The God's Eye View

CHAPTER 8

The video was posted on YouTube at seven in the morning Washington time — perfectly timed for morning coverage on the major news websites and hysterical follow-on commentary on the evening shows. Hamilton kneeling, dressed in an orange jumpsuit similar to the ones made infamous as the official uniform of prisoners at Guantanamo, his wrists bound behind him, an undifferentiated desert landscape all around. Beside him, a masked jihadist holding a long Bedouin dagger, explaining with calm confidence that soon the man would be beheaded as a lesson to America.

Anders called Remar into his office the moment the video went live. He knew the White House would be on the line any minute and they didn’t have much time.

“What the hell is this?” he said, standing behind his desk and gesturing at the monitor. “They were supposed to kill him on camera, not just threaten it.”

Remar came around, moving crisply in his blue army service uniform, and nodded. “I know. I just saw it.”

“So what happened?”

Remar moved respectfully back to the other side of the desk. “I’m guessing they decided to squeeze some extra propaganda value out of the exercise. Milk it a little while longer before collecting their reward.”

“How much longer?”

Remar looked at him. He didn’t have to answer. They were both thinking the same thing: Long enough for US Spec Ops to mount some sort of rescue operation?

Anders looked at the image on his monitor again. “This isn’t good.”

“You want me to contact Ergenekon? Suggest a completion bonus if the work is finished in the next twenty-four hours?”

Anders moved out from behind his desk and started pacing. “You could, but it’s as likely they’ll smell blood in the water as it is they’d go for the money. Or maybe they don’t care about the money at all at this point. We don’t even know if whoever is holding Hamilton is really ISIS affiliated. More likely, Ergenekon gave him to some wannabe group willing to spend a little more cash, and the game for them is notoriety. Right now, ISIS is the brand to beat, so these idiots are probably going to milk their new captive for a good long time. They can only kill him once. But they can display him again and again and again.”

Remar moved to the door and paused, as though ready to leave the moment Anders ordered him into action. “The more they display him, the more intel it’s going to produce.”

“Correct. And the more likely the president will order a rescue operation.”

“We could obstruct it. JSOC would need our SIGINT to carry out a rescue.”

Anders stopped pacing, realizing Remar was missing a crucial change in the way the Pentagon’s Joint Special Operations Command ordinarily had to rely on NSA’s Signals Intelligence.

“You’re not seeing it,” he said, holding up his hands in a stop gesture. “Any rescue will be carried out from Turkey. Which would have ideally positioned us — if we had a live SUSLA there. But Perkins just died in a car accident, remember?”

There was a long pause. Remar said, “Jesus.”

“Jesus has nothing to do with it. Without someone on the ground for liaison, JSOC will have a pretext to use their own operators and their own intel. We won’t have a chance to muddy the waters.”

“Okay, but this is all assuming the president even orders a rescue.”

Anders laughed. “His ratings are down. If he could pull off the rescue of an American journalist from an evil jihadist group, it would be a political wet dream. The longer Hamilton is alive and suffering on YouTube, the more the president’s opponents will try to flank him by screeching he’s not being tough enough. Hell, Senator McQueen’s going to be ecstatic over this. The president could order the nuclear destruction of Russia, and McQueen would still be trying to make him out to be some kind of eunuch.”

“McQueen’s white noise. No one takes him seriously.”

“No? He’s on the Homeland Security Committee, the Finance Committee, and the Intelligence Committee; and the networks love putting him on because they can always count on him to say something incendiary in that Alabama drawl of his.”

“You really think the president is going to respond to that bozo?”

“Not respond. React. If he sees a chance to shore up his national security credentials, he’ll take it. That means the longer this goes on, the more he’ll be tempted to do something dramatic. Can you imagine how it’ll play on the news if the president sends in Delta or DEVGRU and they bring Hamilton safely home?”

“Yes, and I can imagine how it’ll play if the raid is botched and Hamilton gets killed.”

Anders waved a hand as though fanning away some minor flatulence. “They’ll say they had intel that Hamilton was about to be killed anyway. At least they sent some jihadists to hell with him. The president will make the announcement surrounded by brass. He’ll look tough either way. ‘We don’t negotiate with terrorists,’ that kind of thing. I’m telling you, if this goes on for more than another day, two at the most, he’s going in.”

They were both silent for a moment. Remar said, “How do you want to handle it?”

Anders considered for a moment. “That talking-head interview I have later this morning.”

“You want me to cancel?”

“No, I want to exploit it. Use it to give the president a little breathing room. What do we have on McQueen?”

Remar squinted with his good eye. “We don’t have a file. He’s always been on-side, we’ve never needed anything on him before.”

“Well, we do now. Use God’s Eye. You’ll find something.”

“How heavy-handed do you want me to be?”

“No more so than necessary. But make sure the job gets done.”

“Roger that.”

The secure line buzzed. Anders glanced at the monitor. “The White House. Go. Get McQueen on board. We might not have much time.”