Rogue Strike Read online

  Berkley titles by David Ricciardi

  WARNING LIGHT

  ROGUE STRIKE

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

  Copyright © 2019 by David Ricciardi

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ricciardi, David, author.

  Title: Rogue strike / David Ricciardi.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018036406 | ISBN 9780399585760 (hardcover) |

  ISBN 9780399585777 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Political fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3618.I275 R68 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018036406

  First Edition: June 2019

  Cover art: Man holding gun by Stephen Mulcahey / Arcangel images

  Cover design by Pete Garceau

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_2

  For my parents, who’ve never stopped inspiring me

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many people made significant contributions to the creation of Rogue Strike. All have chosen to remain anonymous. The individuals’ motives for pitching in are as diverse as their reasons for serving their country: fellowship, a desire to see their respective fields portrayed correctly in the public eye, and a wish for their comrades to receive recognition for the selfless and often dangerous work they do on behalf of the rest of us.

  To a man, OPSEC issues were paramount. Methods, procedures, call signs, and a variety of other details were intentionally changed or omitted so that only those who should know, do. Technical details of certain events ensured that they were believable, but not executable. On top of all that, I’m sure I made a few mistakes. Probably more than a few, if history is any guide.

  On the publishing side, I owe debts of gratitude to my agent Rick Richter at Aevitas Creative Management and the team at Berkley: my editor/alchemist, Tom Colgan; the marketing duo of Fareeda Bullert and Jin Yu; my publicists, Loren Jaggers and Tara O’Connor; and president and fellow sailor, Ivan Held. Thank you all for your hard work and support! I couldn’t ask for a better team.

  Most importantly, I’d like to thank my family for their unwavering enthusiasm.

  CONTENTS

  Berkley Titles by David Ricciardi

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Chapter Sixty-six

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Chapter Sixty-nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-one

  Chapter Seventy-two

  Chapter Seventy-three

  Chapter Seventy-four

  Chapter Seventy-five

  Chapter Seventy-six

  Chapter Seventy-seven

  Chapter Seventy-eight

  Chapter Seventy-nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-one

  Chapter Eighty-two

  Chapter Eighty-three

  Chapter Eighty-four

  Chapter Eighty-five

  Chapter Eighty-six

  Chapter Eighty-seven

  Chapter Eighty-eight

  Chapter Eighty-nine

  Chapter Ninety

  Chapter Ninety-one

  Chapter Ninety-two

  Chapter Ninety-three

  Chapter Ninety-four

  Chapter Ninety-five

  Chapter Ninety-six

  Chapter Ninety-seven

  Chapter Ninety-eight

  Chapter Ninety-nine

  Chapter One Hundred

  Chapter One Hundred One

  Chapter One Hundred Two

  Chapter One Hundred Three

  Chapter One Hundred Four

  Chapter One Hundred Five

  Chapter One Hundred Six

  Chapte r One Hundred Seven

  Chapter One Hundred Eight

  Chapter One Hundred Nine

  About the Author

  The best way out is always through.

  ROBERT FROST, 1874–1963

  ONE

  THE TWO MEN in the bed of the old pickup told the driver to step on it—they could survive a rough ride.

  They might not survive being late.

  Two days earlier, a communications intercept had revealed an upcoming meeting involving the number one target on the U.S. government’s disposition matrix. Known as Mullah Muktar, he was a quasi-religious leader who’d helped plan the September 11th attacks, then risen to become the leader of a violent extremist organization known as al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula.

  And it was time to send him to Paradise.

  A wake of dust rose behind the pickup truck as it pounded over the dirt road. The monsoon rains usually turned the Wadi Bana into a flowing river that made life in southern Yemen almost tolerable for a few months each year, but the rains had been light this season. The land was hard and dry.

  The driver switched on his lights as he turned onto a paved road. The town of Zinjibar loomed in the cracked windshield. Most of its buildings had been destroyed in the war, and the air smelled of smoke and a fine dust that never quite settled to the ground.

  The senior CIA officer slapped the roof twice as they passed an open-air market. The pickup turned into an alley and slowed. He threw a goatskin satchel over his shoulder and jumped down to the street.

  Two blocks away, the second officer hopped out. He was dressed in a mishmash of loose-fitting pants and a faded wool coat that was popular with the locals. He stooped over and feigned a slight limp, hoping that darkness and distance would make him look like one of the many old men who carried their wares to the market each morning.

  Game time, Zac, he thought to himself.

  Then he grimaced.

  Zac’s gone.

  He was known as Jake Keller now and on his first mission as part of the Agency’s elite Special Activities Center. He walked back to the main boulevard and climbed a pile of rubble to enter an abandoned apartment building. His partner was already there, standing in the dark with a scruffy beard, a scarf wrapped around his head, and a stubby AKS-74U rifle in his hands.

  Curt Roach, a thirty-eight-year-old former special operations marine, was nine years older than Jake and had worked in the military or CIA his entire adult life. He hid a battery-powered motion detector in the lobby and motioned to the stairway. Jake unclipped his own rifle from a harness under his jacket and unfolded the wire stock. The two men ascended the concrete stairs in silence and cleared each room in the five-story building.

  “Let’s get set up,” Roach said. “This thing could go down any minute.”

  Jake hung camouflage netting from the ceiling, five feet back from the outside wall. Roach set up a tripod behind the net.

  “Pass me the designator.”

  Jake handed him what looked like a high-tech pair of binoculars. The device would bounce a beam of invisible infrared light off whatever it was pointed at. It could determine the target’s coordinates or guide a missile onto it from an aircraft circling above.

  “Run the antennas?” Jake said as he scratched his beard.

  Roach nodded. “Just be sure they can’t be seen from the ground.”

  Jake disappeared up the stairs, trailing a thin cable behind him. He returned a few minutes later.

  “SATCOM and GPS are up. I’ll check in,” he said.

  “Mustang, Mustang, this is Cobra.”

  From a top secret facility halfway across the Arabian Peninsula, the CIA mission control element responded.

  “Cobra, go for Mustang.”

  “Mustang, Cobra at position Alpha.”

  “Copy position Alpha. Strike package is two ships. Drifter-71 and Drifter-72 are hard altitude eighteen thousand feet and orbiting your position with fifteen hours till bingo.”

  High overhead, two unmanned combat aerial vehicles flew racetrack patterns around the city. From a distance, the stealthy, bat-winged UCAVs resembled miniature B-2 bombers. They each carried fifteen hours of fuel and a pair of air-to-ground missiles in an internal weapons bay.

  The two CIA officers watched the streets for hours until a battered Nissan pickup truck arrived spewing black smoke from its diesel engine. Six men with rifles hopped down. After suffering through decades of a multiparty civil war, nearly everyone in Yemen had a gun, but these men positioned themselves around the intersection with overlapping fields of fire on all of the approaches.

  Curt reached for the SATCOM. He whispered despite being two hundred meters away.

  “Mustang, we have six military-age males in the open at Alpha. Definite weapons and tactical movement.”

  “Roger that, Cobra,” said the radio. “Be advised we are tracking three vehicles westbound to your position.”

  A heavily muscled man in fatigue pants and a black T-shirt stared up at the nearby buildings. His gaze shifted methodically, right to left, top to bottom, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Despite having the early morning sun in his eyes, he paused at the floor where Jake and Curt were holed up. He started walking toward the Americans’ building, when three identical SUVs stopped in the intersection.

  Mullah Muktar emerged from the third vehicle.

  “Mustang, we have Jupiter at Alpha,” Roach said. “He’s linking up with the six dismounts.”

  “Roger, Cobra,” said mission control. “Facial recognition confirms positive ID on Jupiter. Drifter-72 in range. Ten hours till bingo. Mustang standing by.”

  The man in the fatigue pants escorted Muktar into the building across the street.

  Twenty minutes later, a tan Yemeni government Land Rover arrived and four soldiers climbed out. A civilian wearing an open-necked suit emerged from the passenger seat.

  “There goes our operation,” Jake said.

  Roach scowled. The Agency’s rules of engagement prohibited any action that jeopardized the safety of Yemeni government personnel. He picked up the radio.

  “Mustang, we have Saturn in a tan government truck with a four-man security detail.”

  “Why would government forces drive that truck into al-Qaeda territory?” Jake said. “Those two have been at each other’s throats for years.”

  “Because those aren’t government forces,” Roach said. “These guys know our ROE and they’re using them against us. Look at Saturn’s security detail. They’re looking for external threats. Legitimate government forces would be watching Muktar’s men. The truck is a hoax.”

  Roach looked through the laser designator’s magnified optics as the man in the open-necked suit entered the building.

  “Jupiter and Saturn are inside the target,” Roach said.

  “Cobra, government personnel are outside the ROE. Drifter-71 will target Jupiter’s vehicle once he clears the area.”

  “Negative, Mustang. The truck is a ruse,” Roach said. “These bastards killed three thousand Americans and now it’s payback time. Spin up your missiles.”

  The man in the fatigue pants returned to the street and linked up with another man. They started walking toward Jake and Roach’s building.

  “You see this?” Jake said as he picked up his rifle.

  Roach nodded.

  “Why don’t you want to hit Muktar’s truck after he leaves?” Jake asked. “Just in case.”

  “First, there’s zero chance that those are government troops. They’d never make it past the al-Qaeda checkpoints. Second, the mullah has been dodging drone strikes for years. As soon as those vehicles start rolling, his goons will play a shell game with them. The odds of a successful mission go down by two-thirds the second he gets in that truck.”

  The radio chirped again. “Roger, Cobra. Drifter- 72 is in range and holding on station. Prepare to provide terminal guidance.”

  “Negative on the terminal guidance,” Roach said. “We’ve got hostiles inbound. We’re going to transmit coordinates instead.”

  In terminal guidance mode, the designator would send coded pulses of laser light that would guide the drone’s missiles to the target, but Roach and Jake would have to stay in position for the duration of the operation, and Roach was worried about the man in the camo pants.

  Roach pressed several buttons on the designator and keyed the SATCOM.

  “Cobra transmitting coordinates now,” he said. “You are cleared hot.”

  “Good copy on coordinates, Cobra. Missile launch in three . . . two . . . one . . .”

  Roach’s watch vibrated. “Somebody just triggered the motion detector in the lobby.”

  Jake took his rifle to the stairs and listened for the intruders. He glanced at Roach.

  Shouldn’t the missiles have hit by now?

  Roach was thinking the same thing.

  “Mustang, repeat, cleared hot. Execute.”

  “Stand by, Cobra,” said the voice on the SATCOM. “We are, uh, negative contact with Drifter-72 at this time. Drifter-71 is being retargeted now.”

  “What the hell just happened?” Jake said.

  Roach shrugged.

  “Cobra, be advised Drifter-71 will be in range in one-six minutes. Maintain position.”

  Down in the street below, the two principals exited the meeting.

  Roach keyed the SATCOM. “Mustang, we’re about to lose both targets.”

  The radio was silent as Jupiter and Saturn spoke on the street.

  Jake heard footsteps a few floors below them. He put his rifle to his shoulder and aimed down the stairway.

  Jupiter and Saturn looked like old friends as they exchanged hugs and kisses on both cheeks.

  Jake heard men speaking one floor down and Roach cupped the microphone in his hand.

  “Mustang, Mustang . . . Repeat, we are losing both targets.”

  The voices stopped. Roach picked up his rifle.

  Two minutes later, the man in the fatigue pants and his partner appeared on the street next to Mullah Muktar.

  “We’ve been chasing that sonofabitch for almost twenty years and he’s going to walk again,” Roach said. He practically shouted into the mic. “Mustang, this is Cobra. Jupiter and Saturn are bugging out. Does Drifter-71 have eyes on target yet?”