RW16 - Domino Theory

by Richard Marcinko

  “Oh. You ought to pace yourself a little better.”

  “Shunt! Explain what the hell you’re talking about.”

  A long technical discussion followed. I’ll give you the executive summary:

  Between the factory and the chemists, People’s Islam had the know-how and key ingredients to manufacture VX gas33 — and quite a lot of it.

  * * *

  VX is a nerve agent, the common name for Ethyl ([2-[di(propan-2-yl) amino] ethylsulfanyl) methylphosphinate or S-[2-(diisopropylamino) ethyl]-O-ethyl methylphosphonothioate. It is among the most potent chemical warfare agents known to man. It was first discovered in the 1950s in the United Kingdom. Among other qualities, it acts a lot like motor oil — it’s slippery, sticky, and very hard to get rid of.

  It’s fatal in extremely small doses — touch it, and ten milligrams will kill you. No one appears to be one hundred percent sure how much you can breathe before permanently keeling over, but it ain’t much. (A milligram is one thousandth of a gram. That’s the weight of less than half a penny.)

  There ain’t too much of the stuff around — both the U.S. and Russia are believed to have relatively small quantities in storage — but back in 1998 the U.S. wiped out a supposed Sudanese drug factory after soil tests nearby showed it was being produced there.34 It’s dangerous but not extremely difficult to make, and once used, can contaminate an area for years.

  The perfect terror weapon.

  * * *

  I hung up and continued running, turning up along the long block paralleling the side of the athletic complex. My lungs were starting to complain and both thighs had stitches in them as I took the gentle hill toward the spot where I’d told Urdu to wait. He’d already parked and was starting to wax up the hood of his taxi as I ran up.

  “Mr. Dick — you should have called me,” he said.

  “W.R. and D. Chemical,” I told him. “Drop me off near the railroad tracks.”

  “This is part of the operation against the Games?”

  “It’s a lot bigger than the Games,” I told him. “Let’s get moving.”

  ( II )

  By the time Shotgun got to the school building where Trace and the others had been taken captive, more police had arrived. The explosion had made them wary; they were hunkered down behind their patrol cars, guns drawn, covering the front door. The body of the man who had made the fatal mistake of trying to get in lay on the front step.

  Most of him, anyway.

  Flashing the ID the ministry had given us for Special Squadron Zero, Shotgun ran in an arc behind the cars to the end of building, hunkered down, and crawled to the back. Looking in the window that covered the hall, he saw that it was empty. Then he stepped to the side, pulled down the ladder to the fire escape, and started climbing up.

  Somewhere around the second floor, a policeman came over and yelled at him, telling him to get down.

  “Cover me!” answered Shotgun.

  That’s what he claims he said, anyway. The policeman may have heard a slightly different verb.

  Shotgun made his way up to the roof, pausing on each floor to look through the windows. By that time, the Scottish coaches and other personnel had all reached the roof.

  “Go down,” he told them. “Get away from the building quickly. It may be wired to blow.”

  If they needed any encouragement, his suggestion that there might be explosives inside was more than enough. They started moving down. As they did, two or three police officers came up to help.

  Shotgun took a quick look around the roof, then went down a flight and entered the hallway window off the fire escape landing.

  “Doc!”

  “About time you got your ass over here. What the hell are you doing? Buying snacks?”

  “No, Dick said there wasn’t time,” said Shotgun, trotting to the opening for the freight elevator. Doc had already opened it.

  “Go ahead,” said Shotgun. “I’m right behind you.”

  “Bullshit on that,” answered Doc. “You fall, you’re taking me with you.”

  “I ain’t fallin’.” Shotgun grinned and leaned inside, grabbing the rung of the work ladder that ran up the side of the elevator. He swung out, Tarzan-like, then began making his way down to the basement.

  Doc followed, a little more slowly. He caught up with Shotgun between the second and third floors, where we had stashed a locker with gear.

  There was a good selection of weapons. Shotgun opted for an M110 Semi-Automatic Sniper System — overkill in the situation, though you couldn’t fault the choice.

  For those of you not familiar with the U.S. Army’s next generation precision killing tool, the M110 is an American-made semiautomatic manufactured by the good people at Knight Armament. It fires 7.62 × 51 mm NATO rounds and is as accurate as a computer calculating pi.

  Reed Knight, friend and owner, did “special” work for me when I was outfitting SEAL Six. Now his son runs the show and we see each other at the trade shows where I show off my knives and other Rogue Warrior and Red Cell toys.

  Toys — remember, the difference between men and boys is the price of their toys. But I digress.

  Being a sniper rifle, the M110 has a fairly serious barrel, potentially a hindrance if you’re climbing down an elevator shaft like Shotgun was. But he’s a big boy, and big toys go with big boys — he strapped that sucker on his back, and looked just like Natty Bumppo setting off to fetch himself some deer meat.

  Doc pulled the ever-reliable MP5 submachine out of the box, along with some extra magazines. Then he grabbed a small rucksack that held tear gas canisters and some masks and resumed his downward climb.

  The elevator opened into a small hallway between the pantry and the kitchen. Rather than risking that, Doc and Shotgun slipped out an access door into the pantry.

  We’d had a low voltage red light system installed in the pantry as part of our security preparations, arranging the lights so that the front part of the room was evenly lit while the entrance to the shaft was shadowed. Doc and Shotgun made sure they were alone, then crawled down along the first row of the shelves, stopping to pull out a box of equipment stashed there. They pulled on a pair of headsets with throat mikes. Their short-range radio signal was virtually undetectable, and the sensitive mikes would keep them from having to speak too loudly.

  Doc then took an iPod Touch from the box and fired it up. The handheld computer was loaded with special apps designed by some friends of ours at Apple. Doc tapped an icon that brought up a new screen; after entering a password, the command unit for the school’s video surveillance network came on screen. He selected one of the two cafeteria cameras, squinting a bit at the small screen. Shotgun, meanwhile, had taken a small video periscope from the box and was using it to check the hall.

  “How the hell do I get the damn audio on this Walkman thing?” Doc growled.

  “It’s that slider on the bottom,” said Shotgun.

  “No, not that. I can’t get it to feed into our radios.”

  “You gotta tap the little mouth that looks purple.”

  “Who’s the asshole who decided it should be a purple mouth?” grumbled Doc. “Purple. Hard to see the damn thing in the dark.”

  That would be Shunt. He’s a hell of a programmer, but not much on colors.

  “Hall’s clear,” whispered Shotgun. “Moving to the kitchen.”

  “Hold up until I figure out where they are. Goddamn little screen. Why do they make these damn things so tiny?”

  * * *

  Trace, meanwhile, was in the ladies’ room, calculating her next move. She could slip the pistol behind the commode easily enough, but the tango’s presence in the restroom presented a huge temptation — if she overpowered him, she would not only have his rifle but one less asshole to deal with.

  She knew that by now Doc and the rest of us would be on our way. We had hidden a radio unit in the ladies’ room under the commode. Trace knew she could use it to talk to Doc, but the asshole with the rifle would almost c
ertainly hear her mumbling.

  Another argument in favor of taking him down. But once she did that, she was committed. It would also commit everyone outside; there’d be no playing for time while they got into position.

  We had discussed several different scenarios before planting her on the team. My basic instruction to her was not to risk anyone’s life, including and especially her own. That’s an easy thing to say, but in practice, what does it really mean?

  It means make a judgment based on the situation and your instincts. It also means that only the on-scene personnel — Trace in this case — can make the call. It’s why we spend so much time and money training leaders, and training SEALs and other SpecWare people for that matter. You can’t foresee every permutation of a situation beforehand — and you can’t micromanage a war from a bunker in Washington, D.C., no matter how many hi-rez feeds you’re getting from Predators and Global Hawks and whatever sleek creation is UAV35 of the month.

  Or to use more direct language: only the person up to his nose in a clusterfuck can find a way out of it.

  Or her nose, as the case may be.

  “Are you all right?” Trace whispered to Colina, the girl who’d been smashed in the head.

  “Yeah.”

  Trace wet some paper towels and held them to the side of her head. Colina played defense on the team, and was used to mixing it up on the playing field.

  “Can you see OK?” Trace asked, holding up a finger. “How many?”

  “One.”

  “Good,” she said. Then in a lower voice, she added, “Pretend you’re really hurting. Moan a bit.”

  “Oh,” said Colina.

  “That’s it. Louder.”

  “Oh.”

  The tango at the door was shifting around nervously.

  “Can you handle a rifle?” Trace whispered to Colina.

  “I could try.”

  Not the answer Trace wanted. In her experience, “I can try” is even worse than “maybe.”

  She shifted around, pretending to look over Colina’s head.

  “She’s very hurt,” Trace told the tango.

  “You do,” he said, waving his hand. “Do.”

  “I’m doing,” said Trace. She knelt down in front of Colina and whispered, “Help is on the way. Can you stay in the restroom awhile?”

  Colina nodded.

  Trace rose.

  “I need a med kit,” she told the guard. “I need to get her some gauze and a wrap.”

  “You do,” he said again, gesturing. He hadn’t understood what she’d said.

  “See what I need is a compress,” said Trace, walking toward him.

  She gestured with her hands, as if mimicking a very large bandage — an extremely large bandage. The motion brought her hands in front of her body, roughly even with the rifle, though she was still a few feet from the barrel.

  “You do,” he said firmly. He swung the gun up in his left hand. “You do.”

  “I will,” she said.

  And with that, she grabbed the barrel of the gun and jerked it from his hand.

  ( III )

  “Trace isn’t in the big room,” said Doc, settling in behind Shotgun in the kitchen. They were behind the large window separating it from the eating area.

  “Maybe she’s still upstairs,” said Shotgun. He was deeper in the room, moving to a spot where he could set up with the sniper rifle and not be seen.

  “She’d’ve checked in by now.”

  “Maybe you’re just missing her.”

  Doc stared at the screen. There was a zoom feature, but it didn’t help all that much. Next time, we use the iPad.

  “We got two guys at the far end,” he told Shotgun. “Another near the door. Two close to us on the wall to our left. Total of five.”

  “I can get the guys at the far end,” said Shotgun. “No other shots.”

  Outside, the police and SWAT teams had secured the street and the north side of the building. The team officials had been helped down, and soldiers were on the roof, waiting for a specially trained unit to arrive and begin working their way down the building. It was all textbook stuff — and all so terribly slow that a group of suicidal maniacs could have blown up the building three or four times by now.

  Doc could hook into the police network using the iPod and another of Shunt’s specially modified apps. But he decided not to for the time being; he wanted to know exactly where Trace was before proceeding. (The app alerted them that we were on the line; they tended not to use English over the radio so just monitoring the conversations wouldn’t have been as useful as it was in the States.)

  We had considered making the video feeds available to the police, but decided it was too much of a security risk; unless hardwired, it was possible the tangos would intercept the signal, and even if they couldn’t read it they might be able to guess someone was in the building. There was also the fact that we worried there would be a traitor among the various police forces, or that word would leak about the setup.

  “I got a good shot on two at the far end,” said Shotgun. “They’re close together.”

  “That’s not going to work,” said Doc. “We need to find Trace before we do anything.”

  * * *

  Trace at that very moment was pulling the rifle from the tango’s hand in the restroom, simultaneously kicking him where it would do the most good.

  Her intention was to pull this off silently. In her mind, it went something like this: caught off guard as he lost the rifle, the man would have his breath as well as his ego stripped by the blow to his manhood. Gasping for air, he would be a vulnerable target for her next move — a smash with the rifle to his head. He’d fold. She’d gag him with his shirt, then move on to phase two.

  But Murphy was lurking nearby. Being the perverse sort, he’d sprinkled a few drops of liquid soap on the floor the evening before, making the tiles just a little slippery. Trace hit one of them as she kicked, which threw off her timing. She managed to get her foot in the right place, but she tumbled to the side as she did. In the process, the gun flew across the room.

  Colina tried to grab it midair but couldn’t manage it. The weapon clattered to the floor.

  Trace hopped to her feet, stomped on the tango’s head — he hadn’t managed more than a whimper in the meantime — then pushed him aside, unconscious.

  “Get the gun. Stay in here,” she hissed to her teammate. Then she pushed open the door into the cafeteria.

  * * *

  “Something’s going on,” said Doc when he heard the noise of the rifle falling.

  “I still have two. The guys on the far end.”

  Doc looked at his screen. He calculated that he could get the two tangos to his left with his submachine gun — he’d jump up and spray, catching them by surprise. But that would leave the man on the right. And lots of women in between.

  Something moved on the right side of the video screen.

  “Door to the ladies’ is opening,” Doc told Shotgun.

  * * *

  Trace took a deep breath and walked into the cafeteria. The man closest to the door stared at her. He’d heard the commotion, but hadn’t known what to make of it.

  “We need a medical kit,” said Trace loudly. “She’s bleeding pretty bad and I need something to stop it with.”

  The leader yelled at her in Arabic. Possibly he was comparing her favorably to Florence Nightingale, but I doubt it.

  “I need to stop the bleeding,” said Trace emphatically. “Do we have a medical kit? Or at least a towel?”

  “Where is Ahmed?” he demanded, this time in English.

  “He’s watching her.”

  The leader said something to the other tangos. Two started across the room toward her.

  “Do you have a med kit?” she asked them.

  One of the men slapped her across the face. Trace just barely controlled herself, falling back toward the ladies’ room door.

  The man yelled something at her — this was probably a
comparison to Mother Teresa — then hit her again. Trace fell back, this time through the door into the ladies’ room.

  The tangos followed.

  * * *

  “What do you have?” Doc asked Shotgun.

  “Just the two. Left and right. They’re close.”

  * * *

  Trace ducked to her right as she “fell” into the restroom. As she did, she pulled the pistol from the back of her waistband.

  The tango who had hit her threw open the door, pushing it so hard that it flew against the wall and rebounded back, smacking him in the side. This made him even madder. He threw it back again and pushed into the restroom, quickly followed by the other terrorist, who was trying to restrain him.

  Trace put a bullet into the second man’s temple, then fired one into the side of the first tango’s head as he turned.

  * * *

  “Go! Go! Go!” yelled Doc as he heard the shot.

  Shotgun had already squeezed the trigger, firing on the gun blast. His bullet took the tango closest to the windows in the head. The next shot grazed the scalp of the second man as he ducked. The terrorist — he was the leader of the group — fell backward, his gun slipping from his hand.

  Doc leapt upright. Hesitating a moment before completely sure of his bearings, he found the fifth terrorist against the wall and shot a half-dozen bullets into him.

  “Down! Down!” he yelled as he fired. “Down! Everyone down! Stay down!”

  In the restroom, Trace pulled the rifles away from the dead men. She grabbed one, then slid the other across the floor to Colina, who now had one for each hand. She spun around, gun pointed at the door.

  “We’re clear,” Doc was yelling. Behind him, Shotgun was sweeping his sight across the room, looking for another terrorist.

  Heart pumping, Doc leaned up and got himself through the window of the kitchen.

  “Trace! Trace!”

  “In here!” she yelled.

  “Stay there!”

  The athletes had thrown themselves to the floor and stayed there, frozen by the gunfire. But as Doc started walking toward the man he had shot to make sure he was dead, the women looked up. One, then another and another, jumped on the man who had been only grazed by Shotgun’s bullet. One of the athletes grabbed his rifle from the ground. Another leaned down and punched him the face. Within moments, the entire team was gathered around him, pummeling him with feet and fists. In seconds his face was a pulp of blood and split flesh.