prepared to awaken the admiral for the second time that night.
12
Every seat was occupied in the sleek U.S. Air Force C20 Gulfstream 4 as it raced at 450 knots above southern Illinois toward the Missouri border. Admiral Arnold Morgan was next to Deputy Director of Central Intelligence Stephen Hart. Opposite them sat Frank Reidel, the associate director of Central Intelligence in charge of military support, the link man between Langley and the U.S. Joint Command.
Next to Reidel, was the Secret Service agent with the communications system connected directly to the Oval Office. Behind them were two other armed Secret Service agents, plus an armed U.S. Marine staff sergeant with his corporal. The Gulfstream seated only eight.
They flew to the north of St. Louis and picked up the meandering Missouri River as it swerved through Jefferson City. At 1003, two hours out of Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland, they cleared the eastern border of the state of Kansas, flying 30,000 feet above the old cavalry outpost of Fort Scott.
Twenty minutes later, they began their descent, sliding swiftly down out of gray clouds that scattered cold, spring showers over the eerie rolling contours of the Flint Hills, the last remaining expanse of tallgrass prairie in the United States. Arnold Morgan was tired. He’d been awake half the night, ordering hit squads, canceling hit squads, talking to Iain, and Bill, even Laura, ensuring that the Iraqi prisoner was tightly bound, was under the heavy guard of three armed Kansan cowboys, supervised by a former lieutenant commander on his own intelligence staff.
He stared out of the window on the starboard side of the aircraft, gazing at the geographic phenomenon below, 6 million acres of bluestem grass, rising and falling in jagged, uneven granite hills, none of them more than 300 feet high, right across the otherwise clean, flat, billiard table of central Kansas — north — south — from the Nebraska border 200 miles to the state of Oklahoma. A good steer gains two pounds a day grazing down there. That bluestem is the finest nutritional pasture for raising beef cattle on earth.
The Gulfstream continued to lose height, until it shrieked down across Butler County and headed into McConnell Air Force Base, on the outskirts of Wichita. It touched down on the runway at 1038. The door was opened immediately, and all eight of the men from Washington were escorted directly to a waiting Army helicopter, a howling Sikorsky Black Hawk, its rotors already running.
The transfer took less than four minutes. Seat belts were tightened, the door was slammed shut, and the helo clattered into the sky, flying to the south of the city before altering course to the northwest, low over the Great Plains for more than 100 miles, straight toward the southern border of Pawnee County. The pilot knew the way — he’d made the journey several times before, twice on Bill and Laura’s wedding day.
Bill Baldridge spotted the Black Hawk over 10 miles out. He could see it, a faint dot low on the horizon, drawing ever nearer, moving over the prairie at 250 mph — a mile every fifteen seconds. Soon he could hear the steady thump-thump-thump of the rotors, and he could see the downward blast of air flatten the pasture as Arnold Morgan came barreling out of the sky to meet the terrorist he had loathed for so long.
Bill signaled the Black Hawk to land on the lawn to the west of the main house, 50 yards from the barn in which Ben Adnam was still securely tied like a steer in the Flint Hills Rodeo. He had been there for nine hours, guarded by two of Bill’s ranch hands at all times. He’d slept on a pile of straw with a couple of horse blankets to keep out the cold. And during the night Ray Baldridge had stopped by specifically to let him know that for what he’d done to his brother Jack, Ben’d be “goddamned lucky to survive the night…someone’s gonna kill you, that’s for sure…might be my mommy, might be Bill…might be any of the guys around here…just don’t count any on waking up, hear me?”
With that Ray had gone off to bed. He felt better for having gotten that off his chest, and he felt he had achieved his objective, that of frightening Ben Adnam to death. But that he had not done. The Iraqi commander knew he was safe until this Morgan character arrived, but after that…well, it would be a journey into the unknown. Ben Adnam knew that if the top national security man in the U.S.A. wanted him dead, then dead he would quickly be. But at least he knew he was safe, relatively, until midmorning.
He also heard the U.S. Army Black Hawk come shuddering into the B/B ranch. And he heard the shouts of the Americans out beyond the heavy wooden walls of the horse barn. Then he heard the sound of the rotors die away, and almost instantly there was a shaft of light through the small barn door, which was set into the huge dark red double doors that were opened only for tractors.
By then both of Ben’s “jailers” were on their feet. The big, rangy Skip McGaughey, his gun leveled at the Iraqi’s head, and young Razor Macey, toying with his six-shooter. First man through the door was Bill Baldridge, wearing a sheepskin rancher’s coat, Stetson, and high boots with spurs. Right behind him came a smaller, thickset man wearing an expensive dark blue overcoat and a wide-brimmed dark brown trilby hat. Ben noticed his piercing blue eyes immediately, the craggy face, scowling expression.
Almost before the CIA chiefs and the Secret Servicemen were in the door, Adnam’s assessment was confirmed.
“Is that the sonofabitch over there, Bill?”
“Yup, the one trussed up like a steer. The other two are my trusted herd manager, Skip McGaughey, and my groom, Razor Macey.”
Admiral Morgan walked over to them immediately.
“Good to see you, men,” he said. “Been keeping an eye on this bastard, have you?”
“Yessir. Most of the night.”
“Did he behave himself?”
“Yessir. Never gave no trouble.”
“Guess that makes a fucking change,” growled Morgan. “If he steps outta line, shoot that sonofabitch right between the eyes, right?”
“Yessir.”
By then the Marine staff sergeant was inside the door, blocking it completely. His corporal was patrolling outside. The Secret Servicemen formed a posse at the end of the line of open horse stalls. Ben was in the third one along, next to Bill’s beloved Irish-bred bay hunter, Freddie. The two CIA men flanked Admiral Morgan as he made his way across the wide stone walkway toward the man who had sunk the
Arnold Morgan gazed down at the arch terrorist, still tied by the ankles, his wrists behind his back.
“You’ve caused us a lot of trouble,” he said carefully. “Too much for any one man to have created. And I’ve waited a long time to meet you…now gimme your correct name, rank, and country…?”
“I’m Commander Benjamin Adnam, sir. Islamic Republic of Iraq.”
“Is that an Iraqi Naval rank?”
“Nossir.”
“What is it, then?”
“Israeli, sir.”
“Did you serve in the Israeli Navy?”
“Yessir.”
“Were you an Iraqi spy working undercover?”
“Yessir.”
“And now?”
“Iraq, sir. I returned to work in Iraq.”
“Iraqi Navy?”
“Nossir. Intelligence.”
“Commander Adnam, did you sink the
“Did you also command a stolen Royal Navy submarine in the North Atlantic earlier this year?”
“Yessir.”
