by Brian Shea
Enright had fired his department-issued Glock 22 three times at Anderson, striking him twice in the chest and once in the head. The body diagram and photocopied image of the deceased Anderson from the Medical Examiner’s report showed that the two body shots penetrated left of center mass and had entered the chest, destroying the heart. The head shot was placed in a portion of the skull that tactical guys commonly referred to as the T-intersection, an area directly between the eyes above the bridge of the nose. Nick knew from personal experience that a shot to this region of the head immediately rendered a person’s motor functions useless. Thus, it was the choice location snipers used on someone holding a detonator or hostage. Nick reflected on his own use of this technique and knew the difficulty of this shot.
This three-shot group is trained by military and SWAT operators and is commonly known as the failure drill. This shot placement almost always guarantees a fatality. Nick was thoroughly impressed with Enright, aware of the complexity of that shot group on a paper target under low-stress conditions. Enright had stopped the heart and brain of his target in a split second under extreme conditions. Speed and deadly accuracy were the signs of a true operator.
“Izzy, you’re seeing this right? I mean this guy handled that situation perfectly. What the hell did he get fired for? He should have received a damn medal.” Nick blurted, smelling the distinct odor of administrative bullshit in the handling of Enright’s shooting.
“I know. The cops I spoke with all said that Declan was “the man” around that PD. Not one of them spoke ill of him. They each complained about their leadership, in particular, their Chief, as being more concerned with public opinion than the backing of his officers.” Izzy said this shaking her head in disgust. The thin blue line had gotten a lot thinner in the past years, but some leaders had drifted so far that the ever-fickle public opinion guided more of their decisions than anything else. At face value and without any other facts it appeared that this had been the case with Enright’s termination.
“It looks like the gun Anderson had been holding was empty and contained no magazine. The media experts provided analysis on this point, claiming that with Enright’s combined military and police tactical proficiency that he should have been able to recognize the empty magazine well. At that distance and in low-light conditions, no one would be able to tell that.” Nick said frustration was evident in his voice.
“I Googled the incident. Enright was buried in the press coverage. It was chalked up as another incident of racial injustice where a white officer shot a young black male. His Navy SEAL background only seemed to fuel the fire with some of the media sensationalists, claiming that he used his skill to serve as an executioner. What happened to the days when a chief would get in front of a bunch of cameras and verbally slug it out with reporters? What happened to standing up for a good man?” Izzy said this repugnantly.
She’d become accustomed to comments at family get-togethers regarding police brutality and race relations. As a Hispanic female, she had never been the recipient of racial injustice within her profession. The twenty-four-hour multi-billion-dollar media machine drove American opinion and right now they did not have a high one of law enforcement professionals. This opinion also appeared to have shaped the direction of Enright’s internal affairs investigation.
“Those days are dead Izzy. Look at our boss. He’s no different and would bury us in a minute if it would boost his career or keep his ass out of the fire.” Nick said, the disdain resonating in his words.
“So, basically our humble opinion doesn’t count for shit! It appears that Enright is a good guy. What do you want to do now?” Izzy asked as Nick’s phone began to ring.
“Hey, sorry for the delay. I had to run a little interference when I started digging. You pull a decorated SEAL’s file and people ask questions.” Jay sounded tired.
“No worries. I appreciate anything that you can do.” Nick didn’t ask because he knew the answers were coming.
“So, his military record is interesting. He has the normal progression of basic training at Great Lakes to Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training in Coronado. Enright made promotions above grade and had excellent FITREPS. That is the Navy’s term for fitness report which is basically performance documentation in layman’s terms.” Jay added the additional explanation, knowing that Nick was a former Army guy and might not be familiar with the acronym. “He was assigned to Team Two out of Dam Neck, Virginia and that is where things get a little weird. After one deployment to Afghanistan his file empties out with no details until he discharged under honorable conditions in June of 2011,” Jay said. Nick could hear him shuffling some paperwork on the other end of the call.
“What do you mean his file emptied out?” Nick figured there might be some redactions from his military record, for security reasons. Nick’s record had a few of those, but he had never heard of what Jay described.
“Well, there was nothing. So, I reached out to a source.” Jay said, never divulging where his information came from. Part of his tradecraft was to protect his sources. “This operator knew Enright personally and shared some things with me. I would not be sharing them with you now if I did not think it was critically important.” Jay paused.
“I understand. It stays with me and my partner.”
“You’ve heard of the Navy’s counter-terrorism, super-secret unit formerly known by the popularized name SEAL Team 6 and more discreetly known as DevGru?” Jay asked, speaking quickly.
“Yes, of course. The stories of their unit’s success have been touted worldwide, especially after they took out Bin Laden.” Nick responded.
“So, that’s what I am getting at. The Navy’s special ops people must have realized that the Hollywood status of their top unit was becoming its own issue. A middle-aged school teacher in Eastbumfuck Nebraska should not know about a secret mission team, but they do. These guys have become celebrities, doing talk show interviews, writing books and working behind the scenes on movies. The day of the silent professional seems to have gone by the wayside.” Jay said, pausing for effect. “That was until a few years ago when some special operations purists got together, and they created a new group pulled from the Teams’ absolute best.” Jay knew that he was really putting himself in a compromising position by sharing this information but continued regardless.
“The new group operated completely outside of the normal channels. They set up their base of operations at Fort Devens in Massachusetts. The location was apparently selected because it was closed in 1996 as part of the post-gulf war one downsizing. The base re-opened as an Army Reserve training complex. Some of the property had been sold off and redistributed. This newly formed SEAL team liked the location because of the terrain and the fact that they were physically separated from the other Team guys. The base had been home to the U.S. Army’s 10th Special Forces Group, but they had since been relocated. So, it had the ranges and training facilities in place necessary to support their work-ups. This new SEAL detachment had truly gone off the grid.”
“You are saying that Enright was one of those guys?” Nick asked. His interest was peaking.
“I am going to say yes, but even with my resources, I have been unable to confirm anything official. That’s never happened to me. These guys were true ghosts. My source told me that the group was rumored to have been called Alpha One, but there is nothing in any database with that callsign.” Jay said, sounding impressed. This is something that did not happen easily.
“I really appreciate you putting yourself out there to get this for me. If this bus thing breaks the way I predict that it might, then I might see you down this way soon.” Nick said this as a means of feeling Jay out to see if he still worked on the CIA’s Counter-terrorism Unit.
“It would be good to see you again. Be safe.” Jay said, not biting on Nick’s unspoken question regarding his status with the agency. Then he was gone.
Izzy had caught the gist of the conversation. She was now staring at Nick waiting
to hear what the next move was going to be. Nick registered this, turning his body toward her.
“It looks like it is time to go see Mr. Enright.” Nick checked his watch. It was almost 1:15 p,m, as they drove through the historic district of Old Wethersfield, passed the wood-lathed exteriors of the homes toward Declan Enright’s house.
23
The Seven had supported Khaled’s plan through financial backing and logistics, but one of the great assets was the Technician. Khaled had met him overseas and was the only familiar face left in his world. The Technician understood the pain and suffering Khaled had faced in Sonia’s death. Their unlikely bond had only been strengthened by her tragedy. Recently their relationship had become strained due to Khaled’s personal agenda, but the Technician would continue his assistance until the end. He had no other choice.
The Technician had an uncanny ability to create electronic devices. Khaled deployed these with deadly efficiency. Khaled would call the one number in his phone and explain what he needed to accomplish his task. The Technician would then design the tool to achieve his vision. The devices were delivered through the expansive network of The Seven. The implements used in the bus attack had been a design of pure genius.
The FBI would soon discover that two devices had been installed on the bus. The first, a small rectangular metallic box the size of Khaled’s thumb, had been clamped to the fuel line on the undercarriage of the bus. When activated it sent a charge that split the tubing. A spark would be created after an internal timer initiated its function. This spark ignited the gas exposed from the severed line. It was this chain of events that caused the bus fire.
As was Khaled’s intention, the fire on the 53-54 CT Transit bus had halted traffic in all directions and drawn in the curious pedestrians. The second device had been planted in the rear of the bus earlier that morning. It was slightly larger and built into a stainless-steel thermos that Khaled had left wedged between the rear bench seat, marked with an “x”, and the frame of the bus.
Khaled had patiently waited, outside of the blast radius that The Technician had factored into his design. The original plan had been to detonate when a large group of people had surrounded the bus, guaranteeing maximum casualties. Khaled was forced to speed up the timeline because ironically Enright, the Golden Man, had been at the bank and his attempt at heroics had interfered slightly with the timing of things. Khaled had at least hoped that a fire truck and some police would be in the kill zone before activating the secondary device, but when he saw Enright running toward the bus fire he triggered it. Khaled needed to keep him alive, otherwise, he would not suffer as intended, and all of his meticulous planning would be a waste.
After the blast, Khaled waited around long enough to verify that Enright was still alive before departing on foot. Khaled had moved through the crowd holding his head, as if injured by the blast, deflecting any suspicion in his rapid escape. He stumbled his way through the despondent faces of the onlookers until he was around the corner and took on a normal gait. He walked up Jordan Lane to his nondescript Honda parked in front of a liquor store. He got in the car and drove slowly into Hartford as police cars and fire engines rushed to the scene.
The Technician’s newest devices were now affixed to the beat-up blue minivan of Enright’s wife. A piece of duct tape held the left taillight of the minivan in place, showing the wear and tear of their financial hardship. Khaled took simple pleasure from the fact that Enright’s fall from grace with the police department had taken its toll on his family. He was disappointed that the Golden Man would never know how instrumental Khaled had been in that downfall. It’s about to get a lot worse. Enright’s job loss and financial struggle would soon pale in comparison.
The first device developed for this mission had been a work of pure genius. Khaled had explained to the Technician what he needed. He didn’t think, given the complexity of the design, that it would actually work, so he did a test run of its effectiveness on his own car. To his amazement, it worked flawlessly. The Technician gave specific instructions, telling him exactly where to attach the small magnetized box within the engine compartment.
The second device adhered to the gas tank in a similar fashion. Khaled had attached these items on two separate occasions while Enright’s wife was with her daughter at the therapist. It did not take long, and each time Khaled had parked next to the van and pretended to drop his keys. He prided himself on deploying these subtle facades as an extra layer of protection in case some observant person noticed him reaching around under the van. No one had noticed.
The time was drawing near, and Khaled could feel the adrenaline beginning to pump throughout his body. His training had taught him how to disperse it so that it did not interfere with his control. Khaled began methodically tensing and releasing his muscles while taking in long, controlled breaths, enabling him to maintain a physiological balance under the intensity of these circumstances.
Khaled activated the mobile application on his phone and instantly had a view of the front of Enright’s house. Both detonator triggers, disguised as retractable pens, sat on the passenger seat under a folded newspaper. The red pen trigger was designed to activate the first device and the blue would engage the second. The color coding was important to Khaled as he could not afford a mistake in the plan’s execution. He observed that both of the family cars were there. The minivan and the sedan. Years of patiently waiting led up to this moment in time. Khaled reveled in its significance. He took a deep breath, waiting for the triggering event.
24
“How’s this conversation going to go?” Izzy asked showing concern in her voice.
“Well, from where we sit this guy is a damn hero. Everything we know about him points in that direction. So, as far as questioning goes, I just want to know what he saw that caused him to redirect his attention. It might be the lynchpin in determining if the bus was an accident or something more.” Nick said this knowing that he didn’t have to explain further the other possibility.
They turned onto Declan’s street. Nick saw a female exit the house that the GPS was indicating belonged to the Enrights. The woman had a little girl in tow, presumably her daughter. The little blond-haired girl walked with her head down and arms intertwined as if in an embrace. She followed directly behind her mother and waited until the sliding door of the minivan opened. The child entered, disappearing into the interior. The girl’s mother leaned in, assisting her into the car seat.
Nick pulled to the side of the street. He decided to wait until she left before approaching the house to speak with Declan Enright. There was no need to alarm his wife and young daughter. She had probably become jaded toward any law enforcement officials since the internal affairs inquisition into her husband that led to his termination.
Nick registered Izzy’s silent approval, demonstrating her understanding of his thought process. She looked over giving him a knowing glance. At that moment, Nick thought for the first time that maybe there could possibly be something more to their partnership. The notion was fleeting as his attention was immediately redirected to what was transpiring before him.
Using his surveillance camera, Khaled watched as the two walked out of the house. He’d witnessed this same routine over the past several weeks. The daughter would follow close behind the mother, never holding hands and never talking. He thought of his Sonia and how different this girl was in comparison. Something was amiss with the littlest Enright girl, but none of that would matter now.
He observed the mother leaning inside the side door of the minivan to secure her daughter into her car seat. After tending to her, Khaled watched as the Golden Man’s wife entered the driver’s side and closed her door. The brake lights illuminated, indicating that the engine had started.
Khaled silently counted to three, reaching down he grabbed the first detonator that looked like a red pen and pressed the button on top. As expected, the brake lights of the minivan went off. He could see a slight sway in the van, indicating that E
nright’s wife was moving around. Probably trying to figure out what had happened and why the engine had just died. Khaled waited.
He saw what he was looking for. The van was shaking much more visibly now. Panic had set in because the first device worked as designed, rendering the electronics of the minivan useless. More importantly, the Technician’s creation had engaged the locks, disabling the ability to open the door from the inside. Trapped. Panic-stricken. Just like his little Sonia had been eight years ago. Khaled waited.
Declan’s cell phone rang. He saw that it was his wife. He answered, assuming that she must have forgotten something. In the chaos of their life, this happened more times than not.
“Hey babe, what’s up?” Declan said casually with a little curiosity in his voice.
“We’re locked in! Something happened to the van. Laney and I are stuck in here.” Val’s voice was steady, but there was a hint of panic. Declan assumed that the tension in her voice was probably from the fact that this break in routine might send Laney into an uncontrollable screaming fit.
“Okay. Where are you guys?” Declan asked, figuring they were somewhere close.
“I’m in the God danged driveway.” Even under stress Val kept her composure and refrained from language that was inappropriate for their children. Declan had failed in that regard many times.
“I’ll be right out,” Declan said, and immediately began rummaging the kitchen drawer for the spare set of keys to the minivan.
Nick could not figure out exactly what was happening in the car, but it looked like Enright’s wife needed some help. He watched her banging on the windows of the minivan and could see through the light tint that she had climbed into the back seat area.