Prime (Chess Team Adventure, #0.5)

Keasling looked up but didn’t pull the receiver away from his mouth. “Calling the Air Force now, sir.”


“Doesn’t the 160th have attack choppers?” intoned the President, somewhat mollified. “Little Birds?”

Boucher recalled that Duncan had seen the Army’s special operations helicopters in action when he’d served in Mogadishu, nearly two decades earlier.

Keasling didn’t seem the least bit nonplussed. “With respect, Mr. President, I think the Night Stalkers need to be grounded.”

Collins was indignant. “Mike, what the hell?”

Keasling pointed to one of the screens that showed an air traffic control radar map of Central Iraq. “Beehive Six-Six has gone AWOL. I don’t know who’s in command of that aircraft or what they’re doing, but I’d say there’s a better than even chance that at least one of the crew is involved in this action.”

The announcement stunned Boucher. That was the piece of this puzzle that refused to fit. Someone had set a trap for the Delta team, that much was obvious, but the ambush at the site was only part of the equation; someone had been working from within their ranks to make sure that Cipher element was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He heard a voice in his ear and realized his telephone call to the Director of Operations had finally gone through. “This is Boucher,” he said in a low whisper. “We have a situation involving operations with Cipher element. I need all hands on deck.”

There was a moment of silence at the other end, and Boucher could imagine the DO biting back a river of questions. “Understood. I’ll sound the alarm. Will you be joining us?”

“Not sure. I’m with the President now. I’ll either meet you there or set up a conference call.”

The President quickly grasped the import of Keasling’s statement. “You think there are others involved?”

Keasling nodded. “Or the rogue agent might have sabotaged the support aircraft. Either way, we need to keep the Night Stalkers on the bench for now.”

“So what else can we do to help those men?”

“I’m trying to divert immediate close air support, sir. And I’ve put the word out to all our operators in the region. 1st Ranger is attached to 7th Group at COB Speicher—al Sahra airfield, near Tikrit. They can be there in a couple hours.”

“A couple hours? Our boys could be dead by then.”

A strange gleam lit in Keasling’s eyes. “Sir, with all due respect, I wouldn’t bet on it.”





NINE


Aden, Yemen



A man in a white waiter’s uniform pushed a food service cart out of the elevator and down the hallway. It was an hour after midnight, and the corridor was still and silent. Upon reaching his destination, one of more than a dozen nearly identical doors on either side of the hall, the waiter stopped and consulted a slip of paper on the cart, as if to verify that he was in the correct place. He stood motionless for a moment and could just make out a murmur of voices—probably from a television set inside—then he rapped his knuckles loudly on the door.

Several seconds passed. He was about to knock again when a voice issued from behind the panel. The terse inquiry was in Arabic, a language the waiter did not speak fluently, but the meaning was clear enough.

“I have food,” he called out. He spoke in English, but with an accent that might reasonably have been mistaken for German. “You order room service, ja?”

The door opened a crack, and through that narrow space, the waiter saw an unsmiling bearded Arab man, not quite as tall as his own six feet. The Arab appraised the waiter with a laser-like stare, taking in his dirty blond hair and long goatee—features that looked decidedly out of place in the region. Then he opened the door wider and took a half-step into the hall. Despite the late hour, the man was fully dressed, though he had chosen western attire—a brown sport coat over a white cotton dress shirt and khaki chinos—instead of the garb preferred by his kinsman. He glanced left and right, then returned his attention to the waiter.

“No room service.”

The waiter picked up the slip of paper and held it out for inspection. “You order food, ja? See right here?”

The Arab ignored the paper. “No.”

The waiter took another look at the slip. “Did someone else in the room order? You have others in the room with you?”

A perturbed look crossed the man’s face, then he stepped back inside and rattled off an inquiry in Arabic. The waiter seized the opportunity to advance his cart into the room, but the Arab blocked his entry, stopping the cart with such suddenness that the waiter had to steady himself by grasping the door frame. There was an angry look in the Arab’s eyes as he pushed the cart back into the hall.