Brad Thor - Blowback

“Maybe they’ve got more than three guys. Who the hell knows? They could have recruited a hundred people and that uniform box we found in the warehouse was only one out of ten others just like it.”

There was something about that that made sense. There was also a gnawing at the back of Harvath’s mind, as if the answer was already there, just waiting to be teased out. Why did the militants need the uniforms? If they weren’t going to launch their attack from inside the palace, where else would they launch it from? What purpose did the uniforms serve? What would they help them get close to? The most obvious answer was the Wahhabi leadership, but was there another answer?

Approaching King Fahad Air Base, Harvath saw a long motorcade speeding across the airport from the direction of the Crown Prince’s palace. The meeting had obviously been concluded, and the motorcade was carrying the Wahhabi leadership back to their aircraft. Soon it would all be over, thought Harvath. If the militants were going to make their move, it would have to be now, but how?

As the motorcade began closing in on a solitary Dessault Falcon 50 Business Jet, Harvath noticed the soldiers scattered across the base, some at attention, some at ease, and he was once again reminded of Andrews Air Force Base and Air Force One. Why did he keeping coming back to Andrews and the president’s aircraft? Then it hit him. Air Force One was at its most vulnerable when it was on the ground.

Suddenly, Harvath knew what the uniforms were for. They weren’t for getting close to the Wahhabis-they were for getting close to their airplane. Faruq was a genius with explosives, Kalachka had said. The Saudi Royal Family had refused to meet in Riyadh. They had insisted the Wahhabi leaders come to them, and it was the Royal Family who had not only provided the plane, but was responsible for its safety. Now, the picture was clear. Whatever happened, the Wahhabi leadership couldn’t be allowed to board or get anywhere near that airplane.

Grabbing the headset, Harvath yelled to the pilot, “We have to stop that motorcade.”

“What are you talking about?” the pilot responded.

“The plane they are headed for has a bomb on it.”

“But I’ve got wounded men on board who have to get to the hospital.”

“They can wait,” commanded Harvath.

“I have my orders.”

“Your orders have just changed,” said Reynolds as he painfully leaned into the cockpit and pressed his 1911 against the pilot’s head. “Do what the man says.”

As Harvath relieved both the pilot and copilot of their sidearms, the pilot replied, “Okay, you’re in charge. What do you want me to do?”

Harvath knew there wasn’t enough time to radio the tower and have them try to make contact with the motorcade, and so he ordered, “Put us down in front of the motorcade, right now.”

“Right in front of them? Are you crazy?”

“Do it,” commanded Harvath.

Swinging the huge Chinook around, the pilot pushed it full throttle, coming in low and amazingly fast over the top of the speeding motorcade. One hundred yards out, the pilot pulled up and set the Chinook down onto the tarmac, blocking the motorcade’s access to the airplane meant to carry the Wahhabi leadership back to Riyadh.

By the lack of reaction on the part of the motorcade, you would have thought they couldn’t see the enormous fifty-foot-long helicopter with its twin sixty-foot rotor spans, but Harvath knew what they were doing. Every security person in that motorcade had been warned about the plot to assassinate the Wahhabi leadership. They had no intention of slowing down. In fact, inside those cars they would be readying their weapons, preparing for a showdown.

“Call the tower,” Harvath instructed the pilot. “Tell them there’s a bomb on that plane and the motorcade needs to turn around and get the hell out of here.”

Over his headset, Harvath could hear the pilot radioing his instructions to the control tower. In the meantime, the motorcade was still closing. They were less than fifty yards away. Harvath considered his options and realized he had no choice.

Grabbing the spade grips of the Chinook’s door-mounted M60D7.62mm air-cooled machine gun, he made sure the belt-fed ammo was ready to roll, flicked off the safety, and began firing.

The heavy rounds tore huge pieces of asphalt from the tarmac in front of the motorcade. Though he kept firing, it wasn’t until he took out the radiator of the lead Suburban that the armored column came to a halt. The moment it did, doors flew open and security personnel positioned themselves to fire.

At 550 spm, or shots per minute, Harvath’s weapon outgunned anything that the security personnel were carrying. Throwing another wall of lead in their direction, yet safely above their heads, Harvath yelled into his headset, “What’s going on with the tower?”

“They’re still trying to reach the motorcade,” replied the pilot.

“Tell them to hurry up!” he ordered as he raked another series of rounds over the top of the motorcade. “These guys think we’re trying to take them out.”

Just as Harvath finished his thought, he saw the sunroof of the second Suburban slide back. Seconds later the unmistakable housing of an FIM-92A Stinger Weapons System was slid through the roof, followed by a resolute-looking man who was balancing the entire thing on his shoulder. His eyes pinned on the helicopter, he obviously had no intention of losing anyone on his protective detail, not today.

Harvath had no intention of losing anyone either. “Launch your countermeasures now!” he yelled.

“What?” replied the pilot. “Why?”

“Do it!” screamed the copilot, able to see what his colleague couldn’t. “Do it now!”

The pilot launched the countermeasures. Bright flares and flaming pieces of chaff spewed in all directions, showering the motorcade with hot debris and forcing the security personnel not only to shut themselves back inside their vehicles, but also to throw them in reverse and back as far away from the Chinook as possible.

As Harvath prepared himself for a second run, the voice of the pilot came over his headset and said, “The tower has made contact with the motorcade. They are pulling back. I repeat, they are pulling back. Bomb technicians are on their way to examine the aircraft.”

Letting go of the grips of the M60, Harvath fell back onto one of the seats and wondered where the hell he could find a beer in this country.

DEMOCRATIC NATIONAL COMMITTEE H EADQUARTERS

WASHINGTON, DC

Just to prove that she could play ball, Helen Carmichael had abandoned her pantsuit in favor of a gray flannel Armani skirt that came just below mid-thigh, a crisp white blouse with French cuffs, black Jimmy Choo alligator heels, and a matching black alligator belt. Feeling not only on top of the world, but also a bit risqué, she had left the top three buttons of her blouse unbuttoned and had given her navel stud a good polishing before putting it in this morning. Today was going to be one of the most important days of her life.

She had sent Neal Monroe personally to Russ Mercer’s office with a peace offering of sorts. Inside the confidential file, which her assistant had been instructed to deliver only to the DNC chairman himself, was but a fraction of the proof she had uncovered, thanks to Brian Turner, that President Jack Rutledge had been running his own private black ops unit. The incendiary file was her ticket to the big leagues. There was no way the party could say no to her being on the ticket, not with what she had been able to uncover.

In addition to tampering with the supposedly “free” and “democratic” elections of several foreign nations, Rutledge had also authorized the assassination of at least half a dozen foreign officials hostile to U.S. policy abroad-and that was only the tip of the iceberg. Rutledge represented all that the world saw was wrong with America, and Helen Carmichael was going to take particular pleasure in watching him burn.