Soft Target 01 - Soft Target

by Conrad Jones

  Who bought the airline ticket and travelled on that Manchester flight then? Do we have C.C.T.V footage of the passengers that boarded the aeroplane at all?” Timms prompted the American agent.

  All we have is a digital image of a female of Middle Eastern appearance, checking bags in at the airport desk. I’ll have the film sent over to you immediately.”

  How many casualties do you have?” asked Tank.

  The explosions in Florida and San Francisco were so large that we are finding it difficult to recover complete bodies. I’m not sure we will ever know the answer to that question,” agent Galvin said.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Grand Canyon

  Hank had been given the lead mule because he was an experienced rider; they headed down the winding trail. The trail was cut into the Canyon face and was only about four feet wide; it was a vivid orange colour made from stone and gravel. The trail was just wide enough to allow the mules to walk in single file or to safely pass beside the other tourists that were using it; the journey down into the canyon provides you with some idea of the scale of it. Distance becomes more real as you descend, the details of the scenery unfold around you. Hank looked up as the walls of the Canyon towered above him, and he began to realise that the landmarks that looked so close from the rim would actually take hours to reach. He was excited, and as the trail twisted down toward the Colorado River the colours in the rocks changed. The awesome view that he had witnessed from above, changed to an equally awesome view from below. The Bright Angel Trail drops down some fifteen hundred feet before the first water stop is available at a rest site called the Indian Gardens, and as they approached their first respite Hank heard the distant pounding of helicopter blades.

  Muktar had reached his primary sniper nest about half an hour before the mules approached the Indian Gardens; he had watched as they made their slow progress down the winding trail. The rim trails that he had used to reach his nest had been empty of prying eyes and curious tourists, his perch was invisible from the Canyon edge above him, and anyone passing by would not be able to see him from the path. The distance to the far side of the rim made it impossible for him to be seen from that angle too; it was at least a mile but he was hidden from even the best binoculars. His only problem was that he was exposed from inside the canyon itself. Sightseeing helicopters could see him in plain view, but Muktar and Yasser had planned this well, no helicopter flights pass over this part of south rim trails. The national park had imposed a no fly zone to protect the giant Californian Condors. Trying to encourage them to nest and breed in the area again had been difficult enough, and the frequent chopper flights that carried tourists into the canyon were restricted to the eastern edge, which was fifty miles away.

  Muktar looked through the telescopic sights on his M40-A5 sniper rifle and focused in on the lead mule. The M40 is manufactured to be less than half an inch in a hundred yards accurate. It’s an American Marine Corps tactical weapon and has long since been the yardstick against which all precision rifles were measured. The old man on the lead mule looked vaguely familiar, but that didn’t matter. `He looked like a cowboy in cowboy land,’ Muktar thought. As the mules approach the rest stop, the trail bends sharply and narrows, and there is a vicious drop down into the canyon at that point. Groups of tourists stood huddled in their relative groups on the bend waiting for the mule train to pass.

  Muktar lined up the cross sights on the chest of the old cowboy and tightened the pressure on the trigger. Just before he squeezed he heard the pounding of the helicopter blades approaching, and they were far too close to be an innocent sightseeing tour.

  The Bell Jet Ranger helicopter flew low above the rim trails. The pilot was a two-tour Vietnam veteran, and he would need all his skill today to navigate the vicious thermals and air pockets that made flying in the Canyon so dangerous. Captain Scott Baker sat up front next to the pilot. The left side doors of the helicopter had been removed. Trooper Bob Duncan sat in the left rear seat, his feet resting on the skid facing outwards. Rifleman Mike Stout took a similar position in the front seat of the rear compartment. Both men wore seat harnesses that were tethered to a hard point on the floor for safety. Both soldiers were armed with M16-A1 sniper Marine rifles. The guns held magazines of twenty rounds; the initial three would be tracer rounds to aid the targeting of a suspect, and the rest of the magazine was loaded with fat shells that could blow your head clean off from five hundred yards.

  A second helicopter carried Trooper Jay Blithe, and Lieutenant Armstrong, who was the leader of the ground team. The second helicopter began its descent to the Canyon rim opposite Muktar’s position. The steel bird landed and dropped its human cargo in seconds, then quickly gained altitude and climbed steeply away from the Canyon. The two SERT men reached the cliff edge in minutes; crawling forward on their bellies, they scanned the trails leading down into the rock’s abyss. Lieutenant Armstrong switched on his digital binoculars and looked through them. The image had a green tint, but the distance at which they could focus was greatly increased. “Tell me what you can see. What have you got, Lieutenant?” asked Trooper Duncan from the SERT helicopter.

  The pilot kept the helicopter low over the roads that follow the Canyon’s edge, in parallel to the trails. The flying machine was hidden from view by the trees that lined the Canyons edge. They didn’t want to announce their arrival to any potential terrorists just yet. They were still following the troopers gut instinct that a sniper attack here would be the most likely plan for a terrorist to try to execute. “We have a big zero so far. I can see nothing out of the ordinary down below. I am scanning up and east, as we speak...wait! There is a shooter set up on a rock ledge approximately nineteen hundred yards from the Bright Angel Lodge. He is taking aim at someone on the Bright Angel Trail. If you fly west over the top of the lodge you will have a chance to get a clear shot at the target, I repeat the shooter is nineteen hundred yards east of the lodge. Bring the helicopter over the top of the rim for the best shot!”

  Roger that. Hang on, Boys, we’re up and over. The shooter should be on your left as we come over the rim,” said the pilot of the SERT helicopter.

  Muktar had heard both the helicopters’ engines but in the Canyon the echoes confused the sound. He heard the second helicopter rotary engine climbing away from the Canyon, but it sounded like it was on the other side of the rim. Suddenly the engine noise increased from behind him. As Muktar turned to look, the SERT helicopter cleared the rim edge and hovered five hundred yards in front of his position. He held the rifle up to his shoulder and focused in on the helicopter using his telescopic sight. There were two soldiers dressed head to toe in black combat gear, positioned outside the helicopter itself. They were stood on the landing skids and taking aim in his direction. Muktar’s fingers tightened on the stock of his gun, he squeezed the trigger ready to shoot and held his breath. A bead of sweat ran down the back of his neck.

  Trooper Duncan sighted Muktar through his digital scope. The terrorist was aiming back at him and looked as if he was ready to shoot. The incessant pounding of the rotary blades seemed to fade as trooper Duncan pulled the rifle tight into his shoulder. He saw a flash from the target’s gun as the sun reflected from the barrel of the weapon, and then the trooper pulled the trigger. Muktar, Trooper Duncan and Rifleman Stout opened fire at the same time. Trooper Duncan fired a burst of nine shots, hitting Muktar eight times, in the legs, body and head. Muktar’s bullets hit Rifleman Stout in the face and neck, Trooper Duncan was sprayed with the rifleman’s blood and fragments of teeth. Both Trooper Stout and Muktar died instantly, the soldier was left hanging limp from the helicopter suspended from his safety harness as they hovered above the Canyon.

  Muktar spun on the orange rock outcrop, doing a macabre dance as the fat high velocity bullets smashed into his body. He twisted one last time and then fell over the edge, his body crashed to a halt two thousand feet below.

  The noise of the engines had boomed from the Canyon walls as the helicopter ha
d cleared the rim, the mules, which were not used to the deafening sound, reared and snorted, their fear causing unease amongst the animals. The sound of rapid gunfire had made the animals bolt. The mule train guides had managed to control the beasts, all except one, the lead animal. Hank’s ride had bolted toward the sharp bend. The old cowboy had used all his skill to bring the mule to a halt, but he had controlled the animal too late. The animal crashed into a group of Japanese walkers, knocking them over like skittles. Three of the oriental tourists had gone over the edge of the narrow trail to their deaths. As the animal reared, Hank pulled back on the reins, but the mule toppled backward off the path, taking the quickest route to the bottom. Hank would get to see his dead wife Lizzie today after all. This time there would be no parting them.

  CHAPTER 11

  Manchester, England

  Flight 42 from Orlando, Florida to Manchester, England was on approach, the aeroplane was full to capacity with British tourists, many of whom were returning home from their holidays in Florida. Yasser Ahmed had listened to conversation after conversation about the atrocities that had taken place earlier that evening. Many of the passengers expressed gratitude to be leaving Florida behind, others told tales of how they had been close to the bombings and had narrowly missed being caught up in them.

  Ladies and Gentlemen, we should be down on the tarmac in about fifteen minutes. We are to taxi a little to our gate, so you should have your feet firmly on the ground in approximately twenty five minutes. The temperature in Manchester at the moment is fourteen degrees and it’s raining,” the co-pilot said over the cabin’s speaker system.

  Yasser sat in a window seat still dressed as Yasmine, he had not moved from the chair since boarding eight hours ago, not even to use the toilet. The fewer people he had contact with, even visually, the better, as he knew that if the authorities were onto him they would pounce here. Once he had disembarked from the aeroplane, he could disappear into the large Asian communities that live in Britain’s cities. He was uncomfortable from the long journey that he had made dressed as Yasmine, but so far he was still a free man.

  The plane touched down and Yasser disembarked the aircraft without any incident. It appeared that the security services had not managed to trace the attacks to him yet. He knew that they would eventually, but by then he would be long gone. The attacks had gone well; the Americans would once again realise that there was a price to be paid for their leader’s foreign policies and the invasion of Muslim countries. His people also owed Britain a powerful blow in repayment for their crusades in Iraq and Afghanistan. He was going to need some time to prepare his attacks, but the process was already in motion to strike at America’s greatest ally. There were already many followers of Islam in Britain who were deeply offended by the government’s decision to invade Iraq despite protests from the British public. The invasion had already provoked a violent response.

  Yasser had been aware of the 7/7 bombings of the London Transport system in 2005, the attacks had confirmed that the UK was now a major target for Islamic fundamentalist terror groups. On Thursday, July 7 2005 a co-ordinated attack of four bombs killed fifty-two people and injured seven hundred more in the county’s capital city, London. Young men from relatively stable backgrounds placed the bombs; they were not people like Yasser, whose life had been shattered by war or poverty. None of them had been previously identified as violent extremists, and in most cases their families and friends had expressed extreme shock and sadness that they had been involved. Yet they had been so incensed by the British government’s policies that they chose to leave their families and condemned themselves to death by becoming suicide bombers. Yasser knew he could rally support in this country for his Jihad against the Christian invaders.

  Yasser walked down the long air bridge that joined the aeroplane to the terminal building. He stopped and pretended to tie the shoelace in his pink training shoes. He spotted what he was looking for further down the long carpeted corridor. He stepped onto a travelator while looking at the rain that was running down the windows to his left. `This country is so bloody miserable,’ he thought. He saw the sign that identified the ladies’ toilets further up the corridor, and he joined the next moving escalator.

  Yasser stepped off the moving pavement and headed for the toilet areas. He walked into the toilets and entered the disabled cubicle. Locking the door behind him, he opened his hand luggage and started to get changed quickly, he removed the makeup that he was wearing from his eyes using wet wipes. He changed into a pair of dark work pants that he had packed up in his hand luggage and removed his pastel coloured tracksuit jacket. He took out the bright yellow high-viz waistcoat that he had placed into the side pocket of his bag and put it on over his plain black t-shirt. On the back of the yellow waist coat in big blue letters was the word ‘Baggage’. Yasser tied up his long black hair into a tight ball on the back of his head and covered it with a baseball cap. The badge on the cap said ‘Supervisor’. He clipped his cell phone to his belt and hung a bunch of keys from his waist, and then placed a fake plastic ID wallet around his neck. He left the toilets, and headed in the opposite direction from which he had come, back toward the aeroplane; he pushed open the first fire exit door that he could find.

  Alarms rang out all over the terminal because the fire door had been breached. Two unarmed security guards ran down the long terminal corridors toward the fire exit doors, to investigate what had happened. One of the guards was so fat, that he was out of breath by the time he reached Yasser. “Hello, Mate, did you see who opened this fire exit door?” he panted, thinking that Yasser was just another airport employee. The overweight security guard lifted his walkie-talkie to his ear. “Do we have any idea what’s going on with the fire exit alarms in corridor twenty two Mallory?” A static voice came over the air.

  A tall blonde man with a black leather jacket walked close by to where I was standing and he suddenly bolted through the fire exit door. I didn’t want to follow him until you guys got here, just in case he is dangerous,” Yasser told the guards.

  Mallory to control room, come in please, Boss. We have a tall blonde male wearing a black leather jacket that has entered a fire exit on corridor twenty-two. It’s an unauthorised area sir,” the fat guard said into the radio.

  No shit, Sherlock. Get your fat ass down there after him and arrest him. If you want to keep your job do not come back without him, Mallory,” the static voice shouted.

  Yasser could see that the heavy man was starting to panic. The pressure on airport security guards had become intense due to the increased number of security checks that were now required at all airports. The increased number of immigrants entering the country illegally had also put pressure on an already stretched operation. Yasser saw his opportunity. “You guys take the corridors and store rooms down there, and I will take the exit areas and the exterior. I will give you a hand and get the baggage men to check our areas too.” Yasser pointed the flustered security guards in the direction that the non-existent man had run.

  The guards headed off to chase the wild goose and Yasser slipped out of the airport terminal building onto the tarmac; he walked confidently around the boarding gate areas. He headed toward the perimeter fences through the rain, which was starting to fall heavily now. Yasser had estimated that the walk to the employee car park would take him about twenty minutes. He went beneath a dozen large jets that were attached to the terminal building by air bridges, people were buzzing around loading and re-fuelling aircraft. Yasser was almost invisible with his yellow baggage handlers’ high-viz jacket on. He blended in perfectly, just another immigrant in a low paid job at the airport. There were so many employees at the airport that pretending to be one of them was the perfect disguise. He walked along the edge of the terminal building and headed for the main bus route drop off, and pick up point. There he took the bus, which serviced the long stay car park out to terminal two. Terminal two had an employee parking section that was permanently full. Four shifts a day of baggage h
andlers, restaurant staff, cleaners, air stewards, pilots and security guards all had to come to and from this section.

  Yasser climbed off the airport shuttle bus and entered the employee parking lot. He pulled his waistcoat high around his neck to stop the rain from soaking him completely. Yasser pressed the remote on the plastic key card that he held in his hand, waiting for a vehicle to respond. He walked the full length of a second row of parked cars but nothing happened. Yasser entered the third and final row and at last a red Volkswagen golf flashed its headlights and beeped in response to the key card. Yasser climbed into the vehicle and started the engine. He lit a cigarette and then opened the keep box, which was between the seats. He took out the cell phone that had been placed inside, hit the recall button and dialled the number that appeared on the screen.

  Hello I have recently arrived in this country and I am looking for accommodation,” Yasser said. He was using a pre-prepared sentence that the person receiving the call should recognise.