KBL (40 page)

“And?”

“And we already have one.” Hallett saw the quizzical look on the director’s face. “Charlie Becker. And we save one-way air fare.”

The director laughed. “Brilliant.” He looked at the BLG chief. “Does he have his legs with him?”

“No. They’re down at SAD in his locker. Well, they were. Now they’re on their way to Fort Campbell, because the package is departing tonight. Moon phase determines operational window, and the moon phase—last eighth—starts on the twenty-ninth and lasts until the fifth of May. Go or no-go, Wes wanted his package prepositioned before the window opens.”

The director bit his lip. “Did you send someone Charlie knows?”

“Affirmative. Paul Fedorko, his section chief.”

“Then make sure our guy makes it onto the assault package to deliver ’em. That way Charlie doesn’t get himself shot.”

Hallett made notes in his secretarial notebook. “Will do.”

“Also, he should be there because we need at least one senior Agency officer present. After all, on paper at least, JSOC’s package is under CIA control.”

Hallett looked at the director. “Is that it?”

“Affirmative,” Vince said. “You get moving. I need a little time with Stu.”

Hallett slid his notebook into a folder. “On my way,” he said. “Thanks, Boss.”

Vince waited until the door closed behind the BLG chief. “Stu, we may be in trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“This whole project may be scrubbed.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I am. And this is very close-hold. But I got a call from someone at the White House at my home last night. Landline to landline. The individual was very, very nervous.”

“And?”

“I was told as follows. The president’s political guy, the guy who took Axelrod’s place, my source heard whispers that he’s supposedly conducting a secret poll—outsourcing it to give the White House very deep cover. And one of the questions they’re allegedly asking is, ‘If a military raid failed and American soldiers were killed, who would you most hold at fault?’

Kapos’s face fell. “Oh, shit.”

“So don’t be surprised if I get a call tomorrow or the next day.”

“Does Wes Bolin know?”

“Nah. He’s got enough to worry about. He’s sending the package out tonight. Three or four Globemasters from Fort Campbell.”

“Godspeed.” The clandestine service chief cracked his knuckles. The sound made Vince wince. “Sorry, Boss.” Kapos sighed. “Do you see POTUS today?”

“No—I asked and was turned down. Too busy, they say. Not tomorrow either. It’s evidently a full day of travel. Chicago—Oprah’s show. Then New York—all politics and money. They want Wes and me in the Situation Room on Thursday morning, eleven-thirty.” He stared at the ceiling. “Wes will be gone by then. I’ll take Spike. Dammit, don’t do that!” He gave Kapos a dirty look because the NCS chief had cracked his knuckles again. “I think they’re putting us off.”

“Because?”

“You want my honest opinion?” The CIA director looked grimly at his top spy. “I think because they’re waiting for the goddamn poll results.”

39

Abbottabad, Pakistan
April 27, 2011, 0300 Hours Local Time

Charlie Becker scooted off the road opposite the compound he called GZ, moving as quickly as he could, his arms and gloved hands doing most of the work. The instructions were simple: a box-and-one of the Phoenix Beacons that lined up with the center of the ten-foot-high wall bordering the western courtyard, the one where they burned the trash. Then five more fireflies in a straight line running east-west, aligning with the southernmost edge of the plowed field just to the east of a newly built white-roofed villa.

Charlie had been given a deadline of April 28 to complete placing the beacons. Then he was to stand by to go active on the twenty-ninth. He was hardly able to contain himself. He’d be a part of it—whatever it was.

He’d surveyed the locations over the past three days, but there had been too much moonlight. Tonight was overcast, with rain supposedly coming early in the morning. Then clear all day on both the twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth. Perfect operational weather.

He’d done all the prep work. Batteries had been installed and the beacons themselves attached to their spiked bases. He didn’t have to turn them on. The helo pilots would do that as they approached because the beacons would respond to PAIT signals. They’d been preset to a specific frequency—217.32, for example. All the pilots had to do was dial that frequency, transmit, and the fireflies would go active. They’d be visible for about three-quarters of a mile through the pilots’ night-vision goggles. On final extraction, the pilots would turn the beacons off, and, hopefully, the next time the fields were plowed, they’d be plowed under.

What made the op so easy for Charlie was the fact that the furrows in both fields ran perpendicular to the target, ensuring that all his lines would be straight. His only obstacle: not leaving a trail.

He solved that problem by cutting two pieces of three-foot-long by foot-and-a-quarter-wide board from the scrap at Mohammed’s carpentry shop. He had set the first down, crabbed onto it, set the second in front, crabbed a second yard, and kept repeating the process. The three-foot length—ninety-two centimeters was how Charlie had measured it at the shop—ensured that the beacons would be set uniformly. The boards themselves kept him from disturbing the furrows too much.

Charlie laid the first three Phoenix Beacons adjacent to the low wall of the rectangular compound that sat across the road from GZ. He stuck them in the ground at fifteen-foot intervals, then made his way back to the road, dragged himself and his boards five yards east, lined up with the first flasher, then repeated the process with two beacons. The result? After twenty-eight minutes he’d laid out a perfect box-and-one. Then it was time to run the second set.

0445 Hours

Exhausted, Charlie made his way through the tree line adjacent to the ten-foot wall on GZ’s southwest side so he could stow his boards on the furniture dolly and wheel himself home. It had begun to rain, and he was soaked clear through to the skin. He was cold. And sore. Sore? He hurt like hell. But hurt was part of Charlie’s life. He’d accepted it when he was wounded in Mogadishu. He’d accepted it when he lost his legs to an al-Qaeda in Iraq suicide bomber in a tunnel outside Mahmudiya in 2004. Shit, hurt was part of his job description. And, just like every other Tier One operator, he never allowed it to affect his performance. The mission was everything. It was at the core of the Ranger Creed.

So, yes, he hurt. But he was also energized. Energized the way Rangers are energized when they complete their mission. Rangers like Charlie know there are only two ways to go home: complete the mission and smoke a great cigar and maybe enjoy some single malt, or be shipped home in a body bag.

He would burst Valhalla the good news when he got back to the shed in Hassan Town: Mission accomplished. Standing by to stand by.

Standing by to go home.

40

The White House Situation Room, Washington, D.C.
April 28, 2011, 1052 Hours Local Time

“Mr. President, the optimum time for Operation Neptune Spear is the next twenty-four hours. The assault package is in position in Jalalabad. The weather is cooperating. The moon is almost new, so there is little ambient light. The targets are all in one place, and we can fly protective cover without the Pakistanis knowing anything.” The CIA analyst known as Spike paused to look at POTUS’s face.

He didn’t like what he saw. The president’s nonverbal reaction was impassive at best. Certainly not positive.

“Even though there has been no ‘eyes-on’ identification, every bit of empirical evidence points to UBL being there.” The analyst looked directly at the president. “And that is something we can’t guarantee much longer.”

Vince Mercaldi decided it was time to put the situation in even starker terms. “Mr. President, the window of opportunity is closing. It is closing fast.”

The CIA director would have liked Wesley Bolin to be with him this morning. But the admiral was gone. He’d left at zero-dark-hundred for the long flight to Jalalabad. The strike was planned for 0100 local time on April 29. The moon phase was perfect, the weather also: clouds, preceding a cold front with rain. The perfect environment for a successful stealth mission deep into Pakistan.

The president frowned at his CIA director and Spike. The public schedule released by the White House told the world that at 1050 Hours the president would be receiving a national security briefing on the Libya crisis in the Situation Room.

And frankly, the president wished he was receiving just that.

Libya was a positive. Both his national security chief and his counterterrorism advisor had assured him that Libya was a win-win for the U.S. and for the administration.

Yes, sure, said Don Sorken, they’d made mistakes with regard to Tunisia, Bahrain, and Egypt. Yes, they’d missed a few signals in Yemen and hadn’t quite read the politics on the ground in Tripoli correctly. But, the NSC director insisted, he and Dwayne Daley were convinced the Libya crisis gave the administration the chance to show the world how well the United States understood the Arab Spring. The U.S. had successfully led the opening days of the bombing campaign against Qaddafi’s air defenses; tomorrow, April 29, representatives of forty countries were meeting in London to coordinate anti-Qaddafi efforts. It would, Daley said, all be over in a matter of weeks and NATO’s going to get all the credit. Even though the U.S. had supplied drones and satellite intelligence. It was time, he said, to get out front.