by James Phelan
And the impossible. Because they were in the dark, with just a city and a time and the general provenance of perpetrators as leads; that was it. Without the target, without the method, without the suspects, there was very little to go on.
He scrubbed himself with soap and rinsed, then toweled off and dressed, all in under three minutes.
Time was ticking.
87
Bill McCorkell said to Bruce Trotter, “We’ll share what we know, and you’ll be part of the investigation.”
“No.”
“Not even an hour?” McCorkell said.
“No.”
“Are you not a jerk?” Hutchinson said.
“N—what?” Trotter’s face turned a deeper shade of red.
“We’re here to help,” McCorkell said. “Your man Grant doesn’t know what he’s protecting, and what he’s unwittingly let happen by keeping those SEALs off the grid.”
Trotter said, “You can leave now.”
Hutchinson stood and walked around the room, then turned to look at Trotter. “No.”
Nothing but silence came from this senior official, clearly not used to being spoken to in this way. Probably not for over ten years. McCorkell watched him.
“Listen, Bruce—can I call you Bruce?” McCorkell said. “We don’t want to embarrass you. We’re going to talk to the SEALs regardless. But we want it to be because you facilitated it. Not because I talk to the Secretary of the Navy as soon as I walk out of here.”
The Director of NCIS stared at them both.
“Come on now,” Hutchinson said, taking an expensive golf driver from a bag of clubs in the corner. “Your guys and girls are good, but this—witness protection—it’s a specialty, not a past-time. No disrespect. It’s not your turf. We get that. So, save yourself some embarrassment here. Play ball.”
The red slowly flushed from Trotter’s face. He sat upright. Straightened his tie.
“What’s your lead?” Trotter asked.
“An NSA back door,” Hutchinson said quickly. “Someone you’re protecting broke protocol. One of the SEALs. They must have made a call and mentioned something that flagged a keyword that alerted our investigation. Oh, don’t feel bad—that kind of thing, a protectee breaking the rules, it happens all the time with witness protection.”
“Grant runs a tight ship . . .” the Director said, but his tone was not so sure anymore. He stood. “Let’s go to the communications room.”
“Lead the way,” Hutchinson said, putting the club back.
Trotter nodded, then stood, got his jacket and briefcase, and told his secretary he’d be out for the day.
“NSA back door?” McCorkell said sideways to Hutchinson.
“Some bullshit that leads back to the Patriot Act,” he whispered as they followed the Director down the hall. “Pretty much covers all bases.”
•
Walker sat in the suite with Murphy, Somerville and Levine. The coffee pot and cups were on the table between them. They sat in armchairs by the window, looking out to a sky that was still clear and a sun that remained bright as it burned through midday.
“I like St. Louis,” Murphy said.
“Me too,” Walker replied.
“I mean,” Murphy said, “if this was going down in, I don’t know . . . Dallas? Or Phoenix? Hell, I might just walk the other way, let them get away with it.”
Walker and Somerville smiled.
“So, what do we do?” Murphy said. “We can’t stop something we know nothing about. And sitting around here isn’t doing anything to stop it either.”
“It’s not that we don’t know anything about it,” Walker said. “It’s just we haven’t yet connected all the dots.”
“Hell, you can’t see the dots, let alone connect them up,” Levine said. “You should just drop this. Let the pros handle it.”
“Homeland Security doesn’t even classify it as a credible threat,” Somerville said.
“Well then, there you go,” Levine replied. “A whole lot of worry for nothing. The Murphys are safe now. Let this be. Nothing more is coming.”
Walker shook his head.
“We don’t even have a place to start,” Murphy said.
“Yes, we do,” Walker replied. “We start with you.”
Murphy didn’t look sold.
“Or you could walk away from this,” Levine said. “Leave it up to the FBI and their Counterterrorism taskforce. Or Homeland Security—they probably need something to do. And if none of them have had any peep of a threat, then take the hint and pack up and go home.”
“As we speak, good people at the FBI’s CTD are looking at it from all angles,” Somerville said. “But we’re having trouble getting a credible threat warning on this afternoon’s attack.”
“Do you even think it’s credible?” Levine said. “I mean, really? Because of what you heard, Walker, way out in the boonies? From some armed thugs? Hell—I can see the Homeland’s point. I mean: a) who the hell are you, Walker, and b) what actually went down out there? Are you really trying to convince us that four ex-Army guys were sent on a kill mission against Murphy—and Walker dispatched them? Really?”
Murphy picked up his fatigues from a pile in the corner and pointedly showed Levine the dried blood on the left arm. It was a decent stain, Walker saw; arterial explosion, probably from Stokes, the sniper. Walker ran through the scenario in his mind’s eye: Murphy had snuck up behind him and used his left hand to lift the guy’s head from behind and expose the neck, while the right hand used a knife to slice across the carotid artery. Death via rapid bleed-out.
“This ain’t from no hog, I’ll tell you that,” he said. Then he indicated the silenced HK pistol and the two 416 assault rifles, field-stripped and bagged in FBI plastic evidence bags. “And they’re not toys we got from the local Walmart either. So, if you or your friend out there question my bona fides again, you can go and get—”
A sound cut him off. A cell phone, ringing loud, close up.
Levine reached for her BlackBerry, clipped next to her holstered Glock. Walker saw the caller ID on the screen: Assistant Director Grant. That meant he’d landed.
Levine smiled.
88
“He wants to talk to you,” Levine said, passing her cell phone to Walker.
“Yes?” Walker said into the phone.
“Walker?”
“Grant?” Walker could tell that the NCIS man was in a car for all the white noise from the road at the other end of the connection.
“Right,” Grant said. “I’m coming to your location now—about twenty minutes out by car. You’re there with Murphy and his family?”
Walker looked to Murphy. “Yes.”
“Right,” Grant said. “Well, first up, let me just say, good work, saving him like that. You have our thanks—the entire Navy thanks you.”
Grant paused. Walker didn’t speak. He felt that the NCIS Assistant Director was giving him the space to be gracious, to say something about how he just started the rescue and now here they were, all together, and that Murphy and his family wouldn’t have been safe without the NCIS assistance that was now on hand. But that wouldn’t be true. And Walker wasn’t the type to resort to small and useless talk just for the sake of it—or, worse, for some kind of back-patting, congratulatory BS.
“So . . .” Grant said into his phone, the word carried with a deep exhale, as though the whole time waiting for Walker’s reply had been spent breathless. “Once I get there, we can do a handover on the Murphys.”
Walker was silent.
Grant said, “Walker?”
“Yeah?”
“I said we can handle it from here on in,” Grant said. “And, again, thanks for your assistance. Expect a letter of appreciation signed by the—”
Walker passed the phone back to Levine.
“I think it’s a wrong number,” Walker said.
Levine hesitated but then took the phone, and Walker could hear that Grant eventually stopped and said, after a pa
use, “Walker? Walker, are you there?”
“It’s me,” Levine said into her phone.
Walker moved away, joining Somerville, who stood by the window. Murphy followed.
“Her boss is spinning some kind of crap,” Walker said. He looked to Somerville. “He’s about fifteen minutes away. You might need to pull rank.”
“Got it,” she said to Walker, then turned to look Murphy in the eye. “We’ll move Grant and the others on, along with my agents here, and we’ll escort your family to an FBI safe house just out of town. Is that okay with you?”
“You’ve got a safe house here?” Murphy said.
Somerville nodded.
“Why weren’t we taken straight there?”
“It’s a mothballed site, it takes a bit of time to clear and set up,” Somerville said. “Besides, this is, well, a lot more luxurious. But I’ll move them all on. It’s safe there, with my agents and St. Louis PD all around. All right?”
Murphy looked to Walker. Walker nodded.
“Okay,” Murphy said. “Where is it?”
“About twenty-five miles northeast of town, off an old section of the interstate,” she replied. “It’s as secure as anywhere will be.”
“Right,” Murphy said. “I’ll tell Jane to get ready to move. Squeaker too.”
He left the room.
“Have your guys turned up anything in town classified as a threat yet?” Walker asked.
“This is the sum of it,” Somerville replied, passing over her cell phone, which showed an emailed list of possible targets. It was a long list, including transportation hubs, civic buildings, prominent people and any known gatherings of people.
“Who put this together?” Walker said.
“The CTD guys in Washington,” Somerville replied.
The FBI’s Counterterrorism Division. They were a good unit, Walker knew, with plenty of resources and plenty of wins that the population would never hear about.
Walker said, “It’s like they just rattled off every possible thing in town where there was a chance of there being more than five people. Hell, they’ve even listed burger chains.”
“I told them to go wide, given we’ve got nothing but the city and the time to go by in terms of leads.”
“It’s not right,” Walker said, handing the phone back. “Those guys were specific: a demonstration at 5:30. They’re going to demonstrate the capabilities of whatever it is—a weapon, a strike, a method, whatever—at 5:30pm. They’re not going to blow up a cinema or a flight or the mayor’s office or any of those hundred or so targets. Certainly not a burger joint.”
“There is one demonstration there,” Somerville said.
“At a school?” Walker said, seeing it listed. “Bunch of teachers’ aides?”
“It’s a demonstration. St. Louis PD will be there in numbers.”
“It’s listed for 3pm.”
“Still.”
“What about the energy grid, or the water infrastructure?” Murphy asked, rejoining them and scrolling through the list after taking the offered phone from Somerville. “Bang for your buck, that’d generate a hell of a demonstration, right? Could be a bomb threat. Maybe a small detonation? Dirty even . . . Drop some contagion into a power station and it’d clear it out for days, big blackout across the city and beyond; it’d make for a hell of a national—international—news story, right? And the water supply—dump in there and you could be looking at hundreds sick and dead on day one, thousands by the end of the week by the time the authority tracked it to the water.”
“No,” Walker said. “It’s not that. It’s specific to St. Louis. You could attack any random target like that anywhere in the US and it’d make more of an impact. We’re looking for something specific to this city.”
“What happened to it being opportunistic?”
“Doesn’t feel right.”
“Another hunch?” asked Somerville.
Walker said, “What’s this city got that no other place has?”
“That’s what we’ve got to figure out. It’s something symbolic, and it happens at a specific time, a demonstration that would show what they’re capable of . . .”
“They’re the main landmarks,” Murphy said, passing the phone back to Somerville. “What about airports?”
“We need to stop thinking of generic places,” Walker said. He was leaning against the thick glass of the large window, looking down at the pedestrians below. “It’s an event. Something that happens at 5:30. Somewhere there will be press, local and state and maybe some national TV news crews, beaming live satellite feeds from the site. This is for effect, and it’s going to happen real-time, for the maximum shock-and-awe factor. That’s what we need to look at first.”
“What happens at 5:30 in St. Louis?” Somerville said. “I mean, this isn’t like New York, with the ringing of the bell at the Stock Exchange.”
“And it’s not a demonstration for those perpetrating it . . .” Walker said, as though he hadn’t heard Somerville. “It’s not proving to them that it’s something that they can do. It’s a demonstration—to the rest of us. It’s proof of what they have, and of their intent to use it.”
89
The head of JSOC, Joint Special Operations Command, took the meeting because he and McCorkell went back a long way.
“I sent a four-man SEAL squad to Murphy’s last known location,” the Admiral said.
“When was that?” McCorkell asked.
“Almost forty-eight hours ago,” the Admiral replied. “I’ll have them meet your man and Murphy in St. Louis and protect them all the way into San Diego.”
He launched into a spiel about how those already in protection were being debriefed, as per McCorkell’s request, by an FBI team, when there was a knock at the door. A junior officer appeared. The Admiral looked pissed at the interruption, but it was his private secretary, who stood inside the door looking flustered.
“A word, sir?”
The Admiral looked to McCorkell and Hutchinson as if weighing up whether to ask them to leave, but he saw the panic on his aide’s face and he got up and left the room.
McCorkell was about to talk to Hutchinson when the door opened. The Admiral was paler than his white uniform.
“My audit crew,” the Admiral said. “They’re dead.”
•
“I’m tasked with your security,” Grant said to Murphy.
“My daughter’s bigger and scarier than you,” Murphy said to the guy.
“I’ve had my Director talk to the head of DEVGRU,” Grant said, unflustered, “and the latter’s going to be there at the San Diego safe house by tonight, debriefing you and the rest of the Team Six guys from the bin Laden op.”
“This has nothing to do with Abbottabad,” Murphy said. He looked to Walker. “Nothing.”
“You sound pretty sure about that,” Grant said.
“We are pretty sure,” Walker said.
“How do you figure that?” Grant said, his eyes darting from Murphy to Walker. “What crap have you been peddling, Walker? What kind of Kool-Aid are you serving up here, hmm?”
“Murph and I talked it through all morning,” Walker said evenly. “We’re looking at other possibilities. Those guys operate together in units all the time, so we thought, who’s to say that this has to be about the bin Laden op?”
“And the more I think about it,” Murphy said, “the more I think he’s right. I mean, we’ve seen nothing that confirms it—”
“Okay, say you’re right, somehow,” Grant interrupted. “Maybe it’s not to do with that op per se. Though, I have to say, you’re wrong, because I’ve matched the dead to those who were there.”
“I need to see that list of names,” Murphy said. “That will prove it either way.”
“I’m sorry, Chief Murphy,” Grant said. “I understand what you’re saying, and that you knew these guys. All I can confirm is that all eight guys were there, in Abbottabad—”
“That’s bullshit,” Murphy said. “To
tal A-grade—”
“And you’re the final SEAL from that op that we need to get to safety,” Grant finished.
Murphy was shaking his head. “What’s it hurt for me to see a list of my dead buddies? I mean, are you going to stop me from going to their funerals?”
“When you’re back in San Diego, then moved off the grid, with dozens of armed guards on hand, then you’ll find out,” Grant said. “You can be united with your teammates by this evening. And then it will become obvious who the eight were—because they won’t be there. Until then, it’s operationally secure information. There might still be kill teams out there. We’ve got surveillance at all the SEALs’ last postings and homes, looking out for the perps. We’re taking no risks.”
“There’s more at play here,” Walker said to Grant. “They’re not being killed in reprisal. It’s because they saw something, in the field.”
“Something neither of you has any idea about?” Grant said.
Walker was silent.
“Say for a moment that you’re right, Walker,” Grant said. “That maybe killing these operators aims to lead some kind of resources or investigation somewhere else. We have thought about that—we’re not idiots.”
“There’s a terrorist attack coming,” Walker said firmly, his patience almost at an end.
“And what would that be?” Grant said. “McCorkell mentioned it, but couldn’t elaborate. Can you?”
“You’re tasked with the safety of the Murphy family,” Walker said. “So, I suggest you play a part in that. Here, in this city, for the day. Leave the rest up to those interested in stopping a terror attack.”
Grant didn’t show annoyance but he said in a quiet dangerous voice, “Excuse me?”
“Something is going down, here, in St. Louis,” Murphy said. “At 17:30 today.”
Walker watched for Grant’s reaction. Nothing showing.
“Like I said, I’ve been briefed on that point,” he said coldly, “but I’m not buying it. Are you really telling me that your intel is based on something you overheard from a group of guys in a forest? I mean, if they were so professional, why would they let you in on that?”
