6

Typhoon 57
Over the Eastern Mediterranean Sea

Colonel Bradley’s aircraft was just passing over Cyprus when he got the call he was expecting on the secure telephone. Dr. Thomas B. Washington, Deputy Director of Operations (DDO), United States Central Intelligence Agency, spoke into the STU-IV. Bradley listened to his boss, holding the receiver away from his ear as the DDO cursed through the satellite phone.

As DDO, Washington specialized in HUMINT, or Human Intelligence. For almost twenty years he had been working with various intelligence contacts overseas—smugglers, spies, traders in human flesh, traitors, officers, and even the occasional king, president, or premier; men who for one reason or another—money, sex, power, hatred, or revenge—had been willing to trade what information they had for what they wanted most. Washington knew these men; he knew who they were and what they had done. The secrets in his head were worth many lives.

And because his professional life was a shadow of covert operations and lies, the elements of which he rarely seemed to be able to control, Washington compensated by demanding perfection from his underlings and staff. And the one thing he couldn’t tolerate was being caught unaware. And the fact that none of Washington’s informants, none of the dark work he had done, none of top-secret sources he had cultivated over the years, had provided him with an early warning of the pending catastrophe, only made the bitter news worse. Washington had sold his soul to satisfy these dark, evil men, and none of them had come forward to warn him in time.

Bradley calmly sipped at a bottle of water and watched the passing night clouds, while Thomas Washington ranted on the phone, knowing it would take another twenty or thirty seconds before his boss would settle down.

Despite the tirade, the men had a good relationship, though both would admit it was often strained. For one thing, their personal backgrounds were as different as their skin color; Washington, a black man from the inner city, Bradley, a white kid from the upper middle class. Dr. Thomas B. Washington, Ph.D., was a self-made intellectual raised in the ghettos of Detroit: slumlords and slum schools—he had seen nothing but crap since the day he was born. Indeed, he was one of the very few children in the United States who actually grew up hungry, sucking on dirty bottles filled with sugar water and playing among discarded beer bottles thrown in the corners of his mother’s drug-infested bedroom. He was barely more than eight when he saw his first murder, by ten he was running acid and heroin, slipping tiny plastic bags under neighborhood doors. But, through it all, there was something inside him, something hot, rich, and angry, something that sensed the great waste that he had become, something that screamed with a fury, “you are better than this!” Sometime during his fourteenth year he made a decision. He was getting out. He would not die this way, twenty years old and destroyed by life. Guts and grit (he had not yet discovered his brains) were all that he had, and all he could hope was that it was enough, but he swore that one way or another he would scratch his way out of this dead, lethal world. When he started high school, Washington moved in with an aunt who, if she didn’t quite live on the good side of the tracks, at least didn’t reside in the human garbage dump either. He worked hard, driven by the hunger inside, and after teaching himself to read, graduated near the top of his high school class, not enough to get a scholarship, but enough to get admitted to NYU. Government grants and odd jobs kept him flush through his years of earning an undergraduate degree. From there, he worked days while going to school at night, earning his doctorate in International Studies. He spent a few years as a consultant to the Department of Defense before being recruited by the CIA, where he found his home, and he had been there ever since.

Bradley, on the other hand, grew up in the upper middle class, his father a well-known and hard-core army general. The old man, one of McNamara’s masterminds, raised his sons tight and straight—tight like his crew cut, straight as the crease in his pants. To this day, if Bradley closed his eyes, he could still hear his old man’s voice. “Army! You hear me! Boys, there is nothing else! Not air force, not navy! They’re nothing but spit in the wind! You walk the gray line and you sweat army green!”

No, Washington and Bradley couldn’t have come from more opposite worlds; but the result was the same: they were both determined men. But ambition and clandestine operations were a volatile mix. And through the years that they had worked together (years during which Bradley resented being called away from the cockpit and the flying he loved), they had butted heads more than once. But still there was enough respect that they enjoyed working together; and truth was, each considered the other a good friend.

 

After cursing and ranting about the situation in general, venting an anger that was born of frustration and gut-wrenching fear, all the time knowing it was ultimately his fault, Dr. Washington settled down and finally got to the point. “The risk is too great to not take action,” he said. “The NSA staff is on board. We’re calling POTUS now.”

“Where is he?” Bradley asked.

“Up in New York. About to have dinner with the delegation from Oman.”

Bradley thought a moment, then questioned hesitatingly. “Are you certain we have enough evidence to request a DARKHORSE operation?”

Washington only scoffed. “You’re kidding me, right!?”

“No sir, I’m not. I think we need to ask the question before we jump off this cliff. Do we understand the situation enough to—”

“No, Shane, we don’t understand! We don’t understand anything, which is the entire point. We don’t understand the situation, which is exactly why we must act.”

Bradley waited, sucking on his cheek as he thought. “And you believe POTUS will authorize an operation?” he asked into the phone.

Washington didn’t waver. “Yes.”

 

After completing the conversation with Washington, Bradley made his own call to Col. Dick “Tracy” Kier, his vice wing commander, back at Whiteman Air Force Base.

It took several minutes for the call to patch through. “Colonel Kier,” his friend finally said as he picked up the phone.

“Tracy, it’s Shane,” Bradley announced hurriedly.

“You okay?” Kier asked, a worried tone in his voice. If Shane was in trouble, then, baby, he was there. He was as protective of Bradley as any subordinate could be.

Bradley almost smiled. Loyalty and dedication were only two of the reasons he had selected Colonel Kier to be his second in command. “I’m fine,” he answered quickly, “but we’ve got a problem here.”

There was a short pause. “What’s up, boss?”

“Stay close to your intel office. You should be hearing soon.”

Kier grunted, an apprehensive reply. He was one of the few men in the air force who was aware of Bradley’s responsibilities in the CIA, and he knew Bradley only worried when things were an inch from the fan.

Kier paused a moment. “Anything you can tell me?” he asked.

“Not yet. But stay close. And Tracy, I think I’m coming home.”

“Good. When will you be here? I’m tired of doing your job.”

“A day, maybe two. But meanwhile, I need you to do something, okay?”

“Anything you say, boss. You know I’m your guy.”

“Take a look at the regulations governing Group 21. I think we might get a mission, and I want everyone prepared.”

Bradley heard Kier swallow, a dry gulping sound. “No kidding,” he answered.

“Wish I was,” Bradley replied.

The Waldorf-Astoria Towers
New York City

The presidential protocol officer stood in the spacious dining room at the top of the Waldorf Towers, the U.S. ambassador to the United Nation’s official residence for the last thirty years. He studied the table. The china was elegant: white plates ringed with blue and overlaid with an image of the presidential seal, the eagle facing the olive branch in a gesture of peace. The table centerpiece was made from pink roses and white baby’s breath. The napkin’s tight cotton weave was also edged in blue. The military waiters, young naval enlisted men, stood off to the side in their military tuxedos, pressed uniforms so crisp they nearly crackled when they moved. Four marine color guards walked through a side door and were sent toward the entrance. A dozen secret service men came and went, all of them intent and serious, listening to the wires in their ears. The official White House photographer slipped into the room and was quickly accosted by two security agents. Though they recognized him, having worked together for almost three years, they still asked the photographer to unzip his bag and leave it on the floor so a short-haired German shepherd could sniff it for bombs. “Let me see you operate that,” a dark-eyed agent said to the photographer as he motioned to his cell phone. As the protocol officer watched, a steward began placing the name cards in their positions—the calligraphy radiating the power of the men who would soon arrive. The president would sit at the head of the table, with His Excellency, the President of Oman on his right and the secretary of state on his left. From there, the guests would be seated in pecking order; Gen. Shif’ Amonnon, Oman’s secretary of state, Omar Mushar, then the United States secretary of state and the U.S. ambassador.

The protocol officer studied the menu, which was embossed with the presidential seal:

 

Mixed Green Salad         Goat Cheese and Herb Vinaigrette

Fillet of Lamb with Rosemary Au Jus      White Sauce with Split Beans

Georgia Sweet Potato Tartlet

 

He knew the president had requested steak. Rare. With A-1 sauce, mashed potatoes, and maybe a beer. But he got white sauce with split beans and fillet of halal lamb, which meant it had been blessed, making it clean and pure. The officer suspected the president would have lifted his arms to the heavens and blessed the young lamb himself, if it would have helped to keep the Omanians happy. The world had grown complicated, and friends were in short supply.

 

Outside, a line of black sedans pulled onto Park Avenue. The ambassador’s wife scurried in, harried and tense. “Larger water glasses,” she demanded after surveying the table. “Less ice. Crushed, not cubes. And the napkins need to be folded like this!” she instructed the headwaiter while folding a crease across the nearest blue napkin. The headwaiter nodded, but didn’t make a move. This wasn’t her lunch, it was a White House affair, and he knew how to fold napkins, thank you very much. The ambassador’s wife waited, then huffed and scurried from the room. Minutes later, the president’s voice could be heard from the foyer and a charge of electricity filled the air. “Gentlemen, this way,” the president said as he led the delegation into the room. Passing the marines, he stopped to inspect the honor guard. “How old are you son?” he asked the first soldier.

“Twenty-three, sir,” the marine barked in reply.

The president studied him a moment more. “You look sharp. Real sharp. Tell your mom she did a real good job. And tell all your buddies that I’m counting on them. Tell them I think of them every day.”

The marine broke role and smiled, then forced a stern look once again. “Yes sir, Mr. President. I will tell them, sir!

The president slapped the marine on his back, then swaggered into the dining room. It seemed to ignite with energy. The Man had arrived!

The president paced around the table, inspecting the name cards, then motioned to the delegation, directing them to their chairs. The gentlemen were just sitting down when a short-haired army colonel slipped in from the hallway to approach the president’s chair. “Sir, if I could?” he whispered in his ear.

The president looked up. “What’s going on, Frank?”

The officer swallowed. “Sir, Mayer Smith is on the phone.”

The president froze, recognizing the code instantly. He forced a quick smile and excused himself from the table. “One of my mayors,” he explained to the Omanian president. “They probably lost their power again.”

The president followed the army officer out of the room and the two men stopped and stood in the hall. “General Massarif is dead,” the colonel explained in a low voice. “His aircraft went down a little more than an hour ago.” The president swore and furrowed his brow. “There’s more, Mr. President,” the colonel went on. It took him several minutes to explain everything. “Sir, the national security staff recommends that we send in an interdiction force,” was the last thing he said.

“Do it!” the president commanded. “Get the team in the air.”

Camp Thor
Extreme Western India

Peter had barely climbed down the tiny built-in steps of the fighter and pulled his helmet off when a U.S. Special Forces sergeant ran up to him.

“Peter Zembeic?” he screamed, holding a finger in both ears. The F-15 engines screeched behind them, just fifteen feet away. Peter nodded while reaching down to unzip the g-suit from his waist.

“Come with me. We’re ready to go,” the sergeant said.

Peter heard the sound of helicopters, their rotors already beating the air. He glanced to his left to see six choppers running, their exterior lights off, the smell of burning jet fuel hanging heavy in the dry desert night. “You been waiting for me?” he asked.

The sergeant shook his head as he turned. “You aren’t that important, sir.”

Peter nodded, then followed the special forces soldier, leaving his F-15 flying gear on the tarmac. Behind him an American crew moved toward the waiting Israeli F-15. Its right engine was still running, and the ground crew worked quickly to refuel the jet and get it back in the air.

The burly sergeant ran toward the lead chopper where he nodded to an empty canvas seat in the rear of the MH-60, helped Peter strap in, then dropped a modified Uzi in his lap. “You know how to use this?” he yelled above the noise of the chopper.

Peter cleared the chamber, flipped the safe, and nodded his head. The sergeant pushed a headset toward Peter and he pulled it over his ears.

“I have a message from Colonel Bradley,” the young soldier said over the intercom system. “I’m supposed to remind you that you’re an observer, not an infantryman. You are stay low, keep your head on, and not jump into the fight. So keep aside, Mr. Zembeic, or you’ll get in our way.”

Peter nodded, leaned his head back and immediately closed his eyes. It was a long flight to Sukru, and he was tired to the bone.

 

Leaving their base camp in far western India, a camp that didn’t exist just a few months before, the U.S. military choppers lifted off a little after midnight. Flying through the night, and refueling twice in the air, the choppers made their way west, across the enormous Thar Desert. Approaching Pakistan’s Indus River plain, the formation turned sharply south. The combat troops, deployed in five twelve-men teams, were being carried by a combination of MH-53 and MH-60 special operations helicopters. With their long-range fuel tanks, terrain-following avionics, active defensive systems, and fifty-caliber machine guns, the choppers were capable of taking care of themselves. But the hope was the operation would take place without a shot being fired, at least until the soldiers had been placed on the ground.

The contingency operation had been in the making for almost three years, and the teams were as confident as they could be. The pilots had flown the route in the simulator and in the real world, flown it in daylight and darkness and with various combat loads. The delta teams had been through the most rigorous training they had ever experienced, with time spent in the California deserts, the plains of India’s Jaipur Province, and southeast Pakistan. In preparation for the mission (which was under the direction of the CIA) and with the full support of the Pakistani government, a replica of the Pakistani weapon storage compound had been erected in a remote corner of Fort Erwin, California. With information provided by the Pakistani generals and the architects who had designed the facility, the replica of the Pakistani compound was identical in every detail. For six months, the delta soldiers used the replica to practice their mission. After months of training, they were confident and ready to go.

Then they deployed and waited for the orders they hoped would never come.

In planning the mission, it was always understood that it was time, not the Pakistanis, that was the worst enemy, so when they finally got the execution call, it took fewer than three hours to gather the crews and get the choppers in the air.

Sukkur Military Facility
Sind Province (Eastern Pakistan)

It was almost dawn when the formation approached the Pakistani weapon storage facility. The sky was turning pink over the muddy brown Indus, as the morning twilight illuminated the sandy buttes that surrounded the compound. The six choppers, four HH-60s and two enormous MH-53s, turned to approach the compound directly from the east. If they couldn’t come under the cloak of darkness, something they would clearly have preferred to do, they would at least take advantage of the rising sun in order to cloak their approach. The chopper pilots flew low, only a few feet off the ground. Skimming the desert, a brown rolling sea, they kicked up plumes of fine dust as they passed overhead.

The concrete and barbwire compound came into view in the dim morning light. Beyond it, in the distance, seven miles to the east, the gritty town of Sukkur cluttered the horizon, a series of black smokestacks and tin-roofed buildings situated along the brown Indus River. The weapons facility was situated behind a twelve-foot-high concrete wall. Atop the wall, a four-foot razor wire fence extended outward at a forty-five degree angle. Guard towers were positioned at the four corners of the compound, looking out on a mine field that extended in every direction. A single road approached the compound, weaving through a series of cement barricades. Inside the main wall was a double line of electrified fence, with motion detectors, laser sensors, and a series of fortified bunkers to provide the guards a firing position in every direction.

It was a fortress. A sparrow couldn’t land in the compound without being detected, electrocuted, detonated, or shot.

The flight commander, the lead pilot, studied the storage facility as the choppers approached. At first look the compound appeared to be deserted; there was no movement, no indication of activity at all. The only sign of life was a thin spout of steam that escaped from the electric-generator building. Drawing closer, the pilot could see the compound was indeed empty. Then he saw the dead soldiers. He studied the scene, then swallowed hard. “Sir, it ain’t good,” he said over the intercom system.

Four feet behind him was the mission commander, a special forces colonel with a thick neck and brown hair. The colonel swore softly, slamming his fist against his knee. Peter Zembeic sat behind the colonel. He too shook his head. The army special forces colonel glanced at the CIA man, then turned away.

“Continue,” he instructed, looking forward again,

The lead pilot pressed his radio switch. “Animals, take the towers,” he commanded. Almost instantly the four MH-60s fired Hellfire missiles at the guard towers that watched over the compound, the missiles impacting their targets in a burst of white heat, sending dust, smoke, and debris scattering through the air. Nothing moved in the compound, as broken pieces of brick and wood scattered across the dusty ground. The smoke blew away in the morning wind and the four guard towers were gone. The lead pilot braced, expecting to begin receiving return fire, hoping and praying his expectations would be fulfilled. But nothing happened, and the sickness rose a notch in his gut.

“Thirty seconds!” the copilot announced to the formation over the secure radio. Already he was slowing, pulling his chopper’s nose into the air. Behind him the five other choppers began to slow, too. They were spread in a V formation, with the heavier MH-53s off on each side. The young army colonel, the mission commander, moved forward to look out the cockpit window. He glanced at the burning guard towers, then scanned the compound below. But for the dead bodies, it was empty. He cursed once again, but this time to himself.

Turning, the colonel pushed his helmet microphone to his lips and gave his final instructions to his men, all of whom, like he, were dressed in black uniforms. “Be careful, guys,” he said, “it might not be the way it looks. There could be hostiles or friendlies, or a mixture of both. Either way, we don’t care. Get in, get the target, and let’s get out of town.”

The choppers lined up to set down together inside the perimeter fence. Beside the open cabin doors, gunners stood ready to fire the .50-caliber weapons mounted on the combat helicopter’s floors. Dust began to blow as the choppers slowed down.

The pilot studied the LZ, looking for a place to land that wouldn’t crush a dead body. Still no enemy fire. “Gun One, anything?” he asked over his intercom.

“Negative, sir.”

The pilot knew it was over, there was no doubt in his mind. Though it had only been a few hours, they were already too late.

The lead MH-60 set down amid a whirlwind of brown dust. The Delta team was out the door even before the chopper put all of its weight on its wheels. Peter remained in the chopper a few seconds, then followed the lead team. Behind, the other choppers set down in unison. In seconds, sixty soldiers were inside the perimeter wall, the teams spreading out, moving rapidly.

Two teams moved south, toward the headquarters compound, two others took up positions on opposite sides of the outer walls, covering the field of fire for the other teams. Blue One, the commander, the colonel in his black uniform, moved with his men toward the main underground bunker. Four black Honda ATVs screamed out of the back of the MH-53s, each of them pulling a small green trailer with reinforced steel walls and fat, airless tires. The four-wheeled machines were driven toward a barricade along the north wall. As the soldiers scattered through the compound, the combat helicopters lifted into the sky once again to set up a defensive ring and provide air cover. As the choppers lifted, the sky turned brown with dust, which settled very quickly as the sound of the choppers faded away.

Then it was eerily still. No movement. No soldiers. No sound anywhere.

The commander passed a fallen soldier and reached down to put his hand at the dead man’s neck. The skin was soft, but not cold, the flesh still tender to his touch. It had not been long. He checked his wrist dosimeter, which was still in the green. No indication of radioactive contamination in the air.

“Snooper?” he asked into his neck microphone.

“Initial readings negative,” came the reply. “No chemical or biological HAZMAT detected.”

The net radio broke over the commander’s earpiece. It was the lead chopper, orbiting now to the south. “Blue One, we’ve got a little problem,” he said tensely.

“What’s up, pilot?” Blue One replied.

“We’ve got hostiles approaching! A convoy of military vehicles coming in from the west.”

“Makeup?” the colonel demanded.

“APCs in the lead. Tanks. T-72s. Four—check that, six covered vehicles. Maybe more. I lose the tail end of the convoy in the dust.”

“ETA?”

“Not long, sir. Five, maybe seven minutes.”

The colonel turned toward the river, then looked at his watch and started a mental countdown. “Okay, people, let’s move!”

Waldorf-Astoria Towers
New York City

The president sat alone in the ambassador’s office. He made no pretense of work as he leaned back in his soft leather chair, staring at the sculptured ceiling over his head. He was surrounded by gold—deep golden drapes, light gold wallpaper, and gold-and-white carpet at his feet—and the office seemed to radiate from the city lights that shone through the bay windows looking out on Manhattan.

He glanced at his watch and shifted nervously. If the team was on schedule, they would have reached Sukkur by now. They would be searching through the compound. They would know very soon.

The president’s gut tightened as he stared at the secure telephone on his desk. The SECDEF had sworn he would call him the second he heard anything. So the president waited, sitting at his desk while he listened to the small mantel clock tick away, counting the seconds, then the minutes that the team was in Sukkur.

CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia

Thomas Washington paced back and forth in the operations center, surrounded by communications specialist and satellite technicians, then turned to the large screen before him, near the front of the room.

“Anything?” he asked.

“Still nothing, sir,” the technician replied.

“Check the system,” Washington demanded. “We should have heard something by now.”

The technician shook his head. “The communications system is fine, Dr. Washington. It does a self-check every ten seconds. There is nothing wrong. They’ve only been inside the compound for six minutes. Give them a little time, sir.”

Washington stared at the technician and frowned. His instincts were screaming. He slowly shook his head.

Typhoon 57
Over the Atlantic Ocean

Colonel Shane Bradley sat near the back of the C-21. It was a small aircraft with only one seat on each side of the narrow isle, but, because it was VIP-configured, the seats were wider than most. The aircraft flew northeast and, crossing the English Channel, a young airman in a tight air-force-blue skirt brought Bradley a sandwich and Diet Coke.

“Can I get you anything else, sir?” she asked him.

“No, thanks, Airman Ripley.”

Reading his body language, she left the colonel alone. It was painfully clear he did not want to chat.

Bradley took a bite of the sandwich then turned and stared out the small oval window at his right side. The C-21 was flying higher than most airliners could climb, and Bradley could tell from the high whine of the engines that the pilots were pushing the aircraft. He knew they had their instructions. Get him to D.C. as quick as they could.

He watched the cold channel pass beneath him, the surf along the beach shining in the moonlight, then the southern coastline of England curving gently to the north, the lights of the small towns along the coast twinkling in the clean air. Approaching the Northern Atlantic, the weather clouded over to form a smooth carpet that stretched in the moonlight as far as he could see. Bradley reached up and pulled his window shade down.

Beeping the airman, she came back to his seat. “Get me a satellite feed and a monitor,” he said. “I’d like to watch the news.”

“Yes, sir, of course,” she said as she turned.

The airman returned with a portable flat screen LCD and plugged it into the communications outlet beside Bradley’s seat. “BBC is channel 341,” she said. “FOX is 213, CNN 243.”

“Thanks,” Bradley offered as he slipped the headset on.

CNN was running a commercial and he never trusted the BBC, so he settled on FOX, which was broadcasting live from Islamabad.

“It appears to be chaos,” a blonde reporter was saying as Bradley tuned in. “The Pakistani constitution makes it clear that Prime Minister Natelez is the next in line of succession, but our sources are telling us that General Ali Khan Sanghar, commanding general of the armed forces, is claiming this is a national crisis and that he is in power. He has declared martial law and dispersed military units around Islamabad. And though all of the radio and television stations have been taken off the air, we have reports—and these are still unconfirmed—that the army is taking advantage of this opportunity. Soldiers are moving through the Shiva neighborhoods on the south and eastern outskirts of Islamabad and taking into custody suspected members of the Popular People’s Rebellion, the leading antigovernment party.

“From where I am here, on the roof of the Ambassador Hotel in central Islamabad…” the camera broke away from the reporter and panned to the side, showing a wide darkness with only occasional pinpricks of light, “…you can see that electrical power has been cut to the entire city. The roads are dark, though masses are gathering in the streets and there is more than occasional gunfire below. We have been advised to stay in our rooms, and security forces have cordoned off our hotel. Though the Ambassador has private security, we are not at all confident that things may not turn ugly for us. As you can see”—the camera panned at an awkward angle to show the streets below—“crowds are gathering below us and on almost every street corner. The Ambassador, unfortunately, is well-known to house Western guests, and gunshots have already been fired through the lobby windows.”

The reporter fell silent and a slight pause followed because of the satellite delay. The anchor in New York, his face taking up half of the split screen, looked grim. “We’ve heard most of the Pakistani cabinet and many of the military leaders have been assassinated,” he said. “Are you hearing anything—has anyone claimed responsibility for the attacks against the Pakistani president and his cabinet?”

The reporter stared into the camera while she waited through the pause, then nodded. “Yes, we’ve heard the same rumors about the cabinet, but right now I can’t confirm anything. All I can tell you is that there were almost simultaneous explosions at both the Interior and Defense ministry buildings, as well as central police headquarters.”

“What about outside of the capital?”

“Outside of Islamabad we have no idea what’s going on, though there are reports of military units on the road leading down to Faisalabad and Karachi. And remember Peter, there are many parts of Pakistan that have hardly developed past the fifteenth century. The south is fairly stable, but the northern and western provinces are run almost entirely by local tribal chiefs and warlords. Remnants of the Taliban control several strongholds in the mountains, and the local tribes in the west have always been some of their greatest supporters. I would guess that, even now—”

The New York anchor cut in, “Jane, Jane, let me interrupt you. We’ve just been informed…” He hesitated, then continued, “Jane, we’re being told that the Indian government has just placed their military forces on the highest alert. The BBC is reporting there have been military incursions across the borders in the mountains around Kashmir. Of course we know that both Pakistan and India, sworn enemies for many generations, have an unknown number of nuclear weapons, but in light of what appears to be a quickly deteriorating situation, do you know if—”

Bradley reached over and snapped the monitor off.

No, they didn’t know! No one had any idea. It was a sickening mess! No one knew what was going on!

Sukkur Military Facility
Sind Province (Eastern Pakistan)

The main bunker sat near the center of the compound, behind the electrified fence and small guard tower. It was a semiburied cement structure, forty feet wide and one hundred feet long. The walls were six feet of reinforced concrete, the roof multiple layers of concrete and steel plate. There was only one entrance, a narrow circular stairway that led to a steel door, fifteen feet below ground level. A small elevator shaft had been built beside the stairs, but it could only be controlled from inside the facility. There were no visible airshafts or vents. The structure was completely sealed.

The main contingent of special forces moved to the central bunker, taking up protective positions behind the firing walls. A single team moved toward a small outbuilding, the power generation plant. An explosion was heard, then the smell of black smoke filled the air. Four soldiers entered the building, moving quietly and quickly, knowing exactly where to go. The information from the architects proved to be exact. The power relay was shorted and the electrified fence lost its power. The soldiers hunkered near the firing bunkers and listened carefully, waiting for the hum of electricity to dissipate as the power went down. Moving quickly, a soldier tested the fence with an insolated wire, then quickly cut the wires, letting them fall on the ground. The main team of twelve men moved through the downed fence toward the central bunker, crouched at the waist, providing each other with cover, then spread out in a line on both sides of the stairs.

“Four minutes, team!” the helicopter pilot counted down.

Peter ran, crouching, across the brown dust and dropped down beside the colonel. The colonel waited until his men were in position, then lifted his finger and held out his hand. A captain moved forward with a satchel charge, pulled the pin, and dropped it down the winding stairway. The explosion was enormous. Dust and acid smoke filled the air.

The combat soldiers listened, not moving. There was no sound from the stairs, no movement, no sign of resistance at all.

Peter nearly screamed with frustration, his eyes squinting in anger. All the planning and sacrifice. The stakes were enormous, and he was sure they had failed.

But they had to be certain. So, someone had to go down.

He turned his eyes to the eastern sky. “Bird, say ETA of hostiles?” he demanded.

“Three minutes,” came the reply.

Peter could see the column of dust rising above the dry plain from the riverside. The enemy convoy was so near, he could feel the ground rumble. The colonel followed his eyes, and Peter saw the look of defeat in his eye. “Colonel, if we’re going to send someone down there, we better do it now,” he said.

The young colonel nodded brusquely. “You going down with them?” he asked.

“If that’s alright with you.”

The colonel nodded, then turned to his executive officer, his second in command. The exec, a lieutenant colonel, wiped his hands across his face, which was camouflaged gray. “Booby traps?” the colonel asked.

The exec shook his head. “Doubt it, sir. They didn’t have enough time. I’d say chances are three or less on a scale of ten.”

The colonel nodded, then eyed his XO. “Send Talbott’s men in,” he commanded. “Tell them they have ninety seconds and not one second more.” The commander motioned to his exec, who began crawling toward the six-man team to his right, then nodded to Peter, who followed the exec, crawling on his elbows and knees.

The commander hit his radio mike. “Birds, be ready to get us out of here!”

“Ready there, boss,” the lead chopper pilot replied.

The XO and his soldiers moved toward the top of the stairs, pressing themselves against the side of the half-buried bunker. They waited, then moved forward and down the smoky stairwell, disappearing quickly into the gloom and smoke, Peter moving comfortably in their midst. As the men disappeared down the dark stairwell, the commander listened on the tiny earpiece in his ear. It was less than a minute before he heard Peter’s voice. “Strike a couple dozen warheads. There’s nothing here, sir.”

The commander sat back against the mud and brick wall.

“Hostiles, one minute!” the chopper pilot said over the net radio. “Choppers moving in.”

A long and swollen pause followed. “What do we do?” Peter demanded over the radio.

“You got pictures and readings?” the colonel replied.

“Best as we can.”

“Then let’s get out of here!” The colonel heard two clicks in reply. He wiped the dust from his face as Peter and the soldiers emerged at the top of the stairs. “Let’s go! Let’s go!” he cried to his men.

The helicopters were already setting down in the compound, blowing dust out before them, filling the sky with brown sand. As the last chopper set down, a T-72 tank crashed through the main wall, sending more smoke and choking dust in the air. The U.S. soldiers ran for the choppers and in seconds were on board. Peter scrambled onto the lead chopper, the last man inside. He was barely on board, holding onto a seat brace, when the helicopter lurched violently into the air, just clearing the compound’s outer wall. Peter pulled himself into his seat, the cabin door open, the dusty wind in his face, as the chopper dipped and rolled onto her side. He stared down at the desert while reaching for his lap belt to strap himself in, then glanced back to the compound, which he could now barely see.

The military vehicles had moved through the breach in the wall. Armored personnel carriers were disgorging their Pakistani combat teams.

But if they had come for the warheads, they were also too late. Peter watched them, then cursed and sat back in his seat.

The chopper pilot set a course, moving back over the desert.

It was a long and quiet flight all the way back to Camp Thor.