The SEALs are returning fire, sir. And…three have entered the destroyed building. To examine…to see what’s going on.”

  I just nod.

  The faces of the other people in the Situation Room seem drained of blood, of any thoughts. We are all just waiting.

  Waiting.

  I say, “Are the helicopters still safely on station to exfil?”

  Whispers at my side, and the admiral says, “Yes, sir. Do you—”

  “No,” I interrupt. “The guys on the ground. It’s their call.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replies.

  I wait.

  The vice president is staring at me, her face stern, her short blond hair perfectly styled and in place.

  McCoy clears his throat. “Sir…the SEALs are preparing their exfil. They…uh, we have casualties, sir.”

  “How many?”

  “Two KIA, at least three WIA.”

  Two dead and three wounded.

  Shit.

  “And Asim Al-Asheed? What’s his status?”

  No answer. A huddle once more.

  I drop the pen and slap my hand on the conference room table. “Admiral! What’s the status of Asim Al-Asheed?”

  Chapter

  10

  Two forty-five a.m. local time

  Nafusa Mountains, Libya

  His lower left shin is hurting and Chief Zeppos glances down, sees the torn fabric of his fatigue pants, now feels blood trickling down.

  Fuck it, he thinks as he works with the other SEAL team members to get control of this screwed-up goat wrangling. The large building that exploded a few minutes ago is partially collapsed, smoke trails going up, small fires burning. They are still taking fire from the near ridge, but it’s undisciplined and random, and Lopez, the best sniper in his platoon, is calmly taking the gunmen out, one by one, with his MK 13 Remington bolt-action rifle.

  Goats who were spooked to shit by the explosion are now milling around their stone corral, looking for some human caretaker.

  Long friggin’ wait, goats, Zeppos thinks. One of his guys, Herez, comes to him and says, “We’ve got the wounded stabilized, Nick.”

  He nods. The wounded just might
make it, and the heavy cost of two dead just might be the only high price paid tonight.

  Prudhomme is dead, a good guy from New Orleans, who was the shittiest cook in the unit, despite his last name and Cajun heritage.

  And Kowalski.

  Who wanted Asim Al-Asheed’s head on a pike, a trophy to bring back to the Oval Office.

  Three other men are coming out of the collapsed building, coughing and moving quickly in his direction.

  Picabo is at Zeppos’s side. “No military-age men, no computer drives, no filing cabinets…not a goddamn thing! Just bedding and stoves and canned food.”

  There are seven dead terrorist fighters in and around the compound, and an earlier quick examination showed that none of them was Asim Al-Asheed. Zeppos spits on the ground, sees his three guys being treated, and sees Wallace standing guard over the still forms of Prudhomme and Kowalski.

  “Anything else?”

  Picabo coughs. “Shit, Chief, sorry. We got dead civilians in there.”

  “Fuck,” Zeppos says.

  The fire up on the ridge seems to have ceased. His wounded leg is still aching. The target building—with nothing inside worth this trip or his wounded or dead—still smolders.

  Picabo says, “Shitheads knew we were coming.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Time for exfil, Chief?”

  Zeppos toggles his radio mic. “Yeah,” he says. “Time to get the hell out of here.”

  Chapter

  11

  Seven forty-nine p.m. local time

  White House Situation Room

  On the display screen I see the flames and smoke trails coming up from the large building that was the SEALs’ target this disastrous evening. The shot of the compound widens some from the local viewing platform, allowing us to see the two specialized stealth MH-60M Black Hawk helicopters descend to pick up the team. I intently watch as the shadowy white figures make their way to the helicopters, some walking with assistance from their teammates.

  Two sets of SEALs are moving slower, burdened by carrying their dead comrades between them.