Sons of Valor Page 21

  “I am,” he said, remembering his fake name and programmed response. “You must be Peter—good to meet you in person.”

  “You too,” Brusk said with a thick Texas accent that to Chunk sounded like home. “I work for Robert Theobald, but everybody calls him Bobby. I’m the IBC coordinator for Pakistan’s western provinces. Y’all arrived in country yesterday?”

  “Two days ago,” Chunk replied, staying on script. “We spent yesterday in Faisalabad. We were supposed to have a few tours, but honestly, we just mostly slept off the jet lag. Faisalabad is probably a little more expensive than my bosses are looking for. I was told to look deeper here, in the Swat Valley area. Problem is, most people hear Swat Valley and think Osama bin Laden.”

  Brusk laughed a big genuine laugh and put a hand on Chunk’s back, talking while directing him toward the hotel entrance. “Yeah, that’s about right. But it also means the real opportunities are here. The area around Mingora is just good people looking for a better life. Bad guys are everywhere in the Middle East, I guess, but that’s true in London these days too. We’ve got lots to show you, but first we have a little presentation for y’all. Let’s get you checked in, then we can meet in the conference room for a quick overview of our goals and opportunities before stepping out. That sound good?”

  “Sounds great,” Chunk answered.

  “The whole third floor is rented out by IBC, so we’ll get the bags sent right up to the conference room, then y’all can grab your individual stuff and pick out your rooms. The bags will be with my guys until you get there, so don’t worry about that.”

  Brusk held his eyes with the last comment, perhaps sensing Chunk’s discomfort at being separated from their bags—bags which were full of weapons, ammunition, body armor, and communications gear.

  Chunk nodded, figuring he didn’t have much choice in the matter.

  The surprisingly modern lobby, with its immaculate white-marble tile floor and brightly colored walls, took him by surprise. An attractive young woman behind the check-in desk smiled at him and greeted him in English, while an attendant served them cups of ice water with cucumber from a silver tray.

  “Is this what you expected?” Watts said, stepping beside him, voice tense. He looked at her and was met by an expression he had decided to nickname her “stress face.” It was the same expression she’d had during the briefing with Jarvis.

  Instead of answering her immediately, he parried her expression by relaxing his own and smiling at her. Then, raising the paper cup to his lips, he said, “Ahhh, pickle water. Now that’s a treat you just don’t get every day.”

  This broke her immediately, and he heard her real laugh for the first time since they’d met.

  “If you see a potted plant I can pour this in, let me know,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, before adding, “Don’t worry. We’re in good hands here. I promise. Now let’s get our ’merica on.”

  When she shot him a quizzical look, he gestured at a woman in traditional clothes, a bright-pink pashmina around her shoulders, tending to a buffet laid out in a dining room beyond the lobby. “Biggest risk for you on this trip, Rebecca, is that you might put on a little extra weight. I know how you like to eat when we’re on the road.”

  He saw comprehension flash in her eyes, and her expression immediately soured as she shifted into character. “What’s sad, Harry,” she fired back, remembering to use his fake name, “is how naturally being misogynistic comes to you.”

  “Nice one, boss,” Saw chuckled as she walked off with Brusk. “You sure have a way with the ladies.”

  “What?” Chunk said, throwing his hands up in a don’t-look-at-me-she’s-the-crazy-one shrug. “Seriously, what did I say?”

  Five minutes later they were checked in and gathered on the third floor, inside a large but simple conference room, their bags and boxes stacked along one wall. Chunk slid into a chair beside Watts, and Riker dropped in on the other side of him, with Saw taking the seat next to Yi. With Antman in the ISAF hospital in Kabul and Georgie on his way home to Virginia, that left just Spence, Morales, Trip, and Edwards to join them at the table.

  Once they were all seated, Chunk took the temperature of the room. Other than Watts, nobody seemed nervous. Damn, he thought, looking around. It was so surreal. Seven SEALs at a DIA black ops site inside Pakistan, surrounded by a citizenry known to be Taliban sympathizers. Add to that their disavowed State Department, no air support, and no QRF.

  Chunk grinned. Now this is some real Tier One shit.

  Brusk returned with a new, rather benign-looking guy in tow. The DIA man closed and locked the door behind him while his partner passed out thick green folders.

  “Hey guys, and thanks for coming. I’m Peter Brusk and this is Earl McAllister. We’re the onsite team for IBC, and we’ll be taking you on the tour of Mingora shortly. First, though, we have a briefing for you on the region, the economic opportunities we see here, and some ground rules and courtesies you should observe while in Pakistan.”

  McAllister keyed up a PowerPoint on a laptop, and a TV monitor on the wall refreshed with the first slide. Brusk walked to the head of the table, and with all eyes on him tapped his ear and looked up, spinning a finger around in the air. The message was clear: Don’t know who could be listening.

  “As I go over this material,” he said, “feel free to look through the folders we prepared for you that highlight much of what I’ll be saying over the next twenty minutes . . .”

  While Brusk droned on, Chunk opened his folder and found a cover page stamped with TS/SCI Eyes Only. As Brusk and McAllister put on their show for anyone listening in, Chunk and his team read through the real brief—a classified overview of Theobald’s brilliant DIA operation in Mingora. Their NOC, as a well-funded international NGO sponsoring economic development in the former FATA region, was perfect. It gave them unfettered access in the community, and also allowed them to run local assets who served as their eyes and ears throughout not just Mingora, but the Khyber. Everyone wanted to make the westerners feel welcome—and safe—and open the deep purses of foreign investors and corporations that could pour lifeblood into the struggling region.

  Very friggin’ clever.

  Their “tour” would allow them to perform real-time ISR on a variety of highlighted areas in Mingora and across the bridge in the communities around the airport and north into the foothills of the Hindu Kush. And it would give them access to a variety of trusted assets more read in to IBC’s counter-terror mission—those individuals and their rough histories with the operation were also outlined in the file.

  Chunk looked up and saw Spence flipping through his folder, a broad grin on his face suggesting this was some pretty cool shit. Riker looked bored, but then again, he never did care much about the minutiae. Watts was taking notes, of course. Next, he caught Saw’s eye. The SEAL raised his eyebrows and nodded. This was the kind of shit that made a difference. Kicking in doors was awesome, but it was ten times more gratifying when you were kicking in the right doors at the right time.

  Brusk spoke for another ten minutes before wrapping up. “And so, in conclusion, I think we have several sites that will be of interest to you. Go ahead and get yourselves settled, have some lunch, then we can regroup and finalize our afternoon itinerary. Any questions?”

  Riker raised a hand, a stupid grin on his face, but Chunk caught his eye and shook his head. The Senior Chief lowered his hand, still grinning like a schoolboy, and said, “Nope. No questions.”

  “Great. Feel free to take your personal belongings to your individual rooms, but any team-related items will be perfectly safe here in our conference room,” Brusk said. Then, turning to Watts, he added, “Ms. Taylor, I understand you’re having lunch in town with Mr. Theobald?”

  “Uh, yeah, so it would seem,” she said, tucking a sweep of bangs behind her ear.

  “Great. I’ll get you the address for the restaurant.”

  “Thank you, Peter,” she said and looked over at Chunk, eyes wide, her face one big question: Are you coming with me?

  He’d contemplated escorting her, but she’d told him that Theobald had been explicit she come alone so as not to spook his asset. He knew it was the right call and understood the man’s conundrum. Having a big, burly operator show up unannounced was all it would take to ruin the interaction, or worse, cause the asset to bolt. Whitney, on the other hand, would appear to pose no threat. She’d agreed at the time, but now—facing the actual moment of truth—she looked scared.

  This, unfortunately for Whitney, was one of those kick-the-baby-bird-out-of-the-nest moments.

  Time to test those wings, Heels.

  He leaned back in his chair, smiled, and gave her a thumbs-up that seemed to say, “Go get ’em, tiger.”

  CHAPTER 24

  relax hilton palace hotel

  mingora, pakistan

  1140 local time

  Whitney sat on the edge of the bed in her hotel room, trying not to hyperventilate. She understood why she had to go alone to meet Theobald, but it didn’t change the fact that the prospect terrified her.

  What if Theobald doesn’t show up? What if the terrorists know we’re here and kidnap me? What if it’s a trap and we get shot or blown up?

  She blew air through pursed lips and tried to put the thoughts out of her mind.

  Remember what Yi said and stop saying what if !

  The trip to Afghanistan had been her first to the Middle East and her first time in a third world country. But from the moment she’d stepped off the plane in Kabul, she’d had a platoon of heavily armed Tier One SEALs around her. As much as she hated to admit it, she’d taken great co
mfort in that fact. Now she was in Pakistan, no longer safe and secure on a US base, and she had to go meet a spy at restaurant alone.

  I feel like one of those idiot girls in a horror movie, bumbling her way toward an obvious and bloody demise that only she didn’t recognize.

  Her mobile phone rang. It was Chunk.

  She answered it. “Yes.”

  “You should probably get going, or you’re going to be late.”

  “I know.”

  “You can do this, Heels.”

  “Okay,” she said, her voice hollow as she debated asking Yi to come with her.

  “Would it make you feel better if you knew that me and the boys are going to be driving loops in the van in case you need to call in the cavalry?”

  “Um, hello, yes!”

  “I thought so. We’re just a phone call away. Now, get your intel ass moving.”

  “Roger that,” she said and ended the call. Feeling like nine million pounds had suddenly been lifted off her back, she got to her feet and headed downstairs.

  In the lobby she asked one of the hotel’s young porters to get her a taxi. He repeated the word “taxi,” and when she nodded, he smiled and stepped outside to the parking courtyard. While she waited, Chunk and three of the boys showed up, but they walked past her like she didn’t exist and headed out, ostensibly to the van. This knocked the edge off her nerves, until she noticed a bearded man wearing a black knit cap standing next to the reception desk, staring daggers at her. She glanced at him but didn’t hold eye contact, resisted the urge to wait outside for the taxi, and tried her best to look relaxed. The next two minutes were the longest of her life, with the stranger’s eyes boring into her the entire time. When the porter returned, grinning, she practically jogged to meet him.

  “Taxi, taxi for you,” he said and led her to a little white sedan idling in the courtyard.

  “Thank you,” she said and tipped him five hundred rupees when he opened the door for her, a sum that earned her gushing, incomprehensible gratitude.

  “Hello,” the driver said, greeting her in heavily accented English. “Where you go?”

  “Hujra restaurant, please,” she said, nervously folding her arms across her chest.

  “Hujra close,” he said, cocking a quizzical eyebrow at her.

  “Are you sure it’s closed? I’m supposed to meet someone for lunch.”

  “No, uh, it close . . . close. You understand? It not far.”

  “Okay,” she said, nodding. “Please take me there.”

  He shrugged, put the transmission in drive and pulled away.

  As the taxi accelerated onto the N-95, the paved two-lane thoroughfare that skirted the southern bank of the Swat River, she debated whether she should buckle her seat belt. If bullets start flying, I need to get low and possibly make a run for it. Trying to get out of a seatbelt will cost me precious seconds. On the other hand, if we have to evade at high speed and we get into an accident—

  The taxi unexpectedly braked, interrupting her thoughts and sending adrenaline surging into her bloodstream. She looked up as the driver activated his turn signal, turned left across the oncoming lane of traffic, and pulled into a restaurant parking lot. Screwing up her face, she looked out the window and verified the name on the sign: Hujra.

  “See, close,” the driver said, turning to her with a comical smile. The ride had lasted no more than ninety seconds door to door.

  Feeling ridiculous, she pulled two five-hundred-rupee notes from her pocket and handed them to him. “Is this enough?”

  “Yes, yes, thank you,” he said, happily taking the money. “You want me pick you up?”

  “Um, no . . . thank you,” she said. “I think I’ll walk back.”

  “Okay, bye-bye,” he said as she climbed out.

  A Caucasian man standing on the other side of the N-95 caught her attention. He was dressed in a short-sleeved button-down shirt and khaki pants. The smiling, clean-shaven man was trying to get her attention with a large exaggerated wave.

  “They always drop off on the wrong side,” he called to her. “The owners expanded across the street for waterfront dining.”

  “Mr. Theobald?” she called back.

  “Yeah,” he said, beckoning her. “C’mon over.”

  She hesitated a heartbeat, then walked to the roadside to wait for a break in traffic. Fifteen seconds later she was jogging to meet her DIA contact.

  “Robert Theobald,” the American said, extending his hand. “But you can call me Bobby.”

  “Whitney,” she said and shook his hand, noticing how similar his grip was to Chunk’s, a hand that felt more like ironwood than flesh.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t have this meeting at the hotel, but I couldn’t risk spooking my asset. His antennae are up, so I wanted to keep things small and intimate,” Theobald said. “How much experience do you have running assets?”

  “None,” Whitney said, scanning over her shoulder. In her peripheral vision, she saw a van approaching from the north and recognized it as Chunk and the guys making good on their promise to stay in the area.

  “You look nervous,” he said, his gaze following hers, then returning to her face. “Something got your antennae up?” He seemed to take a measure of her before saying, “First time in Pakistan?”

  “Yeah,” she said, glancing over her other shoulder.

  “This place is solid. I personally know the owner, and I had his family vetted and surveilled.”

  “Mm-hmm.” His assurances did little for her nerves.

  “I know what you’re thinking—what the hell is this yahoo talking about? This is the Swat River Valley in friggin’ Pakistan, where every other face you pass on the street could be a terrorist in hiding. It ain’t that way, I promise. Mingora is a good city—a community of mostly small and family-owned businesses. The people here aren’t bent on jihad and taking down America; they’re just scraping out a living and trying to make a better life for their family.”

  “Understood,” she said.

  Except those aren’t the people I’m worried about, she thought. I’m worried about the ones with a drone armed with missiles that just blew up an Army convoy.

  “Please follow me,” he said and turned.

  She followed him to an expansive deck filled with outdoor dining tables. A small crowd was scattered at the tables, enjoying the nice afternoon weather. Theobald had chosen a corner table along the deck railing, with a view of the muddy Swat and its rocky bank. The table was conspicuously outside the eavesdropping radius of other patrons. He gestured for her to take the seat with the best view of the river, while he took the chair opposite, with unobstructed sightlines and nothing behind him. A waiter promptly brought them a basket of naan and tea service.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about my last conversation with your former boss at NCTC. How about we start with you laying out your drone theory for me, then I’ll try to fill in any blanks with the intelligence my team has collected,” the DIA man said, kicking things off.

  Whitney kept her voice low but dove in, explaining her theory that the convoy attack outside J-bad had been executed by a UCAV. Next, she read him into the raid Chunk’s team had conducted on the Taliban stronghold in the Hindu Kush, and finally, walked him through her LOS hand-off theory. All the while, he listened without interrupting, nodding periodically.

  “The Pakistani military recently signed a contract for forty-eight Wing Loong combat drones with the Chinese aerospace conglomerate CAIG,” he said, leaning in to close the gap between them.

  “Interesting,” she said, wanting to hear more.

  “Prior to signing that contract, Pakistan had a Wing Loong Pterodactyl model in the country for extensive testing. This was not widely publicized, but what did make the headlines was that the drone was reported to have crashed six months ago, a report which, interestingly, the Pakistani military confirmed in the aftermath. But what if that report was manufactured? What if the drone didn’t crash, but certain corrupted elements within the Pakistani military wanted the world and the Chinese government to believe that it did? Assuming bribes were paid, is it really much of stretch to imagine that drone secretly finding its way into terrorist hands?”