Enemies Foreign And Domestic

by Matthew Bracken

  “What? Oh, we sure are. We’ve gotten the go-ahead to move as fast as we can, both on the team expansion, and on our operations. We’ll have to juggle them both; it’s not going to be easy to break new guys into our system, even SRT guys, and maintain our operational tempo at the same time.”

  “Well at least we’ve got plenty of room here,” said Silvari. “We could put five more teams into the space we’ve got, easy.”

  “Yeah, that’s a fact. Crowding won’t be an issue around here for a long, long time,” said Malvone, smiling. “Bob, next week you’re going to start recruiting new guys. Do you have an itinerary yet?”

  “I’m working on it, boss. I’m going to hit all the Field Divisions and talk to the Special Response Teams, give them a recruiting pitch. And we’ve already got the list of SRT and FBI SWAT and HRT guys we generated in-house who want to come over. I think we can put together another two teams in a month. Personnel-wise, it’s no problem. Getting the bodies won’t be the hard part; it’s going to be integrating them into the STU while we’re still conducting ops at the same time.”

  “We’re the SPD now, Bob, the SPD.”

  “I keep forgetting. The ‘Special Projects Division.’ I like that… And being at division level is going to really help.”

  “The name doesn’t matter,” replied Malvone. “We’ll get anything we need, no matter what we’re called. We’ve got the big green light all the way from the top, the very top…but forget you heard that.”

  “Heard what?” laughed Bullard.

  Shanks said, “You should have seen us at Office Depot! We just about cleaned them out.”

  “Come on you guys, we’ve got to keep a low profile. People remember things like that. I know we’re in a hurry, but don’t make any big scenes in town.”

  “Wally,” said Silvari, “we’ve got guys staying in motels all over the place because of that Fed List, and they want to know if their expense claims are going to be a problem. They’re going to be running up some big tabs.”

  “No, no problem. Maximum per-diem all the way, no hassles, for as long as it takes. How many of our guys are on the Fed List?”

  “About half. The out-of-state guys aren’t listed; it’s all by home of record. What about you Wally? Did you make the list?”

  “Nah, I lucked out. My home of record is still at my condo in Miami.”

  “You can’t beat that Florida state income tax,” said Silvari.

  “You got that right.”

  “So Wally, are we still on for Friday night?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  ****

  Four shadows slid along the balcony in the darkness. Two stopped on the right side of the door, and two continued across to the hinge side. One of them stage-whispered “3-2-1-Go!” The door was jerked open and held all the way to the left side. A small cylinder was tossed into the room, and after a two second pause the man who threw it yelled “boom” with his eyes closed. Then he dashed through the open door, followed closely behind by the others.

  Four brilliant flashlights turned the room into a carnival funhouse of colliding lights and shadows as loud voices simultaneously yelled, “FBI! Search warrant! Freeze! Down on the floor!” They were inside the room and in a position of control and dominance in under three seconds; they formed a rough line along the near wall, two on each side of the door. Carson was all the way to the left with his .45 caliber Tommy gun; Victor Sorrento was just to the left of the door with Hammet’s 10mm MP-5. Ranya was just to the right side of the door with a suppressed 9mm MAC-10, and Brad was all the way to the right side of the room with another MAC. Each weapon was shouldered, sweeping back and forth in a tight arc covering a quarter of the room.

  Carson found the light switch and turned on a table lamp in the living room of the halfway house. “Not bad, at least nobody fell down this time. Seriously, that was a lot better. Nobody walked into anybody’s field of fire, but Tony and Robin, you still need to move further away from the door before you stop. Get cover, or keep moving, but don’t stand there next to the door! Remember, the open door’s the big bullet magnet. You already know that…what am I telling you for again? Okay, turn off your gun lights now—we don’t have any spare lithium batteries.”

  Their Sure-Flash gun lights were older models, a gift from Jasper Mosby, who didn’t ask Phil Carson what he needed them for. The four gun lights (with their etched numbers ground off) and one Def-Tek “distraction device” were the only items of actual SWAT gear Carson’s little team had. Mosby had put them in a taped-up brown bag, and left them in the cleaning supply locker in the men’s room of a Denny’s restaurant in Hampton, where Archie had picked them up.

  Carson continued with his instruction. “Remember, in Malvone’s club room, there’s a bar running along the right side wall. It’s a natural hiding place for anybody who’s behind it when we come in, so Bob, make sure you get all the way over there and clear it right away. Then you can use it for cover yourself. Or for concealment, anyway.

  “The enclosed staircase along the back wall is good cover for any bad guys coming down from the kitchen, so as soon as everybody in the club room is neutralized, Robin, you just push right across and take your position at the bottom to secure it. Keep talking to us; let everybody know what you’re doing. Everybody be aware that after we’re all on line, Robin is crossing the room to control the stairwell, so let’s not have any accidents. Don’t sweep her with your guns. I know this room isn’t set up the same as Malvone’s club room, just keep the sketches in mind and it’ll work out fine.

  “If they comply and get right on the floor, we’ll flex-cuff them one at a time. If not…well, just do what comes naturally. But don’t shoot Malvone, or at least don’t kill him! We need him to be able to talk; that’s the whole point of the exercise. Then, once everybody in the room is secured, and that should only take a minute, we’ll do a fast search of the house. We’ll clear the whole place room by room in pairs, putting on all the lights as we go, and then we’ll search it on the way back out. We’re especially interested in his office; it’s next to his bedroom on the same side of the hall. We’ll take his computer, his laptop, zip drives, CDs, cell phones, iPads, notebooks, videos, cassettes, whatever we can find. Just shove it all in the bags, and we’ll sort it out later.”

  Brad and Victor wore green vinyl white-water rafting bags with backpack straps over their other gear, ready to haul out the computers and other documents. All four of them had on matching black nylon warm-up suits, with their submachine guns hanging across their chests from strap slings around their necks. Each weapon held a pair of empty thirty round magazines for this practice session; one in the weapon’s magazine well and one duct-taped in tandem for a quicker reload.

  Three of them wore black fanny packs turned around to the front holding their extra submachine gun magazines, although they all realized perfectly well that if they needed more than the sixty rounds apiece in their first two magazines they would be “in a world of hurt,” as Carson put it. Carson himself wore an old brown canvas rig on his chest, which carried six extra magazines in vertical pouches.

  Even with all the submachine gun ammo, they all carried pistols as backups in generic black ballistic nylon holsters; the cheap holsters were picked up during Archie and Edith’s afternoon shopping trip.

  Unlike the Special Training Unit, and all of the other hundreds of American SWAT teams, they had not each been individually outfitted with thousands of dollars worth of “high speed” ergonomic ballistic nylon and Kevlar, which securely carried every weapon, ammo magazine and item of tactical gear in precisely the optimum location.

  Instead, they had been outfitted by Archie and Edith, on short notice, from an eclectic variety of discount chain outlets and sporting goods stores. Instead of bulletproof Kevlar vests, they wore water ski vests for floatation during their waterborne infiltration. The thick ski vests were spray-painted flat black, and bulked up their profiles to make them resemble actual SWAT cops.


  On their heads they wore skate boarding helmets, similar to ice hockey helmets, which were roughly the same shape as the compact kevlar helmets worn by many SWAT teams. Like the ski vests they wouldn’t stop a bullet, but spray-painted black, they made the amateur assault team very closely resemble the real deal.

  Their “flex-cuffs” were actually the largest size nylon wire-ties Archie had been able to purchase at an electrical supply company. Wire ties were the original plastic handcuffs, and they still worked just as well as the ones especially made for police.

  To protect their eyes, they wore clear goggles picked up at a welding supply store. These were attached around the backs of their helmets with thick elastic straps, and also added to their overall SWAT team “look.” On their hands they wore thin black driving gloves.

  Anyone seeing them behind their bright gun lights, helmeted and dressed all in black, would assume that they were an actual law enforcement raiding party. Pros like the STU Team would then not aim for the chest or head, assuming they were clad in bullet-proof kevlar. This would increase their safety, by diminishing their target area. At least, that had been Phil Carson’s reasoning, and no one had disagreed.

  “Look at us,” laughed Ranya, looking like a chubby Michelin-man ninja warrior. “How long do you think it’ll take them to figure out we’re not the FBI?”

  Brad replied, “It doesn’t matter. They’ll be blind and disoriented from the flash-bang grenade, then all they’ll hear is ‘FBI!’ and all they’ll see is our gun lights. They’ll never really see us at all; it’ll work the same as it worked at the air field.”

  Carson said, “That’s how it should work, but remember, that was only two guys, and they were dragging Edmonds across the floor when we came in. This time it’ll probably be at least five bad guys. Just remember, Malvone’s the big bald-headed older one with the thick mustache, so don’t shoot him if you can avoid it. It’s not going to be easy this time…with Hammet and Garfield missing, you can bet they’ll all be jumpy, and armed to the teeth.”

  “Well, if I even see a gun, I’m shooting,” said Tony, matter-of-factly.

  “I wouldn’t expect anything else,” said Carson. “But if they go right to the floor, we’ll hold our fire and flex-cuff them, got it?”

  “Got it,” said Tony.

  Carson said, “These STU guys use flash-bangs and gun lights all the time; so maybe, just maybe they’ve trained against this kind of raid. I doubt it, but it’s possible.”

  “Shooting civilians in bed is their style,” replied Tony. “I don’t see them training to go up against this kind of attack.”

  “Neither do I. But you can bet our gun lights will turn into bullet magnets pretty damn fast, if we don’t get control in the first few seconds. So don’t fool around. If they don’t get on the floor, if you can’t see their hands…well, don’t take any chances. Two to the chest and one to the head, just in case they’re wearing vests underneath their shirts. But try not to kill Malvone! Bob’s seen him before, so he’ll make the positive ID. Once they’re all cuffed or dead, we’ll search the place.

  “Okay, let’s go back out on the balcony and run through it again. Move away from the door fast, don’t sweep each other, and cover your sectors. And Robin, open it slower this time, the real one might be a lot heavier, or it might get hung up.”

  Ranya said, “You’re assuming the door’s going to be unlocked, like at the air field. What if it’s not?”

  “Then we’ll improvise. We’ll get them to open it up. We’ll figure it out when we get there. There’s a hundred ways to skin a cat, we’ll figure something out. Okay, let’s go outside and do it again. After we get it perfect, we’ll test fire our weapons.”

  47

  As a security precaution, Archie and Edith were limiting their time and possible exposure at the halfway house, so, Thursday morning after dropping off more gear, they quickly went over their updated list with Phil Carson and took off again.

  The two most important items they brought (besides a carton of Marlboros for Carson) were a used twelve-foot Zodiac-type inflatable boat and a 35-horsepower Evinrude outboard, found through the Boat Trader, and picked up in nearby Gloucester. Brad carried the outboard motor to a horizontal plank which was bolted between two of the pilings which supported the house, lowered it into position and screwed it down tight in order to test it.

  Carson and Victor Sorrento unrolled the old rubber inflatable, and pushed the dozen large and small timber and plywood floorboard pieces into position, getting it ready to pump full of air. The outboard motor and the inflatable had been bought “as is” for cash, which was a reasonable tradeoff for obtaining the items with no documentation.

  “Have you ever put one of these together before?” Carson asked Tony. “I don’t even know if we have the right parts.”

  “Don’t look at me; I thought you knew what you were doing.”

  Both men, on their hands and knees on the flaccid rubber boat, laughed at one another and at themselves, and threw down the varnished marine plywood parts they were holding. The wooden puzzle wasn’t going together.

  “You just have to be ten percent smarter than the boat,” joked Brad. He was unreeling a green garden hose and dragging it over to the outboard. “What’s that story about the monkey and the football?”

  “Okay, Jacques Cousteau,” said Carson, “how about we test the motor, and you put the boat together?” They got up and walked over to the back side of the house where the Evinrude was set up.

  Brad waved the end of the hose at them. “You know what to do with this?”

  “Nobody likes a smartass, Bob,” said Carson, with a fresh cigarette dangling from his lip. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt, an old pair of cutoff jeans, and black rubber sandals. They had found a large plastic basket full of clothes, which had been left in the laundry room by previous guests (they presumed), and they had helped themselves to what they needed.

  Brad handed Tony what looked like a pair of black suction cups the size of coffee saucers, attached to the ends of a U-shaped steel spring. One of the black rubber cups had a threaded attachment for a water hose. “Stick these over the water intakes, get the water going, then you can see if it’ll run without burning it up.”

  “I think we can handle it,” said Carson. “Motors I understand. Just see if we have all the parts for the Zodiac.”

  After Brad walked back to where the boat had been unrolled, Tony asked Carson, “When’s Chuck coming back? You really think he’ll show? I know he’s your friend, but there’s something about that guy I don’t trust.”

  “Chuck’s okay. He’ll be back. He’s going to bring his boat around tonight, when it’s time to pick you up.”

  “Are you sure? For all we know, he could be ratting us out right now as we speak.”

  “He won’t. Chuck’s not a bad guy, not really. And he owes me, big time. He’s just nervous; he’s not used to this kind of thing. He’s been living the good life for a long time. Anyway, he’s more afraid of us than the cops, trust me on that. He wouldn’t cross us.”

  “We’re still aiming to shove off at 0400?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Four AM. Twelve hours in the Molly at ten knots gets us to Malvone’s creek at five PM tomorrow.”

  “What kind of boat does Chuck have?”

  “It’s a Baycruiser, about twenty five or thirty feet long. Kind of a pig, one of those tubby over-stuffed looking things as I recall. I only saw it once at the dock.” Carson walked over to where Archie had dropped off the load, and picked up a squat five gallon red plastic gasoline tank and brought it back. He put it down and snapped its black fuel line into the back of the motor and began squeezing the bulb-pump.

  “I wish I didn’t have to go with Chuck. I’d rather go on the Molly with you guys.” Tony threaded the end of the water hose into the back of one of the the black rubber cups, and slid them both over the sides of the engine shaft, where there were small cooling water inlets.

  “Well, we
need you on his boat, that’s part of the plan. Chuck’s going to speed it up at the end and get there a good hour before the Molly arrives so you can do your recon. Everything we do depends on your recon report. So we’ll see if you remember what the Marines taught you about sneaking and peeking, right? And you’re sure you can paddle the kayak without tipping over?” On one of their Wednesday supply trips, Archie and Edith had brought them a scuffed-up blue plastic kayak; now it was stashed up in the rafters under the house. They were keeping a very low profile, and were not venturing out into the open for anything that was not absolutely mission-critical.

  “Give me a damn break. Of course I can paddle a kayak.” Tony walked over to the hose faucet and turned it on, then returned. Water began to stream from the bottom of the motor around the black cups. “Once I’m there I’ll sneak in so close to his house, I’ll be able to tell you what Malvone’s been drinking by his breath.”

  “Just don’t compromise the mission, Victor. Don’t take any stupid chances. If you’re spotted, the whole thing’s screwed. Remember, you won’t have a gun on the recon, not until you link up with us after dark.” Carson pulled out the choke, twisted open the throttle on the tiller, and put his left hand on top of the engine cover.

  “Not even a pistol? Why can’t I take a pistol? They’re still legal.”

  “It’s not worth it. Chuck’s boat has to be perfectly clean in case it’s stopped. We just can’t afford to get hassled; we can’t take the risk. Hammet’s night vision goggles will be all right—lots of rich boaters like Chuck have them now. And if you don’t have a gun, I won’t have to worry about you getting too close to Malvone’s house on the recon. But listen, I want you to take a knife. Think you can use a knife?” Carson reared back and pulled the starting cord; the flywheel spun and the motor coughed briefly and died.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “You think so? You gotta be sure. Did you ever stick anybody?” Carson paused, his right hand still on the handle of the cord, and stared into Victor Sorrento’s eyes. “Tony” looked like a Hollywood mafia hood, but that didn’t mean anything.