KBL (38 page)

The president said nothing. He sat, hands clasped in front of him, staring into space.

Finally he spoke, addressing himself to Wes Bolin. “Admiral, you have my provisional—repeat, provisional—approval to proceed with Operation Neptune Spear.”

He looked down the table at Vince Mercaldi. “Mr. Director, I want an intelligence brief from you and Spike one week from today.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“After which I will, or I will not, sign off on this . . . undertaking.” He stared at Vince Mercaldi. “Mr. Director, remember that it is I and no one else who can sanction this operation.”

“That is well understood, Mr. President.”

“It better be.” The president slapped his folder shut. “Then that is all.” He got to his feet. “Thank you—thank you all for your hard work.”

He looked toward Spike. “And thank you for voicing your strong convictions. You, especially, have given me a lot to think about.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. President.”

“And good luck to all of us—we’ll need it.” POTUS turned and left the Situation Room, trailed by the secretary of defense and chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

The chief of staff, NSC Chairman Don Sorken, and Dwayne Daley followed grimly in their wake, their faces reflecting anger and defeat.

Wes Bolin could hear Sorken’s voice imploring “But Mr. President” as the door closed behind them.

There was ten seconds during which no one said a word.

Then: “Oh, merciful God.” Vince Mercaldi sagged back in his chair and groaned.

Concerned, Tom Maurer looked at the CIA director. He’d sweated right through his shirt. “You okay, Mr. Director?”

“Call me Vince,” Mercaldi croaked. He wiped his perspiring face and neck with a wrinkled handkerchief. “Don’t know about you guys, but I could use an adult beverage right about now.”

“Oh, Vince,” Wes Bolin said, “I could use about six.”

Said Spike, “Semper Fi, Admiral, so could I.” He jerked his thumb in Vince’s direction. “And he’s the one who should be doing the buying.”

36

Embassy of the United States, Islamabad, Pakistan
April 21, 2011, 1603 Hours Local Time

“Geoff, it’s for you. Langley.”

“Thanks, Courtney.” Geoffrey Woodward—the name was an alias—was CIA’s much beleaguered station chief in Islamabad. It was not a good place to be. The Taliban and the Haqqani Network had a price on his head. So did al-Qaeda. His relations with ISI, Pakistan’s bipolar intelligence service, were tenuous at best and of late had become permanently fractious.

Only two weeks ago, ISI’s director general, Ahmad Shuja Pasha, had ordered Woodward to notify ISI in advance whenever any of his people planned to venture beyond the limits of the cities—Islamabad, Lahore, Peshawar, and Karachi—in which they were stationed. The origin of that edict was
l’affaire
Ty Weaver, over which ISI was still smarting.

Woodward had smiled and answered noncommittally. Oh, yeah, he was really gonna comply with that one.

Another was the ridiculous demand that he forthwith identify all CIA personnel in Pakistan as well as their agents.

Moreover, the nasty relationship with ISI was only one of the fronts on which he currently had to fight. The other war pitted Woodward against his self-important, meddlesome boss, the U.S. ambassador, Cletus Winthrop Hampshire IV. Clete was one of those Foggy Bottom elites who believe that talking equals diplomacy; results aren’t important. And it didn’t help matters that he also insinuated himself into CIA’s aggressive drone campaign in Waziristan by taking the Paks’ side. To Clete, killing terrorists was undiplomatic and therefore, as the ambassador was fond of saying, “to be eschewed.”

Tall, prematurely gray, and bearded, Woodward had been on station for only nine months. His predecessor’s true name and address had been bandied all through the Pakistani press, leaked by ISI because the American had aggressively built a successful network of Pakistani agents right under ISI’s nose. Langley was taking no chances of the same thing happening again; Woodward had therefore reported to the embassy bearing a diplomatic passport in which the only true fact was his first name. He’d arrived in early October, just in time to coordinate the setup of Valhalla Base. Between the Abbottabad operation, Ty Weaver, and ISI’s double-dealing, it had been nonstop since then.

He picked up the receiver. “Woodward.”

“Geoff, it’s Dick Hallett.”

“Hey, fella. Good to hear from you. What’s goin’ on at BLG?”

“Busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest around here. Listen, I got some good news and some bad news for you.”

“And your point?” Woodward heard Hallett’s hearty laugh and chuckled himself.

“Good news is we’re about to break down Valhalla, so please gear up and let the lads up-country know.”

“Will do.” Woodward paused. “And the bad news?”

“We’re about to break down Valhalla, so please gear up and let the lads up-country know.”

“Very funny. What’s the schedule?”

“That’s the real bad news. Don’t know. But get them started now, because we could be shutting them down and extracting on twenty-four-hour notice.”

“Geez.” Woodward exhaled. “We’ve got a ton of equipment up there. Moving it is gonna be a bitch. ISI’s all over us, y’know.”

“Affirmative. But the schedule’s out of my hands. Seventh Floor stuff.”

“Understood.” Woodward’s mind was already churning, trying to figure out the logistics of a covert repositioning that included packing and hauling millions of dollars’ worth of delicate surveillance equipment out of Abbottabad and getting it inside the embassy without the Paks or the ambassador knowing. “Anything else?”

“What are you, a glutton for punishment? How many migraines do you want simultaneously?”

“This one is enough, believe me.”

“Then my work here is done,” Hallett boomed. “Thanks, Geoff. Gotta run.”

“Take care, Dick. Have a Hendrick’s for me at Charley’s.” Charley’s was a restaurant on the corner of Chain Bridge Road and Old Dominion Drive, about seven minutes from headquarters. It operated under another name these days, but CIA veterans always called it Charley’s. They had reliable food, a decent wine list, and the afternoon bartender made perfect, ice-cold Hendrick’s martinis.

Hallett laughed. “Will do. In fact I’ll have two.”

“Yeah—rub it in.”

“Stay safe, brother. Talk soon.”

The phone went dead. Woodward stood, hitched his pants, and headed for the communications shed. He had to burst Abbottabad immediately.

37

107 Miles Northeast of Fort Campbell, Kentucky
April 24, 2011, 0027 Hours Local Time

It was dark enough inside the aircraft so that life was easier with NODs down. And it was cramped. There were six 6-Charlie SEALs, five Rangers, the K-9 and its handler, and the helo’s crew chief all in there, with full gear.

They’d been airborne for fifty-seven minutes, the Night Stalker pilots twisting and banking as they contour-flew a route that would set the SEALs and Rangers on target within thirty seconds plus or minus. Tonight was the third Joint Readiness Exercise, or JRX, for the SEALs and the Task Force 160 aircrew, flying 160-plus miles from Fort Campbell, where the 160th was based, to Fort Knox, where the target site was located.

The target tonight was “Muhammed Maulavi,” code-named Tombstone, a high-value target who was described by Red Squadron CO Dave Loeser to the assaulters during the evening’s BUB (Battle Update Brief) as a Haqqani Network captain. M2, as Loeser referred to him, would be portrayed, as would his family and bodyguards, by life-size mannequins dressed in Pashtun clothing and placed strategically in the target house. Those mannequins bearing weapons were hostile and could be killed. The others could not.

The flight from the 160th’s home base at Fort Campbell, which sat on the Kentucky-Tennessee border, to the training area at Fort Knox, located close to the Indiana border, was 164 miles as the crow flies. But it would take ninety minutes because the aircraft wouldn’t fly a straight course. Instead, they’d take an irregular route, allowing them to contour-fly the topography at extra-low altitude. The SEALs and Rangers didn’t know it, but the distance from Fort Campbell to Fort Knox was just about equal to the distance between Jalalabad, Afghanistan, and Abbottabad, Pakistan. Which was precisely why Wes Bolin and Tom Maurer had selected the two sites for the assault package’s predeployment JRXs and had ordered the 160th to take a circuitous route that would, although the pilots didn’t know it, more or less resemble the flight path they’d be using on the real mission.

For Troy, Padre, Jacko, Cajun, Heron, and Rangemaster, however, it was just another night’s work. These drills were really for the aircrews. Flying formation at night, with no lights, following a complicated, evasive flight plan, and doing it in formation so that both Black Hawks arrive on target simultaneously and within thirty seconds plus or minus of H-Hour, with the MH-47G Chinook enabler aircraft coming in precisely twenty-five seconds later, takes precision, confidence, and above all, practice.

Which is why the three-craft assault package, the backup package of Rangers and SEALs who’d be held in reserve, as well as the tertiary arming and refueling package known as FAARP, positioned no more than thirty-five minutes’ flight time from the target, would practice infiltration, assault, and exfiltration in real time repeatedly. Until they all got it right and they all got it smooth. Until the aircrews could fly while compensating for the weights they were carrying, maximize their speed and stealth while keeping a minimum separation between the aircraft so as to minimize signature, and get the entire assault element, blocking force, command package, JMAU and SSE sections delivered exactly where they had to be delivered, all while making sure that Mr. Murphy of Murphy’s Law fame hadn’t snuck aboard any of the aircraft as a stowaway.