“HRT is one minute out from the site,” Bateman said to him over the intercom.
Every piece of the puzzle that was leading them to this site had been given to them, Bailey realized. The logic flow was clear: they were meant to find this spot, which meant either that they would find Emily Cranston’s body or it was an ambush.
“Too easy,” Bailey said.
Bateman turned to him. “What?”
“It’s too easy. It’s a trap.”
“HRT’s ready,” Bateman said.
I doubt it, Bailey thought, but did not voice. He pulled another piece of gum out and opened it. “It’s a trap,” he repeated.
“Thirty seconds out,” Bateman announced, listening in to the tactical channel. She looked at Bailey. “HRT’s prepared. We’ve got to save the girl.”
Bailey popped the gum in his mouth. He knew she had the single-minded focus. She’s never been spanked, smashed, defeated, beaten by someone meaner and nastier. He had a feeling that was about to change and he knew there was nothing he could say that would get that feeling across to her.
The helicopter they were on gained altitude and Bailey could now see the two Huey choppers flying in low over the trees from the west. Men in black fatigues with body armor and helmets lined the skids, ready to jump off, weapons pointed outward. The chopper Bailey was on gained altitude so that they could now see the clearing.
Bailey noted the large oak tree in the center and the fact there was no sign of Emily Cranston. The two Hueys touched down briefly on either side of the oak tree, the HRT members jumping off and hitting the ground, and then the choppers were back up in the air to take up over-watch positions.
There was a moment of stillness. Even inside the hovering helicopter, with the turbine engines whining behind him and the blades whopping by overhead, Bailey could sense it. And he knew exactly what the feeling meant. Danger.
The HRT members got to their feet, weapons at the ready. Bailey could hear them on the tactical net. They confirmed what could be seen from the air: no sign of Emily Cranston.
But there was a chain around the tree.
One of the men moved toward the tree, made four steps, then disappeared in a flash of explosion. A couple of the others ran to his position and both also hit mines.
“Everyone freeze!” Bailey yelled over the tactical net, trying to over-ride the confused chatter that had almost overwhelmed the radio system. “Do not move.”
Beside him Bateman was shocked, her eyes wide, taking in the disaster below them.
Bailey looked through binoculars at the clearing. There were three bodies, bloodied and not moving. A couple of other HRT members were down, wounded. Claymore mines, Bailey realized. Set on trip wires. The entire clearing was probably laced with them.
Bateman still seemed stunned. Bailey decided this wasn’t the time to be political, not that such a consideration was ever high on his list. He turned to her. “Have your choppers drop STABO lines to those not wounded to lift them, then hover them over to the wounded and hook in. Two men on a line. Get the wounded to the Ranger station. Then evac all those in the field. Then get explosives experts out here. It’s going to take a while to clear that field.”
Which was the point, Bailey knew. Slow down the pursuers. It was a classic military tactic, except in this case, the true pursuers were at DEA headquarters. Bailey leaned back in the seat as Bateman yelled orders over the radio.
He turned to the side and spit his gum out of the chopper as he considered the fact that the game was getting closer to the end point.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The helicopter touched down on the roof of DEA headquarters in Alexandria, Virginia and there was only one person waiting to greet Gant, Neeley and Golden as they exited. A tall man, thin to the point of emaciation, with disheveled gray hair held a hand up to his eyes to block the backwash from the blades as the chopper touched down.
Gant took point, walking up to the man. “Are you up to speed on the situation?”
The man stared at him with dead eyes. “My names Caulkins. Michael Caulkins.”
An image of the girl chained to the tree in Tennessee flashed in front of Gant’s eyes. He paused, not sure what to say. Golden stepped past him. “We’re terribly sorry for your loss.”
Caulkins looked at her with the same dead stare. “Are you?
“Yes.” Golden’s voice got through to Caulkins in some way.
“Why?” he asked.
“I lost a son in a similar way, so I have an idea what you’re feeling.”
Score one for the doc, Gant thought. Caulkins paused, then nodded, indicating for them to follow him. They went in the roof entrance and took an elevator ride down a few floors. Caulkins led them down a carpeted hallway and into a conference room. He shut the door behind them and took the seat at the head of the long table. Gant, Neeley and Golden arrayed themselves around the table.
“What do you want?” Caulkins asked.
Gant pulled out the three personnel folders and slid them across to Caulkins. “Those are the men who killed your daughter.”
Caulkins looked through the folders, then looked up, confused. “They’re soldiers. Why did they do this?”
“They were members of 7th Special Forces Group based in Panama,” Gant said. “They were running missions for Task Force Six.”
Some degree of comprehension came to Caulkins face.
Gant pushed the information, slapping down photos on the desk. “These are the others they’ve killed.” He rattled off their names and the family members. Before he got to the end, Caulkins was shaking his head.
“I know them now. Those three guys are dead. They died in a helicopter crash during exfiltration.”
Gant glanced at Golden, then back at the Drug Enforcement Agent. He pulled out his digital camera, thumbed through and then showed a picture of the remnants of Sergeant Lutz’s body. “One of them is dead now. Killed this morning in Virginia. He had just killed Lewis Foley of the State Department and his wife. Along with two security men.
“The other two are still out there. They’ve got the daughter of Colonel Cranston and we believe she’s in the same predicament that you daughter was in.”
“Jesus Christ,” Caulkins exclaimed. “Why?”
Gant began collecting the photos. “You said you believed they died in a helicopter crash during exfiltration. Who told you that?”
“I was working the ops desk for the Southern District, Panama,” Caulkins said. “The sniper team — those three guys, I only know their names, never met them— was seconded to us by Southern Command, Spec Ops, Task Force Six.”
“Colonel Cranston?” Golden asked.
Caulkins nodded. “Yes.”
“Who was in overall charge?” Gant asked.
“Technically, I was,” Caulkins said.
Neeley spoke for the first time. “’Technically’?”
“We had what we thought was a high level target. The team was to eliminate the target. Then they called in they had someone with a badge on the site. They thought he was DEA, but I hadn’t been briefed on anyone in that AO. So I called it in to our Central Intelligence Agency liaison. He got back with me almost immediately and told me to stop the mission and exfiltrate the team. That’s what I did, except the chopper crashed during exfiltration.”
Gant leaned back in his chair. “Cranston told us the DEA was the agency that ordered the mission to stop and exfiltration.”
Caulkins shrugged. “I relayed the order to him, so he might have assumed I was the originator of it.”
“Who was the—“ Gant began, but he was interrupted when his Satphone vibrated. He snapped it open, listened for a little bit, then shut it without saying a word. He looked at Golden and Neeley. “Emily Cranston wasn’t at the cache site. She’d been moved. The entire area was laced with mines. Two members of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team that went in were killed and three wounded. The site is still not secure.”