Act of Revenge

by Dale Brown

  “I am honored” was all Ghadab could say.

  al-Bhaddahi talked to him as if they were old friends, complimenting him on his great triumph and asking after several men he knew in Libya, only two of whom Ghadab even knew. Asked to describe his mission, he did his best to tamp down his pride, talking about how he had painstakingly built the team that had struck at Boston. He recounted the toll: fifty-eight martyrs, against the demise of three thousand infidels.

  That was his count. The Americans of course suppressed it, claiming much less.

  “Of course they play it down,” said al-Bhaddahi. “The number is not important, in any event. When will you strike again?”

  “I am ready to start preparing immediately,” said Ghadab.

  “Good. We have found you a very suitable bunker. The African will address your other needs so the mission may be fulfilled.”

  Ghadab thought “bunker” was a figure of speech, but in fact the place was a bunker, entered through a tunnel that slanted so sharply downward that Ghadab worried with each step that he would slip. Located on the northern outskirts of the city, the facility was part of an army base abandoned at least ten years before the war. The surrounding buildings were long gone; small piles of rubble remained, but most of the area had been bulldozed clean.

  The bunker’s walls were bare when they arrived; furniture still needed to be brought in. But the place was more than large enough, bigger than what he had used in Libya by a factor of three or four. There were twelve rooms of various sizes, along with a galley and two bathrooms, one at either end of the long central hall. A musky odor mixed with the scent of bleach; the air circulated poorly. But the facility had nearly twelve feet of dirt and rock atop a reinforced concrete roof no less than four feet thick. Electricity was supplied by a generator near the entrance; a backup generator was located at the rear, buried in its own vault. Communications were handled by a telephone line that ran to the road, as well as a satellite and cell-phone link back near the highway, reached by a dedicated (and buried) line.

  “I have a dozen men at your disposal,” the African told Ghadab. “They will help you organize the rooms and do anything you require.”

  “I only want my people here,” said Ghadab.

  “Understood. We have furniture and the gear you need on its way.”

  “Then you can leave me,” said Ghadab. “Thank you.”

  “You are going to stay in an empty bunker?”

  “I need to think. There is no better place.”

  “How will you get back to the city?”

  “I will stay here until my men arrive.”

  “As you wish,” said the African, nodding. “Your dedication is truly one of our greatest assets.”

  “Everything comes from God,” said Ghadab lightly.

  30

  Boston—the next day

  Chelsea pounded the treadmill, pushing herself with one eye on the heart meter.

  One-ninety-five. Well above her target rate. But she had more in her. She leaned her head forward and threw more energy into her legs.

  The workouts were the only breaks she took from work now. Tracking the bastard who’d planned the attack had become everything. She saw encryptions and coding and maps overlaid with Arabic even when she closed her eyes. Pounding her body in the gym was the only way to clear it.

  “Hey!”

  Chelsea jerked her head and saw Borya standing next to her. She pulled off one of her earphones, but kept running.

  “Uh, Mr. Massina wanted to see you,” said the intern. “I guess it’s kind of important. Mr. Chiang sent me down.”

  “OK.” Chelsea dropped into a trot, cooling down. “You’re here early.”

  “No, it’s five. I’m, uh, on my way home.”

  “Oh.”

  “Was there something you wanted me to do?”

  “I’ve been neglecting you,” admitted Chelsea. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s good. I got a lot of school work.”

  “Next week, we’ll start on a new project. OK?”

  “Deal.”

  Twenty minutes later, hair still wet from the shower, Chelsea knocked on the clear glass door to Massina’s outer office. His assistant buzzed her in. Massina, seeing her, went to his own door and ushered her inside.

  “How are you doing?” Massina asked as he slipped into his chair behind his desk.

  “Fantastic,” Chelsea told him.

  “You were in the gym?”

  “Yes. It helps me think.”

  “Something new?”

  “I always worked out,” she said defensively. It was a lie, or at least an exaggeration, but his tone made her uncomfortable. Too . . . concerned.

  “Beefy says you’re bringing a pistol to work.”

  “I leave it with security at the front. I have a concealed permit.”

  “You think you need the gun?”

  “I do.”

  Massina nodded.

  “Is that it?” asked Chelsea.

  “An old friend of yours was here today,” said Massina. “Yuri Johansen. I showed him the information your team developed.”

  “It’s Chiang’s team. I just helped.”

  “Right.”

  “I want to continue working on it. We can find more out about Ghadab. I’ve found his family name,” she added. “Samir Abdubin. He has a sister in Saudi Arabia.”

  “Is she connected to his network?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “The government is putting together a team to deal with Ghadab,” said Massina. His eyes held hers. “They’re going to use some of our gear. I need two people—”

  “I want to be one of them.”

  “Maybe you should wait to hear what it is you’re volunteering for before jumping off the ledge.” Massina got up from his chair and began to pace around the office. When he spoke, he sounded as if he was talking to himself as much as to her. “I need two people who can handle a variety of things. One would be more on the operational side, watching our stuff and making sure the bots are deployed correctly. The other person has to be a jack-of-all-trades, someone who can code and look after the computers.”

  “That’s me.”

  He looked at her without speaking.

  “I’m going,” she insisted. “I was in the Ukraine.”

  “This is a little different. And the hotel—”

  “What happened in the hotel doesn’t bother me.”

  “Not even a little?”

  “No.”

  Massina stopped walking. “You want to get this guy?”

  “You know I do.”

  “So do I. You’d stay behind the lines? Do what Johansen tells you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Be ready to travel Friday. Just personal items. The weather will be warm, and there shouldn’t be much rain.”

  Massina watched Chelsea as she left.

  She was happy. Not jumping-up-and-down happy, but determined, set—he hadn’t seen her like that since the attacks.

  Was he doing the right thing?

  There were many reasons she should go: she knew the equipment they would need; she was one of the best if not the best on-the-fly developers he had; she could code with just about anyone; she’d worked on and invented many of the systems that Johansen needed.

  She’d already been exposed to a dangerous job in the Ukraine and handled it without a problem. There was no question that she was motivated.

  Extremely motivated.

  But maybe too motivated.

  No. If anyone was too motivated it was him.

  The phone buzzed. It was his assistant, telling him he was due downtown, at the event Jimmy had asked him to attend.

  “The car is waiting,” she said.

  “All right,” he said, rising. “Call Yuri Johansen. Tell him I have the volunteers lined up.”

  31

  Syria—later that day

  By the time the first of his men arrived in the morning, Ghadab had hooked t
he television screens to the external satellite, allowing them to monitor the international news. By nightfall, they had the command room set up, along with sleeping quarters and a place for making tea and reheating meals. The men had been assigned rooms throughout the city, but Ghadab knew from experience that they would more often than not sleep here while work was being done. The group would gather preliminary intelligence, researching likely targets, potential recruits, and methods. When all was ready—weeks perhaps, though he would push to be finished as quickly as possible—they would disperse to finalize plans and begin arrangements, returning at intervals as the project progressed. While encrypted and coded messages were important, the in-person meetings and planning sessions were vital forums, and Ghadab emphasized that truly critical information should only be passed in person.

  The last of his team—Po, a refugee from Britain who’d studied at Cambridge before receiving the call to jihad—arrived an hour after dark. Ghadab elected to return to the city and the restaurant where he’d been given quarters so they could share a meal.

  He was surprised to find it overflowing. The place was popular with the Caliphate elite, and there was a long line outside the door when he and his eight companions showed up.

  They were about to turn away when one of the waiters ran to Ghadab and urged him and his group inside.

  “The house’s special room is at your disposal,” said the man. He looked Syrian, but his Arabic was stilted and his accent so difficult that Ghadab suspected the man was some sort of spy.

  “Where are you from, brother?” asked Ghadab.

  “France, your honor.”

  “How are you here?”

  “To join the struggle.” The man beamed. “Today I work as a waiter, tomorrow I will be a soldier, God willing.”

  “Yes, God willing,” said Ghadab.

  He waved at the others to follow. The waiter brought them through the dining room to a large back room, dimly lit, where two other men were in the process of pushing small tables together to form one big enough to accommodate Ghadab’s group. The room had been used as a private club room under the Syrian imposter; despite the Koran’s strictures against alcohol, it had served liquor freely until the arrival of the Caliphate. All of the bottles had been removed, of course, but there was still a long bar at one end. Two large urns, one for coffee and one for tea, had been placed at the center, but these were flanked by glasses in various sizes and shapes, stacked at regular intervals as if they were waiting to be called to action.

  A cloth was spread over the table, and chairs assembled. Ghadab’s crew found their places as dishes and tableware were set. Before Ghadab could order, trays were brought: bread with tabbouleh and dips, an eggplant dish and some relishes.

  “The lamb is being prepared,” said the waiter. “It will be ready presently.”

  The waiters were pouring water when Khalid of Portugal got up to examine the televisions behind the bar. Khalid was a soccer fan and hoped to see some European game, but instead stopped at Al Jazeera news channel, recognizing the video they were showing.

  “Boston!” he said.

  It was a video showing the immediate aftermath of the attack Ghadab and most of this group had planned. Surely this was a sign—Ghadab rose and led the others to the bar to watch the broadcast.

  The video was a compilation of scenes Ghadab had seen in Libya, but that did not lessen its impact. The images flipped by quickly—the burned-out restaurant, bodies in the street, smoke pouring from the hotel.

  “God is great!” shouted one of his men as the montage ended and a newscaster appeared on the screen.

  “Hush now,” said Ghadab. “Let us hear the infidel.”

  The journalist said they were going live to Boston, for a press conference with the President and the Governor.

  An image of the U.S. President filled the screen. Khalid spit at the television.

  “The devils speak!” said another of Ghadab’s men.

  The camera stopped on a man who was walking to the podium. He was short, dressed in a suit.

  Words appeared across the bottom of the screen, English with Arabic below.

  Louis Massina, CEO/President Smart Metal

  The television announcer explained who he was: an inventor, a man who made robots, prominent in local affairs.

  “He lost his right arm as a young man,” she continued. “The prosthetic he uses is made by his company. It is just a sideline, but the artificial limbs they manufacture are among the most advanced in the world.”

  Ghadab looked at the arm with interest. It was impossible to tell the limb was fake, at least from the television.

  The American looked directly at the camera.

  “I have a message for the Daesh,” he said bitterly. “We are not defeated. We will hunt you down and dispose of you.”

  A few brothers started to laugh.

  “Quiet,” commanded Ghadab. There was something about this man, something that angered Ghadab—something dangerous as well.

  “We’re going to get those bastards,” said the American. “We’re going to wipe them from the face of the earth. We will. And no one will mess with us again.”

  The men began to boo.

  Ghadab raised his hand. Khalid flipped off the television.

  “They have not learned humility,” Ghadab told the others. “Clearly they require another dose of education.”

  He turned to Khalid. “Find out all you can about this one. We’ll see how he likes the feeling of his skin peeled off from the inside.”

  Takedown

  Flash forward

  Syria—three months after the attack on Boston

  The planes were Russian—and Russia wasn’t on their side, not today, not any day.

  Johansen grabbed the handset to talk with the team in the field. Chelsea, Johnny, and the others needed to get to safety—now.

  How ironic: they’d gotten past the most ferocious murderers on the planet and now were endangered by bozos who couldn’t find their target city without a map from the CIA.

  32

  Real time

  Two weeks earlier

  Undisclosed location—Day 13

  Johnny Givens fell out of the helicopter, his balance thrown off by fatigue and a sudden shift in the wind that rocked the chopper backward. He pushed right when he should have gone left, then caught himself, jerking back like a wide receiver running a square-in. Grit kicked up by the helicopter’s blades sprayed across his path as Johnny ran toward the rendezvous point some fifty yards ahead.

  Something flared ahead.

  “Incoming!” yelled the team leader over the team radio.

  Johnny pushed harder, increasing his speed. More flares.

  OK, hit the dirt.

  He slid to the ground, then pulled the small multi-control unit from the thigh pocket on his right pants leg. The flexible organic LEDs unfurled, revealing a screen. Johnny pressed his right thumb on it, bringing the device to life.

  “Bird 1, view,” said Johnny, talking to a Smart Metal UAV overhead.

  A view of the battlefield snapped onto the screen.

  “Identify fire.”

  A grid appeared over the image. A red circle flashed on one of the squares to the right.

  “Share data,” commanded Johnny. “Destiny, take out the enemy unit in Grid 1-D.”

  Destiny—a rebuilt Global Hawk Block 30 outfitted with GBU-53/B small diameter bombs—took the target from the smaller drone. Within seconds, a single small-diameter bomb fell from the aircraft.

  “Stand by for explosion,” Johnny warned the rest of the team.

  A second later, a mushroom of smoke bloomed at the eastern end of the target area. The gunfire stopped.

  “We’re clear!” yelled Johnny, scrambling to his feet.

  Chelsea Goodman had a stitch in her ribs and had twisted her ankle slightly when she got out of the helicopter, but there was no turning back now, no quitting.

  You volunteered. Suck it up!


  Her dad’s voice.

  She reached the rendezvous point and tapped Fred Rosen, the CIA paramilitary officer in charge, then moved next to the tail gunner.

  “You’re late,” said Rosen over the radio. “Thought we’d have to do this without you, little girl.”

  She couldn’t think of a comeback.

  They lined up on the house. Johnny was supposed to stay back with the second group, controlling the drones and communicating with the support units. But three members of the first group had been taken out by the earlier gunfire, and so he handed the control unit over to Chelsea and took a position behind the second breacher.

  This was the most dangerous part of the assault. They’d lost any possibility of strategic surprise—the shooting surely woke up the house’s inhabitants—and while one could argue that they had tactical surprise in their favor, since they were determining when to make their entrance, in truth, any advantage was razor thin.

  Johnny readied his gun. Smashing your way into a house produced an enormous adrenaline flow, but in some ways that energy was the enemy. You had to stay within yourself, act exactly as you’d been trained to act.

  “Three—two—”

  Boom!

  “Go!” shouted Rosen as the charge on the door blew off the lock.

  In the next second, the breacher shouldered the door out of his way, bursting inside as a pair of flash-bang grenades paralyzed the jihadist in the front hall.

  The second man through shot the jihadist in the head.

  Johnny ran past, following the lead man to the staircase. They knew from the Nightbird UAV that there were two more terrorists upstairs, and their “jackpot”—a hostage with information they needed.

  Bullets spit down the stairs.

  “Shit!” screamed the lead man, flattening himself against the wall.

  Johnny took a small, spherical mech from his pocket and flung it up the stairs. It bounced off the wall and came to rest on the landing. Tapping his control unit, Johnny connected to the “ball,” viewing the image synthesized from its embedded IR and optical cameras.