Strike Force Charlie s-3

by Mack Maloney

  Ashmani trained his binoculars on the northernmost runway. Five airplanes were waiting on a taxiway nearby — a 747 was just pulling into position at the far end. It was a United Airlines plane — Ashmani believed it was heading for Dallas. Praise God! he thought. We’re about to kill a bunch of Texans.

  He scrambled back down to where the Muhammads had the weapon fixed on the guardrail. The weapon was warm, they told him. The sighting device was ready as well. Ashmani was very excited now. He whistled, the signal for Azi. Azi whistled back once. Then returned to the camp site. Everything was all clear.

  Ashmani trained the binoculars back on the runway.

  The big 747 was beginning to move ….

  Ashmani whispered another quick prayer, then took the glasses from his eyes. The next thing he saw was a bayonet, reflecting the early-morning sun, coming right at him.

  It was strange, in that fraction of a second, when he could see the glint of this very sharp blade so clearly, yet the person behind it still somehow out of focus. He thought it was his cousin Azi, about to stab him, for some long-forgotten incident of their childhood. But then, in the next moment, he realized it could not be Azi, because he was lying on the ground next to the campfire with another bayonet sticking out of his neck, the wound gushing blood like red water from a garden hose.

  Only then did Ashmani see the helicopter. It had swooped down from out of nowhere. It was big and white … and very quiet. Armed men were jumping from it. They were dressed in black combat suits and carrying combat rifles … with bayonets.

  These men were brutally beating one of the Muhammads. They weren’t simply shooting him. They were stabbing him, impaling him, stomping him with their big black boots. The screams were horrible, drowning out the now-departing United 747. It was flying right overhead at that moment, which to Ashmani seemed frozen in time.

  The bayonet hit his knee first, then pierced his upper thigh. There was no pain — not right away. He collapsed, though, falling onto the crazy man who was trying very hard not just to kill him but also to make him suffer before doing him in. They tumbled over together, Ashmani rolling out of control and nearly into the raging campfire, winding up in the pool of blood still streaming out of his cousin. All of this was happening in an instant. It was slow-motion terror magnified.

  But then something very strange and unexpected happened. The helicopter was still hovering silently right in front of the guardrail. A man was in its pilot’s seat, incredibly firing a rifle down at the Muhammad who was still being stabbed by the others. Suddenly the Stinger missile — which the second Muhammad was holding — went off. All fire and smoke, it went right through the helicopter’s open cargo door and smashed into the interior fuselage.

  There was a violent explosion. The noise was tremendous. The remains of the missile went one way and the helicopter, on fire and spinning out of control, went the other. The copter plummeted to the plains below. In a second, there was nothing left in the air but thousands of sparkling ashes and a cloud of black smoke.

  Ashmani found himself laughing — it had all happened so quickly, it almost seemed comical. But then he looked up and saw a gun barrel pointed right between his eyes. And the man behind the gun was not laughing. He looked at Ashmani coldly, almost as if he didn’t realize his helicopter had just been blown out of the sky.

  Then he mouthed the words: Remember Nick Berg ….

  Then he pulled the trigger — and for Abdul Ahmed Ashmani everything just went to black.

  Chapter 18

  Washington, D.C.

  It was the worst traffic jam of the week.

  Constitution Avenue was shut down; 15th and 17th Streets were like parking lots. And the area around Pennsylvania Avenue? Forget about it. It had been stop-and-go there for the past two hours. And it wasn’t even four o’clock yet. That’s when D.C.’s real traffic crush usually hit.

  Yet here he was again, the same limousine driver, same heavily armored stretch limousine, same arduous circumnavigation of the capital, heading for the White House. Different day. Same gridlock.

  And it was the same reason for the traffic snarl: scores of military vehicles, some traveling in groups, some on their own, tying up every intersection, every traffic light, every entrance and exit to the Beltway. Factor in the tourists, the taxis, and cars driven by people who actually lived in D.C., it all added up to a gargantuan mess that no amount of work by the D.C. traffic police could ever hope to solve.

  The limo driver was forced to jump a few curbs and run a few red lights, but after a half hour of fighting the jam he was at last within sight of the White House.

  It had been a long trip in from Bethesda, and the driver was thankful the limo came equipped with a soundproof glass partition. He really didn’t want to hear what was going on in the back of the car today. He was transporting the entire Rushton family once again, this time with the general included. That would make eight times in two days the driver had been on the Rushton hump. Even through the glass barrier, he could still hear the littlest one screaming madly. And maybe a few of the younger ones were crying, too.

  The Rushton family had been traveling with the general almost around-the-clock these days. The limo driver had brought them to the photo session at the EOB, to various meetings at the White House and on Capitol Hill, to awards banquets, to more meetings. They were the general’s new entourage.

  Why the sudden closeness to family? The limo driver had read the blurbs from a few D.C. reporters who’d noticed Rushton’s recent unusual behavior. The General knew something bad was coming and wanted to be with his family when the terrorist-induced disaster hit. Or the General almost resigned a month ago because he wasn’t spending enough time with his family, so the President gave him permission to take the wife and kids anywhere he wanted. Or the General was home-schooling his kids, infant included, in something called “history firsthand.”

  The limo driver had his own theories about all this. But he knew, in his business, it was best that he keep them to himself.

  He finally reached the south west gate of the White House. Two uniformed guards appeared from their security booth. The limo driver showed his ID; Rushton showed his as well. The limo and its two trailing Suburbans — full of bodyguards from Global Security Inc. — were all waved in.

  The driver rolled up to the side entrance of the Executive Mansion, where two more guards were waiting. He’d barely stopped the limo when the doors opened and the Rushton kids started piling out on their own. He could hear Rushton chastising them, telling them to stay together, to bunch up. A White House photographer was also on hand, prepositioned to take a picture of the family. Rushton made his wife and kids say “cheese,” but after just a few snaps he waved the photographer away. Taking his littlest kids in hand, he quickly walked into the White House, followed by the guards from the Suburbans.

  The limo driver was told to wait.

  * * *

  Once inside, Rushton left his family cold. Accompanied by two plainclothes Secret Service agents, he was whisked down a hallway to a hidden elevator. This brought him down four floors to the White House’s subbasement. Here was the National Situation Room, also know as the Bunker. Usually this was where the President and his people would gather in the event of a crisis. But Rushton had appropriated it today, declaring it off-limits to everyone, including people on the White House staff itself.

  Rushton had called a very secret meeting down here. This was because, in addition to it being blast-proof, the Bunker was also soundproof and bug-proof. It was automatically swept every hour for listening devices. Plus, it was practically impervious to stand-off electronic eavesdropping. It was, no doubt, one of the most secure places on the planet.

  There was another reason Rushton wanted his meeting held here, though. It had to do with a bastardization of a popular tourist slogan: What was said in the Bunker stayed in the Bunker. And what Rushton had to say to the participants here today had to be kept quiet. His words would be considered beyond
any security clearances, beyond top-secret.

  There were 22 people sitting around the elaborate electronics-packed conference table when he walked in. TV screens and communications equipment adorned each of the room’s four walls. Blue-tinted recessed lights and the odd shadows they cast gave the room an almost religious feel.

  All those in attendance were veterans of special operations. Some were still in the military; others were not. Most had close personal ties to Rushton. He had mentored them, pulled strings for them, put them in for promotions that were all but guaranteed to be approved. About half of them were considered members of Rushton’s innermost circle. The rest were experts in clandestine warfare, cyberstalking, and espionage.

  Rushton plopped into his seat at the head of the table. He was sweaty, face puffy, typically out of sorts. He didn’t acknowledge those on hand. He simply started talking:

  “We have a situation in Denver,” he began soberly. “Earlier this morning, an attempt was made to shoot down an airliner taking off from the new airport out there. A missile of some sort was fired at it from a campground nearby. It missed and the plane took off safely.

  “Within minutes, park rangers arrived at the campsite where the missile came from. It was close to the edge of a cliff. They discovered the four bodies there, probably the people who tried to fire the weapon. They also found evidence that a struggle had taken place at the edge of this campsite as well as what appeared to be animal parts.

  “As you know, in the past week we have heard rumors of … well, people who are suspected of being terrorists being found murdered at several places around the country. While this is the only instance where it can be confirmed these people were trying to shoot down an airliner when they were killed, at this point we’ll have to submit that this and those other incidents are probably connected.”

  Those sitting around the table were more than mildly shocked to hear this. Not that there were terrorist missile teams inside the United States — they all assumed that was true by now. But that Rushton came so close to admitting he’d made a mistake. After so long ignoring any such threat, he’d finally acknowledged that some bad guys were inside the country trying to shoot down airliners.

  “The park rangers were quickly relieved at the scene by the local marshal’s office,” Rushton went on, reading now from a prepared statement. “They ordered the rangers out of their own park, intent on taking over the investigation. But the marshal’s men were quickly supplanted by the Colorado State Police. They evicted all the campers from the park, and cordoned off a square mile from everyone but their top investigators.

  “It was the state police who found the wreckage of a helicopter that seems connected to the incident. It was lodged between two huge boulders at the bottom of this cliff. Its tail section was burned away. Its midsection was in shreds. The flight compartment was splattered with blood.

  “The state police investigators weren’t sure what happened exactly. But then the FBI arrived. They got rid of the state cops and confiscated all of their evidence, including some photographs and videotape that had been taken at the scene.

  “My contacts in the FBI called me immediately. Besides the attempted missile shot, they confirmed what many others have suspected these last few days: that some kind of a rogue special ops team has been roaming around the country. Apparently they showed up at this campground, too. They may have even prevented the airliner from being shot down by getting shot down themselves.”

  Another surprise for those gathered: Rushton actually admitting that an unauthorized special ops team was operating inside the United States.

  “Where are these rogues now?” Rushton went on. “No clues to this were found. There were no bodies in the helicopter wreckage. Even the person who had been at the controls of the helicopter — the person whose blood was all over the pilot’s seat — was missing.

  “Now news of these events is already spreading coast-to-coast. I asked the FBI to call the state police back in to scour the area for anyone connected to this incident. But it is quickly becoming clear that this is a task too immense for either the state police or the FBI to do alone.

  “That’s why I have ordered the Colorado National Guard to join in the search. They will be on the streets within the hour.

  “That’s also why I called you all here. I’m sending you on a special mission.”

  Rushton cleared his throat, then began again.

  “I must tell you my suspicion all along has been that if this renegade unit was real, then it must be in league with the terrorist missile teams. We suspect some of these rogues were in on an escape from Guantánamo Bay last week during the course of a very secret prisoner exchange with Iran. These individuals might actually be Americans that were being held at Gitmo for a variety of security reasons.”

  Here Rushton paused again. An almost painful look came across his bloated face. He suddenly appeared fearful, vulnerable.

  “But most of you here know that story,” he said.

  This was another stunner. Rushton’s explanation contradicted what they’d all been led to believe, at least by the media and internal chatter: that these rogues were hardly working with the terrorists but just the opposite — they were following them around, somehow staying in step with them, preventing them from shooting down any airliners, or at least trying to, and brutally murdering any Muslim terrorists who crossed their path along the way. Indeed, the evidence showed the mysterious team had prevented much loss of life and calamity inside the United States while thumbing their noses at Washington. What’s more, they were now regarded as heroes, of mythical proportions, by millions of people across the country. It was virtually impossible for them to be in cahoots with the missile teams.

  But this was Rushton’s world, and for the moment the people sitting around the table were inside it with him. Most owed their military and professional careers to him; some were very gung-ho to support him. Those on hand who weren’t still feared him. No one wanted to become his enemy. There really was no telling what would happen to them if they did.

  “Your mission will be simple.” Rushton started talking again. “Acting on information I will provide to you when the time is right, you will pick up the trail of these renegades and stop them by whatever means possible.”

  He let those words sink in.

  “You will not be working in concert with other teams being led by the FBI,” Rushton continued. “Frankly, they are looking for any more of these alleged terrorists that might be out there. If they happened to come upon these rogues, they would probably grab them up, too. However, in that case, their aim would be to arrest these people and return them to Gitmo. In other words, they’re involved in a criminal investigation.

  “You people will be involved in a military operation. You will have better intelligence, better communications, better weapons. Again, we will let others go after these supposed terrorists. You’re going after the rogues. And when you catch up to them, your orders are not to capture and arrest. Your orders are to lose them. Simple as that.”

  Dead silence in the room.

  “You’ll go through some training,” Rushton went on. “You will get some last-minute details, code words, and security procedures. Then when I give the word, you’ll ship out. As of this moment, consider yourselves on call. We’re looking at a jump-off point in about seventy-two hours, maybe less.”

  Still, no one in the room made a sound.

  Rushton continued: “We can’t worry about rules of engagement. The bottom line is, we have to get rid of these people — quickly and, hopefully, quietly as well. That’s what I want. That’s what’s got to be done.”

  He looked at the people sitting nearest to him, his closest disciples. “If we are to succeed in other areas,” Rushton told them cryptically, “then we must succeed here first.”

  Thirty long seconds of silence.

  Then Rushton asked, “Any questions?”

  At first, another uncomfortable silence. But then someone sp
oke up: “What kind of real-time information do we have on these people? Do we have a general area where we can search for them? Or will we have to look all over the Rockies for them?”

  Rushton smiled darkly. “Well, that’s the good news,” he said. “We don’t know where they are at the moment. But we know almost exactly where they will be in about three days’ time.”

  This sounded strange — but no one commented further about it.

  Instead another hand went up. “Does the President know about this mission?”

  Rushton’s reply was quick: “No …”

  Again, dead silence in the room.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  There was nothing.

  “Then, you are all dismissed,” Rushton said.

  With that he got up and was surrounded by Secret Service men again. They, too, were part of his inner circle. He quickly disappeared into the elevator with them and was gone.

  The others on hand began to get up and leave, too, using the more conventional stairs. They left in twos and threes, talking quietly among themselves. One commented that the meeting was like a scene out of a bad movie.

  One man stayed behind, though. He was sitting at the far end of the table, and through it all, he had not said a word. He was too astonished, by what he heard, by what was said.

  It was Pershing Nash, Li’s erstwhile boyfriend.

  Looking up at the blue-tinted lights now, he thought, What the hell am I doing here?

  * * *

  Rushton’s limo left the White House shortly after the meeting broke up.

  Reuniting with the two SUVs full of bodyguards, the limo found a hole in the traffic and headed for the Beltway. Traveling at high speed in the passing lane, they turned off at the Bethesda exit. Here they were met by a cruiser from the Bethesda Police Department. With the local cops in the lead, the small parade of vehicles proceeded to the nearby fashionable neighborhood of Blakewood.