“Where the hell did you get these and why haven’t we seen them?’ asked Carson angrily, one of the few people in the room brave enough to go up against one of Washington’s most feared power brokers.
“We need to protect our sources,” said Hunter smugly.
“Perhaps if you hadn’t, we wouldn’t be sitting here now?” countered Carson.
“Our source had no idea who this was. Nor did we until the mock-up images of Nick Geller were released. “It was just luck that one of our image analysts recognized Geller and pulled up these old images.”
“This is bigger than any source’s confidentiality! We need those images and your source!” demanded Carson.
“Over my dead body!”
“Just make sure you put that in your will tonight!” threatened Carson.
“Okay, okay, enough,” said President Mitchell, stepping in. “Carl, give them what they need. And I don’t mean just what they ask for. They don’t know what you’ve got.” He glanced at the door. “Anything else? I hear my wife coming.”
The room stayed silent and the President got up, signaling the briefing was over.
“Bob,” President Mitchell said to his Secretary of Defense, “and Harry,” he said, looking at Carson, “can you both hang back?”
Turner looked at Carson; they had shared a ride over. Carson signaled for Turner to give him ten minutes, and Turner stepped out into the hall.
When only the three men were left, the President turned to Carson. “Honestly, what are your thoughts? And no bullshit.”
“I’ll know better when I see what the CIA has on Geller and what the source has, but at the moment it’s not looking good.”
Chapter 38
Nasim, as directed by Nick, flashed the aircraft landing lights every ten seconds as they neared the GPS location. Nasim kept an eye on the fuel gauge; its warning light had already begun to blink. With every second that passed, Nasim could have sworn it began to blink more rapidly. He flashed the landing lights again and began the count, ten, nine, eight… He stopped. The dark desert floor had just sent a bolt of light off into the distance. Approximately a mile ahead, a line of light suddenly appeared. As they neared, Nasim began to descend, the light separated and became two — their makeshift landing strip.
Nasim called out their imminent touchdown. Nick braced himself but needn’t have bothered. The oversized tires and Nasim’s many, many years of experience produced a near perfect landing.
“You certainly earned your bonus with that landing,” said Nick, looking out at the uneven desert floor highlighted by the meager landing lights.
“That’s a far better runway than I’m used to,” Nasim replied, making Nick wonder exactly what the pilot usually transported. Nasim opened the door and was met by an unwelcome sight of six men pointing AK-47s at him. They gestured with the barrels of their guns to get out.
While Nasim blocked the gunmen’s view, Nick reached around and extracted his Berretta. He checked the safety, placed the pistol on the seat opposite him, along with his satchel and metal briefcase, and followed Nasim out into the darkness. The fires that had lit the runway were slowly dying. Only dim lights from a truck illuminated the area around the plane.
“What is the meaning of this?” barked Nick in Arabic as he stepped from the plane.
The gunmen looked at him. It was clear that they hadn’t understood a word of what he’d just said. He tried a similar message in French. Again, they looked at him with obviously no idea what he was saying. Nick’s gestures began to grow more wild as the gunmen, all of whom were in their early twenties, looked on. Nick could see they were nervous and, more worryingly, poorly trained. Their fingers were on the triggers of their weapons and not the trigger guards. Their gestures were so erratic that they occasionally pointed their weapons at each other.
“It’s not them dude, shoot them!” said one of the gunmen to another. Again, poor training was evident. The talker was frightened to take the shot but, just as importantly, Nick recognized a strong regional English accent.
“Whoa, calm the fuck down!” shouted Nick in English.
“What the fuck? You’re American? Dude, we nearly blew your motherfucking head off!” replied the gunman in barely recognizable English.
“What’s with all that mumbo jumbo, mate?” another said, lowering his weapon. The rest followed, lowering their weapons. A mumble of discontent rose as they bragged how close they had been to ‘popping’ the American. The truth was that none of them had come close. They were embarrassed at how badly they had handled the situation and were trying to big themselves up after a dismal showing.
“Are we going to stand here all night?” asked Nick, taking command, something these guys desperately needed.
The gunman pointed to the truck and gestured towards the open back. Nick looked at him with contempt. “Nasim!” he said loudly. “You and I in the front with the driver. The rest of you in the back.”
The driver pulled away when the last of the gunmen climbed onto the back for a bumpy ride ahead of them.
“How far?” asked Nick.
The driver shrugged his shoulders. Nick repeated his question in Arabic.
“One hour.”
“How long you been here?” asked Nick.
“Five months.”
“And these jokers?” Nick gestured to the six in the back.
“Not long enough!” the driver said, perceptively.
Nasim agreed wholeheartedly. Nick nodded. He was worried. This was one of the major training camps that would prepare his warriors. Deep in the Sudanese desert, hundreds of miles from the nearest living soul, they all had the space and privacy they could ever want. With millions of square miles of bland, featureless terrain, the chance of being spotted even by satellite was so remote, it wasn’t even a concern. However, if the men who were training there were of the caliber of their reception team, it was a wasted journey. Nick needed only the best and most dedicated followers of Allah for his plan.
After an hour, they arrived. The light on the horizon began to creep into the darkness at the impending dawn. The camp was impressive. The huts and buildings were colored to blend in with the surroundings. Even the equipment was painted to ensure it blended seamlessly with the environment. It was an impressive sight but not as impressive as the men who were filling the area ahead of them. Nick stood and watched. Proud, strong and well-disciplined soldiers. Their exercise routine would have been worthy of any forces Nick had ever served with. They were hardened men, whose faces bore the determination of true warriors.
Nick had expected about fifty good men at the camp. What faced him was a small army of almost three hundred men, ready to fight and die for Allah.
Nick smiled.
Chapter 39
Thanks to Carson, a slightly smaller VIP aircraft of the USAF touched down at 07:30 at Istres-le Tubé Air Base in the South of France, twenty miles northwest of Marseille. The C40B Clipper was a military version of the Boeing Business Jet based on the Boeing 737 and had more than enough room for Frankie, Reid, Flynn and the Delta team.
“Bonjour, Madame,” greet Captain Leclerc when Frankie stepped onto French soil at the bottom of the steps.