SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops IV (7 page)

“And where is that?”

“It is beneath the house you raided when you killed him, underneath the compound. He was probably there when you attacked. He set up his command headquarters down there.”

The Colonel looked to the ceiling for inspiration. He said one word. “Fuck!” Then he turned to Nolan. “Chief, would you come with me.”

“Yes, Sir.” Nolan looked at Danial and smiled. “So long, my friend. You’re gonna be okay now. A few days and you’ll be out of here.”

“Yes. My thanks again for saving my life, Nolan.”

“Yeah.”

He picked up his rifle, followed the Colonel out of the sick bay, and they gratefully sucked in the open air, driving out the stinking taste of antiseptics from their nasal passages. The noise was deafening as a pair of Air Force jocks gunned their engines ready for takeoff. The jet engines crescendoed to a high-pitched scream, and they shot along the runway, trailing clouds of kerosene fumes in their wake. In the distance, the Black Hawks that recovered them from Pakistan were taking off for somewhere, and their turboshafts screamed as they clawed for altitude. They climbed into the Colonel’s Humvee. The driver was still sitting inside, waiting for orders.

“Back to headquarters, Mathews. Make it fast.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The driver kicked down on the gas, and the heavy Humvee surged forward, jerking them backward in their seats. Lieutenant Colonel Weathers affected not to notice. He looked sideways at Nolan.

“You know what his means, Chief, if it’s true.”

“I think so, Sir. We’ve got a problem.”

“You got that right. Can you imagine what the world will think if they find out we killed a sick old man? Killed him, and missed the main target who’d taken over his terror organization. And then he appears on the damned tube, or the Internet, and there’s this bearded turd with the name ‘bin Laden’, telling the Islamists to go out and bomb the West. It would be like the second coming.”

Nolan saw it all then. The Colonel was right. It would ignite a furor that would set the world alight. It would send the fanatics back into the fray with a new energy and determination. Just when the Pentagon estimated they had them beat, they’d come back, a Phoenix climbing out of the ashes of the fire. And ISAF would have it all to do again.

Another 911 maybe. Dear God, it’s too much to contemplate.

He suddenly realized the Colonel was staring at him, and he knew what it meant. But this time, he had to say no.

Christ, there are other units, Seals, Delta, British SAS and SBS, so why Bravo?

“I understand what you’re saying Sir. If he exists, this guy has to be stopped. But if you’re thinking of Bravo, you need to think again. We’ve been out in the field chasing around Afghanistan and Pakistan for months, and the men are tired. We’re due to rotate back Stateside. You need someone fresh, a platoon that’s at their peak. And besides, there are other problems as well.”

“You’re referring to Lieutenant Boswell, I assume.”

He looked the officer in the eye, trying to read his expression.

“I didn’t say that, Sir.”

“You didn’t need to, Chief. We know all about Boswell, or at least, we know about the influence his people wield at the Pentagon. We can’t do anything about it, I’m afraid. He has to stay with the Platoon, and that’s the word from the top. What about the new guy, from Seal Team Six? How’s he making out?”

The reason for his change of direction was obvious. He knew why Lucas Grant had been injected into the Platoon.

“He’s damn good, no problems.”

“That’s fine. You know he was brought in to assist Boswell?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And is it working out? Is he helping him make out?”

You could give me lessons with Placido Domingo, but it wouldn’t make me an opera singer
.

“Grant is a good man, Sir,” he replied carefully.

“Yeah, that he is. They didn’t pick any second raters for Seal Team Six.”

The Humvee screeched to a stop outside an anonymous concrete building. There were no windows, just a pair of heavy, steel doors and a marine sentry on guard outside. Weathers hustled through the doors, barely acknowledging the salute, and Nolan hurried after him. They pushed through into a well-lit room, cluttered with desks and computer terminals, and all manned by uniformed marines, men and women. He opened a door and turned to Nolan.

“This is where I work. Come on in, Chief.”

Inside, another officer, an Asian woman, probably Japanese, sat at a desk at the side of the room. He stared at her, and then forced himself to look away. She was stunning, almost enough to take his breath away. Her hair was a shimmering dark brown, nearly black, and tied up in a bun at just above the nape of the neck. Her skin was without blemish, and instead of the typical Japanese coloring was more of a dark, cream color, like a pale California tan. Her eyes were wide-set, thick-lashed, and inky black. She wore no makeup. She was a woman who’d never feel the need to enhance what nature had provided her. She wore a uniform that had been carefully tailored to fit her curves to perfection. Clearly a girl who took pride in her appearance; a girl anyone would notice. She had a strange combination of simplicity and polish, almost a physical aura, yet he got the impression she’d have been shocked if someone had told her how pretty she was. Definitely a Marine pin-up, and the kind of girl who would make a success of anything she put her hand to.

The Marine Corps sure are lucky to have her.

Weathers dumped himself behind the big desk.

“This is Captain Noguchi, Chief. She’s my number two.”

Nolan saluted, and she returned the salute, but then she got up and held out her hand. “We’re more informal in intelligence, Chief. It’s Mariko. Why don’t you put that rifle down and take it easy.”

She indicated a spare chair, and he sat down, but he kept hold of his rifle.

“I’m Kyle Nolan, Ma’am.”

His voice was hoarse, and he struggled to clear his throat. She nodded and looked at Weathers. “How did it go with that wounded Pakistani, Colonel? Is he going to live?”

So the informality is junior ranks and NCOs only. Fair enough.

“He is, but it’s bad, Mariko. The big bad wolf lives again, if we’re to believe this guy.” He filled her in briefly on what he’d learned from Danial Masih. “Riyad bin Laden, how the hell did we miss that one? We knew Osama had plenty of brothers, but we thought we had accounted for them all.”

“We only knew about the ones he wanted us to know about, I guess,” she offered. “His brother Mahrous bin Laden seized the limelight when he was implicated in the Grand Mosque Seizure in Saudi. It was a direct attack on the Saudi ruling family at the Masjid al-Haram in Mecca. It shook the whole country to the core, and they killed hundreds of people at the holiest of the Islamic sites. It was alleged they used trucks owned by the bin Laden family to smuggle arms into the city, even though it was buttoned up tight at the time. It meant we mainly looked at Mahrous and Osama as the principal troublemakers. If this Riyad was born around that time to one of his father’s many wives, it looks to me as if they kept him quiet. Kind of like a sleeper.”

“And now the sleeper awakes,” Lieutenant-Colonel Weathers mused.

“Yes, Sir. That he does. If he exists.”

Weathers stared at Nolan. “I need to know the answer to that question, Chief. I have to find out the truth, if this bogeyman exists or not. I want Bravo to go into Abbottabad and find out for me.”

But, Sir, we already…”

“Hold on a second, hear me out.” He held up his hand. “I’m not looking for a kill operation, nothing of the kind. All I want at this stage is information, a recon mission, something I can put to our superiors and ultimately before the President.”

“Sir, I understand, but I take orders from Rear Admiral Jacks at Coronado Base, and he’s specifically ordered us to rotate back to the US for R&R.”

He wondered what Jacks would have to say about this attempt to go over his head. One thing was for sure; the tough, proud Seal commander wouldn’t be all that impressed. He pictured his boss, currently in his forties, short and bow-legged, but with broad, muscled shoulders, and his trademark close-cropped spiky blonde hair. Jacks was a sailor’s sailor. Where his men were concerned, he’d go to any lengths for them.

Weathers nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s the situation, but I’m prepared to trump your ace, Son. I’m betting the President of the United States will pass an order to carry out this mission.”

“I see, Sir, but that won’t change any of the problems that we’re facing in Bravo.”

“You mean your unit being worn out after so long in the field? Or are you referring to Boswell?”

Nolan hedged. “It’s complicated, Sir.”

“I’m sure it is, but this is just a reconnaissance mission. What the hell could go wrong?”

How many times has a senior officer put a dangerous mission in those terms, ‘what could go wrong?’
They could be waiting for us to pull something just like this, and half the men could come back in body bags. Or wind up in a Pakistani dungeon.

“Well, uh…”

“It’ll be a walk in the park, Chief. In and out, in a single night. Pick up one or two locals; bring ‘em back for interrogation, and you can go home to sunny California. Besides, I’ll get you some help, someone who knows the culture and language of that part of Pakistan.”

“Sir?”

Weathers looked at the Asian-looking Captain. “Our very own Pakistan expert. Captain Mariko Noguchi.”

Nolan almost laughed out loud. “Er, Sir, she’s Japanese. She doesn’t look remotely Pakistani.”

Weathers smiled. “Not right now, no. Captain, show him.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

She got up and walked out the door. Weathers stared at Nolan.

“Well, Chief? You don’t seem comfortable about this. Problems working in the field with a woman?”

“It’s not that, Sir,” he lied. “It’s the whole operation. Lieutenant Boswell shouldn’t be on it. He’s still finding his feet.” Nolan thought back to that moment outside Parachinar when Boswell could have halted the attack, and instead allowed the Taliban to sacrifice scores of civilians to the Warthog gunfire. “Besides, he’s the platoon commander, so it depends on his say so, not mine. And another thing, while Captain Noguchi is out of the office, I should tell you I’m not comfortable about taking an unskilled woman on a Seal mission. You know how hard we train. It’s no job for a rookie. Besides, she looks Japanese, so it doesn’t matter how she plays it, she just won’t fit in.”

“Is that right?” Weathers looked at him calmly. “You’re sure about that?”

“I am, Sir. If this deal goes ahead, I don’t believe the Captain is an option. We’ll be better off without her, but even then, there’re too many problems for us to take on such a sensitive mission. At a guess, I’d say whoever goes in will need some kind of undercover support, someone with local knowledge who can blend in and give them an edge over the enemy. After all, no one knows yet what they’ll face when they get over there.”

The Colonel nodded but made no further comment. There was a knock at the door, Weathers shouted, “Enter!” The door opened. An Afghan woman walked in, clad in the traditional blue burqa, her face covered behind the mesh screen of the hood that enveloped her head. Her spine was bent, common for local women who lacked the Vitamin D that sunshine provided for healthy bones. Their menfolk were content to see them suffer the agonies of rickets and other related diseases, as long as they obeyed the centuries old customs. Her head was bent low too, in the abject way these women comported themselves in the presence of men, as if to underline the nature of their lowly position within the Islamic paradise of Afghanistan, and similarly in Waziristan. Nolan felt instinctively for his Sig. These women were not unknown to carry weapons, even suicide belts for the Taliban. He kept it holstered but ready for instant action. She looked at him briefly and said something in the harsh, guttural local dialect. Colonel Weathers replied.

“That’s okay, Captain. I think the Chief has seen enough.”

“Yes, Sir,” Captain Mariko Noguchi replied.

She took off the burqa. Underneath, she was still wearing her khaki Marine working uniform. Nolan felt the astonishment that an American officer could change so quickly. It wasn’t just the burqa. It was everything, the groveling posture, and the language. She could have made a fortune on the stage.