The Point Of A Gun: Thriller

by Steven W. Kohlhagen

  Moose looked up at the ceiling for help, but there was nothing there.

  “The usual. Nothing actionable for you guys. Actually, eight of them have been visited or called in and interrogated. Several more than once. I’d say pretty much the same way you all miss all the successful terrorist attacks.”

  The President looked at the agent. The agent looked away.

  “May I please proceed?”

  Nobody responded.

  “Okay then. The two leaders of this operation flew in this afternoon from London into Dulles. We ID’d them coming through customs and tailed them to the Marriott at Metro Center. Before you ask, we have no idea what names they’re using after getting off the plane, but they would have registered sometime after five pm. No way to know if it was one room or two. Those two have been communicating with the other eleven since they landed and we have those communications. They confirmed what we already knew to be their plans.”

  “Which are?” one of the JSOC agents asked.

  “Two are stealing a helicopter at an unknown site in Virginia. Eight will be around the Capitol with grenade launchers and machine guns. Three are blowing up three trains at Union Station. They expect these bombings to bring every cop in Washington to the site and for traffic all over the area to be completely gridlocked. As they detonate the trains, the helicopter will be heading to the Capitol. The eight who will already be there, joined by the three from Union Station, will then open fire on the Capitol Building and any people in the area with their grenades and machine guns. The helicopter intends to swoop in to the Capitol area while the cops are still dealing with the bombings, pick up their eleven colleagues, and race to Reagan and an awaiting plane. They believe they can escape on the plane during all the confusion in town.”

  Samms clicked off.

  *

  The phone rang again almost immediately.

  “Hello?”

  “Here’s how we see this going down with your teams tomorrow,” Samms said. “The risk is that if you prematurely kill part of the operation, the rest are loose in Washington to wreak whatever random havoc they can. Their communications make it clear that their fallback plan is to become a set of suicide squads and maximize civilian casualties from all their firepower if anything goes wrong. The beauty, if you want to call it that, of their operation is that if your teams block them in the wrong order, the casualties could possibly be worse than if they had completely surprised you.”

  “Give us an example,” said one of the FBI guys.

  There was a long pause.

  “Let’s say you take out the three bombers going into Union Station. The other eight are immediately released to open mortar and machine gun fire on random targets all over Washington center.”

  “Thank you. Got it. What do you recommend?”

  “You will need to have plainclothes people all over Union Station to identify the three bombers. Our information is that they will each be wearing coats and ties and carrying briefcases. The briefcases contain the bombs. They will each leave their briefcase on the trains and detonate them remotely. Simultaneously. These are not intended to be suicide bombings.”

  There was silence.

  “We believe we will have the specific trains and the intended time of the bombings at least a half hour ahead of time. How do you want that communicated to you?”

  “Call here the second you have it, Samms,” Moose.

  “No. God knows what the President might be dealing with at that second. In the interest of time, in this case, I want to text your cell.”

  Moose looked around the room. Got seven nods.

  “Okay. That works.”

  “Remember, when you see these three bombers, if they no longer have their briefcases, the bombs are already on the trains. You will then have to remove their detonators before they can activate them. It will be very, very tricky.”

  “How will we recognize them?”

  A long silence at the other end.

  “Two things. One, we will have somebody on sight. Hopefully, Moose will get texts identifying the jihadists. Two, if that fails, hopefully you guys will recognize men who previously had briefcases walking in the opposite direction without them. This isn’t rocket science.”

  Moose held his hands out to prevent an explosion of reactions.

  But it didn’t matter. Samms had hung up.

  *

  This time it took a minute for the phone to ring again.

  “There are clearly two other parts of this operation. First, plainclothes operators at Reagan will have to find the getaway plane and have it under surveillance. We have absolutely no idea how many or who is on or operating that plane. Obviously, nobody on this call has any doubt that that plane should be disabled, prevented from departing, and all attending and associated personnel killed or detained. And it has to be done after action has been taken on the other thirteen. Confronting, or, worse, attacking these people before the others are being dealt with will alert the others.”

  There was a pause.

  “We will have somebody there at Reagan as well, and will hopefully be able to text Moose with the location of the plane. Any questions on the plane?”

  “None,” the President said.

  “The last part is attacking the eight at the Capitol. Again, surprise is paramount. Ideally, those eight and those at Reagan should be attacked simultaneously. Ideally, just as or just after the three bombers are taken down. Any one of the three done prematurely and this will turn into an immediate clusterfuck.”

  “What about the helicopter?” one of the JSOC agents asked.

  “If you all fail on any one of the three, we think the helicopter gets away to whatever their plan is. Possibly a suicide helicopter attack. That can’t be helped. We have no idea where it is or where it will be coming from. But if you get all three parts of your job right, including the timing, then we’ll take care of the helicopter at our end.”

  Moose looked around the room.

  “There are no questions here, Samms. Thanks. I’ll be awaiting your texts in the morning. Obviously, they will be a much-needed help.”

  “You said you had a question,” the President said.

  There was a long silence.

  “Yes we do. We will be helping undercover. We would request that you alert your forces to not take out anybody who is laying down obvious friendly fire. If they see obvious non-Middle Easterners, obviously shooting at the same targets they are, they need to be ordered to let them be.”

  “I will so order,” the President said.

  “Most importantly, do not pursue the forces that take down the helicopter.”

  The President looked around the room. “Can we order agents to let whoever shoots down the helicopter go?”

  “We can order it,” one of the Metropolitan Police said.

  “Samms.”

  “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “I will order that the helicopter attackers not be pursued, and I will assure it is passed along to all parties.”

  “Can you please make it clear that any violators will be punished appropriately?”

  “Yes, Samms, I can do that.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. I have one final demand.”

  “Yes.”

  “For your ears only.”

  *

  The President’s private line rang three minutes later.

  “Are we alone, Mr. President?”

  “Yes, Samms.”

  “I am going to ask you to give me your word that nobody will listen to the tape of this next conversation for twenty-four hours.”

  The President paused to think, finally said, “Yes, I promise. You can safely proceed.”

  “Okay. I want you to promise me that any surveillance of the three Rogues, as you call them, is lifted for twenty-four hours.”

  The President didn’t respond.

  “Mr. President, in all likelihood, tomorrow is going to be a horrible day. You are going to need all the help you can get again
st these dirtbags. If I, or any of the other Paladins, are prevented from participating, things might be much worse than they otherwise would have been.”

  Still no response.

  “Mr. President, are we good on this? I want no avoidable accidents.”

  “Samms, there are people who work for us who see a commendable side to what you are doing. I am going to ignore this implied threat to our security agents.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but tomorrow is going to be difficult.”

  “Yes, I see that. You have my word. Twenty-four hours.”

  And the President disconnected the line.

  Chapter 47

  The day dawned as an unusually beautiful Washington day.

  Three hours before, May and Samms had positioned themselves as strategically as they could to watch for the three bombers coming into Union Station.

  Cheese took his place with his anti-aircraft machine gun, completely buried in the side of the hill on the piece of high ground over the Potomac that he knew gave him clear sighting to ninety percent of the possible entry routes for the helicopter. He had used this weapon with success in Iraq, and was very confident in it.

  Tom had helped bury him and was now at Reagan.

  All four were disguised. Tom as a maintenance mechanic.

  Over the course of the three hours, they each reported watching the intelligence SWAT teams arriving and dispersing. The SWAT teams appeared to be oblivious to their presence. After receiving the reports, Samms begrudgingly conceded that if you weren’t looking for the SWAT teams you might not see them. Maybe they were more competent than she thought.

  At this point, like it or not, they had to rely on the government teams. If those teams failed, it was going to be a very long, very brutal morning.

  Maybe even if they succeeded.

  And, of course, no battle plan survived the first minutes of contact.

  *

  May, disguised as a homeless woman, could easily keep track of the three devices in her sleeping bags, following the dirtbags’ communications.

  Nothing to report. All was quiet.

  Nothing really to be seen around the station at this hour either.

  Then, the chatter among the dirtbags started on her hacking screen. They were on the move.

  *

  May transmitted their movements to her partners as they progressed, using her cell site simulators to track the three.

  Samms relayed the relevant information on to Moose. The three dirtbags were on their way to Union Station in a black Toyota pickup. The eight others were going separately to their positions near the Capitol. They were varying the timing of their arrivals to avoid drawing premature attention to themselves.

  No news on the helicopter. Not Moose’s responsibility.

  Then Samms got the first bit of bad news from May. The three bombers were apparently winging it. They weren’t targeting specific trains. And they were using timers, not remote control. The three bombs were timed to blow up in two minute increments, starting at eight thirty. That gave them two hours to set the bombs and join their comrades over by the Capitol.

  She messaged the news to Moose and Tom. Reminded Moose that there were friendlies in place both at the train station and at the airport. Friendlies with little patience with incompetent government forces.

  Tom replied that there were two suspicious planes at Reagan, but nothing concrete yet.

  Moose didn’t respond at all.

  She hadn’t expected him to.

  *

  Then she saw the black Toyota. With only the driver. No passengers.

  She messaged May, “Two bombers already out of the truck.”

  May replied back, “Nothing at this end.”

  She sent an urgent message to Moose, “Bombers at Union Station. Out of their truck. Remember, your people need to disable the bombs. They have to let the bombers go to the Capitol, or uncontrollable bedlam will ensue. Copy leaving the bombers unmolested.”

  Moose did not copy.

  *

  Samms watched the driver enter Union Station. Texted May his location.

  But May was watching other people. Trying to tell the undercover agents from the civilians from the other two dirtbags.

  The government agents were easy enough. Or so she thought. Realizing she was being a little careless. Some of her identified agents could, of course, be civilians. And vice versa.

  Then May saw two men in suits and ties, with identical briefcases. They appeared to be trying to look at the driver without being obvious.

  She watched the three of them head to the ticket counters. Each in a separate line. They appeared to each buy a ticket, and, without interacting, head to different gates.

  She texted Samms their descriptions and where they each had headed. Samms replied, assigning her to the one on the extreme right.

  May kept track of her dirtbag as invisibly as she could. Then she noticed something.

  Texted Samms, “Are any of the Feds noticing your two?”

  “No,” Samms texted back.

  “Mine either.”

  *

  Samms texted Moose the locations of the three terrorists. Reminded him again to let them move their briefcases wherever they wanted.

  No answer from Moose.

  She watched her two for another half hour. They were just sitting. No apparent communications with anyone.

  “Anything?” she texted May.

  “Just sitting.”

  At precisely 7:45 the two stood and headed toward the train entrances.

  Then Samms and her two dirtbags froze simultaneously. Security agents were checking bags at the gates.

  “Moose,” she frantically texted. “Urgent. Order your men to stand down. There is no telling how these three will react to interference. Your men are checking all bags. Make them stand down.”

  Nothing from Moose.

  Her two terrorists had walked over to each other and were looking around the station.

  “Moose,” she wrote. “Leave them be. If they are thwarted, they will be unpredictable.”

  Nothing.

  “Moose. There is going to be random mayhem here. Stand your men down.”

  She watched as the security guys listened to something in their earphones. Watched them look around. Not masking their anger. Then watched them leave the entrances and head into the train platforms.

  But the two terrorists hadn’t seen. They were now walking slowly, together, toward the corner of the station nearest the Capitol.

  *

  May’s terrorist started for the train later than his companions. By the time he had reached the entrance to his train, the agents were gone. He showed his ticket and was onto the train platform. It was the 8:25 train to New York.

  May, receiving a skeptical look, flashed her fake FBI badge. This netted her an even more skeptical look, but she rushed by the surprised ticket agent.

  She could see her terrorist, briefcase in hand, walking up the platform away from her. The train was on his right.

  He was taking pains to not hurry. May jumped onto the train, racing up the aisle, watching him through the series of window on her left as she gained on him until she was just behind him. Him on the platform, her over his right shoulder in the car.

  She proceeded at his pace. He was focused to his front and behind him on the platform, not caring about what was happening in the cars behind him.

  In order to notice her as a threat, he would have to see her through the windows on the train at least twice and notice it was the same woman keeping up with him.

  He wasn’t that good.

  May glanced at her watch.

  8:03. She formulated a plan, literally, on the fly.

  *

  Samms positioned herself to watch both terrorists set their briefcases where they would do the most damage to humans.

  One against the outside wall of the waiting room for the first class passengers.

  The other in the magazine and snack shop near
the line of impatient passengers buying water and papers. Not far from the more populated coffee shop next door.

  Where was May? She looked at her phone. Nothing from May or Moose.

  She texted Moose the location of the two briefcases.

  Israelis knew to report suspicious abandoned bags. But Americans? Still not yet, and certainly not Americans in train stations. Security, crazily, still focused on airports. And the public followed like sheep.

  Nothing from Moose. Less than twenty-five minutes before scheduled detonations. Assuming they knew how to set them and hadn’t gone to Plan C.

  She watched as the two men walked out of the front entrance of Union Station, turned left. Toward the Capitol.

  Samms looked at her phone.

  Nothing.

  Time for her Plan C.

  She walked up to one of the Feds, dressed as a travelling professor. Or a vagabond. Or something.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Yes,” he said looking at her chest, then at her long beautiful blonde wig.

  She wanted to slug him. Now recognized him as an FBI agent she’d once been in an anti-terrorist class with.

  “Excuse me, but I just saw two men put briefcases down and leave the building. I told that nice policeman over there, but he didn’t seem interested.”

  The FBI agent looked where she was pointing. Listened to something in his headphone.

  He shouted something into his phone as he raced toward the magazine shop.

  *

  May stayed just behind her terrorist for two more cars. Then another.

  It wasn’t going to work if he didn’t enter the train. But of course he would. He had to.

  She walked through the dining car.

  Into first class, having to show her badge to a startled conductor.

  Another car. Were the trains really this long?

  Into the next. The last car. After the first door, he slowed.

  She slowed.

  Nobody in the car but her.

  He walked even more slowly, looking ahead and behind, almost tripping over the briefcase.

  8:07.

  He reached the door and entered a split second before she reached the doorway. He was looking at the overhead area and didn’t even see her. He stepped forward, right into her Glock coming down on his head.