Bruner paused before speaking again as he tried to process what he had just heard. “But if everyone thinks this al-Dosari wants my dad delivered to him, then that’s going to happen in Mosul. Why did they withdraw all the way to Baghdad?”
“Dale, ISIL still controls most of Mosul, and they have hundreds—if not thousands—of fighters there. We’d have to go after them with a massive force, far more than Op-Center’s JSOC team can muster.”
“I get it, and we’re doing that, right?”
“Look. I know this is hard. But when they didn’t find your dad in that refrigerated box all the intel told us he’d been in, everyone kind of ran out of ideas. The Rangers tell me the Op-Center team thinks they may be recalled stateside—”
“They can’t give up like that!” Bruner exclaimed.
“Dale, if I’ve learned anything during twenty years doing this, it’s that there are things that are way above our pay grade. I feel for you and your family, I really do. But it looks like we’ll just have to wait it out while this Op-Center organization comes up with another plan—”
But Bruner was no longer listening. He respected his former skipper, but he wasn’t getting the answers he wanted or needed. He had calls to make.
* * *
At the Baghdad International Airport, Dawson, Rodriquez, and Volner’s JSOC team were set up and operating. One of the diverted FedEx flights had already come and gone, and Admiral Bruner hadn’t been aboard. The next flight was due in a little less than an hour, and the one after that, three hours later. Captain Jack Larkin had radioed ahead and let the Rangers who remained behind at Al Muthana know that the JSOC team would need billeting, as they might be staying in Baghdad for an extended period.
“Hey, sir, have you spoken with Mr. Williams since we’ve gotten back here?” Volner asked Dawson.
“I have. Our instructions are to meet the next two FedEx flights. If Admiral Bruner’s not on either one of those, he’ll make a real-time decision to either leave us here or bring us back to the States. When I know, you’ll know. Are you all still getting intel feeds from the Geek Tank?”
“We are. Laurie’s getting everything we need.”
“Look, Mike, I know this isn’t very satisfying for your troops, but the situation is pretty fluid so we just have to be max flex.”
“Semper Gumby, sir.”
* * *
About twenty five kilometers east-northeast of where Op-Center’s team was settling in, inside Baghdad’s Green Zone, Zack Peters was standing on the roof of his house just south of Oman Square at the intersection of the Qadisaya Expressway and 14th of July Street. He was having a phone conversation with Dale Bruner.
“El-Tee, I get it. This place is even more screwed up than when you and I operated here. The Iraqi Army is no match for ISIL, and the State Department assumes ISIL may have infiltrated the army anyway. That’s why my company keeps hiring guys like me. Our embassy here is the biggest and most expensive American embassy anywhere, and there are over 1,500 diplomats who work there. That’s more people than the six apartment buildings on the embassy compound can house, so the company I work for must have over a hundred of us assigned here working security.”
“And you provide escort for the diplomats who live off-site going to and from the embassy compound?”
“Yeah, and more. State figures every American here is a prime kidnapping target, so we escort them everywhere—shopping, going to a restaurant, going to the doctor, you name it. We’ve got our own little empire with vehicles, weapons, and everything else. I loved the SEALs El-Tee, but I’m making more than three times as much doing this as I was when I was in the teams.”
“I know, Zack. We hated to lose you, but you have what, three kids now?”
“And one on the way.”
“You’re serving downrange and you’re protecting Americans. That’s righteous work. And call me Dale.”
“Thanks, but to me you’ll always be El-Tee—even when they make you an admiral—”
“No chance of that,” Bruner interrupted. “I don’t think I fit their mold—and this trip would blow that up, even if I did.”
Peters paused for a moment. “Look, sir, we’ve always been straight with each other. I’ll give you all the help I can. I owe you that much and more, but Jesus, boss, what you’re trying to do sounds crazy. At least let me go into Mosul with you.”
“I can’t ask you to do that, Zack. He’s my dad, and he’d do it for me. Yeah, maybe it sounds crazy, but I’m counting on it being crazy enough that ISIL won’t be looking for a lone guy sneaking into their compound. Plus the gear you said you’d get me gives me an edge over them.”
“Look, sir, you saved my ass more than once, first in Iraq and then in Afghanistan. I owe you big time. Just ’cause you still wear camis and I’m in blue jeans and T-shirts, doesn’t mean we aren’t still brothers. If you’re hell bent on going on this mission, I’ll get you everything you need. How soon do you think you can get on a flight heading this way?”
“There’s one out of Andrews midday tomorrow, and I’m on the manifest. I’ll text you my arrival time so you can meet me on the military side of Baghdad International.”
“Tell you what, El-Tee, after you do that, leave your cell at home and buy a disposable one for this trip. CENTCOM’s cyber folks have the big cities like Baghdad and Mosul blanketed with all kinds of electronic intercepts and eavesdropping. If you want to stay off the radar, you’re gonna want to go to ground and stay off the grid once you leave the States. If you bring your own phone, you won’t stay covert.”
“Good advice, Zack.”
“Use your burner phone to call me once you land at Al Muthana and I’ll come pick you up. It’s best if the next thing I know is you just show up. Fair enough?”
“Good idea. See you then.”
* * *
Allen Kim was all motion as he reviewed the deployment plans with his number two, Becky Kott. For Kim, this was the second time Op-Center had asked his CIRG team to mount up, and he wanted it to go better than the first time. They had thwarted a terrorist attack on the United Nations Headquarters, but he had lost a Blackhawk and its crew when the terrorists they were chasing exploded their bomb prematurely. Each of the four memorial services he attended had left Kim feeling a profound sense of failure.
For Kim, that had been the first failure in his professional life. The second-generation Korean American had been a rising star in the Army’s Delta Force before his father’s sudden death had made his near-continuous overseas deployments too much of a burden for his mother and young sisters. The FBI had snapped up the multilingual Kim and he had quickly risen through the ranks to become a CIRG team leader. Chase Williams had done his due diligence in seeking to get the best talent the FBI director could give him, and he asked for—and got—his first pick, Allen Kim and his team.
“Okay, Becky, I think the helos you’ve laid on should be enough,” Kim said. “You gonna have them launch once our ground force gets most of the way up to BWI?”
“That’s the plan. Op-Center arranged for us to stage out of BWI on the west side of the cargo terminal. The ground group just rolled out, and it’s a seventy-mile trip. At this time of day, it’ll take them maybe two hours to get there. We’ll each hop in one of the Blackhawks and get there shortly after they arrive.”
“Jim Wright gonna meet us there?”
“He’s there already. Op-Center’s anxious to get this search underway. That’s why we mounted up so quickly.”
Kim just nodded, and reminded himself why he had lobbied to have Kott serve as his number two. Becky was a former star lacrosse player at Northwestern with an undergrad degree in electrical engineering and an MS in information technology. She had a secure job with General Electric and was well settled in a house in a Chicago suburb with her boyfriend. It was perfect, that is, until she walked in on her boyfriend with another woman in her own bed.
She needed a change—any change that would take her away from Chicago.
She found herself at a hiring conference for the FBI, Secret Service, and other governmental agencies. She was warned that applying to the FBI from Chicago would mean there would be no way she could work in the windy city; she’d have to move. She jumped at the chance.
“Do we know yet where they’re going to have us set up once we’re at BWI?” Kim asked.
“Op-Center’s J4, Duncan Sutherland, set something up with the FAA. We got the word from Jim that their air traffic control facility has some unused space we can use as a command post. We’ll be able to get real-time intel feeds from the Geek Tank. If the admiral is anywhere in the greater Washington-Baltimore metro area, we’ll find him.”
“I hope we do, Becky. I don’t like his chances if we don’t.”
* * *
At that moment, Jay Bruner was bound and gagged, with a hood over his head and tied to a radiator pipe in a hundred-year-old farmhouse on Dorsey Run Road just north of Jessup, Maryland. Bruner had been brought here by his kidnappers after living in the back of the van for almost two days. He was at the point of despair and was losing hope he’d ever be rescued.
When Amer and his two fellow terrorists had risked being caught by the FBI CIRG only to fail to get their hostage on the FedEx flight departing BWI, they didn’t have a backup plan. Amer had first gone to ground and he and the two other kidnappers had taken turns driving the van through rural streets, ensuring they avoided any roads that might have traffic cams. They had also turned off their cell phones, worried those chasing them would be able to track them electronically. Finally, after two days of this, Amer had done the only thing he could think to do: He called his contact.
The man was angry they’d failed to get the hostage out of the country and delivered to Mabad al-Dosari. But now his priority became one of not letting the Americans find the hostage. He knew it was only a matter of time before their van was spotted.
Their contact was a realtor, and he searched the rental listings in Maryland close to Amer’s position. He found a furnished farmhouse that had been vacant for months. The small realty company in Jessup was only too eager to rent it to a fellow realtor who paid first and last month’s rent, as well as a security deposit, in cash.
The farmhouse had a detached, two-car garage where Amer and the others hid their van. Their two confederates who loaded the refrigerated box on the plane had abandoned their rent-a-car near BWI as instructed and had holed up in the nearby Hampton Inn until Amer had contacted them again. They took a taxi to Jessup and then had walked the two and a half miles to the farmhouse. Now the five of them were in the house on Dorsey Run Road with their hostage and were told to wait for further instructions.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Al Muthana Air Base, Baghdad International Airport: Iraq
July 21, 0530 Arabia Standard Time
“What now, Mr. Dawson?” Volner asked. They were back at the military side of Baghdad International, camped out at Al Muthana Air Base.
“I’ve called the Op-Center watch floor and let them know Admiral Bruner wasn’t on the remaining two FedEx flights. We’ll wait until the boss decides what our next move is.”
“You think he’ll leave us here, or recall us back stateside?”
“Too hard to call at this point. I gotta think al-Dosari wants the admiral in the worst way. I’ll recommend we stay here until he’s found one way or another.”
“I like that idea, sir,” Volner replied. “My guys sure as hell don’t want to go back to Fort Bragg empty handed.”
* * *
While Op-Center’s JSOC team was stuck in suspended animation at Al Muthana Air Base, their CIRG counterpart was setting up their command post in an unused wing of the FAA’s air traffic control facility at BWI.
Wright was there to meet Kim and Kott as they jumped out of their Blackhawk helicopters. He walked them into the makeshift command post where he had hung a fifty-inch LCD monitor. He tapped the screen and a map of the area popped up.
“You can see the last two traffic cam hits we got on the van here, and here,” Wright began, pointing at the display. “It’s going on two days since we got those hits and we’ve been focused on that van big time, so we’ve got to figure they’ve stayed off any major highways. And here’s where we found their car abandoned—”
“That’s a pretty big area, Jim. Anything we can do to narrow it down?” Kim asked.
“We’re counting on the fact that these guys haven’t been in the D.C. metro area for long, so they’re not all that familiar with the local geography. We’re linked up with the Geek Tank, and their best guess is these guys have gone to ground somewhere in this radius here,” Wright said, pointing to a large circle centered on BWI.
“The good news is most of it’s rural,” Kott said. “At least we’re not going to have to look for them in the heart of a big city.”
“You’re right,” Wright replied. “We’re also counting on the fact that the van is their last remaining vehicle and they don’t want to abandon it, but they’ll likely hole up somewhere where they can garage it or get it out of sight somehow else.”
“We can get our Blackhawks airborne at first light tomorrow,” Kim began. “And we can roll our vehicles out too if that’s what you want us to do.”
“Let’s plan on that,” Wright replied. “But for now, just get your folks bedded down. We’ll see what the Geek Tank can come up with before morning.”
* * *
While the Op-Center team at BWI settled in, the Geek Tank was in overdrive. McCord and Bleich stood in front of a much larger and higher fidelity screen than the one their team at BWI was looking at, but it contained the same type of information. Even with the stress of their mission weighing on them, McCord found a way to lighten the moment.
“Aaron, you’re not trying to channel the boss’s Navy experience when you tell us your team is standing port and starboard watches, are you?”
“Ahhh … well … maybe, sir. I just want to cover this with all the talent we can muster until we find Admiral Bruner.”
“Fair enough. That means you need to go home too. Are you in the ‘port’ or ‘starboard’ watch team?”
“Umm … to use another one of Mr. Williams’s Navy terms, I’m in ‘port and re-port.’”
McCord knew it was useless to argue with his Geek Tank leader. “Okay, Aaron, there’s a massive search area Jim and Allen have come up with. Are we still looking for a break, or trying to manufacture one?”
“Actually, we’ve about got one constructed. Do you want just the time or how we built the watch?”
“How about a little bit of both?” McCord offered.
“Okay, you know how we were a little skeptical about hiring Fred, seeing as how he had those two felony convictions for busting into corporate databases?”
“I know all too well. I used a silver bullet with the boss on that one.”
“You’ll be glad you did,” Bleich replied, and, as he did, he touched the screen and a large number of triangles appeared.
“What are those?” McCord asked.
“Cell phone towers,” Bleich replied. “I know there are a lot of them inside this circle, but we can eliminate all these over here, and over here too,” he continued, touching the screen in areas north and east of BWI—
“Because?” McCord prodded.
“Number one, because these guys had to be scared shitless after they were chased by the FBI HRT trucks. But even at that, they pressed up toward the airport for a while. But here’s where the last traffic cam hit had them—”
“Okay, so what else?”
“Well, we’re assuming now the admiral wasn’t on any flight out of BWI. And since they were bore-sighted on the airport, but then left the BW Parkway, we figure the guys packing the box told them they missed the FedEx flight. So they likely left the parkway somewhere between here and here,” Bleich said, pointing to the display again.
“And you think they went to ground somewhere to the west of the BW Parkway?”
�
�Yes, sir. They were pretty new to the D.C. metro area but had to figure if they headed east out toward Glen Burnie they’d wind up on an Interstate like I-97 or I-695, or on a major state road. They had to know—or at least guess—that the FBI HRT chase was triggered by a traffic cam. So the only thing we can suppose is they got off the BW Parkway and went to ground on local streets around this area,” Bleich said as he drew his own electronic arc on the screen.
“I don’t disagree with any of what you’ve said,” McCord replied. “But where does Fred come in?”
“Well, boss—now we’re prying the back off the watch,” Bleich said, touching the screen again in several places. “Even using that process of elimination we just went through, that’s a massive area for our CIRG team to search. Maggie ran the numbers, and the population of this area is north of one hundred and fifty thousand, and there are over sixty thousand houses or apartments—”
Bleich hesitated, as he could see the frown forming on McCord’s face, so he walked his boss through their analysis. Based on what their anticipatory intelligence was telling them, there were a total of seven cell-phone towers that would service any calls made by the kidnappers. While a typical cell tower can handle thousands of calls in an hour, Fred had hacked into the servers of three different cell carriers to glom onto all the data each cell phone company had, looking for a call coming from Mosul, the Geek Tank leader explained. Once one of those calls hit any of the seven towers—and likely a few of them at the same time—they’d be able to narrow the location of where the hostage was being held.
Bleich’s explanation of how they were hacking cell phone companies’ databases brought a grimace to McCord’s face.
“Don’t worry, boss,” Bleich said, smiling. “I gave Fred close parameters to work with. None of this will be traceable to NGA or to us. I’ve looked at what Fred’s built, it’s pretty sweet.”
“So for now we wait?”
“We wait; but those algorithms will be chugging all night.”
Scorched Earth Page 14
