KBL (42 page)

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
April 29, 2011, 0851 Hours Local Time

“Mr. Director, I’ve got the President for you on the secure line.”

Vince Mercaldi blinked twice. “Got it, thank you.” He picked up the phone and watched the green light illuminate. “Mr. President?”

“Good morning, Mr. Director. This is a conference call. Admiral Bolin is on the line as well.”

“Yes, sir. Morning, Admiral.”

Wes Bolin’s voice boomed in Vince’s ear. “Good morning from J-Bad, Mr. Director.”

Vince shuffled the papers on his desk, found the sheet he needed, and ran his index finger down until he found the item he wanted. “Just taking off for Tuscaloosa, I see, Mr. President?”

“Just about to. Then we head on to the Endeavour launch—the girls are really looking forward to that. I hate to disappoint them, but I think it’ll be scrubbed. Weather’s being uncooperative over there.”

“Well, I hope things turn out otherwise, sir. Those shuttle launches are truly impressive.” The president’s mood certainly has improved, Vince thought.

There was a four- or five-second gap when no one spoke.

Then the president said, “I’m calling to officially inform you and Admiral Bolin that Operation Neptune Spear is a go. I’ve signed the Finding.”

Vince got “Thank you, Mr. President” out a millisecond before Bolin. It must have sounded like an echo chamber on the president’s end.

Bolin’s voice was strong. “We’ll do you proud, Mr. President. We will prevail.”

“I know you will, Admiral.” There was a pause on the line. “God bless you, Admiral. You and all of your people. And God bless America.”

“Thank you, sir. And God bless you, too.”

The line went dead.

Vince sat, transfixed.

They’d gotten a go. The president had done the right thing.

Vince’s mind was churning. Why now? Had the polls come in? Had they changed his mind? Had—

“Hot damn.” Vince slammed the desk with his palm.

Because it didn’t fricking matter. However POTUS had come to the decision didn’t matter. He’d signed the Finding. The president hadn’t said it on the phone, but the full designation of what he’d put his signature on was Lethal Finding. A Lethal Finding is a document that gives the CIA authority to launch an operation in which they cause fatalities. In this case, the Finding gave CIA permission to use military assets to fly into Pakistan and kill Usama Bin Laden.

How POTUS got to that point was completely unimportant. What mattered was that they were finally in business. And as for the poll, well, it was supposition on Vince’s part that the president had one taken: secondhand intelligence. RUMINT. Certainly, Vince wasn’t going to talk to anyone about it.

Besides, poll or no poll, it didn’t fricking matter anymore.

What mattered was that POTUS had signed off on Neptune Spear.

Keep your eyes on the prize. That’s what he’d said to Stu Kapos back in February. This had always been about KBL. Nothing else.

He hit the intercom. “Get Kapos and Hallett up here, please. And get me Admiral Bolin on a secure line. Pronto.”

JSOC Joint Operations Center, Jalalabad, Afghanistan
April 29, 2011, 1759 Hours Local Time

“Yeah, Vince, we’re in business. But not for twenty-four hours. I’ve got a weather hold here. Huge weather front. Thunderstorms running all night right across our route in Pakistan. Can’t risk the electronics.” Wes Bolin held the receiver to his ear with one hand while he flipped through papers with the other. “But the good news is that the weather’s bad enough so that Crankshaft probably ain’t going anywhere tonight, either.”

He listened to the CIA director’s hearty laugh. “Couple of things. First, your man Fedorko will go out as part of the package. He’ll ride with Tom Maurer in the enabler aircraft. Second, what’s the true name of your undercover? McGill thinks he may know him—worked with him at the Regiment.” Bolin scribbled a note. “Becker. Thanks. I’ll pass it along.”

He paused. “Vince, what was the hang-up? Why did he make us wait?”

The admiral frowned. “C’mon, whatta ya mean you don’t know. You run a fricking intelligence agency. You’re supposed to know everything.”

The CIA director’s answer made Bolin roar with laughter. “No, you’re not J. Edgar Hoover, Vince. At least I’ve never seen you in a dress.” He grew serious. “Please make sure your guy’s there to rendezvous. Zero-one-hundred hours, plus or minus thirty seconds. Make sure he’s holding a firefly. That way he won’t get shot.

“Yeah. Me, too. We’ll talk later—set up the comms network so the White House will get the Sentinel video. Joe Franklin, my deputy, will handle it. Okay, bye.” Bolin dropped the receiver back onto its cradle. There was nothing to do now but wait.

He pressed the intercom. “Get General McGill, Captain Maurer, and Commander Loeser up here, please.” He’d schedule PT—a lot of it—over the next few hours. Bolin knew that idle minds were the devil’s workshop, especially the devious, cunning, resourceful minds of DEVGRU SEALs, hormonal Rangers, and TF 160 aircrews. Exercise would keep them all occupied, their bodies challenged and their minds in neutral. He would need them to be sharp tomorrow. Might as well work ’em hard and put ’em away wet. That would guarantee they’d get a good night’s sleep.

Abbottabad, Pakistan
April 29, 2011, 2352 Hours Local Time

Charlie Becker scrunched away from the water that was dripping onto his bedding and read for the third time the text he had received two hours ago. Valhalla Base had been closed down for good at 2100 Hours. Their final text to him: Meet for morning prayers at nine in four days at the Big Mosque. Bring one of the little brothers.

The codes were simple. Subtract one day and eight hours from text messages; subtract three days and add an hour and a half to all burst transmissions. That meant 0100 Hours on May 2. The big mosque? That was the Khan compound.

And the little brothers? Had to be the leftover fireflies. Charlie knew what they wanted—they wanted him to be able to identify himself.

They were coming. And about time, too.

By Monday, Shahid would be no more. Gone. Vanished.

And about fricking time. After six months and countless cups of tea and scores of
zam-zams,
Charlie allowed himself to think of an ice-cold beer and a good cigar and the thought made him smile.

Tomorrow was going to be as tough a day as he’d ever had. Not displaying anything—not anticipation, nor joy, nor relief, nor impatience for that first fricking beer—as he made his normal rounds. But he’d do it. He’d give the performance of a lifetime.

43

JSOC Joint Operations Center, Jalalabad, Pakistan
May 1, 2011, 1500 Hours Local Time

“Execute CONOP Hotel 53.” That was the official language that set everything in motion. It was generic-sounding language, too, no different from the dozens of CONOP, or contingency operation plans, released every day.

That way, no one would know what it stood for.

Indeed, at the same time CONOP Hotel 53 was released, other elements from JSOC Tier One units—SEALs, Delta, and Rangers—were receiving their CONOPs.

Hotel 53 was not the only high-value target CONOP executed the night of May 1. It may have been the most important, but fewer than a dozen people knew its significance. To most in the JOC, it was just another of the eleven other high-value target capture/kill operations Admiral Wesley Bolin and General Eric McGill had scheduled that night. They were, after all, simply following Sun Tzu’s dictum that all warfare is deception.

At 1535 Hours, DEVGRU CO Tom Maurer picked up the mission brief from the JOC and went over it in detail with Red Squadron’s CO, Dave Loeser, Ranger element commander Lieutenant Colonel David Brancato, and Task Force 160 lead pilot Chief Warrant Officer Tom Letter.

The only unusual detail about Hotel 53 that Letter and Brancato noticed was that Maurer said he’d do the BUB himself. Two nights ago, the Battle Update Brief had been Dave Loeser’s chore.

1700 Hours

Troy Roberts’s iPhone foghorned him awake. He rolled over, got his bearings, and stretched.

One-Alpha’s master chief Danny Walker didn’t waste any time. He switched the overhead lights on, then drill-sergeanted, “All right, ladies, drop your cocks and grab your socks.” He received a barrage of pillows and “Screw you’s” in response.

Troy could hear the others next door. It was a bigger space. The remainder of 1-Alpha as well as Heron Orth and Cajun Mistretta were bunked down there. He peered over at Walker. “This gonna be more hurry up and wait?”

Walker shrugged. “Can’t say.”

“Hope not.” Troy moved side to side, then bent over, placed his palms flat on the deck, held the position for fifteen seconds, then released. “Oh, that felt good.” He watched as the master chief did the same. “Not bad for an old guy.”

“Old enough to kick your ass, baby-face.”

“You and all of AARP?”

“Yeah—assault with a deadly Walker, and that would be me.”

“Very funny.”

The master chief cracked a grin. “I think so.”

Padre shrugged into his ACU trousers and, yawning, shuffled off toward the head. Like the others, his biological clock was still on U.S. time.

It had been a long few days. Late on the twenty-sixth, the entire package, including three of the 160th’s MH-60J stealth Black Hawks, had loaded onto a quartet of Globemaster-IIIs at Fort Campbell for the long, long ride to Jalalabad. They’d arrived, inventoried gear, checked weapons, and begun premission preparation only to be stood down twice, last night because of weather.

Padre was anxious to get to work, finish the job, and go on to the next one. Like most of his shipmates, he’d completed more than fifty capture/kill missions in the past nine months—and that included the two-month shutdown after Norgrove. And he hadn’t worked as hard as some people he knew. Towel in hand, he headed down the hall, yawning as he went. Maybe a shower would wake him up.

1816 Hours

They could have been eating an early breakfast or a late dinner at an IHOP or Denny’s. It didn’t matter—the mess hall had it all. Bacon, eggs, toast, coffee, steak, hamburgers, chicken nuggets, and French fries. Yogurt in individual containers, hot and cold cereal, orange and apple juice, and fresh milk and butter flown in from Germany.

As usual, Cajun had double-stacked his tray. So had Heron, Padre, and Troy. It was a tradition: bulk up because you never knew when you’d eat again.

“On the usual diet, I see.” Rangemaster’s tray held a single bacon and egg sandwich and a cup of black coffee.

Cajun gave the lanky SEAL a hurt look. “You need some meat on them bones, sailor.” He pointed to his own overloaded tray. “The condemned man ate a hearty meal.”

“And you’ve been condemned to?”

“Eat with you, man. You eats like a bird. Ain’t good.” Cajun scrunched his chair to make room for his shipmate. He nodded toward a table by the far wall where Tom Maurer sat with Dave Loeser and a huge Soldier with a single star on his ACU blouse tab. “Wonder what they’re up to.”