There was a weird-sounding chuckle at the other end of the line. “I’m glad you two are still friends. He was actually wondering if you’d be willing to sacrifice Maxwell to save yourself. Good call, General.”
Bastards, Hammond thought.
“What do you need from me?” he asked, doing his best to keep his anger out of his voice.
“His flight plan for tomorrow.”
The muscles in Hammond’s neck tensed. “No way,” he said, thinking about the helicopter’s crew. “You’re not taking down a chopper to get to him. You’ll have to find another approach.”
“There’s no time, General,” Krantz replied. “Give me Maxwell’s flight plan. We both know our mutual friend holds all the cards. Do you really think he’ll leave your precious Heather and Veronica alone if you betray him?”
At the mention of his wife’s and daughter’s names, Hammond felt his body grow rigid. He was about to tell Krantz to go to hell when his eyes settled on the framed family photo that sat at the corner of his desk. His heart faltered.
“One moment,” he replied as he powered on his secure laptop. While his laptop contained its own interface, his access to the information-sharing network would be recorded. That was something he could not afford. It took him a moment to connect to the special communications adapter that had been provided to him by a friend at the NSA. Once plugged in, the adapter ran a self-diagnostic protocol and initiated several software routines aimed at masking his presence. A few keystrokes later, he had Maxwell’s flight plan details on his screen.
He closed his eyes and forced back the bile rising in his throat.
Once he was sure he wasn’t about to throw up, Hammond gave Krantz the intel he needed to kill Maxwell White.
CHAPTER THREE
Northern Iraq
Captain Clayton White grabbed his harness as the HH-60G Pave Hawk search-and-rescue helicopter darted straight up, then banked steeply to the right while the pilot did his best to evade another burst of machine-gun fire coming from below.
“Damn it!” yelled an air force staff sergeant, one of the two pararescuemen seated across from White. “I hate it when they do that.”
White wasn’t a big fan of being shot at either. But it came with the job. White and his team of eight pararescuemen—or PJs—supported by two Pave Hawks and their crewmen, were the only rescue team positioned to cover the battlefield of northern Iraq and Syria, which encompassed over 150,000 square miles. And today, White’s team was the best hope of survival for two marine pilots who had been forced to crash-land their SuperCobra attack helicopter in ISIS-controlled territory after sustaining significant battle damage. The closest marine TRAP—Tactical Recovery of Aircraft and Personnel—team, usually tasked to cover the southern part of Iraq, was too far away to give the two stranded marine aviators a realistic chance. The TRAP team’s MV-22 tilt-rotor aircraft had the range, but by the time they could get to the pilots’ location, it would be too late. ISR—intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance—provided by a Reaper drone had confirmed that three ISIS technicals were racing toward the downed American chopper. Typically open-backed civilian pickup trucks or four-wheel drive vehicles, technicals had mounted weapons systems like machine guns, light antiaircraft guns, or even antitank weapons. And troops. Fast and maneuverable, technicals had become ISIS’s de facto cavalry.
White willed the Pave Hawk to go faster. They all knew what awaited the downed airmen if they were captured by ISIS.
“I have comms with Major Steck, sir,” the copilot said to White. “Call signs Bandit-One and Two.”
“Okay,” White replied. “Patch me through.”
A moment later, the copilot gave White a thumbs-up.
“Bandit, this is CSAR-One, how copy, over,” White said.
“CSAR-One, this is Bandit-Two. You’re loud and clear. How far are you?”
The copilot, who was still listening to the frequency, showed four fingers to White.
“We’re southeast of your position, four minutes out.”
“Good copy, CSAR-One. Please note Bandit-One is in bad shape. His legs are pinned under the flight instrument panel.”
“Is Bandit-One conscious?” White asked, his mind racing ahead toward a multitude of possible scenarios.
“He’s been in and out of consciousness since the crash,” Bandit-Two replied. “But when he’s awake, he just mutters some incoherent shit.”
“CSAR-One copies,” White said, keeping his voice smooth and steady despite the constriction in his chest. “ETA is now three minutes. CSAR-One out.”