Order to Kill

CHAPTER 52

EVEN with Fred Mason at the controls, the helicopter felt like a toy in the jaws of a rabid dog. A violent downdraft caused them to plunge a good fifty feet, and Captain Bazzi finally looked like he was going to lose the fight to keep his lunch down.

The young officer bent at the waist and put his hands over his headphones as though to drown out the sound of the engines struggling to keep them aloft. Rapp moved his boots out of range and Colonel Wasem watched his assistant with undisguised contempt. The older man’s years in Saudi Arabia’s special forces allowed him to remain unaffected by the rough ride and to forget what it was like to be new at this game.

The chatter coming over the comm had gone from nervous to near panicked. Five similar choppers were hunting the scattered ISIS teams depicted on Rapp’s Toughbook. The last two had finally come online only fifteen minutes ago, flashing to life and joining the other teams closing on their targets. The one he was being carried toward had arrived at the abandoned oil facility over an hour ago and hadn’t moved since. The leader.

“This is Scout Four,” a voice said in Arabic. “Winds in this sector are becoming too strong for me to safely control my aircraft. Recommend that we abort.”

“Negative,” Wasem said. “Continue on target.”

Rapp squinted through the dust at the computer propped on his knees. Marcus Dumond had once again done his magic. Target positions were being updated in real time, with the assist of a number of military, intelligence, and hijacked commercial satellites. Their CIA-projected destinations showed up as hazy orange circles and the red dots depicting ISIS teams now included ETA countdown clocks. Blue icons tracked the chasing Saudi Air Force choppers, along with their projected time to intercept. Scout Four was southeast of their position with thirty-three minutes to intercept.

“This is Scout Five,” another static-ridden voice said. “I have a visual on my target.”

“How’s your weather, Scout Five?” Rapp said.

“Manageable.”

“Stay out of sight and keep tracking.”

“Disregard,” Colonel Wasem barked into his headset. “Engage the target immediately.”

“Belay that,” Rapp said, and then isolated his mike to include only the men with him in the helicopter. “We talked about this before we lifted off, Colonel. We wait until we’ve acquired all the targets and take them out at the same time.”

“The plan has changed,” Wasem said. “This is not America and your CIA has no authority here. King Faisal has made it clear that I am in command of this operation. You’re here only as an observer. And as such, you’ll remain silent. Is that clear?”

Rapp tried to keep his voice even. This situation was too complex to let it devolve into a pissing contest. “If you take that target, their central command is going to know. And if they think they’re compromised, they’ll order the rest of their teams to detonate. Even if most of them are outside of their optimal position, that’s going to cause a hell of a mess, Colonel.”

“You have no idea what they’ll do and I won’t be lectured by an American about terrorists. These ISIS men are little more than goat tenders and children. They have no operational discipline and their command structure is virtually nonexistent. If you don’t have the courage to act, I will.”

Rapp considered pointing out that the sophisticated, satellite-linked Toughbook on his knees was part of that nonexistent command structure, but it seemed like too obvious a point to bother with.

Everyone at Langley agreed that the ISIS teams would act simultaneously. There was no reason for them to risk tipping off the Saudi military before all their people were in position.

“Colonel,” Rapp said, deciding to try reason one last time. Irene Kennedy was still pissed off about him stabbing Senator Ferris a few weeks ago and he didn’t need to give her anything else to ride him about. “All the ISIS teams are scheduled to arrive on target within ten minutes of each other and we have one team that’s been holding in position for more than an hour. Based on the ETAs I’m being fed from Langley, we’re going to have eyes on all the targets, with forty minutes to spare. This isn’t the time to start trying to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.”

“Scout Five to command,” came a voice over his headset. “Awaiting final orders. Please clarify.”

“Turn my comm back on immediately,” Wasem said.

Rapp found himself at the end of what little patience he had. Wasem was well known to be a major asshole and a significant player in Saudi Arabia’s support for Muslim extremists. Could he be an ISIS sympathizer? Probably not. In all likelihood, he was just another useless prick calculating the best way to cover his ass. Either way, it was clear that their collaboration wasn’t working.

Rapp reached out and released the clasp on the harness keeping Wasem in his seat. The slow casualness of the move confused the man and he was completely unprepared when Rapp grabbed him by the front of his uniform and shoved him toward the chopper’s open door.

The Saudi colonel grabbed for the edge of his seat, but his surprise made him a fraction too slow. A moment later, the only evidence that he had ever been there was the headset flapping against the fuselage.

“Mitch!” Fred Mason said over the comm. “Did you just throw someone out of my aircraft?”

“Yes.”

“Well, stop it. You’re screwing up our weight distribution.”

Rapp stared into the terrified face of Captain Bazzi. “Roger that.”

“Scout Five to command!” The voice coming over Rapp’s headset had turned insistent. “I am awaiting attack orders. Respond!”

Bazzi remained frozen for a few more seconds but finally gave a short nod. Rapp reconnected their mikes to the operational comm.

“This is Bazzi. Colonel Wasem is having a problem with his headset. Until the problem can be resolved, Mr. Rapp will be relaying his orders.”

• • •

The intensity of the wind continued to grow but the unpredictable gusts had died down enough for Mason and his copilot to even out the ride. With Wasem somewhere in the sand behind them, the operation had similarly stabilized. The illusion of control lasted almost ten glorious minutes before being shattered by a panicked voice over Rapp’s headset.

“Mayday! This is Scout Four. We are-”

Then nothing.

“Scout Four, this is command,” Rapp responded. “What’s your situation?”

No response.

Rapp looked down at the laptop and scanned to Scout Four. The blue icon representing it was still glowing to the southeast, but after a few seconds it was clear that it was no longer moving. The ISIS team, on the other hand, was continuing on target, completely oblivious.

“Scout Four, give me a sitrep,” Rapp repeated. After five more seconds of dead air, he used a satellite link to connect to Marcus Dumond at Langley.

“Marcus, are you looking at the same screen I am? We may have lost Scout Four. Can you confirm?”

“Hang on… Okay, based on their GPS signal, they’re on the ground. Landed or crashed, though, I can’t be sure. It’ll be five minutes before we get an updated overhead shot of that sector, and even then I can’t guarantee it’ll be worth anything. The blowing sand’s messing with our imagery.”

“Whether it was a crash or an emergency landing doesn’t matter,” Rapp said. “We have to assume they’re out of the game. Contact Riyadh and tell them to get a medevac out there.”

“On it.”

A quick survey of the laptop’s screen, suggested few options. “Fred, is my data right? Are we nine minutes out from target?”

“Give or take.”

Rapp glanced into the perspiring face of Captain Bazzi before returning his attention to the computer screen. “Marcus, are you still with me?”

“I’m here.”

“What if I have Fred drop me off and then redirect to Scout Four’s target? Could he make it in time?”

“Let me check.”

Rapp waited, noting that turbulence was increasing again.

“Marcus? What the hell are you doing? I asked a simple question.”

“Stop yelling at me, Mitch. You know it makes me nervous. We’re trying to factor wind speed and direction into Fred’s travel time.”

Dumond was a hacker who had been on his way to jail when Rapp’s brother brought him to the CIA’s attention. His skills were undeniable-incredible, really-but he didn’t like time crunches or being involved in life-or-death situations.

“I don’t need it down to the second, Marcus. Now kick it in the ass.”

Dumond finally came back on. “If he turns pretty much right now, he might make it. But it’s going to be tight. We go from having a forty-minute cushion to more like a three-minute cushion.”

“Mitch,” Mason said over his headset, “keep in mind that if I take that detour, I won’t have enough fuel to get back to base.”

“Then you’ll have to do a little walking.”

“Have I mentioned my ditching fee?”

Rapp picked up the laptop and held it out to Bazzi. “This is your op now, Captain. Do you understand your responsibilities?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re certain? Because if you don’t, you better hope I never make it back.”

The young Saudi officer nodded convincingly. “Wasem was an arrogant fool. Your strategy is the only logical one.”

Rapp leaned back in his seat again, more or less satisfied. The kid was a little green but he wasn’t stupid. And he seemed anxious to stay inside the chopper.

“What’s the story?” Mason said over Rapp’s headset. “You getting out or not?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’ve got some bad news for you.”

“You charge extra.”

“Goes without saying. But that’s not the worst of it.”

“What is?”

“I can land this bird, but with the wind I can’t guarantee that I’ll ever be able to get her back up again.”

“Do we have rappelling gear?”

“That’s a negative.”

“So I’m jumping?”

“Yeah.”

“How far?”

“Well, the way-”

“How far, Fred?”

“I can probably get you to within thirty feet. You know. Roughly.”

Rapp unstrapped from his seat and moved to the chopper’s open door. Dangling his legs out the side, he squinted at the desert floor flashing by. The temperature was hovering at just over a hundred, and he could feel the sun burning into the thin fabric covering his legs. There was a one-liter water bottle strapped to the side of the seat next to him and he started chugging it.

This part of the operation had always been a long shot. The hope was that he could get to the abandoned oil facility in time to neutralize ISIS’s command structure before the Saudi aircraft attacked. It would significantly reduce the chances of a detonation, but it wasn’t as simple as taking out a couple of guys driving through the open desert. The facility was immense, complicated, and hiding a force of unknown strength. Now he was going to have to cover a lot of ground on foot with no practical way to carry water and armed only with a Glock that might or might not shoot straight.

Fred Mason’s voice came over the comm as they slowed to an unsteady hover above the southern face of a massive dune. “This is about the best I can do, Mitch.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“What are you complaining about? I don’t see any rocks.”

Rapp removed his headset and put his feet onto the skids, leaning out over the desert. A gust caused the helicopter’s nose to dip and he let go, falling for what felt like way too long before hitting the sand and plummeting down the slope. He didn’t fight it, staying relaxed and letting gravity do its work until he bogged down twenty feet from the bottom.