JACK SHEPHERD OF CNN WAS having an early pint of beer in a Fleet Street pub with a leggy intern from the London office of the Cable News Network. Chrissie Rogers was blond and busty, a twenty-two-year-old journalism school graduate from Nebraska, and she was enchanted with every word the rugged, veteran foreign correspondent bestowed on her in the privacy of a small booth. He was wondering whether to get her in bed before or after an expense-account dinner. The cell phone clipped to his belt chimed and vibrated. He reluctantly answered: “Shepherd.”
“Ah, my friend Jack Shepherd of CNN. This is your friend from Basra.” The unmistakable voice of the Rebel Sheikh was smooth. Jack slid out of the booth and walked outside for privacy.
“Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?” No use wasting time with idle chatter. If the Rebel Sheikh called, it was for a reason.
“I am sorry to interrupt your afternoon, but I have something for you.” There was a pause. “This is on deep background, of course. My name and position cannot be used.”
“No problem, sir, and you’re not interrupting. I’m always on duty. What are we talking about?”
A gentle laugh. “Impatient Americans. Well, the kidnapped General Middleton of the Marine Corps has escaped his captors, with the assistance of a Marine sniper who survived the crash of the helicopters, a man named Kyle Swanson. The Syrian Army and intelligence forces have launched a wide search to find both of them.”
“Can I go with this, sir?”
“Oh, absolutely, Jack, providing you leave me out of your report. I just received a briefing from Syria. The manhunt is going on even as we are speaking, so you should hurry and get this on the air. Come see me again sometime, Jack.” The Rebel Sheikh gave that little laugh again. “And I really do apologize for interrupting your meeting with the lovely Ms. Rogers.”
By using Chrissie’s name, the Rebel Sheikh was telling the correspondent that he was being watched. Jack Shepherd didn’t care. He wasn’t in the television news business to be invisible. He returned to the table, tossed down the rest of his pint, and laid down some money for the drinks. “Come on, Chrissie. Back to the office. Time to do some work.”
A woman in Amman, Jordan, was calling a similar alert to the al Jazeera correspondent in his hotel room office.
It took the networks about an hour to prepare the story in their home offices, Atlanta for CNN and Doha for al Jazeera. Both slammed Special Report logos on their screens and broadcast the reports to millions of viewers. The twenty-four-hour cable news shows, already awash with Red Alert terrorism stories, would soon launch squadrons of talking-head commentators to argue with each other about just how soon war would break out between the United States and Syria.
The tent outside of Sa’ahn was an oven, and steamy mirages wiggled in the distance. Al-Shoum was sweaty, tired, and irritable from having been up all night. A folding cot was set up in one corner, and he lay down to catch a nap, with strict orders to be awakened if anything happened. He was not the one out there doing the searching, and his staff was running the map and radios, so there was nothing else he could do but wait. He could do that while sleeping. He checked for Logan and saw all three of the mercenaries lounging in the open bay of the helicopter, listening to music. Logan was smoking a cigarette. They were men bred for battle, dogs of war relaxing without a care while waiting to be unleashed. He looked at his wristwatch. Two o’clock. He would sleep no more than two hours.
General Hank Turner and Colonel Ralph Sims were asleep in the comfortable cabin of the little Gulfstream II-SP as it swept above the snowy peaks of the Rocky Mountains on its long flight from Alaska. Turner was dreaming of the moment when his big Boeing disappeared in a blast of flame. General Pete Brady turned the Gulfstream’s controls over to his copilot and made his way down the aisle.
“Wake up, boys,” he said, standing straight and stretching. “Shit’s hitting the fan.” He plopped down across from them as the two Marines blinked themselves awake and straightened in their seats.
Turner was instantly awake, but gave a shake of the head to clear it. I should have been on that plane! “ What’s going on, Pete?” Turner wanted to know. “Another attack?”
“Nope. Pentagon just relayed a call to you. Gunny Swanson contacted your Blue Ridge boat over a sat link. Apparently Middleton is with him. Swanson gave coordinates not too far from the Jordanian-Syrian border, so the wheels are turning to find some way to get them out of there.”
“What do we have out there that can be deployed in a hurry, Ralph?” Turner stared hard at the MEU colonel. Sims had seen that battle stare from Hank Turner before. The man was getting ready for a fight.
“The Force Recon TRAP team is off the board because of the accident in the desert, but we wouldn’t want to be stealthy this time anyway. I recommend sending in two full platoons, aboard several helicopters, with Cobra attack helicopters on guard and appropriate cover by fast-movers up top. Lay a secure box all around Middleton and the gunny, with nothing going in or out except us.”
“How long would it take?”
Sims recalled the pre-mission briefing and did some silent calculations. “Depending on where the ships are, sir, they should be able to launch within an hour of getting the green light, since they know the coordinates. Less than an hour flying time in, no more than fifteen minutes on the ground, and then get back home.”
Turner took out his fountain pen again and scribbled a note. He turned to Pete Brady. “Is Air Force One back in Washington yet?”
“No, sir. I just checked. They are over Arkansas.”
“Okay. I need to talk to the President directly and divert Air Force One back toward us. Find me a secure air force base where they can put down with tight security and we can meet them as soon as possible.”
“Got it,” said Brady. “What else?”
Turner handed him the note he had written. “Transmit this to the Fleet and the MEU, with a confidential copy to the President, encrypted and for his eyes only. Launch the rescue immediately!”
Brady whistled. “Wow. Hank, you’re taking a big chance here. You need some big-league paperwork to do this.”
“Fuck it. We don’t have the time. I’m sending the team in VOCO, on the Verbal Orders of the Commander. This comes straight from me, damn it. After you send it, have my staff alert the other chiefs.”
Colonel Sims waited for Brady to step into the Gulfstream’s communications suite. “Good on ya, sir.”
“Tired of all this fucking around, Ralph. I’m not going to lose those two brave men. When you wear four stars, sometimes you have to remember that you’re a war-fighter, not a politician. Despite their bluster, the Syrians don’t want a piece of us. So we kick ass first and beg forgiveness later.”
The Vice President was unhappy. All of the important players on the National Security Council were present for the emergency meeting except for three. “The President is flying back from California and should be landing momentarily, and I will brief him when he arrives at the White House,” he told the others. “General Turner is also flying back. That leaves us with an unexplained empty chair. Mr. Shafer, where is Mr. Buchanan?”
Sam Shafer rose and tugged at the hem of his jacket. “I don’t know, sir. He is not in his office.”
The Vice President’s eyes seemed to smolder behind his rimless glasses. “Have you seen him at all today? Is he not aware that we’re dealing with terrorist attacks on American soil, a major international crisis, and a hostile media that is going berserk with war talk?”
“Yes, sir. I spoke briefly with Mr. Buchanan at his desk at five o’clock this morning. As usual, he was going through the briefing papers. When I checked at six, he was gone, and I assumed he was having some breakfast in the mess or at a meeting. I haven’t seen him since.”
The Vice President growled, “Then go find him! I want him in that chair in five minutes. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Sam Shafer gulped, then hurried from the room.
“We will continue without Buchanan,” said the Vice President. “State, you said you have something?”
The Secretary of State pulled her briefing folder close. “The Syrians are panicking. With the media carrying the story around the world, they apparently realize the error of their ways. Our Red Alert, the assassination of the Jordanian ambassador, the attack in Alaska, and the kidnapping of General Middleton probably was not the way they hoped things were going to come down. It’s a major embarrassment, even for a state that sponsors terrorism. With our military ramping up for a hard response, Damascus wants to cut a deal and get out of trouble.”
“What do they have in mind?”
“They will direct their military to help find and protect Middleton and the Marine who rescued him, and allow us to come pick them up without incident. They blame the whole episode on what they call foreign rogue extremists.”
“What do they get in return?”
“No war, and a public statement of appreciation for their assistance.”
The Vice President jotted the terms on his legal pad. “Sounds good to me. Any objections?” No one opposed the idea. “I will pass our recommendation along to the President. State, you tell the Syrians that if our men are harmed in any way, if this is a trap, the price for such treachery will be very steep indeed.”
Murmurs of agreement around the table. “That’s it, then. Get back to work.” As he walked back to his office, he put his hand on the elbow of the chief of his Secret Service protective detail and drew him close. “Jim. I want you boys to find Gerald Buchanan and fetch him to me as soon as possible.”
“Sorry, sir, that’s not our job description.”
“Oh, hell, Jim, I know that,” said the Vice President. “You’re a bright boy. You’ll think of something. Just get his fat butt in here.”
If Buchanan thinks I’m going to stick around and take this rap by myself, he’s crazy. Sam Shafer went to the front hall, the thick soles of his polished shoes beating a tattoo on the marble, and signed out at the Secret Service desk. Then he walked down the long driveway and out the front gate of the White House, trying not to run, and cut across the open plaza into downtown Washington. Within two blocks, he hailed a taxi. “Reagan National,” he told the driver.
As the cab crossed the Potomac, Shafer dialed his cell phone and Gordon Gates answered on the first ring. “He’s gone,” Shafer said.
“I expected it. Buchanan has the balls of a hamster,” Gates replied. “You get on up to New York like we talked about and someone will meet your plane. Welcome to the Sharks, Sam.”