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THE WAR ROOM was crowded.
The five members of Phoenix Force and three of Able Team were arrayed around the conference table. The mood was upbeat and a current of emotional energy hummed in the room, just below everyone’s awareness. Clearly a mission was imminent, and the men of Stony Man were ready to take up the challenge.
“The KLPD is running a safehouse on the outskirts of Islamabad. It consists of six rooms, the entire seventh floor of a residential building, about half a block away from one of the largest mosques in the city and a local police precinct,” Barbara Price began.
From his wheelchair Kurtzman worked his keyboard. On the large screen recessed into the wall a digitized satellite map of the world appeared. Latitude and longitude readings scrolled down as the head of the cyberteam dialed up first Southwest Asia, then Pakistan, then Islamabad. On the screen, high-definition optics revealed buildings and streets.
Gary Manning, shoulders wide as barn doors, leaned over to Hermann Schwarz. “The resolution on that screen kicks ass.”
“That building is your target,” Price said.
On the screen the image split to accommodate a text scroll listing building materials, windowpane thickness, door construction, plumbing and electrical diagrams and a schematic drawing of the industrial blueprint.
Manning and Schwarz, the explosives specialist on each of their respective teams, began taking notes. Manning used a yellow legal pad while Schwarz employed a heavily modified CPDA, or Combat Personal Data Assistant.
Rosario Blancanales, a member of Able Team along with Schwarz, turned toward their unit commander, Carl Lyons, a blond and burly ex-LAPD detective. “We can put a sniper position on that building at the intersection across from the target. We’d have exposure on two sides to the building plus elevation on its roof. Also we can cover the major avenues of approach.”
“Not perfect,” Lyons agreed. “But just about all we can do.”
“We are going to ensure police response is down during the time frame,” Kurtzman said. “I have my team working on it now. We’ll simply crunch through their phone lines and shut everything down. We aren’t going there to leave Islamabad cops dead in the street.”
“What about any response from ISI assets?” Calvin James asked. The ex-SEAL reached up and stroked his close-cropped mustache with a hand the color of burnished onyx.
“The genesis of this operation is our problems with ISI boys getting U.S. boys dead. Most especially the KLPD branch,” Price said. “I’ve seen the information the ISA gave JSOC and it’s smoking-gun, slam-dunk stuff. The jackasses holed up in that apartment building are jihadists. They’re either just coming from some terror mission or they’re going to some terror mission. If KLPD wants to protect them, then they’re exactly the kind of targets within Pakistani intelligence we want to cull.”
“Bang bang,” T. J. Hawkins said.
“Numbers?” David McCarter asked. The ex-SAS commando was the leader of Phoenix Force.
“Anywhere from a squad to a platoon,” Price answered. “Armed with light weapons, grenades, standard stuff.”
“That’s a little ambiguous,” McCarter pointed out.
“As far as it goes all you’re really, really concerned with is this man,” Kurtzman said.
He tapped a key and a picture of a young Middle Eastern man filled the screen. He was handsome and well groomed in traditional dress. Each member of the Stony Man teams scrutinized the picture closely, committing each detail to memory as closely as they had the target building’s industrial specifications.
“Who’s this bastard?” Hawkins asked.
“Prince Ziad Jarrah bin Sultan al-Thani,” Price replied. “And for the next twelve hours he is your raison d’être.”
Lyons leaned over toward Schwarz. “What did she say? The guy is our what?”
“Raisin entrée,” Schwarz replied.
Hawkins snorted out loud. “You guys are like Abbot and Costello.” The ex-Ranger trooper shifted his gaze over to Rosario Blancanales. “Sorry—Three Stooges.”
The Puerto Rican ex-Green Beret gave the Texan a wan smile. “Fuck you very much, T.J.”
“Did you say ‘Prince’?” Rafael Encizo interrupted.
“Yes,” Price answered. “Saudi oil actually—if there’s any other kind. His father is very high up in the defense ministry. He is, in fact, Osama bin Laden’s second cousin. He is a crown prince.”
Encizo leaned his stocky build back into his chair and whistled. He eyed the picture of the Saudi prince up on the screen the way an alcoholic eyed an unopened bottle of liquor.
“Meaning?” Schwarz asked.
“Meaning there are somewhere in the neighborhood of eight hundred princes in the Kingdom Saud, currently,” Price explained. “Of those only a very tight handful are even remotely likely to succeed to the throne. Bin Sultan al-Thani is one of them.”
Silence greeted her proclamation. Price smirked; she loved it when she was able to shut them up.
David McCarter let out a long, slow whistle as James shook his head in disbelief.
“This explains why the Agency punted to JSOC and JSOC handed off to us,” Manning muttered.
Brognola spoke up. “Technically only the paramilitary operations officers of the CIA’s Special Activities Division can legally do this. By handing off to JSOC, the Agency hoped to quash the deal. My contact hoped to pull a bureaucratic riposte by coming to us.”
“Who cares what’s holding up the pinheads. I’ve always wanted to kill royalty,” Lyons said.
“Then I suggest we get cracking,” Price replied. “We only have a narrow window to make this work.”
CHAPTER TWO
Islamabad, Pakistan
Carl Lyons regarded the target building through his night-vision scope.
He ran the Starlite model attached to his baffled SVD sniper rifle along the exposed windows, putting each dark square in his crosshairs before smoothly scanning onward. He looked for fixed points to use as quick landmarks once the shooting started as he played the optic across the building’s roof.
“Able Actual in position. All clear on roof,” he murmured into his throat mike.
Across the street on the second leg of their L-shaped overwatch positions Rosario Blancanales nestled in closer to the Pachmayr recoil pad on the buttstock of his own silenced SVD. “Able Beta in position. All clear on primary and secondary approach routes,” he replied.
Lyons shifted his scope, running it along the length of a fire escape leading down to the dark alley that would serve as Phoenix Force’s primary insertion point. “Able Epsilon, status please?”
“We barely ever get out of the Western Hemisphere,” Schwarz answered into the com link, “and you take me to a shithole like this? What? Was Paris blacked out on your frequent-flyer miles?”
“Are we clear on the ground floor, Able Epsilon?” Lyons repeated.
In the back of the blacked-out 1970s model delivery van Hermann Schwarz eased back the charging handle on his RPK machine gun. The muzzle of the weapon was set just back from the access panel covertly placed in the rear door of the vehicle.
“Six o’clock clear,” Schwarz conceded.
From his rooftop position Lyons touched a finger to his earbud. “You copy that, Stony?”
“Copy, Stony here,” Barbara Price’s cool voice responded on the other end of the satellite bounce. “Phoenix Actual, you are clear on approach.”
“Phoenix Actual copy,” David McCarter responded. “En route.”
Carl Lyons pulled his face away from his scope and quickly did a security check of his area. It was very early in the morning and the residential block was like a ghost town. Despite this, the leader of Able Team felt naked and exposed.
Unable to field adequate overwatch because of insufficient personnel assets, the Farm’s JSOC liaison had requested additional manpower. Price had no choice but to deploy Able Team as security element for Phoenix Force’s raid.
Because the Farm’s teams were operating black inside Pakistan, local coordination and cover had been impossible. Able Team had taken their positions only minutes prior to the strike. Dressed as Islamabad riot police to disguise their Western features and delay any alert to the authorities, they would be exposed to a confused, frightened and potentially hostile indigenous population should their positions be discovered.
Speed and decisive of action on the part of Phoenix Force was their best hope at this point.
Across the street from Carl Lyons, Rosario Blancanales shifted his scope and took in the alley running next to the target building. A blacked-out delivery van with a sliding side door identical to the one occupied by Schwarz suddenly swerved into the alley.
Instantly, Blancanales shifted his aim and began scanning his overwatch sectors to provide Phoenix Force with security.
In the alley Phoenix exited the vehicle, leaving the engine running. The dome and cargo lights had been disabled so that the five-man team looked like black shadows leaking from a dark box as they approached the building’s side entrance.
T. J. Hawkins produced a claw-toothed crowbar and the countdown began.
ON THE SIXTH FLOOR of the target building Ziad Jarrah bin Sultan al-Thani put his cup of strong coffee down and drew heavily on his cigarette. His eyes squinted against the harsh smoke as he surveyed the room.
Three hollow-eyed men in Western business suits with Skorpion machine pistols were spread across the room while a fourth man, their boss, spoke with quiet tones into a satellite phone. A Wahhabite cleric had a Koran open in his lap and was reading a passage to a sweating teenage boy sitting in a straight-backed kitchen chair.
Two men, explosives experts from the Pakistani terror group Lashkar-e-Taiba, carefully rigged the boy with a suicide bomber vest packed with powerful Semtex plastic explosive.
It was a warm night in Islamabad but all the doors and windows to the apartment were tightly closed for security reasons. Ziad Jarrah had stripped off his expensive robes and was wearing only a ribbed cotton white muscle shirt, his olive skin damp with sweat.
The Saudi carefully lined up packets of riyals on the table. The currency totaled the equivalent of five thousand U.S. dollars. The sum would be paid to the suicide bomber’s family upon his detonation. The bomber’s rewards would come later, in heaven.
Ziad Jarrah thought how nice and cool the vice dens of Dubai would be, or his palace in Riyadh. But he grew so bored there. He loved being out on the edge of the jihad—not too close, but close enough to feel the vicarious thrill of murder plotted and murder committed.
He placed the last stack of money on the table, made eye contact with the bomber, nodded, then began putting the money into a manila envelope. Once he was done he stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. He smoothed down each side of his thin mustache where it ran into the sparse hair of his goatee.
He drew in deeply, filling his lungs with smoke. Across the room the leader of the KLPD unit abruptly clicked off his phone. He turned toward the kitchen table and his suit coat swung open, revealing his own machine pistol in a shoulder holster.
“Abdul.” The security service officer smiled. “My brother, we are ready. You go to glory!”
The bomber looked down as one of the terrorist explosives engineers placed the detonator in his hand. Another Lashkar-e-Taiba operative stepped forward and began to use black electrician’s tape to secure the ignition device to the bomber’s hand. Neither Ziad Jarrah nor the KLPD officer bothered to tell the martyr in the chair that there was a ignition failsafe built around a Nokia cell phone constructed directly into the bomb.
One push of the Pakistani intelligence agent’s speed dial and any hesitation the teenager might feel would disappear instantly.
Ziad Jarrah could feel a sense of euphoria, a giddiness at what was about to happen, surge through him. The illicit thrills of Dubai paled in comparison.
HAWKINS LEVERED the crowbar into place beside the dead bolt and wrenched it open. The metal-and-mesh outer security door popped open and swung wide. Sidestepping it like a dancing partner, Hawkins moved forward and reinserted the crowbar into the doorjamb.
The Texan’s shoulders flexed hard against the resistance, and in an instant the dead bolt was ripped out of its mooring. He stepped to the side and threw the crowbar down. Rafael Encizo, AKS-74U Kalashnikov carbine held at port arms, ran forward and kicked the door out of the way.
He darted into the building, sweeping his muzzle down. Calvin James followed in close behind him, his own AKS carbine covering a complementary zone vector. Directly behind them Manning and McCarter folded into the assault line, weapons up in mirror positions.
Freeing up a Russian AK-47 RAK .12-gauge automatic shotgun, Hawkins stepped into position and began covering the team’s rear security as they penetrated the building.
Across the street from his elevated vantage Lyons spoke into his sat-com, “Phoenix is hot inside. Phoenix is hot inside.”
A second later Barbara Price acknowledged him. “Copy.”
Both Blancanales and Schwarz made additional sweeps of their zones. The streets remained deserted, buildings dark and silent. Inside the target building Phoenix Force rushed down starkly illuminated hallways and up dim staircases.
From the outside Lyons played the scope of his 7.62 mm SVD along the windows of the target floor. As he swept the crosshairs past a window it suddenly exploded with light as heavy drapes were thrust aside by a swarthy man in a muscle shirt.
Instantly, Lyons reorientated his weapon. His focus narrowed down, and the man’s face leaped into sight with superb clarity. Lyons felt the corners of his mouth tug upward in a grin. Ziad Jarrah-el-asshole, Lyons thought to himself. Merry Christmas to me.
He initiated radio contact. “Be advised,” he warned. “Be advised. I have eyes on Primary. Primary confirmation.”
“Phoenix copy,” McCarter responded. “We are at the door now.”
“Understood,” Lyons replied.
He tightened the focus on his sniper scope. Lighting a cigarette, Ziad Jarrah moved out of the way, revealing an angle into the room. Lyons’s optic reticule filled with the image of a second man seated on a kitchen chair. The ex-LAPD detective felt his eyes widen in the sudden shock of recognition. Suddenly a balaclava-clad man in a business suit appeared in the window and snapped the curtains shut.
Lyons held back on his shot, trying desperately to work his com link in time. “Phoenix!”
On the other end of the com link McCarter was giving Hawkins a nod. The ex-Ranger stepped forward and swung up the RAK 12 and placed the big vented muzzle of the shotgun next to the doorknob and lock housing. The .12-gauge roared as the breeching round tore through the mechanism like a fastball burning past a stupefied batter.
Hawkins folded back as the massive shape of Gary Manning stepped forward, sweeping up a solid leg into a tight curl. He exploded outward in a heel-driven front snap kick that burst the already damaged door inward.
Rafael Encizo shot through the opening and peeled left, AKS-74U up and tracking as Calvin James peeled off to the right. As McCarter, followed by Hawkins and Manning, sprinted into the room Encizo killed a man armed with a Skorpion submachine gun. Men started cursing.
“Phoenix! Phoenix suicide bomber—” Lyons’s voice was loud and frantic in Phoenix Force’s earbud.
The warning came too late to stop the assault force’s forward momentum. McCarter swung around, searching for the threat. He saw Ziad Jarrah throw himself through the air, leaping away from a terrified teenager strapped down with a tan vest festooned with blocks of Semtex and bundles of wires.
“Bomb!” McCarter screamed.
Bullets burned across the room as the situation descended into a slow-motion montage. Manning struck Calvin James with a brutal shoulder block, knocking the ex-SEAL back into McCarter and toward the door.
Skorpion-wielding men in business suits spun and began trying to track targets. McCarter was driven backward as his eyes found the bomber’s. The kid’s gaze had glazed over, his mouth hanging slack. From out of his peripheral vision the Phoenix Force leader saw the other members of his team crowding in as he fell through the door.
Over their shoulders he saw the teenager squeeze his hand into a desperate fist, thumb hunting for the ignition. We’re not going to make it, he thought.
Outside the building a wave of fire suddenly erupted into the night, filling the optic of both Lyons and Blancanales.
“Phoenix! Phoenix!” Lyons shouted into his throat mike.
There was no answer.
Black smoke roiled up into the air as orange flames licked at the inside of the building. Lyons popped up, breaking down the SVD sniper rifle with quick motions. He quickly slung the carryall over his shoulder and stepped to the edge of the building, where he snapped his rappel rope into the D-ring carabiners of his slide harness.
He went over the edge and dropped six stories to the street. Lights were coming on in buildings up and down the street. Lyons came out and saw Blancanales already on the ground and sprinting for the van where Hermann Schwarz was at the wheel.
Suddenly, David McCarter’s voice was audible. “Be advised,” McCarter growled. “We are up and we are bloody leaving.”
The relief in Barbara Price’s voice was obvious even over the sat link. “Good copy, Phoenix.”
