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  “Last night, a Delta team running CT operations in Ramadi captured two couriers working with the al-Awda resistance—”

  “Refresh my memory.”

  “Al-Awda is Arabic for ‘The Return,’ as in the return of Saddam Hussein. It’s a small group, made up of Ba’ath party members and Saddam loyalists. They’ve mostly been marginalized since Operation Red Dawn, but information recovered last night suggests that they are still active. We think they might have set up shop at a remote site east of Samarra…” Boucher paused a beat then dropped the grenade. “It looks like the place is an undocumented Iraqi bio-weapons laboratory.”

  Duncan processed this for a moment then leaned forward, his palms flat on the desk to either side of the unread brief. “Undocumented? Christ, Dom, are you telling me that we’ve finally found the smoking gun?”

  “I’m afraid it looks that way.”

  In October 2002, after several months of evident non-compliance on the part of Saddam Hussein’s government with UN weapons inspectors, the United States Congress voted to authorize military action against Iraq. Four months later, the US Secretary of State, speaking before the United Nations Security Council, presented evidence of an ongoing Iraqi effort to develop weapons of mass destruction (WMDs), with the intent of using them against Western nations. Shortly thereafter, the war began. Almost two hundred thousand soldiers from the United States and three other countries, swept across the border, and in just twenty-one days of fighting, toppled the Ba’athist regime of Saddam Hussein.

  But no WMDs were found.

  As the triumphant victory turned into a prolonged occupation and a brutal campaign against insurgent guerillas—news pundits began calling it a ‘quagmire’—the rationale for the war came under intense scrutiny. What had, in the days leading up to the invasion, seemed like a ‘slamdunk’—damning evidence of an impending strike against American interests utilizing a deadly combination of biological, chemical and nuclear weapons—now seemed like a fallacious pretext for a war of imperialism.

  It would later be revealed that much of the so-called evidence had been fraudulent, supplied by Saddam Hussein’s political rivals, who had—successfully it seemed—tricked the nations of the West into toppling the hated dictator from power. While many would subsequently argue that Saddam’s overthrow was justified, even absent the threat of illegal weapons programs, the perception that America had been deceived into starting the war haunted the former President to the end of his first and only term in office, and his decision not to run for a second term paved the way for the election of dark horse candidate Thomas Duncan.

  Duncan, a former combat veteran, was intimately familiar with the very real cost of war, in both treasure and blood. His policy from day one in office was that there would be no hand wringing or recriminations over the miscalculations of the former administration, but he did intend to give the American people exactly what he had promised in the campaign—a government that was accountable for every dollar and every drop of American blood spent in the war effort.

  Although there was no easy solution to the Iraq problem, Duncan was aggressively pushing his advisors for an exit strategy that would ensure long-term security and stability in the region. It was a politically popular position, and the war hawks in Congress, still stinging from the WMD fiasco, were keeping their heads down.

  The discovery of a ‘smoking gun’—a secret bio-weapon production facility leftover from Saddam Hussein’s regime—would change all of that. A single shred of evidence, even circumstantial evidence, might be used to justify the war in the court of public opinion. Although doubts would linger, the uncertainty would undermine the President’s position. The hawks would demand a more aggressive approach to foreign policy, with pre-emptive military action as a tool of statecraft, and more American soldiers would pay the price with their lives.

  Duncan shook his head. “It is what it is, Dom. I won’t lie to the American people. Sunlight is the best disinfectant, and the sooner we get this out in the open, the better.”

  “In point of fact, we don’t actually know what it is. That’s what the D-boys are going to find out tonight.”

  The President sighed, then lowered his eyes and scanned the brief. “What’s this about a cryptanalyst?”

  Boucher stifled a laugh. “The code the insurgents are using triggered an internal protocol that’s been around since the days of the OSS. Sci-Tech says it’s a code that’s never been cracked, the holy grail of crypto. They begged and pleaded for me to deploy their expert with the team, and I saw no good reason to refuse. Her presence won’t put the mission at risk.”

  The President did not pursue the issue. “I want to watch the game. Transfer control of this to the Situation Room. I want General Collins there, too. Those are his boys on the ground.”

  Boucher frowned. Some in the media had opined that, if the President had a failing, it was that he didn’t like to relinquish control to his subordinates. The DCIA knew better; Duncan wasn’t a control freak, and he didn’t hire anyone without absolutely trusting them to get the job done.

  He just misses the action.

  “I’ll order the pizzas.”

  FIVE

  Iraq

  The three MH-60L Black Hawk helicopters from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, arrayed in an echelon-right formation, cruised through the darkened sky high above the Mesopotamian flood plain, performing the very task that had earned them the unit designation of the ‘Night Stalkers.’ Huddled together with Parker and the rest of his squad in the middle aircraft, Jack Sigler peered through his night vision scope, looking over the shoulder of a Black Hawk crew chief seated behind an M240H machine gun. He could make out a distant glow—the lights of Baghdad—far to the south, but below them, there was only the flat featureless desert landscape.

  Featureless, but not quite empty.

  The reconnaissance drone had uncovered the desert’s secret: a low, cinderblock structure, half buried by windblown dust, just to the east of what the map called Buhayrat Shari Lake. The lake was now just a dry salt flat, two miles across and almost twenty miles long. The drone had showed them the target building, but revealed no sign of activity—no cooking fires burning, no vehicles, not even tire tracks. The facility looked abandoned, but looks could be deceiving.

  After completing the initial sweep, the drone returned for refueling, but it was back in the air now, feeding real time infrared imagery to the PDA Rainer carried with him in the trailing helo. Sigler kept expecting the Cipher element leader to keep them updated, but Rainer had been uncharacteristically quiet. With the exception of Strickland’s sotto voce whispered: “Mommy, are we there yet?” comment, everyone else had remained quiet as well.

  Maybe no news is good news, Sigler thought. Guess we’ll find out in about five minutes.

  Four minutes and fifty seconds later, the crew chief at the gun twisted around and tapped him on the arm. The Night Stalkers crew members wore headsets that gave them access to their own radio net and internal comms, but as a matter of operational security, they didn’t have Cipher element’s frequency. The Delta team’s radios did include a separate channel so they could communicate with the Night Stalkers—who were using the unit callsign ‘Beehive’—but this close to the objective, the last thing Sigler wanted to do was mess with the radio settings. At this point in the mission, gestures and hand signals were the preferred form of communication.

  Sigler passed the tap on to the rest of the squad, and almost in unison, they gave their equipment a final pre-combat inspection.

  Rainer’s voice squelched in his earpiece. “Eagle-Eye, this Cipher Six. Let me know when you’re in position. Over.”

  A few hundred yards ahead, the lead Black Hawk executed a tricky near-vertical descent, flaring into a hover just a few feet above the arid terrain. Though he couldn’t see them, Sigler knew that the six Eagle-Eye snipers were piling out of their ride and establishing a defensive over-watch position a kilometer away from the targe
t.

  The helicopters were quiet, but the desert was a big empty place and sound carried. Even at this distance, the insurgents in the building were probably sitting up and taking note. The Black Hawks were always at their most vulnerable during touchdown, when they were close to potential hostiles and unable to execute any kind of evasive maneuvers. It would be the job of the snipers to deal with any opposition during the interminably long half-minute or so required for other two Night Stalker birds to debark their passengers.

  The snipers gave the ‘all-clear’ a moment later. Immediately, Sigler heard a change in the pitch of the turbines, and then he felt his stomach lurch and rise into his throat as the helicopter dropped like a runaway elevator. The downward motion stopped abruptly, and Sigler saw the crew chief waving, giving his all-clear.

  The ground looked tantalizingly close, but Sigler knew from experience that night-vision devices screwed with depth perception, and with forty-odd pounds of gear strapped to his body, it paid to err on the side of caution. With his knees bent slightly to absorb the impact, he jumped from the hovering helo. As soon as his feet made contact, he dropped into a low shooter’s stance and began moving forward, sweeping the foreground with the barrel of his HK416 assault rifle.

  The squared-off outline of the building was visible about fifty meters away, but it looked as desolate as the rest of the bleak landscape.

  “Last man out!” someone behind him shouted into the radio, and then the Black Hawk’s turbines roared and the downdraft of the helicopter’s ascent nearly blew Sigler over. When the maelstrom began to subside about ten seconds later, he keyed his mic. “Cipher Six, this is Cipher One-Six. We’re in position. No sign of rain. Over.”

  “Roger, One-Six. You know what to do.”

  Sigler gestured for his team to line up behind him, and he began advancing toward the building. He stayed in his hunched over stance, his gaze flitting between the front of the building and the ground directly in front of him.

  “Cipher element, this is Eagle-Eye two. Nothing on thermals.”

  Sigler frowned in dismay but kept moving. The cinderblock structure, unlike the shoddy house they had raided the previous evening in Ramadi, was an effective enough insulator to mask heat signatures from the thermal scopes.

  The six men reached the front of the building. Sigler lined up beside the entryway—there was no door. Three operators were behind him, while the remaining two men posted at the corners to watch the sides and the rear of the building.

  Unit SOP called for a dynamic entry, moving in fast, identifying and eliminating hostiles in the blink of an eye, but Sigler hesitated. The open doorway, a dark hole in the green-gray of the building, beckoned him. Without a door to kick down, it would be the smoothest entry ever. What could be easier?

  Too easy.

  Instead of giving the signal that would start the countdown, Sigler eased forward and peeked around the doorpost.

  Someone behind him hissed a warning. Almost from day one in basic training, soldiers were taught to never present a silhouette target to an enemy. If the insurgents were inside, waiting to meet the attack that they must surely suspect was coming, then he was a dead man.

  No shot came.

  The green display of his night vision showed what looked like sleeping forms, wrapped in blankets. There was no sign of movement within.

  Sigler eased back. Nothing about this felt right.

  It was decision time; he had to either go now or abort. His instincts were screaming for him to do the latter, but he didn’t have a shred of evidence to back up that call.

  Rainer’s voice scratched in his ear. “Jack, why are you still on the wrong side of that wall?”

  Sigler ignored the question. He activated his PAQ4 and directed the laser beam into the room, easing out once more into the danger zone. The green light stabbed into the dark interior, illuminating the space but revealing nothing more…

  Something glinted in the laser light, right in front of him. A thin strand of monofilament was stretched across the door frame just above ankle level.

  He keyed his mic. “All Cipher elements, this is One-Six, I’m calling the game. Fall back to rally one.”

  “Jack?” Rainer didn’t bother with brevity codes.

  “This is a set up, Boss.”

  Sigler wasn’t sure what Rainer’s reaction would be. Another SOP was that anyone could pull the plug on a mission for any reason—he might catch hell in the after-action review if it turned out to be nothing but a case of jitters—but this close to the objective…

  “It’s your call, Jack.”

  Sigler led his squad back out, taking care to step only in the boot prints that marked their initial approach. Rainer was waiting at the designated rally point, two hundred meters from the building, along with Pettit, Klein and Sasha.

  Sigler got right to the point. “It’s wired. We were expected.”

  Sasha spoke up. “You don’t understand. I need to get inside.”

  “No ma’am,” Rainer said. “You don’t understand. There’s nothing in there. This was a trap.”

  “Shit,” growled Klein. “Can we at least sweep the place for NBC residue?”

  If the facility had been used as a bio-weapons laboratory, it was conceivable, however unlikely, that trace evidence might be found.

  “Negative. We’re done here. I’m calling the birds,” Rainer said.

  Best news I’ve heard all day, Sigler thought.

  SIX

  Sasha Therion stumbled along behind Klein, trying to make sense of what was happening…trying and failing.

  She’d come here to learn about the Voynich manuscript. It wasn’t just a book of herbal remedies. It contained something so much more fantastic than that… It had to. That was why its author had gone to such extraordinary lengths to encipher the text. The insurgents knew it, too. They had cracked its code, or were close to doing so, and planned to use its centuries’ old secret to make a weapon that could destroy life.

  So why were the soldiers leaving?

  Sasha didn’t like it when people changed the plan at the last minute. Plans were good; they were the only way to ensure orderliness. Changing plans meant introducing uncertainty into the equation, and uncertainty was a sure path to chaos. And chaos was relentless…insidious.

  If they would just let me do what I came here for…

  The helicopter swooped down, beating the earth all around her with its rotor wash. She felt Klein’s hand on her shoulder, urging her to duck low. She didn’t like it when people touched her, but she complied. A few seconds later, she was bundled inside and guided onto one of the bench seats. Klein sank down next to her, and a moment later, the Black Hawk climbed back into the sky.

  She peered through the eyepiece of the night vision monocular the Delta operators had supplied her with, looking first at the Agency man and then at Rainer. She had to explain it to them, make them understand how important it was that they accomplish their goal.

  One of the helicopter’s crew leaned back and craned his head toward Rainer. He was shouting, but his voice was barely audible over the strident whine of the turbine engines. “What happened?”

  “A complication,” Rainer answered. “The plan is the same.”

  Sasha didn’t understand. How could the plan be the same if they were leaving?

  The crewman just nodded.

  “Do it!” Rainer shouted.

  Sasha was still trying to make sense of this when the Delta team leader brought his carbine up and fired two shots.

  Klein jerked in the seat beside her. Sasha flinched, as a hot blast of sulfurous exhaust sprayed her face. Then she felt something else, something warm and wet on her shoulder. Klein had slumped against her with blood trickling from a pair of tiny holes in his forehead, and gushing from the enormous opening in the back of his skull.

  The crewman Rainer had spoken with stretched out his arm, pointing across the cabin in the direction of his counterpart on the opposite side. As the other cr
ewman started to turn, a tongue of flame leapt from the pistol in the first man’s hand. The second man slumped forward over his machine gun. At almost the same instant, there was another report from the cockpit.

  “What the—” the man Sasha knew as Pettit stiffened on his seat, trying to get his own weapon up, but Rainer was already swinging his gun around. Two more shots erupted from Rainer’s carbine and punched into Pettit’s face.

  Sasha didn’t know what was happening…except in a strange way, she did. It was exactly what she’d been afraid of; they had changed the plan, and now chaos was descending.

  They’re going to kill me next, she thought, and maybe that was okay. Everyone died, no matter how they fought against that inevitable outcome. Life, with all its endless unpredictable possibilities, always reduced to zero in the end, the final victory of order over chaos.

  But the Delta team leader didn’t shoot her; he didn’t even point his gun at her.

  “Sorry you had to see that,” he shouted. “But if you’ll just sit tight, everything will make sense in a little while.”

  Sasha very much doubted that.

  SEVEN

  Sigler was the last to climb aboard the second Black Hawk. As he got in, he flashed a thumb’s up to the crew chief and shouted: “Last man!”

  Then the crew chief did something unexpected. He held up his hand with forefinger and middle finger extended, just like the peace sign, or V for Victory…or, Sigler realized, the number two. The crew chief was telling him to switch to channel two on his radio, which was preset with the Night Stalkers’ frequency.

  “This is Cipher One-Six,” Sigler said when the he’d made the switch. “Do you have traffic for me?”

  “Cipher, this is Beehive Six-Four. I’ve lost contact with Beehive Six-Six, and they are presently heading away from our position on a bearing of three-three-zero. Do you know what’s up? Over.”

  Beehive Six-Six was the Black Hawk with Rainer’s group, and the compass heading meant they were flying north-northwest. Ramadi lay to the south.