Connor leaned forward, curious.
Brice tilted the box so he could see inside. “The ACR-VA2.”
Richards patted Brice on the back. “He sure does like his acronyms, doesn’t he?”
The technician rolled his eyes. “All right, the Advanced Chronometer Recon Video Audio Model 2. Would you rather me say that every time?”
“How about you just call it a watch?”
“Because it’s not just a watch,” Brice snapped, glaring. “It’s arguably the most important tool our people could have in their kit.” He handed it to Connor.
“Seems a little heavy for a watch,” Connor said, hefting it in one hand.
“It’s not a watch. Look.” Brice pointed to a date indicator under a bubble on the right side of the watch’s face. “See that?”
“The date? Sure.”
“That’s a recording device with a fisheye lens. It has a two-hundred-and-thirty-five-degree recording field. The integrated dynamic microphone can be focused directionally or set to capture everything you hear. It has Bluetooth and Wi-Fi capabilities, and its built-in GPS is accurate to five meters. It’s waterproof, shock-resistant, and has a panic button that will alert the team within seconds and direct assets to your position without you having to do a thing.”
Brice took the watch back from Connor, turned it over, and tapped the back. “The internal memory is a solid-state microdrive. It can hold hundreds of hours’ worth of audio and visual data. Standard protocol is to dump all recordings pertinent to the mission after a mission is done, so we can categorize them and file them properly.”
Connor nodded. “Of course.”
Richards rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah, don’t screw up the filing system. You’ll have to deal with Martin’s wrath.”
Connor took the watch back and shook it. “Do I have to wind it up every other day?”
Brice canted his head to the side, obviously unsure about how to respond. “I…”
Connor held up a hand. “Kidding. Don’t screw up the filing system, check.”
“You make jokes, but it’s a very serious thing.”
“I thought you guys didn’t keep records,” Connor said, raising an eyebrow at Thompson.
Thompson held up a finger. “I said we don’t report to anyone. There’s a difference.”
Connor chuckled and slipped the watch band over his wrist. “Thanks.”
“There’s also this,” Brice said, pulling a laptop from underneath the table. It was about the size of the thirteen-inch MacBook Pro Connor had at home.
“Can’t do anything without a computer,” Connor said, stepping closer. He shot Thompson a look. “Let me guess, we’re in the process of going paperless?”
Thompson sniffed. “Isn’t everyone?”
“Just like any normal laptop,” Brice said, “this puppy will boot up—just a normal Windows operating system—and you’ll have full access to the programs installed, just like any other computer. You can click through the Start Menu, open Word, whatever.” He powered it on and waited for it to finish booting up. “This will pass any TSA screening and any contraband detection system in the world today.”
“Most computers do,” Connor said. He was surprised how quickly he was falling into the flow here. He wasn’t feeling the normal “first-day-at-the-office nerves” he’d had when he first arrived at the agency, not to mention the army. He felt right at home here, like he’d been here for years.
Brice held up a finger. “Except this isn’t anything like most computers. Like any computers at all, actually. If we turn it over and push these two buttons here and here … See?” Brice pointed to either end of the base of the computer, and Connor nodded. “Just press like so…”
The back of the computer popped up with a click, and Brice lifted it away. Inside were the usual laptop components: battery, hard drive, motherboard. The thin black battery took up almost half of the real estate inside the machine.
“That’s a hell of a battery. Do you get a couple days out of that?”
“Actually,” Brice said, tapping another button and pulling the piece out, “this isn’t the real battery. The real battery is good for only about an hour of operational time, which should be more than enough if you’re just proving that it’s a functional machine. No, this is something way cooler.”
He set the faux-battery down on the table, pushed a small, almost invisible lever on one end, and opened a thin lid. Inside were two pistols set within matching cut-outs.
Brice pulled one out and racked the slide, locking it to the rear. The pistol was about the size of a single-stack Glock nine-millimeter, the company 43 model. But Connor had never seen a double-barreled design like this before.
“Interesting,” he said.
“Custom-made,” Brice explained as held out the gun. “You won’t find these in any market in the world. Each pistol has two shots, firing a custom forty-five-caliber, two-hundred-and-fifty-five-grain bullet.”
Connor whistled, accepting the gun to inspect it. “Packs a hell of a punch.”
“And practically undetectable. You can walk right onto a plane with these bad boys and no one will be the wiser.”
“Four rounds won’t get me very far in a firefight,” Connor said.
“Well, these are more of a last-resort type of thing. But if you need them, they’re better than not having anything.”
“True.”
Brice looked to Richards and motioned to the shelf behind him. “Would you mind?”
With a nod, Richards picked up a plastic gun case and brought it over to the table.
“Standard-issue is a Glock 17, nine-millimeter.” Brice held up one of the magazines. “Seventeen rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber. You’ll get a few extra magazines, I suggest keeping a go-bag, and we’ll get you a rifle as well. I’m guessing you’re familiar with these weapons systems.”
“I’ve fired a gun or two,” Connor said. He’d actually kept a go-bag at his apartment after leaving the military, but driving around Washington, DC, with two pistols, extra magazines, and smoke grenades he’d liberated from an overly generous supply sergeant, was a sure way to end up behind bars if he was caught. The senators, representatives, and diplomats were afforded all the security they needed, but the average rank-and-file citizen wasn’t permitted the same.
It had been several years since Connor had lived and breathed his weapons like he had in the army. Sitting in an office in Langley didn’t require weapons training and maintaining his marksmanship abilities. But still, he’d made it a point to visit the range at least once a week. He wasn’t a sniper by any means, but as an average SF shooter he was still heads and shoulders above any normal shooter.
“Excellent, then I don’t have to tell you where the safety on that thing is,” Brice said.
“There isn’t one.”
Brice snapped his fingers, grinning. “Almost had you.”
“Almost.” Connor handed back the custom .45 and picked up the Glock 17. He racked the slide, locking it to the rear and inspecting the chamber. The weapon was clean, with a smooth action and a solid trigger. He brought it up to eye level, peered through the sights, and pulled the trigger, dry-firing it with a click.
“Nice.”
Brice cocked an eyebrow at him. “Huh, I had you pegged as a 1911 guy, myself.”
Connor shrugged. “It’s just a tool. I’m not extremely particular to the type of weapon system I use, as long as it’s reliable.”
“Make sense.” Brice retrieved another case, set it down on the table, and popped the tabs on three sides. A pair of black-framed glasses rested inside, nestled in a Styrofoam cut-out. “I know you don’t normally wear glasses, but I’m going to need you to.”
Connor set the pistol back in its case and turned the glasses over in his hands. “Seems kind of heavy.”
Brice nodded. “Because they’re significantly more advanced that the run-of-the-mill glasses you can get at your local optometrist.”
Con
nor slid them onto his face. Nothing happened. “Okay?”
“Here.” Brice tapped a small button on the right side of the frame. Immediately, blue translucent lettering appeared on the right lens: AOR Technologies Ver. 2.2c.
Then a loading timer appeared, and Connor watched the small progress bar advance across his vision. “Now that’s impressive.”
The words and progress bar vanished after a moment, replaced by the words, New user identified, awaiting registry information.
“The glasses are registering to your body’s signature,” Brice explained. “We’ve got access to advanced DNA biosensors that probably won’t hit the market for another five years or more. The sensors are part of the eyeglass frame, and through the contact they have with your scalp, they’re analyzing and imprinting to your body’s DNA profile. Once imprinted, nobody else will be able to use this pair of glasses. That DNA imprint will also act as a security seed for the encrypted connection to your agency phone. Through that connection, your lens will display correct GPS coordinates, calling information, all the usual. But it will also stream to our servers here, allowing for almost real-time observation, facial and auditory recognition, the works. You wear those, and we’ll literally be right there with you the whole time.”
“Guess I’ll have to remember that before I go to bed with a pretty lady.”
“Uh…”
“I’m joking.”
“Right, I knew that,” Brice said, looking away. He pulled out a small cloth pouch, unzipped it, and laid it open on the table. “Last thing is your standard wireless tap kit. Hardline phone, cellular, computer hard drive, anything you need.”
Connor picked up what looked like a USB dongle and held it up. “Hard drive?”
“Plug that into a PC and boot it, and it’ll search for and extract any dynamically created data such as e-mails, documents, etc. It’ll work on pretty much any system, and will use network connections to pull the same kind of data from remote services like Gmail, Yahoo, and other repositories.”
“Nice,” Connor said.
“Anything else you need along the way, I’ll drop-ship to wherever you are in the world with very few exceptions. Just remember to keep your ID with you.”
“All right,” said Thompson. “I think you’re all set.”
Connor looked at Thompson, and his glasses displayed the agent’s name and security assessment, which was color-coded as green. “Then I guess it’s time for me to hitch that ride up to New York. I just need to pack a duffel.”
Richards nodded. “I’ll take you back to your apartment, and then to the private hangar over at Dulles.”
As Connor gathered up his new equipment, he felt a sense of anxiousness. “I can’t help but think we’re running out of time.”
Chapter Twenty
The sun had almost dipped below the horizon as Mohammad made his way down the gangway onto the dock. He maneuvered his way through the dockworkers who were finishing securing the ship while the crew prepared for offloading her containers.
Above him, a crane was slowly moving into position, yellow warning strobes flashing as the massive rig rolled across the dock on rails embedded in the concrete. The entire rig groaned as it moved along, the sound adding to the whining of the crane. It all made for an unpleasant experience.
The truck Mohammad had requested was already in position, ready to receive his container, its driver standing by the rear wheels, smoking a cigarette, one foot propped up against the tire. Nicholas Krazynski had been an easy recruit. His divorce had left him with virtually nothing, he had the right kind of truck, and he was delighted to take a rush job that would pay him twice the mileage rate that he normally earned. All he had to do was make sure a specific container made it through the docks safely.
But Mohammad didn’t approach the truck right away. He had no interest in conducting small talk with the driver. The infidel would have nothing to say that he would want to hear, and Mohammad didn’t trust himself not to say anything that might make the driver suspicious.
The ship’s foreman on the deck started yelling orders to the dock workers and waving his hands at the crane operator to begin the unloading process. Mohammad had given specific instructions to the foreman and was trusting that his people had given similar instructions to the dock workers. His container was to be unloaded first.
There weren’t any Port Authority patrol vehicles around, and they hadn’t been bothered by the Coast Guard on the way in, so Mohammad could only assume that all the proper bribes had been paid, or threats made. It had taken a small fortune to get his prized possession through port security—in fact, he’d spent almost as much money just for this one aspect of the operation as he had for the rest of the operation combined. But this was the hardest part, and would mean the difference between success and failure.
The crane lowered its four-point grapple rig toward Mohammad’s container. A worker standing on top of the container attached the hand-sized U-clamps to the corners, then climbed down and waved to the foreman that he was clear. The foreman shouted at the crane operator, and Mohammad’s container rose from the deck. The transfer took less than five minutes.
Krazynski supervised as the workers secured the container to the flatbed of his truck, then went back around and double-checked all the connections after they were done. He tossed his cigarette away, climbed into the cab, retrieved his clipboard, and proceeded to check the registry number on the container against what was on his sheet.
At last Mohammad approached, trying to appear calm and collected, despite his inner trepidation. He felt naked and had to force himself not to touch his freshly shaved face. It had taken him over an hour to remove his beard, something he’d never done in his entire life. He’d never seen his adult face without hair, and after looking in the mirror to ensure the job had been completed, he vowed never to look in one again. The smooth skin looked and felt unnatural, like a violation of some unknown tenet of Islam.
Krazynski nodded as Mohammad walked over. “You the guy attached to the load?”
Mohammad bowed slightly, then immediately cursed himself. They don’t do that here. He straightened and said, “That’s right.”
The driver considered Mohammad for a moment, looking him up and down as if sizing him up for something.
Mohammad adjusted his pack on his shoulder. “Is something wrong?”
Krazynski sniffed. “Just never had anyone ride with a load before, is all.”
Mohammad shrugged. It was a very Western thing to do, and it was one of the mannerisms he’d taught himself over the years to help him blend in. In addition to their vastly different language, the way people conversed in this part of the world was sometimes difficult to grasp. “Is it a problem?”
“Hell, it’s your nickel,” Krazynski said, chuckling. “For that amount of money, I’d let you do damn near anything. Hop on up.” He motioned to the passenger-side door with his clipboard.
Mohammad nodded. “Thank you.”
“Going to make one last check, then we’ll be good to go.”
Mohammad climbed up into the cab and set his pack between his legs on the floor. The seat wasn’t comfortable, and the cab smelled like an ashtray and tuna fish. He immediately felt unclean and in need of a shower and his regular prayers. Both were things that he would have to neglect for now, much as it pained him. His mission to Allah demanded complete and total submission, and he would not fail.
Krazynski pulled open his door, muttering, “Son of a bitch.” He tossed his clipboard on the seat, pulled his plaid overshirt off, and started dabbing the papers. “Those bastards could at least make sure these things are dry before they hand them over, you know? Damn, I hope they’re not all screwed up now.”
Mohammad frowned. “What’s wrong?”
The driver shook his head, walked to the back of the truck, spent a moment there, and came back. “Container’s wet. Probably sat in a puddle on the deck the whole trip and no one bothered to dry it off.” He groaned as he ch
ecked the papers. The ink was smeared across the bill of lading. “Damn it.”
“Is that a problem?” Mohammad asked, growing anxious.
“Depends on if we get pulled over for inspection or not, and whether or not the trooper is having a good day or a bad day. Those dickheads don’t have anything better to do than pull over us hard-working truck drivers and put us behind schedule. I swear it’s like a game to them.”
This didn’t put Mohammad at ease. In fact, the mention of police only heightened his trepidation. Law enforcement was among his top concerns—for obvious reasons—and not having the paperwork he’d paid thousands of dollars for worried him even more.
Krazynski tossed the clipboard onto the dash above the steering wheel and sat down. “It’ll be fine. We’re only going across the country, right? This…” he put a finger on a notepad bungeed to the visor above him, “Decklin shipping?”
Mohammad nodded. “That’s right.”
The driver snorted and turned the key. “Funny name. Sounds Irish.”
The engine rumbled to life, the air brakes hissing as they disengaged, and they rolled away from the pier.
Mohammad wiped the sweat away from his forehead as they reached the first security checkpoint. He had to force himself to sit still and not fidget. As the guard checked the driver’s paperwork against his own, Mohammad’s stomach felt like it was twisting in knots. If they didn’t make it out of the docks, his entire mission would fail.
It wasn’t until the guard handed the clipboard back and waved them through that Mohammad let out the breath he’d been holding.
Krazynski jerked a thumb back toward the gate as they rumbled away. “Damn rent-a-cops. I swear, they think they’re going to catch a drug smuggler or human traffickers or something. No sane people would ship their dirty stuff through the docks with all the extra security going on right now. Just a bunch of contracted dickheads.”
Mohammad gave the man a hard look, wondering if the man was speaking directly to him or if he was simply speaking in generalities. There were many people involved with this operation, but Mohammad had made sure that none of them had been privy to the details. Had someone slipped and said something they weren’t supposed to?
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