Justin’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “A case officer?”
Coleman shook his head. “Something like that. When did you come over to DEVGRU?”
Justin frowned. “Just prior to 9/11. Why?”
“Remember that Task Force 11 raid into Pakistan back in 2004?”
“The one with both SEALs and Delta boys?”
“That’s it,” Coleman said.
“Hell yeah,” Justin said. “That was legendary.”
“He’s the one who developed the original intelligence to get the raid authorized and then conducted the sensitive site exploitation in Pakistan during the firefight.”
Justin responded with a low whistle. “Holy shit. I heard that guy also had something to do with stopping a nuke from turning DC into a parking lot.”
“Whatever you heard isn’t half of what actually happened,” Coleman said. “This dude has been in more slippery shit than most of the team guys combined. I’ve worked with him for the last ten years. He might not have a Trident, but if I was in a bad way, he’d be my first call, and that’s no bullshit.”
Justin digested this statement in silence.
Coleman understood.
There was a reason why SEALs signed every missive with LLTB. The letters stood for Long Live the Brotherhood. To a fellow frogman, what Coleman had just said was the equivalent of blasphemy.
But that didn’t make his observation any less true.
“How much longer are we giving your guy?”
The question came from Mark Garner, who’d wandered over to join the conversation. Coleman didn’t know when the Ranger company commander had started his vigil in the B-hut, but he’d been there when Scott showed up hours ago and hadn’t left yet. Coleman’s days of providing advice to young lieutenants and ensigns were long past, but he was tempted to make an exception with Mark. The junior officer looked like shit, and while Coleman understood all too well the anguish that came with knowing that one of your brothers-in-arms was at the mercy of jihadi barbarians, Garner had to be approaching a state of combat ineffectiveness.
“As long as he needs,” Coleman said. “He is your Ranger’s best chance for rescue. I know you want to go in there and start knocking heads, but putting a bunch of grunts on the ground is the quickest way to ensure your missing man gets a bullet in his skull.”
“Saxton,” Garner said. “His name is Sergeant Fred Saxton.”
Coleman shared a look with Justin and the frogman nodded.
“Look, sir,” Justin said, putting a hand on Garner’s shoulder, “I know you’re worried about your guy, but keeping a solo watch on this TV screen isn’t doing him any good. When’s the last time you’ve slept?”
The dark rings around Garner’s eyes seemed answer enough, but the Ranger still looked like he wanted to dodge the question. “A while,” Garner said finally.
Justin nodded. “Go grab some rack time. I promise nobody will leave without you.”
“Okay, okay,” Garner said, “but before I leave, at least tell me what we’re looking for. All this Secret Squirrel shit just makes things worse.”
Justin turned to Coleman and arched an eyebrow. “Our Ranger friend makes an excellent point.”
Coleman sighed. “Mitch figured he’d be searched, so he’s not carrying a beacon or radio.”
“So, what,” Justin said, “he’s gonna send up smoke signals?”
Coleman felt vaguely irritated at the question but realized that he was probably more aggravated with himself. OPSEC was all well and good, but not at the expense of keeping the very people he was depending on to rescue Rapp in the dark.
Time to come clean.
“Not exactly,” Coleman said. “He ingested a couple of special tablets. Something the agency’s S-and-T folks dreamed up. Like Rapp’s uniform, the pills are designed to allow us to passively track him. They slowly release a special compound into his bloodstream that makes his urine fluoresce in the spectrum monitored by the UAV’s sensor.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Justin said. “I’ve heard of pissing hot, but this takes the cake.”
“Yeah,” Coleman said, “pretty ingenious. He just needs to take a piss where our ISR asset can see him. Supposedly even the fumes from his urine will register.”
“What will it look like?” Garner said. “Just another hot spot?”
“No,” Coleman said. “The picture the agency guy sent me looked like a bed of sparkling diamonds.”
“Kind of like that?” Garner said.
Coleman looked from the Ranger to the TV and swore.
“Exactly like that.”
CHAPTER 31
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, AFGHANISTAN
RAPP could see the wheels turning in CYCLONE’s head.
One hundred million dollars was a lot of money. With that kind of cash, the warlord could buy himself legitimacy. Maybe trade in the mountain compounds for a plush house in Islamabad. Or if living rough was more his style, CYCLONE could at least outfit his subterranean lair with indoor plumbing. Either way, one hundred million dollars was not something a criminal like CYCLONE would be willing to let slip by, Pashtu hospitality honor code or not.
