KBL (47 page)

“As we speak, Mr. President.”

The president rose. “Then I suggest we all go back into the Situation Room, where it’s a lot more comfortable, and wait for absolute identification.”

He looked for his chief of staff. “Bill, let’s start drawing up a statement,” he said. “I’ll want to address the nation at some point tonight, as soon as we have a hard confirmation it’s Bin Laden.”

1617 Hours

Vince Mercaldi waited until they had all left. He walked over to Joe Franklin and put a hand on his shoulder. “Nice work, General.”

The Air Force officer looked up. “Thank you, sir.”

“Call me Vince.” Mercaldi peered over Franklin’s shoulder at the images on his split screen. He knew what Wes Bolin was doing right now: checking on the other twelve HVT missions that were under way. They’d talk soon enough, so there was no need to call him now. Besides, there wasn’t much to say. The sonofabitch was dead. That was the goal, and they’d achieved it. Time to move on.

Behind him he could hear the chatter in the Situation Room. They’d all be fighting for the credit now. Crowing to their news sources who did what and when. Demonstrating how important they were, what they knew, and how much inside information they’d been given.

Some would; some wouldn’t. Kate Semerad would keep her mouth shut. So would Rich Hansen and the Joint Chiefs chairman. They were professionals. They knew better. But that idiot the vice president, a man who never engaged his brain before he put his mouth in gear, or the president’s political aides, people like National Security Advisor Don Sorken and Dwayne Daley—Vince knew they’d be spilling their guts. So would the clowns on Capitol Hill. Sourcing their friends in the media. Telling everything that shouldn’t be told: who, what, when, where, and especially how.

Except they’d either misstate the facts or spin the truth. Some of it because they didn’t know much about either the facts or the truth. Or they’d spin the facts because they didn’t care much about the truth. Only the legend.

A legend that was being created even now in the Situation Room.

Vince removed his glasses and polished them on his handkerchief. There was a line from an old John Wayne movie, appropriately titled
The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance
, that came into Vince’s head just then: “When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.”

In this case, the printed legend would just happen to dovetail nicely with the White House’s political goals.

Because 2012 was, after all, right around the corner.

Vince hoped Wes Bolin and Tom Maurer could protect their SEALs and Rangers from the tsunami of publicity that was about to wash over everyone. Those young men worked in the shadows, and to be successful they needed to continue working in the shadows.

He knew damn well that he, Dick Hallett, and Stu Kapos could protect Charlie Becker, Spike, Ty Weaver, and the kids who had staffed Valhalla Station. Because they would never talk about them. Or reveal their roles. And because Charlie and the rest of them were professionals, they’d keep silent, too.

Because
they
knew, just as Vince did, that you never know when you’ll have to do it all over again.

“Vince?”

The CIA director blinked and put his glasses back on.

It was the White House chief of staff.

“Yes, Bill?”

“The president would like to congratulate you.”

“Thanks. I’ll be right in.”

Vince sighed and clapped Joe Franklin on the arm. “And so it begins,” he said, and walked out of the room.

50

Third Floor, Khan Compound, Abbottabad, Pakistan
May 2, 2011, 0117:25 Hours Local Time

Commotion on the stairwell. Troy turned to see who was coming.

It was Mr. Loeser, Jackpot, and the captain, fluorescent and specter-like seen though his NODs.

Tom Maurer was first into the bedroom. Looked around at all the mess. “What a shithole.”

He checked out the flexicuffed, screaming women and turned toward Danny Walker. “Master Chief, get someone up here to transfer them downstairs for questioning.”

The DEVGRU commander stared down at Crankshaft’s body. There was a lot of blood.

He looked at Padre. “Who killed him?”

“We did,” Padre said. “All of us.”

The CO bent over and examined Crankshaft’s wounds. “Well done. Bravo Zulu.”

Padre gave his commanding officer a brief smile. “For God and country, right, sir?”

“You got it, son. God and country. That’s why we wear the white hats.”

Troy asked, “Who was the kid on the second floor?”

“Khalid Bin Laden,” Loeser said. “One of the sons.”

He stared down at the body, trying to think of something pithy to say. But there was nothing to say. The corpse said it all.

He looked at his men. “Well done.”

Maurer turned to Loeser and Walker. “We’ve already got the slurpers working,” he said. He pointed at the corpse with his thumb. “Get him tagged and bagged, and let’s get the JMAU started on DNA and the other identifiers.”

“Aye-aye, Captain.” Walker had been at war most of his adult life. Most of it had been either clandestine or covert—and kept that way. This hit, however, would make news. Global. Cosmic. He hoped the unit would stay in the black. The master chief scanned his troops. They’d keep their silence. He hoped the pols would, too. But that was asking a lot.

Well, it wasn’t his problem. “T-Rob, Padre, tag and bag this scumbag.”

Maurer checked the big watch on his left wrist. “We have twenty-two more minutes on the ground, and we still have to blow the damaged Black Hawk. But the Paks have no idea we’re here, so I want to exploit every fucking second we have.”

He paused. “Hey, you guys, clear out and let the slurpers in so they can start picking up.”

“Lots of intel, sir?” Heron asked.

The CO nodded affirmatively. “Goddamn place is a treasure trove. Hard drives, flash drives, laptops. This is going to keep the intel squirrels busy for months—and make our schedule even rougher.”

Troy said, “You mean we got job security, Captain?”

“Job security?” Maurer grinned. “Hell, son, you’ll be working twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five right up to the time you do your thirty.”

The captain looked through his NODs at his men as they headed down the stairs.

He was proud of them. They’d had a rough start, but they had surmounted it.

They’d followed the credo above the Dam Neck shoot house front door: A
DAPT
, O
VERCOME
,
OR
D
IE
.

They’d done the first two—and Crankshaft had obliged them with the third.

Maurer regarded his SEALs, the Rangers, and the rest of his package in the way the best commanding officers think of their troops: with a combination of pride, humility, and intense gratitude that he had been allowed to lead these incredible Warriors into battle.

And bringing all of them home alive? And killing Crankshaft? Icing on the fricking cake.

What had gone on tonight, he understood in the marrow of his bones, was one of the most totally awe-inspiring experiences an officer can have. Now he understood why the great Warrior Commanders like Stan McChrystal, Wes Bolin, and Bill McRaven had insisted on going out on CONOPs not as flag or general officers but as just one more shooter in the package.

Gives you perspective. Keeps you honest. And humble.

51

Just South of the Khan Compound, Abbottabad, Pakistan
May 2, 2011, 0130 Hours Local Time

Charlie Becker stepped up to the body bag on the plowed wheat field just as two young SEALs were about to load it into the big enabler helo. He put his arm up like a traffic cop and shouted over the whine of the big twin idling Lycoming jet engines, “Hey, dude, lemme see him quick.”

The SEALs started to give him a dismissive once-over. Then they saw Charlie’s seven-month beard, matted hair, and filthy clothes, topped off by the helmet, NODs, and the Ranger vest. By the time they got to the vest, their expressions had morphed into holy-shit wide-eyed.

Because this was him.

Archangel.

The double amputee who’d been in fricking Abbottabad undercover for months. Working without a net. No support. One tough motherfucker. The bearded OGA guy had called him The Lone Ranger.

“For sure, bro.” They lowered the bag back onto the deck and the baby-faced one unzipped it from the top. Charlie hit the button on his green-lensed Surefire and peered down. It was him, all right, even though the face was distorted. Bullets tend to do that. Especially Barnes 70-grain TSX fired at a distance of under fifteen feet.

One round had hit just above the left eye. Crankshaft’s head must have been turned toward the shooter because the heavy bullet exited out behind the right ear, taking a fair amount of skull and brain matter with it. Between the green light and Charlie’s night-vision equipment, the blood and brain goo registered black. But that wasn’t all. The shock and kinetic energy had ballooned the head itself so it looked almost hydrocephalic.

Nasty stuff, those hand-loads.