“Right.”
“Our friends in America won’t be pleased to hear this.” And I have to be the bloody one to tell them!
The crew of the huge green-and-black C-141B Starlifter sat in their seats, strapped in and ready to fire up the four turbojets if and when the word came. It hadn’t yet. They were no different from the ‘boys in black’ in that a go meant a chance to prove themselves. Their civilian superiors would deny that their troops harbored any such feelings, afraid that it might paint an unwanted Rambo image. Shortly another crew would come on station to relieve them, and again they would go to their bunks for another few hours of sleep.
A quarter mile away the boys in black enjoyed no such respite. They sat on the wing of a loaned 747 in a massive hangar at the extreme east end of Pope Air Force Base. The aircraft, politely acquired from the airline, was configured identically to the interior of the Clipper Atlantic Maiden. Civilian carriers often lent aircraft to the military for counter-terrorist training. The airline, mindful that it was their aircraft on the ground in Libya, had called first to offer. The Clipper Angelic Pride arrived an hour earlier and was immediately moved into hangar 9. Its crew and several engineers familiar with the 747–400 were ‘quarantined’ with the JSOC liaison team in the adjacent command post.
Major McAffee stepped from the port number three door onto the wing. He was dressed in full assault gear, colored black, with a low holster on his right hip and a stubby MP5KA4 stockless submachine gun in hand. A black titanium helmet and attached respirator hung from a rubber hook on his web gear. The rest of the team looked much the same, bathed in an unusual orange glow from the reflection of the overhead lights off the pumpkin-colored walls.
The eight men had just finished their first full-dress run- through of the aircraft, an activity designed to give them a look at the interior as they would see it in a real takedown, but having the added undesired effect of drenching them in their own sweat. No matter how light- or vapor-permeable their gear was supposed to be, it was never enough. Their sustained and rapid movement was part of the cause, but the stress was more of it. Even the mock takedown was stressful. It was supposed to be. The team had to psych up for a go, with no thought that they wouldn’t get it.
“That’s the first one,” Blackjack said. “We’ll do at least two more, but first we’ve got some intel.” The men perked up at that. “It looks like at least four bad guys — maybe just that many. They probably have SMGs. We’re told they’re Uzis, and if they have those you can bet they have frags and pistols. Standard stuff. That’s the good news. British Intelligence gave us some stuff through 22 SAS about twenty minutes ago.” He didn’t mention that the information had been forwarded surreptitiously to Delta from their SAS counterparts ahead of the official message. That was probably still in the Pentagon. Not everything had changed. “There was a blast in London earlier today and an inert duplicate of the bomb was left close by.” McAffee explained the specifics of the device, as the British had determined, and contents of the note left with it. “So the head bad guy is wearing this thing. All he has to do is release the switch.”
Antonelli snorted. “Hell of a deadman.”
“Exactly.” Blackjack looked at each man. ‘Tear it apart.”
After a few seconds contemplating his knees Graber spoke up, “If this guy is dedicated he’ll blow it — no doubt in my mind. Especially if he sees us coming through the door. They know we don’t go looking for prisoners.”
“What if we do that?” Lieutenant Quimpo suggested. “I mean, if we take out the other bad guys and just, you know, point at him, maybe he’ll hesitate. If he does we might be able to get him talking long enough to get the hostages off.” Quimpo saw the skeptical looks. “Hey, it’s slim. I know.”
“Nah,” Goldfarb commented. “He’s probably a fanatic. He’ll blow it. We’ve gotta make sure he doesn’t…somehow.”
Graber thought about that. “How?”
McAffee sat down. The men were now in a loose circle, discussing the possibilities.
“DONNER received and acknowledged the order,” DDI Drummond said. He looked out the window past the DCI. He sipped lemonade from a wide ice-filled tumbler. “He got real bold.”
“How so?” Landau asked.
“He sent the Rome station a message…direct.” The ice clinked in the half-empty glass. “Apparently he wasn’t too happy we didn’t listen to him.”
Landau shook his head. “I can understand. What he must think. All in all, though, I’m glad he’s coming out. He’s getting…oh, I don’t know…not careless, but fearless. We’ve gotten more of those ‘scoldings’ lately, just like his previous message.”
Drummond finished off the lemonade. “He’s been a good asset.”
“Better than anyone will ever know,” Landau added, his words accompanied by a crack of thunder nearby. “Damn! When’s this supposed to let up?”
“I think the paper said the day after tomorrow. Think positive: It’s not snow.”
He’s right about that.
“I’ll issue the extraction order at two today. Is that all right by you?” the DDI inquired.
“Of course. We better get Mike in here: It’s his department. Is he around?”
“I think he’s in a conference with S and T. I’ll check.” Drummond spun the DCI’s phone around and dialed Deputy Director, Operations Mike Healy’s office. “Nance, hi. Is Mike in with the brains?” The humor was common and good-natured. “Can you ask him to come up right away. No…the director’s office. Thanks.” He replaced the phone and turned it back to face the DCI.
Herb pointed to the glass. “You want some more?”
“Nope.”
A few minutes passed before the DDO entered, preceded by a polite rap. He was a pudgy man, one who had been behind a desk too long. Years of active service ‘in the field’ tended to keep one fit, not primarily for survival reasons, but because of the unbelievable amount of walking field officers often found themselves doing. But he was a lifer: a career Agency man. It was good to have one of those as a deputy, Herb knew, realizing further that he was damn lucky to have three as his chief deputies. And they were good people, which was more important to him.
“Boss…Drum.” He slapped the seated DDI on the shoulder and took the chair next to him. “Long time, no see.”
“We’re not the ones hiding,” Drummond jokingly accused him.
“What’s up?” Healy settled back, his hands folded on his lap.
“Mike,” Landau began, “we’re going to need a pickup.”
“Where?”
“Can you manage Benghazi? It’s a preset,” the DDI pointed out.
“DONNER?”
“You got it,” Drummond confirmed.
“Well,” Healy exhaled the word, “he’s given us some good stuff. Saved some lives, that’s for sure. When?”
“Probably tomorrow, late. I’m going to notify the Rome station. Logan’s been running him for the last six years.” Administrators come and go, Drummond thought, but spooks always hang on. “DONNER is gathering some final intel before he splits. His transmission of the information will be the signal he’s finished things. You have the location.”
“Yeah. That’s an addendum to the file,” Healy said.
“Vinson’s in the area. With all the ruckus her presence can be expected. Do you know if they’ve got any special ops people on board?”
“Not offhand,” Healy answered, “but I can check. In either case I’d like Logan to go in with the extraction team.”