“Yes, sir.” Middleton looked around the room. “That won’t do much but put some holes in the ground.”
“To be followed by a full air strike, ladies and gentlemen. And that is to be followed by an airborne assault to subdue and secure it until our people can sort all of this out. You folks take care of the tactical details, but as of right now I want Girdiwal closed for business. Get it rolling. Now, about the operators. Help is on the way for them?”
Director Burns braced himself. “We’ve dispatched another two-man sniper team to bring them out, Mr. President. It was to be low-profile.”
“Not anymore. Two men isn’t an option. Get them all the support they need. More than they might need, including additional boots on the ground.”
Middleton raised his hand to his chin, rubbed it, and spoke. “Sir, I have to bring this up. We have to consider the possibility that this might be a trick just to sucker us in, a few men at a time, then start a major battle in mountainous terrain, ambush terrain.”
“I understand that, General. I truly do. Given the circumstances, I see no other choice. If they choose to fight, the United States will wipe them out. I want our teams safely out of there, I want Girdiwal secured, and I want the head of a certain congresswoman. Are we clear?”
Silence filled the room. “Good. I’m having a private dinner with my wife tonight, and I do not want to be disturbed. Thank you all.”
There were murmurs around the Situation Room as they all stood, and General Middleton followed President Thompson out. “One last thing, sir,” he said privately when they’d passed the threshold.
The president didn’t break stride. “What is it already, Brad?”
“Your son is one of the CIA operatives on the way in to Girdiwal right now.”
President Thompson fought the jolt to his thought process. What had been a purely logical decision was now a personal dilemma. Could he — would he — even tell his wife? It was always different when a politician had to send his own family members into harm’s way.
“Thank you, General. Keep me posted, will you? The orders stand. Ingmar knows what he’s doing.”
25
The Lions of the Caliphate, two teenagers in a small, battered pickup truck, raced out of the village and down the road toward the burning building. Mohammed was driving and yipping like a puppy, while Hamid was standing in the bed, behind the mounted .50-caliber machinegun. For the pleasure of feeling the power, Hamid loosed a long burst of fire into the heavens and several gold tracers flew upward toward the stars. The roar made the light truck tremble, but Mohammed kept up the speed. The boys were warriors in their own minds, although the families wouldn’t let them join the Taliban, or ISIS, or anyone else, because they were needed in the poppy fields. The Prince, however, gave them weapons and created the Lions of the Caliphate so they could perhaps see some action after their chores were done.
When they pulled to a stop, they saw that the place was an inferno. Both jumped from the truck with their AK-47s in hand and advanced side by side toward what had once been the gate, trying to see into the flames. That destroyed their night vision. They stepped over the roadside ditch and moved on, heat strong on their faces.
“Let’s walk all the way around,” suggested Hamid. Kyle Swanson rose from the ditch behind them and swatted Hamid hard in the kidneys with the butt of the AK-47, then spun and kicked Mohammed’s feet out from under him. He knocked the guns away, and cracked the rising Mohammed on the nose, sending him back into the gravelly dirt. Swanson duct-taped the boy’s wrists and ankles and across his mouth and eyes, then dragged him over to the ditch and dumped him in.
Young Hamid was still spasming in pain as Kyle stripped him of his long white tunic and baggy pants and took the wool pakol cap. He would be dressed like the locals now, plus he had the truck. He trussed up Hamid and tossed him beside the other boy.
Gibson had sent a couple of kids to keep him busy, but hadn’t come himself. There was no time to waste thinking about that, though, so Swanson started changing clothes.
He didn’t hear the flutter of the silk parachute as a large figure suddenly appeared right behind him, landing erect, and said, “Hey, Kyle. Got any beer?” Ingmar Thompson was peeling out of his straps, grinning like an idiot.
“No, I don’t have any goddamn beer.”
“Want some?” A second parachutist plopped down ten feet away. Bruce Brandt was busy collapsing his chute. “Ingmar, shouldn’t we point a damned gun at him or something?”
“Why? We’re on the same side — as of a few minutes ago, I think. Besides, it’s Kyle.”
“Well, there is that,” Brandt conceded as he unhooked his rifle. “Where are Gibson and Marks? We’ve come to bring you all out of this shithole.”
Swanson was overjoyed to see his old friends and fellow snipers but kept in the moment. “Marks is dead. Gibson is over in the village. I’ll explain it all, guys, but let’s get out of here first. Into the truck. Ingmar, you take the .50 cal in back.”
“Ah, that’s what it was.” Thompson laughed. “Whoever was on that gun almost got us coming down. Tough to hide up there when you’re hanging from a piece of cloth. Tracers went right between us.” He climbed into the bed, checked the belt of ammo, declared the gun filthy but usable.
“Where we going?” asked Brandt, sliding into the passenger seat and adjusting his gear. “You need anything right now? Medical, water, whatever? I gotta tell you, this whole thing is a major pain.”
“No, I’m good. I want to drive down the valley about ten miles, away from the village, toward the Mehtar Gap, as if we’re trying to get a road to Kabul. Hide the vehicle and double-back to get into the high country.”
“Misdirection, got it. But listen up, pal, because things have changed mightily since you and Gibson came in. Ingmar and I were tasked early on, so we’re the first in, but now it seems that the whole damned cavalry is on the way to take that village and knock out an airstrip. Lots of political stuff going on.”
Swanson was making decent speed on the twisting old road but slowed when he saw movement ahead, dark shadows against light shadow. He slammed the brakes as he yelled, “Ambush!” Automatic weapons fire erupted from a roadside barricade. Thompson immediately returned fire with the .50 cal as Brandt and Swanson jumped from the cab and joined the fight. With Thompson providing cover, Swanson ran about fifteen feet and dropped to the ground to provide cover for Brandt, who leapfrogged past him. It sounded as if a pair of automatics were hidden in the rocks, but the ambush was already collapsing under the heavy return fire. Brandt sprinted a final leg and tossed a grenade, and the firing sputtered to a halt.
Swanson ran up and gave each enemy fighter a double tap just to be sure. He used Brandt’s flashlight to examine them. Two more kids. “That damned Gibson,” he said to his teammates. “He knows us. Thinks like us, so he counted on me coming down here and planted these two guys to block me. He probably has a few more stashed away up higher.”
Brandt took the light back and stuffed it away. “He wouldn’t have been expecting Ingmar and me.”
“He expected a rescue party of some sort. He told me that. So stay chill, boys. These are amateurs, but Gibson is the real deal, and he’ll be coming out to play soon.”
Thompson said, “Then he’d better get his ass in gear.”
“Okay, people, listen up,” Marguerite del Coda barked into her headset. “This is real-time action, and lives depend on it, so keep your mind in the game.” She was at the rear of the drone central control room, standing on a pedestal that helped her survey her kingdom. “You ready here, Mr. Winters?”