RW12 - Vengeance

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RW12 - Vengeance Page 22

by Richard Marcinko

I avoided making a commitment on what role, if any, I’d play, but I did agree to talk to the admiral. Cox put the call through himself and then handed me the phone. I found myself speaking to the admiral’s chief of staff in Portsmouth, a captain who had the annoying habit of saying “of course” after every sentence I uttered. They had already realized that the crews on the ships were a potential weak link, and besides assigning cutters and possibly Navy vessels as escorts to every LNG tanker approaching the harbor, they would put boarding parties with technical experts on every ship. It sounded good, though the real test would be the execution. I told him a few things about the onshore arrangements. He didn’t ask if I wanted to sit in on the teleconference and I didn’t volunteer.

  After I hung up, I prodded and poked Cox for more information about the operation he and the NSA boys had unearthed, trying to see if I could find a real connection with Shadow. Even though I was sure there was something there, nothing Cox told me confirmed it, let alone gave me any tangible information about what the NSA had actually figured out. The agency that doesn’t exist casts a certain black aura over everything they do. They’ve never been caught up in public scandals like the Christians In Action, and pulling intelligence out of thin air gives them a certain mystique that’s hard to penetrate. That mystique is one of their main products, and they work hard to maintain it.

  I’d tried getting hold of George Boreland several times, and gave it another shot once Shunt and I got out of the office. I borrowed an encrypted phone—actually, the office holding it—and called into a work number I’d obtained from another NSA staffer. A gruff voice answered—not with “Hello” or “Yeah?”, but with the words, “How’d you get this number?” Whoever was on the other side—I don’t know for a fact that it was Boreland, just someone who worked in that section of the Agency—slammed the phone down before I even had a chance to open my mouth. The number no longer worked when I called back.

  I was just hanging up when my cell phone rang.

  “They’re moving,” said Trace.

  “On my way.”

  Shunt and I had come down to D.C. aboard a Coast Guard HH-60 Jayhawk. The aircraft had been generously detailed to me by the air commander of the First District, who apparently was under the misimpression that Rich Armstead himself had ordered the aircraft made available. I don’t know how he might have gotten that idea; maybe it was the email that went out, or seemed to go out, from his office. The HH-60 is the Coast Guard’s version of the Blackhawk, which is about as ubiquitous today as the Huey was back in Vietnam. They’re great, versatile aircraft—but at one hundred ninety-three knots top speed, an HH-60 wasn’t going to get me up to New York as quickly as I wanted.

  I did, however, have a backup plan.

  The two guards snapped to attention on the tarmac as Shunt and I approached. Behind them sat an HU-25A, one of the few French nondrinkable exports that’s worth anything. Officially dubbed the Guardian, the HU-25 is actually a modified version of a Dassault Falcon 20G. The Falcon can go more than twice as fast as the Jayhawk and more than twice as far.

  This one was waiting for a Coast Guard VIP. The guards snapped to as Shunt and I trotted to the aircraft. We hopped aboard and made our way to the flight cabin.

  “No pilot,” said Shunt.

  “Yeah. Real shame,” I said.

  “I don’t think we should wait, do you?”

  “I don’t think he’d want us to.”

  Shunt took the stick and we rocked off the ground after the world’s quickest preflight, humping toward New York. The HU-25A lacked a SatCom connection, and after hunting around trying to get a frequency that would connect with Danny, I gave up and pulled out my cell phone. If the phone screwed up the cockpit gear, Shunt never mentioned it. Danny picked up on the second ring.

  “We’re on the turnpike, coming north,” he told me.

  There was only one driver in the truck, and as far as Danny could tell, there were no bodyguards or a trail team nearby. We had three cars in the operation, not counting Capel’s crew, which was trailing my guys. The ATF strike team was assembling at Teterboro Airport, a small airport in northern New Jersey that had been selected because it was easier to deal with than the majors nearby. Their helicopter had been fueled and would take off within five minutes.

  “We’re about twenty minutes from Teterboro,” said Shunt, leaning against the throttle. “We could land and get on the helicopter if the timing goes right.”

  I pulled out a paper map to get an idea of the area. The Jersey Turnpike, also known as I-95, runs the length of the state, crossing over the Hudson River at the George Washington Bridge. As I-95, it continues across the city into Westchester and then over into Connecticut. There were hundreds if not thousands of possible permutations.

  “Shit,” said Danny. “He’s heading for the Lincoln Tunnel.”

  “Shut down the tunnel,” I told him, ruining the afternoon and a good hunk of the night for thousands of people about to be caught in the resulting traffic jam. Ten minutes later—after Danny had confirmed with the state police that the tunnel had, in fact, been closed—the container truck turned off the highway, heading back to the west. The next time Danny checked in, he was headed north on Route 17 in northern New Jersey. The truck had bypassed the main arteries into New York City, though it was still headed through a well-populated area. It looked no different than thousands of other tractor trailers that head up that busy highway every day.

  “Stewart Airport might be a better place to land,” suggested Shunt, looking at my map. “The helo with the SWAT team could meet us there.”

  He made the necessary course adjustments, and I went back to the map. Stewart was thirty or forty miles north of the Jersey border, near the Hudson River in the town of Newburgh, New York. The ATF helo checked in and it looked like we were set for a good rendezvous at the airport.

  Too bad the guy driving the cargo container hadn’t been briefed on the mission.

  “He’s going east on I-87, the New York Thruway,” said Danny a few minutes later. “Heading for the Tappan Zee Bridge.”

  I went back to the map. I-87 ran across the river at the Tappan Zee and then back south into New York City. But it also connected via 287 with Connecticut and from there to the rest of New England and Canada. We could land at Westchester County Airport and meet the helicopter there. But before I managed to set up the rendezvous, Danny called back with yet another change of direction. The truck had gotten off on local roads, gotten back onto the thruway, and was now coming off a ramp at a large shopping mall in Rockland County called Palisades Center.

  “I’m three cars behind him,” said Danny. “He’s going into Palisades Center.”

  Palisades Center is a large enclosed mall in Rockland County. If you get there at three o’clock on a Thursday in July, you can’t get a parking spot.

  “Dick, if he’s got canisters of mustard gas in there, the mall would be a perfect target,” said Danny. “He’s going around the back.”

  “Detail somebody to pick me up if he starts moving again,” I told Danny. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “Time for Plan B,” I told Shunt.

  When the Coast Guard bought the Falcons, they made a few million dollars’ worth of changes to the aircraft. Among these were trapdoors that allow equipment and supplies to be parachuted to ships in distress. The openings are only twenty by thirty inches wide. To give you a better idea of how small they are, they fit in the aisle at the middle of the plane, which is squeeze city, especially if you happen to be wearing a parachute. I got stuck as I squeezed out, and anyone with a camera would have had a hell of a picture, since it probably looked like the airplane had a pair of legs. I managed to push a little left, and as I got unstuck the aircraft lurched hard to the right. The side of the hatchway or maybe the bottom of the plane slapped the side of my helmet pretty hard, and it took a few seconds for me to get myself oriented as I plummeted in what may best be described as a free fall. By the time I opened my chu
te, Danny had the truck surrounded at the far end of the mall near the entrance to the movie theaters. I could see a flood of people streaming from the other sides, and it’s probable that if I weren’t wearing a helmet, I’d even have been able to hear their screams.

  A black bug appeared on the horizon to my left. I decided it must be the SWAT team in its helicopter. Below my feet I could see that Danny and one of the shooters with him were near the corner of the building, but the others weren’t obvious. It could be that they were stuck in the traffic that was snaking back to the thruway.

  I steered my chute around, legging into an approach so I could drop onto the roof near the truck. As I did that, the door to the cab opened and I watched the driver get out. He had something in his hands.

  No, it wasn’t an umbrella.

  The rifle—it turned out to be an AR-15—jumped as the driver shot in Danny’s direction. By that time, I was maybe fifty feet from the ground. It’s possible that if I had had more time to think about it, I would have stayed exactly on the course I was on and landed safely on the other side of the truck. But I’ve always leaned more toward action than contemplation. I pulled hard on the steering togs, changing course.

  The driver started to turn toward me when I was about ten feet away, which made it easier for me to kick him in the face. He fell backward and the rifle went flying. By the time I had the harness on my chute unsnapped, Danny had appeared and was standing over the man with his rifle.

  Danny grinned. “Nice of you to drop in.” Then he went to the cab. “I saw him screwing with this,” he said, reaching in. “That’s why we moved in.”

  He held up a gas mask.

  The ATF SWAT team had fanned out behind us. Between their helicopter and my arrival, we’d attracted a bit of attention. I told Sean to try to find the mall security people to keep the scene under control, but by then word had spread that there were armed men at the rear entrance of the mall. The crowd gave us plenty of room all right—they panicked and began flooding away from the place. I found out later that even the security people had taken a hike. Ten bucks an hour and Tuesdays off wasn’t enough to risk your neck for when the shit hit the fan.

  We didn’t see much of the panic up close. We were at the rear end of the mall, with the helo in a gravel lot and the truck near the door. We couldn’t see the people streaming for the exits on the other side. We knew the state and local police were responding, along with a HAZMAT team from the county. Danny and I decided we’d interview the driver while we waited.

  First we had to wake him. There being no water handy, Danny decided that any liquid would do. While on stakeout, he’d taken the precaution of filling two five-gallon jugs with extra gasoline, just in case it became inconvenient to find a gas station while tracking the truck. Odds are the American Medical Association wouldn’t have approved of his method, but it did wake the truck driver up.

  “Now start talking,” said Danny, holding up a lighter.

  The man started crying instead. His tears didn’t elicit much sympathy.

  “Who the hell are you?” I asked.

  He said something in a language I didn’t recognize.

  “Who are you?” I asked again.

  “English,” added Danny.

  “Seriv Dogglebash.”

  “What are you doing with the truck?” I asked.

  “I drive it here.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Why did you try to shoot Danny?”

  Seriv didn’t answer. Danny flicked his thumb, lighting the flame on the lighter. Given the stench coming off Seriv, I’m surprised he didn’t spontaneously combust.

  “You were going to shoot me,” he blubbered, really bawling now. His accent made his words difficult to understand, but he pointed to the side of the building.

  “What were you doing with the gas mask?” I asked.

  He shook his head. Danny raised the lighter. Seriv screamed.

  “What were you doing with the truck?” I asked.

  He started speaking his native tongue again, the words rolling out quickly. To this day I have no idea what he was saying or what language it was in, though I guessed then that it was Serbo-Croatian. He looked as if he were from that part of the world—pudgy and dark-featured. Neither well-dressed nor clean shaven, smelling of gasoline, he tried to move backward from Danny’s flame but found his path cut off by the curb.

  Sean returned and told us what was going on inside the mall. “Pandemonium” wasn’t in his vocabulary, but that’s what he was describing. I told him to take some of the ATF people and try to get things settled down at the front, at least enough for the police to get through the traffic. At that moment, I truly regretted sending Trace down to Texas and Tiffany over to France. Either one of them would have stopped traffic in an instant.

  Danny continued to wave the lighter in front of the driver, but all he got out of him were uncontrollable sobs.

  “He’s pretty scared of getting fried,” said Danny. “You think he’s telling us something in Serb or whatever the hell it is he’s talking?”

  I pulled out the phone, thinking I would call Karen and get her to run down a translator. But she wasn’t at her desk or answering her cell.

  “Maybe we ought to tape what he’s saying,” suggested Danny. “While we’ve still got him scared.”

  I made Danny promise not to have a pig roast before I got back, then trotted inside. A large electronics store sat about four slots down on the right. I’d just picked it out when something flashed at the far end of the hallway.

  Call it a knee-jerk reaction, but even before my eyes and brain began processing the spark, I’d launched myself toward the floor.

  Gunfire tends to have that effect on me, especially when it’s coming from an MP5 submachine gun.

  Chapter

  14

  Fortunately, whoever was firing the MP5 was not a particularly good shot. Otherwise, the fact that my dive ended well short of the store and anything remotely capable of providing protection would have been more than just disappointing. I managed to push myself forward and roll into the store, knocking over a display of Jap robots, which scattered over the floor and began writhing as if they were the ones that had been shot at.

  Here’s a smart shopper tip you won’t hear anywhere else: if you have to be shot at in a shopping mall, try to pick one that has a gun store. Even better, try to be in front of the gun store when you get shot at.

  Two or three of the robots began making their way out toward the hall, chirping and beeping as my friend in the hall emptied his magazine. The little things had sensors in them that were attracted to noise, and being Japanese they didn’t know any better, marching toward the gunfire like brave samurai. The appearance of the miniature army annoyed the gunman, who kept up his fury until he burned clear through the magazine.

  Mistake.

  I pivoted from my crouch by the doorway, firing three slugs down the hall from my P7. None of them hit the gunman, who dove into one of the stores down the aisle. I started to sidle toward him, closing down the angle of fire, when I caught a shadow moving on the opposite wall. I ducked back into the electronics place just as a second submachine gun opened up from the direction of a Victoria’s Secret four doors down. Nothing like a Tango with a panty fetish to make the day interesting.

  A video camera had been mounted on a tripod near the front of the store, and when I looked up at the wall of TVs on the right I saw my face on half the sets. I’ve looked better. I thought about using the camera to spy down the hallway and even got up and started to push it toward the door. But the cord had already been stretched to the max. As I hunted around behind the unit I got another idea, more out of desperation than anything else. The camera was a small digital job that had a still mode as well as replay. I fiddled with the knobs—fortunately, it was similar to a unit I’d bought myself a few months back—and got myself to reappear on the screens. I hit freeze and voilà—is it live…or Memorex?

  I pushed the cam around so that it
looked like it was aimed at the spot near the wall. Then I retreated toward the back of the store. The robots were still writhing around on the floor at the front, jabbering away. I heard, or thought I heard, one of the gunmen kick one and curse. Then I saw the top of a short shadow at the side of the entrance. From where he was standing, he would have just barely seen the television. A second later, the two men spun into the front of the store, fingers pressed hard on the triggers of their pretty submachine guns, barrels aimed in the direction of the camera.

  My first bullet took the man on the right in the temple. I got a second bullet into the back of his head. My third shot caught gunman number two in the throat—maybe I was tired—but my third and fourth rounds put two more openings in his face. As I got up, I noticed a small minirecorder in a plastic display card on the right. I hesitated just for a second—which turned out to be the second that saved my life. For as I turned back to the front of the store, the hallway exploded.

  No matter how many explosions you’ve witnessed up close and personal, the next one is always the scariest.

  Unless you set it off, of course.

  There had been a third man with the other two. He’d strapped plastic explosives to his body, and detonated them as soon as he got the nerve after seeing his comrades die. The force of the explosion blew out the glass in all of the stores along the hall on that side of the mall and took down several of the thin plasterboard walls nearby. It knocked me off my feet and showered dust, dirt, and debris everywhere. Half of the TVs exploded.

  Danny and some of the SWAT people were inside the mall by the time I made it to the hallway. Bits and pieces of the suicide bomber now decorated the hall, along with debris. The force of the explosion had shattered much of the plasterboard and glass lining the hallway, and a fine mist of plaster filled the air.

  “Here’s the tape recorder,” I told Danny, handing him the package. “Batteries and everything.”

  The driver was an American citizen of Serbian descent. He was a Muslim, which is not against the law. He was a real truck driver with a commercial license, which was also not against the law. He lived in a rented apartment in a small city upriver called Beacon, the sort of place rats go when they want to slum. Also not against the law. But the M16 he’d had was. As were the five cases of mustard gas containers in the cargo container and the Semtex in the crate behind the seat of the tractor.

 

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