WASHINGTON, D.C.
It was just after one in the afternoon as Jonathan Harper entered the secure conference room beneath the West Wing of the White House. It had been a long couple of hours—a long couple of weeks, actually—and the stress had been building steadily. Now, judging by the lingering ache in his chest and the perspiration building beneath his arms, it had finally reached its peak. At least the timing is right, Harper thought sourly, but he pushed the distracting notion aside. Now was not the time to focus on minor things, as everything they had worked for boiled down to the next few hours. At last, the end was in sight. With any luck, this operation would mark the end of the strain that had gripped not only the people in this room, but the entire country for the past four days. Wiping his damp hands on his suit pants, he looked around the room slowly, examining the people who had gathered to take part in the administrative and logistical side of Brynn Fitzgerald’s recovery.
There were about 20 people in the room, he guessed, not a huge number, but that was only because the confined space could not fit more, at least not comfortably. He knew maybe half of them by name; the rest were technicians and assorted aides, many of whom were in military uniform. Kenneth Bale was seated at the large table, engaged in quiet discussion with Robert Andrews. Stan Chavis was seated across from them, on the president’s right. Both men were listening to a briefing being delivered by a brigadier general in army uniform. The west wall, Harper saw, was dominated by three large monitors. Shooting a quick glance at them, Harper was drawn first to the second monitor, which displayed hundreds of lights spread over a large landmass. After staring at the multicolored lights for a second, he realized they denoted the location of ground-based radar stations in Pakistan, along with confirmed SAM missile sites and areas of concentrated troop movements. The first monitor displayed what Harper guessed was a higherresolution view of a specific point on the ground—probably the AfghanPakistani border itself, he decided after a moment—and the third showed nothing but a test pattern. That one would display the feed from the 8X recon satellite that was currently moving into position over Sialkot. Harper was not surprised to see it was still en route to its new destination. Unlike the smaller Keyhole series of satellites, the 8X weighed close to 22,000 pounds, and though it had been positioned over the Kashmir Valley that same afternoon—a relatively short distance from Sialkot—it would still take some time to reach its destination. Adjusting a satellite’s orbit was no easy feat to accomplish, particularly in the space of a few hours, but it was certainly easier when the satellite was already fairly close to its new objective. Despite the obvious tension, there was an air of anticipation in the room, and that—in Harper’s mind, at least—was cause for concern. It was too early to get overly excited. They had yet to confirm that Fitzgerald was in the surgeon’s house, and if she was not, it wouldn’t matter what else they managed to accomplish. Fortunately, Harper had managed to talk the president into letting Kealey and his team move into position prior to the insertion of the assault team. With any luck, they would be able to verify the secretary of state’s presence before the lives of dozens of men were put on the line. Given Pakistan’s escalating conflict with India, just entering Pakistani airspace without permission was a huge risk. Unfortunately, Mengal’s connections to ISI and the Secretariat itself were not factors that could be safely overlooked, and the only solution was to keep the entire Pakistani government in the dark. Once the president had approved the rescue operation, things had moved with incredible speed. Ninety minutes after he’d called with Mengal’s location, Kealey had called back with additional info, including GPS coordinates for the surgeon’s house in Sialkot. Harper had since relayed all of that information to the Pentagon’s National Military Joint Intelligence Center. From past experience, he knew that the material would be used for “IPB,” or Intelligence Preparation of the Battlefield. This consisted of examining known enemy locations, force size, and possible extraction points, all in the hope of minimizing risk, while at the same time increasing the probability for success once the op began.
The assault team—an amalgamation of 24 SF operators that had been culled from three different units, including the 1st SFOD-D—
was probably doing that right now, Harper realized. And when it came to IPB, Kealey’s team on the ground would continue to play a vital role. Once they were in position, they would be able to send updates regarding the enemy’s force concentration—where the guards were situated on the grounds. Their primary task, however, remained the same: to verify whether or not the secretary of state was even in the building.
Thinking about Kealey and the rest of the surveillance team, Harper shot a quick glance at his watch. They would still be prepping as well, he realized, even though it was already dark in Pakistan. They wouldn’t even try to approach the house until they were completely ready to move, and even then, it would likely take them several hours to get into position. From that point forward, it would just be a matter of watching, relaying updates as needed, and trying to stay out of sight until the assault team arrived.
They were still hours away, Harper realized. And now there was nothing to do but wait. Resigning himself to this fact, he drifted over to join the DCI at the conference table.
Andrews was still talking intently to Bale, but stopped when he spotted his deputy. “John, take a seat.” He waited until Harper was situated before asking the obvious. “What’s the word from your man on the ground?”
Harper knew he was referring to Kealey, but by extension, that included the men he was working with. “They’re at the last staging point, getting ready to move. That might not be for a few hours’
time, and they probably won’t make contact again until they’re ready to go.”
“Why not?”
Harper looked at the DNI, who’d posed the question. “Well, there’s just no point, sir. If they have nothing to report, then they’re only wasting battery time by continuously transmitting. Remember, the one thing they don’t have is a satellite radio, which means they’re stuck with a phone. We can only expect them to make contact when it’s absolutely necessary, such as when—and if—they lay eyes on Secretary Fitzgerald.”
“Or when something goes wrong,” Andrews pointed out quietly.
“That won’t happen,” Harper said, but it had come out forced. He had faith in his people, especially Ryan Kealey, but like everyone else in the room, he knew what was on the line. Looking around, he wondered how many of these people would let Fitzgerald go—just walk away from her completely—if doing so meant sparing their jobs. As a patriot, he wanted to believe the number was small, but twenty years of government service had taught him otherwise. The men and women who really cared would be the CIA officers on the ground in Pakistan, as well as the elite soldiers of the 1st SFOD-D, the pilots of the 455th Air Expeditionary Wing, and the dedicated support troops, all of whom were waiting on the green light out at Bagram Air Base in eastern Afghanistan.
“And where is the staging point?” Bale asked, snatching Harper out of his short reverie. Bale looked worried. He had picked up on his forced confidence, Harper thought. “Because if they’re spotted before they even—”
Harper cut him off by holding up his hand. “It’s not a problem, sir.” He managed to sound reasonably sure this time, and he saw some of the DNI’s lingering doubt slide from his face. “They’re about three hundred meters away from the building itself, and they’ve got cover. It’s close enough to maintain a loose vigil, but not so close as to risk being caught. Believe me . . . They know what they’re doing.”
“Let’s hope so,” Andrews murmured under his breath. “For all our sake.”