"You don't need thirty guys to smuggle in a load of arms," MacNeil said in agreement. "You think they were planning to shoot up the base?"
"Maybe," said Welsh. "You could just as easily say Fort Brag or Wilmington or Raleigh. This is a nice secluded beach, and Marines run zodiacs around here all the time, so no one pays any attention to black rubber boats. Myself, I don't think it's a coincidence that this is probably the best landing point within driving range of Washington."
MacNeil nodded. "Out of earshot of Washington, too. Unlike landing in, say, Delmarva."
"So I guess the big question is whether all their gear went up in the truck."
"What would you do if it did?" MacNeil asked. He knew Welsh's background.
"I'd extract and try again another day. But I'm not a fanatic," he said pointedly.
"I hear you," said MacNeil.
"Well, not that much of one, anyway," said Welsh. "Just wanted to warn you against all the wishful thinkers. I deal with them every day."
"I hope the data from the scene can give us some definitive answers on whether they stayed or not," said MacNeil. "If we can't find their ship, I think our best chance is to try for whoever was here to meet them. If they were planning something in the vicinity, there's probably a safe house. There's got to be a piece of vehicle VIN number in all this mess. And we'll start checking the last few months' real estate transactions."
Welsh shook his head. "You're forgetting where we are. Do you have any idea how often real estate turns over near a military base? Or how many transactions there are every month? I'll bet you when the real estate bubble burst it barely scratched this place."
"Oh, you were based here?"
"I used to live six miles down the beach."
"It looks like an interesting place," MacNeil said with a smirk. "Little out of the way, though."
"No kidding," said Welsh. "A little out of the way from everything. Never thought I'd be back, either. Well, I suppose I'd better hit the base and find a secure phone. The office is going to want to know what happened."
"We're working out of the Base Headquarters, using their communications center. If anyone bothers you, use my name."
Welsh was about to say that he couldn't do that, they might lose control of their bowels, but was held back by a rare flash of self-preservation. It's not your duty in life to mock the pretentious, you dumbshit, he told himself. Instead he just said "Thanks a lot."
"Where are you parked?" MacNeil asked.
"A ways down the road. I couldn't get any closer."
"Need a ride?"
"No thanks," said Welsh. "I like walking."
He started for the dunes. MacNeil caught Welsh's arm in a grip that, although firm, was mostly for effect. But Welsh whipped about quickly, and the look that came across his face made MacNeil drop the hand. MacNeil thought Welsh was going to attack him. He automatically took a step back.
"Just one thing," MacNeil said, without his previous confidence. The quick change in Welsh had shaken him.
"What?" Welsh demanded. He was aware that he'd narrowly averted a disaster. That asshole MacNeil, throwing his weight around. In Welsh's circles you didn't put your hands on people unless you wanted your ass kicked.
"The Bureau is running this investigation," said MacNeil. "I expect you to just observe and, if you do come across something, to keep us informed."
Welsh was back under control. "You don't have to worry about that. We're all going to have enough problems without playing stupid fucking games with each other."
* * *
When Welsh showed his ID at Base Headquarters, they practically wagged their tails. He never ceased to be amazed at the effect the Pentagon had—on people who had never been there, of course.
The secretary was in a meeting with his boss, the secretary of defense, and the deputy secretary wasn't around, so Welsh gave his information to Carol Bondurant.
"It sounds as if we got lucky," she said after he finished.
"I said the same thing," replied Welsh. "To tell you the truth, this is so big I'm getting a little nervous about being the man down here. I'm not anywhere near senior enough, so why don't you talk the boss into sending someone else?"
"He'll say no."
"Then I'm not being paranoid in thinking he sent me down here in the hope I'd give him an excuse to burn me."
"Of course not, Rich. If you do a good job, he takes the credit; if something goes wrong, you're the handy scapegoat."
"You don't have to sugarcoat it like that, Carol, I can take it. Now, is there any more sunshine you'd like to shine into my life today?"
"No," she said, and Welsh could hear her laughter over the phone. "Just be careful . . . and don't antagonize anyone."
"I'm trying," said Welsh. "I swear to God I am."
CHAPTER 13
Mehdi forced himself to drive the speed limit. He reached over the dashboard to program the GPS to take them to the nearest highway, then realized that he had no idea where to go.
Ali was sitting next to him in the passenger seat, staring fixedly through the windshield.
"What is the escape plan?" Mehdi asked him.
"What?" Ali said.
Hafiz had fought his way past the scrum of bodies in the back of the pickup, and now poked his head through the rear window of the cab. "Your escape plan," he said. "We need to activate your escape plan now."
The question seemed to wake Ali up. He unzipped the day pack lying between his feet and brought out a waterproof Toughbook laptop. He booted it up and flicked the wireless switch. "Just keep driving," he ordered, searching for an open wireless connection. While he waited he brought up a local map and examined it carefully. His eyes kept falling on the Camp Lejeune Marine base, whose western edge they were currently skirting. The road they were on was a chokepoint—they had to get off it.
"Drive us to Jacksonville," he told Mehdi.
"You mean Wilmington," Hafiz broke in.
"No," Ali said slowly. "Jacksonville. When you reach the number 17 highway ahead, turn right."
"It would be much better to try and reach Interstate 40 before too many police arrive," said Hafiz.
Ali reached behind him and closed the sliding window, shutting Hafiz back in the bed of the pickup. Then he put his hand on Mehdi's shoulder, causing him to jump and the truck to swerve slightly on the road.
Mehdi looked over at him.
"From now on, do as I say," said Ali. His quiet tone was more than enough of a warning.
"Yes, sir," said Mehdi.
In the back Hafiz was boiling inside. How could he make this fool understand what they needed to do before they were caught? He felt like kicking the window in. But he didn't.
Ali was amazed at the sheer number of pawn shops and fast food restaurants. "Make this left turn," he ordered Mehdi. "I want to drive through these neighborhoods." Still nothing on the wireless connection window. Did not anyone in this area own a computer?
But once they began driving through residential streets connections began popping up all over. Ali waited for one that the owner had been too lazy to encrypt. There. There was one. "Pull over and park," he ordered.
Mehdi obeyed him, then radioed the other pickup to do the same.
"We are exposed on this street," Hafiz complained through the closed window. "Someone will call the police."
Ali ignored him. He composed a brief message and encrypted it with the program on the computer. Then he accessed a Hotmail account, pasted the message on a new e-mail, and saved it as a draft. This way an Iran contact in Europe could access the account through the password, read Ali's draft, and delete it to indicate that it had been received. Any message to Ali would be left as another draft. This way he could communicate back and forth with Iran without the Americans being able to intercept any e-mail. But he had no intention of reporting failure or soliciting advice from 10,000 kilometers away in Teheran.
Now that he was online Ali used the hotspot to check for house rentals in Jackson
ville, North Carolina. There were many, and he could both see their locations on the map and view photographs. Excellent. He saved the best prospects in case he lost the connection.
Ali tapped Mehdi on the arm, making him jump again. He turned the computer so he could see the screen. "Take us here," he ordered, pointing to the first prospect.
Mehdi almost reflexively asked why, then looked at Ali's face in the light cast by the computer screen. He kept silent and programmed the GPS.
That house wasn't right. The neighbors were too close.
The next one was perfect. An isolated house, near a cul de sac. It was on the edge of a new development that was still under construction.
Ali took up the radio and told the other pickup to dead back down the street and wait. Then he turned to the Sergeant Major. "We will drop you off. Take the tire iron and one man and break into the house. If there is an alarm it will sound after one minute or so. If that happens run to the street and we will pick you up. Do the same if there is anyone in the house. Otherwise immediately open the garage door. Understood?"
"Understood," said Musa.
"Questions?"
"None."
Ali nodded for Mehdi to move. The pickup stopped in front of the house and the two Guards jumped out.
Ali expected the Sergeant Major to break through one of the main doors, but he disappeared around the side of the house. Ali kept an eye on his watch and waited for lights and sirens. Five minutes later the garage door opened.
"Inside," Ali ordered Mehdi. He radioed the other pickup to come up.
In less than a minute they were inside the two car garage and the Sergeant Major was rolling out the doors.
There was shouting from the back of the first pickup, and a moment later an outraged Hafiz exploded out of the bed. The garage light had not been turned on yet and he looked around wildly for Ali. He nearly shouted, but at the last moment pulled his voice back. "You cannot stay here!"
"Why not," Ali asked calmly.
"You cannot," Hafiz repeated. "They will bring people here every day, who want to rent. Let me explain…"
Ali held up his hand. "I understand perfectly," he replied. "Tomorrow morning, you go rent the house."
* * *
After the Sergeant Major threatened to kill anyone who turned on a light, the Guards settled in throughout the house. Mehdi and Mahmoud drove off to the 24-hour Wal-Mart to buy food. Ali gave quiet orders to Karim and Musa, then took himself and his computer into the master bedroom walk-in closet and closed the door.
One of the Guards who had trained as a medic tried to examine him but was firmly ordered away. "I think he has a concussion," the medic told Musa. "He must stay awake."
The Sergeant Major made a noise in his throat. "Have no worries about that," he said.
Karim and Musa spent the night going over the status of the Guards' weapons and ammunition. All the RPG's, the machineguns and ammunition, the mortars and bombs, the majority of the plastic explosive, and the packaged grenades and extra rifle ammunition had been lost in the explosion of the truck. Only the demolition equipment and a few pounds of plastic explosive survived, and the Guards' individual weapons. Most of the Guards had expended at least one magazine on the sheriffs car, and none had more than 150 rounds left.
"What will he do?" Karim asked, after the Sergeant Major returned from giving Ali the information.
"To be honest," said Musa, "this time I do not know."
His AKM was broken down into pieces on the floor, and he methodically cleaned it as they talked.
"But what do you think?" Karim persisted.
"At the moment he is shocked, more from the plan going wrong than the explosion. That will not last. I know him; he will look to carry on with the mission. It is too bad, though. If not for that police vehicle, the landing would have come off perfectly."
"We can still take the White House. We have our rifles and twenty-four good men. The American President is just one man."
The Sergeant Major was not impolite enough to call the young officer a fool to his face. So like senior enlisted men the world over, he let his expression suffice.
Karim kept on. "Our mission is to do it. Our lives do not matter."
"Ah, yes. That is why it will be interesting to see what the commander does."
"I was never so happy as when I saw him alive after the blast," said Karim. "It would have taken me too long to decide what to do."
"I thought he was dead," the Sergeant Major said quietly.
"You have been together for a long time," said Karim, the question in his voice. "He never speaks of it."
"There is not much to speak of," Musa said, running a cleaning brush through the short barrel. "He is the most intelligent man I have ever met. I am the last of eight sons, barely went to school, and only learned to read and write well in the Guard Corps." He shrugged. "It is better than the farm. But not for one moment did he ever treat me as anything but his equal. And he could be a politician, a powerful businessman. You know he went to school here?"
"America?" Karim said in amazement. "I did not know this."
"Something happened," said Musa. "He will never say." And in his Sergeant Major's voice told Karim, "And you should never ask him."
"Of course," said Karim.
"The colonel is a good man," said Musa. "The best I have ever known. But experience and necessity have made him hard. So I do not know what he will do. He never makes crazy plans, but he never gives up. So will he lead us on, regardless of the cost? Or something else? He is very resourceful. And there is another complication. The Americans may not believe our ploy on the beach. It was brilliant under the circumstances; I do not know how the colonel thought of it so quickly in the confusion. But the Americans may be hunting us even now." He slid the bolt group back into his weapon, and snapped the receiver cover down.
"You talk as if this were a football match," said Karim. "And you were in the stands."
"It has been a very long time since I became excited about such things," Musa said calmly. "God's will be done. Whatever the colonel orders we will carry out. It will be interesting."
* * *
In the closet Ali stared at the computer screen. The first draft that popped onto the Hotmail account had contained a thousand questions. That he had refused to answer. He knew how they thought. They would be afraid to deny his request. The only question was how long they would take. God willing, Amir would make them move quickly. It might take a day or two, but he would have it.
In a separate window was the map of the area. Information, he needed more information. There was ice in his stomach, and he felt like vomiting again. Stupid, how could you be so stupid? Only a fool would put all the weapons in one place, even for a second. What would he tell the men?
* * *
Hafiz sat alone in the kitchen, pressing his fingers into his temples to try and relieve the throbbing pain in his head. His ears still rang from the blast. He needed a drink, but even if there had been any available he didn't dare in present company. He didn't even dare leave the house for fear that short hairy sergeant would shoot him.
A nightmare. No, an unmitigated disaster. They would probably claim it was his fault, try and shift the blame.
The mission was blown. There was only one thing left to do. The Guards would have to use their escape plans and get out of the country as soon as possible. He and his men would have to stay behind to clean up the mess. Then he would send a signal to Amir, requesting to remain and continue with their original work. Oh, please let him agree. That would be the only decent thing to come of this.
Tomorrow they could start the escape preparations. The three fools he'd been saddled with for so long would not be any trouble. No sense in taking chances, though; he would talk to them first. The original plan had been reckless anyway. It was only sheer luck that they were not dead or behind bars.
* * *
The flickering computer screen combined with exhaustion to put Ali into something
close to a trance. The impact of his forehead hitting the keyboard brought him awake again. There was a new draft in the e-mail account. When had that happened? And this one carried an attachment. A very large file. Decrypting it, he prayed it would be what he wanted. Yes, yes.
Though the Iranian mullahs always loathed and mistrusted their Russian atheist neighbors, the two had in common the same main enemy: the United States. So their relationship had the virtue of necessity. The Russians needed money and the Iranians needed arms. And there were trades of intelligence. The latest Russian Sukhoi fighter was really nothing more than a U.S. F-14 without the swing wings, and the actual F-14 it was modeled on had come from Iran. In the chaos that came with the fall of the Soviet Union, the Iranians had taken advantage of their ties to Russian intelligence to buy a great many files on the United States. And the file that was on Ali's computer was the actual Russian military intelligence target folder on the Camp Lejeune Marine Corps Base, translated into Farsi. It was exactly what Ali needed. It woke him up like a strong cup of tea, and he set to work.
* * *
Ali did not emerge from his room the next morning. The Sergeant Major brought him food but had no reply to the questions the Guards deluged him with. "He is working," was all Musa would say. The Guards passed the time talking amongst themselves, trying to guess what would happen.
Hafiz spent the morning with Mehdi, Ghulam, and Mahmoud, working on a plan to erase every trace of their presence in Jacksonville and then move back to Virginia.
Hungry for news from home, the spies had spent the night talking to any Guard they could persuade to stay awake. "They have not been given any orders," Mehdi said, "but they are certain they will still carry out their mission. They will not say what it is."
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