by Larry Bond
Paul Frazer was there waiting for her. He stepped out of the shadows. “What’s the word, boss?”
“We go in.” Helen felt again the thrill that rippled through her at those three simple words. Her emotions were racing in full gear—crashing back and forth between anxiety and exultation. “The Director confirmed the assault orders to McDowell five minutes ago.”
“Outstanding.” Frazer clapped his hands together, put two fingers to his lips, and whistled softly. The rest of her section materialized seemingly out of nowhere and crowded around her.
Helen glanced around the tight circle, making one last check. Their weapons and gear were in perfect order. They were ready. She nodded toward the synagogue, invisible behind the school buses and in the growing darkness. “We’ve trained hard for this chance. You all know what to do. When we go in, we go in fast. No stopping. No hesitating. If you see a terrorist, you put him down. Three rounds and down. Clear?”
They nodded fiercely. Teeth gleamed in the darkness.
“Okay, let’s go! Alpha team takes the lead. Bravo takes overwatch. I’m with Alpha.”
Helen led the six men to the edge of the open ground surrounding the temple complex and crouched low. She keyed her radio mike. “Sierra One, this is Alpha One. We’re at the starting gate. Are we clear?”
Lang’s confident voice came through her earphones. “Roger, Alpha One. Your birds are all in the nest. You’re cleared to move.”
“Moving.” Helen suited her actions to her words. She loped out across the open ground, sprinting for the southern edge of the temple. Three men followed her. Frazer and the rest settled in to cover them during the long run up to the wall.
Heart pounding hard, she ran right up to the synagogue and dropped prone with her submachine gun aimed at the ground-floor windows in front of her. The rest of her assault team followed suit—peeling off to either side until they were ranged in a ragged line facing the building.
She spoke into her throat mike again. “Come ahead, Bravo One.”
“On our way,” Frazer said.
Her tall deputy and his two-man team reached her position in less than thirty seconds. They dropped prone beside her.
Helen crawled right up to the wall and then raised her head slowly until she could peer in through one of the windows. Her night vision gear showed her an empty classroom. The classroom door was shut. Perfect.
She turned and waved her team forward. Then she smashed one of the lower windowpanes with the butt of her submachine gun and froze. The tinkling of glass shards falling onto a tile floor suddenly seemed very loud. “Sierra, this is Alpha. Any reaction to that?”
Lang’s voice was reassuring. “Negative, Alpha.”
“Entering now.”
Helen reached in through the broken window with one gloved hand and fumbled with the latch. It came free and she pulled the window frame outward. Moving rapidly, one after the other, the men of her two teams scrambled inside and fanned out through the classroom. She hopped lightly over the windowsill after them and glided quietly to the door.
It opened on to a small empty corridor. All the overhead lights were off. She signaled an advance.
Leapfrogging in pairs while the rest knelt to provide covering fire, the HRT agents slipped out through the door, turned left, and moved down the small hallway until it intersected another, much larger corridor running the entire length of the temple. Helen poked her head around the bend, risking a quick peek.
The central corridor was wide enough for several people to walk abreast. Dark wood paneling and a marble floor gave it an elegant appearance. Points of brightness gleamed amid the blue-green sheen her night vision gear gave the world. She flipped the goggles up for a quick scan with the unaided eye. Small lights twinkled at eye level along the walls, blazing out of the darkness. The walls were coated with banks of bronze plaques. Each was inscribed with a man or woman’s name, date of birth and date of death, a tiny, stylized tree, and a pair of lights, one on each side. The rabbi had briefed her on those plaques. Each commemorated a founding member or important contributor to Temple Emet.
Helen pulled her eyes away from the tiny lights and lowered her goggles again. The corridor ended in a pair of double doors leading into the synagogue’s worship hall itself. The doors were closed.
Keeping her back to the wall, she slid around the corner and crouched. Frazer and the rest followed her. They deployed on both sides of the corridor—Alpha team on the right, Bravo on the left.
Helen looked across at Frazer. He nodded once.
Using bounding overwatch, the two FBI teams advanced cautiously to the large double doors—silent as ghosts on the slick marble floor. When they were within a few yards, she held up a hand, signaling a halt. They froze in place.
Helen went down on one knee, half turned, and motioned Tim Brett forward. The stocky agent was her surveillance specialist.
Brett crawled forward to the doors with Helen right in his wake. By the time she reached him, his hands were already busy fitting a length of flexible fiber-optic cable into a palmsized TV monitor. Then he plugged the whole assembly into a battery pack hooked to his assault vest.
Helen crawled closer until she could watch the monitor picture while he gingerly fed the cable through a slight crack under the right-hand door. The tiny TV showed a worm’s-eye view of the worship hall’s thin carpet. She saw nothing out of the ordinary and motioned to the left. Brett obeyed, sliding it back and forth to scan the carpet near the other door. Still nothing. At another signal from her, he withdrew the cable, bent it almost into a right angle, and then slid it back under the door. By rotating the angled portion of fiberoptic cable, he gave the monitor a clear view of the areas near the door hinges and latches. Again, she saw nothing. There weren’t any trip wires connected to explosives and not even anything as simple as tin cans rigged to sound a warning if someone burst through the doors.
Helen shook her head in mingled relief and disgust. These so-called terrorists were rank amateurs. Of course, that actually made them more unpredictable and potentially more dangerous. Professionals often followed set patterns that could be exploited.
Hand signals brought the rest of her assault force right up to the doors while Brett repacked his camera gear. She risked another whispered radio transmission. “Charlie One and Three, this is Alpha One. We’re outside the hall.”
“Acknowledged, Alpha,” the gravelly voice of her senior sniper said. “We’re ready.”
From her crouch, Helen reached up and gripped the handle on the right-hand door. Slowly, carefully, she turned the handle and pushed gently. The door swung inward silently.
For the first time they could hear sounds from the choir loft overhead—muttered growls and curses from the terrorists and the soft sobs and moans of frightened children. Grim-faced now, the FBI agents wriggled through the narrow opening and split up. Helen and her Alpha team went right. Frazer and the rest of Bravo went left.
They came out into a vast open space. Temple Emet’s worship hall centered on an altar positioned dead-center between the two enormous stained-glass windows. Behind the altar stood the Ark—a sliding curtain fifteen feet high and six feet wide that concealed the synagogue’s Torahs, the scrolls of the Old Testament and Jewish law. Two lecterns stood beside the altar—one for the rabbi and one for the cantor. Rows of chairs for the congregation faced east, toward the altar and the Ark. Just inside the big double doors, carpeted staircases on the north and south walls led up into the choir loft.
Helen knelt by the southern stairs and peered upward with the submachine gun cradled in her hands. The terrorists and their hostages were still out of sight—above her and around a bend in the staircase. She glanced over her shoulder. Frazer and his men were set.
She took a deep breath, trying to settle her racing pulse, and then let it out. She keyed her mike. “Charlie Team, this is Alpha One. Go! Go! Go!”
Before she finished speaking, four sections of the huge stained-glass windows sh
attered inward. Four muzzles poked through the jagged holes. Two of the weapons were Remington-made sniper rifles. The other two were M16s equipped with the M203 grenade launcher.
WHUMMP. WHUMMP. The launchers coughed once each, hurling two flash/bang grenades into the loft.
Helen was on her feet and charging up the stairs even before the grenades went off. Bursts of blinding light and deafening noise smashed at her senses. She rounded the corner and threw herself up the last few steps into a wild, shrieking tumult. Women and children and grown men staggered everywhere in utter confusion.
With her submachine gun held at shoulder level, Helen yelled, “FBI! FBI! Everybody down!”
Deeper voices echoed her shouts from behind her and from the other side of the loft. Most of the disoriented people in her field of view began diving for the floor. All but a few.
Out of the left corner of her goggles, Helen saw a young, hard-faced man whirling toward her with an assault rifle in his hands. She spun left and squeezed the trigger on her submachine gun. Three rounds fired at a point-blank range slammed into the terrorist. His chest and neck exploded and he toppled backward out of sight over a row of chairs.
A sniper rifle cracked off to the right. She glanced that way in time to see a tall, black-haired man shriek in horror and agony, stagger backward, and tumble over the railing into the synagogue below.
Two down.
Still probing for targets, Helen advanced through the tangle of seats and writhing bodies. Purposeful movement near the organ caught her eye. She turned that way and saw a third man in camouflage fatigues, older and gone to fat, painfully crawling toward a metal box. Different-colored wires led out from the box to all four corners of the loft.
She fired another three-round burst. So did several of her men. The older man’s body literally disintegrated under a hail of steel-jacketed bullets. Blood, shattered bone, and torn flesh sprayed across the organ keyboard.
Helen looked away, choking down a sudden urge to vomit. Three terrorists down. She moved away, hunting through the muddle for more bad guys. Frazer, Brett, and the rest fanned out with her, their weapons still ready. But there were no more men to kill.
The ringing in her ears faded away, making room for the terrified whimpers of the women and children she’d come to rescue. Helen turned slowly through a full circle, checking them over. Beyond a few bruises and scrapes, nobody seemed seriously hurt. At least physically. They would all have nightmares for years, she knew.
She spoke into her radio again. “Sierra One, this is Alpha. The loft is secure. Repeat, the loft is secure.”
But she barely heard Lang’s jubilant response. It was as though her words had broken through a massive dam inside, opening the way for the great wave of weariness and sorrow that came crashing over her.
Helen found herself staring through a numbed haze at the mangled remains of the older man she’d shot. Then her knees buckled and she sat down hard with her head spinning. She heard retching noises from close by as other men under her command threw up. Most of them had never killed anyone before. Even the veterans who had seen death before stood silent and hollow-eyed. She closed her own eyes tightly, shutting out the carnage.
When she opened them, she saw Lang kneeling beside her, watching her closely.
Helen smiled faintly. “Well, John, I guess we won.”
He nodded somberly. “You won.”
CHAPTER 10
BACKGROUND NOISE
OCTOBER 9
Public Broadcasting Service Newshour
The producers of the PBS Newshour were delighted with their Washington-based anchor’s interview of the U.S. Attorney General. Normally dour and reserved, Sarah Carpenter was in full swing and high dudgeon—the very picture of official outrage at the terrorist attack on Temple Emet. She was making her anger and disgust plain with every icy word.
“According to reports this morning, the FBI has now positively identified the three dead terrorists—James Burke, Anthony McGowan, and David Keller—as ringleaders of a neo-Nazi fringe group located just outside of Richmond, Virginia. Are those reports accurate?” the interviewer asked.
The Attorney General nodded briskly. “They are. Our investigation has revealed that these men were the leaders of a white supremacist organization called the Aryan Sword. We believe this organization may also have been involved in the earlier murder of a local civil rights leader, John Malcolm.” She pursed her lips. “Past administrations have turned a blind eye toward the activities of fanatical, right-wing hate groups. This administration will not.”
“In what way, Ms. Carpenter?”
She leaned forward. “With the President’s approval, I have instructed the FBI and all other appropriate federal law enforcement agencies to immediately redouble their efforts against these potential terrorists.”
“And can you give us the broad outlines of these expanded efforts?”
“Certainly. We intend to mount a coordinated campaign on a number of fronts. First, we will increase our surveillance of known and suspected neo-Nazi terror groups. Second, I will direct the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms to take other steps to boost its seizures of illegal weapons and explosives. We will also take legal measures against illicit underground publications that advocate violence or promote bigotry and race hatred.” The Attorney General tapped the table in front of her for emphasis as she spoke. “Perhaps most important of all, I intend to seek immediate congressional action to toughen and expand our federal gun control laws. We must make it impossible for these criminals and right-wing hatemongers to acquire weapons of death and destruction.”
The PBS anchorman arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Surely only a very small proportion of the American people espouse such extremist views?”
“On the surface, the numbers are small,” she agreed. “But I believe it would be a grave error to underestimate the threat the radical right poses to this nation. We live in an increasingly complex and fragile society. In such a situation, even a tiny number of fanatics are capable of causing enormous damage.”
“You sound as though you anticipate more terror attacks like the one at Temple Emet, Ms. Carpenter.”
The Attorney General nodded grimly. “In my considered judgment, we now face a much graver threat from within our borders than from without. I’m afraid that the new terrorist threat we must combat is largely homegrown—the terrible product of American racism and bigotry.”
OCTOBER 11
Special operations headquarters, Tehran
(D MINUS 65)
General Amir Taleh watched the images flickering across his television screen with satisfaction. This American official, Sarah Carpenter, was unknowingly sowing the seeds for his own campaign.
Monitoring U.S. news broadcasts for items of special interest was one of the primary duties of the Iranian Interest section in Washington, D.C. At Taleh’s express order, tapes that met certain preselected criteria were flown to Tehran via diplomatic pouch for further study and analysis by his special intelligence staff. And so the full tape of this Newshour interview with the American Attorney General had made its way to his office within forty-eight hours.
Captain Farhad Kazemi waited until the picture faded to black before punching the eject button on the general’s videotape player. He straightened up with the tape in hand. “This was good news, sir?”
“Very good news,” Taleh confirmed. “As always, the Americans see only what they want to see. We shall have the element of surprise.” At that thought he felt again the surge of fierce joy that burned away much of his fatigue. But not all of it. After so many months spent in this office and in the field, he was all too aware of the enormous mental and physical strain he incurred by managing almost every aspect of this complex operation.
In theory he should have delegated more of that work to his subordinates.
Taleh snorted to himself. Theories were rarely worth the space wasted on them in textbooks. In the real world of the Iranian Army, there were fe
w junior or senior officers with the grasp of strategy, logistics, and politics needed to fully comprehend his master design. And there were fewer still he could fully trust.
His mind turned to the staff conference scheduled for that evening. He had intended to use the meeting to finalize a decision to proceed with his plans. But why? He already knew what his decision would be. Seeing the news reports of the foolhardy Aryan Sword terror attack and watching the Americans rushing to confuse themselves only strengthened his resolve. After all, had not God Himself joined the fray—drawing a concealing cloak over the marshaling armies of the Faithful?
Taleh nodded abruptly. Why waste more time? He looked at his military aide. “Cancel the staff conference, Farhad.”
“Sir?”
“Instead, contact London and all first-wave field commands. Instruct them to activate SCIMITAR as planned.”
OCTOBER 12
Tehran
Hamir Pahesh closed and locked the door of the small, rundown apartment. When he was in Tehran, he shared the apartment with another man, his wife, and their four children. There really wasn’t room for Pahesh, but both men came from the same village, and ties like that, especially in a foreign, hostile land, were almost as good as family. Besides, the truck driver was gone a lot and always returned with gifts: usually food, sometimes medicine. Mohammed Nadhir, his host, worked as a day laborer for even worse wages than he did, and the man had a family to support.
Pahesh would have helped a fellow countryman out in any case, and now because of his “extra income,” he was the Afghan equivalent of the rich uncle. Thus, whenever he asked after the health of their nearby friends, the whole family packed up and left, usually bearing one of his gift packages. They thought he was a smuggler, which explained not only his need for privacy but his extra income.
After double-checking the drapes to be sure they were closed, Pahesh pulled out his duffel. The green canvas bag held his whole life: the few clothes he owned, a comb and brush, a few photos, and some mechanic’s tools. It also held another small satchel.