God bless helicopter pilots.
CHAPTER 89
RAPP held his pistol with his left hand and shaded his eyes with his right.
The muzzle was pointed at the ground, but that could change in a heartbeat. If the person in the car had been sent by Irene, she or he would be expecting Rapp to be armed. If they weren’t, Rapp was splitting the difference between the provocative vibes holding the weapon at low ready would send and the state of unpreparedness that holstering the pistol would engender.
Fortunately, whoever was driving the four-door sedan seemed to get the message. The headlights extinguished as the car rolled onto the tarmac, showing little regard for the aircraft tied down at regular intervals along the blacktop or the slew of airfield regulations that undoubtedly prohibited random cars from weaving across the apron.
If anything, killing the headlights seemed to imbue the driver with more confidence.
The sedan’s engine roared as the vehicle put on a burst of speed.
Rapp was in the middle of rethinking his unprovocative stance when the sedan’s hood nosed to Rapp’s left, putting him abeam the driver. The car skidded to a halt as the vehicle drew even with Rapp, but not before plowing through a puddle.
Rapp could now add drenched to the list of adjectives describing his wardrobe.
In the time it took Rapp to wipe the moisture from his eyes, the motor died, and the driver’s-side door swung open.
“You look like a drowned cat who tangled with the wrong dog.”
There was precisely one human being on the entirety of planet Earth who could talk to Rapp this way. Stan Hurley appeared in a cloud of cigarette smoke as if he were the devil himself newly summoned from the gates of hell.
“What are you doing here?” Rapp said.
“What kind of dipshit question is that? Saving your ass, of course. Now, if you’re done playing grab-ass, make yourself useful and help me with this kit. Irene said we’re on the clock.”
Fifteen precious minutes later, Rapp was in right rear passenger seat of the JetRanger, trying to connect the dongle he’d pulled from one of Stan’s kit bags to his phone.
True to his word, Hurley had brought help—in a big way.
From two innocuous go-bags haphazardly resting on the back seat of Stan’s vehicle, Rapp had unpacked a pair of HK416 carbines mounted with EOTECH holographic sights and integrated suppressors, plate-carrier body armor equipped with tactical chest rigs, and about a dozen magazines all loaded with 5.56mm hollow-points. A smaller, padded bag for electronics contained two sets of night-vision goggles, two tactical tablets, the low-profile Bluetooth communication system Nash had been pushing, and an assortment of batteries, dongles, cables, and chargers.
Rapp felt like he’d just scored a free shopping spree at Gunfighters “R” Us.
The uptick in his equipment situation almost made up for Stan’s piss-poor attitude.
“You were planning on saving the day with only a half-empty pistol? I swear to God, one day I’m gonna find whoever trained you and punch that son of a bitch in the mouth.”
Stan Hurley’s exact age was perhaps the most closely guarded secret in the free world. Like the archeological practice of estimating the antiquity of an object by correlating it with the items buried alongside it, Rapp tended to view Hurley through the lens of the historical events the operative had taken part in. Though Stan was not old enough to have caused havoc behind German lines during World War II with Wild Bill Donovan and Thomas Stansfield, he’d begun his clandestine career in the decade after the war’s conclusion. Stan was a hard man who’d done hard things in conflict zones too numerous to count.
He was also the person who’d trained Rapp.
If there was one human being to whom Rapp should afford deference, it was Stan.
“Are you done?” Rapp said. “If so, I could use your help. If not, feel free to hop out.”
Rapp was not big on deference.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Stan said. “I’m just blowing off steam.”
Rapp thought this was only partly true. Since they were currently hurtling north as fast as Derek could push the little helicopter, Rapp didn’t think Hurley was anxious to take him up on his offer to exit the aircraft. But he also thought that Stan might be a little sore that he hadn’t been invited to the Islamabad party before now. Still, if anyone could drop into the mountain range north of Islamabad and walk out unharmed, it would be Stan Hurley. The old codger had certainly aged, but he was still as wiry as a steel trap.
A rusted, ornery steel trap.
“Besides, I’m not mad at you,” Stan said after a pause. “Or at least not just at you. I was working a thing in Vienna when Irene called. I landed in Islamabad three hours ago, and I still had to kick an untold number of shitbirds out of bed just to score a vehicle and two assaulter packs. Irene needs to get her ass over here and clean house. Too many of our people have forgotten they’re supposed to be fighting a war.”
Rapp digested this in silence as he finally got the cell phone connected to his flight headset. He was preparing to dial when the JetRanger bucked, throwing him against his harness.
The phone tumbled to the cabin floor.
Rapp cursed as he strained to reach the cell.
“Sorry,” Derek said. “Turbulence is always bad this close to mountains. We’re burning JP8 like it’s going out of style. I’m gonna need to revise my fuel estimate.”
This was another problem Rapp did not need.
Based on when the charter pilot, Damon, had told him that the Iranians and Ashani had boarded his jet, Rapp figured that Ruyintan had departed Islamabad for Abbottabad at least an hour and a half earlier. The head start would have been no factor had Derek been able to travel in a straight line between the two cities, but that was a nonstarter. The helicopter’s engine wasn’t powerful enough to achieve the minimum safe altitude required to fly over the craggy peaks.
Had the weather been more cooperative, Derek might have tried to poke his way through some of the lower passes, but the poor visibility prohibited this course of action too. Instead, the Army aviator had elected to swing west before turning back northeast in an effort to skirt the rolling foothills. This meant their flight time was about thirty minutes versus Ruyintan’s drive time of almost two hours.
It was going to be close.
“Do you at least know what kind of car we’re trying to find?” Stan said.
Rapp did not, but he was hoping that was about to change. “Here’s the deal—we’re looking for two shoulder-fired missiles, a Quds Forces colonel, his bodyguards, and maybe a HIG fighter or two. I don’t know what they’re driving, but I know where they’re going—bin Laden’s compound in Abbottabad.”
“I’m sorry,” Derek said. “Can you say that again?”
