Monday Night Jihad (35 page)

He paused to let the information sink in. Then he added, “Looks like we’ve got us a target!”

Wednesday, January 21

Barletta, Italy

Three ghostly white figures floated on the screen. One appeared to be lying down, and the other two stood slightly behind the first. All were completely unaware of the radar bouncing off their bodies. This rapid, ultrawideband pulsation resonated from an impulse synthetic aperture radar that, like a real-life version of the fictional form of thermal imaging typically shown on television and in the movies, actually allowed one to receive images through walls. This was Ted Hummel’s first time employing the system in the field, and he was having way too much fun operating it.

“Tech One,” he said into his comm system. For this action, Hummel had been designated as Tech One, and Khadi, who was working with him in the back of the surveillance van, was Tech Two.

“Alpha One, go ahead, Tech One,” came Hicks’s whispered response.

“Confirm Riley behind window seven; two hajjis guarding—I believe beyond a door due to fainter signal. Recommend window five as entry point—four hajjis prone, probably sleeping.”

Hummel and Khadi had spent the last fifteen minutes radiating the northern wall of the Port 2 building—the wall receiving the systematic flash of light from the lighthouse. They had spotted three rooms that were occupied but only one room had the signature they were looking for: single occupant with guards.

“Confirm Riley seven; entry five,” Hicks repeated.

With the predawn darkness and their head-to-toe blackness, Hicks and Alpha Team were virtually invisible as they approached the south entrance to the warehouse. They stepped over the body of the guard Hicks had taken out with a laser-aimed, sound-suppressed shot from his M4.

Meanwhile, Delta Team, led by Jay Kruse, was positioning at an entrance on the east side of the building. When both four-man teams were in place, Hicks gave the go-ahead for Sniper Team to move under window seven. Scott Ross, Skeeter Dawkins, and Carlos Guitiérrez ran across the asphalt and ducked under the closed window.

“Sniper in position,” Scott reported.

“Okay, let’s roll it out,” Hicks said. “Tech.”

“Check.”

“Delta.”

“Check.”

“Sniper.”

“Check.”

“Boomer.”

“Check,” answered demolitions man Matt Logan.

“Okay, on my go . . . three, two, one, GO!”

Alpha Team

Gilly Posada fired his Remington 870 Modular Combat shotgun at the hinges of the solid-core door, and Kim Li followed up with a crash from his ram. The door toppled inward. Hicks and Steve Kasay each tossed in a flashbang grenade, then pressed themselves against the outer wall.

BANG!

Immediately following the blast, the four men stack-rushed into the room—Hicks taking point, Li left, Posada right, and Kasay watching behind. A couple of three-round bursts from Hicks neutralized two of the occupants of the room, and a blast from Posada’s 870 dropped the third and fourth in rapid succession.

Delta Team

Chris Johnson’s shotgun and Brad Musselman’s ram provided Delta Team with an entrance on the east side of the building. However, when the team followed the flashbangs, they found the entry area empty. Suddenly gunfire burst through a wooden door on the left side of the room and Musselman spun to the ground. Kyle Arsdale impulsively launched a 40 mm grenade into the room. Then, realizing what he had done, he yelled, “Grenade!” The three men dropped to the floor just before they were showered with debris from the Sheetrock walls. When they stood back up, they looked like negatives of themselves—the drywall dust changing their all-black to all-white.

“Arsdale, stay here with Musselman! Johnson, you come with me!”

Arsdale dropped next to Musselman and began to apply pressure to his chest to try to stop the bleeding. Kruse and Johnson maneuvered into the next room.

Sniper Team

As soon as he heard “go,” Skeeter shattered the glass out of the window. While Scott covered his left side and Guitiérrez his right, Skeeter positioned his weapon through the metal bars that had been rusted by years of exposure to the damp salt air. Sure enough, within five seconds, the door burst open and two armed guards came running in. Each man received three rounds in the chest.

As he kept the rifle aimed at the door, Skeeter called out, “Riley? Riley, you in there?”

A raspy voice answered, “Skeet? Is that you?”

“Yes, sir! We comin’ to get ya! Where you at?”

“Your left.”

Another man ran into the room. He made it two steps before he joined his friends.

“Can you move?”

“No—” A deep cough erupted from the corner where Riley lay. “I’m cuffed to a ring in the floor.”

“Well, cover yourself up with something. We got a surprise comin’!” Then, without taking his eyes off the door, he called out, “Scott! Tell ’em to send it in!”

“You got it, Skeet! Tech, send it in! Send it in!”

“Copy!” came Khadi’s voice.

There was silence for about ten seconds—the only sounds coming from Sniper Team’s breathing and the gunfire on the other side of the building. Then came the growl of an accelerating vehicle, faint at first but growing louder.

With its lights out, the vehicle was hard to see. Anyone who did get a good look at it would have noticed one curious characteristic about this speeding Iveco Daily cargo van: it had no driver.

Tech Team

While Khadi lay prone with her sniper rifle aimed at the roof of Port 2, Hummel stood next to her, doing his best to keep the cargo van under control. He had estimated that the van would have enough distance to reach 60 mph—a perfect speed if his aim was true and the hastily constructed radio-control device held up. However, it would be a horrifying speed for Sniper Team if the van happened to veer right just thirty feet.

He lined it up according to his coordinates. So far, so good. Abruptly he smelled smoke. Not the comforting smell of wood-fire smoke rising through a chimney and saturating the frosty air of a cold winter’s morning. This was the kind of electronic smoke that you smell in your kitchen telling you that in seconds you’re going to be mixing the rest of the cake batter by hand.

Hummel’s heart sank to his feet.

Alpha Team

Hicks’s team eased their way through the front rooms of the building, firing their guns at anything that moved. Kasay was limping from a wound to his right thigh, and Hicks was bleeding from where a bullet had creased his left cheek above the jawline.

Alpha Team’s goal was not to move through the building, nor was it to find Riley. Their mission, along with Delta Team, was to create noise and draw as many bad guys to them as possible. The more who came their way, the fewer the rescue team would have to deal with. So they slowly moved forward, never getting too far away from the front door and their escape.

Sniper Team

Scott heard the cargo van approaching. A movement at the far corner of the building caught his eye. Just before he fired, a voice came on his comm. “Sniper, this is Boomer. I’m rounding the corner.”

Scott’s feeling of relief that he hadn’t taken the shot was immediately shattered by a second voice. “Sniper, this is Tech One! I’ve lost control of the van! Repeat, I’ve lost control of the van!”

“Tech One, what do you mean you’ve lost control?” Scott yelled.

“I lined her up true, but then my controller burned out! She should be locked in straight, but I can’t guarantee it. You guys had better clear out of there!”

“I ain’t movin’,” Skeeter said calmly from beside Scott.

“Skeeter,” came Hummel’s voice again, “clear out! I can’t tell you for sure where it’s going to hit.”

“I said, I ain’t—” Skeeter’s words were interrupted by a burst from his M4 as another visitor to the room checked out—“movin’.”

“It’s too late now anyway!” Scott shouted.

The van raced toward them, the whine of the onrushing engine growing louder. Nobody moved; all the men kept their eyes on their positions. If it was going to hit them, it was going to hit them—nothing they could do about it now.

Room 147

Riley lay on the ground. He had taken cover under his chair. It was scant protection, but at least it was something. In the dim light, he could see the growing pile of bodies by the door.

How had the team found him? It had to be Scott and his computer brain. Now, as he waited for his band of brothers, he silently prayed for their protection.

A moment later the deafening sound of high-speed metal meeting stationary cinder block exploded all around him. He was thrown sideways, and he cried out in pain as the arm that was cuffed to the floor was yanked from its socket.

As the ringing in his ears from the terrible impact began to fade, it was replaced by an even more frightening sound—silence. Then the sound of automatic-weapons fire erupted in the hallway. Scott’s voice sounded from the window, cutting through the din. “Hang in, Pach! They’re almost there!”

Riley tried to say something in reply, but the pain in his shoulder had taken his breath away. A noise at the door caught Riley’s attention, and he turned just as a huge figure came bounding into the room.

Skeeter. He was followed by a determined-looking Guitiérrez.

Riley managed a weak wave but could say nothing as a cough racked his body.

“Pach! You hold still, okay?” Skeeter said as he positioned a pair of bolt cutters around the chain on Riley’s cuffs.

Riley cried out again.

“What is it?” Guitiérrez questioned.

“Arm’s out!”

“Well, then, hang on, ’cause this isn’t going to be pretty.”

While Skeeter kept an eye on the door, Guitiérrez positioned Riley. Then with a quick jerk that caused Riley to scream and slam the cement with his good hand, Guitiérrez popped the joint back into place.

Riley launched into another fit of coughing.

“Can you walk?” Guitiérrez asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Riley squeaked between coughs.

“No, you ain’t, Pach! Look at your feet! They been beatin’ on your feet?” Skeeter asked.

“I’m fine, Skeeter!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Skeeter said as he picked Riley up and threw him over his shoulder.

“Skeeter, put me down! I mean it, Skeet! That’s a direct order! Put me—” A cough cut off the rest of Riley’s words, but he knew they would have been wasted on the suddenly selectively deaf man anyway.

Delta Team

“Rescue complete! Pull out! Pull out!” Hicks’s voice came over the comm.

Kruse and Johnson each lobbed a flashbang followed by a gas canister to cover their retreat, then sprinted toward the entrance. As they ran through the front door and turned left, they saw Arsdale twenty yards ahead with Musselman on his shoulders. When they rounded the corner, their eyes were drawn to the new, large hole in the rear of the building, out of which poked the last five feet of the cargo van.

They ran on and finally reached the rendezvous site seventy-five yards down the port road. Alpha Team was twenty-five yards behind them.

Suddenly the clacking of an AK-47 broke the air. Gilly Posada dropped. Hicks, who was bringing up the rear, slid down and lay on top of him. As he did, he yelled, “Boomer! Blow it now!”

Matt Logan lifted the safety cap off the detonator, toggled the circuit on, and depressed the trigger.

Twenty-four explosive charges, eight on both the front and the back of the building and four on each of the ends, went off at once with a concussion strong enough to make the waiting team members’ ears pop a football field away. Anyone in or around the building who wasn’t immediately incinerated by the blasts was crushed as the warehouse’s outer walls fell and its roof collapsed.

Kruse and Johnson ran back to where Hicks lay on top of Posada. They each picked a man up and carried him the rest of the way to the waiting vans. As they laid the two men in the back of the first van, they saw Guitiérrez working hard to stem the flow of blood from Musselman’s chest.

Farther back in the vehicle, they saw Riley. His eyes were closed and his head was lying in Khadi’s lap. Scott sat next to him trying his best to tend to some of his former lieutenant’s wounds. At Riley’s feet squatted Skeeter, M4 at the ready.

It would be thirty-six hours before anyone could finally convince the big man to put down his gun and leave Riley’s side.

Thursday, January 22

Department of Homeland Security Headquarters, Nebraska Avenue Complex

Washington, D.C.

There were a lot of things in this world that CTD Midwest Division Chief Stanley Porter didn’t like. He didn’t like French wine. He didn’t like black-tie dinners. He didn’t like designated hitters. He didn’t like his wife’s lasagna. But what Stanley Porter truly liked least in this world were pompous, self-absorbed, shortsighted, bureaucratic dolts like Director of Homeland Security Dwayne Moss.

“All I’m saying is that we’ve got to take some major precautions at the PFL Cup next week,” Porter said, sitting on the edge of his seat. The chair was way too soft and way too deep for him to sit back and still make his point.

“Because some PFL player turned secret agent thinks he overheard something while being tortured? I’d venture to say he was probably hearing everything from archangels to his dead grandmother,” replied Secretary Moss, who was settled comfortably back in his imported Argentine leather wingback chair. His feet were kicked up on the mahogany coffee table that separated the two men, and his chin was resting on the two index fingers extended from his interlaced hands. “I mean, really, Stan, is that the best you can give me?”

“What do you want? Are you expecting an engraved invitation to the jihad party at the PFL Cup? BYOB—bring your own bomb! Mr. Secretary, you know that’s not the way this business is run.”

“Oh, I know all right. I’ve been a professional in this business for twenty-five years now.”

Porter wanted to reply that he had meant the international law enforcement business, not the special-interest-kowtowing, keep-yourself-in-office-no-matter-what, governmental-leech business—but he thought better of it. “What I’m saying is that Riley Covington heard some very specific words from a man who was his best friend for two years. These words led him to believe that the PFL Cup would be the Cause’s next target. He so strongly believed this to be true that it was the one message he secretly communicated in a video, after which he fully expected to be killed.”