by Jim DeFelice
As for Caliph’s Sons, little was known about the group beyond its name and the fact that one of its members had blown himself up accidentally in Queens six months before, and that the same man had used the Internet to find out information about high-power microwave (HPM) bombs: weapons that attacked gigahertz-band frequencies, commonly known as E-bombs.
“So, what do you think?” asked Macklin.
“You got the case nailed here, Michael, I have to say.”
“Come on, Fisher. Be serious.”
Fisher looked over at Macklin. The task force had set up its headquarters in Scramdale-on-Hudson, roughly twenty minutes by train from midtown Manhattan. The compound had been seized from a drug dealer some months before; it included a six-car garage, heated swimming pool, and access to the Hudson River over the nearby railroad tracks, no doubt convenient for disposing of troublesome business associates. The heart of the operation was a low-slung contemporary house with more bathrooms than bedrooms. Most of its furniture was still in the house, including the 1970s-style waterbed in the master bedroom suite. Apparently the dealers had had a thing about animal skins: The couch and chairs in the living room were made of stretched tiger fur, a bearskin rug sat between them, and what looked like a gutted ocelot gazed from the wall opposite the fireplace. If the drug charges didn’t hold, the U.S. attorney could easily obtain a conviction for poaching.
“Maybe a sauna will help you think,” suggested Macklin. “Want me to stoke it up?”
“As a general rule, I try to sweat as little as possible, especially when I’m working.” Fisher stood up and walked over to the massive fieldstone fireplace, squatting down to sit on the slate ledge in front of the hearth. He shook a Camel out and contemplated it, considering the alignment of the tobacco.
“You’ve staked out the places where the calls were received?” he asked.
“Around the clock.”
“You couldn’t run down the address on the e-mail?”
“Only that it was sent from overseas.”
Fisher turned the cigarette over in his hand. Who was the first person to figure out that you could use a machine to pack tobacco? he wondered. Truly he had made a valuable contribution to the human race, and yet, he had been forgotten.
The way of the world.
“This reminds me of that case we had in Detroit that time,” said Macklin. “Where we tapped the phone to find that kidnapped girl. Remember? We tracked those two bozos who were AWOL from the Army?”
Fisher lit up. “The mother killed the girl, Michael. How is this like that?”
“It just reminds me of that.”
“Let’s go see where that cell call was made from.”
“I told you, it’s, like, a ten-block radius at least,” said Macklin.
“Good. There ought to be a decent place to get coffee in there somewhere.”
Chapter
10
The FBI sent the new e-mail directly to Blitz, and he was just reading it when Hunter called to tell him about it. Blitz thanked him, then sat back at his desk, pondering the meaning of the short message.
Clearly, the scientist was getting antsy. Clearly, he had to be retrieved. But even Blitz was starting to worry now about the state of the country he was in. The latest estimate reported several army units in open rebellion.
Blitz had seen the Pentagon proposals for the operation. The planners clearly favored Force One, which called for an MC-130s to land at the airfield and secure it while another dropped several A teams into the camp a few miles away. There they would retrieve the scientist, by force if necessary.
The alternative, called Tacit Ivan, was admittedly more imaginative and was much more likely to remain secret. It was, however, even more risky, calling for a jet with minimal weapons to fly to the air base while the Korean scientist proceeded there on his own. The only man available to fly the plane, it appeared, was Colonel William Howe.
Reason enough in Blitz’s mind to kill it.
“President is calling for you,” said Mozelle, appearing over Blitz’s computer. “Everyone else is in the cabinet room already.”
Blitz looked up at his assistant. She had a strained look on her face.
“What?” he asked.
“That tie really doesn’t go with that jacket,” she said.
Tyler felt sweat creeping down the joints of his fingers to his palms as he stood against the wall in the Oval Office.
I’m nervous, he thought to himself. Wow.
And he was. Tyler had seen combat both with the Rangers and Special Forces. As far as he could remember, his hands had never sweat on him.
That was different somehow—which was odd really, because no matter what happened here, he wasn’t going to get shot at, let alone killed.
On the other hand, that was the President of the United States sitting a few feet away, joking with the secretary of defense about college basketball.
The President of the United States.
Tyler looked around the room, trying to memorize the scene: It was part of history, and he was right in the middle of it.
He was also the only black man in the room, he realized.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Blitz, coming in. The national security advisor seemed to wear a perpetual frown above his thin goatee; occasionally he tried to smile, which made his expression appear ten times grimmer.
“Now that we’re here, let’s have a brief summary of the plans,” said President D’Amici, leaning back in his chair. “Pentagon first.”
Colonel Victor Thos, who headed the special targeting task force, ran down the highlights of the plans with the help of a PowerPoint presentation. Force One, which had several options, was by far the preferred plan, and this came through in the presentation. Thos also outlined a more conventional plan with a force to knock out the radars and take over Pong Yan, the airfield near the camp.
“If we do that, we’ll start a war with them,” said Blitz. “If we can’t do this covertly, we can’t do it. Period.”
Thos grimaced and then outlined Tacit Ivan, the plan involving the Berkut. For some reason the plan sounded much more reasonable now than it had earlier when they’d gone over the presentation, though Tyler decided he still preferred Force One.
“I have one question,” said the President when he finished. “Would you put your life on the line for any of these plans?”
“Yes, sir, I would,” snapped Tyler.
The words had come out automatically, and Tyler realized belatedly that the President had actually asked the question of Thos. All eyes in the room stared at him.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“That’s quite all right,” said the President. He turned to Thos. “I assume you feel the same way.”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, of course,” said Blitz. “That’s not the question.”
Tyler knew from the meetings he had observed that the President didn’t mind candid exchanges and even arguments, but Blitz seemed almost belligerent. The national security advisor began arguing about the need for alacrity—he used the word several times—because of the deteriorating situation. To Tyler, it seemed as if he was criticizing the plan.
“We can have people on the ground there within twenty-four hours,” Tyler said finally when Thos didn’t speak up in its defense. “I guarantee it.”
The secretary of defense and the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff glared at him. Tyler felt his jaw set; what the hell did they expect? Of course the job could be done. Otherwise they wouldn’t have brought it here.
“Are you volunteering to take command of the mission, Ken?” asked the President.
Was he?
“Sir, I would in a heartbeat. Absolutely. I want to lead it.”
The President smiled. Tyler sensed that he was coming off like some sort of cowboy gunslinger, which to him was the exact opposite of what he felt: He was here as a professional with a carefully considered, albeit risky, lineup of plans. He wouldn’t have proposed t
hem if he didn’t believe in them.
Were the others testing him? Thos started to say something—either to change the subject or perhaps point out that the unit officers would be expected to command and would be more than qualified to do so—but the President raised his hand.
“I think Major Tyler would be an excellent choice. I have full confidence in him. And in Colonel Howe. I want a plan that has a chance to remain covert but can move ahead quicker than the CIA plan. That’s Tacit Ivan. Get it under way immediately.”
Chapter
11
“You figure terrorists are big on irony?” asked Fisher.
“How so?”
“Battery Park. Energy. E-bomb. Get it?”
Macklin’s blank stare went well with his haircut, which looked as if it had started as a fade and veered toward Mohawk. Fisher walked past the museum building out toward the edge of the water. On a clear day you could see the Statue of Liberty from there—but this wasn’t a clear day. A low bank of clouds loomed beyond the thin mist, and the sky above furled with an impending snowstorm.
Though the more optimistic weathermen were calling for sleet.
“You think he called from the middle of Battery Park?” asked Macklin.
“We sure it’s a ‘he’?” asked Fisher. The cell tower that had picked up the call was located on the top of a nearby building, but the fog was so thick Fisher couldn’t see it.
“Good point.”
“No other call, huh?”
“None,” said Macklin.
“Why do you figure that is?”
“Reprogrammed it or used a different cell phone.”
“Could be.” Fisher turned around and looked out at the water. “Maybe he threw it in the water.”
“You want to drag the harbor?”
“Even I’m not that crazy,” said Fisher.
“They use the phones once or twice, they reprogram the chips,” said Macklin. “I was at a seminar a few weeks back explaining how it’s done. So you think he was in the park?” added the Homeland Security agent.
“Maybe,” said Fisher. “Or on the water.”
“What, swimming?”
“Could have been in a boat.”
“Well, sure,” said Macklin.
A ferry loomed in the distance. There were ferry slips at the very southern tip of the island; you could get to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island as well as Staten Island.
“Should we look for a boat?” asked Macklin.
“Probably not.”
“Did they case out the Statue of Liberty, maybe?”
“Could be.”
“ ‘Could be’?” said Macklin.
“Could be a lot of things, Michael. That’s the problem.”
“Well, what the hell are we looking for?” asked Macklin.
“Damned if I know,” said Fisher. “But a good cup of coffee would sure hit the spot.”
“We have to figure this out, Andy. We have to. America’s counting on us.”
The wind was too strong for Fisher to risk rolling his eyes. Instead he asked, “Where are those apartments?”
“One’s in Washington Heights, the other’s in Queens. They’re under surveillance.”
“Okay,” said Fisher, starting to his left.
“Where are we going?”
“To get some coffee.”
“Andy—”
“Then we’re going to take a subway ride.”
Chapter
12
“You can’t command the force,” Colonel Thos told Tyler as they walked downstairs.
“The President told me to do it,” replied Tyler.
“He didn’t tell you to go on the mission.”
As originally drawn up, the ground commander would be an A Team captain working with men already in Korea and the Asia theater. Tyler interpreted the President’s order to mean that he should go along personally and the captain would answer to him. Thos pointed out that the President hadn’t specifically said that. Not only would it be contrary to normal procedure, from a logistical point of view, getting from Washington to Korea in time to be on the raid would be extremely difficult.
Tyler wasn’t going to argue with Thos. As far as he was concerned, the President’s order meant that he was to be there himself personally. Period.
Period.
Tyler replayed the meeting in his mind. Some of the others were looking at him with contempt, but the President hadn’t. The President—his eyes had said something to him.
I need someone I can trust. Can I trust you?
There was no way Tyler was backing out. And screw anybody who suggested he do so.
If he were white, no one would say anything, Tyler thought.
That wasn’t fair, not really, and certainly not in Thos’s case. The colonel was from a mixed background himself: Malaysian as well as European. His argument was based on command structure and the normal rules and procedures the Army followed.
But it did make sense for Tyler to take command of the mission. He sure as hell had the experience and expertise: He’d only recently been an A Team captain and had been in Korea; he undoubtedly knew many of the men who would be on the mission. He had planned it and so knew the details intimately. He knew Howe as well. The only problem was getting over to Korea.
“Look, Tyler, you’ll never make it in time,” said Thos as they reached their car.
“I will,” said Tyler. “And I think we can shave twenty-four hours off the timetable. You have to let me go, Vic. You owe it to me.”
“I owe it to you? Bullshit on that.” Thos frowned. “That’s not the way it works.”
“Well, it should be,” said Tyler. “And I’m going whether you like it or not. The President told me to.”
Chapter
13
Howe had been around enough military planners to realize that the Berkut plan was being developed as the weak sister to make the other options look better. Still, he agreed to hang around Washington, D.C., just in case the President green-lighted the operation. And so he found himself back at the hotel with nothing to do except sit in his hotel room and watch the last of the first-round games of the NCAAs. It was Auburn against St. John’s, and for some reason he found himself rooting for Auburn, which of course was a mistake. While St. John’s was no powerhouse, it had Auburn put away by halftime, and a few minutes into the second half Howe decided he’d go out for a walk.
It was warm for March, and Howe found he didn’t need to zip his jacket.
He’d volunteered for the mission without question. More than that, he wanted to do it.
Maybe leaving the Air Force had been the wrong thing to do. But if he were still in the Air Force, he’d be queuing up for a general’s slot down at the Pentagon, kissing as many butts as he could find.
An exaggeration. And surely he’d have a choice of commands. His star was rising. Had been rising.
Not that Howe didn’t have detractors. He’d been having an affair with a woman who was known to be a traitor, and there were undoubtedly rumors about that.
More than an affair: She’d been the love of his life. What did that say about his judgment?
A few kids were taking advantage of the almost spring-like weather to cut school and ride their skateboards down the back steps of an office building. Howe stopped and watched them through a chain-link fence as they tried to ride down the railing. Neither of the kids made it without falling as he watched, and while they were wearing helmets and pads, the lumps had to hurt. But they kept bounding up from the ground, eager to try again.
As Howe walked back to the hotel, he decided that he’d call Tyler and tell him he was heading home. It was time to get on with the next part of his life, move on.
But Elder, the Pentagon messenger, was waiting for him in the lobby, holding his suitcase.
“I took the liberty of settling your bill,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind. They’re pretty anxious to have you get to Andrews as soon as possible.”
/> Chapter
14
You could take the 1 or 9 subway up the west side of Manhattan from Battery Park to Washington Heights, and get out two blocks from the apartment the DIA and Homeland Security task force was watching. What an endorsement for mass transit, thought Fisher. Even the terrorists take the train.
During the American Revolution, Washington Heights had been the site of a needless fiasco for the American rebels, and its history had gone downhill from there. It never was much of an area for farming, and after it was developed it quickly became choked with refugees from less fortunate areas of the city, who found the cold-water walk-ups somewhat more hospitable than the crammed tenements farther downtown. There were a few upward bumps of progress here; for a few weeks during the 1940s, it was even considered a nice place to live, a way station to the greener pastures of suburban New Jersey across the way. Urban renewal and the construction of the highway network related to the George Washington Bridge, along with the grand plans of Robert Moses, razed some of the worst buildings in the early sixties, replacing them with structures whose main asset was their height. In the course of time, Irish immigrants were replaced by Puerto Rican immigrants who were replaced by Caribbean immigrants. Crack replaced bootleg whiskey.
In sum, it was exactly the sort of New York community Fisher felt at home in. But it didn’t give him much of a grip on the terrorists.
“Corner apartment—there,” said an NYPD officer named Paesano tasked to the team keeping the place under surveillance. The city had supplied about a dozen officers and support personnel to help with the nitty-gritty work. “Couple of ragheads have the lease, but there’s at least five people live there.”
“ ‘Ragheads’?” said Macklin.
“We’re among friends, right?” said the cop, who was in plainclothes. They had taken an apartment above a store across the street from the three-story building the call had been made to. “They worship, if you can call it that, at a storefront mosque down the street. Got this imam in there who rolls his eyes backwards in his head and says ‘kill the infidels.’ ”
