16

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Like the others in the Situation Room, Philip Kilpatrick had changed his computer to what he euphemistically called the “death screen.” It was a real-time aerial view of the prison compound with superimposed data that not only showed the location of each member of the extraction team but also their respiratory rate and heart rate. Each SEAL wore a monitor strap around his chest, relaying via satellite vital signs that were displayed on the screen in front of Kilpatrick. He had found it fascinating as the men went through segments of their mission to see the ones who remained the most calm. But now, he and the others watched in mounting horror as digital readouts all over the map began changing to zeroes.

In the last few minutes, the radio traffic had gone from calm reports of the enemy being engaged to more urgent calls for backup to total silence from the men on the ground. The members of the National Security Council had fallen silent as well, listening and watching as Admiral Towers took charge, calling in the drones for strikes against the personnel carriers that were delivering more Houthis to the scene, preparing the Black Hawk helicopters for their insertion, talking to the QRF.

The overhead infrared views on the big screen showed the prison yard full of Houthis scampering around, and there was no telling how many troops were inside the building. With an estimated fifteen hundred prisoners in their cells, the drone strikes would have to be carefully calculated.

When the Black Hawks came under fire from surface-to-air missiles, Towers backed them off. The men on the ground were all dead. It was useless to land the extraction birds without the backup QRF troops who could secure the prison facility long enough to drag the bodies out.

“Pull back and stand down until QRF arrives,” Towers said, and Kilpatrick could see the fury on his face. Within minutes, a second strike force would descend on the prison yard. Special Forces teams would fast-rope to the ground, engage in a vicious firefight, and retrieve the bodies of their dead friends. There was no doubt in Kilpatrick’s mind that Towers would take out as many Houthi rebels as possible in the process.

Kilpatrick watched the second round of drone strikes do its damage, annihilating transport vehicles and pulverizing Houthi guards running across the prison yard. But after the smoke had cleared, dozens more were running to the roofs of the houses surrounding the prison facility and scrambling for cover inside the prison walls. There were hundreds of enemy troops, with more converging on the prison every minute.

“Insert at contingency coordinates,” Towers said to the commander of the QRF team.

The president looked at General Simpson. “What does that mean?”

Simpson was ashen. His voice was low and gruff, devoid of the bravado that usually characterized the big man’s tone. “The quick-response forces will fast-rope in at various locations about a mile from the prison compound. That way they can avoid the shoulder rockets the Houthis have at the compound.”

“What’s the likelihood they’ll meet resistance trying to get to the compound?” the president asked icily.

“Strong. But they should be able to blow through the resistance and secure the compound. The helicopters can land for extraction once the yard is cleared.”

The president turned her ire on Director Marcano. After all, it was technically his mission, and the faulty CIA intelligence had already cost twenty men their lives. “I thought there weren’t supposed to be any shoulder rockets,” the president said.

Marcano’s blotchy skin turned red, and his eyes narrowed. He wasn’t used to being addressed in such curt tones, even by the president. But he was smart enough to keep his own voice measured. “Our assets on the ground failed us,” Marcano admitted. “We checked them every way we could.”

It was a weak concession, but there were more important matters at hand. Kilpatrick knew the president would deal with the blame fallout later.

For now, she studied the video screen in front of her. “Admiral Towers, can you confirm that there are no survivors from the initial team?”

“That is correct, Madam President.”

“So now we risk another sixty lives to retrieve the bodies?”

Towers gave the president a wary look. “We have never in the history of Special Forces left a team member in hostile territory,” he said. Every muscle on his face was taut. “We’re not about to do so now.”

“I authorized a surgical extraction,” the president said. She looked at Towers on the screen and then directly at Director Marcano. “I didn’t authorize a military invasion, and I have no authority to do so.”

Towers didn’t wait for Marcano to respond. “Events have obviously escalated. We don’t leave our men behind.”

“You don’t make that decision,” the president shot back. “I do.”

For a moment, nobody spoke. The command net radio crackled as the Black Hawk operators changed course. “Five minutes from insertion,” one of the pilots said.

On the screen, Towers stared at the president and spoke into his mic. “Roger that,” he said.

The president slid back her chair and stood. She swiveled from Towers to Marcano. “Call them off.”

“With respect,” Towers started, “we’re not just retrieving the bodies. There is classified technology in the equipment—”

“Paul,” General Simpson said, cutting off Towers. “The president knows that.”

“Darn right I know that,” Amanda Hamilton said, her voice laced with indignation. “And I’ll take the blame for it. But if we lose sixty more men because we don’t have the guts to admit when we failed, I’ll get crucified for that, too.”

“Two minutes to insertion,” a pilot said over the command net.

“There will be no insertion,” the president said to Admiral Towers. “Tell your men to stand down.”

“Do as she says,” Marcano piped in. “And do it now.”

In response, Towers spoke to General Simpson. “General?”

“It’s not my mission. You have your orders.”

Towers waited just long enough to make his point. “Command to Hawk One, Two, Three, and Four,” he said. “Abort insertion. Return to base.”

There was a stunned silence over the command net as the pilots absorbed the order. “Roger that,” one finally said. The others did the same.

Towers took off his headset and leaned forward on his elbows, his presence looming larger than life on the screen at the end of the Situation Room. “With respect, Madam President, I think you’re making a serious mistake,” he said.

“On the contrary, Admiral Towers, I’m just trying to clean up yours.”