He didn’t understand who the Corpsmen were or why they needed to be there. Harvath eventually gave up trying to explain.
It seemed to be enough for him. Though he couldn’t afford to, Harvath stayed for one additional night. They grilled steaks, smoked cigars, and drank more bourbon than was healthy for either of them.
Not knowing how long his upcoming assignment would keep him overseas, Harvath wanted to squeeze every good moment out of the visit that he could.
The next morning, when it came time to leave, he embraced his mentor and held him for longer than he ever had. The Old Man seemed to know something serious was going on—that one of them might not be seeing the other again—and he, in return, held the embrace.
When they released, Carlton placed his hands atop Harvath’s shoulders, looked him in the eyes, and said, “You’ve been a good son.”
Then, the Old Man turned and walked back into the cottage. Had one of the Corpsmen not been close by to witness it, Ryan would likely never have heard that part of the story. It wasn’t the kind of thing she could imagine Harvath sharing.
Having ducked college for a career as a freestyle skier, Harvath had barely been on speaking terms with his actual father. If not for his mother, they wouldn’t have communicated at all. The death of his father, a Navy SEAL instructor, brought Harvath’s world crashing down.
From what Ryan had gleaned from the people who knew Harvath best, something inside him at that moment had either clicked, or snapped.
Scot had lost his appetite for professional athletics. Quitting the U.S. Ski Team, he attended college and then followed in his father’s footsteps by joining the Navy and becoming an even more accomplished SEAL than his dad had been.
It was almost two months ago that Harvath and the Old Man had embraced outside the New Hampshire cottage, and much had happened since. People were asking questions. Carlton’s name was coming up in more and more conversations. It wasn’t safe for him. So Ryan had made the decision to put the next phase of Harvath’s plan into action.
CHAPTER 6
* * *
VÆRNES AIR STATION
STJØRDAL, NORWAY
Even if they could have gotten a fire crew into the woods and to the cabin, it was a lost cause. A forensics team would be left to sift through the ashes. There wasn’t much hope of finding anything.
Harvath and Jasinski returned to the injured Norwegians and did what they could for them.
When reinforcements arrived, Harvath slipped away. He had several loose ends to tie up before he took off. A car was waiting for him just beyond the first-responder vehicles. It was a half hour before Jasinki realized he was gone. It was an additional forty-five minutes before she was able to get her own ride back to Værnes.
Værnes Air Station belonged to the Norwegian Royal Air Force. One of its biggest users, though, was the United States Marine Corps.
As part of the Marines’ Preposition Program, massive amounts of U.S. military equipment entered Norway via Værnes. From there, it was stashed in top-secret caves throughout the region in case a NATO member was ever invaded and the organization was called to war. Preventing an attack on those caves was what tonight’s raid on the cabin had all been about. The equipment inside was a highly strategic stockpile. Had it been destroyed, it would have been a critical blow to an alliance that had come so far and had been so successful.
Created in the aftermath of World War II, the North Atlantic Treaty Organization had originally comprised Belgium, Canada, Denmark, France, Iceland, Italy, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Norway, Portugal, the United Kingdom, and the United States.
It then went on to add Greece, Turkey, Germany, Spain, the Czech Republic, Hungary, Poland, Bulgaria, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Romania, Slovakia, Albania, Slovenia, Croatia, and Montenegro.
It had been formed as a means of collective defense in the hope of discouraging war. Article 5 of its treaty stated that an attack on one member was an attack on all. No matter who the aggressor, member nations were obligated to come to the aid of their fellows.
Only once in NATO’s history had Article 5 ever been invoked. In the wake of 9/11, the nations of NATO had joined together and gone to war in Afghanistan.
But while the September 11 attacks had demonstrated the asymmetric threat of Islamic terrorism, another threat—one far greater and far more powerful—was looming on the horizon.
As it had done in Crimea, Russia planned to take back all of its former territory. It was going to continue with the Baltic nations of Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia. There was only one thing standing in Russia’s way—the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. But ever the tacticians, Moscow had already formulated a plan to break NATO.
Harvath, though, had developed a plan as well. The United States didn’t intend to be drawn into another world war in Europe. It also didn’t intend to let the greatest military alliance in history be dissolved. No matter what the cost, Harvath couldn’t allow the Russians to succeed.
He had been set up in an officer’s quarters on the north side of the airfield in the Værnes Garrison. It smelled like stale carpet and looked as if it had been furnished for a hundred bucks spent at a local IKEA store.
He could hear Monika Jasinski coming down the hallway. Tucking his phone into his back pocket, he walked over and opened the door.
She confronted him right away. “The Norwegians are looking for you. They want to chat about the dead guy. Might have been a good idea to check in with someone before leaving the scene.”
Before he could reply, she continued on. “Would you care to explain to me what happened out there? We were specifically told that we couldn’t carry weapons here. How was it that you had a pistol?”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
His response took her by surprise. “For what?”
Fingering the rip in her parka where the shrapnel had just missed her neck, he replied, “For saving your life.”
Color rose to her cheeks. He couldn’t tell if she was embarrassed or growing angrier.
Turning her head away, she murmured, “Thank you.”
He stood back so she could enter.
At a small table sat a gray-haired man with a thin mustache. He wore a dark turtleneck and gray trousers. A pillar of blue smoke rose from the cigarette in the ashtray in front of him.
Jasinski looked at him. “Who’s this?”
Using the heel of his boot to shut the door, Harvath introduced her. “Monika Jasinski, meet Carl Pedersen. Carl is NIS. Norwegian Intelligence Service”
“I know what NIS is,” she responded, confused as to what the man was doing there.
Pedersen rose and they shook hands. “Scot tells me you’re with Polish Military Intelligence. Currently billeted at NATO?”
Jasinski nodded. “The terrorism intelligence cell. I don’t understand. What does any of this have to do with Norway’s foreign intelligence service?”
“Carl is our liaison,” said Harvath.
“No, he isn’t. This is a NATO investigation. We liaise with our local counterparts.”
“Your English is remarkable,” Pedersen interjected, changing the subject. “Barely any hint of an accent.”
“I’m Polish, but was raised in Chicago. We moved back to Krakow when I was twelve.” Noticing a pile of cell phones stacked nearby, she then asked, “Where did those come from? Please don’t say they’re from the dead guy who fled the cabin.”