by Tom Haase
Was this what he had been trained for? No, it definitely was not. They could have shipped these through the usual channels, or this sergeant could have delivered them. But what the hell? Get on with it, and get it done. Orders were orders, and then Matt could get back to his primary job—training in anti-terrorist operations.
At Dulles airport in Washington, he turned the packages over to the airline baggage people who grumbled at their excess weight. Matt went over to the ticket counter, checked in, and requested a window seat. He wasn’t going to have people climbing over him to go to the restrooms. He intended to sleep as much as possible on the long flight. Once on board, he settled as best as he could into the cramped seat in the cattle car section of the plane.
“No first class for courier duty,” he mumbled, shaking his head.
Sometimes when he was feeling sleepy, like now, Matt’s thoughts wandered, seeking almost in spite of himself to a starting point that always seemed to be the same when he fell into a space between consciousness and near sleep. It always became the start for his remembrance about the dreadful day three years after his wedding, and that day seemed like yesterday.
* * *
While the plane settled into its cruising altitude of 37,000 feet, his mind swung back with crystal clarity to that dreadful day. Matt and his wife, Susan, traveled to Washington DC on vacation. The first real vacation they had taken in two years. Alone and with no one to interrupt them, they intended to spend the week in the Nation’s capitol to see all the sights. Matt took Susan to the Pentagon to see his old Professor of Military Science, Colonel John Forsman. After a short visit to his office, the colonel, tall and erect with almost snow-white hair, had suggested he take Matt to see some of the classified areas that concerned army matters. He recommended to the petite, blonde-haired Susan that she would find it boring to listen to all the military jargon and topics and might like to view the artwork in the outer ring of the Pentagon instead of going with them. They would join her in about fifteen minutes. Matt gave Susan a hug and a light kiss, then she left.
She was on the east part of the ring when her cell phone rang. She saw Matt’s number.
“Hi, hon, sorry we ran over on time. The colonel just finished showing me some interesting things. Could you meet me at the east exit, say at 9:45? We’ll be there in a few minutes and then we can go on over to the Smithsonian.”
“Don’t worry, it’s okay. I’ll be there by the time you are,” Susan said. “I just strolled the halls of the outer ring, viewing the military artwork that depicted various scenes from the far-flung battlefields the American soldier had fought and died on. It is really quite a moving experience. I’ll meander on over to the exit now.”
It was 9:42 in the morning.
At that moment American Airlines flight 77, a Boeing 757, smashed into the Pentagon less than twenty feet from where she stood. Susan died in the catastrophic explosion and fireball that engulfed the corridor on the outer ring of the building on September 11, 2001.
Matt had been walking with Colonel Forsman as they made their way through the long corridors toward the east exit. They were two corridors away when the explosion shook the building. Matt broke into a run toward the exit where Susan planned to meet him. Forgetting the colonel, his only thought focused on Susan, out there by herself. He sensed that the dreadful explosion reverberating through this section of the building had come from that exit area. Reaching the end of the corridor, he turned to his right into the outer ring of the Pentagon. The horrific scene filled his vision. Taking in all the devastation, smoke, debris, and smell of jet fuel in addition to the roar of the inferno of the flames and the blistering heat, his senses numbed.
For an interminable time to him, but in reality a few seconds, Matt stood dazed, unable to think or move. He needed to find Susan. Finally getting hold of himself, he ran forward searching for her, calling her name, stumbling as far into the devastation as he could. He saw no sign of her. He continued his desperate search, but the needs of others were overwhelming, many requiring immediate help. He led some burn victims to the EMS station. The Pentagon medical unit had set it up in record time. Then he returned to the area to guide other injured men and women, both civilian and military, to the aid station.
He searched for Susan everywhere while continuing to help others. After two hours he felt exhausted, but some sort of compulsion forced him to continue his efforts to find her and to help as many as he could. Near collapse from the overpowering smell of aviation fuel, burnt flesh and smoke, he found himself wiped out. A man next to him led him back down the hall and told him to go home after asking Matt for his name. Whoever this man was, Matt thought, he looked familiar, even with a face covered in ash and dust. At that moment, Matt failed to be able to focus his thoughts. Later, Matt saw him on TV and recognized the Secretary of Defense.
It was dark by the time Matt managed to return to his hotel room where he and Susan had spent the previous night. The realization he would never see her again overwhelmed him as he opened the door of their room. He sat on the bed trying to control his anger. He was wound up tight. His head dropped and he lay face down. Despite the soft elevator music floating through the room from a preprogrammed station, all Matt heard in his memory was the explosive and horrific crash of the 757 as it thundered into the Pentagon. A sound which ricocheted forever through his entire being, decimating all feeling.
If he had not delayed, had met her a few minutes earlier, perhaps…. How was he going to tell their daughter, Laura? She had stayed with her aunt so they could take this vacation alone. No answer came. The full impact of his loss hit him as he released some of the built up tension, and he started sobbing without any control.
He swore an oath to make them pay, somehow, someway, someday for what they did.
* * *
The airplane hit a pocket of turbulence and the sudden jolt brought Matt fully awake. The events of his quasi-dream state had happened a long time ago but were still real and vivid. Now he held the rank of captain, a full member and commander of a Defense Intelligence Agency counterterrorist team. Unfortunately, he thought, now delivering “automotive parts.” With that last thought, he fell asleep in the uncomfortable window seat high above the Atlantic.
On Matt’s arrival in Riyadh, the promised armed escort identified themselves to him. Together, they went to the airline cargo office where they rounded up dollies for the packages. The soldiers’ presence ensured a swift passage through customs. They escorted him out of the airport to a parked two-and-a-half ton truck, where with some effort they manhandled the heavy packages onto the bed of the vehicle. One soldier stayed in the rear cargo area while Matt and the other soldier got into the cab. Matt wanted to use his Arabic, but since neither man had shown any interest in conversation, he concluded they were under orders not to talk with him. He reasoned it would be best for him to just ride along, get this package delivered and then hurry home.
They drove from the airport toward the military headquarters located ten miles away. Midnight approached in Riyadh and the streets were nearly empty. Matt thought the city looked a lot better than Baghdad, but nothing to compare with the former beauty of Beirut. He now relaxed and enjoyed the night air flowing into the military truck through the open windows. It refreshed him after the stale airplane air.
As the truck rounded a corner at a deserted intersection, he heard a sound that could have been firecrackers—except the head of the soldier next to him seemed to explode. The truck swerved and headed towards a streetlight pole. Matt, his instincts kicking in, dove down below the dash. He heard more bullets hitting the vehicle and made a half successful attempt with his left foot to press the brake pedal. The truck slowed but he slammed into the dashboard when the truck careened into the pole. His head bounced off the windshield, it almost blacked him out. The soldier in the back slammed against the front bulkhead behind where Matt rode. Somehow, the man fired a few rounds at the attackers even after the vehicle hit the pole.
&nb
sp; Matt reached over and snatched the pistol from the holster of the dead soldier beside him. He breathed quick and heavy. Then, reaching across to release the door, he pushed the body out with his shoulder, and jumped down to the ground on the opposite side from where the gunfire originated.
The soldier in the rear yelled something into a microphone attached to a transceiver on his belt. He attempted to get off the back of the truck while firing his weapon at a point across the street. Then he took two rounds in the chest that knocked him to the side of the vehicle. He tumbled over the rail and lay sprawled near the rear tires. Matt watched in horror, but recovered in a few seconds when he realized the brave soldier was dead.
Matt slid along the side of the truck to where the soldier lay and retrieved his M-16 automatic rifle, putting the pistol in his belt. The firing from across the street had stopped. Perhaps the attackers assumed they were all dead since no fire now came from the truck. Matt thought about his options. He decided to crawl under the vehicle. There he waited and tried to control his breathing.
From his supine position, he saw two pairs of legs approaching from across the street. He used the rear tires to hide most of his body from the approaching pair. As they drew near, he scooted closer to the rear wheels. Their body positions suggested they were concentrating on the bed of the truck in case more soldiers were hiding there. In the distance, he could hear sirens, but they were too far away to help him; the attackers, Matt assumed some form of terrorists, could steal the boxes and flee in less than a minute.
He now heard noises just above the truck’s wheels that told him the two attackers had opened the rear gate of the truck, jumped up on top of the bed, and had moved one of the boxes down to the ground. Certain their concentration would be on the box, Matt took a deep breath, held it, and rolled out from underneath the truck. He raised the M-16 and fired three rounds into each of the attackers. He saw the bullets rip into them and fired two extra rounds into each. When their bodies hit the ground, he dove toward his previous hiding place as automatic weapon fire again pinged against the truck. There were more than the two who had approached the truck. He hid behind the slim protection offered by the rear wheels for a few seconds more until he heard a pause in the gunfire.
Checking the pistol he had earlier retrieved remained secure in his belt, he took rapid short breaths as he balanced the M-16 in his left hand and scurried toward the nearby street corner. His training now kicked in at full throttle. Automatic weapons fire followed him, missing his head by inches and chipping bits of asphalt near his feet; he felt one piece go through his trouser near his knee. Damn, something hurt. Must be hit. Can’t stop now. As he reached the corner, he flattened himself against the wall, taking deep gulps of air.
“Shit. What the hell’s going on?” he said aloud.
They had to be terrorists or outright idiots to attack a military vehicle. He tried to focus. He took another deep breath and released it slowly to calm himself and then risked a quick look around the corner. As he did, the stone wall next to his head exploded and concrete shards cut a small gash on the right side of his face. He felt blood flowing down his cheek.
“That’s twice, you bastards!”
Matt waited until the weapon across the street fired again, glanced around the corner of the building, and this time he saw a flash. Only one shooter. Taking careful aim, he fired. Fired again and then emptied the magazine at the target. He dropped the rifle and whipped out the pistol.
He could not tell if he had hit the terrorist from this distance, but no more bullets were coming towards him. He ran, zigzagging across the street to reach the safety of a doorway. Still he heard no weapons fire. He stayed close to the wall and inched toward the corner where he had seen the muzzle flash. When he turned the corner, he saw a body lying on the ground three feet away.
He took a step toward the prone man, ready to fire. Right then he realized his mistake. His training had taught him better than to approach this close. First time in a real situation and he hadn’t used the skills he had acquired in training. He raised the pistol to fire into the prone terrorist.
Suddenly, the “body” jumped up and knocked the gun away with one hand, at the same time slashing at Matt with a knife in the other. Matt’s quick reaction saved him from having his stomach slit open. As the man's arm went past, Matt grabbed it, twisted, turned it down, and pulled it up behind the assailant. He heard the crack as the shoulder gave way. The man screamed in pain. Matt used the pistol and smashed the butt down on the man’s skull. He fell limp. Matt released his grip, not caring if the terrorist’s head slammed into the asphalt. The bastard had just tried to kill him.
The approaching sirens were now close, and then two military police jeeps, lights rotating and sirens blaring skidded to a stop beside the truck. A blinding searchlight dazzled him. He dropped his weapon, raised his hand and waited for them to approach.
It had been over an hour since all that happened. Now he sat and waited for the general. The door opened and General al-Hassam walked over to Matt and held out his hand. Matt came to his feet, stood at attention, and shook hands with the general. He saw a tall man of about sixty displaying a warm smile. Matt recognized something about the man and then thought of Omar Sharif, the actor, who he realized the man resembled even the streak of white hair above each ear.
“Captain, the incident you experienced on the way here was regrettable and I’ll advise Admiral Kidd of your deeds. I commend you for your bravery tonight. How are your wounds?”
“Okay, sir. No problem. Only small. I’ll be fine.”
“The admiral chose wisely in picking you for this mission. I would prefer that you do not ask any questions about this event, just erase it from your memory. I’ll find out all I’ll need to know from the terrorist you captured. I’ll tell you that his cousin was one of the terrorists who flew the plane into the Pentagon in 2001. He works with a group headed by a terrorist called Tewfik al-Hanbali. The man you captured got the information on your delivery by bribing one of the guards on the truck. Unfortunately, they both paid for the breach of security. We also are at war with these extremists. I hope I can return the favor to you sometime in the future.”
Matt nodded. Inside he felt good. He had nabbed a real terrorist who could have contributed to the planning that led to Susan’s death. He suspected the means of extracting the information from the captive would be, to say the least, unpleasant, but then again the attacker had tried to kill him.
General al-Hassam spoke again. “I know that you have a receipt for me to sign for the admiral and then you can be on your way back to the States. May I have it?” He signed the receipt and returned it to Matt. “Thank you for your efforts in getting this to me. I’ll have you escorted back to the airport, and I’ll convey your exploits to the admiral. I wish you a safe return to America.”
Matt saluted the general and left. He wanted to ask the general not to tell the admiral but felt it would be disrespectful to try to get a general to not do something. He hoped he would be away from the admiral’s office before he learned about the incident.
The trip back to the airport passed without incident compared to the ride out. As Matt and his escort passed the site of the ambush, now illuminated by multiple spotlights, Matt could see the bullet holes in the truck and wondered how he had escaped. Luck had been on his side this night.
Exhausted and bruised, he managed to sleep most of the way on the flight back to Washington. People at the airport looked at his disheveled clothing and some even noticed the blood on his suit, but Matt didn’t care. He just wanted to get home.
The following afternoon, Washington time, he delivered the signed receipt to the NSA director’s office, coming straight from the airport. Afterwards he reported to the Center at the Defense Intelligence Agency. He reviewed the events of the previous days in his mind as he sat at his desk. The general, not in her office, but he learned from her secretary that she had left word for him to come in tomorrow and brief her on his
trip. The whole trip hadn’t been the anticipated milk run. Most milkmen aren’t ambushed by automatic fire in a foreign country. They don’t kill two attackers and capture one terrorist while delivering bottles, or, in this case, “automotive parts.” The package must be a hell of a sight more important than he had imagined. What had he been carrying? It was certainly not car parts.
Matt thought of going home to his small townhouse to freshen up and to change into clean clothes, but in the interest of not looking like a train wreck around the Pentagon, he changed into a civilian set of clothes he kept in his locker at the Center. He would clean up at home later.
The weekend was about to start and he planned to visit his daughter. That seemed like a great idea. He couldn’t believe how fast she had grown up. This would be a good weekend to spend some time with her and let the scars heal. Besides, he wanted to tell her about his trip to Saudi Arabia, as she always wanted to hear about the places he went. He’d fail to mention anything about the terrorist’s attack.
Before going home, he decided to check in at the Command Center just to see if anything new had happened in Saudi Arabia. One never knew what “automotive parts” might do, did one? He smiled. He also wanted to see Bridget, whom he’d learned had gone to the Command Center.
It was 1:30 p.m. on Friday afternoon in Washington and 9:30 p.m. in Iraq.
2
Tara Lawson
FRIDAY – 9:30 P.M.
BAGHDAD, IRAQ
U.S. Air Force Major Tara Lawson squirmed on the wood stool. Her butt became more numb by the minute. Camouflage cream covered her face, and the black crayon stripes sliced above and below her almond-shaped blue eyes. A black beanie cap lay in her lap to cover her blond hair when needed. She had asked for this meeting to be earlier in the evening, but her contact had insisted on 9:30 p.m. She pulled the black wool jacket tighter around her shoulders. Baghdad she thought was always cool in the evening.