Running the Maze

by Jack Coughlin

  Even as the shaky lieutenant was updating his report, he heard the throaty sound of a multiengine airplane approaching and saw an AC-130 coming up the valley, low and slow and ominous. “Now a Spectre gunship is coming in,” he yelled. “It’s going after the bridge.”

  The lumbering plane climbed for some altitude and banked to the right as the sensors precisely computed the target and the side-firing gunners opened up, raining 40 mm and booming 105 mm cannon fire. As the aircraft flew past the bridge, left to right, the shells started at one end and walked all the way across, tearing up the surface and destroying almost every vehicle and piece of equipment on it. It made three passes before departing, leaving the surface in smoking ruin.

  Farooq had fallen speechless. The voice on the radio was calling for him to answer, but words failed him. The destruction he had witnessed in the past few minutes was beyond imagination. He heard someone yelling, “Lieutenant! Lieutenant!” in his face and felt someone shaking him hard, but Farooq was too dazed to answer until his platoon sergeant finally slapped him and poured water onto his face.

  “Helicopters, sir,” the sergeant shouted. “I hear helicopters.”

  THE OVAL OFFICE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  SECRETARY OF STATE MARK Grayson was the youngest son of a judge in Oregon, and both of his brothers were lawyers. It had been pounded into his head during family dinners for as long as he could remember that there are two sides to every story, even when pictures and witnesses and evidence pointed to a slam-dunk conviction of an accused person. Presumed innocence was the foundation of the American system of justice. Now he was seated on a sofa across from the president of the United States, having to accuse one of his own trusted advisers of treason, based on flimsy, circumstantial evidence gathered by the national intelligence community. They had been wrong before.

  The president had come up from the Situation Room, where he had been monitoring the attack in Pakistan, because Secretary Grayson had said he had a matter that needed his urgent and immediate attention. The president listened to Grayson and to Andy Moore of the CIA with an expression of disbelief.

  “Let me be certain that I understand you, Mark,” he said. “A senior diplomat, the head of the Bureau of American-Islamic Affairs, a man who had cleared the most stringent background checks, actually has been working with a terrorist organization dedicated to destroying the United States? Is that even possible?”

  Grayson thought he saw the president’s eternal air of absolute confidence deflating. “I’m afraid so, sir. The intel community has been onto him for a couple of days. There’s no doubt in my mind that Bill Curtis has for some time been aiding the New Muslim Order and its leader, Commander Kahn. Unbelievable and unproven, but an apparent fact.”

  The president slid his half-glasses down his long nose and read the one-page report again. He asked the CIA briefer, “You’re sure about this one, Andy?”

  “Yes, sir. We had hacked the e-mails of Mohammed Javid Bhatti, a Pakistani at the UN, who is his main contact. Bhatti received an encoded message a few hours ago from Pakistan, and we back-tracked it to the security chief of the New Muslim Order, a man named Ayman al-Masri. Bhatti passed it on, word for word, to Curtis.”

  “What did the message say?”

  “We’re still breaking it down, sir, but one of our specialists in Pakistan has been questioning that prisoner picked up during the raid on the bridge, the guy who built it, and he confirms the bridge was to be a haven for Commander Kahn. He repeatedly coughed up Bill Curtis’s name as an old friend. If the bridge was being built for the New Muslim Order, and the e-mail is directly from the NMO, then Mr. Curtis has some explaining to do.”

  “You bet he does.” The president laid the report on a small table, took off his glasses, folded them and put them in his shirt pocket, then looked at his watch. Almost midnight. “I remember once a long time ago when I actually wanted this job, even went out and campaigned for it. I don’t know if I would do it again. Your recommendation on the Curtis situation, Mr. Secretary?”

  “We should take him into custody immediately and quietly,” said Grayson. “Do it under Homeland Security provisions and declare him an enemy combatant, so the case will be under a military tribunal. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the burden will be on Curtis to earn our trust. At present, although he is an American citizen, he cannot have an open trial in a public courtroom.”

  The president looked steadily at both Grayson and the CIA man, Moore. “Well, Mark, it looks like you’ve got to take on the Pakistani complaints after all. Our guys are kicking butt over there on that bridge. It is hard to imagine having a mole this high in the government. Good job digging this guy out. Go get Curtis, and find him a cot in Guantánamo.”

  “Yes, sir.” Grayson sat back, glad that his part of this meeting was done.

  The White House chief of staff picked up the ball. “One more thing, sir. We have to consider that Curtis may be orchestrating some kind of high profile strike against the Mars mission. The Pentagon, Homeland Security, and NASA are already on it.”

  The president closed his eyes and pushed his head back against his tall chair, stunned. “How long do we have before the America launch?”

  “About seventy hours, sir. No need to scrub it until we find out more. There are always threats before a mission, and this one is from a man who is already known to be mentally unstable. We will stay on it. Meanwhile, security is being increased at the Cape. If there is any confirmation, we will stop the mission. Best for now to keep this information under wraps, and just stay alert.”

  30

  THE BRIDGE

  HAD MOHAMMAD AL-ATTAS BEEN in his control room to steer the battle, the American aircraft would never have gotten close. Part of his design was to funnel such attacks into killing corridors protected by his automated shield of missiles, fast-firing cannon, clouds of masking electronics, jamming, directed electromagnetic pulses, and pinpoint fire control. Effective aerial attacks would have been almost impossible, and extremely heavy losses to the attackers would have been certain. However, there was no genius in the control chair to orchestrate the elaborate automated defense systems, nor were there troops around to maintain the computers and service the weapons. With much of the interior badly damaged, the bridge now stood empty and vulnerable. It had been on the edge of being fully operational, but now it had already ceased being a threat. Instead of being an impenetrable anchor for an imagined chain of virtual fortresses, it had reverted to a useless pile of rocks.

  Lima Company (Reinforced), out of the 3rd Battalion, 7th Regiment, 1st Division of the United States Marine Corps, landed on the long, wide level bridge in a carefully timed series of deliveries by a covey of tilt-rotor Ospreys. AH-1Z Viper helicopter gunships flew figure-eight patterns to provide low overhead cover, and fighters orbited at ten thousand feet. Not a shot had to be fired as the squads charged out of the Ospreys and established a perimeter defense.

  The only people around were a halted small military convoy of trucks and Humvees some three klicks away on the eastern approach road, and a pair of Vipers hovered at each end of it.

  Company commander Captain Richard Mendoza was able to report back to Kandahar that the bridge was secure within five minutes of the first boot hitting the ground.

  “Lieutenant Connelly, get the engineers and ordnance teams down into those tunnels. I want to drop this span and be out of here as soon as possible,” Mendoza ordered.

  “Aye, aye, Skipper,” Connelly said, then passed the orders to the waiting sergeants. Men immediately began to disappear underground.

  “Ever see such a chunk of chopped-up real estate, Captain?” asked Gunnery Sergeant Hale Dinsmore, looking out over the destroyed valley below them.

  “I have not, Gunnery Sergeant, and we are going to make this bridge look just as attractive. What are the Vipers saying about that convoy?”

  “Pakistan army, sir. Just sittin’ there. The Snakes are all over ’em.”

  “If they
move, light ’em up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  LIEUTENANT FAROOQ HAD NO intention of moving, and in fact had ordered his men to stack their weapons in the beds of the trucks and leave the Humvee machine-gun positions empty. The radio link back to headquarters, he decided, had been damaged by the B-52 strike, which meant that he could make on-the-spot commands. His sergeant agreed the radio was inoperative and turned it off. Farooq then had his platoon brew tea and make themselves comfortable along the road for a while, walking around in the open, presenting no threat that could ignite a fight. At the pace the Americans were moving on this violent morning, their operation would not take much longer.

  Helping make his choices easier were the two Viper attack helicopters that hung noisily a hundred feet above the roadbed, hemming the vehicles into place as carefully as dogs herd sheep. The stubby wings of the narrow helos held pods of 70 mm rockets, while 20 mm Gatlings were mounted beneath the noses. After what he had already witnessed, Farooq understood that on this day, it would not be a smart thing to get in the way of the Americans.

  His sergeant brought him a canteen cup of hot tea, and the lieutenant blew on the liquid a few times before taking a sip, trying with all his might to maintain a sense of dignity. The pilot of one of those Vipers was staring at him through tinted goggles. Farooq smoothly raised his tin cup in a silent salute. The pilot nodded ever so slightly.

  We understand each other, the lieutenant concluded, and he climbed atop his Humvee to watch the show. He felt almost privileged to be an observer at this demonstration of unlimited firepower.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THE ARREST OF UNDERSECRETARY William Curtis was assigned to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, with Special Agent David Hunt in charge, and his orders were to carry out the apprehension with utmost care. To ensure radio silence and avoid tipping off the media, the D.C. Metropolitan Police were not alerted, nor were any Virginia law enforcement authorities. The Secret Service detail guarding the vice president’s residence on Observatory Circle was incorporated into the plan, since the FBI would be hitting the nearby BAIA office. As soon as the arrest was accomplished, the FBI was to turn Curtis over to the CIA for some serious questioning.

  Hunt put two-agent teams to each corner of the BAIA property, then went up to the front door himself. He rang the bell, and a bewildered security guard opened up, his face dropping when Hunt flashed his creds and two more agents walked past with their guns drawn.

  “Is Undersecretary Curtis here?” asked Hunt.

  “No, sir,” said the guard, a bald giant who worked for a private security company contracted to provide overnight protection for a number of government buildings. “The place is empty, except for me and the two housekeepers who are asleep upstairs. Want me to call them?”

  “No. Give me your weapon with the fingers of your opposite hand, and stay right here with me while the agents check things out. Have you seen Curtis tonight?”

  The guard slowly removed his pistol from the holster on his right hip with his left hand as more FBI agents came into the building, also with their guns out. “I haven’t seen him, but I just came on duty at midnight. If you’ll let me look at my logbook over on the desk, I can give you the time when he left.”

  “OK,” Hunt said. The guard nodded, happy to be part of whatever was happening, and showed the logbook to Hunt. Curtis had not been in his office since leaving for lunch, and the guard printed out a list of ranking bureau officials, with their addresses and telephone numbers. “Maybe one of them can help,” he said.

  Hunt cocked his head to listen to the voices in his earpiece as the reports flooded in from agents clearing every room, and finding nothing. The housekeepers were awakened, came downstairs in their robes, and were questioned. Neither had seen the undersecretary.

  Hunt ascended the curving staircase to find Curtis’s office. Everything he saw bespoke quiet elegance, with a distinct sense of Middle Eastern culture in the vases, paintings, ornate tile work, and lush carpets. The office itself was a dazzling display of artifacts that had been presented to the BAIA and Curtis by officials throughout the Arab world. The veteran agent had the feeling he was walking through some special exhibit at the Smithsonian, or a bazaar in Istanbul. Rubies and emeralds, intricate gold work, and shining silver winked beneath small spotlights, as if the objects knew something that he did not. A big picture window opened out on the darkened lawn.

  Dave Hunt was suddenly tense and nervous. It was just too perfect. This was no soft diplomat they were after, and if Curtis was in the wind, then maybe he had left something behind to delay his pursuers. Something else was in play.

  “Everybody stop in place. Don’t make another move,” he ordered on his radio. “Get the civilians out of here, then rendezvous back at the rally point. Touch nothing. Retrace your footsteps. Watch for possible booby traps.”

  Just before he could repeat the order for the agents who had entered Curtis’s empty home, one of them turned off a dripping faucet in the kitchen. That closed the circuit for a dynamite bomb hidden in a wall of the foyer where several agents had gathered. The following explosion blew apart much of the ground floor, and the rest of the town house collapsed in a fireball.

  THE BRIDGE

  THE VIPERS HAD GIVEN up watching the idle convoy, settled down on the bridge, and shut off their engines. Lieutenant Farooq thought that was wise; no use wasting petrol, dangling in the sky watching him do nothing but drink tea. The only thing bothering him was whether the busy Americans were going to leave any witnesses, but he reasoned that if they had wanted him dead, he would already be dead. They probably wanted him to report exactly what had happened, and he would.

  “Sergeant? Are the radios working yet?” Play the game.

  “No, sir. A lot of static.” The sergeant pointed to the sky. “Probably one of their electronic warfare planes is up there, jamming everything.”

  Farooq shielded his eyes and looked up the road. He threw out the remains of his cup and climbed from the Humvee. “We have company coming, Sergeant. Form the men in ranks. No visible weapons,” he ordered, straightening his uniform.

  A little blue golf cart carrying two men in camouflage uniforms with protective vests and helmets was humming toward them from the bridge, an enlisted man driving an officer. Farooq’s men were in formation by the time the cart pulled to a halt and the passenger got out. “Captain Richard Mendoza, U.S. Marines,” the man said.

  Lieutenant Farooq saluted and introduced himself.

  The salute was returned. “Well, Lieutenant, I’m paying a courtesy visit to thank you for not interfering with our work today.”

  “Those were not my orders, Captain. Observe and report only.”

  Mendoza knew that was a lie. The Pakistani officer had made the smart move to stay out of the way when he discovered he was so outmatched. No use for either one trying to keep secrets at this point. “We’re about done down there. I want to advise you that when we depart, it would be best for you to wait right here, or even pull back. We’re going to blow that bridge apart. My engineers estimated how much explosive would be needed, then doubled that amount. It would be a great risk to try to defuse any of it, because the clock is already ticking.”

  “I understand, sir. Thank you for coming up.”

  “Fine-looking troops you have here, Lieutenant. I would hate to have anyone needlessly injured at this point. Good luck to you.”

  “And to you, sir.” Salutes were exchanged again, and Mendoza climbed back into the cart, which began the trip back to the landing zone. The Vipers were already winding up their engines and lifting off to make room for the Ospreys to retrieve the Marines. It appeared that the entire force was out of the tunnels and leaving. Farooq watched the departing captain, sorely tempted to grab a rifle and blow him to pieces.

  As if hearing the thought, the cart stopped, turned, and came back. This time, Mendoza did not get out but just called to him. “Lieutenant, I forgot to tell you;
two cruise missiles are on the way, one targeted on each of the support towers. That’ll be the end of it.” He cheerfully waved, and the cart buzzed away.

  THE PENTAGON

  KYLE SWANSON WAS BACK in front of General Middleton’s office window again, relaxed, watching the tourists. He asked, “We ready to go after Charlie Brown now?”

  “No. You just got back, and things are in an uproar over at the White House,” the general replied, leafing through a stack of colorful brochures. “This isn’t the time to drop another Green Light request on them.”

  “Best time to do it, General, while everybody in the Sandbox is trying to figure out what happened at the bridge, and why we were so out front about it.”

  Sybelle Summers was half-watching some talking heads on television discussing that very subject. “If the president’s goal was to send a message that we won’t ever stop hitting the terrorists, no matter where the chase leads, then he was successful. The TV people are constantly playing the videos of the center span dropping like an old Las Vegas casino being blown up, and then the missiles hitting the support towers.”

  “It has everything the TV requires but a shower scene and a car chase.” Double-Oh Dawkins sipped from his ever-present cup of coffee. “Where you going on vacation, General?”

  “I’m picking up my daughter and the grandkids in Richmond tonight and making the long drive down to the Cape to watch the Mars launch. That will be something they will always remember. After that, we’re going to Disney World. Then they go home and I break away for some deep-sea fishing.” He put the brochures in order, squared the edges, and put them aside. “What about our Coastie, Kyle? Did she make a decision before going on leave?”

  “Not officially, sir. She’ll do it, though. The kid was made for this stuff, and she did great in Pakistan. Not only that, but she worships Lieutenant Colonel Summers.”