I feel like snapping at her, With all that’s going on, you’re worried about that?, but I’m saved when Technical Sergeant Palmer comes through and says, “Okay, folks, we’re coming in. Take your seats, buckle up.”
Claire gets up and notes the look on my face, and scurries over to her side of the fuselage.
The aircraft banks here and there, the engine noise changes pitch, and I feel the KC-135 dip and drop altitude as we approach the landing strip. There are no windows or portholes to allow me to judge our approach, and like so many other times in my previous military career, I put my trust and faith in the aircrew.
The landing gear whines and clunks into place, one more shift in the approach, and the KC-135 lands smoothly, the reverse thrusters kicking into action, the jet rapidly slowing down.
My small band of warriors either stir awake or come to attention as the aircraft slows, and Technical Sergeant Palmer approaches us and says, “Welcome to Tunisia, folks. If you unbuckle and bring your gear forward with me, we’ll get you on the ground. There’s no airstairs available, so we’ll get you out through the entry chute.”
We follow in a single line to the crew compartment up front, and the tech sergeant gets to work, lifting up part of the flight deck and revealing a yellow metal grid, which he removes. He lowers a metal ladder and fastens it in place. Then the tech sergeant climbs down and opens a small hatch in the lower fuselage. Our pilot stands up, and Nick Zeppos goes down first, followed by Alejandro Lopez, and David passes our duffel bags to the two SEALs below.
As this goes on, I move from one foot to the other, trying to bide my time, just knowing I need to get on the ground and get to work.
Patience, I think. Get some patience or you’ll move too quick and screw it up.
I make my way to the ladder and Captain Josephs reaches out and offers his hand, his copilot checking some paperwork. I give his hand a quick shake.
“Good luck, sir,” he says. “We’ll be praying for you and your squad.”
“Thanks, Captain,” I say.
I take in the landscape of Sfax-Thyna’s air base, and there’s not much to see. We’re at the end of a commercial airfield that belongs to a small detachment of the Tunisian Air Force, with a handful of hangars and support buildings clustered in one corner. There are four single-engine trainer aircraft and a collection of helicopters, a mix of older Hueys and newer Black Hawks. A scattering of one-story buildings stands beyond the airfield’s fences. The landscape is flat and brown, and the air is humid but not too hot.
I’ve been in worse.
Nick Zeppos is talking to a man wearing dark green fatigues, black boots, and a tan baseball cap, and they both laugh, and Nick slaps him on the shoulder. Then Nick says to me, “Temporary quarters all set up. This way.”
We begin quickly walking and a fuel truck starts racing over to the KC-135. I see the flight crew of Granite Four clustered around the front of the plane, stretching their legs and waiting for the craft to be serviced.
Move, move, I think.
Nick leads us into a small concrete and metal building that looks to be a maintenance facility, with workbenches, pallets, and tools hanging from the walls. It’s hot and stuffy inside, with no air-conditioning. Alejandro and David start clearing off the workbenches and Nick says, “Hold tight, Mr.…ah, Matt. I’m going to hook up with the SEAL platoon, see if we can’t have a briefing within the hour.”
“Sounds good, Nick,” I say. I open my duffel bag, take out a bottle of lukewarm water, take a long gulp.
David says, “The SEAL platoon here…what can they bring to the table?”
I say, “First of all, sixteen professional operators. Probably two Black Hawks, and if we’re lucky, they’re the latest stealth version, which will mean that crossing the border unnoticed will be a hell of a lot easier. Night-vision gear, small arms, sniper rifles, grenade launchers, explosives for breaching doors or barriers, and at least one corpsman. David, we can’t do it without them.”
With workbenches clear, David and Alejandro get to work, opening their respective duffel bags, taking out weapons and various pieces of equipment. I bring my own duffel bag over, start doing the same thing.
I check my watch.
One p.m. local time.
“Claire,” I say. “What time is sunset?”
“Hold on, sir,” she says. While the three of us are unloading our weapons, Claire has been getting her NSA-issued laptop up and running.
Priorities.
She says, “Local sunset is…7:41 p.m., Matt.”
I start thinking it through. No way we’re going on a cross-border raid during the day.
And not right after sunset, either.
No, the best time is always the same time: middle of the night. Bulk of your enemy are asleep, drugged, or drunk, and those on guard duty are usually bored or sleepy.
The good news is that we have at least four hours—a good half day—to prep and practice with the heavily armed SEAL platoon for tonight’s action.
The bad news?
Lots of bad news. We still don’t know where Mel is, only that she’s somewhere a hundred miles to the east, in the Nafusa Mountains of Libya.
And if she’s at one location right now, where will she be five hours from now?
So much to worry about, so much to plan.
The door opens, and Chief Nick Zeppos comes in, face drawn, and I know the bad news is about to get worse.
“Sorry, Matt,” he says, eyes haunted. “The SEALs were called out to help a French para unit to the south.”
We all go silent. I think of what I just said to my Secret Service agent.
David, we can’t do it without them.
Nick says, “They’re gone, and won’t be back for days.”
Chapter
102
Nafusa Mountains, Libya
Jiang Lijun’s bones and muscles are aching from the rough drive he’s put up with for the past half hour. He’s in the sole Land Rover Defender that’s climbing deeply up into these mountains, and he’s sitting in the rear, next to Walid Ali Osman. The driver and another gunman are up front, and the two other Land Rovers are parked about a half kilometer behind. The gunmen who were in those vehicles are quickly climbing ahead to provide cover for when Jiang and Walid finally reach the cluster of buildings inhabited by Asim Al-Asheed and his followers—a bit of information that one of Walid’s tribesmen passed along an hour ago.
The Land Rover bounces, sways, lurches. This dirt road makes the previous dirt road they were riding on seem like the G45 highway south of Beijing. Since his briefing back in New York, Jiang has sent three email messages to Asim, telling him that he is en route, but none of the messages have been answered.
Another hard jolt.
Walid displays a handheld radio. “My men are on their way. When we get to Asim’s residence, I will contact them, and the fighting will start, and we will rescue the American girl.”
The engine whines louder as the incline becomes more steep. The rock walls are so close that if the windows were open, Jiang could touch them.
Jiang says, “You think Asim and his men are going to stand still while you talk into your radio?”
Walid laughs. “I know what I’m doing. The radio will be in my pocket. When we’re in position, all I do is touch the Transmit button three times…sending out a signal. That’s all it will take.”
“And they know enough not to hurt any women they see, correct? We don’t know how Mel Keating is dressed, or where—”
The Land Rover tops a crest.
A man is blocking the path, an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing a dark green fatigue jacket, white trousers, and a black scarf around his head.
The vehicle slows and stops.
The man comes forward.
It’s Faraj Al-Asheed, Asim’s younger cousin.
For the first time since he’s landed back in this cursed country, Jiang feels a bit of optimism.
Asim is a fanatic,
a jihadist, one who is ice-cold when making a decision and seeing it through.
His cousin Faraj is more of a follower, more educated, and, on some days, open to listening to reason.
His presence here is a gift, and Jiang is rethinking the strategy he’s developed with Walid over these past few hours.
Jiang unbuckles his seat belt. “Let me go talk to him. I might come up with a solution that doesn’t involve gunfire.”
“If you say so.” Walid sounds skeptical. “But I still expect to be paid, even if there is no fighting.”
Jiang says, “If I convince Faraj to release the American without fighting, I will pay you and give you and your men a bonus. Stay inside.”
He steps out onto the firmly packed dirt and raises both arms to Faraj as he starts walking toward him. Jiang’s pistol is still with him, but it’s holstered and visible. He wants to put Faraj at ease, to show that his visit here poses no threat.
Faraj grins. “It’s you, isn’t it! Jiang Lijun—what a surprise!”
Asim’s cousin comes toward Jiang, both arms held out, and Jiang thinks, Oh, no, not a smelly hug, but no, Faraj just grasps both of Jiang’s hands, gives them a squeeze.
He says, “Asim told me earlier that you were coming here, up to our little remote home. What an honor! What a delight! What brings you here, then?”
Jiang forces a laugh in reply, and quickly lowers his hands. “Business, of course…business I wish to talk to your cousin about.”
Faraj steps back, smiling, shakes his head. “Yes, Asim. He is always open to talk…except when he isn’t. He told me he wasn’t going to reply to your latest emails. He said, ‘If that Chinaman wants to talk to me, let him come to my mountains.’ So here you are. In his mountains. How did you find him?”
“My guides,” Jiang says, “and my own intelligence.”
Faraj says, “Lucky for us, the Americans aren’t as wise as you. And your business…it has to do with the president’s daughter, correct?”
“True,” Jiang says. “I want to offer him an…agreement. An understanding. Something that could possibly serve both our interests. Perhaps you could convince him to consider my offer: to free Mel Keating to me in exchange for various compensations.”
Faraj scratches at his chin, where a beard is slowly growing back in. “I don’t know about that, Lijun. As I said earlier, he is always open to talk.” He pauses. “Except when he isn’t.”
Faraj lifts his right arm, makes a circling motion with his hand, and from the rocks above and to the left of him, there’s a hard blast of an explosion, a slight whoosh, and a hard explosion behind Jiang.
Jiang automatically falls to the ground, covering his head and ears, as the explosion echoes and reechoes behind him.
He tries to get up and Faraj takes Jiang’s pistol from his side, and then grabs his shoulder, gets him to his feet.
Jiang turns his head.
The Land Rover is on its back, burning brightly, black clouds of smoke rising up, the flames crackling and roaring, even the tires ablaze.
Faraj is next to Jiang, arm around his shoulder.
In the distance are a number of rapid gunshots, and Jiang knows that Walid’s fighters are being cut down, one by one.
Now he’s alone with Faraj, save for the fighter coming down the rocks behind him, holding the spent RPG-7 rocket launcher in his hands. Jiang’s chest aches, and not from landing on the ground.
It might have been easier, he thinks, to have been in that destroyed vehicle.
Faraj gives Jiang’s shoulder a squeeze. “Ah, now that we’ve taken care of your…guides, as you call them, it’s time to meet up with Asim. I’m sure the two of you will have a lot to talk about.”
Jiang blinks at seeing the roaring flames. There’s a brief scream from inside the shattered vehicle.
“If you’re lucky,” Faraj adds.
Chapter
103
Nafusa Mountains, Libya
Mel Keating is on her second bout of exercise this afternoon, and while she’s pleased to have been given this small indulgence, her right ankle is still hurting like hell. She drags it along the dirt as she is shadowed by two men in tan trousers, fatigue jackets, and caps, each holding an AK-47 automatic rifle. The men are young, with scraggly beards and nervous eyes. Dad would say they both had lousy trigger discipline because their fingers are inside the trigger guards, meaning a trip, stumble, or hard sneeze could loose off a shot.
Mel’s wrists are manacled at her side and tied to a wide leather belt secured at the rear. No more plastic flex-cuffs, and even with this additional binding, her two guards seem nervous, and for good reason. Mel is their responsibility, and she’s sure that Alpha and Beta back there weren’t given just an unsatisfactory performance review when she turned up missing.
Probably two taps to the back of the head, she thinks, or something similar.
She continues her dragging walk directly away from the one-story stone building that’s her current prison. There are five other stone buildings in this little village, compound, or terrorist training camp, depending on one’s point of view. All are one story, though in various shapes and sizes. There are about a dozen or so fighters in this place, no women, and no children. At a small building next to the one where she’s being kept, there’s a cluster of satellite dishes and antennas, disguised by overhead netting and canvas. The same kind of camouflage is over four small Nissan pickup trucks, all black.
Maybe they got a dealer discount on the color, she thinks sourly.
At the end of her walk, she turns around, resumes her slow pace back to her jail. The buildings are in a flat stretch of land, with steep rocky slides behind and to the right, the narrow dirt and stone road to the left, and, up ahead, a chunk of hollowed-out and crumbling wall of rock, rising up to a flat mountain. Two men are stationed up there, armed and with binoculars to their faces. The air is cold and the sky a crisp blue.
There’s a shout. Asim Al-Asheed emerges from the largest of the stone buildings, accompanied by two of his lackeys, and there’s laughter and chuckles. Mel wishes her arms were free so she could tackle her near guard, strip him of his AK-47, and cut them all down.
Asim comes directly to her, still smiling, and she’s chilled, remembering the reception she got hours ago, when Faraj brought her up here. She thought she would be beaten, punched, or even worse, but Asim was in a good mood, smiling, and gently tapped her cheek. “What a naughty girl you were,” he said, and she wishes now that she had had the presence of mind to bite his fingers.
He speaks rapidly in Arabic to the two guards, who step back, and Asim says to Mel, “Let me walk with you, back to your quarters.”
Mel resumes her slow pace. “Some quarters. Looks like it was once stables. Still stinks.”
“Yet we gave you the best room in there,” Asim says. “For that, why aren’t you grateful?”
Mel keeps her gaze straight ahead, not wanting to look at her captor. “You want my gratitude? Have a couple of your guys drive me out of here and drop me off at the American embassy in Tripoli. I’ll be so grateful I’ll put you on my Christmas card list.”
He laughs, although she continues to ignore him by not looking at him.
Asim has started to speak when the sound of a far-off explosion thuds in the distance.
Mel stops, looks to the narrow road leading out from the encampment. She’s not sure, but it sounded like a few rapid bursts of gunfire.
Her chest gets tight and she squeezes her handcuffed hands. Could it be? Is somebody coming for her? Now? A rescue attempt? Should she start running away from Asim?
Asim says, “Ah, there you go.” He checks his watch. “Fairly on time.”
Mel struggles to control her voice. “What’s happening?”
“Oh,” he says, lightness in his voice. “Didn’t you hear? A rescue party was on its way. My cousin and a number of my warriors dispatched it before it arrived.”
Mel turns away, not wanting Asim to see the tears
in her eyes, the disappointment in her face, but it’s too much, it’s all too much, and she sobs.
So close!
Asim says, “Ah, don’t cry, Mel Keating. It wasn’t the Americans. Or the British. Or the French. If you can believe it, someone from China, your powerful rival, tried to grab you from me. The strange ways of our world, when a rival nation tries to save you. Now, no more tears, all right?”
They come to the guarded main door of the stone building, and he says, “Resign yourself to your fate. You are here, with me, forever. Daddy isn’t coming for you. And Mommy isn’t coming for you. No one is coming for you. We believe that Allah wrote down in the al-lawh al-mahfooz all that has happened and will happen, and which will come to pass as written. That means that our respective fates and destinies have already been determined by Allah.”
Mel decides to ignore that last bit of blather. She shuffles her feet in place and Asim says, “What is that?”
Mel says, “I may be living in a stone barn, but I didn’t grow up in one. Just getting the dirt and dust off my feet.”
Two armed men flank the heavy wooden door, and Asim opens it, nods, and says, “After you, Mel.”
She walks into the darkness.
Chapter
104
Sfax-Thyna air base, Tunisia
After Chief Nick Zeppos announces the departure of the SEAL platoon they were depending on, the hot and smelly room falls silent, and Matt Keating seems to stiffen and grow a few inches. With his beard growth, the clothes he’s wearing, and the look in his dark eyes, the man doesn’t look like a former president of the United States to Nick: Nick sees a fellow SEAL operator.
“Chief,” Matt says, the word hard and sharp, “you promised us transportation. We don’t have it. You’re going back out there to get it.”
The President's Daughter Page 36
