Against All Enemies (43 page)

Then, “Striker One is with you.”

Gillespie allowed a satisfied snort. Someone had a clue.

Bartle firewalled the throttles as the B-2 headed back for the wadi at 42,000 feet. The pilot was about to learn why standard operation procedures only allowed max throttle at altitude for thirty seconds: the airspeed kept building and showed no signs of tapering off as they approached Mach. Finally, Bartle had to inch the throttles back to keep from going supersonic.

The threat display came alive and. chirped at them. A bat wing, the symbol for a fighter interceptor, flashed on the scope at their four o’clock position at seven miles. “Talk about luck,” Bartle said. The lieutenant colonel grunted an answer. But logic told him it was not pure luck. The fighter had probably been vectored by ground control to fly a point defense over the wadi after they had announced their presence by blowing up the C-130. But chance had played a role. The pilot had been looking at the rising moon when a dark shadow had flown across its face. The B-2 had been briefly silhouetted. It was enough to get the interceptor pointed in the right direction. The pilot had turned on his radar and probed for the bomber. He had gotten two brief hits before losing radar contact. But he was persistent and he was in the area.

West took his first snapshot of the compound and drove the cursors over the open, but now deserted, area in front of the gate. They altered course forty degrees for the second snapshot. “Bomb gone,” West announced. His fingers danced on the hand controller and he took a third snapshot of the area, this time behind the compound. They were going to blow down some walls.

“That son of a bitch is still on us,” Bartle said. “He got a brief lock on when the doors were open. Broke lock when they closed.”

West ignored him. He would solve that problem later. He took the fourth and last snapshot. Again, the system did its magic. “Bomb gone,” West said.

“Shit!” Bartle roared. “He’s got us!” The threat display showed a fighter with a radar lock on less than four miles at their three o’clock position.

“Turn into him,” West ordered. It was a standard defensive maneuver: when in doubt, turn into the threat. But West was not suffering from any doubt. Bartle stood the bomber on its right wing, making it perform like a fighter, which it definitely was not. But Lockheed’s engineers had designed it well, and it maintained controlled flight as it flew a knife edge in the night. The fighter’s radar broke lock. But West was not done with him. He reached out and hit the trigger button on the stick in front of him. The bomb bay doors banged open and a HARM missile was ejected. The fighter’s radar immediately locked on the doors. The HARM’s rocket motor fired and it homed on the only radar signal it could detect, the fighter that was now less than two miles away. The HARM left a bright pencil beam of light in its wake as it streaked to its target. But the HARM’S warhead didn’t have time to arm before it speared the fighter. It was enough.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Bartle shouted. “That’s two!”

Below them a bright explosion lit the night. Nineteen seconds later a second one did the same. “Now we go home,” West said, suddenly very tired. Bartle nodded and turned the big bomber to the northwest and the waiting tanker.

The flare of the first bomb filled the flight deck of the lead Combat Talon C-130 bearing down on the compound. But the pilots had been expecting it and had shielded their night vision goggles. The copilot lifted his goggles and lowered his head as the second flash illuminated the flight deck. He focused on the infrared scope in front of him as the system cleared. The compound was clearly visible, and he could see the damage from the two bombs. Both the front and rear walls were down. But for some reason, people were mostly streaming through the front wall, running for the safety of the surrounding desert. “We need some crowd control down there,” he muttered. “Drop on the back side.”

“Rog,” the pilot said. He altered course and dropped to 400 feet above the ground. “Do you have the beacon?”

The copilot checked the multipurpose display in the center of the instrument panel. “Nothing.”

“Thirty seconds,” the navigator shouted over the intercom.

“I got a beacon!” the copilot shouted. “Dead center of the compound.” Kamigami had turned his homing beacon back on.

“Jumpmaster!” the pilot shouted. “Did you copy?”

“Passing the word now,” came the reply.

“Ten seconds,” the navigator yelled. Then, “Green light!” The colonel in command of Delta Force was the first jumper out the door as the jumpmaster shouted, “GO! GO! GO!” The pilot felt the C-130’s center of gravity shift as two sticks of Delta Force, twenty men to the side, went out the back of the aircraft. The second C-130 was right behind them, dropping on the silk of the lead jumper. Before the last man was on the ground the colonel was out of his parachute and, with his team formed, was through the wall of the compound.

9:07
P.M.
, Thursday, July 29,
National Military Command Center, The Pentagon

The general was on his feet. “Yes!” Then he was back in control, the cool professional. But he was one very relieved man when the B-2 was safely headed home. “Delta Force has landed, the helicopters are inbound.”

“And the pilots?” Durant asked.

The general keyed his mike and called Blue Chip, which was now a relay post in the sky. It had the advantage of being in direct contact with all the players. Unfortunately, the controller on Blue Chip had not received an update. “Like everyone else,” the general groused, “we wait.”

4:08
A.M.
, Friday, July 30,
Wadi Rahad, The Sudan

Delta Force lives and dies with two very basic principles: maximum surprise with maximum violence and worship Gumby. The first called for speed and firepower. The second, for extreme flexibility. The raiders charging into the compound weren’t sure what they would find, but it was going to be either very dead or very friendly within a few seconds.

Yet theirs was not a false bravado. It was the result of years of training and then more training. They worked in teams of four, clearing the area and supporting one another. The first two teams inside were the cutting edge, and they worked opposite sides of the compound while backup teams came through the walls and cleared their flanks and rear. Teams from the second Combat Talon cleared and secured the outside. The only island of safety was the exact center of the compound where Kamigami’s homing beacon announced the presence of the mission’s objectives, Maj. Mark Terrant and Capt. Doug Holloway.

For the defenders, it was too much. Stunned by the bombs and the collapsing walls followed almost immediately by the roar of the Combat Talons in the night sky above them and the apparition of dark-faced men shouting at the tops of their lungs, seeming to know with uncanny precision exactly where they were in the dark, they threw down their weapons and surrendered. As quickly as it had begun, the fighting was over.

For a moment, the silence was overwhelming. “Sgt. Maj. Kamigami!” the colonel shouted. “Say position.”

“Here,” Kamigami called.

“Stand and be recognized,” the colonel called. Slowly, Kamigami raised his hands and his huge bulk appeared behind the low wall. The two men walked toward each other and met on the sand meant for the execution. They shook hands.

“What took you so long?” Kamigami asked.

“Ah, you know the fuckin’ rotorheads. They had to stop for a leak.”

Kamigami looked around. The shooters, who, moments before, had been intent on putting two bullets in the head of everyone not in the exact center of the compound, were now treating the survivors. Kamigami walked over to the prostrate al Gimlas and bent over him. He was still alive. “You lost a lot of blood.” He called for a shooter who hurried over with a first aid kit. “I’ll take care of him,” Kamigami said.

“You bloody bastard,” al Gimlas growled.

Kamigami ignored him and continued to work on his wounds. Then he rejoined the colonel who kept checking his watch. “Come on,” he muttered. Time was running out.

On cue, the distinctive beat of the lead helicopter filled the night air. Gillespie’s Pave Low was the first to appear, settling to the ground in the open area behind the back wall. Now the hours of relentless training paid the final dividend as Delta withdrew. It was not a mad rush for the helicopters, but an orderly retrograde where every person was accounted for. Terrant and Holloway were loaded first and on separate helicopters. Then the team leaders did a second count once their teams were loaded. When everyone was accounted for, Lee Harold led the takeoff with Terrant on board. His wingman was second, carrying Holloway. Finally, only Gillespie and his wingman were left.

Kamigami walked over to the prostrate al Gimlas and picked him up. Al Gimlas tried to struggle, but he was too weak from the loss of blood. Kamigami carried him to the waiting helicopters, “We’re not taking prisoners,” the colonel said.

“He’s one of the good guys,” Kamigami murmured, pushing his way on board.

9:20
P.M.
, Thursday, July 29,
National Military Command Center, The Pentagon

Durant was very tired when the status boards flashed the news: the helicopters were airborne with PC. “What’s PC?” he asked.

“Precious cargo,” the general replied. “They got what they came for. Medics are checking Terrant and Holloway now. We should have an update in a few minutes.”

“Casualties?” Rios asked.

“This has been a clean one for us—so far. Two wounded, one broken ankle from the airdrop, and some cuts and bruises. We’ll know the details when the helicopters land on the carrier in the Red Sea”—he glanced at the master clock on the wall—“in seven and a half hours.”

Durant closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “They did good,” he said.

“Indeed they did,” the general said. “By the way, when do I meet Agnes?”

8:45
A.M.
, Friday, July 30,
Kandersteg, Switzerland

Sutherland sat in the backseat of the rented Audi while Toni drove into the early-morning sun. Mather was in the front passenger seat, playing with the sophisticated communications and navigation system that came with the car. He called up the moving map display that was linked to a GPS receiver. The symbol for the Audi showed them on the outskirts of Kandersteg, high in the Swiss Alps.

“Supposedly,” Mather said, “this shows our position to within thirty feet.” He looked out the window. “That checks. We’re almost at the end of the road.” He punched in a command and the map expanded, showing them the local area. He checked the address the first secretary had given them. “Nothing,” he muttered.

“Call the embassy,” Sutherland muttered. “They’ll tell you where to go.” He saw a smile play across Toni’s lips.
She knows the roar of the green-eyed monster when she hears it
, he thought.

“Over there,” Mather said, pointing to a service station. An attendant came out and Mather spoke to him in German, asking for directions. The attendant read the address, shook his head, and answered in Schwyzerdütsch, a unique and almost incomprehensible form of German. “He says there’s no such place,” Mather translated. “Anyway, I think that’s what he said.”

“You think right,” the attendant said in English.

Toni wheeled the car back onto the narrow road. “I didn’t know you spoke German,” she said.

“And I’m learning Spanish,” he said. They exchanged a few words in that language. Their laughter joined and Sutherland felt his irritation grow. She stopped when the road ended at the train station. Cars were driving onto a long line of flatbed carriages that would transport them through a fifteen-kilometer rail tunnel to the other side of the mountain. A van painted with the distinctive purple and orange logo of Federal Express lumbered up the loading ramp and onto the carriages.

“What now?” Toni asked.

Sutherland thought for a moment. “Hand me the cell phone.” Mather handed it back. “I hope you can cheat and lie in German.” He punched in the telephone number he remembered from Beth’s travel envelope. “Tell whoever answers that you’re FedEx with a package from Century Communications and you need directions.” He hit the send button and handed the phone to Mather. The FBI agent sounded very convincing to Sutherland, and within moments, he had directions.

Toni followed Mather’s directions as they drove through the village and found the private road that wound up the eastern side of the valley, leading even higher into the Alps. “This road must have cost a hunk of change,” Sutherland allowed.

“A car is following us,” Toni said. “A silver-blue sedan.”

Sutherland turned around to look but couldn’t see the car. “Unless I’m sadly mistaken, that will be Jim Bob.” Toni slowed as the road took a sharp bend and made a natural choke point. Sutherland told her to stop. “Wait for me here. That’ll keep Jim Bob occupied and off my back.” He got out of the car.

“Be careful,” Toni said.

He gave her his best devil-may-care grin. “With you two as backup, what’ve I got to worry about?” He trudged up the road and, almost immediately, felt the effects of the thin air. But he kept at it. It was farther than he had anticipated. Finally, the road opened onto a natural terrace about the size of a football field where cattle grazed on lush summer grass. He turned to look over the valley. The view took his breath away. Far below, he could see the village of Kandersteg nestled at the head of the valley. The train pulling the long line of flatbed cars reminded him of Matchbox models he had as a child.

He walked on, mesmerized by the view. Then he saw the chalet. It blended so well with its surroundings that, at first, he didn’t realize how large it was. “Beth hit it big,” he muttered. He walked up to the front door and banged the wrought iron knocker. The door was finally opened and left him staring at a very familiar face.

“Oh, shit,” Bradley A. Jefferson said.

11:43
A.M.
, Friday, July 30,
U.S.S. Nimitz, The Red Sea

Capt. Lee Harold was waiting for Gillespie when he landed. Kamigami was the first off the Pave Low carrying a handcuffed al Gimlas as he would a child. The colonel and nineteen of his raiders followed. They were quickly led below while a maintenance crew swarmed over the helicopter to remove its rotors so it could be lowered to the hangar deck. Gillespie was the last man off, his flight suit stained with dried sweat, his face etched with fatigue. “Where’s the band and welcoming committee?” he muttered.

Harold shook his head. “No way. We made it look too easy.”

“As always,” Gillespie conceded.

10:45
A.M.
, Friday, July 30,
Kandersteg, Switzerland

Sutherland sat on one of couches beside the huge fireplace. Even though it was July, a log was burning, sending a radiant heat over the room. It had been a long time since he had felt the need for heat. He sipped at the small demitasse of coffee Sandi Jefferson had offered him and studied Beth as she moved about the room. He had never seen her stall for time before. “Cut the bullshit, Beth. What the hell is going on here?”

She sat down beside him, her left hand on his knee. He checked her ring finger. The huge diamond engagement ring was still there, firmly in place. “Hank, this is no big conspiracy. I work for Ben Cassidy and the Department of Justice.”

The memories came surging back. Ben Cassidy, the California state attorney general had been Beth’s lover when they were still married. When Cassidy had moved on to the national scene as the U.S. assistant attorney general in charge of special investigations for the Department of Justice, Beth had followed him to Washington. “Convince me,” Sutherland said.

“Right after I converted to Islam,” Jefferson explained, “I made the
Hajj
to Mecca. It’s a great honor to be a
Hajji
, one who has made the pilgrimage. While I was there, the Islamic Brotherhood approached me to be one of their ‘guardians’ to help protect and guard the faithful. Later on, Osmana Khalid showed up and reminded me of my promise. But I never passed anything on to him. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t know a thing about McGraw.”

“Khalid was running numerous spies,” Beth explained, “and the FBI had been investigating him for some time. Consequently, when the case broke, DOJ was looking directly at Brad and believed he was their baby. But the Air Force wouldn’t relinquish jurisdiction over Brad. Enter Ben Cassidy. When he heard the Air Force wanted you to prosecute the court-martial, he put me on the case.”

“Hoping I would talk to you,” Sutherland said. “Clever.”

Beth gave him a warm look. “It was more than that, Hank. Anyway, Cassidy also wanted me to establish contact with Sandi.” She threw a little smile in Sandi’s direction. “We became friends.”

“So why didn’t you just turn state’s evidence?” Sutherland asked Jefferson. “That would have gotten you off the hook.”

“I would have,” Jefferson said. “But Cooper talked me out of it. Believe it or not, he has a great deal of respect for the UCMJ. He said, ‘You’re innocent of the charges. The bastards will never prove their case.’ I believed him.”

“It’s partially my fault,” Sandi said. “I knew Brad had a guilty conscience, but he hadn’t done anything really wrong.”

“He allowed himself to be contacted by a foreign agent and didn’t report it,” Sutherland replied, doubting if Sandi Jefferson had a guilty bone in her body.

“Which is enough to ruin a person of color in our miserable society,” Sandi snapped. “Then all that money showed up in our bank account in Switzerland.”

“When did you establish that account?” Sutherland asked.

“When we were in Switzerland on our honeymoon,” Sandi replied. “I used it to avoid paying U.S. taxes on some money I had in a bank in Canada. Anyway, all that money suddenly showing up from nowhere scared us.”

“Do you have any idea where the two million came from?” Sutherland asked.

“We’re still working on that,” Beth answered. “But it looks as if Meredith may have done it to frame Brad.”

Sutherland looked at Jefferson. “Clear up some points for me. Sgt. Miner said that on Saturday, the twenty-fourth of April, you talked to Terrant and Holloway when they came out of the simulator. Did they tell you which mission profile they were going to fly?”

Jefferson shook his head. “I only asked them if the new type of digital data cartridge we were using was working. Nothing else.”

“So why did you change your plea?”

Jefferson stared at his hands. “Things were getting out of hand.”

“He felt responsible for the L.A. riots,” Sandi said. “By changing his plea to guilty, it would take away the reason for the riot. Can’t you understand that?”