“So, we are getting revenge for the president while a threat goes loose in the United States. Makes no sense. We should go home,” Harwood said. “Go after these guys.” He pulled the intel report from underneath the casualty list and pointed at it.
“Not our call. There’s another task force to go after the terrorists in country. Our mission is to cut it off at its source. Now, since you need convincing what we’re doing is legit, there’s this.”
Hinojosa pulled a folder out of her briefcase and tossed it on the table. Opening it, she flipped glossy photographs of the family Team Valid had just ambushed: Malina and Amrat Sultan with their father, Malik, and cousin Sadiq. They were standing in the back of the compound that Harwood and his team had just attacked. Malina was holding a stick and pointing it at something on the ground as the others seemed to be paying rapt attention.
Hinojosa pulled another photo from the deck. It was a zoomed-in shot of the previous picture. Malina’s stick was pointing at a mockup of Camp David and its surrounding area. The tip of the stick was precisely on the U-shaped bend in the road that had become the ambush location.
“You just killed three of the planners of this mission. The girl was collateral damage, but she lived. Lucky thing that Stone is a lousy shot. Winged her in the shoulder. She’s young. She’ll heal. There will be no mission to go back and kill her.”
Harwood looked at the pictures then into Hinojosa’s eyes. Felt a thrum of connection. She nodded at him.
“Okay,” Harwood said. “You’re in charge here, but once we go tactical, I’m in charge. Stone is a boneheaded moron. Weathers seems okay. An operator. But Stone’s out of control and you need me to rein him in.”
“I’m good with that,” Hinojosa said. “We have a problem, though.”
Harwood said nothing.
“The rifle you tossed has been found by Russian military.”
He had thought of that. He wasn’t going to blame his actions on post-traumatic stress or traumatic brain injury, both of which he struggled with. He’d been rightfully outraged that Stone would shoot a child. Perhaps he should have handled it differently, but since adopting Monisha, he had an entirely new perspective on children. Instead of just thinking of himself and his teammates, he was the legal guardian of a human being. While being a squad leader of men in combat was important and challenging, he had been dealing with adults. He was surprised at the new depth that Monisha had added to his thought processes. Now, he was gaining clarity on his life’s purpose and calling. Service, savior, and, yes, sometimes, sniper. Send it.
Send it. The spotter’s clarion call that the target was valid.
Team Valid.
Maybe this was a valid mission, after all, Harwood thought.
“But they won’t have my fingerprints, will they?” Harwood said.
Hinojosa shook her head.
“No. You’ve been erased from our database. The three of you don’t exist.”
“What about you?”
“My status is of no concern to you,” Hinojosa said. “What is of concern, though, is our next mission, which begins tonight.”
She removed another folder from her briefcase.
“While you guys were executing, I was building the next target folder.” She laid five photos on the table as if she were a poker dealer. “These are the family members of the Iranian member of the team. I have to get you into Ardibal Province, which won’t be easy. We will have to take you through Kurdistan, into the mountains west of the Caspian Sea. There’s a compound on Lake Sooha. The family lives there. It’s well fortified, as you might imagine.”
She laid a satellite image of a rectangular high-walled estate overlooking the Caspian Sea on one side and Lake Sooha on the other. Harwood’s first thought was, Where are these people getting all this money?
“Why’s everyone got a freaking compound?”
“Focus on what’s important. I’m giving you some input here, Vick.”
Harwood studied the pictures and pointed at two spurs jutting off high ridgelines less than a mile away from the structure.
“Okay, tactically, these are the two best hide sites. We can recon and determine once on the ground. What’s our egress?”
“Either the van you use on infil or you find your own way out.”
“Our own way?”
“No U.S. government involvement,” Hinojosa reiterated.
“Yet, here we are.”
She sighed. “The MH-47 was in extremis. This boat wasn’t going to make it. They’ll do your insert into the mountains for the next mission, but after that they’re done. There is, however, a SEAL team that can be there in twelve hours. Preferred option is the van. The SEALs are on a training exercise in Turkey and they’ve got an alert to be on standby.”
Harwood nodded. “Now back to the real issue. Three men, two women. All adults,” Harwood said. “Who are they? Why not come in across the Caspian?”
“I’ll go in reverse. The Caspian requires going through Georgia, Azerbaijan, and/or Armenia. The Iranians have spies everywhere in those countries. Oddly enough, we assess the lowest risk to come in through the tough terrain here.”
She pointed at the map that showed jagged, steep terrain near Lake Urmia on the western border of Iran with Turkey, an area completely controlled by the Kurds.
“The Kurds can help us through here, but what about once in Iran?”
“We’ve got a driver who can meet you and get you to your drop-off point. We did a quick map recon and figured a good offset drop-off point was here,” Hinojosa said. She pointed at the map about an inch away from the two locations Harwood had selected. Anyone who knew how to read a map could choose generic fighting positions. The real work began on the ground, once you were on location. Everything was different, lines of sight, suitability of fire positions, and routes of egress. The art form was finding the best sniper hide that could match the hard mathematics involved in sniping.
“We?”
She looked away. Harwood saw her eyes harden and fixate on something far away, not in the room, maybe not in this world.
“Command back in D.C.”
“Who knows what we’re doing?”
This time she leveled her copper irises on Harwood. “The president, the director of the FBI, and me. It’s that clean. That simple.”
Harwood nodded, knowing nothing was ever that clean or that simple, but didn’t press the issue. He registered though, that if Hinojosa was telling the truth, either the director of the FBI or the president, or both, were involved in selecting and approving the targets. But still, there had to be an entire machine gathering intelligence and making recommendations. It was possible that the machine was operating as normal and Kilmartin was skimming off the top, feeding the targets to the president, who then approved them. He recalled locking eyes with Kilmartin in the parking lot of Samuelson’s apartment building. Something was off, but he couldn’t place it, yet.
“The next family?”
“Correct. The wife, a daughter, a son, and two brothers.”
“So, direct family? Did they have anything to do with it? The satellite shot you showed me with the Sultans rehearsing on a sand table makes me feel better about this mission. That was legit. I get killing jihadists who plan attacks against us. So, what about these people?”
“We’re working it. This is the Perza family. Basir Perza, one of the sons of Farokh Perza, we speculate was a shooter in the ambush and is unaccounted for at the moment. Basir has a twin, Laleh, a medical school student. They have an older brother, Rahim, who helps his father with the family business. They’re into imports and exports. Rugs, supposedly. Farokh’s wife is an ordinary housewife. We’ll call them targets ‘P-one’ through ‘P-four.’ P-one is the sister. P-two the brother. P-three the mother. P-four the father. I think calling the Sultans by their name may have personalized the mission too much.”
Laleh, target “P-one,” was beautiful. She had distinctive Persian features. Swept, raven hair. Wide a
lmond-shaped eyes. High cheekbones. She was twenty-four years old. A student at the Ardabil University of Medical Sciences.
“Everything is personal when you’re killing someone, Hinojosa,” Harwood said. “Laleh Perza? A doctor in training? We’re killing her?”
Hinojosa nodded. “Don’t be fooled. We have communications between Laleh and the Sultan family in Crimea. The Sultans planned and the Perzas paid. Imports and exports are the perfect cover for this operation. All it takes is one container of rugs to get into a port in the United States. The rugs have weapons hidden inside. The container is delivered to a nondescript warehouse. The ambush team is small and have legitimate passports.”
“Is this reality or speculation?”
“A little of both. Max Corent was able to find some communications between the Sultan family and the Perza family. Mostly financial transactions but also some emails. They mention something called Team Zero. Our analysts are trying to figure out what that means. Some are saying it’s like patient zero, you know, the original patient infected with a virus.”
“This is the original threat?”
“Something like that. Still trying to figure out what Threat Zero or Team Zero means. Could be bullshit. Could be biblical. Could be something in between.”
“Okay, back to Perza. You’re solid on the intel? You’d make these kills?”
“I’m part of this, aren’t I? I’m facilitating. I’m doing everything but making the kills.”
Noticing she didn’t answer the question, Harwood pressed ahead. Time was short.
“But we know Basir Perza was involved and by extension he had the support of his family. That much is true?”
“Yes. Basir was a member of the team and had the full support of his family. They provided logistics and financing. Think about it. A father and mother send their son to war. How is this any different for any American soldier?”
Harwood was an orphan, so he had no frame of reference to process her question but understood what she was saying. He thought instead about the term Team Zero. Threat Zero. Killing bad guys had been his business for the last twelve years. He loved the United States. Knew it to be the best country in the world. Eradicating a new threat was not only important, but exciting. The notion that this may be a mission beyond simple revenge was a relief to him.
Team Valid versus Threat Zero.
“Max is pulling the thread on this ‘Threat Zero’?”
“Yes. He’s got another lead in Syria, but we’re still developing that information and it would be premature to say anything with any specificity.”
“Okay. How many total?”
“They’re thinking four. The Russian, Iranian, maybe Daoud from Syria. More to follow on him.”
“Back to Samuelson.”
Hinojosa looked away, then locked eyes with Harwood.
“Yes. I’m sorry,” she said.
“Again, there’s no way Samuelson has anything to do with this,” Harwood said.
“Not the way it’s looking, unfortunately. The media is interpreting the Facebook Live suicide to be a confession. Samuelson’s fingerprints are on some of the debris from the IEDs used to kill the families.”
“Not possible,” Harwood said, shaking his head.
“I’m afraid so. Max has confirmed it. They found some pieces of the PVC pipe that had been used to form the explosively formed penetrators. Samuelson’s prints are on there. Also, some video footage at Home Depot in Hagerstown shows he purchased six-inch pipe a week before the attack.”
“What happened to the extra shell casing next door to Samuelson’s place? The prints? The fake scatter pattern of the casings in Samuelson’s room? There’s enough evidence right there for reasonable doubt, don’t you think?”
“The bomb destroyed everything in there. The cartridge and fingerprints show others were involved, but right now there’s more evidence on Samuelson than on the others combined.”
“Are you part of the cover-up culture in the FBI now?” Harwood snapped.
Hinojosa bristled. Her face pinched tight, she said, “Don’t you dare.”
Harwood nodded. “Okay, I take that back. You seem legit unlike those high-level weasels running your show at the FBI.”
Samuelson had been struggling with post-traumatic stress and severe brain injury. He’d been left for dead on the battlefield in Afghanistan, captured by a terrorist called the Chechen, and then brainwashed. Harwood didn’t want to believe that Samuelson could have been so anguished that he turned on his own people.
“They’ve also got a list of complaints that Samuelson sent to the Veterans Administration complaining about their care and lack of service.”
“They suck,” Harwood said. “Lock me up if that’s the standard.”
“Come on, Vick. I’m showing you the case that they’re building here. PVC pipe, fingerprints, suicide, and motive—the VA. Sure, they suck, but the president is in overdrive right now. He’s chomping at the bit to brag about what you guys did last night. He wants to send a clear message to the enemy that the United States has taken off the gloves.”
“Or stumbled down from the moral high ground,” Harwood said. “Have they made the call on Samuelson yet?”
“Being a U.S. citizen has complicated the matter a bit, so, no, they haven’t. The lawyers are reviewing it, but it’s not looking good. We’ve been told to execute on Perza. That’s where we are. And there’s more.”
Hinojosa turned to the list of casualties from the ambush and pointed a manicured, unpainted nail at a name.
“It seems Samuelson had been communicating with Carly Masters, the daughter of the Secretary of Defense.”
“As in General Masters? The Raider of Raqqa?”
General Lou Masters had rocketed to the top of the military brass. In less than five years he had risen from being one of the most revered military combat leaders to the position of Secretary of Defense. Having orchestrated the destruction of ISIS in Syria and Iraq, he had earned the trust of the defense community and the president’s administration.
“Carly Masters was killed in the Camp David ambush,” Hinojosa said.
Her face was ashen, as if she was overcome with grief.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m fine. This isn’t easy for me, either. But I have a job to do and I’m going to do it.” Then she added, “I was friends with Carly.”
“And Samuelson was, too? Sammie didn’t seem the type to walk in tall cotton with beautiful women,” Harwood said. “Don’t get me wrong. He was a good bullshit artist, but he had zero game. And a general’s daughter? Can’t see that.”
“FBI Special Agent Bronson and Max Corent found some unopened snaps on her phone. They were from SammySam0123.”
“Snapchat?”
“Yes. Corent confirmed it’s Samuelson’s account. Registered to him. No doubts there. And there were some others from FrogBuds2006. That seems to be more cryptic.”
“A SEAL?”
“Well, that’s our guess. They’re tracking the accounts right now. Because Samuelson was on Facebook Live and is a primary suspect, they are focusing on him first.”
“Anyone else of significance killed?” Harwood asked. “I saw the list and read the dossiers, but was more focused on Samuelson and then we were too busy getting inside the enemy’s decision cycle and killing their families.”
Hinojosa spun the list toward her and ran her finger down the names.
“I’d say they’re all significant,” Hinojosa said.
Harwood spun the list around and took a minute to read each name. Innocent men, women, and children slaughtered in cold blood. Yes, they were all significant. But were they material to understanding what had transpired?
As with the first time he’d seen the list, he recognized most of the last names. Saw Carly and Helen Masters. He didn’t personally know either of the women but had read that Helen was the general’s wife and that Carly had been his daughter.
“How did you k
now Carly Masters?”
“UVA Law School. Same class. Then had overlapping tribes in the D.C. area before I got reassigned back to Texas. I went FBI and she went to work on the Hill for a congressional committee. Think her dad hooked her up.”
Something dropped in the back of Harwood’s mind. He couldn’t place it, but it was an important hunch. Like a tuning fork vibrating, the thrum was real but hard to distinguish.
“Which committee?”
“Senate Intelligence,” Hinojosa said. “Why?”
“Ever think that there might be a motive here beyond terrorism? Did anyone want any of these people dead? Or just generally speaking did they want all of them dead to make a big impact?”
“The operating theory has been the latter. Ambush to kill the families of cabinet members. No one has tried to tear this thing apart looking at individual victims.”
Harwood slid the three photos of the shooters from Hinojosa’s file.
“These are the killers?” he asked.
“If you count Samuelson, yes. That’s what Kilmartin is giving me.”
“I saw that bullshit in the intel report. He’s not a killer. Tells me he was setup. Tells me there’s more to this ambush than we’re thinking about. We’re doing this mission to grind someone’s ax, but ultimately there’s more happening. Samuelson didn’t do this. The question is, who set him up and why?”
Hinojosa shook her head. “Let’s move on to the mission. I’m exhausted.”
Harwood nodded. “I respect that. You should get some sleep.”
“As should you,” she said. “It’s seven A.M. local. Pick a route so I can plan the logistics and you guys can rehearse.”
“I prefer ground over water any day,” Harwood said. “Take us through the mountains.”
“You got it. I’ll work this while you sleep. Once you guys are set, I’ll get some rest.”
Harwood eyed her. “Can’t think straight without sleep.”
“I’ll be fine. Here’s some new kit for you. Check it out.” She slid a small bag across the table. Her eyes were weary, bloodshot. Once perfectly smooth skin a day ago had evolved into bags under her eyes. She was wiped. Nonetheless she stood and opened the door for him. As he was walking out, she gently touched his back, urging him forward. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw her eyes were downcast with tears streaming along her cheeks.
Threat Zero Page 7
