Executive Intent

“I swear to you, sir, I don’t know what you’re talking-”

Whack saw the boot coming this time, but he couldn’t move anywhere near fast enough to dodge it. Another tooth came loose, and he choked on a fresh mouthful of blood.

When he could see again, he was sitting upright, looking into the face of the English-speaking Russian with the nerdy-looking black tie. He shook his head. “You do not look so well, Mr. Coulter. I will summon a doctor for you right away, but first you must tell me that it was you that was on the beach early this morning. If you tell me this is so, you will be treated by a physician and released. If you do not, we may be at this for quite some time.”

Whack’s vision blurred. He didn’t try to clear it, but instead let his mind drift. His vision, and then his conscious mind, went dark. To Wayne Macomber, darkness meant solitude, escape, rest, superiority over an adversary, and safety, and so he allowed his subconscious mind to expand and embrace the darkness. The pain was still there, but it was now tolerable, as if he were falling asleep on rocky ground.

“Mr. Coulter, are you still with us?” he faintly heard the Russian ask him. Whack could feel an eyelid pulled open, but his consciousness remained dark. The Russian said something in Russian, sounded like a curse; then, in English: “I have seen this before, Mr. Coulter. It is a technique that only the best field intelligence operatives and special forces commandos have mastered. Some men are able to shut down their conscious minds to such an extent as to block out pain and fear and thus make the muscles almost impervious to physical torture. So which are you, Mr. Coulter-an intelligence operative, or special forces commando?” Whack chose not to answer.

“Of course,” the Russian went on, “if the mind is even partially conscious, eventually a combination of physical and chemical torture will break down even the most disciplined and well-trained mind-break it, or destroy it, in a most painful and twisted ma

Whack’s eyes were partially open and partially rolled back in his head, his blue tongue hung loosely out of his mouth between partially clenched bloodstained teeth, and his breathing looked as if it had stopped. Antonov stood up and shook his head. “A real old-style warhorse, this one,” he mused. He opened his cellular phone, dialed a number, waited, then spoke in Russian: “It is me, Ge

He noticed a splotch of blood on his boots, knelt down, and began to rub it off as he went on: “Oh, and one more thing, Ge

IN THE GULF OF ADEN

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING

Seventy-five miles west of its nest, the Arleigh Burke-class destroyer USS Rourke, the SH-60 Seahawk helicopter continued its search grid for the downed bomber crew. The Rourke had been detached from its duties escorting the aircraft carrier Ronald Reagan, which was about two hundred miles to the east, to help in the search. At the begi

For the surface search-and-rescue mission, the Seahawk was equipped with a forward-looking infrared sensor on the nose and a rescue hoist on the starboard door, along with its usual APS-124 search radar. The enlisted aviation-systems warfare officer, trained in searching the surface of the ocean, was in the starboard-side-door station, while a rescue swimmer ma

“Coming up on bingo fuel, guys,” the Seahawk’s copilot/airborne tactical officer reported. He entered instructions into the flight computer, which would catalog their grid pattern search and automatically relay updated grid-search instructions to the follow-on crew. “Station check, secure your gear, and-”

“Contact, port side, nine o’clock, one mile!” the rescue swimmer in the port-side door shouted on intercom. He immediately formed a gunsight with his left hand around what he saw so he wouldn’t lose contact as the pilot turned. “Clear to turn.” The pilot didn’t turn the full ninety degrees, but only forty-five degrees left, so the observer could maintain contact with what he saw out the door while giving himself a chance to spot it, too.

As they closed in, they could see why it had been so hard to spot: The orange life raft was covered with oil, obscuring the bright color, and it was partially submerged because it appeared both crewmembers were aboard a single one-person raft. That was not a good sign.

“I’ve got contact,” the pilot reported. “Swimmer, get ready.” The rescue diver began do

“We’re coming up on emergency fuel, boss,” the copilot said. “Not enough fuel for a hoist. The destroyer’s too far away.”

The pilot thought he was going to go for it anyway-bingo and emergency fuel figures always had an extra margin included “for the wife and kids”-but there was another helicopter already en route, so why risk losing a helicopter if they screwed up the fuel flow and quantity numbers? “Paul, looks like you’re going to go swimming for a while,” the pilot said. “Feel up to it? Three-Two is only thirty minutes out. Last water temp was sixty-seven.”

“No sweat, Lieutenant,” the rescue swimmer, Petty Officer Paul Malkin, said. He wore a twelve-millimeter one-piece cold-water wet suit, which would keep him safe in water down to forty degrees. He sat on the open door’s sill, removed his headset, put his mask and snorkel in place, and gave the copilot a thumbs-up.

“Stand by on the rescue container,” the pilot said. He maneuvered over to the raft. “Now!” The sensor operator threw the orange-and-white fiberglass container overboard out the starboard door. When it hit the water, it automatically opened and deployed a four-person covered life raft with water, survival, and medical equipment secured inside. The pilot translated slightly, getting as close as possible to the survivors without flipping their raft or the rescue raft over with his rotor wash. When he was sure he was clear of both rafts, the rescue swimmer jumped out the door, holding his mask firmly in place.