The Invisible

Shaheed. He had watched intently as the guard had wandered out of the house, the screen door slapping shut behind him. Then he had moved under the canopy of the large tree in the garden. Kealey had watched in disbelief as he lit a cigarette, cupping his hands to keep out the rain. That single act was almost enough to throw a blanket of doubt on the whole thing. Surely, a man as unprofessional as this could not be involved in the abduction of Secretary Fitzgerald, which had been carried out with consummate skill. Nevertheless, the AK

slung round the guard’s neck seemed to verify what they had learned from Fahim’s copious notes, and Kealey had felt a surge of adrenaline the moment he saw it. Now, for the first time, he was completely certain that Brynn Fitzgerald was somewhere inside the house.

Kealey was partially concealed beneath a juniper shrub in the broad, grassy field. He waited, watching through the AN/PVS-17 nightvision scope mounted to his rifle. Finally, the guard directly in front of him turned away for a split second, his head swiveling toward the second guard at the back of the house. Kealey used that stolen fraction of time to check his watch, cupping his hand over the illuminated display. He saw it was 2:36 AM, which meant they had been watching the house for just over three hours. They had waited for dark in an abandoned factory outside Sialkot, studying the surveillance shots that Fahim’s men had taken. Kealey’s initial impression of the Afghan’s organizational skills had only been supported by the quality of his intelligence. They had verified, through distinguishing physical characteristics picked up on film, that Mengal had at least 10 men on the premises. They had also managed to verify that the general himself was present, along with the Algerian, Amari Saifi. In short, all the major players were on-site. For this reason, the assault itself had been moved up, and the helicopters were already en route.

The core of the assault force consisted of two MH-53 Pave Low Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR) helicopters. Each MH-53 was carrying 12 Special Forces operators, in addition to the standard flight crew of four—2 pilots, 1 flight engineer, and 1 gunner on the platformmounted 7.62mm minigun. The Pave Lows were being escorted to their destination by four AH-64 Apache gunships, each of which was armed with a full complement of thirty-eight HYDRA 70 rockets, eight Hellfire missiles, and the standard 30mm nose cannon. Kealey thought that the size of the rescue operation—at least in terms of the number of people the Pentagon had sent, as well as how they had been sent—was perfect for the current mission. The size of the aerial force was small enough to evade Pakistan’s outdated groundbased radar, and the Apache gunships guaranteed a modicum of protection from everything except fixed-wing fighters. And if they showed up, the whole thing would be over, anyway. The size of the incoming force would certainly be enough to get Fitzgerald out, assuming she was even there to begin with. And that was the problem. The only person they had not been able to locate was Brynn Fitzgerald. Kealey felt sure that she was on the grounds, but he needed to know her exact position. She was either in the house or the barn, which was located less than 30 feet to the left of the house, as viewed from the rear. The lights were on in the barn—a man had walked out earlier, and his silhouette had been plainly visible, even without NVGs—but there were no windows, and moving closer in hopes of catching a glimpse inside would entail too great a risk. At least, that was what had been decided in Washington. Their role was still strictly limited to surveillance. Harper had set the rules of engagement several hours earlier, just after they had moved to the last staging point, a ridge overlooking the back of the farmhouse. They were not permitted to engage without provocation, and they were to take all steps to remain undetected. In short, they were there only to keep track of things until the assault team arrived. According to Harper, the National Security Council had arranged for a select team of SF operators to be assembled in Afghanistan shortly after the abduction in Rawalpindi. These were the same soldiers who were currently inbound to Kealey’s location. The foresight, above all, was what had impressed the younger man when Harper had briefed him a few hours earlier. The members of the NSC might not have expected to find Fitzgerald, but they had certainly been prepared for it, and Afghanistan was as close as the operators could get without a direct invitation from Musharraf. Of course, that was no longer a consideration, and now all they had to do was carry the mission off without a hitch, which was usually the hardest part. During their last conversation, Kealey had pointed out that he and his men were more than capable of getting the job done, that there was no need to bring in an entire assault force. Harper said that he had suggested as much to the president, but Brenneman had decided to err on the side of caution. Besides, they had to fly in to retrieve Fitzgerald, anyway, so there wasn’t much point in leaving the operators behind. After relaying this piece of information, Harper had reemphasized the mission objectives. The deputy DCI knew him too well, Kealey thought. Admittedly, he had considered the pros and cons of “engineering” a little provocation. Once the first shots were fired, all bets would be off, and he’d have no option but to go in after her. He felt confident that they could pull it off, especially after what he’d seen with Mengal’s guard and the cigarette, but he wasn’t about to contradict Harper or the president. Not with the secretary of state’s life on the line.

Shifting his weight ever so slightly, Kealey peered once more through the night-vision scope attached to his rifle. He was grateful for the scope’s rubber eyecups, which served to keep the rain off the glass. The weapon was a SIG 550, an assault rifle manufactured by SiGARMS, a company based in Exeter, New Hampshire. Kealey had never used the 550, but he knew it was favored by police snipers for short-range work, and he liked the heft and feel of it. The weapon featured an integral folding bipod; a side-opening, skeletonized polymer stock; and a detachable mount, which had been modified to accept the AN/PVS-17. Despite its quality, the rifle was a secondary tool, as he didn’t expect to use it. Of far more importance was their communications gear, which, regrettably, wasn’t quite up to par. The encrypted Motorola radios, which Owen had picked up at the embassy, were fine, but they were lacking the ability to communicate directly with their controllers via satellite radio. That would have required additional equipment, which Fahim’s organization had been unable to provide. As such, they were forced to use the Globalstar sat phone that Owen had brought into the country. As the team leader, Kealey had the phone secured in a pouch designed for the PRC-148, a portable radio of similar size and shape. A thin cord ran from the phone to a handsfree headset. Unfortunately, the phone’s battery lasted only nineteen hours on a full charge, and that was on standby. They could count on no more than three hours of actual talk time, so Kealey had kept it on standby, powering up only to relay updates when needed. Harper was his contact on the other end. To the best of Kealey’s knowledge, the deputy director was still in the Situation Room at the White House, where he had immediate access to satellite coverage. One of the four 8Xs in orbit had already been retasked and was now positioned to provide a live infrared feed of Qureshi’s house and the surrounding area. Unfortunately, even the 8X was incapable of penetrating clouds, which rendered it useless until the storm had moved on. The government did have satellites that could see through cloud cover, most notably, the Lacrosse radar-imaging series, but like the KH-12s, they moved too low and too fast to really prove useful in tactical situations. The guard beneath the tree was distracted again. Kealey checked his watch again and decided to check in with the other operatives. The rain, while lighter than it had been that afternoon, was still heavy enough to drown out the sound of his voice as he checked in with each member of the recon element. He started with Manik, who had nothing new to report, then moved on to Owen and Walland. He was about to move on to Massi when several things happened simultaneously. The barn door creaked open, then opened all the way, revealing a large square of yellow light. A tall, bearded man in flowing robes stepped out of the barn, pausing to light a cigarette. Kealey, tracking the man through his scope, immediately recognized the face from the photographs Harper had shown him in Oraefi. Although Fahim’s surveillance photographs had already placed Amari Saifi at the house, this was the first time Kealey had actually laid eyes on him. As he was processing this new development, he missed the calm but urgent transmission coming over his earpiece. Cupping his hand over his ear, he murmured, “I didn’t catch you, Massi. Say again.”

The other man came back a split second later. “She’s in the barn. I repeat, Fitzgerald is in the barn. I just got a positive ID, over.”

For a split second, the words didn’t register. Kealey had known she was on the grounds, but it still came as a shock to hear it confirmed. For a moment, he wondered how Massi had caught sight of her. Then he remembered that the operative had begun adjusting his position two hours earlier, once it became clear they didn’t have a good view of the barn’s main door. It had taken Massi the whole two hours to move a scant 30 feet, but the payoff had been more than worth the time-consuming adjustment.

“Kealey, do you copy?” Massi asked impatiently. “I repeat, do you—”

“I copy,” Kealey said. “Stand by.”

Kealey was thinking hard as he peered through his scope. He watched the Algerian terrorist move toward the house, leaving the barn door open behind him. A few seconds later, he disappeared from view, and Kealey heard the distant sound of a door slamming shut. Once Saifi was inside, the two guards behind the house returned their attention to the dark field in which Kealey and the rest of the team were lying in wait.

Making his decision, he powered up the sat phone, dialed Harper direct, and waited impatiently for the