The Red Cell

by André Le Gallo

  “All my equipment is A-Okay, but the wind is something else. I hope we have better weather tomorrow morning. I brought three mini UAVs, two Skylark 2s, and one Skylark 3. The 2s have sensors, real-time imagery, and forward-looking infrared, which basically will tell us what’s in front of and below the plane, day or night. They also have laser designators, which can direct a missile on the target. The 3 is a beta model. It’s bigger than the 2 has real-time imagery as well, plus a small missile the size of an RPG. Each can stay up about six hours; but with the wind outside it might be closer to four.”

  “I contacted Spencer at JTTF yesterday afternoon to give him a heads up,” Steve said. “They’re still convinced the airport will be the primary target and that’s where law enforcement is going to focus. They were debating closing the airport last night. They’ve got the Federal Building as number two, and the other bridges, the Bay Bridge and the Richmond Bridge, as number three.”

  He took a swig from a plastic bottle of water. “You wouldn’t believe the number of SWAT teams in the San Francisco area. There must be well over a hundred. Seems every police department worthy of the name has to have at least a dozen. And they’re all armed for bear. And as soon as daylight breaks, the police helicopters will be swarming like locusts.”

  Steve turned toward Kella. “Were you in touch with the bridge authorities?”

  “Yes, I was,” she said. “Guess who the big boss is? Margo. She never told us when she let us go up in the tower. She said they were as ready as they could be, but they don’t have a lot of security people. They have two police cars that patrol the bridge and the two overlooks about once an hour. During the day, they also have a team of six guards on foot and on bicycles.”

  “What about at night?”

  “She’ll keep one car and two other guards on duty. Everyone else is on call. And she’s very confident. The San Francisco PD is very responsive, she said. If the security guard on duty sees anything suspicious on one of their six cameras, he will report it immediately.”

  “She sounds brainwashed by law enforcement thinking,” McCabe said. “Allow the attack to occur then pick up the pieces, gather evidence, and treat it like a 7-Eleven robbery. That’s the Benghazi model. It’s been a year and the FBI is still sifting through nonexistent evidence. Instead of finding, fixing, and finishing the terrorists, they’ll Mirandize them.”

  “What about the radio?” Al asked. “Remember that once we turn on the jammer, cell phones and radios on the usual frequencies will become nonoperational. Only landlines will function—except for those radios I brought.”

  “Yes, I gave Margo one of them, so her security guard can stay in touch with us and vice versa. She’s confident nothing will happen. She said she’s been with the bridge administration for fifteen years and nothing ever has.”

  “What did I tell you,” McCabe said.

  “When are we issuing the weapons?” Hunter asked impatiently.

  “In a minute,” Steve replied.

  At that moment, “Dixie” began to play on Hunter’s cell phone. He went out the sliding doors saying, “It’s Kristen.”

  “Hunter’s beautiful CIA girlfriend,” McCabe told Al, who looked puzzled.

  “Cut it short, Hunter,” Steve said.

  He returned a moment later and said, “We should have brought her with us. She could have really been useful. You know what she did yesterday at The Farm? She ran five miles with a sixty-pound pack and she only weighs a hundred and ten.”

  “Okay, let’s wrap it up,” Steve said, standing by the duffel bags. “We know Yosemani and his bodyguard are here. They were spotted in New York. We know they’re somewhere nearby. Kella and I saw the bodyguard on the bridge. If he’s here, the general can’t be far. We also know from a double agent that Iran is planning two attacks tomorrow morning, one in the Washington area, and we deduce the other will be here because of Yosemani’s presence.”

  “Yeah, but our intelligence on the enemy,” said, standing up and stretching, “isn’t exactly solid.”

  “It’s a hell of a lot better,” Al said, “than what I’ve seen on the lot of battlefield operations.”

  “It’s the best we’ve got,” Steve said. “Now we have to make assumptions. We believe the attack will be on the Golden Gate Bridge. That’s no more than a best guess. I believe Yosemani is here with only a small group, probably no more than half a dozen. The Mumbai attack was done with only a handful of shooters. The same can be said for most terrorist attacks on hostile territory.”

  “But why is the general acting like a squad leader?” Hunter asked, playing with a Bowie knife he had produced from nowhere. “Why isn’t he directing it from elsewhere, so he doesn’t risk capture?”

  “The Nightingale’s death made this personal,” Kella said.

  “The Nightingale?” Al asked.

  “Yeah, his wife,” Hunter said.

  “The next assumption,” Steve said, “is Yosemani’s going to run this thing tomorrow like a military operation, not as a suicide mission. He saw combat during the Iran-Iraq War, and he will bank on that experience even though he only has a few men under his command. In other words, his team will have an escape route.”

  “The other side of that coin,” McCabe said, “is the Iranian army didn’t hesitate to send thousands of its young men, many of them teenagers, through the Iraqi minefields in front of the regular troops during an attack on an Iraqi objective. I’d call that suicide.”

  “But you agree there will be an escape route, even if it’s only for the general himself, yes?” Steve asked.

  McCabe shrugged.

  “Okay, then, here’s the plan,” he said, unfolding a map on the floor of the Marin Headlands and the bridge. “You guys with combat experience, speak up if you have a better idea.”

  When they got seated or squatting around the map, Steve continued. “We will plan to get to our staging area, here,” he said, putting his finger on a spot labeled SF 58, “by 0500. That’s the parking lot of the Nike missile site.”

  “Why not at the overlook?” Kella asked. “That will give us the best view of the bridge.”

  “Two reasons,” Steve replied. “Number one, it will be dark, and our eyes will be Al’s Skylarks. Number two, I bet the camouflage Hummer I saw on the overlook from the tower was actually Yosemani doing his own reconnaissance. I also bet it’s going to be his personal command post tomorrow morning. Let him have it, and we’ll know where to find him.”

  “We’ll be pretty far from the bridge to get there quick enough to stop Yosemani’s guys,” McCabe said. “What if Hunter and I post ourselves on the lower overlook, on the west side of the Bridge? When Al’s birds spots the Quds Force guys, you tell us on the radio. We’ll be on them so fast they won’t know what hit them.”

  “Better yet, you two should be at the administrative building where the TV monitors are.” Steve said. “Remember, the Quds Force guys are military, too, and they won’t be easily surprised.”

  “We could use somebody else at the administrative building,” Steve said, looking at Kella. “You could coordinate the show with law enforcement, with the JTTF.”

  “Non, Monsieur Church!” Kella almost shouted at Steve. “I did not come here to coordinate,” she said in a mincing tone. “Capture and kill, or is it capture or kill? I don’t know these military terms,” she said, sarcasm in her voice. “I have been waiting and praying to get at him. Now that we’re so close, I’m not going to make nice with a bridge guard while you get a crack at that bastard!”

  “Well, I did say I was open to different ideas,” Steve said, as the men grinned at him.

  “Well, we’ve got the skeleton of a plan,” Hunter said. “Any more details, anymore talking, and I will get confused. Let’s open those duffle bags.”

  “The Heckler and Koch 417 with a sixteen-inch barrel. There’s a twelve-inch and a twenty-inch barrel, but the sixteen-inch is the Goldilocks model. I also took a Glock .45 for each of us,” McCabe said. “I’ve
got Kevlar vests and night goggles in the SUVs.”

  “By the way, speaking of escape routes,” Al said, “Steve and Kella are world experts. I fished them out of a speeding SEAL boat on the Persian Gulf, after they crossed Iraq with a posse hot on their heels.”

  “And we’ve never had a chance to thank you, Al,” Kella said.

  “We’ll celebrate tomorrow night,” Steve added.

  “So where do you think their escape route is Steve?” McCabe asked.

  “Well, they’re highly unlikely to want to head toward San Francisco through the toll booths, so they probably plan to head north toward Canada, or go to ground in the same safe house where they’ve been hiding. Or they can dive off the bridge and swim home.”

  47. Golden Gate Bridge and Marin Headlands

  Friday, 0210 hours

  The captain of the Soledad watched the lights of San Francisco disappearing in the heavy Bay fog, as his container ship glided seaward under the Golden Gate Bridge guided by two pilot boats. It was low tide, and the highest part of the ship stood less than half of the two hundred fifty-two feet between bridge deck and water.

  The captain looked at his watch. He was on time to make his rendezvous just past the twelve-mile territorial limit. The owner had instructed him to give up his cabin to the VIP who would be coming on board, an instruction that rendered the captain more intrigued than annoyed. The trip had been routine so far, and the presence of passengers headed by a high-ranking individual would break the monotony. He turned the pages of his ship’s journal to confirm his instructions; the name of the boat that was supposed to rendezvous with the Soledad was Sufficient Grounds, a puzzling American name for a boat.

  0445

  Felix Gardiner had started his bicycle commute from his girlfriend’s apartment in Sausalito to his stock brokerage office in downtown San Francisco full of pride and eager to tell his officemates of his feat. He and Roxanne, who was also his dance instructor, had decided to stay at her place last night. His condo at the Knolls was thirty-six miles from the city and too much of a challenge for a bicycle commute. But from Sausalito and across the Golden Gate, it was less than ten miles to the office, off Market Street near the Moscone Center.

  Gardiner had been preparing mentally and physically for this moment for two weeks. His carbon frame RS Peugeot racing bike was his pride and joy, and he enjoyed his rides, which gave him the solitary moments he needed to think.

  As he passed one of the Marinas on Bridgeway, he heard a boat engine coughing and then coming to life. A fishing boat getting ready for a day on the bay, he thought. Had he made a mistake in putting some of his clients into gold? The market was hesitating while President Tremaine threatened missile strikes against Syria. But now that Russia had taken over the diplomatic initiative, the market was rising and gold was falling. What about that fellow Steve Church he had met last night at the Knolls? The outsider was smoking near the pool. He would have to write a letter to the board. Owners had a responsibility to inform their guests of the rules. That Church fellow would probably have thrown his cigarette butt on the ground, or maybe in the pool—disgusting! He would have to instruct the board that guests should not be allowed to use the condo units without the presence of the owner. People were so irresponsible. Sometimes you had to treat them like the children they were.

  Gardiner’s legs felt solid, but he hoped he hadn’t underestimated the difficulty of the ride or overestimated his own capability. He pedaled past the Horizon restaurant, which on a clear day, favored its clients with a beautiful view of the water and of the seals basking in the sun. The most difficult part was ahead, the climb toward 101, then the tunnel under the highway after which he would be on the bicycle/pedestrian part of the bridge.

  He downshifted as he started to climb the long hill.

  0500

  Hayder Kazemi edged his boat away from the Sausalito docks carefully, the darkness and fog limiting his visibility to a few feet. Although he had planned to run without lights after he left the pier, he changed his mind when he realized the cargo ships in and out of the Port of Oakland could split his craft in two and never know it. On the other hand, there was a Coast Guard station near the bridge and, once he got out into open water, it might be a good idea to turn the lights off. He and Yosemani had not been able to agree on the specifics of the plan. He had suggested the general simply board the Soledad in Oakland and supervise the whole operation from the ship. But Yosemani had insisted on running the team from the Headlands overlook, which only complicated everyone’s lives, because he would have to be picked up on the shore.

  Kazemi touched his pocket, confirming he still had Jannat’s letter, her first in many months. He had been afraid to open it but, to his relief, it conveyed good news. “I will finally get my degree this year,” the letter said. “You have been away a long time. Too long. I want you home this summer. Why couldn’t you request to come back early? It’s time to start our life.”

  Little did she know he would see her before the month was over.

  If everything goes well, he thought—if this did not turn out to be a suicide mission.

  He focused on following the lights that would keep him in the channel. He then turned south, with Alcatraz on his left. The Quds Force commandos should be on their way to the bridge. And the Soledad was probably out at sea, waiting.

  0505

  “We’re at the admin building,” McCabe said over the transceiver that was part of the jammer device Al had signed out from the Camp Pendleton Counter-IED shop under General Holm’s authority. “We’re going to take a ride with the guard on duty in the patrol cruiser across the bridge and back. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Steve replied.

  0515

  Al, with help from Steve and Kella, had assembled and set up one Skylark-2 and the Skylark-3, as well as its bungee-cord-powered launcher within fifteen minutes of arriving at the Nike site. Al thought about the three white Nike Hercules antiaircraft missiles he had seen the day before, standing only a couple of hundred feet away in the night, as though still ready to attack any invaders. The rolling fog allowed him a glimpse of the once-lethal birds outlined on their launchers against the dark sky.

  Al’s prior military experience had been unlike anything he was doing. The Night Stalkers was an elite unit and part of JSOC, the Joint Special Operations Command, headquartered in Tampa, Florida. The raid against Osama bin Laden’s compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan, was typical of the missions Al had flown. He operated in a high-risk profession, and he had always felt secure as part of a highly skilled group with a well-defined, command-and-control structure, and supported by the finest military organization in the world. Yet here he was, in the middle of a parking lot, working with two civilians who, although their reputation for special ops had been gained honestly, they were not military. Being under the direct command of a civilian was not in the natural order of things. Who knows what goes on in the mind of a civilian? Still, they had been anointed by the White House, and he was well aware this mission had been given top priority.

  With Al’s coaching, Steve hand-launched the Skylark 2 into the wind and away from the two SUVs and Kella’s motorcycle. Al flew the bird up a few hundred feet from his control panel, while Steve and Kella joined him in the back of the SUV. “I can’t see much,” Steve said, looking with Kella over Al’s shoulder at the monitor screen.

  “That’s because I’m over the water,” Al said. “I’m now heading west toward the bridge, which we should see in a few seconds. The wind is manageable, about ten miles an hour, north-northwest, much better than yesterday afternoon.”

  “Look,” Kella said. “That must be the police patrol car.” She pointed to the screen.

  A moment later, McCabe called on the radio. “Okay, we’re back. All quiet on the Western Front.”

  0530

  Yosemani immediately had second thoughts about having chosen the camouflaged Hummer, as he parked at the Headlands overlook. Perhaps he should have taken one o
f the two motorcycles, which would have not stood out as much as this military-style vehicle. But he reassured himself it would not make any difference because it was nighttime. In a few minutes, one of America’s iconic monuments would be destroyed, the Great Satan humiliated, and Aisha revenged. Cutting one of the two suspension cables would not drop the bridge in the water, but it would be closed for months, maybe years. He regretted not being able to cut both cables but was satisfied he was making the most of his limited resources.

  He put his binoculars to his eyes and adjusted the night vision before putting them back on his lap, wondering if his finger had been on the wrong setting. He clicked the infrared switch on and tried again. He stepped out of the car and the heat the bridge had accumulated during the previous day provided an outline of the structure in his glasses through the fog. The green outline of commuter cars, most of them heading south toward the city, caught his attention, but he focused on a smaller vehicle that stopped across the span.

  Yosemani looked at his watch. The technicians in Vancouver must have cut off the security cameras on the two towers by now, he thought, as well as the camera in back of the administrative building. He also recalled Field Marshal Sir Bernard Law Montgomery, one of his military models, the victor of the Battle of El Alamein, had gone to sleep as the battle started, confident his plan was as perfect as could be—British arrogance and luck. Yosemani was not one to sleep during a battle.

  0530

  “What is that?” Steve asked, sitting in the back of the SUV with Kella and leaning over Al’s shoulder, “That green blob on the water that seems to be moving.”