Terror Cell (Danforth Saga Book 2)

by Joseph Badal

  He assumed the Colonel had guessed that he had a guest in his bed—Helga somebody from Dortmund, Germany. He couldn’t possibly have known for sure . . . he hoped. It took him a minute to wake up Helga and another thirty seconds to push her into the living room, onto the sofa, where she dropped off to sleep again. He then returned to his bedroom, shut the door, and was now wondering what he was about to get into. Barrows turned on the bedside lamp and set the slip of paper down on the lamp table. He dialed the number.

  “Who’s calling?” a female voice said.

  “Mr. Danforth, please. I was told—”

  “Just a minute. I asked you who was calling.”

  “Oh, sorry. Captain Simon Barrows, Commander of the 37th United States Army Artillery Detachment.”

  The woman told him to hold. Ten seconds passed, and then a man came on the line.

  “This is Bob Danforth.”

  “Mr. Danforth, this is Captain Simon Barrows. I’m commander of the 37th Detachment. I was ordered to call you and to say that Jack Cole told me to call.”

  “Yes, I’ve been expecting your call, Captain Barrows.”

  Danforth gave Barrows directions to a building in Glyfada and, after telling him to get his ass to the building in less than thirty minutes, abruptly hung up.

  ***

  “Michael, an Army captain by the name of Simon Barrows is on his way down here,” Bob said. “His orders will be to do whatever it takes to inspect each of his four team locations before mid-morning. That’s going to be a tall order, considering his teams are spread out all over Greece.” Bob waved two sheets of paper in front of Michael. “These just came in over the fax. Barrows is about your age and has an outstanding record. But he’s Air Defense Artillery, with no combat experience and minimal weapons training. I want you to go with him. You’re Ranger trained and have been in combat. You’ll see things that Barrows might miss.”

  “Trying to get rid of me?” Michael said.

  “This will help, Mike. There’s not much you can do around here, anyway.”

  “Okay, Dad, if it’s what you want.”

  ***

  Barrows, dressed in a summer weight, Class “A” uniform, showed up in less than the thirty minutes Bob had given him. Bob explained what he wanted him to do and said Michael would accompany him. Barrows seemed relieved to learn that Michael was U.S. Army. The two took off in Barrow’s burgundy-red Camaro.

  ***

  More out of nervousness than real need, Bob called his team together in the conference room. He made them go over their individual assignments, repeating what they had learned about Photos, Argyropoulos, the Kurd, and the Iranian Mullah. He’d had them digging into the backgrounds of Photos and Argyropoulos’ family members and associates. But, other than Photos’ fellow workers at the university and Argyropoulos’ fellow political party members, they found nothing.

  When they all finished their briefings, Bob asked Tony about the tail he had asked the Greek Ministry of Public Order to put on the Deputy Prime Minister.

  “They’re still following the guy. He went to some pre-Olympic Games opening shindig, and then his driver took him home. He’s been there ever since. The bastard hasn’t done anything that could be considered suspicious. What I can’t believe is how easy it was to get the Ministry of Public Order to put a tail on Argyropoulos.”

  Bob smiled. He didn’t want to tell them just yet that he’d had a heart-to-heart telephone conversation with Prime Minister Ierides, who had promised to call Constantine Angelou, the Minister of Public Order. Ierides didn’t like the whole idea. He’d told Bob he expected an apology when his administration proved Argyropoulos’ innocence.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  AUGUST 13, 2004

  “You superstitious?” Simon Barrows asked Michael as he pushed the Camaro to over one hundred miles per hour going north on the National Highway out of Athens.

  “No, not particularly,” Michael said. “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s Friday the thirteenth.”

  “Oh,” Michael said. “I didn’t even know it was Friday. Been on the road for a couple weeks.”

  “What’s this all about?” Barrows asked.

  “What did my father tell you?”

  “Nothing,” Barrows said.

  “Then I guess that’s all I can tell you. Nothing.”

  Barrows went silent for a minute, gunning the engine even faster. “Well, at least tell me this. Why is a U.S. Army Captain hanging out with a bunch of spooks?”

  Michael couldn’t help himself. He jerked his head and stared at Barrows. “How the hell do you know they’re spooks?”

  “Oh, come on. They’ve got Agency written all over them.”

  Michael’s opinion of Barrows went up a notch. He laughed and said, “I’m on leave. My wife and I were in Paris and came down here to visit my folks. My father told me to take a ride with you. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Barrows snatched a quick look at Michael. He smiled and said, “Bullshit!”

  Michael looked back at the highway and smiled.

  “So, tell me what we’re looking for?”

  “Anything unusual. Strange people or vehicles around one of your sites, missing missiles or warheads, that kind of thing.”

  Barrows again jerked his gaze toward Michael. “Missing missiles and warheads. Do you have any idea how big the Nike Hercules missile is? It’s forty-one feet long and weighs over ten thousand pounds. They don’t just go missing.”

  Changing the subject, Michael asked Barrows to describe the layout at each missile site. Barrows obliged, including listing the number of Greek and American personnel that manned each of the four sites. He explained that each site included a missile storage area, where an American team was stationed. The Americans maintained two-man control of the nuclear arming plugs in a safe outside the storage area. The Greeks had sole responsibility for the command and control area, which was separated by some distance from the missile storage area.

  “So we dictate when the nuclear weapons are armed. If we don’t insert the arming plugs in the warheads, the missiles are just several tons of metal and high-explosive accelerant.”

  “That’s right,” Barrows said, “although some of the missiles are not nuclear capable. About half of them have HE warheads.”

  “Why aren’t all the missiles mated to nukes?” Michael asked.

  “It only takes a few to provide a deterrent, I guess. But, practically, the HE armed warheads can take down one plane, or a close formation of planes, pretty damned well.”

  “So, these are surface-to-air missiles?”

  “That’s their primary mission, to knock down enemy aircraft before they can drop their payloads on friendly territory. But they can also be used in surface-to-surface mode. The commanding officer in the command and control trailer can put any of the missiles into a surface-to-surface mission.”

  Barrows pulled up to the missile site perimeter gate where his “D” Team was located, outside Thivai. The drive had taken forty-five minutes. It was now 2:30 a.m. Barrows was surprised to find the Greek site commander at the entry gate guard shack. Apparently, he had received a phone call from his commander similar to the one Barrows had received from Colonel Swetland.

  It took them, along with a team of Greek and American security personnel, thirty minutes to search the area inside the perimeter fence. Then it took another twenty minutes for them to walk the outside of the perimeter fence. When they were satisfied that nothing was amiss, Michael and Barrows ran back to the Camaro and sped south toward the Charlie Team site, near Katsamidi.

  Barrows roared south down the highway. It was after 4:00 a.m. when they turned off the highway and entered a winding, two-lane road that meandered through lush forest. The Camaro was not made to take the curving road at speed, forcing Barrows to keep the speedometer below forty miles p
er hour for most of the way. It was 4:30 in the morning when he pulled up to the “C” Team gate. They performed the same routine inside the perimeter fence at this location, and, again, found everything in order. No missing missiles, no missing warheads, no strangers.

  The terrain around the site was steeper and rockier than at Delta Team, which made the exterior search problematical and more time-consuming. Barrows checked his watch when they were done and then looked at his gas gauge. “It’s after 5:30. I’ve got just enough gas to get to a station. It’ll be nearly 7:00 before we get to the next site. Are we on some kind of deadline?”

  Michael shrugged. “Mid-morning.”

  Barrows looked shocked. “What’s that mean? Nine, ten, what?”

  “I’d say ten,” Michael answered. “What site is next?”

  “Bravo Team,” Barrows said. “It’s near a little town called Koropi.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  AUGUST 13, 2004

  Grady McMasters met Bob at 7:00 a.m. for breakfast in an out-of-the-way coffee shop near the beach in Glyfada. Over croissants and coffee, Bob briefed the FBI man on the information his team had gathered and the hunches he had formulated.

  “Not much to go on,” McMasters said, frustration in his voice.

  “That’s an understatement,” Bob said. “The thing that keeps gnawing at my insides is that I could have this whole Olympic Games terrorist thing blown way out of proportion.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” McMasters said. “You do have a lot of capital on the line with the Prime Minister, though. If things don’t go the way you think they might, he’s going to be pissed, and Washington will probably send you a return airplane ticket and a pink slip.”

  McMasters’ words troubled Bob for an instant, then he smiled and said, “You know my wife has been wanting me to retire for five years now.”

  McMasters laughed. “Yeah, but I suspect she would have liked to see you take a pension into retirement.”

  Bob groaned. “That’s not even funny, Grady.”

  “No, I guess it isn’t,” McMasters said. He seemed to go inside himself for a few seconds, then added, “For what it’s worth, I think you’re onto something. My men and I will be there if things go down the way you think they might. You can count on our support. I’m sorry we got off to a bad start. I forgot for a while we were both working for the same boss and on the same cause.”

  Bob reached over and slapped McMasters on the arm. “I’m glad you’re covering my back.”

  McMasters’ face reddened. He seemed embarrassed. “I heard your son and his wife arrived in Greece,” he said, quickly changing the subject.

  Bob nodded. “My wife is fit to be tied. When I called her this morning, she asked where Michael was. I told her I sent him out on a little reconnaissance mission. She didn’t seem to appreciate the fact I had involved our son in CIA business.”

  McMasters raised an eyebrow. “She might have a point.”

  “Not you too,” Bob said. He laughed and explained that Michael had been hanging around playing Bob’s bodyguard and he didn’t want him around if the shit hit the fan.

  “So, like the little fat kid in a street football game, you sent him long, with no intent to ever throw him the football.”

  “Sort of,” Bob said. “Michael had a theory that if the terrorists were to use a nuclear weapon in an attack against the Olympics, they would acquire the weapon from inside the country, versus sneaking it into Greece from another country.”

  “Where in God’s name would they find a nuclear device in Greece?” McMasters asked. “That’s a bit farfetched.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. But I figured it was worth checking out anyway.”

  McMasters nodded to show his agreement, then said, “You’re sure Argyropoulos is going to be at the opening ceremony today?”

  “Absolutely. He was already planning on attending the opening. His schedule calls for him to make an appearance there. After the Prime Minister officially opens the Games, some of the top people in the government are going to disperse to a variety of parties and other functions. Argyropoulos is supposed to drive to a heliport near the stadium and take a helicopter to Delphi, where there’s going to be a ceremony honoring the ancient games that took place on the plain below where the Delphic Oracle sat.”

  “So, the Olympic Stadium could be the terrorists’ target, and Argyropoulos would conveniently be on his way out of town.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  AUGUST 13, 2004

  Mullah Mirzadeh’s men carted away the six Christian girls at 7:00 a.m., while the captain of the guard woke the Iraqi pilots. After waking them, the captain and two of his men stood guard outside the pilots’ hut while the men washed and dressed. Then they led the pilots to a table set up in the hangar, off to the side of the parked jets. A breakfast of melon, berries, pastries, tea, and coffee was served while patriotic Iraqi music played through speakers arrayed in all four corners of the hangar. After eating, the men were given time to pray.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Mirzadeh said as he entered the hangar.

  The pilots greeted the Mullah by standing and bowing.

  “Let’s perform the preflight check on the airplanes, then we can go over your flight plans.”

  The pilots followed Mirzadeh to the airplanes, where the six Iraqis separated, each man walking to his assigned jet. Though they were experienced pilots who had performed hundreds of preflight checks, there was no way for them to detect the sabotage that had been done to the electronics that governed the canopy ejection systems and the landing gear. They finished their inspections in twenty minutes, and then congregated at the map table at the back of the hangar.

  Mirzadeh uncovered the maps and, using his hand, showed the men their present location.

  “This mission is the most important one of your lives,” Mirzadeh announced. “It has been imperative that no one outside of you and my men here know that you and the jets are in this location. I hope you understand that I couldn’t even divulge our exact location to you before, in case one of you should change your mind about taking part in the mission and . . . .” Mirzadeh didn’t finish his comment and tipped his head as though to say, I’m sure you understand.

  Mirzadeh tapped a finger on the map at a point where two jagged red lines started, near the city of Orumiyeh in western Iran. “We are near here,” Mirzadeh said, tapping the spot three times. “You will notice that the lines drawn on the map converge at one location—Athens. The Olympic Games. Where the Vice President of The United States and many other leaders from Christian countries will be in attendance.”

  Mirzadeh looked at the pilots as they reacted to this news. “You will take different paths to the target, to reduce the risk of radar picking up the planes. If you follow instructions and fly low, you will minimize the chance of being spotted. It is not important that you arrive on target at exactly the same time. In fact, the shock of sequential attacks will be even greater than if all six planes drop their bombs only seconds apart.

  “This is a risky mission,” he continued. “The odds of all of you returning safely are low. The rewards to those of you who succeed and return will be great. If you accomplish your mission and have the misfortune of not returning safely, I will see that your name lives forever with those of other great Islamic martyrs. You will have places of honor by the side of Allah. And your families will live out their days with riches and honor.”

  Mirzadeh looked for fear in the pilots’ eyes; but he was pleased to see they showed only excitement. He let them think about the glory that would accompany their names, whether they lived or died on this mission, and then said to the senior pilot, “Ali, you will fly northwest to the Black Sea, where you will skirt the Turkish coast until you approach the Bulgarian border. From there, you will fly south over the Aegean. Remember, you must fly below radar.”

 
The pilot came to attention and said, “As you command, Arbob.”

  Mirzadeh pointed at two other pilots and explained their parts in the mission. They would fly above Ali’s plane, like a three-layer pastry. “I pray that you are not detected by radar,” Mirzadeh said; “but if you are, the radar operators will see only one image, one aircraft.”

  Mirzadeh then traced the routes on the map for the other three pilots. They would follow the border between Turkey and Iraq, to the Turkish border with Syria. They would stay over the common border with Turkey and Syria until they came to the Mediterranean. Their route would then take them between Crete and the Turkish coast, into the Aegean, and northwest to Athens. Like the other three pilots, they would fly in a stacked formation.

  “It is time to suit up,” Mirzadeh said. He embraced each man in turn, kissing them on each cheek. The Mullah watched the men go to equipment lockers at the opposite side of the hangar. While they dressed in their flight gear, he growled at the captain of the guard, “Have the ground crews remove the camouflage netting and clear the runway of the fake trees and bushes. Then have them tow the planes to the runway. It is time.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  AUGUST 13, 2004

  Michael’s eyes burned from lack of sleep. The brightness of the early morning sun only made him feel worse. “You doing okay?” he asked Simon Barrows.

  “I sure hope all of this is worth the effort. I’m exhausted and, more importantly, my men and the Greeks we work with probably think I’m nuts.”

  “You’re an officer; your men already think you’re nuts. I can’t speak for the Greeks, but I suspect they think all Americans are a little weird anyway.”

  Barrows looked over at Michael and grimaced. “Are you trying to make me feel better?”

  “It’s not working?” Michael said.