SWANSON AND LEDFORD DROPPED into canvas-strap seats, side by side, as the Osprey curved away from the bridge that could have been a death trap for both of them. They were filthy and stained, streaked with sweat, but their eyes still glowed with excitement from the action. Beth had a fresh purpling mouse beneath her left eye, and her lower lip was split, seeping blood. Kyle was bruised and scraped from being slammed about by explosions. They smiled, then broke into peals of laughter and slapped their palms together in a high five. They had made it.
“What’s with the kid?” Swanson asked, shedding the now useless combat gear and taking a long drink of water.
Across the aisle, Mohammad al-Attas had been lashed into a seat, his hair matted and tangled, his eyes rolling wide, and his head twisting all around. His nose was bloody, a big bruise colored his left forehead, and his pants were around his knees. Plastic flex-cuffs bound his wrists, and when he kicked at the gunner who fastened the seat harness around him, the gunner spun a few turns of duct tape around the ankles. The belt was still looped around his neck. He tried to bite the gunner and was put to sleep with a strong sedative injected with a syringe in the medical kit.
“He went weird about ten minutes after we left you. We were running along just fine, and the next thing I knew, he was snarling and snapping like a dog, punching and knocking me to the ground. It was like he was flying on some super coke high. I had to slap him about a little bit and hogtie him.”
“Shoulda just shot him.” Kyle shrugged.
“Yeah,” she agreed, “but you said bring him back alive, and his intel might be worth trying to save. Maybe the shrinks can straighten him out.”
“Whatever. Just glad you made it out with the extra luggage.”
Kyle waved to the gunner, who was seated near the engineer, facing them. “Hey, dude, thanks for waiting for me.”
The big man looked out beneath his olive drab helmet and pointed at Beth. “Didn’t have much of a choice,” he yelled over the noise of the churning propellers. “We were ready to haul ass until your friend pulled a gun on Major Jameson, the pilot. He ain’t none too happy about that, neither. You ought to have heard him cussin’.”
Beth leaned back and closed her eyes, lacing her hands behind her head. “Won’t leave my BFF behind.”
“What?”
“Girl talk. Best Friend Forever. I’m probably going to get court-martialed, huh?”
“Naw. They’ll make you stand at attention and gnaw on you for a while, but if you don’t laugh in their faces, you’ll walk away OK. General Middleton protects the Tridents, and you done good. We’re bringing back a hell of a lot of information. We tend to piss off some people, time to time.” Swanson looked at her face. Ten minutes after coming through a major action, she was damned near asleep.
“I’m not in Trident,” she said, somewhat wistfully, lifting her chin in defiance of the fates.
“I am, and I would have been in a world of hurt back there if this bird had left without me. Then you jump back out there and do your Little Sure Shot routine on the guys chasing me? Outstanding, Beth. What was that you just said? BFF?”
“Yeah.”
“BFF it is, then.” He reached over and playfully mussed her dirty hair. “I owe you. Go to sleep.”
LIEUTENANT COLONEL SYBELLE SUMMERS and Master Gunnery Sergeant O. O. Dawkins led the debriefing of Swanson and Ledford, with a half-dozen specialists from various intelligence agencies making notes and asking questions. The Lizard was patched in from Washington on a secure video link. A large screen on a wall of the room glowed with a map of the region, with the grid location of the bridge painted in red.
Kyle was hydrating with a cold fruit juice, while Beth sat quietly with a fresh bottle of water. Her tongue felt glued to the top of her mouth. “We never did determine exactly who was fighting us, but one of the guys that we brought down was wearing the uniform of a Pakistani army sergeant.”
“That doesn’t really prove anything,” observed one of the nameless men at the table.
“I’m not here to prove shit to you, Suit. Just telling you what I saw and showing you the pictures we took. The bridge is in Pakistan. That proof enough that they are involved, or at least knew about it? Of course they will deny it. No different from their denials of hiding Osama bin Laden in a mansion by an army camp.”
“What about you, Petty Officer Ledford?” the man asked. “Did you see anything that could be incontrovertible proof that the Pakis were in on it?”
She shook her head, and her voice was soft. “No. Just the guy the gunny mentioned, and a whole bunch of guys with a lot of guns. We didn’t exchange business cards.”
Sybelle steepled her fingers. “Side issue. The prisoner confirmed the ISI, the secret police, was involved, and as Swanson said, the thing is inside Pakistan. There is absolutely no way they weren’t in on it.”
For an hour, the questioners picked the brains of the two tired warriors, and Summers let the topic ramble but always brought it back to the bridge. The maps and papers the team had gathered, the computer hard drive, plus their personal on-site observations, photographs, and sketches, gave the situation a tight focus. “So as high-tech as this place is, the purpose was simply to be the new, protected lair for Commander Kahn. It was created for the New Muslim Order. Are we agreed?”
“Looks that way from back here in Washington,” said the Lizard. “I will pull some intercept logs to see what the boys in Islamabad have been talking about. It would be a big help if that captured engineer could give us details on the bridge itself, the weaponry, and that array of sensors and cameras in the valley.”
“Don’t count on that, Liz,” said Kyle. “The man has definitely slipped into his own scrambled little world. The shrinks will have a hard time separating fact from fiction with him, because he apparently believes everything he says is real.”
Freedman chewed on a thumbnail. “General Middleton wants to get that guy down to Guantánamo as soon as possible and turn the experts loose on him. Chemistry can do wonders.”
Sybelle Summers cut in and pointed to the Central Intelligence Agency representative. “That will take too long. My friend here says they have much of the same capability right here at Kandahar, primarily used for time-sensitive, tactical interrogation.”
“That’s correct. Let’s see what we can do to supplement the information about the bridge and its defenses, and then ship him to Gitmo for deeper work.”
“Fine,” the Lizard replied. “Colonel Summers, the general also wants your report and recommendations ASAP, so he can take them to the White House. He gave them a heads-up that he’s coming over.”
“I’ll get him a summary within the hour; then we can link up again and do the details.”
“Sounds good. Oh, yes, the general wants to pass along his compliments to Petty Officer Ledford for her outstanding work.”
“What about me?” Kyle laughed. “I was there, too.”
“He didn’t mention you.”
THE PRESIDENT OF THE United States, hands in the pockets of his dark suit, strolled nonchalantly out of the basement door of the White House, beneath the maroon awning, between some parked cars, and across the narrow street to a similar basement entrance to the Old Executive Office Building, a baroque gray giant. At the moment, the entire news media corps was corralled in the White House Press Room for the routine daily briefing by his press secretary, who was giving an update on the upcoming Mars mission and confirming the president would be at the Cape for the historic launch. Camera crews were at their tripods on the front lawn, preparing for the stand-ups by the TV correspondents. No one noticed the sudden unannounced departure from the president’s public schedule, and he was in view for less than a minute, alone, as he crossed the protected street without obvious Secret Service protection.
The tall Californian was alone in numerous ways on this day, for he was facing one of the toughest decisions of his presidency—the absolute need to order a direct military attack on Pakistan, an allied nation that was an anchor in the overall war on terror in a fiery region. Only someone who knew him well could discern that the slightly hunched shoulders were actually bowed with worry. He had been pacing the Oval Office, trying to walk off the fury of once again feeling double-crossed by the Pakistanis—Osama’s compound all over again, but bigger and better—but he had calmed little by the time of this meeting just after lunch.
Members of the Secret Service detail that had unobtrusively shepherded him across the street met him at the door of Old Exec and gave verbal confirmation of the handoff to the agents at the seldom-used White House exit and to agents in the parked cars that he passed. He led the way to the second floor of the musty building, and another agent opened a normal-looking door into a comfortable large room that was thoroughly soundproof. Several easy chairs and two large sofas formed a large, loose circle. Senior administration officials had come in earlier through various entrances and were gathered in small groups. They turned to face him, and a repeated murmur of “Mr. President” acknowledged his presence. He did not shake anyone’s hand and did not flash the famous smile but proceeded to an armchair, sat, and crossed his legs. The others took seats. All eyes were on him.
There was no preamble. “Each of you has been privately briefed within the past few hours concerning this latest event in Pakistan. It is an intolerable situation. A vital ally that already had given shelter to our single biggest enemy, Osama bin Laden, has been busy creating a new and possibly worse threat to our security, and as usual, intentionally keeping it secret from us.
“There is no way to sugarcoat my decision. As you were briefed, I intend to launch a military strike to wipe out that new sanctuary, and by doing so, to send a clear message to our friends throughout the Middle East. Any new terrorist leader will never be beyond the reach of the United States, and neither will any country that gives him sanctuary.” He paused, hands clasped before him, looking from face to face.
“We will hit it hard—very hard—and that once again includes boots on the ground for a short window of time, for I consider this to be a matter of utmost national security. Our military leaders predict that if all goes well, we will be in and out of there within three hours, leaving behind nothing but a smoking ruin. Consider it to be a surgical operation to remove a deadly cancer. Pakistan has to learn that this must stop! Before I give the final order, I wanted you all together to thank you for agreeing that this course of action is necessary. Any further discussion? Questions?”
“I don’t see how we can do anything else,” declared the vice president.
“Pakistan is going to be outraged,” Secretary of State Mark Grayson added, “but that’s to be expected, and you pay me the big bucks to take the heat.”
“This time, you don’t have to,” said the president, finally falling into a smile. “To further demonstrate how pissed off we are, they don’t even get to complain to you or to me about it. Give that job to Undersecretary Curtis of the Bureau of American-Islamic Affairs, along with my order to rudely brush them off.”
“They will consider that to be a great insult,” Secretary of State Grayson replied.
“Good, because that is exactly what is intended. If they are smart, they will grab the opportunity to let the whole sleazy incident disappear instead of flying into meaningless outrage. They got off easy with the surgical SEAL Team Six raid that did bin Laden. This time, not so much.”
The president turned to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “There it is, General Rauch. You have a go. Give the orders. And let me remind everybody here: no leaks, or you might be visiting Guantánamo Bay for a while. Friend or not, you must believe that I am serious.”
AYMAN AL-MASRI WAS PUFFING with exertion as he climbed the final stretch of stairs that led to a square and unassuming block building that served as the local mosque, carefully working his way around pecking chickens that darted underfoot and seemed determined to hurl him off the cliff to his death. The only door was on the west side, so that all who entered would be facing east toward Mecca, the birthplace of the Prophet.
At the end of the room was a window with a startling view of a fertile valley shielded by steep mountains, where ridgelines gave way to terraced gardens that were still green, even this far into autumn. Monstrous boulders the size of trucks stood out like ragged statues. Shaggy buffalo, a commodity so valuable that they lived indoors with their owners, hauled huge loads of goods and produce along the dirt roads. The mosque overlooked a busy little village of adobe-style mud and log homes, and on one flank of the town was a special cemetery reserved for fallen warriors of the great cause. Long sticks marked each grave, and from each stick waved a piece of cloth made from the garments worn by the dead fighter. Al-Masri was pleased that nothing at all had changed since he had left the village a few days ago.
He bowed and touched his head to the warm burgundy carpet, then announced himself with one word. “Commander.”
Kahn was at the eastern window, looking down on the village, and out to the spectacular view of the rugged tribal lands of Pakistan, where he had built his reputation as a fearless military leader and a smart political star in the terrorist firmament. He had had seen his security chief arrive by automobile, be checked out at the guard post, and start the long climb up to the mosque. He was eager to hear the report.
Ever since the death of his rival Osama bin Laden, Commander Kahn had been interested in the bridge scheme that could become a safe and secure headquarters for his New Muslim Order, and a more permanent residence for him. It bore the promise of a better life for the next few years, with a sophisticated communications suite. Kahn did not buy the old saying by Mao Tse-tung that political power grew out of the barrel of a gun; in the twenty-first century, such power also grew out of microcircuits and the so-called social media. He led a new generation of terrorists, the invisible man behind the curtain who stirred the revolutions that were hammering the Middle East and accumulating power for himself and the NMO.
He turned from the window and made himself comfortable on his favorite resting spot of thick, soft cushions. Kahn was in his late forties, of medium height and a solid build, with only a stubble of a beard that was trimmed once a week. He smiled at al-Masri as a servant served tea and a plate of breads and cheese. “I understand that your trip was quite eventful,” he observed.
“Yes, Commander.” He gave Kahn folder containing a two-page written report and a number of photographs. “The Pakistanis failed badly with the bridge project. Security was laughable. I could never allow you to be placed in such jeopardy.”
“That is too bad. It seemed like such a good idea, and the Pakistanis were being extremely cooperative. Maybe they were too cooperative?” The terrorist mastermind flipped through the folder, then handed it back to his bodyguard. He was not interested in such minor details as why it had failed. Only the fact that a few American commandos had once again penetrated security screens gave him pause. Will they never stop? “Then I agree with your decision to discard it. This is a pleasant village. We should spend the winter here. My computer works from anywhere.”
As if in answer, a gust of cold wind spun through the nearby mountaintops and curled a chilled blast over the village and the mosque. The servant hurried back and wrapped a blanket around the Commander’s shoulders. Despite the confident tone, winter would be hard here.
Ayman al-Masri cleared his throat, then spoke. “Among those photographs is the American who led the raiding party. He almost killed me during his escape, so I came face-to-face with him; there is no question of his identity.”
Kahn reopened the folder and found the picture. He studied it and the identification tag. “Kyle Swanson. A United States Marine. I know this name.”
“Yes, Commander. He has long been a constant thorn, from raiding our training camps to destroying entire operations. He is a very lethal enemy, and the time has come to remove him.”
Kahn closed the folder again. “Have you found a weakness to attack?”
“Yes. The man is not really a machine. His soft spot is his heart; a killer with a conscience. You recall that he was captured in Islamabad a few years ago and foiled an al Qaeda coup attempt there?”
“And then escaped.” The dark eyes were now drilling into al-Masri, showing interest.
“The reason he was captured was that he stopped to save a woman and her two children from a collapsed building. He gave himself up for total strangers who were Muslims. That humanity is his weak point.”
“So you plan to exploit that?”
Al-Masri was ready with an answer. “According to our sources, Swanson came on this mission apparently as the guard for a woman soldier whose brother, a doctor, was killed at the bridge. Once they discovered what the bridge was about, Swanson tore the place up and left a lot of bodies behind.”
“I see.”
“I want your permission to activate our highest-ranking friend in the American government, William Curtis. He must find the woman soldier and use her as leverage to draw Swanson to him, and then kill him.”
“Bill Curtis is a strong man, but he is not capable of defeating a Satan like this Kyle Swanson alone.”
Al-Masri’s stone countenance broke into a slow smile. “It would be a suicide mission, Commander. Curtis will wrap his arms around the girl soldier and Kyle Swanson and blow himself up. There will be no question.”
“A new martyr.”
“Yes. To rid us of an old enemy who has done great harm.”
Commander Kahn weighed the scales for only a moment. Curtis was extremely valuable in his position in the State Department, and the source of important advice, but striking back directly against a Special Forces operative was a great opportunity. “Will doing so harm the Mars mission attack? That is more important. We have put a lot of money into that.”
Al-Masri had thought that one through during his long drive back from the bridge. “Curtis will not be anywhere near the rocket in any case, and his man carrying out the sabotage reports nothing unusual at this time. It’s still on, and we will claim responsibility as soon as it happens. The two plans are independent.”
Kahn was quiet, thinking. The one thing that he still lacked in trying to take over the Osama bin Laden legacy was a signature strike of huge proportions against the United States. Bin Laden had brought about 9/11 and had killed thousands; Kahn was still relatively unknown, which was both a blessing and a curse.
The destruction of the Mars mission would put him on the throne of terrorism. When the space vessel died, credit would fall to him through a computer-powered campaign of publicity. Now he was being given an opportunity to make his claim even stronger. An American suicide bomber with a widely known political name would kill other Americans within the United States’ borders. The double assault would resurrect the fear of Islamic attacks, a fear that he wanted to permeate the United States and establish his supremacy as the new terrorist chieftain. And the troublesome Marine, Kyle Swanson, would die in the bargain.
“Very well, my friend,” he said. “You have my permission. Give Curtis whatever help we can.”