Scorched Earth

by George Galdorisi

  “Here you go, sir,” Anderson said as he handed his lieutenant a sheet of paper. Bruner wanted to see what the men they were training would have to cope with when they finished this phase, and Anderson got him just what he needed. “These are some stats on the class that just graduated from SEAL Qualification Training.”

  Bruner took the sheet and scanned it quickly.

  SEAL Class 314 Statistics

  Class 314 began with 166 Trainees–men who had completed 8 weeks of conditioning at the Great Lakes Training Center, Illinois and 3 weeks of precourse conditioning in Coronado prior to beginning SEAL training.

  44 men completed Hell Week–5 days, 4 hours sleep.

  39 men graduated from the 6-month basic course.

  39 men graduated from the 6-month SEAL Qualification Course. (4 men “rolled” into Class 315 from previous classes due to injuries.)

  –Each trainee ran approximately 2,000 miles through timed runs, conditioning runs, and required daily running between training venues.

  –Each trainee swam in excess of 150 miles.

  –Each trainee ran the obstacle course 41 times.

  –Each trainee patrolled with a combat load for 150 miles.

  –Each trainee conducted 42 dives, spending a total time of 62 hours (2.5 days) underwater.

  –Each trainee expended 26,000+ rounds of small-arms ammunition.

  –The class detonated over 13,000 pounds of high explosives.

  –Each graduate of this 12-month course completed the equivalent of swimming from Cuba to the tip of Florida, then running to New York.

  When Bruner finished scanning the sheet, he looked at Anderson and asked, “What’s with this Cuba to Florida swim and the run to New York, Chief?”

  Anderson laughed. “The public affairs lady put that in. She thought it added a little impact to what we do here.”

  “Impact, yeah right,” Bruner replied, “but the question is, can they fight?”

  “That’s the big question, El-Tee. If you can figure that out while we’re training ’em, all our lives will get a lot easier.”

  “Roger that, Chief. Until then, it’s hard days, little sleep, and cold water.”

  Bruner watched from the sidelines as Anderson and his fellow trainers rousted their wet and sandy charges and prepared to march them off to breakfast. As they did, Bruner stepped inside the training building.

  “Hey, Bruner.” It was Captain Pete Cummings, his commanding officer.

  “What’s up, Skipper?”

  “I keep seeing your dad on C-SPAN with these congressional hearings, and I keep noticing those shiny aviator wings. He still ragging on you about becoming a SEAL?”

  “Not any more than your old man is still grinding you because you didn’t decide to drive boats.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess we’re both misfits.”

  Bruner just shook his head. You could say all you wanted to about “one fight, one team” within the Navy, let alone the entire military. But there were still tribes. For Cummings and Bruner, they knew they belonged to the best one.

  “Oh, one more thing. Check your e-mail. Bonnie sent out an e-vite to the wardroom. We’re having a hail and farewell at our house next Saturday night. And fair warning, there’s a single gal-pal of hers she’s invited. Consider yourself warned.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up, Skipper. I guess all of us single guys are targets of opportunity.”

  * * *

  Three time zones to the east, Amer and his friends would have welcomed the Coronado marine layer. There was no air conditioning in their third-floor walk-up apartment near the intersection of Nebraska Avenue NW and Wisconsin Avenue NW, just south of Wilson High School. The July temperature in the Washington, D.C., metro area was typically in the nineties in July, with the humidity not far behind. But that was not the worst of it for Amer.

  He had all but talked his friends into taking this “first step to wage jihad,” based on the imam’s promises. And Imam Maher had kept those promises—to a point. The van he provided got them to Washington all right, but it was a gas hog and the thousand-mile trip had been an expensive one. And yes, the realtor the imam had connected them with had found them a place to live, but it was a dump. And while the imam told them the realtor friend would also find them jobs, what he didn’t tell them was the jobs were the most menial kind, where they had to constantly negotiate with less-than-understanding bosses to balance their jobs and their classes.

  He had also neglected to tell them that as “special scholarship students,” they were at the end of the queue when it came time to register for classes. The table scraps of courses they were able to register for were hopelessly spread across the week, so their ability to balance work and studies and try to have any time for a social life was a constant challenge.

  But the biggest rub was the jobs two of the men had been given. Those two had been told to work for a company that provided packing services to major shipping companies such as DHL, UPS, FedEx, and others. But strangely—even bizarrely it seemed to Amer and his friends—these two men had been assigned to work in a warehouse near the BWI airport. That meant a daily commute of forty miles each way, which could take up to two hours twice a day in the Washington metro area’s notoriously gridlocked traffic. And, worse for the other three of them, that meant they had no transportation while their friends took the van to work every day. Life back in Minneapolis began to look better to all of them, even as Amer tried to put a good face on things.

  * * *

  “Hey, Aaron!”

  Bleich looked up and saw Maggie Scott standing in his doorway. Even in a group of self-named misfits who didn’t look like they had grown-up jobs—let alone looked like they worked for the president’s most trusted agency—Maggie stood out. Her flaming red hair—and not a shade of red you’d find in even the biggest Crayola crayon box—sat atop a broad, Goth-clad frame. Scott dominated the doorway. “Whatcha got, Maggie?”

  “You know how we’ve been expanding our search on the domestic front in the months since al-Dosari threatened the president?”

  “Yes, and I appreciate you leading the effort,” Bleich replied. Though they never uttered the word “profiling,” that was precisely what he had Scott and her small team doing. He knew Maggie had her team crunching mountains of big data and using their anticipatory intelligence to watch for anomalies among young Muslim men who had tried to get visas to Syria or Iraq. But there were hundreds of them and narrowing the field was like pushing a big rock up a steep hill. Maggie explained how they were focusing their search.

  “We’ve targeted a few key cities; Minneapolis is one of them—”

  “Top of the list, I bet.”

  “Yep, and here’s the thing. A few weeks ago, five guys on our list up and moved to Washington, D.C.—”

  “And they tried to leave the country from there?” Bleich asked.

  “No, that’s the odd part. They’re all matriculated at American University in AU’s Middle East studies program, and they all live together near the school. I think we ought to start hacking into their e-mails and other comms, that is, if it’s okay with you.”

  A nod and a smile from Bleich was all that Scott needed.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon when Amer emerged from the Tenleytown station on the Metro’s Red Line with a broad smile on his face. He had a spring in his step as he made a beeline for his apartment. He had texted his four friends that it was important—no urgent—that they meet him at the apartment immediately. They were to make any excuse necessary to leave their jobs or their classes early.

  What Amer didn’t tell them—he wanted to do that in person—was that the secretive meeting he had been summoned to with no notice had resulted in the best possible outcome. They were finally going to begin their jihad. They would all meet in their contact’s home in nearby Bethesda that evening and begin their training. He told them they had much to learn in a short time.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Franconia-
Springfield Metro Station, Springfield, Virginia

  July 17, 2115 Eastern Daylight Time

  Night had long since fallen as Jay Bruner got off the Blue Line train at the Franconia-Springfield Metro station. He knew he’d missed another family dinner and wondered when his job as chief of legislative affairs would get easier. Shore duty was supposed to provide an opportunity to spend time with your family again—not to keep breaking promises.

  He looked off at the far end of the park-and-drive lot and spied his new silver BMW 534i sedan. It was the nicest car he had ever owned, and he admitted to himself that he felt he needed a “status car” if he was going to have to deal with the political glitterati during his three-year tour at OLA. He had agonized over spending the money, but he and Meagan had finished paying for Dale’s college education at Georgia Tech years ago, and it would be a few years before they would have to start paying college tuition for their two daughters. He reminded himself to do what he could to ensure they focused on Virginia schools, where the in-state tuition would make their college bills a bit more manageable.

  He didn’t so much hear or see anything—it was more like he felt something. Then, instantly, it was all violence. Three black-clad figures grabbed him from behind. A gloved hand clamped over his mouth, and two strong hands pulled his arms behind his back as another hand grabbed the BMW key from his fist. He felt a snap tie going around his wrists, and then a piece of duct tape going across his mouth, and then another piece going across his eyes. He heard the trunk of his car pop open and soon several pairs of hands lifted him off the ground and rolled him into the car’s trunk. Then the trunk was closed, and it was black. Seconds later, the BMW roared to life and he tumbled around the trunk as the beamer lurched out of the parking lot. As the car whisked away, a small pile of twenty-dollar bills lay scattered around the parking spot it had just left.

  * * *

  It had taken Annie Jacobson a while to gather up all her shopping bags while exiting the Metro train. She was the final rider getting off at the Franconia-Springfield Metro station, so she was the last to walk out into the park-and-ride lot. As she looked up from her smart phone to spot her white Toyota Corolla, to her horror she saw several men putting another man into the trunk of a car—it looked like a late-model BMW—and driving off at high speed.

  Annie looked around to see if anyone else saw what she saw. The lot was empty, save for a half a dozen parked cars. Was she imagining things? She didn’t think so. Her fingers trembling, she punched 9-1-1 into her smart phone and then rushed to the safety of her car.

  * * *

  The desk sergeant at the West Springfield police station was the first to field the call from the 9-1-1 dispatcher. Within minutes, one of their patrol cars rolled into the park-and-ride lot at the Franconia-Springfield Metro station. The dispatcher had asked Jacobson to stay in her car with the doors locked. She had complied, and the officers in the patrol car found her Corolla and began their questioning. Soon, another West Springfield police car rolled into the lot, as well as a Virginia State Police car.

  Jacobson poured out her story amid a sea of red and blue flashers. She led the police to the exact spot where the BMW had been parked, and a West Springfield police officer carefully picked up the twenty-dollar bills on the ground with a gloved hand and put them into an evidence bag. Soon a BOLO (“be on the lookout”) went out for a car-jacked BMW—type and model unknown—and a request went to the credit union that owned the ATM at the station to get the video and see who withdrew money from the machine.

  As the other law enforcement officers and their vehicles eventually made their way out of the park-and-ride lot and the terrified Jacobson was told she could go home, two West Springfield police cruisers remained behind and began to manage the crime scene.

  * * *

  “Boss, ready for us now?” Bleich asked as he and Scott stood in the doorway of Roger McCord’s office. Bleich had called McCord at home—something he rarely did—and asked him if he could come back to Op-Center immediately. McCord had ridden his Harley in from Reston at a notch above the speed limit. If Bleich called him at home, it was important—and worrying.

  “Sure, Aaron … Maggie. I got back here as fast as possible. What’s up?”

  The duo propped themselves up on the credenza across from McCord’s desk.

  “It’s like this,” Bleich began. “We’ve briefed you before on how we’ve been keeping an eye on the domestic front, looking at ISIL sympathizers here in the United States.”

  “Yes, you said you all were following a few leads.”

  “Yep. Maggie got interested in this group of guys up in Minneapolis, except they’re not there now; they’re here in Washington. We know they’re also on the DHS watch list, but … well … that’s all DHS is doing, they’re ‘watching’ them—”

  McCord had worked with Bleich long enough to know his Geek Tank leader was looking for a way to tell him the normal channels of U.S. security were creaking along and that he was taking things into his own hands. “Aaron, I get it. You smell something with these guys, and you’ve all started doing things we’re not gonna tell the Washington Post.”

  “Exactly, boss. Maggie has been following these guys—they’re all students at AU and work jobs in the District—except for two of them who work up near BWI—”

  “BWI?”

  “Yep, it gets stranger. I’ll let Maggie take it from here.”

  “Sir,” Maggie began. “Like Aaron said, these guys all suddenly arrived here in the D.C. area and started summer sessions at American University. They live in an apartment a bit north of AU and, except for the two who work up near BWI, they all work jobs in the District. They have one van among them, which the BWI duo takes to work every day.”

  Scott paused, and Bleich nodded for her to continue. “So now I’m trying to connect some dots that may not all connect—but maybe they do. Everybody’s pretty sure the Islamic State is still seeking some kind of retribution for the attacks that destroyed their headquarters in Mosul. These five men get here and their e-mails back to pals and girlfriends in Minneapolis are all downers. They’re bitching and moaning about school, about their jobs, about the weather—”

  McCord kept nodding, his body language encouraging Scott to get to the point.

  “Well, here’s where it gets really strange. About a week or so ago, the tenor of their e-mails completely changes. Now they’re happy, life is good, and they start talking about jihad—”

  “I know what you’re thinking, boss,” Bleich interrupted, “they’re all matriculated at AU in the Middle Eastern studies program, they’ve heard a lecture by some flaming radical, and they’re just parroting back what they’ve heard to impress the yokels back in Minnesota.”

  “So that’s not it?” McCord asked.

  “Not at all,” Scott continued. “First, we’ve checked their class schedules and none of them are in the same class at the same time. Second, none of their professors is even a blip on the radical-detection radar. Third, they’re talking about specifics, about them doing something—”

  “Sorry, I’m still not seeing any dots connecting,” McCord prodded.

  “Here’s where they do connect. The guy who’s clearly their leader—his name’s Amer Deghayes—used his credit card and PayPal to rent a garage four days ago, but not one near their apartment; it’s way the hell up near Hyattsville. And here’s where it gets really interesting and why we called you—”

  “I’m still listening,” McCord prodded.

  “In one of his e-mails, this Deghayes guy is talking to someone we haven’t identified yet and telling him today is the day. Nothing happened all day today until a few hours ago. Then we picked up a BOLO for a late-model BMW that got car-jacked at the Franconia-Springfield Metro station. You know that Metro stop services a number of neighborhoods where tons of DoD employees live—”

  “You think these guys are the instrument for what Mabad al-Dosari threatened months ago, and that he’s not going after t
he president. You think he went after someone else, maybe a DoD employee?” McCord blurted out.

  “Well, yes, maybe a senior DoD employee who was someone connected to the strike on his compound,” Bleich added. “We may know more soon, though. What we picked up on the police networks was that there was a lot of cash on the ground near where this BMW was jacked. The police are probably looking at film from the ATM in that Metro station now. They’re thinking whoever is on that video withdrawing money is likely the person who was car-jacked. It shouldn’t be too hard matching who’s on that ATM video against DMV records.”

  “Aaron, Maggie, good work. Go after those video and DMV records—but quietly.”

  “Like church mice, boss,” Bleich replied. “You gonna push this up to Mr. Williams?”

  “I am. Keep at it and let me know if you get any other leads. I’m camping out here with you all tonight.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Franconia-Springfield Metro Station, Springfield, Virginia

  July 17, 2300 Eastern Daylight Time

  Meagan Bruner was used to her husband working late, and she wasn’t a worrywart; but she had finally had enough. He had never been this late before. That, and the fact that he hadn’t responded to any of her texts, e-mails, or phone messages set off alarm bells. She decided to do the only thing she could, retrace her husband’s steps from the time he left for work that morning. Her two teenage daughters insisted on going with her.

  As they pulled into the park-and-ride lot at the Franconia-Springfield Metro station and saw the two West Springfield police cruisers, but didn’t see Jay Bruner’s BMW, their hearts sank. Meagan’s youngest daughter started crying. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.