Threat Level

by William Christie

  Other books by William Christie

  The Warriors of God

  Mercy Mission

  The Blood We Shed

  THREAT LEVEL

  WILLIAM CHRISTIE

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Copyright Page

  For Beth, of course

  “Do we need a new organization?”

  Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld.

  Memo to his aides and the Joint Chiefs

  of Staff; Subject: Global War on Terrorism.

  “Rumsfeld has long been enamored of the idea of expanding the role of Special Operations forces in fighting terrorists. He has dramatically boosted the budget of the forces and last year ordered the Special Operations Command to draft a strategy to send hunter-killer teams after terrorist cells.”

  Gregory L. Vistica, the Washington Post,

  January 5, 2004.

  “All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of the mind wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act out their dream with open eyes, to make it possible.

  T.E. Lawrence, Seven Pillars of Wisdom.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to publicly thank the members of the military and law enforcement communities who helped me out, but of course I can’t. They have my gratitude, and my respect for not telling me anything I really couldn’t have found in open source material.

  Then there are my friends, who mean more to me than I can say. Some are still serving or otherwise prone to embarrassment, so first names will have to suffice for all. The Bull and Joan. Jad and Peg. The Zooman. Erich and Vicki. Rick and Melissa, Ské and Guia. Dan and Sonita.

  Jim and Beth, as always, for everything. My promise is now kept. Anne and Howard, my second set of parents.

  Jason and Valerie, Phillip and Sally, Lee, Kimberly, Neil, and Will.

  John and Shirley.

  Hope, Anne, Jackie. Hobe, and now Gwynn. By all means, Mary.

  My family of course.

  Gary Goldstein, the editor of this book. A total pro and an absolute pleasure to work with. I don’t get to say that about editors very often. Thanks for the act of faith, Gary.

  My agent, Richard Curtis of Richard Curtis Associates. The man who kicked everything off. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: one of the good guys. A thank you doesn’t seem at all sufficient, Richard, but it’s yours anyway.

  And finally my mother, who both made me and made me a writer.

  I can be contacted at christieauthor@yahoo.com.

  1

  The fading moonlight glistened across the Shit River. Which was what generations of sailors had called the wide drainage channel that separated the former U.S. Naval Base of Subic Bay from the Philippine town of Olongapo City.

  When the U.S military left in 1991, the Philippine Armed Forces had looted nearby Clark Air Force Base right down to the office coffeepots. When they tried to do the same at Subic they were met at the gates by the civilian workforce brandishing hammers and wrenches. This had spared one of the finest deepwater ports and ship repair facilities in Asia. Now Subic was a special economic zone, the port handling traffic for nearby Japanese factories. The bars and clubs of Olongapo, whose very memory was enough to still raise a smile on the faces of middle-aged men across America, now serviced sex tourists from all over the world.

  The violet predawn light slowly revealed darker thunderheads building up over the South China Sea across the bay. The tropical air was heavy and damp; it smelled of everything from rotting jungle and raw sewage to cooking smells foreign to the Western sense memory.

  “Smell that?” Sergeant First Class Enrique Silva asked Master Sergeant Edwin Storey.

  Storey was making sure he still had all the luggage he’d come off the plane with. He was inventorying it by touch. Gas mask, pistol, Racal multiband walkie-talkie radio, stun grenades, blast strips, rifle and pistol magazines. Preoccupied with his task, he muttered back, “Smell what?”

  “The P.I., man,” said Silva. “The P.I. I did J.E.S.T. here when I was with the First Group on Okie.”

  Translated from army-speak, Silva had traveled to the Philippine Islands while stationed with the First Special Forces Group on Okinawa. The legendary Jungle Environment Survival Training course had been run by native Negrito Indians under contract by the navy.

  Dawn broke as they turned onto Magsaysay Drive. Storey’s eyes flashed down the street, checking off landmarks. And not failing to notice the gritty storefront establishments with loud signs and garish lighting. Sidewalks still teeming at that hour. “Okay, more bars per square foot than any other place I’ve been in my life. I’m assuming you got laid.”

  “Laid!” Silva exclaimed. “Laid? Laid doesn’t even begin to describe it. The women in this town are pros, but they love their work. This is Disneyland for adults, my man. Our boy ain’t the only Arab in town, but if he hadn’t been the only Arab in town not getting laid, we probably wouldn’t have found him.”

  “You’ve got to live your cover,” Storey said in agreement.

  For the hundredth time, Silva checked the chamber of his rifle to make sure a round of ammunition was loaded. It was one of his partner’s little tics that Storey was accustomed to. His own rifle was propped between his knees, barrel pointed down. It was the CQB, or Close Quarters Battle, version of the M-4 Enhanced Carbine, used exclusively by the U.S. military’s Tier-1 counterterrorist units: the army’s Combat Applications Group, still informally known by its original name, Delta Force; and the Navy SEAL Special Warfare Development Group, which had originally been called SEAL Team Six. Special operations units tended to change their names whenever one of their number wrote a tell-all book about them.

  The CQB rifle was an M-16 carbine with sliding stock, very short ten-inch barrel, and beefy plastic front hand guards. The rest of the special operations community still used the previous generation M-4A1 carbine with the 14.5-inch barrel. But the weight of all the equipment Delta and DevGroup habitually hung on the front of their rifles—sound suppressors, laser sights, grenade launchers, etc.—actually bent the barrel once it got a little warm from firing, seriously affecting accuracy and reliability. The CQB rifles were hand-built by the Naval Weapons Station at Crane, Indiana.

  As if to prove the point, both Silva’s and Storey’s rifles had Picatinny Lightweight Shotguns mounted under the front hand guards. This was just a naked twelve-gauge shotgun barrel, simple action, and five-round magazine. The shotgun was mainly used to blow the locks off doors. Also mounted to the rifles were Surefire tactical flashlights and Aimpoint Comp M red-dot sights.

  “I’ve gone in every way from helo to horse,” Storey told Silva. “But this has gotta be a first.”

  Silva nodded. They were traveling in a jeepney, basic Filipino public transportation. A four-wheele
d, open-sided bus/taxi, usually painted in the brightest of colors, resplendent in chrome, and hung with more lights than a redneck’s front yard at Christmastime.

  Storey actually thought the jeepney was a brilliant idea. Olongapo never really slept, even during afternoon siesta. The usual dark-colored SUVs with tinted glass roaring down the street would have put the town into an uproar before they even got near their target.

  The idea had come from the men seated behind them in the jeepney, quietly chattering in Tagalog. An assault group from the Anti-Terrorist Unit of the Philippine National Police Special Action Force.

  “Coming up,” said Silva. They’d carefully studied street maps and photos taken by the technical intelligence team. He and Storey pulled green balaclavas made from fireproof Nomex fabric over their heads and strapped on helmets. “You’re gonna get shot in the head.”

  Unlike the others, who were all wearing Kevlar ballistic helmets, Storey had insisted on the old black plastic Pro-Tec helmet that all of Delta Force used to wear on assaults. The only protection it provided was against low doorways and falling debris, but it was light and Storey valued being able to move his head quickly over bullet protection. “So you keep telling me.”

  The two had worked together in strange places and very close quarters all over the world, lending them something of the quality of an old married couple.

  “Here we go,” said Silva. “Hotel California. Great name for a skivvie house. By the hour or by the day.”

  “You can check out any time you like,” Storey said in a monotone, “but you can never leave.”

  “Wel-come to the Hot-el Cal-i-for-nia!” came bursting out in full song from the assault group behind them, seriously startling Silva and Storey, who both fell over laughing before leaning over the seat to deal out high fives that were muffled by everyone’s green Nomex gloves.

  “The boys are loose,” Silva whispered to his partner.

  “Shit, they do this for real more often than we do,” Storey replied quietly, pulling the ballistic goggles down over his eyes.

  “Let’s hope they do it well,” said Silva. They’d had less than a day to practice with the Filipinos, always an iffy proposition.

  Storey made a series of radio calls to check that everyone was in position: the assault team hitting the rear, and the snipers on the building across the street.

  The jeepney squealed to a halt in front of the hotel, and the group piled out. Gunfire not being unknown on the streets of Olongapo, pedestrians were already beginning to scatter.

  Through the front door and pounding up the stairs. The sight of a line of men in green Nomex assault jumpsuits, helmets, and thick bulletproof vests bulging with deadly toys caused the desk clerk to immediately drop to the floor and curl up into a ball under his desk.

  The second floor and a dog was barking frantically nearby. Down a hallway smelling of urine not fully masked by industrial cleanser. Storey was out in front. They were moving slower now, and much more quietly. Storey confirmed the room number and exposed the adhesive on a strip of foam rubber loaded with a three-hundred-grain-per-foot explosive cutting charge, sticking it onto the hinge side of the door lengthwise. It was a light charge. Third World buildings were made from cardboard and tissue paper, and it would be professionally embarrassing to bring down the entire building, with you inside, while trying to blow in a single door.

  The top-tier antiterrorist units all relied on explosive for the initial door breach. Battering rams, Halligan pry bars, and hydraulic doorjamb spreaders all might work on the first try, but if they didn’t, then the element of surprise was lost and the target alerted. Likewise Hatton or Shoklock rounds fired from a shotgun to blow off locks or hinges. The lock or hinge might come off, but then again it might not. Shotgun rounds were better suited for use after the first shot had been fired. Explosives were surer.

  Storey backed away from the door, unrolling the blasting wire. The explosive was fired by an electric match, like a model rocket though much more reliable. Storey ducked behind the Kevlar breacher’s blanket held up by one of the Filipinos to protect them from back fragmentation: wood splinters and pieces of hinge and lock. The rest of the team was stacked up behind them.

  Storey raised his hand, and starting from the back, each man slapped the shoulder of the one in front to indicate he was ready. When Storey felt Silva’s hand on his shoulder, he released the lever on the firing box in his left hand, sending an electrical charge down the wire.

  At the sound of the explosion the hotel power went out, killed from outside. The door disappeared in a rush of dark smoke. Already up, Storey threw a stun grenade, or flash-bang as it was always known in the trade, hard through the open doorway. A second later it blew with a five-pound-per-square-inch shock wave, 175 decibels of sound, and two million candlepower of white light.

  Storey went through the doorway, fast, and turned right, hugging the wall. An instant behind him, Silva went left. It was impossible to watch movement in opposite directions, so anyone in the room who hadn’t been deafened, blinded, or stunned by the flash-bang still couldn’t keep up with what was going on. Both men had the white-light tactical flashlights attached to their rifles switched on.

  In the smoky haze a figure was raised half up from the bed, as if caught in indecision. Storey fired his shotgun. A shot-bag round, lead shot in a cloth bag that hit like a bucking mule, but nonlethal.

  It knocked the figure back onto the bed, he grabbed his chest in pain, and that was enough to close the distance. Storey grabbed the man by the neck and threw him onto the floor. His full weight was on the man’s neck while the flexible plastic handcuffs, like electric cable ties, went on. Storey felt paternal pride as the Filipino number-three man glided smoothly past him to cover Silva, who popped another flash-bang and cleared the bathroom. The number-four man came up to cover Storey as he handled the prisoner.

  The prisoner was only wearing underwear, which made the search easier. Storey rolled him over and shone his light across the Arab face. It was their man.

  “Clear,” came Silva’s voice over Storey’s earphone.

  “White, Bravo, Seven—clear,” Storey radioed out, giving the room code number. “Target secured.” Always intensely self-critical, he thought that had gone fairly smoothly. He flicked the pillows off the bed, revealing a SIG 9mm pistol and a Russian RGD-5 hand grenade.

  As Storey bent over to pick up the weapons, a burst of incoming fire stitched the air above his head. Dropping to the floor, he looked up through the mist of plaster dust and saw the line of bullet holes that had been fired through the wall at them. “Taking automatic fire from Red Eight,” he radioed instinctively. “Single AK.” Silva was all right, on the floor and crawling toward the door to the adjoining room. One of the Filipinos was down, and was being attended to by the other.

  There wasn’t supposed to be more than one target in the building, but this wouldn’t be the first time faulty intelligence had jammed itself up his ass.

  Storey radioed his backup team to stay out in the hall and cover the door to the next room in case someone came out. He removed a Blast Strip from his vest. A thirteen-by-four-inch strip, only two millimeters thick and made from the same explosive material as a stun grenade. Designed to be slipped under doors.

  Hours of practice made their timing perfect. Storey pushed the Blast Strip under the door and detonated it. Silva simultaneously fired a Hatton round at the doorknob and kicked the door. The Hatton round blew off the whole doorknob and a chunk of door, then dissipated into a harmless powder.

  They entered as before, crisscrossing quickly through the lethal funnel of the doorway. The room was empty but for a pile of expended cartridge cases on the carpet. But there was the door to the next room, and the sound of furniture being thrown up against it. Expecting it, Storey and Silva were already low when the next burst of gunfire came through the wall. Along with the sound of a man yelling and a woman screaming. Hostages.

  “We can’t wait for the fucker t
o decide to blow hisself up,” said Storey. The only noticeable indicator of his stress level was when rural West Virginia came back into his voice.

  Then a bellow came through the wall. “I want to negotiate! I want to negotiate!”

  “He wants to negotiate,” Silva said to Storey.

  “Good,” Storey replied. “He won’t be shooting while he wants to negotiate.”

  “Fucker sounds American,” said Silva.

  Neither of them had the slightest desire to begin hour upon hour of negotiations, helped along by Arab ambassadors and the Philippine press, no doubt. Silva aimed his thumb at the bulging load-bearing pouch on the back of his vest. Storey pulled out and unrolled the three-by-four-foot light wall-breaching charge. It looked a lot like a rubber bathtub mat, except in this case the ridges were explosives.

  They taped it to the wall, very quietly, trying to avoid the burst of fire that any scratching would have provoked. Storey unraveled the wire while making a very quiet radio call describing what they were going to do. In response to a question he replied curtly, “We’ve got it on this end.” Silva tipped the bed over on its side, aiming the mattress toward the charge.

  As they crouched behind the bed, Silva said, “Hope it’s not a load-bearing wall.”

  “You pay your money, you take your chances,” Storey replied.

  He detonated the charge. Even with earplugs, open mouths, and a lot of practice standing near things that went bang, it was still like getting hit with a cast-iron frying pan—an experience he remembered vividly from his youth.

  To give them more time to get through the hole, Silva threw in a multiblast flash-bang. Popping the fuse ejected seven separate submunitions from the grenade body, sending them bouncing all over the room. These exploded separately over a random three-second period.

  Storey had been trained to ignore them, and as he came through the hole he acquired a figure holding a woman out in front of him, AK-47 jammed into her neck. Each blast lit up the room like a photographer’s strobe, then darkened to the two flashlight beams. Like a football player so focused he cannot hear the crowd, Storey saw lips moving but registered no sound.