Locked On

63

Domingo Chavez, Dominic Caruso, and Jack Ryan Jr. stepped out of the AS332 Super Puma helicopter and into a freezing cold predawn. Though none of the three men had a clue just where they were as far as a point on a map, they all knew from conversations over the satellite phone with Major al Darkur that they were being transported to an off-limits military base in Khyber Agency run by the Pakistani Defense Force’s Special Service Group. In fact they were in Cherat, some thirty-five miles from Peshawar, in a compound resting at 4,500 feet.

This commando camp would be the staging ground for the SSG hit into North Waziristan.

The American men were led by stone-faced hardened soldiers to a shack near a parade ground on a flat stretch of dirt surrounded by lush hills. Here they were offered hot tea and shown racks of gear, woodland-camouflage uniforms in brown and black over green, and black combat boots.

The men changed out of their civilian dress. Ryan had not worn a uniform since high school baseball; it felt strange and somewhat disingenuous to dress like a soldier.

The Americans were not given the maroon berets worn by the rest of the SSG men in the compound, but otherwise their dress looked identical to the others in the camp.

When all three men were decked out in the same kit, another helicopter landed on the helipad. Soon Major al Darkur, himself dressed in identical combat fatigues, stepped into the shack. The men all shook hands.

The major said, “We have all day to go over the mission. We will attack tonight.”

The Americans nodded as one.

“Is there anything at all that you need?”

Chavez answered for the group: “We’re going to need some guns.”

The major smiled grimly. “Yes, I believe you will.”

At eight a.m. the three Campus operatives stood on the base’s rifle range, test-firing their weapons. Dom and Jack were outfitted with the Fabrique Nationale P-90 automatic rifle, a space-age-looking weapon that was excellent for close-quarters combat due to a bull-pup design, which shortened the length of the barrel that extended past the body of the user. This helped an operator move through doorways without telegraphing his movements in advance with a protruding barrel.

The gun also fired a potent but light 5.7-millimeter x 28-millimeter round from a hearty fifty-round magazine.

Chavez opted for a Steyr AUG in 5.45-millimeter. It had a longer barrel than the P-90, which made it more accurate at distance, as well as a 3.5x power scope. The Steyr might not have been as good as the P-90 for close-in operations, but Chavez was first and foremost a sniper, and he felt the weapon was a fair trade-off.

Chavez worked with the two younger men on their rifles, had them practice magazine changes while standing, kneeling, and lying prone, and firing the guns on semiauto and full auto while stationary and on the move.

They also trained with three different types of grenades they would bring in on the op. Small Belgian mini-frag grenades, M84 stun grenades that delivered an incredible flash and bang after a two-second delay, and a 9-banger stun/distraction device that gave off nine less powerful explosions in rapid succession.

During a break in the action to reload their mags, Major al Darkur appeared on the far side of the large outdoor range carrying an M4 rifle and a metal can of ammunition. Chavez had his two less experienced partners continue while he stepped over to the dark-skinned Pakistani.

“What are you doing?” Ding asked.

“I am test-firing my rifle.”

“Why?”

“Because I am going with you.” The major placed Oakley protective glasses over his eyes. “Mr. Sam was my responsibility, and I failed. I will accept responsibility for getting him back.”

Chavez nodded. “I’m sorry I doubted you before.”

Al Darkur shrugged. “I do not blame you. You were frustrated about losing your friend. If the situation had been reversed, I would have felt the same outrage.”

Ding put a gloved hand out, and Mohammed shook it.

Al Darkur asked, “Your men. How are they?”

“They are good, but they don’t have much experience. Still, if your commandos occupy the forces at the perimeter, and the three of us move as a team through the compound, then I think we will be okay.”

“Not three of you. Four of us. I will go inside the compound with you.”

Now Chavez’s eyebrows rose. “Major, if you are bluffing, you are shit out of luck, because I am not going to turn you down.”

Mohammed flipped the safety off his rifle and fired five quick shots downrange, each bullet banging against its target, a small iron plate that gave off a satisfying clang. “It is no bluff. I got Nigel and Sam into this. I cannot help Nigel, but perhaps I can help Sam.”

“You are welcome on my team,” said Chavez, immediately impressed with the Pakistani man’s shooting.

“And when you have your man back,” al Darkur continued, “I hope your organization will continue its interest in General Rehan. You seem to take him as a serious threat, as do I.”

“We do, indeed,” admitted Chavez.

The afternoon in Cherat was spent in a briefing by the Zarrar commandos, the unit that would head into North Waziristan with the Americans. The briefing was led primarily by a captain who explained what everyone should do, and what everyone should see, up until the moment when the Americans went inside the main building, where intelligence reports had indicated the prisoners were being kept.

The SSG captain used a marking board and an authoritative voice. “The helo carrying the Americans will land directly in front of the gate, and the three Americans will depart and then breach the gate. We cannot land in the courtyard inside due to electrical wires. Our four helicopters will then go to points above the four walls of the camp and circle there, and we will provide covering fire for the entry team. This should occupy enemy forces in the building outside of the camp as well as those in the courtyard or those in windows. But it will do nothing for the entry team once they are inside the buildings themselves. We have no intelligence as to what the inside of the camp looks like, nor do we know where the prisoners are being held. Unfortunately, the Haqqani network captives at our disposal have not been into the main building itself, only to the barracks on the eastern side.”

Caruso asked, “Any idea as to numbers of opposition?”

The captain nodded. “Roughly forty to fifty men in the barracks, but again, our intention is to keep those men in their buildings so they cannot come into the main building behind you. There are another ten guards outside at any one time.”

“And inside the main building?”

“Unknown. Completely unknown.”

“Awesome,” muttered Caruso.

The captain handed each of the Americans a small LED device called a Phoenix. Ding was very familiar with the beacon. It was an infrared strobe that could be seen at night by the helicopter crews and, theoretically at least, reduce the chance that Chavez and his mates would fall victim to fratricide during the attack.

“I need your men wearing these at all times.”

“You got it,” said Chavez.

Al Darkur and his American associates were also warned to stay away from any windows while they were in the building, as the Puma helicopters would be full of marksmen targeting movement there. The blinking strobes would be impossible to see from all angles, especially through doorways and windows.

After the briefing, Mohammed asked Chavez what he thought about the operation. The American chose his words carefully. “It’s a little thin, to tell you the truth. They are going to take some casualties.”

Mohammed nodded. “They are accustomed to that. Would you like to make some suggestions to make it better?”

“Would they listen?”

“No.”

Ding shrugged. “I’m just a passenger on this bus. We all are.”

Al Darkur nodded and said, “They will take us along so that we can go after Sam, but please remember, they will not enter the compound. The four of us will be on our own.”

“I understand, and I appreciate you shouldering the danger with us.”

The men were told to rest for a few hours before rallying at the helicopters at midnight. Chavez drilled his two younger partners for a couple more hours, and then all three men cleaned and lubed their weapons, before returning to a small hootch near the barracks to lie down on cots. But no one could sleep. They were just hours away from imminent danger.

Chavez had spent the entire day getting the two cousins as ready as he possibly could for the action they were about to undertake. He doubted it was enough. Shit, Ding thought, this operation needed a full Rainbow squadron, but that wasn’t possible. He told the cousins something Clark had told him, way back when, on missions where they were poorly equipped.

“You’ve got to dance with the one that brought you.”

If the Zarrar commandos were as tight as their reputation, they’d have a shot at this.

And if not? Well, if not, then the conference table at Hendley Associates was about to have three more empty chairs.

Sitting in the hooch, Ding caught Ryan’s eyes drifting away, like the kid was daydreaming. Caruso seemed a bit overwhelmed by what was ahead as well. Ding said, “Guys, listen carefully. Keep your head in the game. You’ve never ever done anything even remotely like what you are about to do. We’re going to be up against, easily, fifty enemy.”

Caruso smiled grimly. “Nothing like a target-rich environment.”

Chavez grunted. “Yeah? Tell that to General Custer.”

Dominic nodded. “Point taken.”

The sat phone on Chavez’s hip rang just then, so he stepped outside to take the call.

While Chavez was outside, Ryan thought about what he had just said. No, he’d never done anything like this. Dom, sitting next to him and reloading his pistol, had not either. The only guys on this force who were ready for a mission like this were Chavez, who would be, thank God, leading the way; Driscoll, who was somewhere at their target location, shackled in a cell maybe; and Clark, who was on the run from his own government, as well as others.

Shit.

Chavez leaned back into the door, behind him the lights from the helicopters shone and the noises of men assembling gear nearby rattled like a distant train. “Ryan. Phone.”

Jack climbed off the cot and headed outside. “Who is it?”

“It’s the President-elect.”

Damn. This was hardly the time for a familial chat, but Jack realized that he truly wanted to hear his father’s voice to help calm his nerves.

He answered with a joke. “Hey, Dad, are you the Prez yet?”

But Jack Ryan Sr. made it clear instantly that he was not in a playful mood. “I had Arnie contact Gerry Hendley. He says you are overseas in Pakistan. I just need to know that you are safe.”

“I’m fine.”

“Where are you?”

“I can’t talk about—”

“Damn it, Jack, what’s going on? Are you in danger?”

Junior sighed. “We are working with some friends over here.”

“You have to choose your friends carefully in Pakistan.”

“I know that. These guys are risking everything to help us.”

Ryan Sr. did not respond.

“Dad, when you get in office, are you going to help Clark?”

“When I get back to Washington, I’ll move mountains to get his indictment overturned. But for now he is on the lam, and there is not a damn thing I can do about it.”

“Okay.”

“Do I hear helicopters in the background?”

“Yes.”

“Is something going on?”

He knew he could have lied right now, but he did not. It was his father, after all. “Yes, something is going on, something much bigger than a couple weeks ago, and I’m in the middle of it. I don’t know how it’s going to play out.”

A long pained pause on the other end of the line. Finally Ryan Sr. said, “Can I help?”

“Right this minute, no. But you definitely can help.”

“Just say the word, son. Anything I can do.”

“When you get into office, do whatever you can to help the CIA. If you can get them as strong as they were when you were President last time, then I’ll be a lot better off. We all will.”

“Trust me, son. Nothing is more important. Once I get—”

Chavez and Caruso stepped out of the hooch with greasepaint on their faces and their bodies laden with gear. “Dad … I need to go.”

“Jack? Please be safe.”

“Sorry, but I can’t be safe and be here. And my job is here. You’ve done things … you know how it is.”

“I do.”

“Look. If something happens to me. Tell Mom … just … just try to make her understand.”

Jack Junior heard nothing on the other end, but he sensed his father, stoic though he was, was in agony with the knowledge that his son was in imminent danger, and there was not a damn thing he could do to help him. The younger Ryan hated himself for putting his father in this position, but he knew he did not have time to undo the damage he had just caused by making him worry.

“Got to run. I’m sorry. I’ll call when I can.” If I can, he thought, but he did not say it.

And with that, Jack disconnected the phone and handed it back to Chavez, then stepped back into the little hut to grab his weapon.