KBL (28 page)

“Shoot.”

“There’s been talk at the White House about closing down Valhalla.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“We here don’t think it’s a good idea, because it limits our options.”

The secretary said nothing.

“So I thought you might like to hear from Spike about why we need to keep those options open.”

“Thanks,” Hansen said, “but I don’t need to. I’m with you on this, Vince. As you know, I’ve been working on some options of my own.”

“Yes.”

“And they would necessitate having a forward-basing opportunity available.”

“Gotcha.”

“Plus, I had a chat with Kate about an hour ago. I don’t think I’d be violating any confidences if I told you we talked both strategy and politics.”

“So you—”

“Let’s not take it any further,” the secretary said. “We all have our note-takers working. Let me just use her words and say I’m on the same page as you-all.”

Vince gave Dick Hallett a quick glance. “Thank you, Rich.”

“We have the same goal here, Vince,” the secretary said. “One target. One objective. Where we opine differently is about how to go about achieving that goal.”

“Mr. Secretary?”

Hansen squinted. “Is that you, Spike?”

“Yes, sir.” The analyst pressed forward against the conference table. “One point I’d like to make.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ve red-teamed your air option with some of my colleagues here, and there’s something I think you should know.”

“Yes? Go ahead.”

“We’ve never been able to do a complete forensic evaluation of the site.”

The secretary’s forehead wrinkled. “Forensic evaluation, Spike?”

“What I mean to say, sir, is that the Khans bought the compound and built the house before it was on our radar. We have overhead from before it was built, and overhead from after it was built. But nothing from
while
it was being built.”

“What’s your point, son?”

“Sir, for all we know, they could have put in a bunker below the house.” He paused. “A deep bunker. We’ve got soil samples from adjacent land. The ground there is perfect for it—no rock layering, so no blasting would have been necessary. And there’s no way to absolutely confirm or deny without inspecting the interior of the villa. Which we are not capable of doing. So we must assume that they built a bunker to protect UBL.”

Spike looked at the screen. The SECDEF’s eyes showed surprise—even shock.

Spike said, “Sir?”

There was a long silence. Then the secretary said, “Good catch, son.” He said it without enthusiasm and then he grimaced into the screen. “The Air Force hadn’t considered that factor, Vince.”

Vince kept a poker face. Because neither had he. Or Hallett. Or Stu Kapos. But Spike had. And it was huge. Significant. A deal-breaker. If UBL had a bunker, five-hundred-pound bombs would do no good. Two-thousand-pound penetrator munitions would have to be employed—at least a dozen of them, perhaps more. Which would absolutely have lethal collateral effects on the surrounding area.

And more to the point, there would be virtually no way to confirm Bin Laden’s death. The site would be obliterated. Sure, Bin Laden DNA might be obtained. But it could be DNA from one of his children. No way to know for sure. Because the Paks were certainly not going to allow a CIA forensics team to go combing through the rubble.

Bottom line: the mere prospect of a bunker beneath the villa effectively killed the air strike option.

Which meant the one remaining possibility was a stealth approach using helos, a fast ground assault, and a rapid exfil. Exactly what Wes Bolin first suggested and was currently rehearsing. And what Rich Hansen would argue against.

Vince cleared his throat and said, “That’s why we have folks like Spike here, Rich. And thank God we do.”

“Agreed.” The secretary stared into the camera. “I’m still not convinced that Wes Bolin’s plan will work,” he said. “But given today’s development, I want to hear him out. I’m back in three—no, four days. Can we arrange something early next week?”

Vince nodded affirmatively. “We’re scheduled for our next RIG briefing at the White House on the twenty-ninth. We’ll meet before then, and you can hear how Wes would put this thing together. I think you’ll be impressed.”

“If anyone can pull it off, it would be Wes.”

“I agree.” Although he made sure not to show it, Vince Mercaldi was mildly surprised. It was the first positive reaction to a special operations raid he’d heard from the defense secretary. He’d have to call Wes Bolin right away. Prep him for the pre-RIG session with the SECDEF. But Vince’s face betrayed nothing. Instead he smiled at the camera. “Safe travels, Rich.”

“Thanks, Vince. I like getting out of the office once in a while. Now Kate—she’s on the road
all
the time. She’s this administration’s Flying Dutchman.”

It was true. The secretary of state had logged more than half a million miles since she’d been confirmed by the Senate. In fact, there were those who believed—and Vince was one of them—that the president was keeping Kate Semerad on the road to ensure that she wouldn’t present a threat to his reelection efforts in 2012. She’d been his most formidable opponent in 2008.

Vince chuckled. “Well, thanks for your time, too, Rich. I know how precious it is.”

“
De nada
.” The defense secretary waved offhandedly into the camera. “
Hasta luego .
.
. amigos
.”

The screen went blank.

Hallett looked at the tech behind the camera. “We clear, Sue?”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Mikes turned off?”

She checked her console. “Mikes are dead.”

The director said, “Great.” He dropped his mike on the table, grinned, and high-fived Hallett and Spike. “We’re in business, gents. Magnificent work, Spike.”

The analyst beamed. “Thank you, sir.”

Vince looked at him strangely. “By the way, what you told the SECDEF.”

“Yes?”

“About the bunker.” Vince had to reach up to put his arm around the younger man’s shoulder. He tip toed toward Spike, stage-whispered “C’mon, Spike, you can tell me” conspiratorially, then stood back.

“Tell you what, sir?” The analyst looked confused.

“What you told the secretary. About the bunker,” Vince reiterated.

“Yes, sir?”

“Was that actually
true
, Spike?”

“I believe it is.” Then the big man whose pseudonym was George S. Nupkins took a long and uncharacteristically theatrical pause. “But I guess we’ll only find out for sure when our people are in the house, sir,” he finally said, a sly smile creeping across his face.

25

Abbottabad, Pakistan
March 27, 2011, 1935 Hours Local Time

Charlie Becker lay back on the pallet he used as a bed and massaged what was left of his legs. His whole body ached. But it was a a good ache. A Ranger ache. The kind of ache that told him he was alive and well and had used his body to its limits. A Darby Queen ache.

Ranger candidates spend ten days at Fort Benning’s Camp Darby, where, among other things, they get to run the obstacle/confidence course known as the Darby Queen. The Queen is twenty-four stages that test your fear of heights and challenge your balance, your upper-body strength, and your ability to keep going no matter how badly you’re being dinged. Tonight Charlie felt as if he’d done three circuits on the Darby Queen.

But the news was all good. His message, bursted half an hour previously, was that Abbottabad had gone back to being the sleepy little garrison town it always had been. There were no ISI gumshoes trolling. Arshad and Tareq Khan were both in residence.

But the main point of his message was that today he’d gotten a glance inside the gates of Ground Zero. He’d gone by the perimeter just after noon. From the smoke and the smell, they were burning trash behind the wire-topped wall.

As he rolled past, Charlie paused to watch half a dozen youngsters playing street soccer on the road that ran parallel to the compound wall. He’d just started up again when one of them sliced the ball over the wall. So he paused to see what would happen.

A couple of minutes later, the gate opened just a crack, an arm and a shoulder protruded, and the ball was dropped into the street.

And Charlie, on the opposite side of the road, saw something as the gate cracked open. He saw a strap diagonal across the sliver of chest of whoever had opened the gate. And the butt of an AK.

It was just a flash, but it was important. Yet another sign. There were no other villas in Abbottabad—at least among the ones Charlie had seen—where people came to the gate carrying assault rifles.

Was it proof of anything? Of course not. But Charlie also knew intelligence isn’t like, wow, here it is: everything. Intelligence is finding little pieces of a puzzle and sending them on to folks who understand how to put those pieces together—folks who know that they may not be working on one puzzle, but five or six or ten puzzles simultaneously.

So far as he knew, no one had ever seen anyone in the Khan compound who was armed. Now Charlie could report for certain that there was at least one AK-47 on the premises.

Did it prove that UBL was living there? Not exactly. It proved only that there was at least one person living in the villa who was wary enough to arm himself when he burned garbage. But it was . . . an info-bit. Something that might turn into an indicator.

Charlie blew out the kerosene lamp, covered himself with the lumpy pad that served as his blanket, and snuggled in for the night. He would sleep well. Today he had earned his pay.

26