They missed getting T-boned three times and left multiple accidents in their wake, dramatically slowing down the pursuit of DHS.
Harvath glanced at Palmer’s speedometer as he reached for his radio. They were doing almost ninety miles an hour.
“We’re coming in hot,” Harvath relayed.
“Roger that,” Sloane replied. “We’re ready.”
Blasting across 15th Street and then 17th, they passed the Washington Monument and the National World War II Memorial, and were now even with the Reflecting Pool. Up ahead, he could see the Lincoln Memorial. They were almost home free.
Palmer hung a hard left after the Reflecting Pool and headed for the Potomac.
Waiting under the Arlington Memorial Bridge was the high-speed, extreme weather Naval Special Warfare Rigid Hull Inflatable Boat, or RIB for short, that General McCollum had arranged. McCollum was one of the only people Reed Carlton fully trusted.
The RIB was powered by dual turbocharged, aftercooled Caterpillar diesels and crewed by three Special Warfare Combatant-Craft, or SWCC, crewmen.
Mrs. Leascht was already aboard, as was Sloane Ashby who had collected her from her house.
Bailing out of Palmer’s truck near the John Ericsson National Memo
rial, they ran up the Rock Creek Park Trail toward the bridge. With their night vision goggles, the SWCC team picked up on them right away and brought the blacked-out boat forward.
Up on the mall, Harvath could hear the DHS sirens, but it was too late. Once they were all on board, the driver punched it, and they disappeared down the Potomac.
CHAPTER 52
C
AMP
P
EARY
T
he CIA was down two helicopter pilots due to the virus. They couldn’t spare anyone to sit on a rooftop somewhere in D.C. not knowing when Harvath would show up with Justice Leascht. That was why the Old Man had turned to General McCollum.
McCollum had access to helos and pilots, but with a potential coup under way, he didn’t want to send a military bird into metropolitan D.C. They were too easy to spot, and there was too much that could go wrong. And so, they had come up with a compromise.
The SWCC team with the RIB had provided the first part of the extraction. Once they were safely under way, McCollum got a helicopter aloft.
They rendezvoused at Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling, just across the Potomac from Reagan National Airport. The base’s only aeronautical facility was a 100-by-100-foot helipad.
The RIB arrived just as a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter was touching down. After the passengers had been transferred, it lifted off for Camp Peary.
When it landed at the CIA facility, Lydia Ryan was already waiting for Harvath.
“We got it!” she said, once they were far enough away from the noise of the helicopter. “Helena gave Mordechai all the passwords she had intercepted from Damien. She had them backed up in the cloud. As soon as the Mossad had access to them, they were able to crack their copy of
Damien’s hard drive. They transmitted everything here just before the Internet went down.”
Harvath stopped and looked at her. “The Internet went down? When? Why?”
Ryan nodded toward a waiting Suburban. “I’ll fill you in on the way to the TOC.”
•••
Harvath let Ryan do all the talking, only interrupting her when he needed more specific detail on an issue.
In short, he was blown away by what they had uncovered. The fact that DHS had cited looting as being organized via social media in order to shut down the Internet didn’t surprise him at all. And technically, they didn’t shut it all the way down. They simply limited U.S.-based access to a key group of web sites like DHS.gov, CDC.gov, and NIH.gov, where they could control the flow of information. Blaming dangerous rumors that were contributing to panic and social unrest, they took over TV and radio as well.
The most stunning revelations, though, surrounded the virus—specifically who was protected and who was not.
Ryan explained how working with elements inside the United Nation’s health organization—the WHO—Damien and his Plenary Panel were able to impact the flu vaccine.
“There’s a global network of flu researchers. They all feed into the WHO. Every February in Geneva, the WHO makes its recommendation for the makeup of the next Northern Hemisphere seasonal flu vaccine,” she said. “They also produce a substance called ‘high-growth reassortants.’ Basically, it’s a mixture of the genes from different flu viruses that is given to private manufacturers from which they can grow their vaccines. But this time, it wasn’t just flu viruses they were ‘reassorting.’ They found a way to sneak in African Hemorrhagic Fever genes too.”
“So if you got the flu shot, you got immunity?” Harvath asked.
Ryan nodded. “But only if you got the special Northern Hemisphere version, which was limited to North America and Western Europe.
Damien was very specific about who he wanted to see survive. In the U.S., for example, where there’s a population of over three hundred million, only about a hundred fifty to a hundred sixty million doses of flu vaccine get produced every year.”
“But they ramped it up this year. If you recall, every doctor, every public health official was banging the drum about getting a flu shot. Even the morning shows were talking about how this year looked to be one of the worst ones on record.”
“All of which was driven by the WHO.”
“I guess the Carlton Group’s ‘Flu Fair’ wasn’t so stupid after all then,” said Harvath. “I got my shot right at the office. But DHS wouldn’t have known that.”
“I have three words for you,” Ryan countered. “Electronic medical records.”
That made perfect sense. Anything was hackable.
“But the President, the Vice President, all of the people at the different agencies. None of them got the flu shot?” Harvath asked.
“They got last year’s flu shot and therefore no immunity to African Hemorrhagic Fever.”
“How, though? How do you control who gets what flu shot when you are dealing with that many people?”
“You said it already,” Ryan replied. “A Flu Fair. Damien’s person at the National Institutes for Health proposed a PR campaign that would showcase senior Federal leadership getting their flu shots early. They shot video of them rolling up their sleeves, took photographs of them smiling as they got their shots, and bombarded Federal employees with the images in the run-up to their Flu Fair where the real shots were given for free.”
“What about you? And Director McGee?”
“We both had to travel, so we got our shots early from an in-house CIA doctor. McGee posed for pictures to do his part, but it was all staged. We’re confident we’re going to be fine.
“Everyone on that Main Core VIP list also saw a private doctor, including Chief Justice Leascht. He participated in the PR campaign, but only so far as allowing his picture to be used to encourage Judicial Branch employees to get their flu shot. By skirting the PR campaign and the ac
tual Flu Fair, he and the others avoided their shot being substituted with last year’s.
“Speaking of shots, Carlton reached out to Ben Beaman, who confirmed that everyone at the Matumaini Clinic, as well as the inhabitants of the adjacent village, had been vaccinated. CARE had arranged for the North American vaccine to be sent to them.”
It explained why Leonce and Pepsy had survived exposure to the virus and the rebel commander hadn’t.
“So, they would have survived the virus if Jan Hendrik and his men hadn’t been sent in to slaughter them,” said Harvath.
Ryan nodded again.
“So what do we do now?”
“Director McGee wants to take this directly to the Secretary of the Treasury,” said Ryan. “I can’t bring myself to call Dennis Fleming the President.”
“Have you had any word on Porter?”
“He’s a fighter. That’s all we know.”
“The Treasury Secretary is with everyone else at Mount Weather?” Harvath asked.
“He is. McGee is going to chopper up there, but he’s coming here first. He wants you and Justice Leascht to join him. Mordechai too. They’re going to patch the Israeli Prime Minister in on a phone call.”
“My God,” said Harvath. “Israel didn’t get the good vaccine, did it?”
“No, they didn’t.”
“Has Colonel White at USAMRIID been brought up to speed on all of this? People who received the flu shot have to be informed that they’re going to be okay. Those who didn’t get it, if they stay indoors, maybe we can starve this thing of oxygen.”
“McGee says first we take down Linda Landon, and put DHS back under competent authority,” replied Ryan. “Then we tackle everything else.”
“What about Damien? Do we know if he’s at Mount Weather?”
“The Secret Service is covertly searching the facility right now.”
“How long until McGee gets here?” Harvath asked.
“He’s already in the air. He’ll be here in twenty minutes. It’s not much time, but I want you to see what the Israelis sent us.”
CHAPTER 53
B
en Mordechai was in a lot of pain and didn’t want to leave Helena, but he understood the importance of attending the meeting at Mount Weather. It would be much more powerful if he was there to answer questions and represent Israel’s interests.
When CIA Director McGee’s Sikorsky S-76 helicopter touched down, Harvath, Mordechai, and Justice Leascht were already assembled on the tarmac, waiting. The copilot helped everyone board and made sure they were buckled in before hopping back up front and confirming with the pilot that they were ready to go.
As the helicopter raced toward Mount Weather, McGee explained over his passenger’s headsets how he wanted the meeting to go down. He wanted nothing short of complete discipline. They were going to get one crack at this and one crack only. The die had already been cast for the rest of the world. All McGee cared about at this point was rescuing the United States.
•••
They were met at the Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center by the Secret Service and taken down to the subterranean complex via a secondary route. Acting President Fleming had been briefed that the CIA Director wanted as few people to know about his visit as possible.
The Secret Service had conducted a thorough search of the facility, but there had been no sign of Pierre Damien.
Showing the party into the makeshift Situation Room, the agents then stepped out. Minutes later, Dennis Fleming appeared on the large flat screen at the head of the conference table.
Everyone joined in a chorus of “Good evening, Mr. President.”
“You can address me as Secretary Fleming,” he said. “Paul Porter is still the President as far as I am concerned.”
Fleming didn’t look good. No one needed to ask him if he had been part of the Federal flu shot leadership campaign. The man was head of the Treasury Department. He had been a good leader and had set the example for the people working under him. For that, he had been rewarded with African Hemorrhagic Fever. It was incredibly unjust. There was no telling how long he had, but he had refused to quit working just because he was in isolation. Too much needed to be done.
McGee gave Fleming the thirty-thousand-foot view, hitting the high points and only going granular when the man asked.
When the CIA Director finished, he picked up a phone off-screen and said, “I want the full cabinet assembled, as well as the National Security Council,
now
. Find Linda Landon and have her standing by. I’ll call for her when I’m ready.”
It took less than five minutes for everyone to file into the room and take their places. All of the attendees knew Chief Justice Leascht and stopped to shake his hand. Those who knew Harvath nodded. No one knew Mordechai.
Fleming didn’t want to waste any time and so immediately handed the meeting over to McGee. The CIA Director patched the Israeli Prime Minister in via videoconference on a split-screen and then gave the same briefing he had just given Secretary Fleming.
All of the attendees were shocked, doubly so those who had participated in the flu shot leadership program. Each of them had just been handed an almost certain death sentence.
Everyone wanted to know if there was a cure. If people took the correct flu shot now would the benefits be retroactive? They were questions that, sadly, had no answers at the moment.
The Acting Secretary of State, who had participated in the leadership program, but had yet to feel any ill effects from the virus, suggested the same thing Harvath had to Lydia Ryan. Israel was full of American and
Western European citizens who had been visiting Israel when the virus broke out. If they had been vaccinated, they could be instrumental in helping the Israelis.
The Israeli Prime Minister agreed and said something to someone off-camera about getting the word out via television and radio right away.
There was some back and forth with the Prime Minister about Pierre Damien and what the Israelis knew and when. McGee introduced Mordechai, who fielded a handful of questions before the CIA Director brought the conversation back to the United States and what needed to be done.
In particular, they focused on Linda Landon and the best way to deal with her. Once there was consensus, Fleming summoned her.
•••
Harvath led the assault team through the pine and spruce, up the steep slope. McGee had choppered in Ashby, Palmer, and a small contingent of operators from the Carlton Group. No one knew yet how deep this plot went, and neither Fleming nor McGee wanted to draw in outside agencies.
What they did know was that Landon wasn’t providing Damien sanctuary at Mount Weather. He was a man who understood contingencies, and he had established a redoubt. His fallback location was a log home at the end of an unpopulated road.
To his credit, Damien had not revealed a word of it to Landon. She had broken quickly, as Harvath had known she would. The look on her face when she walked into the room and saw Judge Leascht told everyone that she was guilty.
And while Damien had been smart enough not to reveal the existence of his bolt-hole, he had established windows during which he and Landon could communicate via the encrypted cell phone he had given her.
When he popped up, he didn’t stay up for long. It wasn’t until the third window that the NSA nailed his location.
Secretary Fleming knew Harvath only by his call sign and reputation.
He had been present in a briefing once where Harvath’s exploits in Pakistan had been discussed. He knew President Porter thought very highly of him and so gave his blessing for Harvath to lead the team charged with going after Damien.
“How does this work?” he had asked. “Do I need to give you specific instructions? A list of dos and don’ts?”
“It is actually better if you just let me go and do what I have been trained to do.”
“You know what I expect, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go do it,” Fleming had said. And with that, he had let Harvath off the chain.
It would be daylight in an hour. By then, everything would be over. Damien was the devil himself—worse than Stalin, worse than Hitler or Mao or Pol Pot. He was worse than all of them combined, and even then, the comparison failed to depict the horror of what he had done.
How many mothers and fathers were inconsolable with grief at this very moment, having had their children taken by the ghastly disease Damien had unleashed? How many children had lost parents, husbands their wives, and on and on?
The only thing that would come close to equaling the misery would be the guilt of the survivors. Though they had no knowledge of Damien’s abhorrent plot, they had been the beneficiaries of his gruesome largess. Harvath couldn’t wait to make him pay.
The first trip wire they encountered was a thousand yards out from the house. It was set at chest height so that most deer and other animals could pass beneath it. Harvath pointed it out to the team and kept moving.
They encountered two more trip wires before Harvath could begin to see the outline of the house through the trees. This was as close as he wanted to get for the moment. Damien’s security detail would have night vision devices too. They needed to be careful.
After giving his team the signal to move into position, he unslung the suppressed rifle he was carrying, lay down on the ground, and crept slowly forward. There was no need to rush it. They had plenty of time.
It took him twenty minutes to move the last fifteen meters. But once
he was in place, he had a perfect view through the last few trees of the back of the home.
There were no lights on. A guard, with night vision goggles, sat wrapped in a coat, his weapon across his lap. He sat so still, Harvath wondered if he was asleep.
Then, the man moved his head. He had heard something off to his right. Harvath wondered if he had picked up the sound of Ashby’s portion of the team back in the trees.
“Just a raccoon,” Harvath said to himself. “Don’t get out of your chair.”
But somehow the man sensed there was something lurking out there in the darkness, and he not only got out of his chair, he called it in on his radio.
Shit
.
Harvath watched as the man made a beeline right for where Ashby and her part of the assault team were dug in.
Congo, D.C., even the Blue Ridge Mountains—Murphy was every-
where.
As Harvath continued to watch, he willed the man to break it off, to pick up the radio and tell his colleagues that it was nothing.
Any hope of that happening, though, was dashed when the man neared the trees and definitely saw the operators beyond. His weapon came up so fast, Harvath barely had time to react. But he didn’t need to. Ashby was ready for him and drilled a silenced round right through the guard’s head.
Harvath leapt to his feet and gave the command to hit the house.
As the men appeared out of the woods like wraiths, Harvath had several meters’ head start.
When one of the guards came around the back of the house, Harvath turned, fired, and dropped him.
There were muffled spits off to Harvath’s right as Palmer took out another guard who had come to investigate. That was three down. Based on what Helena had told Mordechai, there were likely at least three more guards, plus Damien and his assistant cum valet, Jeffery.
Reaching the rear of the house, Harvath approached the sliding glass door. He gave the handle a tug, and it slid back. From further inside, he heard an alarm panel chime.
Murphy
.
He stepped over the threshold into a family room area. The house smelled musty and unused. There was the odor of stale coffee and a hint of a long-dead creature, probably a mouse, rotting somewhere behind one of the walls.
Harvath wanted Damien, and he moved quickly toward where he thought he would be. At the end of the hall was a door that looked like it belonged to a master bedroom. He headed right for it, stopping only to check two closets and a small powder room.
The carpeted floor creaked in spots beneath his boots. Pulling up short just before the door, he positioned himself off to the side and listened. He didn’t hear anything and so reached for the handle.
But before he grabbed it, the door opened from the other side, and he was nose-to-nose with one of Damien’s men.
Jamming his suppressor under the man’s chin, he fired. The man, dressed only in his underwear and likely on his way to the bathroom, fell to the floor dead with half his head missing.
A second man who had been asleep now scrambled for his weapon. Harvath shot him too and exited the room.
Palmer and Ashby were making their way down the hallway toward him, and Harvath waved them off. Crossing back toward the kitchen, he located a staircase, and signaled for them to follow him upstairs.
The stairs creaked worse than the hallway floor. Undeterred, he kept moving.
When he reached the top, there was a door immediately to his right. Reaching for the knob, he twisted it, and pushed the door open. It was a small office of some sort stacked with Pelican Cases and electronic equipment. Standing back, he sent Palmer in to clear it.
Moving down a narrow hallway, the next door he encountered was on his left and opened onto a small walk-in closet. There were only two rooms left. One of them was bound to have Damien.
Pushing open the door to the first room, he could see that it was a guest room of some sort, and that the bed had been slept in. He was about to signal Ashby when suddenly his entire field of vision was obscured.
The man must have been pressed against the wall and had leapt out the minute he saw the door open. All Harvath could do was react. The man was literally on top of him. He couldn’t get his weapon into a good
enough angle to shoot, and so he snapped his head forward, driving his night vision goggles into his assailant’s face.
The man staggered backward, blood pouring down his face. Instead of surrendering, though, he charged again. This time, Harvath had enough distance and dropped him with two shots to his head. That left one final door.
Harvath crossed over to it and listened. There was no sound. But there hadn’t been in his other two encounters either.
Signaling the team, he twisted the doorknob. It was locked. Taking a step back, he kicked it open, and they poured in.
Like the other room, the bed was unmade, but there was no sign of its recent occupant. As Ashby quickly checked beneath it, Palmer checked the closet, and Harvath crossed to the bathroom.
It was secured by a sliding pocket door that hadn’t been closed all the way. Through the crack, Harvath could see the man identified as Jeffery, Damien’s valet, putting a shotgun in his mouth.
He took a step back and fired five shots in rapid succession through the door.
The valet screamed in agony as he dropped the shotgun onto the bathroom floor.
Harvath ripped open the door and kicked the weapon out of the way. This guy wasn’t going to get the luxury of taking the coward’s way out and committing suicide. All of his shots had been below the waist, including the valet’s groin.
Leaning over he placed the hot suppressor against the wound, and the valet screamed even louder.
“That was from Helena,” Harvath said. “Now tell me where Damien is.”