“This story, sir! The four people killed by the terrorists in Washington: the ambassador, his driver, another embassy official, and a U.S. Navy officer, Lieutenant Commander Shari Towne.” Sims’s face had gone red with anger.
“Come on, Colonel. Talk to me.”
“General Turner, it’s an open secret that Lieutenant Commander Towne and our sniper, Gunny Swanson, have been together for a long time. One of those don’t ask, don’t tell things, so nobody officially knew about it. They’re almost engaged, from what I hear. That direct link between her and Swanson is only point one. Point two is that she ran the Middle East desk on Buchanan’s staff in the White House.”
The generals looked at each other. “Goddam, Hank. Those bastards weren’t after the ambassador at all!” said Brady. “They were after the girl!”
Turner, Brady, and Sims walked outside toward the flight line, where the beautiful Gulfstream was warming up in a circle of bright light. Plumes of jet exhaust streamed away in the cold air, and the light rain glistened on its polished skin. Brady asked Sims, “Do you think this Gunny Swanson can get Middleton out of there alive?”
Sims nodded his head in the affirmative. “Sir, I’m beginning to believe that Gunny Swanson can walk on water. Don’t bet against him.”
A great bellow of noise rolled across from the main runway as a Boeing 707 painted in the distinctive sky-blue- and-white pattern of a VIP of the U.S. government raced past them and gathered speed for takeoff. “There goes my plane. Sort of a shame it’s flying empty,” said Turner.
Brady added, “The crew is happier to be going home than to China.”
They watched it lift smoothly into the air. A spark of bright light flashed on the ground in the distance, and a bright dot streaked higher and higher, gaining momentum and altitude at a dizzying rate. The Stinger shoulder-fired missile rammed into one of the hot engines on the Boeing and detonated, and in a fraction of a second the dark sky seemed filled by a ball of fire that consumed the plane even before it hit the ground.
Ralph Sims grabbed both generals and threw them to the paved runway, sprawling across them. “Jesus Christ, General Turner, you were supposed to be on that plane!”
“Go to Alert One! Scramble the fighters!” Brady yelled to a nearby security guard, who grabbed his radio and relayed the order to the Elmendorf command center. Sirens wailed as ambulances and fire trucks burst from their garages and raced down the runway.
A whine buzzed in the sky, and an explosion shook the ground when a mortar round arced in from the darkness beyond the wire. A second round was on the way before the first one struck and landed closer to a big hangar; then a third mortar round landed right on the building that was filled with volatile fluids and ammunition. It erupted like a volcano. Three fighter-bombers undergoing maintenance inside, out of the weather, were blown apart, and the maintenance crews were incinerated. When Sims saw that the mortars were not coming their way, he got the generals to their feet and they all ran for cover.
Air Force security police surged toward the wire as three more mortar rounds rained down, two of them chewing holes into the main runway. The last one grazed the big control tower and exploded on a parked truck, which set fire to everything around it.
The Shark Team was gone by the time police found the empty launching tubes. Both men had been members of the Security Police and nearing retirement when they were corrupted by the big bucks offered by Gordon Gates to join the Sharks. Weapons had been stashed in an off-base apartment for months just in case they were needed. They also had new identities, new passports, and thick bank accounts and were flying first class to Seattle before it was even discovered that they were missing.
When ground troops had cleared the flight path beyond the fenceline, the Gulfstream piloted by General Brady zipped from the runway, with Turner and Sims strapped into the leather seats. Rolling next were a pair of F-16 escorts, armed to the teeth, which took station off the wingtips.
In the calm skies above the Arizona desert, the President of the United States was briefed about the deadly strike at Elmendorf. Four more F-16s sped out to sandwich over and around Air Force One. The President had no doubt that the terror alert was right at the level it should be. His country was once again under attack.
CHAPTER 49
GORDON GATES BROUGHT up a secure e-mail from the Sharks who had hit Elmendorf, read it, and then electronically shredded the message through the Magneto program. It vanished as if it had never been sent. They had done an extraordinary amount of damage and gotten away clean. Gates had long ago discovered the truth of the old question, “Who guards the guards?” and had spent a lot of time and money penetrating the security forces of many military bases. Surprisingly, it was not difficult at all to find otherwise good soldiers ready to sell their services to a high bidder.
Buchanan’s security net had tracked Colonel Sims to Elmendorf, where he was likely to link up with General Turner, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, who had been delayed there on a trip to China. Sims would have given Turner the message. So bringing down the Boeing with a Stinger missile meant that Turner and Sims were dead, and the assassination letter would have burned in the crash. Perfect. The mortar rounds were thrown in as icing on the cake to embellish the terrorist possibilities.
Gates considered the situation at this new point. Shari Towne had been taken out in the attack on the Jordanian ambassador’s car. He would like to have had visual confirmation on Sims and Turner, but he had seen a lot of plane crashes and the odds were overwhelming that they were both cooked. Nothing had been heard from them since the shootdown. So three of the people who had learned about the letter were dead, which left three elusive Marines-Swanson, Dawkins, and Middleton.
The master sergeant aboard the ship was proving to be invisible, which won an approving smile from Gates for the Spec Ops veteran. It would take some luck to dig him out, particularly if he had the assistance of other people on the boat, but sooner or later he would be discovered. Gates just had to leave that in the hands of the NCIS people for the time being. Dawkins had no proof of whatever he might claim, so he was relatively harmless and totally isolated at sea.
He turned to the problem of General Middleton and Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson, who apparently had been on a rampage in Syria. The stakes for catching those two were enormous. The whole plan hung on finding them. One of his Sharks in Syria was dead, and the second was in the custody of the Syrian army, but alive and helping track Swanson. That didn’t worry Gates, because all Sharks were expendable. The risk was part of the big pay and benefits package.
But Swanson had freed General Middleton and had so far eluded the Sharks and the Syrian army. Gates had sent a message to the Rebel Sheikh requesting more jihadists to augment the search, because the more eyes they had looking, the better. It was best not to count too heavily on the Basra cleric, however. He was a slippery devil.
Gates went to a bar built into a wall of his office, where he kept a bottle of Absolut vodka in the freezer. He poured some into a tall glass and added ice cubes, club soda, and a slice of lime. He stirred and drank, letting his thoughts roam.
Google Earth was an excellent map program that could be used without pinging the military system. He called up the image of lower Syria and projected it on a large plasma screen. The southern area of the country jumped into view and he worked the mouse to increase magnification and tilt the image.
Not much there, he thought. Mostly flat and brown, with some stretches of cultivation. He put his mind in Spec Ops mode, placed the cursor on the village of Sa’ahn, and used the pointer tool to trace and measure possible routes of evasion. He had plenty of time, because the sniper and the general would be hiding in the daylight hours.
Swanson would avoid populated areas. The Syrians had helos in the air, but they had to cover a search area of several hundred square miles and probably would not see him. With so many helicopters searching, Swanson and Middleton had to keep their heads down during the day. If Gates were in the sniper’s boots, he would head south tonight and make a dash to the Jordanian border tomorrow at first light.
He sipped his icy vodka and tonic. Then he minimized the Google Earth map and brought up the digitalized copy of Swanson’s military jacket. Quite the package: a real war fighter and a gold-plated pain in the ass. Buchanan had
