Against All Enemies mm-1

by Tom Clancy

  “Moore,” Towers called, lowering his phone. “They just tried to hit Tucson, but a group of civilians took them out. And I just heard they hit El Paso and San Antonio. That’s six so far. It’s a full-on terrorist attack. Nine-eleven all over again.”

  Moore cursed and glanced at the three bodies of the terrorists being zipped up while the fire department crew continued foaming down the area.

  US Airways Flight 155

  Phoenix to Minneapolis

  If Dan Burleson had to bet on it, he’d say the pilots were trying to decide if they thought they could initiate a turn and make it back to the airport. The more likely situation was that they would land at the best possible off-airport site. It all depended on whether or not they thought they had enough power to keep the plane level. If they attempted to turn without sufficient power, they’d very quickly lose altitude. Pilots of single-engine aircraft were instructed to never, ever, attempt to return to the runway, because they would lose too much altitude to effect the turnaround. Case in point: On January 15, 2009, Captain Chesley Sullenberger was in command of US Airways Flight 1549 en route from La Guardia to Charlotte. He had lifted off and flown through a flock of birds, resulting in the loss of both engines. He knew he’d lose precious altitude if he started a turnaround with no engines producing power, and determined that his best course of action was to ditch in the river. His actions had saved the lives of the crew and every passenger on board.

  They could blame the birds for that near disaster, but Dan felt certain that Mr. Allahu Akbar in the seat next to him, along with his buddies, was responsible for their present dilemma.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Ethan Whitman. As most of you already know, we’ve lost an engine but plan to make our turn and head back to the airport. We have every confidence that we’ll be able to set the aircraft down on the runway. Those noises you just heard were the gear going down and now we’re about to initiate our all-important turn back to Phoenix. Despite our confidence regarding the landing, we will still initiate crash-landing procedures and want to insist that you remain calm and allow the attendants to do their jobs. Listen to what they say and comply immediately for your own safety and the safety of those around you. Thank you.”

  Not five seconds later, the aircraft began to turn.

  Bring us home, boys, Dan thought. Bring us home.

  United States Coast Guard Station

  San Diego, California

  Moore, Towers, and a few of Meyers’s FBI agents had gone across the street and spoken to the Coast Guard Station’s commanding officer, John Dzamba, who’d already sent out a dozen of his personnel to help control the scene and keep traffic moving. They borrowed a conference room equipped with big-screen TVs, and there Moore paced and watched the screens with a mixture of horror and disbelief, while Towers got online to see what intel the other agencies were gathering.

  Nearly every television network in the United States of America was interrupting its regularly scheduled programming to bring word about the multiple missile attacks on airliners heading toward the East from the West Coast. The local San Diego news stations’ anchors began speculating on more attacks that might happen in the Midwest and at airports along the East Coast as flights everywhere were being grounded and air traffic controllers were doing their best to take those planes away from highly volatile areas such as the oil refineries near Newark, New Jersey, and other heavily populated areas. As a matter of fact, in Newark, flights from Europe would be diverted to Nova Scotia/Newfoundland as they had been on 9/11. And likewise as had occurred on 9/11, rumors and false reports continued to run rampant.

  Slater and O’Hara finally got on a video conference that Slater said could last no more than two minutes because they were understandably swamped.

  “The nuke teams are already converging on the major cities,” said O’Hara.

  “And we’ve got the NSA’s computers monitoring cell phones for key words like flight numbers, Middle Eastern accents and phrases. Your man Samad might try to give his boss Rahmani a report, and if he does, then we’ll work on triangulating his location.”

  “These guys are too smart for that. The only way to get him is HUMINT,” said Moore. “Boots on the ground. People who know where Samad is going. He’s got help. Sleepers everywhere, safe houses. They know how to hide — and if they still got Gallagher helping them, then he’s taught them all our TTPs.”

  “We’ve got a team hunting for him,” said Slater. “And they will find him.”

  O’Hara chimed in: “Towers, we’ve got the go-ahead to keep you on this, because your JTF is already set up for inter-agency ops. You’ll team up with some new agents from the FBI, DEA, and I’ve got a TSA guy we need to get onboard. I assume you’re well enough to keep working?”

  “Hell, yeah, sir,” said Towers.

  Moore began to shake his head. “The answers aren’t here. They’re back there. In the mountains. In Waziristan. Did you call off the air strikes for me?”

  “Still working on it,” said Slater.

  Moore held back a curse. “Please work harder. Sir.”

  After the call, Moore went into the bathroom. He had the dry heaves and just hung his head over the toilet for a few minutes. When he returned to the conference room, he found a fresh cup of coffee waiting for him.

  Towers gave him a sympathetic look. “Hey, man, there’s no way in hell we could’ve known this shit would go down. We signed on to take out a cartel. Our timing sucked. Period. But we still did our jobs.”

  They both glanced back at the flat screen, now showing live video of the plane in Phoenix landing at the airport, one engine still smoking. The gear hit the tarmac in a picture-perfect landing.

  But then the broadcast was interrupted once more, by live images of a plane coming down toward Interstate 10 outside San Antonio.

  “Oh my God,” Moore said with a gasp.

  Both engines were out, and it was all the pilot could do to keep the aircraft level. The gear was down, but then he suddenly lost more altitude.

  The highway was jammed with building rush-hour traffic, and drivers attempted to pull off to the shoulder, but they were hardly in time.

  Two hundred feet. One hundred. The main gear hit the ground but then collided with several cars before the forward gear suddenly slammed down with such a force that the wheels just snapped off, sending the plane skidding forward and through more cars, which were bulldozed out of the way and sent tumbling through the air like Matchbox toys. The fuselage split apart, just forward of the wings, and that first section broke off and went spinning off the highway, while the rest of the jet began to slow as it continued crashing through more and more cars, dense black smoke rising in its wake.

  The newspeople were now crying on the air, and Towers was saying, “There’ll be survivors for sure. Some people will walk away from that.”

  Moore tore his fingers through his hair, then tugged out his smartphone and sent off a text message to Wazir.

  MUST TALK ASAP. URGENT.

  43 THE MORE THINGS CHANGE

  DEA Office of Diversion Control

  San Diego, California

  Moore and Towers had hitched a ride back with Meyers and his agents, who’d dropped them off at the DEA office. Video taken by a woman waiting at LAX’s cell-phone lot showed three terrorists standing near a DirecTV satellite van. They wore jeans and flannel shirts like migrant workers, with balaclavas concealing their faces. Gigi Rasmussen was a nineteen-year-old USC freshman who’d started her recording with the launch of the second missile, the killing of a civilian who’d challenged the terrorists, and then their departure, all narrated by her as she gasped and repeatedly chanted “ohmygod” throughout the entire sequence. She’d sold the video to CNN, but the Agency had managed to stop its airing in the interest of national security, although Moore knew it’d eventually be released to the public. The missile launcher was identified as an Anza, the missile presumably an MK III, the same type used by the guys in San Dieg
o. The Agency could now focus its searches for weapons deals on that specific ordnance, but even a cursory scan of the MANPADS’ specs told Moore enough: The weapon’s place of origin was Pakistan, and the MK III missiles were the Chinese version of the American Stinger. These were the types of weapons the Taliban might have access to and train with in Waziristan.

  Moore reviewed every photo they had on file of Mullah Abdul Samad and zoomed in on the man’s eyes in each photograph. Then he compared those eyes to a still image he’d captured from the video. He rapped a knuckle on the screen and told Towers to look for himself.

  “Damn, that could be him. And hey, they found what was left of the van at a Johnny Park on 111th Street. They burned it up. No weapons. No witnesses. You know why? Because they killed all the employees there. Gagged and taped them up, then stabbed them.”

  Moore shook his head in disgust. “Mark my words, if they find any DNA at all, it’ll match what we got off the pendant. Samad led the team in L.A. I’ll bet my life on it.”

  Towers considered that, then his expression grew odd. “There’s one other thing. Apparently these scumbags like chocolate. They found wrappers all over the floor mats. Foil survived the fire.”

  “Maybe they’ll get some good samples off of those, but you know what’s scaring me now? The thought of how many sleepers they had helping them …” Moore flicked his glance up to the television.

  All planes were on the ground now. FEMA teams were on the way. Roadblocks and checkpoints were going up within a one-hundred-mile radius of the six major airports where the incidents had occurred. Samad and his men must have accounted for those. Had they escaped before the checkpoints had gone up? Or would they remain within the secured zone for a few days or even a few weeks?

  Meanwhile, the entire country was holding its collective breath, waiting to see what else might happen — chemical, biological, or nuclear — as the terrible, terrible images continued flashing across screens. People in Times Square had crowded into the streets and stood like zombies, their necks craned up to the towering images of charred landscape, scars across the soil and the fabric of the nation.

  Six planes had been targeted on June 6. Two airliners whose engines had been struck by missiles had landed safely: Phoenix and El Paso. The Los Angeles flight had crashed, killing all passengers, crew, and hundreds of civilians on the ground. The Tucson flight proceeded without incident after a young kid named Joe Dominguez ran over one of the terrorists with his jacked-up truck. The San Antonio flight had crash-landed, with survivors being pulled alive from that wreck. The death tolls were mounting.

  By nine p.m., the President of the United States was addressing the nation and quoting liberally from George W. Bush’s address on that fateful Tuesday in September 2001:

  “The search is under way for those who are behind these evil acts. I’ve directed the full resources of our intelligence and law enforcement communities to find those responsible and bring them to justice. We will make no distinction between the terrorists who committed these acts and those who harbor them.”

  “So if you’re Samad, where do you go?” asked Towers. “Michigan? Canada? Or the other direction…back into Mexico?”

  “If he slips across either border we can still legally pursue him,” Moore said.

  “You think that’s his plan?”

  “Actually, I think he’s going to lay low. He’s got a safe house somewhere in L.A. He’s there right now. Probably some little apartment in the valley.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t make a break for one of the borders now, he’ll have a hell of time after this.”

  “Yeah, so it’s one thing or the other. He’s racing toward the border right now, or he’ll just sit tight till things cool off. Then he’ll make his move to wherever his final destination is.”

  “Back to Pakistan?”

  “Nah, too dangerous for that. We don’t have much on him, but we know he’s got friends in Zahedan and Dubai. We need to get his face out there. Some neighborhood kid could ID him.”

  “Sit tight, bro. When that DNA comes back from the van, I think your boys in Langley might be willing to go public.”

  “They’d better be. So …there’s no way I can sleep. Let’s go up to L.A.”

  Towers took a long pull on his coffee, nodded, and said, “It’s been one hell of a night.”

  Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport

  Terminal 4, Concourse D

  Dan Burleson squinted against the blinding lights and the cameras directed at him and the rest of the passengers as they entered the terminal, having just completed the inflatable-slide exit from the plane made infamous by a JetBlue flight attendant who, after being harassed by a passenger, had quit his job and subsequently exited the plane in the same fashion, in what some called the most epic resignation ever. Before exiting the plane, Dan and the others had been told that they would need to be quarantined and questioned briefly by federal investigators. Doctors would also be available, and vouchers to make up for the flight would be issued. The flight attendant who’d nearly been attacked had clutched Dan’s hand before he exited the plane and said, “Thank you.”

  He’d blushed.

  As they moved through the crowd of media held back by airport security guards, the black lady who’d told everyone to shut up lifted her voice to the crowd: “Jesus did his work tonight! And he gave us this great man right here! This hero who saved us from the terrorist on our plane!”

  She pointed directly at Dan, who winced and waved and tried to move as quickly as he could past the throng as camera lights now went off like fireworks. He had a feeling that by morning, he’d be sitting in numerous TV studios and giving interviews about something that had never occurred to him as heroism. He wanted to believe that anyone in his position would have done the same thing, that there were still Good Samaritans left in this world. That’s all there was to it.

  And, alas, the smallmouth bass would have to wait.

  University Medical Center

  Tucson, Arizona

  Joe Dominguez had been examined by the doctor, his arm stitched up, and then he’d been questioned by the local Tucson police and by two guys from the FBI, who must have asked him one thousand questions in just one hour.

  His parents came down to the hospital, and after he was released, two cops said they would “help” get him back to his parents’ car. He didn’t understand what that meant until the automatic doors opened and they went outside—

  Into a crowd of reporters, probably ten or fifteen of them, with cameramen and lights — and the sight of those cameras balanced on the shoulders of those men gave Dominguez a flashback to the moment, even as digital cameras began to flash. A reporter he recognized from the local news thrust her microphone into his face and said, “Joe, we know you were a hero out there, taking down the terrorists. Can you tell us what happened?”

  “Uh, I wish I could, but they told me not to say anything right now.”

  “But it’s true that you ran over the guys with your truck, then shot one of them in the head, right? We’ve talked to other witnesses who’ve told us that.”

  Dominguez looked back at his father, who shook his head vigorously: Don’t talk!

  “Uh, I can’t say anything. But if they tell me that I can, then, you know, hey, I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “What does it feel like to be a hero?” shouted another reporter.

  Before he could respond, the police forced back the reporters and steered Joe and his parents through the breach. By the time they reached his father’s battered white pickup truck, he was exhausted.

  And his father was crying.

  “Dad, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” his father said, glancing away, embarrassed. “I’m just so proud of you.”

  Johnny Park

  111th Street

  Los Angeles, California

  About two and a half hours later, Moore and Towers were in Los Angeles, talking with the incident commander inside th
e parking garage.

  Another of the CIA’s mobile labs had arrived to assist the FBI’s forensic teams. Moore spoke to the techs, who said they were using the new rapid DNA analysis platform, the same one they’d used on the pendant back in San Diego.

  By morning he had his answer: The DNA on the foil wrappers they’d found matched what had been on the pendant.

  U.S. Embassy

  Islamabad, Pakistan

  One Week Later

  Photographs of Samad, Talwar, Niazi, and Rahmani had been released to the world. The Agency had been denying any knowledge of exactly how the terrorists had passed into the country, and the talking heads were in their glory, with hundreds of hours of television programming easily filled by their speculation and arguments about better securing America’s borders and how the Department of Homeland Security, despite all the budget increases and measurable improvements, had failed the nation. TSA screeners were more adept at discovering transvestites and breast implants than would-be terrorists — so said the pundits. The comptroller general of the United States, the head of the GAO (Government Accountability Office), was being questioned about a recent performance audit of the DHS in which he stated that the DHS was not making its operations transparent enough for Congress to be sure the department was working effectively, efficiently, and economically, in view of its massive annual budget. The GAO would once again exercise its broad statutory right to the department’s records in an attempt to pinpoint where the failures had taken place. Moore could only hope that public pressure didn’t take the investigation to the CIA, to Calexico, to a border tunnel that had been controlled by the Juárez Cartel and exploited by terrorists, to a man assigned to shut down that cartel.