Alas, dreams don’t always come true, and they didn’t in this case. And for once, I couldn’t blame Mr. Murphy.
Somewhere around 3 a.m. local time the next morning, an hour and a half before reveille (and an hour and a half after I had hit the sack), my satellite phone rang. I answered and found myself talking to a duty officer at the U.S. embassy in Rome. Before I could tell him to get bent, he told me there had been an “incident” in Sicily, and Trace needed my help right away.
“Why didn’t she call me herself?” I asked.
Never ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.
Among the things that I realized after our adventure at the auto mall was that the attack we interrupted had not been engineered by another Mafia group. It wasn’t because I thought a Mafia hit would have been better planned and executed. A rival would never have wasted the skilled workers inside the warehouse, preferring instead to eliminate the leadership and then appropriate the business. Di Giovanni must have realized it as well; otherwise, he would have tried to cut some sort of deal to keep himself out of Italian custody where presumably his rivals could get him.
So if the mob didn’t go after him, who did?
To me, the only possible suspects were Biondi and the tangos who had been working with him. Biondi might want to take out di Giovanni if he thought he had crossed him or otherwise ratted on him, which of course I knew wasn’t the case; whether Biondi knew it or not was another question. But if he wanted revenge, Biondi would presumably have found an easier place to extract it.
The tangos, on the other hand, would have a limited knowledge of di Giovanni or his enterprise. Their interest would be entirely in erasing any link to them. Which was something they would only bother to do if their operation was ongoing.
So I left Trace behind, not just to make sure the Air Farcers followed my directions about increasing security, but to help them set up a decoy in case the tangos went ahead with their operation. Kohut had told me I couldn’t set up anything along those lines, but he hadn’t told her that. And Crapinpants was too busy sticking his nose up Kohut’s butt to notice what his captains and noncoms, with help from Frankie and Trace, were doing.
Which was basically gift wrapping an AGM-129 Advanced Cruise Missile and leaving it for the tangos to steal.
Background: The Advanced Cruise Missile carries a W80 nuclear bomb, and looks like your typical long slender pointy thing—in other words, a middle finger with wings. (Just so you draw the proper mental picture, these wings face backward. Either that’s to give the bomb more maneuverability once launched, or the contractor made a mistake and the Air Farce was too dumb to realize it.) Under ordinary circumstances, the bomb carried by the missile is a very serious piece of meat, many times more powerful than the atomic weapons dropped on the Japs during WWII. Let me put it to you this way: if it were dropped on Moscow, everybody within a ten-mile radius would get more than a bad case of sunburn.
In this case, the weapon’s nuclear payload had been replaced with metal and concrete, approximating the weight of the real deal. Tracking devices had been inserted, and the complicated innards had been removed or disabled. Surveillance teams were set up and rotated clandestinely. (Measures were taken to safeguard the actual weapons at the base. I’m not stupid enough to say what they were.)
A little past midnight, the tangos got into the compound with an eight-wheel commercial truck, the sort of thing an appliance store might use to deliver washing machines and refrigerators with. They grabbed the missile and took off. Six different teams began following the truck with the weapon across the Sicilian countryside. A tracking aircraft aloft picked up the signals from the fake bomb.* With all these people involved, it would have been truly fucked up if the thieves managed to give them the slip.
And they didn’t. The truck rendezvoused with a second vehicle that had taken part in the operation; a short time later they were met by a third car, which possibly was running surveillance or had simply been held in reserve. They did a Chinese fire drill, with everyone changing places while the “gadget” remained in place. They then set off in three different directions. The Air Farcers and Christians running the surveillance operation stayed with the program, breaking teams to trail the two other cars but keeping most of their resources on the truck.
If anyone had asked me—and they had—I would have predicted that the bomb would be transported to the coast, transferred to a large boat, and brought out to a cargo vessel just offshore, which would transport it to its final destination. Sicily is an island, after all, with a long history of smuggling and maybe a million hidden landings, harbors, caves, and beaches per square mile. The American and Italian navies had been alerted for just such a contingency, and immediately after the snatch an Italian destroyer a few miles offshore closed in, training its surface radar and searchlight on every twig and piece of flotsam nearby.
Both of the cars, after some switchbacks and feints, headed in the direction of Brucoli, a small fishing village on the coast. The truck, though, went north, roughly in the direction of Mount Etna. (That’s the big volcano smoldering in the background of the postcards.) The route was along one of the better roads in that part of Sicily, roughly the equivalent of a county highway in America, assuming that county highway curved every twenty yards to miss old buildings and had last been paved during World War II. The approaching dawn meant traffic would soon be increasing, and the planners began debating whether to move in immediately or wait to see how things shook out, taking the risk of complicating the apprehension.
When the intrusion was detected, the Air Farce captain in charge of the detail on duty had alerted Crapinpants to what was going on. The colonel reacted well enough, demonstrating considerable fortitude by not only stifling whatever anger he had at having been left out of the loop but actually joining the operation, which made it impossible for him to duck responsibility if it went to shit. (It also positioned him to get some of the credit for its success, which was probably what he was thinking.) Unfortunately, this meant he had to be consulted on what to do as the operation continued. In and of itself that might not have been fatal—Frankie seems to have a way of talking people into doing what was right—but when the time came for a decision on what to do about the truck, Crapinpants decided it was time to get input from General Kohut.
Big mistake.
Let me back up half a step and explain something. While I would have voted for hanging back, there were decent arguments for moving in right away. Two assault teams, one composed of SEALs and one Italian paratroopers, were airborne and ready to pounce. The helicopters could not stay up indefinitely. Taking the van on the highway would be relatively easy at night when the road was deserted; there would be next to no chance of innocent bystanders being injured or blowing the operation. Plus, they knew where the truck was; there was always the possibility that Murphy might show up and hide it somehow.
Worse than making the wrong decision, however, was making no decision. The assault teams were told to stand by as Crapinpants tried to get his boss. Since they didn’t know if they were attacking or not, they had to assume they were and couldn’t refuel, etc. The trail teams had to back off. Uncertainty began to creep in. The infamous question, “Are we going or not?” began to run through people’s heads. Its brother, “Well, what the hell are we doing?” soon followed. Questions and debate are great during the planning stages. They help focus an operation and eliminate the unknown, or at least reduce it to a manageable level. But once the bell rings, they become devastating. They introduce hesitation, and he who hesitates gets lost.
Literally, in this case.
The truck continued on its merry way, passing east of Etna and then up an unmarked road into the foothills of Monte Pizzillo. The road wasn’t on the maps, but satellite photos of the area had been prepared ahead of time and it was quickly located. The photos showed that the road was steep and narrow; switchback followed switchback. It ran up the mountainside and then down the other, connec
ting with the highway again. It couldn’t really be called a shortcut because of the terrain. Which told Frankie and the others that something was up. The thinking was this: The road was crappy and the terrain was for shit. The only reason the truck would go up here was to stop somewhere along the way, either to transfer the weapon or perhaps hide it for someone else’s pickup.
Or, to see if they were being followed.
Which was it? If the former, following them up the road wasn’t that big a deal, even if the trail team was spotted; it’d be academic in two minutes, which was how long it would take the helos to arrive. If the latter, however, following them was the worst possible thing to do.
The trail team closest to the vehicle was running about a quarter-mile behind when the truck turned off. Worried that they would end up too close and be spotted, they stopped at the turnoff and radioed for instructions. The pooh-bahs had them continue down the highway to the other end of the dirt road and wait. A second team was directed to stop a short distance from the turnoff in case the truck pulled a U-turn.
The debate on what to do hit high gear. Now there were additional factors to consider—the local terrain and vegetation made a helicopter landing problematic. The ground teams might have trouble here as well. A pair of Marine Corps Cobra gunships were available at Sigonella. Should they be scrambled? Their firepower might be welcome, but their distinctive engines might tip off the people in the truck that someone was coming for them.
Trace—remember her?—was part of the trail operation. She had rented an MV Augusta F4 “Viper” motorcycle, a stylish Italian bike as pretty to look at as it was sweet to ride. When she caught up to the team at the turnoff, she decided to ride up the road as a scout. With the help of a local motorcycle shop, Trace had made one further alteration to the customized kit, adding extra-large mufflers to quiet its throaty roar. Sacrilege, I know, but it made it possible for her to get close without being heard.
Meanwhile, the truck kept going, though very slowly. The switchbacks and steep, rutted road made its progress gradual to say the least, and at least once or twice it stopped for a few seconds, only to start moving again. Three minutes, five minutes, ten minutes—the truck ambled slowly on its way. Finally, it started on the downhill side and the teams scrambled to resume the surveillance. Unsure whether the truck would go north or south, they took up a variety of posts.
Assuming a decision had been made to stop it sooner rather than later, the intersection with the highway would have been the place to grab it. But no decision had been made. Crapinpants still hadn’t been able to reach Kohut.
The truck made it onto the highway and started north. Trace, who’d been about a half-mile behind, gunned the macaroni machine and closed the distance, keeping the brake lights in view as it danced down the macadam. Within about two minutes, they neared a small village called Casa di Nero.
You can’t find Casa di Nero on most maps, at least not those published in the U.S. If you’re interested in seeing where it is, get the best map you can find and spread it flat on the table. Put your right thumb on Monte Etna, and spread out your hand. About where your forefinger is, you should see a little burp of a place called Mareneva. Casa di Nero is half a fingernail to the north, in the rugged mountainside. The village consists of one small church, one slightly smaller barn, and six or seven broken-down houses. There are one and a half roads in the village, the half being a rock-strewn rut that would be considered a drainage ditch in any other town.
The truck pulled up the main street and then around the rut, heading past the church to the barn.
“Move!” said Frankie in the command post. There was no sense waiting for Kohut to wake up now, and Crapinpants agreed, or at least didn’t object.
One of the assault team helicopters had run low on fuel and had started back to tank up. After a few seconds of confusion, the pilot figured he had enough gas to join the party anyway, and the full assault team was able to make it to the dance more or less the way they had planned. The Cobras showed up as well. The teams were down within five minutes or so of getting the order to go.
The tangos were about to hide the vehicle in the barn when the helicopters appeared. Both of the terrorists ran as the choppers and ground vehicles came in; one made the mistake of pulling out a pistol. The only thing that was left of him and his companion when the gunfire stopped were bones, and half of those had been shot away. Even the Marines in the Cobra gunships fired at the suckers. I saw the pictures later on. They’re not pretty.
I know what you’re expecting—the ground ops open up the back of the truck, and it’s empty. Somehow, the slimers have managed to pull a voodoo move and outfox the Americans and Italians following them.
Not quite, though. The truck wasn’t empty—it had the wings, nose, and, most important, the tail section of the device, which was where the numb-nut technical expert had put both tracking devices.
Where was the warhead? At roughly twenty feet long, it’s small for a nuke but won’t fit in the average backpack. It ought to have been easy to find.
But only if you knew where to look.*
The two carloads of tangos who had been part of the operation were stopped immediately, even though they were too small to hold the weapon’s guts. One car was stopped in Foce di Simeto on the Golfo di Catania. The team there also apprehended a helmsman and a small speedboat that landed a few minutes later, obviously for the next leg of their journey.
The men in the second car proved more dedicated to their task—they blew themselves up rather than allowing themselves to be taken in a small town farther south along the coast. It was considerate of them, really: It saved the Italians the expense of a trial. Then again, maybe like me they were annoyed that Italy doesn’t have the death penalty, so they knew they’d never get what they deserved unless they took matters into their own hands.
But back to the bomb. Where was it?
If you said the tangos who struck first left it back at the base, go to the head of the class…. Then suck an egg. Because the only way that would make sense would be if the thieves knew where the locator devices had been placed. Under that scenario, the theft would be a diversion, taking our attention away from the base while a second team infiltrated and grabbed the real one. Brilliant theory—but probably a bit too brilliant, at least in this case.
But Crapinpants got it into his head that that was what had to be going on and went apeshit. He contacted the security people and gave them orders to shoot anyone they saw on sight—I’m not exaggerating, either. Though he was told that there had been no further intrusions and that the family jewels were intact, he didn’t believe that and began screaming that the stolen weapons had better be found. In layman’s terms, he’d cracked under the pressure (such as it was) of the situation. It happens, but when it happens to someone who’s wearing a birdie on his collar and is attached to a phone, the consequences can spin out of control.
Within ten minutes, someone at the base told Crapinpants that a suspicious truck had been spotted on a road just outside the perimeter of the Air Force area of Sigonella. Whatever the person actually said, by the time Crapinpants reached Frankie he was convinced that the truck held not the dummy warhead but a real bomb. Recognizing a runaway train when he saw one, Frankie stepped back and let the Air Farce take care of the vehicle, which of course was soon surrounded by every available airman, sailor, soldier, and marine within a fifty-mile radius of the base.
In fairness, the Air Farce security people on the scene insisted that the truck couldn’t have been involved; the van that the terrorists used had not come down the road in question. But the fact that none of the men held a rank higher than tech sergeant meant their opinions counted for nil. Acting on the possibility that the truck and bomb might be booby-trapped—hey, why not?—a robot and dogs were brought out to check the damn thing out.
All of this would have been shit-ass hilarious if it didn’t divert attention and resources from the effort to look for the dummy bomb itself. Cle
arly it had been off-loaded somewhere on the hill. The team that had landed got ready to do so, but had to wait while the helicopters went off to refuel. Trace, never one to twiddle her thumbs when she could be sticking them in someone’s eye, gunned her bike back toward the mountain. She went up the steep road, taking the switchbacks as slowly as she could. It was about five in the morning; the night was clear and there was plenty of light to see by on the highway. But here the trees and terrain threw everything into a dark shadow. Finally she decided to stop and put on the night optical glasses tucked in her tactical vest. As she was pulling it on, someone grabbed her from behind.
Trace’s reflexes took over; the bike flew one way, her assailant flew another, and she spun in the air, feet kicking out at another assailant, or at least his shadow. Her foot didn’t hit anything—it’s possible nothing was there—and she landed slightly off-kilter on her haunches. She coiled her five-foot-eight-
inch frame like a cobra, looking to strike something. The man she had thrown lay moaning on the ground a few feet away. When nothing else moved, Trace reached for her Kimber Compact .45, pulling the pistol from its pocket inside her vest.
Her night goggles had fallen to the ground near the bike. As she sidled toward them, something moved about ten yards away. She brought her gun up, poised on her haunches, trying to make out what it was.
The next thing Trace heard was a very loud buzzing in her ears. A half-second later, she felt as if her breath had been snatched from her. Then her body tingled, and not in a good way. It was as if she had put her hands onto the wires coming from a nuclear reactor.
A Taser dart had hit her at the back of the neck. The thin wires that stretched back from the dart to the gun had transmitted upward of fifty thousand volts of electricity, a bit more than you’d need to light your average Christmas tree…and run your refrigerator and the rest of your house while you’re at it. Her body went apocalyptic; she felt as if she were frozen and on fire at the same time.
RW13 - Holy Terror Page 11
