Spider laughed. "That's because you have self-esteem issues, Rhino. You were abused as a child and you doubt your own self-worth."
Rhino lifted his middle finger on his free hand. His other held a sandwich. "Abuse this, cocksucker," he said through a mouthful of sandwich.
Across the room, ensconced in another overstuffed chair with a glass of Famous Grouse scotch in his hand, Jed Loveless grinned.
"Johnny me boy, you better keep these boys off the embassy party circuit," he said.
"They don't serve cold cuts and beer, so they're not likely to show up there," John replied.
"Scoot your chair over closer, son. I ain't gonna bite you."
John got up and kicked his chair closer, where he could face his mentor.
"You've been doing good work, I don't need to tell you," Jed began. "I appreciate all you've done for me here, John. You and your boys. I know we've come up dry, but it's not for lack of trying. I know that. I'm grateful."
"We're just doing our job, Dad, but thanks," John replied, blowing smoke at Jed. "We're just proud to service our country before it services us."
"Fucking smartass," Jed said. "You can start to redeploy your assets. Keep a reserve on hand, just in case something comes up with this next air marshal team. I think we've seen the end of this."
"Are you sure?" John said seriously. "I've never seen you so convinced that we were missing something before, Jed. What do you think about it now?"
Jed sipped his Scotch meditatively. "The truth?"
"Yeah."
"I still think we missed something. I think that there is something larger going on. I just can't prove it, and like everybody else I work for somebody, and my somebody has told me, in no uncertain terms, to get back to business. I don't know, John," Jed said, uncertainty in his voice. "I just pray to God I'm wrong."
John ground his cigarette out, lit another. "If you can just point me where you think..."
"No. We're done. You and your boys have done your part. Just keep a little on reserve, just in case. And enjoy the party." Jed called out to kitchen. "Rhino! Bring your war-daddy another Scotch!"
"Coming right up, boss."
***
PART FOUR
CQB
FRANKFURT, GERMANY:
Ahmad Ajai's shooters filtered away along the exit routes they'd rehearsed for the last three weeks. They each took with them a single suitcase, packed with items carefully gathered by logistical cells, who'd been given clothing sizes and sent out to buy for people they would never see. Ahmad Ajai and Gamal Ayoush watched their people slip until only the two of them remained. Quietly, each with their own thoughts, they organized the safe house and went through each room to ensure that it had been properly sterilized. They changed into plain, good-quality dark suits, with carefully polished shoes. Ayoush packed a carry-on bag, while Ahmad Ajai carried only a slim leather briefcase.
"Well, my friend," Ahmad Ajai said. "Shall we go?"
"Yes," Gamal Ayoush said. His eyes were blazing. "Let us go quickly."
***
One of the privileges Lenny enjoyed because of his work record was his own locker. There weren't enough for each member of the work crew to have his own, so some shared. Only the favored few were given a private locker. Lenny was grateful for his. Each day, he brought in a heavy parcel in the bottom of his canvas carry-all and added it to a pile growing on the bottom of his locker, in the back under some clothes and work boots.
He checked his crew's work schedule. They were assigned the security go-over on an aircraft that had come in the night before and had already been cleaned. He was familiar with this plane and it's route: a Boeing 747-300, Frankfurt to Dulles Airport, Washington DC.
***
HD looked around his crowded hotel room. It was packed: he had all twelve of his team-mates and George Baumgarner as well squeezed in there. Harold felt that he should do a good team briefing, exercise some leadership, since this was probably the last time he'd ever be a team leader. The funny thing was he didn't feel that bad about it. He'd discovered the hard way that it was better to be an Indian than a Chief. He'd be lucky if he still had a job when he got back. He looked at Charley Dey and Don Nelson, who together leaned against the back wall, standing apart like they always did. He felt a flash of envy, of hatred, of self-pity, because while he would never admit it out loud, he knew he'd never have the respect they had, that he didn't measure up.
"Okay, people, listen up," HD said in a voice that sounded, even to him, sure and confident. "We're going home today on your basic milk run. We've got a repositioning flight from Frankfurt to Dulles, a 747-300. There's a schematic circulating there with the seat assignments marked out on it. While we'll be running this like a regular mission leg, there is no threat going out of here to the States, so we can take it a little easier than we might otherwise. I'm going to have Dyer, Ray, Stacy and Joan work the pax at the counter and observe screening, everybody else will spread out and work the terminal. There's been a lot of friendly surveillances running in there for the last two weeks, and nobody's seen anything, but we want to keep our eyes open anyway. Okay? Pretty much business as usual, except easier. Anybody got anything they want to add or got any questions about?"
The crew was silent. George Baumgarner shook his head no when HD looked at him.
"Then let's go," HD said with more enthusiasm than he felt. "Pair up by buddy teams, catch cabs, and we'll rally at the usual place in the terminal -- near the red Mercedes in the lobby."
***
The food service catering manager was furious. Two people called in sick today and only one had a replacement ready: a new woman who'd been on the job only three weeks. Her security check hadn't even come back yet -- it took sixty days for that to be done, during which they weren't supposed to work on the American carriers. But what was he supposed to do? He had meals to prepare and seal for put on board this aircraft, and a 747-300 seated over 300 people, all of whom needed a dinner, a snack, and a breakfast for the flight to the United States. So, swearing, he put her to loading the food carts with the prepared meals and put himself to work cooking in the kitchen. What could she fuck up loading carts?
***
John Bolen, Mad Max, Spider, Rhino and Warren were shooting the falling plates in the ISA operations center's basement shooting range. The metal plates were mounted on a spring loaded arm atop a metal rack. Whoever knocked the plates down the fastest won a dollar a plate as well as all the beer he could drink. Rhino was acing it so far; his average time for five plates, with a draw from concealment, was a near world class 3.2 seconds.
"You want to go down and see the marshal team off?" John asked as he stood to the line, his pistol concealed under his sweatshirt.
"Hell yeah," said Max. "I got to get that little Joan's phone number. I'm gonna use my government Diner's Club and buy me a ticket to visit that gal."
"Shut up, faggot," Rhino said. "We're shooting here." He held up an electronic PACT timer. At the beep, John drew his High Power and cleared the plates. "Not bad, boss," Rhino said. "You might beat a blind man if he wasn't practicing much."
"You get to drive, cockbreath," John said.
***
In Frankfurt's international arrival and departure terminal, not far from the counters where the American carriers have their operations, there is a roped off kiosk where the latest and most expensive Mercedes sedan was always displayed. The most recent one was a brilliant ruby red. Harold liked to use it as a rallying point, since it was an easily recognizable landmark and it was located near a good coffee stand -- an important consideration for the always sleep-deprived marshals. The DOMINANCE RAIN operators used it as a point of reference as well; they calibrated their expensive color video cameras on the brilliant red car while conducting surveillance.
John Bolen and Mad Max stood up on the mezzanine level overlooking the counter area; their back-ups wandered through the crowd below. John watched the first of the cabs arrive and the marshals begin to ass
emble loosely around the car.
"You know, if I wanted to whack these guys out, I'd plant a device in that car and command detonate it," Max said conversationally. "They too fucking lazy to rotate a rally point once in awhile, or what?"
John shrugged. "You've seen Dey and Nelson operate. If one of them was running this, they'd rotate it. It's just a milk run anyway. They're going home," John said with envy. He shook his head sorrowfully. "Back to Beirut for Johnny B and his merry band of outlaws."
"Look at the tits on that Joan," Max said, distracted. Joan was dressed for First Class, in a sheer white silk blouse, short black skirt and black hose, low heeled pumps. "Where does she hide her gun is what I'd like to know."
"Maybe you'll get a chance to find out," John said.
The DOMINANCE RAIN shooters watched Dyer, Ray, Stacy and Joan move away from the rest of their team and station themselves near the line of passengers forming up in front of the check-in counter. The counter screeners began to set up their little podiums and rope off the area. A few German police officers, MP-5 submachine guns slung at the ready, strolled over to watch. The other marshals checked in with HD, who stood next to the bright red Mercedes, and spread out around the counter area, forming an invisible screen around the passengers. They eyeballed anyone meeting the profile, looked for watchers, and several of them spotted Max and John looking down on them. Joan smiled and waved, and Max waved back.
"I'm gonna have that woman," Max said. "Let's go down."
"Not yet, buddy. Let's just watch for awhile. These guys are tired and their asses are dragging; they're not doing their best work."
Max nodded. That was obvious. The marshals had that look he'd seen on troops when they got right down to the end of a patrol or an operation, with base camp in sight. They just dropped their mindset as though they were already inside. It was a dangerous habit; they weren't safe yet, and a skilled attacker would take advantage of that. While Max had missed Viet Nam, he had been seconded to the SAS in Belfast. Under Lusty Wideman's wing, he had seen first hand the consequences of dropping your guard too soon. He'd been on the reaction patrol that responded when a brick from the Parachute Regiment, led by a very green lieutenant, had gone "admin" a block from their patrol base. They'd been cut to pieces within sight of their barracks and before the horrified eyes of their relief patrol. You never let down till you were safe behind your own lines with people you trusted walking the walls, watching your back.
***
Mary Franken walked by the air marshals when she went to work at the counter. She smiled appreciatively when Donald Gene looked her up and down. He was too blond for her, but she'd heard he was good. He'd worked his way through the girls at the counter over the years, and he was still on good terms with them, so he couldn't be too bad.
Her lover had given her the packages to deliver to his friend with explicit instructions to deliver it only to him. His friend would be on this flight to Dulles, the same one the air marshals were on.
"Well," she thought, "at least he'll be safe on this flight."
Mary situated herself behind the counter at a ticket station. She set out her ticket books and notepads, and logged onto the computer. When she was ready, she flipped the CLOSED sign up and said to HD, "Are you next in line?"
***
Joan was getting good at surveillance. She used her good looks to her advantage, strolling back and forth, appearing to study the women for their clothing and the men for their looks. At twenty-five, she was just discovering how devastating a weapon her young sexuality could be, and she was enjoying it. Her fling with Jon had been amusing during training, and while she still liked him, around men like Don and Charley, Butch and Steve, she saw his boyishness and immaturity. The older men appealed to her more.
Many of the men lining up to check in noticed her. There were a lot of them. This would be a full flight. There were many service families, young men and women with babies, the girls barely Joan's age, if that, the young men muscled and short-haired, in Levi's, t-shirts and baseball caps. There were quite a few Germans taking advantage of the strong deutschemark and the low off-season fares to make a trip to Washington DC.
One man watched her closely. She smiled at him, and slowed down to get a better look. He was young and athletic, middle eastern, well dressed in a dark business suit. He looked away when she slowed down. Probably a religious type or shy, she thought, as she continued working her way down the line. She filed his face away for future reference, even though she would probably miss him in the crowded airplane.
Stacy worked the other end of the counter. The line was forming up. Passengers kicked their bags along the tiled floor between the roped poles up to the wooden lecterns where blazer clad security personnel checked their passports and asked them: Is this your bag? Did you pack it yourself? Does it contain any electronic devices? Has this bag been in your constant control since you packed it? The questions were designed to detect any bombing by proxy candidates, a particularly ruthless innovation of the Islamic extremists, who had several times persuaded an innocent passenger to carry a package that turned out to be a bomb.
Butch and Steve leaned against a wall and watched the line that snaked in and out of the roped poles.
"Stacy," Butch called. "Just say it, Stacy."
Stacy held up her middle finger.
"C'mon, Stacy," Butch pleaded.
Stacy put her hand on her hip, ala Mae West, dropped her voice and said, "Just do me, baby."
Butch and Steve broke into laughter, as did several of the passengers who had watched the exchange. Stacy looked over her shoulder at the passengers and winked, and went on her way. One of the passengers who'd laughed stared at her hips as she walked away. He was Lebanese, from Beirut, like several of the other hijackers, and he was old enough to remember Beirut as a more peaceful place. He'd been a man of leisure then, sometimes, and he'd enjoyed sex with black women. It had been a long time since he had had a woman. He wondered what she would be like.
***
Rhino McGee was working the terminal solo, as he preferred to. Spider was a great partner, though Rhino would never admit it to him, but Rhino had the solitary traits that made him the master sniper he was. Rhino had grown up in a little mountain town near the border of Pennsylvania and Kentucky. His first love was wandering the woods alone, which made him the perfect RECONDO in the 82d Airborne, Ranger Instructor, and then DELTA shooter. There was little difference, in his mind, between working in the woods or working in the city, except for all these civilians uglying up the AO. He looked for the angles of fire, watched the doors, looked for the tells of people not used to carrying concealed guns. This profiling thing the marshals did, now that was a useful skill: look for people with certain characteristics, ask them questions, observe the kinesic response -- that worked. It was tough applying it in a crowd, where you had to go on more subtle non-verbal communications: a tenseness, furtiveness and glancing around, overreaction to stimuli, a gut level intuition that somebody was wrong. Not that it wasn't just as effective as any brain storming intellectual shit; it was just harder to explain to a shooting committee when you whacked the fuck. Rhino laughed at that thought. Several passengers moved out of his way. One old guy looked at him hard for a second, then looked away. Rhino slowed down, then turned away to hide his interest in the older man in the good business suit. He looked into the plate glass of a travel toiletries shop, and saw the man in the reflecting glass watching him. The older man turned away as soon as he noticed Rhino watching him. Rhino moved briskly away, ignoring the man. He found Spider in front of the book stall flipping through a book on astrology.
"Hey," Spider said, without looking up. "You're a Taurus, that's the bull. I'm a Cancer, or a Moon Child, that's the crab."
"Moon Child is right. I got a hinky one over here. You got the laptop?" Rhino was referring to the portable Macintosh Powerbook computer Spider carried in the student's day pack slung over his shoulder. The computer held a digitized database of photo
graphs and fingerprints of known terrorists and terrorist suspects. Combined with a small scanner that plugged into it, it gave a special operations cell the opportunity to make positive identification on terrorists through fingerprints, photographs, or, by hooking up a video camera, live footage. Rhino and Spider had used the system before when they had killed a Red Brigades bomber. Rhino took the dead man's fingerprints, put them into the scanner, and got immediate confirmation from the database. He took a photograph to be downloaded through a small digital camera into the database as well.
"Yep. Never far from it. It's got my thesis on it." The idiosyncratic Spider was completing a Master's in International Relations through Georgetown University's Extension Program.
"Quit dicking me around. I want to check somebody out who's in line."
The two of them went into the crowded open seating area and sat down. Spider powered up the laptop. He went unnoticed in the crowd, where several businessmen worked on similar looking machines.
"Do a sort by age, 35+, male," Rhino said.
Spider's fingers danced on the keyboard. A graduate of the Special Forces Medical Course, he was a fully qualified physician's assistant as well as the team computer expert and hacker. "I've got over a hundred in that category, even in the short database we got going for this, Rhino. Narrow it down."
"40+, male, leader profile," Rhino added on a hunch.
Five names came up in a listing.
"Punch up photos." The disk drive hummed, and the first photo came up on the color screen. "No," Rhino said. "No. No. Wait, who is this one?"
Spider looked up at Rhino with hunter's eyes. "Ahmad Ajai. Is this the one?"
"It sure looks like him. Let's get the boys and go get a closer look."
"Roger that." Spider slammed the lid shut on his laptop and slid it into his day pack. "Let's go."
***
Charley was tired. He was grateful now for the opportunity to be just another gunfighter. He watched HD hustle around, keep track of everybody, pass around tickets, all while trying to look as though he wasn't doing what he was doing. There was the usual bottleneck at the check-in screening podium when someone didn't answer a question properly or when a bag had to be opened. The supervisor was aware of the air marshals watching him, so without pushing the screeners too much, he tried to keep things moving. The supervisor nodded at Charley, who nodded back in sympathy. It was a tough job, tougher than most people realized, doing the passenger interview and screening. The US carriers had copied the technique from the Israelis, who in their enterprising fashion had set up a number of airline security companies to market their expertise. Several of the companies were run by former El Al air marshals -- which meant they fronted for the Mossad.
Air Marshals Page 26