by James Rosone
“So, why have you guys called me? You guys know what to do and how to fight,” Jake said.
One of the sergeants explained, “We’ve called you because we know you, and you aren’t part of the unit anymore. When this all goes down, most of us are going to stay loyal to the federal government, but some in our ranks are going to stay loyal to the governor, who’s thrown his lot in with the UN. That means when equipment starts to go missing, everyone’s going to look at the active members who are part of the unit as the ones who stole it.”
“That’s where you come in, Jake,” asserted Major Slevin. “We all know you, and we can trust you. If nothing happens and this all gets resolved peacefully, then we can recover what we’re about to give you. If disaster strikes, then we know you can hide everything for us until we can form up cells and start carrying out attacks against those invading our country.”
Jake nodded. “So…what exactly what do you want me to do with the explosives I assume you’re about to give me for safekeeping?”
Smiling, one of the sergeants asked, “How good are you at building IEDs?”
“Ah. I see,” Jake responded. “Well, I probably should make a few discreet trips to some stores over the next couple of day, but yeah, I know how to make things that go boom, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The others at the table nodded and smiled. “We’re going to load your truck up with some stuff,” Slevin said. “Don’t tell us where you’re taking it. Keep this radio safely hidden but accessible. If things really go to crap, use channel three to check in. We’ll figure out a more permanent way to stay in touch and meet, but get whatever you need, get it ready now. Don’t wait until the end of the week. I don’t think we have very long.”
When Jake left the armory, it was 8:20 p.m. As he drove back home, he spotted a Lowe’s hardware store along the way and pulled into the parking lot. Once there, he loaded twenty pounds of nails into a cart, along with three boxes of hot glue tubes and forty pounds of nuts and bolts of various sizes. He paid cash for the items and swiftly placed them in the backseat of his truck. Jake hadn’t opened the bed of his truck to see what his comrades had loaded there, and he wasn’t about to do that in a Lowe’s parking lot.
It was nearly 10 p.m. by the time he arrived at his cabin. Walking into the smokehouse, he turned on the outside light and then opened the back of his truck bed. His jaw dropped.
Holy crap. It’s a good thing I wasn’t pulled over on my way here, he thought. He had a moment of panic as he pondered what he would have said to a police officer.
*******
January 10, 2021
Emmitsburg, Maryland
Carriage House Inn
Colonel Ethan Dawe scratched his shoulder over top of the black Land’s End fleece pullover he was wearing as he reached for his glass of tea. It was a new fleece, and while he liked it, it was scratchy. He hadn’t fully broken it in just yet. It probably needed to be washed at least one or two more times before it would have that homey feel to it.
Dressed similarly to him in a gray North Face jacket and sitting across from him at this quintessential American country diner was the German man he’d driven several hours to meet.
Why do Europeans like gray so much? Ethan thought in amusement as he sized his counterpart up.
It was dangerous for Ethan to travel these days. The Americans knew he was the operational commander for Canada’s Joint Task Force Two because of the collaborative work he’d done with US Special Forces in Afghanistan, so he was a known commodity. Canada’s Joint Task Force Two was the Canadian version of SEAL Team Six or the Army’s Delta Force—that meant that anytime he set foot in the United States, he was a hunted man.
For the past three weeks, Ethan, like nearly his entire task force, had been infiltrating across the American border. He had advised General McKenzie against this harebrained plan, telling him it was too risky and the probability of success was far too low. However, in light of the botched assassination attempt on President Sachs in mid-December, a new plan to remove the man had been hastily put together.
Despite Ethan’s protests, his orders had been given, and now it was up to him and his foreign SOF counterparts to figure out how to make it happen. Typically, a plan like this would take years to develop. They’d spend months surveilling the target, then they’d do their best to infiltrate the target with a human source and attempt to gather as much raw intelligence as possible. Unfortunately, the only actionable data they had to go on came from decades-old Russian Spetsnaz plans from when they’d intended to carry out this same type of attack during the Cold War.
Ethan cleared his throat. “So, from what you’ve been able to tell, has much of what the Russians have given us changed?” he asked quietly. “Is a perimeter assault still going to be our best way in?”
The German soldier took a long sip of tea. “You know, this is the second time I’ve eaten at this place,” he replied casually in perfect English. “Their smoky bourbon salmon is exceptional, though you couldn’t go wrong with the French onion soup either.”
The German then placed the menu down on the table and leaned in slightly. “The perimeter is the least-guarded part of the facility. They’ve added some new security features to it, but I don’t believe they will be a challenge to overcome.”
Ethan nodded at the comment. “I had my eye on the Chesapeake crab dip and maybe a club sandwich,” he said, just loud enough that if anyone nearby were paying attention, they would think the two of them were just discussing what they were going to have for lunch.
Ethan placed the menu down. In a much lower tone, he confirmed, “All the equipment is in place and ready.”
Smiling, the German just nodded as he waved for the waitress to come over and take their orders.
The woman, who was probably in her late forties, came over and pulled her order pad out. She took a moment to make some small talk with them as she wrote down what they wanted, made a few suggestions, and then walked off to get their order going in the kitchen.
Raising his mug to his lips, the German paused for just a moment. “Is the mission still a go?” he asked, uncertainty evident in his voice. Then he proceeded to take a sip from his tea.
“Yes. Sometime tomorrow,” Ethan replied. “We’ll be sent a text message when the President’s on the move. We’ll be sent another message if he is, in fact, coming to our location. If he goes somewhere else, then we’ll stand down and continue to wait.” Then he casually looked at something on his smartphone.
Nodding, the German asked, “What about the second target?”
Ethan snickered quietly. “Yes. That’s also a go,” he responded with a smile. “Of course, if we hit the first target, we’ll have to reassess and see what assets we still have left, but yes. We’ll be expected to hit the second target later in the day if possible. If not, we’ll have to hit it the following day.”
The German sighed but acknowledged the order. It was going to be a busy thirty-six hours. Looking around, they saw there were still only six other tables in the restaurant with people seated at them. In another twenty minutes, this place would be hopping with the lunch crowd. At that moment, it was just loud enough to obscure their conversation, and just quiet enough for them to continue to pass critical pieces of information to each other. When they left, the two of them wouldn’t see each other again until it was time to initiate their mission.
Chapter 10
Paukenschlag
Port Huron, Michigan
Luitenant-kolonel Maarten van Rossum of the Dutch 105 Commando Company continued to fall through the air. The wind buffeted his face mask as water molecules whipped past him. He was nearly through the dense cloud cover. Once he crossed through the 2,000-foot mark, he should start to see the land below him. The thick cloud cover was making this type of HALO jump incredibly dangerous, but it was also aiding in their infiltration of what was sure to be a hostile drop zone.
Suddenly, he was through the cloud cover, and he could see
the city below as well as his primary target. Van Rossum looked at his altimeter and saw that he had just passed 1,200 feet. He knew that he was nearly ready to deploy his chute.
Five more seconds, he thought.
He took a deep breath and then grabbed his rip cord and yanked it. A fraction of a second later, his parachute deployed, and he grabbed his guide wires. As he got closer to the ground, he reached down and disconnected his drop bag from his harness, letting it fall to the ground moments before he landed.
Looking below, he saw the US Customs and Border Protection station with its thirteen traffic lanes. He smiled slightly when he saw the power for the facility go out.
Right on time, he thought.
Their cyber unit had found a way into the industrial control system that regulated the power to the facility a week ago. The planners of this particular mission had determined that when van Rossum’s men crossed through the 1,000-foot threshold of their descent, the power to the facility would be cut. This would aid them in their quick capture of the critical bridge.
Craning his neck behind him, van Rossum caught a brief glance of the other team as they were preparing to land on the actual bridge span itself. Their goal would be to hastily disarm the demolition charges that had been identified by their previous recon of the bridge a day earlier. Van Rossum’s team would move swiftly to take out the platoon’s worth of soldiers and engineers who had set up shop at the CBP entry control point before they could either detonate their charges or call for help.
Once the objective had been secured, they’d send a signal to let the forces mobilizing on the other side know it was clear to begin crossing. Then the tough work would begin—securing as much of the surrounding area as possible and engaging the American 1st Cavalry Division, which was nearby.
At less than a hundred feet, van Rossum pulled hard on his guide wires to capture as much air as possible, as quickly as he could. This had the immediate effect of slowing his descent just as his feet and legs prepared to touch down on American soil. A split second later, his feet were on the cement traffic lane as he did a couple of short running steps before he hit the quick release on his parachute, which then collapsed on itself and fell to the ground in a heap.
With his chute off, he reached for his HK416 assault rifle and flicked the safety off. Then he did a quick scan of his immediate surroundings to make sure there was not a threat nearby that needed to be dealt with. With nothing sticking out as a danger, van Rossum ran to grab his drop bag and threw it over his back. Three more of his soldiers had also landed and collected their rucks. They came trotting up to him with their NVGs down as they, too, scanned the area for possible threats.
Nodding toward them, van Rossum used a couple of hand signals, directing them to proceed to the objective. The three of them were going to hurriedly clear the CBP building while the other two teams of four operators searched and cleared the various inspection booths. They needed to make sure there wasn’t an engineer sitting in one of them, ready to blow the bridge. This mission would only be a success if they captured the bridge intact.
Moving with a purpose, the four them headed toward the main customs building in the center of the divided traffic lanes. As they approached the entrance, they saw one of the doors open. Two soldiers exited the building. In the cover of darkness, the American soldiers didn’t spot them and turned to head around to the side of the building.
“They said the breaker box should be somewhere over here,” one of the American soldiers said aloud to his comrade.
While the two of them were walking toward the breaker box, presumably to see if a fuse had blown, two of van Rossum’s men slung their rifles behind their bodies on their single-point slings and drew out their knives. They silently crept up behind the soldiers.
Before either of the Americans knew what was happening, their mouths had been covered by strong gloved hands as their heads were pulled back, exposing their necks. In a swift and violent move, the two commandos slid their knives into the soldiers’ throats, slicing through their jugular veins and their tracheas before pulling the blades out the front of their necks. The commandos held the soldiers briefly as they drowned in their own blood. The only sound they made was a brief gurgling noise before both their bodies went limp. Then van Rossum’s teammates dragged the bodies, positioning them against the wall of the building.
They rejoined van Rossum and their other comrade at the door and nodded to them, letting them know they were ready to proceed. Not wanting to give up the element of surprise just yet, van Rossum swung his rifle behind his back and unstrapped his silenced Glock 17M pistol.
One of the soldiers grabbed the door handle and quietly gave it a turn. He then pulled the door open for van Rossum to lead the way with his silenced weapon.
Moving swiftly around the corner with his pistol extended in front of him, van Rossum activated the IR laser mounted below his pistol and stepped into the building. He silently advanced down the hallway toward where he heard other voices coming from. He spotted some light down the hallway in what he assumed must be the main room of the building.
With his NVGs still on, van Rossum saw four soldiers using flashlights to look at the internal circuit breaker.
“I don’t see a blown fuse. I think someone may have cut our power off,” one of the soldiers remarked.
“I don’t like this one bit. This could be the start of an attack or something,” another one said.
“Calm down, guys. No one’s attacking us,” another one retorted. “One of you guys get on the radio and call it in. Let’s see what the captain thinks.” Van Rossum figured that last voice probably belonged to the sergeant in charge since he sounded older. The group of soldiers headed toward a desk that had a couple of radios set up on it.
Before the soldiers could get to the desk, though, van Rossum waved his three comrades into the room. They silently creeped in, positioning themselves along the flanks of the wall, their rifles at the ready, waiting for the signal to open fire.
These guys don’t deserve to die—not if we can take them prisoner, van Rossum thought.
In English, he called, “No one move, and we’ll let you live!”
The four soldiers in the room froze, not sure who was speaking or what was going on, but the sudden sound of a commanding voice from behind them got their attention.
“Slowly, raise your hands. Keep them where we can see them or we’ll light you up,” he commanded, using some American vernacular he’d learned from his deployments in Afghanistan.
Slowly, the American soldiers lifted their hands. The two soldiers who were holding the flashlights raised the lights with their arms, which illuminated more of the room as the bright lights bounced off the white ceiling.
In Dutch, van Rossum ordered two of his men to move forward to disarm the American soldiers and zip-tie their hands. Another minute went by as the two Dutch commandos took their sidearms from them and then proceeded to secure their hands behind their backs. Then each soldier was placed against the wall and told to sit down, which they did.
Van Rossum kept his silenced pistol trained on the Americans. He ordered his other soldiers to search the room for the detonators to the charges and to finish clearing the building. While they were doing that, van Rossum broke half a dozen green chem sticks, releasing the chemical liquid that created an artificial green light. He placed a couple of them near the soldiers to help illuminate them and then hung a couple of them from the ceiling tiles in the room from some string. They needed some light to help them search for the detonators.
Squatting down on his legs in front of the four American soldiers, van Rossum said, “We know you have the bridge wired to blow. Where is the detonator?”
One of the younger soldiers spat on him in response. A steel-toed boot instantaneously connected with the soldier’s gut, causing him to grunt before a Kevlar-knuckled glove punched him across his face.
“We don’t have the bridge wired to blow,” replied the soldier that
van Rossum had pegged as their sergeant.
Van Rossum held one of the chem sticks in front of the man, examining him. His name was Sanders, and his rank insignia showed three chevrons and two rockers. Van Rossum couldn’t remember the exact rank that made him, but he knew it meant he was a senior sergeant.
“We aren’t fools, Sergeant,” said van Rossum icily. “We’ve been watching you guys for weeks. We know for a fact that you placed dozens of C-4 charges on multiple bridge supports on the American side.”
He paused for a second as he looked at the man, trying to gauge if he was going to cooperate or not. He sensed by the look of anger on his face that he was probably not going to help them, at least not willingly.
“Sergeant, I didn’t have to take any of you prisoner. I could have just as easily killed you. Our fight isn’t with you—it’s with your government. Just tell us where the detonator is, and we’ll let you guys live. You’ll be able to go home and see your families when this is all over,” he said, trying to reason with him.
“You won’t get away with this,” the American sergeant responded. “There’s no way the four of you are going to take our garrison out.” He defiantly stuck his chin out as if he were confident that help would arrive soon.
“If you’re referring to your two comrades you sent outside to check on the external circuit breaker, I wouldn’t count on them. They’re both dead. And there are more than four of us here. Now, Sergeant—I’m going to ask you one more time. Where is the detonator?”