Order to Kill

CHAPTER 57

“JUST keep holding the ice bag to it,” the camouflage-clad nurse said.

“That’s it?” Rapp responded. “That’s your expert advice?”

His nose had started bleeding again after the explosion and despite every effort by him and the army’s medical team, it wouldn’t stop.

“I’ve seen a lot of stuff, sir. But that nose… how did it happen?”

“Angry woman.”

She let out a hesitant laugh but then fell silent when he didn’t smile. “Sir, I’d suggest you get stateside as soon as possible and find the best plastic surgeon you can.”

Since no one in the medical tent seemed to be in danger of telling him anything he didn’t know, Rapp wandered out into the night.

Lights had been set up to illuminate the temporary American base, their powerful beams extending into the desert well past the two-hundred-yard perimeter. He stopped to let a truck carrying hazmat suits roll by and then crossed a section of compacted sand that functioned as road.

Two choppers passed overhead, angling north toward the radiation zone Grisha Azarov had created. Surprisingly, it was the only one. Bazzi and his men had managed to take out all the ISIS teams without giving any of them time to detonate. That left Rapp owning the only failure.

When he got home, Kennedy would casually mention-repeatedly-that backing Azarov into a corner had been a mistake. Of course, Rapp would passionately defend his actions and there would be no clear winner. There never was. In this case, though, she was more right than wrong. In the heat of the moment he hadn’t been able to see that it was a contest that could only have losers. Chalk it up to too many years of examining problems through a set of gun sights.

“Mitch!”

Rapp turned and saw Mike Nash jogging toward him. When he pulled alongside, he was a noticeably out of breath. The muscle weight he’d added apparently helped his back but wasn’t doing much for his stamina.

“I know I’ve already told you this today but I want to make sure I drive home the point. You really look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“Can’t they get that thing to stop bleeding?”

“They tell me I should see a doctor.”

“Your tax dollars at work.”

“Where do we stand?”

Nash shoved his hands in his pockets against the cool desert evening. “So far the Saudis are letting us take the lead. The royals are still cowering in Europe and it’s thrown a wrench into their chain of command.”

“Probably better for us.”

“No doubt. And I have even more good news. We found Colonel Wasem’s body and Bazzi’s backing up our story that it was an accident. Apparently, he couldn’t stand that asshole.”

“And the bad news?”

“That’s a longer list. One of the fissile material containers was breached by a door gun. Not ideal, but nothing that can’t be taken care of by removing and disposing of a few thousand tons of sand. The main site is a whole other story. We’re still trying to figure out how far the radioactivity has spread, but because of the wind it’s going to be pretty bad. Best-case scenario, the cleanup is going to cost three quarters of a billion dollars and reduce the area’s oil production by ten percent for the better part of five years.”

“Tell the Saudis to write a check. What about-”

“Hold on. I’m not done. The Team Four chopper that went down had no survivors and the Pakistanis are already up our asses to get what’s left of their fissile material back.”

“Now are you done?”

“Yes.”

“What about Azarov?”

“Nothing yet. We’re only using choppers if we have to because of the weather and we’re only using ground patrols if we have to because of the radiation. You said the guy looked like he was bleeding pretty badly and that’s a whole lot of desert out there. My guess is that he’s dead and buried in the sand by now.”

Rapp didn’t respond other than to adjust the ice pack on what had once been the bridge of his nose.

“But, if I’m wrong, don’t worry. We’ve got other lines on the guy and after this clusterfuck we’re pretty confident he’s not going back to Russia. We’ll find him.”

Rapp turned and started toward a line of military vehicles near the west end of the compound.

“Where are you going?” Nash said. “We’ve got a meeting with the Saudis in five minutes.”

“Handle it.”

“They’re expecting you. What do you want me to tell them?”

“Tell them to go fuck themselves. I’m heading home.”