Cobra Clearance

by Richard Craig Anderson

  His personal problems vaporized as he stepped outside and made contingency plans, while walking an ace-up-the-sleeve pattern under lowering clouds.

  Chris Lane adjusted the plane’s power settings while circling directly overhead at 9,000 feet. He had filed IFR on takeoff but was quickly immersed in total instrument meteorological conditions. With the FLIR sidelined, he would rely upon an obscenely priced instrument that he’d installed on his aircraft. After receiving permission from Center to execute a 360, he flipped on the Synthetic Aperture Radar and flew a slow racetrack pattern over the compound, while the single SAR antenna made echo captures at multiple antenna positions. The more captures, the higher the target characterization. The principle advantage was that a moving target—in this case, Levi walking a pattern within a known parameter—could be acquired, and because the antenna used monostatic waveforms to take several captures per second as the plane flew along its path, the SAR antenna was painting a picture of Levi’s pattern.

  Hacksaw’s brow wrinkled as he analyzed the developing SAR image. He said without turning, “Trouble.”

  Dentz looked over his shoulder. “What is it?”

  “Levi’s going incommunicado.” His fingers worried his jaw. “Could mean the attack’s been moved up. But we don’t know the what, when or how.”

  “Or the ‘why,’” Dentz said.

  Zafir took a call and afterward tossed his disposable cell into the nearest trash can. Deeply troubled, he walked aimlessly along Collins Avenue. He always knew his life was limited by his usefulness to the greater cause. But when he and his men escaped detection after Fiveash, they expected to flee the country. However, Amahl had forbidden it. Now they’d been given a new mandate and it unnerved him.

  If he knew nothing else about Americans, he understood that they enjoyed first rate police protection. Although agencies hoarded their information as they postured and preened for advantage over other outfits, they somehow managed to bring it all together. Fiveash had been a watershed event, and while only six people died, the fear it generated had devastated Florida’s economy.

  Zafir was already seeing shadows wherever he turned. Now Amahl had placed him in dire jeopardy with his call. As Zafir lumbered along the beachfront he ignored the nearly-naked girls that swept by him with lingering looks. He yearned to return home and put all this behind him. But he could not, and knew this. Leaving the sun-drenched girls of the beach, he turned toward his apartment to brief his colleagues. Then they would prepare their weapons for a pre-dawn raid on Miami International.

  Levi toyed with the labret in his chin. “Well?”

  Kruger drove from the mall parking lot after taking Amahl’s call. “You heard. As for when and how, we fly to Maryland tomorrow at first light.” He peered through the windshield at the gray scud. “The weather won’t stop us. I’ll file IFR.”

  “Who’s going?”

  “You, Pete, Bronk and Potts.” Kruger headed east toward the interstate. Traffic was light and he talked openly. He and Amahl had revised the attack plan. The president was scheduled to attend an economic summit in Luxembourg. Marine One would pluck him from the South Lawn and whisk him to Andrews. Kruger would use men from a local cell to launch a mortar attack as Cohen stepped aboard the helicopter. He looked at Levi. “You’ve earned a place of honor at my side when we hit him.”

  Levi fidgeted. “Thanks.”

  Kruger glanced sharply at him. “You’ve demonstrated total loyalty to me. You wasted Jackson. You’re fathering white babies with multiple women and you’re Bronk’s hero. Something else. You abuse heroin but it doesn’t own you.”

  “No, it don’t.” No, it does not. Especially now. Came close, though.

  “You’re strong.” He changed lanes. “That’s why I’m now going to tell you about the decoy.”

  It was well past midnight when Levi got up from his barracks bed and padded to a window. Persistent clouds covered the moon, making his task easier. Kruger’s revelation of a decoy made it imperative that he get to the SAT phone. He’d never evade the motion detectors and cameras, so he would have to bluff his way past the guards. With clothes in hand, he crept past the other sleeping men and went to the door. But when he put his hand on the knob he froze. Something clutched at him, and trusting his gut he eased away and returned to bed.

  Michael called Tucker. “Levi’s invoked a contingency plan. He’s incommunicado but we can stay on top of things with a Hail Mary pass.” He listened and frowned. “No, the other plan. The one where we swarm the White House.”

  It was 5:00 a.m. and Levi had been searching for Kruger without success. Finally seeing the F-150 enter the compound, he asked crossly, “Where the hell you been?”

  “Camping,” Kruger replied with a crafty look. He was still sitting with the engine running. “I see everyone’s ready.” He flicked his eyes at the passenger door. “Let’s go.”

  Levi climbed in and Kruger drove off. Potts, Bronk and Pete followed in a car. As they approached the boulder where the SAT was hidden, Levi asked, “What’s that?”

  Kruger couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face. “Like my little tent? I was there all night. You were sleeping or I’d have told you.” Turning the wheel to dodge a loose rock, he picked up a pair of night vision goggles from the seat. “I was making sure nobody broke ranks.”

  “Hmm.” Levi didn’t think Kruger’s choice of location had anything to do with the SAT; he’d simply pitched his tent at the trail’s mathematical midpoint. Thinking fast he said, “Hell, pull over and I’ll strike it. It won’t take long.” He could also retrieve the SAT and hide it beneath his jacket. He had to make contact.

  But Kruger drove on. Reaching the highway he turned north, unaware that Michael, Hacksaw and Dentz were tailing them from far behind. Parking near the plane minutes later, Kruger directed Levi to the co-pilot’s seat. Then the others climbed in. The Navajo PA-31 Chieftain could carry eight including the pilots, but Kruger was trading payload for fuel. After doing a pre-flight he taxied to the runway, and upon receiving his IFR clearance and departure instructions, he opened the throttles wide.

  Levi settled back and got his mind in the game. Dragon Team would monitor the flight with the tracking device they’d planted, but Kruger had changed cell phones and this prevented the team from keeping tabs on their ground movements. The team would not know when the attack would take place, nor would they know about the decoy.

  The Navajo cruised at 246 mph. A tailwind pushed them to 297. Levi, also a multi-engine pilot, noted Kruger’s fine skills. They made two refueling stops. Kruger made sure nobody went anywhere unaccompanied. Ten hours later they landed at a rural Maryland airstrip. Six men with shaved heads and Swastikas met the plane and drove them to a safe house, where they would remain until tomorrow, the day of the attack.

  PART FOUR

  20

  Zafir drove the van into position along the airport expressway and stopped. Twelve targets were parked on the maintenance tarmac, including a 747 cargo plane and seven American Airlines passenger jets. They were all within easy range of his AK-47.

  Meanwhile, his three men were positioning their rental cars along the Dolphin Expressway on the south side of the airport, where vantage points offered additional targets. Zafir checked his watch, then stepped from the van and dashed to a waist-high concrete barrier separating the street from the tarmac. He glanced at his watch again. When the second hand crept past 3:59 a.m., he rested his AK atop the barrier.

  BRRRRRAPPPP. BRAPBRAP. A pause and then, BRRRRRRAP.

  “Wha…?” The distant shots were too light to be AKs. Something was very wrong. He brought his AK to bear on the 747. His finger tightened around the trigger. He was about to squeeze when a red dot blossomed atop his rear sight. A split second later his rifle shattered as a bullet tore into it.

  SWAT units gathered around the bodies of his men within seconds of the quick and violent night-action, and waited until EOD specialists checked for explosives. While this
was going on, agents from the Joint Terrorism Task Force were whisking Zafir away.

  They’d had him under surveillance since two days after the Fiveash attack, after various informants told their handlers of an apartment occupied by “A-rab lookin’ dudes.” The leads, coupled with the forensic analysis of Kalil’s computer thumb drive, revealed patterns and data that pointed toward Zafir and his men. There were also the contributions made by Brian and Jackson: both had overheard Kruger discussing plans to attack airports. The JTTF realized something momentous was about to take place, and when Zafir acquired the rental cars, the Task Force commander put his teams on 24/7 alert. When covert units reported that Zafir and his gang were loading duffel bags in the rentals, the commander ordered the teams into action. Ground and aerial surveillance units tailed them to the airport. As the terrorists established obvious firing positions, the commander had uttered a single word into his mic: “Go.”

  Zafir’s men made the fatal mistake of shouldering their weapons when the SWAT team challenged them, but the other team took the wounded Zafir alive.

  Levi Hart wore full regalia on this warm April day, including red boot laces and leather jacket. Brent Kruger had on his usual khakis, and sat ramrod stiff while their tattooed driver pulled to the curb at Pennsylvania Avenue and 17th Street. They stepped from the white Cadillac and walked east on Pennsylvania beneath clear skies. Levi ignored the bitter looks he got from passersby and remained focused on the White House off to his right. He asked again, “Where do we meet Amahl?”

  Kruger picked up speed and swore beneath his breath. “I told you. Now stop bugging me.” But in fact he hadn’t provided any information beyond telling him that Amahl would appear at their side one minute after the attack began.

  “That ain’t no good.” Levi came to an abrupt halt. “I’m your adjutant. How do I take charge if you’re taken out?” He balled his hands into fists. “You won’t even tell me how our people are deployed, or what our exit strategy is.”

  Kruger squinted at some distant object while streams of people filed past. “It’s best you don’t know all the details in case you’re captured.” He glanced impatiently at his watch and frowned.

  Levi’s mind raced as he eyeballed the security arrangements around the White House. When they reached the northeast corner they turned south on 15th and trooped past the looming Treasury Building, where tourists had once lined up in droves for daily White House tours. But the tours were a thing of the past and he and Kruger navigated the sidewalk with ease. The only other pedestrians on this warm and sunny day were the clerks, attorneys and bureaucrats who made the government function. Most of them gawked at his clothes and Swastika; more than a few muttered, “Nazi.” Kruger had insisted he wear the clothes and display his marked forehead, although it was bound to draw attention. Levi attributed it to the man’s narcissism. Midway down 15th they passed a gate manned by Secret Service uniformed officers with P-90 submachine guns slung from their shoulders. Levi recalled that heavy weapons had once been stored unloaded inside the Gate Houses. All that changed after the Key Marriott.

  Kruger became animated when they passed the southeast corner of the grounds. He pointed at the Washington Monument. “They’ll make their approach from the Ellipse,” and moving his index finger in a small arc he let it linger on the South Lawn. “They’ll land there.” He glanced at his watch. “Sixteen more minutes.” Then he said with unusual excitement, “Look to your left. The dark blue Suburban.”

  Levi watched the slow moving vehicle from the corner of his eye. There were two Secret Service uniformed officers inside, and they were obviously roaming the vicinity.

  Kruger said over his shoulder, “The police will stop traffic when the helicopters begin their approach. Our dump truck will already be here—after experiencing an abrupt mechanical problem. Traffic will be diverted around it while the driver makes repairs.” He placed a hand in the small of Levi’s back and urged him along. “The mortar crew’s already in the truck’s bed. We painted silver lines within the bed to represent…”

  “The 360 degrees of a compass,” Levi said. “I understand that part.” Brian had explained it at the mesquite tree. The painted lines gave the crew their basic aiming points. The aiming points corresponded to the vehicle’s orientation, relative to a dash-mounted compass corrected for magnetic deviation. A crewman sighted the painted lines through the mortar’s eyepiece, which had an internal elevation scale graduated in 800 mils. He could adjust it until the reading on the elevation micrometer scale indicated zero. Once that was done, he would check the traverse and center the cross-level bubbles, then double-check the ballistic computer for a firing solution. He could do all this without being able to look over the side of the truck, or even see the target—and that was the concept where mortars were concerned, because they’re designed to shoot over low hills at targets on the far side. Therefore, mortars required coordinates no matter what.

  Kruger said, “They’ll use high explosive rounds with point-detonating fuses.” He walked faster. “We’ve already calculated the range between known locations, the amount of propellant required and the trajectories—all from satellite photos. The Internet is truly amazing, is it not?”

  “Sure is.” Levi could not assume that Dragon Team got his message, so he planned to wait until the police stopped traffic, and if nobody took action against the truck, he would place Kruger under arrest and shout the warning.

  Kruger touched the binoculars dangling from his neck. “Our back-up.”

  Levi nodded. Although the strap was cracked and frayed, Brian said the vintage 1943 binoculars that he’d acquired for Kruger were efficient in their own way. The 6X30 power forward-observer glasses contained a cross-mil reticule in the left lens. Its two centerlines were at angles to each other and graduated every five mils. If the first mortar round was off target and adjustments were needed, Kruger could resort to the tried and true forward-observer role and make corrections with the binoculars. He would have to make rapid mathematical calculations, but they would be minor and Kruger told him that he had practiced for that eventuality. Again, Levi respected the man’s focus.

  In keeping with the mix of vintage and state-of-the-art gear, Kruger had equipped his soldiers with Kevlar vests and portable radios—complete with earpieces and hidden mics in their sleeves. Kruger and Levi were armed with .45s and extra mags. The others had M-16s, SAWs and .45 caliber MAC-10 submachine guns, either concealed on their persons or inside the dump truck.

  The little general checked his watch. “1150 hours. Let’s get into position.” He urged Levi to the other side of E Street. They walked half a block west until they stood in the centerline created by the Ellipse and the South Lawn. Kruger had a compass to orient himself along the grid he had plotted, and that grid provided known reference points for calling out corrections to the mortar crew.

  Meanwhile, the Secret Service Uniformed Division was out in force, and uniform and plainclothes officers from the Metropolitan Police Department were prowling the streets in preparation for the helicopters. Two Park Police mounted officers also appeared as part of a well-orchestrated arrangement. Levi was pleased by the turnout, but he knew that the diverse law enforcement agencies drafted to deter potential attacks did not share common radio frequencies, and that this was their Achilles heel. But communications or not, he was a member of Dragon Team; he would find a way.

  “Check the flag.” Kruger pointed with a smug smile to the Stars and Stripes atop the White House. “Flapping rather smartly, I’d say. Now we know the wind direction and relative speed. We’ll add that information to our calculations.”

  Minutes later Levi heard the distinct roar of helicopter engines and the beating of blades as VH-3D Marine helicopters approached from the south. SOP called for as many as five helicopters to perform a presidential shell game so as to confuse attackers from targeting the president’s actual ship. But Levi heard only three helicopters—the absolute minimum—and not surprising considering the f
iscal crisis.

  As the choppers began a long final approach, and while police stopped traffic on E Street, a red and black 1994 Mack dump truck emitted a shrill kershew as its air brakes locked up, right at the intersection near the southeast corner of the White House.

  “There’s our truck,” Kruger said in a voice devoid of any passion or excitement.

  The three-axle, ten-wheel monster shuddered to a stop, with a perfect firing solution for the 81mm mortar mounted inside its cavernous bed. The driver made a show of climbing from behind the wheel and hurling epithets at his recalcitrant brakes. The police took note but took no action—he was outside the temporary restricted area.

  The whump whump whump of helicopters grew closer. Levi worried the two rings in his right eyebrow as he gauged the distance to the nearest officer. Okay, that’s it. I can’t chance it any further. He slid his hand inside the jacket to the small of his back and gripped the .45, and began easing it from his waistband.

  Then sirens ripped the air apart.

  Six Metro Police cars and two Tac Units converged on the dump truck. SWAT teams spilled out. They brandished assault rifles and submachine guns. A SWAT member lobbed a flash-bang into the truck’s bed. It erupted with a tremendous wang. Smoke billowed up. Three tattooed men scrambled over the top. Blood poured from their ears and noses. A SWAT element moved in and took them to the ground while the flash-bang’s smoke drifted away. Then it was all over. And Kruger was smiling.

  “Will you look at that,” he said. “Your trustworthy Brian must’ve gone over to the other side. Well, I’ll deal with him later—with my flensing knives.”

  Levi shoved the .45 back down and played dumb. “Come again?”

  Kruger gestured with his binoculars at the dump truck, while the three helicopters executed a go-around until the scene could be declared safe. “Brian knew more than he let on. But he didn’t know everything.” He tapped a finger against his head. “This is why I compartmentalize.” He jutted his jaw at the dump truck. “It was a decoy—one I didn’t reveal even to you.” He looked at Levi with hard eyes. “And I trust you like a son.”