Ryan said, “I’ll talk to him. Thanks, John.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know, when I stood up The Campus, I worried about that kind of power falling into the wrong hands. I still worry about it. I put the best man I could in charge in Gerry Hendley, but still . . . you never know. Have to tell you how pleased I am that you’re over there, too. The organization is in good hands.”
“I appreciate that. The generation under me is very good, too, sir. I think the organization will be helpful for a long time to come.”
Ryan then blurted out a question he’d been hesitant to ask. “Is Jack on that plane?”
A pause. “He is, Mr. President. He was instrumental in finding Dalca, and he was instrumental in capturing him and securing the files.”
Ryan hesitated for a moment, taking in the information and controlling his emotions. He said, “He’s better than I was at all this, isn’t he?”
“Better? No, Mr. President. Like you, he is very good at both ends of the intelligence spectrum, but you had quite a few highlights in your own career.”
The President smiled a little into the phone. “One thing I had going for me was I didn’t have to walk around worried people were going to recognize me because of who my dad was.”
“Drives your son crazy sometimes, you’re right about that. If his dad had been a cop in Baltimore, instead of his granddad, he would have the same freedom of movement you enjoyed.”
Ryan said, “I know you are up against a timeline. I’ll head down to the Situation Room.”
—
Alexandru Dalca’s cabin chair had been turned slightly so he was facing the monitor on the wall next to him. Chavez moved behind him, while Jack, Gavin, and Midas all stepped to the far rear of the aircraft on the sofa, out of view of the camera over the monitor. This way the President would see only Dalca and Chavez, but Dalca would not be able to see anything but the monitor three feet in front of him.
Chavez pulled the man’s blindfold off from behind. They both sat there looking at a blank screen for a second, until Gavin adjusted some controls on the remote in his hand.
Suddenly the President’s face appeared on the screen. He was sitting at the end of the conference table in the Situation Room, wearing a suit and tie; no one else was on camera.
He adjusted his glasses as he looked at the monitor in front of him. “You’re Dalca?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Dalca said. He seemed unimpressed to speak with the leader of the free world. “As I told the men who kidnapped me, for my liberty and along with a reasonable fee I will give them all the passwords to my computer, and show them who has been targeted by the various parties I sold intelligence to.”
“Well . . . I must say, you are rather up front about it, aren’t you?”
“I will play fair with America, if America will only play fair with me. Time is of the essence. I imagine the terrorists are preparing their next attack even as we speak.”
The President said, “Did you hear about Chicago?”
“Yes. It was on the radio this morning. Thomas Russell was one of the targeting packages I created. Just goes to show you how much damage can be caused by one small identity compromise. There are dozens in the wind now, and only I can stop them from turning into dozens more Chicagos.”
Ryan nodded slowly. Finally he said, “Who is in charge on that plane?”
Of course Ryan knew Chavez would be the leader of this group, since Clark wasn’t on board the aircraft. But for the theater of the moment he had to pretend like he didn’t know anyone on the plane personally.
Right behind Dalca, Ding Chavez said, “That would be me, Mr. President.”
“Very well,” Ryan said. “As your Commander in Chief, I am giving you a direct order with respect to Mr. Dalca, which you, and your subordinates, will obey.”
“Of course, sir.”
Dalca began to smile.
“You are flying over the Atlantic Ocean right now?”
“That’s correct, sir,” said Chavez.
“Good. I want you to open a hatch and throw Dalca out of the plane. Is that clear?”
It was stone-cold silent in the cabin of the Gulfstream for several seconds. Dalca himself spoke first.
“What? No! You need me.”
Ryan said, “I wouldn’t say need. Your information would be beneficial, yes, but we can live without it. I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
Chavez pushed a button to the cockpit. “Captain?”
Captain Helen Reid answered immediately over the cabin intercom speakers. “Can I help you?”
“We need to descend below ten thousand feet. We’ll be opening the rear cargo hatch.”
There was only a slight pause. “Roger. I’ll advise when we are depressurized.”
“No!” Dalca screamed.
Almost immediately, the aircraft began to descend.
President Ryan said, “You had no problem with death when you were facilitating the death of others. Funny that you seem white as a sheet right now.”
Dalca stammered, “I’ll . . . I’ll make a deal with you.”
Ryan shrugged, as if he did not care. “You already made an offer. My counteroffer is your immediate death. Negotiations are complete. Good-bye.” Ryan looked off camera, as if he was telling someone he was done with the feed.
Dalca screamed again. “Wait! I’ll give you everything, and I’ll help you catch al-Matari.”
Ryan gazed back into the camera. “How?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I’ll work with these men. We’ll figure something out. I am in communication with someone in ISIS. Maybe it’s al-Matari, maybe it’s someone else who feeds al-Matari the intelligence. I’ll help you. Just don’t kill me. Just let me go when this is over.”
Ryan said, “You mentioned something about twenty-five million. I don’t think the taxpayers want to pay the son of a bitch responsible for the death of so many good Americans.”
“Forget about the money! I will help you in any way I can. You just order these men to take me out of the USA and let me go when we are done.”
Ryan looked at the screen for a long time. Then he said, “Agreed.”
Chavez said, “Thank you, Mr. President.”
“If he gives you any trouble, you boys feel free to go back to my original plan. And if his attempts to help you are not successful, same thing. You have my authorization for extrajudicial termination. No one will question your motives if Dalca dies.”
“Understood, sir. If he is anything less than completely helpful in this endeavor, he’ll go for a high dive and a long swim.”
President Ryan nodded, and the transmission went dead.
In the rear of the plane, Jack Ryan, Jr., grinned from ear to ear.
Soon Chavez called to the cockpit, and the Gulfstream leveled out, and began climbing again.
Dalca was blindfolded yet again, and the Romanian recited the passwords to his computer. Once inside, Gavin entered several other passwords provided by the Romanian, to access all the targeting folders sent.
Jack spent an hour looking them over, but not until after Chavez contacted Clark and read off the names and locations of the targets. Clark would get Dan Murray to grab everyone still in jeopardy, though this would take hours, if not more than a day to happen.
When Chavez was finished with his call, Jack said he wanted to talk to everyone in the rear of the aircraft, out of Dalca’s earshot.
Jack said, “There are forty names on that list, most of them in the D.C. area, which makes me think al-Matari’s got people in D.C. and they are preparing to act.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Chavez said.
“So . . . I have an idea that will give the government time to get these people out of harm’s way, and give us a good shot at taking out al-Matari. It’s going to be hard, but I think the risk
is worth the reward.”
“Let’s hear it,” Gavin said.
“We use the conduit Dalca uses to feed intel to ISIS. We prepare a fake targeting package, giving al-Matari a target that is so perfect for his needs that there is no way he won’t jump right on it. We give him a short timeline, like he’s got to get his cell members in the area there, now, today, to take advantage of the opportunity. That way he can’t prepare any more than the minimum, and he’ll have to pull hitters off of these other targets.”
Chavez cocked his head. “Great idea. But you will need to feed him a target that you know, without a doubt, he will drop everything to go kill . . . Who are you going to use as bait?”
Jack smiled. “The son of the President of the United States. The targeting folder will show all the evidence al-Matari needs to see that Jack Ryan, Jr., doesn’t have Secret Service protection, and he’s all alone at his parents’ unguarded log cabin up in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I’ll show everything Dalca shows in his other folders, proving that I’m staying up there for a day or two, tops. They’ll have to drop what they’re doing and come after me.”
Gavin just looked at Jack. “Are you crazy?”
Jack added, “We suspect he was in Chicago last night, so it might not be him who comes, but if we can take any of his people alive, we’ll have a shot at al-Matari himself.”
Midas chimed in, “What happens when al-Matari shows up at your cabin with fifty guys?”
“We know he doesn’t have fifty guys. Plus the cabin is in a secluded, backwoods area, hard to get a busload of Arab terrorists into without drawing attention, and al-Matari will know this.”
“I don’t know, Jack,” Chavez said. “Using yourself as a lure is a little dicey.”
“Or crazy,” Gavin said.
“It’s our best play.” Ryan was confident in his plan.
Jack gave Chavez the precise location of the cabin, then Chavez took the coordinates up to the cockpit to talk to Helen and Country.
He returned a few minutes later, passing a blindfolded Dalca on the way. “Sorry, Jack. Won’t work. The place you are talking about going, there is nowhere for us to land anywhere within fifty miles. Considering flight time back to D.C., it will take us most of a day to get there. If we want to make sure al-Matari rushes men there ASAP, we need another location, or another target.”
Jack had been worried about that. “The location and the target are perfect. There is a way to get us there quickly. We have parachutes on board.”
Chavez shook his head. “Free-fall parachutes, and you aren’t qualified.”
“I can make it work.”
Midas said, “I’m free-fall qualified. I’ll go.”
Jack shook his head. “Sorry, Midas. Al-Matari will send his people after the President’s son. I need to be there so they can get positive ID, or they might not move in and reveal themselves. I can’t send someone else to do this. I’ve got to do it myself.”
Ding said, “These chutes take time to learn, Jack. You don’t just strap it on and leap out of a damn jet.”
“What choice do we have? Look at the pace of the attacks. Someone is going to die, today! Maybe many people. Maybe another Chicago! We have to redirect their operation. I’ll survive the jump. I might not land gracefully, I might spin a little or get stuck in a tree, but that’s better than landing hours away, because we don’t have hours to spare.”
Chavez thought it over for a couple minutes, then went to the front of the cabin and called Clark, and they talked quietly for several minutes more. When he returned, he said, “Green light.”
“Yes!” Jack exclaimed.
Chavez added, “Clark is going to get some equipment together and get on the road. He’ll be there too, out of sight and standing off with a long rifle. He’ll spot targets for us if al-Matari’s operatives hit.”
“Us?” Jack said.
“I’m jumping with you, to keep you alive on the way down. Dom and Adara are still in Chicago. She’s recovering in the hospital, and he’s with her, as well as helping what’s left of the JTTF pick up the pieces, so Dom and Adara are out of this fight. You and I will be alone in the house.”
Midas smiled a little and shook his head. “I knew it. The FNG has to babysit the asshole with the blindfold.”
“Sorry, Midas. Guard duty is beneath you, but we can’t fly him back to D.C. with only Gavin on board.”
Gavin made a face, but said nothing. It was clear he didn’t particularly want to fly alone in the cabin with the crazy Romanian.
Jack said, “Okay, I’ll work with Dalca to make the targeting package so we draw al-Matari to the cabin, and we’ll send it ASAP. We don’t have much time at all to make this happen. But if we don’t make this happen, somebody in D.C. is going to get killed today.”
Chavez looked at his watch. “We’ve got six hours’ flying time remaining. Someone could get killed even if we do everything right.”
68
Sami bin Rashid listened to the phone ring several times, until finally al-Matari answered on the other end.
“Yes?”
“Congratulations, brother. Chicago was a crippling blow. A masterpiece.”
Al-Matari did not share the jubilance of bin Rashid. “The President spoke at the White House today. He still refuses to put more troops in the Middle East. Even after last night. What kind of fool is he?”
“Patience. It will happen. And I think I know how to make it happen even more quickly.”
“How?”
“I am sending you another folder. This one is the best of them all. It will stick a knife right into the President’s heart, and there is no doubt we will have our war after this. He will bring his armies into the quagmire, your leadership will raise a call to arms, the believers will come from all over the world, and the caliphate will grow across the land.”
Abu Musa al-Matari didn’t buy into the flowery language of the Saudi. He merely said, “I’ll read what you send me.” And hung up the phone.
Fifteen minutes later he called back. His demeanor had changed completely. “This is authentic? This is real?”
“Of course it is real, brother,” bin Rashid said. “It is the truth. The son of Jack Ryan is alone in the woods, a lamb awaiting slaughter.”
“Incredible,” al-Matari said.
“But don’t delay. As the file says, he will be in that location for less than a day. By tomorrow morning he will return to Washington, D.C. You have to do this now.”
Al-Matari did not discuss operational details with the Saudi, and he was not about to change that now. He just said, “I will see what can be done.”
But right now Musa al-Matari himself was in a car with Algiers, and just behind them Omar and Tripoli followed. They were in central Pennsylvania, and with a check of the vehicle’s GPS, he saw they could be at the location in less than four hours.
He had two more operatives in D.C. right now, about to begin an operation within an hour, and four more en route from other areas. He could bring them all to meet him near this cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and together they could attack.
If the targeting information was correct—and the Saudi had sent good information thus far—then he and nine others should have no problem assassinating the son of the President.
He gave the order to his vehicle and the vehicle behind them, and then he sent the coordinates to the Atlanta cell.
They would all go after Jack Ryan, Jr.
—
With a little makeup, civilian dress, and hair blown out, Carrie Ann Davenport didn’t much look like the captain of an attack helicopter, and standing here in the sun at a backyard party with a drink in her hand, no one would have guessed that just a few days earlier she had been fighting on the front lines in Iraq.
She drank tonic water with lime and picked at finger food on a table as she chatted at th
e party in College Park, Maryland, at the home of a former commanding officer. Though the afternoon temperature was sweltering for most Marylanders, Carrie Ann found it pleasant. At the moment she wore a skirt with a sleeveless blouse, a far cry from the flight helmet, body armor, aircrew battle dress uniform, boots, and gloves that normally kept her roasting in the heat of Iraq.
She forced herself to focus on the now and not on the fact that in exactly one week she’d be wheels-up again, heading back toward the war zone.
Around her at the party were mostly Apache and Chinook pilots, both present and former. She’d served with many of them on deployments, and trained with many others stateside. A couple of senior officers here at the party worked at the Pentagon, as did her former commanding officer, who was now a lieutenant colonel and worked in strategic planning.
Carrie Ann was with the 2nd Battalion, 159th Aviation Regiment (Attack Reconnaissance) of the 12th Combat Aviation Brigade. She was stationed at Katterbach Kaserne Army base in Germany, which meant she was the only person here from her own unit. But she made friends easily, and was having an especially good time talking to a group of nonmilitary in the mix: a half-dozen liberal arts students from the University of Maryland, here at the lieutenant colonel’s house because they rented the house next door and her former commanding officer had invited them over for drinks and food.
None of the U of M students believed her at first when she said she was an Army officer. She looked just like another coed to them. When they asked her to prove it with an ID, she instead reached down the front of her blouse and pulled out her dog tags, then spun them around to the laughs of all around her, male and female alike.
A good-looking guy about her age who said he was in grad school working on an MA in history offered to go fetch her another vodka tonic, incorrectly assuming she was drinking alcohol, but she demurred. She wouldn’t mind talking to the guy some more, when there wasn’t a group of his friends standing around, but instead she went by herself to the picnic table set up with beers, booze, and mixers and fixed herself another tonic and lime.
Carrie liked the fact that, right now anyway, she didn’t feel much like the copilot-gunner of Pyro 1-1. She loved the Army but didn’t mind stepping away from it once in a while to remind herself of her past life, her other identity. This would all change next week, when she donned her ABDUs, packed her 5.11 backpack, and headed to the airport from her parents’ house in Cleveland for her flight to Germany. She’d be at Katterbach less than a day before returning to the battle zone, although she did not yet know where, exactly, she would be sent.