Raven Strike

“I don’t know anything about it,” said Zen. “This isn’t one of the 6-9 programs?”

“No. Not at all. Supposedly, anyway. I don’t even know if it exists,” admitted Barrington. “I wouldn’t believe anything based on Ernst’s rantings.”

The 6-9 programs were targeted “actions”—the word assassination was carefully avoided—directed at terrorists who were deemed a threat to the U.S. Similar to other programs conducted by earlier administrations, 6-9 was tightly controlled, with targets approved according to a strict set of standards. As it happened, Zen had argued that the standards were too restrictive; they required two different sets of legal review, and many inside the CIA, which administered the program, felt they were too time-consuming.

“Your wife’s not involved in any of this, is she?” Barrington asked.

“I haven’t a clue,” said Zen truthfully.

“I hope not, for her sake.”

A few minutes later Zen found himself trying to clamp his mouth shut as the meeting began with a blistering diatribe from Ernst. He claimed that the President had circumvented the constitution by authorizing assassinations of “who knows who.”

“She’s leading us into World War Three. That’s where we’re going,” declared Ernst.

“With all due respect, Senator,” said Zen finally, “how exactly do you see this leading to World War Three?”

“The government ca

“This program is directed at heads of state?” said Zen.

“That’s what I’ve heard. Raven is a sign of an Agency and an administration run amok.”

Barrington tapped his gavel. Zen suspected that Ernst was simply ramping up the charges so the committee would vote to investigate. For all Ernst knew, there might not even be a Raven program—or a rumor. He’d used the tactic before.

Unfortunately, he was a senior member of the Senate, an important fund-raiser for the other side, and a frequent talk show guest. He couldn’t simply be ignored.

“The senator from Te

“And the National Security director,” said Ernst.

“Why not ask the President herself?” said Zen sarcastically.

“If she’d take my phone calls, I would.”

“All right, all right,” said Barrington. “We’ll have Edmund come in.”

Chapter 12

Duka

Da

“Everybody out!” he yelled.

They flew through the doors a few seconds ahead of the next grenade, which turned the Mercedes into a fireball. Da

It took him a few moments to orient himself. He checked his rifle—locked and loaded—then reached for his ear set, which had fallen a few feet away.

Boston and Flash were calling for him.

“I’m here,” he told them. “Forty yards south of the car. Nuri’s near me,” he added. Nuri was hunched over the control unit for the MY-PID a few yards away.

“I see ya,” said Boston. “Ya got three tangos coming down the road on your right as you look back at the vehicle. We have shots. What do you want to do?”

Once slang for terrorist, “tango” had become a generic word for any hostile.

“You have them?” Da

Two quick bursts and all three fell dead.

Da

“Our missing CIA officer and the women are in a field over that little ridge,” said Nuri, pointing. “On the other side of this farm building. MY-PID says one of the women is in labor.”

“Labor?”

“The trucks are moving up from that direction, and there are men on foot coming straight up this way. We’re in the middle of deep shit, Colonel.”

“You’re a master of the obvious, Nuri,” said Da

The baby was definitely coming. Its mother squatted in the field, bent low but still on her feet. Melissa, on her knees, cradled the woman’s head as Bloom worked on the other end, clearing the brush down and rolling the mother-to-be’s dress back so she could see what was going on.

“Crowning!” said Bloom. Her voice was steadier than before, braver, as if by attending to the woman she was finally able to push away her fear.

Melissa’s training for birth consisted of a single twenty minute lecture with a quick simulation involving a plastic doll. She held her breath as the woman pushed in response to another strong contraction.

“Almost, almost!” said Bloom. She switched to Nubian, pleading with the woman to push. The woman was beyond instructions, acting instinctually; her body tensed, and Melissa gripped her, knowing she was about to convulse.

The outside world had slipped away. If there was gunfire, if the mortar shells were still falling, Melissa heard none of it. She was oblivious to everything except the pregnant woman’s body as it pushed a new life into the world.

The mother fell back against Melissa. Bloom held up the bloody, gasping infant.

“I need a knife!” she said.

“I don’t have one.”

“Here!” yelled a voice in the field a few yards away. “I’m coming!”

It was Da

Chapter 13

Duka

Milos Kimko lowered the field glasses and rubbed his forehead.

“Very good, these mortars, no?” said Girma. “You see how we crush our enemies.”

“These were your allies, weren’t they?”

Girma waved his hand. He was still in the middle of a khat jag; Kimko doubted he had slept in the past forty-eight hours.

There were at least three firefights in the city, two on either end of the main street and another up in the area where most of the Meur-tse Meur-tskk followers lived. Kimko hoped Li Han was hunkered down well.

“By tonight we will own Duka,” said Girma proudly. “And from here, we make our mark—all of Sudan.”

“You’re not to target any building near the railroad tracks and the old warehouse, you understand?” snapped Kimko. “Or you will get no more weapons.”

“You give me orders, Russian?”

Girma’s eyes flashed. For once Kimko forgot himself. Seized by his own anger, he balled his hand into a fist. Only at the last moment was he able to hold back—there were too many of Girma’s followers nearby.

“I need what the Chinaman has if I am to get you more weapons,” said Kimko. “If it is destroyed, I will have a very hard time.”

Girma frowned, but turned and said something to the men working the mortars.

Be patient, Kimko told himself. Once you have the UAV, you can leave. Take it back to Moscow personally—the hell with the expert Moscow is sending, the hell with the SVR, the hell with everyone but yourself.

“I need a jeep,” he told Girma.