KBL (45 page)

And then reality smacked T-Rob upside the head. Smacked him good.

Holy mother of God. They were probably watching this one live from the White House.

And the Pentagon.

And Langley.

So it had to go perfectly. No Mr. Murphy. No screw-ups. None at all.

T-Rob nudged Padre, turned, and shouted in his ear. “Great news, huh, bro?”

Padre’s head went up and down like one of those toy dogs you see in rear windows. “Frigging awesome.” He steadied himself against his shipmate as the helicopter started to swerve evasively.

Troy: “We’re about to head north.” He tapped the GRG on his wrist. “Islamabad.”

“Roger that.” The pilot was flying low and fast now. Padre hoped they were slipping past the Pak air defenses without leaving so much as a hint of a signature. Padre had lost friends in helicopter crashes. They were nasty.

Then he thought: Nah, not tonight. Tonight,
inshallah
, they’d get in and get out without a hitch. Tonight it would all go the way it should. Textbook. And end with Crankshaft’s head on a pike. UBL would stand for Used to Be Laden.

Padre punched his shipmate’s upper arm. “Whoever blows a shot at Crankshaft buys the beer. Pass it on.”

“Right on.” Troy gave his shipmate an upturned thumb. “Ain’t gonna be me, bro.”

“Or me either, dude.”

47

The White House Situation Room, Washington, D.C.
May 1, 2011, 1537 Hours Local Time

The National Security Staff started arriving just after 1
PM
, notified that something big was going on. Some carried fast food from the Old Executive Office Building’s machines; others carried coffee in white paper cups embossed with a gold Presidential Seal. Those cups came from the entity that in the Mesozoic Age had been known as the White House Mess, but these days was called the Presidential Food Service.

Shortly after 2, the president arrived, dressed informally in an open-neck white shirt and a windbreaker. He’d been playing golf. He was accompanied by the White House chief of staff, his national security advisor, and Dwayne Daley. By 3, he’d been joined by the vice president, the director of national intelligence, Secretary of Defense Rich Hansen, the Joint Chiefs chairman, and Secretary of State Kate Semerad. Vince Mercaldi arrived at 3:45, accompanied by Spike.

On arrival, each of the principals was handed a white three-ring briefing binder. On the cover, printed in bright red, was the legend

TOP SECRET CODEWORD NOFORN
For Use in White House Situation Room Only

By 2
PM
Wes Bolin’s deputy, Air Force Brigadier General Joe Franklin, had set up his laptop in the small annex adjoining the Situation Room so he could feed the live video from the Sentinel loitering over the Khan compound to one of the Sit Room’s four wall-mounted flat screens. The Air Force special operations officer was receiving the same live audio feed that Wes Bolin and Eric McGill were getting in the Jalalabad JOC. While the other officials gathered in the Sit Room, Call Me Vince and Spike stood behind Franklin, watching the video feed and listening to the radio chatter.

There wasn’t much of it. Until 3:54.

Then the audio feed speaker came alive.

“Six minutes.” Vince didn’t know it, but he’d heard Chief Warrant Officer Tom Letter’s voice announcing that Chalk One was six minutes from target.

The CIA director said, “What’s happening?”

Joe Franklin: “They’re going into their final onboard prep, Mr. Director. Turning their radios on, pulling on their helmets, inserting mags in their weapons, and loading rounds in the chambers.” He turned toward the director and gave him a smile. “The usual sphincter-tightening stuff.”

“Sounds about right.” Vince turned and pointed toward the Sit Room. “You gonna feed that in there?”

The general shook his head. “No capability to do sound,” he said. “But I can relay the video.”

“Hmmm.” Vince ambled next door. The big flat screen facing the head of the Sit Room conference table showed an overhead of the Khan compound taken by the Sentinel’s infrared camera. There was no movement inside the compound walls and no sound. He looked at the president and said, “The assault package is getting close, Mr. President. They’re about five minutes out right now, and if you want to hear what’s going on as well as see it, you’d better go next door, sir, to General Franklin.”

The president stood up. “I gotta see this,” he said, and headed to the annex.

The vice president jumped to his feet. “Hey, this is a big fuckin’ deal. I wanna see it, too.” He elbowed a national security staffer out of the way and headed next door, the secretaries of state and defense, the director of national intelligence, and the Joint Chiefs chairman in his wake. Within seconds, the small annex was crammed full of VIPs.

4.25 Nautical Miles Southwest of Abbottabad, Pakistan
May 2, 2011, 0057 Hours Local Time

“Three minutes.” Tom Letter’s voice exploded inside Master Chief Danny Walker’s head. Jackpot unplugged the aircraft headset, settled the olive drab Peltor talk-through hearing protection around his ears, and pulled the boom mike toward his lips. Then he crammed the helmet onto his head, fastened the straps, and dropped his NODs.

He turned his own radio on. “Jackpot’s live. Everybody hear me?” He looked at the upraised thumbs. “Roger that. Three minutes.”

They could feel the Black Hawk decelerate. They were only doing ninety knots now, which Tom Letter would hold until they were thirty seconds out from the target.

At that point, the copilot would start calling both speed and altitude as Letter slowed the aircraft down for his flare above the roof of the main structure. At thirty seconds, the aircrew would open the hatches. The instant the Black Hawk flared, the fast ropes would go out. Followed by the SEALs.

In the cockpit, Letter banked the Black Hawk in a steep right turn, fishhooking into his final approach to the target. He looked down. Below him was the main highway that led north to Mansehra. He glanced at the mission clock. They were eighteen seconds ahead of schedule. Frickin’ A. He glanced at the copilot: “Hit the fireflies.”

The copilot dialed in the frequency he’d written on his cuff and activated the PAIT. “Fireflies burning.”

Abbottabad, Pakistan
May 2, 2011, 0059:44 Hours Local Time

Charlie Becker never heard the Black Hawks until they were right over the compound. Never saw them, either. They were just . . . there. Coming from the north.

The first Chalk came in fast, started to flare just above the third-floor roof of the main house. And then—holy shit, it banked off south and disappeared. Chalk Two veered sharply southward and gained altitude. He couldn’t do anything but stare.

Talk about your fucked-up approaches. Welcome to Abbottabad, guys.

45 Feet Above Khan Compound, Abbottabad, Pakistan
0059:55 Hours Local Time

“I can’t hold it.” Tom Letter knew exactly what was happening—he just couldn’t do anything about it. He had no lift. It was everything going wrong at the same time. He was settling with power.

No way was he going to hit the roof. That could kill them all. He fought the vortex of negative pressure, brought the nose around.

The big aircraft hovered, nose facing south, above the rear wall of the compound. Letter recovered enough control to turn it north. Ahead of him was the large, open western courtyard. He could bring it in there.

He’d almost cleared the wall, when the big bird pancaked. Letter struggled with the controls to keep it from flipping and killing them all.

The tail smashed violently downward into the wall and they were all pitched forward, rotors slicing into the ground.

And then—contact. They’d hit. Instinctively, Letter killed the engine. He turned, wrenching his back as he did so. “Get out get out get out!”

The White House Situation Room Annex, Washington, D.C.
May 1, 2011, 1559:55 Hours Local Time

“My God, it’s going to crash.” Secretary of State Kate Semerad clapped her hand over her mouth.

“I warned you, I warned you,” Dwayne Daley said to no one particular. “It’s going to be another Desert One.”

The president’s eyes were glued to the screen. He hunched forward. The overhead video was too one-dimensional for them to figure out what was happening. But they’d seen the Black Hawk’s erratic movements and now, as they watched, its tail hit the southwest wall of the compound and the aircraft pancaked in, its rotors churning up so much dust that it disappeared completely.

After what seemed an eternity, the dust settled and the Black Hawk came back into view. And they could see the SEALs and Rangers scrambling out, heading for the compound wall.

The president exhaled audibly. So did almost everyone else in the room. Vince Mercaldi muttered “Thank God” under his breath.

The Joint Chiefs chairman glanced in Vince’s direction from across the room and mouthed, “Amen.”

Now the second Black Hawk came into the picture, its rotors whirring as it disgorged thirteen SEALs and Rangers, the K-9—a Malinois named Cairo—and its handler, in the field just southwest of the compound.

“The entire assault package has just been been delivered successfully,” General Franklin said. He swiveled in his chair until his eyes fell on Dwayne Daley’s petulant expression. “We’ve come a long way since Desert One.”

He stared coldly at the presidential terrorism advisor. “A long, long way . . . sir.”

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