“Taxi One Four, Taxi One Four. This is Trident Two Two,” Rawls shouted into his radio, trying to keep his voice calm. He felt wetness on his face as blood streamed from his ears due to the blast. He wiped it away as best he could.
The answer came back immediately from the CH-53E helicopter. “Trident Two Two, this is Taxi One Four. Send your traffic.”
“Roger, Taxi, Trident six mikes out.” Rawls estimated they were about six minutes from the landing zone.
“Roger, Trident. Six mikes. We are heading in now.” The helicopter heeled out of its long turn and began a straight-in descent to prearranged coordinates. The spectacle of the explosions and fire could be easily seen from the sky, a carnival of chaos.
“Kyle was right,” Stone said, fighting the wheel. “It was a setup.” A curtain of dirty ash had caught up with them and was drifting down, so he activated the windshield wipers. The air conditioner was going full blast as a filter.
“We’ll worry about that later. Just keep going.” Rawls scanned the sky as the SUV charged forward over everything in its path.
“Taxi One Four. Taxi One Four. This is Trident Two Two. One mike out, approaching from the south in a black Land Rover.”
“Roger, Trident. I have a visual on you.”
The huge helicopter dropped out of the night like a fast-moving monstrous shadow, then flared at the last moment, throwing up its own curtain of dirt, dust, and debris. The rear ramp was already down, and a gunner was strapped in behind a.50 caliber machine gun, watching them.
Stone killed the headlights and stopped about twenty-five meters away, and he and Rawls jumped out.
“Setting the timer to two minutes!” shouted Rawls as he tossed an incendiary grenade into the Land Rover to totally destroy the vehicle, their DNA, and any other trace of its use. They ran around the gunner, and the whine of the helicopter’s big GE engines immediately increased. Travis Stone held up two fingers to denote the correct count of the people coming aboard, then twirled the fingers in a circle. The crew chief nodded and spoke into his microphone.
The helicopter lifted away and bent into a fast, climbing turn. Stone and Rawls knelt on the metal floor and looked out of the square ramp opening, holding on to supports as the horizon tilted. There was a bright flash when the incendiary bomb detonated in the backseat of the Land Rover.
It was nothing more than a firecracker compared with the inferno back in Islamabad, where trails of rockets still sizzled through the sky, delayed secondary detonations were still rocking buildings, and fires were out of control, burning fiercely and unchecked. Their faces were orange and red with the reflection.
“I better call home,” said Rawls, staggering into a seat and signaling the crew chief for a helmet with a radio.
“Yeah, you better,” his partner agreed. In a softer voice, Stone whispered, “Good luck, Kyle.”
DARREN RAWLS WENT TO an emergency frequency to report back directly to Task Force Trident headquarters in Washington. The signal bounced off a couple of satellites, went through the trapdoor of a global financial network’s interoffice data stream, and was routed into Trident’s private comm setup. “Trident Lizard, Trident Lizard. This is Trident Two Two. Come in.”
In the Pentagon, Lieutenant Commander Freedman saw a flashing code on his computer screen to alert him to the incoming traffic at the same time his headset came alive. He threw up a hand and snapped his fingers to get the attention of the others. Middleton, Summers, and Dawkins stopped what they were doing and hurried to his side. “Trident Two Two. This is Trident Lizard. Send your traffic.”
The signal was weak but clear. “Be advised Bounty Hunter confirmed mission accomplished at exactly nineteen nineteen fourteen hours. Mission compromised. Shooters attacked. Bounty Hunter is trying to exfiltrate under heavy pursuit. Attached partner missing, status unknown. Subsequent massive explosion of unknown origin is causing extensive damage downtown. We are aboard Taxi One Four. Standing by for orders.”
General Middleton switched to the frequency. “This is Trident Six. Roger your transmission. Authorize Gunrunner for you, effective immediately. Out.” Gunrunner was a contingency plan that would let the helicopter take the two special operators to join a routine mission that was already in progress in Afghanistan. Retroactive paperwork would show that Stone and Rawls had never been in Islamabad at all.
“Sir! Look at this!” The Lizard’s voice was rising in alarm. He had been scouring the live feeds from Pakistan, and his screen was suddenly busy with images of destruction, fires, collapsed buildings, and dead men, dismembered women, and bleeding children. Cameras shook as explosions continued to cook off in Islamabad, rocking the photojournalists. The Lizard, who never cursed, spoke for them all. “What the fuck is happening over there?”
Double-Oh stood back and rubbed his square jaw in thought. He spoke in a calm voice, weighing possibilities and options. Nothing would be gained by panic on this end. “We have only that brief report from Staff S’arnt Rawls, and now these early news feeds. Not much to act on, General. Gunrunner takes care of our boys on the bird, but they apparently never actually linked up with Kyle. He provided the time check to confirm the shoot.”
“Replay the call, Liz.” Major Sybelle Summers wanted to hear what had been said once again. Did they miss anything? There was obvious stress in the voice of the unflappable veteran operator Darren Rawls.
“We might not know exactly what happened, but it’s obvious that somebody is trying to kill our guy,” she said. “That’s good enough for me. It was a setup.”
“I agree, Major, but there’s no proof.” Dawkins heard a telephone buzz and picked up the receiver.
General Middleton glowered at the screens, as if he could change things through sheer willpower. “I will need to speak to the president. Liz, put in a call to the White House and tell them I’m coming over.”
“No need for that, sir,” said Dawkins. “That was his chief of staff again. He seems upset. Your presence has been requested.”
22
ISLAMABAD
HIS WORLD FLICKERED, A grainy old movie, hard to see. Kyle Swanson opened his eyes. He could smell smoke, hear screams, taste dirt, and see rubble. It was a struggle to breathe. The sniper thought for an instant that he was tied up, but as his senses focused, he found that he could move his arms, although they were entangled in some sort of sturdy fabric. His chest was tightly held, but his feet were free. Bits of memory returned, slowly at first, and then faster, accentuated by the hellish landscape before his eyes. He was upside down in a vehicle, and a seat harness was holding him firmly in place. The other material was only air bags that had filled on impact, then deflated. Kyle worked his fingers to the buckle of the belt, snapped it open, and fell onto his head. The combination of Wearing the helmet, the goggles, and body armor and being held securely inside the car by the web of safety belts and air bags had saved his life. Getting his feet into a firm position, he gave a strong heave of his shoulders and levered himself out through the destroyed windshield, rolled out from beneath the car, and came to his knees, hands on thighs, back straight, head up, trying to breathe in a place where there was no fresh air. He had a headache that seemed ready to split his skull.
The big goggles were safe windows to another world, and he brushed a glove over them to clean the lens. He was inside a thick, pulsing stew of smoke and pulverized concrete, dirt turned to dust and particles of civilization that had been blown to bits. The shifting, boiling cloud was everywhere, climbing the walls, channeling like a wave through the streets, scouring the ground with a savage wind.
