The Perfect Weapon

by Christopher Metcalf

  Fuchs eased his head back and got to his feet. He made sure the safety was off on both Glocks and casually stepped around the doorframe into the open area. He approach was silent. None of the men spotted him until he was just 15 feet from the man he came to see. The terrorist spun around and gasped. Fuchs put a silenced bullet in the man’s knee. The guy screamed, howled really. Fuchs turned to face the other two, 20 feet away next to a pallet of fertilizer bags. They held one between them. Their hands were full, their legs exposed. Fuchs put four bullets in them, one for each of their knees. They dropped the 100-pound bag and collapsed, writhing in pain.

  He turned back to his target, who was now looking to his right, at the doorway Fuchs had come through. Damn. Through the doorway, came another man. This one was armed with a handgun of his own and started firing immediately. Fuchs dove to his right behind one of the cars. The guy with the gun fired off the remainder of the bullets in his first clip and then dropped the empty clip to insert another. He was good, well-trained. Fuchs had no time to be impressed or pissed off for not checking down the hall for a bathroom before stepping into the warehouse.

  He rolled further to the right rear of the Chrysler. He lowered himself to look for the man’s feet. They did not come into view. He had stepped around the front of the van. The wanted terrorist with a bullet in his knee took this opportunity to hobble around the van as well. The two men were about 25 feet away on the other side of the van, standing behind tires so he couldn’t see their feet. For a fraction of a moment, he peered into the open back of the van. Fuchs was no explosives expert, but what he saw sent a shiver down his spine. The back of the oversized van was jammed with fertilizer bags. Two large barrels stood in the middle with other materials packed around them. This thing would take out half a block at least. It also meant he needed to be careful with his shots.

  Thinking of the shots sent another shiver down his spine. The gunshots were likely heard by FBI agents outside, around the perimeter. If they came in for support, they could go up with the van if it were to be detonated. He needed to move, to act. Behind him, the two fertilizer carriers struggled and screamed. One was crawling toward him. He brought one of his guns around and put a quiet bullet in his forehead. The other one saw this and decided to stay where he was. Fuchs then rolled to a crouched position behind the Chrysler and raised up where he could see both the van’s front and rear. The shooter popped his head up momentarily and looked through the vehicle’s window to spot Fuchs. He immediately ducked back down. He could hear them whisper to each other in Arabic. One told the other to open the door. “I’ll do it.” Fuchs had a pretty good idea what was going on. He stood to three-quarters height and moved forward until he could see into the driver side window of the van. The shooter was waiting and fired three shots at him. He ducked and was about to return fire when another shot rang out. He had both guns pointed at the window of the van when he stepped back into the shooter’s view.

  Instead of pointing the gun at Fuchs, the shooter held his gun to his own temple. A quick glance showed Fuchs his target was sitting in the passenger seat. Fuchs took three steps closer and saw what he expected. His assigned subject for today’s somewhat important mission had two bloody holes in his head where a bullet had entered and exited. He then saw something that made him shake his head. The terrorist had lit a fuse that looked like it was going to end up in the rear of the van. Damn.

  He looked back to the shooter and said, “Go ahead.” The man smiled but didn’t pull his trigger so Fuchs did. He needed to move, quickly. Before the shooter hit the floor, Fuchs was walking briskly back to the wounded but still living fertilizer carrier. He grabbed the man’s left wrist and dragged him toward the bay door. He pushed the button and the ancient door started to rise. When it was three feet up, Fuchs dragged the man behind him out into the dark of night.

  He yelled out, “If anyone is close, get back or get down. This place is going to blow in seconds.” He heard movement and footsteps out in the street.

  Fuchs and his new friend were across the lot and to the chain link fence when the sound behind him changed. He recognized the distinct signature of chemical accelerant as the fuse reached the bomb, which meant it would blow within a second or two. They were about 70 feet from the building with warehouses on each side of them. Not far enough. The blast would hit him hard. Fuchs lifted the bloody man and held him up between himself and the soon to be rubble of a building. He pressed his back against the fence gate and ducked his head.

  The explosion was thunderous, massive. The shockwave was painful, followed by heat, fire, then debris. The poor guy being used as a human shield didn’t make it. Fuchs and the deceased terrorist were blown away with the fence. They traveled 15 feet backward from the fireball out into the middle of the street. Fuchs was relatively unhurt. But his ears were ringing something fierce.

  His little mission was a failure on the intel front. But he had stopped a terrorist from driving his bomb into a building or mall or football stadium or school. That was a marginal success, but Fuchs knew well that Seibel would be pissed off by the missed opportunity to mine these resources for information.

  The third man to walk out of the door carried a box. He was the one both the strangers had come to see. No, more than see, they were here to capture or kill him.

  Tarwanah rose slowly, as if to stretch his legs. Jamaani did the same and excused the two of them from the others. Tarwanah, the older of the two Jordanian CIA operatives, walked to the northeast, to the left of the three men preparing to get into a Jeep Cherokee. Jamaani, walked just to the right of the vehicle. When they were each approximately 25 fee from the vehicle, they both spun and sprinted toward open doors with guns drawn. The driver saw Tarwanah at about 12 feet away. He began to scream, but three bullets ripped through his neck. On the passenger side, Jamaani reached the open door and put the silencer to the man’s head. He spoke very calmly. “Don’t move. Be still.”

  Tarwanah had turned his aim upon their target now seated in the back seat with the door closed. The man, a native of Yemen, merely looked at Tarwanah. About nine feet separated the two of them.

  It was the set of his eyes. Tarwanah had seen the look before. He’d seen suicide bombers several times in person and in videos. They were always the same. This man had that undeniable look. There was no time. “Dive Ja!” He shouted and dove behind a Ford Taurus parked next to the Jeep. He continued to roll away to gain precious feet before the explosion.

  Jamaani was looking through the vehicle at Tarwanah when the look of recognition came across the older Jordanian’s face. Jamaani knew that look well and started forward to try to reach a low wall about 15 feet in front of the Jeep.

  He was in the air, diving over the wall when the vehicle exploded. In the second and a half of elapsed time the two experienced field operatives had before the tremendous blast, they had placed a precariously small bit of distance between them and the Jeep. Each was thrown, blown outward from the explosion emanating from the back seat of the Cherokee. The Taurus absorbed enough of the blast to divert some of the energy and concussive shockwave away from Tarwanah. Jamaani’s legs took the brunt of the blast as his head and chest were already over the wall. His body did something of a violent cartwheel and his feet slammed down onto the dirt and sparse mulch in the garden area.

  Both would live. They were bloodied and bruised, but knew they’d make it as the smoke and flames rose into the air. Around them, vehicles burned, windows were all blown out. Debris was blown into the brick and windows and doors of the surrounding apartment units. The men gathered for smoking and arguing were all dazed, some were struck by debris.

  The Jeep was no more. The burnt and bent frame sat 22 feet from where it had been. The bodies inside were gone. FBI agents approached with caution from all sides. They stayed back a couple hundred yards just in case there were more explosives waiting for them. It was just after dark on February 25, 1993.

  Chapter 43

  Friday, February 26, 19
93 — New York, USA

  Information was scarce until after midnight. Seibel paced the office in the CIA’s mid-town New York City location waiting for updates. His phone rang at 12:02. It was Fuchs with the latest news from Camden. Half an hour later, Tarwanah called with details of his and Jamaani’s evening in Arlington. And at 1:15 a.m. Marta called his mammoth cell phone.

  “Where is he?” Seibel demanded.

  Marta remained silent until Seibel changed his tone.

  “I’m sorry. Is he with you?” Seibel said it slowly, smiling.

  “Yes. He is sleeping. I made him take a shot of cold medicine an hour ago. He hasn’t slept in three days.”

  “What do you have?” Seibel tried to keep the smile in his voice.

  “He identified several targets in the city. He wants to go back for another look first thing tomorrow.” Marta was looking out the window of their way-too-expensive-for-the-size hotel room just off Park Avenue. Preacher was asleep in bed. She couldn’t see him, but she knew Lance was hovering, watching her. She smiled up at him. She couldn’t see it, but he smiled back. He was pleasant when Preacher slept. The cold medicine gave him a little buzz, so he was extra nice tonight.

  “I am going to need more than that very soon.” The smile was fading from Seibel’s voice.

  “What happened?” Marta could tell from the tone, the rushed delivery, that something had changed.

  “They, we, got the other two. Just like he guessed. They were preparing to deliver the bombs. We believe they were planning to do it tomorrow.” Seibel was matter of fact, cold.

  “Did we take anyone alive?”

  “No. Both bombs went off. Fuchs, Tarwanah and Jamaani were all injured, but not seriously. They’ll make it.”

  Marta didn’t really care about them. People die all the time. She knew Fuchs all too well, and had heard from Lance and Preacher that the Jordanians were good men, but she was only concerned about him. Everyone else could die. They were all going to someday anyway. She needed Lance in her life and didn’t at all like the idea of him being caught up in a bomb blast. “What kind of devices were they?”

  “A small scale suicide device packed with scary stuff. And a large nitrogen package in a van. It would have done serious damage to whatever building it was near. The suicide device was likely meant for a strategic target, most likely an office in D.C. It appeared the target was wearing a delivery uniform.”

  “So, not much similarity. Our assumption has to be the third device will fall outside the parameters of the other two. It will most likely be a different design and delivery method.” Marta jumped ahead to look at the coming day. Lance was thinking as well. He would have to wake Preacher in a few minutes. A couple of hours of sleep were all he was going to get.

  “That is my assumption as well. Details are still coming in.”

  “Where are you?” Marta changed subjects abruptly.

  “New York. CIA offices.” He didn’t have the energy to lie.

  “We'll call you again in a few hours.” She hung up and turned to look at Preacher. She needed to act. Needed to protect him. She didn’t know what was going through her lover's head, but Braden had given her his inside view. If the psychologist was right, Lance, or Preacher, or whoever he was to her, was going to put himself right next to Anwar when the bomb went off. Braden was positive Lance wanted to die. His strange love for Marta wasn’t even enough to sway him from his death wish.

  Marta didn’t know if Braden was right or not. She simply could not take the chance. Truth be told, she had not given Preacher just cold medicine. Into the little plastic cup, she added several drops of a sedative she had seen keep a subject down for 18 hours. She climbed into bed and lay next to Preacher, tucking her head into the back of his neck. She stayed there for a couple of minutes. He didn’t react like usual and press himself against her. He was out cold.

  This thing, this life together, living on the road, sleeping in lousy motel rooms, but sleeping together, waking up next to each other every morning, was the best her life had ever been. She'd found a home. She smiled, her lips touching his neck. His screwed up mind, with its endless creativity and infinite ability to surprise, was her home now. All the rest — his smile, his touch, his love — that was the icing. Marta never expected happiness or any place to call home. She could not lose this.

  In the few days of downtime they could carve out, they had discovered a cabin next to a babbling brook in a beautiful valley. She purchased it with cash. The four times they'd been there were marvelous. She cooked, he ate. They took walks along the stream, holding hands, of course. Moments like these spoke of a possible future, an impossible life. Maybe.

  Marta was not just along for the ride. She was in this game, invested in the outcome. And unlike others who support from the sidelines, she had the skills, the capabilities to play and win. She knew what she had to do. It involved creative problem solving, manipulation of the human psyche and killing, probably lots of killing.

  Marta kissed Preacher on the cheek, got up, gathered several things into her bag and looked back at the clock on the bedside table. She was about to close the door, when she stepped back in and looked up into the corner of the room. “Please don’t wake him. I know he’ll understand later.”

  Lance looked at her and smiled. He thought Marta was heading out to pick up supplies. After she closed the door, he thought to himself how nice it would be to be able to lie down for a little while and sleep like Preacher.

  Since being shot on Tapul, Preacher had read up on his condition, his friendly ghost. He read everything on the subconscious he could find.

  But in researching the subconscious in full, Preacher learned what some experts knew – humans are just not aware of the world around them. Unfortunately, most humans only know what their conscious mind tells them. And it is pretty much a linear process, one thought after the other.

  But some lucky people, those like Lance, were in touch with their other side, their subconscious. It is really what's in control when humans drive a car, walk, eat, sleep, live. Behind the curtains, the subconscious controls everything. And Lance knew it. He saw everything, literally everything. Nearly being killed pulled back the curtains even more.

  While Preacher was looking at an object and figuring out his next move, Lance was analyzing a thousand data elements up in Preacher's head. And unlike most humans, who are only vaguely familiar with their subconscious, Preacher was in constant contact with his.

  Lance was always turned on. Always. He felt a little cheated, always having to float around and stay awake 24/7. Such is the life of a ghost, or angel, or whatever the hell he is.

  Chapter 44

  The taxi driver chose to take the Lincoln Tunnel. He could just as well have chosen the Holland Tunnel further south. Not much difference really. Jersey City, New Jersey was just across the Hudson River and a world away from Manhattan. At 2 a.m., Marta was heading back to Jersey City for the second time in eight hours. She had seen something the previous afternoon when she, Preacher and a team of FBI anti-terrorism taskforce members from the New York office, visited two locations where Ramzi Yousef had been known to reside.

  They did not find him or any direct associates at either location. They took three men in for questioning, but neither Preacher nor Marta thought they’d get much. Yousef had done a tidy job of keeping to himself and a close-knit group of friends that lived and worked regular jobs in the community. Nothing out of the ordinary, except his absence. His phone had changed several times. He was known to carry a cell phone as well, which made it more difficult to track his communications.

  There was no time for any of that anyway. This thing was going down tomorrow. Marta could feel it. When the team was packing up to leave the second row house they had invaded yesterday afternoon, Marta stood in the middle of the street in front of the home. Preacher was around back. She looked to her left and then to her right. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a curtain fall back to vertical. It could have been any n
eighbor looking out at the mini-chaos on their street. But something about the action didn’t look or feel right.

  As they got into the back of an FBI Ford, Marta glanced over at the window. The drapes were open just a fraction. Someone was watching.

  At 2:14 a.m., the taxi rounded the corner a few hundred yards away from the row house across from Yousef’s former residence. Marta handed the driver two $50s. She got out and disappeared into the dark.

  Three minutes later, she was at the back door of the house. Time was short. There wasn’t the luxury of entering the house clean and quiet. She put the silenced Berretta that Preacher had procured for her from a black market resource to the lock below to the door handle and fired twice. The shot was fairly quiet. The exploding wood and metal was not. She held up a flashlight and moved into the two-story structure like a compact hurricane. She glided upstairs and down a hallway where she found three bedrooms with two men in one, and one each in the other two. The noise had awakened one of them. The others were still asleep. The one that stirred, sat up in bed. She shined the light in his eyes and said calmly in Arabic, “If your feet touch the floor, you die.”

  She stepped back into the hall and decided to bring the two singles into the room with the other two. Marta stepped into the first room and turned the light on. The man in bed opened his eyes and she whacked him with the butt of the flashlight. “Keep your eyes shut. Get up.” The man stumbled out of the bed. She pushed him with a silencer in his back down the hall to the first room where the light was still off. “Keep your eyes closed. Move, and we kill you.”