“T-yeah, right,” the General smirked. “Everyone listen up! For the duration of this exercise, everything — and I mean everything—you people see and hear is to be considered beyond top secret. Is that clear?”
The room was filled with “Yes, sirs.”
“We will now treat this as if it were a sanctioned rescue operation,” he went on. “That means I want a pair of Predators in the air and loaded with warshot. Cynthia, get on the horn to Creech and make that happen.”
“Yes, sir.”
Couture glanced at Metcalf. “The nautical term was for you there, Captain.”
Metcalf gave him a wink. “I thought as much, sir.”
“Major Miller!”
“Yes, General.”
“Get the president on the horn. If this is going to be our last hurrah, by God, we’re doing it by the numbers.”
Within three minutes, the President of the United States was on the line.
“Mr. President, this is General Couture. I’m sorry to disturb you, sir.”
“What is it?” the president said, his voice anxious.
“Mr. President, at this time we’re looking at a live infrared UAV feed from over the Panjshir Valley. Though it remains unconfirmed at this time, sir, we are witnessing what appears to be an unauthorized mission to liberate Warrant Officer Brux from the enemy.”
“Are you fucking kidding me!” the president snarled.
Couture’s reply was crisp. “No, sir.”
“Exactly what the hell are you seeing?” the president demanded.
Couture described what they had witnessed so far and that the unidentified shooter had just shot another sentry dead from beneath a donkey cart.
“Who the hell is it?” the president wanted to know.
General Couture watched as Gil hefted the body from the road onto his shoulder, dumping it into the donkey cart and covering it with a tarp. “Though his identity remains unconfirmed, Mr. President, we believe it may the same operative who carried out Operation Tiger Claw.”
There was an extended silence at the president’s end, so Couture continued. “Sir, I’ve ordered a pair of Predators armed and into the air in case we end up having to assist him in bringing Warrant Off—”
“You just said you don’t even know who know who the hell it is!” the president hissed.
It was at this moment Couture realized the president wasn’t assessing the situation from a rational point of view. “Mr. President, allow me to be clear, sir… confidence is quite high that this operative is a member of DEVGRU.”
“General, here’s what you’re going to do,” the president said, his aggravation clear and evident. “First, you’re going to keep those drones on the ground where they belong. Second, you’re going to continue to monitor this situation and keep me apprised. You are to take no direct action of any kind. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“If this hero manages to bring that woman out of there alive, we’ll have no trouble playing the success of the mission to our advantage. If he fails, then he’s disavowed, simple as that. That was the deal in Iran, was it not? These SEALs seem to be comfortable with that arrangement, so let this hero’s fate be a lesson to the rest of them. Understood?”
Couture eyed the screen as Gil ducked into a long building with a dozen horses standing beside it in a stone corral. “Mr. President, with respect… this operative is very good — possibly the best we have. With our help, he stands a legitimate chance of success.”
“Do you even know what his plans are, General?”
“No, sir, not specifically.”
“Well, suppose we do get involved and that poor woman dies anyhow?”
Couture didn’t immediately respond.
“I asked you a question, General.”
Couture glanced at Metcalf and shook his head in resignation. “I see your point, Mr. President.”
“I thought you might,” the president said. “This isn’t your doing, General, and it sure as hell isn’t mine. I see no reason either of us should swing for it. Now, I’ll ask you this: are you in a position to stop him without wiping out that village in the process?”
“Not at this time, sir, no.”
“Then we’re not responsible for his actions, are we?”
“Not in a manner of speaking, sir, no.”
“Very good,” the president said. “Keep me apprised through the normal channels.”
The line went dead. Couture hung up the phone. “Shit.”
“What’s the bottom line?” Metcalf asked quietly.
Couture dry-wiped his mouth, glancing at the screen where Gil was yet to reemerge from the stable. “Master Chief Shannon — if that’s who we’re watching — has been disavowed.”
CHAPTER 48
Inside the stable, Gil felt comforted by the familiar smell of horses and manure. He found the sorrel-colored mount he was looking for near the back, a few hands higher than the other animals and with stronger flanks. He needed the strongest horse he could get for what he had in mind, and after watching this particular horse carry its rider through the grueling paces of an entire buzkashi match during the day, he believed it had more than enough endurance. The trouble would be getting the animal to Sandra undetected. He sure as hell couldn’t bring Sandra to the horse, carrying her over his shoulder, fighting a running gun battle all the way.
He slipped a coarse wool blanket over the animal’s back and pulled one of the buzkashi saddles from a pile in the corner. It had metal stirrups, and both pommel and cantle were higher than those of a Western cowboy saddle, creating a deeper seat designed to help keep a buzkashi rider from falling off.
“It’s not exactly a Hamley Formfitter,” he muttered to himself, cinching up the single girth strap, “but it’ll have to do.”
The door opened at the other end, and Gil instantly faded into the corner, drawing the Ka-Bar from the sheath strapped to his thigh. He watched the man through infrared, noting the AK-47 barrel slung up over his left shoulder. The horses began to fidget in their stalls, tamping at the floor and snorting. Gil realized they were smelling his sudden adrenaline dump.
“Achmed?” said the interloper. “Achmed!”
Gil guessed that Achmed must be the dead guy outside in the donkey cart, so he grunted a response and began coughing as though he were trying to hack something up from deep in the back of his throat.
The interloper came straight toward him in the darkness, unable to see Gil except for the faint silhouette of the mountain cloak. “Achmed,” he said, followed by a bunch of harsh-sounding gibberish that Gil didn’t understand.
When the unlucky fellow came within arm’s reach, Gil grabbed him by the shoulder of his coat and rammed the Ka-Bar up through the bottom of his jaw to penetrate so deeply into the brain that the tip of the blade scraped against the top of the skull. The Pashtun was dead on his feet, though his body hadn’t quite gotten the message, twitching spasmodically as Gil lowered him to the dung-covered dirt floor. He cleaned the knife on his victim’s jacket and jammed it back into the sheath.
He got up and stood on the body to peer out the gap between the roof and the top of the mud wall. Seeing the strobe flashing in his infrared viewfinder farther up the hill, beyond another cluster of buildings, he estimated the distance to Sandra’s quarters at ninety yards. This was too far to walk the horse without better knowledge of the layout. Besides, he wanted to make a careful reconnoiter of Sandra’s quarters before moving in to take it over. At least, he had to consider the possibility that Forogh had been caught and forced into helping the enemy to set up a trap.