Angels of Wrath ft-2

by Larry Bond

  * * *

  After he called Birk, Ferguson rented a car from a rental agency in the center of town and took it to a shipping company in the port area. At the start of the operation he’d had a “goodie box” sent up with different tools of the trade, mostly obscure items that were impractical to carry around but potentially of use. The box did not include any explosives or weapons, since they would have likely been detected by X-rays or more sophisticated scans.

  The shipper was reasonably secure and reliable, but most of the companies in the port area were subject to occasional scrutiny by the local police, with everyone in and out noted. There was no way around this, and so Ferguson decided to take the job himself, figuring he was the most likely to be able to bail himself out of trouble. He dropped Monsoon two blocks away, and told him what to look for. Sure enough, he saw the pair of Syrian plainclothes security types sitting in their battered sedan as he drove up.

  But things went quickly at the counter inside, without the telltale frowns and eyeblinks that typically gave away an undercover operation. Ferguson took the box — it was the size of a microwave, though not quite as heavy — boosted it up on his shoulder, and carried it outside to the car. He’d gotten it into the trunk when he heard an approaching muffler that had a vaguely official rattle to it. When he slammed the trunk and turned around, the two plainclothesmen he’d spotted were getting out of the car, which they’d positioned to make it impossible for him to leave.

  “Ahalan,” Ferg said cheerfully in Arabic as they approached. “Hello.”

  Neither man smiled. Ferguson switched to English, putting his Dublin-laced brogue into it. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How are y’today?”

  “Passport,” said the man nearest him.

  Ferguson took out his Irish passport and presented it, smiling brightly. Monsoon had stopped across the street and was looking on.

  “Your visa is not in order,” said the man.

  “I got it at the embassy,” said Ferguson, acting surprised. “I must have made a mistake somehow.”

  “Why would an American be in Syria?” said the other policeman.

  “I’m from Ireland,” said Ferguson. “Dublin. I’m on vacation.”

  “If you are on vacation, why are you accepting a package for business?”

  The dimensions of their scam — or, more specifically, their demand for a bribe — were now clear: the policemen would charge Ferguson with violating his tourist visa unless he offered to make up the difference between what the document cost and what an imaginary short-term business visa would. This could be quite expensive, but the real cost to Ferguson was time; he had a number of things to do this afternoon. So there was a slightly testy note in his voice as he expressed surprise and assured the men that he wanted always to comply with the law.

  “Then you will let us search the car,” said one of the policemen.

  “The car? Why not?” said Ferguson, holding up his hands. “Go to it.”

  Across the street, Monsoon leaned against a car watching as Ferguson dealt with the police officers. He had a small Taser in his hand. The basic guts were similar to the weapons he and Thera had used to subdue Birk’s guards, but its range was limited to a little over twenty feet because the dart it shot was attached to the device via wires. More important, he’d only be able to take out one of the policemen.

  But Ferguson seemed to have it under control. Monsoon watched as the Syrians went through the rental, which of course was clean since they’d just gotten it.

  “What are you doing?” asked a man in Arabic behind him.

  Monsoon scratched his ear and turned slowly. A Syrian almost exactly his height glared at him from a few feet away. The man had expensive shoes and a shiny watch; Monsoon guessed that he was the owner of the car he’d been leaning against and apologized in Arabic.

  “What do you have in your hand?” the man asked, pointing to Monsoon’s crossed arms.

  Monsoon rolled his eyes but decided it was best to make a discreet exit. As he took his first step, however, the man identified himself as a customs agent and reached to the back of his belt. As it turned out, he was only going for an ID, but Monsoon couldn’t afford to take a chance. He brought up the Taser and fired point-blank into the man’s neck, jolting him to the ground.

  Ferguson had seen the little fiasco developing across the street. He was ready, therefore, when the police officer nearest him reached for his gun. Ferguson dropped him with an elbow to the side of the head, barely having to move. The blow was hard enough to pry the gun from the policeman’s hand. Ferguson caught it in midair, barrel first, and used it as a hammer to make sure the policeman would stay down. By then the other man had scrambled around the adjacent car, fumbling for his radio as well as his gun. Ferg took one of his mini tear-gas grenades from his belt, pulled the pin, and threw it under the car.

  “Take the car,” Ferguson shouted to Monsoon as the canister exploded. He threw the keys to the Delta boy then jumped in the police car and backed it up far enough to move the other car. As he did, the policeman began emptying his service pistol into the vehicle; the tears in his eyes hurt his aim, but he got close enough to the car to send bullets through all of the windows. Ferguson dove out on the passenger side, rolled, and jumped to his feet, running to the rental car as Monsoon pulled out. He managed to get the back door on the driver’s side open before the policeman could reload. They raced down the block, then had to pull a U-turn and go back because it was a dead end. The policeman managed to get one shot in the trunk.

  Six blocks later, Ferguson told Monsoon to pull over and pop the trunk; even if the cops hadn’t gotten a good description of the vehicle, their compatriots would soon be stopping every rental in the city.

  “We’ll walk to the minibus station up the street,” Ferg shouted as he went to grab the box.

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” asked Monsoon.

  “Probably not. Let’s run instead.”

  29

  BAGHDAD

  The president’s voice sounded almost tinny on the secure communications system when Corrine spoke to him from the basement of the Yellow House.

  “Miss Alston, I trust that you are well,” he said after an aide had made the connection for him.

  “Fresh as a peach,” she said, throwing one of his expressions at him.

  “Well put, Counselor.” She could just picture his grin. “And how is Baghdad?”

  “Ready for you, such as it is.” She gave him a quick summary of what she had seen around town yesterday, along with the highlights of an informal briefing from the ambassador. “I didn’t get into security matters about your trip,” she added when she finished.

  “That’s quite all right. The Secret Service will see to that. They’ve already blabbed my ear off.”

  Corrine wanted to tell him to stay in the States. She knew he wouldn’t take her advice, but she felt as if she ought to say that, ought to somehow go on record with him that she was concerned for his safety. Not that Iraq was as dangerous as it had been even a year before, just that he was such a huge, tempting target. If fanatics could try and kidnap or blow her up in Lebanon, imagine what they might do to him in Iraq.

  Or Jerusalem and Palestine when he went there.

  But she couldn’t tell him any of that. If she did he’d say something along the lines of Now, now, Miss Alston, don’t be a frightened pony. The snakes look bad but they don’t bite.

  So why was he allowed to act like a fretful hen on her behalf?

  “And the personnel matter related to our representation in the region?” the president asked.

  “I’m working on it.”

  “I’d like to know one way or another when I arrive.”

  “I’ll try, Mister President,” she said.

  “That’s all I can ask,” he said, hanging up.

  30

  LATAKIA

  AROUND 2000 (EIGHT P.M., LOCAL) …

  Unlike the vehicles that Meles had used to check out the cas
tle, Khazaal traveled in SUVs owned by the mosque. After analyzing the video recorded over the past few days, the gurus back at the Cube had realized that Khazaal used two specific trucks, probably because they were armored. The trucks were kept in a parking lot across from a police station several blocks from the mosque. The lot was guarded only at the entrance, which made it easy to penetrate: a chain-link fence covered the hack and front, and the lot was deep enough that the vehicles could not be easily seen by the guard. It would be a simple matter to go over the back fence and tamper with the truck, at the same time preparing a diversion for the guard if his suspicions were aroused. It would take little more than ten minutes to tune the vehicles to first Team specifications, said specifications including a radio-controlled device that would choke off the flow of exhaust through the tailpipe, thereby making the engine run slower or stop completely.

  While customizing the electronic ignition or fuel system would be more efficient, tampering with it would be much more involved. Placing an electromagnetic unit designed to interfere with the system would also work, but was likely to be spotted during a bomb check. The inserts, included in the “goodie box” Ferguson had retrieved, had diaphragms that would mechanically expand on command. Inserted into the tailpipe with the help of a flexible stick that looked like a tightly coiled spring, the devices were impossible to see without taking the exhaust system off or X-raying it.

  The flexible stick had a grapple at the end that gave Rankin a hard time on the second truck: it failed to release after he had positioned the unit. He started to pull the stick out but something snagged. He pushed the stick in and tried again, only to have it stick farther in, just at the edge of his fingertip.

  “Got movement at the door of the station,” said Grumpy, who was acting as lookout. “Four guys coming in your direction.”

  Rankin crawled behind the truck, then, deciding to take no chances, he climbed up over the four-foot fence and lay on the ground as the men approached. It was a good thing, too; the men were the drivers of the vehicles. They checked for bombs, but when making sure the tailpipes weren’t obstructed used their eyes rather than their fingers and didn’t see the black probe jammed deep inside.

  “Tell Ferg they’re on their way,” Rankin told Grumpy. “I’ll meet you at the bikes.”

  * * *

  Overhead surveillance was being performed by both the U-2 and Global Hawk, giving them backup as well as lengthening the scope of their coverage area. There was also an EC-130H Commando Solo aircraft orbiting at much lower altitude offshore. Its equipment could pick up a variety of radio signals, eavesdropping on Syrian military channels as well as any longer-range radios or phone systems Khazaal and the others used. The aircraft could also jam radios and other devices if things got hairy. For tonight’s mission, equipment had been added to tie an operator aboard the aircraft into the command network used by the First Team. The man and his relief had real-time displays from the Global Hawk and U-2 so they could relay information to the ground ops.

  “Subject ears are en route,” said the operator in a Texas twang.

  “You have to be from south Dallas,” said Thera, drawing out her Houston accent. She and Monsoon had disabled the boat at the rear of the mosque and were now in the van, monitoring the feed a few blocks away.

  “Ma’am, you have me dead to rights.”

  Thera switched back and forth between the feeds. Ferguson had to know which car Khazaal got into, which meant watching the video bugs. But with the two SUVs about ten minutes away, a truck pulled up and blocked the bug with the best view. Thera switched to the backup, but the shadows from the light obscured the street, and she couldn’t be absolutely sure she would see it.

  “Time for plan B,” she told Monsoon, adjusting a headset beneath her scarf. “You hear me, Dallas?” she asked the operator aboard the EC-130.

  “Loud and clear, ma’am.”

  Thera and Monsoon got out of the van and began walking down the block. They waited until the trucks were about thirty seconds from the mosque. Thera nodded at Monsoon and began to run, turning the corner just as the first vehicle came down the street. There were armed men near the wall of the mosque compound. Two turned to challenge her.

  “Help me, help me,” she cried in Arabic, her Houston twang subverted into the hysterical scream of a Syrian woman wronged by a stranger. “My husband has beat me. He’s a monster.”

  The guards had been interested if not sympathetic until the mention of her husband; as modern as Syria might be, women were still expected to do as they were told in marriage. The man nearest Thera flung her aside; she managed to keep her balance long enough to see Khazaal get into the lead SUV.

  Just as he had the other day, another man carried a briefcase and got into the second vehicle. The men left Thera in a heap against the wall as the trucks backed down the road. She got up quickly, making sure she was positive which SUV had Khazaal and which had the briefcase.

  “They’re on their way,” she said. “Khazaal is in the lead car. The target is in truck two. Ferg, you got that?”

  “Thanks, darlin’,” he said. “Remind me to beat the daylights out of your husband when I see him.”

  * * *

  The SUVs currying Khazaal and his bodyguards turned off their head lights after they reached the highway, making it difficult for the lead vehicle to keep track of the trail car as they started to separate. The muffler restrictor’s effect was difficult to calibrate, and the vehicle didn’t fall behind significantly until the dial on the device reached fifty percent. Ferguson, sitting below the ridge a half mile from the castle, followed the trucks’ progress on the team’s backup laptop, retrieved from the goodie box.

  “Move that up to about sixty percent,” he told Guns, taking the remote-controlled airplane in his hand. Powered by a two-stroke gasoline engine, the small plane took several tries to start, and when it finally did, the propeller nipped Ferguson’s finger. He threw the plane aloft and then grabbed the controls, steadying it into a stable though light flight pattern.

  The toy plane had a range of about 2,500 feet but with easy-to-fly controls designed specifically for rich parents who wanted to impress their offspring for the weekend. Even so, Ferguson struggled to get it to go exactly where he wanted, using the tiny running lights as a visual guide. He wanted the people on the ground to think that a UAV was spying on them. The trick was to get it close enough to be noticed, but not so close that it could be seen as a toy. From a distance, the plane’s small size would be interpreted as meaning it was higher than it actually was.

  “Sixty percent,” said Guns.

  “Check the second SUV,” Ferguson asked, still getting the hang of the remote airplane. “How far behind?”

  “Two hundred yards. Lead vehicle is just a mile away from us.”

  Ferguson nudged his right wing down and took the plane into a bank, turning northwestward and flying back toward his position. Then he slid around back to the south, confident now that he had control of the craft, or at least enough control to accomplish his goal. As the airplane came back over the road, the LED lights flickered and went out. Grumbling, though he could still see the aircraft, Ferguson flew it toward the lead SUV as it came around the turn, then headed toward the castle.

  “Somebody in the lead car saw the aircraft,” reported the controller aboard the EC-130E. “They just broadcast a heads-up.”

  Ferguson piloted the plane directly over the castle wall. He issued the commands to make it bank back, but the box had been wildly optimistic about the controller’s range; the airplane was now on its own and continued out to sea.

  “We have a half mile between the cars,” said Guns. “Truck two is almost in position alpha.”

  Ferguson threw down the control. “Go to one hundred percent. Stop the truck.” He put his hand over the earpiece. “Jam the radios,” he told the crew on the Commando Solo. “Let the party begin.”

  While the gear aboard the electronics aircraft obstructed the frequencie
s Khazaal and pals had just used to communicate, Ferguson dropped to the ground next to the 82mm M2 Carl Gustav antitank gun. The recoilless rifle had a short forward bipod that helped steady it as he sighted for the road.

  “Truck’s still moving, Ferg,” said Guns. “Slow. I can’t get it to stop.”

  “Not a problem,” said Ferguson, zeroing in on the road. “Truck one?”

  “Around the bend, turning down the road to the castle. They’re out of sight.”

  “Hang on.” Ferguson fired at the SUV. As the missile whizzed away, he realized he’d blown it. Worried about the tendency of the rocket to fly high, he’d overcompensated and fired into the ground a good fifty yards from the road. He tossed aside the launcher in disgust and picked up the backup weapon.

  “Stand back,” he told Guns. He peered through the telescope at the side and let loose from a standing position. This round scored a bull’s-eye: the three-pound, twelve-ounce shell hit the base of the hood and windshield, one of the weak spots in the armor treatment. The rocket obliterated the front half of the vehicle.

  “Let’s ride, boys,” said Ferguson. “Skippy, cue the light show.”

  * * *

  Rankin had hoped to wait until the SUV was inside the castle to begin his simulated attack, but the truck stopped about a hundred yards from the entrance and began backing up the access road, probably concerned about the trail vehicle.

  “Mortar,” he told Grumpy, adjusting the focus on his night optical device to see if he could make out who was in the truck.

  Grumpy dropped the first shell into the British weapon. The round whipped into the air with a hoarse whu-thumpppp and fell just outside the walls of the castle, where it exploded with a more satisfying thrappp. He followed up with two dummy shells, which landed in the same general area, and then another live round close enough to a minefield on the northern flank of the access road to set off several mines.