by Mark Terry
THE VALLEY OF SHADOWS
Also by Mark Terry
DEREK STILLWATER SERIES
The Fallen
The Devil’s Pitchfork
The Serpent’s Kiss
STAND-ALONE NOVELS
Hot Money
Edge
Dirty Deeds
Monster Seeker
Battle for Atlantis
Catfish Guru
THE VALLEY
OF
SHADOWS
A Novel
Mark Terry
Copyright © 2011 by Mark Terry
FIRST EDITION
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, organizations, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-933515-94-6
Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing,
Longboat Key, Florida
www.oceanviewpub.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
IN MEMORY OF MY PARENTS
Leona Terry, April 2, 1927–August 25, 2010
Robert Terry, September 7, 1926–October 12, 2002
THE VALLEY OF SHADOWS
PROLOGUE
ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN
OCTOBER 20
The new guy said, “Do you trust any of these people?”
Agent Dale Hutchins stood in front of his locker, adjusted his flak jacket, and took a moment to consider the question. He had worked here for five years, at first directly with Pakistan’s National Police Bureau and now in the FBI’s own headquarters.
“Some of them,” he finally said. Hutchins checked his SIG-Sauer P220 for the fifth time, and slipped it into his tactical holster.
The new guy, Jason Barnes, said, “You want to give me a hint? Who can I trust at my back, man?”
Hutchins didn’t like chatter before an op. He knew Barnes was running his mouth because he was nervous. It wasn’t a bad question, though. He darted his gaze over to Sam Sherwood, sitting in front of his locker in his black tac gear, leaning forward, elbows on his knees like he was praying. Maybe he was.
Finally Hutchins said, “I trust our people here, and I trust one guy with the Pakistanis. His name’s Firdos Khan Moin.” A grin crossed his tanned face. “We call him Frito.”
Barnes laughed a little too hard. “Yeah? He lets you call him Frito?”
Hutchins shrugged. “We’ve been through some hairy shit. I trust him at my back.” More than I trust you, newbie.
Sherwood stood up, his praying done. He started to pull together his gear. “Okay, ladies, time to get it together. Let’s focus.”
Hutchins knew the boss was right and nodded at Barnes. “You can trust me. Stick with me.”
• • •
Kalakar watched the final suicide bomber through the video camera. His five jihadists were almost finished making their videotapes. The Afghani, Sardur Mazari, sat on an old brown sofa next to the Pakistani, Abdul Fareed.
Mazari talked into the camera: “I think it is imperative for the jihad that I act. I can no longer stay on the sidelines and watch while my brothers and sisters in Afghanistan, Iraq, and the Land of Two Holy Sites are violated by the infidels. We take the jihad directly to the land of the infidels, to the crusaders. I will bring the wrath of Allah’s righteous anger down on the Americans for the deaths of my brothers and sisters who have gone before me. It is a glorious day for the jihad, and I will be rewarded by Allah, praise his name. I am content and at peace.”
The Pakistani, Abdul Fareed, smiled and nodded along. His own videotape had shared the same sentiments. All of Kalakar’s jihadists had plagiarized from each other, coached along by his suggestions.
Kalakar clicked off the video camera and checked his watch. His people, his jihadists, were ready. His cell phone chimed and he glanced at the screen. It was a text message. A single word: now.
Kalakar’s heart thudded in his chest. Now? It was too early. Anger burst like a flame in the pit of his stomach, searing into his chest.
Now?
He stared at the cell phone, the signal disconnected. Now.
“I’m going out,” he said. He hesitated, mind racing to catch up with this unexpected change in plans. “I have preparations to make.”
Fareed jumped up and embraced Kalakar, face aglow with emotion. Kalakar knew the crusaders called it the Suicide’s Grin. He preferred to think of it as the reflection of Allah’s joy. “May Allah be with you.”
“With you also, my brother. Also with you.”
Kalakar nearly choked at the betrayal. Kalakar hugged all his jihadists. “As-sallamu aleykum.”
“We aleykum-us-sallam.”
Peace be unto you.
And to you be peace.
He slipped from the apartment, keeping to the shadows.
Hutchins’s FBI team hooked up with the Pakistani National Police team in the F-10 district, just off Sumbal Road. The Pakistani team was made up of five men, led by Frito.
“It is a three-story apartment building,” Frito was saying, laying out a map. “Entrances in the front and in the rear. The apartment is on the main floor.”
The U.S. team leader, Sherwood, asked, “Where’s your observation team?”
Frito, who looked very thin and short next to the bearlike Sherwood, pointed to another apartment building on the map across the street from their target. “They have had it under surveillance for six days. They believe that all of the cell is currently present.”
Hutchins said, “They believe they’re all present or they know they’re all present?”
Frowning, Frito said, “It was difficult to get placement for both entrances, although anybody leaving by the rear needs to pass by our observation post if they’re getting to the street. At the corners, see?” He pointed to the map again.
“So how many?” Sherwood asked.
“Six.”
The new guy, Barnes, asked, “Armed?”
“Most assuredly.”
Hutchins said, “That’s a given. The problem is whether or not they have bomb-making materials.”
Sherwood said, “Or bombs all ready to go.” He frowned at the map. “Main floor. One door? They have a patio? If we go in through the door, are they going to jump out the windows?”
“I suggest we put a man on each window,” Frito said.
Sherwood nodded. To Barnes he said, “But be careful about bombs.”
Kalakar slipped out of the building, sweat beading up on his neck and trickling down his back. At the rear entrance of the flat was a small parking lot facing a tall wooden fence that bordered the back of a shopping center. He hurried toward the fence, pushed aside two loose boards, and squeezed through.
Within seconds he was in his Honda, driving away. Only when he was out of sector F-10 completely did he relax. Pulling the Honda into the parking lot of the Jinnah Supermarket, a bazaar of shops and stores crowded with people, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the steering wheel and prayed to Allah for strength.
It had been so close. Their mission had almost come to an end before it began. He thanked Allah and prayed for continued success. Finally, praying done, he reached into the glove box of the car and retrieved a small notepad. He wrote in Urdu:
Raid premature. Hot site not deleted. Proceeding as planned.
Folding the paper into a tight square, he pocketed it, climbed out of the Honda, and strolled into the crowd of shoppers. He walked for ten minutes, appearing to any observers to be a man out shopping. Kalakar stopped and bought a cup of tea. He paused to look at a store selling shirts and pants, pretending to shop. Finally, convinced he was not being followed, he sat down on a bench beneath a lime tree. There were half a dozen limes rotting on the ground, attracting fruit flies and bees. The air was strong with the smell.
Kalakar relaxed, watching. He bent down to pick up one of the limes. When he did, he reached down and slipped his message into a small, black plastic box attached beneath the bench seat. Picking up the lime, he made a face and tossed it away. Rising to his feet, Kalakar headed back to his car.
Hutchins raised his hand. He was lead on the dynamic entry. Three fingers up.
Barnes stood to the left of the door, a BlackHawk Thor’s Hammer in both fists. The newbie got to bust the door down, but he’d be one of the last ones in. His lean, bony face had a look of excitement and anticipation on it that Hutchins wished would go away. The rest of the team was arrayed behind them on either side of the door.
Two.
Hutchins gripped his H&K MP-5 in his right hand, one finger of his left hand in the air. His heart raced. Adrenaline surged in his veins.
One. A fist.
Barnes swung the BlackHawk cudgel, striking the apartment door. It exploded inward.
Hutchins rushed into the room, followed by the rest of the team. There were three men in the living room. A TV played Al-Jazeera. The jihadists shouted and leapt for guns stacked in one corner.
“Don’t move! Don’t move! FBI! Don’t move!”
Frito, behind him, was shouting the same thing in Urdu, Hindi, and Arabic.
They didn’t listen. Two of the men were reaching for their guns. The third was going for a backpack.
Hutchins focused on the backpack. “Don’t—don’t—”
He fired. The jihadist screamed, falling.
Gunfire rang through the apartment. Hutchins spun, trying to keep track of all the people. Where was Barnes?
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a fourth figure lunging for a laptop computer. “Don’t move! Don’t move! Freeze!”
Hutchins heard Barnes shout, “Down, down, down—” A rattle of gunfire followed. Men shouted in what seemed like half a dozen languages.
One of the jihadists got hold of a gun. It looked like an AK-47. Barnes shot him.
Hutchins took out the third jihadist.
Barnes said, “Hutchins, where’s five and six? Where the hell is—”
Hutchins dropped into a crouch, scanning the room. Three were down. The flat was crowded with friendlies. Into his throat microphone, Hutchins said, “We’ve lost five and six. Where is five and—”
Sherwood, in his ear, said, “We’ve got five. There is no six. Site is secure. Repeat, site is secure.”
Sudden silence enveloped the apartment. Most of the men relaxed, lowering their weapons. Hutchins felt as taut as a guitar string.
Barnes stepped back and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He grinned and Hutchins knew the new guy was totally spiked on adrenaline. Barnes said, “That wasn’t too bad.”
Hutchins nodded. “Fairly clean.” His jaw ached from clenching his teeth.
Barnes leaned down to pick up the laptop the jihadist had been trying to reach.
Hutchins bolted, hands outstretched. He screamed, “Don’t touch that—”
The laptop exploded, tearing the new guy to shreds.
CHAPTER 1
WASHINGTON, D.C.
NOVEMBER 2
Jeff Cohen, an FBI agent assigned to the Homeland Security Operations Center, jerked upright, staring at his computer screen. Fingers triggered over the keyboard. He called out, “We’ve got reports of an unidentified explosion at the Fort Totten Metro station.”
Eric Mayer, with the CIA, two seats down from Cohen, called out, “Fort Totten explosion confirmed. It’s a Green and Red Line—”
Jennie Mills, with the Department of Homeland Security, called out, “We’ve got a report of an explosion at the Metro Center station, that’s where the Red, Blue and Yellow—”
Mayer called out, “Another report, Archives Navy Memorial station—”
The HSOC suddenly lit up with activity. A large plasma screen on the wall glowed to life, a map of the Washington, D.C. Metro System appearing. The sites of the bombings glowed red. Another plasma monitor flicked on showing details of emergency response as the HSOC made calls.
Mayer shouted, “Fire and D.C. transit police on scene. The entire Metro is shut down. I repeat, the Metro is shut down, they are evacuating the trains.”
Cohen, voice strained, yelled, “Another bombing at Pentagon station—”
The atmosphere in the operations center felt explosive, as if the air was filled with kerosene fumes. The agents leaned into their computer monitors, faces intent, shoulders hunched.
Another agent, from the Office of National Intelligence, Joe Barry, said, “I’ve alerted all stations with multiple lines to look out for explosions. That means Pentagon, Gallery PI-Chinatown, Stadium—”
Cohen interrupted. “Agents have apprehended a possible suicide bomber at the Pentagon station. Yes, confirmed—”
Jennie Mills gasped. The buzz in the room intensified as everybody studied their computer monitors. She turned and said, “Dr. Stillwater—”
Derek Stillwater paced the long, narrow room like a caged lion. Scowling, he raised an eyebrow.
Mills’s voice was hushed. “We’ve got a report of an explosion on Pennsylvania Avenue in front of the White House at the top of the Ellipse. Apparently a truck bomb—”
Cohen blurted, “Too far from the White House to—”
Mayer swore. “Radiation monitors going off! It’s either a small nuke or a dirty bomb. We’re contacting the White House, suggesting evac—”
The door opened and General James Johnston, secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, walked in. Derek nodded as Johnston approached.
Johnston looked up at the plasma monitors. “This your scenario?”
Derek nodded.
Johnston studied the monitor for a moment. “Multiple suicide attacks on the Metro as a diversion for a dirty bomb near the White House?”
“It worked.”
“How was the response?”
Derek grinned. “Not bad. They never really got ahead of the situation, but they responded appropriately and alerted the stations and caught at least one of the bombers, but the White House attack slipped past them.”
Johnston nodded and raised his voice to the room. “Attention everybody.”
All eyes turned to Johnston, a gruff, stocky man in his sixties who never lost the military bearing of a career in the Army. “The drill is terminated as of now. We’re going on full alert, Security Level Red. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill.”
Johnston turned back to Derek. Derek thought his friend looked pale. “I need you over in the Hoover Building by four thirty. We’ve got actionable intelligence and we’re forming STARTs. Take your Go Packs with you.”
Derek swallowed and followed Johnston out of the operations center. “Where am I going?”
Johnston scowled. “They should decide that by the time you get there. We’ve got five targets: Washington, D.C., New York City, Dallas, Los Angeles, and Chicago.”
Derek headed for his locker to retrieve his Go Packs. Johnston walked with him, seemingly lost in thought. Derek’s head felt light. He took in a deep breath, let it out. Don’t get freaked out, he thought. Not yet. Get information, then you can freak out.
“What’s the threat?” Derek’s specialty was biological and chemical terrorism.
Johnston looked ill. “Everything. The threat is everything. Bombs, biological, chemical. Everything. So watch yourself.”
CHAPTER 2
FBI Agent Aaron Pilcher ran the briefing, a sl
im blond guy whose hair was doing the middle-aged fade. Derek had worked with him before, and although they weren’t buddies, Derek knew Pilcher was a pro. He was an easy guy to underestimate if you based your opinion on his initial appearance. He looked like an accountant or a second-tier golf pro.
About thirty people were scattered throughout the auditorium. Derek recognized a couple of them as being fellow troubleshooters for the Department of Homeland Security like himself.
