Threat Level

by William Christie

  He gestured to Beth, then got on the radio. “Move to the south side, he may be coming out a window.”

  “Roger,” Troy replied while he was already moving.

  Storey prepared a flash-bang, motioning toward the door.

  But Beth shook her head, making a wide gesture with both arms.

  Storey realized he’d forgotten his school days. All the classrooms along that side of the hall probably had interconnecting interior doorways.

  He also got his first good look at Beth in the light. The hair on one side of her head was matted down with blood; there was a cut across the bridge of her nose and red scratches across her cheek. Her normally rosy face was pure white. The body draws all available blood inward to the torso under the stress of combat.

  Beth grabbed the flash-bang from his hand and pointed down at the floor—stay here. Then she was running down the hallway, disappearing into a classroom at the end.

  Storey got it—she was going to flush al-Sharif out so he only had two choices: go out a window to Troy or come out into the hallway to him. Except he would have preferred to do the flushing. Or maybe wait until some help arrived so they could at least do it in pairs. Alone anything could happen. He fretted about it but he was stuck. He had to sit tight.

  The classroom windows didn’t open—the school had central air. Al-Sharif picked up a desk, and just as he was about to heave it through the window he heard sirens and saw flashing blue and red lights. He couldn’t go back out into the hallway. He was trapped.

  Then, amazed that he hadn’t noticed it before, he saw that there were doors to the classrooms on either side. And they were open. Probably by the janitor emptying wastebaskets. He could go all the way down to the end, and maybe find a way out.

  Beth hadn’t missed Storey’s technique for checking around corners. He made a quick peek down low. You always expected a head to appear at head height.

  She hooked the spoon of the flash-bang over her belt, keeping a good two-handed grip on her Glock.

  The doors were all in a line. If she’d been standing up she could have seen all the way to the end. But down low there were desks in the way.

  Storey heard the sirens and called Troy on the radio. “You in position?”

  “Roger,” Troy replied.

  “Then I’m going off the net to talk to the FBI.”

  “Roger,” Troy repeated.

  Storey changed frequencies, calling the FBI command center to tell them the situation, that they were in the school, and to tell the local cops not to shoot them by mistake. Of course all the suits had a million questions and wanted to hear everything in detail. He switched them off and went back to the frequency Troy was on.

  The reflection of the outside lights on the windows made it impossible for Troy to see inside the darkened classrooms. He’d just have to wait until someone bailed out a window.

  Al-Sharif paused at each doorway for a quick look before he went through. He usually had to dodge around a row of desks in order to reach the next one. More sirens outside. More lights. He picked up his pace.

  Beth moved very slowly, afraid the soles of her shoes would squeak on the linoleum. She walked with her head turned slightly so she could hear better. Not that the sirens outside were making that any easier.

  Entering another classroom, al-Sharif thought he heard something along one wall. He stopped and listened. A metal squeak. He swung about and almost fired. There was an animal in a cage on a counter. A gerbil or something, running on its wheel. That was the squeaking—the wheel. His heart pounding, al-Sharif turned back toward the doorway. As he did, he nudged a desk and the metal leg scraped on the linoleum.

  Beth heard it and froze. It sounded like the next classroom. She dropped down on one knee and took aim at the doorway.

  Al-Sharif cursed the noise, but it really wasn’t much louder than the animal wheel. He was wasting time.

  Beth saw the shadow first. Her front sight was dancing—she pulled harder with her weak side hand to steady it. Then a figure appeared in the doorway. She waited until he took a step inside the room. “Freeze!”

  The gun came up and she fired.

  Al-Sharif felt that same punch in the chest. He charged forward, firing one-handed, screaming, “Allahu Akbar!”

  Beth kept firing but he kept coming. Then a thought stabbed into her mind—vest—and she raised her aim point above center mass. He dropped right in front of her. Beth had fired her Glock dry, seventeen rounds in about five seconds. She dropped the empty pistol and snatched her backup piece, a snub-nosed Smith and Wesson Model 340 .357 magnum revolver, from her ankle holster. Realizing what was going to happen next, she shouted, “Clear!”

  Storey crashed through the door, advancing on al-Sharif in that rock-steady left-foot-forward glide all the operators used.

  Beth winced as he poked his rifle barrel into al-Sharif’s open eye.

  “He’s dead,” said Storey. “Don’t move, he may be wired.”

  Storey switched on the classroom lights, momentarily blinding Beth. Very carefully, he searched al-Sharif for explosives.

  Beth leaned forward to take a closer look. Al-Sharif was wearing a vest. There was a cluster of bullet holes in it, along with one in the throat and several in the face—she didn’t feel like counting. “Did you hear what he was yelling?”

  “No.”

  “Allah something.”

  “Allahu Akbar?”

  “That sounds like it.”

  “God is great,” said Storey. “If you’re a holy warrior, those are supposed to be your last words.”

  “They were,” said Beth.

  Storey felt something bulky in the inside pocket of al-Sharif’s jacket. “Hold on.” It felt like paper, not explosives. Not wanting to move the zipper, Storey flicked out his knife and gingerly sliced the pocket open. It was papers. When he was satisfied that was all there was, he drew them out.

  “What is it?” Beth asked.

  “Don’t know,” said Storey, unfolding them on the floor. A Washington, D.C., and neighboring communities map, with routes marked in colored highlighter and a mark in Arlington. Storey flipped through the papers a little faster. “Rumsfeld? . . . Beth, you said the guy back at that house drove a tanker truck?”

  “That’s right.”

  The connection was instant. “They’re going to blow it up in Arlington and try to take out Rumsfeld’s limo.” He went back to the map. The mark was within range of the Pentagon City shopping center, apartment buildings, schools, and a hospital. Storey thrust the radio into her hands. “Call it in, Beth. If they see any marked police cars or lights or sirens they’ll blow the tanker right then and there.”

  Beth took the radio, and before she could switch frequencies Storey was gone.

  Troy had seen the muzzle flashes but hadn’t made any radio calls while everyone was busy.

  Storey found him with hands outstretched, trying to talk down a bunch of jumpy Manassas cops with guns drawn.

  “I told you, I’m with the FBI task force,” Troy was saying. “Here’s my military credentials and ATF card.”

  Running up on the scene, Storey was thankful that Beth had given them white-on-black FBI tags to velcro onto their vests. “We are with the FBI. We’ve got an agent inside who needs help. The gunman is down.”

  The Manassas 911 had received about thirty hysterical cell phone calls from parents about a black man with a rifle shooting at the school. They were somewhat mollified by the sight of a white man wearing the exact same equipment as the black man with the rifle.

  “We’ve got a terrorist incident about to go down,” said Storey, flashing his ID. “Talk with Special Agent Beth Royale inside. We’re leaving.”

  “Wait a minute,” said a sergeant.

  Troy watched him hit the cops with his stone-killer Green Beret Master Sergeant look.

  “Son,” said Storey, “you don’t get out of my way, a lot of people are going to die tonight. Y’all will be the first.” He grabbed Troy by
the arm. “We need to get to the Cherokee.”

  They ran off, leaving the cops standing there.

  “I hope they were real,” the sergeant said.

  “They had to be,” another replied. “You see the shit they were carrying?”

  27

  Abdallah Karim Nimri had been deceived by the open limousine doors. Time passed and still it did not move from the entrance. He regretted telling al-Sharif and Omar to leave the house. It had been a mistake. What if one of the Oans managed to untie himself? Everything would be ruined.

  He flicked open the phone to call al-Sharif and send him back. No. It was too late. They were miles away, and it would probably all be over before they could get back to the house.

  After all, the whole point was for them to be miles away when it happened. It was all in God’s hands.

  As the twilight faded Nimri replaced the camera telephoto lens with a starlight night scope.

  The limousine and SUVs were still there. It was taking too long. The policeman who had talked to Dawood would come back, or another would stop to investigate the truck on the highway. Or someone would notice how long the photographer had been on this hillside, now too dark to take pictures.

  Nimri felt as if he couldn’t sit still, and yet he couldn’t move. He forced himself to sit on the grass and look through the camera.

  There was activity at the entrance. But this had happened before.

  More of them now, coming out the doors. Then even more, gathering around. Men saluting. And two getting into the back of the limousine. All the vehicle headlights came on.

  Nimri dialed the phone. “Dawood, they are preparing to move. Yes, finally. Be alert.”

  The convoy was moving now, and disappeared from Nimri’s sight. He quickly swiveled the camera to the place where he would first see them on the highway. Not more than a minute. If they did not take an entirely different route tonight. Please, God, not that.

  The seconds ticked away. It was agonizing. Nimri had never felt more frustrated.

  More than a minute had passed. They had gone some other way. Because of the dinner they had gone another way. Nimri was resigned. His muscles uncoiled. He was defeated. He looked at the glowing screen of his phone. Time to finish it.

  He went to move the camera onto the truck. By God, there was the convoy! Delayed somehow. He asked God’s forgiveness for his lack of faith.

  Nimri spoke into the phone. “Dawood, they are coming toward you. Be ready, my brother.”

  28

  “The white man shows up and everything’s all right,” Lee Troy sputtered. “But can a brother get any love? No. No way. You weren’t there—my ass’d be lynched right now.”

  Storey was topping out the Cherokee at around a hundred miles an hour, hoping the engine wouldn’t blow. The vehicle was equipped with lights and a siren that only showed when they were turned on. “Ordinarily, you know I’d love to hear this. . . .”

  It had taken them almost as much effort to get the Cherokee moving as it had to get away from the cops at the school. By the time they got to the vehicle it was already taped up as part of a crime scene, and the Manassas cops were none too accommodating. Troy had watched Storey turn into the barking drill sergeant, threatening them all with a command appearance in front of the next 9/11 commission.

  “You really think we’re going to get there ahead of the FBI?” said Troy.

  “They have to get told. Then they have to get unfucked. Then they have to move. We’re already moving.”

  “I still doubt it.”

  “While you’re doubting, we need to keep the secretary inside the Pentagon. Since I just thought of it, I reckon it’s going to slip the FBI’s mind.”

  “No problem,” said Troy. “I’ve got Don’s cell on my speed-dial.”

  “If that doesn’t work, call the Pentagon ops center and have them pass the word on to him.”

  Feeling both stupid and punked, Troy got to work on his cell phone.

  At least it kept his eyes off the road. Storey had started off in the car pool lane and was now weaving through all of them when the traffic didn’t pull over fast enough.

  Troy gave the duty officer his authentication code, and told him what was going down. Then was put on hold while the duty checked on the secretary’s whereabouts.

  They were getting close. “Switch off the lights and siren,” Storey ordered, unwilling to take a hand off the wheel even for a second. He had to hit three exits to get off 395 and into the proper lane going in the right direction. A line of cars was stopped at the last exit.

  Storey hit the brakes to slow down, the speed and weight of the Cherokee making it fishtail. Almost hitting the crash barrier, he swerved and hit the gap between two cars, knocking them both out of the way.

  “Shit,” said Troy.

  Horns were blaring. Storey bulled through the opening he’d made. A grinding of metal car bodies; Storey hoping they wouldn’t blow a tire.

  “Get off the phone,” he said. “Turn on the Warlock.”

  Troy switched on the black box plugged into the cigarette lighter. Really, really hoping it would work.

  They made the exit, in the breakdown lane, at about fifty miles an hour. Troy was hoping there wasn’t an actual breakdown anywhere up ahead.

  Abdallah Karim Nimri was watching the convoy’s progress in the shimmering green field of his night scope. He shifted the camera once again to take in both the truck and the length of highway approaching it. Nimri briefly took his eyes off the scope to make sure the first number in his phone book was entered. Placing his finger lightly over the Send button, he turned back to the scope.

  Troy was making sure his magazine did indeed contain armor-piercing ammo, and locked it back into the M-14.

  Storey was out of the breakdown lane and back up to speed. As he rounded a slight curve they both saw the four-way emergency flashers of the truck.

  “Watch your angle,” said Storey.

  Troy was now making sure he had a round in the chamber. “Get me even with the cab.”

  Dawood gently touched the smooth plastic head of the mushroom switch. He shifted in his seat so he wouldn’t have to stretch to reach it.

  Storey gauged his stopping distance. Only one shot to do it right. At the center of the trailer he hit the brakes.

  Dawood heard the tires and, startled, twisted his head to see the lights in the rear view mirror. He froze in a second of indecision and then raised his hand to slap the switch.

  Troy was half out the window before the Cherokee even stopped. He fired through the driver’s door, letting the recoil push his point of aim upward.

  Dawood was watching his hand come down as the terrible burning blows knocked him over into the passenger seat.

  In disbelief, Nimri pushed the Send button on his phone.

  Storey’s door was open and he was out, traffic swerving away from both the stopped Cherokee and the gunfire. He sprinted across the front of the vehicle with his .45 in his hand.

  Lying flat across the passenger seat, Dawood could see the glowing screens of the two cell phones. Things were flying over his head. He tried to lift himself off the seat but couldn’t. He couldn’t feel his arm but imagined he saw it moving, so he swung it toward the switch.

  Storey leaped up on the running board as Troy ceased fire. He pulled himself into the open window and emptied all eight rounds into Dawood, reloading in a blur.

  Nimri kept pushing the Send button, waiting for the truck to blow up. He finally looked down at his phone. The screen said: call failed. He scrolled down to the second number and drove his thumb into the Send button again. Dialing. A ring tone. He looked over at the truck, waiting for the flash that would light up the night. The phone in his hand clicked, and a robotic voice announced that he’d reached the voice mail. Nimri threw the phone down and tried the other one.

  The Warlock Green jammer continuously flashed through the entire radio frequency spectrum, transmitting enough power to drown out every incoming
or outgoing signal within its range. Which, due to the power available from a car electrical system, was very short.

  Storey leaned in the open window and clicked on the flashlight from his vest. Two cell phones taped to the cab meant there was someone within visual observation distance with another phone. Which meant he couldn’t wait around for a bomb disposal technician. Who knew how long the Warlock was going to continue to work?

  Storey climbed in through the open window, concerned about a booby-trapped door. He followed the phone wires to the larger bunch that led out to the trailer. Two from each phone, two from the switch on the dash. No others, which made him feel better about antihandling devices.

  Storey knew more than a little about things that went bang, and it looked like Bomb-making 101 to him. Even so, he gave the problem the kind of intense consideration that’s always justified when your life depends on your next move. He would have left little surprises all over the truck, just in case this exact thing happened.

  Storey unfolded his multitool to expose the wire cutters. And clipped the pair leading from one cell phone, twisting them together to shunt the circuit. Still alive, he clipped the other pair.

  “What’s up?” Troy called through the window.

  “Check the trailer for another cell phone initiator,” said Storey. “Follow the wiring. Whatever you do, leave the Cherokee running. I’m thinking the Warlock is all that’s keeping us away from the pearly gates right now.”

  “I’m all over it,” said Troy.

  Once more in a place where he could not scream, Abdallah Karim Nimri, tears running down his face, beat his fists in frustration on the grass of a Virginia hillside covered with the gravestones of American war dead.

  29

  The Cherokee hatch was up. Storey and Troy were sitting with their legs dangling over the bumper. One of the FBI agents had gotten them coffee.

  The highway was blocked off at the nearest two exits, and explosive ordnance disposal technicians were crawling over the trailer. A tow truck was awaiting their clearance to drive it away.