In the 2d Marine Division headquarters, Gunnery Sergeant Ron Blakely, the command duty staff NCO, had been brushing his teeth when the blast knocked him from his feet. His first thought was that there had been an explosion in the ammo dump. He looked out the window and saw the cloud of smoke over the infantry areas. The phone rang, and he ran into the office. Major John Delburton, the command duty officer, pushed the enlisted phone watch aside and took the call himself.
When he hung up, his face was ashen. "A BEQ was just bombed."
"Did they say how, Sir?"
"They said there was nothing left of the building."
"Mother of Christ."
The major had been gazing out the window. For a moment he seemed lost, then quickly snapped back. He grabbed a yellow legal pad off the desk and began writing. He was the assistant communications officer for the division and had personally revised most of the emergency SOPs. "Gunny, this is a list of people you've got to call. I'm going to have to get on the phone with the general and let him know what happened. Then I'll have to call Fleet Marine Force Atlantic and Washington. You get ahold of base headquarters and the MPs. Tell them to seal off the base and keep a road clear to the hospital for ambulances. Tell the provost marshal's office that I'm activating the Alpha Increment Air-Alert Company for base defense. Call New River Air Station, Camp Geiger, and Camp Johnson and tell them to do the same. Tell New River to be prepared to send its fire fighters and crash crews over here and to get some helos ready to transport casualties. Then get the hospital and tell them to be prepared for mass casualties. Call Bragg, Cherry Point, and Bethesda and tell them the same thing. Call the command duty officer at Force Service Support Group, and tell him to stand by with earth-moving equipment from Landing Support and Engineer Support battalions. Don't let him send it; I don't want a clusterfuck in the disaster area. Just have him get the drivers in the vehicles and stand by. Do the same thing for 2d Combat Engineers." He ripped the paper off the pad and handed it over. "Okay, Gunny?"
"Jesus Christ," breathed the gunny.
"Let's get moving," the major said sharply.
"Aye, aye, sir," said the gunny, swinging around to the phone.
"And you," the major snapped at the phone watch, a mild-looking private first class who shot out of his chair to attention.
"Yes, Sir?" he squeaked.
"Sweep this building for field-grade officers," the major ordered. "If you find any, send them up here—we have to get the command center set up."
"Aye, Aye, Sir!" yelled the phone watch as he dashed from the room.
"Of course this had to happen when I was on duty," mumbled the major as he walked to his office to break the news to the commanding general.
The situation on the base was chaotic. Not everyone had arrived at work yet, and those who had were little help. Because everyone wanted to take charge and insisted on an explanation, it took too much time to get moving. Marines poured into the blast area from all comers of the base, wanting to help. But they impeded the flow of ambulances and heavy equipment. The usual morning traffic jams were made even worse, stranding the people who were most needed. The Division Command Center had trouble getting through to the various units because the phone lines were jammed with dependent families calling to find out what happened and make sure their loved ones were all right.
The 2d Marine Division has, at all times, an infantry battalion organized and on alert to move anywhere in the world by air in a matter of hours. That battalion has a rifle company prepared to move out as its lead element at even shorter notice. When it assembled, the company was sent to the bomb site as crowd control and security. The leaders at the scene felt that another attack might be launched as soon as large crowds gathered. The air-alert company also kept the area clear, allowing the engineers' cranes and earthmovers to move in and start clearing rubble in the search for survivors.
Luckily, four battalion surgeons had been on the base before it was sealed off. They rushed to the bomb site and allowed doctors who had been trying to stabilize casualties at the scene to move back to the hospital. There were at least 150 navy Corpsmen there also—they grabbed their Unit 1 medical bags and rushed over from all directions. Even the duty dentist of Dental Company came over with his equipment and enlisted technicians.
Elsewhere on the base, dump trucks raced about carrying sandbags to gates and important buildings. Each gate and main headquarters soon had sandbag bunkers, concrete blocks, and rolls of concertina wire blocking the entrances. The military police at the various gates traded their dress uniforms and Beretta pistols for camouflage utilities, helmets, flak jackets, M-16s, M-240 machineguns, and AT-4 antitank rockets. When the TOW heavy antitank missile section attached to the air-alert battalion arrived for muster, live missiles were issued and each squad of TOW Humvees was sent to a gate. The other two rifle companies of the air-alert battalion stood by on trucks as a mobile reaction force should any part of the base be attacked.
All over Camp Lejeune shocked, scared, and very angry young men waited, hoping someone would try something now that they were ready.
PART FOUR
But helpless pieces of the game He plays,
Upon this chequer-board of nights and days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays
And one by one back in the closet lays.
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
CHAPTER 23
At 0730 that Thursday morning the Guards were driving up Route 29 north of Greensboro, North Carolina, approaching the Virginia border.
After leaving Camp Lejeune the three pickup trucks had followed Route 17 south down the coast to the city of Wilmington, North Carolina. When making his escape plan, Ali had resisted the temptation to immediately head north, even though it meant risking more time in the state.
In Wilmington they stopped at three commercial parking lots in widely separated locations: at the New Hanover Commuter Airport, near the access to Wrightsville Beach, and in downtown Wilmington. At each lot they traded a pickup truck with North Carolina plates for a van registered in Virginia. During the drive down, the Guards had wrapped the weapons in green tarpaulins to make the transfer as unobtrusive as possible.
The convoy of pickup trucks soon became a convoy of three sporty passenger vans: a Toyota, an Aerostar, and a Grand Voyager. Ali hadn't wanted to risk bringing the captured ammunition to the attack on the bivouac, so Karim and Hafiz had driven directly to Wilmington from the range. In a parking lot near the USS North Carolina Battleship Memorial, they transferred the ammo to an Econoline. The rest of the unit linked up with them there.
Ali knew the trucks would be discovered in the parking lots sooner or later; that was his main reason for driving south to Wilmington. It was a busy port, accommodating ships from all over the world. A natural avenue of escape. God willing, the Americans would think they had abandoned their vehicles and fled the country by sea. Or perhaps used the airport to connect with an international flight out of Charlotte or Atlanta.
They made it out of Wilmington onto Route 40 just before the start of the morning rush hour. The long, winding route through the North Carolina flatland took them through Raleigh and then Durham. The vans finally turned north onto Route 29 at Greensboro.
Inside the vans some Guards were still on an adrenaline high from the night's action; others fell asleep as soon as the vans began moving. Ali was wide awake in the front seat of the lead van, driving Mehdi to distraction by continually switching through radio channels for news.
At 0740 the radio announced an explosion at Camp Lejeune Marine Corps Base in Jacksonville. Ali slammed his fist into the dashboard in exultation, nearly causing Mehdi to swerve off the road. His war cry woke the Guards in back, and soon they crowded behind the front seats to listen to the news. The laughter and chatter grew so loud that Ali had to shout for silence.
The North Carolina media, shocked and somewhat giddy at finding themselves in the midst of a national news story, were promising conti
nuous coverage. But the only information available was that the base had been sealed off and large numbers of casualties were arriving at area hospitals. This provoked cheers from the back of the van. Sources suspected the explosion to be an act of terrorism. The Guards began booing. "It was an act of war," one shouted. This started a long argument about whether they were engaged in war or vengeance. Ali had to turn up the volume to drown them out.
As they left North Carolina after what seemed an eternity, Ali allowed himself a brief celebration, accepting a sandwich and soft drink from one of the Guards in back. Chewing the sandwich, he reflected that Karim had to be given due credit for the provisions. They had been discussing the escape plans, plotting an indirect route north to Virginia, when Karim abruptly inquired what they would eat on the trip. Ali and Musa had looked at each other and, to the amazement of Hafiz and his agents, had burst into laughter. For all the detailed contingency planning, none of them had given it any thought. Of course it had to be Karim with his appetite. As they talked it over, it was clear they had a serious problem. Even the most dim-witted gas station attendant or fast-food clerk would not forget four vanloads of foreigners passing through just after a Marine base had been blown up. So a number of extra gas cans had been purchased and filled. Coolers packed with drinks and sandwiches were added to the list of items to be brought along. Once they left Wilmington the only stops had been in secluded areas. Gasoline was added to the tanks, and empty soda cans filled with urine were thrown out the windows.
In Virginia they followed Route 29 northward, skirting the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains. At Culpeper they turned east and followed the Rapidan River into Fredericksburg. It was night when the five vans arrived at the house Mehdi had purchased months earlier. Mahmoud and the three remaining shaheed were waiting with food laid out in case the Guards were hungry.
The Sergeant Major laughed uproariously as the Guards hobbled about the lawn, trying to get their legs working after sitting so long. Even those who had napped in the vans were exhausted from the stress of the previous days, and they longed for sleep. But Ali would not allow them to eat or sleep until the vans were hidden in the garage and barn, and all the weapons, ammunition, and stores were unloaded and secured in the house. The Sergeant Major posted a guard schedule, which included monitoring the police-band radio at all times. Only then were the Guards allowed to collapse on the mattresses scattered throughout the house. They were safe for the moment, and that was the extent of their concern.
CHAPTER 24
The FBI Jet Ranger circled over mainside Camp Lejeune at a thousand feet, out of the way of the medevac helicopters darting in below. Rich Welsh felt like a ghoul. Such a godlike perch almost made you forget that those tiny things being pulled from the rubble were men. Almost. But the distance made it easier in a way. You didn't have to hear or smell what was going on, or watch too closely.
Welsh hated helicopters. After a dozen close calls as a Marine and half a dozen friends killed in crashes, he'd vowed never to set foot in one again. But this time it was necessary—all the roads in the vicinity were jammed.
The report of the terrorist bombing at the Camp Lejeune Bachelor Enlisted Quarters had come in a few minutes after they'd felt the actual explosion. MacNeil tried to get a forensics team to the BEQ explosion scene by helicopter, but his efforts did little good. There was too much confusion, and the Marines were in no mood to deal with the FBI when men might still be alive in the rubble. MacNeil told them to just stand by. He'd already called Washington for bomb experts after the explosion at the farm.
Welsh felt sorry for MacNeil. Even if what happened wasn't his fault, the guy in charge always took the spike. MacNeil had spent a long time in the communications van after the explosion, explaining things to Washington. And there was plenty to explain. Only three of the twenty Hostage Rescue Team members who went into the house had survived the blast, and they were all in critical condition. And there were two dead and seventeen wounded among the men surrounding the farmhouse. But the most humiliating part was that the bombers had escaped the farmhouse and gotten through to the base. The first reports from Camp Lejeune made the damage sound very bad.
Then, a few hours later, while they were still putting things together at the farmhouse, a report came in of a massacre in the Camp Lejeune training areas. MacNeil ordered the rest of his forensics people at New River Air Station to drive to the scene, and decided to take the remaining helicopter and check it out personally. Welsh thought it was also to get away from the phone to Washington. He'd been surprised when MacNeil offered to take him along, but it made sense when he thought about it. It was always nice to have a neutral party to talk to.
MacNeil's voice came through the headset. "We can't set down here. I want to go to the other site and take a look. Do you know any place close where we can land?"
Welsh leaned into the space between the two front seats and pointed to a spot on the map the pilot held up. "The ammo dump here is only used for training. We could land inside or anywhere around, and just walk across the road."
The pilot nodded, spoke a few words to New River Control, and swung the Ranger into a sharp turn across the river. Welsh held on to the sides of his seat. He knew it wouldn't do any good, but he couldn't help it.
They landed in a field of tall grass next to the old ammunition storage area. The pilot stayed with the helicopter, and Welsh, relieved to be on the ground again, guided MacNeil through the brush to the asphalt road.
Military police had the area cordoned off. The FBI forensics team was already hard at work. Frank Sears, the team leader, met MacNeil and Welsh at the entrance to the tank trail.
"What does it look like?" MacNeil asked.
"The same people," Sears said flatly. "Same 7.62 x 39mm M43 cases, all spent. Other than tire marks and footprints, that's all they left behind. They used pickup trucks. We may be able to get fibers off the bushes, but that's it."
"How bad?" asked MacNeil.
"Total. Over sixty so far. A few tried to run, but they didn't make it."
"Who found them?" Welsh broke in.
"The company first sergeant," said Sears. "He drove over here right after the bombing."
"What did they do to them?" Welsh demanded.
Sears hesitated. MacNeil nodded for him to go ahead. "They all were shot," Sears said. "Most in their tents, they never had a chance. Every weapon was taken. But the bodies weren't mutilated," he added, as if that made all the difference in the world.
Without saying anything, Welsh left them and walked toward the clearing.
The bodies of the five lieutenants were still lying in the trail. Someone had covered them with two camouflage ponchos. Welsh noticed that whoever had done it had tucked the ponchos very neatly around their legs. He thought of a first sergeant taking care of his lieutenants. He checked the CP tent and then circled the clearing until he could see how it had been done. There was a group of Marines standing off to one side, talking quietly among themselves. Welsh could make out a bird colonel and a lieutenant colonel, probably the regimental and battalion commanders. He didn't go over. He had nothing to say to them, and it was probably for the best, since in his present mood he felt like spitting on any Marine officer over the rank of lieutenant.
FBI technicians and photographers were working among the tents. Welsh walked down the rows. The trampled dead grass was bathed in thick sheets of dried blood. There was no way to avoid it, so Welsh tried to put it out of his mind and keep walking. Most of the bodies had been pulled out of the slashed-open tents. Dead men gazed blankly up at him. Welsh heard the voices of Marines in his head. They became too loud, and he walked quickly into the treeline, almost running. Far enough not to be seen, Welsh sank to his knees and took several great, deep, rattling breaths.
MacNeil was looking around the clearing when Welsh appeared from the treeline. "Are you okay?" he asked, very concerned, when he saw Welsh's stricken face.
"Yeah," Welsh said heavily, staring at the little
green tents. "I just never thought I'd have to see another dead Marine." He looked over at MacNeil, embarrassed by what he had said. "Sears said they took all the weapons, right?"
"Right," said MacNeil.
"So they've got M-16s, squad automatic weapons, M-240 machineguns, and 60mm mortars."
MacNeil looked back blankly, and then it clicked. "Everything they lost on the beach," he breathed.
"I think," Welsh said quietly, "you had better send someone to check all the firing ranges on this side of the river. Right now, because there's probably a few more dead Marines and a load of missing ammunition."
MacNeil was puzzled, so Welsh explained how things were done on the ranges. "Oh, my God," MacNeil exclaimed. He ran to find the officer in charge of the military police.
An hour later the MPs found the two bodies under the bleachers at range K-305, and MacNeil had to make another series of calls to Washington.
Welsh was getting a feeling he had sometimes—that he ought to stay away from people for a little while. Or people ought to stay away from him. He knew MacNeil was going to be tied up for some time, so he went for a walk in the woods. It was just as well. There weren't any ambulances left, so the Marines brought in a working party to load all the body bags on two 7 ton trucks. Both trucks were filled quickly, but there were still bodies left over, so the Marines had to take all the bags out and restack them.
When Welsh came back an hour and a half later, he found MacNeil sitting alone in one of the technicians' cars, his notebook open on his lap.
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