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“He just got out of a four-hour surgery and they think they’ve repaired the damage . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“But?”
“But the blood loss and heat stroke were extremely serious. The doctors have induced a coma and the expectation is that he’ll never regain consciousness. If he does, they don’t know if he’ll have brain damage.”
Rapp grabbed the nuke’s nosecone and began dragging it toward the door. “Where is he now?”
“On his way to Bethesda in the C-17 you evacuated him in. I’m sure you already know this, but I want to say it anyway. We’re bringing in the world’s top people. Everything that can be done will be done.”
“His mother’s still alive,” Rapp said. “That’s the only family he has. Did you tell her?”
“I haven’t. She’s in the early stages of dementia and I think it would be better if we didn’t contact her until we know more. Certainly not until he’s in an American hospital bed.”
“Or an American grave.”
“I don’t think there’s any point in considering that possibility right now.”
“What about the guy who’s responsible?”
“We have some shaky cell phone footage. He had facial wounds that obscured his features somewhat but our people were able to clean it up and get some solid stills. We have them out to intelligence agencies worldwide but so far no hits.”
Rapp jumped out of the plane and moved away. The night had turned cool but the humidity still hung in the air. He crossed the runway as the lights blinked off and walked into the damp brush at its edge. There was no wind. The only sound was an engine starting up a few hundred yards to the west.
“Tell your people to find him, Irene. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Now.”
“I understand what you’re feeling, Mitch. Believe me, I do. But we’re doing the best we can.” She paused for a moment. “In the meantime, I need you back in Pakistan. After what happened, the Pakistani army is tightening its procedures for moving the country’s arsenal, but there’s the danger that this wasn’t the only warhead targeted. In fact, the army pulling back could make the problem worse.”
“Terrorist groups trying to make a move before the window closes,” Rapp said.
“Exactly.”
“I’ll fly back as soon as I can.”
“Thank you. With both you and Scott gone, our operation there is starting to unravel. And on top of that, we need to return their device. The political pressure is getting heavy and we’re seeing action by the army that we don’t like. This could be the first sign of a coup by General Shirani.”
Rapp let out a long breath. Pakistan run by Shirani would be a disaster. The current president was a scumbag but at least he was a secular, Westward-leaning scumbag. Shirani was a wannabe fundamentalist dictator with an insatiable thirst for power and a deep hatred for the United States.
“We’ll work fast,” he said as an old pickup rolled to a stop next to the jet. “I’ll contact you if we find anything interesting.”
Rapp disconnected the call and walked back onto the tarmac in order to greet the man stepping out of the truck. Craig Bailer was a full three inches taller than Rapp, with thick, tattoo-covered arms extending from a T-shirt extolling the virtues of Pabst Blue Ribbon. His gaunt face was shadowed by three days of stubble and a baseball cap equally enthusiastic about PBR.
“How’s it going, Mitch? Been a while.”
Despite his outward appearance, Bailer held three PhDs—one in nuclear physics and two in fields Rapp couldn’t pronounce. Kennedy had snapped him up after he’d unexpectedly walked away from Lockheed Martin but he’d hated Langley, hated his job, and hated being cooped up in an office. Toward the end of his tenure at headquarters, Bailer had spent most of his time working in the motor pool. In fact, it was he who had tricked out Rapp’s Dodge with full armor, run-flats, nitrous, and bulletproof glass, among other things. The people in personnel were fairly certain he was the best-educated and best-paid auto mechanic in history.
When he inevitably quit, Kennedy had gone into crisis mode. It had been Rapp’s idea to move him into an abandoned Cold War missile facility in a remote corner of Virginia. If Bailer wouldn’t go to the mountain, they’d just move the mountain to him.
Despite the huge financial outlay, though, Bailer spent less time at the facility than he did in the local drunk tank. The Agency only brought him in when there was a job no one else could handle. And that’s just the way the gregarious redneck liked it. He had a legitimate machine shop about twenty miles away where he fabricated custom parts for spy satellites and hot rods.
“Good to see you,” Rapp said, extending a hand. “Sorry about the short notice.”
Behind them, Joe Maslick had the warhead balanced in the plane’s open hatch. “Where’s the transport?”
“Right here,” Bailer said, slapping the side of his truck. He jumped in and backed up to the plane before getting out again to rearrange a cooler and some shovels to make room.
“Roll it on in,” Bailer said.
“That’s a three-foot drop.”