Scorched Earth

by George Galdorisi

  * * *

  In Mosul, one of his lieutenants had just left, and Mabad al-Dosari was talking with his number two.

  “Why couldn’t we put him on another flight—maybe a DHL flight or another one that would come directly here without stopping?”

  The man had been through this with him before, but there was nothing to be gained by telling him that. All al-Dosari was focused on was getting his hands on Bruner and slitting his throat on the Internet. “FedEx is the only cargo carrier that flies into Mosul any more—”

  “That isn’t true!” al-Dosari shot back. “Just last week there were several Emirates SkyCargo flights as well as at least one DHL flight. Why didn’t we use one of those?”

  The man could see that the ISIS leader was agitated, so he worked mightily to spin his response in a positive way. “Look, this so-called coalition still says they’re going to push us out of Mosul. You and I know that’s not going to happen, but the battle rages every day, and the cargo airlines are mindful of who controls the southeastern part of the city near the airport. A few weeks ago, the Iraqi Army had pushed us up toward the northwest—remember how quickly we had to move our base?—and the airport appeared more secure to many. That’s why the cargo airlines felt free to use it again. If they can make money and feel they aren’t risking getting blown out of the sky, they’re going to fly into Mosul.”

  Al-Dosari considered this for a moment. He knew he had the man’s loyalty, but he was still frustrated beyond words. He wanted Bruner in his hands now.

  “But you’re sure this FedEx flight will land here, even if the others seem worried about the safety of their precious aircraft?”

  His number two patiently explained how FedEx had become the world’s biggest cargo carrier and how the U.S. military used them because they often found it cheaper to ship that way than to send equipment on a military cargo plane—especially if it was something like a high-priority repair part. He told al-Dosari how their men had learned through social media that FedEx was bringing supplies for American and coalition forces trying to dislodge ISIS from the city. Finally, he told his leader that the flight their contact picked was bringing not only a large number of repair parts and other military supplies for coalition forces, but also other cargo for businesses in the city. He finished his explanation and figured al-Dosari was satisfied. But the questioning continued.

  “But this FedEx flight makes several stops, right?”

  “Yes, the flight’s airborne now. It lands in London, then flies to Damascus, then Mosul, and then on to Baghdad.”

  “And after the plane lands, what then?”

  His number two sighed and continued. He told al-Dosari that FedEx had a small, rented warehouse at the Mosul airport and that all cargo for Mosul would first be brought there. He then explained how FedEx didn’t let anyone pick up from their warehouses and how in places where they didn’t have their own fleet of trucks—like Mosul—they subcontracted delivery companies to transport everything. Those were the rules, he explained further, but since they were in a “war zone” FedEx let the U.S. military come to the warehouse to pick up whatever they had coming on their flights because the U.S. didn’t want ground carriers they couldn’t vouch for carrying their supplies. Al-Dosari still wasn’t satisfied.

  “You’re telling me we can’t go to the FedEx warehouse and get the box our hostage is in? We need to wait to have it delivered?”

  “Yes, but it won’t take long. We have control of an import-export business in Mosul. We also operate a local trucking service. A truck will be waiting at the FedEx warehouse and once FedEx does the paperwork, the trucking service will bring the box to the address we specified. It’s only about a half kilometer from here. When the box gets there, we’ll be waiting—”

  “And there’ll be no foul-ups?” al-Dosari interrupted.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be watching the airport when the plane lands. We control more of this area than the so-called coalition force thinks we do,” his number two replied, smiling.

  * * *

  Minutes after McCord, Bleich, and Scott had left his office, Williams put in a call to the FBI director. The call was brief and to the point: The search for the van should continue, but CIRG HRT units needed to move and move fast. All their intel told them Admiral Bruner was going to be packed up and shipped out of the country—if it hadn’t happened already.

  The director responded immediately. He diverted two of his helos searching for the van, had them load up two SWAT teams, and then had them land in the parking lot next to the warehouse the Geek Tank had identified. The car they had been alerted to earlier was gone.

  The director watched from a GoPro camera feed as one of his SWAT elements blew the door with a breaching charge, moments before the second team knocked down another door on the far side of the warehouse. Both teams moved quickly and professionally. In the dim light, red IR-gunsight laser dots flashed around the warehouse and the palletized stores. It was a textbook operation, well coordinated and executed with precision. But a quick search by the sensitive-site exploitation teams who followed the assaulters yielded nothing but routine FedEx shipments—palletized and ready for aircraft loading.

  Minutes later, the director reported this to Chase Williams. Williams thanked him, but he too had followed the action through the GoPro feed, courtesy of the hackers in the Geek Tank. Williams then called McCord, Bleich, and Scott into his office.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Baghdad International Airport: Iraq

  July 19, 1630 Arabia Standard Time

  The Globemaster pilot threw his four engines into reverse and stopped well short of the midway point of runway 33-right. He taxied the C-17 off into a separate enclave at Baghdad International—Al Muthana Air Base—home to the 23rd Iraqi Air Force Squadron. The U.S. Air Force pilots pulled up next to an Iraqi Air Force C-130 Hercules, and braked to a stop.

  Brian Dawson was the first to alight from their aircraft and was met by Captain Jack Larkin of the 75th Ranger Regiment. “How was your flight, Colonel?”

  “The best kind, smooth and uneventful.”

  “Great, Colonel—”

  “It’s Brian, Captain, I’m a civilian.”

  “Got it, sir. As soon as your team disembarks, we’ve got some chow set up for them inside the hangar here,” he said, pointing to the closest open hangar at Al Muthana. “This is a pretty active base for the Iraqi Air Force, especially for their Russian Su-25s working the fight against ISIL, but the CENTCOM commander told us your team was top priority. Once you’re all unloaded and fed, we’ve got the Humvees and gear you requested standing by and ready to go.”

  “I appreciate it. I knew we could count on you. Rangers lead the way, right?”

  “Right, sir. There is one thing. My guys are pretty familiar with the conditions on the ground here, and it’s still a hazardous trip up to Mosul. The terrain sucks, and there’s always the threat from ISIL on those open roads. The commander wanted my guys to be your drivers, but we needed to be sure that was all right with you all first. We know you have a presidential mandate, so it’s totally your call.”

  “Happy to be traveling with the 75th Rangers, Jack. We packed as light as we could, so it shouldn’t take long to load up our gear and yours. Can we be heading north in, say, an hour?”

  “You got it, sir; and there’s something else. We’ve been briefed you’ll be looking for a human hostage, so we’ve been instructed to drive one of our Humvees up with your convoy. That truck will be carrying two canines and their handlers. The dogs are on call for disaster relief situations where they’re used for finding humans buried in rubble. But the powers that be thought they’d be helpful for what you need to do.”

  Dawson was used to working with a team with a small footprint—and this was starting to sound big and unwieldy. Nonetheless, he saw the logic in having the canine team.

  “Glad to have ’em, Captain. They may come in handy.”

  * * *

  Seven time zon
es away, it was early morning at the Bruner home in Springfield, Virginia. The vice chief of naval operations, an aviator like Jay Bruner who had served with him years ago at OLA, was given the unenviable task of telling Meagan Bruner and her children the news—and it wasn’t good.

  Based on all available evidence, it was clear that ISIL had kidnapped their husband and father and had successfully gotten him out of the country and that it was likely he was going to be delivered to Mabad al-Dosari. The Bruners had been alerted that the VCNO was going to make this call, and Meagan had steeled herself and her three children—Dale had just arrived earlier that morning—for the news.

  Meagan answered the door, “Admiral Oldham, nice to see you again. How’s Carol?”

  “She’s fine, Meagan. And I wish we were meeting under different circumstances.”

  “I do too. But come and please tell us what you know.”

  Admiral Eric Oldham walked into their living room, and the surprise on his face showed. He had expected to see the Bruners’ two daughters, but not their son, Dale.

  Meagan broke the ice, “Admiral Oldham, Dale just completed a sea tour with the SEAL teams. He’s on shore duty now at Naval Special Warfare Command. I told him he didn’t need to come home, but his commanding officer insisted.”

  “Dale, it’s good to see you. Your dad tells me you saw some exciting action with the teams. You’ll have to catch me up on all that, but perhaps at another time. Amber, Katherine,” he said to the Bruners’ daughters.

  They were all seated in the Bruners’ small living room, and four sets of eyes were riveted on Oldham. “What I’m going to tell you is up to date as of about an hour ago,” he began, looking at his watch, “but the situation is still fluid. Most of what we know we’ve gotten from the FBI and from an organization called Op-Center. You might remember Admiral Chase Williams, Meagan; he’s the former PACOM and CENTCOM commander. He runs Op-Center for the president.”

  “Oh yes, I do remember him, Admiral.”

  Having Meagan Bruner, whom he and his wife knew socially, keep calling him “Admiral” wasn’t making this any easier for Oldham. But he didn’t have any choice except to plunge ahead.

  “I’m afraid the news we have isn’t good, but I can tell you that we’ve got a full court press on to get Jay back just as soon as we can.”

  With that Oldham poured out the entire story. As he did, first Amber, and then Katherine started crying. Finally he was finished.

  Dale Bruner waited for his mother to speak, but when she didn’t, he jumped in. “Admiral, if we’re sure my dad was smuggled out of BWI a few hours ago, whatever flight he’s on must still be airborne. Can’t we intercept it and force it to turn around. We can do that, can’t we?”

  “Your instincts are right, Dale, and that’s why I said this is all very fluid. Nailing just what flight your dad might be on is our number-one priority. If we can figure that out, then we can do just what you suggest. But it’s what we don’t know that’s making this difficult. What we do know for sure is that your dad was car-jacked at the Metro station park-and-ride, transferred to a van somewhere near Hyattsville, and then the van eluded the FBI HRT and it made it up to BWI. We found the warehouse where they evidently put your dad in some sort of refrigerated box and then loaded him on a plane—likely a commercial cargo plane headed east, probably to the Middle East.”

  Now Meagan Bruner was crying, and Dale moved to put his arm around her.

  “We have our entire intelligence community—as well as the intel assets this Op-Center organization has—focused on nailing down just what aircraft your dad is on. Additionally, and I can share this with you only if you agree it goes no further than the family—”

  “Yes, of course, Admiral,” Meagan offered.

  “This organization, Op-Center—and I have to confess I don’t know a lot about them—evidently they can move even faster than our military can and go to places where no one else is authorized to go. They already went downrange and are heading to Iraq as we speak. So if worse comes to worst and we can’t intercept the flight as you suggest, Dale, we’ll have the Op-Center squad on the ground. ISIL won’t get your dad.”

  The family continued to question Oldham, searching for some shred of information that might give them hope that Jay Bruner would be brought back to them alive. But Oldham’s answer to each of their questions only deepened their terror.

  * * *

  Chase Williams insisted that all his principal assistants go home—he felt in his gut this operation was going to be a marathon and not a sprint, and he didn’t want them to be burned out. They all had complied except Roger McCord. His Geek Tank was going to keep at it all night until they cracked just where Admiral Bruner was, and if his people were going to be working through the night, he insisted on being there too.

  When Williams arrived at Op-Center at 0630, he headed directly for the Geek Tank. Aaron Bleich’s world was the most secure space in Op-Center’s warren of subterranean offices. Williams placed his hand on the palm-print reader next to the steel door. Then his eyes drifted up above the door. He had looked at it a hundred times, but the sign always made him shake his head. It read: Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here.

  Williams could see instantly that his Geek Tank team had pulled an all-nighter. Empty boxes of Thai takeout food as well as Starbucks drink containers, 7-Eleven Big Gulp cups, smoothie drink cups, and other trash littered their spaces. Bleich’s self-named misfits looked even more disheveled than usual as some sat in front of computer screens while others chatted in small groups. The Geek Tankers were attired mainly in blue jeans and T-shirts, with an occasional techie wearing Dockers and a sweatshirt. A Sara Bareilles song drifted across the room. It looked more like a student union than the most sophisticated intelligence outfit in or out of government.

  Bleich and McCord came up to Williams. “Mornin’, boss,” McCord began, a small smile showing on his otherwise haggard face. “We know more than we knew last night. Aaron can give you the data dump.”

  “Go ahead, Aaron,” Williams began. “I know your people have been at it all night and I appreciate it.”

  “Here’s what we know,” Bleich began. “During the night, we basically played process-of-elimination with flights launching out of BWI and heading east—”

  “And there were a lot of ’em,” McCord added.

  “Anyway, as Mr. McCord said, lots of flights. But before I get ahead of myself, we nailed down what the admiral was packed up in. As you know, the FBI HRT raided the warehouse where we spotted the car that this Amer guy rented. There was no packing crate, but there was strong evidence that a box had been packed up with peaches—”

  “Peaches?” Williams asked.

  “Yes, sir, peaches,” Bleich replied. “Seems that Maryland is a pretty big peach-growing state, and they export peaches worldwide, and evidently, especially to the Mideast this time of year. Anyway, we pulsed all the local fruit and vegetable shippers around Hyattsville and found one, Arnold’s Fruits and Vegetables, that had contracted for a 10 x 10 x 6 refrigerated box to pack up a load of peaches destined for a company in Iraq—actually one in Mosul—”

  “That nails it! Great work, Aaron!” Williams said.

  “Well, not exactly, boss. The way this shipping business works … umm … it’s a little weird and is all second- and third-party stuff. All Arnold’s Fruits and Vegetables knows is their shipment is going to Mosul to an export-import business there. They just pay to have it packed and shipped, but they have no idea how it gets there—commercial flight, cargo flight, even private carrier—”

  Bleich looked up and saw Williams’s face sag. “But we know more than that. Armed with the size of the box, the fact that it’s refrigerated, and the fact it has tamper-proof locks, we eliminated a lot of possibilities—”

  “Go on,” Williams urged.

  McCord and Bleich walked the Op-Center director through their analysis. The size of the box they believed Bruner had been packed in ruled out any private ai
rcraft like a Gulfstream. Major passenger airlines were eliminated because they had a policy of not accepting locked cargo for security reasons. That left commercial cargo carriers.

  Bleich and his Geek Tank had mined ISIL’s social media posts, and everything they picked up strongly suggested al-Dosari was going to have the hostage delivered to him in Mosul. And due to the fighting in and around Mosul, most commercial carriers considered it too risky to land at Mosul’s airport. But one carrier still flew into Mosul. FedEx had a major contract with DoD to deliver high-priority items—mostly repair parts—to United States and coalition forces fighting ISIL in Iraq. The Iraqi Army and many of the coalition forces fighting the Islamic State had a great deal of American gear, and it was urgent these repair parts continued to flow into the Mosul airport. McCord and Bleich were confident in what their anticipatory intelligence was telling them.

  “Everything points to a FedEx plane with Mosul as a destination,” McCord offered.

  “I’m thinking that if we’d identified a specific flight, you’d have told me already,” Williams replied. “So how many FedEx flights, Aaron, at the outside, do we think we have to be prepared to intercept?”

  “Six, sir.”

  “Six? Have any of those six flights reached Mosul yet?”

  “No, that’s the good news. Every flight that left in the widest possible window that could be carrying that box with the admiral has one stop to make, and some have to make two, en route to Mosul. And not all the routes are the same. The other news, though, is even after Ms. Sullivan and Mr. Sutherland flew to Memphis to make a personal appeal to the FedEx CEO, they couldn’t persuade him to divert any of those flights to somewhere where we could intercept them before they landed at Mosul. They tried, boss, but there were too many “what ifs” and “maybes” to satisfy him. Plus, DoD would be howling for those parts if they were delayed.”

  “What now?” Williams asked.

  “The good news is that Ms. Sullivan and Mr. Sutherland were able to convince FedEx’s CEO to agree to let our team populate their temporary warehouse at the Mosul airport,” McCord replied. “He’s providing us with FedEx uniforms, ID badges, the whole works. We know for certain how to identify the box the admiral is in, and we’ll meet each one of those six flights as they arrive in Mosul. One of them will have the box with Admiral Bruner, and we’ll grab him before the box gets delivered to the target business in Mosul—likely an ISIL front.”