Raven Strike (26 page)

Chapter 5

Duka

T
hey were in the slog part of the mission—past the high excitement of combat, with a lot of work to be done, yet without the adrenaline.

A potentially dangerous time, when fatigue and boredom conspired to make even the most dedicated soldier cut corners.

Danny switched around the assignments to make sure the people searching the buildings had not been involved in the first searches. He personally checked on the different teams, riding back and forth in one of the captured pickups with Melissa. The city had fallen into a stupor, dead and wounded lying near sleeping, exhausted fighters.

“We should do something about that,” said Melissa after they passed a pair of rebels lying by the road. MY-PID, analyzing their body heat, reported that they were dead.

“Like what?” said Danny.

“Bury them, at least. I don’t know.” She shifted uncomfortably in the pickup. The seat belts had been cut away; neither could belt themselves in against the pothole-induced bumps and lurches. “I feel like we should do more.”

She was quiet for a while, then, without prompting, volunteered that she had been scared.

“It wasn’t the shooting,” she said. “It was the baby. I—I didn’t know what to do.”

“Bloom was there.”

“She was. She was panicking about everything except the baby. For me it was the other way around.”

“Everybody has a breaking point,” said Danny.

“I didn’t break. I might have. I could see it.”

“True,” said Danny.

“I didn’t think about them as people when I got here. But now, I see them and I think, oh my God . . .”

Melissa trailed off, silent. Danny wanted to say something but wasn’t exactly sure what.

“Maybe you realized why we fight,” he said finally, still unsure that he had the right words.

They continued in silence toward the warehouse they had hit the first night. Hera and one of the new Whiplash troopers, Shorty, were standing outside, waiting. They’d just finished searching it, with no sign of any of the missing UAV components. Hera and Shorty had also checked on two small buildings nearby, both deserted. Neither appeared to have been even entered by anyone for months if not years.

“Sorry,” Hera told him. She and Shorty got in the back.

“I shouldn’t have let the Osprey get hit,” Danny told Melissa as they drove back toward their camp.

“How is that your fault?”

“I could have kept it back.”

“Would it have been as effective?”

It was a good and obvious question, and one he wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. There was always a balance between taking action and being safe.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “But I guess I feel I should have told them to be more careful.”

“If someone told you that, would it have made any difference?”

“Probably not,” conceded Danny.

“I don’t see how you’re supposed to be perfect—doesn’t every plan get changed once the battle starts, or something like that?”

“Something like that.” Danny smiled. It was odd how suddenly he felt so comfortable talking to her.

Chapter 6

CIA Headquarters Campus

J
onathon Reid was about to open his car door in the Langley parking lot when a black government limo pulled up behind him. Reid knew exactly who it was, and could have guessed more or less accurately what was going to be said. He wanted to be anywhere but here, but there was no way to escape. He sighed to himself, then turned to face Herman Edmund as the rear window rolled down.

“Jonathon, come in here a moment, would you?” said Edmund.

“I’m actually late for an appointment,” said Reid.

“It’ll keep.”

Reluctantly, Reid walked over to the far side of the car and got in the back, next to the CIA director. There was a partition between the driver and the backseat; it was closed.

“Why are you doing this?” demanded Edmund. “I thought we were friends.”

“This isn’t personal,” said Reid. “There’s nothing personal involved.”

“You were trying to make me look bad with the President.”

“Herm, that’s not true. I barely spoke.”

“Your tone was atrocious. Raven is an important project,” continued Edmund. “It was started two directors ago. It wasn’t my idea.”

“I’m sure it’s important.”

“So why are you sabotaging it? What if I were I to do the same with Whiplash?”

“I don’t see that as a parallel situation in any way,” said Reid.

“No, of course you wouldn’t.”

“You do oversee Whiplash, the Agency component at least.”

“Oh come on, Jon. Everyone knows it’s your baby. You got it assembled, you got the funding, you convinced Magnus and the others in DoD to go along. It’s your baby. If anyone were to look at it cross-eyed, you’d scream.”

“The way Raven was deployed was not characteristic of your best decisions,” said Reid. He consciously picked his words, making the stiffest choices. Distance would be useful. This wasn’t a personal matter, and Edmund shouldn’t see it that way.

“Deploying the weapon without extensive testing and safeguards was ill-advised,” Reid continued. “You were almost guaranteed that something would go wrong.”

“You have no idea of the safeguards we employed,” said Edmund. “Or how much testing it’s undergone. Sooner or later it has to be used. That’s the real test. This—This was just a bizarre set of circumstances. The Predator caused the accident. It was part of the safeguards and it bit us in the butt—if we hadn’t had it with the flight, we wouldn’t be here talking.”

“It’s a powerful weapon,” said Reid.

“So powerful it should be under your control. Is that it?”

“Not necessarily, no.”

“But if it were a Whiplash project, that would be all right. If your private army had it, then nothing could ever go wrong.”

“Whiplash is just our—is just
the
action arm of the Joint Technology Task Force, of Room 4,” said Reid. “Nothing more.”

“No, ‘our’ is the key word there.” Edmund had a smug expression on his face, strangely triumphant, as if Reid had proven his point. “I want you to think of what you’re doing to the Agency here, Jonathon. I know you’re jealous of me. But think of the Agency. The institution. Our oaths. Our history. You’re going to drag the Agency through the mud. Again. You. Both of us swore we would never let that happen. I’m just surprised that you went back on that. I expected a lot more from you.”

“I’m not involved in the politics at all.”

“Oh come on. You didn’t tell Ernst?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I know you’re the one who went to the President, Jonathon. What did you do? Use Breanna Stockard? Did she tell her husband? Was he the one who tipped off Ernst? I know he has his own agendas. I don’t buy all that hero crap.”

“Breanna did not tell either her husband, or Ernst. I have no idea who tipped off the senator. Most likely it was someone on your staff.”

“Now you’re getting ridiculous.” Edmund’s face reddened. “Get out, Jonathon. We’re done.”

“Herm—”

“Out of my car. I can’t fire you, obviously, but I can tell you that our friendship is done. I’ve been too trusting of people. Ironic for a spy, isn’t it?”

Chapter 7

John F. Kennedy International Airport

New York City

A
mara walked into the dimly lit hall trying to get his bearings after the long airplane flight. He’d been to America before, but that experience didn’t help him now. He knew he had nothing to fear—and yet he had everything to fear. The customs agent sat in a small booth similar to a toll collector’s. The man frowned as Amara handed over his passport.

“Why are you here?” the agent demanded.

“Vay-Vacation.”

“What’s a vay-vacation?”

The agent’s hostility made it easier somehow.

“I am here to visit my aunt and uncle,” said Amara. “I have their address.”

The official frowned and began examining his passport. “You’ve been in America before.”

“Yes, sir. I have been to school here.”

“You are thinking of getting a job.”

“It’s very difficult to get a job,” said Amara. This was his first answer that hadn’t been rehearsed. But it didn’t need to be. “I am helping my country build itself. There is much to be done.”

“That makes sense.” No longer interested in him, the agent flipped the passport pages back and forth, then stamped his book. “Be careful,” he said as he handed it back.

Be careful of what? Amara thought, shouldering his backpack out to the luggage claim area.

A half-dozen men in dark suits were standing near the doors, holding cards with handwritten names. He glanced at them. The terminal building felt a little unbalanced, as if the floor were tilted. He went to the carousel, watching the luggage move around. Three-fourths of the bags were black, and at least half of those looked like his. Amara eyed them nervously, twice examining a suitcase before realizing it wasn’t his.

Finally, with the crowd around him thinning, he found his bag. He pulled it off the belt and turned to leave.

“Amara, my cousin,” said a man on his right. “We are glad you are here.”

His voice was extremely soft—so low, in fact, that Amara nearly didn’t hear him. The tone belied the words: rather than being a warm greeting, it sounded cold and impersonal.

Which, of course, it was.

“My uncle,” said Amara, trying not to let the words sound like a question.

“This way. We’ll take a cab,” said the man, who had tan skin, but lighter than his. If he’d had to guess, he would have said he was Egyptian or Palestinian. He took Amara’s bag and led him to the large doors at the front of the terminal. “Is your backpack heavy?”

“I have it.”

Amara remained on his guard as he was led to a cab parked at the curb.

He knew little of the project, beyond the fact that the Brothers were cooperating with others, presumably in exchange for money.

Amara wasn’t sure if the taxi driver, who looked Palestinian, was part of the network. He knew better than to say anything that would give himself away. And as his guide was silent, he thought it best for him to remain so as well.

The city sprawled on both sides of them as they drove toward Manhattan. The rows of houses seemed endless. Tall buildings rose in the distance. It had been nearly three years since he’d been in New York. The city had seemed like a vast temptation, a fascinating place filled with many sweets, a decadent paradise. Or hell, depending on one’s point of view.

“First time in New York?” asked his “uncle.”

It was a dumb question, thought Amara—his “uncle” should know the answer.

“I have been here before,” he said.

“A grand city for a young man like yourself.”

Amara turned to the window, staring at the old bridge they were crossing. When he first came to New York, he was surprised to find so many
old
things: he’d assumed the name was literal. And there was a great deal of dirt and grime, so much so that it reminded him of Cairo. But a few days in Manhattan and he stopped noticing such things.

They drove through the heart of the city, weaving through thick morning traffic. Finally, they pulled up to a curb.

“Come now,” said his uncle.

Amara got out of the car and waited as the other man retrieved his bag. The driver closed the trunk, nodded, then left.

They descended a long flight of stairs to Penn Station. Two National Guardsmen in battle dress were standing against the wall, M4s ready.

Amara wondered if they had ever used them in battle. Neither man had the hard glance that he associated with tested warriors.

His uncle led him down the long hall of shops, past stores and stalls. Amara’s nose was assaulted from every direction; his stomach began to call for food.

They stopped in a crowd of people. His uncle turned toward a large board with the names and numbers of trains.

“We’re just in time,” he told Amara, reaching into his pocket. “Here is your ticket. Your track is at the end of the hall. Take the elevator on the right. Number twelve. Go.”

Amara made his way to the train, an Amtrak Acela bound for Washington, D.C. He settled into a seat and tried to relax as the train pulled out of the station, running through the long tunnel to New Jersey. Within a half hour he had dozed off, exhausted by the travel.

H
e saw Li Han’s face in his dreams. It was exactly as he had seen him in Sudan: a mixture of sneering and respect, kindness mixed with disdain.

In the dream, Li Han began lecturing him about how to fly the UAV. Amara tried to pay attention, but there was one major distraction—the hole in the middle of Li Han’s skull where he’d shot him.

S
omewhere in Delaware a conductor shook Amara awake.

“Did you have to get off at this next stop?” asked the man.

Amara jerked upright in his seat. He looked around—he wasn’t sure where he was.

“Do you have your ticket?” asked the conductor.

Amara pulled it from his pocket.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the conductor, examining it. “You’re Union Station. All the way in D.C. I apologize. I must have gotten you confused with someone else.”

He handed the ticket back. As he took it, Amara realized that he’d been given two tickets.

A message.

He glanced up at the man. He was almost white: Iranian, Amara would guess, or perhaps Iraqi.

There was a phone number on the second ticket. Amara understood he was to call that number when he arrived at Union Station. He tucked it into his pocket, then leaned against the side of the train, hoping to fall back asleep.

Chapter 8

Sudan Base 1

Five miles southwest of Duka

M
elissa pulled out her satellite phone as soon as the repaired Osprey reached the new operating base Danny had set up southwest of Duka. She was well overdue to check in.

It was still early. Harker might be sleeping.

It would serve him right.

“What?” her boss said gruffly, answering the phone.

“This is Ilse. The flight computer is not in Duka.”

“No kidding.”

“Our best bet is that it’s south in the mountains, with the Sudan Brotherhood. One of their members left the city, probably after killing Mao Man.”

“You told me that yesterday, Melissa. This is old information.”

“We need permission to search the camp. Can we?”

“That’s not up to me. You’re
sure
it’s not in Duka?”

“We’ve looked everywhere, believe me.”

“And it wasn’t at the crash site?”

“God, what do you think? I’m a fool? You do.”

“You have to watch these Whiplash people,” said Harker. “They’re trying to screw us.”

“How so?”

“There’s all sorts of political bullshit back here. You’re sure it’s not in Duka?”

“I’m sure.”

“Did you personally check every one of the hiding places? Or did Whiplash?”

“Personally?”

“You heard me. Did you?”

Screw you, thought Melissa, hanging up.

D
anny patted the repaired engine cover of the Osprey. Dented and crumpled, the skin looked like a piece of paper that had been wadded up and then pressed flat. But it was tougher than it looked—the whole aircraft was. Despite its shaky early history, the Osprey had proved its worth in countless high-risk situations, and not just for Whiplash.

“She’s good for another ten thousand miles,” said one of the pilots, admiring the aircraft from the other side of the wing. “I was thinking maybe I’d dent up the other engine housing so they look like a matched set.”

“Probably not a good idea,” laughed Danny. He pointed to the crew chief and the two maintainers who’d been flown in to help put the aircraft back together. “Those guys might give you grief.”

Pretending to notice them for the first time, the pilot spread out his arms and bowed to them. It was a joke, of course, but it reminded Danny of a truism he’d learned back at Dreamland—you did not want to mess with the men and women who maintained the aircraft.

Nor underestimate them. These aircraft sergeants—both were men, and both tech sergeants—had been personally selected by Chief Master Sergeant Al “Greasy Hands” Parsons, who, though retired, arguably knew more about every operational aircraft in the Air Force inventory than any man or computer. Parsons was always going on about how good a job his people and the Air Force technical grunts in general were; it would have been bragging if it weren’t true.

“Colonel, this aircraft will take you to hell and back,” said one of the sergeants. “But I have to say, sir, your choice in pilots leaves quite a bit to be desired.”

Even the pilot laughed.

Danny walked over to the combination mess/command tent, thinking this might be a good moment to catch a brief nap.

Melissa met him just inside. Her eyelids drooped; she had what looked like thick welts under both eyes.

“When are you going to the Brotherhood camp?” she asked.

“I don’t know for certain that we are,” said Danny. “But it’ll be tonight at the earliest.”

“I’m going with you.”

“All right.”

“You’re agreeing?”

“Yeah. I need all the help I can get.”

“Oh.” Her body seemed to deflate. Danny sensed that she had been prepared to argue with him. But he saw no reason to keep her away; she’d proven herself. And it was at least still partly her mission. “Good.”

“The Sudanese army is escorting a bunch of ambulances and relief workers to Duka,” he told her. “They should be there inside an hour.”

“Oh?”

“Your friend Bloom arranged it. She’s going with them. She is a spy, huh?”

“Used to be.”

Danny nodded.

“You oughta get some rest,” he told her.

“Yeah,” she said. “I should.”