“Just south of the Spin Ghar mountains,” Ruyintan said. “Pakistan.”
Rapp hesitated.
“Now that I have your attention,” Ruyintan said, “sit.”
Rapp slowly settled back into his chair.
Though outwardly he gave no sign, his heart was racing.
The Spin Ghar mountains were part of the rugged terrain that delineated Afghanistan’s southern border with Pakistan. More importantly, the mountain range was known for the Battle of Tora Bora—the ill-fated American attempt to capture bin Laden in the closing months of 2001. The area presented no shortage of targets for the special operators responsible for decapitating the terrorist organizations that called the area home.
“You want specifics?” Ruyintan said. “At this moment, a flight of American helicopters is ferrying a team of commandos toward what they believe is an unsuspecting high-value target. The operation won’t go quite as planned.”
“I need more than that,” Rapp said.
“No, you don’t. Watch the news, then talk to your organization. If you’re interested in brokering a deal, call this number.”
Ruyintan withdrew something from his pocket and tossed it at Rapp.
A business card fluttered through the air before coming to rest on the table. A series of digits were written in black ink across the bottom of the card stock in an engineer’s precise hand. According to his dossier, the Iranian had earned a postgraduate degree from the prestigious Moscow Engineering Physics Institute.
Ruyintan hadn’t just flooded Iraq with EFPs.
He’d helped design the weapons.
Rapp picked up the card, turning it in his fingers.
“Excellent choice,” Ruyintan said, getting to his feet. “You will find that I make a much better friend than enemy.”
The thinly veiled threat should have struck Rapp as cliché.
It did not.
CHAPTER 5
VICINITY OF THE SPIN GHAR MOUNTAINS
AFGHANISTAN-PAKISTAN BORDER
CAPTAIN Mark Andess Garner watched the world slide by in a series of green-tinged images.
Though night-vision technology had come a long way since his father had carried a clunky starlight scope while patrolling the jungles of Vietnam, the grainy picture still seemed otherworldly. On nights like this, the two-dimensional rendering was more reminiscent of a video game than an actual operation.
But there was nothing make-believe about what Mark was going to attempt.
He leaned into the wind, straining against the harness securing him to the troop bench bolted to the MH-6 Little Bird helicopter’s exterior. The small aircraft didn’t top out much faster than a high-end sports car, but there was no getting around the exposed feeling riding into combat this way engendered.
Even so, Mark preferred this method of travel to a Chinook.
While considerably faster, the larger helicopter’s interior was claustrophobic. Though to be fair, this probably had more to do with the fact that Mark and his fellow Rangers regularly stuffed the aircraft to the breaking point. A 160th pilot had once famously remarked that there was always room for one more Ranger.
Mark, and men like him, had been putting this thesis to the test ever since.
“Havok 6, this is Spooky 23. YUENGLING is ICE. I say again, YUENGLING is ICE. Transitioning to SHINER, over.”
“Spooky 23, this is Havok 6,” Mark said after keying his radio, “copy ICE. Gold and Blue elements are ninety seconds out from SHINER, over.”
The MH-6 banked left as Mark spoke, the egg-shaped helicopter dropping in altitude as the warrant officer at the controls dipped into the draw that would lead the bird to YUENGLING. Mark was pretty good at orienteering, but the Night Stalker’s ability to precisely navigate while hurtling through the air at treetop level was impressive. Mark could easily identify the rounded green mass that would soon resolve into a rocky outcropping, but the terrain rushing by below the helicopter’s skids still resembled an ocean of green.
Fortunately, Spooky 23 was the call sign belonging to an AC-130J Ghostrider. In addition to bringing a frightening amount of firepower to the fight, the four-engine gunship sported an impressive optics package capable of sundering the dark Afghan night. If the AC-130 said that Mark’s landing zone was clear, it probably was.
Either way, Mark was going to find out for sure in just under sixty seconds.
“Havok 6, this is Desperado 7. We are phase line QUEEN. I say again, Desperado 7 is phase line QUEEN, over.”
“Desperado 7, Havok 6,” Mark said. “Copy phase line QUEEN. Call MELLENCAMP, over.”
“This is Desperado 7. Roger all.”
The laminated topographical map depicting the operational graphics hand-drawn with a grease pencil was still stuffed into one of the pouches on his tactical vest, but Mark didn’t need to consult it. His company had been rehearsing this hit for the last three days. As the company commander, Mark had memorized the concept of the operation long ago. Tonight, he and his eighty Rangers were conducting a mission he’d lobbied for since arriving in-country three months previously.
The compound they were hitting belonged to a high-ranking member of the Hizb-i-Islami Gulbuddin network, or HIG. As with many of the jihadi splinter groups that infested Afghanistan, the HIG was hard to describe. It had been the recipient of substantial funds from Pakistan and Saudi Arabia during the 1980s fight against the Soviet Union’s invasion of Afghanistan. Now the HIG was part criminal organization, part jihadi group, and part quasi-political party. Though everyone agreed that he had American blood on his hands, the HIG leader residing in the compound had been permitted to continue to consume oxygen for just one reason.
Politics.
The man’s compound was located on the far side of an invisible line delineating Afghanistan and Pakistan. That the area’s inhabitants didn’t recognize such a border was immaterial. The terrorist compound was in Pakistan and was therefore untouchable.
Until tonight.
