The Enemy Within

by Larry Bond

  “First, effective immediately, the FAA has prohibited all private flights into and out of the Washington, D.C., area.

  “Second, the government is exerting pressure on the airlines to sharply curtail the number of commercial flights in and out of both National and Dulles. Similar measures will be applied to all airports of significant size across the United States.”

  Thorn and several other officers around the table whistled softly in amazement. Disrupting the normal flow of civilian air traffic to that extent for any length of time would seriously affect the national economy. Certainly, it would cost the airlines, commercial freight companies, and a host of other businesses dearly in lost revenue and efficiency.

  “Third, the Air Force will begin an around-the-clock program to retrofit commercial jetliners with the jammer and flare dispenser systems already used by our military transport aircraft.”

  That, too, was astounding. On a per-plane basis, the costs of such modifications were not exorbitant, Thorn knew, but the total cost of such a program would be enormous. The U.S. airlines alone operated around five thousand passenger jets.

  Farrell paused to let the magnitude of the planned federal effort sink in before continuing. If anything, the expression on his face grew even more dour. “These measures are designed to make our job in this operation more manageable.”

  Thorn shifted closer to the edge of his seat. What role could the military’s special forces possibly play in this expensive extravaganza? The steps the administration planned were reactive—not proactive.

  “The President signed a special National Security Action Directive this morning, gentlemen,” Farrell said with emphasis. “And NSAD-15 authorizes the use of the armed forces within the continental United States to carry out the objectives of Operation SAFE SKIES. Under that directive, we have been ordered to deploy units of Delta Force, SEAL Team Six, and the Night Stalkers to northern Virginia, Maryland, and the Washington metropolitan region.”

  Thorn glanced to the left and right. The faces of the officers in view all mirrored his own confusion. What the hell did the White House have in mind?

  Farrell answered their unspoken questions in a flat, official voice. “Using ground surveillance teams, helicopter sweeps, and quick-reaction forces, we will be responsible for securing designated air corridors into both Dulles and National airports.” He held up a hand to still the sudden buzz. “Units of the 101st Air Assault Division and the Army and Air National Guard will conduct similar security sweeps around all the other major airports—Dallas/Fort Worth, Chicago’s O’Hare, LAX, and the rest.

  “That’s the short and sweet of it, gentlemen.” The general nodded to his chief operations officer. “Colonel Ziegler will brief you on the details in a moment. But before he begins, does anyone have any preliminary questions or comments?”

  “I do, sir.” Thorn spoke up first. Unlike the other men in the room, he didn’t hold a field command—not at the moment at least. He had less of immediate value to lose by speaking bluntly. “May I speak frankly?”

  Farrell nodded. “Always, Pete.”

  “Well, sir, first of all, this is not the right mission for our troops. Delta and the SEALs are trained as hard-hitting assault forces, not as glorified military police outfits. Using them this way does not make good military sense.”

  The general’s face was impassive. “Anything else, Colonel Thorn?”

  “Yes, sir. You know what the areas near most of those airports are like. Christ, around D.C., it’s a mix of heavily wooded countryside and heavily congested population centers.” Thorn shook his head decisively. “Under those conditions, there’s no conceivable way that a few hundred soldiers and a few dozen helicopters can adequately secure enough ground against terrorists equipped with handheld SAMs. All we’ll succeed in doing is dispersing a large part of the troops and equipment we may need later somewhere else.”

  There were murmurs of agreement from around the table.

  “What’s worse, sir, is that I’m convinced this whole operation is way too late,” Thorn said flatly. “From what we’ve seen so far, the terrorists conducting these attacks are too damned good to risk sticking their necks into a highly publicized buzz saw. They’ll move on to safer targets instead. I’m afraid we’re going to wind up guarding the barn door while these bastards are burning down the farmhouse!”

  Farrell said nothing for several seconds, leaving Thorn to wonder briefly whether he had finally gone too far. Delta and the other special forces units operated with a high degree of informality away from outsiders and behind closed doors, but a two-star was a two-star was a two-star.

  At last, the general simply shook his head. “I understand your concerns, Pete. I know for a fact that some of them have been raised at higher levels. But I also know what’s politically possible and what’s not in this situation. Right now, the President wants action ASAP and he wants it from us. And the Chiefs aren’t going to get in his way to let us off the hook. So we’re all just going to have to shut up and soldier—and pray for the chance to do things the right way when it counts. Is that clear?”

  Thorn knew the only possible answer to that. “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear.”

  NOVEMBER 16

  Andrews Air Force Base,

  near Washington, D.C.

  A C-141 transport touched down on the main runway at Andrews Air Force Base and taxied slowly toward the four other Starlifters already parked on the tarmac. Dozens of reporters and cameramen were on hand to record the first military movements in the administration’s highly choreographed and scripted Operation SAFE SKIES.

  Soldiers in black coveralls, Kevlar helmets, and body armor trotted out of two of the C-141s, forming up facing away from the reporters with the easy grace of disciplined troops. Even in the full glare of publicity guaranteed by their dramatic arrival, the officers and men of Delta Force’s B Squadron wanted to keep their faces off television.

  Air Force and Army crewmen swarmed near the open rear cargo ramps of the other Starlifters, readying for flight the twelve small helicopters they had ferried in, the MH-6 transports and AH-6 attack craft belonging to Delta’s own aviation company. More helicopters belonging to the 160th Aviation Regiment were scheduled to arrive on transports throughout the night.

  NOVEMBER 17

  Tehran

  (D MINUS 28)

  MOST SECRET

  General Staff, Armed Forces of the Islamic Republic of Iran

  Operations Order 4

  FROM: Chief of Staff

  TO: CINC, Army

  CINC, Air Force

  CINC, Navy

  SITUATION UPDATE:

  Recent news reports confirm earlier indications of large-scale troop movements within the boundaries of the United States. The American political authorities are reacting as we predicted. Most significantly, the Americans are dispersing essential elements of their special warfare and rapid-reaction force structure—units of their elite 101st Division and the Delta Force commando battalion. These formations are being committed piecemeal to security details stationed in major American cities. Effectively, they are chasing ghosts.

  ORDERS:

  1. All units slated for SCIMITAR should be brought immediately to full operational readiness.

  2. First-wave formations should begin moving to their preassigned assembly areas NO LATER THAN 3 December.

  CHAPTER 16

  OVERLOAD

  NOVEMBER 21

  Anaheim, California

  (D MINUS 24)

  Newly refurbished as part of an ongoing corporate effort to maintain the glamour and profitability of Disney’s oldest theme park, the Disneyland Hotel stood as a tribute to the power of “imagineering” and the American love of glitter and fun. The “guests”—mostly parents with small children and teenagers—heading for the monorail ride to the park itself were brought to a fever pitch of excitement by their surroundings. They moved through a maze of enticing sights, smells, and sounds emanating from an array of restaur
ants and souvenir shops. Live entertainers—musicians, magicians, and actors inside larger-than-life character costumes—mingled with the crowds.

  With an effort, Hassan Qalib concealed both his disgust and his amazement at the sight of so much godless luxury and so much waste. Everywhere the young Somali looked he saw excess and idolatry. Idolatry in the way these Americans taught their young to love and worship these mythical beasts, these cartoon characters. Excess in the half-eaten food they so casually discarded. The trash cans were full of hamburgers, hot dogs, french fries, and other foodstuffs that could have fed a family in Mogadishu for nearly a week.

  Qalib caught sight of himself reflected in a storefront and scowled inwardly. He, too, appeared contaminated by this evil land and way of life. Three months on a typical American diet had added kilos of muscle and fat to a normally bony frame. The extra weight made him less conspicuous, but it also made him look bloated and alien when compared to the older self of memory.

  To complete the masquerade as a park-goer, he wore typically American casual clothes: khaki slacks, brown loafers, and a light gray windbreaker over a more colorful Mickey Mouse-emblazoned sweatshirt. In his right hand he carried a large plastic bag full of gift-wrapped packages purchased several days ago from one of the hotel souvenir shops by another member of his special action cell.

  Ahead of him the jostling crowds began forming lines as they approached a row of turnstiles and uniformed employees at the entrance to the Disneyland Hotel monorail station. He joined one of the lines.

  With an effort, Qalib forced himself to smile politely as he showed a young white woman his Magic Kingdom passport. The ticket guaranteed him all-day admittance to the park and all its attractions. It also cost more than most people in his starving homeland earned in a month. The Somali was careful to smile with his mouth closed. Anyone who saw his stained and broken teeth would not have mistaken him for a college-age, middle-class American black man. She glanced at the passport and nodded him through the turnstile with a chirpy, impersonal “Have a nice day!”

  Still smiling faintly, he took the stairs up to the platform and blended in with the other eager tourists waiting for the futuristic transport that would take them to the “happiest place on Earth.”

  He did not have to wait long.

  The sleek bullet shape of the train came into sight almost immediately, gliding noiselessly along a gleaming monorail that ran above the vast Disneyland parking lot and crossed the street to the hotel station. Doors slid open as soon as it braked to a complete stop. People leaving the theme park disembarked in a chattering rush. Only a smattering of them, Qalib noted. The arriving train had been almost empty. That was good.

  Once those leaving were clear of the platform, he and his fellow passengers were allowed to board. Each car held up to sixteen passengers, and the Somali chose one near the middle. A man and woman holding hands with a bright-eyed toddler took the seat facing him. The door hissed shut behind them.

  Qalib ignored them, and concentrated instead on double-checking the routine the train attendants followed before departure. What he saw was reassuring. A single uniformed employee hurried down the row of compartments, hastily making sure the doors were properly secured. The young man paid little attention to anything or anyone else.

  The Somali nodded to himself. Corporate cost-cutting had been shrinking Disneyland’s total workforce for years. And now, with the start of the flu season, the park was said to be particularly shorthanded. That would make his task easier.

  With a barely perceptible jerk, the monorail slid out of the station and accelerated toward Tomorrowland Station.

  Several minutes later, after a rapid run around the back half of the park, the train braked as gently as it had accelerated, gliding to a stop at a platform overlooking a large artificial lagoon. The gray and white bulk of the Matterhorn loomed in the middle distance. The ride was somewhat shorter than he’d expected, Qalib realized, but still well within the time parameters laid down by his controller.

  The Somali stayed behind when everybody else got off. Nobody paid much attention to him. Anyone with a valid ticket to the park could ride the monorail as many times as they wanted.

  As he had hoped, there were only a handful of people waiting to board for the return trip. It was still early enough in the day so that tourists were pouring into Disneyland, not out of it. This time, as the train pulled out, he had the compartment all to himself.

  Qalib swung into action, moving rapidly through an often-rehearsed series of actions. First he dipped into his windbreaker pocket and pulled out a tube of fast-drying epoxy. Then he reached under the top layer of gift-wrapped packages in his bag, took out a metal case painted to match the compartment interior, and set it on his lap. It was six inches long, six inches wide, and three inches high. “Property of Disneyland” had been stenciled across the case’s outer face. There were adhesive strips attached to its underside.

  He flipped the top open and pressed a button on a small digital watch attached to the inside front. Instantly, the display shifted from the current time to a preset number—and began counting down. A quick scan of the wires leading out from the improvised timer showed no loose connections. Satisfied, he shut the case and sealed the top with a blob of epoxy. That should stop any prying hands for the short time needed, he thought.

  The young Somali glanced up from his work. The monorail was just beginning its long arc over the crowded Disneyland parking lot. Careful to keep his hands away from the adhesive, he leaned over, set the metal case against the compartment wall at his feet, and tamped it into place.

  He slid across the monorail compartment, closer to the door, and surveyed his handiwork for a brief moment. Placed below eye level, the case blended fairly well with its surroundings. It should escape immediate notice.

  The train began slowing. They were almost back to the hotel.

  Qalib recapped the epoxy, dropped it into his bag, and stripped off his windbreaker. That was the easiest form of disguise. Whites could rarely tell blacks apart by their facial features. The station attendants should see no immediate connection between the gray-jacketed black man who’d gotten on the monorail only minutes before and the young man in a bright Mickey Mouse sweatshirt who was coming back.

  When the doors slid open, the Somali walked unhurriedly toward the stairs, completely ignoring the milling crowds waiting to board. They were no longer his concern.

  Ten-year-old Brian Tate mumbled a favorite swear word under his breath as his freely swinging ankles jarred painfully against that dorky raised bump that stuck out from the side of the compartment. He sneaked a fearful look toward his parents to see if they’d heard him. Nope. He relaxed. Both of them were way too busy pointing out the sights to his bratty younger brother and sister. They were crossing over that stupid submarine ride he’d taken two years ago. He sneered. You didn’t see anything cool, he thought. Just swimming pool water and some stuffed fish. Even the submarines were on tracks.

  Curious now, Brian bent over to inspect the wall. His hands brushed against the bump and came away sticky. This was definitely very weird. Whatever it was, it wasn’t part of the train. It was a metal box.

  The ten-year-old looked up. “Hey, Dad! Check this out …”

  Inside Qalib’s metal case, the timer blinked from 00:00:01 to 00:00:00.

  Thirty feet over Tomorrowland, the Disneyland monorail exploded, torn from end to end by a powerful blast. A ball of fire pushing razor-edged shards of steel and aluminum roared outward in a searing, deadly tide that surged over the tightly packed people waiting in lines below and left them charred or broken and bleeding on the ground.

  Most of the warped, burning remnants of the monorail were blown off the track and plunged hissing into the lagoon.

  New Hope Baptist Church,

  near Churchill Downs, Louisville, Kentucky

  The deep, joy-filled voices of the New Hope Baptist Church choir were loud enough to be heard in the parking lot outside the wh
itewashed, wood-frame church. A special night service full of prayers for civic and racial peace was in full swing. Other gatherings were planned later in the week in churches of other denominations. Louisville’s religious and political leaders wanted to calm emotions that were boiling dangerously near the surface as racial attack after racial attack rocked the country.

  To help keep the peace and make sure there were no ugly incidents, two officers from the Louisville police department sat in a parked patrol car outside the church.

  Officer Joe Bailey listened to the music for a few moments before rolling his window shut. He grinned over at his rookie partner. “Fine singing, Hank. Mighty fine singing. Just kind of reaches down and picks your spirit right up, don’t it?”

  Hank Smith nodded politely without saying anything. Music was one of the things he and the older policeman would never agree on. His own tastes ran more to U2 than to country or gospel.

  The younger man turned back to the pile of routine reports on his lap. Paperwork was always the bane of any cop’s working life, especially when you had a sly old fox like Joe Bailey for a partner. Fifteen years with the Louisville police department had taught the older man every trick there was to avoiding work he didn’t enjoy. Work like filling out arrest reports in the triplicate and quadruplicate so loved by bureaucrats.

  Smith sighed under his breath. At least pulling guard duty outside a church on a quiet night offered him a chance to cut into the backlog a little. For several minutes, his pen scratched steadily onward through page after page, accompanied by the faint, off-key sound of Bailey humming and by the occasional crackle of voices over their car radio.

  Halfway through one report, Smith stopped, his pen poised over a blank line. He sat chewing his lower lip absentmindedly while mentally running through the rules, regulations, and legal information he’d crammed in at the academy. Finally, he gave up. He turned toward the older man. “Say, Joe, what’s the code for felonious—”