“Well if Amer doesn’t get here on time, no one’s going to be happy. If we miss our time slot, we’re screwed. We’ve got,” he paused to look at his smart phone, “less than forty-five minutes to get this box delivered. He’s supposed to call if he’s running behind, right?”
“Yes, he said he’d call, and I guess he will. But he’s probably not that far away by now and remember, he said it was dangerous to arrive too early. Here, have a peach; it will cheer you up.”
His companion took the proffered peach. He was sick of waiting, and pretty soon he’d be sick of peaches too.
* * *
Frank Stang had been right. It wasn’t their tail rotor gearbox about to fail; it was metal fuzz on the chip detector, a common occurrence in most helos.
The other Blackhawk had managed to get airborne from the parking lot of Hyattsville’s First United Methodist Church in less than ten minutes—good time, but too late to pick up the scent of the fleeing van.
Their maintenance crew had found the metal fuzz, cleaned the chip detector, and gotten Stang and McDaniel back in the air. They too had lost the scent.
But if anything good came out of this fiasco, it was that the FBI director finally became worried about losing his prey. Maybe two helos and a few ground vehicles weren’t enough. At the persistent urging of his on-scene commander in Hyattsville, he authorized him to contact local law enforcement and ask for additional airborne support.
* * *
“Do you think we’ve lost them?” asked the kidnapper who was crouched down between the van’s two front seats.
“It’s been almost fifteen minutes that we’ve been off Route 1; I think we’re in the clear. Let’s start to head north again,” Amer replied.
“How do you think that truck found us? It looked like some sort of SWAT vehicle, and I think I saw a bar with lights on the back of the roof. It couldn’t have followed us all the way from the garage, could it? And the other one coming on the road ahead of us—how did that happen?” the driver asked.
Amer considered this a minute. “I know we weren’t followed out of the garage. I looked repeatedly. And no, these trucks finding us can’t be a lucky coincidence. They must have some kind of air support. Maybe a drone … or a helicopter. Turn left here,” Amer continued, looking down at his map. “We’re going to go north up this road, and it’ll take us to the Beltway, then we’ll continue as planned.”
“Are we going to be late getting to the warehouse?” the man in the back asked.
“No, I don’t think—”
“Look!” the driver exclaimed. “Right there up above us. It’s a helicopter, and it’s coming south along this road. It’s flying really low. It must be looking for us!”
Amer tried not to panic and swiveled his head left and right. “There, turn left now. This street has large trees; we can get under their canopy.”
The driver did as he was told and the highway patrol helicopter never spotted them. But they were now traveling southwest, away from BWI. Jay Bruner bounced around in the back of the van trying not to let panic overwhelm him, but he was losing the battle.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Pope Air Force Base: Fayetteville, North Carolina
July 18, 1445 Eastern Daylight Time
The bus carrying Mike Volner and his JSOC team pulled right up to the C-17 Globemaster. As their troops disembarked, Volner and Master Guns Moore walked up to Brian Dawson and Hector Rodriguez, who were loading their gear on the Air Force transport. “Colonel, Hector, good to be working with you two again,” Volner said.
“Thank you guys for kitting up so quickly,” Dawson replied. “Don’t know if this will be the real thing or not, but the boss wants us out in front of this and downrange ASAP.”
“I’ll sit down with Master Guns and give him the intel we have,” Rodriquez added.
Hector Rodriquez was a familiar face to Volner, Moore, and the rest of Op-Center’s JSOC team. Rodriquez was born and raised in New York City and enlisted in the Army right out of high school. He came out of boot camp as an infantryman and then joined the 75th Ranger Regiment. He rose to E-7 platoon sergeant in the 75th, and after that, he transferred to the Army’s Delta Force. He had completed his active duty—twenty-six years—as the command sergeant major for the Joint Special Operations Command. Rodriquez had been there and done that, and what was more, was a regular visitor to Fort Bragg whenever Volner and his men had a training exercise.
“Thanks, Hector,” Dawson replied.
“Colonel—” Volner began, only to be interrupted by Dawson.
“Mike, with all the successes we’ve had together, getting you to call me Brian instead of colonel is still on my list of failures,” Dawson said, breaking out in a false pout.
“I’ll work on it … ahhh … Brian. Do we know where we’re headed yet?” Volner asked. He’d received some information by secure text, but not all he felt he needed.
“Not yet, but I think we’ll know soon. It’s the Mideast for sure, that’s why you’re in your desert camis. Mr. Williams is still working with the CENTCOM commander to get us where we need to be. My guess is somewhere in Iraq, Balad maybe.”
“Right,” Volner replied. “But the intel we got says these guys who grabbed the admiral are somehow intent on getting him out of the country and delivering him to Mabad al-Dosari, most likely in Mosul. Don’t we need to be within helo-assault range of Mosul?”
“We need to be within striking distance of Mosul; that’s why we’re going downrange right now,” Dawson replied. “We figure al-Dosari will slit the admiral’s throat as soon as he gets his hands on him. The only chance of rescuing the admiral is to intercept him before he reaches Mosul.”
“Roger that, sir,” Volner replied.
Dawson knew the answer, but had to ask, “Everyone have your full range of weapons and support gear?”
Volner smiled. “We can fight in a back alley or assault a fortified mosque, Colonel—I mean, Brian.”
* * *
Three hundred miles north of Pope Air Force Base, other men were having a different conversation, but one that also revolved around time. The detours they’d been forced to take to elude the CIRG HRT had thrown their timeline off, so Amer called his confederates packing the refrigerated box. The two men with him in the van heard only his half of a heated conversation.
“No, I told you, we’ve been running from some law enforcement trucks. Maybe they’re CIA, maybe they’re FBI, I don’t know … Yes, we’re heading your way now, we’re trying to stay off major highways … Yes, I know there’s a time window for you to deliver that box to the FedEx warehouse … I know, I know, but if we get caught by whoever is chasing us then the whole plan falls apart … Yes, we need to get off the phone now. Who knows if someone is monitoring us.”
Amer and his fellow kidnappers had had their confidence shaken—no, it had been blown apart—when the two CIRG HRT trucks had chased them on Route 1. And while they had successfully evaded whoever was pursuing them for the moment, the fact that there was at least one helicopter overhead—and likely more—looking for them filled them with dread. Amer held his map as he looked for a way to continue north with the least possibility they’d be seen from above.
“All right, I haven’t seen or heard a helicopter for almost ten minutes,” he began. “Let’s turn right up that street. We’ll make another right soon after that, then we’ll be on Greenbelt Road; that will take us to the Baltimore-Washington Parkway.”
“Isn’t that risky?” the man in the back asked. “If they have helicopters, they’ll easily see us on that highway.”
“I don’t think we have a choice,” Amer replied, a sense of resignation in his voice. “They can’t look everywhere, and this is a popular model van. Maybe we’ll just blend in.”
The kidnappers made no attempt to talk in whispers, and in the back of the van, Jay Bruner tried to make sense of it all. Going north … being chased by law enforcement … the BW Parkway … someone packing a box in a wareh
ouse? None of it made any sense. One thing he was sure of now; this wasn’t some low-level car-jacking or even some random local kidnapping. There was an intricate plot in the works and he was the victim. He prayed more earnestly now.
* * *
The parking lot and broad lawn at Hyattsville’s First United Methodist Church was now filling up. While it might be too little too late, the CIRG HRT had rolled another Mercedes Benz “Sprinter” camper vehicle up from Quantico to function as an additional command post and had called up two more Blackhawk helicopters, as well as a Bell 407 and a Bell 412. The Hyattsville police and Virginia highway patrol had been called upon to block the streets leading to the church to keep “looky-loos” away.
The CIRG on-scene commander called all the command pilots and ground vehicle commanders into the Sprinter to review the search plans for the elusive van that they thought held Bruner.
* * *
Three time zones away, Lieutenant Dale Bruner was in his commanding officer’s office. “I’m serious, Dale. Take as much time as you need and be with your family. We’ll be fine out here,” Pete Cummings said.
“I feel bad, Skipper. I’m the new guy, and here I go bailing out on all of you with no notice.”
“You forget: You have good people working for you, and you’ve already gotten them squared away. Family comes first. You flying out tonight?”
“Yes, sir, red-eye out of Lindbergh into Reagan.”
“Good. Oh, Dale, don’t worry about the little problem back here, I’ll take care of it.”
“Problem?”
“Yep, we’re gonna have to find another single officer to squire around whoever it is my wife invited to the wardroom party.”
“Ouch, sir. I’m sure whoever it is will be a better catch than me.”
“I doubt it. Take care of yourself—and your family—and call me if I can do anything.” Cummings paused and his look hardened. “And Bruner, I hope to hell they find your dad soon.”
“Me too, Skipper.”
“You need a ride to the airport?”
“No thanks. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, so I’ll just park my truck in the long-term lot. Appreciate the offer though.”
* * *
The object of Dale Bruner’s worry was still in the back of the van, but something had changed. Now, instead of twists and turns, slowdowns and speedups, Jay Bruner sensed they were traveling at high speed and in a straight line. And his captors had been strangely quiet for what seemed like the longest time.
It still wasn’t making sense to him. What did someone want with him? He was a lowly two-star naval officer. Why would someone kidnap him? For ransom? While he and Meagan no longer lived paycheck to paycheck as they did when he was a Navy lieutenant with three young kids, his family was far from wealthy. He’d done nothing high profile in his career. He was just an ordinary Joe from his point of view.
Things were clarified for him—and not in a good way—as one of his captors spoke.
“Do you think we’ll make it in time now?” the driver asked. “We’ve been on this road for twenty minutes and I haven’t seen or heard a helicopter.”
“I think we will,” Amer replied.
“How long until he gets delivered to al-Dosari?” the man in the back asked.
“Our guys packing the box said the FedEx plane is going to make two stops before it arrives in Mosul, so probably the day after tomorrow, maybe early in the morning.”
“Good. When al-Dosari slits his throat—” the driver began to say, only to have Amer put his finger over his lips and shake his head from side to side to silence the man.
Now Bruner knew.
* * *
An hour later, in the warehouse, the two men sealed the refrigerated box and then guided it onto the loading dock with a small forklift. They set it down gently on the rollers at the end of the loading dock and then carefully pushed it into the truck. Then they drove toward the FedEx hangar to make their scheduled rendezvous with the FedEx flight departing BWI in less than an hour.
CHAPTER TWELVE
FedEx Flight 1652
July 18, 1915 Eastern Daylight Time
“How come we keep getting these runs to the Mideast?” the copilot asked.
“Hey, what are you complaining about?” the senior pilot replied. “I know we’ve had to take these flights to third world shitholes a lot, but we had that cross-country run yesterday, so we’ll run out of our crew day once we get to London. I think Baker and Pels are taking over from us there. We’ll be ‘stuck’ in London for thirty-six hours before we pick up our flight heading back to the States. If we can’t find a way to enjoy that, then something’s wrong.”
“Yeah, I get that,” the copilot replied.
“Nothing like flying these routes to the sandbox to make you appreciate the good old U.S. of A.”
“Amen to that, brother.”
* * *
Aboard another flight heading across the Atlantic, four men were engaged in a far more serious discussion than the two FedEx pilots.
Brian Dawson, Hector Rodriquez, Mike Volner, and Charles Moore were huddled around a small, makeshift table in the C-17 Globemaster as it headed east at just over five hundred knots. Their aircraft had just taken a drink from a KC-135 Stratotanker from the 186th Air Refueling Wing of the Mississippi Air National Guard. They had enough gas to make it the rest of the way across the Atlantic, and Dawson had just spoken to the Op-Center director and now had additional clarification about their mission.
“I’ve just finished talking with Mr. Williams,” Dawson began, raising his voice to be heard over the howling of the Globemaster’s four Pratt and Whitney PW2000 engines. “He said we’re going to do another airborne refueling over the Mediterranean, and then we’re going to land at Baghdad International.”
“Not Balad?” Volner asked, knowing Balad was closer to Mosul. Dawson just shook his head.
“What then?” Moore blurted out. He knew this mission was important, but knowing so little this close to getting to the area of operations still bothered him.
“Well, we’re not sure yet, Master Guns. We’re working off anticipatory intelligence we got from the Geek Tank, and for now, it’s all we’ve got.”
“I got it, Mr. Dawson; but do we know anything about what happens once we land in Baghdad?”
“All the intel we have tells us that Mabad al-Dosari had Admiral Bruner kidnapped so he could be brought to him in his compound in Mosul. Once he gets him there, we fear the worst, so our goal is to intercept him before al-Dosari gets his hands on him.”
“But if al-Dosari is in Mosul, why don’t we fly directly into Mosul airport? ISIL doesn’t control that any more, does it?” Volner asked.
“You’re right, it doesn’t,” Dawson replied. “The Iraqi Army and our coalition forces pushed ISIL out of the airport two months ago. But ISIL still controls central Mosul, and whatever lines there are between them and the forces trying to push them out of Mosul are fluid at best. It’s too dangerous to land an American military aircraft there. This Globemaster would be too inviting a target. Hector, you were in on that part of the conversation, why don’t you take it from here?”
“Sure,” Rodriquez began. “Duncan Sutherland, who leads our logistics shop at Op-Center, talked with the J-4 folks at CENTCOM earlier today. The CENTCOM commander will have a fleet of Humvees standing by at Baghdad International. We’ll take them overland north to the Mosul Airport—it’s about two hundred fifty miles over pretty rough terrain.”
It was Volner again. “No helos?”
Again, Dawson shook his head. “ISIL has too many listeners out there, and a small column of Humvees draws a lot less attention than helos; so we drive.”
* * *
Aaron Bleich liked challenges. His director had given him one, and he had mobilized his Geek Tank team to take it on. And while McCord and Bleich ran a flat organization and there wasn’t a set chain of command below Bleich, Maggie Scott had the bit in her teeth and was hi
s de facto number two for this operation.
“Okay, show me,” Bleich said as he hunched over Maggie’s triple-screen monitors.
“The FBI is still trying to catch the van, and we’ll know more when we know more, but it’s all but certain they’re headed to BWI and may even be there already,” Scott began. “We figured if the guys who work somewhere up near BWI didn’t take the van to work, they must have taken the car this Amer guy rented—”
“But we haven’t found that yet, right? Or have you?”
“Well, the bad news is no traffic or other cams triggered on the license plate. But we know many rent-a-car companies have their own LoJack-type systems built into their cars so they can recover them if they’re stolen—”
“And this car had one of those?”
“Yes. And I pushed this to Mr. McCord and he had our logistics folks call the rent-a-car company and ask them to locate the car for us. But they got all official—the assholes—and said if the car wasn’t stolen, they couldn’t give us the info—”
“And?” Bleich asked.
“Well, we could have gone several ways. One would be for Mr. Sutherland to rag on them and try to be more convincing. Or he could have bumped it up to Ms. Sullivan or even to Mr. Williams—or we just could get the info ourselves.”
“Maggie, are you telling me you hacked into the rent-a-car company’s servers?”
“Yeah, Aaron; I know I should have asked you first. But you were busy getting Mr. Dawson and the JSOC team the info they needed—”
“You did the right thing. So what did you get?”
“The car is right here,” she said, pointing to the far right-hand screen. “And if I superimpose this Google Earth display you can see it’s in the parking lot of a warehouse up near BWI. I’ve got to think that’s where the van is taking—or took—the admiral. I think we need to roll the FBI CIRG units north—or have our team at Quantico head up there right now.”
“I agree, let’s grab Roger and go see Mr. Williams.”
Scorched Earth Page 10
