Extreme Measures

  CHAPTER 18

  KARIM looked out across the clearing, not sure what to expect, but he thought he would feel something. Some momentous change, a gnawing anticipation for what lay ahead, a sense of pride in what they had accomplished. Something, anything, but all he felt was emptiness. He looked from one side of the clearing to the other. Surveyed the obstacle course they had all run a thousand times, the pistol range, where he had turned each of them into expert marksmen with their Glock 19s. And not just into static marksmen; he’d turned them into gunfighters. They’d learned to shoot with both their left and right hands, extended two-hand grips, close-in single-hand grips, on the move, on the ground, standing and sitting. They’d covered every conceivable situation, and they were all drastically better. But were they good enough?

  Karim felt it. The tightness in his chest. The shallow breaths. It was another panic attack. He had told no one. So far he’d been able to convince the men they were just migraines, but he knew better. He’d had headaches before, and these were not headaches. They were far more terrifying. Normally he was visited by the pangs of doubt right before he fell asleep. When he was alone with his thoughts. When he was desperately trying to empty his consciousness of all his worries so he could simply sleep. It was hopeless, though. The more he tried the worse it got, and now it was happening to him in the middle of the day.

  The illness, or whatever it was, always came the same way. It started as doubt; doubt in his own ability and that of his men. They had done so much, had come so far, but was it far enough? Where was the sense of accomplishment, or finality, or at least the satisfaction that they were leaving this awful place? The place that had almost doomed them from the start. Karim thought back to those first few weeks when the men had all taken ill, their bodies assaulted by the horrid stew of moisture and insects. It was the one thing he had failed to take into consideration. He knew his men would have to adapt to the new climate, but assumed their youth and health could handle it. They had, after all, survived fighting against the Americans in the cold, rough mountains of Afghanistan. Karim had hated the cold, but never again would he curse it. The cold, dry mountain air killed all of the things you couldn’t see; the tiny microbes and bacteria that would assault the body. Those unseen enemies flourished in the moist jungle air.

  Surprisingly it was the U.S. Army that had rescued them, or more precisely one of their handy field manuals on tropical survival. Karim had gotten the men the proper medicine and clothing and had instituted a strict policy on hygiene. It took almost a full month before everyone was cured of their rashes and diarrhea. From that moment on they had made great progress. They were stronger, fitter, more knowledgeable, and more confident, but was it enough? What was he failing to account for?

  “Amir.”

  Karim turned to find Farid standing a few feet behind him, a look of concern on his face. “Yes.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “You do not look well. Excuse me for saying so.”

  “I feel fine.” Karim lied.

  “The men are ready.”

  “Water?”

  “Full rations, as you ordered.”

  “Do they know we are leaving?”

  Farid could not hide his own surprise.

  “I didn’t think so.” Karim looked back toward the huts and their rusty tin roofs. The men were standing next to their packs, preparing for what they thought would be just another long march through the jungle. “Bring them over. Tell them to leave their packs.”

  Farid barked out a quick order and the six men hustled over. They lined up from left to right, the distance from one man to the other a full arm’s length. They’d done it so many times over the last six months, they could simply eyeball the distance.

  Karim surveyed his elite squad. Seven of them from left to right. The tallest was a hair over six feet, and the shortest a bit under five eight. They were all in peak physical condition. What little extra weight they may have carried on their agile frames was now gone. They were an impressive group with their broad shoulders, bulging muscles, and narrow waists. Their entire bearing had been changed. They stood straight, with shoulders back and chests out, their eyes front and center, waiting for an order. The posture alone had taken nearly a month. He’d had to transform them, slowly strip all the bad habits they’d learned fighting for al-Qaeda and the Taliban. They had been encouraged to look down on the Americans and their formality of command. The way the Americans marched around like robots. Karim saw it for what it really was; an efficiency that stripped away an individual’s identity. It was one of the many things that made them such daunting opponents, and it was the foundation of their effectiveness. When an order was given they could move with amazing speed and efficiency.

  Karim looked over the men and realized for the first time just how proud he was of them. He gave the order for the men to relax and then with a thin smile on his lips he said, “My warriors, Allah has told me you are ready. There is nothing more we can do here.”

  “We are leaving?” It was Ahmed, one of the Moroccans.

  “Yes. We will leave within the hour.”

  One by one the men looked to each other. Some smiled. Others looked nervous. Karim saw this, stepped on his own anger, and told himself it was natural. As horrible as this place had been, it had served its purpose. It had become home to them. “I know some of you are anxious. Some of you are nervous, and one or two of you are probably afraid. All of these feelings are natural. When God asked the prophet Jonah to go to Nineveh and decry the wickedness, he was afraid. So afraid, he ran in the opposite direction, where he ended up in the belly of the beast. Even one of the great prophets was afraid. It is normal to have such feelings. Even to doubt in our cause…our mission. We have each other, though. We have become family. We will keep each other strong, and we will not run. We will go willingly, and with great courage, into the belly of the beast, and we will inflict such harm and pain that the beast will no longer have the stomach to meddle in our affairs.”

  A few of the men shouted and pumped their fists in the air. The more solemn ones simply nodded.

  “To stay longer is to give the enemy more time to prepare.” Karim began to walk the length of the formation with his hands clasped behind his back. Now came the hard part. “I have not told you this until now because I did not want to distract you during your training.” He stopped at one end and looked back down the line. “The other two units have not been heard from in almost a month. It is feared that they have been intercepted.”

  There were murmurs of shock and disappointment. “But there has been nothing in the news,” said Farid.

  “That is true.” The men had access to two laptops with Internet links, and Karim encouraged them to read several U.S. newspapers every day. “I would hold out some hope if it had been reported in the papers. That would mean the CIA would have acknowledged their capture, and in turn they would have to document their treatment. The fact that there has been no word means they will drain them of everything they know.”

  “Do the other units know of our plans?”

  Karim looked at Fazul Alghamdi, whom he had fought alongside in Afghanistan. “Only in vague terms.”

  “They know which city we will attack,” Farid said in an agitated tone.

  “Yes, they do, but it is a big city. As we have discussed, there are many targets.”

  Fazul looked forlorn. “They were good men.”

  “Yes, they were. They were brave men, but they put too much faith in their belief that Allah wanted them to succeed.” Karim had spent a great deal of time as of late trying to sort this out. With the thoughtfulness of an imam he said, “Allah wants us to succeed, but he wants to challenge us. He wants to test us. He wants to see how committed we are to defeating our enemy.”

  “We are all committed, Amir,” said Farid, speaking for all of them.

  “Good. This is why I have preached preparation and vigilance. I have admonished
many of you for what I feel is a lack of respect for our enemy. You are weak if you fall prey to this. You are immature and you are afraid…like a schoolboy who is jealous of a pupil who gets a better mark on an exam. The truth is that the Americans are extremely good, and if we are not careful, we will end up like the others…captured and I’m sure tortured.”

  “We will not disappoint you, Amir,” said Farid.

  “Good.” Karim would always worry about the men. He had poured everything he had into getting them ready for this mission, and he knew he would never be completely satisfied. That was his nature. Those concerns, though, had taken a backseat to something that was weighing very heavily on him. He knew the Americans were good, but he was not naive enough to think the other two units had been intercepted by sheer luck. More and more, Karim was convinced the leadership of al-Qaeda had been compromised.

  “I have one other concern,” Karim announced in an extremely dire voice. “I am afraid that Zachariah may have been passing information along to his uncle.”

  The two Moroccans, who were closest to the Egyptian, shared a nervous look.

  Karim picked up on it and asked, “Am I right?”

  Both men nodded.

  Karim told himself that he could be angry about it later. His suspicions confirmed, he felt very vulnerable standing in the clearing. He got that feeling he’d had many times in Afghanistan. The one where he could almost sense one of the American drones circling high above. A faint buzz that foretold death from the sky. He was suddenly very glad that he had killed Zachariah and even more glad that he had made other preparations.

  “Does anyone have any questions before we leave?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “The airstrip.” Karim looked to the north. “If we make good time we should be there by nightfall.”

  “And then on to Mexico City?” Fazul asked.

  “No.”

  “But what of the plan?”

  “We can no longer trust our own people. Somewhere along the line the Americans have penetrated our leadership. We are on our own.”

  “But how will we get into America?”

  “I have made other arrangements.”

  “What are they?”

  “I will tell you when the time is right.” The men accepted this without further question. Karim looked at Farid and said, “Set the buildings on fire. I don’t want any clues left behind in case the Americans learn of this place.”

  “Yes, Amir.”

  Karim scanned the blue sky above them in search of a sign that they were being watched. The mere act of doing so made all the men nervous. “I think we should leave this place as quickly as possible.”

  No one argued. The men moved from one building to the next, using the oil from the lanterns to start the fires. The two laptops, extra radios, maps, and satellite phones were all thrown into the raging fire. Fourteen notebooks filled with research on individuals, buildings, entities, and organizations were all torched. Karim had made them memorize their battle plan. From this point forward nothing was to be put on paper. All communication with the al-Qaeda leadership was to cease.

  With the fires raging behind them, the men moved along a narrow foot trail. Karim stood at the edge of the jungle as each man disappeared under the dense canopy. He was happy to finally leave this place, and more than a little content to be cutting all ties with his commanders. There was nothing else they could do for him. He and his men were on their own. They would face Goliath, and they would strike a mighty blow for all of Islam.

  CHAPTER 19

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  MIKE Nash lay on his side, the wind knocked from his lungs, his arms pinned beneath his body. His eyes fluttered, then opened only to find a sea of dust and debris. With great effort he rolled onto his back. A jolt of stabbing pain shot through his body. After a moment it passed and was replaced by a strange, comforting warmth that spread beneath him. It was oddly silent, the air filled with a pungent odor. Slowly, steadily, the pain in his ears began to build. A figure emerged from the dust, holding a rifle. A slack-jawed Nash stared up at the man, trying to make sense of it all. Where in the hell was he? None of this made sense.

  It was the weapon that brought him halfway back to reality. It was an M4 Carbine. Nash didn’t know why he knew what it was, but he had an almost instinctive familiarity with the weapon. The man standing above him swung his rifle around, dropped into a half crouch, and began firing. Shell casings tumbled from the ejection port, peppering Nash’s head. The hot brass on his cheek was like a slap to the face. His perception of reality went from narrow to panoramic in a split second, and then back again. The last few tumblers fell into place and Nash realized there had been an explosion. That warm feeling spreading beneath him was his own damn blood.

  Nash tried to move. Knew he had to move. Once the shooting started, you had to move. Movement meant survival. The opposite meant death, or worse, capture. He rolled onto his side and felt a warm, sticky goo begin to pour out of his ear. The man standing over him dropped to a knee and began running a hand over Nash’s back while his eyes and weapon swept the area. The man jerked his weapon to the left and unleashed another volley while Nash rolled flat onto his back again.

  Nash watched the man hit the magazine release on his weapon. Saw the empty metal box fall free. Watched the man slam a new magazine home without looking. He fired another volley, glanced down at Nash, and screamed a question. Nash couldn’t hear a thing the man was saying, but he finally realized who it was—Mitch Rapp.

  Somewhere in the distance there was a rhythmic banging noise; oddly familiar, but distinctly out of place. Rapp grabbed him by his shoulder harness and began dragging him out of the line of fire. Nash’s back was suddenly on fire with pain as he was pulled over the debris from the explosion. As the first wave of pain passed, he came to the horrifying realization that he couldn’t feel his legs. The strange banging noise grew louder.

  Nash’s eyes snapped open, and he was instantly transported thousands of miles from the Federally Administered Tribal Areas of Pakistan to his home in suburban Washington, D.C. His right arm slid under the sheets and found the warm skin of his wife. His eyes focused on the familiar pink-and-white crystal chandelier she had insisted on hanging above their bed. He sighed, closed his eyes, and wiggled his toes. The banging noise started up again. It was coming from down the hallway and was neither unfamiliar nor unwelcome.

  Nash rolled onto his side, threw back the covers, and swung his legs onto the floor. He was wearing a pair of gray flannel pajama pants and nothing else. He put his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his short brown hair. At thirty-eight he was still in peak physical shape, but the chiseled exterior hid inner flaws. A stabbing pain shot from one temple to the other, so much so that it hurt to open his eyes. It reminded him of his days in the Marine Corps when he used to drink way too much. If only he were so lucky. He’d been to three separate specialists and none of them could tell him why he was waylaid with a splitting headache every morning when he got out of bed. Apparently, massive explosions could do more than just give you a concussion.

  All complaining aside, he was grateful he could walk. It had taken four surgeries to pluck all the shrapnel from his back. The last one was the most delicate, since it involved removing a piece of razor-sharp metal from between his L3 and L4 vertebrae. After that surgery his progress had been amazing.

  Other than the physical scars of the molten hot shrapnel that had peppered his back, there were few signs that Mike Nash had changed, but those close to him could tell he was holding on a little too tight. His wife had warned him. Thomas Dudley, the psychiatrist he worked with, had been pulling him aside every chance he got—trying to get him to talk about what he’d been through. Told him he needed to find a way to blow off some steam.

  An unfortunate choice of words, considering the debacle that had taken place the previous evening. The last thing Nash wanted to do was revisit that subject. He was an expert at mental triage
. He had learned it well on the wrestling mats and football fields of his youth. The Marines had further perfected the survival skill, and the CIA had given him the equivalent of a master’s degree. Repress and move on, that was their motto. Maybe there would be time to deal with all of it later. Maybe it would simply fix itself. He sure as hell hoped so, because life had become decidedly less enjoyable.

  His thoughts turned to Rapp. Nash told himself he had no right to complain about a thing. The man had jumped on a grenade for all of them. The shit storm of all shit storms was about to come raining down on them and Rapp had walked right into it. Told the rest of them to get away. Nash glanced over his shoulder at his wife, thought of the great years they’d had together, and wondered how she and the kids would handle it if he got indicted. Rapp was convinced he could take the heat and keep the attention off everyone else, but Nash had his doubts. Congressional investigations were bad enough, but his one had the earmarks of something much bigger. It smelled like one for the Office of Special Counsel and that meant it could last for years, their net getting bigger and bigger, and catching all kinds of crap none of them could have predicted.

  The banging noise down the hall grew in its ferocity. His wife stirred. Nash stood and walked stiffly across the room and down the hallway. Two other bedroom doors were firmly closed, but the last one on the left was ajar. The mystery noise was emanating from the smallest room on the second floor. Nash stopped just outside and peeked through the crack. Inside he caught a glimpse of one-year-old Charlie as he ran from one end of the crib to the other and then back again like he was a professional wrestler bouncing off the ropes and working up a head of steam for a clothesline or an atomic leg drop.

  After a few more laps he stopped and grabbed on to the side rail. His tiny fingers clutched the white wood, his cheeks puffed with air and he gave it everything he had. Back and forth, back and forth. Bang…bang. Bang…bang.