Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

On the other side of the world it was midday Sunday. In the War Room of the Pentagon, the president’s right-hand man, Sal Molina, shifted uncomfortably in a padded chair. He was surrounded by six generals, four army and two marine, and one civilian, Jake Grafton, who wore a sports coat and white shirt but not a tie.

“Who is leading this expedition?” Molina asked.

“Captain Runyon Paczkowski, U.S. Army,” he was told.

Molina just shook his head. “An O-3. Really!”

“Yes. Really,” said the army four-star who served as the deputy chief of staff.

Molina eyed the bemedaled general and said, “Oh.”

Grafton sagged an inch or so down into his seat. He knew Molina well enough to recognize the warning. He watched the ScanEagle feeds being presented on big screens in front of the pit, behind the podium and desk where two duty officers were seated before a bank of phones and computer screens. The natural light picture was nothing but a collection of spots from lights on the ground. The infrared picture, however, was quite good.

Due to the magnification of the lens, it was as if the viewers were hanging about five hundred feet over the factory. Jake could see the bright spots of helo exhaust, the warm people moving around and the cold, black streets leading to the factory. Empty streets… He consciously crossed his fingers, hoping the streets stayed empty.

“I’d like to know,” the army four-star said, “why we didn’t just bomb this damn factory and be done with it. Why are we putting boots on the ground, risking our men?”

“We’ve been through all that,” Molina said with finality.

The senior marine four-star weighed in. “We bought all those damn B-1s for the Air Force, two billion dollars each, and they can’t even use one to bomb a factory in Iran making EDs to kill our kids?”

“This isn’t Korea or Vietnam,” Molina said testily. “We’re trying to save GIs’ lives without goading Iran into a declaration of war.”

“Well, by God,” the army general declared, “you’d better take a good look around, Molina. Iran is fighting a war with us . They know it and the troops know it. ‘Death to America!’ How many times does that asshole Ahmadinejad have to shout it before you start listening?”

“I didn’t come over here to listen to your insubordination, General,” Molina shot back. Silence greeted that sally.

Jake watched as two soldiers carried what appeared to be boxes from a helo into the factory. Those boxes, he knew, contained demolition charges to ignite the explosives in the factory. Since they lacked certain knowledge of the munitions available inside, the troops had brought their own.

Sal Molina was still stewing. Sometimes people in uniform affected him that way. “I seem to recall that just last week the army asked the administration for more tanks in the next fiscal year,” Molina said. “Tanks don’t kill terrorists. Neither do F-35s or F-22s or attack submarines. I know you Pentagon boys like your toys, but you keep asking for crap to fight World War II all over again. This is another century , gentlemen; WW II and the Trojan War are ancient history. Get over it.”

“We need-”

Molina wasn’t in the mood. He gestured at the screens in the front of the room. “Drones! We have to contract for drone services because the army and marines don’t have the organization or supply system to operate them. The air force doesn’t really want them, insists they be flown by rated pilots, not enlisted men-but there ain’t no glory for drone pilots, no medals, no parades.”

Sal Molina smacked his hand down on the arm of his chair. “The brass running the American armed forces had better figure out how to fight twenty-first-century wars- the wars we have right now -or we are going to get some new generals pretty damned quick.”

He sprang from his chair and snarled at Grafton. “Call me and tell me how Captain Paczkowski’s little adventure turns out.” Then he stalked from the room.

Captain Runyon Paczkowski was in the middle of his adventure, and he didn’t think of it as small. In fact, it was the biggest adventure of his life. He was leading a military raid into a foreign country, and his men were wearing that country’s uniforms. All their lives were very much on the line; if they were caught, they would be shot as spies.

It was damned heady stuff for a twenty-eight-year-old graduate of Texas A &M, and he felt his responsibility keenly. He also felt the weight of his superiors’ expectations; they believed that he could successfully blow up this Iranian bomb factory and bring his men back. They wouldn’t have given him the job if they didn’t think he could do it-and by God, he could!

In one ear he was listening to the tactical net, the net his noncoms were on. In the other ear he listened to the frequency that allowed the Tactical Operations Center in Balad to talk to him. The TOC, which was also monitoring the feeds from the ScanEagles overhead, would give him the first warning if real Iranian troops put in an appearance.

Inside the factory his men were busy placing de mo lition charges around the machinery and in the stockpiles of completed roadside bombs awaiting shipment to Iraq and Afghanistan. Paczkowski strode into the office. Two of his troopers were hurriedly packing every sheet of paper they could find into boxes. One of them already had the only computer unplugged and was wrapping it in bubble wrap, which he had brought along just in case he got this opportunity. The monitor and keyboard he left on the desk.

“Hurry up,” Captain Pac muttered, but his men didn’t need encouragement. They were working as quickly as possible.

“We have a visitor.” He heard these words in his left ear. Sounded like the pilot of the lead helo, who was still strapped in with engines turning. “Police.”

“Fry?” Paczkowski said on the tac net.

“I’m on it, Captain.”

Fortunately Warrant officer Fry, the Special Forces team’s second in command, was a fluent Farsi speaker.

“Rodriquez?”

“Got him covered, boss.”

Paczkowski checked his watch. The men had another two minutes before they were scheduled to leave.

The two cleaning out the office grabbed their bundles and headed for the front door of the factory. Another two sergeants came in and picked up boxes of paper. The enlisted men on the team were all sergeants and, as Paczkowski well knew, were probably capable of running this mission without him; they were that good.

One box of documents remained, so the captain called another sergeant in to get it. The captain needed both hands free to make calls on the two networks.

When his men inside had their charges placed and the fuses running, Paczkowski joined them at the door. Fry was still talking to the police.

Paczkowski now had a decision to make, one that he hadn’t planned for. Should he lead his men to the helos and get aboard while Fry talked to the police, or should he give Fry a moment or two longer to get rid of them? Or should he have the cops taken down?

He knew that he had two other men watching the cops. If the policemen made the slightest move to harm Fry, or to detain him, the troopers would kill them both on the spot.

He keyed the radio to talk to the TOC. “Sixty more seconds.” Then he keyed the tac net. “Sixty seconds, and if the cops are not leaving, drop them.”

He got mike clicks in reply as he checked the second hand on his watch.

Captain Pac stared through the door at the two cops like a wolf watching sheep. He was perfectly willing to kill the two Iranian cops-he could clearly see that there were just two. He had seen the results of roadside bombs up close and personal, had seen men with arms and legs blown off, had seen men killed. These two weren’t responsible for that carnage, but this was their country and they were in the way, so if they didn’t leave they were going to have to take the fall.