“The best, boss,” McCord began. “Fred’s gotten us the intel we need to narrow the search area. We think the footprint’s small enough to deploy Allen and his team. I’ll let Aaron walk you through it.”
Bleich sat down at the table next to Williams and held his tablet in front of him. “We may have this nailed to a precise location soon, boss, but like Roger said, Fred’s program has narrowed the call we were anticipating to somewhere inside this red circle here—”
“That’s pretty close to BWI,” Williams said.
“Yes, around five miles or so—and if his program does what we think it will, we maybe can nail it to a several-block area soon—in no more than a few hours. But we think we have enough to get Allen’s ground vehicles out to start sniffing around. Jim thinks it’s a good idea too—”
“You’ve already spoken with Jim Wright?” Anne Sullivan interjected. Op-Center’s deputy director was, for all intents and purposes, Williams’s COO. She didn’t want the Intelligence Directorate making decisions that should be reserved for Williams.
“Yes ma’am—but just for info. He knows Mr. Williams will make the call from here.”
“Then let’s make it,” Williams said. “Allen’s team isn’t doing us any good sitting at BWI. Let’s get them moving toward—” Williams paused, looking at the tablet. “What’s this town, Aaron?”
“It’s Jessup, boss. Do you want to call Jim or do you want us to?”
“I’ll do that right now,” Williams replied. “And, Aaron, good job again recruiting Fred. We had our doubts, but I’m glad you persisted.”
“Me too, boss.”
As McCord and Bleich left, Williams turned to Sutherland, who had finished his call with Dawson. “All good with Brian and our JSOC team?”
“All’s good, boss. We’ll get that aircraft to pick them up just as soon as we can.”
* * *
As Allen Kim and his team got the order to roll their vehicles out of BWI, approximately seven thousand miles to the east, a single vehicle was on the move.
Dale Bruner navigated the jagged topography of the Iraq desert, pushing his Humvee over rocks, wadis, ridges, and depressions. It was slow going, especially at night.
As he drove, he took a mental inventory of the gear Peters had provided. In addition to the Sig Sauer P226 pistol he wore on his hip, he had a silenced .22 caliber automatic in an underarm shoulder holster. His main armament consisted of two Mk17 SCAR Long Barrel assault rifles. One was a SCAR-L that fired the lighter 5.56mm cartridge, and the other was a SCAR-H that chambered the heavier 7.62 rounds. He had ample ammunition for both. For close-in work, there was an MP7A2 submachine gun, several explosive breaching charges, and a supply of M67 hand grenades. For optics, he had a set of Steiner 7 x 50rc M50rc binoculars and a pair of L-3 GPNVG-18 night vision goggles. The load-out was topped off with assorted sizes of C-4 charges with sticky backing and a variety of timing devices. Dale was familiar with all the weapons, equipment, and explosives. Not that he would need it all, but Peters had covered every contingency.
He was less happy with the garb Peters had given him and insisted he wear, but his brother SEAL had been in-country for a long time and Dale admitted to himself that wearing what he had on now was his best chance to blend in once he got to Mosul. Still he felt odd. The baggy cami pants and oversized cami jacket were bad enough, but the black and gray kaffiyeh he wore on his head seemed unnecessary, and the huge bandolier with dozens of shells just weighed him down.
If there was any advantage to having to make this slow, lengthy, nighttime drive, it was that it gave Bruner an opportunity to build a mental model for how he would extract his dad from the ISIL compound. Sure, he had thought about it on the long flight from Andrews to Baghdad International, but there was something about being in Iraqi territory, having his vehicle with its load of gear and—most importantly—having the detailed picture of the buildings ISIL currently occupied, that helped his plan develop. The tablet Zack had given him was already proving its worth. He was forming the picture, and it was starting to gel.
* * *
The unused wing of the FAA’s air traffic control facility at BWI was impossibly cramped as Allen Kim and Becky Kott gathered their entire team in front of the LCD monitor. Jim Wright stood off to the side.
“All right,” Kim began. “Mr. Wright has spoken with Op-Center, and the Geek Tank has pushed us good intel—plus we’re expecting more detailed locating info soon. We’ve been told to move out to the southwest and comb these areas here … here … and here,” he continued, pointing at the display.
Kim had gone over the plan with the senior ground commander in advance, and now the CIRG HRT team leader stepped up to the screen. “All right, here’s what we can do with the assets we have. We figure the kidnappers who have the admiral are holed up somewhere in the area Mr. Kim just showed you. We’re all but certain it’s a building or house with a garage or shed that can hold a van, so we don’t have to look at houses without garages or apartments with outside parking—”
“Do we know for certain they haven’t abandoned their vehicle? If they have, could they have hunkered down anywhere?” one of the HRT assault team men asked.
“We don’t, but we’re operating on that assumption for now. When we roll out, I want two vehicles going down here, along routes 170 and 174 toward Fort Meade,” he said, pointing at the screen. “Another two will head out this way, due west, toward Guilford. The final one I want headed west-northwest toward Meadowridge Park,” he continued. Then turning to Wright, “That about cover the area your intel says we want to search?”
“Yes, it does,” Wright replied. “Let’s roll out—” He paused as Sandee Barron’s hand shot in the air. “You want one or two birds up, boss?” Barron asked.
“Two, but no lower than three thousand feet for now, and try not to fly racetrack patterns. We don’t want to spook these guys.”
Sandee Barron was the command pilot of one of the CIRG HRT helicopters that belonged to Kim’s unit. If anyone had lived through career highs and lows, it was she. Barron had been cashiered by the Navy for breaking a half-dozen Navy regs and almost getting herself and her passenger killed. But Op-Center had seen something in her, and Chase Williams had used his influence to get her an assignment with the FBI’s CIRG. She wasn’t there long before Kim found out about her and recruited her. As a member of Op-Center’s CIRG HRT team she had distinguished herself already, stopping North Korean terrorists before they could crash a bomb-laden truck into the United Nations building. Whatever doubts about her abilities some of the veteran CIRG HRT pilots might have had initially were washed away in that operation.
“Got it,” Barron replied. The briefing continued for a few more minutes, and then the CIRG HRT team mounted up and moved out.
* * *
“Something new, Fred?” Aaron Bleich asked as Morton appeared in his doorway.
“Yes,” he replied. “I think we’re getting close to nailing the location, but there’s a new wrinkle now.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s like this. While we haven’t fingered the precise location of the cell phone the kidnappers are using, we’ve found another cell phone they’ve been communicating with.”
“Where?”
“I’m getting to that. I’ve hac … I mean … I’ve looked into who owns that cell, and it’s a guy with the last name of Masood. He lives in the District and has been on the move since early this morning. From the one conversation we picked up, we’re pretty sure he’s heading to where the kidnappers are holding the admiral. We may not have to search that hard—he may just lead us to where we need to go.”
Bleich considered this. There was nothing wrong with Morton’s logic, and he might be exactly right. But he had to evaluate that against the risk of delaying the search and having the men holding Bruner kill him. But he valued Morton’s opinion and felt he needed to bring his idea forward. “Tell you what, Fred. This is a decision the director himself is go
ing to have to make. Let’s grab Roger and go see him.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Washington, D.C. Metro Area
July 22, 1330 Eastern Daylight Time
“Mr. Martin” had just bought the last piece of equipment he needed and was now headed northeast out of Washington. As he passed a vacant lot, he tossed his personal cell phone as far as he could. He had only one more call to make before he got to the farmhouse. He used his burner cell and dialed the number.
David Pierce answered on the second ring. “Pierce here.” The disposable cell Masood was using didn’t show a name or number, so Pierce was in the dark as to who was calling.
“This is your friend, David.”
“My friend?”
“Yes. We have mutual acquaintances, and I assure you that you’ll want the information I’m offering you.”
Pierce was wary—but interested. Even though he had been in the broadcast news stringer business for only a few years, he had already built a well-deserved reputation as a bottom-feeder. He was adept at finding the most sensational and tawdry stories, getting riveting video, and selling that video to the highest bidder—usually a new cable channel that dealt in the lowest form of gotcha journalism and one that was trying to make its mark in an increasingly crowded field. “I’m listening.”
“Do you think one of your clients might be interested in a video that shows something sensational?” he began. Masood then poured out the scene they were about to construct in the farmhouse. He concluded by saying, “The only proviso is this is to be shown on the evening news—tonight.”
“I can guarantee it will,” Pierce replied as he tossed around dollar figures in his brain. This would be his biggest payday yet.
* * *
He had heard from his team—everyone got to weigh in—and it didn’t take Chase Williams long to make the decision. “I don’t think we should wait for more intel. Let’s search. If this other person leads us to the admiral and his kidnappers, so much the better. But for now, let’s keep the press on.”
“You got it, boss,” McCord replied. “I’ll let Jim know.”
As they left the Op-Center director’s office, Bleich pulled Morton aside. “Fred, I know it didn’t go your way in there, but that’s okay. Keep giving us options, but for now, let’s get back on our turf and nail this location down.”
* * *
He knew he needed to sleep, but the adrenalin pumping through his veins kept Dale Bruner keyed up. He’d arrived in Mosul and had hidden his vehicle where Zack Peters had suggested he stash it.
Now he was hunkered down in his overwatch position in a bombed-out building with a clear view of the ISIL compound. He hadn’t humped as heavy a pack since his last tour in Afghanistan, but he had managed to haul all his gear up to the fourth story of the abandoned building in one trip.
He’d decided to snatch his dad after dark, and night had fallen an hour ago. But there was still a great deal of traffic on the streets below, mainly heavily armed men patrolling around the building, as well as trucks loaded with men, coming and going. Bruner was certain this was the ISIL compound, and he was sure his dad was in that building. And he counted on all these men sleeping sometime.
* * *
“He’s not moving, and he’s been stopped for almost twenty minutes,” Morton said as Bleich hovered over his screen.
“Where?”
“Right here. It’s on the way out of D.C., heading toward the area where we think they’re holding the admiral up near BWI. But it doesn’t make any sense. It’s a run-down area in Northeast, D.C. There’s nothing much there except decaying houses and empty lots.”
“But you’re sure it’s his cell phone? There aren’t any scrambled signals or anything like that?”
“No chance. This is exactly the same signal we’ve been following from the get-go. I’m sure of it.”
“We’re so damn close—we can’t lose this guy now,” Bleich said, the frustration in his voice hard to miss.
“I’ll nail it, just give me a little more time,” Morton replied.
* * *
At that moment, Allen Kim was airborne in Sandee Barron’s Blackhawk helo, one of the two HRT birds searching the area for any sign of the kidnappers or of Admiral Bruner. Once his ground vehicles had rolled out of BWI, Kim felt his place was in the field, not in a building.
His CIRG team was following the most disciplined search plan they could construct, but Kim knew the odds of finding the admiral were still long. Even though the Geek Tank had narrowed the search area, they were still talking several square miles and hundreds of houses and other structures.
Their vehicles were anything but inconspicuous, and he and Jim Wright had had a long discussion regarding the pros and cons of searching the area. While they hoped to find something, anything, that would lead them to the location where the admiral was being held, they also feared spooking the kidnappers into killing Bruner if they thought the authorities were closing in on them. For now, they searched—but carefully.
* * *
Jay Bruner was plumbing the deepest reservoirs of his courage and determination. He had heard enough of his kidnappers’ conversations to now know that he was going to be killed—and every instinct he had told him it would be soon.
He still didn’t know precisely who was holding him, but he had put two and two together and now understood that his death was going to be in retaliation for the strikes he had led as the Roosevelt strike group commander. He’d made his peace with God and now he just wanted to get it over with.
* * *
While most of Aaron Bleich’s focus over the past several hours had been on the work Fred Morton was doing to nail down the location where the kidnappers were holding Admiral Bruner, he hadn’t ignored the rest of the Geek Tank. He knew everyone was eager to contribute, and he had dealt out a number of assignments to individuals and groups.
Now one of those assignments might have just paid off. Maggie Scott called him from her workstation. “Aaron, I need you.”
Bleich made a beeline for Maggie’s cubicle. “Yeah, Maggie, what’s cooking?”
“You asked me and my team to look for anomalies—anything in this general area that we thought was different from days ago—”
“And you’ve found something?”
“I think so. I’ve had the team cast a pretty wide net, and I’ve got to tell you, we ran into plenty of dead ends. This area is a throwback to an earlier time. Nothing much happens or changes.”
“But?” Bleich prodded.
“Yeah, well, we found out there’s this old farmhouse; it’s a real relic. The place has been empty since the couple who lived there since the 60s finally moved to a nearby assisted living facility several months ago. It was on the rental or sales market for the longest time—”
“And?” Bleich asked.
“I was getting to that. A few days ago a realtor from down in the District contacted the realty company in Jessup that listed the property and said he wanted to rent it. He showed up the next day and paid first and last months’ rent and a security deposit in cash.”
“Show me where it is, Maggie.”
* * *
While Scott was walking Bleich through what she’d just found, Amer and his team were unloading Mr. Martin’s van.
“What the hell is all this for?” one of the men whispered to Amer.
“Mr. Martin says he’ll explain it all once we set it up. For now, he told me we need to haul all this inside quickly, and then he wants to put his SUV in the garage with our van.”
The man just shrugged and complied. Soon they were all inside.
It took them just twenty minutes to set up and position all of the equipment to Mr. Martin’s specifications. First, they hung blankets over the windows, securing them with generous amounts of duct tape and a few nails. Then they set up all the filming gear, turned on the high-intensity lights, tested the audio gear, and, finally, placed a small rug on the floor and hung the ISIS flag on the wall
behind it.
Once they’d finished, Martin walked into the other room and kicked Jay Bruner.
“Wake up!”
As Bruner stirred, Martin untied him, but left the gag in his mouth.
Jay Bruner’s eyes went wide with terror as Martin put a gun to his forehead. “Undress.”
Bruner stood in shocked silence for only a moment before Martin pulled back the gun’s hammer and barked, “UNDRESS!”
Bruner did as he was told and then stood there in his boxers for an anxious moment. Martin reached inside a bag, pulled out an orange jumpsuit, held it in front of Bruner, and said, “Put this on.”
Martin shouted into the other room. “Amer, come here!”
Amer walked in and Martin handed him his pistol. “Watch him. If he moves, you know what to do.”
Amer just nodded, and Martin added, “Oh, and take the gag out of his mouth. He might want to pray.”
Now the real terror began.
* * *
It was 1715, and the Washington, D.C. metro area evening newscasts would start in less than an hour.
Martin had walked into one of the farmhouse’s empty rooms and called Pierce.
“We’ll have this video shot soon and will send it to you. Are you certain you’ve found a buyer?”
“The best,” Pierce replied. “You need to get it to me soon. And the quality needs to be good.”
“Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.”
* * *
“We have the location!” Bleich shouted as he burst into McCord’s office with Scott and Morton in tow.
“Show me,” McCord replied.
“Here, we just sent you a link. Let me pull it up,” Bleich continued as he leaned over his boss and scrolled to the top of his e-mail in-box. Soon the map display filled McCord’s screen, and Bleich walked him through what they had just learned.
“Great work, Maggie,” McCord began. “Fred, does this jibe with what your programs are telling you?”
“It does, sir. It’s in the area we were working. Dunno, maybe my program would have ultimately nailed the exact location, but Maggie’s good work got us there first.”
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