Bluegrass and Crimson

by Jeff Siebold

  “Aye, aye, skipper,” the men said in unison.

  The three vans sped down the dark country road.

  * * *

  “No bogies,” said the SWAT Team leader. He was reporting in from the Culpeper warehouse. “There are signs of them being here, but no firm confirmation at present.”

  “What did you find?” asked FBI Special Agent Howie Allen over the speakerphone. Clive and Zeke were sitting in FBI Headquarters with him, monitoring the raid.

  “We’ve got rifle crates, some bomb paraphernalia and vests, and some food, sleeping cots, blankets, like that. No sign of how long they’ve been gone. Its pretty messy in there, like they aren’t planning on coming back,” said the SWAT guy.

  “Any ID or personal items?” asked Zeke

  “No, we found some empty food containers, rental car receipts for two vehicles, a couple of Muslim bibles and some mats.”

  “Prayer mats,” said Zeke. “Not a good sign that they left those. We’re entering the endgame. What else?”

  “One of our guys found a map of Dulles Airport, the short-term parking area and ticket counters were marked with a highlighter.”

  Chapter 40

  “They know that they can’t get through Security at Dulles,” said Zeke. “They’d be stopped before they get close to an airplane. And they’d never be able to get one to take off.”

  “Right,” said Clive. They were back in Clive’s office, reviewing the evidence and possibilities.

  “But maybe an airplane isn’t the target this time,” said Zeke. “It may be enough to cause the kind of trouble they did in Paris and have the world’s attention focus once again on their cause.”

  “Possibly,” said Clive. “In Paris, the attacks were on restaurants and cafe’s, and one concert venue. They killed 130 people beside themselves, most of them in the concert. In that case, it didn’t seem that the goal was in sheer numbers as much as in their ability to intimidate and strike at will.”

  Clive was sitting at the low table in his office, reviewing files while Zeke looked out the window, deep in thought. Clive was holding another cup of his Prince of Wales tea in a china cup on a matching saucer. The saucer looked very fragile.

  “What if the objective is attention?” asked Zeke. “Attention and chaos.”

  “It could be, old boy,” said Clive absently, still perusing the file.

  “If so, they may not need to get through security at Dulles,” said Zeke, thinking as he spoke. “They can probably take out a hundred people or more at the ticket counters, at the right time of day. Curb park the car, walk in the street doors, approach the counters and stand in line for a moment, then start shooting or detonate a bomb.”

  “How would they disguise the automatic rifles?” Clive asked.

  “Could be a number of ways,” said Zeke. “Make them look like golf clubs, musical instruments, maybe skis or snowboards. The G36 rifle is less than 33 inches long, and less than a foot deep. That would fit in a modified golf bag. And don’t forget, it has a folding stock.”

  “Hmm,” said Clive.

  “Or perhaps a rectangular case of some sort,” Zeke continued, thinking out loud.

  “And there’s no real security screening before they get to the TSA line,” said Clive. “They could do a lot of damage before they were brought down.”

  “They don’t intend to escape,” added Zeke. “Which makes them even more dangerous.”

  * * *

  Twenty-six miles west of downtown Washington, seventeen miles outside of the beltway, past Tysons Corner and Reston, Virginia, is IDA, the Washington Dulles Airport. The airport sits on about 12,000 acres of land and handles over 1,200 flights a day, and 21.6 million passengers each year. Completed in 1962 in an area that was considered to be remote to Washington, Washington-Dulles has grown substantially over the past 54 years.

  May 2nd was a crisp, cool spring day in Washington, and the two young men wore light jackets over their t-shirts and jeans. The jeans were distressed and worn low on their hips so that their underwear waistbands showed above their belt lines as they drove the final leg of their journey along Interstate 66 toward the airport. “Not far to go, now,” said Asha’ath, looking at his iPhone.

  They planned to park the red Honda Civic in the short-term parking lot at the airport. From the trunk they would take two guitar cases, the rectangular kind made for electric guitars. With the guitar cases slung over their shoulders and empty roller bags for disguise, they would join the crowd walking toward the terminal access doors. The guitar cases were each about 40 inches long and 15 inches wide, plenty of room to hold the rifles.

  The two men planned to enter the terminal through the automatic sliding glass doors and locate the American Airlines counter. The terminal counter area would be busy, with long distance fliers and commuters lined up to check luggage, pick up tickets or make flight changes. They had practiced this. They would join the check-in line, looking like part of a grunge band traveling together, until they took out their weapons and started shooting. They had rehearsed these moves many times.

  * * *

  Hours earlier, the two men, Asha’ath and Amed, had left the warehouse in Culpeper and begun their journey toward Washington, DC. As they’d left the town limits each took a captagon pill. Then they turned on the CD player, listening to the words of the prophet Allah as recorded for them on audio CD’s. As the pills kicked in, they began to dream of the virgins waiting for them in heaven.

  The ride through the Virginia countryside that spring day was visually pleasing, with wildflowers blooming along the country roads and green trees along the borders of open fields where squash and green beans were growing. The landscape was peaceful and the warm sun gave a glow that belied the underlying evil contained in the small red car.

  A half hour later, Asha’ath and Amed had turned off the CD player and were chanting to Allah. Together they were almost singing their daily prayers from memory. More captagon tablets had been ingested and had worked their way into the young men’s bloodstreams; they felt invincible. They were aware, omnipotent and indestructible, as they rode north toward their target.

  * * *

  While Clive called ahead, Zeke pointed his rental car at Dulles airport. As quickly as possible they drove the twenty-eight miles from Clive’s office. Airport management and security had been alerted to his arrival, and two security team members ushered Zeke through to the Airport Operations Manager’s office. The manager, a fiftyish executive dressed in a gray suit and a blue dress shirt with the top button unbuttoned under his red tie, waved his left arm at a chair in front of his desk. He was talking on his desk phone when Zeke walked in. It sounded like he was organizing and coordinating his staff.

  “See how many men Frank can get over here asap,” he said into the phone. The small sign on his oak desk read, ‘Paul Cooke, Airport Operations Manager.’ “Yes, I’ll hold while you check,” he said. He shifted his right hand to cover the mouthpiece on the phone. “Frank is the Chief of Police in Reston,” he said to Zeke. “We’re talking to them and Tysons Corners and Vienna, to see how much manpower we can pull together.” Then into the phone he said, “OK, call me back.” He hung up.

  “I’m Zeke Traynor,” said Zeke. “You’re expecting me.”

  “Sure am. FBI guys called and said you’d be arriving. Can you give me any more insight into what we’re expecting?” asked Paul. He stood up and walked around the desk. Paul was a thick man with short hair cut close to his head in a military style. In front, above his forehead about an inch of the steel colored hair stood straight up along his hairline. His eyes were blue and clear and he had broad, handsome features. His eyebrows, the same steel color as his hair, were trimmed and neat.

  “Our intel is that somewhere between two and five terrorists have been dispatched to attack the airport sometime today or tomorrow. The FBI took down the terrorist’s staging area early this morning, but they were already gone. From what we found, we’re looking at a possible suicide
team with automatic weapons,” Zeke said.

  “How are they planning to get through security with weapons?” asked Paul.

  “I don’t think they are,” said Zeke. “I think they’re planning an attack near some of the ticket counters, by the street entrances to the terminal.”

  “Oh, jeez,” said Paul. “Our security is mostly focused at the TSA checkpoints and on the tarmac. Other than the occasional wandering law enforcement officers, we don’t have much between the parking lot and the TSA checkpoints.”

  “Right,” said Zeke, “but at certain times of day there are hundreds of people in line at the ticketing counters.”

  “We’re coming up on prime time right now,” said Marty. “Between 3 and 5 in the afternoon.”

  “The FBI has arranged for K-9 officers at every entrance to the terminal,” said Zeke. “They contacted the police for that. Your people should be working with them, coordinating that now.”

  “OK, yes, they are. Good.”

  “The last I heard, the FBI was bringing in some military K-9 units, too, with bomb and gun sniffing dogs to patrol the lobby area. I’d suggest that you man the entry doors to the terminal with undercover police. We have to get close to them before the shooting starts.”

  “Yes, we do,” said Paul. “We also have our administrative and maintenance maneuvers. We’ll employ them, too.”

  “Alan,” he shouted out the open door.

  A moment later a young man in an airport security uniform poked his head into the office. It was a Lieutenant’s uniform, based on the insignia on his sleeve. He said, “Chief?”

  Paul pointed at Zeke. “Zeke will go with you and help coordinate our protection. He works with the FBI. Zeke’s in counterintelligence, and he has information about how it will probably go down. Compare notes and see what else we can do for protection.”

  “Aye, aye, skipper,” said Alan. “Come with me,” he said to Zeke. “We can use all the help we can get.”

  Chapter 41

  “We anticipate that the attack will take place outside of TSA’s security area,” said Zeke. “Possibly by the ticket counters.”

  “It’s almost 4:00 in the afternoon, our busiest time for fliers,” said Alan, whose full name turned out to be Alan Paige. He told Zeke that he’d been with Dulles security for over ten years.

  They were sitting around a conference table with seven men, each tapping on his laptop computer and half listening to the ongoing discussion. Local police and fire departments as well as the FBI and the Airport Security were represented in this area, dubbed the “Com Center.” The communications system for airport security was piped into a speaker that had been wired up in the room.

  “We don’t want another 9/11,” said Alan.

  “Sure as hell don’t,” said an Irish-looking fire chief with white hair and red cheeks. “Not even close.”

  “What’s the airport’s defense strategy for an attack like this?” asked Zeke. “It’s time to employ it, right now.”

  Zeke told them what he knew.

  * * *

  The two terrorists exited Interstate 66 and were now heading north on Sully Road toward the Dulles Access Road. “About nine miles to go,” said Amed, who was an engineering student at UVA. Asha’ath said nothing in response; he continued to mumble prayers to Allah. The countryside flew past them but neither man noticed the bright spring colors, both intent on the last minutes of their lives and the meaning of their sacrifice. The guitar cases were in the trunk, and when they arrived at the airport, each would take a case and a small, empty roller bag from the trunk to pull behind them. They had all agreed it was a good plan.

  * * *

  “Crimson Alert,” said the mechanical voice over the speaker system. It reverberated throughout the airport on the priority frequency. Every communications device, every airport speaker, every telephone, every walkie-talkie carried the message. Every ongoing announcement was usurped in favor of the words, “Crimson Alert! This is not a drill!” The alert was repeated four times each minute.

  With no hesitation, a number of airport employees began to walk briskly toward the rear of the terminal, leaving their respective work stations. Airport maintenance personnel abandoned their various repair projects. Airline mechanics and ground control staff gave up their positions and turned to take the quickest route to the maintenance yard. Air traffic control, meanwhile, moved into their Alert mode and waved off the approaching aircraft, rerouting them to Baltimore or Philadelphia or Richmond. International flights were rerouted to New York, either JFK or Laguardia. TSA closed down Passenger Screening and moved to their high-alert mode, assisted by the Reston Police.

  “I need to meet my partner in Paul’s office,” said Zeke.

  “He just arrived. They flew him in by chopper about ten minutes ago,” said Alan.

  “You OK with this?” Zeke asked, waving an arm around the Com Center.

  “No worries, we’ve got this now,” said Alan. “Thanks for the intel.”

  * * *

  The red Honda approached the exit for the Dulles Access Road. Traffic had slowed from its typical, harried pace to about thirty miles an hour. “Is this normal?” asked Amed out loud. “We still have a mile to go to reach the airport.”

  “Perhaps there’s an accident ahead,” said Asha’ath. He drove on slowly.

  The cars around the red Honda continued to slow as they approached the airport exit. Asha’ath had maneuvered the car into the right lane to take the airport exit. Now, he noticed, traffic was moving at less than ten miles an hour.

  “What is this?” asked Amed, anxiously.

  Asha’ath didn’t respond, but he craned his neck to see further ahead, looking for the flashing lights of an emergency vehicle. He didn’t see any lights. The traffic in front of the two young men slowed further and then, as they merged onto the Dulles Access Road, it stopped. No one was moving.

  “Damn,” said Amed. “Damn, damn, damn.” He hit the dashboard with the side of his fist.

  The noise from the overhead helicopters wasn’t unexpected this close to the airport, as the two men sat impatiently in their car.

  “We should get out and walk,” said Amed, frustrated. “We’re so close.”

  “No, stay here,” said Asha’ath. “Stay with the plan. Take another captagon pill and give me one.”

  * * *

  “Do you have a visual of the weapons?” asked FBI SWAT Team leader, Jack Connell, speaking into his lapel radio. Three other team members were riding in the chopper with him. After dropping Clive at the airport, the two SWAT helicopters lifted off to find the killers. Zeke had told them that the two rental car receipts found in the duplex were for a red Honda and a blue Kia. They had the tag numbers now. Connell was speaking to one of his snipers, situated in the second chopper and looking through a scope.

  “I’ve got the Honda,” the sniper said. “Confirmed the tag number. Two males in the front seats, the rear looks empty. No visual on the weapons.”

  “Where are they?” asked Connell.

  “Just west of the exit from Sully Road onto Dulles Access Road,” was the reply. “Stopped in traffic.”

  “OK, we’ll be there in fifteen seconds,” said Connell. “Keep your visual and watch for weapons. We’ll take them on the road.”

  * * *

  “We have hundreds of maintenance personnel that work at the airport at any point in time,” said Paul. “They’ve drilled this countless times. When they hear Crimson Alert, they drop what they’re doing and move immediately to the area south of the terminal, the parking area, here…” He pointed to a parking lot on the map on his office wall. “They all do.”

  “We keep the police and security guys at their stations, the TSA guys stay put, but we shut down all incoming flights and re-employ the maintenance and administrative people.”

  He turned back to Zeke and Clive. “They’ve each been assigned a specific vehicle. They exit the terminal on the southwest corner, and they get in their assigned
vehicle and start it up. Then, in a prearranged sequence, the convoy of snowplows and maintenance vehicles and dump trucks and heavy machinery makes its way north, away from the terminal and toward the outer loop, here.” He pointed to another spot on the map. “They park the heavy equipment and totally block access to the terminal at the choke points, here, here, here, here, and here.” Paul Cooke was getting excited. His voice rose as he pointed out the prearranged traffic choke points to Zeke and Clive.

  “Well done,” said Clive. “Very creative.”

  “Once they’re in place, no vehicles can get close to the terminal. It’s designed to keep terrorists at least 900 feet from our front door.”

  “So that’s what happened?” confirmed Zeke. “Before they got to the airport parking, the traffic was stopped by a wall of snowplows?”

  “It was. So there was no long line of travelers to shoot, no terminal to blow up, and the FBI was on them so quickly they didn’t get their guns out of the trunk. It was textbook,” said Paul. “They spotted the red Honda in the stopped traffic, and they took them down,” he continued. “Major thanks to you, Zeke. The red Honda Civic and its tag number were critical information.”

  Chapter 42

  Gabby watched as the two men fitted the vests over their shoulders and snapped the belts tightly around their waists. The explosives in the pockets of the vests had a bleach-like smell. They could be ignited by heat, friction or shock. Today, the men would be using heat from an electrical detonator.

  The vests were photographer’s vests, with numerous pockets and zippers across the front and sleeves of the garment. These were filled with explosives, except for two side pockets that held spare batteries for the motor drives of the cameras they wore slung across their backs. Ismael and Jari were ready.