Clay stood in the middle of the room. He’d been talking to himself, within his own private world. As he returned to the present, he realized how dangerous it was to do such things in public, even if the public was an empty room in the middle of nowhere. Some secrets, like this one, needed to be kept.
Clay leaned out the door and looked around. The Cadillac was nowhere to be seen. Maybe Mohammed wouldn’t meet him here. He looked for a note, opening one desk drawer after another. Mohammed suggested this was both training and a test in what he called tradecraft, the way of the spy.
If he wanted to tell someone something without anyone else knowing, how would he do it? What did Mohammed know about Clay that would suggest a course of action? He opened the desk drawers, one by one, finding nothing except dust and paper clips.
Clay’s mind raced as he ran through the possibilities. There were no signs in a different language that an English speaker would not be able to read. With technology, most people could take a picture with their phones and get an instant translation. What else?
The metal desk was large and looked unwieldy. He saw the scrapes on the floor where someone slid it into place. Clay grasped the bottom of the desk frame and tested its weight. It was as heavy as it looked. He bent at the waist, forcing his legs to do the majority of the work. He strained, and the desk began to tip. He forced it, picking up the weight as it approached his shoulders, finally standing it up on one side, not letting it fall over.
Taped underneath the bottom drawer was an envelope. He opened it and was surprised to see that it was written in English.
“My congratulations on solving the first puzzle. Now, the tallest tree in the second park. Peace, my friend.” Clay read it twice and then put the note in his pocket. He’d burn it later. He put the desk back in place, taking care not to let it fall and make too much noise or get damaged in any way. No one needed to know that he was here and did anything. He wiped down the desk before he left.
He shut the door, with his sleeve over his hand, and wiped his prints free from the door knob and lock. He walked toward the bus station while checking his phone to see which bus he wanted and the one after that. He knew exactly where he had to go, the second park they met. If anyone intercepted the note, it would reveal nothing to them. If anyone followed Clay, they could not get to the note first. His mind burned through the challenge with a newfound zeal.
Clay had not been this energized since he last played college football.
There was no need to go to the mosque and pray about it. Allah’s message had been delivered by his servant called Mohammed Marsook ibn al Mohammed.
Four puzzles and four hours later, Clay found himself walking the last quarter mile to Empty Space Storage. Before he reached it, as in, before the cameras recorded his approach, the Escalade pulled up from behind him, and the doors unlocked.
Mohammed greeted Clay warmly, knowing that he’d solved the puzzles and traveled efficiently around the city. Mohammed had followed, but he was a master of the trade. Clay never realized that Mohammed was there the whole time.
Clay gave Mohammed the code to enter the storage area. The older man punched in the four numbers and drove through the gate as it opened. He drove around as Clay directed, facing the SUV toward the camera, blocking the view of the storage unit. Clay used his key to open the lock and gave the second key to his friend. He smiled as he rolled up the door, watching the expression on Mohammed’s face.
When he smiled, Clay knew that he had done well. He’d duct taped a tarp over the entrance and cut a flap for a second door. If someone came by, they would not be able to see what the men were doing inside. Clay cautioned Mohammed that they could spend no more than an hour at a time parked at the unit. Anything more would raise suspicions. Clay also plugged in a small refrigerator by the entrance, filling it with beer. He opened two and put them on top. In case anyone came by, the men were drinking beer and playing chess away from the wives’ prying eyes.
“Exceptional my young friend. You were born to this life. It was Allah’s will that we met, and it is his will that we move forward. None of this would have happened if Allah was against it.” Mohammed took Clay’s face in two hands and pulled him down until Mohammed could kiss his forehead, as a sign of respect. Clay nodded, humbled, not knowing what to do next.
“Let’s get this all set up and tomorrow, we will start combining the ingredients. We’ll need coolers and lots and lots of ice. Maybe some music as much of this is time-consuming.” They would both come, and one of them would stay and slowly drip the catalyst into the combined chemicals, while the other would go, returning after three or four hours. They could produce much of the explosive over the course of the next two weeks.
“When do we need to finish and what is the target?” Clay asked.
Mohammed’s smile disappeared. He shook his finger in front of Clay’s face as he looked around, but there was nothing to see inside the unit. He went to the tarp and lifted the flap. He couldn’t see anyone near.
“Not here. I will tell you soon enough, but suffice it to say that when this is ready, it must be used fairly soon after that or it loses its kick, shall we say,” Mohammed said in a whisper, close to Clay’s ear. One could never be too discreet with operational details. He would prefer not to tell Clay anything, but felt that the young man deserved more.
At the right time, that is.
In the interim, he would tell him enough to placate him, but unfortunately, little of it would be the truth.
Hostage Rescue Team
Travis slapped Rick on the back, accompanied by hearty congratulations. In the DoD, Travis wouldn’t know if visitors ever accompanied an HRT into action. Bob knew that they never allowed it. He liked Rick, but this invitation was inconceivable. HRT was a slight misnomer as the team also performed counterterrorism actions and other high-value direct action operations. HRT was the best of all FBI’s SWAT teams.
And that impressed Bob all the more. The elusive credit. Whether Rick received a pay raise or a bonus, was out of their hands, but doing things that no one else had done, that was in their control. Someone had made it happen, probably the Deputy Director asked the Director of the CIA himself to pull in a favor for a good guy who did well by them all.
And Rick would remember this more than anything else.
Bob explained the unique nature of this invitation and how prestigious it was to have someone like the DCI asking for a favor on Rick’s behalf. Rick swelled with pride but kept his attention on the whiteboard.
“I hope he’s that man, but it doesn’t seem right. This guy isn’t an international traveler. He’s here because he lives here.” Rick wasn’t convinced.
“If that one presumption is off, the rest of it fits. Looking to recruit, radicalized, secretive, but not. He hasn’t made it easy for the surveillance team by acting like he knows about counterintelligence. Even if he’s not exactly the man, he’s still a bad guy, and we could break the back of a terror ring. Then the faceless man goes home because it’s too hot here. We win either way, and you’ll be there to see the takedown. Man, I’m envious.” Bobbie Mac was a terminal analyst. He would never get a chance at something like this.
“Let us know how it turns out. I know it’s not as sexy as kicking in the doors of mud huts, but not every one of us can be Army Strong,” Travis chided. He’d been in both Iraq and Afghanistan. He personally kicked in too many doors. He didn’t need to see any more of that, not even as an observer.
“Just between us girls, I’m betting this isn’t him, but before you go off on me, if this guy is like the FBI suspects, then he needs to get taken down. So, I’m off to see what it’s all about.” Rick closed with a handshake for both and headed to the minivan.
The drive was short, distance wise, but took a long time. Ninety minutes of sitting in traffic and listening to the radio put Rick on edge. When he arrived, getting access to the building meant that he had to get the third degree, even though they were waiting for him. The worse t
hing of all was he couldn’t use the restroom while they vetted and checked him. Once through, he raced for the head.
Relieved and patience restored, Rick collected himself before making his entrance where he knew he wouldn’t be welcome. Any time senior leaders direct their people to do something out of the ordinary, there’s going to be friction.
Rick walked into the Hostage Rescue Team squad room where six of the FBI’s best made last minute preparations for the seizure of terrorism suspect Ahmed al-Suqami from the Badgad Market in Alexandria.
Rick felt and looked out of place. The Team Leader, Jack Coleberg, was younger than Rick by a good ten years. Every one of the six team members looked like they trained for the Olympics. The Assistant Team Lead was female, which surprised Rick, although it shouldn’t have. His Marine background tended to think of combat arms as a boys-only club.
Wake up, dumbass, this is the twenty-first century! Rick had corrected himself before he opened his mouth. As it turned out, the Team Leader was busy, and the Assistant TL made the introductions, starting with herself.
“I’m Xandrie Kovak, Assistant Team Lead. Nice to meet you,” she said in a slightly gravelly, indifferent voice.
“I’m Rick Banik, running the watch at the JTTF War Room. And before anything else, please understand that this wasn’t my idea. DDI suggested it and left me little choice, but personally, I think what you people do is incredible. I had to accept because there can’t be anything better than seeing you in action.” Rick paused, relieved when she gave him an encouraging nod. “Xandrie? Interesting name. How’d you get it?”
“From my parents. You?”
“Yeah, me too,” Rick laughed at the stupidity of his question. She smiled, shook her head, and slapped him on the shoulder.
“Let me introduce you to the rest of the team, then we’ll get you a vest, so you’re nice and safe while you wait in the van.”
Rick appreciated the jibe. At least they’d let him wait in the van. He gave it fifty-fifty that they would refuse to allow him along, despite direction from on high.
The team members were tall and well-muscled. Their skill sets ranged from medical to computer engineering to explosives ordnance disposal. Someone on the team could do anything they might need and generally there were two of them with that proficiency. All of them were trained field medics. Their mantra was that they all return home or none of them does.
FBI’s elite HRT had only experienced four deaths in the entirety of its existence and all four happened during training. They trained hard, harder than the challenges of real life. Often, actual operations were anti-climactic, wrapping easily under best case scenarios. Only two of the six team members in this room had ever shot anyone. The others were ready, but hadn’t yet crossed that threshold.
Rick empathized, and told them he hoped they never had to kill anyone. He understood how it changed a person.
Jack Coleberg’s team always geared up before the final run through of the operation. As they addressed each step they’d take, they verified that they had exactly what they needed already on their person. They’d determine best case and worst case responses from the targets and talk through what they’d do to counter. Jack talked quickly as he went, the responses from his team were short and intense.
Rick equated it to a virtual reality game, where everyone moved forward in unison, but each acted independently, covering the others, while staying on track to accomplish the mission. Rick knew that HRT existed, but didn’t know the extent of their professionalism. Someone can be called the best of the best, but it has no meaning unless you see it in action.
After the final run through, they opened the doors and jogged to the van. It was their tradition to keep the blood pumping. Sometimes the drive was long and that was most undesirable, but in this case, the target was only fifteen minutes away.
Unmarked local LEOs, Alexandria City Law Enforcement Officers were already quietly cordoning off the target. Public works had blocked the streets going into and out of the area. HRT expected to get the go order from the surveillance team the second they arrived.
Entering the Lair
Rick was in the front of the van, wedged against the wall that led to the cab. He was convinced the HRT member who took the wheel was a professional stunt driver, and they were filming a new Sylvester Stallone movie. He couldn’t fathom why they needed to drive like this when the world wasn’t burning. Maybe this was a way to make the HRT happy about leaving the van when they reached their destination.
“Just like being in a dropship from Starship Troopers, huh?” Rick said to Xandrie who was wedged against him. She shrugged. Jack gave Rick a harsh look that said ‘no talking.’ Rick felt the sting of the rebuke. He was a guest and didn’t want to be responsible for distracting them from their mission. Ahmed, your time spent being a pimple on the ass of humanity is rapidly drawing to a close, Rick thought to himself, feeling the bravado of the team he sat near.
Rick had an earpiece and was tied in with the HRT’s communications. They’d disabled his transmit capability, which he was happy with. Listening in would be enough. Rick felt the energy rise as the van slowed, crawling to the target after clearing the Public Works roadblock. The team members tapped their feet, clenched their fists, and fidgeted almost uncontrollably in their seats. His own adrenaline surged watching as the team members took themselves right to the edge.
As expected, the go order was given upon their arrival.
The Bagdad Market was around the corner. Ahmed al-Suqami had disappeared behind the counter and into the back nearly an hour prior with the store’s owner. Two people tended the counter and systematically restocked shelves. Because of the roadblocks, there were no customers, so the workers tempered their pace, spending a great deal of time talking about soccer, who the next great player would be.
The back door was a heavy metal double door, probably barred on the inside. To get through it would take longer than the one to two seconds their procedures allowed. They decided to go through the front door, which was already open. To do that without raising the alarm, they needed to incapacitate the two workers. FBI agents in civilian attire were standing by to go shopping, then detain the two workers. The HRT would be outside, ready to run past the window and toward the back.
Unlike the movies, the team did not have a detailed drawing of the building’s interior. They had a general idea, but not specifics. This caused Jack some grief, but when the element of surprise was on their side, they could overcome other, lesser obstacles.
They counted on speed and violence of action to subdue suspects, secure an area, and then complete the sweep. Best case scenario suggested that the targets would surrender immediately. Worst case had them fighting back using firearms close at hand.
The team exited the van. Much to Rick’s surprise, Xandrie told him to get out and stand behind them, but that was as far as he was to go.
“You will not leave the alley under any circumstance. Do you understand?” She asked, barely above a whisper. Rick nodded vigorously. “FBI snipers and local LEOs have the area under surveillance. If you move, you will get in the way and possibly block someone’s line of fire.” She pointed a finger at his chest. He nodded and pointed to the ground, then put up his hands in surrender.
She turned back to the team. They were all business, relying solely on hand and arm signals. Surprise was their greatest weapon. They raised their HK416 carbines into the ready position. The Glock pistols remained strapped to their legs. For this operation, they preferred the rifle’s heavier firepower for the initial assault.
They watched, tensely, as two FBI Agents, one male, one female, strolled casually across the street. They appeared to be middle-aged and dumpy. Rick would have never guessed that they worked for the FBI on the front lines of the war against terrorism.
The unlikely couple looked in the shop window, had a short conversation on whether they wanted to try something, and then went inside. As they walked through the store, Rick heard the
ir footsteps. They talked about nothing and then there were two conversations at once as the female agent engaged the clerk restocking the shelves with a question about expiration dates on something in the refrigerator. The female clerk opened the refrigerator door, and Rick heard the muffled sound of a scuffle as the Agent seized the clerk in a headlock.
Simultaneously, the clerk behind the counter was asked about something behind it, forcing the counter clerk, a male, to turn around. The Agent vaulted the counter and wrapped up the clerk, one arm around his throat while the other pulled the man’s arm behind him.
“Go, go, go,” they heard the agent say in a low voice. Rick could hear shoes scraping as the clerks both tried to resist. The Agents must have had grips of steel to keep the clerks from shouting out.
Rick leaned around the corner and watched the team enter the store, one by one, quickly, efficiently until Xandrie, bringing up the rear, disappeared inside. Rick leaned back, staying exactly in the spot she designated for him.
He closed his eyes and listened. The boots they used for this op had a soft tread, like a tennis shoe. They barely made a sound as they moved into the back of the store. Rick heard the first two Agents drag their reluctant charges outside. He leaned out and saw the two struggle as they were frog marched across the street and out of view. Then the woman started screaming, but no one in the store would hear her. It was too late for them anyway.
“FBI! On your knees, hands behind your head!” Rick winced as his ear piece vibrated with the volume of the command. He may have felt it through the brick of the building as well. That was probably his imagination. They’d made their move.
People Raged: and the Sky Was on Fire-Compendium (Rick Banik Thrillers Book 1) Page 11