Black Site (39 page)

“So the Khyber Rifles can interrogate them?”

“The Khyber Rifles have some men that know which side their bread is buttered on. They work for us. They interrogate the prisoners.”

“With Agency officers there to observe?”

“You got it.”

Kolt’s voice turned darker. “You are talking about extraordinary rendition.”

Hammond chuckled without smiling. “It’s not as extraordinary as you might think. No ghost planes, no secret international treaties or complicated chains of custody. We just toss their asses on a donkey cart and hump them over the border. No muss, no fuss.”

“Unless the Sandcastle gets hit by a platoon of al Qaeda operatives posing as Americans. They slaughter the American advisers and then release the HVTs, who then reveal the existence of the black site to the world.”

“Yeah … unless
that
happens.” Hammond blew out a long sigh. “Shit. Can you fucking see the fallout on this? Forget Abu Ghraib. This is
that
times one hundred. Plus the White House is going to go ballistic. Not to mention the Agency men who’ll be wiped out in the attack. I’ve got some good friends at the Sandcastle right now.”

“Then pull them out. Leave the prisoners and the Paki guards and just get our boys out of there!”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, actually, it
is
that simple!”

“Langley has to give the order, and they haven’t given the order. They are afraid that without the Agency guys at the Sandcastle, the Pakistani guards will just fold up like a cheap suitcase and let the HVTs go. If they do that, or they kill them, and word leaks out that this was a CIA black site, then that will bite us in the ass. It will hurt our friends in the Pakistani government, which means they could lose their fingernail hold on power. If the extremists take over Pakistan, this is going to turn into a soup sandwich.”

“So what are you guys doing to stop them from taking over the Sandcastle?”

“We’ve alerted the SAD guys at the black site. And I will head over there in the morning as soon as the road opens.”

“You and three guys in a minivan?”

“Yeah, for now, basically, that’s about it. Langley is working with Colonel Webber at Delta to develop a hit to pull our guys and the HVTs out of there, but again, that would involve the White House, and there is no assurance we’re going to get authorization for a ground incursion into Pakistan from the White House. Since the OBL hit, they’ve pretty much put the kibosh on sending military over the border in any numbers that could be noticed. Hopefully, when they learn what’s at stake they will see that pissing off Islamabad is the lesser of two evils.”

“Damn.” Kolt shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll go with you.”

Hammond shook his head. “I’d love that—I could definitely use an ex–Delta gun—but I’ve got orders. We are to have no operational relationship with you.”

“Man … screw your orders. You weren’t supposed to tell me all that shit you just told me.”

“Yeah … well, I can deny that. But if I put you with my team heading to Landi Kotal … can’t see how I can keep that from Langley.”

Kolt stood. “Then I’ll go on my own.”

Hammond slowly rose. He lifted his folded Kalashnikov from its resting place leaning against the wall.

“You have gear?”

Kolt shook his head. “Negative.”

“You have wheels?”

Again, “Negative.”

Hammond clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth while he thought. Then he said, “Tell you what—I just happen to have a gassed-up Suzuki dirt bike and an AK. A backpack with ammo and water. I just might accidentally leave all that behind in the garage when me and my men leave at six a.m.”

Raynor just nodded. “Why don’t you leave now?”

“The pass doesn’t open until six. Before that we’d get nailed by bandits or Taliban checkpoints within a thousand yards of travel. Anyway, AQ doesn’t have the night vision equipment our guys do. They are too smart to hit in darkness. If we leave here at six we’ll still be at the site a half hour before first light.”

Kolt looked at his watch. “So we sit here for three hours?”

“You can bunk out. I’m going to call Langley. Tell them what I learned from you. Encourage them to talk to the White House and to JSOC, and to fight like hell to get that Delta hit approved. Without Delta, we will do our best. But let’s face it … if they don’t show, we’re all dead.”

FORTY-ONE

After six hours of driving, the majority of it off-road, T.J., his three men, and the CIA pilot were all led out of the trucks in chains and pushed into a dark warehouse. They were lined up against a wall by their guards, and then their chains were strapped together by lengths of thick hemp and fastened to an iron pipe in the wall.

Here they sat for two hours. Any time one of them tried to speak to another, he was threatened with a rifle butt to his head by the pair of Chechens guarding them.

A light hung from the ceiling and shone directly on Eagle 01, so they could not see more than twenty feet of empty cement warehouse flooring in front of them. But Josh could hear a tremendous bustle outside. Trucks coming and going, the shouting of men, and the clanging of metal. Activity on the far side of the warehouse, out of his view. Shouts in Chechen and Arabic and Pashto. Engines starting up and then stopping.

Finally a Chechen in a salwar kameez ordered the men to their feet, then stepped up to Timble and unlocked his chains. He did not do this to the rest of the men in line.

Across the bare cement floor of the warehouse came the echo of a door opening and then closing again. Timble saw men arrive through the darkness in front of him a few seconds later. Five, then seven figures, all dressed as 75th Ranger Regiment soldiers. They wore their carbines across their chests and Kevlar helmets on their heads, their thick goggles stowed high upon them.

They weren’t Rangers, Josh knew. They were just more men in costume. But he also knew they looked close enough to fool most anyone they came across for as long as they would need to wreak havoc.

One of the Rangers stepped forward. He wore a major’s insignia, he was clean-shaven, of course, and he was young, perhaps thirty. In the low light and with the change of clothing and the lack of facial hair, it took T.J. several seconds to realize whom he was looking at.

It was Daoud al-Amriki. David the American. He smirked at T.J. “My first shave in six years. How do I look?”

T.J. tried to mask his surprise. Gruffly he responded, “Like a damn fool.”

David just smiled as if he had expected the retort. T.J. looked him up and down, saw the mistakes he’d made in wearing his gear. His pants were not tucked into his boots, his goggles on his helmet were stowed upside down, and his kneepads were upside down as well. Still, this was an American, dressed as an American, and Josh knew this only made the al Qaeda operation more deadly.

A man with a wooden pushcart appeared from the darkness of the far side of the warehouse. On the cart were several more sets of uniforms; boots, rifles, helmets; backpacks. All the same high-quality forgeries.

“Captain Timble. What do you think?” Daoud lifted a tunic from the top of the stack. He unfolded it and held it high.
TIMBLE
was written on the name tape over the right breast. A captain’s bars were on the helmet lying next to it.

T.J. just stared.

“Put it on. There is gear here for you and all your men. They can dress in whatever fits—their name tapes are not accurate.”

T.J. made no move toward the clothing. He found himself almost paralyzed with shock. He’d had no idea that the AQ operatives expected him to physically take part in whatever they had planned.

“No fucking way. I’m not wearing that. I don’t know what you—”

Daoud cut him off with a shrug. “I expected this, of course.” He said something in Arabic that T.J. didn’t pick up, but quickly two of the Chechens rushed from behind Daoud al-Amriki and grabbed the last man in the line of prisoners. It was Skip Knighton, the surviving CIA helo pilot. The two big Chechens pushed him to the ground, onto his knees. His bindings were attached to the three Delta sergeants, so the entire row, minus T.J., stumbled. One of the Delta prisoners recovered and went after the Chechens, but quickly a large unit of phony Rangers appeared from the darkness, easily two dozen men now, and they raised weapons high and shouted at the Americans in their own mother tongue. No one in Eagle 01 spoke Chechen, but the words could nevertheless be construed as nothing other than threats.

T.J. and his men backed off.

Through it all Daoud al-Amriki stood by, haughty and confident. When the noise died down, when two men stood over the American helicopter pilot with rifles to his head, when two dozen more stood in a line to the left and right and just behind David the American, when T.J. and his men were standing back against the wall, Daoud al-Amriki said, “For the purposes of today’s operation, I need only you, Captain Timble. As you can see, I have plenty of other soldiers who can play the part of an American force. These other four men of yours are absolutely expendable.”

Daoud stepped over to Skip Knighton, stood in front of and over him, though his eyes and those of Josh Timble remained locked together. Josh did not speak.

“Expendable, Captain,” Daoud repeated, and he quickly drew the replica Beretta pistol in the drop leg holster on his hip. “I am happy to prove that to you now.” He raised the weapon and placed it to the helicopter pilot’s forehead.

“No!” shouted T.J., just as the pistol cracked and Knighton’s head snapped back, a splatter of blood erupted behind him, and he dropped dead on the cold concrete.

All the Delta men began shouting and pulling at their bindings. They tried to drop to the floor to tend to their fellow prisoner, but they were pushed away by the rifle butts of the two Chechens who’d stood alongside Knighton as he was killed.

“You son of a—”

“Save it, Timble. Save your curses. You will need them after I shoot the next infidel in the row.”

The two Chechens pushed Tony Marquez down on his knees now, two feet from the crumpled body of the CIA pilot. “Screw these pricks, boss!” Tony shouted, and Daoud pointed his pistol at the fresh forehead in front of him.

“No!” shouted Josh again. And then, “I’ll do it! I’ll put on the damn uniform! We all will!”

Daoud al-Amriki seemed pleased with himself. He lowered the pistol, found the safety and engaged it, then reholstered it awkwardly. It was obvious that he was accustomed to neither this weapon nor the holster low on his hip. He had to concentrate on his actions. He then looked back up to Josh, and declared, “As I said, I really don’t need these other men. Any delay, any tricks, and I will shoot them all through the head. Are we clear, Captain?”

T.J. just looked down at Skip’s dead body. He’d spent three years suffering with the man, and now he was gone. T.J. reached for the uniform. As he did so he barked an order to the remaining prisoners: “Kit up!”

*   *   *

Raynor woke up slowly. His body felt stiff and sore, and his left forearm wound burned with a savage heat. He’d slept for two hours on the mats on the floor of one of the bedrooms of the CIA safe house, and as the events of the previous day came back to him, one at a time, he recognized with a start that there was an important piece of this puzzle that had been eluding him.

Before nodding off he had borrowed Hammond’s satellite phone to call Pete Grauer in Jalalabad to let him know what was going on. Hammond had been all for any help Radiance could provide, unofficially, of course. Hammond had made his own appeal to his own masters for a rescue mission to the black site, but the red tape involved with getting that mission approved made it seem damned unlikely that it would happen in time.

Grauer had immediately agreed to have Pam Archer’s Predator available to linger over Landi Kotal, and to relay intel to Langley in real time from the Radiance Operations Center. What Langley would do with that information was anyone’s guess.

But Kolt had only just now considered another facet of the enemy operation. It was funny how, in his cluttered and weary mind, this one thing somehow became so clear to him.

Raynor sat up now. A couple hours’ sleep was not much, not nearly enough, but it would have to do. He was hungry and thirsty. In addition to the injury to his arm from the metal roof, his elbow and knees throbbed from the fight with the Afghani Taliban in the dry creek bed three days ago.

He shook off the aches and pains, and stepped into the sitting room. Hammond and his men were there.

“We leave in twenty,” Hammond said. He loaded his carbine and placed it on body armor he had laid out on the cold cement floor. The other paramilitary operations operators were rechecking their own gear.

Raynor said, “I’ve been thinking. They know we got to the German, so they must assume we know about the choppers.”

Hammond nodded. “Probably.”

“Which means they know they can’t fool us by landing a couple of Black Hawks at the Sandcastle.”

Hammond shrugged this time. “So?”

“So, what if they have another plan?”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure that out. Maybe some other component to the attack on the black site. They have to assume we will be ready with RPGs or shoulder-fired missiles or something to knock down the choppers.”

“Yeah, we are ready. But maybe they think we won’t hit the choppers because the missing Delta guys will be on board.”

Raynor shook his head. “No. In the past, if they had the boys, they would use them, show them off. But they aren’t showing them off now. They may have them on the choppers, but it’s not to use them as human shields. There is some other reason the boys are part of this op.”

“Well, either way, we are ready for the Black Hawks. I hate to think those poor D-boys will be on board, but we aren’t letting those choppers land in the Sandcastle. We’ll shoot them down.”

Kolt understood, and he knew that T.J. would understand as well. But there was something else. “You are ready for the choppers. Focused on the choppers. But what if they attack from the ground?”