First Strike (51 page)

“No,” said Miguel. “I was told that under no circumstance am I to deliver anything without his signature.”

“Fine, I'm Nazir. Give me the form.”

Miguel pulled the clipboard away.

“He has an eye patch. Even I know that.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“I do what I'm told. The Americans want their hostages back. You want your weapons. ‘You' means Nazir.”

“What happens if he doesn't sign for it? He could be traveling.”

“I'll wait,” said Miguel.

The short man reached behind his back and pulled out a gun.

“There's one man who knows how to operate the crane on that ship,” said Miguel, “and it's not you, Mohammed. And if you think you can do it yourself, go ahead and try. But the man from the U.S. government told me that if you hurt me or any of my men, they will know it's a trap, which they said wouldn't be the first time for you people, and they will destroy everything within a square mile of this place. Got it? You'll get your weapons, America will get its hostages, and I will get to see my family again. Go get Nazir.”

He holstered the pistol, shaking his head in anger.

“He's hours away from here. This is ridiculous. I will see if I can get him on the phone.”

“Signature. Nothing less.”

“It could take days.”

“I have days. How many days do you think I've been at sea?”

“How do we know it's not a trap?”

“I'm a ship captain,” said Miguel, shrugging. “What do I know? Wouldn't the Americans lose all the students if they did something to him?”

The men turned and walked down the gangplank. They climbed into the truck. The truck sped quickly down the pier and out of sight.

Suddenly, the doors of the three SUVs opened. The drivers all had weapons, which they trained in Miguel's direction.

Then two men emerged from one of them. One was Nazir. The other man, in jeans and a white button-down, was taking video of Nazir.

Nazir walked slowly behind the vehicles, flanked on either side by gunmen. The photographer walked backward, in front of Nazir, filming his every move.

He'd been there the entire time, no doubt waiting for the containers to start getting off-loaded so he could have a photo op.

“Un-fucking-believable,” said Miguel under his breath.

Nazir was tall. His hair was slightly long and combed to the side, where it feathered above the eye patch. He walked with a regal bearing, his posture straight. His presence was unmistakable. Everyone around him either stared at him in awe, or swept their weapons toward the shadows, as if protecting a god. He wore a white shirt and dark slacks. He looked clean-shaven. But the eye patch gave him a malevolent air. Or perhaps it was simply Miguel's knowledge of everything he had done. The lives he'd taken and the way he'd taken them. The children pushed from high floors, the beheadings of innocent citizens.

Even Miguel felt his own adrenaline spike as the terrorist approached the ship.

When Nazir reached the end of the gangway, he allowed the photographer to go before him and take up position on the ship. The man gave him a slight nod, and Nazir stepped forward and climbed. When he reached the deck, he approached Miguel, who was standing in front of one of the containers.

The ISIS leader was calm. He glanced once up at the sky, then looked at Miguel.

“I'm Tristan Nazir.”

Miguel looked at him for an extra moment, then extended the clipboard. Nazir took it and signed it, then handed it back.

“Is there anything else?” asked Nazir.

“No. We will move the containers to the parking area.”

Nazir, for the first time, surveyed the deck of the ship. Nearly every square foot was covered in containers, stacked five and ten high.

He walked back to the gangway and started to climb down.

Suddenly, the photographer said something in Arabic:

“
Alsyd alrrayiys, madha ean surat mae al'asliha?
”

Mr. President, what about a picture with the weapons, as we discussed?

Nazir paused, then shrugged and turned.

Miguel walked toward the base of the crane.

“Excuse me,” said the photographer. “Open one of the containers. We want video.”

Miguel looked at the man with annoyance. “Fine. Stand back. One of these doors would crush you.”

Then he added, barely above a whisper, “Not that I would mind.”

Miguel removed a large round steel spike inserted at the juncture of the end of the container and the side. He repeated it on the other corner. He looked in front of the container to make sure no one was standing there. Finally, he eyed the photographer, who held a camera and was waiting. He nodded to Miguel.

Miguel reached up and yanked one of the spikes, thrusting the heavy end piece outward. It slowly eased away, the rusted hinges creaking. Then he removed the other spike. As the massive piece of steel swung down toward the deck, the dull
thwack! thwack! thwack!
of suppressed automatic weapon fire punctured the air. The bullets took down every man on the deck before the gunmen arched their weapons and sprayed the ISIS guards along the rocky coast in lead.

By the time the steel slammed onto the deck, two black-clad commandos had emerged from the container, killing almost everything in sight, and burning through the oversized mags of 7.62mm cartridges clutched in the gut of their carbines. As they jutted left, a second pair of commandos charged out, filling in the gap between the first two, who quickly dropped their mags and slammed in new ones. From the instant the container door was halfway to the ground, not a moment had gone by in which the sound of Navy SEAL gunfire hadn't tuned the air.

And yet still more men emerged.

The next pair held MANPADs atop their shoulders. They stepped to the deck as, all around them, their teammates continued to rip steel into the ISIS SUVs and other vehicles on land. They let their missiles fly. They slammed into the posse of vehicles, causing a large explosion as gasoline ignited under the intense heat of the blasts.

The few gunshots from Nazir's guards stopped just seconds into the attack.

Still, the Navy commandos moved carefully down the gangway, with multiple layers of cover. They methodically swept through the destroyed remnants of SUVs, pickups, and flatbed semitrucks, looking for anyone hiding. They inspected each ISIS guard, making sure they all were dead. Twice, quick blasts from one of the commandos indicated that a pulse had been found.

Ryan, the team leader, who'd been one of the first two commandos to emerge—the most vulnerable—walked over to Nazir.

Nazir stood still, surveying the carnage. In the silence that followed, Ryan reached to his waist and removed a SIG Sauer P226 from his holster. He aimed it at Nazir.

“Not your lucky day,” said Ryan.

“Who are you?”

“The dormitory failed,” said Ryan. “We killed all your men.”

“I don't believe you.”

“It's true. All of them.”

Nazir surveyed Ryan. He looked down at the ground, struggling for words.

“So this was all … a subterfuge?”

Ryan said nothing. He kept the gun aimed at Nazir's head.

“You have no intention of killing me. I know too much.”

“Should I cut off your head?” asked Ryan, ignoring Nazir, anger in his voice, “or burn you?”

“I could be extremely valuable to the United States,” said Nazir. “Even in a prison cell.”

Ryan shook his head. “There might be some guys in my government who think that way, but I'm not one of them.”

“You're making a mistake. I can help your country. I demand you ask your superiors!”

Ryan glared at Nazir. His eyes moved to the burning vehicles onshore. He took a step toward the side of the ship, nodding at one of his men to keep Nazir under the muzzle.

Ryan tapped his ear three times.

“Centurion to Tower Three, over.”

“Roger, Centurion. What do you got, Billy?”

“I want to make sure as to the ROE, sir,” said Ryan, glancing at Nazir, who stood at the far side of the deck.

“You know the answer to that.”

“Do we need to run it by Langley, sir?”

“I already did,” said Bosse, Ryan's SEAL team commander. “Also ran it by the White House. Kill 'em.”

Ryan tapped his ear. He glanced at Nazir, adopting a slightly chastened look. Slowly, reluctantly, Ryan ambled back toward Nazir.

“Well, Mr. Nazir, you were right,” said Ryan, holstering his gun beneath his armpit. “Apparently you are to be escorted to the United States and offered immunity in exchange for your help.”

Nazir straightened, his posture becoming erect and dignified.

“I told you.”

Ryan moved in front of Nazir. He stared at him for several seconds.

“Just kidding,” said Ryan, pulling his gun from his holster and sweeping it to Nazir's head.

Ryan fired. The bullet hit Nazir in his good eye, a nickel-shaped hole that sprouted as the slug fragmented and the lead pellets became heated physics inside the trajectory of the casing, expanding the path of the bullet, grabbing at tender flesh, so that, by the time it reached the back of Nazir's skull, it was avocado size. The back of Nazir's head, accompanied by a meaningful handful of brains and skull, went flying, followed soon after by Nazir, who fell awkwardly.

Ryan holstered his gun. He stepped forward and lifted Nazir with one hand, grabbing the front of his shirt. He carried Nazir to the side of the ship and unceremoniously threw the corpse overboard. He heard the dull
thunk
as the body landed on some rocks next to the ship.

Ryan put two fingers in his mouth and blew a short, sharp whistle to his men.

We're moving.

He looked at Miguel.

“Let's get out of here.”

 

70

PRIVATE RESIDENCE

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Summer Dellenbaugh walked out of her bedroom and down the long, high-ceilinged hall to the large living room that was the centerpiece of the private residence for the first family. Summer had on orange corduroy pants and a dark blue sweater. It was 6
A.M
. on a Saturday morning.

Her father, President J. P. Dellenbaugh, was seated on a large armchair, one leg draped over the arm. He was sipping coffee. There was no newspaper, iPad, cell phone, magazine, briefing paper, or anything else. Dellenbaugh was simply sitting and thinking.

When you're president, what most people don't understand is that you are the same person you were before you were president. In fact, you are the same person you've always been, deep down. Much of Dellenbaugh's thoughts were in fact preoccupied with this. He never wanted to lose that thing that made him real. The kid who helped his dad build the backyard hockey rink back in Michigan. The Detroit Red Wing who had his nose broken in a fight after scoring the game-tying goal in game three of the Stanley Cup Playoffs. The man people always seemed to like, and who somehow ended up becoming president. It astonished him. It was what confirmed his belief in God, and it was what made him the most popular president in a generation.

“Hi, Dad,” Summer said.

“Hey, cutie. What are you all dressed up for?”

“I thought I would go with you today,” she said.

“Really?” he asked, smiling, impressed. “Did your mother tell you to do this?”

“No. I just want to go.”

“Oh, okay,” said Dellenbaugh, sipping from his mug. “And why is that?”

“I want to thank them.”

Dellenbaugh reached out his arms, motioning for his daughter to come close. She walked to him and he gave her a hug.

“I'm proud of you,” said Dellenbaugh.

“Thanks, Dad. I'm proud of you too.”

“Summer, what you're going to see isn't pretty. All three of them were severely injured. They might not be able to even see us. I just want you to understand that.”

“Dad, I'm almost twelve. I think I can handle it.”

*   *   *

The motorcade was long, extended, and highly secure. There were eight vehicles in the staff section, all bulletproof and flexed-out with a variety of accoutrements such as run-flat tires and supplemental oxygen. The presidential state car was in the middle of the motorcade. It was a customized Cadillac DTS limousine, with a shell of armor capable of withstanding most armaments below missile as well as protecting against biochemical attacks. A switch in back sealed the interior as tight as a supersonic jet. Another switch kicked a five-hour supply of oxygen into the limo. In the trunk was a container of the president's blood type.

Multiple Chevy Suburbans and vans were intermixed with the sedans. They carried a variety of FBI and Secret Service agents with enough firepower to start a small war. A half dozen police cars were also in the motorcade. All of it formed a long line that moved quickly north up the Rock Creek Parkway. A missile-laden helicopter glided overhead, high enough to be unobtrusive, low enough to react to any airborne intrusions or on-the-ground situations that the police, FBI, and Secret Service couldn't manage.

Dellenbaugh was seated at the back of the presidential limousine. Summer was on his left. Holden Weese, his personal aide, was across from him. Dellenbaugh was reading a briefing sheet.

Weese dialed a number into a phone and then handed it to the president.

“Haley and Barbara Lancaster,” said Weese. “From Rochester, New York.”

Dellenbaugh took the phone. He glanced at Summer, then looked at Weese.

“Stephen,” said Weese.

Dellenbaugh put the phone to his head.

“I'm here.”

“White House Control, they are on.”

“Thank you.” Then came a click.

“Hello?”

“Haley?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is J. P. Dellenbaugh.”

“I know, sir.”