Though she hadn’t handled assets in years, a good case officer never lost her Farm-trained instincts. Irene might now be the CIA director, but Rapp’s update would hit her like a shot of epinephrine.
His update must have prompted a thousand questions.
She only asked one.
“What’s the source of your reporting?” Irene said.
Rapp had been expecting this question, but he still wasn’t sure how he wanted to answer. While the SIGINT, or signals intelligence, capability of Pakistan’s ISI was nowhere near NSA levels, only a fool underestimated his adversary’s technological prowess. He was calling on an unsecure line. That he was doing so using a cell he’d liberated from a pair of street thugs via a onetime number designed specifically for agents in duress meant that this discussion should be lost among the millions of other calls flooding Pakistan’s cell network. The odds were minuscule that the ISI would be able to isolate a needle from the surrounding digital haystack.
Minuscule but not zero.
“SUNSPOT is the source,” Rapp said, giving the code name assigned to Ruyintan.
Silence answered.
Rapp’s boss was one of the most intelligent people he knew. Irene Kennedy didn’t think three moves ahead. She visualized the entire chess match. She was the yin to his yang. The deliberate and methodical counterpart to his propensity for audacity and violence of action. Irene wasn’t prone to emotional outbursts, but Rapp had learned to listen to her silences.
This one spoke volumes.
“Can you describe the interaction?” Irene said.
The warbling of a police siren echoed through the air.
Rapp froze, not daring to breathe until the changing Doppler indicated that the car had passed by. He wasn’t superstitious, but anyone who did what he did for a living understood the importance of subliminal cues. The soft whispers from his lizard brain. His predatory instincts were screaming that it was go time.
“SUNSPOT initiated contact,” Rapp said.
“Why?” Irene said.
“Not over this line. I’ve given you all I can. I’ll check in later.”
“Busy?” Irene said.
“I’ve got an appointment to keep,” Rapp said.
“Understood,” Irene said. “Break a leg.”
Rapp intended to break several.
CHAPTER 9
VICINITY OF THE SPIN GHAR MOUNTAINS, AFGHANISTAN
“WHAT kind of trouble?” Captain Mark Garner said, eyeing his fire support officer.
“The artillery kind,” Chris said. “The battery commander just jumped on the radio to let me know that their authorization to shoot into Pakistan has been pulled. I’m sorry.”
Mark was pissed, but not surprised.
American artillerymen were the best in the business, but indirect fire was by nature an inexact science. The first rounds almost never hit the target, which was why an experienced forward observer like Chris Jancosko was a critical arrow in every ground commander’s quiver. Should the need arise, Chris would serve as the link between the cannons firing the 155mm high-explosive shells and the target. After the first volley, Chris would walk subsequent rounds onto target by issuing corrections in azimuth and distance via radio to the gunners who were located at a forward operating base twenty kilometers away. This was how artillery worked.
Unfortunately, firing unguided rounds into Pakistan had the military brass more than a little nervous. Authorization had been granted to incorporate indirect fire into the raid during the rehearsal, but Mark had seen the writing on the wall. If anyone in the chain of command developed cold feet, the big guns were out.
And now his premonition had come to fruition.
“It’s not your fault,” Mark said. “Get on the horn with the AC-130 and make sure they know they’re the only game in town. I need them ready to put steel on target.”
“Got it,” Chris said.
The Marine clicked the transmit button on his radio and began to speak. Mark didn’t bother to listen in. Chris had aptly demonstrated his competence over the last three months. The Marine was more than capable of conveying the seriousness of the situation to the orbiting Air Force gunship. In a weird way, Mark felt grateful for the snafu. No mission ever went according to plan. Ever. Now that the gods of war had thrown their obligatory curveball, maybe the rest of the operation would be smooth sailing.
“Sir,” Specialist Greg Glass said, “I’ve got Talon 6 on the line.”
Or maybe not.
Talon 6 was the call sign for Lieutenant Colonel Brandon Cates, the commander of 1st Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment. In other words, Mark’s boss. And while Mark got along just fine with Cates, the fact that his boss was tying up the radios seconds before Charlie Company was about to hit the objective was not a good sign.
Taking the offered radio handset from Glass, Mark pressed the push-to-talk button and spoke.
“Talon 6, this is Havok 6 actual,” Mark said.
“Roger, Havok, be advised that our OGA liaison has reporting that IRON FIST may be compromised, over.”
“Havok 6, this is Havok 16, we are PETTY. I say again, assault element is PETTY.”
PETTY was the brevity code signifying that the assault team was thirty seconds from the objective. Catching Greg’s eye, Mark nodded. The RTO immediately transmitted a response using the Havok 6 call sign, freeing Mark to stay on the line with Brandon. Mark had been in command for almost a year and his battlefield interactions with his RTO now bordered on telepathy.
“Talon 6, this is Havok 6,” Mark said as he panned his thermal sight back to the compound. “Assault elements are Phase Line PETTY and I’ve confirmed that Objective YUENGLING is ICE. Please advise, over.”
