by A. J Tata
Staring at the Buick’s cloth ceiling, Mahegan recalled Johnson’s intelligence trove. The tapes, the information on the John Does, and J.J.’s bank deposits all combined to put a fine polish on Mahegan’s conclusion.
About the time the sheriff’s vehicle stopped, the radio announced, “BOLO, BOLO, BOLO. White male, six foot, five inches, blond hair, blue eyes, Chayton Mahegan, last seen on US Coast Guard vessel near Oregon Inlet, North Carolina. Consider him armed and dangerous and possibly connected to rash of bombings involving Mullah Adham, The American Taliban. Contact FBI immediately upon sighting.”
While driving, Johnson leaned over the backseat as best he could with the mesh partition blocking him.
“You’re going to have all kind of people looking for your ass,” he said. “I’ll do my best to send them in the wrong direction.”
Mahegan said, “Yeah, but I’m only six-four. They’ve got me an inch taller. They’ll never find me.”
“Sense of humor. I like it. Especially at a time like this. I’m figuring you’ve got less than twenty-four hours. I’m dropping you on the north side of the bombing range, which is about six miles to the south through the forest. You know the rest of the map and have the GPS.”
Mahegan visualized his location as he lay there on the backseat wondering about his next steps. It was all about battlefield geometry and intelligence.
“Why the smartphone?”
Johnson looked at the duffel bag.
“I loaded one phone number in there. Use it if you need help.”
“I’m thinking it’s got a GPS tracker on it and you’ll be watching me from your man cave back there.”
Johnson nodded.
“Maybe that, too.” Then added, “I’ve got skin in the game here, son.”
“I understand.”
“I’m rolling into this rest stop. If you get out low and slide into the brush, you should be okay. The rest is up to you.”
Mahegan’s governing thought from this point forward would be Slow is smooth; smooth is fast. To be thoughtful and deliberate created momentum and speed, avoiding unnecessary, time-delaying mistakes.
He was out of the door and made two smooth rolls into the wood line. He moved another twenty feet into the brush and waited. The Buick’s motor faded in the distance as he calibrated his senses. His eyes adjusted to the layered canopy of the forest, ears to the conversation between animal calls and road noises. Soon, he would be deep into the Alligator National Wildlife Refuge, where the only sounds he would be able to hear would be the low growl of bears and the slaps of alligators’ tails hitting the water
Kneeling in his protected spot surrounded by thick underbrush and low, full trees, he removed the smartphone from his rucksack. He sent one text message to the number preloaded into the phone, and then pressed on the Google News App. The top story remained that Mullah Adham had detained another US prisoner of war and intended to execute the hostage tonight at midnight. He pressed his thumb on the news story and a video started playing. Thankfully, the volume was muted and so he only saw the images across the small four-inch screen. This report had more detail than what he had seen in the sheriff’s homemade cell by showing the actual video of the hostage, who appeared petite, dressed in an Army combat uniform, and had the requisite “Life’s a Bitch” sandbag covering the head. Mahegan noticed that it was the probably the same sandbag used on the previous victim as there were dark stains around the edges where it was tied to the prisoner’s neck. This person seemed slight and could perhaps be a female soldier, Mahegan considered. There would be considerably more impact on the American will if Adham were to chop off the head of an American woman on television. The ultimate terror. While the nation was proud of its female troops and their performance in combat, it was still difficult to stomach America’s young women coming home in body bags.
He pressed the off button, having seen enough. Removing the back shield from the device and then the battery and the SIM card, he sealed all three components into a waterproof plastic bag and repacked his rucksack. He removed the battery from the GPS as well, holstered the Beretta, checked his knife, and took a minute to register his location.
He calculated that he was about ten miles north and two miles east of Buffalo City. He knew there were multiple obstacles in between his current location and his ultimate goal.
As he made his first step toward Buffalo City, he stopped. His mind replayed the video he had just watched. He had seen the sandbag and the Army combat uniform. The boots and the hands secured behind the back. He had also seen where the too-large uniform created a vee near the neck of the hostage. The sandbag did not cover all the way down the neck and the uniform did not cover all the way up, leaving a small triangle of skin just beneath the Adam’s apple.
And where he thought he saw a necklace blinking in the dull light of the video.
What he convinced himself of propelled him more quickly into the dense forest, home to venomous snakes, alligators, bears, and men seeking to kill him.
Chapter 44
As a chief petty officer in the US Navy, Vinny Falco felt he had suffered at the hands of US Naval officers for decades. The way Falco saw it, the Navy had the most entrenched caste system that bifurcated the officers and the enlisted. The Army and Marine Corps, densely populated with ground combat forces that required constant commingling of leaders and led, routinely had closer ties between the officers and enlisted. Then again, Falco thought, the Air Force perhaps had the best relationships between the two strata because everyone was on a first-name basis.
The fact that retired Navy Captain Nix had saved him from the likes of Lindy Locklear had not set well with the former chief petty officer. Falco had taken risks beyond anything that Nix was willing to do. He had stuck his neck on the line in killing Dakota. He had uncovered the curiosities of Royes and J.J. Royes had resisted and J.J. had done okay until, well, until he had quit doing okay.
Falco stood directly above Lindy Locklear. With her blond hair spilling over her forehead, her hands tied behind her back, and a gag tightly secured in her mouth, to Falco she looked like the star of a bondage video. Her eyes wide with fear, she shook her head at him. He smiled.
With his gaze fixed on her slender legs and the curve of her buttocks peeking from beneath her running shorts, his hands drifted to his zipper.
He was standing in a dark cellar beneath the warehouse where Copperhead, Inc. had been storing the MVX-90s. There was the cellar, which Nix knew about, and then there was this place, of which Nix was unaware. Locklear was on the floor, her back against a concrete wall. On the opposite side of the dungeon were a laptop computer and HD monitor on a small card table. The monitor was tracking twenty-seven sensors and nineteen cameras that Falco had placed throughout the bombing range and beyond. Each was displayed in a rotating square on the monitor so that Falco could stop the changing images and focus on a particular area. As a security alert occurred, a graphic image would display on a map to give Falco the specific location and direction of movement of any intruders. With many animals moving about the refuge to the north, Falco had decreased the sensitivity of the remote sensors.
He had charged all of the equipment to the government describing their necessity in keeping innocent civilians away from the bomb clearing efforts. When, in fact, the sensors, cameras, and other technology were protecting something far more valuable than innocent human life.
This was their core business he was protecting.
Just as computer antivirus and Internet assurance companies paid hackers to create new threats every day, Falco and his longtime running mate, Chikatilo, had come up with a similar scheme. While Nix was doing all of his bullshit officer stuff, developing his product lines as he reminded them every damn day, Falco and Chikatilo were planning to increase the need for private military contractors everywhere: overseas, on the home front, and on the high seas.
Falco took his hands from his zipper and looked at his watch as the door opened to the tomblike dunge
on.
“My brother,” Chikatilo said, smiling.
“My man. Right on time,” Falco replied. The two friends gave each other a half man-hug.
“Olsen’s in the submarine, headed to DC.”
“Sweet. Plan is back on track.”
Falco watched his Afghan friend’s eyes drift away. “What indeed do we have here?” Chikatilo remarked as he spied the bound and gagged Locklear.
“I believe it’s called USDA prime beef, my brother.”
Chikatilo walked over and pawed Locklear’s legs and breasts. “I’m looking for the stamp. Has no one inspected this yet?”
“Well, the golden boy is about to do a video with her.”
Just as Chikatilo ran his thumb across Locklear’s cheek, the computer security system made a soft beeping noise. Then it did it again.
On the monitor the map displayed a flashing red dot near Boat Bay, a formidable body of water that protected the northern edge of the new Military Operations in Urban Terrain training facility they had built in the last two years.
The rotating camera display remained steady on camera twelve with a zoom into the region for sensor fourteen.
“What you got?” Chikatilo asked.
“Not sure.” Falco walked over to the monitor and played with the zoom function. The camera zeroed in on an area that was thick with underbrush, marsh, and trees.
“Whatever the hell it is, it ain’t going far. Probably a deer or bear. Anything smaller wouldn’t trip it,” Falco surmised. He spoke with the air of someone who had seen several false alarms over the past year that the system had been in full operation.
“Or someone looking for us. One last operation to go, Vinnie. I don’t want no bullshit now.”
“Nobody’s coming for us, Chik. You load up with the new crew tonight and do your thing at the Norfolk Navy Base tomorrow morning. Then Lars hits DC with the MOAB.”
“Long-ass drive. I’m smoked.”
“One last op. Like you said.”
“I saw them new ones. They look weak.”
“This new team is just insurance in case something happens. There’s also a good crew that’s ready for you.”
“Something happen? Thought you said they’ve been rehearsing?”
“Don’t worry, brother.”
Chikatilo looked at the monitor, which showed nothing, then at Locklear. “Shit,” he said. “Lost my woodie thinking about all this. I need to get rolling if we’re going to hit tomorrow morning.”
“I was heading over there anyway,” said Falco. “Got a little show for Miss Locklear here tonight. Once we get there, maybe you’ll get that little thing working again.”
Falco lifted Locklear by the arm. She stumbled into Chikatilo, who aggressively rubbed his body against hers. The two men escorted her through a sliding concrete door, like a pharaoh’s tomb, which closed behind them.
Taking the familiar path, Falco began walking along a series of hundred-meter straightaways met by extreme right angles. He heard the occasional sound of water hissing above them. The tunnel through which they were traveling met the highest standards for underground passageways. Bicolor, flexible, polyvinyl chloride sheet membrane lined the entire system from start to finish. With the many trenches that had been plowed by the loggers as the lumber companies deforested the region and floated the trees to Buffalo City, Falco had only needed to drop pipes into the trench.
Thanks to Uncle Sam, the tunnel was dry, pristine, and easily passable.
After thirty minutes, they surfaced inside the urban village and looked into a small room with a prayer mat and an Iraqi flag on the wall.
They escorted Lindy Locklear into the room, dressed her in an ill-fitting, stained Army combat uniform, and slipped a tan sandbag on her head.
Life’s a bitch!
Chapter 45
Mahegan studied the radar sensor from a concealed location. He also had noticed the camera about seventy meters away to his southwest and had backed off slightly to find some dead space.
His route had taken him through dense brush, but he’d had to avoid some open areas such as trails and clearings. As he approached what he considered to be the outer security ring of Copperhead’s defenses, he methodically checked every tree, every opening, and every piece of fallen timber. Now he lay prone in some low ground that was nothing more than a fifty-meter-wide concave bowl with some dogwood trees and a couple of pines. The berm seemed almost manmade, but a long time ago, like earthworks of an old redoubt at Yorktown.
Or like the remains of an old Indian village.
The nuances were subtle, but suddenly he saw them. Two lowered portions of the berm that led into and out of the bowl were juxtaposed to one another. Time had beat down the sharper edges of what could have been an entire colony. Aware of all of the radar activity, he felt himself burrow into the earth a bit deeper, actually scraping away a foot or two of loose dirt and sand. His hand came across something hard as he absently burrowed into the dirt.
He stared at a square rock that was about the size of a die. There were no pips he could see, just a small cube that seemed manmade, a cube among the randomness of the refuge. He thought of Locklear and brushed the dirt away with an archaeologist’s care. Noticing a small etching on its face, he pocketed the rock and then registered his location in his mind and refocused on the task at hand.
The sensor was desert tan, which made it stand out amid the greens and browns of the Carolina forest. It stood about three feet high and was mounted on tripod legs. The radar was the size of a laptop screen and spun every five seconds before coming to rest again. Recognizing the radar to be an SR Hawk, he knew it could detect him several hundred meters away, but it was useless if he got within about twenty meters. Right now he was about that far.
He noticed the slight movement of the camera and figured that the radar and camera were using the same type of protective measures the Army had used to secure their bases in Afghanistan and Iraq. Motion detectors and persistent stare cameras were the coin of the realm in fighting the roadside bomb terrorists. Now the same technology was turned against him.
If he destroyed the radar, he would raise suspicion in the operations center. If he didn’t, of course, he ran the risk of detection. The only advantage he held at the moment was the concept of surprise. While they may fear him coming, they did not yet know he was on his way.
Mahegan had made good time, so he chose the opportunity to rest, drink water, and think.
The key to radar avoidance, of course, was to not cross its path. Mahegan didn’t have that luxury. He knew that stealth technology involved special paints and materials, which he did not have. But he did have an MVX-90 stashed in his rucksack.
Stealth technology also involved absorbing and deflecting radar emissions to trick the radar into thinking the object was somewhere else or nonexistent.
But that was complicated by the fact that he anticipated running into several more radars and cameras. He could also cut the camera cable or stay inside the angle of view of the camera.
Mahegan determined that the best strategy would be to get inside the perimeter of the radars and cameras and leapfrog from camera base to camera base. The cameras were positioned on telescoping Erector set–like frames that each sat atop something like a boat trailer. As Mahegan conducted further reconnaissance, he was able to spot two more cameras and sensors in each direction, a picket line of technological sentries. What he didn’t see was any kind of road or major path where maintenance crews might routinely ride out and check on the equipment.
He crawled low to the opposite side of the Indian grounds and looked west using the pair of binoculars that Johnson had provided. First, he studied the line of cameras and radars. So far, he believed he was undetected. But to penetrate the defenses, he would need to foil at least one of the radars.
As he studied each camera, he noticed what he could only call manhole covers protruding slightly from the ground, no different than he would see on the street. Dirt and n
atural debris obscured the covers, but they were there. Mahegan figured that these carried the electrical wiring for the cameras. He registered the location of the covers in relation to the Erector-set trailers upon which the cameras were perched. Obviously, the cameras, radars, and manhole covers were all connected, part of a system.
His eyes followed a canal for about three hundred meters west until it made a sharp left turn near where a large creek meandered and protected the north boundary of the urban training facility. Elevating just a bit, he focused the binoculars to study the broad body of water and the glistening fence approximately a quarter mile beyond it.
So far, the few rattlesnakes and cottonmouths he had seen had been passive. He had also spotted two red wolves, though he doubted anyone else would have seen them. They were motionless, staring at him, perhaps even urging him forward—he didn’t know.
Mahegan’s eyes found the narrow portion of the stream, which appeared easily fordable. He also knew that this was a readily identifiable choke point, one that would be layered in sensors, cameras, and perhaps even improvised explosive devices.
He was, after all, walking straight into a bombing range.
The sun was hanging low in the western sky as Mahegan prepared to forge ahead and barrel through the defenses. He wondered where exactly Lindy Locklear might be and how much time she had left, if any. Once they knew that she was a federal agent, they would kill her, he was certain.
And while that would be bad, it would pale in comparison to what he believed was going on and about to occur. Adham had significantly raised the stakes in his last few videos.
He burrowed into the protective mound of his redoubt as he reached into his rucksack and removed the plastic Baggies with the smartphone components. He replaced the SIM card and the battery and then slid the backing into place. Pressing the power button, Mahegan waited a minute until the phone had completed booting up. If the sheriff was tracking him, he would now have his position. He saw the GPS flashing at the top of the menu bar. Thinking of the rock in his pocket, he pressed “Mark Location.”