“And if he objects?”
“He won’t. I’ve met him. Maybe he’s a better guy than you give him credit for,” Jack observed. He won’t object, you dummy. It’s the security pukes who’ll throw a fit.
“Well.” That remark took him somewhat aback. “I cannot fault your sense of loyalty. Doctor. I will pass this through His Highness’s office. But I must insist that you do not tell Commander Jackson anything.”
“You have my word.” Jack nearly laughed. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Robby’s face. This would finally even the score for that kendo match.
“Contraction peaks,” Jack said that night. They were practicing the breathing exercises in preparation for the delivery. His wife started panting. Jack knew that this was a serious business. It merely looked ridiculous. He checked the numbers on his digital watch. “Contraction ends. Deep, cleansing breath. I figure steaks on the grill, baked potatoes, and fresh corn on the cob, with a nice salad.”
“It’s too plain,” Cathy protested.
“Everywhere they go over here, people will be hitting them with that fancy French crap. Somebody ought to give them a decent American meal. You know I do a mean steak on the grill, and your spinach salad is famous from here to across the road.”
“Okay.” Cathy started laughing. It was becoming uncomfortable for her to do so. “If I stand over a stove for more than a few minutes, I get nauseous anyway.”
“It must be tough, being pregnant.”
“You should try it,” she suggested.
Her husband went on: “It’s the only hard thing women have to do, of course.”
“What!” Cathy’s eyes nearly popped out.
“Look at history. Who has to go out and kill the buffalo? The man. Who has, to carry the buffalo back? The man. Who has to drive off the bear? The man. We do all the hard stuff. I still have to take out the garbage every night! Do I ever complain about that?” He had her laughing again. He’d read her mood right. She didn’t want sympathy. She was too proud of herself for that.
“I’d hit you on the head, but there’s no sense in breaking a perfectly good club over something worthless.”
“Besides, I was there the last time, and it didn’t look all that hard.”
“If I could move, Jack, I’d kill you for that one!”
He moved from opposite his wife to beside her. “Nah, I don’t think so. I want you to form a picture in your mind.”
“Of what?”
“Of the look on Robby’s face when he gets here for dinner. I’m going to jiggle the time a little.”
“I’ll bet you that Sissy handles it better than he does.”
“How much?”
“Twenty.”
“Deal.” He looked at his watch. “Contraction begins. Deep breath.” A minute later, Jack was amazed to see that he was breathing the same way as his wife. That got them both laughing.
Chapter 24
Connections Missed and Made
There were no new pictures of Camp-18 the day of the raid. A sandstorm had swept over the area at the time of the satellite pass, and the cameras couldn’t penetrate it, but a geosynchronous weather satellite showed that the storm had left the site. Ryan was cued after lunch that day that the raid was on, and spent his afternoon in fidgety anticipation. Careful analysis of the existing photos showed that between twelve and eighteen people were at the camp, over and above the guard force. If the higher number was correct, and the official estimate of the ULA’s size was also accurate, that represented more than half of its membership. Ryan worried a little about that. If the French were sending in only eight paratroopers . . . but then he remembered his own experiences in the Marine Corps. They’d be hitting the objective at three in the morning. Surprise would be going for them. The assault team would have its weapons loaded and locked — and aimed at people who were asleep. The element of surprise, in the hands of elite commandos, was the military equivalent of a Kansas tornado. Nothing could stand up to it.
They’re in their choppers now, Ryan thought. He remembered his own experience in the fragile, ungainly aircraft. There you are, all your equipment packed up, clean utilities, your weapons ready, and despite it all you’re as vulnerable as a baby in the womb. He wondered what sort of men they were, and realized that they wouldn’t be too very different from the Marines he’d served with: all would be volunteers, doubly so since you also had to volunteer for parachute training. They’d opted a third time to be part of the antiterror teams. It would be partly for the extra pay they got and partly for the pride that always came with membership in a small, very special force — like the Marine Corps’ Force Recon — but mostly they’d be there because they knew that this was a mission worth doing. To a man, professional soldiers despised terrorists, and each would dream about getting them in an even-up-battle — the idea of the Field of Honor had never died for the real professionals. It was the place where the ultimate decision was made on the basis of courage and skill, on the basis of manhood itself, and it was this concept that marked the professional soldier as a romantic, a person who truly believed in the rules.
They’d be nervous in their helicopter. Some would fidget and be ashamed of it. Others would make a great show of sharpening their knives. Some would joke quietly. Their officers and sergeants would sit quietly, setting an example and going over the plans. All would look about the helicopter and silently hate being trapped within it. For a moment Jack was there with them.
“Good luck, guys,” he whispered to the wall. “Bonne chance. ”
The hours crept by. It seemed to Ryan that the numbers on his digital watch were reluctant to change at all, and it was impossible for him to concentrate on his work. He was going over the photos of the camp again, counting the man-figures, examining the ground to predict for himself how the final approach would be made. He wondered if their orders were to take the terrorists alive. He couldn’t decide on that question. From a legal perspective, he didn’t think it really mattered. If terrorism were the modern manifestation of piracy — the analogy seemed apt enough — then the ULA was fair game for any nation’s armed forces. On the other hand, taken alive, they could be put on trial and displayed. The psychological impact on other such groups might be real. If it didn’t put the fear of God in them, it would at least get their attention. It would frighten them to know that they were not safe even in their most remote, most secure sanctuary. Some members might drift away, and maybe one or two of them would talk. It didn’t take much intelligence information to hammer them. Ryan had seen that clearly enough. You needed to know where they were, that was all. With that knowledge you could bring all the forces of a modern nation to bear, and for all their arrogance and brutality, they couldn’t hope to stand up to that.
Marty came into the office. “Ready to go over?”
“Hell, yes!”
“Did you have dinner?”
“No. Maybe later.”
“Yeah.” Together they walked to the annex. The corridors were nearly empty now. For the most part, CIA worked like any other place. At five the majority of the workers departed for home and dinner and evening television.
“Okay, Jack, this is real-time. Remember that you can’t discuss any aspect of this.” Cantor looked rather tired. Jack thought.
“Marty, if this op is successful, I will tell my wife that the ULA is out of business. She has a right to know that much.”
“I can understand that. Just so she doesn’t know how it happens.”
“She wouldn’t even be interested,” Jack assured him as they entered the room with the TV monitor. Jean-Claude was there again.
“Good evening, Mr. Cantor, Professor Ryan,” the DGSE officer greeted them both.
“How’s the op going?”
“They are under radio silence,” the Colonel replied.
“What I don’t understand is how they can do it the same way twice,” Ryan went on.
“There is a risk. A little disinformation has been used,” Jean-Claude said cryptically. “In addition, your carrier now has their full attention.”
“Saratoga has an alpha-strike up,” Marty explained. “Two fighter squadrons and three attack ones, plus jamming and radar coverage. They’re patrolling that ‘Line of Death’ right now. According to our electronics listening people, the Libyans are going slightly ape. Oh, well.”
“The satellite comes over the horizon in twenty-four minutes,” the senior technician reported. “Local weather looks good. We ought to get some clear shots.”
Ryan wished he had a cigarette. They made the waiting easier, but every time Cathy smelled them on his breath, there was hell to pay. At this point the raiding force would be crawling across the last thousand yards. Ryan had done the drill himself. They’d come away with bloody hands and knees, sand rubbed into the wounds. It was an incredibly tiring thing to do, made more difficult still by the presence of armed soldiers at the objective. You had to time your moves for when they were looking the other way, and you had to be quiet. They’d be carrying the bare minimum of gear, their personal weapons, maybe some grenades, a few radios, slinking across the ground the way a tiger did, watching and listening.