“The attack here came as a total surprise to almost everyone, including me, because I wasn’t briefed until we were airborne.” Some of the pictures he had taken while flying rolled onto the screen: young men weighted down with weapons, chute packs, and other gear were seated inside the plane in two long rows, and had waved for the folks back home.
“The mission was to secure the airfield just outside the town of Girdiwal, which has become a crossroad in the international drug trade. From where I stand, I can see scorched fields of opium poppies that were a major source of the heroin and opioids that challenge all countries.” Pictures came of daylight breaking over flat fields and sheer mountains, and of dim rooftops below.
Foster took a breath, counting the ticks of the clock in his head. On TV, time was money. “As most people now know because of recent developments in Washington, the CIA was accused of running drugs out of this place. The CIA has denied that charge, and I’ve seen no evidence here to substantiate that accusation.” A pause to toss the ball back to the anchor. “Jennifer?”
The studio director told her through an earpiece to go another fifteen seconds. The video was good, and he didn’t want to have to wait in line for another hour or two before getting another report from this guy half a world away.
“John, was the mission a success?”
“Let’s ask one of the men in charge. This is Captain Jim Sanchez. Captain, the question is whether the mission was a success.”
The handsome, equitable, calm face of Sanchez came on camera, a war paint work of camouflage oils. His hair was high and tight. “It most certainly was, Tilt. It was a multiforce, multinational operation, and the Air Force and the Army and the Marines obliterated most of the opposition before we even arrived. After a few minor skirmishes, we took absolute control with minimal casualties, just a couple of broken legs. Very little collateral damage, since the town was asleep when we hit the airport. Now the Afghan Army is rolling in to secure the village.”
“Did you find any evidence of a CIA drug-running operation, Captain?” Fostert asked.
Sanchez kept his pleasant demeanor and shook his head. “Nope. Nobody here but us chickens.”
Tilt didn’t mention the three men he had watched get on the Blackhawk and disappear. It was obvious they were spooks. Enough of a scoop is enough, and he didn’t want to burn the bridge of letting the CIA owe him a favor. Delta boys knew when to call in favors, and when to shut the hell up. “Thanks, Captain Sanchez.” Camera back on Foster. “Jennifer.”
“John.” She maintained a serious face, and the dark eyes bored into the big lens. “We’ll be right back with an exclusive story about a sixth grader in Ohio who has an amazing memory.”
Congresswoman Keenan was seriously considering getting drunk. Her big exposé of the CIA had boomeranged and smacked her right in the head. It was all over the news. The Leadership wanted to see her first thing in the morning, although she didn’t want to see them. She didn’t particularly want to see anyone, except maybe that Prince character who had opened this can of worms. Her staff had all left with their tails between their legs. They were probably in the pubs of Georgetown and around the Hill, spreading gossip and looking for new jobs, since her ship was going to sink at the end of her term. She took a bottle of Chardonnay from the sideboard and poured a glass so full that it almost brimmed over. She was bending over, sipping away the excess, when the ringtone of her private cell phone broke the silence: ABBA’s “Dancing Queen.”
She carefully picked up the glass, took a sip, and noticed that the caller ID was blocked. “Hello,” she said, impatient. Victoria Keenan hated all anonymous callers, who usually only bombarded her with long strings of profanity.
“It’s Mr. Prince, Congresswoman.” The voice sounded faint and far away.
“How did you get this number?” She spat the question as anger rose inside her. She toed her way out of her heels and sat at her desk.
“We’ll make this short.” His voice seemed normal, in total control of himself. “How are you holding up?”
“Everything has fallen apart and you dare ask me that? I’m going to be skewered, thanks to your lies. You can be sure that I will cooperate fully with the authorities to prosecute you.”
He laughed. “Don’t be too quick to judge, Congresswoman. I know what happened at Girdiwal, because I was there. Don’t believe the press reports. That’s just the government covering its ass.”
“You were there? How?” She placed the glass on a piece of paper so as not to leave a wet ring on the wood.
“Never mind. Your next move is to point out that the raid was nothing more than misdirection. It confirmed that Girdiwal was a drug highway, but that’s all. They’re dodging the question of the agency being a cult of covert corruption that has run amok.”
Keenan sucked in a sharp breath. “That Kyle Swanson guy isn’t a rogue, as you said. I just watched on-the-spot reporting that there was no sign of CIA involvement over there.”
“That’s why I called, ma’am. Don’t be so sure about Swanson being in the clear. Keep the pressure on him. His partner, Luke Gibson, has also turned out to be a rotten apple.”
Keenan was hoping for a rope of help, but instead she was getting more cloak-and-dagger stuff that couldn’t be proved. “That’s not enough. They’re going to crucify me,” she said with a slight moan.
The man’s voice was lower, more confidential and soothing. “No, they’re not, Vicky. May I call you that? When you have them all going on record as saying nothing happened, you can drop the anvil. Have them look into the outgoing traffic at Girdiwal immediately after the raid. A Blackhawk helicopter extracted a three-man CIA team — Swanson and two others. They had killed several Afghans, so deal that card when they brag about no collateral damage.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I was there, Vicky. I saw them leave. U.S. troops were already on the ground and helped them.”
“Okay,” she said. “That’s good.”
“Then play your ace. Shortly after that Blackhawk departed, another helicopter belonging to the CIA took off and headed east.”
A gulp of wine. “You saw that one, too?”
“No doubt about it. Hang tough on this, Vicky. You’re the hero in this drama, not them. I’ll contact you again later.” The call terminated.
Keenan poured another glass, and her mood was entirely different. She could go home and sleep tonight, because she had the mother of all whistle-blowers in her pocket.
Another takeoff, another landing. Kyle Swanson felt like a piece of lost luggage, being shuttled around until it arrived wherever it was supposed to be. He had gotten aboard the helo at Girdiwal and had immediately huddled with the waiting medic, Thompson, and Brandt. Then he gave out.
“I’ve got a bad one back here,” the medic said on the Blackhawk internal intercom system. With sharp scissors and help from the other two men, Swanson was stripped to his skivvies by the time the bird was flying. Stethoscope, blood pressure, oxygenation, temperature, light in the eyes — a full airborne quickie physical. The crew chief unfolded a silvery blanket for the patient. The medic noted the conditions and had the pilot raise a doctor. The word came back to hydrate the patient, keep him warm, administer a strong sedative, and put on a stiff cervical collar to help immobilize the neck and spine.
Swanson relaxed through it all, and when the needle poked into a blue vein, the first drops put him out like a light.
The rest of the long trip was a bounding dream, things happening to him just below the surface of consciousness — being strapped down, hearing muted conversation, being placed on rolling litters, given a more thorough examination at a base aid station, then swaddled up again and locked into a bed aboard a Gulfstream executive jet belonging to the CIA. Brandt and Thompson rode with him, keeping him apart from everyone other than the original medic. The new assignment was to protect him and keep him from talking to anybody until they reached the CIA station in Germany. He made the trip in a pleasant twilight zone.