Bolt Action (33 page)

The White House situation room

N
othing anyone can say will change Ottawa’s mind. Not now that they too know the key element in the prosecution case, that the angry, rambling voice from the cockpit is actually a recording, and may not even represent a genuine threat . . .

Which is why the Canadians say, No.

Prime Minister Kent Jemison reaches out to the edges of his table, braces himself, and makes his final pronouncement. ‘So, Mr President, my friend, as provided for under the terms of our agreement, we must decline. If you wish to pursue this as a legitimate NORAD engagement, that is your prerogative, but my government will be standing down our forces effective immediately.’ Everybody in the room has tried, worked all the angles they could think of, but there hasn’t been a threat or inducement that’s made a blind bit of difference. The truth of it lies in Jemison’s barely concealed look of blessed relief, as he signs off. Happy to take his politician’s head out of the noose.

One small concession. Ottawa will not object to a US aircraft engaging the Boeing 777 in Canadian airspace. ‘Makes good common sense,’ Jemison had offered, in a conciliatory tone.

And everyone looks at their watches like automatons. Point of engagement. Twenty-one minutes . . .

There’s a surge of movement out of the room, into the corridor outside, mingling with a steady flow of others streaming back and forth.

In this flux, the president has his face in his hands for a
moment, and flops back into the executive chair, feeling the pinch. Those closest to him clearly hear his exasperation. ‘After half a century, who would have thought some nobody in Pakistan would be the guy to drive a wrecking ball through NORAD?’

Admiral Jim Badgett, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, speaks soothingly. ‘Mr President, NORAD is ninety per cent US forces anyway, so let’s worry about the symbols later. We need to agree on the mission profile as it stands now, for those two navy Super Hornets.’

President Charles Hannah looks up, and his eyes scan the room. A couple of key figures have excused themselves. ‘Of course we do, Jim. I’d like to hear everybody’s thoughts, the principals, of course, when they’re back in the room. Then I’ll make that call.’

Badgett again. ‘Shall we institute a first-stage alert to the New York and Jersey authorities . . .’ he finishes the question weakly ‘. . . if we let the plane run out of fuel?’

A quick, decisive presidential shake of the head. ‘No. I don’t think that’s an acceptable option.’ Then an intriguing idea curls its way into Hannah’s thought process. He ponders it, tap-tapping his fingers on the magnificent sheen of the conference table. ‘Yes . . . but before we get to that stage, of making that call, I want to look into the eyes of this General Ali Mahmood Khan. Get a sense of the man. See if there might not be an off button to this whole thing. A way of drawing back from the edge. Even at this late stage.’

‘You mean a negotiation?’ Badgett blinks his incomprehension. ‘This is seriously late in the day . . .’

‘No, Jim. Not a negotiation . . . but a dialogue. Let’s hear what the man has to say.’ And the president’s voice is calm, and assured, authority restored. At last he can see his way through this, a little doorway of light opening in the distance. ‘It takes just one person to have the courage to ask the first question.’

Immediately outside the situation room, from along the tight thread of carpeted corridors and tucked-away meeting rooms,
come mutterings of concern about the spineless Canadians and the future of NORAD.

But the National Security Advisor and the acting CIA director have more base motives in play. James Romen has pulled his erstwhile confidant to one side, prevented him re-entering the room. Giving the man a sharp taste of the misery he’s suffering. He hisses his words with venom. ‘Do you understand . . . those freaking cables from Lamayette . . . to think I trusted you, and to think frigging Lamayette was basically right all along . . . they’re going to clean my clock, when this is over . . . whatever big plan you and the president have of reforming the CIA in his master’s image, forget it . . . because you need me and I’m fucking dying in there, man.’

The National Security Advisor, seriously buck-toothed, is rock steady, shameless, and tough as old boots. Goat’s eyes, no sign of shock or tension. Chosen to put a bit of bite into the president’s security priorities, he’d had almost four decades of gun-slinging and knife-wielding in the dark alleys of the global oil game, and finds Washington politics by comparison, and people like this Romen, too soft, too damned obvious.

So he takes the bull by the horns, steps well inside Romen’s personal space and, with a finger, taps out his message on the other man’s chest. Strong, rich, east Tennessee accent. ‘Listen. Quit your pissy whining and get your game-head on for today. Understand this. For you, the key play here is that Trident DRAM chip.’

Romen frowns. His face saying,
You mean we can forget Pakistan?

The National Security Advisor clamps his hands on Romen’s shoulders. ‘You make sure your people in London get at least one of those pukes involved in stealing the damned thing. All the better if there is some kind of British Army tie-up ‘cos then we can rub their stuck-up noses in it big-time, hold the mother of all swords to their necks and then drip-drip the story at this end. Remember, kiddo, all we need is for fifty per cent of them folks out there to think we know what we’re doing. We can’t
be Superman all the time, but we can be halfway competent. That’s why we need to get an arrest on this DRAM thing. We’ll show ‘em there’s nothing we won’t do to protect the United States of America.

‘Understand this and you may get the key to the big boy’s toilet, James . . .’ Slap, slap on Romen’s cheek, with a gunslinger’s cool smile. ‘The administration of Charles Hannah does not compromise when it needs a huge distraction to stop them grubby little media types from pissing all over the president.’

The Green Bean Coffee Shop

Camp Lemonier

US Combined Joint Task Force Djibouti, Horn of Africa

1741 local time, 1541 London time, 1041 Washington time . . .

Nineteen minutes to estimated point of engagement

T
he ensign trots towards the coffee shop, a hand shielding his eyes from the blaze of the setting sun and the little zephyrs of sand that cut across this 500-acre desert-blast camp.

In air-conditioned comfort, Lieutenant Commander Nancy Breen watches the young man as he moves from being framed in the windows to the translucent, sealed door panels designed to keep out the unforgiving Djibouti summer heat. Instinct tells her he brings bad news. More bad news; for the coffee shop’s chocolate shot machine is kaput.

‘What is it, Ensign?’

‘MacDill. On the phone. Urgent, ma’am. The White House on the hoof about something.’ MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida, where Central Command, USCENTCOM, is based. Camp Lemonier used to fall under USCENTCOM, as did every US military asset from the Horn of Africa, through the Gulf and into Central Asia. Then it was transposed into the newly created AFRICOM, based out of Stuttgart, Germany.

Which is why Breen is a little put out, discomposed, as she strides quickly into the broiling heat towards the camp’s intelligence HQ, threading her way past the sand-painted hard billets used to accommodate the 1,800 military and civilian staffers.

Anxious calls from Stateside are not usual. Camp Lemonier is a political hot potato, a base for Predator strikes into wild and woolly places like Somalia to the south, and Yemen to the north; a staging point for naval anti-piracy efforts in the busy, strategic straits of Bab el-Mandab, and an out-of-sight holding area for select, high-value detainees.

The latter is Breen’s particular area of expertise. She is the camp’s military liaison with a twelve-strong team of Behavioural Science Consultation operatives, known as Biscuits. A mix of CIA staffers and deniable freelancers. The interrogators.

When she grasps the handset, it’s still clammy to the touch. Disconcerting. ‘This is Lieutenant Commander Breen . . .’ Instinctively straightening. She recognises the voice on the other end. An army lieutenant general, based originally at Fort Bragg, but now working out of MacDill. One of the military’s top psychologists.

‘Breen. A heads-up for you on General Ali Mahmood Khan.’

‘What exactly, sir?’

‘In about one hundred and twenty seconds’ time you’re going to get a call asking you to present the general for a live video link-up with the White House. It appears he was high value, after all. So he needs to look . . . decent. You understand?’

Breen puts a hand to her mouth, anxious, not wanting to say the wrong thing. Not yet. ‘Can you just hold for a moment, sir.’ And she quicksteps behind her desk, starts roaming through her computer files. Lists of detainees and the day-to-day sequencing of their interrogations. Sleep deprivation, the old Yoko Ono albums and Star of Israel flag treatment. Here we are . . . General Ali Mahmood Khan. She opens the file with a double click. Scans the latest paperwork. Rechecks it, because the guy is a general after all.
I thought so
. . . and she picks up the handset again.

‘Sir. That detainee is deceased.’

No small measure of panic in the voice. ‘
Whaaaat?
’

‘Sir, we sent through a notification to AFRICOM almost
forty-eight hours ago. I believe the Biscuits did the same, to Langley. Asking for direction on the corpse.’

‘How is that possible? Don’t tell me bedsheets, please?’

‘No, sir. Not at all.’ Breen smarts a little at that.
What kind of operation do you think we’re running here?
‘We haven’t done a full autopsy, but this is what it looks like. The detainee pulled all of his hair out, sir. He had a good head of hair. Must have timed it to perfection between the hourly inspections. Balled it up with a lot of spit and faeces, and packed it, like a wedge, into his airway. Drifted into unconsciousness, at which point his tongue muscle would have loosened, closed things off for good. Died from lack of oxygen.’

Breen feels a little peppy to have got that right. She
had
known it was Khan. The paperwork to AFRICOM
was
correct, all properly time-stamped. So, with confidence restored, she offers a small observation of her own. ‘I got a sense, talking with the Biscuits, that the deceased knew something was coming . . . something ominous.’ And now, feeling positively on top of her game, Breen pushes the point. ‘Sir, so what should we do with the body?’

But there’s nothing on the other end of the line.

On board PK412

M
eanwhile, at last, there’s a hole in the ceiling of the cabin. It had started off as a series of cracks, forced by Whiffler and his swinging aluminium galley inset. He and the wrestlers had then taken turns forcing their fingers through, trying to break off or peel back as much of the fibreglass composite as possible. Nasty work, evidenced by the vivid smears of blood at the workface.

But, at least, there’s an opening. Sort of a modest, star-shaped rip. And as a consequence there’d been no suggestion that anybody but Tristie be the one to try to worm up into the roof cavity.

Captain Salahuddin is kneeling on seat 1D, dismally looking up at the hole. ‘I do wish you the best of luck, Ms Merritt.’ He doesn’t quite shake his head in hopelessness, but near enough.

‘When I get up there, what should I expect?’

‘Up there?’ Salahuddin blanches. ‘To be truthful I don’t really know. It’ll be pitch black first of all . . .’ And suddenly helpful, he
clap-claps
his hands, rabbits off an Urdu instruction for, presumably, a torch. ‘You will find a series of cross-ways spars, like ribs, designed to reinforce the shape of the fuselage. If there is room, you must cross these, to keep going forward. Of course, the roof will be tapering downwards all the time. Less and less space the farther forward you get. Other than that, a lot of foil-wrapped cladding will separate you from the actual skin of the fuselage.

‘Can I rip that off, if I need to, to get more space?’

He makes a who-knows face, palms upward. ‘I don’t think that would make any difference. But maybe. Why not? What
have we got to lose?’ And he moves on, quickly. ‘Just don’t pull any of the wiring. Running underneath you, from the back of the plane forward, will be a lot of cables. Bundles this thick,’ he makes an O with his thumb and index finger, ‘coming over the cabin and into the cockpit. Bundles and bundles sleeved together with tie-backs and cushion clamps.’ And, putting aside the ‘no-touch’ rule, he rests a worried hand on Tristie’s arm. ‘I imagine there’ll be many sharp edges. Exposed metal beams and brackets, hex nuts. That sort of thing. So painful.’

‘I’m OK with that, Captain. If the cause is good enough,’ and she starts to disrobe. Talk of hex nuts and clamp brackets means she can’t afford to snag on anything. The pinstripe ivory twill skirt suit has to go. She lays the jacket on the seat-back next to Salahuddin.

He sizes her up closely.
You’re really going to do this?
Searching her eyes for any sign of weakness and, evidently satisfied, offering a smile of encouragement. ‘The way the beams and spars are laid out you might find you need to go sideways, even backwards, just to keep going forward, if you know what I mean.’

She nods her understanding. It’s a horrendous proposition. Slide, slither, get there how you will. She unzips the side panel of her skirt. Steps out of it, and lays it flat on the seat-back, flicking a little piece of dirt off the lace hem. ‘And when I get into the cockpit?’

Mouths open, their eyes on little stalks, about a dozen men are staring at her. Salahuddin. Whiffler. Button, and the eight or nine goggle-eyed Pakistani wrestlers . . . quite a sight.

‘What is it?’

Oh.

Now Tristie understands. The woman wears undergarments . . . shock horror. A garter-belt pantyhose.
Quick, make the sign of the cross
. White lace thong with polka dots and matching bra . . .
She is the Devil
. . .

‘What did you guys think I had under my suit. Army fatigues?’