84

THE USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN, EAST CHINA SEA

“You don’t have to do this, Ryker.”

Marcus was tying the laces of his maritime assault boots when he looked up to find Sanchez standing in the doorway.

“You’ve already done enough,” said the SEAL Team Six commander. “Why don’t you sit this one out? When we get back, I promise to introduce you to your pal al-Zanjani. Then we’ll celebrate with a cold beer.”

“Forget it, sir,” Marcus replied. “I don’t want a freebie. I’m going to earn that beer.”

“You sure?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Fine —finish gearing up and meet us upstairs in two. The choppers are already spooling up for launch. You’re in the lead bird, the seat right behind mine.”

“Understood, sir.”

Sanchez headed off down the corridor and Marcus went over everything one more time. Helmet, protective goggles, and NVGs —check. Radio gear and water —check. Flak jacket fitted with steel plates front and back —check. Extra magazines and fragmentation grenades —check. Sig Sauer pistol in its holster, MK-3 Navy knife in its sheath —check. Gloves and kneepads —check. And his MP7, locked and loaded —check.

The first Seahawk lifted off the deck just after 11 p.m. local time.

Flying without lights, Sanchez, Marcus, eight more SEALs, and the crew of four —including two machine gunners, one at each door —banked left and headed east-northeast at maximum power. Nine additional Seahawks carrying ten operators each followed close behind.

No one was talking. It would have been impossible to hear one another over the roar of the two 1,900 horsepower GE engines and the whipping winds from the two open side doors. Marcus closed his eyes and prayed for the success of the operation and the safety of his teammates. He wasn’t anxious. He wasn’t scared. His anger over the death of Vinetti had tempered, and a counterintuitive sense of calm came over him.

They’d all been well fed, well equipped, and well briefed. They had spent the last hour studying every nook and cranny of the tanker they were about to seize. They had meticulously reviewed what each man would be responsible for when they landed. They’d memorized pictures of al-Zanjani, read his file, and learned about as much as there was to know about him, from the four-inch scar running down the left side of his face and the nine-inch scar down the back of his right leg, to the fact that he was missing the thumb and forefinger on his left hand, the result of a mishap with a grenade more than a decade ago.

The night sky was spectacular. They’d been told there were thick clouds and heavy winds where they were headed, even a rather serious storm descending from the Yellow Sea between China and the Korean Peninsula. But where they were flying just then there were no clouds to be seen, no lights from any ship, just a million dazzling stars spread like diamonds on a black velvet canvas.

The darker the night, the brighter the stars;

The deeper the grief, the closer is God.

The words of the Russian poem, often attributed to Dostoyevsky, bubbled up from his subconscious. How true they had been in his own life, Marcus thought. After the deaths of Elena and Lars, he had hit rock bottom, yet strangely enough —even with all that had happened in recent weeks —he could feel himself resurfacing, and for this he was grateful. Yes, he thought, that was the word. He wasn’t happy. Not yet. He wasn’t peaceful, not entirely. But he was grateful for his life and the evidence of God’s grace, and for now that was enough.

Bill McDermott took his seat in the Situation Room.

He was not there to brief, just to watch, and he stared as a technician made last-minute adjustments to a control panel. A moment later, the lights had dimmed and they were receiving live video, audio, and data feeds straight from the NMCC.

“Two minutes,” said the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

McDermott tensed. His mouth was bone-dry. His hands were clammy. Self-conscious, he wiped them on his trousers and kept them under the conference table. His eyes scanned the incoming data and video feeds. He found himself riveted on one of the small flat screens on the far wall. It displayed a live radar feed coming from the E-2 Hawkeye tactical airborne early warning aircraft operating in the theater far above the Seahawks. He could see the green blips representing the American choppers fanning out in multiple directions. They were preparing for their final assault. But all McDermott could think about was how Marcus Ryker was on the lead bird.

They’d certainly had their differences. McDermott was still not completely convinced Ryker shouldn’t have been hauled in and tried for treason, not granted a presidential pardon. But at this point it was impossible not to acknowledge, at least to himself, how much the country owed Ryker. The man had been willing to take enormous risks —first to prevent war in Europe, now to prevent war in the Middle East. Yet McDermott had second-guessed him every step of the way.

The price had been steep. Nick Vinetti was dead. His wife, Claire, was now a widow. Pete Hwang had almost been killed and was out of commission, recovering in a field hospital in Okinawa. Ryker was practically alone in the world. His wife was dead. His son was dead. The man himself had almost died time and time again over the past month. Yet he refused to give up, even when McDermott had given up on him.

McDermott was not a particularly religious man, though he had been an altar boy growing up. Yet right there in the Situation Room, he found himself discreetly crossing himself and saying a prayer for his friend and all the men heading into the night.