by Peter Telep
“Think about it, Mark. We exposed his friends.”
Dead silence on the other end.
“Mark, you there?”
“Yeah, Johnny. I’m just thinking about those brain cells of yours, the ones that got blown up in Iraq, the ones coming back to haunt you. Unless you got hard proof—”
“Look, I would’ve sent you a picture of the dead agent, but there wasn’t much left of his head. We got his gun. I’ll text you the serial number. You can get somebody to run it. That’ll be hard proof right there.”
“You talk to anybody else about this? Donna? Anybody?”
“No. And I need another favor.”
“Dear God, what else?”
“Just listen to me. Everything Plesner told us is bullshit. He didn’t send any agents to the McDonald’s. They never searched Rasul’s apartment. They never even went to Nazari’s office. There was no DNA test of the courier cards. There was no FBI investigation. In fact, when I wanted to see the police files from Holly Ridge, he gave me a funny look. I was the one who saw the connection between Shammas, Nazari, and the McDonald’s in Cedar Falls—not him. I got us up there. All Plesner did was have someone plant a note at Nazari’s house. He sent us up to the Packard Plant, where the risk of collateral damage was low. He walked us into an ambush, then he could say he hired some contractors on a job that went south. Done deal. He walks away—and whoever he’s protecting is safe. You see, Mark, that also explains why four good ole boys uncovered all this shit when the FBI couldn’t—not with Plesner obstructing his own people. I might be an old redneck, but I ain’t that dumb.”
“Johnny, are you listening to yourself?”
“Just check it out.”
“You’re a crazy bastard, but—”
“Look here, for all I know, Plesner could’ve hired someone to kill my brother. It could go that far. All I’m asking for is a little time. You get to your people. Please...”
“If you would’ve let me finish, I was about to say I’d do it. Maybe Donna can look into this without raising any brows. How do I reach you?”
“I’ll call you in the morning. You won’t recognize the number.”
“Roger that, Johnny. Cash only. No credit cards.”
“I know the drill.”
“You need money?”
“I’m good. We’ll work it out. You just follow up for me.”
Johnny hung up, then pulled out a slip of paper with the Glock’s serial numbers. He typed them into a text message for Gatterton. Next he dialed the voicemail on his own phone, listened to the update from Pat Rugg, then called the boys into the garage. “I talked to Mark. He’s following up to see how much of what Plesner told us is bullshit. And I got a message from Pat. He might have another lead. I’m calling him right now. But first, switch off your phones, especially the ones Plesner gave us. We’ll FedEx them back to my house so that son of a bitch can’t track us.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“The largest sea evacuation in history was conducted by ferryboat captains, coast guardsmen, and civilian boaters on 9/11. They rescued over 500,000 people from the piers and seawalls of Lower Manhattan. Boats were an invaluable asset for escape.”
—Josh Eriksson (FBI interview, 23 December)
Mesquite, Nevada was a sleepy little gambling town eighty miles northeast of Las Vegas and a long way from El-Najjar’s home in Paterson, New Jersey. The potholes had been substituted by ribbons of sand blown over the highways, and the locals rasped like cowboys instead of mobsters. El-Najjar vowed that once Sharia Law was in place, the first thing he would do was tear down these casinos like the CasaBlanca with their garish neon signs and palm trees swaying like pole-dancing whores. He would replace them with mosques and Islamic centers so that Allah could be properly worshipped. These infidels would know true peace and happiness—instead of the crime and misery propagated by games of chance.
El-Najjar rubbed his weary eyes as he pulled into the warehouse-sized collision shop on Riverside Road. His colleagues tugged down the rolling metal door after his rental truck. It was 10:20 p.m. local time, and he was about thirty minutes ahead of schedule.
With a wince and groan, he climbed out of the truck and greeted the teams waiting for him, nearly twenty jihadis in all. He tossed his keys to one man, who opened the truck’s rear door, while another fitted a metal ramp to the open bay. A moment later, men rolled hand trucks up and into the bay. The anti-tank missile systems that El-Najjar, Tabesh, and two other jihadis had loaded back in Colorado were divided into sets of four and placed aboard three other nondescript trucks owned by Bassem Younes’ Seaboard Shipping and Storage. Each driver had received his courier card and the GPS coordinates of his destination:
One truck was bound for Virginia.
Another for Louisiana.
And the third would head south toward Arizona.
For his part, El-Najjar would switch vehicles and drive southwest in an SUV whose cargo compartment was loaded with masks, snorkels, regulators, pressure gauges, buoyancy compensators, air tanks, fins, booties, and dive computers.
He checked his watch again, and within ten more minutes, the metal door lifted to allow another truck inside. Once that vehicle was opened, its contents were confirmed: a shipment of slurry explosives from UXD in Texas that had been bound for the Port of Houston. The truck’s driver had been replaced, its cargo and destination stripped from the logs. The boxes of explosives would be split between the truck bound for Arizona and El-Najjar’s SUV. A second truck from UXD had recently arrived in New London, Connecticut, where its contents were received and secured.
Instead of leaving in a large convoy that would attract attention, the trucks departed one at a time in six-to-ten minute intervals. When it was El-Najjar’s turn, he took a sip of the hot tea one of the men had prepared for him, then he glanced down at the courier card in his hand. He muttered, “Allahu Akbar,” and headed out toward glory.
* * *
Young platoon commanders sometimes made combat operations sound like an exact science, and that always amused Johnny. Non-commissioned officers like himself knew that accurate intelligence, good equipment, and proper training were mandatory for successful missions, yes, but even the most flexible plan could not account for the volatility of human beings. Some argued that dumb luck—or fate, or God, or the divine universe—had a hand in orchestrating events, and there was nothing they could do about that.
Consequently, those men become paranoid about their tours, especially during the old man’s time, where the art of survival became a religion and infantrymen became deacons anointed with the ashes of their adversaries. NCOs were the high priests of the rice paddies, carrying rabbit’s feet in their pockets and tucking magic playing cards into their helmet’s straps. Danger was communicated within the hiss of falling rain and through montages in the shadows between trees. They could predict it. Taste it like an old copper penny. And all around them miracles occurred: unexplained lapses in gunfire, bizarre withdrawals of superior enemy forces, grenades that failed to detonate. Some glimpsed Jesus within crowns of palms, others gaped at UFOs—strange aliens who swept down in spaceships shaped like President Lyndon B. Johnson’s head to save them from the Vietcong. Some men dropped a lot of acid.
Attempts were made to quantify these supernatural patrols into charts and terms that made sense because attributing mission success to “mysticism” or a “merciful universe” or “little green men” had no place in any after action report.
Of course, the hardest of hardcore operators dismissed all of this as nonsense, as scared men putting faith in exterior forces because they were too frightened to believe in themselves and trust in their brothers. Still, unexplained phenomena occurred in all wars, especially in Iraq and Afghanistan, and Johnny had listened to the tales, shaken his head, and ordered another round because thinking about it too much gave him a headache. “Those guys just caught a lucky break,” he would say.
Ironically, he believed that you made your
own luck. He acknowledged that dumb luck existed but decided he would not subscribe to that magazine. Thus, when Pat Rugg characterized his lead as a bizarre coincidence, Johnny frowned and gave less credence to the intel even before Pat shared it.
“I was talking with a buddy at work who scored some extra bucks during one of his vacations last year,” Pat began. “He got flown to the states to give private diving lessons to a group of college kids. It was all part of some engineering project, and I wouldn’t have thought twice about it until my buddy mentioned the guy who hired him. Wait for it.”
“I got you on speaker,” Johnny said. “We’re all waiting...”
“Dr. Ramzi Shammas, the guy you had me and Billy Brandt chasing down. What’re the odds? I know it’s a small world and my company does have some affiliation with the university through work-study programs, but what are the odds that I’d be chatting with my buddy and he’d bring that up and name your guy?”
“And that’s it?” Johnny asked, about to roll his eyes.
“Well, I was going to tell you that my buddy taught those kids in a town called, hang on, let me look at it, I got it right there. Town is called Arnolds Park. It’s in Iowa. He worked out of the Iowa Dive Shop and School. You may want to check it out.”
Johnny glanced at the others, who began to nod. “Big Pat? You’re a rock star.”
“No, Johnny, that’s you. I’m a movie star in training disguised as a commercial diver who’s addicted to sex and alcohol.”
“Could be worse. You could be Willie.” Johnny cocked a brow at his friend while Corey and Josh chuckled.
“All right, you bastards, I need to go,” said Pat. “Oorah, talk to you soon.”
Johnny faced the others, wanting to let them off the hook because they were back on their own. “Plesner’s left two messages on my voice mail already. He’s running scared now, and he might send another team after us.”
“So we haul ass to Iowa right now,” said Josh.
Johnny pursed his lips and bowed his head. “I don’t know. I can’t ask you to do this anymore.”
“What’re you talking about?” asked Willie. “As my boy would say, shit just got real, son. We ain’t doing this for you anymore.”
“That’s right,” said Corey. “And we’re not stopping until we find out what’s going on.”
Johnny sighed. “Well, I guess we got trees to shake. First thing, Josh, you call Jada. Tell her to move the girls over to Debbie’s house. Elina will know where it is, and she’ll tell Matt what’s going on. Next thing, we need to ditch that rental and get another car. Sal’s offered, but that’s no good. We know anyone else between here and Iowa?”
“One of my old bow gunners came from Ann Arbor,” said Corey. “His parents might still live there. I’ll give him a call.”
“Outstanding. So let’s talk cash. Each one of us draws the max out of the ATM. We’ll do that here in Detroit, because we know that bastard is watching.”
“Hey, there’s a twenty-four FedEx place in Ann Arbor,” Josh said, having searched for it on an iPad loaned to him by Salvatore. “We can mail back the phones there.”
“And we’ll hit a Wal-Mart to get some new ones,” said Willie. “Plus some ammo for the rifle.”
“Are you kidding?” said Josh. “I’ll call some boys from Sig and Warrick Marine. We’ll be loaded for bear by the time I’m done talking to them.”
“Look, we’ll go over to Iowa and see what we got,” Johnny said. “But like Pat said, it could be just a coincidence.”
“It’s not,” said Josh.
Johnny snickered. “What makes you say that?”
“Everything happens for a reason, Johnny. My old man messed up. The Marine Corps saved my life. I met you. Here we are.”
Johnny slapped a palm on Josh’s shoulder. “I won’t argue with that. But now we make our own luck.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“I’m not the funniest guy, and I didn’t descend from Vikings. But apparently I have some pretty good detective skills. When we got to the dive shop, I realized that what we needed was right in front of us.”
—Corey McKay (FBI interview, 23 December)
Arnolds Park, Iowa was a resort community rising from the shores of West Okoboji Lake, whose 3,800 acres presented a perfect sheet of blue tourmaline stitched against the horizon. Johnny marveled over photographs of the waterfront properties he had viewed on the iPad they borrowed from Salvatore. He had plenty of time to do so. It took nearly twelve-hours to reach the Iowa Dive Shop and School on Minnewashta Beach Road, but they had driven in style since Corey’s old bow gunner had come through. The friend’s parents did, indeed, still live in Ann Arbor, and they had loaned them a 2007 Buick Lucerne. They were a sweet old couple in their seventies and proud veterans of the United States Army.
After arriving at 1530, Johnny and the others remained in the Buick and reconnoitered the dive shop from a parking lot adjacent to a boat launch. The shop was a standalone, single-story building of approximately 2,000 square feet, with entrance doors beneath an awning that reminded Johnny of the one at the VFW hall in Holly Ridge. The storefront glass was cluttered with so many logos vying for attention that they blurred into a mosaic of arctic blues and jungle greens. More windows along the building’s east and west sides suggested entry and/or exit points. Assumedly, the shop’s owner had installed an alarm system that was being monitored, although Johnny and the others would verify that once they conducted their interior surveillance.
Despite everyone’s exhaustion, the mission tempo was high, in part because Mark Gatterton had called earlier to confirm Johnny’s suspicions. He had spoken with Donna Lindhower, who did some discreet checking into Plesner’s story and discovered that there was no investigation being conducted out of the Omaha field office and that the courier cards Johnny had given them had never been sent for analysis. In fact, they were missing. Lindhower was deeply troubled and promised to investigate the matter without confronting Plesner.
“So here we are,” began Corey. “A dive shop in Iowa. Beginning of winter. I’m surprised they’re even open.”
“I saw on their website that the dive school’s open all year because they use an indoor pool,” Josh said. “And don’t forget that places like this do a lot of internet sales, so they might as well be around for the occasional drop-in while they’re packing stuff in the back.”
“I bet they supply the first responders here, too,” said Willie.
“And the jihadis,” Johnny added bitterly. He tipped his head toward Corey. “Come on.” They left the Buick and crossed the street, with Johnny thinking of the 1911 tucked in his concealed holster. An electronic beeping announced their entrance as they carried in a blast of cold air.
The kid behind the counter, a scruffy-faced monk in his early twenties, smiled and said, “Hey, guys.” He lumbered toward them wearing a purple University of Northern Iowa Panthers sweatshirt with fading logo. If he had exercised in the past decade, there was no clear evidence. His man boobs assumed a life of their own as he shivered and said, “Wow, it’s cold out there.”
“Yeah, it is,” said Johnny. “Wondering if you can help me out. Got a big fishing and diving trip down in Florida over the holiday break, and I’m thinking about replacing my old regulators. Also, my buddy needs help with a new wet suit.”
“I can help you both.”
“Anyone else here? We’re a little short on time.”
“No, I’m sorry the boss has already gone home for the day. It’s just me.”
“Hey, it’s cool,” Corey said. “I’ll look around until you’re ready.” He gave Johnny a quick flick of his brows.
Johnny understood and threw his arm over the young man’s shoulders. “I’m really excited about this trip. Do you carry any spear guns, Hawaiian slings, and heavy duty stringers? I’m also looking to pick up some new regulators.”
* * *
After a furtive glance to be sure he was clear, Corey slipped around the counter a
nd behind a rear door that was cracked open. He found himself in an office/stock room with several desks, an old iMac with twenty-inch screen, and a large commercial grade laser printer. A small, three-shelf cabinet was crammed with office supplies. He crossed to that shelf and spotted a box of card stock matching the size and type of the courier cards. His breath shortened. Beyond the desks, shelving units lined the perimeter and housed inventory in multicolored boxes stacked like a game of Tetris. The keypad for an alarm system had been mounted just inside the doorway. Motion sensors? Yes. Monitored? Yes. Cameras? No. He spied the magnetic strips on two of the windows and a set of wires above the shop’s rear door marked with an exit sign and note to “keep locked at all times.” A heavy deadbolt was fitted above the regular latch lock.
Situation report: The kid was alone. The parking lot was empty. He would close shop in less than thirty minutes.
Corey and the others could wait until after the kid left, but bypassing that alarm system would be difficult. They could slip by the magnetic strips by hitting them with a strong enough magnetic field. Once inside, they could trick the motion sensors by shielding themselves with large pieces of Styrofoam and/or hitting those sensors with certain wavelengths of light, either infrared or near infrared. That worked well in theory, but without the gear or experience to conduct such a surreptitious entry, they might trip the alarm. At that point they would resort to smashing in a window and rushing around like drunk sailors on their first shore leave, trying to find anything they could before local law enforcement arrived.
No, attempting to breech the alarm would fail. They needed a better plan, and Corey had one, but the timing would be crucial. He needed to make an executive decision without consulting the others, or as Johnny had once told him, he needed to start cooking with hot sauce.
After a final moment’s hesitation, he rushed toward the back door and called Willie. “Okay, here’s the plan...”
