Project StrikeForce (22 page)

Eric grinned. “Better watch your porn surfing.”

“No porn surfing on base,” Karen said over her
shoulder, her fingers typing furiously.

Eric watched as Karen did her magic, the map of IP
addresses a foreign language to him, but soon she banged on her keyboard.

“We’ve got a winner!” Karen exclaimed. “It’s
Europe. Registered to a German carrier. The range is blocked off for home use,
in Landstuhl, Germany. Why does that sound familiar?”

“Ramstein Air Force Base,” Eric said. “That’s
where the hospital is.”

“Oh yeah. Landstuhl Regional Medical Center. Isn’t
that where the Iraq and Afghanistan wounded go?” Karen asked.

Eric turned to Deion. “Get John. I want us
wheels-up in thirty.”

Deion nodded. “You got it, boss.” Deion tore out
of the room, brushing aside analysts as he went.

“I’ll have the jet loaded and ready,” Nancy said,
her voice determined. “We’ll be there before lunch.

Landstuhl, Germany

he Gulfstream’s wheels woke John
from his sleep, like the cries of the men and women in his dreams. He wiped the
sweat from his brow with trembling hands, trying to put the dream behind him.

Eric, Deion, Nancy, Taylor Martin, and Roger
Johnson sat at the table in the front section of the plane, deep in planning
for the upcoming mission.

“Look,” Eric said, “I know we’ve been over this
already, but I want it clear. No mistakes.” He pointed to an aerial photo of an
apartment complex in the Landstuhl area. “John and Roger will go through the
alley, then breach the door. Martin, you and Nancy come from the west, and
Deion and I come from the east. I want no more than thirty seconds between
breach and lockdown. Do we have the layout?”

John shook off the effect of the nap and joined
the planning. “The front and side doors open to a living area and kitchen,” he
said, pointing. “Bedroom and kitchen are on the first floor. Stairs are here,”
he moved his finger, “and lead to the upstairs bedrooms here and here, bathroom
here. Also, stairs to the basement, no windows.”

“Right,” Deion agreed. “No egress in the back.
Just the windows there and there,” he pointed. “We go in standard close-quarter
formation. Clear the first floor, then the upstairs, basement last.”

“Remember,” Eric said, “We need them alive.”

John noticed surreptitious glances from the rest
of the team, and felt his face flush. “That’s not fair.”

“Just a gentle reminder,” Eric said with a grin.

“We’ve had surveillance on the building for the
past couple hours,” Deion said. “Nobody’s gone in or out. It’s thin.”

Eric shrugged. “It’s all we have.”

The plane taxied off the runway and powered down
its engines. Greg Clayberg, their pilot, opened the cockpit door. “Your contact
is waiting. I’ll get the plane turned and refueled.”

John liked Greg, the man with the salt-and-pepper
beard and hair. There was a twinkle in Greg’s eyes and he delighted in needling
Nancy at every turn. John was surprised that Nancy allowed it. She didn’t seem
to take shit from anyone, but somehow Greg came away unscathed.

They grabbed their duffel bags, checked that
everything was in place, then proceeded to the young PFC waiting for them.

The PFC, Klein, handed them the paperwork they
needed for free reign of the base, and keys to two unmarked Volkswagens. They
split up, pairing three to a vehicle, and made their way off the base and
through the picturesque streets of Landstuhl.

John rode with Roger and Deion. Roger drove the
unmarked car around the neighborhood, circling the block twice before stopping
fifty meters from their destination. John watched in the side view mirror as
the other vehicle did the same.

John checked his M11, nodding as Roger did the
same. “You ready?” he asked.

Roger grinned. “I’d say I was born ready, but then
I’d sound like an asshole.”

“That’s the only thing that makes you sound like
an asshole?” Deion said.

John laughed. He barely knew Roger, but their
shared experience in Denver lent them a familiar camaraderie. Through their
ear-pieces they heard Eric question the surveillance team. “Any updates?”

“No movement,” the man helming the surveillance
team responded.

“Let’s do it,” Eric said.

Here we go.
John got out of the car, and
strolled down the street with Roger, chatting about the scenery. They came to
the alleyway next to the apartment building, turned quickly, and headed for the
side door. They paused for a moment to allow the others to reach the front door
and waited for Eric to reach the call.

“On three,” Eric said.

Roger pulled a flash bang from his jacket pocket
and on three, John kicked the door as hard as he could, right above the
doorknob. Whether it was from the drugs or exercise, the door splintered around
the lock and swung, hitting the wall and ricocheting back.

Roger caught it with his shoulder and threw in the
flashbang. They entered the room with drawn pistols as the flashbang exploded,
followed by another flashbang from Eric in front. They each took a
predetermined quadrant, pistols moving with practiced precision, looking for
targets.

Eric yelled, “Clear,” and they rushed forward in a
tight group, Deion kicking in the door to the bathroom. “Clear!”

They took the stairs two at a time and hit the
bedrooms and then the shared bathroom. “Clear!” Nancy yelled.

They swept back down the stairs and hit the
basement, Eric flicking on the light. When they reached the bottom Eric stopped
them with a raised hand. “Oh shit,” Eric said, pointing to the multi-color
wiring that splayed across the squat wooden table like spaghetti.

The materials filled John with dread. “Oh shit,”
he breathed.

* * *

“Clark,” Eric said, “Abdullah was
here. We think he’s made another bomb.”

“I’ll alert the base,” Clark said. “Any intel in
the apartment?”

Eric kicked at the living room table. “Wiring in
the basement. Prayer mats. Looks like grooming supplies in the bathroom.”

“Any ID?”

“It’s clean. Did you have any luck with the
apartment manager?”

“He works for a Berlin firm. He claims he rented
it to three American soldiers. A white guy, a black guy, and a Latino.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Sounds like a bad joke.”

“I don’t think these guys are joking,” Clark
responded. “What’s their target? What at Ramstein is worth hitting?”

“Delta has an office here,” Eric said, “to keep
tabs on their wounded.”

Deion joined in. “CIA has offices, same thing.
Could be supply planes?”

John listened intently. He knew the base ran a
constant string of supply planes to military bases across the world, including
Iraq and Afghanistan, but hitting the supply planes would only disrupt
logistics, not stop them.

“Call it in,” Eric ordered. “Put the base on
alert. THREATCON Delta. Lock it down.”

“Karen’s on it,” Clark said. “Nobody will be
allowed in or out.”

John glanced around the apartment. “No computers
anywhere. No notes.”

“This site’s blown,” Nancy agreed. “We can have
forensics sweep it later. Do we have satellite imagery?”

There was a pause. “The latest overfly is days
old. Karen is backtracking now.”

“No sense staying here,” Eric said.

They loaded into the Volkswagens and headed back
to Ramstein. They were within eyesight of the entrance, a long line of cars
backed up as people waited for the inspections and the THREATCON to lift, when
they heard the explosion off in the distance, a crack and a deep whoomp.

There was a moment of silence and then klaxons
blared to life. John turned to Roger who stared off in the distance, his
knuckles white on the steering wheel. Roger nudged him and pointed toward the
mushroom-cloud blossoming into the sky.

“Fuck me,” Deion said in a hushed tone.

John’s stomach churned and he tasted bile in the
back of his throat. They had failed.

“Clark, you getting this?” Eric asked.

“It’s the Regional Medical Center,” Clark said.
“We’re getting video online.” There was a pause before Clark sucked in his
breath. “Oh god.”

Ahead, Eric’s car gunned the engine and executed a
sharp U-turn, Roger following suit. They raced down the winding narrow streets
of Landstuhl, tires squealing as they cornered hard, screaming west until they
came in view of the hospital’s north entrance.

John surveyed the damage. The front of the
building was devastated, open to the world, smoke and fires everywhere. Bodies
were strewn throughout the rubble, a head here, exposed legs there. Soldiers
ran, screaming.

“What. The. Fuck.” Roger breathed.

John stared, uncomprehending. “Why would someone
do this?”

Humvees roared up behind them, blocking the narrow
road. Airmen jumped out and started yelling at them, surrounding their cars.

“Clark,” Eric said. “We’ve got a problem. People,
don’t make any sudden moves.”

“I’ve got the Installation Commander on the phone.
It’s going to take a few minutes before it filters down to the Chief of
Security Forces. Just do as the nice Airmen ask and sit tight until we get it
sorted,” Clark said
.

They got out, their hands raised, as the soldiers
approached. Eric spoke softly to their commanding officer, and, after much
communications back to their base, the Airmen released them.

They milled about. “Clark,” Eric said. “We need
something to go on.”

“They let you go?” Clark asked.

“Yeah. You pulled the right strings.”

“Good, because Karen has something. The last
overfly shows a car in the alley at the apartment. She’s matched that against
another photoset, the same car was at a barn not far from there, in the
countryside. I’m sending you the coordinates.”

Eric glanced down at his cell-phone, then lifted
it to show the rest of them. “Okay, people. We’ve got something to go on. Let’s
get the bastard who did this.”

* * *

Eric approached the barn slowly. It
sat nestled among the trees, its red paint long since faded from time and
weather, the white car parked alongside. He pulled the Volkswagen over and
watched in the rear-view mirror as Roger did the same behind him.

Martin tapped him on the shoulder, turning off his
radio and motioned for Eric to do the same. “I hate to point it out, but we
don’t have any gear,” he said quietly.

“We’ve got the MP5’s and our handguns,” Eric said.
“That’s enough.”

“No body armor. We’re out of flashbangs. I’m just
saying, maybe we should bring in the locals.”

“We bring in the locals and we lose control,” Eric
said. “Then they start asking questions.”

Martin sighed. “They just blew up a hospital.
This’ll hit the news, big. If you really want to keep the OTM on the down low,
we need to split.”

“We have to find Abdullah. If he makes it out of
this, he’s the next boogieman. We can’t let that happen. We can’t let him slip
away like Bin Laden in Tora Borah. We had him cornered, remember?”

“I was there,” Martin reminded him.

Eric nodded. The memory of their failure still
haunted him. “I’m not letting Abdullah get away. Not again.”

Taylor shrugged. “I’m with you.”

They turned their earpieces back on.

“We’re going in,” Eric said. “We’re going to take
him down.”

There was a chorus of agreements. Eric got out and
the rest followed, approaching the barn. They had it surrounded when a young
black man with a high-and-tight haircut opened the door, saw them, and dove for
the car.

Eric opened fire with his MP5, joining the others
who strafed the side of the vehicle. There was yelling inside the barn and then
an automatic weapon opened fire on their position. Eric recognized the sound,
an M16 on full-auto.

Eric dropped to his knee and turned sideways,
minimizing his profile, the tree-line too far behind to find cover. He fired on
the barn and the others shifted from the man behind the car to the half-open
barn door.

The black man opened the car door and crawled
inside, started the car, and floored it. Rooster-tails of rock and grass
sprayed from the front wheels as they slid sideways. The tires caught purchase
and the car rocketed forward, aiming for the weakest point in their perimeter,
right in front of John.

John froze.

“Get back!” Eric shouted.

John stood, dumbly, as the car rocketed toward
him.

Deion and Nancy turned their fire on the car,
bullets tearing up the side, but the car did not stop.

Deion took off in a run and tackled John. Time
slowed for Eric as he aimed carefully and fired. The bullet caught the driver
in side of the face. There was a spray of blood from the back of the driver’s
head and the car veered to one side, barely missing John and Deion. They
watched helplessly as the car accelerated down the road until it sideswiped a
tree and smashed into another, the engine sputtering to a stop.

The man in the barn screamed in anger and his M16
stopped firing. Eric turned to Martin while the man in the barn reloaded and
motioned for Martin to go around the back.

Roger and Nancy reloaded and Eric took off at a
run, dropping his own magazine and slamming in a new one. He cycled the bolt
and saw the Airman, young with dark olive skin and wearing camos, drawing down
on him from the doorway. Eric shot first, stitching bullets across the man’s
abdomen.

The man dropped his M16 and collapsed.

Eric hit the edge of the barn and plastered
himself against it, waiting for more gunfire, his senses amped, his ears
ringing. He approached the young man and kicked the M16 away.

“Clear,” Martin yelled from inside the barn.

The others rushed forward, all aiming at the
downed man.

Eric grabbed him by his camos and lifted his head
up. “Where’s, Abdullah?” he asked.

The man looked up, face ashen, his eyes glazing
over. “Allahu-”

Eric knelt. The man’s name, Guardado, was stitched
across his camos. Eric checked the man’s pulse. It was fast and erratic. “Where
is Abdullah?” he repeated.

Guardado’s eyes focused momentarily. “Fuck you.”

Eric grabbed Guardado’s camos and shook him in
frustration. “Why the hospital? Where is he?”

Guardado’s lips parted and foamy blood poured from
his mouth as his body convulsed.

Eric watched the man die. He had seen similar
injuries. There was no saving him. Guardado’s legs kicked slower, then stopped.
Eric shook his head. The man was gone. He turned to Nancy. “Check the guy in
the car.”

Nancy nodded and left with Roger in tow.

Martin joined him. “Nobody else here. Looks like
it was just these two.”