Jack Ryan’s methodical analysis of the situation capsized in an instant. Something percolated in his gut and his jaw went rigid. When he finally spoke, his words were slow and measured. “I know of only two United States Navy officers in Turkey.”
“I’m sure there are others,” Mary Pat said. “One or two attached to the embassy in Istanbul, possibly a few working exchange tours with Turkish forces. But to my direct knowledge, I can think of only two who would have had a reason to be on board this helicopter.”
The President held still knowing everyone was watching him. “All right. In that case—”
“Stand by, sir,” she said, cutting him off and referencing her secure laptop. “We’re getting something new from DIA.” Hereyes typewritered back and forth. “MAADN is still tracking the vehicles. They appear to be heading toward Georgia. It also uncovered some new satellite footage—a video is coming along with some notes. After the Black Hawk went down, it was apparently surrounded by individuals from the two cars, four men carrying weapons. They approached the wreckage and pulled out one survivor. According to CC6, this video is rough and can’t be enhanced any further. Okay…I’ve got the full download.”
While Mary Pat manipulated her laptop to put the video on the big screen, Ryan deconstructed what she’d just said.According to CC6…Whatever he was about to see, it was coming from Kyle. And Kyle also knew that his sister was in theater.
Jack Ryan braced himself as the video began running.
The resolution was grainy, a fifty-two-second clip, according to the time bar at the bottom. He could easily make out the crumpled helicopter. Its fuselage was bent and both skids had collapsed. Two broken rotor blades lay strewn across the desert like thrown sticks. The wreckage was smoking, yet there was no raging fire. The chopper had hit hard, but not catastrophically.
All three vehicles were in the field of view. One was a big SUV, possibly a Mercedes, the other a large sedan. The box truck that had been the original target was at the edge of the screen. The clip began with three men surrounding the wreckage. Then a fourth emerged from the shattered Black Hawk hauling someone in a fireman’s carry. The person being carried was folded acutely over the man’s shoulders, meaning there was no way to assess size. No way to tell whether it was male or female. It was just an inert body being pulled from a pile of smoking wreckage. The man carrying the body went to the box truck and dumped the survivor—if that’s what it was—unceremoniously into the cargo compartment.
When the clip ended, Ryan told Mary Pat to play it again. In all his time as an analyst, so many years of studying images and inferring intentions, Ryan had never focused so intently on one short video loop.Was the survivor wearing a uniform? Yes. Desert camo pattern, very possibly the Navy Work Uniform.Then it struck him. The three Turkish crewmen would all have been wearing flight suits. Those could have been either green or tan. But definitely not a camo pattern.
“That’s our American being hauled away,” said Admiral Kent, having made the same deductions.
“But who is it?” van Damm wondered aloud.
The room remained silent for a long moment.
The President knew he should be the next to speak. It was his duty…although whether it was as the commander in chief or as a father, he wasn’t sure.
“All right, people,” he said in a surprisingly steady voice, “we need clarity. This little convoy was very likely responsible for taking down John Moore’s aircraft. Now they’ve shot down a Turkish Black Hawk and appear to have taken an American hostage.” Ryan paused, then addressed the elephant in the Situation Room. “We have to determine immediately whether this is Katie. I say this as both your President and her father.”
Mary Pat was already on the phone. Ryan reckoned she was going through DNI channels to get an answer, this being the network she knew most intimately. He heard the words “Bodrum” and “highest priority,” and realized she was making a call direct to the scene. They all waited as connections were arranged for a direct call from the White House. Command posts, secure routers. A cascade of COMSEC that ended somewhere in southern Turkey.
Finally, Mary Pat reached the person she wanted. She explained the situation. Even from across the room, Ryan could hearchatter in the call’s background. Loud voices, people talking over one another. In other circumstances, he might have taken it for a bar or a cocktail party. As things stood, he recognized a TOC in crisis mode.
The DNI said, “Thank you, please call me back in five minutes.” She ended the call, and said immediately, “Katie is fine. She’s out having dinner with Colonel Carter and his team. It was Lieutenant John Conza getting pulled out of the wreckage.”
24
Bodrum Airport, Turkey
2058 Local Time
Task Force 99 was out of the safe house in five minutes, gear loaded, engines revving, gravel flying. The drive to the airfield took ten more. The tires on both vehicles were smoking by the time they reached the quiet corner of the airport where the C-41 was waiting.
“Load up!” Clark ordered as the doors flew open. “We’ll gear up once we’re airborne.”
Ding opened the rear hatch of the Land Cruiser and began heaving out rucks and weapon cases.
Clark sprinted up the aft loading ramp. It was far narrower than the ramps he was used to. On a Herc or a C-17 you could drive a Hummer straight on board, even roll them out the back midflight. The C-41 Aviocar—a fittingly clumsy nickname—had a loading ramp sized for a golf cart. It was a people mover, ideal for depositing small teams and a limited amount of equipment on unimproved landing strips.
And tonight, that was exactly what they needed.
Clark found the pilots flipping switches in the cockpit. “Dothese turboprop engines have afterburners?” he said to announce his arrival.
Both pilots looked back. The left-seater grinned, and said, “Only when they’re on fire.” He offered up a handshake, and said, “Major Paul Wheeler.”
Clark shook his hand.
“This is Captain Vicki Ross,” the skipper added, nodding toward his female copilot. Both of them were wearing civilian clothes, and Clark wasn’t sure if it was because they’d been scrambled in a rush, or if their unit made allowances to support the spec ops mission. He might ask later if he got the time.
“I’m Clark,” he replied, not bothering with the pretense of an alias. “What did they give you as a mission brief?”
