Al-Shoum paid no attention to their names when Logan introduced them. The mercenary added, “We have two more men driving over from Israel. They should be arriving in about an hour.”
“Good,” said al-Shoum. “Will you be in charge, or do I have to talk to someone else?”
“Anything doing with Gates Global still comes through me,” Logan said, careful not to appear impolite. He had not forgotten to whom he was speaking, and had warned the new men to watch their mouths or they would all end up in a Syrian jail.
Al-Shoum explained the changing search patterns. “There is no need for you to be out flying without a target. It would only waste your fuel and time, for your expertise will be needed soon enough. Brief your team and be ready to move as soon as somebody spots the Americans. When they start to run, as I anticipate, you will go get them.”
Logan shifted the strap of his rifle. “Good plan, sir. We’ll be ready.”
“Very well,” al-Shoum said. “I’ll call you when something turns up.” He turned on his heel and went back to the tent, where more pins had been stuck in the map overlay. He issued a new order: Every Toyota pickup in the new search area would be halted and immobilized until the Marines were found. There was no use counting the same ones twice. The pins seemed to mock him.
“Sir! I’ve got something here!” A sailor at a communications console inside the Combat Command Center of the Blue Ridge remained calm, although it took everything he had to keep from standing up and shouting. The chief petty officer in charge and the CCC officer of the watch moved to the console and plugged in their headsets.
“What’s up, Armstrong?” asked the lieutenant.
“We’re picking up a repeater sat phone signal, sir. Call sign is Long Rifle.”
The bosun tapped a computer to scroll a list of recent call signs. “That’s Gunny Swanson from the rescue mission!”
“I’ve got it.” Lieutenant David Garvey immediately depressed his TALK key. “Long Rifle… Blue Ridge… Do you copy?”
Kyle Swanson gave a thumbs-up sign to General Middleton. “Loud and clear,” he responded. “I have a package and need a FedEx pickup.”
“What is your address, Long Rifle?” The call was encrypted but was still over an open frequency, which required both parties to use code whenever possible.
“Simple Shackle,” Swanson said, then read off a line of numbers in an encoded format specified in the operational orders. The Simple Shackle was a l-to-10 box grid, horizontal and vertical, that could be interpreted only if the recipient had a similar code sheet. The little code in 100 squares repeats hashed versions of the alphabet. Any specific letter might appear in three or four different boxes that are used at random. “THE” might read 1-12-16 on first use, but 36-98-53 the next time. As an added safeguard, it would change at specified times. Even computers as powerful as those at the National Security Agency would have to put in some time to break it.
“How long can our driver expect you to remain at that address?”
“No more than a few hours, then we are going to see March of the Penguins.” The brevity code, also from the original ops order, specified that “penguins” meant south.
“Roger on the March. Come back in sixty mikes to confirm pickup time.” Garvey unplugged. “Chief, I’m going up to see the captain. Keep two men on that frequency at all times.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Chief Petty Officer Dwight Marshall made the personnel arrangements. When Garvey was gone, he switched to a private internal net.
A wall telephone rang deep in the stern of the ship. “Yes?” answered a deep voice.
“Double-Oh. We just picked up traffic from your boy Gunny Swanson. He’s coming out with a package. I think you need to be in on this. I’ll pass the word for a five-man protective detail to bring you up to meet with the MEU XO.” Marshall clicked off, found a Marine, and passed along the instructions. A team saddled up in full combat gear, locked and loaded, and headed down the ladders to escort Dawkins to the CCC. The executive officer of the Marine Expeditionary United would want his top hand in on planning whatever happened next, and no NCIS civilian investigators would be allowed to interfere.
Dawkins pulled on his boots. He had been comfortably whiling away the hours in a secluded area carved out deep belowdecks by creative sailors. It had a locked door, a television set with a lot of interesting videos, access to a nearby head with a toilet and a shower, a comfortable bunk, a tattered easy chair, a bunch of books and magazines ranging from Playboy to Sports Illustrated to Vogue, and shelves holding clean sheets. On a table was a bowl with fruit and candy bars gathered from the mess tables and the ship’s store. He had taken refuge in perhaps the most pleasant place on the entire ship, a hidden love nest to which boy and girl sailors could retreat, grossly violate naval regulations, and fuck like rabbits.
CHAPTER 53
JACK SHEPHERD OF CNN WAS having an early pint of beer in a Fleet Street pub with a leggy intern from the London office of the Cable News Network. Chrissie Rogers was blond and busty, a twenty-two-year-old journalism school graduate from Nebraska, and she was enchanted with every word the rugged, veteran foreign correspondent bestowed on her in the privacy of a small booth. He was wondering whether to get her in bed before or after an expense-account dinner. The cell phone clipped to his belt chimed and vibrated. He reluctantly answered: “Shepherd.”
“Ah, my friend Jack Shepherd of CNN. This is your friend from Basra.” The unmistakable voice of the Rebel Sheikh was smooth. Jack slid out of the booth and walked outside for privacy.
“Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?” No use wasting time with idle chatter. If the Rebel Sheikh called, it was for a reason.
“I am sorry to interrupt your afternoon, but I have something for you.” There was a pause. “This is on deep background, of course. My name and position cannot be used.”
“No problem, sir, and you’re not interrupting. I’m always on duty. What are we talking about?”
A gentle laugh. “Impatient Americans. Well, the kidnapped General Middleton of the Marine Corps has escaped his captors, with the assistance of a Marine sniper who survived the crash of the helicopters, a man named Kyle Swanson. The Syrian Army and intelligence forces have launched a wide search to find both of them.”
“Can I go with this, sir?”
“Oh, absolutely, Jack, providing you leave me out of your report. I just received a briefing from Syria. The manhunt is going on even as we are speaking, so you should hurry and get this on the air. Come see me again sometime, Jack.” The Rebel Sheikh gave that little laugh again. “And I really do apologize for interrupting your meeting with the lovely Ms. Rogers.”
By using Chrissie’s name, the Rebel Sheikh was telling the correspondent that he was being watched. Jack Shepherd didn’t care. He wasn’t in the television news business to be invisible. He returned to the table, tossed down the rest of his pint, and laid down some money for the drinks. “Come on, Chrissie. Back to the office. Time to do some work.”
A woman in Amman, Jordan, was calling a similar alert to the al Jazeera correspondent in his hotel room office.
It took the networks about an hour to prepare the story in their home offices, Atlanta for CNN and Doha for al Jazeera. Both slammed Special Report logos on their screens and broadcast the reports to millions of viewers. The twenty-four-hour cable news shows, already awash with Red Alert terrorism stories, would soon launch squadrons of talking-head commentators to argue with each other about just how soon war would break out between the United States and Syria.