Countdown, p.1
Countdown, page 1
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2023 by James Patterson
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ISBN 9780316457408
E3-20230207-NF-DA-ORI
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Acknowledgments
Discover More
About the Authors
This is for my parents, Arthur and Mary DuBois.
—BD
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Chapter 1
I CHECK my watch and if all goes well, the killing will begin in less than two minutes.
I’m hiding with two other members of my sniper team in the barren mountains of northeastern Lebanon, just a few klicks away from the Syrian border. Jordan Langlois is the shooter and Santiago Sanchez is his spotter. Jordan is from the mountains of Kentucky and Santiago is from East LA. From the way they joke and work together, you’d think they were raised in the same orphanage.
No, not really. Just the Marine Corps and eventually the CIA.
I’m originally from Maine, then went into the Army, and now I’m the lead officer for this squad of the CIA’s highly classified Special Activities Division—a very bland name for a very dangerous job. We go in way behind enemy lines, kill bad guys, then get the hell out. Along the way, we work very, very hard to ensure that our names and activities never appear in the newspapers.
Considering I’m married to a journalist, that can sometimes be a challenge.
Today we’re waiting for a convoy to appear below us on a narrow, rugged dirt road, carrying a number of al-Qaeda fighters and leaders traveling into Syria for a summit meeting. Hypothetically my new place of employment could rain down thunder and fire from any one of half a dozen drone platforms to wipe out the entire convoy and any lizards or buzzards in the vicinity, but the rules of engagement have recently changed.
There’s been too much embarrassment and too many scathing news stories (and accompanying editorials) over killing wedding parties and other innocents traveling in convoys in remote parts of the Middle East and Asia during the past few years. Now it’s up to a small killing unit like us, sent into the field under secrecy, doing our job directly and quickly, so that mistakes are kept to a minimum and not instantly broadcast around the world.
Plus it’s cheaper to kill a terrorist with a 99-cent round through his forehead than with a $115,000 Hellfire missile from a stealth drone—especially if the host country allowing us airstrip access doesn’t want to be ID’d as helping out the infidels who are incinerating jihadists.
It’s a new rule I’m comfortable with, because I know from sad experience the bone-dead feeling you get when you realize that a squeeze of your finger on a trigger in an air-conditioned room in Kentucky killed half a dozen innocents seconds later.
My spotter, Santiago, thankfully breaks up that dark memory: “Got dust on the westbound approach of the road, Amy.”
“Roger that,” I reply.
Santiago has a very powerful and highly classified optics system, set on a bipod, that allows him to “see” through the supposedly impenetrable black-tinted windows of SUVs in this part of the world, along with a laser facial-identification system that will ensure our target inside the SUV is indeed our target.
Next to him, Jordan is scanning the road with his weapons system, a high-powered military-issue-only Remington .308 bolt-action rifle whose aiming system is similar to Santiago’s. Whereas Jordan is focused on the approaching target, Santiago—as the spotter—keeps a wider view of the target and any emerging threats our sniper can’t see.
Me, the superior officer in this group, I’m muddling along with an off-the-shelf German-made pair of Zeiss 10x50 binoculars. Rank sometimes doesn’t have its privileges.
I’m spotting the dust cloud now, moving right along in our direction.
According to our latest briefing, there should be four SUVs in the convoy, and we have two targets: hard men from the Abu Sayyaf terrorist group in the Philippines. Once upon a time great men and women thought that with the fall of the Berlin Wall and the rise of Facebook, we’d all live in one harmonious world.
That didn’t quite work out, now did it?
A British male voice comes through the earpiece secured to my left ear.
“Zulu Lead, Zulu One here,” he says. “We’ve acquired our target. You?”
Across this narrow canyon is another sniper team, on loan from Britain’s famed MI6 intelligence service. The shooter is Jeremy Windsor and his spotter is Oliver Davies, both former SAS troopers. It’s Jeremy’s cultured British voice I hear in my left ear.
We’ve worked with them twice before, and despite the usual complaints and competition about the empire versus the colonials, the team has clicked, successfully completing Classified, and later Highly Classified, missions.
Or successfully killing a number of men who deserved to be killed. Take your pick.
“Jordan,” I ask, turning my head. “How long?”
“About another fifteen seconds, Amy.”
I toggle the microphone switch at my lapel; it’s connected to the classified Motorola Saber-X radio strapped to my side. “About fifteen seconds, Zulu One.”
I hear a click-click as Jeremy toggles his microphone in reply.
I keep my chatter to a minimum. I’m dressed like Santiago and Jordan, in a combination of northern Lebanese tribal pants and overcoats, along with sniper veils and ghillie suits that allow us to blend into the rocky background. About the only difference between the two guys and me is the elastic bandage wrapped tight around my torso, to keep my boobs under control.
Nearly a year ago, in training at the CIA’s Camp Peary—a.k.a. The Farm—some clown suggested I should stuff a cucumber in my crotch to complete my disguise. That made a lot of folks laugh, including me—right up until that night in the mess hall, when I secured a cucumber from the kitchen and shoved it halfway down his throat.
Also, there’s the matter of firearms. Jordan has his sniper rifle, and Santiago and I have 9mm Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns with a 40-round magazine, with each of us carrying extra magazines. All three of us are also packing 9mm SIG Sauer P226 pistols, along with a variety of other killing tools. Our rucksacks contain rations, water, extra ammo—nearly every necessity to survive in this hostile part of the world.
The pale blue sky overhead is clear of our drones, so it’s just us kids. The CIA recently learned that our supposed allies have been locating our drones and passing along the information to the terrorists, so the fact that the convoy is on the move this early in the morning means they’re confident all is safe.
Cue a deadly lesson proving otherwise.
In my binoculars, the four SUVs emerge from the dust about thirty meters below us, clearly heading in our direction. One Abu Sayyaf leader is riding in the second SUV, the other in the rear SUV. The vehicles all seem to be black GMC Suburbans with tinted windows.
“Target acquired,” Jordan says.
I toggle a switch on my coat collar. “Zulu One, we’re acquired.”
“Same here, Zulu Lead,” Jeremy replies.
“Go,” I say, loud enough for both Jordan and Jeremy to hear.
There’s a muffled thump next to me as Jordan fires his suppressor-equipped rifle. “Clear hit,” says Santiago. “Driver is covered in blood, bone, and brains.”
Jeremy radios to me, “Clear shot, clear results.”
I look down at a multiple collision. The second SUV slams into a gray boulder, then another SUV rams it in the rear. Doors pop open and armed men bail out, bees flying out of a tipped-over hive, and Santiago whispers, “Oh, Amy, I would love to stay up here for a few more minutes. Look at all those lovely targets.”
Jordan says, “Don’t tempt me, Bro.”
“No temptation, no nothing,” I say, stowing my binoculars in my nearby rucksack. “Time to fly.”
I toggle my microphone one more time. “Zulu One, time to break. See you at the rendezvous.”
“Absolutely, Zulu Lead,” he says. “Zulu Two and I are on the move.”
Get the job done, and get the hell out.
I check my watch.
We should be picked up and safely out of here in thirty-five minutes.
But it takes only seven more minutes for disaster to strike.
Chapter 2
WE QUICKLY break down our gear and go down a trail we hadn’t used before, because any repetition will get you noticed. Santiago is in the lead, Jordan is in the middle, and I’m Tail End Charlie.
I look at my watch once more. Analogue, old-fashioned, reliable. It will never need a battery at the wrong time, doesn’t beep to give away your position, and has no electronics to fry in case somebody tosses a nuke into the air someday. It doesn’t tell me the date, which is fine, because I know it’s May 22.
The path we are on is narrow—broken rock and gravel—and seems too rugged even for goats. Yet we move with confidence and speed toward the safety at the other end of the trail. Like me, Santiago is carrying his MP5 in his arms, head always moving: left, right; left, right. Jordan has his pistol out and is doing the same. As the one bringing up the rear, I have to move and look over my shoulder at the same time.
Jordan says, “This sun is starting to fry me. Where are all the cedar trees? I thought Lebanon was full of ’em.”
Ahead Santiago says, “Bro, King Solomon had them cut down, years and years ago.”
Then I brake to a halt and loudly whisper, “Hold!”
Santiago and Jordan turn to look at me. I put my left hand to my earpiece.
I press my fingers together on the transmission button clipped to my collar. “Zulu One, go.”
Some static, then “…have a bit of a problem, Zulu Lead.”
“What is it?”
I turn my head and close my eyes so I can focus on what I’m hearing.
The strained but polite voice of Jeremy quickly comes back.
“It seems we have about two dozen hostiles chasing us.”
“Zulu One—”
I hear the rattle of gunfire.
“Chat with you later,” he says. “Quite busy now.”
I turn and Santiago and Jordan stare at me.
“The Brits are in trouble,” I say. “They’ve made contact with about two dozen bad guys.”
“Shit,” Jordan says.
Santiago says, “I thought this place was relatively safe. Boss?”
I motion with my left hand, though something dark and heavy has started growing in my chest. “We keep moving.”
About ten minutes later, Jeremy comes back on. In a louder voice he says, “I’m afraid the buggers have us pinned down at the moment.”
I can hear gunfire in the background.
I swear, trying to remember our location in the mountains and where the Brits might be after leaving their shooting spot. “Hold tight,” I say. “We’re on our way.”
“No, don’t do it,” says Jeremy. “Trust me…you won’t get here in time. Ollie! That bastard over there!”
I hear the loud sound of a three-round burst.
“Good shot,” Jeremy yells. Then his radio cuts out again.
Move along, I think, move along. My mouth is dry and I’m terribly thirsty, but I know that no amount of water will help. I’m thinking of the MI6 crew and how they’re my responsibility, my job to lead, and now they’re in the middle of an ambush.
The rocky trail gets wider, and in my mind’s eye I know what’s about to appear. The CIA does a lot of things wrong but a number of things right, including a detailed briefing of the mission and whatever might be of interest in the area of our operation. The trail is going to curve to the right; then, in a wide portion of a narrow wadi, there will be a stealth helicopter from the Army’s 160th Special Operations Air Regiment, ready to pick us all up.
I have full faith in the crew of famed Night Stalkers to get us out safely.
But there’s one gigantic rub in all this.
Our rendezvous time is 9:00 a.m.—0900, if you prefer—and if we’re not aboard that beautiful, Sikorsky-made escape vehicle by 9:05, it’s going to lift off without us.
I check my watch again.
It’s 8:53 a.m.
We’ve got plenty of time.
These three here, I think. As for the Brits…
“Zulu Lead!” comes the loud voice in my left ear.
I skid to a halt, nearly falling over among the sharp rocks and gravel.
“Zulu One, go,” I say.
I hear his harsh breathing, hear the gunshots growing louder.
Oh, God.
“It’s…ah, the bastards have us surrounded.”
“Where are you?” I ask, tugging at a side pouch, trying to retrieve our topo map.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “I don’t think we’re going to be here very long.”
“Zulu One, I need your location. Now.”
There’s a harsh stutter of gunfire, so loud I have to take my earpiece out. Jordan and Santiago stand closer to me, and even they can hear the desperate battle going on somewhere up there in these harsh mountains.
