Call to Duty (18 page)

While the three men waited for Pontowski to enter the Oval Office, Burke seriously pondered the feasibility of eliminating two men: Courtland’s aide George Rivera, and the CIA staffer who had leaked the photos of Troy Spencer. Burke wondered if he could bring it off. Pontowski would crucify him or any government official caught engaging in “wet operations.” Burke suspected that Pontowski would enjoy the task, relishing the opportunity to give an object lesson to other power brokers in ethics, civics, and personal responsibility.

“Good morning,” Pontowski said when he entered the office. Only Cox stood up, his old habits from years in the Air Force overriding Pontowski’s wish to keep things informal. Pontowski sat down and picked up the PDB, the President’s Daily Brief. “Mossad seems to have expanded its operations into the Far East,” he said. “Good work, Bobby, keeping the Israeli connection open.”

Burke accepted the compliment. “Well, sir,” he explained, “this one was pure luck. The Mossad didn’t tell us how they learned about Nikki Anderson but you can be sure the intelligence is reliable or they wouldn’t have passed it on. Besides, this couldn’t have come at a better time. Courtland is
using the press to put the heat on and force us into a precipitous action to rescue the hostages. If a rescue attempt fails, he could use it to his advantage in the upcoming election. It has happened before.” Both Cagliari and Cox nodded in agreement.

“I think,” National Security Adviser Cagliari interrupted, “that Bobby and I are thinking along the same lines.” He immediately relinquished the floor to Burke, not wanting to steal his thunder.

“Ah, yes,” Burke continued, aware that Cagliari had given his words added support with the President, “we can act on this and preempt any of Courtland’s attempts to embarrass us.”

“So what do you suggest we do?” Pontowski asked.

“Rescue Nikki Anderson,” Burke replied. Again, the other two men supported the DCI.

“There’s another problem,” Cagliari said. “Whoever gave Courtland those photos might tell him about a planned rescue of Anderson. He won’t like us going after Anderson and not his daughter.”

Burke stopped squirming and looked directly at Pontowski. The tone in his voice was calm and his words carefully measured. “I’ve solved that problem. One of my people was the leak.” Cagliari almost asked the DCI how he could be sure but stopped himself in time. With a flash of the intuition that amplified his prodigious mental skills, he knew that Burke had spoken the truth and that no one in the room needed to know the details. Plausible denial had to be a reality at their policy level when Burke went about the dark business of disciplining rogue intelligence officers. Cagliari filed a mental note to watch for any unusual incidents among CIA personnel. “Also,” Burke continued, now squirming again, his voice pompous, “I would rather the CIA did not effect the rescue. We would have to clear the operation through the Senate Intelligence Committee and that would invite delay and the possibility of another leak.”

“Delta Force should be able to handle this one,” Cagliari said, thinking about what Mackay had told him and the President.

Pontowski leaned back in his chair, his decision made. “Order Delta Force to rescue Miss Anderson as soon as pos
sible. Start looking at ways to get the remaining hostages out. Dry up Courtland’s sources as best you can.”

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

When the order came down from USSOCOM tasking Delta to deploy to Thailand and effect the rescue of Nikki Anderson from the village of Ban Muang Dok, the men started a well-rehearsed routine. Ammunition and explosives were checked and packed in special containers. Radios were carefully tested and fresh batteries installed. Personal weapons were gone over with a fanatical care before being carefully stowed. Uniforms and personal equipment were stuffed into the rucksacks known affectionately as Alice the Wart.

The staff fell into a flurry of activity as they reviewed the basic plans they had developed and trained to implement. They studied the intelligence available to them and selected their course of action. Then fourteen men received a special briefing, were issued tickets and money, and sent on their way as tourists.

The fourteen men were careful to travel in pairs or alone and to ignore each other. For the most part they looked liked civilians, except that most of them sported mustaches that only approximated Army regulations, wore an expensive Rolex or Seiko watch, and all were in exceptionally good physical shape that no casual clothes could hide. Kamigami inspected each man before he left the compound and made sure that no traces of Skoal rings were present on the hip pockets of their jeans. The sergeant major seriously doubted they could slip by a watchful observer. But he was certain they would know if they were “made” and could avoid being followed.

Fresh intelligence came in and the staff started to modify their plan. It was a process that would go on until they actually launched the mission and they would have no end of help and inputs from higher headquarters.

“I think we should take fifty shooters,” the lieutenant colonel in command of A Squadron told Trimler and the rest of the staff after seeing the latest high-resolution reconnaissance photographs of the Thai village where Nikki Anderson was being held.

“Too damn many unknowns,” Trimler finally said. “We don’t know the exact location in the village where Anderson is being held, what the defenses are…. Hell, we’re not even sure how many guards there are. We could be walking into a meat grinder.”

Kamigami used a magnifying glass to study the photos. Then he fished through a stack of older photos and pulled one out that was twenty-four hours older. “Here.” He pointed to a small compound on the western edge of the village. “In the older photo, you can see a Range Rover in the compound. That’s too expensive a car for a village like Ban Muang Dok. Now look at the latest photo. No Range Rover. But there are a single set of fresh tracks leading into a shed.” He passed the two photos around. “I’m willing to bet the tread of those tracks is the same as a Range Rover.”

“Sergeant Major, are you saying that the location of the Range Rover is the key to Anderson’s whereabouts?” Trimler asked. The big NCO only gave a short nod in reply.

“We still don’t know the size of the opposing force,” the lieutenant colonel said.

Kamigami gave him an inscrutable look, hiding his thoughts. “The number of vehicles is the clue,” he said.

“But we can’t be sure,” the lieutenant colonel protested, a hard doubt about the wisdom of the mission behind every word. “We need better intelligence.”

“Then we go in with maximum surprise,” Trimler said, “and maximum violence.” He had brought the mission down to the basic way Delta worked.

Udorn, Thailand

Nearly twenty years of neglect had extracted a heavy price and the air base was a shabby image of what it had been. Captain S. Gerald Gillespie wandered down the longabandoned flight line and tried to see the base as it had been in its prime. But the former American base at Udorn, Thailand, had changed and the captain could not visualize the ramp when it had been packed with a wing of F-4s, the premier fighter aircraft of its day, and over four thousand American servicemen. “So this was the home of the Triple Nickel, the MiG killers,” he mumbled to himself and again, he
looked down the ramp, now only seeing a vast empty expanse of concrete with grass growing between the cracks. He was looking at an abandoned parking lot.

He looked back in time and called up images of a World War II movie with B-17s taxiing out to takeoff for a bombing mission over the Third Reich. Then he changed the scene to Udorn, with images of F-4s taxiing out of revetments to marshal up for a MiG sweep over the skies of North Vietnam. It worked, and for a brief moment, he was there, launching with both the Eighth Air Force in World War II and the 555th Squadron in Vietnam as the nerve-shattering roar of F-4s blended with the howl of radial engines from an even more distant past. “Damn,” he muttered, “and I’m only a rotorhead.”

A shout brought him back to the present. “Gill! We need your body.” The captain turned to see E-Squared sitting in a pickup truck with Hal “the Beezer” Beasely, the AC-130 aircraft commander. Gillespie gave a last look down the flight line as he crawled into his seat. “We got a hot one,” E-Squared told him.

“More training?” Gillespie asked.

“Not this time,” E-Squared answered. He drove rapidly to the Air America compound at the far end of the base that was in much better shape and still occupied by Americans.

“I wonder what in the hell the CIA’s still doing here?” Gillespie wondered.

“Don’t ask,” E-Squared told him. The veteran C-130 driver had been in special operations most of his career in the Air Force and knew that wherever they went, the CIA was sure to be there. But it wasn’t something they talked about. The exterior of the building they entered was as shabby as the rest of the base. But once inside, things changed. The interior was modern, clean, and plush. “Whoever works here likes their creature comforts,” E-Squared observed. They were escorted into a briefing room.

“What’s the Old Man doing here?” Gillespie whispered when they entered. Their commander, Colonel “Duck” Mallard, was sitting in the room with a few members of his staff.

“This ain’t a training exercise anymore,” E-Squared told him.

Mallard waited until they had all found seats. “Gentle
men,” he said, “we have been asked to go in after one of the hostages. Now don’t you all go wetting your pants over this,” he cautioned them. “Our job is to insert a team from Delta Force, maintain cover with an AC-One-thirty gunship, and provide an MC-One-thirty as an airborne command ship. Not much in it for us. But we can start to work and select potential landing zones around the target area and find equivalent training sites. A contingent from Delta Force will arrive tomorrow and we’ll start training immediately.” He turned the meeting over to his chief of intelligence, Lieutenant Colonel Leanne Vokel, who went over the details.

Near the end of the meeting, E-Squared raised his hand. “What’s the threat in the target area?” he asked.

“The only reported threat is small arms fire,” came the answer.

“Intel is always wrong,” E-Squared said, sotto voce.

1943
Zaragoza, Spain

The man called Leonard stomped across the small room and focused his gaze out the dirty window. The Andorran smuggler called Felipe who had helped them cross the Pyrenees Mountains into Spain had been gone for over forty-eight hours and he did not want Chantal to see his worry. “Waiting is the hardest part,” he said. The tone of his voice told more than he intended. The wind hammered at the window and a swirl of dust scurried across the floor toward the bed where Zack lay wrapped in blankets. Chantal rose from the edge of the bed and joined the British agent at the window. Her frustration matched Leonard’s worry, for there was nothing she could do for the wounded pilot.

“He’s dying,” she said. The words ripped through her and tears ran down her cheeks. “We must get him to a hospital soon. I don’t know what’s wrong with his leg and can’t tell without an operation. His blood circulation is not correct.” The dome of Zaragoza’s cathedral on the banks of the Ebro River caught her attention and, for a moment, she wondered if prayer would help. “How dependable is he?” she continued. The Andorran had safely gotten them as far as Zaragoza,
but the dirty, foul-smelling man did not inspire confidence in her.

“These things always take longer than we want.” He wouldn’t tell her the truth about the Andorran.

Chantal conceded the point by falling silent. She turned back to the feverish pilot. “Not much longer,” she whispered.

Three hours later, they heard the familiar heavy tread of the Andorran as he climbed the rickety stairs outside their room. He shuffled into the room carrying a small suitcase and collapsed into a chair. “It’s arranged. We take him to hospital. A doctor and an army officer will be waiting.”

“Why an army officer?” Chantal shot at him, worry driving her words.

Felipe shook his head in resignation. “This is Franco’s Spain. Nothing out of the ordinary happens without the army knowing. It is quicker this way.”

“The fascist bastards,” Leonard growled.

“I don’t understand,” Chantal said.

“Spain is controlled by fascists,” Felipe told her. “Franco won the civil war in 1939 with the help of Mussolini and Hitler. Now they call Franco the Caudillo, the Leader. He rules the country with an iron, and very bloody, fist.”

“But I thought Spain was neutral,” Chantal said.

“Switzerland is neutral,” Leonard replied. “Not Franco.”

“Things change,” Felipe said. The two men glanced at each other. “Fortunately, everything has a price in Spain.” The Andorran picked up the suitcase and opened it. He fished out a Dutch passport and handed it to Chantal. “You are now Chantal van Duren, the sister of Jan van Duren.” He nodded toward the unconscious Zack. “You will take him to the hospital and explain how you and your brother were traveling to Portugal to visit relatives when he was hurt in a bombing raid. Since the wound appeared to be healing you continued on your way but now complications have set in. It has all been arranged.” He handed over a small bundle of travel papers, exit permits, and official clearances to go along with the fake Dutch passport. “The Spanish authorities will think you are like so many others trying to escape the war. Keep your story simple.” He passed over a small bundle of pesetas. “If you have to, offer small bribes as necessary ‘fees’ you are
willing to pay.” Then he handed Chantal the suitcase. “Take a bath and change into these.”

Chantal examined the contents of the suitcase. “These are very nice traveling clothes,” she told him. A blush crept across her cheeks. “I’ve never worn underthings like these.”

“Use the bath on the bottom floor,” the Andorran said. “It’s been arranged.” Chantal closed the suitcase and hurried out of the room.

“Why the clothes?” Leonard asked in English.

“She’s the bait to make it all happen,” Felipe answered. His voice had lost its rough edge.