Black Site (40 page)

“Do you have reason to believe the attack will come from the ground?”

“No … except, when I met with T.J. he said Pakistani Taliban were working with AQ. And in Zar’s compound, there were AQ
and
Taliban there. And again, when Bob and I were hit in Darra Adam Khel, we were most definitely hit by AQ
and
Taliban forces, coordinating with one another.”

Hammond understood. A distant look glazed over his eyes. “So where are the Pakistani Taliban now? Why aren’t they involved in the actual op against the Sandcastle?”

“Maybe they are.”

The CIA man agreed. “Maybe they are. The fort is well protected from the road, though. Once we take out the Black Hawks we can concentrate on any ground forces.”

Kolt said, “It might help if you had some forewarning.”

Hammond nodded forcefully now. “Agreed. If you are so certain the Sandcastle is going to get hit from the ground as well, why don’t you go to the one place any ground force will have to pass on its way there?”

“Where is that?”

“Just three klicks east of the Sandcastle, the only two roads out of Peshawar meet. The Khyber Agency Road dead-ends into the Torkham Road, which then passes right by our black site on the way to the Afghani border. If you are right, if the Pakistani Taliban are involved, they will pass through that junction. I’ll hook you up with a radio and you can let us know if you spot trouble.”

“Roger that.”

Kolt took a radio offered by one of Hammond’s men. Then he headed for the stairs down to the garage.

“Wait a second, Racer. We have a few minutes before we need to—”

“I’m not waiting for you guys. I’m taking that gun, that bike, and that bag.”

“You can follow us.”

But Kolt Raynor was already in the cement-block stairway, heading down toward the garage. He called out as he descended, “I know where I’m going. See you when I see you, Hammond.”

FORTY-TWO

Dick Nelson stood on the square roof of the central stockade building at the Sandcastle and looked toward the east. Out over the fortress wall, out past the rocky hills. It was not yet dawn, but he’d been up all night, communicating with Langley and the CIA stations in Islamabad and Kabul, bolstering security here at the fort, meeting with the leadership of the Khyber Rifles in charge of perimeter security.

It had been a long night.

Below him, in the offices run by his seven-man CIA staff, men burned documents in a metal can, erased the hard drives of their laptops, and loaded extra magazines with ammunition.

Nelson and his team of operations officers had been stationed here for months, but they knew today would be their last day at the Sandcastle. Either they would be pulled out before the impending attack came, they would be pulled out after repelling the attack, or their bodies would be pulled out of the rubble after the attack.

Whichever way things worked out, they weren’t going to need their files or their computers much longer, so the shredding, the burning, and the erasing went on below him at a fever pitch.

Glenn climbed the ladder up from the ground floor of the stockade, lifted himself out of the hole in the roof, and stepped up behind his boss. “Dick?”

Nelson looked away from the eastern sky, toward his security officer. “What’s the latest?”

“I’ve got one of my guys in each tower. Each is armed with a Stinger. Also in each tower are two Khyber Rifles grenadiers with RPGs, and a guy with an RPK. If the choppers come, we’ll take them out at distance. You have my personal guarantee.”

Nelson nodded. “I just got a call from Hammond. He and his team are on their way from Pesh. He has reason to believe there might be a ground attack heading for us too. He’s in radio contact with an asset positioned at the Torkham–Khyber Agency junction, ready to alert us to any approaching troops.”

Glenn said, “We have good cover, we have the high ground, we have eight of us and thirty Khyber Rifles. And we have fair warning. I have to like our chances all around on this one, Dick.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Never.”

Now Chuck, the SAD communications officer, climbed onto the flat roof. It was a cold morning, but he’d been down in a small sandbagged room surrounded by all his warm electronics. Consequently he wore only a T-shirt. An HK MP5 hung from his chest.

Nelson snapped at him before he could speak. “I want you in body armor, damn it!”

“Yes, sir.”

“You heard from Langley?”

“Affirmative. No pullout as of yet, but they want us to be ready to go in case the call comes. They are trying to get authorization from the White House to call in Delta Force, either to help us with security or to help us pull up stakes and get the fuck out of here. Either way, we can expect that decision to take a couple of hours, and the execution of that decision to take a couple more, depending on how ready Delta is to move. In the meantime, we are on our own.”

Nelson looked back to the east. “We’ve been on our own here for a long time, gents. I always knew this day would come. Now it’s about to get real.”

*   *   *

Delta Force Lieutenant Colonel Joshua Timble stood in his ill-fitting uniform with insignia proclaiming him to be a captain in the 75th Ranger Regiment. The boots were several sizes too big and they looked and smelled like rubber from a salvaged truck tire. His body armor was fake, thick quilted padding that wouldn’t stop a projectile from a pellet gun. His helmet was plastic, again too large, and it slid down over his eyes when he looked down to cinch his belt.

He checked his empty rifle. It was a replica, but a damned fine one. Still, even if he scavenged some ammo, this gun wouldn’t do him much good. The firing pin was missing.

Despite what he could see through close scrutiny, Josh knew that he, his three men, David the American, and the thirty or so Chechens he now counted around him all looked just like a platoon of Rangers. He imagined they could all walk together across Fort Benning at night and, from a short distance, not reveal themselves to be anything other than a unit geared up like they were ready to deploy.

Al-Amriki began leading the Chechens through the warehouse, and the Delta men fell in with them. Another group of five Chechens in salwar kameezes walked along behind. These troops held AKs on the captives so they would not try to escape or attack.

Halfway across the floor, T.J. found himself walking right next to the American al Qaeda agent.

“I demand that Skip’s body be delivered to U.S. forces.”

Al-Amriki did not break stride. “You demand?” He laughed. “Is that some Geneva Convention bullshit? Sorry, I didn’t sign it. I’ll have a couple of guys dig a hole in the dirt deep enough to keep the dogs from pulling him up, but that’s as far as I go, Captain Timble.”

T.J. fought to keep his fury in check. He changed the subject. “How do you know my name?”

David smiled as he walked. He fumbled with the ammo pouches on his chest rig, fought with the Velcro straps to keep his rifle sling from getting stuck between them. He said, “After you were captured you were photographed by the Pakistani Taliban for proof of life. These pictures were sent to your government. They also sent these pictures to some of my associates in the West who had access to Defense Department databases. They looked at tens of thousands of photos of American soldiers. You and your men are not listed as missing or dead. I suppose your being lost over the border is an embarrassment to your government. Anyway, my associates had to just keep going through pictures to find out who, exactly, the Taliban had in their custody. Looking at pictures of one infidel after another. They found your military photograph, and matched it to your proof-of-life picture. But once you were identified, once my organization realized you were an officer from an elite unit, we realized that a plan that we already had in the works would be helped nicely by your participation.”

T.J. still had no idea where they were going. He could not imagine them piling into trucks and driving into Afghanistan, but he could less imagine any other destination. He said, “You really think we all can just waltz over the border and right up to a coalition base?”

Al-Amriki led T.J. out the back door of the warehouse, into the predawn glow of the morning. The Delta officer’s eyes were on his captor as he was waiting for an answer. When none came, he turned his head, followed al-Amriki’s gaze into the walled parking lot at the back of the warehouse.

His mouth opened in shock.

Daoud said, “We’re not going over the border. And we
definitely
are not going to waltz.”

T.J. could not believe his eyes. In front of him, two American-flagged Black Hawk helicopters stood in the dawn’s early light. Their crews were inside, the auxiliary power was on in both birds, and the men, the markings, and the cabin lights all looked authentic to the American Delta operator. Above them canvas tarps attached to high poles provided concealment from the air.

“How the hell—?” He did not finish the sentence. Horror coursed through Timble’s veins. This operation was showing itself to be more and more sophisticated by the minute.

T.J. walked forward slowly, his empty rifle hanging from his neck and swaying in front of him. He had perfected the art of getting intelligence from his enemy by asking short, simple, to-the-point questions while maintaining both an air of nonchalance and an attitude of impressed awe at the actions of the enemy. For the past three years his captors and would-be killers had found it hard to ignore his innocent queries.

But right now his awe was real.

Daoud spoke proudly. “We had these trucked up from Karachi. They came on a cargo ship from Saudi Arabia. Given to us by our brothers who have infiltrated the Royal Saudi Army. This truly is a worldwide operation you are going to take part in, Captain Timble. I can’t expect you to feel pride, but just know you are very important.”

“Great,” T.J. muttered softly. Behind him his men filed out of the door, and they too stopped and stared in surprise.

“They were hidden in freight containers, unpacked, and reassembled here in Peshawar. They have been flight-tested by their crews, all Pakistani army, but allied with us.”

“You said we aren’t going over the border. Where are we going?”

“No. We are going to make a short flight through the Khyber Pass. Five kilometers from the border is a CIA secret prison. I believe the term you and your colleagues use is a black site. We will go there, and we will liberate some friends of mine.”

T.J. knew nothing of a CIA prison in Khyber. He had no idea if Daoud was even telling him the truth.

Al-Amriki continued: “You and I will go in the lead helicopter, and your men will follow us in the rear helicopter. Remember, if you try anything, anything at all, I only have to make a call to the other Black Hawk and your men will be thrown out the door, down to the rocks.”

Timble bit the inside of his lip. Even in his unfit, unhealthy, and thoroughly weakened state he could snap this bastard’s neck. But it wouldn’t change a damned thing other than getting himself and his men killed. The operation around them looked well organized and 100 percent ready to go. Josh could only go along for the ride now, and hope like hell he and his men could find a way to prevent it from being carried out.

Daoud al-Amriki lifted his rifle high into the air, then motioned toward the helicopters. “My brothers! Allahu Akbar! It is time!”

*   *   *

Hammond and his team arrived at the Sandcastle just after six thirty in the morning. They were stopped by the Khyber Rifle guards at the old fort’s main gate, but a call to Dick Nelson by the alert local forces cleared their way forward. Then they drove up the steep gravel road in the dawn’s illumination, pulled through the open gate to the inner compound, and stopped in front of the squat stone building at the center of the huge dirt courtyard.

Dick Nelson met Jeff Hammond with a handshake. “What kind of a dumb-ass sneaks
in
to the Alamo right before the Mexicans attack?”

Hammond smiled ruefully, raised his hand, then turned back around to retrieve his weapon and ammunition from the van. His three men were already out and sliding into their chest harnesses, strapping loaded magazines onto their bodies. “I go where they send me, Dick, same as you. Any chance they are going to pull us out in time?”

Nelson shook his head. “Doesn’t look good.”

Hammond figured as much. “How do you want us deployed?”

“Your team, me, and three of my guys will man the parapets rimming the roof of the stockade, this building behind me in the center of the compound. The rest of my team is set up with Stingers in the four corner towers. The Khyber Rifles are dispersed equally among the towers as well.”

Hammond nodded. He had more military experience than Nelson, but Nelson was in charge, and Hammond could see no better plan.

“And the prisoners?”

“The prisoners are directly below us, two flights belowground. I have five Khyber Rifles down there, too.”

“Got it. The bad guys could come at any time, so we’d better hop to it.”

“Roger that.”

*   *   *

T.J. sat handcuffed to the bench in the cabin of the Black Hawk. The doors were open and the cold morning air blew across his face. Even crammed together with fifteen other men, it felt free and liberating to be on this ride, after so long in confinement.

He looked down at the earth not more than one hundred feet past his right boot. Below him farmland and dry marshes shot by in the low light of the morning. He could tell they were flying to the northwest by the position of the morning sun, but he did not know exactly where they were headed.

Josh Timble made a decision, turned to David the American, and leaned into his ear to be heard. “Amriki?”

“Yes?”

“Your plan isn’t going to work!”

The American al Qaeda operative put a radio headset over T.J.’s ears, then put one on himself. He flipped a switch on the communications console in the back of the chopper, then sat back down next to the American operator.

“Really? That’s unfortunate. I guess we will all go home and forget about it. But before I do that, can you please tell me why?”