“I give only for six month or year.”
“I’ll pay cash, all in advance.”
“Okay, come to the office.”
There was an ironwork gate at the back of the passageway by the alley. Ranya asked, “Is that locked?”
“I lock every night six PM. I give you key, all right?”
“That will be fine.” In fact, it was almost perfect. She could park her van out front and her Yamaha in the alley. She could exit or enter either way, so no one could easily keep track of her coming and going. Her front door was obscured in shadow by the stairwell above it, and she had a back window for an emergency exit. With the electricity included, she wouldn’t need to register with the electric company. Paying cash, she didn’t have to provide references or submit to any kind of background check. Her van would be registered to her family address in Suffolk at the end of the month, but for the time being she’d use the old tags. There would be virtually no record at all of her at this East Ocean View address.
She’d done it, she thought, she’d become a ghost. And after her father’s funeral tomorrow, she’d start hunting.
****
Ben Mitchell was clicking through the cable news channels in his den in the early afternoon, when his back porch doorbell rang. It was his neighbor Mrs. Mendoza, so he opened the door.
“Hello Mr. Mitchell?” (He loved how she said Meester Meechel.) “I’m sorry for to bother you, but a delivery man give me a package, and I think it’s a mistake. Inside is just another little package for you. And a little time before, a man he called me by the telephone, he said he was an old friend of the Army, and the present was a surprise for you. Anyway I don’t understand these things, but here is your present, all is okay?”
Mitchell was very surprised, but he made an effort not to show it. “Well, muchas gracias Guadalupe, thanks. I have some real crazy Army amigos. Muy loco amigos. Sometimes I don’t understand them either.”
Ben went back into his kitchen and carefully slit open the securely wrapped and taped package, which was the size of a compact disc box. On the outside it just said “For Ben Mitchell” in magic marker block letters. Folded inside was a note on a plain piece of printer paper, also in block letters like a first grader had written it.
SERGEANT MAJOR, YOU HAVE BEEN MADE.
EXPECT VISITORS SOON. GET OUT. GOOD LUCK.
“D.O.L.”
He trembled, reading the short message over and over. Damn, damn, damn he thought. He had been totally 100% careful. He’d left no fingerprints, no fibers, no nothing. The typewriter was an old piece of junk, and now it was gone without a trace, smashed to bits and scattered. What could it have been? He had told no one.
Certainly he had realized they would focus on the old SF’ers who had served with Mark Denton. Even though Denton had never officially been rostered on one of his recon teams, no doubt his name had been in some of the old after-action reports covering the missions he had tagged along on. And there were bound to be old photos, in Denton’s house and elsewhere…
Well at least it looked like he had a friend in the FBI, someone who knew that his house was already under surveillance. Someone clever enough to send the warning message through his neighbor, in order to avoid detection.
Shit. Oh well, Ben, you knew you wouldn’t live forever anyway. Six months, or a year at the outside, and he would have to make the decision to have his balls cut off, or get ready to die. At least, that’s what the doctors all said, and he’d never had any intention of letting them castrate him. Prostate or no prostate, his gonads were going to stay right where they had always been. Ben Mitchell was going to live, die and be buried as a complete man.
He’d felt the same way about blowing up the bridge. Live or die, some considerations just went beyond how many more years one could bargain out of God to keep breathing the air on His sweet blessed planet. So what was the point of running now, of going on the escape and evasion? He needed too much medicine, which he couldn’t possibly get on the run, so what was the point? He was too old, too tired, and soon he was going to be too sick to run.
He walked into his living room and peeked out a front window. Sure enough, a cable television truck had a cherry picker going up a utility pole diagonally across the street, installing some new gadget. Cable truck my ass, he thought. “Smile, you’re on candid camera,” is more like it.
What to do, what to do? Just don’t let me burn, sweet Lord Jesus, that’s all I ask, just don’t let me be burned alive. He knew all too well what happened when the FBI’s “Hostage Roasting Team” went the pyrotechnic tear gas route: a house burned to ashes was the preordained result, along with anybody trapped in it.
Ben Mitchell had seen, heard and smelled men who had been burned alive, and even forty years later they were something he had never forgotten. They were some of the worst of the many indelible scars he had on his memory.
There was no worse way to go. Death didn’t frighten Ben Mitchell, but burning alive did.
Okay, he thought, if they call me on the phone, or send somebody to walk up to my front door and knock politely with a warrant, maybe I’ll just go with them. Then I’ll get a chance in court to explain exactly why I blew up the bridge. And that could last for years, maybe for all the years I’ve got left.
But what if they attack? If they attack, I’ll fight. So let’s think about this. Let’s sit down and start making a plan…
What the hell Ben, you always knew you weren’t going to live forever.
19
Wednesday afternoon, Virginia Attorney General Eric Sanderson was in his natural element, chairing a high-profile conference convened to organize a new multi-jurisdictional law enforcement program. President Gilmore had just signed Presidential Decision Directive #87, and in one paragraph of his directive he had “requested” assistance from the Governors of Maryland and Virginia. They were “requested” to immediately implement a program of highway checkpoints, in order to prevent terrorists from transporting illegal firearms and explosives through their states. These two states, flanking the seat of federal power in Washington DC, would provide the test programs which would then be analyzed and modified and put into effect nationally, if the evolving security situation warranted such measures.
The Governor of Virginia had passed the ball to his hot-shot Attorney General for him to actually devise the plan and put it into action. Eric Sanderson was the obvious choice. Before becoming Attorney General he had been an FBI Special Agent, a congressional staffer, an assistant district attorney, and a federal prosecutor. The inner workings of a complicated joint task force were as familiar to him as springs and cogs to a clock maker.
The checkpoint program was being touted as a temporary measure, a response to the outbreak of right wing militia violence which had begun with the Stadium Massacre. Semi-automatic assault rifles (banned on Tuesday) and telescopically-sighted sniper rifles (banned in the Presidential Decision Directive) would no longer have free run of the highways. Once the message was received by the gun crazies that the government was serious about controlling the movement of firearms, it was hoped that the problem would become manageable.
In the immediate aftermath of Senator Randolph’s assassination, the President was under enormous pressure by the members of both houses of Congress to take any steps necessary to lessen their chances of becoming the next target. These politicians understood the utter impossibility of assigning to each of them the twenty or more highly-trained bodyguards, working in three shifts, which would be required to afford them security out to beyond the range from which Senator Randolph had been killed.
Senators, Congressmen and other senior federal officials were literally running scared, dashing from vehicles to buildings obscured by clouds of black umbrellas held aloft around them by staffers. Their personal bodyguard details, with their close range pistols and submachine guns, suddenly seemed as useless as life jackets in the desert.
The tragicomic sight of famous politicians ducking and weav
ing and running for cover was being shown on television, and it was making a mockery of their prestige and authority. Some politicians instead went the television hero route, boldly walking in the open (just as long as television cameras were on hand to record their bravery). In truth, the almost casual assassination of Senator Randolph had them all petrified down to their marrow, particularly those who had in the past been vocal advocates of restrictive gun control measures.
So a comprehensive system of mobile highway checkpoints had been suggested as a viable means of increasing their physical security around Washington DC at least, and there was not a Senator or Congressman in either party who raised the issue of the Fourth Amendment, and the right of the people to be secure from arbitrary search.
Eric Sanderson had immediately grasped that the successful implementation of a bold new anti-terrorism program, with the broad national exposure it would bring, would be a major feather in his political cap when he ran for Governor in two years. He had to rein in his excitement at the prospect of all of the favorable media coverage he would garner, and force himself not to constantly smile.
The meeting was held in the main conference room in the Virginia Attorney General’s office, overlooking Richmond’s Capitol Square across 10th Street from the Federal Court. Also present were the Commanding General of the Virginia Army National Guard, the Commandant of the Virginia State Police, the Assistant Director of the ATF Office of Firearms, Explosives and Arson, the ATF’s Resident Agent In Charge from the Richmond Field Office, and various other Virginia chiefs of police in full dress uniforms.
The conference dragged on most of Wednesday afternoon, and after a period of haggling between the ATF and the State Police, it was decided that each mobile highway checkpoint team would consist of two ATF agents, four Virginia State Troopers, six to eight National Guardsmen, and a number of local police to be determined on a case-by-case basis depending on the jurisdiction.
The checkpoint teams would be under the operational control of the ATF agents, they would communicate on State Police radio frequencies, and the State Troopers would be permitted to depart the checkpoints temporarily to respond to local emergencies, but they would not leave less than two troopers on scene.
The use of camouflage-uniformed National Guard soldiers driving Humvees in domestic anti-terrorism roles no longer created a public perception problem. Not in the aftermath of 9-11, the Beltway Sniper case, and the Stadium Massacre. In fact, citizens had come to expect to see M-16-carrying camouflaged soldiers in and around airports, train stations, and government buildings. It provided them with a feeling of reassurance to see that the government was taking every step possible to ensure their safety. The National Guard soldiers would provide overall control and perimeter security around the lines of detained cars, permitting the law enforcement officers to focus on searching the vehicles. No one was likely to bolt from the holding area to try to make a run for it with machine gun mounted Humvees at each end of the control zone.
The actual searching of vehicles for illegal concealed firearms still raised some residual constitutional issues. Sanderson and the state law enforcement officials in the end agreed with the ATF to simply go the “consent search” route. Any drivers deemed suspicious by the law enforcement officers present would be asked to permit a voluntary “consent search” of their vehicles. Recent Supreme Court decisions had upheld the admissibility of evidence found after suspects had given their “voluntary consent” to squads of heavily-armed police to search their cars. It was not required of the police that they inform the suspects that they had the right to refuse to give “consent.” It was not the job of the police to give roadside lessons in constitutional law.
Any suspicious cars (suspicious in the opinion of the police, based on their training and experience) which refused to give “consent” to be searched would be directed to a holding area. In the present high-threat environment, refusal to give “voluntary consent” would be construed as “probable cause” for the police to request a search warrant. One of the state police on the scene would be swiftly dispatched with a pre-formatted warrant, which would immediately be signed by a judge waiting nearby and returned to the checkpoint.
In effect, any and all vehicles stopped at the checkpoints could be searched at the discretion of the police, one way or the other. This apparent “Catch 22” search strategy had been used with great success for years in the war on drugs, and thus far it had always passed constitutional muster. After 9-11, police were given even greater latitude in conducting vehicle searches.
The 2002 Beltway Sniper attacks in Maryland and Virginia had further pushed back the constitutional envelope, as hundreds of white men had been unceremoniously dragged from white vans by police at ad-hoc checkpoints. This occurred after law enforcement officials leading the investigation issued erroneous instructions based on a wildly incorrect psychological sniper profile, as well as incorrect witness testimony concerning white vans. The actual killers were two Black Muslims firing from the trunk of an old brown Chevy, who had passed unhindered through many of the temporary highway checkpoints set up to catch the imagined sniper, the legendary but nonexistent “white man in a white van.”
No one at the conference dwelled on the basic constitutionality of conducting mass searches on the public streets and highways of Virginia. These officials were so accustomed to getting their way on vehicle search policies that they assumed that there would be no serious challenge to their authority to pull over dozens or hundreds of motorists, any where at any time, and search their vehicles.
The subject of the use of police K-9 units in the searching of the vehicles was also brought up and discussed. There was some debate between the ATF and the state police representatives about the effectiveness of “gun-sniffing dogs” in an environment where a dozen police officers and soldiers were themselves already carrying firearms and ammunition. The eventual consensus was that dogs would still be quite effective at sniffing for hidden firearms under seats and in open trunks, saving the police time and effort on each search.
As an added benefit, the K-9 advocates half-jokingly mentioned that the mere presence of snarling German shepherds usually caused otherwise smart-mouthed “curbside lawyers” to just shut up and go along with the program. It was their contention that the presence of gun-sniffing dogs in the search area would cause most drivers concealing contraband to admit to any weapons hidden in their cars. It was decided that the state and local police would contribute their K-9 units to the greatest extent possible, and that the feasibility of borrowing additional K-9 teams from the Customs Department and other federal agencies would also be explored.
The overall checkpoint process was compared to the routine vehicle and body searches now being given to airline passengers and their vehicles in and around airports. By and large the public had stopped griping and grown accustomed to these searches, and there was no reason to believe that they would not do the same with random highway checkpoints. After all, it was for the greater safety and security of the entire population.
The final policy decision reached was to immediately field ten mobile checkpoint teams, five each in Northern Virginia and in Tidewater. They would be working in two twelve hour shifts initially, and then go to three shifts as the manpower stream was brought on line. The required number of National Guardsmen would be called up for periods of 90 days, the state police would be shifted around as needed, and the BATF would bring in additional agents from out of state. The BATF Special Agents who would actually be conducting most of the searches would wear their tactical uniforms, helmets and external body armor to enhance their personal security. The National Guard soldiers would also be deployed in helmets and body armor. The composition and deployment patterns of the checkpoint teams would be modified as experience was gained and lessons were learned.
The meeting wrapped up for the senior officials after two hours. They had other important places to be, so they let their aides and staffers remain to hammer out the de
tails and put it down in black and white for the Governor’s signature. Eric Sanderson allowed a brief “media availability” outside the conference room, and returned to his office.
****
Once he was back at his desk overlooking Richmond’s Capitol Square, the Attorney General tilted back in his leather executive’s chair and gloated for a few minutes. By moving so quickly, he would get his checkpoints into operation days before Maryland did, and capture the lion’s share of the national press coverage!
He then pondered the two most critical aspects of the program. First, how to present “his” checkpoint program to the media in the most effective way, to put himself in the best possible light, and second, the creation of a snappy and easily remembered name for the new mobile units. Coming up with the right acronym was of primary importance to the success of any new law enforcement program. A powerful nickname like “DARE” or “SWAT” or “CAGE” could almost ensure a program’s success, regardless of its actual merits. The key was coming up with a clever acronymic slogan which looked and sounded terrific on promotional t-shirts, ball caps, coffee mugs, and of course on billboards and on the local television news. A successful new high-visibility anti-terrorism program with a memorable name could very well launch him into the Governor’s mansion in two years, and from there to the U.S. Senate, and from there….
Sanderson spent the next half hour at his desk doodling on a yellow legal pad, juggling likely words and letters like a dyslexic Scrabble player.
****
The quiet Reston Virginia neighborhood had finally gone to sleep, as indicated by the last remaining lights of the late night television viewers blinking off one by one. Inside a bogus electrical contractor’s van, men sat staring at grainy green-tinted night vision video monitors, with headphones on their ears and microphones on slender stalks in front of their lips. Down the tree-lined street rolled an unlit windowless club-sized van. It slowed almost to a stop, and from its far side and open back doors shadows spilled out and flowed across a yard and up to the front door of a middle class house.
Enemies Foreign And Domestic Page 27