CHAPTER 24
SCOTT Coleman breathed an audible sigh of relief as the two figures disappeared into the woods.
Letting his sling catch his M4 rifle, Coleman withdrew a thermal imager from his chest rig and peered through the eyepiece. As expected, the forest sprang to life in monochrome shades of white and black. What was less expected was the effect the change of spectrums had on the two vanishing men.
The HIG warlord, CYCLONE, was rendered into a recognizable human shape with white “hot” spots depicting his head, hands, and ankles. His torso was drawn in shades of black signifying that the fabric from his clothes was “cold” in comparison with his skin. The thermal sensor’s algorithms had stitched together the image based on temperature differentials exactly as expected.
The same could not be said of his companion.
Coleman adjusted the monocle’s focus until the image was as clear as the optic could deliver under the current environmental conditions. Then he squeezed the trigger on the sight’s handgrip, capturing a series of digital photographs. While Rapp’s extremities and exposed skin were also rendered with white pixels, his torso looked different.
Instead of a cold “black” representation that mirrored CYCLONE’s image, Rapp’s midsection bore a blindingly white capital X. In the visual spectrum, Rapp’s clothing looked perfectly ordinary, but under the discrete frequency the thermal imager saw, he was a marked man thanks to the specially designed fibers embedded in his shirt.
“All Chaos elements, this is Chaos 6,” Coleman said after keying his radio’s transmit button, “Ironman is clear of the objective. I say again, Ironman is clear of the objective.”
Coleman listened as his teammates acknowledged the transmission, trying to ignore his thundering heart. Working with Rapp was never boring, but this operation might have been one of the most stressful Coleman had ever undertaken. To win CYCLONE’s trust, Rapp had proposed a pseudo rescue attempt that was as audacious as it was dangerous. One misplaced shot, one instance of the wrong weapon being aimed in the wrong direction, and people would die. As if hearing Coleman’s thoughts, the American whom Rapp had “killed” with his AK-47 got to his feet.
Will Bentley gathered his M4 and trotted toward Coleman.
This had been the most dangerous part of the rescue, and Coleman had originally slotted himself for Will’s role. The magazine of the AK-47 Rapp had fired was loaded with Simunitions, or cartridges containing a paint capsule rather than a projectile at the tip. The weapon had been clearly marked and hand-delivered, but the fog of war wasn’t just an expression. In the confusion sure to enfold the ambush/rescue, Coleman visualized countless scenarios in which a rifle with live rounds inadvertently ended up in Rapp’s hands.
As the team leader, Coleman thought that he should bear the greatest risk.
His teammates had disagreed.
In a rare argument between team members, Will, Charlie Wicker, and Joe Maslick had all thought Scott should be commanding and controlling the engagement instead. The Green Beret, Doug Peluso, agreed. Coleman knew his men had a point, but his sense of duty wouldn’t let him concede it.
So, Rapp had made the decision for him.
Now that the engagement was over, Coleman knew that his teammates had been right. The ambush and subsequent prisoner escape might have been executed flawlessly from CYCLONE’s perspective, but things hadn’t been so peachy on the other side of the battlefield. Coleman had needed to navigate several last-minute hiccups on the fly, including a potential friendly-fire incident between Doug’s Afghan Army National Commandos and the Afghan National Police charged with guarding the prisoners.
Coleman gave a relieved sigh as the knots in his stomach slowly untangled.
The dangerous part was over.
“Chaos 6, this is Grip 13.”
“Go for 6,” Coleman said.
Grip was the call sign for the Reaper drone drifting through the sky overhead. True to form, Rapp had convinced both the CIA chief of base in Jalalabad and his boss, the chief of station in Kabul, to get religion. The list of taskings and assets Rapp had requested seemed over-the-top even to Scott, but the agency had come through on every ask. The loitering Reaper was exhibit one.
In another stroke of good luck, clear skies had permitted the UAV to fly at an altitude of forty thousand feet. After almost a decade of watching compatriots die in Hellfire missile strikes, the jihadis had learned to listen for the unmistakable buzzing sound made by the drone’s engine. But at more than eight miles above the earth, the Reaper’s engine noise was lost to the combatants on the ground.
At least that’s what Coleman hoped.
“Roger 6. Ironman is looking good, but the rest of you need to get off the X pronto. The explosions woke up the neighborhood. I have several vehicles full of military-aged males heading your way. ETA one zero mikes, over.”
Coleman sighed.
Part of him thought that he ought to press his luck and set up an ambush for the approaching forces. In the never-ending skirmishes between the anticoalition forces and NATO, the jihadis had proven to be masterful at adapting their tactics to make use of the ever-changing Western rules of engagement. Lately this had taken the form of a concerted Taliban effort to locate their fighters within villages considered safe by the Americans.
This strategy had a twofold effect in that it made it harder to distinguish the jihadis from the villagers while also hampering the Americans’ ability to conduct surgical raids against known targets. Any misstep or collateral damage meant a parade of dead women and children laid out for the media. The armed convoy heading toward the ambush site could be Taliban, HIG, Haqqani Network, or even Al Qaeda fighters.
But Scott didn’t know that for sure.
This was Afghanistan—a country in which any male over the age of fourteen was permitted to carry an AK-47. With this in mind, it was just as likely that the collection of trucks contained the village’s version of a militia—basically a neighborhood watch outfitted Afghan-style. As much as Coleman wanted to leave the bad guys with a few less foot soldiers, it wasn’t worth jeopardizing Rapp’s mission.
If the last decade was any indication, this war wasn’t going away anytime soon.
“Roger that, Grip,” Coleman said. “Chaos 6 is pulling off the objective time now. Keep your eyes on Ironman, over.”
“Grip copies all. Easy day.”
Coleman doubted that very much.
CHAPTER 25
WASHINGTON, DC
“SO that’s where we stand, Mr. President. The remaining prisoners have been secured and are safely back at FOB Fenty along with all the American and Afghan assets that participated in the diversion. Any questions, sir?”
Irene turned from the LCD screen showcasing the imagery from the Reaper drone orbiting over the site of the faux ambush to the president.
The Situation Room always felt chilly, and despite the fact that she was wearing a long-sleeved blouse and slacks, Irene still fought the urge to shiver. Between the flat-screen TVs lining the walls, the communications suite that provided a secure connection to anywhere on the globe, the plush leather chairs, polished wood conference table, warm overhead lighting, and even the coffee station, the Situation Room had been designed with the men and women who made the nation’s most important decisions in mind. Why the room had to be kept at a temperature more suitable for a meat locker was beyond her.
“No, I think I’m tracking,” the president said. “Well done.”
Irene didn’t become a spy because she craved public affirmation. Between her mentor and predecessor as CIA director, Thomas Stansfield, her uncle Stan Hurley, and her own father, espionage was a family business. She’d joined the Agency because she loved her country and believed that working in the clandestine service was the most effective way to utilize her talents. Now, as the leader of the world’s premier intelligence organization, Irene was comfortable in the shadows. If she did her job, terrorists died in foreign locales far from US shores and the American people were none the wiser.
