Political Suicide
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CONTENTS
With my thanks and deepest respect to Dr. Lloyd Axelrod and Dr. Michael Fifer of Massachusetts General Hospital
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Much energy and thought have gone into this novel, not all of it mine. This is my chance to thank those who have been with me during this journey, and I do so gratefully:
My brilliant editor, Jennifer Enderlin, has a gift for story that few possess.
The gang at the Jane Rotrosen Agency, especially my agent Meg Ruley, who continues to be incredible fun to work with.
Experts Dr. Lisa Sanders, Dr. Geoffrey Sherwood, Dr, Kate Isselbacher, author Cilla McCain, attorney William J. Bladd, ballistics guru Steve Ostrowski, Dr. Rock Grass, and Dr. Ethan Prince.
Others without whom I could never have completed
Political Suicide
include:
The Palmer brothers, Daniel, Matthew, and Luke.
Robin Broady, Donna Prince, and Susan P. Terry.
and the many, many friends of Bill Wilson and Dr. Bob Smith.
PROLOGUE
MAY 3, 2003
The three men, members of Mantis Company, slipped out the open hatch of the C-130 transport as it flew sixty-five thousand feet above the world. They had trained for this jump countless times. Their gear, ballistic helmets, oxygen masks, Airox O
2
regulators, bailout bottles—all fastidiously maintained—assured them a successful landing. Altimeters marked their belly-to-earth rate of descent at 115 miles per hour. Minutes of free fall were spent in an effortless dive, with the men dropping in formation, still and straight. Automatic activation devices engaged the parachutes eight hundred feet before impact, the lowest altitude allowed for combat high altitude–low opening jumps.
They descended through the low cloud covering like missiles, emerging out of nothingness beneath a starless predawn sky. Their landings, each completed with a puma’s grace, would have made their instructors back at Quantico proud. Perfection. Mantis demanded nothing less. In silence, the three exchanged their polypropylene undergarments, vital to protect against frostbite at high altitudes, for white cotton robes and the traditional head coverings of Taliban fighters. Then they zippered shut their fifty-pound combat packs.
Wearing their dusty garments, the men anticipated they would not immediately rouse any suspicion. Each of the three had a tanning booth tan supplemented by professionally applied makeup, as well as a closely trimmed mustache and a fully grown beard. Moving stealthily, the trio blended in with their surroundings—a mountainous, rocky region in southern Afghanistan, barren as a moonscape.
“Any injuries?”
“No, Sergeant,” the two men replied in unison.
“Miller, how many klicks to the target?”
Miller checked his handheld GPS. “Five kilometers south-southwest of the target, Sergeant.”
“Gibson, ditch the gear.”
Gibson knew not to look long for a suitable location in which to hide their parachutes and other equipment. By the time any Afghani stumbled upon the array of high-tech military paraphernalia hidden behind a jagged boulder, it hopefully would be too late.
They walked in single file, moving silently across the rock-strewn terrain, with Miller and his GPS taking the lead. Behind them, dawn rose in streaks of brilliant pinks, yellows, and blues—giant fingers extending skyward, beckoning the new day. If anyone had checked the men’s pulses at that moment, none would be above fifty beats per minute.
Miller found the road, a rutted stretch of dirt that would carry them to the outskirts of Khewa, a town of twenty thousand that would look the same today as it did a century and a half ago. Young women wearing chadors stopped farming the fields of wheat, rice, and vegetables lining the roadside to give the trio a cursory glance before quickly resuming their duties. The marines’ disguises were good enough so that none of the women bothered with a closer inspection. They had estimated that unless their luck was extremely bad, they could survive twelve hours or so before they were identified by soldiers or one of the villagers.
Way more than enough time.
The men of Mantis Company reached the crumbling clay brick walls of Khewa’s borders without incident. The town was defined by its absences—no cars, no electricity, no running water. Evidence of twenty years of war was seen everywhere. Craters left by bombs and land mines made what limited roads there were treacherous to pass even on foot. Bombed-out buildings and homes were in greater number than habitable ones.
The smells of the market guided the men toward their destination. They wandered about casually through shabby stalls built of boards, sheets, and mud and bunched together on each side of a single-lane dirt road. The central market was already bustling despite the newness of the day. In some stalls, slabs of fly-covered meat dangled like macabre wind chimes, while bloodstained butchers called out the day’s prices in Pashto. Persian music blasted from cheap radios as the marines continued their stroll past stalls selling fruit, breads, and rudimentary household supplies.
Two hours had brought a sweltering midmorning before they caught the attention of a town elder.
“Don’t look now,” Gibson said, his voice hushed, “but it looks like we’ve been noticed.”
The Afghani, with a white beard descending to his chest, carrying a Kalashnikov assault rifle, approached the men the way he might a poisonous snake.
The three marines turned their backs to the man and moved well away from the women and children in the crowded market. To the extent they could control it, this operation was going to be soldiers only. When they finally stopped, the Afghani took two cautious steps toward them … then a third. His dark eyes narrowed. Then he began to shout and point frantically.
His shrill voice rose above the market’s din, catching the attention of more men dressed in dirty gray or white robes, each, it seemed, carrying a weapon different in make and age from the others. The commotion rapidly crescendoed, with more Afghani men—some armed, some not—racing up from all directions to surround the intruders. They were screaming, shouting in Pashto, and pointing long, dirt-encrusted fingernails at the three men now trapped inside the rapidly expanding circle.
“How do you like the show so far, Miller?” the sergeant asked, barely moving his lips.
“Just what you told us, Sarge,” Miller said without a waver in his voice. “Provided they go and get Mr. Big.” He moistened his lips with his tongue.
The Taliban fighters were ten deep now, 150 of them at least, many with weapons leveled—PK machine guns, ancient Lee-Enfields, plus a variety of handguns. They were pushing and shoving to get a closer look at the men who had so brazenly strolled into the center of their city.
“Just keep your hands raised,” the sergeant said to both his men, “and keep scanning the crowd for Al-Basheer. If our intelligence is correct, none of them will make a move until he gets here.”
The closest men in the milling circle were a smothering five or six feet away.
Miller spotted Al-Basheer first. His orange beard and bulbous nose were distinct giveaways.
“That’s him, Sergeant,” Miller said as the crowd parted to admit their leader, one of the most powerful and influential fighters in the region.
Al-Basheer strode through the ranks. The sergeant smiled and nodded, and immediately the three marines formed a tight triangle, facing outward with their shoulders touching. The sudden movement caused some of those surrounding them to step back.
But not Al-Basheer.
“Whatever it takes,” the sergeant said.
“Whatever it takes,” Miller and Gibson echoed.
In a singular motion, the three men threw off their robes.
The crowd began screaming again.
Strapped to each intruder’s chest were bricks of explosive—three on the right side and three on the left—with wires connected to a battery hinged to their waists.
“Whatever it takes,” the sergeant said again.
The push of a button, a faint click, and in an instant, every man in the warrior circle was vaporized within a white hot ball of carefully concentrated light.
CHAPTER 1
Dr. Louis Francis Welcome could do a lot of things well, but doing nothing was not one of them. His desk at the Washington, D.C., Physician Wellness Office, one of four cubicle work areas jammed inside 850 square feet had never been so uncluttered. On a typical midafternoon, the voice mail light on Lou’s Nortel telephone would be blinking red—a harbinger that one or more of his doctor clients needed advice and support in their recovery from mental illness, behavioral problems, or drug and alcohol abuse. At the moment, that light was dark, as it had been for much of the past several days.
Lou got paid to manage cases and monitor the progress of his assigned physicians, with the express goals of guiding them into recovery and eventually getting surrendered licenses reinstated. The holiday season inevitably brought an influx of new docs, often ordered to the PWO by the D.C. board of medicine.
But not recently.
He strongly suspected the lack of clients did not indicate a dwindling need for PWO services. On the contrary, as with the general population, the stress accompanying the last six weeks of the year unmasked plenty of physicians in trouble for a variety of reasons. So why in the hell, he mused, absently constructing a chain from the contents of his inlaid mother-of-pearl paper clip box, was he not getting any new cases?
There was, he knew, only one logical explanation for the paucity of referrals—Dr. Walter Filstrup, the director of the program.
Rhythmically compressing a rubber relaxation ball imprinted with
PFIZER PHARMACEUTICALS
, Lou sauntered over to the reception desk, where Babs Peterbee seemed to be quite busy.
“Hi, there, Dr. Welcome,” she said, her round, matronly face radiating a typical mix of caring and concern. “I didn’t see you come in.”
“Ninja Doctor,” Lou said, striking a pose. “Any calls?”
“A man who said he wanted to talk to you about the head of his department drinking too much. I referred him to Dr. Filstrup’s voice mail.”
