attention, but nothing that would be guaranteed to bring the entire Pakistani army and police force down on his head. On top of that, the explosions did not begin until almost five minutes after he pulled the trigger on the tango. Our men on the scene said that dozens of uniforms were chasing Swanson by then. This is not the kind of thing he would do, particularly when it would cause so many civilian casualties.”
General Manchester also had been soaking in the unfolding situation, mulling the possibilities. “I agree. Blowing up something that big is not what any Marine sniper would do on a mission.”
“Nor a SEAL Team,” added the admiral. “Just because they
Hank Turner made up his mind. “We are kind of stuck between a rock and a hard place for right now, until we see what the Pakistanis do with Swanson. I intend to meet personally with the president about Patterson, an unelected bureaucrat, intervening in the chain of command. Meanwhile, General Middleton, you get back to work.”
“Any instructions, sir?”
“Yeah, Brad. Support our man in the field.”
ISLAMABAD
ONCE, OVER A PITCHER of beer at the Stumps, a little tavern outside of 29 Palms, California, Jim Hall had allowed that Albert Einstein had truly been a pretty smart old duck. “Albert was trying to explain his Theory of Relativity to some dumb-ass, probably some Air Force fighter jock,” Hall said, “so he dreams up a comparison. Sit with a nice girl for two hours, and it only seems like a minute. But if your ass hits a hot stove for a minute, you’re going to think it is two hours. Albert was talking relativity, but he nailed the way a sniper has to think about time. No highs, no lows. Just smooth it all out. Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast. Remember that, young Skywalker, and you will do well.”
Kyle Swanson recalled the conversation as he pushed through a set of isometric exercises in his prison cell and tried to figure out the time. The hit on the tango happened just as the sun went down, then all of the other stuff happened, and that had soaked up more hours. He figured the entire night had passed, but with the unknown factor of how long he had slept, he could not be certain.
Another rat ventured onto his thigh, and enough was enough. Games were a good way of passing idle time. Snipers and spotters even played games while on a mission. He picked up the adventuresome rat with his bare hands, wrung the neck, and tossed the worthless carcass to its friends on the far side of the cell.
“Nothing happens eighty-five percent of the time on a mission,” he told the rats quietly. “So you have to amuse yourself to stay awake. That’s why we play games. Layin’ there, just keeping watch on the target for hour after hour, gets pretty damned boring. So I say to the other guy, ‘Let’s spot dogs,’ and then I find a dog and the spotter has to match me. Then we do the goats and the other animals. And women. Always checking out the women. But it’s more than just a game because it keeps you vigilant and tuned in, you understand?”
While he explained what was happening, Kyle tied a sleeve of his discarded uniform shirt into a tight knot at the cuff and began using it occasionally to snap the curious rodents. Sometimes he hit them, sometimes he didn’t, but they sensed the danger and hugged the far wall and the trickling water. “Everybody stake out a place,” Kyle said, “and stay there. I’m the biggest and meanest alpha rat you guys have ever seen, so keep the hell out of my way.”
He was thinking that if worse came to worst, they could be a food source. And there was the dripping water on the wall. He could last for a while in here. Smooth out the time.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THIS WAS NOT WHAT Lauren Carson had expected when she called the secret telephone number that Kyle had slipped to her while they were spiriting the captured soldiers away in Islamabad. When a gruff voice announced that she had reached the 179th MRE Research, Development, and Tasting Brigade, she thought she had the wrong number, but when she mentioned the name of Kyle Swanson, the tone of the voice changed immediately. “Hold while I get his boss.” The crisp voice of a woman came on the telephone next, carrying the slightest hint of urgency. Lauren identified herself as being the CIA agent who was with Swanson in Pakistan.
“Do not say your name on this connection,” stated the strong voice. “Did anything change recently in your personnel file?”
“Yes,” Lauren replied. “It was confidential, and I can’t talk about it.”
“A letter of commendation for the extraction of the two captives.”
Lauren paused. Whoever this was had access to her personal CIA file. “I’m in some trouble, and Kyle said I should call this number if I ever needed help. I need help, and I cannot very well come to any office at the Pentagon. I think someone may be following me.”
“From your shop?”
“Yes. Can we meet somewhere?”
There was a pause. Then the woman said, “Drive out to Tysons Corner in McLean. I will meet you at Burgers and Burgers. Order something and grab a table. Soon as you can make it.”
“Wait! How will I recognize you?”
“You won’t. But I have your picture right in front of me, and the latest driver’s license photo. I think I can pick you out of a crowd. I will be there in about an hour.”
“What’s your name?”
“Tysons Corner. One hour.” The call terminated.
LAUREN KEPT HER EYES moving to the mirrors as she drove around Washington on busy Route 495, the Capital Beltway. She saw a lot of cars, vans, and trucks of every description but nothing that lingered as possible followers. Since the Silver Line of the Metro was still under construction and did not reach the expansive shopping complex, some sort of car would be required to keep her under surveillance. Or, she thought, a truck, a motorcycle, helicopter, airplane, or satellite.
By the time she found a parking place, looked at guides to the many different stores and shops in the regional supermall, and hiked to the hamburger cookery, the hour was almost up. She went to the counter and ordered a cheeseburger, and was surprised at how all of the cooks and servers yelled at each other and even across the restaurant to call out orders. No microphones, just shouts. Combine that with the conversation of the customers, who also had to talk loudly in order to be heard over the bawling of the crew in the candy-striped shirts, and you had a place with the noise level of a small indoor football stadium. People who had put in orders and were waiting for the food stood around idly reading or just killing time. Lauren found a napkin and took a handful of peanuts from a bucket, then sat at a small table. She looked at her watch. An hour and five minutes had passed.
Her number was shouted, and she went to pick up the order. Another woman was sitting at the table, nibbling a peanut, when she returned. Jet black hair cut just below the collar, lithe, with piercing dark blue eyes. Tight black jeans and sneaks, and a dark, overlong Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt. “We spoke. Let’s go,” the woman said. “Dump the greaseburger on the way out or your hips will pay the price.”
Lauren left with the stranger, who casually guided her to the nearest exit in silence. A midsized motor home was at the curb, with its diesel engine purring. The sandy brown and cream paint scheme was faded and unwashed, and the right rear had a big dent; altogether, it was the epitome of a worn old road warrior needing some serious restoration work and better care. The woman opened the door, and they both climbed in. The vehicle was moving before the door was shut.
“Okay now, Agent Carson. Welcome aboard,” the stranger said. “I’m Major Sybelle Summers, the Trident ops officer. That big guy at the wheel is Master Gunny Dawkins, and this little geek with the Coke-bottle glasses is Lieutenant Commander Freedman, our intel chief. What’s going on?” Both of the men wore blue jeans, with loose shirts hanging over their beltlines.
