“Yeah. Compensate for the downward angle on the shot. See you after work.”
“Right. And you remember on egress that your dark SUV with the blue flag on the bumper will roll up downstairs just as the sun is sinking. There will be a driver at the wheel, and one man as a lookout.”
“Got it.”
“Good, then. Let’s do it. Piece of cake.”
19
THE PENTAGON
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THROUGH A WRINKLE IN the world’s time zones, Pakistan was ten hours ahead of Washington. Seven o’clock at night on September 30 in Pakistan would be 9:00 A.M. the same day in Washington and the headquarters of Task Force Trident. Not that it made any difference. When a covert operation was in progress, the office was always manned and available to support whoever was in the field.
In a city of vast bureaucracies and in a building that possessed endless chains of command, Trident was tiny by design, with only five people in the entire organization. It could pull together from any branch of service whatever forces were required to plus up for an operation, and had first call on a four-platoon Marine special operations company for its immediate needs. The tightness of the core group kept things simple.
While Swanson was in Pakistan, the remaining four members of the team had pulled rotating eight-hour shifts at the Pentagon. Rank made little difference behind the thick closed door with the big lock that required fingerprint and retina scans to open.
Master Gunnery Sergeant O. O. Dawkins, a Force Recon legend known as Double-Oh, was Trident’s administrative chief and had finished the overnight shift that started at midnight. He was relieved at 0800 by Navy Lieutenant Commander Benton Freedman, Trident’s unkempt but brilliant communications officer and the resident computer geek.
“No change in mission status,” Dawkins told Freedman. “The timeline is holding. Only thing is that the White House keeps calling for updates.”
“What did you tell them?”
Dawkins smiled, and big, bright even teeth shone in his square jaw. “That they had the wrong number. We are a logistics unit designing new Meals, Ready to Eat packets. Let the general handle those people. We say nothing.”
“We were not required by the previous administration to provide ongoing oversight of an operation to anyone,” Freedman said. “That would risk exposing plans. Gunnery Sergeant Swanson would not be pleased.”
“No,” Dawkins answered. “He would not.”
Once Freedman was plugged into the computers, Double-Oh left to get some breakfast and fresh coffee. By the time he returned, Trident’s operations officer, Major Sybelle Summers, had arrived, although she was not due until the afternoon shift. The commander, Major General Bradley Middleton, was at his desk. Everyone wanted to be on deck when the strike took place in Islamabad.
Summers was sipping coffee from a thick white mug and wearing a slim headset that was tuned to the encrypted channel the field operatives would use after the job was done. She glanced at Dawkins when the big Marine came back, but said nothing. Summers was concentrating on just listening, although there was nothing coming through the headset.
Freedman remained at his computer console, rapidly scanning through other frequencies and trolling for information from multitudes of possible sources. He had been tagged “the Wizard” by other midshipmen when his technical genius had been recognized at the U.S. Naval Academy, and the nickname stuck with him during his two tours aboard nuclear attack submarines. When Middleton created Task Force Trident and drafted him for duty, that nickname was changed to “the Lizard,” or just Liz, because saying “Wizard” did not adequately bust his balls, Marine-style. He might be a genius, but he was still a squid.
Digital clocks tracked the time, counting down on both sides of the world. Dawkins settled into a chair. He had been out on the sharp end of these missions too many times to get nervous.
“They gone quiet?”
The Lizard just shook his head to acknowledge the question. The radios would stay cold so the snipers in the field would be free from the chance that somebody, somewhere would try to mess around and micromanage the situation at the last moment without knowing what was actually happening on the ground. Swanson would reestablish contact when he was ready.
Double-Oh carefully put his spit-shined black shoes on the desk, leaned back, and was instantly asleep.
MAKHDOOM RAGIQ WAITED PATIENTLY while Mohammad Sial finished the lavish meal that had been spread for them by the servants, who had withdrawn to the kitchen. His eyes roamed the spacious apartment. Only to himself would he admit that he had come to enjoy the comfort of the place over the past few days. A warm and comfortable bed, and the delicious food, the cleanliness, and the subtle rhythm of the city beyond the window had been more like a vacation for him than a place in which to prepare for a combat assignment.
Siad dipped some bread in the hot sauce and gobbled it down, followed by a gulp of pure water from a clear pitcher on the table. “I know what you are thinking, my friend,” he said. “You are thinking that you like this place and that it will be hard to return to the mountains.”
“I have enjoyed the comforts, yes. I have not forgotten our mission. We are fighting men, Mohammed. We will die on some frozen hilltop in the name of Allah, killing infidels. So there is nothing wrong with having a few moments of enjoyment.”
“You feel guilty about taking such simple pleasures. Well, my friend, in just a little while, we will be surrounded by admiring students at the madrasah, and we will leave them spellbound with stories of how we have carried the banner.”
The dour, tall man actually laughed a little and passed his hand over the bowls and dishes between them. “I think we ate better than they did tonight.”
The final flare of the late afternoon gleamed like gold through the open French doors. “It is almost time for prayers,” he said. “Let’s go outside.”
STAFF SERGEANT TRAVIS STONE was at the wheel of a black Land Rover Defender parked three blocks away, with the strong engine idling. Darren Rawls was in the passenger seat, giving a final check to the equipment they had taken from the U.S. Embassy: day- and night-vision gear, pistols, walkie-talkies and secure phones, and three of the little A-3s, the renovated M-16s with little scopes. A few bottles of water were in the SUV, but no food had been brought.
This trip was to be short and sweet. Both had small buds in their ears and were waiting for Kyle Swanson to take the shot, then to call them, using the code phrase “Dunkin’ Donuts.” By the time Swanson reached the pickup point, Stone and Rawls would be there. Maybe sixty seconds at the most.
About twenty miles beyond the city limits, a special operations heavy-lift CH-53E Super Stallion was circling over a safe area. The Marines would call for it to come get them as they raced out of Islamabad.
“Sun’s going down,” said Rawls.
Stone cocked the wheel to one side and eased out of his parking space. “Let’s go get our boy.”
KYLE SWANSON STUDIED THE faces of the men through his scope. Those were the faces in the photographs. “Shooter Two. Confirming these are the targets. Are you on scope?”
“Roger.” The voice of Jim Hall came back over the headset. Hall had his big rifle resting on its bipod, tilted down. He also could see the targets plainly. At first, he thought the taller man was wearing a bulletproof vest, but on closer examination, he saw it was just a woolen vest beneath the buttoned suit coat. “I have them,” he said.