MacNeil gave everyone a subtle nod to go ahead. Welsh smiled. The fucker didn't need vocal cords.
"We've got the house all scoped out," said the HRT commander.
Welsh took back the coffee cup. "What's inside?"
"We couldn't get close; it's open ground all around. Thermal scan didn't tell us much. All the lights are on, and the imager picked up a lot of heat from appliances. There may be bodies in there, but we can't be sure."
"What about sound?" asked Welsh.
"We used a parabolic mike," said the HRT commander. "And we bounced a beam off the windows."
Welsh nodded. A laser beam directed at glass picked up vibrations caused by sound inside a room. With the right conditions, you could hear everything.
"At least two TVs and a radio are on, upstairs and down," continued the HRT commander. "And loud. They're drowning everything else out."
"So we don't know if anyone's in there," said Welsh.
"There's two vehicles in the driveway," said MacNeil. "We just couldn't get close enough to use the more sophisticated equipment. I doubt they went off and left everything on."
"So what are you going to do?" Welsh asked him.
"We're going in as soon as we get just a little more light," said MacNeil.
"What's the rush?" said Welsh. "They aren't going anywhere."
"I've got the Highway Patrol and the rest of North Carolina on my back," said MacNeil. "I could deal with that, but either they made too much noise or they leaked, because I hear we've got press on the way."
Welsh was appalled. It was like a flashback to Iraq and Afghanistan, life-and-death tactical decisions made for the most non-tactical of reasons. "If they're in there they want a fight," he said to MacNeil. "Don't give it to them. Let them try to break out and shoot them down, or turn off the water and let them surrender in a few days when they're dying of dehydration. But don't go in and give them what they want."
"Why wait?" one of the other agents asked.
"You've never had one of these assholes blow himself up in your face," Welsh told him angrily.
"I can't wait," said MacNeil. "If any of these people are out of the house, they're going to run into the whole media circus on the way back."
Welsh just shrugged, the way always he did when one of his commanders refused his counsel. A non-verbal way of saying: okay, it's all on you now.
"When will you be ready to move?" MacNeil asked the HRT commander.
"Half an hour," he replied. "We're all briefed, rehearsed, and ready to go."
"You don't think there are any hostages, do you?" another agent asked.
MacNeil shook his head. "But we'll give them a chance to surrender first. We'll find out then."
"If they're in there they'll start shooting," said Welsh.
The HRT commander shrugged. "We're ready for that."
Welsh sincerely hoped that was the case. He wondered if the FBI guys knew just what a full-scale firefight looked like.
At 6:15, MacNeil, Welsh, and the senior agents were crouched behind a low stone wall that marked the edge of the woods. They had a clear view of the house. Mindful of the Bureau's image, MacNeil had an FBI camera crew taping the operation. They were hidden nearby, with an agent watching to make sure they didn't get into any trouble.
Twenty feet down the wall were several HRT sniper teams. They worked in pairs—a sniper and a spotter. The teams had removed the lower stones from the wall, so they could fire from the prone and under cover. They wore walkie-talkie headsets with voice-activated microphones, to keep their hands free. The radios had encrypted channels, so no one else could listen in. They were using customized Remington 700 bolt actions.
At 6:18, MacNeil picked up a microphone lying beside him. When he pressed the button and began talking, his voice went through a line of amplifiers back in the woods. With all those watts behind him, Welsh thought MacNeil sounded like God. Welsh hoped the creeps in the farmhouse were impressed, because he certainly was. MacNeil made the standard 'come out with your hands up' speech, but there was no response from the farmhouse. Another agent with a remote unit made a telephone call to the house. Again, no response.
"Okay," said MacNeil, making the decision. "Cut the power, cut the phone, and tell HRT they're clear to go." His minions passed the orders by walkie-talkie.
Welsh could see the snipers tense up and get ready. There were coughing noises from the treeline. Dark objects arced in the air and crashed through the farmhouse windows. White smoke quickly billowed up. Welsh smiled. CS tear gas, and from personal experience in the Marines he knew it was a bitch. When those little crystals hit, you started pumping mucus from every orifice— eyes, nose, mouth. It even felt like it was coming out your ears. The only drawback was that the burning grenades had a tendency to set things on fire.
The basic HRT assault unit was four men, nearly universal among special ops units. They dressed in one-piece green assault suits, body armor, and ballistic helmets. Like the Tier One military units their primary weapon was the Heckler & Koch 416 assault rifle with the short 10.4" barrel and EOTech holographic red dot sight. Their pistol was the Springfield Armory Professional Model .45 automatic. All of them were wearing gas masks. Larynx microphones led to the radios, allowing communication even with the masks on.
There was the sound of a helicopter. Welsh looked up in time to see a Bell Jet Ranger pop up over the trees. Two HRT men were leaning against the doors on each side, with their feet on the skids. The Ranger darted over to the farmhouse roof, and the men jumped off. Welsh nodded with approval. It was easier to fight from the top of a building down than from the bottom up.
The roof had two tiers, as if part had been built on as an extension. The HRT jumped onto the lower part, which gave them easy access to a second-floor window. Backed up against the side of the house and well covered by other HRT members, one man punched out the glass with a Halligan tool, the special ops crowbar. His partner threw in a stun grenade, and it exploded instantly. Both dived through the window behind the grenade, and the rest followed, one after the other. Then another Jet Ranger flew over to the roof and disgorged four more HRT. They went in through the same window.
Simultaneously, the twelve men waiting in the trees at the back dashed toward a comer of the house. They stayed low to the foundation, weapons trained on the windows above. Covered by the others, two agents fixed an explosive frame charge to the back door, being careful to stay out of any line of fire. There was a pause, a signal was given, and the door disappeared in a sharp explosion. Before the smoke cleared they threw in stun grenades and charged through the opening.
MacNeil had a walkie-talkie tuned to the HRT net, and he put the volume up so everyone could listen. There was no idle chatter. All the rooms had been given a designation, and the HRT elements reported in as each one was cleared. So far they hadn't encountered anyone. The special agent in charge warned them to stay alert.
Welsh couldn't fault them so far. The tactics were classic. Surprise everyone by coming in from above, get their attention fixed to the upper floors, and then give them another problem with multiple entry downstairs. He was watching through binoculars, even though the white CS smoke made it nearly impossible to see. There hadn't been any shooting, so he decided to take a calculated risk. He stood up and used a pine tree for cover, leaning his head and upper body around it to look through the binoculars. MacNeil yelled to get down, but Welsh ignored him.
Inside the farmhouse, an HRT team had just blown the hinges off a locked door with a twelve-gauge shotgun. They now faced an alcove leading to the downstairs hallway. A stun grenade went in, and two HRT followed —one on each side of the doorway. The alcove was clear. The hallway was empty; there was a closed door at the far end. Following carefully rehearsed routine, the team started down the hallway to deal with the next door.
Halfway down the hall, at calf height, was a standard two-plug electrical socket. However, close examination would have revealed that there was no receptacle, just
the faceplate. Mounted inside the wall in the receptacle box was a burglar alarm, available at any well-stocked electronics store. Through the top hole in the faceplate, a photo-relay sensor projected a beam of infrared light across the width of the hall. On the opposite side the beam hit a reflector, also recessed into the wall. The reflector bounced the beam back to a receiver, positioned where the bottom plug should have been.
The Hostage Rescue Team had undergone extensive training in the detection of booby traps. They had cut all electrical power to the farmhouse, and they took great care upon entering each room. But they were looking mainly for trip wires.
The first man broke the infrared beam as he moved down the hall. As a burglar alarm, this would have turned on the house lights or a siren. Instead, the sensor closed the circuit on a wire loop leading to a 12-volt lantern battery, two electric blasting caps, and about twenty-five pounds of PETN in a locked closet.
As Welsh watched through his binoculars, the farmhouse blew apart. Something hit him very hard all over his body.
He must have been out only a few seconds, because when he opened his eyes debris was still falling from the sky. He looked up and saw branches, and found himself beneath a tree in a bed of pine needles. Welsh tried to get up, but things were still too fuzzy. There was dust everywhere, and he heard sirens. It was very nice to be able to hear something. MacNeil came running over, looking very shaky.
"I'm okay," Welsh told him calmly.
But MacNeil looked down at him and exclaimed in horror, "Oh my God!"
Welsh was puzzled by this and thought he ought to look himself over. He quickly discovered the cause of MacNeil's distress: A chunk of wood two inches thick and five inches long was protruding from his parka just below the rib cage. Welsh thought about it for a second, then extended his arm.
"For God's sake, don't move!" MacNeil shouted.
Before he could get closer, Welsh reached down and yanked out the wood. MacNeil moved in to try and staunch the expected flow of blood, but there was none. Welsh handed the sharp chunk of wood to MacNeil, who stared dumbly at it.
"Always wear your vest," said Welsh.
Realization slowly made its way across MacNeil's face. "You bastard," he breathed. Then he shouted. "You son of a bitch, you nearly gave me a heart attack!"
"Stop yelling and help me up," said Welsh.
The dust was finally settling. The farmhouse and barn were gone. Only the foundations remained. Fire trucks and ambulances were moving in; people were running about.
"Those bastards," said Welsh, from the bottom of his heart. "Those dirty motherfuckers."
Everything stopped as the ground rumbled, faintly but distinctly. Welsh's first thought was that some more explosive had gone off in the foundation of the house.
"What the hell was that?" MacNeil shouted.
Welsh saw it first, a thick pillar of black smoke rising far to the west. "Oh, Jesus Christ," he moaned. "That's Camp Lejeune."
CHAPTER 22
At 5:45 on Thursday morning, Hassan and Mahmoud stood beside the bronze Honda Accord in the parking lot of one of Jacksonville's supermarkets, taking in the pleasures of the new day. The barometer was dropping; it made the air feel thick and heavy.
"The night seemed to go on forever," the boy said.
Mahmoud nodded. "I do not know why the commander refused to let us to stay in the house after they left last night. I tried to convince him, but orders are orders." He noticed a strange look on the shaheed's face. "Do you feel all right?" the spy asked.
"I am fine," the boy said quickly. He looked embarrassed. "I had a dream last night that they caught me, and the mission railed."
Mahmoud wasn't quite sure what to say. He didn't want to upset the boy, so he took refuge in banality. "Try not to worry. Just remain calm and remember your training, and you cannot fail. You are doing a great thing, and we are all very proud of you."
Hassan smiled shyly. "Really?" he asked.
"Really," said the spy. He paused. "It is time to go now," he said gently.
"I am ready."
"You will never be forgotten," Mahmoud said, embracing the boy. "God willing, we will meet again in Paradise."
"So it is written," Hassan said. He started the car. Mahmoud waved as the truck pulled out. The boy waved back. Mahmoud's pickup truck, where they had spent the night, was on the other side of the parking lot. The other three shaheed were sleeping inside. Ali had left them with Mahmoud for security and in the event Hassan developed a last-minute change of heart that would necessitate his being shot. Now the four of them would drive directly to Virginia.
The Honda moved through Jacksonville, picking up green traffic lights all the way. Hassan kept an eye on his watch; he did not want to be too early. He turned left onto North Carolina Route 24 and headed for the main entrance to Camp Lejeune. The road was a long strip of gas stations, bars, and auto dealerships. The traffic grew heavy. Hassan took the well-marked exit and passed the sign that announced "Home of Expeditionary Forces in Readiness." Ahead was a military police post and signs requesting drivers to slow down and dim their headlights.
The boy panicked when he saw the guard. But the slowing line of traffic calmed him. God's will be done. God was Great. The MP did not look at his face, instead his vision was fixed on the blue Department of Defense sticker in the top center of the windshield of the stolen car. At the sight of the blue officer sticker underneath it he saluted and waved Hassan through. The boy followed the traffic onto the base.
Hassan increased his speed down Main Service Road. The light was green, and he held the car at forty miles per hour. He fought the temptation to push down on the gas pedal. Discipline, he told himself, discipline. You have waited so long, and it is so very close. Concentrate and be patient, you are almost there. The route was familiar. He had driven down this road on the back of Ali's motorcycle. But now that he was alone the boy was terrified of making a mistake. He passed over a bridge and checked the landmark off in his mind. The signs told him to slow down, and he did. He passed the Burger King on his left and the Hostess House on his right. He slowed the car to twenty-five miles per hour as he passed the Post Exchange. Hassan cut the wheel and swung around the traffic circle, careful to stay in the lane that continued down Main Service Road. Tears came to his eyes; he was almost there. The boy tripped a toggle switch attached to the dashboard, which he thought activated the time-clock mechanism.
Actually, the switch was not connected to anything—but the boy did not know that. Mahmoud had activated the device before the car left the parking lot, and the clock had been running ever since. It was simple insurance against a last-minute failure of nerve. The bomb would keep the car from being examined if Hassan surrendered or abandoned it.
At the end of the road, the Honda came up on the 2d Marine Division headquarters. For a moment Hassan was tempted, but he had been briefed that there was no one in the building this early. He took a right turn onto Julian Smith Drive. The speed limit was twenty-five miles per hour, and he was careful not to exceed it. He passed a regimental headquarters, another landmark. Then came the headquarters of a different regiment. He turned right as he passed it. Six hundred meters down the road, a parking lot appeared on the left. Hassan pulled into the parking lot and swerved between two parked cars. He slowed down so the bumper would not impact on the curb, and he bounced the car over the concrete walk and onto the grass. Two staff sergeants arriving for work stared in amazement.
The boy heard the bellow of typical staff NCO outrage: "What the fuck do you think you're doing, asshole?"
Hassan whipped the car hard to the left, straightened the wheels, and stepped on the gas pedal. He depressed the lever of the dead man's switch and held it tight. The ground was damp, and the rear wheels kicked up a fountain of turf and mud as the truck accelerated. The wheels wobbled on the slick grass, and with one hand on the wheel Hassan fought to even it out. He picked out his target, the Bachelor Enlisted Quarters in the center of a group of barracks, a
nd his aiming point, the exact center of the BEQ.
The Bachelor Enlisted Quarters at Camp Lejeune were large, three-story, flat-roofed concrete buildings. A departure from the old-style communal squad bay, they had more than ninety rooms, with a central lounge on each floor and one room per building for a duty NCO. The rooms, each with its own bathroom, were designed to be occupied by three Marines. A battalion normally used two of these buildings and half of another, grouped together in a regimental area.
The poor traction on the soft ground made it hard for Hassan to hold the overloaded truck on the aiming point. From the first-floor passageway, a bareheaded Marine wearing a cartridge belt stepped out of the duty NCO office and began waving wildly at him. Hassan found this enormously funny and began to laugh, the tension washing away now that he knew he was going to make it. The duty NCO stopped waving, turned, and ran down the first-floor passageway.
The front tires blew out when the car hit the concrete edge of the first-floor walkway—the vehicle's progress was not slowed. It crashed through the thin brick outer wall and entered the duty NCO office. The impact with the outer wall activated the pressure switch on the front bumper; Hassan's hand had left the dead man switch when the air bags activated. But the van was completely inside the building when the charge detonated.
The velocity of the explosive blast completely sheared the nearest support columns, and the center of the building fell in upon itself. The columns farther away buckled and fell inward. The noise drowned out any screams. When the dust cloud settled, the center of the BEQ appeared as a collection of huge chunks of concrete carelessly heaped together, like building blocks a child might meticulously construct and then knock down. Only the two far walls of the structure remained slightly intact. A mound of debris lay between, covered by the roof, which rested in pieces on the top of the pile.
The force of the blast blew in the flimsy fronts of the two nearest BEQs. The explosion was contained within the semicircle of buildings, but Marines in the regimental area two blocks away were knocked off their feet by the explosion. Debris fell to the ground in an eight-hundred-yard radius, and the cars in the large parking lot were perforated by chunks of concrete and steel reinforcing rods. The fragments of glass, concrete, and metal caused heavy casualties among commuting Marines just arriving at work.
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