The War Planners Series

by Andrew Watts

  Lena looked at the duty officer and said, “You know what to do.” The man nodded and walked over to one of his men. The one who was able to send signals to the phones connected to the heavy vests the men wore.

  Javad watched his men from the overpass. Every instruction had been followed to the letter, except for his own participation. His men didn’t know any better.

  Instead of four attackers at this location, there would be three. Javad was supposed to leave his own vehicle and get in one of the vans. He was supposed to take his rifle and do exactly what his men were doing. Firing at innocent civilians. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  Instead, he had driven his own van and parked on the overpass next to one of the target locations. Javad had decided that he would watch the scene for a few moments, and then get a head start on his escape.

  He’d arrived seconds before his men had stopped their van on the Beltway. Stopping their vehicle may have been enough to prevent traffic from moving, but the next step would ensure their success. Javad watched as they opened the five-gallon gas cans and poured them onto the highway, lighting it on fire to ensure that traffic stopped.

  So many people, sitting in their cars. Looking ahead at the rising smoke. Long tongues of flame whipping up. It was such an eye-catching sight that most of them didn’t even see the three of Javad’s men fan out amongst them, wearing their protective vests and raising their weapons.

  The cracks of gunfire changed everything. Screams erupted from the trapped bystanders. A few of them tried to slam on the gas and force their cars out of the traffic, but those attempts only served to make them the first targets of Javad’s men.

  The Iranian sleeper cell had been activated. Mobilized into a weapon of—he hated to use the word, but he knew it to be accurate—terror.

  Spiderwebs of cracked glass appeared on windows and windshields. Dark red blood seeping out of the doors. Cars became coffins. The highway pavement and grass strip next to it became a slaughtering ground.

  Javad had wondered if any of his men would object to the orders. Or perhaps they would become less interested when they found out the nature of their target? But it hadn’t mattered. He wasn’t sure if he should be proud of how efficient they were being, or horrified.

  Javad had reminded his men that the greater the cost to the Americans here, the better chance they gave to the Iranian people in their homeland. If the Americans understood the cost of war, who knew how many Iranians they could save? They were defenders of their great nation, Javad had told his men.

  He wondered if they had all believed it. They certainly hadn’t looked like they had reservations. Once they had the rifles in their hands and moving targets in front of them, perhaps the killer’s instinct had taken over.

  Javad saw a man in a charcoal suit who lay quivering and bleeding next to his luxury SUV. One of Javad’s men shot him in the head and marched on, firing at the fleeing passengers and into the cars.

  Javad gripped the metal fence atop the overpass, his mouth agape. He hadn’t even bothered to put his own vest on. He didn’t feel there was any need. The three men had walked fifty meters by now. Dozens of bodies lay strewn in their wake. Every few seconds, more cracks of gunfire. Changing of the magazines. Aim. Fire. Repeat.

  Then one of Javad’s men fell to the ground.

  At first Javad thought he had stumbled, but then the second team member—the one who had been walking in the center of the highway—fell backward as well. That one’s head turned into a bloody mess.

  Javad should have expected it, but it still came as a shock. He hadn’t seen any source of resistance. The surprise evaporated by the time he saw the third man killed.

  The third man saw the second go down and began walking toward that direction, looking for the attacker. The third man went down in a similar manner. A single headshot. No clear shooter. All three of Javad’s men had been killed inside of twenty seconds.

  Javad had known that they would die. But he had expected a grand, televised shootout with police. After all, they were killing civilians. Who would be fighting back in this group? He didn’t see any police cars. He supposed that it was possible there was an unmarked law enforcement vehicle out there in the sea of stopped traffic.

  Javad suddenly felt the powerful urge to walk back to his van and grab his own rifle. From his vantage point, he could pick off his men’s killer. But that would alert people to his position, and make any attempt to escape much less likely to succeed. Perhaps he could…

  The section of highway where his dead men lay exploded into a mix of grey dust and yellow flame.

  Javad felt the heat and pressure of the burst and dropped to the ground, alarmed by the explosion. What was going on?

  Chase dropped the third shooter with a single shot to the head and continued to scan for targets. He found none on the highway. The shooting had subsided. Now the only sounds were of car engines, moans, and cries. Cries of anguish and cries of fear.

  Chase had used the school bus for cover. Now he walked past it, around the flaming wall that lit up their section of highway.

  He found his next target.

  The man stood on the overpass, nearly hidden behind the green exit sign that read Rt 7 Leesburg Pike Falls Church Tysons Corner. He had a rifle in his hand. The same kind that these gunmen had. Was he a spotter? Or was there more violence to come?

  Chase sprinted underneath the overpass and out of view of the man. Then he began to run up the grass hill behind the overpass, to where he would be able to jump the fence and get to the man with the gun.

  It was during his climb that the highway behind him exploded.

  The satellite feed had red dots that overlaid the locations of the phones the Chinese were using to activate the vest bombs.

  Each vest was filled with a combination of plastic explosive and shrapnel material. They were designed to look and feel like bulletproof vests, but the phones that were hardwired into them connected to the detonation switch.

  The satellite feeds showed that two of the Iranian machine gun teams were still at it, walking their fire through crowds of screaming civilians, stuck in traffic. One of those two feeds now had the flashing blue lights of police vehicles arriving on scene.

  But the third satellite feed showed the most “advanced” scenario. Once the gunmen were determined to be killed, the Chinese duty officer here on the island sent the signal to detonate their vests. Red blinking dots overlaid the satellite feed with a reference number to be sure that they were detonating the right vest.

  These explosions served two purposes. They increased the casualties and destroyed much of the evidence. The Chinese team that had put this mission together had used Iranian suppliers when obtaining their explosive materials.

  The FBI and ATF would still undoubtedly uncover the identities of the Iranian team. That was expected and intended. But there would be no interrogation. It was always possible that the Iranians might have seen something that would lead a professional investigator to discover that Chinese hands were involved with this operation.

  That couldn’t happen.

  Lena looked at the monitor. On the screen, all three of the Iranian gunmen had been killed before the vests were detonated. But in some of these other sections of the Beltway, where similar attacks were being executed, it was possible that the Iranian attackers might surrender or be captured. The explosive vests made sure that interrogations would not happen.

  Lena walked closer to the screen where the vests had already been detonated. “You just detonated three of them. But I see four red markers on that screen. Why has that one not been detonated?”

  The duty officer walked over to one of his personnel at their computer terminal and spoke rapidly to him in a low voice. Then the duty officer looked up and said, “Ms. Chou, it looks as if that one is not being worn. It is inside this van here, parked near the top of this highway overpass. We think that this man here is part of the team—one of the Iranians. He is standing on top of th
e overpass, watching. But he is not wearing his vest.”

  “Is he in the blast range?”

  The duty officer again asked the man at the computer terminal something. Lena saw on the display that a cursor measured the distance from the unexploded vest to the man standing on the overpass.

  “He’s right on the edge of the kill zone. But if that vest is inside the vehicle, it could affect—”

  Lena held up her hand. The duty officer followed her intense gaze back to the satellite feed.

  One of the personnel in the room said, “Sir, in scenario number two, all three men have been either killed or captured. Permission to detonate their vests?”

  “Yes, execute.”

  “Proceeding.”

  Lena said, “If that is indeed the Iranian not wearing a vest, it appears he is being taken into custody.”

  A white male jumped the fence of the overpass behind the Iranian. The man held up a handgun and walked towards the Iranian. Lena was pretty sure this was the same man who had killed the three attackers just a moment earlier.

  The Iranian was much closer to the vehicle than the approaching man. Lena wondered if the Iranian would make a run for the van. That would be preferable, increasing the chances he would be killed the closer he got. But he didn’t run. The Iranian kneeled down and placed his hands on the back of his head, obviously following orders.

  “Ms. Chou, should we send the cleaner team?”

  She said, “No. Detonate the vest immediately.”

  Chase walked toward the man, aiming his 9mm Sig at the guy’s center mass. The man had dark brown hair and Middle Eastern features.

  “Get down on your knees and put your hands on your head,” Chase yelled.

  The man was already on the ground. Chase thought it looked like he was deciding whether to make a run for it, but then he saw the gun and did as Chase commanded.

  Chase took a knee and pulled out his cell phone, careful to keep his weapon pointed at—

  The minivan on the other side of the overpass exploded into a burst of smoke and metal.

  Chase fell to the ground, instinctively shielding himself from the explosion. He felt pain in his leg but ignored it, retraining his gun sight on the man ahead.

  As he looked up, Chase pocketed his phone and huddled closer to the side of the highway, not sure what was going to happen next. He stayed low and hobbled towards his target.

  The man was injured and unmoving. He lay on the ground about halfway between the exploded van and where Chase had been positioned. The man had been wounded in several places. Shrapnel from the explosion, Chase realized. It looked like a piece had torn through his arm. A few cuts on his face and legs. But his eyes were open, and at first glance he looked like he would pull through.

  Chase huddled over him, keeping his weapon trained on the man. He looked at him, wondering what kind of sick bastard would take part in this sort of thing. There was nothing in his eyes that answered that question.

  5

  Contadora Island, Panama

  Victoria lay on her beach towel, reading her book under the shade of a palm tree. She reached over, grabbed her coconut drink that was resting on the sand, and took a long sip.

  She could hear the hollers of her tribe in the distance. Her four pilots had convinced her to come on this trip. A one-day excursion while the USS Farragut was in port in Panama City, Panama. They had taken the ferry to Contadora Island. Now, the four men were attempting to surf the endless swells of turquoise-blue water that drove into the bay.

  She watched through her sunglasses as Plug got up on a wave, his legs shaking. Caveman pushed him off balance as he went by and sent him cartwheeling and laughing into the water.

  It was good that they were getting a break. She hated to admit it, but the sooner this deployment was over, the better. With the majority of all Naval deployments right now headed towards the Persian Gulf in preparation for a war with Iran, it was maddening to be stuck here in the Eastern Pacific. Everyone wanted to be “over there.” The only saving grace was the excellent port stops that this deployment had. Like surfing on a remote island off the coast of Panama, for example.

  Victoria wasn’t quite the surfing type. Or the bathing suit type, for that matter. She was, however, more than content to place her toes in the sand and sip on her rum-based drink. A good book and a light breeze was all she needed. For once, she left work on the boat.

  She actually had brought three books. The first one for fun—the latest by Rick Campbell. The other two books were more for self-improvement. One was on leadership, and the other was Tim Ferriss’s The 4-Hour Workweek. While she wasn’t sure she could get away with working for four hours on deployment, she had heard good things about his way of thinking.

  She was a fast reader. She figured if she could get five hours of reading in today, that would knock about half her reading list out. Tomorrow, she was on duty and could probably finish the rest. But it was always good to be prepared in case she went fast, or decided she was in a different mood. As with everything she did, Victoria had a list of books. One of her favorite things to do was cross off items on her list.

  Later she would attempt to call her brother David. While they had spoken briefly a few weeks ago, she wanted to catch up with him and make sure that he was alright.

  It was incredible what he had been through, and troubling to Victoria that all of his claims weren’t being taken seriously by the government. She had read a few newspaper articles that implied his allegations against the Chinese were considered conspiracy theory. But she knew her brother. He was an honest, reliable man.

  Much like their father.

  She closed her book and lay back against the towel, looking up into the swaying palm leaves and deep blue sky. She needed to reconnect with her father. It was time. It had been long enough. Almost a year since they last had spoken. Since her mother’s funeral. Dammit. She needed to return his email. She just didn’t know what the hell to say.

  Victoria took another sip from her straw and got the slurping sound of a finished drink. She looked at her watch. Well, it was after noon. When in Rome, she decided, and walked barefoot to the tiki bar.

  “Another?” the bartender asked.

  “Yes, please.” She placed her purse on the bar, shuffling through it to find her wallet.

  The bartender thumbed up at the TV. “I am very sorry to hear about this. Is crazy, no?”

  Victoria frowned in confusion.

  “Sorry about what?”

  “What is happening in the US. Did you not see?”

  She squinted up at the TV, reading the scroll.

  IRAN TERROR CELL ATTACKS AMERICANS ON WASHINGTON D.C. BELTWAY

  Over two hundred people confirmed dead. One suspect in custody.

  The four pilots’ boisterous voices grew louder behind her. “Hey, boss, easy on the sauce. It’s barely lunch!” one of them yelled.

  She turned and waved them over to the bar, pointing up at the TV. “Check it out.”

  Seeing the serious look on her face, Plug said, “What is it?”

  “Holy shit.” The group called out other variations of the same as they saw the news.

  Victoria heard a buzzing sound from her purse and pulled out the phone the ship had issued to all the department heads.

  She answered, “Air Boss.”

  “Ma’am, this is Ensign Gorsky on board the USS Farragut. Ma’am, the captain has ordered all personnel back to the ship. Liberty has been rescinded until further notice, ma’am.”

  She closed her eyes. “Alright. Thank you.” Hanging up the phone, she held up her hand as the bartender tried to give her another drink.

  “Thanks, but we’ll all need to close out. Can you tell me when the next ferry arrives?”

  Plug said, “Aw, you’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “What is it?” asked Juan.

  “We’re getting recalled back to the ship.”

  Victoria looked at her men. “Let’s keep things in perspecti
ve. A lot of people just lost their lives. Don’t complain about liberty today, alright, gents? Especially in front of your sailors.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Come on, let’s get our stuff. We’ve got a ferry to catch.”

  6

  Langley, Virginia

  “They found something.”

  Chase looked up from his computer screen. He sat in one of the multiuse conference rooms that the SILVERSMITH team was using, scrolling through the Washington Post on his secure laptop. He had spent much of the day giving interviews to both FBI and CIA investigative teams.

  “Let’s have it,” Chase said.

  David and a man Chase knew to be an FBI agent came in, shutting the door behind them. The FBI agent’s name was Peter Weese, one of the FBI’s liaisons to the CIA. When the SILVERSMITH Task Force had been created, he had become the lone FBI agent on the team.

  The Beltway attacks were being portrayed by the media as state-sponsored terrorism. All thirteen men were Iranian. It had been a little over twenty-four hours since they had occurred. FBI interrogators were going to work on the lone Iranian survivor.

  Why that asshole hadn’t been wearing his suicide vest was unknown. Chase figured he’d just gotten cold feet. But what had triggered the device to go off?

  Chase thought it seemed like he hadn’t expected it. Did that mean that there were others in the area who might carry out more attacks on behalf of the Iranians?

  Chinese threat or not, this was a new level of danger that Iran posed to the US. Most inside the CIA hadn’t thought much of Iran’s ability to strike within the United States.

  While Iran claimed to have “thousands” of Hezbollah clones waiting around America, Chase had seen CIA threat assessments that those figures were greatly exaggerated.

  With this latest attack, though…it had him nervous. It wouldn’t be the first time the analysts had been wrong.