by Dalton Fury
He was just about to leave the briefing room and head to the SCIF when CNN went live to the President of the United States. POTUS was out of the country, in Australia for a conference with the Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation, a free-trade organization that was meeting in Sydney this year. He opened his comments about the events in California by saying he was cutting short his trip to the Pacific Rim and would be heading back to Washington as soon as the Secret Service determined it was prudent to do so.
He was subdued and reflective in his comments about the loss of life and the attack on the fabric of American society, but he was also upbeat in his assessment of the ongoing threat. He said that his attorney general would be holding a press conference regarding the case within the hour, and he was confident in the Justice Department’s ability to bring the perpetrators to justice swiftly.
Kolt thought the President hit all the right notes in his comments. He grabbed another cup of coffee, washed down four more ibuprofen, and stuck around the briefing room for the AG’s press conference.
The attorney general appeared live from his office in D.C. He said, “Authorities are searching the waters in San Francisco Bay near where the terrorist vehicle went under the waves. We do expect to find the body of David Wade Doyle and his remaining confederates. It is also our belief the terrorist threat to the United States has passed, and we anticipate reopening America’s skies within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
There were audible groans in the briefing room.
Monk sat in back with Benji, Gangster, and a few other men from the alert squadron. Monk said, “So the bad guy is dead, but there’s no body. Doesn’t that sound a little like every shitty horror movie you ever saw?”
Men chuckled without smiling.
Raynor spoke the consensus of the room. “If I don’t see a body, then that bastard isn’t dead.”
Kolt pushed himself out of his chair and headed back up the Spine toward his office.
* * *
David Doyle pulled into the driveway of an old home on East Seventy-fifth in Chicago’s South Side just after midnight. A man lifted a manual garage door and David drove his Toyota straight in, and the man in the drive shut the door quickly behind him.
Doyle followed the man through the dark and into the back kitchen door of the house. A group of women were there in the kitchen, but they just looked away as the stranger entered, and he passed them by without speaking.
Doyle was led into the living room, and he found himself face-to-face with five men, all seated on a long wraparound sofa. David was handed a cup of instant coffee, and he took a chair placed in front of the television set.
“As salaam aleikum.”
The five men answered back as one. “Wa aleikum as salaam.”
Months ago, when Doyle chose his resources for this mission from the thumb drive brought by the six AQ operatives from western Pakistan, he carefully selected confederates already in the United States who could help him hide out if he ran into trouble. These sleeper cell agents needed to be as committed to the cause as he was, and they needed to be prepared to martyr themselves for the cause if David ordered them to do so.
He found a suitable group in Chicago. They were Saudis who had lived in the U.S. for over a decade, and the five men ranged in age from nineteen to thirty-seven. Three of the five men had trained at AQ camps in Pakistan, and all five had expressed a willingness to commit jihad against their adopted nation.
Doyle decided they would be perfect for his needs, even though they knew nothing about the mission they would undertake. He had contacted them in Mexico knowing that he would use them in some capacity, but now was the moment of truth, the point when they would learn their role in the coming event.
“The Americans have stopped flying all their aircraft,” said the oldest in the room, Abdul Rahman.
Doyle just nodded. “I knew they would do this. It serves our purpose. Each day the skies over the United States are empty, Americans lose billions of dollars. They will do everything they can to find us and end the threat to their planes.”
“They say on the news that they think you died in San Francisco.”
Doyle smiled at this. “Another benefit for our operation. This means they will resume flights shortly, and they will lower their guard. Our success is all but assured, my brothers.”
“So … what will we be doing?” another man asked.
“We are going to go to the one place where there will still be air traffic.”
“Where is that, Daoud?”
“Washington, D.C.”
The men looked intelligent and resolute, and this was good. Doyle needed to teach them in short order how to fire missiles, and even though this did not take much in the way of skill or talent, it would take their concentration. Still, Doyle knew, the hard part was getting men who would point the missiles at aircraft full of live humans and pull the trigger. Doyle needed these five Chicagoans to help him with that.
“I need to know that I can trust you.”
“You can, Daoud. All of us have been waiting for years for our martyrdom operation. We have rifles and ammunition buried in the backyard. We can dig them up tonight.”
“Very well. We will need them,” David said. “But first it is time for your lessons. Let us begin.”
Doyle left the room, and then returned with a single Igla launcher. He placed it on the oak table, and then put a rocket alongside it. The five men stood around the table as the al Qaeda operational commander showed them the basics of the weapon. He loaded the missile into the tube and attached the power supply, and then he hefted it onto his shoulder.
After a moment he passed it around to the four other men. Each one held it, looked through the round sights, squeezed the hand grip with a sweaty and shaky hand, and then passed it on around the room.
After an hour David felt the men had a perfunctory knowledge of the weapon and how to fire it.
Doyle next went into his explanation of the mission. All five men found it both audacious and brilliant.
When he was finished he asked, “Any questions?”
“Yeah,” said a thickly built man in his early thirties. His voice was more Chicago than Saudi Arabia. Doyle had already identified the man as the leader of the cell, but he gave equal respect to all five of the operatives. “When do we leave?”
“We will leave in the morning. I will rest for a while, and then we will travel in two vehicles. Inshallah, we will arrive at our destination with time to spare.”
FORTY
Kolt Raynor lay in his dark trailer and listened to the sound of gentle rain on the metal roof. He cursed the mattress under him. He’d lived like this for years, and it had never bothered him before, but now that he was sporting a couple of broken ribs he found himself missing the added support of a box spring. Moving around on the mattress was hell.
He sat up with a wince, and found his way to his feet. He headed into his tiny kitchen toward the coffeemaker, but the sound and lights of a vehicle pulling up outside stopped him in his tracks.
He looked at his watch and saw it was not yet 0500.
Kolt rarely received visitors to his trailer, and never at this hour.
As he opened his front door, TJ came jogging in from the rain. “How you feeling?”
Kolt shut the door behind him. “I feel like I spent a couple hours in an industrial washing machine on the spin cycle.”
“Anything new on Jason?”
“Slapshot is recovering,” said Raynor. It was the word the doctors used, so Kolt had used it himself, though he knew it could mean virtually anything short of dead.
“That’s good to hear.” TJ just stood there in the little trailer.
“Were you just in the neighborhood?” asked Kolt jokingly.
Timble hesitated before saying, “I have a proposition for you.”
“Okay.”
“How ’bout you and me take a couple days’ leave?”
“And?”
“
And we go on a little trip.”
Raynor had no idea where this was going. “A trip? A trip to where?”
TJ sat on the couch, and Raynor lowered slowly and painfully to the recliner.
“Kolt, David Doyle is out there. He’s not dead. He’s not running from this. He’s out there and he’s getting ready to act.”
“Where do you think he is?”
“Not on the West Coast. The West Coast cell was just a ruse. He planned on them getting killed so that the heat would be off him and his main objective.”
“Shooting down passenger jets wasn’t his main objective?”
“I don’t think so. It’s something else. Something big and nasty.” He paused. “I know how this guy thinks. He is not going to lie low, and he damn well knew we would initiate a ground stop. It was part of his plan.”
“So what does this have to do with our trip?”
“I want us to go find him.”
“Don’t tell me JSOC has talked the White House into rescinding Posse Comitatus.” Kolt knew Webber had been seeking a waiver on Posse Comitatus to allow JSOC forces to operate within the U.S. borders. It had been waived on rare occasion, and, in the thinking of many in the military, it should be waived now. But the White House had been vehemently against the practice even before they had convinced themselves the threat had passed.
“Posse Comitatus is still in effect,” Josh said flatly.
Raynor looked into his friend’s eyes for a long moment, trying to decide if TJ had lost his mind. But his eyes seemed as sharp and intelligent as ever. “You don’t think the Feds are going to find him?”
TJ just shook his head. “Shit. I don’t know. Maybe so. But if they don’t and he does something, then I won’t be able to live with myself for not trying to put a stop to him.”
Kolt nodded slowly. “I feel responsible for letting him slip away in Mexico.”
TJ just nodded. He offered Kolt no comfort. He was using Kolt’s guilt to push him forward.
“I don’t know, man, what if we get alerted again?” Kolt asked.
“Dude. You know damn well that last hit in Mexico was a fluke. Your squadron isn’t on alert. If anything, pops, Gangster has it.”
“Where do you want to go?” Raynor asked.
“Someplace where a guy with a missile might go to shoot down an aircraft.”
“There aren’t any planes flying.”
“Haven’t you seen the news? A plane is landing tomorrow morning.”
Kolt cocked his head. “The President?”
“I figure it’s worth a shot. I think Doyle might be thinking the exact same thing.”
Kolt just sat there for a moment. “Andrews Air Force Base will be protected. Surrounded like Fort Knox.”
TJ said, “I know. Doyle knows, too. I don’t have any answers yet, brother. Just questions. But I am going to go to D.C. and try to get some answers.”
Raynor thought it over for a few more seconds. Then he said, “I’ll talk to Webber.”
“I’ll be in his office at 0800,” TJ said. “Best you pop in after that.”
* * *
Kolt entered Webber’s office at 1000 hours, and sat in one of the chairs in front of Webber’s desk. It was a Saturday, but Webber was there.
“What’s on your mind?” Webber asked.
“Sir, I was wondering if POTUS was going to waive Posse Comitatus.”
“He hasn’t yet, why?” Webber asked.
“What’s your feeling, sir? Do you think he will?” Kolt pressed him.
“Major, the President is nervous about that, as you can understand. Right now it seems the SECDEF’s biggest hurdle is convincing him that the threat is not over. POTUS will be back in the States tomorrow and flights will resume on Monday. They think this is behind them.”
“Sir. I would like to request leave.”
“Sure. I’ve cracked ribs myself and I know how inconvenient it can be when it hurts to breathe. Take a few days. If you need more, just — ”
The colonel stopped himself in midsentence. After looking at his major for a long time, he said, “TJ asked me for leave today. You planning on a little vacay together?”
Kolt nodded.
“What’s up?”
“It might be better if I don’t go into it.”
“You guys are going after Doyle, aren’t you?”
Raynor hesitated for a moment, but finally said, “Josh seems to think he’s got a line into the guy’s psyche. I don’t necessarily believe it, but I feel like I owe him. I’d like to go along.”
“Kolt, you can barely move with those broken ribs.”
“I’ll cinch them up tight. I’ll be fine.”
The colonel sighed. “Timble is a very intelligent man. Pakistan shook him up, but I am of the opinion that, long-term, it will only make him stronger. He is not crazy, Racer.”
“No, sir.”
“You are service members. Active-duty service members.”
“We aren’t operating with the Army or JSOC, sir. We’re just two guys going for a drive. If we happen to run into a wanted terrorist…”
“You’ll make a citizen’s arrest?”
Raynor did not answer.
“If TJ thinks he can find Doyle, he might be able to do just that. The question remains, though.”
Kolt asked the question. “What are we going to do with him if we find him?”
Webber paused, as if he were choosing his next words carefully. “Kolt, David Doyle is an American citizen. If you find him on U.S. soil, it might be … problematic.”
“Problematic, sir?”
“Yes. I am speaking about the complications involved with taking him alive.”
Raynor recognized that Webber was trying to tell him something very important. He asked, “Are you saying we should not take him alive?”
“Hell, son, I’m not saying you should even go looking for him. I’d rather you didn’t get yourself mixed up in a capital murder charge.”
Raynor had not considered this, but he honestly did not care. If shooting David Doyle in front of fifty federal judges meant ending Doyle’s reign of terror, then Kolt knew he would gladly do this and then suffer the consequences. But he had no intention of making Webber complicit in his plan. He just said, “I understand, sir. We will do everything in our power to call in law enforcement if we get close to Doyle or his men.”
“Right. I have a pristine mental image of that happening.” Webber cleared his throat again. “What I am saying is this: if you should happen to take him in alive, as a United States citizen, he will get the full treatment from our laws. Fancy lawyer, day in court, jury of his peers — as if he had any peers here in America. If Doyle should be captured and not killed…”
Kolt understood. He thought back to the conversation he had with Webber just before his reinstatement into Delta. The colonel asked him, in effect, if he had any problem dropping the hammer on some crow who might otherwise end up on 60 Minutes. Kolt had said no.
And now Webber was telling him, in a roundabout but certain manner, that if he caught David Doyle in the field, then he should not allow him the chance to surrender.
“I understand, sir.”
Webber said, “This is a bad idea. But I know what you guys can do. And I know Doyle is not in the bottom of San Francisco Bay. So get out of here and good luck.”
“Thank you, sir.”
As Raynor left the room, Webber said, “Enjoy your vacation.”
* * *
TJ parked his Ford F-350 pickup outside Kolt’s trailer at noon. Raynor came out a moment later with a backpack and a Remington pump-action shotgun.
TJ said, “Great minds think alike. I’ve got a Mossberg stowed under the seats. A Glock in an ankle holster. You have your 1911?”
“Don’t leave home without it.”
“You aren’t using Unit ammo in it, are you?” TJ asked to be sure. “Remember, no comebacks on Delta if something goes down.”
“No shit. No, my ammo is from m
y personal stash, bought from Jim’s Pawnshop.”
“That’ll do.”
* * *
In minutes they were on the road. It was a five-hour drive into D.C. from Fayetteville, and they spent most of the time heading up I-95 listening to the news on the radio and speculating about Doyle’s location and his next move. The news droned on and on about how the President’s plane was due to land at Andrews at eight the next morning, and security would be extra tight around the White House.
TJ said, “We are listening to Doyle’s intelligence agents. The damn media is going to give him every detail about POTUS’s return to the U.S.”
Kolt said, “I wish he’d just sit overseas until Doyle was caught.”
“He can’t do that if his AG is telling people they think they’ve got a handle on the threat. Plus, it’s all politics. He’s flying back to Washington to look presidential, like he’s in control of the crisis.”
Kolt shook his head. “The SA-24 is the most advanced MANPAD out there, and it can defeat many infrared countermeasures. But Air Force One has countermeasures out the ass. Plus he will fly into Andrews, and security there will be incredible. You said it yourself — Doyle is smart. He would know that.”
TJ looked at Raynor, taking his eyes off the interstate in front of him for more time than Kolt found comfortable. He said, “Not Air Force One! Marine One!” The President’s helicopter. “If POTUS lands at Andrews, he’ll take Marine One to the White House.”
Kolt shook his head. “With loose SAMs and terrorists? He’ll probably take a motorcade.”
“The terrorists are dead, remember? How is he going to avoid taking his helo after his Justice Department told everyone there’s nothing to worry about? No, he’ll take Marine One, despite the Secret Service’s protests. They will very quietly and very thoroughly canvass the entire flight path with cops and Feds, but he will fly home from Andrews.”
“Marine One has countermeasures, too, Josh. It flies with decoy aircraft and has chaff and flares and IR jammers that can — ”
“I know all that. But Doyle has a plan.”