by Tom Clancy
Samad got the chills every time he thought about it. The absolute brilliance and audacity of the jihad on September 11, 2001, would return to American soil as promised, only this time Allah’s wrath would fall on Los Angeles, San Diego, Phoenix, Tucson, El Paso, and San Antonio.
Six planes. Six airports. June sixth.
While some of his Muslim colleagues disagreed, Samad firmly believed that 666 was the Qur’an. It was Allah. It was not Satan or the number of the beast, as many Christians believed. It was the perfect number.
And so, too, should be the mission—perfectly executed, precisely timed, the planes carefully chosen after months of research and observation by Taliban and Al-Qaeda sleepers working inside and around each airport, all coordinated by Rahmani himself, who’d spent hundreds of hours downloading documents via the Internet, all readily accessible to him: FAA layouts of the airports, plane departure routes, everything freely and easily accessible by anyone with a connection to the Web. He’d enlisted the help of several computer engineers, who’d created three-dimensional models to simulate each of the six attacks, models that allowed him to plug in various launch coordinates and determine launch radii.
With that data, and with the might of Allah fueling their hearts and minds, the destruction they wreaked would be simultaneous and complete.
The target in Los Angeles was Delta Airlines flight 2965, departing on Sunday, June 6, at 5:40 p.m. for New York’s JFK airport. Equipment: Boeing 757 passenger plane, two engines, one on each wing. Wide-body large aircraft; 202 passengers, in addition to pilot, copilot, and attendants. The Sunday-night flights tended to be full, with many business folks and vacationers heading back east to be ready for work on Monday morning.
The capabilities of the weapon had been the first consideration and had dictated both their target selection and location. The MK III missile’s guidance system was a dual-band infrared homing seeker, a “fire and forget” system that allowed the operator to launch even if he wasn’t pointing at the target. The MK III did more than just chase the target, though; it was a smart missile that would choose the shortest path, cruising at six hundred meters per second. Its warhead contained 1.42 kg of HE fragmentation that would thoroughly destroy the plane’s engine, which was mounted on a pylon under the wing but located fairly close to the fuselage. Residual damage to hydraulic lines, electrical systems, control surfaces, and fuel tanks could also occur—and those issues could result in a catastrophic failure.
In November 2003 a DHL A300 was struck in the wing by a missile while taking off from Baghdad. The pilot was able to limp back to the airport, as only the wing had been hit. Samad felt certain that none of his teams would fail in that way, as the MK IIIs would most assuredly find the hottest heat source as the 757 ascended slowly on full power and with full fuel tanks. Not only were commercial airliners most vulnerable at that moment, but once struck, they would go down over heavily populated areas, allowing thousands of gallons of jet fuel to burn, causing maximum damage and loss of life.
While the MK III’s range was 5,000 meters, or 16,400 feet, the goal was to be in a location to launch while the target was still below 10,000 feet. This not only increased the likelihood of a good hit but decreased the time the crew had to save the aircraft, which would roll from lift from the undamaged side toward the damaged side. Best-case scenario was that the engine would explode, shearing off the entire wing, in which case the plane and its crew were doomed from that second on.
Indeed, all of these scenarios assumed that only one missile had been launched—when Samad and his teams had two MK IIIs, and the teams had every intention of launching both of their missiles.
One driver. One shooter. One assistant to help reload the weapon. Total time to launch both missiles and get out of there: thirty seconds. Should anyone attempt to stop them after the first launch, the assistant was armed with two Makarov semiautomatic pistols, an AK-47, and six fragmentation grenades. The driver was equally armed. A second car with a backup driver would be stationed just ahead of them.
How could any of the citizens waiting in the cell-phone lot stop them? Most were probably armed only with cell phones and bad attitudes. Perhaps a couple of gangsters from South Central would be there, waiting to pick up one of their fellow thugs from Oakland or Chicago, but even so, they would drop quickly to the asphalt in a barrage of fire.
Samad and his men could thank the United States government and the airlines for doing nothing to thwart their plans. Equipping all commercial airliners with military-style countermeasures, such as white-hot flares (chaff) and/or infrared jammers, high-powered lasers to burn out the seeker heads on missiles, or using fighter planes to escort jets in and out of the highest-risk areas, were all extremely cost-prohibitive in view of what government officials called a “lack of actionable intelligence.” The Federal Aviation Administration did state that the government provided some “war risk” insurance to the airlines, but they were unclear if the program accounted for surface-to-air missile strikes. Samad could only chuckle to himself. While five-year-olds were being patted down at airport security checkpoints, nothing—absolutely nothing—was being done to secure planes against such missile strikes.
Allahu Akbar!
The Israelis had not allowed themselves to be caught in the legal and political quagmire concerning this subject, in part because they knew they would forever have targets on their backs. They had equipped their El Al planes with sophisticated antimissile systems that had already proven themselves in one notable case of a 757-300 managing to evade not one but two missiles. The Israeli government denied that the plane was equipped with any countermeasures, although it was the same one often used by the Israeli prime minister.
They drove toward the northeast end of the cell-phone lot. Their Hyundai had a wide-enough trunk to accommodate both the launcher and missiles if they were loaded at the correct angle. They pulled into a space where just ahead to the northwest lay the soccer and baseball fields of Carl E. Nielsen Youth Park. To their right stood a residential neighborhood that abutted the park. Samad got out and stood there, taking in the cooler night air.
Talwar parked the van a few spots down, got out, and joined them.
“The journey here was far more difficult than the actual mission will be,” said Niazi.
Samad grinned. “Look around. These people won’t even react. They’ll stay in their cars, and pretend they’re watching this all on TV.”
“Someone will have a phone camera on us for the second launch,” said Talwar. “And then we will be on CNN. And they can watch it all again.”
A car came around the row—airport security—and Samad quickly lifted his cell phone and pretended to talk.
The car paused before them, the window going down. “You need to get back in your vehicles,” said a bored-sounding black man.
Samad nodded, smiled, waved, and they headed back.
They’d return tomorrow evening for a true dry run, and then, the following night, the phone calls would be made, the teams positioned, and their destinies would unfold before them.
DEA Office of Diversion Control
San Diego, California
Towers turned over the flash drive to analysts at the office and was eager to remain with them to study Corrales’s purported evidence against the cartel. Moore told the man that the spirit was willing but the flesh had been shot at a bit too much, and he was happy to return to the hotel for some shut-eye. He didn’t actually fall asleep until nearly two a.m., and when he did, he found himself back on Zúñiga’s roof, watching as bullets riddled Frank Carmichael’s chest and he plunged to the dirt. Sonia kept telling Moore to stop weeping and that he had a mission and that he’d saved her life and that had to account for something. Not everyone died around him. Not everyone.
She was a stunning woman, and he felt guilty over feeling that way, as though he were betraying Leslie. But Leslie was so far away, and they both knew in their hearts that what they had was no more than a fling, two de
sperate people trying to find happiness in a land with so much misery and death. He could easily fall in love with Sonia, her youth very much appealing to a man his age, and he hadn’t realized until now that saving her really did mean much more than completing a mission objective.
Towers called him at 7:30 a.m. “How’re you doing?”
“I’m doing.”
“I need you to get down here.”
“You sound exhausted.”
“I’ve been here all night.”
“Hey, you know, I appreciate that.”
“Just get here.”
Moore climbed out of bed, pulled on some clothes, and hopped in the rental car.
The girl at the Starbucks counter asked him if he was all right.
“Just had a bunch of people trying to kill me last night,” he quipped.
“My boyfriend does that all the time,” she said. “Stays up all night playing Call of Duty, and then he’s a grumpy asshat all day …”
Moore accepted his coffee and handed over his credit card. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll try not to be a grumpy asshat today.” He winked and rushed out.
At the office, he found Towers—who looked like death warmed over—sitting with a group of analysts. He rose, tucked a folder under his arm, then gestured that they head back into the conference room. Once they were inside, Moore asked about Corrales.
“We put him up in the same hotel, got a couple of people running security. We think we got a couple of Juárez spotters watching this place now, too.”
“No surprise.”
“Got some news about those police cars and vans from Calexico. They found the kid who did the painting. One of your guys was there to question him. He IDed your buddy Gallagher.”
“What’s Gallagher doing? Working for the cartel, the Taliban, or both?”
“You’ll find out. For now you boys have a major breach.”
“I just …they told me I could trust that guy, a good guy, a case officer for a lot of years. What happened?”
“Money,” Towers said curtly.
“I hope they’re paying him a fortune. He’ll need it to hide from us. Now, what about Rojas?”
“I don’t know where to begin.” Towers rubbed his eyes and glanced away. “The situation is …complicated.”
“What’s wrong? Corrales didn’t give us anything?”
“Oh, no, he’s got some great stuff. We’ve IDed the cartel’s main supplier in Bogotá, guy named Ballesteros. We’re already working with the Colombian government to lock him up, but the timing is crucial. Corrales even got some intel on Rahmani’s location in Waziristan.”
“Nice.”
“We’re following up on that, too.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Towers pursed his lips and hesitated again. “Let me take it from the beginning. Jorge Rojas is one of the richest men in the world, and one of the most famous men in Mexico. He’s done more for the Mexican people than the government has. He’s a celebrity, a saint.”
“And he’s financed it all with drug money. His companies stay afloat with drug money. Thousands have died because of him and his drug money.”
Towers waved off the arguments. “Do you know who Rojas’s brother-in-law is? Arturo González, the governor of Chihuahua.”
“Cut to the chase.”
“Rojas is also in bed with the chief justice of Mexico’s Supreme Court. He’s gone on vacations with the attorney general and is godfather to the man’s oldest boy.”
“So what? I’m sure he hangs out on weekends with the president of Mexico. He’s still a fucking drug dealer.”
Towers opened the folder he’d taken along and riffled through some documents. “Okay, I had them do some research for me on the Mexican government, since I’m a layman. Listen to this: According to the Constitution of 1917, the states and federation are free and sovereign and have their own congresses and constitutions, while the Federal District has only limited autonomy, with a local congress and its own government.”
“So the states have a lot more power. Why do we care?”
“Because there’s enough right here to keep Rojas from ever seeing justice. The governor of Chihuahua—Rojas’s brother-in-law—has sovereign power and would never give him up to the federal court system. And even if he did, with the chief justice and attorney general in his pocket, Rojas would walk. On top of that, capital punishment was abolished in 1930, except for crimes against national security, so he’d never get the death penalty.”
“Let me understand this. After losing three good people, there’s not a damned thing we can do? Corrales has the evidence. Let’s turn it over to our court system. Get Rojas put up on federal narcotics trafficking and conspiracy charges.”
Towers raised his palms. “Slow down. Think about your leak with Gallagher. He’s talking to Rahmani, and Rahmani’s talking to Rojas. It’ll take two to three weeks to process this evidence, and then we have to hope that the judge finds Corrales credible, even though he’s clearly out for revenge—which doesn’t help our case. And during all that time, we need to hope that your buddy Gallagher doesn’t send word back that we’re trying to indict Rojas, because if he gets tipped off, he’ll disappear. I’ll bet he’s got properties all over the world that no one even knows about. He’ll drop off the grid, and it’ll take years to find him, if ever.”
“We’ve got Sonia on the inside. He can’t go into hiding.”
“There’s no guarantee Rojas will take her along. He’s kept his involvement in the cartel a secret from his own son. That’s made Sonia’s operation extremely difficult. She’s tried repeatedly to gather evidence, get into his computers, but she’s come up short every time. He’s got electronic sweepers throughout the house, so we can’t even wiretap him without him knowing about it. You see, Moore, when we got into this, we had no idea it’d all lead back to a guy like Rojas. I mean, look at Zúñiga. He’s much more typical and easy to indict.”
“Like that guy Niebla up in Chicago. They held him in Mexico for eleven months, then we got him extradited.”
“Yeah, because the Mexican government thought he was a bad guy. He had no friends there. He was working with Zúñiga, so of course Rojas leaned on his friends to get rid of the guy. But Rojas …Jesus …He’s got the world by the balls. He’s the saint of Mexico, and they all love him.”
Moore threw his hands in the air. “So it was all for nothing?”
“Look, I’ve got fourteen different agencies working on this. We can turn over the evidence to our people and hope for the best.”
Moore closed his eyes, thought a moment, then said, “No, we’re not doing that. No way. We need to move now, and we can’t wait for Rojas. That assassination attempt has him laying low. If we start busting his smugglers and suppliers, he’ll realize what’s happening. We need to get him first.”
“How do we do that and maintain deniability?”
“Let me make a call. Give me a few minutes.”
“You want coffee?”
Moore gestured to the cup in his hand.
Towers gave a snort. “I didn’t even notice that. I am really tired. I’ll be right back.”
After speed-dialing a number, Moore got past Chief Slater’s assistant and finally had the man himself. “Sir, it’s my understanding that you were a Force Recon Marine.”
“You say that in the past tense.”
“Hooyah, sir. Once a Marine, I know. We’ve got a terrible situation here, and I would appreciate you thinking about this more like a soldier than a spy, if you catch my meaning.” Moore went on to explain the details, and by the time he finished, Slater himself was cursing.
“So, sir, I think you know what I’m asking.”
“We need to be very clever about this. Very clever. It’d be easier if we could use the Sinaloas or the Guatemalans, but we can’t trust those bastards.”
“Can’t trust anyone in Mexico except for the Navy—that’s why I need you to make that call.”
&nb
sp; “I know you trained with those guys, and so did I. They’re good people. There’s at least two commandos there who owe me big-time—if they’re still active-duty. I’ll make the call.”
“Thank you, sir.” Moore thumbed off the phone and set down his coffee. He closed his eyes again and asked the universe to grant him a molecule of justice.
Towers returned, still long-faced, and inhaling the steam from his coffee.
“Good news,” Moore said, drawing Towers’s interest. “Slater’s calling in some favors from the Mexican Navy.”
“So what do you have in mind?”
Moore took a deep breath. “Obviously, we can’t get the American or Mexican governments involved in any of this. Our President needs deniability, and Rojas would be tipped off if we tried to negotiate formally with his government. However, we might be able to do some business with the Mexican Navy’s Special Forces guys. Basically, we hire ourselves a platoon or two that won’t tip off their government. Those guys are gungho and would like nothing more than to take down a scumbag drug smuggler. They’ll get onboard so that when word gets out, it appears the Mexican Navy did the job. Our President can stand at the podium and say we had nothing to do with this.”
Towers smiled. “We just turn their Special Forces guys into mercenaries.”
“I’m telling you, they’ll do it. They’ll say they had to act on their own because of corruption in their government. So, we go down there at the invitation of those guys, we set up a raid on Rojas’s mansion, and we get the bastard. We let Slater pay off the Navy and let them confiscate everything else.”
“You’ll need to get Sonia out of there first.”
“Absolutely.”
“What about Rojas? What do we do with him if we actually capture him?”
“What do you mean capture?”
Towers raised his palms. “Hey, slow down. He’s the only guy who knows how all the pieces fit together.”
“Let me ask you something—are we getting enough from Corrales to bring down the cartel?”