by Joseph Nagle
His commands to the tanks would be sent wirelessly; with the simple push of a button on a high-frequency remote, the tanks would begin to pump the odorless, tasteless, and invisible gas throughout the ancient and unused hypocaust and into the floors and walls of Notre Dame. He reveled in the plan for a moment; it was pure genius, really. The ancient system used to heat the cathedral was unused and, instead of being replaced during the many reconstructive periods of Notre Dame, was built around and quietly hidden from floor to ceiling by the cathedral’s walls.
In his pocket was the wireless device that would bring down Notre Dame. When the appropriate time arrived for him to enter in the correct code, the gas-filled floor and walls would explode magnificently. The charges hidden in the explosives attached to the buttresses would be triggered the moment the gas ignited and would destroy the critical element that managed the vertical thrust of the large and heavy vaulted ceilings. The destroyed floors and walls of Notre Dame would not be able to support the massive ceiling without the flying buttresses. He was about to accomplish the impossible. He knew what would occur would shake the world—Notre Dame would fall and would do so in dramatic fashion.
The cathedral could easily hold a few thousand visitors and would be full on this day. Outside would be countless more. But the coup de grace would be the death of the visiting American senator who would certainly be flanked by the cooing president of France. The deaths wouldn’t stop there: anyone within fifty yards of Notre Dame’s perimeter—and there would be hundreds, thousands perhaps—would perish in the wake of its destruction. He was being paid to kill the senator and to steal the Crown of Thorns, but the president of France was his own target and the reason he had accepted the job.
A slight, but wicked, smile caused his normally pursed lips to widen, showing a small measure of emotion. Exhaling slowly, he rubbed his eyes and reminded himself that there were still two last things to do.
Standing, he adjusted his posture to emulate how he thought a commandant of the Gendarmerie Nationale would carry himself. He looked left and right and then quickly made his way toward the 422 steps of the South Tower of Notre Dame.
CHAPTER FIVE
OPERATION MONGOOSE
TARGET: ABU
MOHAMMED IBRAHIM
The day was rapidly growing hot. York looked down at his wristwatch, which also displayed the temperature: 107 degrees.
The climb was slow and arduous.
York was at the point, but he had difficulty moving expeditiously while simultaneously scanning for combatants and signs of the irrigation canal—his marker—that fed into the cave complex. A bulbous drop of salt-laced sweat dripped from his upper eyelid and into his left eye; he ignored the deep stinging, only squinting slightly at its intrusion.
Scanning slowly, he saw another karez just ahead. The underground irrigation system quietly punctuated the steep slope and was his only visual marker that the team was fast approaching the mountainside cave complex. The holes opened to long shafts, and York was careful to mark each one so that the approaching team members didn’t mistakenly step into them.
The shafts burrowed into the earth anywhere from twenty to one hundred meters deep and often were the cause of broken ankles, legs, and the occasional soldier buried embarrassingly to his waist, or worse. York bent lower and spilled some water from his canteen, marking an × in the dirt, a few meters in front of the shaft’s obscure opening. The watermark would let his teammates know another karez was just ahead. The mark would soon dry, ridding any evidence of the team’s presence.
York readied to move forward. He knew that they were close to the cave. The altimeter on his watch stated that they had climbed nearly twelve hundred meters—twelve hundred very steep meters. Nearly three hours had passed, and the dense foliage was beginning to lose its abundance: the first sign that the underbelly of the earth was more rock than dirt and that the woods would give way to caves.
Moving slowly, York snaked his way from karez to karez until he caught the first glimpse of the entrance to their target. Stopping, York immediately went to one knee and held up his left hand, which was balled into a fist. The message to the rest of the team was clear: they had arrived. If York had turned around, he wouldn’t have been able to see his teammates, but they were there. York’s unspoken command was repeated from one Green Beret to the next. Each man had taken a knee and waited.
Carefully, York lowered himself into a prone position and laid his cheek across the stock of his weapon. Like the eyes of an eagle circling for its dinner, York bore his gaze down the barrel of his weapon and across the surface of grass, dirt, timber, and rock, looking for anything that didn’t belong. He studied every facet of every shadow, contour, and color: he dissected every shade of each shadow’s grayness and every angle, both deep and shallow, of every contour, and the palate of the simple colors belonging to the uninspiring terrain.
With every calculating movement of his eye, York expected to find the reddened face of an angry Arab staring back at him. But he saw nothing but nature, not even a lone sentry or an errant cigarette butt. It didn’t feel right.
York reached up to his throat and tapped the bone mic so that he could be heard. “Six, this is Point.”
Captain Scott whispered his reply. “Go ahead, Point, do you see anything?”
The airwaves crackled slightly, and York replied, “Negative, Six. No guards and no signs of activity, just a dark hole about two meters high and a meter and a half wide.”
“Okay, Point. Stay put, everyone else rally on Point.”
In York’s ear he heard a number of short bursts of static—the rest of the team signaling that they had heard the captain’s orders. Within moments, the slight rustling of bodies moving through the trees and boots pressing into the earth warned York that the team was arriving. One by one, the camouflaged Green Berets of the A-Team dropped into prone positions to York’s right and left flanks.
Immediately at his right, Captain Scott settled next to York and spoke his question softly. “What do you think, York?”
“Sir,” replied York, “I’ve got that feeling—something just ain’t right.”
The captain furrowed his brow deeply and contemplated momentarily; he then said, “York, fire up the gossip girl; get me some ears in the cave.”
“Yes, sir,” replied York as he opened up a small pouch on the right shoulder strap of his LCE. He pulled out a small metal container and opened it. In it was a bullet and small round ball. No larger in diameter than a nickel, but made of plastic with a felt cover, the ball was a disposable listening device that York would fire from the bore of his SCAR-H. The bullet was not meant for killing. Instead of firing a round from its brass casing, the charge inside would send a stream of highly compressed air through the rifle, propelling the little ball at five hundred feet per second to wherever it was aimed.
York pulled back on the charging handle to the rotating bolt of his SCAR-H and ejected the round that was chambered. Through the dust cover, he slipped in the special bullet.
Peering down the sights, his target was easy—for him—and akin to hitting the side of a barn with a basketball. The thick, fleshy part of his index finger rested firmly on the trigger, and York squeezed, firing the little ball into the cave complex.
Captain Scott switched the frequency of his radio to match the one coming from the gossip girl and listened. His ears were met with the echoing sounds of nothing. He looked at his communications sergeant and ordered, “Sergeant, boost the power to its maximum.”
Without responding, the communications sergeant spun the dial of the gossip girl’s command module fully to the right, giving it full power. He looked at the captain and signaled a thumbs-up.
Captain Scott closed his eyes and listened.
Still, there was nothing.
MSG Bryan idled up closer to the captain and whispered, “There was supposed to be a full cell in there. This place is deserted. They probably hit the road when York took out those two guards. Ib
rahim ain’t there. You want to call it a day and head back to Salerno?”
“The place is empty. York was right—this doesn’t smell kosher.”
“You wanna throw in some heat and bug out?” asked MSG Bryan.
York lay among the rocks and listened to the interchange. He knew the right thing to do was to finish the mission, and two years ago his solipsism would have interjected some form of insolence in their conversation. But that was then. They should go in and finish the mission, no question; it was ridiculous to think anything otherwise. But, instead of interrupting, York bit his tongue and patiently waited. Ever since their time together, starting over two years ago and during his tour in the CORe Center at NORAD, his trust of the captain had grown. He knew what the captain was going to say before he said it.
Captain Scott reached up to the small black earpiece of his radio; pressing its button, he said, “Men, the gossip girl is picking up nothing; there is no sign of activity, nor of Ibrahim. Our mission is to look for intel and to destroy the cave. This might be a trap—keep your eyes open, guard each other’s asses, and stay alert. York, take point. Move and cover, three men at a time. Go!”
At his captain’s order, York didn’t hesitate; he rose slowly with his weapon at the ready. Whispering into his radio, he said, “Cover me while I move.”
The voices of two of his teammates whispered in reply, “Got you covered.”
“Moving,” said York, and then he made his way to the cave’s entrance.
The distance between the mouth of the cave and the edge of the steep slope provided little in the way of natural cover. York was exposed and felt it.
The adrenaline was pouring into his bloodstream and heightened every one of his senses: his vision seemed clearer and stronger as his eyes efficiently strained to capture every object, color, and movement; he could feel the slight difference in time—imperceptible to the average man—that occurred between the vacillating cooling of his skin from the slight breeze and the burning on it caused by the hot sun; the smells between the dense forest to his rear and the arid landscape that flanked the cave’s entrance to his front were no longer mixed, he could distinguish their uniqueness from each other. The sounds of every animate and inanimate object were amplified and distinct: the sound of the soles of his boots on the dirt, his own slow breathing, the slight swaying of the trees to his rear, and the faint cry of a far-off Eurasian Sparrowhawk in flight.
He reached the entrance to the cave and cautiously peered into it. About two meters beyond the entrance was an abyss: the tunnel was as black as charcoal. The only thing that York could see in the distance was the steadily blinking green light of the gossip girl, but nothing else. Reaching up to his Kevlar, he flipped down the monocular AN/PVS-14 night vision device attached to its top and studied the interior.
The tunnel York stared into, he knew, was probably dug out sometime between 1979 and 1989, during the occupation of Afghanistan by Soviet forces. Very few natural caves existed in this area, and many of the man-made structures initially housed the Pakistani-backed Mujahidin. Their proliferation was an inevitable, but effective, consequence of the persistent overhead bombing by the Soviet Union.
In the tunnel, York could clearly make out stacks of wooden crates lining the walls. They were instantly recognizable; the crates were typically used for the transport of military weapons.
Slowly, York inched his way into the tunnel, and Captain Scott held his breath. He watched as the back of his young protégé dissolved into the black throat of the tunnel, consumed by a hole carved into the mountain’s feldspar. Captain Scott didn’t notice that his hands had tightened around his weapon until the blood was completely drained from the spaces between his knuckles.
York moved with care. He eased his way down the tunnel, the butt of his SCAR-H firmly pressed into his right shoulder, using the rifle’s muzzle as his guide. Hovering over the first crate, he squatted down to get a better look. On the outside of the box were words familiar to him: M16A2—Manufactured by Colt; another one was labeled Galil—IMI/Taas. The crates were stacked in sets of three and lined the tunnel; he removed his hand from his weapon’s trigger and lifted the lid of one of the crates. It let out a loud creak, instantly freezing his movements. Looking around, York expected a squad of angry al-Qaeda running at him with their weapons ready to fire.
There was no one.
In the crate, York saw layers of straw and plastic and guns. They were full: Israeli Galil assault rifles still wrapped in the factory plastic. Scanning down the tunnel, he saw stacks of crates as far as his night vision device would allow: M16s, Kalashnikovs, Galils, M17 Claymores, RPGs, and the ammunition that matched. The weapons were American, Russian, and Israeli. Al-Qaeda didn’t care where the weapons came from, just that they worked. The crates that lined the tunnel’s wall were undoubtedly the work of an arms dealer that had no nationalistic bone in his body. War meant profit, and there was no shortage of men willing to bridge the gap in the black market between seller and buyer when the traditional market was too expensive or not legally accessible.
In his ear, a quiet voice asked, “Point, this is Six—what do you have?”
York answered the captain just as quietly. “Six, no signs of the cell, but the tunnel is full of weapons. This place must be a cache.” Just then, something caught his eye. “Stand fast, Six, I see something ahead.”
In front of York was a soft glow.
As he continued to move slowly toward the glow, it grew slightly brighter. Within moments the tunnel gave way to an expansive circular chamber. York quickly reconnoitered the room. Along one side of the room were rows of flat, long shelves that ran five high. As he closed the distance to them, he saw what they really were: bunks for sleeping that were bolted into the wall. There were enough bunks for thirty men, more if they slept in shifts. Next to them was a water-driven generator for electricity. Turning toward the other side of the room, York saw what was casting the low light. On a small metal folding table was a laptop; it was on.
Jackpot.
York noticed a switch on the wall. He lifted up his night vision device and then flipped the switch. Lights turned on in the room and in the tunnel. Depressing the talk button on his earpiece, York reported, “Six, the tunnel opens into a chamber about sixty feet in diameter. There is a laptop in here, and, Six, it’s still on. They must have bugged out earlier.”
“Okay, Point, we’re coming in,” said Captain Scott, sighing a breath of relief.
Captain Scott rose quickly to his feet and gave the signal for the rest of the Alpha team to move into the tunnel. He shouted out to SGT Dwayne, “Thad, you stay at the entrance, get the Betty set up.”
Thad nodded an affirmative toward the captain and quickly ran to the cave’s entrance. From his back, he removed a heavy canvas bag and went to work. The Betty was a thirty-pound, fifty-caliber Barrett XM500 heavy sniper rifle, complete with a ten-round box magazine. Although York was the best sniper in special operations, if not the best on the planet, Thad was no slouch. He didn’t mind the heavy weight of the Betty and could put a six-inch hole in just about anything that came within a kilometer of his field of view. Thad expertly assembled the Betty, dropped in behind her, adjusted the scope, slapped in the magazine, and smiled.
“I just hope you fuckers try to come back,” Thad said devilishly and to no one in particular.
The rest of the team made its way into the tunnel, and each Green Beret had his weapon confidently at the ready. Soon they were all assembled in the round chamber.
York was typing on the laptop when he heard the rest of the Alpha team enter. He looked up and his eyes immediately met his captain’s. The two men stared for a moment at one another; the captain knew something was wrong. York’s eyes were wide and the corners of his mouth turned down. His face was white, almost as if he had seen a ghost.
Their time together spanned nearly three years. When Scott was the executive officer of the CORe center at NORAD, York had been a fresh-faced, eg
otistical, and insolent young buck private. York had neither the drive to succeed nor any clue to the depth of his own talents. Captain Scott had nearly written the young man off as another faceless punk that enlisted only because he had nothing better to do. That is, until that twenty-four hour period of time where York guided CIA officer, Dr. Michael Sterling, by satellite, not once, but twice to safety. York’s actions not only had saved the man’s life but had helped to stop a nuclear attack by Iran on the United States: York had gained the attention of the president.
Only Captain Scott knew what was behind that look on York’s face: something was wrong, very wrong.
Captain Scott barked to the Alpha team, “Secure this room and the tunnel; look for actionable intel!”
Obediently, the Green Berets dispersed throughout the room and the tunnel. Each man knew precisely what he should do and to where he should go.
Captain Scott made his way to York and said, “What is it, Staff Sergeant?”
York pointed at the screen. Captain Scott bent down and read what was on it. It took him a moment, but when he came across it, he exhaled a long sigh. Reading for a moment more, he stood up. “Well, if that just doesn’t make my day.”
“Sir,” said York, “what the hell is going on?”
Captain Scott had no answer; he thought for a moment and scratched the rough stubble along his chin. “We have to get this laptop back to Salerno. I need you to make a backup copy of this.”
York patted his breast pocket and said, “Already did, sir,” and then paused for a moment before repeating, “What kind of sense does that make? What’s going on?”
Captain Scott didn’t answer the question, and instead looked his soldier dead in his eye and ordered, “Call it in, York.”
York frowned and spat back, this time noticeably louder and sharper. “Do you really think it’s such a good idea to send this back to the FOB?”
