Ring of Fire

by Brad Taylor

  For some dumbass reason, when the Taskforce was created, and the president was deciding who would be on the Oversight Council, it was determined that including the attorney general would be hypocritical. Because we operated outside of US law, they decided that reading on the AG would be tantamount to giving him a coronary, or at least a conflict of interest, as he’d be responsible for sanctioning events that he was sworn to prevent. And so, I now had to beg for the one domestic agency that could help.

  I said, “I got that, sir, but I need them. There is an attack coming, and it’s going to happen soon. Possibly as early as tomorrow. If you’ve ever trusted me, do so now.”

  He said, “Okay, okay, I’ll get them moving. You’re lucky about the date, because they’re on alert.”

  “Date? What do you mean?”

  “It’s September eleventh. Fifteenth anniversary. Everyone’s on strip alert.”

  I looked at my watch and saw he was right. I said, “I didn’t even realize it.”

  “Because you’ve been busy preventing the next one. What are you planning to do?”

  “I’m going recce that house. Get eyes on and keep anyone from moving. I need someone to feed that intel to, or I’ll end up assaulting the house myself.”

  I heard a sigh and realized he’d been awake for probably thirty-six hours. He said, “You’ll get the team. I promise. Don’t let them kill anyone else.”

  I said, “If it comes down to us, we’ll stop them, but we’ve only got a bunch of AKMs from Iraq to do it with.”

  Before I hung up, I heard, “AKMs? What the hell are you talking about?”

  74

  We left our Virginia Beach hotel thirty minutes later, loading our rental with our cheap-ass Soviet weapons. Taking Highway 460, we went west across the Norfolk peninsula, crossing the Lafayette River and entering surface streets. Initially, we saw nothing but giant condominium farms, one after the other, but eventually, with Jennifer calling out directions, we began to pass through the neighborhoods I’d seen earlier on street view, at least as far as I could tell by the porch lights.

  Jennifer said, “Another hundred meters and you’ll get to a circle. Take the first right, and then your next left. The house will be at the end in a cul-de-sac.”

  I hit the circle, much larger than I would have expected in a neighborhood, with a copse of trees turning it into a mini-park. It had clearly been built in the days when land was cheap and space was prized. I took the first right, passing a Toyota Tundra pickup truck entering the circle. It wasn’t until I was committed to the turn that I saw it was towing a trailer with three large Jet Ski–type watercraft—two parallel with each other and one in the front, perpendicular. I whipped my head around, trying to see who was driving, but it was hopeless.

  Jennifer said, “What?”

  “That truck is hauling Jet Skis.”

  “We’re in a beach community. They’re all over the place. You want to follow it?”

  I was torn, but ultimately said, “No. Let’s check out the house.”

  Jennifer nodded and said, “Next right.”

  “I’m going to drive straight past the road. Take a look down the street.”

  I did so, and she said, “Streetlights up front, three houses on the left, three houses on the right going down the street. Cul-de-sac is dark. Couldn’t see anything.”

  I said, “Knuckles, you get anything?”

  “Same. Too dark to see to the end.”

  To Jennifer, I said, “Check the map. Is there a road behind it? One we can stage on?”

  She looked at her tablet and said, “Yes. Take the next right, then another right. It runs up against the river, and there’s a park. We can stage there and penetrate on foot.”

  I followed her instructions, parking in front of a deserted basketball court, the Lafayette River beyond it, the dark water gently lapping the shore. Across the street was a line of trees protecting the backyards of the houses in the cul-de-sac.

  I shut off the engine and called Kurt, giving him a SITREP. He told me the HRT team was inbound via helicopters.

  I said, “Helicopters? Tell me they aren’t going to fast-rope onto the site. Please tell me they’re going to link up with me and do this with a little stealth. I haven’t even gotten eyes on. The whole thing may be a bust.”

  He laughed and said, “They’re flying to the airfield at the Norfolk Navy base. You wanted quick. That’s what you got.”

  “What’s the timeline?”

  “Should be there in under thirty minutes. Figure they’ll have to sort out and cross-load into vehicles on Norfolk, they should be at your location in an hour.”

  “How are they going to get to the target from the airfield?”

  “I have no idea, but they have a plan.”

  I said, “This oughta work out swell.” I gave him our location, telling him to relay the link-up location to the team. He said he’d do so, and I hung up.

  I turned to the team and said, “Okay, Knuckles and I are going to enter those trees and get a look-see. I’ll figure out a vantage point for surveillance while we wait on the FBI to arrive. You two will coordinate with them. They’re coming to this location. Call when they arrive, and we’ll pull back and brief them, then turn the crisis site over.”

  Knuckles broke out his nifty Taliban gun, and I did the same. We slipped out of the car, weaving between the illumination of the streetlights. We entered the tree line directly behind the house and took a knee on the outskirts of the backyard.

  The house was dark. It looked deserted. I waited a bit, getting a feel for the area and listening for any signs that someone had seen us. I heard none. After about five minutes, I said, “I think this place is empty. You go left; I’ll go right. See if you can find any activity. Meet back here no later than ten minutes from now.”

  Knuckles looked at his watch, nodded, then slipped into the darkness like a wraith. I followed suit, going the opposite direction, sticking to the tree line to hide my movement.

  I scuttled up under a window then slowly rose, seeing nothing, the house pitch-black. Not even a digital light from a clock or microwave. I continued on, hitting the driveway. It was empty. I took a risk and peeked into the window of the garage door, the faint illumination from a streetlight showing me that it, too, was empty. I circled back to the link-up point, finding Knuckles already there.

  I said, “You see anything at all?”

  “No. I think it’s a dry hole.”

  I looked at my watch. The FBI were still at least thirty to forty-five minutes behind, and if the terrorists were gone, we were losing the edge. I called Jennifer. “Koko, Koko, come forward with Carly. Tell her to bring a lockpick kit.”

  “Say again?”

  “Come forward with a lockpick kit. You bring an AKM. We’re cracking this thing.”

  All I heard was “Roger.” Three minutes later, they were next to us. I said, “We think it’s empty, but we’re not sure, so here’s how this will go: Carly will crack the lock. Knuckles and I will pull security on the door. Jennifer, you pull security to the rear. We’ll enter, clear the first room we find, then repeat the procedure for each door that’s closed. We’re not blowing through this. No violence of action. It’s going to be slow and stealthy until we find a threat. Then, it’s game on. No threat, no noise.”

  I went to each, saying, “Understand?”

  They nodded, and I pointed to the back of the house, to a door next to the concrete patio. “Carly, that’s your target. You can pick a lock pretty well, right? That’s something they teach at the farm?”

  She nodded, saying, “I could have taught that weak crap at the farm.”

  I looked at Knuckles, and, apologetically, he said, “She didn’t have a stellar upbringing. She can crack just about anything.”

  To Carly, I said, “Glad to hear it, but you listen to me, und
erstand? You do what I say. No more lone-wolf shit. It’s not only your life in the balance.”

  She nodded, and Knuckles and I slipped out of cover, closing on the door, him on the left and me on the right. We waited a few seconds, and when there was no reaction, I called Carly and Jennifer forward. Carly slid up beneath the knob and Jennifer rotated to the rear, finding a patch of shadow to conceal herself.

  Three minutes later, Carly slowly rotated the doorknob, then turned and nodded to me. I nodded back, and she opened the door, letting it swing inward. Knuckles entered at a crouch, his weapon at the ready. I followed behind, entering a den. We took up points of dominance, then surveyed the area on a knee, finding nothing.

  We continued through the house, repeating the Carly procedure at each closed door. Eventually, the house was clear, and it was most definitely empty.

  I ceased the stealth, saying, “Get the lights on. Search this place. Knuckles, Carly, take the bedrooms. Jennifer, you get the den. I’ll check out the garage.”

  Everyone scattered, and I went to the garage, flipping on a light. The place was clearly a rental, because there were no shelves, bikes, lawn tools, or anything else. I saw a small pile in the corner and went to investigate, finding snippets of wire, some electrical connections, and discarded paint cans, one three-gallon, another five. I picked one up and looked inside, finding a residue that wasn’t paint.

  I scraped the edge and held it up to my nose, recognizing the scent. It was explosive residue. And the cans could mean only one thing.

  My phone vibrated, and I answered, hearing Kurt exasperated. “The team is at your location, but the only thing there is an empty car.”

  “Tell them to come to the target. We’ve cleared it. It’s empty.”

  He said, “You did what?”

  I said, “I’ll tell you the specifics later, but it was a good call. I’m in the garage now, and it looks like whoever was here was building shaped charges. They’re gone, which means they’re on the hunt.”

  “Shit. You mean tonight?”

  “Yeah. Worst case, that’s what’s going to happen.”

  “Any idea of the target?”

  “None. We need to get whoever runs the security here on high alert. Coast Guard, port authority, Navy, whoever. Get them moving. Get boats in the water.”

  I heard Knuckles calling and said, “Stand by. Knuckles has found something.”

  I ran back inside, and he said, “The place is pristine. Nothing but rental furniture. We found one thing in the trash.”

  He held out a receipt, and I said, “What is it?”

  “Bill of sale for three Sea-Doo watercraft and a trailer.”

  I said, “From Richmond?”

  “Yep.”

  I put the phone to my ear and said, “Okay, sir, we figured out what that ‘random’ purchase was in Richmond. They bought Jet Skis using that bank account, which means they’ve turned them into manned torpedoes. Get a response going, right now. They’re on the move.”

  He said, “Already working it. What do you have to go on?”

  “Nothing. We passed a truck carrying three Jet Skis on the way in, and I’m thinking that’s them. Give the analysts our location and tell them to pinpoint every single boat ramp within a ten-mile radius. We’re going to have to go fishing.”

  He said, “Got it. Link up with the FBI and give them the information. They have a maritime team as well. Maybe they can help.”

  Resigned, I said, “Roger all, sir.”

  He said, “That didn’t sound too confident.”

  I hesitated, then said, “Sir, I think we’re too late. I should have ignored this house and hit that truck with the Jet Skis. I think I fucked up.”

  “You haven’t yet. Work the problem. I’ll give you whatever you need.”

  75

  Jalal was learning the hard way that backing a trailer into a boat ramp wasn’t as easy as backing a car into a garage. Every time he turned the wheel, the damn trailer went the opposite direction. To make matters worse, the boat ramp wasn’t a wide, flat expanse, but a narrow ramp dropping down into the water between two concrete walls, barely wider than the trailer.

  He bashed the end into the left side, tearing off the brake light. Tanan said, “Stop, stop! You’re going to jam it into the concrete and we won’t be able to get the watercraft off at all.”

  Jalal cursed, pulling forward yet again. Hampering him further was the fact that there were no lights at the ramp, specifically because it was closed from dusk to dawn. He was beginning to think they should have spent more time driving the trailer around than they had the Jet Skis. Even lining up the watercraft with the gas pump had been a chore.

  He stopped yet again, saying, “Both of you get out and guide me in. This is getting ridiculous. We’ve wasted an hour and a half. At this rate, we’ll attack in daylight.”

  The two exited, wading into the water on either side of the trailer. Jalal pulled forward again, then began slowly backing up. Tanan pointed him to go to the right, and he thought he did, but the reverse view from the mirror, coupled with the trailer doing exactly what he didn’t want, caused him to overcorrect. Tannan began waving his arms to the right, trying to push him aside with body language. Jalal spun the wheel and the trailer jackknifed, forcing Wasim to dive out of the way.

  Jalal scraped the trailer on the concrete, snapping the ribs that protected the sides of the watercraft and jamming the frame into the wall. He cursed and put the truck into drive, only to find that it wouldn’t move.

  He rolled down the window, saying, “Wasim, something is holding it. See what it is.”

  Wasim waded through the water, then climbed onto the trailer. He used a flashlight to peer into the murky depths. Jalal saw the light shut off and said, “Well?”

  “I think you bent the axle. The wheel is twisted out of line.”

  Jalal looked to the heavens, wondering what else could go wrong. He thought a moment, then said, “We’ll take them off here. I’ll unhook the trailer and leave it after you’re gone.”

  Tanan said, “They’re still a foot above the water.”

  “I know. We’ll have to muscle them off.” He went to the first watercraft and began pushing to the rear, saying, “Come on. The longer we stay here, the greater the risk of being discovered.”

  After twenty minutes, the first Sea-Doo was floating in the water. Tanan held the front anchor point, saying, “We can’t let it float free. If it runs into the wall with the nose, it’s liable to go off.”

  “Hold it still. Wassim and I can get the other one. Once it’s off, you two leave immediately. Remember, no wake until you hit the ship channel. Take it nice and slow up the river. I don’t want anyone alerted. This launch has been disaster enough.”

  —

  The commander of the HRT team was a special agent who introduced himself as Brock. Knuckles took one look at him and smiled, shaking his hand. I said, “You guys know each other?”

  “Yeah. Brock’s the guy I worked with in Paris, when I took that shrapnel in my ass.”

  I knew then that Brock had lost some men. Four HRT guys had been shredded in a diabolical trap laid by some Irish terrorists. Knuckles had barely escaped with his life.

  I shook his hand and said, “Knuckles told me about you. Sorry for the guys you lost.”

  He said, “Yeah. Me too, me too. Sometimes you bite the bear; sometimes the bear bites you. I’d like to be the one doing the biting tonight. I’ve been told not to ask who you are or why you’re here, so I won’t. What do you have?”

  I said, “Carly, you got that survey of the ship channel?”

  Earlier, I’d put her CIA analytical skills to use, telling her to find the most likely targets in the area.

  She said, “Yes,” and came over with a laptop. To Brock I said, “What we have is a cell of terrorists who have created ma
nned torpedoes using shaped charges in the noses of Sea-Doo watercraft. They were in this house, and I’m sure we missed them by minutes. They’re moving to the hunt, and we have little time to stop them.”

  Carly pulled up the screen and said, “From here the Lafayette River hits the channel to the north after about three kilometers. At that point, the targets open up both left and right. To the left are a multitude of shipping concerns, to include tanker and chemical docks, but the most likely target would be the Half Moone Cruise terminal. There are two ships in dock right now from Carnival and Norwegian. To the right, and much closer, is the international Norfolk port terminal for container ships and the piers for the Norfolk naval base.”

  I nodded, then said to Brock, “You guys have antimateriel sniper systems?”

  “You mean fifty-cals? Yeah, we got a couple.”

  “Anyone here that shoots them for a living? You have a sniper team?”

  “One.” He turned and said, “Marcus, get in here.”

  A tall, swarthy man came into the den, saying, “What’s up?”

  I said, “What antimateriel sniper systems do you have?”

  “A Barrett M107 and an Accuracy International AX50.”

  I looked at Knuckles. “Which one do you want?”

  “The Barrett. It’s not as accurate, but it’s semiauto.”

  Brock said, “What are you talking about?”

  I said, “Send your sniper team to the cruise terminal.” I pointed at the map, saying, “The entrance to the Elizabeth River is a chokepoint. Get ’em up high, and tell them to kill any Jet Ski–type watercraft on the river.”

  He said, “I . . . I can’t order a kill mission without knowing the target.”

  I said, “The target is a Jet Ski with a bomb strapped to the front.” I turned to the sniper and said, “You hit the front of the vehicle. If it’s our target, it will explode. If not, you’ve just killed a Jet Ski.”

  He looked at Brock, and Brock nodded. “Go ahead. Use the power of your badge, and get up there.”

  The man raced out of the room, shouting another agent’s name.