Insane.
“Remember—your job is to get their attention and stay out of the way. Okay?”
“Yes!” Noreen shouted, putting steel into her voice.
A steel she didn’t feel.
Walking into the compound that had potentially held Osama bin Laden had been frightening, but not debilitatingly so. She’d known in an abstract manner that there had been a possibility of violence, but she’d put the odds at very low. That those low odds had still materialized had been disconcerting, but part of the job. Things might have turned out differently had Rapp not been there, but at the end of the day, the largest injury she’d suffered had been to her dignity.
This was the antithesis of that.
Noreen could sense violence fermenting on the business jet in the same manner that a black cloud brewed with electricity. She just hoped she wasn’t at ground zero when lightning struck.
As Rapp had predicted, the jet’s crew had let down the staircase. Though she was no tactical ninja, Noreen knew that storming an airplane with hostages was a dicey endeavor. Even the operations that are counted as a success generally came with collateral damage in the form of injured or killed hostages. Failures, on the other hand, occurred when the assaulters were detected during the boarding process and never gained entry to the plane. Fortunately, Rapp had a plan to get them aboard the jet. The CIA Gulfstream had fenced in the Iranian jet, and Bilal had set the stage.
Now it was up to Noreen to walk into the spotlight.
“Can I help you?”
The question was voiced by the pilot standing at the top of the retractable stairwell. He spoke with an American accent and Noreen thought she detected a hint of stress in his voice.
Welcome to the club.
As per Rapp’s instructions, she pointed to her ears and then continued up the stairs while grasping the metal railing. The steel felt cool and slightly damp from condensation.
Or perhaps the dampness was due to her sweaty palms.
“Inside,” Noreen said with a thick Urdu accent. “Too loud.”
She could feel Rapp just behind her and she didn’t slow her progress as she summited the steps. For a moment, her stomach clenched at the possibility that the pilot might refuse to move. Then she pushed away her fear. One way or another, she was entering the airplane. The man could either move or suffer the indignity of being shoved aside by a woman he outweighed by one hundred pounds.
The pilot seemed to sense her determination. He hesitated, then gave a short nod and edged into the cabin.
Noreen followed.
CHAPTER 81
MARTIAL arts aficionados love to talk about the proverbial “fight in an elevator.”
A hand-to-hand combat scenario in an enclosed space or under circumstances in which the victim’s mobility was severely limited. The old would your fighting style still work if your back was against a brick wall question. To Rapp’s way of thinking, most of this was just wasteful bloviating. Though he was a devotee of several styles of unarmed combat, he had long ago come to terms with the truth that no one fighting style addressed all potential martial scenarios.
Better still, most of the armchair warriors who liked to participate in this fruitless debate had never actually fought an opponent in an elevator, let alone a narrow stairwell or a dingy hotel room. Compared to what he was facing now, those scenarios might as well have been arena bouts. There was fighting in an elevator and then there was engaging in mortal combat inside a narrow metal tube that barely afforded an attacker the ability to stand. Rapp was much too young to have hunted Viet Cong as a tunnel rat, but those tight confines couldn’t have been much narrower than what he currently faced.
Tucking in behind Noreen, Rapp edged up the metal stairs, preparing to use his shoulder to effect the breach if necessary. While this was a method of last resort, Rapp was determined to get aboard. He could feel the pressure of the bin Laden raid mounting. By now, helicopters were winging toward Pakistan.
Time was running out.
Ashani was key to everything that would or would not happen in the next ninety minutes. He knew the second Quds Force team’s target and the whereabouts of the missing missiles. If his call to Irene was truthful and not just the desperation born of a dying man, the Iranian spy could also confirm bin Laden’s location.
Everything depended on Rapp’s ability to get onto the airplane.
Everything.
Rapp kept his head down as he pushed forward, visualizing his actions. Using the ASF vehicle and uniforms to approach the plane was a good play, but he knew the Quds Force operatives inside would be antsy. Though Ashani was one of their own, the Iranians were still conducting a rendition. In their place, he wouldn’t let his guard down until the jet’s tires touched Iranian soil. While there was a plausible explanation for Rapp’s unexpected appearance in the plane’s cabin, the Quds Force killers were cut from the same cloth as CIA paramilitary officers.
No one in the profession of espionage believed in coincidences.
No one.
Not to mention that Ruyintan was likely on the jet with Ashani. The Quds Force colonel was a veteran of combat zones too numerous to count. Ruyintan was a force to be reckoned with and the aircraft was his home turf. Rapp felt like he was crawling into a wolverine’s burrow with the intention of dragging the animal from its hole bare-handed.
The pilot asked something in an American accent.
Noreen responded in unintelligible Urdu while continuing up the stairs.
Good girl.
While Rapp had had his suspicions about her unflattering performance review within minutes of meeting the case officer, any doubts with respect to Noreen’s competence had long vanished. She’d kept her cool in the compound during a scenario in which many a seasoned spy would have lost it. Now she was the number one man in a tactical stack about to attempt a hostage rescue under one of the most challenging tactical environments imaginable. A scenario for which Noreen had never trained and had zero experience, but she was still bulldogging her way onto the aircraft just like Rapp had instructed.
Once this was over, Rapp intended to pay her old station chief a visit.
“What is this about?”
Rapp glanced up.
Noreen had entered the cabin.
Rapp used his final step to picture each target. The airplane held six or seven passengers. Worst case, that meant half a dozen Iranians plus Ashani. On the positive side, this wasn’t a traditional hostage scenario in the sense that the Quds Force operatives weren’t expecting trouble. They were aboard a charter plane and heading for home. The Iranians had no reason to have their guard up.
