Strong’s voice wavered as he read the news. An accident? Intentional? This was different than anything he’d been told. What’s it going to mean to the plans? He’d send an e-mail out during the break to see if there were any new instructions. For now, he decided to stay the course.
“Tragic news. But the march will go on.”
Luis Gonzales switched off his radio and stared out the window at the city below. Taylor was gone. The Prophet’s hand was evident. But a final act was yet to come. Chaos and death. Lamden would be blamed. He would follow the news en route to his next destination. It was time to leave Chicago now. He had things to attend to in Paraguay. Business. The kind that filled his pocketbook and the kind that filled his heart. Money and revenge. Both made him happy.
“Oh, Christ!” Roarke caught the time. Where the hell? he asked himself. Hours had gone by and he’d completely forgotten about his meeting with O’Connell.
“Give me a sec,” he told Evans backing away. The National Director of Intelligence was going over the latest recon photos. “I have to check on something.”
He went to the closest phone and called the White House switchboard.
He asked for the marine guard at the North Entrance. “Roarke,” he said getting connected. “Do you have a visitor there for me. O’Connell? Michael O’Connell?”
“No, sir,” the marine replied. “I have his name, but he hasn’t shown up yet.”
Roarke was clearly perplexed. “Okay, thanks. Call me if he does.”
Next Roarke scrolled down to O’Connell’s number in his Treo’s call log. He pressed the center oval button to connect him. After five rings, the reporter’s voice mail message engaged.
“O’Connell, Roarke. You said you were coming down? Where the hell are you?”
With that, he hung up, not entirely disappointed that he didn’t see the Times reporter. Not today. Not now. Too much going on.
Roarke rejoined the conversation with Evans.
“Is everything okay?” the intelligence czar asked.
“Yeah. Any change?”
“Quiet.” The latest satellite intel showed rugged mountain terrain with ample cover. “But we’ve got heat signatures for some three hundred. Until the SEALs are in place, we’re not going to know much more.”
“What’s J3 say about the chances?” He hated asking a question like that. There’s never a good answer. Roarke knew. He’d been in Special Forces.
Evans shook his head. “Surprise will be on our side. That’s all I can tell you.”
Roarke examined the computer printouts of the terrain. “It’s rough going.”
“Most of it up. And not along the paths.” Jack Evans pointed out the route of ascent the SEALs would take, compared to the way the terrorists went.
“What about noise?” Roarke asked.
“Oh, there will be a lot of it,” Evans added. “But not from the SEALs.” He explained what J3 had in mind. Roarke actually smiled. He wished he could be there.
Chapter 72
“Somebody up there likes us,” Rear Admiral Clemson Zimmer explained to J3, who was en route to the Special Ops C2, the Command Center at MacDill AFB in Florida. Zimmer was 12,000 miles away aboard the USS Blue Ridge. “We’ve got a pair of SDV MK VIII’s on the USS Essex. Pure luck.”
General Johnson breathed a sigh of relief. Actual good news, or what could be termed as good news.
“I suppose we can thank the terrorists who planted the bomb in Sydney. When Australia invoked ANZUS, we spread the 7th Fleet out. The Essex was assigned to the Malukus, right where we need to be,” Zimmer added. “SEAL Team THREE will drop in the Banda Sea, about fifteen kilometers off shore. They’ll get a swift, all-expenses paid trip to Huruku, with an on-time arrival.”
“And their cover?” J3 asked.
“We’re ready. Targets have been set. What’s your ETA for MacDill?”
General Jackson didn’t have to consult his watch. His internal clock had been ticking off the time since he left. “Thirty-eight minutes.”
“Roger. The details will be there waiting for you. But here’s the general idea.”
Every time the prisoners started falling asleep, the terrorists roamed the tent and kicked the captives. “Where is your American strength now?” asked one of the guards in broken English. He stood over the president who was gagging on blood from his last beating. He couldn’t spit it out; his mouth was covered with tape. “The Great Satan doesn’t look so great tonight,” he boasted.
The rebel circled to the president’s back. Ross was tied to him. They were both covered in mud from being dragged up a hillside. They itched and smelled of urine. They sat on hard, unforgiving, dusty ground. Ants crawled around and while the hostages did their best to kick them away, the ants, like the insurgents, were winning.
Without warning the guard rammed his rifle butt into Rossy’s ear. The lieutenant fell over, pulling the president with him. The other prisoners looked on. Some had broken ribs, a few suffered broken noses.
The beatings came every fifteen minutes, each time from a different terrorist. It was as if the leader was putting his men to the test. Did they have the stomach for the job? One after another, they did.
Taylor shifted his weight to the side, helping Ross back up. The lieutenant whispered his thanks, knowing that if the guard heard him, he’d earn another, more crippling blow.
“We’re gonna start losing guys pretty fast, Mr. President,” he said.
Rossy was right. The president felt like he had a rat’s-eye view of the Titanic.
“Coming around again,” reported the pilot to the ramp of the C-17. The SEALs would jump momentarily. Their equipment and specialized gear had been dropped on pallets with flotation devices on a first pass, released by a series of automated floor locks, controlled by the C-7′s loadmaster.
“Go, go, go, go!” The command from Nolt came right after a green “on” light signaled the SEALs were over the DZ. The first four SEALs, comprising Bravo Team, jumped out of the rear of the C-17 that had ferried them from Hickam. Then came Alpha. Their drop zone put them ahead of the USS Essex, a Waspclass landing ship. Two Navy HH-60H Seahawks, equipped for Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR), were ready to lift off as soon as the SEALs cleared the airspace and dumped in the sea.
Now it was Nolt’s turn. He saluted to the Air Force major who supervised their drop. “Thanks for the lift. You know where to send the bill.” On his way down, he thought about the shower he’d be enjoying in twenty minutes, and the one he hoped to take about six hours later.
“Misdirection,” Adm. Zimmer explained from the command ship. Nolt’s SEALs listened over their radio. J3 was connected from MacDill. President Lamden was on in the White House War Room. “They’re going to think we think we’re pounding them.” The Admiral described his plan.