“Holy shit, we’re not dead,” Zak said.
“What was that?” Richard exlaimed, winded from the force of the impact.
“I think it was a Hellfire missile. Maybe from the Stealth Hawk, maybe from one of our drones, but the cavalry came in the nick of time, Rich.” “What just happened?” came Turbee’s voice over the comm-link.
“Turbee,” said Richard, “we were surrounded by the Inzar Ghar garrison. They were about ready to execute us when someone nailed them with a Hellfire missile. We maybe had a second before we were done.” “Nice save, little buddy,” said Zak.
“Guys,” Turbee replied, “that wasn’t me. That wasn’t us. I don’t know who fired that missile.”
“Well, someone was listening in and came to the rescue. Could have been someone at Shaw Air Force Base in South Carolina. They run the MQ-9 program,” said Richard. “Whoever it was, send them roses.”
Zak turned to Richard. “Let’s hustle out of here. There may be more of these guys. We’ve got to get back to the Stealth Hawk and drop off Kumar, and maybe have a cup of tea with Ambassador Buckingham at the Islamabad embassy before we go back home.”
“I’m with you, bro. The faster we get out of Inzar Ghar the happier I’ll be.”
Ten minutes later all three were on board, and the Stealth Hawk made a beeline for Islamabad.
4
Someone, somehow, had broken Kumar Hanaman out of Inzar Ghar. This seemingly inconsequential fact had created a towering thundercloud of anxiety within the Oval Office. There was no ambiguity in the president’s directive as he sent his advisors, aides, and secretaries scurrying throughout Washington, DC. “Find out who the hell did it. Get Hanaman back in custody. Kill him if you have to.”
It was now past midnight in the dimly lit Oval Office. The airconditioning hissed. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of a siren cut through the night. The briefing had lasted an hour. All were dismissed but for the president’s most trusted advisors: Calvin Jones, Dan Alexander, and Tyra Baylor. The president, Matthew Finnegan, had the remnants of a Big Mac lying in front of him and was sipping from a large, cold cup of franchise coffee. Finnegan, all six-foot-two of him, began as he often did when irate: softly and slowly. He would gradually increase in momentum and speed, a cattle train pulling out of a stockyard.
“Do any of you have any idea what this could do to our strategic interests in Central Asia? We have the run of things in Afghanistan, which is pissing off the Chinese and the Russians to no end. We have that because Yousseff permitted us to have that. Kumar Hanaman could destroy that. All he has to do is to get in front of a TV camera . . . .”
“Worse. Try a cell phone and a Twitter account,” Tyra interrupted. “Or a Facebook page.”
Tyra, early forties, corrosive but brilliant, had no official position in the administration other than “medical and/or security advisor,” although the West Wing crew had many other descriptors. She had served with distinction as a special operations combat medic for almost thirteen years, and then spent six years with the CIA. She had come to know the president when he was goose-stepping his way through Alabama state politics.
“It could end this presidency,” said Calvin Jones, the secretary of defense. The short, rotund, balding, red-faced man preferred to be called “CJ.” He had followed the president since high school, through five tumultuous years at the University of Alabama, and thereafter (somehow), to an Ivy League law school. CJ was the president’s political fixer-in-chief. When things went sideways, he mopped up and minimized the damage. Sanitizing the mayhem that flowed in the president’s wake had been CJ’s purpose for more than four decades. Tyra fixed the things that CJ couldn’t.
“Tyra, talk to our media people,” said the president. “Get ahead of the story. Make sure the world knows that Kumar is a small-town terrorist with a drinking problem. Slam him hard. If we don’t get to him first, let’s at least destroy his credibility before he appears on someone’s radar screen.”
“He can unhinge a lot more than Afghanistan,” CJ added. “A hell of a lot more.”
The president nodded in agreement. The atmosphere was dense and heavy as another cloud of silence hung over the meeting. Tyra shook her head. “Sir, we cannot have someone like Kumar running around, anywhere. The risk is huge. We have to take him out.”
Dan Alexander, whom the president had appointed as the director of the Terrorist Threat Integration Center, or TTIC as it was colloquially known, agreed. “Yousseff will be furious about this. We will not be able to cut any deal with him as long as Kumar is on the loose.” Dan, with much inherited wealth, had been a staunch financial supporter of the president.
“Who did it?” CJ asked.
“Well that’s another problem,” said the president. “It was someone within our own military. Someone in our armed forces went rogue.” “What?” CJ looked perplexed.
The commander-in-chief looked at his advisors, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, nodded. Another minute ticked by. “It’s obvious that this is an inside job. They all suggested it. They flapped all around it. None of them came right out and said it. But to me, it’s obvious. Someone in the military has their own agenda.”
“I agree,” Tyra said. “Internal. Our own people. Our own Special Forces, perhaps. We will know more by this time tomorrow. But someone in our military has gone rogue.”
“How can you be so sure about this?” CJ asked.
“There was a communications link set up,” Tyra said. “A very sophisticated one. Drones and satellites were used. From my time in Delta Force, this would have been impossible to do without internal cooperation. There would be too many people involved. And it would need to
