Claire says, “Matt, just took down an armed tango who was holding Mel. She’s about thirty meters to the east of where I’m located, near a pile of scrap metal. Go get her.”
Go get her!
I turn my head and spot the scrap metal Claire’s pointed out. About a second ago I was tired, hip aching, frustrated and fearful, and now I feel like I’m twenty years younger as I race toward where Mel is.
Go get her!
Those words will burn in joy inside me forever, along with memories of the instructors yelling out, “Congrats, gents: Hell Week is over!,” of Samantha saying, “I do,” of the doctor calling out, “She’s a girl, and she looks fine!,” and of Samantha kissing me hard one late night in Texas and whispering, “Congratulations, Congressman.”
I run and run, my weapon still in my hands, and I’m scanning and looking, and as I get closer to that scrap metal pile, I yell out, “Mel, it’s Dad! Stay put! I’ll be there in a second!”
Go get her!
I round the pile of rusted metal and oil drums and there’s a body slumped over to the far left, and someone else hunched over near me, like she’s trying to burrow into the ground, and I race up and just a few feet away I say, “Mel, it’s Dad, let’s go. Mel, it’s me.”
The shape pops up and whirls around and it’s Asim Al-Asheed, and as I raise my M4 to fire I feel his knife stab deep into me.
Chapter
127
Secret Service agent David Stahl hears the firefight going on about seventy or so meters away, but he focuses on his job, which is sweeping this long and slow crumbling stone wall, and so far, there’s nothing.
Through his headset he hears the calm chatter of the two SEALs and Claire, the NSA woman up there coolly firing off .308 full-metal-jacket rounds at the terrorists trying to get to Nick and Alejandro. In about one minute, David is calling off this search and going back to the compound.
Claire’s calm voice brings a smile to his face and sends a warming joy throughout his cold and tired body.
“Matt,” she says, “just took down an armed tango who was holding Mel. She’s about thirty meters to the east of where I’m located, near a pile of scrap metal. Go get her.”
David toggles the Transmit switch on his radio. “Matt, this is David, do you need me?”
He keeps low, starts going back up the stone wall, still taking cover because he doesn’t know how many jihadists might be out here in these mountains, coming in to lend a hand to Asim Al-Asheed and his fighters.
“Matt, this is David. Can I assist?”
Still no answer.
He stops.
“Claire, this is David. Do you have visual on Matt and Mel?”
She instantly replies, “Not at the moment. Last I saw, Mel had hit the dirt, and her dad was approaching. Both are behind a pile of scrap metal. I—”
“Break, break,” says the strained voice of Nick. “David, could really use your help over here.”
David is torn. His Secret Service responsibility is over there, with the former POTUS and his daughter. He really should move over there.
But tonight he’s a Marine.
Once a Marine, always a Marine.
You never leave anybody behind, never refuse a request for aid.
“Nick, on my way,” he says, and he starts running toward the sound of the guns.
Asim feels strength course through him as he knocks down the former president, the man’s weapon flying out of his hands, even his radio gear tumbling away. Asim also feels the quick joy of having his knife cut into the man who killed his family.
They are struggling near a mound of old metal and oil barrels, and being on top of the man, Asim quickly gauges he’s old and out of shape. Oh, the weak infidel is struggling, holding on to Asim’s wrists, but Asim is certain a few more seconds will end it. Even with his head throbbing from the attack from that damn Chinese spy—and Asim plans to take a week to kill him once he’s found him—Asim feels the strength of righteous rage flowing through him.
He pushes down on Matt Keating’s wrists, and in the dark he says, “Just you and me, Matt Keating, and you have no Secret Service, no Army, no drones, no satellites. It’s like the days of old, the strong versus the weak, and after I kill you, I will go find your girl and kill her, too.”
Asim pushes again, his entire weight on top of the president, knowing he’s only moments away from breaking the man.
Chapter
128
My left wrist is burning something awful and a small rational part of me knows that Asim has cut me right down to the bone, but the larger rational part of me is realizing the son of a bitch has me and has me good. He’s muscular, he’s been living in Spartan conditions these past few years—while I’ve grown soft in politics—and he has a burning rage coming down on top of me.
My comm gear is off, my M4 is over there somewhere, and there’s a knife and a SIG Sauer pistol by my feet, but both weapons could be back in the States for all the good they can do me.
I have my left hand on Asim’s right wrist, right hand on his left wrist, and maybe I’m woozy or adrenaline-fueled, but I’m sure starlight is glittering off that sharp knife in his right hand.
I try pushing, kicking, sliding, but he matches me, move for move, as he pushes down harder on me. He’s murmuring words of revenge and destruction and Allah and I’m not paying attention to what he’s saying, and I’m definitely not answering him, because I can’t spare the strength and the oxygen.
It’s easy to see what’s going to happen.
My cut left wrist is going to fail me in a few seconds, and with his knife hand free, he’s going to go for my throat, and when he’s sure I’m dead, he’ll go hunting for Mel.
I finally decide to yell out, “Mel! Run for it! Get out of here! Head to the rock wall to the south!”
Oh, damn, that drew some strength from me, and Asim laughs, starts spouting again about revenge and death, and yes, my left wrist is weakening, it’s hurting, and I know I’m just seconds away from calling it a night.
It’s almost peaceful.
It’ll be quick, and Mel will join up with the others, and she’ll be safe.
But I keep on fighting.
Wonder if I’m going to get a state funeral, the first ex-POTUS not to die in bed.
Asim whispers, “Give up, Matt Keating, give up…I promise to make it quick…quicker than when you killed my wife and my daughters…”
I try twisting and pulling his other hand away, but his strong wrist barely moves. If I pull away now and try to put both hands on the hand holding the knife, he’ll just use his other hand to throttle me.
A younger me would be able to lift up with my legs and throw him off balance, but I’m no longer the younger me.
Soon I’ll no longer be me.
“Mel!” I yell for the last time. “Run!”
Blood is streaming down my wrist, which wobbles, weakens, and it’s close, very close to bending.
Thud!
Asim gasps and falls back. Freed, I quickly sit up, pull my SIG Sauer, and I’m on top of him now and press the muzzle end of my pistol right under his chin, and I say, “You talk too much.”
And I pull the trigger twice, blowing off the top of his head.
I sit back, exhausted.
A shadow comes forward.
Holding a long piece of metal.
A tentative voice. “Dad, is that you?”
I say, “Oh, Mel, yes, yes, it’s me.”
And we hug and both sob and the dad part of me just doesn’t want to let her go, but the SEAL part—Are there more bad guys out there? And Jesus, my wrist hurts!—says, “C’mon, hon, let’s get you out of here.”
Chapter
129
Mel helps me get my gear back, and with my comm set secure again, I say, “Break, break, this is Matt. I’ve got Mel. Pull back to the exfil point. Pull back to the exfil point.”
She starts to move, and I say, “Hold on. Get that rucksack off me, will you
?”
“Dad, are you hurt?”
“Just a scratch,” I say. “C’mon, Mel, hurry.”
The rucksack falls to the ground and I say, “Open it up, put what’s in there on, and then we’ll get out of here.”
She unzips the top, pulls out a bullet-resistant vest, which I help her put on, and then a small ballistic helmet, which she gets on without my help. Now that she’s dressed for a fire zone, I put my bleeding left arm around her and start moving as quick as possible, still keenly aware of my surroundings, my M4 in my right hand.
The amount of gunfire has sharply dropped, meaning that most of Asim’s men are dead, wounded, or have headed up into the mountains for safety. I spot our exfil point, and through my NVGs I see movement there and two IR laser beams probing out, exploring for emerging targets.
“Matt, coming in,” I call out as I clamber over the lone stone wall, and Mel is with me, and she instantly says, “My dad’s hurt. Can someone help him?”
David comes over and Mel closes in, and says in an excited and credulous voice, “Agent Stahl? Is that you?”
He kneels in front of me, starts cutting away my BDU shirtsleeve, and says, “Of course, Mel. Just because you’re halfway across the world doesn’t mean we won’t come to protect you.” Then, to me: “Jesus, Matt, what did you do to yourself?”
I say, “Got cut by Asim.”
David pours water over my wound, and I wince and turn away, and he says, “Where is he now?”
“In another place, trying to explain what he’s been doing these past years.” I’m tired and my wrist is hurting, feels red-hot, but Mel is sitting right next to me, protected, and I look down the length of the wall and see that Nick is keeping watch on the compound, a bandaged Alejandro is doing the same, and Claire Boone is…
Checking out another person?
“David,” I say. “Who’s that with Claire? We’re not taking prisoners.”
He presses a wad of QuikClot combat gauze to my wrist to stop the bleeding, and then starts tightly wrapping a compression bandage against the wound. “You’ll need some serious stitches once we get back to Tunisia.”
“Yeah, I’m sure, but who’s the guy with Claire?”
David laughs. “A Chinese national. Claims to be a field rep for the China State Construction Engineering Corporation. Complete with business card and official ID. Claire says she saw him tussling with Mel a few minutes ago, thought he was a bad guy. Shot him but he was wearing a vest, managed to break a few ribs. Claire heard him calling for help as she was coming back here.”
I flex my wrist.
Still hurts.
I check my watch.
We’ve been on the ground for fifty-five very long minutes.
Where in hell is our Black Hawk?
I work my Motorola and switch frequencies, and call out, “Joe, Joe, Joe, this is Matt. Come in, please.”
Nick fires off a shot.
“Joe, Joe, Joe, this is Matt. What’s your status?”
No reply.
I say, “Damn it.”
Mel says, “Who’s Joe?”
“A Tunisian Special Forces pilot. He brought us in, and he’s supposed to take us out. He’s just a little late, that’s all.” To David I say, “If we have to, we’ll take one of their trucks.”
With regret in his voice, he says, “Sorry, Matt. We, uh…well, they’re pretty shot up now. A bunch of the fighters tried to take shelter behind them. The three of us pretty much ventilated all of them.”
Great, I think. Just great.
What now?
I put my uninjured arm around Mel, give her a quick squeeze.
Then, as the wind shifts, I faintly hear the finest sound an operator amidst enemy territory can ever hear: the thrumming sound of helicopter rotors.
Rescue coming in, courtesy of Sikorsky Aircraft.
“Prep for exfil!” I call out, and take out two infrared chem lights, break them to activate the chemicals, and toss them out into the small, flat, stony area. Invisible to the naked eye, to Joe and his copilot’s NVGs they’ll be a beacon they can’t miss. Nick and Alejandro do the same as me, and for the Tunisian Special Forces guys up there, it must look like Times Square at night down here.
“A few minutes more, hon,” I say to Mel. “Just a few minutes more.”
Mel doesn’t say anything, and I quickly become worried, but I listen harder and just hear my daughter sobbing into me.
Chapter
130
Faraj Al-Asheed knows he’s dying, but he also knows he has bought himself several more minutes on earth due to having quickly moved after his cousin stabbed him, that filthy dog. Instead of instantly killing Faraj, the wound is just an eventually mortal one—mortal despite how much he has tried to bandage himself.
He’s crawling to where he thinks the Americans are hiding, for their insolent voices are loud indeed, carrying easily in this cold thin air. He doesn’t dare stand, and he doesn’t dare move quickly, but move he does, dragging an AK-47 in his right hand.
Oh, Allah, how it hurts in his chest!
As he crawls along the rough ground, closer to the stone wall, final memories come to him: of his childhood in Tripoli, of staying alive during the civil wars and militia drive-bys, of getting that film school scholarship, of living in Paris and learning so much, and of committing Haraam, fornicating with the willing whores and drinking and eating forbidden foods.
Jihad, to which his cousin felt called, seemed like a road to redemption, something to eventually save his soul, but after years of bloodshed and combat, Faraj was tired of it, wanted to escape. But Asim—that Ya Ibn el Sharmouta—stopped him.
Oh, it hurts so much!
The sound of the helicopter grows louder. The aircraft is ready to rescue the Americans and perhaps even Mel Keating, take them back to their comfort and their secure lives.
One more memory comes to him before he leaves this world for the dark unknown out there.
He remembers the training classes for the raw recruits who found their way to his cousin’s many camps and compounds. The first things Asim showed the young men were videos of the many jihad attacks over the years, from the USS Cole attack to the American embassy bombings in Africa and the sweet success of the fall of the Twin Towers in Manhattan, and subway and bus attacks in London, and other attacks in Brussels and Paris and Berlin…
Faraj watched the rapt expressions of those young men and heard their laughter and cheers at seeing civilians being torn to pieces or falling to their deaths from the tall buildings, and he didn’t see holy warriors then or now.
Just young men with no future who took delight in breaking things, killing people, stomping on creatures. What Faraj learned in Paris as a young and vulnerable man, what is called nihilism.
It now makes sense.
He picks up the AK-47, ensures that the safety is off, and as the helicopter descends, he gets to his feet and pulls the trigger, enjoying those very last moments of being a killer.
Chapter
131
Our exfil flight is late but at least it’s here, and I raise my voice and say, “Get Mel in first, then Alejandro and the Chinese guy, and we’ll follow.”
The light sticks scatter as the Black Hawk descends, dirt and gravel fly at us, and then it all goes to hell.
Gunfire erupts from the grounds beyond us and I turn and so does Nick, and through my NVGs and infrared laser spotter I see a wobbly man firing off an AK-47, and Nick and I shred him to pieces as Mel screams, “Daddy, I’m hit!”
Bodies tumble here and there, and the gunman gets off a few more rounds before he falls into the dirt, and Mel is pulled from underneath someone, and she’s pushed into the helicopter. Claire helps the Chinese man aboard, and I shove Alejandro inside, and David is on the ground and Nick and I drag him in, and then the helicopter flares up and out, and the Tunisian crew chief slides the door shut.
Our pilot, Joe, yells from up front, “So sorry we’re late…comm problems for rea
l, tried to fix them, and then we gave up and came in.”
I don’t answer. I’m stepping frantically over extended legs and arms, getting to Mel, her face pale behind her eyeglasses. Claire is tearing off Mel’s worn and filthy Dartmouth sweatshirt—I ache, thinking of the last time I saw this shirt, that sunny impossible day back at Lake Marie when Mel was safely heading off for a hike—and Claire looks and prods and says, “It’s okay, Mr. President…I mean Matt. Shit. She’s going to be okay. It looks worse than it is.”
Mel turns and says, “Claire Boone…what the hell are you doing here?”
Claire paws through an open first aid kit from the Black Hawk. “Taking part in the rescue of your perky butt, it seems.”
The helicopter gains altitude and speed, and I have to smile at seeing Mel and Claire together. I turn and I’m not smiling anymore.
David Stahl is on his back, helmet off, eyes open, mouth slowly working, his skin graying out. Nick is frantically trying to run an IV into David’s bare arm, and Alejandro is desperately trying, with just one hand, to stop the bleeding from the large wound to David’s neck.
I kneel and nudge Alejandro aside, and after Nick gets the needle in and stands up and hangs the IV bag from an overhead cable, he sees me and says, “I saw it all, Matt. The shooting started and David tossed Mel to the ground and threw himself on top of her. Just like the Secret Service, for sure.”
I push a wad of QuikClot combat gauze against David’s wound, and press another one on top, and that quickly soaks with blood, and I put another one on, and another one on, and they all soak through within seconds.
Alejandro whistles loudly toward the cockpit and says, “Joe! Get this bird moving! Any town or village nearby with a hospital! Get us there! Haul ass!”
The President's Daughter Page 42
