Rapp took stock of the team he had and the options they represented. Could he mount an operation to verify who was in the compound?
Yes.
Would it be successful with this team?
Probably not.
Rapp needed to approach the reconnaissance of the compound with the mindset that it was a no-fail mission. He had to be prepared to prosecute the target then and there if his effort failed to garner the proof the president required, or worse still, spooked the compound’s inhabitants. This was the definition of a high-risk/high-reward operation. One did not attempt to win the Super Bowl with a roster consisting of the neighborhood pickup team. To do this right, Rapp needed his varsity players.
Coleman’s crew.
“Confirm the deal with Ashani,” Rapp said, looking at his watch and computing drive times. “I’ll handle things on this end, but you’ve got to get those frogmen to J-Bad.”
“Are you sure, Mitch?”
Rapp understood his boss’s true question. To get Alexander to forward-deploy SEAL Team 6, Irene would have to be creative in her update. She would need to put her credibility as the director of the Central Intelligence Agency on the line based solely on Rapp’s word.
This was not a small ask.
“It’s an hour flight from Bagram to Fenty plus whatever time it takes the frogmen to pack up their shit and load it aboard the helicopters, but this mission isn’t going off until nightfall at the earliest. I’m betting it will be closer to the middle of the night to ensure our targets are deep in their sleep cycle before our boys come knocking. By the time the sun sets, I’ll have proof of life, Irene. I promise.”
This time there was no hesitation in Irene’s reply.
“Okay. I’ll send the confirmation signal to Ashani and speak with President Alexander. The ball’s in your court, Mitch. Good luck.”
“Thanks, boss.”
The call ended.
On the whole, he only disagreed with one thing Kennedy had said.
It wasn’t a ball that had just dropped in his court.
It was a grenade.
CHAPTER 72
“COLEMAN.”
“Scott, it’s me,” Rapp said, turning the wheel with one hand as he held the burner phone to his ear with the other. “I need you and the boys to join me. What’s the status on your op?”
“Sorry for not getting back to you sooner,” Coleman said, “but things here have been a bit hairy.”
Rapp gritted his teeth and hammered the accelerator. As per standard operating procedure, the safehouse’s fleet of vehicles reflected the most commonly seen trucks and cars on Pakistan’s street. This was a great strategy when a CIA officer needed to blend in while conducting surveillance or an asset meet. It wasn’t such a great plan if said officer needed to cover the one hundred and forty kilometers between Abbottabad and Islamabad as quickly as possible. The gray Honda Civic that Rapp was piloting was a reliable car, but it was a bit lacking in the horsepower department.
“Give me the short version,” Rapp said. “We’re on the clock.”
Noreen stirred in the seat next to him. She’d offered to drive while he made calls, but Rapp had declined and put the cell on speaker mode instead. His decision wasn’t an indictment of the case officer’s skills but an acknowledgment of his own shortcomings. Like a shark, Rapp needed to be in constant motion. The two-hour trip would be painful enough without him sitting in the passenger seat, twiddling his thumbs.
“We hit the convoy and captured a Quds Force officer and one of the HIG fighters,” Coleman said.
“That’s good.”
“Not really. The Iranian made a grab for one of the Afghan’s weapons. He was shot and killed in the struggle. We’ve still got the HIG jihadi, but he’s only a foot soldier.”
“Fuck,” Rapp said.
“I’m afraid that’s not the worst of it. We secured the missiles, but we’re two short.”
Noreen stifled a gasp as Rapp threaded the car between a pair of slower-moving vehicles. Had Rapp been able to make the trip from Abbottabad to Islamabad by air, he could have covered the fifty-kilometer straight-line distance in minutes. Instead he was forced to box around the mountain range separating the two cities by following the M-15 Motorway southwest for fifty kilometers, then picking up the M-1 Motorway heading southeast before hopping on the Srinagar Highway and driving northeast for the final portion of his journey.
While he could do nothing to shorten the distance, Rapp was determined to push the Honda to its limits, even if his driving elicited the occasional gulp from his passenger.
“Explain,” Rapp said.
“You said we were looking for eight missiles. The convoy only had six.”
“Shit,” Rapp said. “Did you get any intel from your prisoner?”
“I turned him over to the Afghans,” Coleman said. “They’re working on him, but he hasn’t given up much. Says that they were heading to Kabul but claims that only the Iranians knew the actual targets. He did confirm the existence of the two missing missiles. Said they’re part of another convoy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Two Quds Force officers and four HIG fighters split off from the main convoy before it left Pakistan. They took the missiles with them. He doesn’t know where the second convoy is headed.”
Or he’s refusing to say.
Not for the first time, Rapp wished he could be in two places at once. Next to Irene, Coleman was the person he trusted most, but Rapp also knew the SEAL’s limitations. Scott had the ruthlessness required to do the things that were sometimes necessary to get evil men to give up their secrets, but he didn’t possess Rapp’s intuition. Even if Coleman put the phone on speaker so that Rapp could listen as the Afghans did their work, it wouldn’t be the same. Rapp needed to smell a prisoner’s fear, see their expressions, and hear their voice. He needed to be present for the interrogation, not two hundred miles away.
