The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (46 page)

The truck, launcher, and burkas evaporated.

“Jesus Christ!” shouted Larsen. “That was just stupid! Did they hire a new girl at CIA just for this?”

“Um, Reaper Two
,
” Graham called, “you’re live.”

“Copy, Command! Opinion here remains unchanged! Whoever that woman is, she’s an idiot! When this is over, send her ass out here for some face time with me. Reaper Two out.”

The other Predator descended to eight thousand feet. Llewellyn saw the eerie static electric glow of the helicopter blades as the rotors hit dust particles in the air.

“North Tower Alpha firing.” A pair of concussion missiles from the Blackhawk collapsed the roof, another rude dose to anyone below.

The helicopters hovered over the smoldering compound, their doors open.

“Standby to insert!” Travis Sherpao instructed his SEAL teams.

They prepared to fast rope down.

“Remember…possible friendly on ground,” Sherpao said through his radio.

A private communiqué from Llewellyn regarding that prospect jogged Sherpao’s memory. He recalled a conversation with a former SEAL named Tony months earlier at a tribute celebration for fallen colleagues.

“
This doctor’s fiancée died on 9/11!”
he’d said,
adding with only a half laugh, “
The guy insisted he would kill Osama himself.”

While quarantined with the assault teams after their final mission briefing, Sherpao mentioned the possibility of a lone wolf. Every SEAL team member agreed to press for mission completion. Failure wouldn’t be theirs.

As Sherpao listened to what was happening on the ground, damn if it wasn’t perhaps a reality.

“Make sure your air is on!” he reminded his colleagues.

Their faces were sealed inside shatterproof masks with integrated night-vision.

Graham and Llewellyn exchanged glances.

“Admiral,” she said, “we are dead on timeline.”

“Advise the teams this is now a
kill
mission. With what’s gone on down there, I’ve no stomach for more risk.”

He didn’t give a damn if they blew bin Laden to bits.

From each side of the helicopters, tear gas canisters fired through the holes in the roof. More canisters spewed white clouds outside.

“Insert now!’ said Sherpao.

Connected to the outrigger, he dropped to the ground first. He saw a man emerge from behind the wall, preparing to fire an RPG. Sherpao’s gun stopped him with a two-round burst.

Twelve black apparitions fluttered to the ground and formed into trios. Their patterned search began.

“Twelve-minute mark,” came into their helmets.

Morgan’s brain felt thick—full of mud. The building shook again. A wood beam dropped on his shoulder, dislocating it. He fell, inhaling dust and choking. Illuminated by the fire, he saw bin Laden scrambling away.

“Not this time!”

Morgan tackled him, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. Wrapping the rope around bin Laden’s neck, he shoved a clump of pig hair in the terrorist’s mouth.

“Pig…from America!” he screamed in his ear. “Suck on it to Hell!”

The noose tightened.

“For my Caroline!”

The man struggled more.

A wave of tear gas overwhelmed Morgan. His grip slackened. Bin Laden rammed a fist to his testicles. Morgan grunted but held firm.

The SEALs were probing the inside spaces, entering a room of tangled chairs and tables. Stepping on broken plates and splattered food, they passed multiple bodies.

“Four down near back wall,” Sherpao heard. “Not our work. Moving.”

He heard gunfire outside until a slash of white streaked from Warrior Two.

“SAM neutralized,” said a voice.

“Nothing upstairs but dead bodies,” radioed another SEAL.

Sherpao’s trio stopped outside a door with a hole in it. There was an active struggle on the other side.

“Admiral,” said Graham, “more Pakistani fighters scrambling.”

“Call the Eagle Fighters in,” Llewellyn said. The situation was deteriorating. “Get Wolfpack refueled,” then he spoke directly to the White House situation room, “we may need your help shortly.”

He looked at Graham again then reflexively at his watch. “Tell them only five minutes. We either get that SOB this time or we try again.”

Morgan’s universe constricted as he tightened the rope noose more. He gave it slack and pulled again.

He felt ecstatic.

“Wes…”

His grip held firm.

“Wes…no…”

The man was struggling less.

“Flash-bang,” said Sherpao.

The grenade went through the hole.

The blast stunned Morgan, knocking him flat. His grasp on the rope softened.

“No more killing, Wes.”

The bedlam around him dissolved to silence. He became transfixed.

“Not for me…”

That music! He had heard it before! His memory reached back then came forward.

“Dante…go scout!”

One of Sherpao’s men released the dog. The Belgian Malinois jumped over the door blown from its hinges.

Eddies of red spun inside Morgan’s eyelids. Consumed by the acrid smoke, he coughed hard. When he opened his eyes, Dante’s intense stare was body-checking him.

Morgan breathed in and coarsely whispered, “A…friendly face.”

A light blinded him. New men were in the room.

“My name,” Morgan shouted, “is Dr. Wesley…Randall…Morgan.” He was panting. “From…Chicago.”

Sherpao heard the three-minute warning.

“Name the football team,” he said, stepping closer.

Morgan had only seconds.

“The Bears…” Trying to breathe, he wanted to give him more. “Won the…’85…Super Bowl…”

“Command,” Sherpao radioed, “we’ve got
Wildcard.”

“Admiral! What crap!” Rushworth spoke in the loop. “We want Osama, remember?”

“Shut up, Priscilla!” President Reeves cut in on the line.

“He was here…” Morgan wheezed. “Couldn’t kill him…passed out.”

“Stay put,” Sherpao said, looking at his bloody neck. “Just breathe.” He spoke into his headset. “
Wildcard
wounded.”

The steady voice from Washington said, “Outside teams to extraction perimeter.”

Dante raced everywhere while the SEALs picked through the remaining rooms.

“Dad-gum-it! No contact,” said Sherpao. “
Composer
went in a rathole. Must be in a tunnel below.” He paused to control his irritation. “Damn!”

“Hunting season stays open.” The resigned reply came through space into his ears.

“Withdrawing now. Taking’ my hat off to Doc, though.” Sherpao chuckled. “Got some big balls! Sign that boy up.”

He came back to Morgan and saluted. “Sir, let’s get you out of here.”

M
organ collapsed in the seat while a medic harnessed him.

The young man shouted in his ear, “Want some water, sir?”

It took Morgan a moment to connect with the friendly Southern twang. Before he could answer, the man dug in a chest, twisted off the cap, and handed him a plastic bottle. Cold and sweet, the water was gone in seconds.

His gloved hands inspected Morgan’s neck wounds. The antiseptic stung, but he was too numb to move.

The medic shouted, “Lucky these are superficial.” He started an IV in Morgan’s arm. “Gonna give you an antibiotic and clean you up good. Get that shoulder fixed up later. How ‘bout some morphine?”

“No morphine,” Morgan shouted with a strong head shake.

The medic cupped headphones over Morgan’s ears. They instantly came alive. A penetrating voice demanded an immediate answer.

“Doc’s aboard,” the pilot radioed. “Tower One Alpha team recovered…Going airborne.” Static. “Adios down there.”

High above, a satellite relayed the words. Morgan couldn’t smile but felt the same way through his throbbing brain.

The helicopter accelerated.

The SEALs had been on the ground only fourteen minutes.

“All teams, James Llewellyn here…good try, Americans! POTUS sends his thanks. We’ll get
Conductor
. He can run, but can’t hide forever. Sending friends along while you clear the airspace.”

The F-15s screamed past, shuttering the Blackhawk airframes.

“Tower Teams, good evening! Eagles at your service!”

Through the cockpit window, Morgan saw the orange glow of their engines as the jets turned to assume their flanks. His headphones crackled again.

“Dr. Morgan, this is
Eagle One
…We’re bringing you home.”

Alexandria Friday Morning March 19, Eastern Time

E
laine Jericho decided to take the morning for herself. She was sick of the parade of realtors and their clients who opened her closets and glimpsed inside the unsealed packing boxes, asking where she was moving.

She turned up the volume so the music blasted through her earbuds, hoping it would drown her indelible disappointment. After she went running on the Potomac trail, she planned to sit in a café and drink tea, immersing herself in one of her books, trying not to look at any clock.

If the strike had occurred, it was already over anyway. Someday she’d hear scuttlebutt or read the story in the newspapers, but she wasn’t certain she even cared. All Jericho wanted to do was withdraw to the next place and get on with her life—whatever that meant.

When she finally returned home, she didn’t hear the phone ring until there was a break in the music.

The blocked number made her stomach churn.

“Hello,” she answered.

“Elaine, its Cottrell.”

“Admiral…”

Their former rapport wasn’t there.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said. “Do you have a minute?”

“Of course, sir. How may I help you, sir?”

Her words held no emotion.

“I wanted you to know…” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

He sensed false indifference.

“We didn’t get him.”

“Sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault. He escaped through a tunnel, but his day will come. Got a trove of information the spooks are dissecting. State and POTUS are repairing the damage with the Pakistanis.”

“I wish I cared.”

“Well, this other bit might perhaps cheer you.”

Her heart skipped.

“Someone you may be wondering about is coming home.”

He heard the gasp as she grabbed the counter’s edge.

“Elaine, are you okay?”

“Yes…sir.” She added, “Thanks so much for calling, Admiral.”

“Lainey, I’m sorry ‘bout all this. If there’s ever anything I can do for you…”

“You already have, Cotty…You already have.”

The pay phone rang. Jericho answered it.

“How are you doing?” Jon Pruitt asked her.

“I’m packing and doing other mundane chores that compliment my new ordinary life,” she replied.

“Not much fun,” he said.

“Doing my duty.” She sounded mournful. “Jon…I want to share good news with you.”

Pruitt was certain what it was. The day after she visited the farm, Pruitt called on President Reeves at the White House to show his friend Morgan’s email and mention the unfortunate circumstances that fell on a navy captain who, while attempting to protect her country, had corroborated Morgan’s possible whereabouts. Reeves said he would do what he could for both Morgan and Jericho.

Early this morning Reeves had called and told him of Morgan’s rescue, but Pruitt would give the moment to Jericho.

“Please, Elaine. My heart can’t tolerate prolonged anticipation from an attractive woman.”

“Jon…All I know…” Her eyes were misting. “Wes is coming home.”