Vince Flynn: Extreme Measures

The main internment facility sat near the middle of the base, nearly a half mile away. The Hilton, as they liked to call it, was fully automated, with surveillance devices built into each of the eight cells and two interrogation rooms. All cell doors, as well as the main steel door that led to the cells, had to be remotely opened from the control shack. There were only two ways in and out, and both required the proper ID card and pass code. Nash had given Rapp both in advance.

Nash casually strolled over to the desk and asked, “What’s up, Seth?”

The nineteen-year-old looked anxious. “It looks like we’ve got some unexpected guests.”

“Who is it?” Nash asked, knowing damn well who it was.

“I don’t know.”

There was a metallic clicking noise as the locking mechanism on the main door was released. Footsteps could be heard, and then six men wearing olive-drab-and-tan Airman Battle Uniforms, or ABU’s, entered the room. Mitch Rapp led the group. He had a black eagle on each side of his collar, which meant he outranked the airman by a mile. As he approached the desk, the airman jumped to his feet and snapped off a salute. Rapp returned it and said, “As you were. Are you Airman First Class Seth Jackson?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m Colonel Carville. Air Force Office of Special Investigations.” Rapp’s right hand shot out to the side. He snapped his fingers and the man behind him placed an envelope in his palm. Rapp retrieved the letter from the envelope and held it up so the young airman could read it. “This is from the secretary of the air force,” Rapp said in a commanding, clipped voice, “authorizing me to take temporary command of this interrogation facility. Do you have any questions, Jackson?”

The young airman nervously shook his head from side to side. “No, sir.”

“Good.” Rapp turned to Nash and eyeballed him from head to toe. Nash was wearing an olive-drab flight suit with no name or rank. “Who are you?”

Nash grinned. “I’m afraid that’s on a need-to-know basis, Colonel.”

“OGA,” Rapp said in disgust. The acronym stood for Other Government Agency, which was a euphemism for the CIA. “You goddamn spooks. You’re more trouble than you’re worth.” Rapp turned back to Jackson. “You’re on duty until oh seven hundred?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Follow me. You too,” he said to Nash. Rapp led them back through the doorway. There were offices on the left and the right. Rapp opened the door on the left and said to one of the men in his entourage, “Chief, remove the phone and keyboard from this office and make sure this spook doesn’t leave until I say so.”

Rapp walked across the hall and opened the other door. Looking at the young airman, Rapp said, “Jackson, in here. I’m going to assume I can trust you to not make any phone calls… no e-mails… no communication at all. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Grab some shut-eye on the couch, and don’t leave this room unless I say so. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rapp shut the door, walked back across the hall, and opened the other office door. Nash was standing on the other side with a big grin on his face. The two men shook hands and then walked back down the hallway past the control room and into a small cafeteria. Four of the five men who had entered with Rapp were waiting. Nash walked up to the oldest man in the group and extended his hand.

“General Dostum, thank you for making the trip.”

At five feet eight the general was four inches shorter than both Nash and Rapp. His most striking feature was the contrast between his black beard and close-cropped gray hair. The former Northern Alliance general slapped Nash’s hand away and gave him a big hug. He laughed and in heavily accented English said, “I would do anything for you, Mike.”

Nash had been the first American to meet with General Dostum after the assassination of Northern Alliance commander Ahmad Shah Massoud. He paved the way for the arrival of warriors from the U.S. Army’s 5th Special Forces Group and an eventual offensive that dislodged the Taliban from the north. Dostum may have been a ruthless warlord, and one of Afghanistan’s largest exporters of opium, but he was also very loyal to those who had helped him wrest his land from the Taliban and al-Qaeda.

Nash regarded Dostum and said, “Even if it means getting you in trouble with the U.S. military?”

“Your military has more important things to be concerning itself with. It would be wise for them to turn all prisoners over to me.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Rapp looked at his watch and said, “General, we’re a little short on time. To be safe, we should be finished and out of here by oh six hundred. That leaves us about five and a half hours.” Rapp turned his attention to Nash. “You want to cover anything before we get started?”

Nash had put a lot of thought into the best way to utilize their time. He had decided that he and Dostum would handle al-Haq, while Rapp would be in charge of interrogating Haggani. They’d already gone over their strategy, but with Rapp involved, Nash felt one thing bore repeating. “Remember, no marks.”

“How do you expect me to get him to talk?” Rapp complained.

“Be creative.”

“I can’t just shoot him in the knees?”

General Dostum nodded enthusiastically at the idea. The two of them made Nash very nervous. “Guys, we can’t leave any marks.”

Rapp smiled. “Don’t worry, I brought along something special.” Rapp looked across the room and said, “Marcus, did you bring the rats?”

TRIPLE FRONTIER, SOUTH AMERICA

KARIM had fought against the Americans in Afghanistan and seen firsthand the effects of their training. His fellow jihadists liked to claim that the Americans’ impressive kill ratio was due solely to the fact that they controlled the skies, but Karim knew otherwise. He had come up against their hunter-killer teams: autonomous deep-penetration units that wreaked havoc behind enemy lines. Karim had been in the region only a month when they received a report from the locals that a single American helicopter had dropped off seven men on a nearby peak.

Shortly after midnight Karim’s commander ordered a full assault on the position. Nearly two hundred men participated in the attack. Two platoons of roughly thirty men apiece started up the mountain, while the rest of the men were held in reserve. The first group attacked from the east and the second from the west. The lead elements of both groups made it to within ten meters of the peak, and then everything went wrong. From their elevated and fortified position the Americans sprung their trap. A total of five men made it back down the mountain without injury. The wounded were left to cry for help in the cold mountain air.

The undisciplined commander immediately ordered a second attack and called for the mortar teams to open fire. They quickly learned the Americans had a sniper with them. All six men manning the three mortar tubes were killed within seconds of firing their first round. Another wave of sixty men headed up the mountain, this time firing as they went. Two hours later, a handful of men limped off the mountain, swearing a company of Rangers was dug in on the peak. The commander would hear none of it. He turned to Karim and ordered him to take his newly formed unit of thirty-eight Saudi freedom fighters and attack the position.

Karim looked back on that night as a defining moment in his life. He understood the situation both tactically and psychologically. The commander was Taliban and had been in charge of the area prior to the American towers’ coming down. If word got out that he couldn’t dislodge seven Americans from his own backyard, he would be humiliated. The man would rather waste two hundred good men than face the public embarrassment.