A civilian Lockheed L-100 Hercules was waiting for Harvath at the Los Alamitos Joint Forces Training Center, forty-five minutes south of Hank McBride’s home in Hermosa Beach.
Also waiting was a SEAL team contingent who had been choppered up from Naval Amphibious Base Coronado. As Harvath was transferring both Sarhan and Yatsko back to the East Coast, the Old Man wanted to make sure he had all the additional manpower he might need.
The guards at the base gate were expecting Harvath and waved him through. The L-100 was parked on the tarmac outside Hangar Three with its rear cargo ramp down.
Upon seeing Harvath, one of the young SEALs at the base of the ramp shouted into the plane. Moments later, Harvath and his vehicle were guided right up into the belly of the enormous aircraft.
As this was a black flight with no records, the SEALs were dressed in civilian clothes. Only first names were used. Harvath introduced himself as Bob. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them. On the contrary, these were his brothers. He knew that it was better for them if they knew zero about him.
Once his vehicle was secured, the cargo ramp was closed and the crew instructed everyone to prepare for takeoff. The men took their seats as the four massive turboprop engines were started.
Slowly, the enormous bird began to roll forward and taxi out to the runway. Harvath was exhausted and allowed himself a few minutes to lean back and close his eyes. This was not going to be a relaxing flight. There were still dots all over Nicholas’s map in Reston representing further terrorist attacks. Back at LAX he had wanted Sarhan to tell him what he knew about that immediate attack. Now, he wanted to know about everything else. He figured the man wasn’t going to be any more cooperative than he had been at LAX.
When the plane leveled out, Harvath opened his eyes and nodded to the SEAL in charge. He in turn signaled his men, who all produced black balaclavas and rolled them down over their faces.
Harvath opened the trunk and three of the SEALs shined bright flashlights into the faces of the two captives. Two other SEALs reached down and yanked out Tariq Sarhan, after which Harvath slammed the lid back down. Yatsko would get his turn, but for the time being, Harvath wanted him as disoriented and as frightened as possible.
A heavy steel cable, complete with a metal hook, had been thrown over one of the cargo area’s upper supports. It ran to a winch covered with chipped yellow paint.
The two SEALs held Sarhan upright under his arms as Harvath removed his knife and cut through the tape and FlexCuffs binding his wrists. The sense of relief the terrorist felt at having his hands cut free was short-lived as one of the other SEALs forced his wrists together in front of his body and resecured them again with tape.
The hook was then slipped beneath the tape, and the SEAL manning the winch was instructed to take up the slack. The cable grew taut and Sarhan’s arms were lifted above his head. The winch kept cranking until the terrorist was forced to stand on tiptoe and Harvath signaled for it to stop.
Reaching up for the piece of duct tape he had placed across Sarhan’s mouth, Harvath ripped it away along with the crust of dried blood that had formed around his badly burned and blistered upper lip. His scream was so loud it could be heard well above the roar of the aircraft noise.
The man was cursing in Arabic, and Harvath gave him an open-handed slap to the side of the face to get him to shut up.
“Tariq, you’re in a lot of trouble, my friend,” said Harvath. “Do you know where we’re going?”
Sarhan didn’t answer, and Harvath hadn’t expected him to.
“We’re on our way to visit some friends of mine in Cairo,” he told his prisoner. “The Mukhabarat are very interested in your visit.”
The terrorist looked at him with contempt. “You lie,” he hissed. “There is no more Mukhabarat. The Egyptian secret police were thrown out after the revolution.”
“Unfortunately for you, that isn’t the case. You see, the new government needs the Mukhabarat even more than the old government. And let’s face it, what would Egypt be without its secret police?
“Maybe the name will change, but their methods will still be the same. By the way, they wanted me to ask you if you had any family members you’d like them to contact for you. Actually, don’t bother answering that. I’m sure they’re already busy tracking them down.”
If Sarhan was troubled by the threat, he didn’t show it.
“Here’s the thing, though, Tariq. I don’t want to go to Cairo. That’s too long for me to wait to get the answers I need. Too many Americans have died for me to risk a single life more. So you and I are going to have a very intimate conversation. Right here. And you’re going to tell me every single thing, no matter how small or unimportant you think it may be, and you’re going to tell me right now.”
Tariq Sarhan had his answer ready. Once again he attempted to spit at Harvath and missed.
“Bad choice,” said Harvath as he nodded to the SEAL operating the winch to tighten the cable up even further.
For the next three hours, Harvath worked on Sarhan. After the third time the terrorist passed out, Harvath had him taken down. Sarhan knew very little beyond his own operation. There were bits and pieces that Harvath would include with his debrief, but he doubted they’d be of much help. This network had been very careful to keep things as compartmentalized as possible. Sarhan had no idea how many other attacks were planned, who was involved, when they would happen, or how to stop them.
Harvath was beginning to believe that it would take a major mistake by the terrorists before they could be completely taken down. He hoped that mistake, though, had already been made and that it was Robert Ashford.
No sooner had Harvath gotten Yaroslav Yatsko out of the trunk and prepped for his interrogation than one of the Marines informed him that the crew, who, per orders, had remained in the cockpit for the duration of the flight, was ready to make their approach into Dulles.
Harvath and the SEALs quickly outfitted the two prisoners with black goggles, sensory deprivation headsets, surgical masks to prevent them from picking up olfactory cues, and blackout hoods, then shackled their wrists and ankles and covered their hands with heavy canvas mittens.
They were then laid back in the trunk of Harvath’s car on their stomachs and had their ankle shackles connected to their wrist shackles via a short chain.
When the L-100 landed it taxied to the cargo services area of the airport, where Reed Carlton had two teams waiting.
When the cargo ramp was lowered, one of the teams boarded the plane and traded keys with Harvath. The car with the two trunked prisoners was backed down the ramp and was met on the tarmac by a heavily armored black Suburban. The Carlton Group kept a fortified safe house in Maryland. As the two vehicles disappeared from the airport, Harvath figured that was where they were most likely headed.
After thanking the SEALs, he walked down the ramp and disappeared himself. He found the car that had been left for him and climbed in. He wanted to get Yatsko’s hard drive to the office as quickly as possible so the IT team could get to work on it. He also wanted to go over his plans with the Old Man in person. Carlton had been friends with Robert Ashford for many years, but Harvath had to know if Ashford had been the one who had compromised the Yemen operation. He needed to look the Old Man in the face and see for himself that he was all in and willing to do whatever needed to be done.
Starting the car, he rolled down the windows and shifted into drive. America was reeling from yet another attack. People across the nation were mad as hell, but they were also terrified. They had no idea where or when the next attack would come. All they knew was that they wanted it stopped.
After it was stopped, they would want revenge. Harvath was already one step ahead.