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Azarov found himself forced to move to a less easily defended position in order to utilize the transmission system that had been integrated into the structure. While communications with the two
men who had accompanied him could be easily handled with commercial walkie-talkies connected to throat mikes, getting a reliable signal to the other teams necessitated something encrypted and far more powerful.
Once connected, he sent Maxim Krupin a coded text informing him that all was well.
The sun was a hazy disk in the west, inflicting slightly less heat than it had the day before. Azarov sat down behind a disused oil tank, mindful that the metal was still too hot to touch with bare skin. The teams were projected to arrive at their targets simultaneously in just over four hours. They would deploy their weapons and then it would be done.
He would return to Al-Hofuf and meet with the private contractors he’d hired to get him out of Saudi Arabia. Then he would begin his circuitous route back to Central America. And that would be the last the world ever heard of Grisha Azarov.
CHAPTER 52
EVEN with Fred Mason at the controls, the helicopter felt like a toy in the jaws of a rabid dog. A violent downdraft caused them to plunge a good fifty feet, and Captain Bazzi finally looked like he was going to lose the fight to keep his lunch down.
The young officer bent at the waist and put his hands over his headphones as though to drown out the sound of the engines struggling to keep them aloft. Rapp moved his boots out of range and Colonel Wasem watched his assistant with undisguised contempt. The older man’s years in Saudi Arabia’s special forces allowed him to remain unaffected by the rough ride and to forget what it was like to be new at this game.
The chatter coming over the comm had gone from nervous to near panicked. Five similar choppers were hunting the scattered ISIS teams depicted on Rapp’s Toughbook. The last two had finally come online only fifteen minutes ago, flashing to life and joining the other teams closing on their targets. The one he was being carried toward had arrived at the abandoned oil facility over an hour ago and hadn’t moved since. The leader.
“This is Scout Four,” a voice said in Arabic. “Winds in this sector are becoming too strong for me to safely control my aircraft. Recommend that we abort.”
“Negative,” Wasem said. “Continue on target.”
Rapp squinted through the dust at the computer propped on his knees. Marcus Dumond had once again done his magic. Target positions were being updated in real time, with the assist of a number of military, intelligence, and hijacked commercial satellites. Their CIA-projected destinations showed up as hazy orange circles and the red dots depicting ISIS teams now included ETA countdown clocks. Blue icons tracked the chasing Saudi Air Force choppers, along with their projected time to intercept. Scout Four was southeast of their position with thirty-three minutes to intercept.
“This is Scout Five,” another static-ridden voice said. “I have a visual on my target.”
“How’s your weather, Scout Five?” Rapp said.
“Manageable.”
“Stay out of sight and keep tracking.”
“Disregard,” Colonel Wasem barked into his headset. “Engage the target immediately.”
“Belay that,” Rapp said, and then isolated his mike to include only the men with him in the helicopter. “We talked about this before we lifted off, Colonel. We wait until we’ve acquired all the targets and take them out at the same time.”
“The plan has changed,” Wasem said. “This is not America and your CIA has no authority here. King Faisal has made it clear that I am in command of this operation. You’re here only as an observer. And as such, you’ll remain silent. Is that clear?”
Rapp tried to keep his voice even. This situation was too complex to let it devolve into a pissing contest. “If you take that target, their central command is going to know. And if they think they’re compromised, they’ll order the rest of their teams to detonate. Even if most of them are outside of their optimal position, that’s going to cause a hell of a mess, Colonel.”
“You have no idea what they’ll do and I won’t be lectured by an American about terrorists. These ISIS men are little more than goat tenders and children. They have no operational discipline and their command structure is virtually nonexistent. If you don’t have the courage to act, I will.”
Rapp considered pointing out that the sophisticated, satellite-linked Toughbook on his knees was part of that nonexistent command structure, but it seemed like too obvious a point to bother with.
Everyone at Langley agreed that the ISIS teams would act simultaneously. There was no reason for them to risk tipping off the Saudi military before all their people were in position.
“Colonel,” Rapp said, deciding to try reason one last time. Irene Kennedy was still pissed off about him stabbing Senator Ferris a few weeks ago and he didn’t need to give her anything else to ride him about. “All the ISIS teams are scheduled to arrive on target within ten minutes of each other and we have one team that’s been holding in position for more than an hour. Based on the ETAs I’m being fed from Langley, we’re going to have eyes on all the targets, with forty minutes to spare. This isn’t the time to start trying to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.”
“Scout Five to command,” came a voice over his headset. “Awaiting final orders. Please clarify.”
“Turn my comm back on immediately,” Wasem said.
Rapp found himself at the end of what little patience he had. Wasem was well known to be a major asshole and a significant player in Saudi Arabia’s support for Muslim extremists. Could he be an ISIS sympathizer? Probably not. In all likelihood, he was just another useless prick calculating the best way to cover his ass. Either way, it was clear that their collaboration wasn’t working.
Rapp reached out and released the clasp on the harness keeping Wasem in his seat. The slow casualness of the move confused the man and he was completely unprepared when Rapp grabbed him by the front of his uniform and shoved him toward the chopper’s open door.
The Saudi colonel grabbed for the edge of his seat, but his surprise made him a fraction too slow. A moment later, the only evidence that he had ever been there was the headset flapping against the fuselage.
“Mitch!” Fred Mason said over the comm. “Did you just throw someone out of my aircraft?”
