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“We are preparing a statement for the government of Jordan and will hope we don’t need it.”
Chris laid higher odds on asking for forgiveness, not permission. The US and Jordan had a decent relationship, but that would change if a team of SEALs was sent into the heart of the capital with a population of over four million people.
Amman’s own police or military would want to be part of this rescue. However, given the nature of Dr. Edwards’s work—it sounded like she was using her credentials as an archaeologist to act as a spy—that wouldn’t be possible.
If Amman’s finest was sent in, Dr. Edwards could end up being the one sent to prison.
“Right now, we’re gathering intel,” the commander continued. “Our first priority is extracting Dr. Edwards. Other objectives may come into play if she is taken to a terrorist stronghold.”
Whoa. The commander had just said the quiet part out loud. They were hoping Edwards would lead them to a big fish in the terrorist sea.
Sure, the US military wanted to stop the sale of artifacts to cut the funding to the various groups, but that wasn’t the primary reason for this oh-so-fast military response. Was it even a coincidence his SEAL team was on this aircraft carrier just waiting for a mission at the right time?
Ordinarily, he’d blow off that idea. This wasn’t his first time hanging out on one of the world’s biggest boats with his team on a just-in-case deployment, but the events of last winter had revealed some cracks in Naval Special Warfare Command. Plus, there was that little tidbit about Freya Lange being former CIA.
Had the former SAD operative used her own contractor as bait for a terrorist?
Chris had learned long ago to never trust a spy. Even when they left the business, they remained ready to stab you in the back and claim it was for the greater good.
The commander dismissed the team. They would remain on the carrier, ready to be dispatched within minutes when the order came. On the way out the door, Chris signaled Fallon with a nod. He had questions for his SEAL team leader.
They stepped aside as the others filed out of the room and into the narrow corridor. Between the two of them, Fallon was the senior lieutenant and Officer in Charge (OIC) of their platoon, while Chris was the Assistant Officer in Charge (AOIC). Chris had been in line for a promotion to OIC at Coronado, but when he opted to make the move to Little Creek, all they could give him was a lateral assignment, which was fine with him. More often than not, they split into eight-man Squads or four-man Fire Teams anyway, and he was always senior officer in those situations. Best to get the feel for his Little Creek team after years in Coronado before he took command of his own platoon.
“You know Dr. Edwards?” he asked his OIC.
Fallon—a large white man with blond hair, blue eyes, and a jaw so firm and square, he’d be a casting agent’s wet dream for the role of Navy SEAL in an action movie—shook his too-perfect head. “No,” he said. “But I know Morgan Adler and Freya Lange. Dr. Adler single-handedly saved a bunch of SEALs from an ambush a few years back when we were in Djibouti.”
Chris had heard about that op. It had been whispered about among special forces in all branches of the military and had moved into legendary territory given the number of tangos taken out and young girls rescued. The legendary part was that special forces had barely been involved. Most of the work had been done by one woman with the aid of a captive who was among the rescued. “You’re shitting me. Operation Icarus?”
Fallon nodded. “Three Green Berets went in and cleaned up after we were called back. Adler is married to one of them. Lange another.”
“But can we really trust Lange?” Chris didn’t bother to hide the derision in his voice. The woman might be married to a Green Beret and business partners with the woman who’d been at the center of the Icarus raid, but neither of those things meant they could take the word of a person who’d spent years in the spy game, spinning lies and turning human beings into assets.
“I’d trust her with my life. I have trusted her with my life, and she’s never let me or any of our teams down. Something went down with her and the CIA when she left Djibouti. I don’t know what because, well, CIA. But I do know she’s still affiliated for the purpose of aiding her consultants, even though there’s no love lost there.”
Chris was still getting to know Fallon, but he did respect the man and knew he could trust his OIC’s judgment. So at least they didn’t need to worry they were being sent in to save a woman who’d been set up by her own boss.
He hated cleaning up other people’s messes.
“What else do you know about Adler and Lange?”
“I’ve kept in touch in the years since Icarus. The Friday Morning Valkyries are well trained, and they take their work seriously.”
He wanted to ask what was up with the weird name, but that could wait. “When you say well trained, what do you mean?”
“Physical training—with weapons and hand-to-hand combat. Morgan is a crack shot and has studied martial arts for decades. She teaches those skills to the Valkyries herself. Pretty sure they all do a SERE course too.”
Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape, better known as SERE, was a cornerstone training program for military personnel, DoD civilians, and government contractors deployed to hostile environments. “Good to know. We need to brief the team on the off chance Dr. Edwards might take it upon herself to join the fight.”
Fallon nodded. “Doubtful, though.”
He gave a noncommittal shrug. “Still need to be prepared.” Chris, more than anyone, knew how horrifically an op could fall apart when the hostage being rescued behaved in unexpected ways.
The skin where the subdermal tracker was implanted itched. Diana knew the feeling was psychosomatic; her brain’s way of begging her to signal for rescue. There was no reason for her arm to itch there and only there, yet it did. Beckoning her to rub the spot for ten seconds to trigger it to reach out to the CIA or military or whoever it was programmed to ping.
She wouldn’t touch it, though. Triggering it now could be the worst mistake of her life, killing the battery before she reached her final destination. Plus, the tracker was useless if, during the four hours it actively attempted to transmit her location, there was no working cellular or satellite signal to jump on. If there was no phone to provide connectivity, the battery drain would be for nothing. An SOS that went into a void before fading into nothingness.
So she would wait. She wouldn’t blow her get-out-of-terrorist-jail-free card by playing it too soon. But then there was the ever-present fear…what if she waited too long?
