Memorial Day

Seventeen

AFGHANISTAN

Rapp had asked for more time to sift through the intelligence gold mine they'd found under the house while they were right there, but General Harley had denied his request. Disengaging from the enemy in foreign terrain was not an easy thing, and the general wanted it done right, and on schedule. Harley sent one of the ATVs into the village and Rapp, with the help of the Delta boys, filled the undersized trailer with the maps, files, and computers from the small room under the house.

Talking to Kennedy had made several things clear. Rapp had to move fast, and that meant he would have to break some rules. He made his arrangements before they landed at the Kandahar Air Base. That was the way it had to be. The military had too many rules, and more than enough Good Samaritans, Bible thumpers, and people who in general thought their mission in life was to do everything by the book. The course that Rapp was about to set could not be done by the book. There could be no record of it.

Rapp had explained the situation to General Harley, and the warrior had then said to the other officers in the command-and-control helicopter, "You know what to do." They all nodded. The mission's tapes needed to be erased, or at a bare minimum sanitized; the Delta boys would keep their mouths shut without ever having to be told; and the Rangers would know enough not to ask questions. That left the thousands of other personnel on the base they were headed for who were prone to gossip and rumor mongering. The mere presence of a character like Rapp was enough to get people going, so he was going to have to be careful.

The five men who lay bound, gagged, and hooded on the floor of one of the Chinook helicopters no longer existed as far as the U.S. military was concerned. Rapp knew, however, that they were very much alive-at least for now, and that he would be the one who would decide if any or all of them remained that way. Based on the plan he was going to implement, it was almost certain that at least one of them was going to die, though.

The sun was barely up when the command-and-control Blackhawk landed at the base back in Kandahar. Rapp saw the man he was looking for standing in front of a Toyota 4 Runner. As soon as the door to the Blackhawk was open, Rapp was out of the helicopter and running across the Tarmac.

Jamal Urda was a former Marine and eight-year veteran with the CIA. The son of Iranian immigrants, and a Muslim by birth, he had exceptional language skills, and an intuitive understanding of the Persian and Arab cultures. Urda had been one of the first people to arrive in the Taliban controlled country after 9/11. He had entered from the north with a group of heavily armed former special forces operators and bundles of American cash. Over the ensuing months, Urda and several others just like him negotiated deals with Afghanistan's far-flung and powerful warlords. The warlords were presented with a simple choice: either get onboard and help destroy the Taliban, in which case Uncle Sam will provide you with a suitcase filled with crisp hundred-dollar bills, or say no, and we'll drop a 2,000-pound laser-guided bomb on your house.

Urda had been very successful in his negotiations, and in turn the CIA's director of operations had made him his point man in Kandahar. Rapp had met him only briefly on several other occasions. Urda had a reputation as a man who wasn't always easy to deal with. The word was he did not like people from headquarters looking over his shoulder. Rapp hoped Kennedy had greased the skids, because he didn't have time to dance with this guy.

As Rapp approached, Urda didn't move. He stood with his feet a shoulder width apart and his hands on his hips. He was short, a good five inches less than Rapp's six-foot frame, and a bit stocky. Rapp could tell by the look on his bearded face that he was not in a good mood.

Rapp didn't bother offering his hand. "Jamal, thanks for getting out here on such short notice."

"Cut the bullshit, Rapp. I heard you were in-country yesterday. Thanks for the fucking calling card." Urda folded his arms across his chest. The handles of his two .45-caliber pistols bulged beneath his biceps. "You know, professional courtesy among spooks and all that shit."

Rapp suppressed his initial reaction, which was to tell Urda what he could go do with himself, and tried to look at it from his perspective. He needed Urda, and his people, and he'd rather have them as willing participants than have to threaten them with losing their jobs. Rapp was so used to running closed ops that the thought of alerting the Agency's man in Kandahar that he was going to be running an op in his backyard hadn't even occurred to him.

In very uncharacteristic fashion Rapp said, "I'm sorry I didn't give you a heads-up, but this thing came down fast."

"So fast you couldn't pick up the phone?" Urda scratched his heavy black beard and waited for a reply.

Rapp had given it this one weak effort to act humble, and it wasn't working. He was hungry, tired, and not really in the mood for anything other than people following his orders. He looked over his shoulder and saw the base's medical staff racing forward to take care of the wounded. The one seriously injured trooper had been evacuated more than an hour ago and was already in surgery. The surgeon said he'd make it, but the young man's days as a Delta Force operator were probably over. There were nine others who were in need of medical treatment, though fortunately, none of the injuries was life threatening. Rapp, however, had planned on using the confusion of the postmission triage to quietly load the prisoners into Urda's two trucks. Which meant that he could ill afford to waste time arguing with this capable man who just might have a Napoleon complex.

"Jamal, I have five prisoners in the back of that Chinook over there." Rapp pointed to one of the large twin rotor birds. Six tired and dirty Delta Troopers were standing guard at the ship's aft ramp. "One of those men is Ali Saed al-Houri."

Rapp watched Urda's demeanor change instantly at the mention of one of al-Qaeda's top lieutenants. "I flew eight thousand miles and, in one day, did what you've been trying to do for almost two years. So don't give me this shit about professional courtesy. I don't know you, and I don't give a shit if I get to know you. All I care about is whether or not you're good at your job and whether you get me the results I'm looking for. Now, if you have a problem taking orders from me, let me know right now, and I'll make sure your ass is on the next plane back to the States. I'm sure I can get the director to find a nice desk job for you somewhere."

Rapp paused long enough for Urda to get a clear picture of himself sitting at the desk in question, and just how embarrassing it would be for him to get sent packing back to Langley, and then he offered the man an out. "I admire the sacrifice you've made, and I'd prefer to have you involved in this...especially since we don't have a lot of time. So do me a favor. Take your two trucks, pull them around to the back of that Chinook, and let's load these prisoners up and get the hell out of here."

Urda looked at the helicopter and then back at Rapp. "I heard you could be a real prick."

"I heard the same thing about you." Rapp gave the man a wry grin and said, "Let's go."