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  Hendley did not want to send them, but as they pled their case he realized he could not deny them the chance to rescue their friend.

  Gerry Hendley had lost his wife and three kids in a car crash, he’d lost Brian Caruso the year before in a Campus mission that he approved, and these facts were not lost on the other men in the room.

  Gerry wanted Sam back as much as or more than anyone else on the team.

  He said, “Men. Right now, like it or not, Clark is on his own. We will support him here, in any way we can, if he checks in with us and requests more help.

  “This opportunity to go after Sam.” Hendley just shook his head. “It sounds like a shit sandwich. It sounds really dicey. But I will never be able to live with myself if I don’t allow you guys the chance to go after him. It is up to the three of you.” Chavez said, “We’ll go to Pesh and talk to al Darkur. I trust him. If he says the men who are leading the raid are on the up-and-up… well… that’s about all we can ask for, isn’t it?” Hendley agreed to let them go, but he was under no illusions they were just going to feel the situation out. He could tell by the looks in their eyes that these three men would be heading into battle, and he wondered if he could live with himself if they did not come back.

  62

  General Riaz Rehan sent a message to all of the organizations under his control. Not to the leadership of the organizations but to dozens of individual cells. The active units in the field were the men Rehan trusted to do their duty to his cause, and he took the time to spend the day in communication via e-mail, Skype, and sat phone, ordering them all into action.

  India was the target. D-Day was now.

  Attacks began within hours. Along the border between the countries, deep in the Indian interior, even Indian embassies and consulates in Bangladesh and other countries were attacked.

  To those asking “Why now?” the answers varied. Many in the world press blamed President-elect Jack Ryan for his verbal attacks on the weak Pakistani government, but those in the know could tell the coordination necessary for these actions meant the plans had been in place for some time, long before Ryan promised he would back India if Pakistan did not end its support for terrorism.

  Most people also knew that there was no reason to ask “Why now?” because although the scale of the conflict had increased in the past month, the conflict itself had been going on for decades.

  The operation that Riaz Rehan had put into action in the past months, beginning with the attack on the Electronics City tollway in Bangalore, had come to him in a dream many years before, in May of 1999. At that time, India and Pakistan were in the midst of a brief border skirmish that became known as the Kargil War. Pakistani forces crossed the Line of Control between the two nations, small battles raged, and artillery shells crashed down inside the borders of both countries.

  Rehan was there on the border at the time, organizing militant groups in Kashmir. He had heard a rumor, later proven true, that Pakistan had begun readying some of its nuclear arsenal. The Pakistanis had possessed nuclear weapons for more than a decade by this point, although their first test of an atomic weapon had just taken place the year before. They had nearly one hundred warheads and air-to-ground bombs, all kept disassembled but ready for quick assembly and deployment in case of national emergency.

  That night, sleeping in a mountain redoubt straddling the Line of Control, Rehan dreamt nuclear weapons were brought to his hut by a large saker falcon. The saker ordered Rehan to detonate warheads on both sides of the border in order to create an all-out nuclear war between the two nations. He set off the weapons along the border, the war escalated to the cities, and out of the ashes of the radioactive fires Rehan himself emerged as caliph, the leader of the new caliphate of Pakistan.

  Since the night of the dream, he had thought of the falcon and the caliphate each and every day. He did not see his dream as the ruminations of a manipulative mind pulling data out of the real world and spinning it subconsciously into fantasy. No, he saw his dream as a message from Allah — operational orders, just like he would obtain directives from his ISI handlers, and just like he would relay his orders on to the cells under his control.

  Now, thirteen years later, he was ready to put his plan into practice. Operation Saker he called it, in honor of the falcon who came to him in the dream.

  Over time he had seen it become necessary to change the operation somewhat. He realized India, with many, many more nuclear devices than Pakistan and better delivery capabilities, would destroy Pakistan if a true nuclear war broke out. Plus, Rehan realized, India was not preventing Pakistan from becoming a true theocracy. No, Pakistan itself was the impediment — or more precisely, the Pakistani secularists.

  So he decided instead to use the theft of nuclear devices to topple the weak civilian leadership of his country. The citizenry would accept military rule, they had done so many times before, but not if it turned out the ISI or the PDF had stolen the nukes themselves to effect the change in leadership. So Rehan devised a plan to hand off the nukes to some Islamic militant group outside Pakistan, to throw off the scent that the entire operation was an inside job.

  Once the government fell Rehan would take control and he would purge the military of secularists, and he would unleash his force of militant groups on secularists within the citizenry.

  And Rehan would become caliph. Who better than he, after all? He had become, through years of following the orders of others, a one-man conduit between all the Islamic organizations fighting on behalf of the Islamists in the military. Without Rehan, the ISI could not control Lashkar-e-Taiba, they would not eashhave the support of Al-Qaeda that they enjoyed, they would not have the other twenty or so groups doing their bidding, and they certainly would not possess the money and support that they received from Rehan’s personal benefactors in the Gulf States.

  General Rehan was not known in his country at large, he was very much the opposite of a household name, but his return to the PDF and his ascension to department director in the ISI had given him the status he needed to lead a coup against the secular government in charge when the time was right. He would have the support of the Islamists in the Army, because Rehan had the support of the twenty-four largest mujahideen groups in the country. The ISI’s success depended on this large uncoordinated but quite powerful proxy force, and the ISI/PDF leadership had created in their man Rehan something of a necessary link between themselves and their crucial civilian army.

  Rehan was no longer just the cutout. Rehan had, by his work, his intelligence, and his guile, made himself a secret king, and Operation Saker was his route to his throne.

  63

  Domingo Chavez, Dominic Caruso, and Jack Ryan Jr. stepped out of the AS332 Super Puma helicopter and into a freezing cold predawn. Though none of the three men had a clue just where they were as far as a point on a map, they all knew from conversations over the satellite phone with Major al Darkur that they were being transported to an off-limits military base in Khyber Agency run by the Pakistani Defense Force’s Special Service Group. In fact they were in Cherat, some thirty-five miles from Peshawar, in a compound resting at 4,500 feet.

  This commando camp would be the staging ground for the SSG hit into North Waziristan.

  The American men were led by stone-faced hardened soldiers to a shack near a parade ground on a flat stretch of dirt surrounded by lush hills. Here they were offered hot tea and shown racks of gear, woodland-camouflage uniforms in brown and black over green, and black combat boots.

  The men changed out of their civilian dress. Ryan had not worn a uniform since high school baseball; it felt strange and somewhat disingenuous to dress like a soldier.

  The Americans were not given the maroon berets worn by the rest of the SSG men in the compound, but otherwise their dress looked identical to the others in the camp.

  When all three men were decked out in the same kit, another helicopter landed on the helipad. Soon Major al Darkur, himself dressed in identical combat fatigues, st
epped into the shack. The men all shook hands.

  The major said, “We have all day to go over the mission. We will attack tonight.” The Americans nodded as one.

  “Is there anything at all that you need?” Chavez answered for the group: “We’re going to need some guns.” The major smiled grimly. “Yes, I believe you will.”

  At eight a.m. the three Campus operatives stood on the base’s rifle range, test-firing their weapons. Dom and Jack were outfitted with the Fabrique Nationale P-90 automatic rifle, a space-age-looking weapon that was excellent for close-quarters combat due to a bull-pup design, which shortened the length of the barrel that extended past the body of the user. This helped an operator move through doorways without telegraphing his movements horin advance with a protruding barrel.

  The gun also fired a potent but light 5.7-millimeter x 28-millimeter round from a hearty fifty-round magazine.

  Chavez opted for a Steyr AUG in 5.45-millimeter. It had a longer barrel than the P-90, which made it more accurate at distance, as well as a 3.5x power scope. The Steyr might not have been as good as the P-90 for close-in operations, but Chavez was first and foremost a sniper, and he felt the weapon was a fair trade-off.

  Chavez worked with the two younger men on their rifles, had them practice magazine changes while standing, kneeling, and lying prone, and firing the guns on semiauto and full auto while stationary and on the move.

  They also trained with three different types of grenades they would bring in on the op. Small Belgian mini-frag grenades, M84 stun grenades that delivered an incredible flash and bang after a two-second delay, and a 9-banger stun/distraction device that gave off nine less powerful explosions in rapid succession.

  During a break in the action to reload their mags, Major al Darkur appeared on the far side of the large outdoor range carrying an M4 rifle and a metal can of ammunition. Chavez had his two less experienced partners continue while he stepped over to the dark-skinned Pakistani.

  “What are you doing?” Ding asked.

  “I am test-firing my rifle.” “Why?”

  “Because I am going with you.” The major placed Oakley protective glasses over his eyes. “Mr. Sam was my responsibility, and I failed. I will accept responsibility for getting him back.” Chavez nodded. “I’m sorry I doubted you before.” Al Darkur shrugged. “I do not blame you. You were frustrated about losing your friend. If the situation had been reversed, I would have felt the same outrage.” Ding put a gloved hand out, and Mohammed shook it.

  Al Darkur asked, “Your men. How are they?” “They are good, but they don’t have much experience. Still, if your commandos occupy the forces at the perimeter, and the three of us move as a team through the compound, then I think we will be okay.” “Not three of you. Four of us. I will go inside the compound with you.” Now Chavez’s eyebrows rose. “Major, if you are bluffing, you are shit out of luck, because I am not going to turn you down.” Mohammed flipped the safety off his rifle and fired five quick shots downrange, each bullet banging against its target, a small iron plate that gave off a satisfying clang. “It is no bluff. I got Nigel and Sam into this. I cannot help Nigel, but perhaps I can help Sam.” “You are welcome on my team,” said Chavez, immediately impressed with the Pakistani man’s shooting.

  “And when you have your man back,” al Darkur continued, “I hope your organization will continue its interest in General Rehan. You seem to take him as a serious threat, as do I.” “We do, indeed,” admitted Chavez.

  The afternoon in Cherat was spent in a briefing by the Zarrar commandos, the unit that would head into North Waziristan with the Americans. The briefing was led primarily by a captain who explained what everyone should do, and what everyone should see, up until the moment when the Americans went inside the main building, where intelligence reports had indicated the prisoners were being kept.

  The SSG captain used a marking board and an authoritative voice. “The helo carrying the Americans will land directly in front of the gate, and the three Americans will depart and then breach the gate. We cannot land in the courtyard inside due to electrical wires. Our four helicopters will then go to points above the four walls of the camp and circle there, and we will provide covering fire for the entry team. This should occupy enemy forces in the building outside of the camp as well as those in the courtyard or those in windows. But it will do nothing for the entry team once they are inside the buildings themselves. We have no intelligence as to what the inside of the camp looks like, nor do we know where the prisoners are being held. Unfortunately, the Haqqani network captives at our disposal have not been into the main building itself, only to the barracks on the eastern side.” Caruso asked, “Any idea as to numbers of opposition?” The captain nodded. “Roughly forty to fifty men in the barracks, but again, our intention is to keep those men in their buildings so they cannot come into the main building behind you. There are another ten guards outside at any one time.” “And inside the main building?” “Unknown. Completely unknown.” “Awesome,” muttered Caruso.

  The captain handed each of the Americans a small LED device called a Phoenix. Ding was very familiar with the beacon. It was an infrared strobe that could be seen at night by the helicopter crews and, theoretically at least, reduce the chance that Chavez and his mates would fall victim to fratricide during the attack.

  “I need your men wearing these at all times.” “You got it,” said Chavez.

  Al Darkur and his American associates were also warned to stay away from any windows while they were in the building, as the Puma helicopters would be full of marksmen targeting movement there. The blinking strobes would be impossible to see from all angles, especially through doorways and windows.

  After the briefing, Mohammed asked Chavez what he thought about the operation. The American chose his words carefully. “It’s a little thin, to tell you the truth. They are going to take some casualties.” Mohammed nodded. “They are accustomed to that. Would you like to make some suggestions to make it better?” “Would they listen?”

  “No.”

  Ding shrugged. “I’m just a passenger on this bus. We all are.” Al Darkur nodded and said, “They will take us along so that we can go after Sam, but please remember, they will not enter the compound. The four of us will be on our own.” “I understand, and I appreciate you shouldering the danger with us.”

  The men were told to rest for a few hours before rallying at the helicopters at midnight. Chavez drilled his two younger partners for a couple more hours, and then all three men cleaned and lubed their weapons, before returning to a small hootch near the barracks to lie down on cots. But no one could sleep. They were just hours away from imminent danger.

  Chavez had spent the entire day getting the two cousins as ready as he possibly could for the action they were about to undertake. He doubted it was enough. Shit, Ding thought, this operation needed a full Rainbow squadron, but that wasn’t possible. He told the cousins something Clark had told him, way back when, on missions where they were poorly equipped.

  “You’ve got to dance with the one that brought you.” If the Zarrar commandos were as tight as their reputation, they’d have a shot at this.

  And if not? Well, if not, then the conference table at Hendley Associates was about to have three more empty chairs.

  Sitting in the hooch, Ding caught Ryan’s eyes drifting away, like the kid was daydreaming. Caruso seemed a bit overwhelmed by what was ahead as well. Ding said, “Guys, listen carefully. Keep your head in the game. You’ve never ever done anything even remotely like what you are about to do. We’re going to be up against, easily, fifty enemy.” Caruso smiled grimly. “Nothing like a target-rich environment.” Chavez grunted. “Yeah? Tell that to General Custer.” Dominic nodded. “Point taken.” The sat phone on Chavez’s hip rang just then, so he stepped outside to take the call.

  While Chavez was outside, Ryan thought about what he had just said. No, he’d never done anything like this. Dom, sitting next to him and reloading his pis
tol, had not either. The only guys on this force who were ready for a mission like this were Chavez, who would be, thank God, leading the way; Driscoll, who was somewhere at their target location, shackled in a cell maybe; and Clark, who was on the run from his own government, as well as others.

  Shit.

  Chavez leaned back into the door, behind him the lights from the helicopters shone and the noises of men assembling gear nearby rattled like a distant train. “Ryan. Phone.” Jack climbed off the cot and headed outside. “Who is it?” “It’s the President-elect.” Damn. This was hardly the time for a familial chat, but Jack realized that he truly wanted to hear his father’s voice to help calm his nerves.

  He answered with a joke. “Hey, Dad, are you the Prez yet?” But Jack Ryan Sr. made it clear instantly that he was not in a playful mood. “I had Arnie contact Gerry Hendley. He says you are overseas in Pakistan. I just need to know that you are safe.” “I’m fine.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I can’t talk about—”

  “Damn it, Jack, what’s going on? Are you in danger?” Junior sighed. “We are working with some friends over here.” “You have to choose your friends carefully in Pakistan.” “I know that. These guys are risking everything to help us.” Ryan Sr. did not respond.

  “Dad, when you get in office, are you going to help Clark?” “When I get back to Washington, I’ll move mountains to get his indictment overturned. But for now he is on the lam, and there is not a damn thing I can do about it.” “Okay.”

  “Do I hear helicopters in the background?” “Yes.”

  “Is something going on?”

  He knew he could have lied right now, but he did not. It was his father, after all. “Yes, something is going on, something much bigger than a couple weeks ago, and I’m in the middle of it. I don’t know how it’s going to play out.”