The house was modest and single story. With enough magnification, it was amazing how much you could see through windows. At 10:18 in the morning, duly logged into Troy’s notebook, a short chubby man wearing only underwear stepped in front of one. An Arab man. Troy zoomed in the spotting scope and took four photos before the Arab disappeared. He nudged Storey, who looked at the images in the camera display.
Storey attached the serial cable to the camera and downloaded the photos to his Personal Digital Assistant. Then the cable to the satellite phone. He wrote a brief message requesting identification if possible, and sent the photos off to Washington. Though not with high expectations.
The hours passed. They convinced themselves that the Arab was in the house alone.
At 4:42 the satellite phone vibrated with an incoming message. The decoded text came up on Storey’s PDA. The Arab was believed to be one Talat al-Rashidi, or so said the facial recognition software. The command center didn’t ask them whether they could put their hands on the guy, they wanted to know whether they could get him across the border into Thailand.
Storey knew the deal. Unlike with Thailand, no one was going to ask the government of Malaysia for help they weren’t going to give anyway. And it seemed that the Pentagon was still going to play games with the CIA, not ask it for help.
If he’d known the border better, Storey would have considered it. He’d grab the guy, but someone else was going to have to run bodies across the border. He worded his reply much more tactfully, but that was the essence of it.
Washington came right back with orders to maintain observation, making Storey regret sending them the photos in the first place.
At 6:07 PM a red Toyota pickup truck with Malaysian registration came down the dirt road and pulled in beside the house. Two young men in their twenties, who looked to be Malaysians, got out and went inside the house. Storey was on the spotting scope at that time and took their pictures. They didn’t bring anything into the house, like groceries.
This created a whole set of problems. Their water was almost gone, and they wouldn’t last another day in that field without more. So one of them would have to leave the hide and refill the bags. And if they let the target leave with his visitors they might never see him again.
It was the subject of a whispered conversation. The consensus was that they couldn’t risk it—they’d have to go in.
By now they had a very detailed sketch map of the area, and they used it to make their plan.
The last thing they wanted was to be crawling into position only to have everyone pile into the pickup and drive off. To keep that from happening, as soon as it was completely dark they split up and began crawling through the cane, aiming for the road on either side of the house. They didn’t have far to go, but had to do it very slowly so their movement didn’t make a weaving pattern across the surface of the cane.
When he reached the edge of the field facing the road, Troy reached into his pack and brought out a 2.2-pound green metal box, square on three sides with an oval on the top that looked like a stereo speaker diaphragm. An M2 SLAM, or Selectable Lightweight Attack Munition, a smart mine. He wired the box to a cane stalk so it faced the road, setting the selector switch to ten hours, removing the cover from the passive infrared sensor, and pulling the pin. When a vehicle passed in front of the passive infrared port the change in background temperature would fire the mine. The part that looked like a speaker diaphragm was an explosively formed projectile, a high-velocity metal slug that could penetrate 1.75 inches of steel armor. It did much better on auto bodies. After ten hours the mine would self-neutralize, and it would just be a harmless green metal box with no identifying markings.
A three-quarter moon came up over the limestone hills. Troy and Storey still waited in the field. The houselights went off at 1:00 AM. They didn’t move until 3:10.
For a special operator the only thing more important than terrain was microterrain. Even what looked like perfectly flat and open ground would still have dips and hollows and rain channels that would completely conceal a crawling man. The trick was not to blunder across but carefully study the terrain before making a move. And Storey and Troy had had nineteen hours to carefully study the terrain in front of them.
The road was slightly lower than both the cane field and the house. Troy slid down the bank on his belly, made a final check in both directions, and quickly high-crawled across the road on hands and knees. The spot he’d chosen put a tree trunk between him and the house.
Once across the road Troy slowed way down. He had to operate under two worst-case assumptions: that there was someone alertly standing guard in the house, and that they had night-vision equipment.
Holding his rifle near the barrel so the weapon draped over his forearm and out of the dirt, Troy pushed himself forward using just his forearms and toes. It was called a sniper crawl, and he moved only four inches at a time, including a long pause in between to look and listen. The side of his head pressed against the dirt, the night-vision goggle trained at the house. Any sign of life and he’d have to make the call whether to lie there out in the open, hoping not to be seen, or get up and assault.
His joints were soon aching, though his chest was thankfully numb. He was sick of the smell of dirt. But rather than use it all as an excuse to hurry, Troy embraced the pain and discomfort as a mark of personal discipline. Mind over matter, they were always saying to the trainees at BUDS. If you don’t mind, then it don’t matter.
Inside the microterrain, Troy knew where the house was, but if he couldn’t see it, then they couldn’t see him. All the more reason to plan his route around all the obstacles in the area, no matter how small. The pickup truck was his friend. When there was no cover he crawled along the shadows cast by the trees. All the more important because sometimes black clothing showed up almost white in moonlight. The human eye senses movement before anything else, and his movement was slow enough to be imperceptible. It took him an hour and a half to move less than forty yards.
With the back door of the house now in sight, Troy still waited. Then, very faintly, the hoot of an owl. That was Storey in position on the other side of the house.
This was what you trained for. Not just to operate at the highest level, but to operate at the highest level at the time you were the most tired and uncomfortable. Troy tossed a very small pebble into the bed of the pickup truck. It made a lovely sound hitting the metal and then rattling around. A sound not connected to anything natural. Not the kind of noise that sets off sirens, the kind that brings a dozing man’s head up off his chest and makes him say to himself: what the hell was that? Then Troy tossed another pebble against a metal wheel. That was the sound that puts a man on his feet and sends him off to investigate.
It took some time, but a silhouette eventually appeared at the back door. Looking around, listening. But there was nothing to see, and nothing more to hear. Now Troy imagined him trying to decide whether he really heard anything.
So there was someone on watch. Not alert enough to discover their movement, but too alert for them to enter the house undetected.
Troy had another pebble ready if he didn’t come out, but he did.
The screen door squeaked—something that was good to know. It was one of the Malaysians, in a tank top, jeans, and bare feet. Pistol in his right hand.
Lying prone with his rifle at his shoulder, Troy had him dead to rights. His SR-47 had a Knight’s sound suppressor attached to the barrel. It brought the rifle’s report down to the level of a .22. That was quiet, but not quiet enough in the dead of night with two men still in the house.
The Malaysian moved to check out the pickup. Until Troy tossed his pebble against a tree trunk. The pistol came up, and now Troy knew exactly what they were dealing with. Because instead of dashing to the nearest available cover and then trying to determine what was going on, he advanced slowly across open ground, both hands on the pistol out in front of his body.
Off to his right Troy saw a dark
upright figure gliding through the trees. He tossed another pebble. Into the dirt this time—a much more subtle sound. He was steadily drawing the Malaysian’s attention toward him and away from what was coming up behind. But a lot of things could go wrong, just as they had done in the Bangkok apartment building.
Most human beings have a continuous inner dialogue going on, one part debating with the other about the best course of action. While this is happening the information from their senses is not being processed. The predator has no inner dialogue. The predator is focused on the prey, waiting for it to give the signal to strike. Troy was careful not to look directly at Storey; sometimes you could feel those eyes.
Storey was moving crouched over. On his toes but lightly, not pounding. First weaving through the trees. Then as the Malaysian turned toward the fall of the third pebble, he committed himself. Springing forward, still on his toes, adrenaline pumping and heart pounding, holding his breath so the sound wouldn’t give him away. He came up from behind, as would the tiger.
The Malaysian finally sensed something and whirled around, but Storey was less than ten feet away. Pfft, pfft, pfft, pfft, so close together they were almost one sound. Four rounds to the head from the little Glock pistol. Storey’s momentum carried him forward and he had his left arm around the man’s chest before he dropped. The pistol still pressed against the head, just in case, Storey carried the body to the cover of the nearest tree and quietly lowered it to the ground.
Troy had only watched the first part. Once it was resolved he kept his rifle trained on the back door, ready to fire and then assault if anyone appeared.
Storey holstered the pistol, going back to the rifle slung across his chest. A hand signal to Troy and he went for the back door, sprinting across the open ground.
Storey paused only to ease the door open, letting Troy slip in first. Rifles at their shoulders, they tiptoed down a short entry alcove, pausing only to confirm that the kitchen was empty.
Nothing was certain now. Either they still had surprise or people were going to be jumping out shooting. Storey listened hard for any indication of that. The house smelled like chicken that had been burnt in cooking.
An opening into what looked like a living room. Troy crouched down and peeked around a corner as Storey covered him. He pulled his head back and signaled: on the right; one man; asleep; I’ll take him, you cover. When Troy had his own Glock out, Storey put his hand on his partner’s shoulder. Ready. He squeezed. Go.
Troy leaned around the corner and double-tapped two rounds into the head of the Malaysian sleeping on the couch. Almost the only sound was the two ejected shell casings falling to the floor.
Storey moved up to cover the room exit. Troy made sure of his victim and fell in behind.
A hallway with three doors. Wonderful, Storey thought. Pick the right door and win a prize. Make any noise picking the wrong one and ruin everything.
On closer examination one door was ajar. They tiptoed toward it. Yes, that was the bathroom. Empty.
Storey went to the next door, signaling Troy: quiet. Troy nodded. Storey turned the knob a millimeter at a time until the latch was completely retracted. Then he opened the door, very slowly because everything wood squeaked in a humid climate. Just enough for Troy to look in. Troy shook his head. Storey would have left the door open, but he was afraid of it moving and making noise.
On to the next door, which hopefully held the prize. With another hand signal, Troy asked if Storey wanted to go first. Storey shook his head. Troy had done the last one just fine, and he still felt unlucky from Bangkok. He did signal Troy not to look around this time—just go in fast.
The same routine with the doorknob. Storey flung the door open. This time the bed was against the near wall. Troy raised his rifle and brought the butt-plate down onto the exposed stomach.
Talat al-Rashidi folded at the middle as the air went out of his lungs in a loud grunting gasp. Troy threw him off the bed, and Storey put a foot on his neck to hold him still while Troy looped the plastic flexcuff band around his wrists.
He hesitated over the gag. “Might suffocate the way he’s breathing,” he rasped hoarsely. Speaking in a normal tone for the first time in over twenty-four hours will do that.
“Gag him,” Storey ordered.
They each grabbed an upper arm and dragged al-Rashidi out to the living room. “Watch him,” said Storey. “I’ll clear the house.” You always had to check, even if you were 99 percent sure. It was the 1 percent that killed you.
The house was empty. Storey returned to the living room. “You better go get our packs, just in case.”
Troy’s return trip to the field took him less than a minute. When he came back Storey was writing a message into his PDA. Al-Rashidi was tied to a hardwood chair, his legs tied to two chair legs. They left him there for the moment, chest still heaving and eyes locked on the dead man on the couch.
“How come you hit him in the stomach?” Storey asked while he worked the stylus across the screen.
“Didn’t want to crack his skull by accident,” said Troy. And then, “I can’t believe the fucker didn’t wake up.”
“When you’re home alone you pay attention to noises,” Storey said. “You don’t when you have company.”
Troy was almost looking forward to the day when Storey didn’t think of everything.
Storey hooked up his phone and sent the message off. “You been working hard,” he said with a thin smile. “Keep an eye on them and I’ll look around.”
“My pleasure.” Troy was about to take the scratchy spandoflage hood off, but didn’t because al-Rashidi couldn’t take his eyes off it—which made it good medicine. He didn’t bother watching the road; the SLAMs would alert them to any traffic.
Storey came up with a laptop computer and two nylon cases filled with CDs. A satellite phone had been charging on the dresser. Four regular cell phones. Prescription bottle with Xanax—someone had trouble sleeping. Two suitcases were packed and zippered up for a quick exit, which made him doubt that anything was hidden away in the house. Nothing but clothes and toiletries inside the suitcases, but when he slashed the lining open with his knife there were four different passports. In four different names, but all with al-Rashidi’s photo. Bunch of credit cards. And about twenty grand in cash, U.S. hundred-dollar bills. The international currency of choice.
Storey checked his watch. It would be dawn soon. Washington needed to pull their thumb out of their ass—he wasn’t going to hang around in daylight. He packed all the contraband into plastic bags, stacking them next to the door.
Twenty minutes later his phone began to vibrate.
He watched the message scrolling across the PDA screen. He’d just known something like this was going to happen. Motherfuckers!
“What?” said Troy.
Storey realized he’d muttered it out loud. He was tired, which meant he’d have to bear down and focus. He showed Troy the screen.
The message read: Impossible to send you assistance to exfiltrate target. You are not permitted to transport target to Kuala Lumpur or U.S. Embassy or Consulate. If unable to exfiltrate target across Thai border resolve situation as you determine best. Out.
Storey knew the deal. No one at the embassy in Kuala Lumpur wanted to get off their ass and take a drive north. And the U.S. hadn’t asked the Muslim government of Malaysia for permission to run an operation on its soil, so they certainly weren’t going to ask them for any assistance. This guy al-Rashidi was probably under the protection of some heavy hitter just to be on this plantation. Someone was a sympathizer; someone got paid off; someone got their life threatened. Everyone used the Mafia model: governments, criminals, and terrorists. And his own government had just been very careful to give him orders without anyone going on the record ordering him to do anything specific. Which put him out on the end of a very long limb.
Troy finished reading. “Well, that’s that.” Then, as if it was a second thought, “We’re not taking him across the border,
are we?”
“How?” said Storey. “In a suitcase? Wired to the undercarriage of the CRV? Folded around the engine?”
“Hey, I was just hoping you weren’t going to tell me how.” Another pause. “It’ll be dawn soon.”
“Yeah, and we’re going to be gone by then. But that guy Nimri is still out there somewhere trying to kill the president, and I worked too damn hard to leave empty-handed.”
“Get some,” said Troy. “How does the master’s in psychology play it?”
“The guy with the master’s in psychology might not know much, but he knows the difference between claiming you’re ready to die and being ready to die. You can wait outside if you want.”
“I’m in.”
“Think about it,” Storey warned. “This could blow back on us—in a big way.”
“I told you I was in.”
Storey ripped off al-Rashidi’s gag.
The Arab promptly howled, “Help me!”
Actually, only half that, because Storey’s light openhanded strike across the windpipe cut him off.
“I did not tell you that you could yell,” Storey told him calmly. Besides his native tongue, he spoke two languages fluently: Spanish and Arabic. “In the future do not do anything unless I give you permission.”
By this time the other side of the conversation had gotten his voice back.
“We know who you are, Talat al-Rashidi,” Storey said. “We have a few questions for you.”
“Go to hell, you shit-eating son of a pig—”
Storey’s raised right hand had shut off the invective. It sounded almost elegant in the Arabic.
Storey removed his Glock pistol from the holster under his pajama shirt.
“You are afraid to die, American. I am not.”
Threat Level Page 18
