Cobra Clearance

by Richard Craig Anderson

  Kruger pulled into a draw fifteen minutes later and parked beneath a bright, clear sky marred only by wisps of high clouds. “This’ll do. Get a random sample.”

  Jackson went to the truck’s bed and chose the third of four wooden crates. Using a crow bar, he pried it open and pulled out several quarter pound bricks of Semtex. He laid them aside and picked up the next brick of plastic explosive, while Kruger grabbed a reel of red detcord, a packet of initiators and a micro-switch.

  Jackson followed Kruger a short distance south, until the older man pointed to a spot between two small sand formations split by an arroyo and dotted with scrub. Jackson placed the small brick atop the raw sand, inserted the initiator and one end of the detcord, then played out the reel behind him as Kruger led the way to a nearby boulder. Jackson cut the detcord and attached the free end to the battery-powered switch. Then the two men huddled behind the boulder. When Kruger nodded, Jackson pressed the micro-switch. A whump split the air, and echoed off a distant outcropping of rocks.

  Kruger’s expression and voice revealed no emotion. “It works. Good. Now we’re assured of a reliable product. As Reagan said, ‘trust but verify.’ Okay. We’ve verified.” He tilted his head toward the truck. “Now let’s go. There’ve been too many vagrants hanging around my desert. I don’t want them to see us if they come snooping.”

  Jackson said, “We’ll deal with them next.” He looked to his boss for approval, and getting no reaction he opened his mouth again.

  But Kruger planted a hand against Jackson’s chest and whispered, “Shut up.” He turned his head and listened. All at once he broke into a run for the truck. Jackson looked bewildered but followed. When Kruger reached the cab he yanked open the door and grabbed the carbine.

  Jackson squinted. “Wha…”

  Kruger put a finger to his lips and headed back the way they had come. He listened, then went around a boulder and raised the carbine to his shoulder. “Freeze!”

  Jackson saw him aiming at two haggard Latinos. “Jesus. Wetbacks.”

  Kruger said without looking at him, “You know, you really do talk too much.” Then he said to the men, “No se preocupe. No le lastimaré.”

  Jackson’s face wrinkled. “Huh?”

  Kruger said impatiently, “I told them not to worry, that I won’t hurt them.”

  The older one got down on his haunches and lowered his eyes. “Por favor! Mi madre y mi cuatro hermanas dependen de mí.”

  “Is that so?” Kruger said with mild amusement. “Who else besides your momma and sisters needs you?” Then he squeezed the trigger. The carbine barked. He worked the lever in a flash. The other guy never had time to react. When Kruger turned and looked at Jackson, he scowled. “Your damn mouth’s hanging open.” He shook his head and went to the two bodies, and after examining the clean entry wounds in each man’s forehead, he said over his shoulder, “Get the shovel. It’s behind the seat.”

  Jackson whispered in awe, “You just shot—”

  “Shut up and get the damn shovel.”

  They returned to the compound two hours later. Jackson went straight to his private room and grabbed a six-pack of Bud from the fridge. After sliding a disc into the DVD player, he plopped onto the grungy green couch. Three beers later the porn still failed to excite him. In fact the images angered him because Kruger refused to pair him with any of the compound’s women. Now he had to deal with two murders. Participating in the assassination had been one thing. It had involved enough people so that he felt safe in anonymity. But the illegals’ deaths had made it personal for him and he couldn’t stop thinking about possible ramifications. When the porn abruptly ended he sat up with a start. His hands were shaking and he stared at them, trying to push away an unwelcome thought. A tingle ran down his spine. What if Brent decided to reduce his liabilities? Because once Jackson finished his job, that’s all he’d be to his cousin—a liability.

  THE LATE MARCH SKIES DUMPED four inches of wet snow on Maryland. Snow or not, that morning Dragon Team reported to the Liberty Reservoir Range near Baltimore. Tall evergreens laced in white surrounded the vast range. A profound silence had settled upon everything. The team met the ATF firearms instructor, then tramped through the dismal slush to set-up their targets. After that was done, Baker shoved a hand inside his multiple layers of fuzzy clothing and clutched his GBD. Then he took out his tobacco pouch. As he filled the bowl with practiced motions he said to himself, this is just like ’Nam. Only now we’re up against a different enemy. The VC were defending their homeland, but these terrorists are flat-out ruthless and want to take us down. He watched the team as they methodically went about their business. All he had to do was stay out of their way until needed. After tamping the tobacco with a long forefinger, he produced a kitchen match and struck it against the zipper of his Gore Tex jacket. The match flared, lighting his craggy face. He moved the fire to the bowl and brought the tobacco to life, until blue plumes of smoke drifted around his head and blended with his frosty breath.

  Baker knew that most law enforcement officers were mediocre shots, firing only fifty to perhaps three hundred rounds of ammunition during annual requals. His people not only shot twenty thousand rounds a year—they shot the notorious Tactical Pistol Course—the TPC. Anyone completing the TPC ranked among the top one percent of the world’s shooters. The course stressed blazing-fast time limits as measured by a sound-activated device, combined with inflexible accuracy requirements. In the first phase alone, shooters had to draw from a concealed holster, get on target and score a hit within 1.65 seconds. Dragon Team’s members could rip that time in half. From there the course got really tough, but so did the team.

  He finished his pipe and stepped up to the shooting line. He and Tucker shot the course first, then watched the team shoot. After everyone fired their final rounds, Tucker whispered something to the instructor, who yelled, “Put up fresh targets. Reload all three mags.”

  When they were ready, Tucker told the team, “Seven yard line. Eyes and ears.” When everyone was in place, Tucker stood next to Sawyer’s target. His shoulder touched the frame. He wasn’t wearing a ballistic vest, but his icy breath revealed a relaxed breathing as he stared at the Bahamian-born man.

  The instructor picked up the timer. “Mr. Sawyer. On command, fire one round.” He paused, then yelled, “Fire!”

  Sawyer’s hand moved in a blur. A hole blossomed dead center in the box. Tucker, only eighteen inches from where the round penetrated, never flinched. Sawyer then fired singles, double-taps and six-shot rapid-fire drills.

  Everyone fired, including Baker. To nobody’s surprise, Hacksaw was the most impressive. Now Tucker stood next to Levi’s target. Levi took his stance and waited. On command he drew. He fired. Only 0.8 seconds. Half the required time. The round tore through the target’s exact center.

  But as he went through the next drills the others began to snicker. After firing his remaining rounds, he holstered a safe weapon and the instructor called the range safe. Tucker checked the target. Levi’s hits had produced two stick figures—a man, and a woman with two breasts—perfectly aligned and symmetrical. Tucker turned and stared at his assistant team leader with a stone face. It was SOP for Levi. Baker broke out his briar and brought a lit match to its bowl.

  They took a lunch break, then qualified on shotguns, MP-5s and the M-4 version of the venerable M-16. The chances that they would need these weapons were slim, but in keeping with accepted military and law enforcement doctrine, they qualified with them ‘just in case’. The team finished as daylight faded. When darkness engulfed the range they did night-fire exercises. By ten that evening they were qualified to carry concealed firearms while acting as Federal contract personnel.

  The next day Baker took them to the U.S. Marshal, where they were sworn in as special deputy marshals and given credentials. From there, Dragon Team reported to the wood-paneled Fannex room where they were given an update: the immense resources of the United States and its allies had made no progress in t
he search for Amahl. It wasn’t for lack of effort. The NSA’s vast SIGINT capabilities had been dedicated to pluck snippets of phone conversation or emails in the effort to get a fix on him of course, and officials of a dozen supporting nations had given orders to their own spy organizations: locate Amahl. Even Iran had shifted its priorities. Amahl’s unilateral action jeopardized Iran’s back-door efforts to normalize relations with the West, and its security operatives were out beating the brush.

  Dragon Team’s orders specified that they were to accomplish two tasks: assist in the search for Amahl, and take him into custody if located in a hostile land. Levi knew their mandate to investigate was an afterthought; the Bureau would be the prime bush beaters, and other alphabet agencies would play second string. Dragon Team was to be a sideshow to a sideshow. But if that’s what they were to be, then he was determined to conduct the very best sideshow. To that end, he wanted to review the parking garage surveillance tapes. While the others armed themselves with cups of coffee and attacked piles of various reports, he put in a call to a buddy at FBI headquarters. When he got no answer he left a voice message.

  Hours later Dentz looked up. “Check this out. NBC’s reporting an alarming increase in hate rhetoric and violence ever since Melchior took office. It seems white supremacists account for the majority of the incidents.” He scanned the report. “Their main beef is that two consecutive black presidents signals Armageddon for the white race.” He scoffed. “These nimrods have nothing but venom.” He read another half page. “I’ll give ’em this much—they hate everyone with an equal fervor. Blacks and Jews. Gays and Catholics. Women. And lest we forget, foreigners.”

  Sawyer held a coffee cup aloft. “Quite. According to these chaps, white folk are the victims and African Americans and Jews the cause. Their reasons vary, their evidence remains murky, but the malice is clear and disturbing.”

  Dentz tossed the report aside. “What can you expect? These guys think Mein Kampf is found in the self-help section.”

  Hacksaw said, “That ain’t nothing. Ya’ll listen to this now.” He waved a paper. “A commentary on Oke City and McVeigh’s ‘hidden agenda’.”

  “McVeigh thought it’d be a clarion call to his ‘brothers in arms’ to rise up in rebellion,” Michael said. “That’s old news.”

  Hacksaw edged closer to the table with some sort of electrified excitement. “Yeah, but McVeigh never did no networking. He assumed.” He swept a hand across the article. “The new news is, groups are communicatin’ now. They’re talking places, dates, targets.” He blew air from his cheeks. “Not enough to be charged with conspiracy mind you, but enough to get the word out. Kinda like passin’ notes in homeroom ‘bout a after-school fight.”

  Sawyer got up and prowled the room. “The precursor to outright saber rattling.”

  Levi looked up from a sheaf of reports. “Some historians embrace a ‘momentum theory.’ The essence is that once a thing gets going it gains too much momentum to be stopped. I think we’re seeing this in real time, with civil unrest the end result.” He ran his fingers up and down his long jaw. His master’s degree was in history and he often drew lessons from it. “Ever read Tuchman’s book? The Guns of August?” He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “The saber rattling evolved into troop trains rolling toward lines in the sand. But it didn’t have to happen. Various leaders decided to stand down. But Field Marshal Moltke wasn’t having any of that, see? He and the German General Staff had dedicated themselves to a decade of planning. They meticulously planned every detail, even down to how many train axles would pass over a specific bridge at any given time.”

  Hacksaw sipped his coffee and got a little smile. “And the tipping point was?”

  Levi regarded him with knowing eyes. “Moltke. When Kaiser Wilhelm told him to stand down, Moltke curtly told him the plan was in place, ‘and once settled, it cannot be altered.’ And the trains rolled.”

  “And millions died,” Hacksaw whispered.

  AMAHL SAT IN QUIET CONTEMPLATION several thousand miles away. He had taken a meandering route from Mexico City to the Middle East, knowing the authorities would scan his forged passport at every stop. That’s what he’d wanted—to tease the various agencies into looking for him in the desert wastelands, while he reached Europe.

  From his comfortable hiding place he ran through the scenario once more. Race riots and guerrilla in-fighting would cause but a small fraction of deaths—violent deaths to be sure. What he relished is what would follow. The persistent world-wide recession showed no signs of abating, despite determined efforts by the world’s trade markets. Greece had already toppled, and its people were now dependent upon its Euro partners for food and fuel. Another event, one that would trigger a larger free fall, would be the catalyst for the riots and the fighting. The insurgent warfare would then push Wall Street past its tipping point and into total collapse.

  Once the economy crumpled all commerce would come to a standstill. Grocery store shelves would be bare within two days. Sanitation workers, concerned with their own needs, would walk off the job in search of food, water and gas. The untended garbage would breed vermin. Pestilence would break out. Diseases would multiply exponentially within a few months. Then winter would set in.

  “YEAH, HACK. MILLIONS DIED. Now back to work.” Levi picked up a folder from the pile of papers. A note was clipped to it, addressed to him.

  RECEIVED THIS LAST NIGHT. RETIRED COLONEL. M.P. CORPS. WORKED FOR ME SOME YEARS BACK. HE’S THE D.O. LISTED ON THIS LOG—HE KEPT A COPY AS A SOUVENIR. HE MADE COPIES. SENT ONE TO FBI AND THIS ONE TO ME. DOESN’T KNOW I’M INVOLVED IN THE CASE—HE THOUGHT IT MIGHT BE OF INTEREST BECAUSE OF THE NAME YOU’LL SEE IN IT.—BAKER

  Levi opened the folder and found a U.S. Army Duty Officer’s Log inside, dated February 25, 1991—the first Gulf War. The log captured the daily activities of an MP unit guarding an Iraqi POW holding area, one day before hostilities ended. An entry on the second page was highlighted in yellow. It listed a prisoner identified as “Amahl” and mentioned the circumstances by which he had been taken prisoner. Levi read the six-page log to the end, and found a Polaroid photo of “Amahl” taken against the backdrop of a barbed-wire holding area. In the rush of events the photo had been stapled askew to the back of the log, but it was the Amahl. The colonel evidently had a memory for faces.

  Levi waved the log at the others. “Look at this. Our troops captured Amahl during Desert Storm. It seems he tried to blend in with some Iraqi soldiers when a battalion of Abrams tanks overran their position. He’s mentioned here because the alarms rang when our guys figured out that he wasn’t an Iraqi soldier.”

  “So close and yet so far,” Michael quipped.

  “Wait. It gets worse. They sequestered him until someone from Intel could arrive, but when they went to get him they discovered that he’d escaped.”

  “I was in Desert Storm,” Dentz said. “Lots of POWs vanished in the chaos.”

  Levi nodded, read the log again, and found something else. The Duty Officer had come upon an MP talking to Amahl through the barbed-wire fence shortly before he was sequestered. The officer had admonished the MP and ordered him back to his post. Levi scanned through the names of the MPs on duty, then put the paper aside. By the time they called it quits at 11:00 p.m. it was buried and forgotten among the other reports.

  Michael hurried to his room and took off his shirt, shoes and socks. He placed the shoes near the door, having learned long ago to be ready to run on short notice. After calling home he was reaching for the TV remote when he heard four knocks on the door, then two more. He padded across the carpeted floor and opened it. “Come on in.”

  Levi walked in and gave Michael a cop’s once-over. “Old habits, huh?”

  Michael glanced at his lean bare torso. “You know how it is.” He dug into the room’s fridge and pulled out two bottles of Bass Ale. After handing one to Levi, they plopped into a pair of club chairs and clinked the bottles together. “It’s good to see y
ou.”

  “Been too long.”

  “I’ll say.” Michael put on a smile. “So, tell me about your friend from the other night.”

  “Ships in passing. We went into town for some eats.” He paused. “I slept with her, in case you’re wondering.”

  “I’m not and you don’t need to feel guilty about it.”

  “But I do, and I’m going to tell Anita about it when I talk to her tonight.” Levi leaned forward. “What do you think she’ll say?”

  “She married you outta love. Don’t worry. She knows you’re lonely; she’ll be fine with it.” He showed soft eyes. “You’re back up on the grid. That’s good. Nadia misses you something awful, and my boys need to see more of their hero.”

  “You’re their hero.”

  Michael guffawed. “I’m their old man.”

  “That’s not how they talk about you.” Levi held up a hand before Michael could respond. “Yeah, I’m lonely. But I have you and Nadia. And the boys.”

  Michael thought, yeah, he’s got us and maybe that connection is all that sustains him these days. Damn, I’m glad we became brothers. Otherwise he might…

  They’d met in college, got hired as cops afterward and shared a house with a free-spirited Russian Jewess named Nadia. Levi began a relationship with her, but when she and Michael fell in love, he unselfishly stepped aside and went to the FBI. Michael and Nadia married, and named their first son Levi Hart Bailey. They produced another. Nicholas was eleven now and bragged often about his father, the retired police captain. Meanwhile, Special Agent Hart married Anita Vail. They named their son Michael.

  After Levi was promoted to ASAC, the Harts moved to San Diego where he took on a deep-cover assignment. ASACs are supposed to manage other agents, but his superb ability to infiltrate a variety of social strata was needed. One day the case took him far from San Diego—and then Michael got that phone call in the middle of the night.