State Of The Union

“But it still doesn’t explain why they didn’t take out Gary and Frank Leighton.”

“There’s a lot of this that doesn’t make sense, Agent Harvath, and at this point we can only focus on what we know. For the sake of the United States, this mission has to succeed.”

“I agree, but with ten out of twelve guys dead and Gary now missing, how can it?” asked Scot.

“That,” replied the president, “is where you come in.”

Chapter 17

SOMEWHERE ABOVE THE ATLANTIC

STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS-7 DAYS

At six hundred miles per hour, the luxuriously appointed Cessna Citation X, secured for Harvath by an affiliate of the Capstone Corporation, lived up to its reputation of being the fastest business jet in the world. It quickly rose to an altitude of 51,000 feet where its fuel economy could be maximized and commercial airline traffic was nonexistent. With a top speed of Mach.92, they were flying at nearly the speed of sound, screaming across each mile of the 4100 that they needed to travel in less than six seconds apiece.

While the twin Rolls-Royce AE- 3007C engines hastened the plane across the Atlantic, Harvath tried to quiet the thoughts in his mind. He had been given only a few moments to call Meg. To each of her questions he could only answer, “I can’t talk about it.” That hadn’t sat well with her at all. When asked when he would be home, his answer followed right in the same vein, “I have no idea.” Her silence on the other end was deafening. This was the real test of their relationship. He could be called anywhere at any time to do anything, and Meg Cassidy would just have to deal with it. Right now, though, she wasn’t dealing well with it at all. Discretion dictated that he be careful how much he told her over the phone. He wished he could share with her the incredible importance of what he was embarking upon, but that would have served nothing more than to make her fear not only for his safety, but for hers as well.

She had remained quiet, and when Scot failed to add anything further, she said good-bye and hung up the phone. Halfway through the flight, he realized that when she had asked him when he would be home and he replied that he had no idea, what he should have said was simply, “Soon. Real soon.” But of course at this point, half an hour into his flight and over nine-and-a-half miles above the Atlantic, it was a little too late to be coming up with the right answer. He began to wonder if Meg Cassidy would be able to weather the storms that the demands of his career would undoubtedly visit upon their relationship.

Harvath took a deep breath and tried to focus on the matter at hand. The Citation X would make the journey in less than seven hours, and he needed to get his head in the game. As his breathing slowed, he slipped into a Zenlike state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. His colleagues in the SEALs had always remarked at his unca

After clearing customs for General Aviation, Harvath passed two rather menacing-looking, machine gun-toting border guards and made his way outside to find his cab.

Leaning against a somewhat worse-for-wear Mercedes sedan with a taxi light atop and deeply tinted windows was Harvath’s old friend Herman Toffle, or “Herman the German” as he was more affectionately known. He stood at least six foot four and weighed somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred-fifty pounds. He had dark hair, deep green eyes and a closely cropped beard that had begun to show smudges of gray. Scot had become friends with Herman during his SEAL days when they had conducted cross-training exercises together. Herman had been a member of Germany’s famed GSG9 counterterrorism unit and until a bullet injury to his leg forced him out had been legendary not only for his on the job bravado, but also for his sense of humor.

“Taxi, mister?” smiled Herman as he took Harvath’s bag and chucked it into the trunk. Harvath slid into the back as Herman got into the driver’s seat and with no ceremony whatsoever, started the vehicle, lurched out of the parking space, and pointed the Mercedes toward central Berlin.

Three blocks after leaving the airport and confident they weren’t being followed, Herman pulled the Mercedes into a parking garage, parked next to a large bakery van and came around to the rear passenger side door.

“Get out here where I can see you.”

Harvath obliged and Herman immediately wrapped him in an enormous bear hug. “You’ve gotten smaller.”

“No I haven’t,” said Harvath patting his friend’s stomach. “You’ve just gotten bigger. Your wife must be feeding you very well. How is she?”

“She’s doing very well, but you didn’t come to Berlin to talk about Diana.”

“Not this time, my friend,” said Harvath. “I’m here on a very serious operation.”

“And so you said on the phone. But you’re not working with the German government, at least not officially.”

“Correct.”

“Well, in that case,” said Herman as he banged his ham-sized fist against the large bakery van they had parked next to, “I’d like you to meet a few of my distant cousins.”

Harvath heard the van’s door slide open and then boots hitting the ground as, one by one, a group of eight men in plainclothes rounded the van and lined up in front of him. Herman informed his friend that he had used his contacts to round up an off-duty Berlin SWAT unit specializing in hostage situations and counterterrorism operations. It was known as theMobiles Einsatzkommando, or MEK for short.

“Fu

“Of course there is,” replied Herman who, with a smile, opened his jacket to reveal the butts of two large semi automatic pistols. “You just have to look closer.”

In unison, the men then all drew back their winter coats as well to reveal a startling array of weaponry. Harvath had always thought that the Secret Service was good at hiding their gear, but these MEK guys were in a class all by themselves. He saw everything from Heckler amp; Koch MP5s and MP7s to G36-Cs, modified tactical shotguns, and even street sweepers. One thing was for certain; not only did these boys come to play, they came to win.

Scot shook hands with the men as Herman introduced them. Once the introductions were complete, the men climbed back into the van and Herman led Harvath to the trunk of his Mercedes where he popped the lid to reveal a mini-arsenal.

“I am assuming that as you are not here with the full knowledge and blessing of the German government, you didn’t come armed. Would that be a reasonable assumption?”

“Very,” replied Harvath.

“I figured as much. Take your pick,” said Herman with a wide sweep of his hand. “We can’t have you ru

“You’re all heart, Herman,” said Harvath as he removed a.45-caliber H amp;K USP Tactical pistol from the trunk and pulled back the slide. “Does this model come with any upgrades?”

“Nothing but the best,” answered Herman as he opened a black plastic Storm case and stood back so Harvath could choose. Scot had brought his filtered SureFire flashlight with him from home, along with his Benchmade Auto AXIS folding knife, and so bypassed Herman’s selection of tactical lights, choosing instead a LaserLyte laser sighting system which could be mounted on the rail system beneath the USP’s threaded barrel. He selected a silencer; grabbed a handful of empty clips, a box of ammunition, a brand new BlackHawk Industries tactical holster, and a couple of flashbang grenades; and stuffed the whole lot into his pockets.