Soft Target

by Rachel Brune

  * * *

  The elderly woman on the couch in her immaculately-kept apartment was sobbing deeply, which was great for the cameraman, but horrible for Mark’s interview and sense of journalistic integrity. An eighty-something lifelong Manhattanite, Mrs. Lewis had survived decades of Depression, war, prosperity, war, peace protests, high levels of crime, and eventual gentrification, but the terrorist attacks of 9/11 had taken her son and grandson and frozen her in time for what seemed would be the rest of her life.

  Jacob Lewis smiled out from under his fireman’s hat in a picture of him and his entire truck, all of whom had been lost in the first tower that day. His father, Malcolm, peered stiffly out of a portrait of the little family, starchly pressed and waiting for the inevitable moment that came sooner than his mother had thought possible. A last photo showed a younger man, about eighteen years old, surrounded by five other men and women in Army uniforms, leaning against an armored truck in some dusty sun-drenched place.

  “I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Lewis. She wiped her cheeks. “Every year I think I’m over it, and every year I sit here and lose it again.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Mark. “Would you like to talk about how you first heard about the attacks that day?”

  Mrs. Lewis paused for another sob, and Mark felt himself sink lower in his chair. She gathered herself together, however.

  “It was about eight in the morning. My neighbor, Margaret Hoover, you know she’s an invalid and can’t get around very well—well, I headed over to her place to help her with breakfast and take her the paper.” She paused, thinking. “She had the television on, and I saw the attacks there.”

  “Were you worried about your son?”

  “Oh no, not at first, because I thought you know, that they would be able to put out the fire. And he wasn’t at a station down there. He was uptown.” She picked up a photo and showed it to him. “See, that’s his truck. But you remember, we all thought that they would be able to put out the fire. We didn’t think those buildings would ever fall down.

  “But they did.”

  Silence. Mark usually dreaded the silence when an interview subject would stop speaking and he couldn’t think of a good follow-up question. But in this case, he held the photograph and stared at the fire truck for almost five minutes.

  A chattering tweet broke the silence. Mark excused himself, leaving the cameraman to grab some B-roll of the various pictures and interior of the apartment. He stepped out in the hallway.

  “Granger.”

  “Hey hotshot, you’re gonna owe me.”

  Mark braced himself. The voice on the phone belonged to one of his contacts, this one a police officer with a talent for riding a desk and finding out what was happening everywhere except in his own department. His tips were either extremely reliable or a total wash. But with this interview wrapped, and plenty of pain for Taggert to feed on, he was willing to flip a coin.

  “You there, man?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. Whattaya got for me?”

  “Extra, extra, stop the presses!” His contact sounded pleased with himself. Even more so than usual. “How would you like to cover a raid on some terrorists on the anniversary of 9/11?”

  Mark felt nascent overwhelming journalistic greed growing in the pit of his stomach.

  “Where? When?”

  The voice read off an address. “You got that?”

  “Yeah, I got it. When?”

  “It’s going down in about three hours.”

  “Do you know who they’re going after?”

  “Nope. But it’s going to be big. Plenty of big SWAT trucks and flashing lights and important people to give lots of quotes.”

  “Uh huh.” Mark checked his watch. If he cut this short, he would have time to turn in this story and sell his producer on the next one.

  “So, you owe me?”

  “Yeah, man, I owe you. If this is solid, I’ll have your baby.”

  The voice chuckled. “Don’t worry, buddy, I’ll lube you up real good. Won’t even hurt a little bit.”

  Mark made a hasty excuse with Mrs. Lewis, murmuring something about getting back to edit the story, and left the apartment with its lonely old woman and her memories.

  Mark drove as quickly as he could in evening traffic. He had stopped by the studio to drop off his footage and coordinate some better coverage with Taggert. He planned to take up a casual observation post outside the address he had been given and only call in the news van when it looked like things were actually going down. There were two reasons for his circumspection. The first was a vague sense of not wanting to interfere with a police mission. He was persona non grata with most law enforcement personnel for his airplane stunt and the resulting publicity he had parlayed for himself. The second was a grave reluctance to tip off any other news agency about the juicy story going down.

  Of course, Mark was not foolish enough to delude himself that his source was a monogamous tipster, and so for that reason he had the van park only half a block away, hidden in an alley for easy access. For now, he stood with a cigarette burning between his fingertips—a useful prop that he often used when he had to stand in one place for a long time without raising suspicions. The evening shadows fell long about the brick and glass of the abandoned warehouse.

  A few months ago, he would have been nervous to wait on the street in the sort of neighborhood surrounding the structure, but now he could think only of the upcoming action. His nerves tightened along a wire, humming the mixture of nervous tension and excitement that preceded the moments before a big story broke. Whatever was happening was happening now, in front of him, and tonight the world would learn of it from him.

  Chapter Four

  The ballet began in slow motion.

  Movement caught the corner of Mark’s eye. A short, stocky man walked out from an alley, casually strolling to view the storefront of one of the myriad of cheap clothing stores that fronted the other side of the street. He looked like a gangbanger, but he moved like a prizefighter.

  Outside the warehouse, a car sat, parked crookedly against the curb. On closer glance, the vehicle was in the last stages of decrepitude, with rust winning over the body and three of its four tires on blocks. Rows of blacked-out windows faced the street, catching the last few rays of the sun setting below the city. Several had been cracked out from vandals, squatters or idlers looking for the odd thrill.

  It was only the second week in September, but already the fading evening air had caught a chill. Mark pulled his collar up and scanned the windows across the street, endeavoring to remain out of sight of the sentry. His eyes caught quick, darting movements, that vanished before they had barely taken hold. He wondered if he should say something; immediately, he dismissed the thought. Of course there would be movement. An entire Task Force wouldn’t be sent out to raid an empty warehouse.

  Sanchez helped strap Mabry into the last of his gear, a modern-day squire girding his knight for battle. There were slight differences in gear and equipment, but Scott was reminded of the moments before rolling out on a mission, quiet nervous gestures punctuating an odd joke. The men moving around him brought to mind the efficient routines of the experienced soldiers performing their last-minute checks of vehicles, weapons, radios and personal protective equipment.

  “Good to go?” asked Sanchez.

  “Good to go.”

  Mabry checked his watch. The vehicles were due to roll out in ten minutes. He opened the door and hopped in. Turning, he extended a hand to Sanchez, and the two settled with their team on the two benches lining the crowded assault vehicle. Wright appeared at the back door. He peered inside, scrutinizing the lines of men seated closely, breathing lightly.

  “Ready?”

  The men nodded.

  “Let’s get ’er done,” said Mabry.

  “We’re rolling,” said Wright, and he closed the door.

  Mabry felt the vehicle begin to rumble, then move, beneath him.

  Nina Morris frowned, standing un
steadily in the back of the JTTF’s command and control vehicle, which was actually an NYPD vehicle commandeered for use through means that were mostly not shady. She studied a technical drawing of the target site tacked onto the only free space on the wall, then looked down at the tops of the heads of her communication specialist and surveillance operative. She slipped open the hatch to the front.

  “How far out are we?” Nina asked.

  “About ten minutes to the staging point,” said the driver.

  Under the pro forma bulletproof vest, Morris could feel sweat dribbling down her lower back. She had worn a lightweight shirt, knowing her body’s heated reaction to tension, and took another sip of water from the bottle she held in her hand. Every mission was always a battle of balancing her hydration level without suffering from a sudden need to use the facilities in the middle of coordination and control of the action.

  Lurching under her feet, the ungainly vehicle stumbled to a halt around the block from the targeted building.

  “All vehicles, report set in positions.” Morris gave the order through the radio. In sequence she listened as the assault vehicle radioed in its readiness, the various patrol vehicles positioned to cut off avenues of escape notified the command vehicle of their presence. Only one patrol was tardy, attempting to maneuver in an alley that had looked larger on the map than it, in fact, was. The driver maneuvered his best around an unexpected dumpster and a cardboard box with someone living in it, and called in his position.

  “Observations Adam and Boy, situation report,” said Morris.

  Listening to the radio communications, Mabry mentally hesitated, then translated “Adam” and “Boy” from police phonetics into the military “Alpha” and “Bravo.” The sudden un-canniness bothered him.

  The green and black blur resolved itself into a slightly less-blurred graininess through the night vision lenses. From the top of an overwatch building across the street, Observation Post Adam tried to get a better look at the upper-story windows of the warehouse.

  “These damn glasses are for shit.” Officer Smith pulled his head away from his night vision optical device and observed through his naked eye. The NODs picked up and enhanced existing light. The cloud cover, plus the fact that the streetlights were either broken, or shut off, as per the task force’s prior arrangements, meant that the picture was grainy and barely useable.

  “Here, give me those.” Smith handed them to his partner, Jacobs. She put them to her eyes and rotated the focus knob. “It’s a little grainy, but they work fine.”

  She picked up the radio. “OP Adam to Control.”

  “OP Adam, this is Control. Send it.”

  “Control, this is OP Adam. We have no movement at any entry points. Break.” She paused, then brought the NODs to focus on a window. “Control, I see movement at second floor window, three left up from entry-point.”

  “Roger, Adam, can you describe movement?”

  “Negative, Control. It’s too dark in there.”

  “Roger Adam. Keep us updated if you see anything specific.”

  “Roger Control. Adam out.”

  “Control to Entry Team Charlie.”

  “This is Charlie. Send it, Control.”

  “Report, are you set in position?”

  The Charlie team leader squatted in the shadows, hidden near the back entrance of the building.

  “Roger, Control, that is affirmative. Rear entrance is secured and my team is ready for breach.”

  “Roger, Charlie. Control out.”

  Sergeant Wright clicked off the radio.

  “You guys ready? We’re about to get the go.”

  Murmurs of assent whispered up from the eight men in the vehicle.

  The digital clock in the control vehicle hit 2000 hours.

  “All stations this net. This is Control. This is your go. I say again, this is your go.”

  The assault vehicle screeched around the corner, barreling down to the street-level entrance. Wright’s team jumped out and ran, crouching and stalking, to stack up outside the door.

  In the back of the building, Charlie Team leader cautioned his men. “Steady guys. Wait for it.”

  Wright signaled, and his breach man came up from the back of his stack. The breach man kicked twice against the heavy door. As the rest of the team covered the windows and street, he tried the door. Locked.

  Charging his shotgun, the breach man aimed at the top set of hinges and fired. The heavy slug blew the top hinge off the door. Aiming, he fired twice again and blew off the middle and bottom hinges. He kicked and the door fell into the building. Throwing gently toward the middle of the room, he rolled a flashbang grenade into the darkness.

  The glare from the explosive faded. Wright led his men in a stack through the opening, the breach man remaining at the door to provide security.

  As the breach team entered, Mabry led his team to the fire escape.

  “Bring up the grapple.”

  The second two team members grabbed a long pole with a hook on the end. Quickly, silently, they manipulated the metal pole to unhook the fire escape ladder. Mabry ducked out of the way as the ladder came crashing down. His team members dropped the pole on the ground, following Mabry, swarming up the ladder, as if their equipment weighed no more than papier-mâché.

  In the back of the structure, Charlie team heard the treble shotgun blasts, and kicked in their own door. Immediately, they were answered by small arms fire, a rattling of bullets fired in a spray-and-pray from the two men hiding in the recesses of the room.

  “Go!” yelled Charlie leader. He pulled the pin and threw a concussion grenade inside the room, then turned and crouched to shield himself from the effects. Leading the way with the barrel of his rifle, he swept into the room with his team.

  The rear man secured the doorway, the team leader covered the room with his weapon as his two men secured the suspects. One was crouched down behind the remains of a desk, while another lay flat out on his back, wiping feebly at his tearing eyes. One team member kicked away their guns—Kalashnikovs—while his partner grabbed the crouching man by the collar and tossed him next to his buddy. With quick and efficient skill, he turned them on their stomachs and handcuffed them.

  “Stay down!” The officer stood back up, barking at the suspect who could still see and made motions to stand up again. “Stop resisting. We are police officers.”

  “Everyone okay?” The team leader looked around at his men. They gave him various high signs. None of the fire had touched them. A lucky night.

  “Control, this is Charlie.”

  “Charlie, send it.”

  “Control, we have cleared and secured the rear office. Break.” Charlie Team leader shifted his weapon for an easier grasp on the radio. “I report, two suspects apprehended. Break.” His head rang from the explosion. “Suspects fired from position. Weapons taken. All of my men are green.”

  “Roger Charlie. Maintain position and monitor this net.”

  “Roger Control. Charlie out.”

  “OP Adam, Boy, situation report.” Nina wished for one of those TV monitors beloved of Hollywood, a glowing outline with bobbing blue dots showing where her people were. And for good measure, some bobbing red dots to show were all the bad guys were. She sighed and switched to the internal frequency, listening in on the movements within the structure, piecing together the action as best she could from the short bursts of audio from the entry teams. Not for the last time, she regretted that last stray bullet from a street in Bagram that had blasted away her knee and any chance of street work.

  “You getting this?” Mark asked his cameraman, who didn’t answer, simply grunted and zoomed in closer. The video was priceless. He had gotten the breach and the entry, which was certain to be played over and over on both the network and cable news for several days at least. It might even make a decent number of hits on YouTube. The only thing better would have been entering with the teams, although there would always be the stray bullet, which was to be avoid
ed.

  Controlled confusion. The need for silence disappeared with the first shotgun blast. The infrared light beams emanating from the team members’ helmet-mounted NODs lit the way through the dusty interior, flashing through the dust motes. The optical devices had a curious way of flattening perception, so that depths were hard to discern. Crouching, Mabry shuffled so as not to stumble. Even so, he managed to trip coming in the door, recovering at the last instant. He was out of practice.

  Downstairs, Wright led his team in clearing the initial room, a large reception area. Following their barrels, the men streamed through the door, which opened in the center of the area. The first man darted to the right, the second to the left. Wright followed third, crouch-walking to the left, aiming high in case of an open ceiling or other unseen obstacles. The last two men came in quick and low. Together, the team quickly searched and cleared each area of the room, covering each other as they looked behind furniture, under desks, in the small closet.

  “Door left.”

  “Door right.”

  “Short room! Bathroom. Clear.”

  “Stack on door left.”

  The men reformed at the doorway. This was a wooden door on a flimsy frame, and one violent kick from the breach man sent it clattering onto the floor. Two men immediately flowed through, aiming their weapons down the hallway beyond.

  “Clear left. Door to my front.”

  “Clear right. Doors left and right.”

  “Cover left.” Wright barked as he motioned his team into position. “Len, cover our rear. Re-form on me.”

  Three men stalked shoulder to shoulder down the hallway. Wright walked backwards, covering the rear. The two rooms proved empty, although it took them slightly longer to enter and clear the second. It was used as a storage room, and the amount of junk piled up tangled the team and delayed them sorting themselves back out of the room.