"You are too relaxed, as far as I am concerned," Musa grumbled. "It is not good to be too casual with explosives."
The Sergeant Major hunched over the carefully separated bunches of wires and prepared to complete the circuits. The look on his face indicated he was not enjoying himself. Electric blasting caps were very touchy—stray currents or even radio signals could sometimes set them off. With visible perspiration, though the garage was quite cold, Musa spliced wires from the blasting caps to the three firing systems. Since the car would not be sent immediately, Musa did not connect the batteries. Instead he quickly twisted the free wires together, closing off the circuits from any stray sparks. It took half an hour to finish all the systems, and nothing blew up in his face. Relieved, Musa began breathing normally.
Activating any switch would close the circuit and fire a blasting cap. This would ignite the explosive filling of the detonating cord. The explosion would travel through the center ring cord and down the individual cords to each C-4 charge, the detonating cord knot in the center of each bar of C-4 transmitting enough force to detonate the charge. Since detonating cord explodes at a rate of twenty thousand feet per second, all the charges go off virtually simultaneously.
Musa looked up to see Karim grinning.
"Good work, eh?" said Karim.
"Very good," said Musa. "But there is a bit more to do." He removed the batteries from under the seat and locked the doors. He called the team leaders over. "Clean up the garage, which you should have started while we were working," Musa told them. "When you are done, come get me and I will check it. Clear?" They nodded glumly, having thought they were finished. "Then get started," said Musa.
He and Karim walked into the house.
"The cold here is so damp," Karim said, as if feeling it for the first time.
"I have not found anything to like about this place yet," said Musa.
CHAPTER 17
The garage was so full Ali and Karim had to park their motorcycles in the overgrown yard behind the house. "Very nice," Karim said, pulling off his helmet and wiping mud from the cardboard temporary license plate. Mehdi had returned from an out-of-town dealership an hour before, and Ali and Karim had taken the bikes on a test drive.
Musa and Mehdi came out of the farmhouse carrying two small daypacks. "Everything you need is in here," the Sergeant Major said. "And the radios are fully charged."
"Before we leave, we will give you a radio check," Ali said, "and see if this new receiver really works." An antenna extended from the farmhouse roof; the Guards had installed the apparatus the previous night. "If we run into trouble, we will call and tell you. If we are taken, send the car on its way at once and carry out Phase 3 the best you can." Musa nodded.
"You should have no trouble," Mehdi said. "On Sundays the base is almost deserted." He snorted in derision. "The Americans are easy to surprise. For two days at the end of every week they cease to be an army."
"We are both students of history," said the Sergeant Major, smiling and gesturing toward Ali.
"I am sorry your driving licenses are not good for motorcycles," Mehdi said, still serious. "No one back home thought you would need them, I imagine."
"Have no worries about the licenses," Ali said. He tapped the pistol in his belt. "No one will get the chance to ask for it. By the way, you did a good job buying the motorcycles on such short notice."
Mehdi waved off the compliment. "In this country," he said, "if you have money, you can have anything."
Karim rummaged through his pack. The walkie-talkie was in the front pocket. He put on the headphones with the attached voice-activated microphone, carefully fitting his helmet over it. "I will give a radio check," he said through the visor. He spoke into the radio and received a response from the Guard monitoring the larger unit in the house.
Ali did the same. "We are ready," he said, fastening his chin strap. He kicked the motorcycle into life.
The Sergeant Major walked up to him, his face almost touching the edge of the helmet. Ah flipped up the visor. "Be careful," Musa said. No one else heard him over the noise of the bike. Ali clapped him on the shoulder and signaled to Karim. They sped down the driveway and onto the highway.
Camp Lejeune Marine Corps Base extended out to the Intercoastal Waterway and the Atlantic Ocean and was split into two separate parts by the New River inlet. All the base facilities and a large part of the training areas and firing ranges were on the east side of the inlet. On the west side were the rifle range and, isolated in the northwest corner, the New River Air Station and the Infantry School at Camp Geiger. The rest was heavily wooded training area and ranges. No direct on-base access connected the two sides. To cross from east to west, one had to leave the base through a Military Police checkpoint in the south and cross the Sneads Ferry Bridge onto Route 6, or leave by other checkpoints on Route 24 and circle around on the highway.
Ali knew that his targets would have to be on the more secluded western side. It was God's will the Public Affairs lieutenant had mentioned that the hand-grenade ranges were on that side of the base. His map was taped to the motorcycle gas tank. As they circled the highway around the base, Ali checked off the various possibilities.
The Air Station and Camp Geiger entrances were impossible. The Military Police checkpoints were well guarded and within sight of the highway. Taking a left turn off in the village of Verona, they followed an asphalt road through the woods toward the entrance to the west-side training areas. There were signs ordering drivers to stop, and a small MP shack. Before the MP could get out of the shack, the Iranians swerved about and sped back down the road.
"We will not be able to sneak in this way," Ali said to Karim over the radio. "But with the post in the woods on that lonely road, it would not be hard to kill the guard and drive right in."
"They must have a telephone and check in regularly," Karim replied.
"Probably," Ali said. "We would lose surprise. But the entrance is there as a last resort. We will keep going down the highway and check the other entrances on the map."
They continued south on Route 17. It was a long way; the base was quite large. There were a few homes along the highway, but outside the town of Jacksonville it was mostly undeveloped. Ali's map showed dirt road entrances leading into the training area. When they checked, they found the trails blocked by fences and mounds of earth.
"We would have to cut the fence," Karim said. "Even then only motorcycles could get through, nothing larger."
"We will come back in if we have to," Ali decided.
They took a left onto Route 6, heading south toward the ocean. Almost missing the well-marked entrance to a firing range, Ali braked hard and almost lost the bike on the turn. The gate was out of sight of the road. It swung open easily.
Ready to turn and flee at any moment, they cautiously drove onto the range and found it deserted.
"This is it," Ali declared. "We are on the base."
"But this is a Sunday," Karim pointed out. "We have to be sure the range will be empty when we arrive."
Ali shrugged. "I will just make another call to the Range Control."
It was a lovely crisp day riding through the old-growth pine forest. They became lost several times in the maze of unmarked tank trails and unimproved roads. Eventually they found the firing ranges and examined them thoroughly. Not content to merely enter coordinates into their hand-held GPS units, after settling on the routes they put out markers. The Guards had covered small pieces of plywood with luminous paint from a hobby store. Ali and Karim nailed them to trees along the tank trails and road intersections so they would be able to find their way while driving at night. The plaques would not be noticed among the engineer's tape and ribbon Marine units had left along the trail.
They left the training area the same way they had entered. Ali decided to drive farther down Route 6 to see what was there. They discovered two more dirt roads leading into the training area, and Ali marked them as backups. The mission completed, they turn
ed and headed back.
On Sunday night, Ali assembled the men who would make the reconnaissance and checked the gear they laid out on the living room floor. Mehdi had been sent to one of the several military-surplus stores in town to buy sets of American pattern camouflage uniforms and caps. The recon teams would wear these for camouflage and to resemble Marines if seen from a distance. Ali stressed that they must remain hidden in observation positions during daylight and move at night only. And they were not to use their weapons unless the situation was hopeless.
One man in each of the two recon teams was armed with a silenced Uzi. The rest carried AKMs, chest harnesses, and two grenades each. Newly purchased green civilian backpacks were stuffed with rations, rain gear, sleeping bags, and radios. Ali and Karim had found that the radio signals were strong enough to be picked up at the farmhouse from as far away as the training areas.
Ali went over their briefing again until it was dark enough to move. They loaded into one of the pickups. Mehdi drove while Ali navigated and rode shotgun.
They entered the training area through the same empty range, following the luminous plaques. Ali was relieved to see that his marking system worked. A two-man team was dropped off near the K-305 range, to keep it under observation. The other four men were dropped off in the section of training area the lance corporal at Range Control said the Marine company would be using. They would trail the Marine unit, observe its habits, and locate its bivouac. When the last man disappeared into the brush, they turned around and tested the route out.
On Monday Ali ordered everyone to be ready to move at a moment's notice. "Mehdi says there is talk that the FBI is asking questions all over the town," he confided to the Sergeant Major.
"We have nearly everything packed up," Musa said. "What shall we do with the leftover explosive? Dump it?"
"No," Ali said. "I have an idea."
* * *
On Monday night Ali called the four shaheed into his room. They were Mustafa, Houshang, Hassan, and Selim. "Have you been treated well?" Ali asked. "Any problems?" They told him there were none, thank you, sir.
"As you know," Ali said, "we are ready to move. You have all done well, but as you know only one will be required for this particular mission. Before I choose, I give each of you the opportunity to withdraw. You have my personal guarantee that nothing will be said of it, and you will be included in the next phase of the operation."
The four glanced at each other. Ali had intentionally brought them in together. He really did not want any to decline; it would only cause problems. He thought if there was a real coward among them, quitting in front of the group would not faze him. None of them said anything.
"Very well," Ali said. "Then Hassan will be my choice for the mission." The others looked crestfallen. Hassan was a slightly built boy who seemed to be the youngest. Ali thought him the hardest worker and the most dedicated. The boy beamed as if he had won a prize at a festival. "Thank you, sir!"
"No need to thank me," Ali said formally. "It is I who thank you. You others have my pledge that each of you will be given a chance to distinguish yourselves." At this they cheered up.
"That is all I have to say," Ali told them. "Unless there is anything you wish to talk to me about?"
There was not. They left the bedroom with each giving Hassan his congratulations.
Now Ali could only wait for the reconnaissance teams to radio in their periodic reports. Late Monday afternoon the four-man team saw Marines drive into the training area on trucks. After a risky daylight movement that Ali authorized, the team reported that they had found the company and were tracking it. Based on the new intelligence, Ali made some last-minute changes to his plan.
Tuesday morning the team watching the range reported in. After writing down the message and giving the teams their orders, Ali walked into the living room, where the Guards had gathered. They were dressed in the one-piece green coveralls the spies had purchased. Underneath, the Guards wore civilian clothes in case of emergency. Their false documents and money were wrapped in plastic and secured in inner pockets. Their faces were blackened. Walkie-talkie radios had been attached to the chest harnesses.
Most were cleaning Kalashnikovs for the hundredth time. They all looked up expectantly.
"It is a go," he said calmly. 'Tonight."
After they carried Ali around the room the second time, he demanded they stop screaming and put him down at once.
CHAPTER 18
At 8:30 that evening, Special Agent Ken Maher slid into his FBI sedan and slammed the door shut. He turned on the dashboard light and put a mark next to one of the names and addresses on his computer printout. The large number still remaining caused him to sigh mournfully. Having the identical conversation with fifteen to thirty people every day was becoming disorienting. It wasn't good enough to interview these real estate agents at work during the day. MacNeil wanted it done fast, so Maher and the others had to visit some at home. The only way to get MacNeil off your back was to give him what he wanted. Everyone was pushing hard to pin this guy down, since MacNeil had promised that, if they didn't come up with anything in Jacksonville, they'd start checking real estate agents in all the outlying towns. Maher looked at his watch. Only Tuesday night and he was already exhausted. One more interview, and that was definitely it.
The address was in one of those new generic developments where the houses are identical and the streets laid out so that no matter which way you turn, you always end up in the same place. Maher's GPS gave up and he had to stop at nearly every intersection to consult his map before he found the house. He took a minute to gather up his materials and put himself in the proper frame of mind. It helped to be extra nice when you bugged people in their homes after dinner.
The porch light snapped on, and a Marine answered the door. He wasn't in uniform, but the haircut made his occupation quite evident. Before Maher could open his mouth, he said gruffly, "If you're selling anything, I'm not interested."
Maher aired his ID out in front of the Marine's face. "I'm Special Agent Maher, FBI."
The Marine peered at the ID, and his face suddenly flushed. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry, what can I do for you, sir?"
Maher smiled to put him at ease. "I need to speak to Laura Jackson."
"That's my wife. What's it all about?"
"I just need to ask her a few questions. May I come in?"
"Sure," the Marine said, worried but moving automatically now that he was dealing with a higher authority. "Come on in. I'm Jeff Jackson." He shook hands and ushered Maher into the living room and onto the couch. "Can I get you some coffee?"
"That would be great, thanks."
Mr. Jackson returned with coffee and an attractive blond woman in her middle twenties. Maher stood up.
"Hello," she said brightly. "Am I in any trouble?"
"Not at all," said Maher, accepting the coffee and smiling back at her. "A man we're looking for might have bought a house around here recently, and we'd appreciate it if you'd look at some pictures."
"Of course," she said. "But why don't you just check the records at all the agencies?"
"He may have used a name we're not familiar with," Maher explained.
"I'm sorry, you must think I'm pretty foolish."
"Not at all," Maher said gallantly. He handed her a stack of ten photographs. They were large prints, eight by tens. All had been transferred from security camera footage, so interviewees couldn't focus on anything unusual about the quality of the photographs; they could concentrate on just the faces.
She went through the photos, looking carefully at each one. Maher leaned back and sipped his coffee. Why couldn't they all be as easy as this? She stopped abruptly at the next-to-the-last photo. "I rented a house to this man," Laura Jackson said.
Maher nearly dropped the coffee in his lap. "Are you positive?"
"Yes, I even remember his name. Mr. Brady. He didn't even want to go see the house, said he'd already driven by and it was exactly what he wanted. Great c
redit report; paid with a corporate check. He seemed to be a very nice man. Has he done something awful?"
"May I use your phone?" Maher asked quickly.
* * *
Richard Welsh flipped through the channels of the television in his room at the Jacksonville, North Carolina, Holiday Inn, searching for something to occupy himself. He had just returned from the hotel lounge, having confirmed that things hadn't changed much. It was still largely populated by Marines' wives whose husbands were on deployment and who had somehow lost their wedding rings. But to be fair, Welsh had done three deployments and he knew infidelity cut both ways. He left after one beer. He drew the line at both married women and betraying Marines.
TV was hopeless. Welsh pulled a book from his traveling stash and threw himself on the bed. He'd taken a lot of shit in the Corps for his literary tastes, but there even readers of military history were few and far between— the commandant might have wanted a Corps of thinkers, but what he wanted didn't carry much weight with the people who had to make things happen every day. The good ones were spread so thin and worked so hard they barely had time for their families, let alone books, and everyone else was too busy chasing their own ass in circles. Welsh settled down with a paperback Joseph Conrad, definitely one of those things in life worth taking shit for.
He was just beginning to reread Nostromo when his phone rang. He thought briefly about bagging the call, then picked up.
"We've got the safe house," MacNeil announced on the other end. "Get out to the parking lot, there's a car waiting for you."
"Why don't I drive myself instead of tying up one of your cars?" Welsh suggested.
"I want to keep the vehicles down to a minimum. Hurry up and get moving. Oh, and plan on being outside overnight." MacNeil clicked off.
With the speed of a man who had learned to dress in fifteen seconds flat in Officer Candidate School, Welsh threw on lightweight polypro long underwear and blue jeans, and a sweater. A Gore-Tex parka in a woodland camouflage pattern would go over it—one of the very few decent items of clothing ever issued by the U.S. military. He stuffed the Gore-Tex trousers into the daypack he always brought with him, along with binoculars, thermos, notebook, camera, Surefire flashlight, and Nostromo. Over his long underwear top he added an armored vest with ballistic inserts. It usually sat in the bottom of his duffel bag for when he went to go watch special ops units do live fire training. Welsh considered it simple prudence, but it was definitely not something he'd want MacNeil to know about.
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