Free State of Honour by Gary Haynes Page B

the table. “But don’t hold your breath.”
    “Where is she, son?” Houseman asked.
    “Upper Kurram Valley, sir. We lost the signal for a while there, but, hell, we’ve found her now.”
    “Federally Administered Pakistan Tribal Area. A stronghold of the Leopards,” Crane said, soberly. “It’s picture postcard. Northern Af-Pak border country. Less than a hundred and fifty klicks away, which means it’s easily accessible by stealth helos. The two major tribes are the Bangash and the Turi. In Upper Kurram, the Bangash are Shia. The Turi are all Shia. They’ve both sent alotta young men to join the Leopards.”
    The assembled men nodded, all tacitly accepting that Crane was the expert in such things.
    Tom held back from saying that they had to act fast. It was as obvious to everyone concerned as saying a diet of fries and pizzas wasn’t a great idea if you wanted to lose weight. So he kept quiet and did his best to fade into the background, hoping that his presence would be accepted, even though in truth he had no right being here, at least as far as the president was concerned.
    He watched Houseman report to the POTUS on a secure video link. After the input of more than a dozen people, including the Director of the CIA – who everyone knew was actually coordinating matters at Langley – a process that took forty-five minutes, the president decided that the National Security Council would consider a rescue plan.
    The chances of finding bin Laden in the compound in Abbottabad had been estimated to be forty per cent when a similar sounding had been taken. The chances of getting the secretary out alive were deemed to be half that at best. But no lines of communication had been established, and every minute that passed meant the chances of getting her out alive were diminishing. There really wasn’t any other option, despite the odds.
    Houseman turned to Crane. “Go along with Lieutenant Sawyer. He’ll liaise with JSOC. Give ’em the benefit of your local knowledge. I want a plan ready to go in two hours.”
    Crane looked aghast. “That’s not enough time. Even if we’ve got UAVs sending back photos of the brand of toothpaste they prefer,” he said, referring to the unmanned aerial vehicles used for reconnaissance.
    “I think we can do it in the timeframe, sir,” Sawyer said. He turned to Crane. “Two hours is standard prep for a mission.”
    Tom saw Crane’s pale-blue eyes bore into the lieutenant.
    “Yeah, for a kill or capture mission. Lyric’s life is at stake here,” he replied.
    “We haven’t got time for a red team analysis, or for this. Get to it,” Houseman said.
    Tom left with Crane and Sawyer, figuring everyone was still too preoccupied to care.

17.
    In a similarly secure, adjacent room, Tom, Crane and Sawyer were hunched over a large stainless-steel table, doing final checks on the rescue site via the twenty printed satellite photos spread out before them. The site was an ochre-red fort abandoned by the Frontier Corps of the Pakistan Army three months previously, after it had been almost overrun by the Leopards, and all supply routes had been cut off. Black-and-white drone feeds were playing on laptops either side of the photos.
    “I count at least thirty pax,” Sawyer said.
    Tom frowned.
    “That ain’t disrespectful,” Crane said to Tom. “It’s military speak for people.”
    Sawyer looked quizzical.
    “Tom’s sensitive about such things,” Crane said, turning to Sawyer. “He thought you were calling the locals Paks.”
    Tom shook his head, thinking that Crane was baiting him deliberately, but let it go. He looked back at the photos. A few hundred metres beyond the fort there was a makeshift town, which all but surrounded it. A ragbag collection of awnings, thin sheets of battered-out metal containers, and mud and stone and wooden structures. Home to four thousand Shia refugees from ransacked and burnt-out towns and villages further south and east. Innocent civilians who’d