Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  Physical access. He knew what she was saying, knew the danger it could place her in.

  But the mission…it was all that mattered. “Meet us in five,” he whispered. “I’ll find a way to get the radio back up to you.”

  12:54 A.M. Eastern Time

  NCS Op-Center

  Langley, Virginia

  “They’re saying it’s an Antonov An-12,” Lasker said, looking up from his screens.

  Kranemeyer swore. “That’s an old Russian job—hundreds of them in existence, all over the world. And enough range to fly KSM anywhere in this hemisphere…maybe even across the Atlantic if they play their cards right.”

  “They’ll have a visual within five minutes,” the CLANDOPS comm chief replied. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and it will have a tail number?”

  “We should be so blessed,” Kranemeyer murmured. This wasn’t going to end well—he could feel it in his bones. Releasing a terrorist…even for a little while. There were too many variables, too many things that could go wrong. Negotiating with terrorists.

  He felt the burner phone vibrate in his inner pocket—the last number he had activated and given to Thomas.

  “I’ll be right back.” He moved past the rows of cubicles in the op-center, bank after bank of plasma screens, monitoring a night that seemed to be exploding around them.

  “Yes?”

  “Good evening, director,” a familiar voice greeted him. The last voice he had expected to hear on this night.

  Nichols. “Evening,” he replied, careful not to use names. “As you’ll see from your television, I’m having a busy night. What’s this about?”

  “I’m here, director. In Vegas. Preparing to launch an assault on the Bellagio’s theatre as we speak.”

  What? Kranemeyer glanced back to the workstation where Lasker was coordinating the situation, struggling to process what he had just been told. “How?”

  “Long story. There’s something wrong here with this demand for the release of KSM—something I don’t think we’re even looking at.”

  They were both feeling the same thing, instincts born of years out in the night. “What’s your gut telling you?”

  “That Tarik didn’t come all this way for one man. That he’s after something much bigger than the long-shot release of an aging terrorist—only a fool would believe that was his endgame.”

  He was right. “You know what they say about fools and politicians…I don’t have the authority to overrule the President in this.”

  “I know that…but assuming that the release of KSM is not the goal—why Gitmo?”

  “He spent a lot of years there…” Kranemeyer responded, suddenly realizing where Nichols was headed. “You’re saying that this is personal.”

  “Targeting Gilpin was.” Harry paused. “We don’t have much time, director. I need you to keep that plane from landing for at least another ten minutes.”

  “And what then?”

  “By then…the hostages will be safe.”

  12:56 A.M.

  The Antonov An-12

  Over the Caribbean

  The man in the pilot’s seat of the Antonov couldn’t have been much more than twenty-two years of age—slender fingers dancing over the big plane’s instrument panel, a thin, dark beard shrouding the lower half of his face. Eyes ringed with darkness, the look of a man on the point of exhaustion, yet those orbs glistened with a weary excitement. The eyes of the desert from whence he came.

  He was alone, had been ever since leaving the military airfield on the outskirts of Maracaibo over three hours earlier. One man, to pilot an aircraft designed for five.

  Insh’allah.

  He twisted halfway in his seat, glancing back into the Antonov’s cavernous cargo hold. A hold packed with drums of aviation fuel, lined with high explosives.

  The dark shadow of the Cuban coast stretched in front of him, the lights of the American military base twinkling in the dark.

  The moment for which he had been training so long—all the long days in flight school, all the hours he had logged. For this.

  9:57 P.M. Pacific Time

  The Bellagio

  Las Vegas

  “EAGLE SIX…I have the solution.” A whisper, nothing more—a ghost in the night that surrounded him like a cloak.

  Harry glanced down from the catwalk into the darkness below him, shadows mingling in odd shades of green in the view of his night-vision. “Roger that, LONGBOW,” he replied, acknowledging the transmission.

  Thomas was in position. Providing overwatch from a maintenance platform high above the theatre itself, his perch shrouded amidst the scaffolding, the lights.

  Their insurance policy.

  Stillness. Harry held his breath, listening for any movement, any sign of life from below.

  Nothing. Motioning for Tex to hand him the thick nylon rope, he clipped it to one of supports of the catwalk, looping it around the railing and tying it fast. There was no more time for guilt, for recriminations over those they hadn’t been able to save.

  Time to do this.

  Wrapping his hands around the rope, Harry climbed over the railing to stand on the edge—feet pushing away.

  And he was falling, the rope burning between his fingers as he descended. The floor rushing up to meet him.

  His boots came together on the rope, serving as rude brakes. Not enough.

  He hit harder than he’d intended, nearly doubling over as pain shot through his bruised ribs, his feet connecting with the floor in an all-too-audible thud.

  Stabbing pain. He found himself gasping for breath, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out. Letting go of the rope, he left it to dangle, unslinging his H&K from his back.

  “He just transmitted, Harry.” Carol’s voice through his earpiece, from back on the catwalk.

  The three minutes started now. “The FLIR has him about ten meters ahead of you…moving your way.”

  He’d heard the sound. No time for the pain, not now. He stumbled forward, the UMP-45’s stock pressed against his shoulder, as he came around a pile of stage equipment.

  There. A luminescent figure in his night-vision, not even a man—not really. A target.

  The H&K’s iron sights centered on the terrorist’s forehead as Harry squeezed the trigger—a figure crumpling back into the darkness. Dead before the scream on his lips could even be uttered.

  Vengeance. For all that had already fallen this night.

  Harry limped over to the body, kicking the Kalashnikov assault rifle away from its lifeless hands. “Tango down.”

  1:00 A.M. Eastern Time

  The Situation Room

  Washington, D.C.

  “Inform the director that the plane will land at Guantanamo as scheduled,” President Hancock replied. He shot a tired look at Cahill. “Bernard Kranemeyer may be the acting DCIA, but I’m the president, and I’m not having the blood of more innocent Americans on my hands just because we decided to push the envelope. What is he thinking?”

  His chief of staff shrugged as if it was an impossible question to answer, glancing at his watch. “The Antonov should be landing in moments, Mr. President.”

  Hancock nodded his acknowledgement, glancing over at one of his aides. “Get a message to CINCLANTFLT…have the Truman’s CO ready his fighters.”

  General Nealen walked back into the Situation Room at that moment, tension showing on his face.

  “We have a problem, Mr. President,” he announced, handing a clipboard to Hancock. “Just received this CRITIC from Fort Meade.”

  The President removed the cover sheet and glanced down the message, feeling a strange fear creep over him. “How can this be?” he asked, looking up at the general.

  “What is it, Roger?” Cahill demanded, forgetting himself for a moment.

  “Voiceprint analysis from the NSA,” Hancock replied slowly, as if not quite believing his own words. “The man in the theatre—the man we’ve been negotiating with…is not Tarik Abdul Muhammad.”

  1:01
A.M.

  The NCS Op-Center

  Langley, Virginia

  Kranemeyer swore an oath as he replaced the phone in its cradle. “They’re going to let it land,” he announced, glancing across the workstation at Lasker. Something was wrong about this, so very wrong.

  The comm chief’s eyes lit up suddenly. “We’re getting this streamed to us live from ECHELON…the pilot of the Antonov is getting a call—from Vegas.”

  “Turn it up,” Kranemeyer ordered, hearing the voice of a man in Arabic coming over the speakers.

  It had been years since Iraq, but he could still remember the language, ingrained upon his memory. He could feel the blood drain from his face, the haunting realization of their mistake.

  “He’s saying goodbye…”

  1:02 A.M.

  The Antonov An-12

  He could hear the voice of the tower’s controller in his ear as the Antonov came in hot, low over the Leeward Point Airfield—less than a hundred feet off the deck—the four massive turboprop engines churning the night air, flaps raised.

  “There is no god but God,” he whispered, tears streaming down his face as he remembered the words of the shaikh. The indescribable feeling of honor…that he had been chosen to play a role in this holy struggle.

  And there was water beneath him once more as the transport swept out over the Bay of Guantanamo. Lights glistening off the waves.

  His hands were sweaty as he gripped the controls, aiming the plane toward the large white building standing on the windward shore of the bay.

  The Naval Hospital.

  There was no time for anyone on the military base to react. No time to counter the sudden threat.

  The Soviet-built cargo plane slammed into the western wall of the hospital just above the second floor and burst into flames—the explosives lining the cargo hold going off in a sympathetic detonation mere moments later, an explosion that shook the entire base with the force of an earthquake, sending one of the Antonov’s engines spinning through the floor to fall into a dining area below.

  Death. Chaos. Fire…

  10:03 P.M. Pacific Time

  The Bellagio

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Samir closed the phone, whispering a prayer. The charade was over—the show they had performed for the Americans. Time to ring down the curtain.

  The lawyer drew his Glock from its holster on the belt of his jeans as he approached the group of hostages once more, slamming a fresh magazine into the butt of the pistol. No more games, no more deception. Five years living in this land, going to work every day, living among them—living a lie. No more.

  “When do I see your face, coward?” His head came around at the sound of the woman’s voice, eyes falling on Laura Gilpin’s face. A purplish bruise was discoloring the flesh around her right cheekbone, from where he had struck her before. It did nothing to mask the look of defiance in her eyes.

  “What type of man hides behind a mask and a gun?”

  Marika Altmann moved toward the screen in the security center, the congresswoman’s voice coming through the speakers. “What does she think she’s doing?”

  Russ shook his head, a look of pain coming into his eyes. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. As a hostage, you wanted to blend in—become the gray man…the one your captors didn’t even notice. Gilpin was doing the opposite.

  Carol came through the door in that moment, returning from the catwalk. She had the radio in her hands.

  “It’s guilt,” the negotiator whispered, glancing up at the screen as he watched the terrorist close in on the congresswoman, shoving his pistol into her face. “She’s blaming herself—trying to focus their attention on her. Away from her supporters.”

  “And it’s going to get her killed,” Marika observed grimly. “Nichols, I need your sitrep.”

  Nothing but silence greeted her query. The moments to death ticking down. “LONGBOW,” she began, addressing the Agency sniper, “you are weapons-free.”

  10:04 P.M.

  He felt exposed, light filtering down through the fifteen feet of water above him. Harry reached out a foot, kicking away from the underwater portal at the back of the O’s tank. Twisting in the water, he gazed upward at the massive machinery of the underwater set, gears intertwining, winches aiding in the raising and lowering of platforms. The bottom of the aquarium was painted black, helping to mask his movements from anyone looking down.

  Behind him, a pair of swimmers emerged from the lock, legs kicking against the water. Richards and Han.

  Harry sucked in a breath of oxygen from the tank on his back, holding his H&K close to his body as he motioned upward. Toward the light. The surface.

  “Shut up, whore,” Samir snarled, realizing suddenly that she was baiting him into focusing on her. Distraction.

  He drew back his arm, slamming the butt of the Glock into Gilpin’s cheek, drawing blood. She dies last, the cell leader thought, remembering the instructions of the shaikh.

  Turning away, he keyed his radio, in that moment aware that he had missed his schedule of communication by several minutes. “Patrol One, report in.”

  “All clear.”

  “Patrol Two?”

  “Clear, my brother.”

  Samir nearly went on, but something seemed to grab hold of him, pulling him back.They were the exact same words from before.

  He swore in a mixture of fear and anger, toggling the radio’s mike once more. “Patrol Two, are you okay?”

  Gilad saw the leader turn, his angry curse attracting the attention of his men. Now or never. Waiting would only secure their deaths.

  He sprang to his feet, hurling himself up the stairs toward the corpse of his team member. A shout behind him, his foot slipping on the blood-dampened carpet.

  He went down, yanking the Sig-Sauer out of the man’s holster. A burst of slugs slammed into his leg, splintering bone and ripping through flesh. Fiery pain filled his veins, the sound of a Kalashnikov on full-automatic resounding through the theatre.

  The Sig recoiled into his hand as he squeezed off two shots and he saw one of the terrorists stagger, then go down as if pole-axed—the air split with the report of a heavy rifle.

  10:06 P.M.

  Harry could hear the shots as he kicked his way to the surface, reverberating like summer thunder through the water.

  Punctuated by the lightning crack of Thomas’s Remington.

  It hadn’t been supposed to end this way. With the death of more innocents.

  He burst from the water, reaching out a hand against the side of the aquarium to steady himself as he brought the submachine gun up.

  Pandemonium. Screams filled his ears as the red laser flicked out from the foreend of his H&K, searching for a target.

  Terrorist. Civilian. Shoot. No-shoot. Hundreds of hours, every year, training for just this. He could see the shoot house now, tires pocked with bullets, mannequins once again arranged as so many times in the past.

  Nothing ever truly prepared you for the chaos of battle. He saw one of the terrorists turn toward the stage, fumbling inside his jacket. Detonator.

  Harry depressed the trigger, getting off a ragged burst—water and brass streaming from the H&K’s ejection port as he fired.

  Time itself seemed to slow down. It was as if he could see the bullets striking the terrorist, slugs smashing through the man’s balaclava and on into his throat, sending him collapsing back against the seats.

  He heard the death rattle of Han’s weapon, saw another man fall.

  Reaching out a hand, Harry pulled himself up onto the edge of the stage, struggling to ignore the pain shooting through his side.

  Slugs fanned the air past his ear and he glanced up to see one of the gunmen aiming a Kalashnikov down at him from among the seats, its barrel spurting flame.

  Too close. He threw himself to one side, rolling onto his back as he brought the UMP-45 up, his finger applying pressure to the trigger.

  No. A woman ran between him and his ta
rget in that moment, obscuring his sight picture. He didn’t have a clear shot as the terrorist grabbed her by the wrist, jerking her back against his body.

  Human shield. He could see the terror in her eyes, the tears running down her face as he rose to his feet, the stock of the H&K extended against his bare shoulder.

  “Are you going to go find mommy?”

  It might have been her, might not. Might have been someone else’s mother.

  Take the shot, he thought, the vision of the child filling his mind. Innocence. Hope. Trust.

  He heard gunshots exploding around him, dimly saw men fall. His vision narrowed, focusing on the woman—her captor. His finger flicked out, switching the selector to single-shot.

  A singular eye near the woman’s ear, half of a masked head—nothing more. Time itself seemed to slow down.

  His breathing became shallow, his left hand closing around the foreend of the H&K in a rock-solid grip. The red dot of the laser stopped dancing, centering on the terrorist’s forehead, just above and to the right of the eyehole in the mask.

  The trigger broke under the gentle caress of his finger, a single .45-caliber slug exploding from the muzzle—striking the terrorist in the center of the forehead.

  He saw the woman’s lips open in a silent scream as the gunman’s grip on her wrist was suddenly loosed, a fine mist of blood flecking her silk blouse. She fell to her knees, eyes wide with horror, her screams finally finding voice.

  Target eliminated.

  He glanced across to see Han inserting a fresh magazine into the mag well of his MP-5, practiced hands moving over the action—pulling back the charging handle.

  You never forget. No matter how hard you try.

  A pall of silence seemed to fall over the theatre as the three of them moved forward, muzzles sweeping over the seats—over the bodies of the slain. The terrorists.

  The hostages they had arrived too late to save.

  The sulphurous, hellish scent of gunpowder hung in the air, mingling with the smell of blood. Death.

  No shots greeted them from the balconies overlooking the stage, no explosions as suicide vests were triggered in once last act of defiance.

  He could feel the hostages shrink away from him as he approached, water dripping from his body onto the bloodstained carpet of the “O”. Just another man with a gun…that’s all he was to them in this moment.