No, Mel thinks, stepping off the fresh dirt and rock pile and going to the door.
If the door opens, she’s going to take this piece of jagged wood and shove it into the throat of the first guy to come through.
No begging, no crying.
Going out like a badass.
She waits.
No more voices.
The faint sound of music being played on a radio.
“All right, then,” Mel whispers.
Back to the dirt pile.
Shove, scrape, shove—
The piece of wood slides up unexpectedly, and a burst of cold air comes down and caresses her dirty and sweaty face.
She’s broken free to the outside!
Mel coughs, wipes her face, and quickly goes back to work.
So close.
So very, very close.
More rocks and dirt trickle out and tumble down.
She pushes up and—
Falls.
Her right ankle screams at her and the pain just radiates up her leg and spine.
Mel rolls over, clenches her fist, tries to take deep breaths.
Get up, she thinks. Get up.
You’re the daughter of two tough and determined parents.
Prove it.
Mel gets up, hopping on her good foot, gets the piece of wood, and starts hammering away again.
Nothing is going to stop her now.
Nothing.
Chapter
115
The first nearly one hundred miles of our journey goes over flat water, the famed Gulf of Sidra, and Joe quietly says over the intercom, “Feet dry, Mr. President. We’re in Libyan airspace now.”
“Copy that, Joe,” I say, and look to my fellow warriors inside the Black Hawk. As with so many other missions I’ve been on, each person here is in his or her own world. There’s no rah-rah, no speeches, no words of derring-do. We all sit quietly, a couple of us drinking from water bottles, others just staring out or trying to sleep.
The steady roar of the engines, the red-lit interior, the straps and webbing and gear—it’s all so familiar to me. I’ve been inside Black Hawks like this countless times, either on training missions or real ops, and it’s like being with an old friend, save for one thing.
This isn’t an official operation or a training exercise.
It’s the real deal. We’re out to rescue my daughter.
And while failure in training or in a real-life op can be expected, or even excused, not tonight.
No failure.
It cannot happen.
I will not allow it.
We speed along into the night, above the rocky desert and landscape of nighttime Libya.
My earphones crackle.
“Two minutes, Mr. President,” Joe says. “Two minutes.”
“Copy that,” I say. I take off the headset, rearrange my Peltor ComTac headset, and hold up two fingers to the rest of my crew.
“Two minutes!” I call out. “Two minutes!”
We put on our respective helmets, lower the night-vision gear, switch it on. Instantly everything inside the helicopter has a ghostly green glow. I yell out, “Move tight, move quick, let’s get this done!”
The Black Hawk’s angle of approach and speed change, and the crew chief for the Black Hawk joins us, toggles free the near sliding door, pushes it open.
Cold night air rushes in and the ground is coming up close, rock walls dangerously near, and then we lift up and go down, and there’s the narrow wadi that Joe picked out earlier, and the helicopter’s speed changes again, we lower, lower, hover—
Off we go, one by one.
Nick Zeppos is the last one off and we huddle, our heads lowered, as the Black Hawk zooms up and out, and we’re alone.
I stand up.
“Comm check,” I say. “Matt’s here.”
“Claire.”
“Nick.”
“Alejandro.”
“David,” says the last voice.
“All coming in, loud and clear,” I say, scanning in all directions, checking out the overhead rocks and flat cliffs.
Nothing.
I say, “Nick and Alejandro, you’re up. We’ll be following in ten minutes.”
“Copy that,” Nick says.
“Copy that,” Alejandro says.
They move up the rocks like young mountain goats, skipping up and ahead, and the tightness in my chest eases some.
We came in cold. No shots, no mortar rounds falling, nothing. The sound of the Black Hawk is a distant humming noise. There’s no moon tonight but the sky is so clear and cold that even the starlight is giving us pretty good visibility, even without our NVGs.
I check my watch and its glowing numerals.
Ten minutes have passed.
“Saddle up, folks,” I say, and we start climbing.
After another fifteen minutes of climbing and hiking, pausing every few minutes to check our surroundings, we get to the narrow dirt road leading up steeply to Asim Al-Asheed’s compound. We all take a knee under cover of nearby rocks and boulders.
I give the area a slow 360-degree observation.
All quiet, all lifeless.
The M4—with safety off and a round in its chamber—is firm in my gloved hands.
My headset remains quiet.
Up the road, Nick and Alejandro are on the job, and I know enough not to bother them. I look up the steep and narrow road. A couple of days ago, Mel traveled up here, saw these very rock walls, breathed this same mountain air.
So damn close.
My earphones come to life. “Matt, this is Nick.”
“Nick, go,” I say.
“Matt, we’re good here. Waiting on Alejandro.”
And that is that. One man or teen boy, dreaming of glory and jihad and heaven, sitting in the cold dirt, working his shift as a guard for one of the most wanted terrorists in the world, quietly got a sound-suppressed 5.56mm round between his eyes.
“Copy that, Nick,” I whisper. “Good job.”
Next up: Alejandro.
We wait.
Nothing moves, nothing calls out in the dark night.
Just everything bathed in green ghost light.
I wait.
I check my watch.
Slow minutes pass.
“Nick, this is Matt,” I say. “Status?”
“Matt, this is Nick,” he replies. “Waiting on Alejandro.”
Aren’t we all.
Waiting.
I shift my weight, impatience starting to gnaw at me.
Let him do his job, I think.
But so many things could have gone wrong in the short time since we’ve landed.
Alejandro being ambushed.
Or stumbling and falling into a crevasse.
Or not finding the guard, who’s moved his position.
Who might be seeing us now.
Reporting back to Asim via his handheld radio that an armed party is coming his way.
I toggle my Transmit switch. “Alejandro,” I whisper. “This is Matt. Status?”
No reply.
Again: “Alejandro, this is Matt. Status?”
Nothing.
I feel like it’s all slipping away.
Chapter
116
Jiang Lijun looks up as the door is unlocked and Faraj enters, holding a small flashlight in his right hand.
“It’s time,” Faraj says, coming to him, kneeling down to undo the locks holding Jiang’s chains to the chair.
Jiang asks, “Why so late?”
Faraj says, “Asim had to wait for his meal, and then he wanted some private time with his driver, Taraq. He’s planning on packing up everyone and leaving later tonight, after he finishes his task.”
Jiang rubs at his hands and ankles, stands up. “What task?”
Faraj steps back, drops the chains and locks on the dirt floor. “He wants you to witness him killing Mel Keating, so you can go back to Beijing and tell your masters that you’ve met a true
man of God, who cannot be bribed or tempted by the riches of this life. Then he plans to use a body double in the years ahead, releasing a videotape here and there, to torment Matt Keating that his daughter is still alive. At some point, decades from now, after years of Keating’s mental anguish, my cousin plans to tell the truth and reveal the location of Mel Keating’s bones. His final means of revenge.”
Jiang steps up. “But…you can’t allow that.”
Faraj gestures with the flashlight. “I won’t. Come along. I’ll take care of my cousin, and then we’ll get Mel Keating.”
Jiang thinks quickly. “My pistol. Return it to me, please.”
Faraj shakes his head. “Be thankful we let you keep your protective vest. That’s all you’ll need.”
Jiang follows Faraj out to the darkness of the compound, happy that, yes, he is keeping his protective vest, and also knowing that hidden away in the vest are a few items that will prove useful in the next few minutes. Thankfully, these brave and stupid warriors didn’t take the time to closely search him when he was captured.
Still, he thinks, he wishes he had his QSZ-92 9mm pistol at his side.
But he will go ahead.
In planning, wishes don’t count.
It takes just a few minutes to come to a large building in the center of the compound. It’s a starlit night, and there are two flickering fires in old oil drums, and Jiang shakes his head at the carelessness of Asim’s fighters. No discipline at all.
Ahead, Asim calls out, “Ah, cousin. Glad to see our Chinese friend is with us. Please, come along. What a historic night!”
Asim is in front of a heavy wooden door and Jiang again takes in the cold mountain air. A lovely night to do what must be done and, most of all, to live.
Jiang allows himself the hope that he will live out the night. And he decides to try once more, no matter what Faraj has offered.
He says, “Asim, I’m again pleased to see you…and again, I have to ask…will you let the girl free in my custody? And no payment will be made nor offered. Then I will return to my superiors in Beijing and tell them of you, not only a man of God but also a man of mercy.”
In the dim light, Jiang sees Asim’s face widen into a smile, and he mentions something to one of the two men guarding the entrance, and a laugh is shared.
Jiang thinks, Well, it was worth the effort.
Asim says, “A good try, but don’t be afraid, Jiang. You will survive tonight. I give you my vow. You and the West, sometimes you forget the importance of God, of vows, of self-discipline. Like my dear cousin Faraj.”
Faraj looks concerned, and Jiang takes one careful step back.
Asim goes on. “Faraj is loyal, smart, and a good fighter to have at your side. But he is always tempted by the technologies. Like drones. Or battery-operated coolers for forbidden drinks. Or listening devices.”
He quickly steps next to Faraj, flings an arm across his shoulder. “Even if you don’t need any of these technologies. Like when a good man with good ears listening through an open window can tell you all you need to know.”
Faraj moves quickly but Asim is faster, pulling a knife from underneath his vest and plunging it into his cousin’s chest.
Chapter
117
And then, like a voice from above, Alejandro comes through.
“Matt, this is Alejandro,” he says.
“Alejandro, this is Matt. Go.”
He says calmly, “Sorry for the delay, Matt. My guy left his post, went to water a rock. I took him out midstream.”
Sweet relief courses through me. I say, “Nick, Alejandro, proceed. We’ll meet you at the jump-off points.”
We three stand up as one and resume our pace, the only sound being the gentle crunch-crunch of our booted feet on the dirt road as we climb. We don’t hurry but we don’t move slowly, either. Just methodical and on point, our heads swiveling around, always looking, seeing, evaluating.
The road widens.
Rocks and boulders are clustered at either side.
The land flattens out.
We move to the right, going in and around the rocks and scree.
I hold up a hand.
We pause.
Voices.
We move slower, spreading out.
I look through a gap of rocks, see the buildings come into view.
Two oil drums burning.
Armed men moving around, in small groups of two or three.
Laughter.
A flapping sound as the large tarpaulin covering four pickup trucks moves in the breeze. I quietly join Nick and Alejandro there as David and Claire keep moving and go behind the low stone wall, heading to the front of the center building.
That building, close up against the rise of rocks, is now in clear view.
Mel is in there, I think.
My daughter is there.
Right there.
Just a few seconds more.
All that’s gone on during the past few weeks, from her kidnapping, to the murder of her boyfriend, Tim, to the dark horror of that beheading video and the hopeful hints that she was still alive, to my own journey here—all of those memories and thoughts roar through me as I rest on this cold stony ground in Libya.
Now, less than fifty meters away, my daughter waits.
I check my watch.
Almost time.
Chapter
118
Mel Keating bends over in her cell, coughing and choking after a big burst of dirt slams into her mouth and nose.
She stands up, grabs her last bottle of water, takes a swallow.
Close.
Mel caps the water bottle.
Puts the bottle under her shirt, starts working her way up the hole.
Head through.
Shoulders.
Squirm.
Elbows to the side, digging in, digging in…
She stops.
Plugged.
Damn it!
She worms her way back down, nearly losing her glasses in the process—damn it again!—and she’s back on the floor, breathing hard.
Picks up the length of wood.
Digs some more.
More rocks tumble down.
There.
Should be enough.
Has to be enough.
Mel goes back, stands on the little mound of dirt.
Voices, getting louder and getting closer.
She looks up the hole and convinces herself she sees the night sky and stars up there.
Freedom.
Someone starts unlocking the door.
Out of time.
Chapter
119
Asim leads Jiang Lijun into the single-story stone building, glad to see the Chinese intelligence officer being quiet and humble. For too long this foreigner had his hands on the proverbial purse strings, dispensing money and weapons and supplies when it suited Jiang and his masters, but now Asim is in charge. He will show Jiang the most sought woman on the planet—Mel Keating, the president’s daughter—and will show Jiang the power of his hand and blade.
Then the Chinese man will be let loose.
Asim has lied many times over the years during his jihad, but at least this time he is telling the truth.
“Come, come,” Asim says, “and in a very few minutes, you will be free.”
Asim goes past the old stalls, stocked with supplies and piled weapons and lit from above by single lightbulbs, and past two of his warriors, squatting, sipping cups of tea—he frowns upon recalling how much Faraj enjoyed the infidel’s alcohol—and he stops at the locked wooden door to Mel’s cell.
Another of his armed warriors nods and steps aside.
Asim looks to Jiang.
The Chinese intelligence officer’s face is blank.
Asim produces the key, unlocks the door, and pushes it open.
It halts.
He pushes again.
It grinds a bit and stops again.
What is going on? Asim wonders.
&n
bsp; “You,” he says to a warrior. “Help me get this door open.”
The warrior slings his AK-47 over his shoulder and joins Asim in pushing the door open. It takes a few long seconds, and then something breaks free and the door swings in.
Asim quickly sees what happened.
Mel inserted a piece of broken wood under the bottom of the door, blocking it.
“Didn’t work, did it, Mel?” Asim says, walking in.
The cell is empty.
Mel isn’t there.
“What?” he shouts, stunned.
He sweeps the room and sees a pile of dirt and something wiggling, and a pair of feet are disappearing up into a hole.
Chapter
120
Shoving that piece of wood underneath the door gave Mel a few precious seconds, and yes, it worked, it worked, it worked.
She kicks with her feet, uses her elbows again, and her head is through, hands up and on the loose rock and dirt part of this roof, and she squirms and feels like a damn cork popping out of a champagne bottle.
Mel rolls to her side, flattens out, takes a few quick breaths.
Out.
Now what?
The mountain here is nearly a sheer cliff.
And the road is out. Too easy to be spotted. And that flat place over there with the stone wall: no, too exposed.
There’s a mess of broken rocks and boulders off to the other side of the compound, and it looks easier to get there. Lots of places to hide and maneuver. She has the bottle of water stuck in her clothes, and she still has slippers on her feet from that sweet old woman who took her in.
Mel crawls to the edge of the roof, peers down, sees nobody moving around, though that’s going to change in less than a minute or two, when Asim races out and starts raising hell.
She moves around, lowers herself down as quietly as she can, dangling, her hands on the sharp stone edge of the roof.
Mel drops to the ground, happy that she remembers at the last second to drop on her good foot, not her injured one.
Then she starts running to freedom.
The President's Daughter Page 40
