First Strike

by Jeremy Rumfitt

  “How many NEST teams can you muster?”

  “Many as you need, Alex. What’s the problem?”

  “Nothing’s happening here. There’s no movement. Nothing. There should’ve been some sign by now. Maybe we should look elsewhere.”

  “Where, Alex?” There was frustration in the tired voice.

  “How the hell should I know? The Washington Monument. The Library of Congress. The Supreme Court. Anywhere else you can think of. You’ve got the manpower. You might as well put them to work.”

  At 7 p.m. Bowman was startled by the shrill tone of his cell phone. “Bowman.”

  “This is Imam Siddiqui. I have some information for you. I don’t have their names or even a good description, but four men corresponding to your requirements came to the States just over a year ago. Just like you said, they entered into arranged marriages with local girls. They’ve been living quietly in Baltimore ever since.” He paused. “All four are electronics engineers. All four spent time at an Al Qaeda training camp outside of Kandahar.”

  “So they’re Afghans?”

  “No, sir. I’m ashamed to say they’re Saudis.”

  Bowman switched off the phone and called Jennings on the secure line.

  “Where’s the Saudi Embassy?”

  “What is this, Alex? Another hunch?” Jennings sounded exhausted.

  “Hunches is all we’ve got to go on, Bob. There’s nothing happening here. So where the fuck is it?”

  “601 New Hampshire Avenue. That’s right off Dupont Circle.”

  “How far from here?”

  “Traffic the way it is? Coupla minutes.”

  “The Secret Services guys patrolling the Embassy grounds, how many will have Special Forces training?”

  “A lot of them. Maybe most.”

  “This is a whole new situation, Bob. We’re going to have to storm the Saudi Embassy. We’ll need some kit. Stun grenades. EMOE charges. Metal jackets. Two-way radios. And protective clothing. We must have some protective clothing. Don’t know why Hoolahan didn’t think of that before. And we’ll need a set of plans of the Saudi Embassy. Whatever else you can think of, bring. How long with all that take?”

  “Everything you need is right here at the Hoover Building, Alex, except maybe the plans. I’ll have the check the archives but it’s possible they’re on file, a lot of sensitive buildings are. I just need time to get it all together.”

  “Be here in an hour. What you haven’t got by then, we’ll do without.”

  Bowman shook Hoolahan awake.

  “Pat, what rank did you hold?”

  Hoolahan didn’t stir. Bowman slapped him gently around the face. “What rank, Pat? What rank did you hold in Special Forces?”

  “Captain,” Hoolahan coughed. “The bastards finally made me a Captain.”

  Ambassador Brightman peered around the door, looking for an update. Bowman waved him away and summoned the Secret Service detail patrolling the grounds outside. He singled out a dozen men with Special Forces backgrounds and sent the remainder back outside.

  “Any of you men out-rank a Captain?”

  Bowman addressed the room. None of them did.

  “Then I guess you’re in command, Captain Hoolahan.”

  “In command of what?”

  “I’ll explain,” said Bowman, “soon as Jennings gets here with the kit.”

  The Ambassador re-appeared, still in a foul mood. His cherished limo hadn’t turned up yet. But he’d improvised a rudimentary supper for the men and sat at the back of the room following developments closely. Bowman politely ignored him. So Brightman withdrew to his office where he called the Colonel at the Pentagon to bring him up to speed.

  Jennings arrived with the equipment Bowman had requested plus some other stuff he’d thought about himself. Most importantly, he had a complete set of plans of the Saudi Embassy. Jennings had also contacted the security firm that installed the electronic surveillance systems at the Saudi Embassy. He’d even got hold of a copy of the CCTV tape that showed the British Ambassador’s limo entering the basement car park.

  “You mean the CCTV system’s still live?”

  Bowman could not believe their luck.

  “Seems so,” Jennings replied. “The security firm can monitor the whole building remotely from their offices in Arlington. Right down to the temperature in the Ambassador’s private john.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Bowman was elated. “And I’d stopped believing in the tooth fairy.”

  “Could be a problem here,” Moreno cut in.

  “How come?” Bowman frowned. Things were going so well.

  “If the bad guys find the control room they’ll have an eyeball on the approaches and the grounds. They’ll see us coming.”

  “Shit.” Bowman was deflated. “Any way we can check?”

  “Security company might help.”

  Jennings called the number and established that at that precise moment the control room at the Saudi Embassy was unattended. The limo was still in the basement car park. The four martyrs were at evening prayers, their Mausers laid out on the ground beside them. Anything changed, the security company would be sure to call Jennings right away.

  Secret Service agents began loading the assault equipment into unmarked cars. Bowman picked out a 9mm Colt SMG that was light, compact, and ideal for close quarter combat. A single clip held thirty-two rounds and it fired one thousand rounds per minute. Bowman, Jennings, Hoolahan and Moreno took the lead in Jennings’ car, sped down Massachusetts Avenue to Dupont Circle and came to a halt fifty yards from the Saudi Embassy at 601 New Hampshire Avenue. Jennings called the security company’s HQ in Arlington. Nothing had changed. The control room was unattended. The martyrs were still at prayer. Bowman checked the plans of the building. The CCTV control room was a small office off the main lobby to the right of the reception desk. Access to the basement car park was via a narrow staircase wrapped around the lift shaft.

  Jennings drove through the Embassy gates and sped up to the main doors. In the rush to get away Embassy personnel had left them unlocked. Bowman and Hoolahan were first into the lobby. A bunch of Secret Service agents followed.

  “OK, guys,” Hoolahan bellowed, “you know the procedure. Secure this floor.”

  A group of agents dispersed to cover all exits and entrances. Bowman and Hoolahan made for the control room to find Moreno and Jennings already there.

  Cal was looking at a TV screen that showed the four martyrs standing about smoking.

  “My God. See that?” She pointed at the dude passing a joint around between them. “They’re getting stoned. Give the bastards enough guts to throw the Goddamn switch.”

  “How long does it take to get stoned?” Jennings enquired.

  “Depends on what they’re smoking, sir.”

  Cal was amazed he even had to ask. But then Director Jennings was really kinda cute, sort of boyish.

  “But whatever it is, I expect these guys have a pretty high threshold.”

  “Where’s the device?” said Bowman urgently.

  “Probably in the trunk of the limo,” said Cal.

  “Can you manipulate the cameras?”

  “Sure.”

  Cal rotated the remote cameras round the basement, scanning every alcove and corner. The good news was the external garage door was locked and bolted to the floor.

  “Hold it, guys,” said Cal. “The devise isn’t in the trunk. It’s right there on the back seat. I guess they musta moved it.”

  “Whadaya think, Pat?”

  Bowman turned to Hoolahan who was poring over the basement drawings. Hoolahan watched as the cameras panned around the room.

  “Doesn’t look too bad,” he coughed. “Multiple points of entry and egress but we have enough men to cover every one. Outside door is shut and bolted, which is great. Stun grenades will have maximum effect. We have the radios and we can eyeball everything that moves from here. Cal can let us know immediately anything down there changes. I say we go in pronto.
Just stay well clear of the device, Alex. Don’t want you getting burned.”

  “Why not wait a while?” Cal seemed relaxed. “Let the bastards get real high; in half an hour they’ll be legless.”

  “Too much at stake.” Bowman touched Hoolahan on the shoulder. “C’mon, Pat. Let’s go.”

  Hoolahan assembled a group of Secret Service agents and briefed them quickly, indicating the points of egress on the plan. The men dispersed to take up their positions. Bowman and Hoolahan ran down the staircase to basement level and paused at the internal garage door. Hoolahan began to wheeze. Sweat was pouring off him. Cal confirmed everything was as before except now the martyrs had begun to chant. She thought it was a prayer. Hoolahan checked with the other agents. All exits and entrances were covered.

  “OK, guys,” Hoolahan spoke into his radio. “On my count of three I’m gonna lob in a couple of stun grenades. Then Bowman and me will make our play, take the bastards out. Nobody else moves. Don’t want no messy blue on blue. OK, guys. Here we go. This is show-time so let’s boogie. One. Two. Three.”

  Hoolahan eased open the door, lobbed two stun grenades into the centre of the basement and closed the steel-clad door immediately. Two deafening explosions followed in rapid succession. Bowman was first through the door, raking the room with rapid fire from the SMG. Three martyrs fell at the first burst. The fourth made it to the limo. He had the rear door open when Bowman dropped him with a single round. Hoolahan rushed to the device, slamming the door of the limo behind him to shield Bowman from any radiation leakage. Bowman watched from as far away as he could get, so he wouldn’t distract the Captain from his task.

  “We have control of the devise.” Bowman spoke quietly into his radio. “Four martyrs are already on their way to heaven. Case closed.”

  Then Cal heard him say “Oh shit!”

  “What?”

  “Hoolahan isn’t wearing a protective suit!”

  Hoolahan was inside the limo for several minutes before he emerged, sweating and shaking. His hands were trembling and he could hardly speak. At last he managed,

  “OK, Alex. Let’s get the fuck out of here before you get irradiated.”

  He couldn’t get the trembling under control.

  “You OK?” Bowman was concerned. “What happened in there, Pat? And why aren’t you wearing a protective suit?”

  “C’mon, Alex; gimme a break will ya? Let’s go.”

  Hoolahan made a dash for the stairs. As he entered the lobby a loud cheer went up from the assembled crew. Hoolahan looked down at his trembling hands.

  Then Cal’s disembodied voice came over the loudspeakers.

  “Steady, guys; I think we might have a problem. The army’s here.”

  Cal was looking at the bank of CCTV screens whose cameras scanned the approaches.

  “Looks like they have the place surrounded. There’s an armed personnel carrier coming up the drive. Cancel that. There’s more. Dozens of the things. They’re deploying round the grounds.”

  Then Colonel Preston and a Special Forces detail burst into the lobby at the double, automatic rifles at the ready. When Preston spotted Hoolahan he froze.

  “Hoolahan?”

  “Preston!”

  “You two know each other?” Jennings peered out from behind the control room door.

  “We knew each other in ‘Nam.” Hoolahan spat on the ground between them. “That ribbon on his chest shoulda been mine.”

  “Where’s the device, Captain?” Preston bellowed, pulling rank on his subordinate.

  “In the basement,” Hoolahan coughed. “Back seat of the limo.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Preston rushed towards the stairwell, followed by his troop of men.

  “Oh, Arthur...” Hoolahan’s voice was flat and without expression.

  Preston paused at the top of the basement stairs.

  “I wasn’t able to disarm her.”

  The room went deathly still.

  “You what?”

  Preston walked back into the centre of the lobby.

  “That’s right, Arthur.” Hoolahan looked at his watch. “Thing’s set to go off about ten minutes from now. Timer looks real complicated. Cross wires all over the place. I’m just not up with the technology anymore. The whole damn world’s gone digital.”

  He looked suddenly very tired.

  “Things have moved on a lot since ‘Nam, Arthur.”

  Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Nobody knew what to say. Nobody knew where to go. Nowhere was safe.

  “You’re lying,” Preston whispered. The two men were eyeball to eyeball.

  “Am I, Arthur? Maybe. Maybe I am lying.”

  Hoolahan looked again at his watch.

  “I reckon you have about seven minutes left, if you’d like to take a crack at her yourself. Then you’ll know for sure. But if I can’t fix her, Arthur, I very much doubt you can. You never were much good at the practical stuff. You were always too darned jumpy.”

  Hoolahan dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief.

  “But with traffic the way it is, seven minutes should just about get you back to the Pentagon in time to catch the show on TV. You’ll be nice and safe in your bunker, Arthur. Just like you were in ‘Nam.”

  “Oh yeah!” Preston began fingering his scar. “So how come you’re so fuckin’ calm?”

  Hoolahan spat into his handkerchief and showed Preston the blood.

  “Fact is, Arthur, I don’t have a problem. What I have is terminal cancer. I’ll be gone in a couple of months anyway, whatever happens now. I gonna die anyway; here with my friends is as good a place as any.”

  A murmur of agreement echoed around the room.

  Preston was out the door in seconds, heading for the safety of the bunker.

  Bowman breathed for the first time in minutes.

  “Jesus, Pat, how much of that was true?”

  “None of it. The device is safe. But I couldn’t have done it without these.”

  Hoolahan waved the sheaf of fax paper at Moreno.

  “Just the bit about Vietnam was true. And the cancer. I do have terminal cancer.”

  The whole room froze.

  “Come on, guys,” Hoolahan continued, “you don’t think I’m dumb enough to sit in the back of a limo with that thing without protective clothing, unless I had terminal cancer. You guys think I’m crazy?”

  Jennings was eager to report personally to the President but first he hurried to his office to oversee the nationwide hunt for O’Brien. The arrest of the Irishman was still the FBI’s number one priority. And through him the destruction of the Al Qaeda network in the States. Jennings didn’t rate his chances very highly. O’Brien had a head start and access to considerable funds. He could buy himself a new identity, new life. Maybe he’d already gone back to Colombia to continue working with the FARC. Tirofijo would be itching for another shot.

  Echelon was put back to work. Every super-computer at the FBI’s disposal was enlisted. Security at airports and train stations was re-doubled. Car rental companies were continuously checked, roadblocks erected on every major highway. O’Brien’s face as it probably looked now appeared on television screens across America. The National Enquirer offered a reward of five million dollars.

  Back at the Saudi Embassy Agent Hoolahan disappeared down to the basement and took charge of the safe removal of the device. Bowman and Moreno found themselves alone in the CCTV control room. Bowman could tell Cal was on a high. So was he. He looked her in the eye.

  “Your place or mine?”

  “Yours is closer.”

  They grabbed one of the Secret Service cars and were in Georgetown in minutes. Power had been cut off in the building and the lift didn’t work. They ran up to the penthouse. Bowman couldn’t find his keys, pulled out the Browning and shot off the lock.

  Cal was stripped to the waist in seconds.

  “Talk to me, Alex, talk to me. Just say those fucking words.”

  ***

  50
/>   Declan O’Brien had never reached Manhattan. The weight of traffic on the roads was such he only made it to Philly. But Philly was far enough. Philly was safe. He sat drinking Bushmills in a crowded Irish bar on Chestnut Street watching Old Glory flutter on the TV screen. Remotely controlled cameras scanned the capital’s most emblematic monuments and buildings. The streets were deserted save for a sparse military presence. Anyone with any sense had left town days ago. Nothing seemed to be happening out there. The same dreary martial music played in the background. The mood in the bar was solemn. Rumours of an IRA/Sinn Fein involvement had swept America, leaving the Irish community with a profound sense of shame. Fears of a backlash were rife.

  O’Brien looked at his watch. It was way past time. What are those bloody Arabs up to? What the fuck are they waiting for? It should have been done by now! O’Brien’s nerves were fraying. He began to sweat. He hadn’t showered for days and thought he probably stank. He sensed the rest of the bar examining him. In a pub patronised exclusively by locals nobody knew him.

  “Who is this asshole? Looks like that guy’s picture on TV. Yeah. That’s him. The one who cut off his victim’s dick”

  A White House spokesman appeared on the TV screen. The President of the United States was about to address the nation. There was no hint of what he might say. Speculation in the bar reached fever pitch. Washington was ashes. Washington was safe.

  Hail to the Chief filled the airwaves. Immediately the President appeared, smiling broadly, it was evident things had gone badly wrong. Fuckin’ Arabs. How could they cock up a simple delivery?

  President Santos stood in the March sunshine in the middle of the White House rose garden. He was dressed in casual grey flannels, open-necked button down shirt and an Air Force bomber jacket. Members of the world’s press were hemmed in behind a security cordon, jostling for position, desperate to catch the President’s eye. The mood was jubilant as President Santos smiled into the TV cameras.