Executive Power (21 page)

Less than ten feet from the tent now, he began to hear voices. He continued toward the far side of the tent where the Andersons were most likely situated. He was now within the stakes.

Carefully, he crept up to the edge of the tent. A thin sliver of light spilled out from under the green canvas where it floated just above the wet ground. Rapp made no effort to look under the side at first. Instead, he repositioned himself so he was lying in the right direction and listened to the voices.

Over the din of the rain pelting his hat, the tent and the ground, he could barely make out the voices of men speaking Filipino. Rapp crawled toward the other end of the tent and the voices grew louder.

He also saw shadows cast from the interior down along the gap at the bottom. Satisfied that they'd guessed right, he scooted backward through the grass and mud to the other end.

Before looking under the side of the tent, Rapp stared momentarily at his suppressed MP-5 with its night vision scope and long thirty round magazine extending from the underside. If he had to shoot, the weapon might be difficult to bring up under the side of the tent. Rapp laid the weapon down on the ground in front of him and reached for his silenced 9mm Beretta. After quietly drawing it from his thigh holster, he held the weapon lightly in his left hand. Unlike the movies, there was no need to chamber a round, take the weapon off safety and cock it. Rapp operated with his weapons hot at all times.

He listened for another moment, but gleaned nothing further. If the hostages were inside they weren't making any noise. Cupping his hands over his lip mike he whispered, "I'm going to sneak a peek. Be ready to move."

Twisting onto his back he positioned himself so he could look under the side by pulling the bottom up slightly with his right hand, leaving his left hand free if he needed it. Laying his head almost on the ground he took a look. He was rewarded with nothing more than the sight of the rotten wood boards that served as a floor for the tent.

Cautiously he lifted the side of the tent. Only an inch at first, though he was confident that the wind and rain would conceal any noise that he made. Rewarded with an up-close look at a dirty foot, he paused, not knowing if it belonged to a Filipino or an American.

Raising the side another inch, and pulling it out slightly, he was saw part of a hairless calf encrusted in mud and bug bites and a separate foot that was so small it could have belonged only to a child.

Rapp's spirits instantly rose and he pulled back the bottom of the tent a little farther. As in the other tents, a single lantern hung from the ceiling. In the dim light he spied two of the children and the back of the mother, their red hair making them instantly recognizable. Rapp continued to scan for the father and the other child. Knowing exactly where everyone was would allow them to execute a clean takedown.

Rapp thought he could make out part of the father's leg on the far side of the tent. Pulling on the side a little more he lifted his head to try to get a better angle. Suddenly he was met with a pair of wide eyes, and that was when it happened.

Coleman watched everything from his perch. Even in the relatively warm air, he was chilled. He ignored the physical signs that he needed to find a dry, warm place. His body had been through worse. Even at his age, he knew he could tolerate quite a bit more.

Silently, he urged Rapp to hurry. It was important that they verify the position of the Andersons, but it was not imperative. He'd never gotten used to the anxiety that went along with these types of operations.

That was probably a good thing, but one would think that after all the operations he'd been part of, it would get a little easier.

Looking through the scope of his M4 carbine, he watched Rapp draw his pistol and then roll onto his side. Then he heard Rapp's voice warn everybody to be ready. Coleman kept the scope on Rapp. His finger was nowhere near the trigger. If things got hot, his eyes and commands were more important than his shooting skills. That was unless they were routed into a full retreat. In Coleman's mind that wasn't even a possibility. Not with surprise on their side and the skill of the shooters he'd deployed.

As someone who had often commanded men in battle, Coleman had a real feel for when things weren't going well, and conversely, when they were. So far all seemed to be going very well.

That sentiment instantly died when a scream came clamoring over his earpiece. Coleman instinctively winced at the sound of something so ominous and unwanted. Before he had a chance to find out what was going on, Rapp began shouting orders over the net.

Rapp SAW the look OF FEAR begin to form on the face of the young redheaded girl cradled in her mother's arms. In an effort to forestall the inevitable, Rapp smiled at the girl and mouthed the words, it's okay. It was about this time that he remembered his face was smeared with green, black and brown paint. He could smile at this young child all he wanted, but it wouldn't change the fact that he looked like a monster coming to get her and her family.

As soon as the little mouth started to open, Rapp knew what would follow. He hesitated for only a fraction of a second and then brought his gun up just as the girl let loose a bloodcurdling shriek. A subsonic 9mm round spat from the end of the silencer striking the nearest kidnapper in the side of the head, instantly dropping him into the lap of the man who was sitting next to him. The terrorists were sitting around a rickety table, and for the briefest of moments they froze.

With a tone of urgency, but not panic, Rapp shouted the Go word over and over into his lip mike, as he moved from one target to the next. His gun moved as an extension of his arm, efficiently seeking out targets, sweeping from left to right. The pistol carried sixteen rounds, one in the chamber and fifteen in the grip. Each depleted round registered in his mind as its brass casing was ejected.

He got off three clean head shots before the tent became so filled with terrorists diving and lurching every which way that he had to resort to aiming for chests and backs. One of the men got hold of his weapon and Rapp shot him in the shoulder, sending him sprawling and the gun clattering to the floor.

Remembering Jackson and his men, Rapp yelled, "Spray down the right side of the tent! The hostages are all down by me!" The last thing he wanted was to hit one of them with a stray bullet as they came through the tent. Or worse, have one of them hit him coming the other way.

Rapp saw two muzzles coming around. One was tracking toward the hostages, but Rapp couldn't get a clear shot. A body was in the way. Screaming "Shoot at the damn tent!" he squeezed off three quick rounds directed at a target he couldn't fully see.

The terrorist teetered backward, the dead body of his comrade knocking him off his feet. His finger squeezed the trigger on the way down, sending a three-round burst tearing through the wall and roof of the tent. Rapp saw more movement to his right. His eyes moved faster than his gun. He saw the flash of the rifle muzzle and then the wood floor in front of him splintered with the impact from a bullet, followed by another flash and another. The man was shooting the assault rifle on full automatic, shredding the rotten floorboards before him.

Rapp rushed his first shot, hitting the man in the shoulder. He needed only a split second more to place the terrorist's head in his sights, but he never got the chance. The searing pain of a bullet slammed into his flesh, sending his shot wide of the target.

Before he could react to what had just happened, a fusillade of bullets ripped through the canvas wall of the tent, sending the terrorist who had just shot him into a spastic sideways dance. No fewer than six shots propelled the man over a plastic chair and to the ground. The bullets did not stop coming for another five seconds, over a hundred of them in total.

Rapp finally called out for Jackson and his men to secure the hostages. Keeping his weapon and eyes trained on the mass of bodies at the other end of the tent, he tensed as the first wave of pain radiated to the extremities of his every limb.

He watched as Jackson 's men came into the tent. Several quick shots were fired from the end of the thick silencers, but most of the work had already been taken care of. They were just mopping up. Letting his head rest on the ground, he looked over at the huddled family in the corner. He was about to call out over the radio that he'd been hit, but stopped. The other elements would still be in the thick of it.

Coleman didn't need the distraction just yet. No, Rapp decided he would just lie there and relax for a bit.

A slight headache gnawed at the base of Kennedy's brain. She knew in truth it was due to the second cosmopolitan that she'd had with Anna Rapp. It had been worth it, though. Her private conversation with Anna had broken through some barriers.

The two women had reached an understanding of sorts. Mitch was their link. They both loved him, and if they truly cared about him they would make the effort to get along. Kennedy was magnanimous in her understanding of Anna's plight, but insistent that Mitch would not be happy leading the indolent lifestyle of an intelligence analyst. He was an incredibly talented individual who just so happened to be in the business of counterterrorism. His skills and his commitment had aided countless individuals and led to the prevention of death and destruction.

Now, as Kennedy was returning to the scene of last night's festivities, she wondered how she could look like anything other than a liar to the woman whose confidence she had just gained. She'd gone to great lengths to calm Anna's fears over her husband's safety. Speaking with true conviction in regard to Rapp's talents and penchant for survival, she'd told Anna that Mitch had been involved in much more dire operations, and that he, in fact, would be nowhere near the point of battle while on his current mission. Since he had already succeeded in eliminating General Moro, she felt this was close enough to the truth.

Others would be taking care of the hostage rescue, and Mitch would be monitoring the operation from a safe distance.

That had at least been her understanding of how things would proceed. All that changed when her phone rang this morning at precisely 5:00 a.m. Jake Turbes, the director of the CIA's Counterterrorism Center, awoke his boss to inform her that the operation in the Philippines had been a success. This fruitful conclusion to an international situation was all a very big surprise to Kennedy, since the operation wasn't supposed to have begun yet. After thanking the director of the CTC, and giving him no sign that she'd been somehow left out of the loop, Kennedy pulled herself from her bed and went straight to Langley.

When she got there the puzzle of what had occurred some six thousand miles away began to fall into place. The mission had been a complete success. The Andersons and all of the operators were safely onboard the Belleau Wood sitting out a rather ferocious tropical storm, and there was only one injury to report. All things considered, Kennedy should've been very pleased with the outcome.

On the surface she appeared her calm, cool self; nodding at the right times and asking only the most pertinent of questions, but inside, she was seething. Someone had been shot, and as luck would have it, it was none other than Mitchell Rapp.

Kennedy was furious. How in the hell did Rapp get shot when he was supposed to be sitting on a warship ten miles off the coast, and more important, why in the hell was the timetable for the rescue operation moved up without her knowing about it? Kennedy resisted the urge to call General Flood and ask if he'd given the green light. She would need some time to gather her thoughts, and her intuition told her that Flood had also been left out of the loop. Asking halfcocked questions that she didn't know the answers to was a good way to invite inquiry into how she ran her agency.

Mitch Rapp was going to have to answer some very tough questions when he got back. Kennedy's only solace right now was that ultimately, Rapp would pay for his cowboy attitude far worse at home than he would at work. At Langley he was the golden boy, capable of doing no wrong. A mythology had been structured around him. He was a walking, talking legend, a man with rugged good looks who could point to a dossier of more successful clandestine operations than any operative in perhaps the history of the Agency.

That resume would protect him. There wasn't a person at Langley who would dare lock horns with him, and only a handful of politicians on the Hill who would even consider taking such a risk. Not that this most recent incident would offer them any real opportunity. Rapp was a hero, and Americans loved their heroes.

As her predecessor Thomas Stansfield had taught her, Kennedy suppressed the desire to get Rapp on the phone and read him the riot act. It would be better to cool her emotions and let him sweat it out for a while. Maybe even the entire long flight home.

No, Kennedy would let the one woman who truly mattered to him take care of things. It didn't matter how good Mitch was, his little powder keg of a bride was going to kick his ass like it had never been kicked before. It would almost be worth it to bug his house just to hear the interrogation. No matter what Rapp said or did, he could not lie his way out of what he had done. He couldn't hide behind national security because Kennedy wasn't going to let him, and unless he kept his clothes on for the next month, there was no way he was going to be able to hide the fact that he'd been shot.

In an effort to keep up her newfound friendship with Mrs. Rapp, she called Anna shortly before 6:00 A.M. and told her that the mission was a success and that her husband would be on his way home shortly.

Anna, grateful for the call, thanked the director of the CIA profusely.

Kennedy, in return, thanked Anna for being so understanding and told her to call if she had any questions.

This sudden coziness between his boss and wife would give the intensely private and compartmentalized Rapp reason for pause once he found out about it. Kennedy took a certain amount of devious comfort in that and in the fact that Rapp would be dreading how to explain what had happened.

As Kennedy stepped off the elevator on the third floor of the Executive Mansion she was prepared to do what Presidential advisors had done for centuries: spin. She didn't care for the tactic, but one of her most trusted and loyal employees had put her in the awkward situation of having to do so. The alternative would be to tell the President the stark truth, which could potentially have some ramifications that she didn't need to deal with right now.

The outcome of the operation was just what the President had wanted. The Andersons were safe, the United States had suffered no casualties and a message had been sent to the terrorists. Using Rapp's line of logic, or defense as Kennedy was more inclined to say, it didn't much matter how they got there, just so long as they got there.

Kennedy entered the fitness room and after sidestepping a weight bench approached the President, who was hunched over the console of a stair-stepper.

Hayes tore his eyes off one of three TVs mounted on the wall in front of him. He'd seen Kennedy enter the room in the reflection of the mirrored wall. With sweat pouring from his face he snapped, "What in the hell happened in Israel last night?"

Kennedy was only momentarily caught off guard. On her way over from Langley she'd scanned the Presidential Daily Brief, a top secret document compiled by the CIA that kept the President and his top national security advisors apprised of what was happening in the world.

"I've already put a call in to Ben Freidman, but he hasn't gotten back to me yet."

The President frowned at the mere mention of Freidman's name.

He was well acquainted with the head of Mossad. He in fact detested the man, and if it wasn't for Kennedy, the President would have demanded that Prime Minister Goldberg fire the bastard.

The President wiped a film of sweat from his face with a towel and growled, "It still burns my ass that he has a job."

Kennedy instantly regretted mentioning Freidman's name. The previous year he had been caught giving intelligence to, and aiding, one of the President's chief political adversaries. It had taken a great deal of skill to convince the President that it would be better to keep Freidman in his post and use his guilt as leverage.

Hayes looked at the clock.

"What time is it over there?"

"They're seven hours ahead of us, sir. It's two-twenty in the afternoon."

"How long ago did you call him?"

"About thirty minutes ago." Kennedy folded her arms in front of her. She'd actually put in the call about an hour ago, but saw no reason to get the President more agitated than he already was.

"Well, call him back again," snapped Hayes.

"And tell him I want some answers!" Pointing at one of the TVs he said, "They leveled an entire city block, and they're saying the death toll could surpass one hundred people, for Christ's sake."

Kennedy looked awkwardly at the floor and then back at the President's reflection in the mirror. He had grown considerably more irritable lately.

"Sir," she cautioned, "you know the Palestinians always inflate those numbers."

Hayes gripped a black bar with one hand and with the other he lowered the speed of the machine.

"Have you seen the footage?" he asked a little less confrontation ally

"Yes."

"And you don't think it looks bad?"

"Yes, it does, sir, but let me get some more information before we jump to any conclusions."

Hayes nodded and began to breathe a little easier. Realizing he'd been a little hard on one of his most trusted advisors he asked, "So, did you have a good time last night?"

"Yes, I did. It was a very nice party, sir."

"Good." He mopped his brow again and asked, "What's happening over in the Philippines?"

Kennedy forced a smile and adjusted her glasses.

"I have good news. The Anderson family is safely onboard the Belleau Wood as are all military personnel who participated in the operation."

As if someone had delivered an unexpected gift, a mix of joy and confusion spread across the President's face. He glanced at the clock on the wall and said, "I thought the rescue wasn't set to take place for another hour or two."

"Well, there were some developments during the evening, sir, that caused us to move up our timetable." Fortunately, Kennedy knew the President was a man who never punished success. Like most good chief executives he delegated authority and wanted results.

"A tropical storm blew in," she continued to explain, "threatening to ground our aircraft. At the same time, the rain provided the cover needed to sneak our ground forces into position earlier than we had anticipated. Not wanting to lose the opportunity we gave the green light and it went off without a hitch." Kennedy was tempted to mention that Rapp had been shot, but for now she wanted to keep that little nugget of information to herself.

The President's face lit up.

"That's great! When will they be arriving stateside?" The politician in him was already looking forward to greeting the family.

"They have to wait for the storm to break and then they'll start back. They could be here as early as tomorrow or Monday."

"And how are they doing?"

"Fairly well," answered Kennedy.

"A little malnourished and covered with insect bites, but otherwise stable."

The President stopped the machine and climbed off. He moved over to a treadmill and climbed on.

"How are they psychologically?"

Hayes pressed several buttons and the tread started moving.

Kennedy could only guess at the horrors they had suffered. From her intelligence reports on other kidnappings, Abu Sayyaf and MILF were fairly humane in the sense that they seemed to avoid rape and torture, especially of Americans. But still, being held captive thousands of miles from home in extremely primitive conditions would have taken its toll.

"I'm not sure, sir. For now I bet they're just happy to be free."

"Yeah, I suppose." The belt picked up speed and the President began walking faster. He pumped his arms and said, "Do me a favor and brief Valerie on this." The President glanced at the wall clock.

"She's usually in by eight on Saturdays."

The President needed his chief of staff. Kennedy understood better than most how Washington worked. Political effectiveness rose and fell with the tide of positive or negative media attention. This was too good of a story not to manage properly. Kennedy would brief Valerie Jones and then Jones in turn would mobilize the formidable White House communications and press people. They would prod and squeeze this story into a five-point jump in the polls.

"Anything else, sir?"

The President hesitated and then sighed.

"I suppose we should have the NSC meet for a full briefing."

Kennedy nodded. If the President hadn't suggested it she would have. The various cabinet level departments needed to be brought up to speed, especially the State Department. Somebody needed to tell President Quirino in the Philippines what the United States had just done, and in light of the sensitive subject it would be wiser if that person were the Secretary of State rather than the President.

"What time would you like me to schedule it for?"

"Let's say eleven o'clock downstairs… and oh… if you talk to Mitch before then, thank him for me."

Kennedy nodded.

"He's an amazing man."

Kennedy did not hesitate to reply.

"Yes, he is." Any man brash enough to usurp the authority of the director of the CIA, the Secretary of defense and the President all in one evening was an amazing man indeed.