Collusion

by Newt Gingrich

  “I see the convent!” he hollered at the SAT phone.

  The seventeenth-century monastery had been built as a fortress to defend the city at the elbow of the Moscow River.

  “It’s got castle walls around it!” Garrett yelled. “How am I supposed to get inside them?”

  “You’re not,” Kim said. “Austin says there’s a cemetery south of it. I can see it on my screen. Head south.”

  “A what? Did you say graveyard?”

  “Novodevichy Cemetery. Get to its front gate.”

  Garrett swerved, sideswiping a slow-moving car. The screech of metal on metal echoed throughout the cab. The jolt caused the SAT phone to fly from Peter’s hand. It smacked against the inside of the windshield. Peter scrambled to grab it but missed. It fell under Garrett’s feet. Pavel reached over, grabbed it, and then crawled up onto the truck seat, buckling himself in next to his grandson.

  Garrett was now speeding down Luznetskiy Proyezd along the edge of the convent. From his right-side mirror, Garrett spotted General Gromyko’s Mercedes coming behind him on the busy boulevard. Garrett had to do something to slow him.

  He swerved the Zil again, this time sideswiping a Lada sedan, which spun out of control. A perfect 360. It was hit from behind by another vehicle. The Lada toppled over onto its side. Drivers slammed on their brakes to avoid a pileup. It would be enough to delay but not to stop Gromyko.

  The cemetery’s entrance appeared just as the Zil began to sputter and slow down, thanks to its now-empty radiator. Garrett turned the limping Zil into its entrance and stopped.

  “Now what!” he demanded over the SAT.

  That’s when he spotted Ginger Capello exiting a BMW X5 luxury sedan with its engine running.

  “Gromyko’s coming!” she screamed.

  Garrett, Peter, and Pavel leapt from Zil’s cab and hurried into the waiting BMW. There was no time to thank Capello or ask how she planned to avoid being arrested.

  Garrett sped back onto the southbound lane.

  Through the sedan’s back mirror, he watched Capello toss a packet into the truck’s cab before she darted into the cemetery, lowering a black veil from her hat.

  Gromyko reached the abandoned Zil just when the truck’s cab exploded.

  Garrett turned onto the entrance of the Third Ring. Peter was still holding the SAT phone.

  “Gromyko didn’t see your vehicle,” Kim announced. “He’s stopped at the cemetery.”

  “What about Capello?” Garrett asked.

  “Who?”

  Before Garrett could explain, Kim said in a panicked voice, “They’re hacking our call. Toss the SAT phone now before they can identify you.”

  Garrett lowered the BMW’s window.

  “Get rid of it!” Kim exclaimed.

  “Gordievsky,” Garrett said, as he tossed the SAT out onto the highway.

  Unharmed but fuming, General Gromyko exited his Mercedes and studied the burning Zil wreckage. His eyes scanned the cemetery. A veiled woman was walking toward an older car some two hundred yards away near a side exit.

  He ducked back inside his car. “Follow that woman,” he ordered.

  “General, I can’t,” his driver said. He pointed toward the front of the Mercedes.

  Gromyko stepped out and walked forward to examine his much-prized car. A shaft of metal from the exploding Zil had penetrated the car’s front with such explosive force that it had punched through the engine’s protective barrier. His car was useless.

  Part III

  A Killer Cometh

  Death is the solution to all problems. No man—no problem.

  —Joseph Stalin

  Twenty-Four

  Two years earlier

  “Abidemi!” Elsa Eriksson cried. “They’re raping her!”

  “Chief, she’s not our mission,” Senator cautioned.

  Senator was right. Garrett’s orders were to rescue Eriksson from her Boko Haram kidnappers in this eight-hut Cameroon village. Not her fourteen-year-old friend who was being assaulted.

  Another scream pierced the early-morning stillness.

  “She’s gonna wake everyone up,” Sweet Tooth said.

  “That dude got up early to be first in line. No sloppy seconds,” Senator replied.

  Eriksson gasped.

  Through his headset, Garrett heard CIA director Harris ask: “What’s the holdup?”

  “Sir,” he said, “we believe a fourteen-year-old Nigerian who was captured is being raped in a hut near us.”

  “Not your problem, Chief,” Harris replied.

  Only Garrett could hear their conversation.

  “Sir, she’s nearby.”

  “This isn’t the Peace Corps.”

  “We can hear her screaming, sir.”

  “Then cover your ears.”

  “Sir, she’s fourteen. How old is your granddaughter?”

  Silence.

  “How do you know about my granddaughter?” Harris asked.

  “Newspaper. When you were appointed. What if it were her?”

  “Listen, Garrett,” Harris said, “you’re on the ground and I’m not. So, here’s the deal. You evaluate and decide. If you believe you can complete your mission, rescue that kid, and get out okay, then do it and I’ll have your back. But your mission and your men come first. Granddaughter or not. Are we clear, Chief?”

  “Yes, sir,” Garrett said.

  Bear had overheard Garrett’s side of the conversation. “What’d Washington say?” he asked.

  “My call.”

  “What was that stuff about having a granddaughter.”

  Garrett looked at Bear. “Harris didn’t want to bother until I mentioned his granddaughter. Then he promised to back me up.”

  Garrett spoke to Eriksson. “We can’t rescue her as long as you’re in danger. You’re our primary objective. You must leave now if you want us to save your friend. Nod if you understand.”

  Eriksson nodded.

  Speaking to Bear, Garrett said, “You and Sweet Tooth get her to the others. Have the second team escort her immediately to the helos. The first team stays put until Senator and I snatch the other girl.”

  Garrett felt closest to his first team. Big Mac—the sniper. His spotter, aka Curly. Bear, Sweet Tooth, and a SEAL called Spider. The only unknown was Senator, who’d joined them late and was untested.

  Bear peeked outside the hut’s entrance. There was no movement.

  Through his microphone, Garrett spoke to his sniper. “Big Mac?”

  “All clear, Chief.”

  Garrett tapped Bear’s shoulder. Bear pushed aside the heavy blanket covering the hut’s doorway.

  “God will protect,” Eriksson whispered as she passed Garrett.

  “Let’s hope he protects all of us,” he replied.

  She followed Bear outside. Sweet Tooth fell in behind as they disappeared around the circular hut.

  Abidemi’s screams had turned into sobs. They reminded Garrett of the whimpering he’d heard in Arkansas when he’d once struck a stray dog with his truck, knocking it into a roadside ditch. Garrett peered outside, taking stock of the C-shaped camp illuminated by the embers of a dying fire. Abidemi’s cries were coming from a hut near Alpha-1 where he and Senator were positioned.

  “Need confirmation,” Garrett told Big Mac. “Where’s the girl?”

  “Second hut to your right. You facing out your door.”

  “Wait,” Senator said. “You’re really serious about rescuing her? I thought you were just putting on an act to get the package to cooperate.”

  “We’re getting the girl,” Garrett replied. “There was one guard inside this hut. They’ll have at least one in the girl’s hut, plus the rapist.”

  “What if there’s more?” Senator asked. “We got no idea who could be in that hut and there’s only two of us.”

  Garrett regretted not sending Senator back with Eriksson and having a more veteran SEAL stay.

  Senator said, “I need to know if Washington okayed this.”
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  “You need to know what I tell you,” Garrett answered, not hiding the anger in his voice.

  “But if this isn’t part of our mission—”

  Garrett cut him short. “Listen to me and listen good. We’re going to rescue that little girl. You got that? Or do we need to take this a step higher than words?”

  For a moment, the two men stared at each other. Garrett sensed fear.

  “Senator, we can do this,” he said, reassuringly. “Just fall back on your training. We’ll grab the girl and be on a helo heading home in the blink of an eye.”

  “Yes, sir,” Senator said. Now he seemed embarrassed. “I’m fine, sir. Let’s do it.”

  Garrett was holding his SIG Sauer. He had a Heckler & Koch MP7 assault rifle with a suppressor strapped to his back. Senator was holding a Heckler & Koch 416 assault rifle with a ten-inch barrel and suppressor.

  “Pistol,” Garrett ordered. Senator shouldered his rifle. Drew his M-9.

  “You follow my lead,” Garrett said, “and this will turn out just fine. You’ll be a hero. Maybe get a medal. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  Garrett stepped into the morning air and slipped silently across the hard-packed earth to the hut where Big Mac had said the girl was being held. Outside its blanket door covering, he could hear Abidemi’s pitiful sobs.

  Using hand signals, Garrett positioned Senator to the right side of the opening while he stationed himself on its left. They entered the hut simultaneously.

  Three terrorists. One on top of Abidemi, who was lying on the floor. Two Boko Haram watching, one on each side of her. Garrett double-tapped the one on the left. Senator shot the one directly in front of him. The rapist rose to his knees just as two of Garrett’s SIG Sauer rounds punched into his chest. He fell forward onto Abidemi, who began shoving his corpse, trying to free herself from his heavy body. Hysterical.

  Senator grabbed the dead man’s shirt and jerked him away from the girl.

  “Elsa sent us,” Garrett said in a calming voice. “We’re taking you home.”

  Her face was covered with sweat and wet with tears. She grabbed her one-piece dress, which had been ripped from her earlier. Began scooting backward. Away from them.

  Senator dropped to his knees. He spoke quietly to her. “You’re scared. So am I. But we’ve come to take you home. Just calm down and do what we say.”

  Garrett surveyed the hut’s candle-lighted interior.

  A second blanket was hanging from the ceiling. Dividing the hut in half. He nodded toward Senator, who noticed the blanket and moved into position. One, two, three. They drew back the barrier.

  “Oh my God!” Senator gasped, lowering his pistol.

  At least ten girls. Huddled together. Terrified. Garrett guessed their ages were seven to twelve. Two completely naked. Spinning around, Garrett said, “Abidemi.” He wasn’t certain if any of the other girls understood English. “Can you speak to them?”

  It took her a moment to comprehend.

  “Tell them to keep absolutely quiet,” he said. “No talking. No crying. We’re friends.”

  He reached out to Abidemi. Reluctantly, she took his hand. Moved in slow unsteady steps. She spoke in Hausa, the most common language spoken by Muslims in the region.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Senator said. “Now what, Chief?”

  Garrett’s mind was running the numbers. Two Black Hawk UH-60 Sikorsky helicopters en route to extricate two SEAL teams and the package. Each could carry eleven combat soldiers. Total capacity: 22. He was overseeing two seven-man teams—14 men. That left 8 open spaces. Eriksson—number 15 of 22. Abidemi—number 16. Six more openings, maybe seven because these kids were scrawny. Six openings for ten girls. Four would be left behind. Which four? An alternative came to him. He could simply take Abidemi, leave the others behind. Sophie’s Choice. He hadn’t anticipated this.

  Through his head microphone, Garrett informed Harris about the additional girls. The CIA director cut loose with a string of expletives.

  “We’ll need a third helo,” Garrett said.

  “No way,” Harris said. “I’m not putting more Americans at risk. I shouldn’t have backed you. You made the wrong choice. Now man up, leave ’em, and complete your mission. These kids are expendable. Leave them. That’s an order. . . .”

  Garrett looked into the children’s terrified faces. Three klicks to the helo rendezvous point—3.1 miles. They would slow down everyone. Make everyone vulnerable. The smart move was to leave them, as Director Harris had ordered him. The children were collateral damage, the victims of a senseless war. They were not his problem. They were not worth Americans dying to save them.

  “Chief, sunlight’s gonna be here soon,” Big Mac said through Garrett’s headset. “Remember these pricks pray before dawn.”

  “Status, main package?” Garrett responded.

  “Second team is hoofing her to rendezvous. ETA probably thirty minutes.”

  “Chief,” Big Mac said, “we got to move, otherwise there’s going to be a shit show.”

  Garrett took a deep breath. Switched off communication with Director Harris. He’d decided to talk to the entire first team, every man.

  “There’re more girls than one.”

  “How many more?” Big Mac asked.

  “Ten more. Little kids. Washington won’t send a third helo. Says to leave them. Says they’re expendable. We all know what that means. So, I’m going to ask each of you. Speak freely. Do we leave or take them?”

  The Senator spoke first. “I knew this was wrong. They aren’t our mission. I say we leave them.”

  “What we have here is a pending O.K. Corral scenario,” Sweet Tooth said, sounding philosophical. “Blood and guts, but hell, I’ve always been a sucker for westerns. I say we take ’em. Every last one of them.”

  “Bear?” Garrett asked.

  “I go with you, Chief. Your decision is mine. I kill when you tell me and hold my trigger when you tell me. Your call.”

  “I say every day is a good day to kill Ali Babas,” Big Mac volunteered. “Let’s save the girls and kill every one of these jihadist bastards.”

  “Curly?” Garrett asked the sniper spotter.

  “I go where Big Mac goes,” he replied. “I’m down with saving them.”

  “Spider, that leaves you? Speak freely.”

  “I got a baby girl at home. Enough said.”

  The Senator was the only one who’d objected.

  “Looks like you’re outvoted.”

  “I’ll do it, but when we get back, I’m filing a report.”

  “Write what you want,” Garrett said. “Just lift your load.”

  Garrett ran a different set of numbers. Bad guys. They’d already killed the two sentries guarding the Alpha-1 hut. Plus, the one inside the hut guarding Eriksson. The rapist and his two buddies were dead. That totaled six. Fourteen tangos remaining according to intel. Twice the number of Garrett and his team. Still, Garrett had faith in his men, including Senator.

  “We’re coming out,” Garrett told Big Mac via the headset. He resumed communications with Director Harris in Washington.

  “What the hell is happening?” Harris demanded. “Why’d you go off air?”

  “We’re bringing the girls with us,” Garrett said.

  “Like hell you are.”

  “We’ll need another helo.” Garrett switched off his connection with the director.

  “Get these girls together,” Garrett told Senator and Abidemi. She didn’t react. “You want to live?” he asked sternly. “You get these girls into a line, tell them to keep quiet, not panic, otherwise we all end up dead. You understand that? Dead.”

  She nodded. He and Senator stripped shirts from two dead terrorists at their feet. Handed them to Abidemi for the two naked children. She spoke to the girls in a hushed voice.

  “Only eight are coming,” Abidemi announced.

  “What?” Garrett replied.

  “One’s already dead and her sister won’t le
ave her.”

  “Try to convince her. If she stays, she dies,” Garrett said. “Tell her that.”

  The tiny girl began sobbing.

  “Line them up.”

  Garrett holstered his pistol. Unstrapped his assault rifle. Senator followed his example.

  “Big Mac?” Garrett said. “We’re moving. I’ll need two supports behind this hut. Helping us herd. Sweet Tooth, you know the way. Bring Spider.”

  “Always wanted to be a shepherd,” Sweet Tooth joked. “Be there in three.”

  Waiting made it seem twice that. Garrett pushed the questions nagging at him out of his head. He was disobeying a direct order. There’d be hell to pay. He looked again at the girls. Stay focused.

  “We’re in position,” Sweet Tooth announced. “Send them out.”

  “Let’s go!” Garrett told Abidemi. He held open the blanket door cover. Senator came next to lead the girls behind the hut to Sweet Tooth and Spider. Abidemi remained with Garrett to assist getting the girls out.

  Garrett counted eight, not nine.

  “We’re short one,” he said.

  “The dead girl’s sister. I told you. Let me try—”

  “Hurry, we’re exposed,” he said.

  The last girl stuck out her head from behind the blanket in the center of the hut.

  Abidemi took her hand and helped her outside. They followed Garrett to where Sweet Tooth and Spider were waiting with the others behind the hut. They moved as a covey to where Big Mac, Curly, and Bear were positioned—about a hundred yards from the huts’ perimeter.

  “Let’s get to the helos,” Garrett said.

  “Chief!” Big Mac said. He’d been keeping an eye on the camp. Two terrorists were emerging from their huts. Holding prayer cloths. Assault rifles. They greeted each other and then one noticed that the two sentries outside Alpha-1 hut were not at their posts. One dropped his prayer cloth, grasped his Kalashnikov with both hands, and was about to shout an alarm.

  “Take ’em,” Garrett said.

  Big Mac was good at what he did. One shot. One dead terrorist. The second fell before he had a chance to comprehend what had happened to his buddy. But the sound of the sniper’s rounds, even suppressed, were like claps of thunder in the quiet morning air.