by Jack Bowie
* * *
It was one o’clock and Braxton and Walker were back in their musty workroom after grabbing a quick lunch in the command center’s commissary. Or at least MI5’s version of one. Their diet of cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches was getting really old.
Slattery walked in with an expression Braxton recognized as satisfaction. It was always hard to tell with the spook. He must have some good news.
“Just heard back from Langley.” He opened a file folder and started reading. “Jack Knox. Married to Virginia Campbell Knox. Three years ago, Knox was an agent in the Secret Service’s Intelligence Division working out of the Denver office. When their son disappeared, Virginia Knox had a breakdown. Had to be hospitalized. She has never fully recovered.”
“I bet Knox would do anything to get his son back,” Walker said. “Where is he now?”
“A year ago he got promoted to Protective Operations in D.C. Transferred his wife to a facility in Fairfax. His specialty is transportation and logistics. He’s here. In Edinburgh. He’s been arrested and is in Secret Service custody. They’re interrogating him now.”
“Then let’s go,” Walker said. “I want to see the bastard.”
Slattery shook his head. “Not our job anymore. The Secret Service has all of our background data. It’s their responsibility.” Slattery closed the folder and stared back at his friends. “Anyway, Robert wants to see us in the ops center. Let’s see what he has to say.”
The trio hurried upstairs and entered a beehive of activity. They walked over to Brooks who was huddled with a group of agents.
“Robert?” Slattery said. “You asked for us?”
Brooks turned to the Americans. “Yes. Thanks for coming. The tech team believes they may have located Rockwell’s headquarters. They’ve narrowed it down to a few square kilometers in a rural area south of Queensferry. I’m not taking any chances this time. I’ve called in two Special Reconnaissance Regiment patrols. Thought you’d want to follow their progress.”
It was clear to Braxton there was no invitation for the civilians to participate. He looked over to Walker and saw that she had the same frustration. He was sure she would have wanted to join, but he was just as happy to watch from the safety of the center.
“I’ve never worked with your SRR boys, Robert,” Slattery said. “Are they as good as I’ve heard?”
“Even better, Roger.” Brooks looked over at the blank faces on Braxton and Walker. “Sorry. The Special Reconnaissance Regiment is a new Special Forces team. You may have heard of the Special Air Service and Special Boat Service. They’re our version of your Rangers and SEALs. The SRR was created specifically for intelligence and surveillance operations. Beyond that, there’s not much more I’m allowed to say. But I can assure you they are very good.”
“You have room for one more on the team?” Slattery asked. The agent didn’t have the same reticence as his colleagues.
“I thought you might ask,” Brooks replied with a wry smile. “I think we can find an extra outfit. But you have to go now.
“Montgomery!” Brooks called to a soldier standing at the door. “Take Mr. Slattery down to the staging area and get him suited up. The patrols are about to leave.”
“Thanks, Robert,” Slattery said quietly. “We’ll find him.”
“I hope so, Roger. But please don’t get yourself killed. The paperwork would be bloody hell.”
* * *
Braxton and Walker had spent the next hour listening to the reports of the two SRR patrols. They had started at the periphery of the search area and were working their way inward. So far there had been nothing unusual to report.
“Central, this is Team Two. We’re approaching a substantial home on a large plot of land. It looks like it was once a bed-and-breakfast and maybe a farm before that. Pretty run-down, broken fences and overgrown grounds, but it’s one of the few locations we’ve seen that could house the targets. We’re going to investigate.”
“Roger, Team Two,” replied the comm operator. “Keep us apprised.”
Braxton felt a rush of adrenaline. Could this be the place? Walker moved closer to the electronic map showing the location of the team members in blinking spots of green light.
“Central, no activity that we can see, but there is a large barn in the back of the property. Has some fresh vehicle tracks. Moving in.”
“Roger, Team Two. Team One are you copying Team Two?”
“Roger, Central. We are approaching from the west. Confirm no activity.”
Brooks moved over to Braxton and Walker. “Team One is led by Sean Fogarty, one of our best. Roger is in good hands.”
The anticipation spread through the room like a ripple in a pond. The buzz subsided and the room became deathly quiet.
“Central, this is Team Two. The barn is set up like a garage. We see two white cargo vans and commercial painting equipment. No inhabitants. Whoever was here is gone. How should we proceed?”
Braxton’s heart stopped. Two white vans. They had found Rockwell!
The operator turned back to Brooks. Brooks looked over at Braxton who nodded his head, then stepped forward and leaned into the mic.
“This is Brooks. Target is confirmed. You are cleared to move on the house. Coordinate with Team One. Expect a hostile response, but remember the rules of engagement. Repeat, do not use lethal force on the children unless absolutely necessary.”
“Roger, Central. Understood. Proceeding.”
Chapter 38
Edinburgh Castle, Edinburgh, Scotland
Friday, 4:15 p.m.
Following the afternoon session on security and emerging nuclear threats, the G20 representatives were treated to a private tour of Edinburgh Castle, a stone fortress overlooking modern Edinburgh. Standing on the Castle Rock promontory, the structure had been the royal castle of Scotland since at least the twelfth century and served as the royal residence through the sixteenth century.
With increasing political turmoil in the country, the castle became primarily a military barracks. The structure had undergone nearly continuous restoration over the past one-hundred years, resulting in its conversion into a highly popular, and profitable, tourist attraction.
The representatives were escorted through the castle, viewing the Scottish regalia, the Scottish National War Memorial, the National War Museum, and the Great Hall, home to historical Scottish national assemblies, with its soaring timber hammer-beam ceiling.
It was nearly dark when they left the castle for a motorcade down The Royal Mile to Holyrood Palace for a reception hosted by the Royal Family. Upon leaving the castle walls, they were met by their limousines in the Esplanade, a large open field with tall bleachers on each side that was the site of the famous Edinburgh Military Tatoo. With typical international hubris, it had been turned by the Summit’s organizers into the world’s most exclusive valet parking lot.
The Royal Mile was usually Edinburgh’s busiest tourist thoroughfare, a Scottish mile of pubs, restaurants, shops, and attractions designed to draw visitors from all over the world. Normally closed to vehicular traffic, today it had been barricaded to hold back those same gawkers from a procession of black limousines flying the flags of the G20 participants.
Brooks had apparently opted for a high-visibility approach to security: Kevlar-vested soldiers with automatic rifles stood on every corner, military snipers had been placed on rooftops, and plainclothes officers walked the barricades talking non-stop into their sleeves.
The Royal Mile ended at the gates to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, a sprawling seventeenth-century stone castle that once served as the home for Scotland’s Kings and Queens and now as the home for English monarchs when visiting Scotland. Already outfitted with state-of-the-art security, it was deemed the perfect location for the reception.
President Matthews sat calmly in the rear of his personal incarnation of the Beast, a heavily modified Cadillac limousine created for the ultimate protection of the President. The features of the Beast were
the dreams, or perhaps the nightmares, of every automotive design engineer.
In addition to the well-known eight-inch chassis armor, five-inch bulletproof glass and Kevlar run-flat tires, the Beast had a completely self-contained air supply, an easily accessible armory of very lethal weapons, and a complete field medical kit including four pints of the President’s own blood. There were no keyholes on the doors; only the Secret Service knew how to open the vehicle. It had extensive, secure satellite and Internet communications capabilities and its own defensive and offensive weapons systems. The Beast could withstand any attack short of a direct hit by a missile.
Matthews was reviewing his notes for the upcoming reception. It wouldn’t be becoming for the leader of the free world to forget the names of the other representatives. Or their wives. Marcus Tanner, the Secret Service agent in charge of Summit security, sat across from the President, reviewing his own file, one that likely did not include the finer points of Scotch whiskey.
They were about halfway to Holyrood when Matthews heard loud noises outside. The limousine swerved away from The Royal Mile and turned down a side street.
“What the hell!” he cried, grabbing the door’s safety handle.
“Mr. President.” It was Frank DeVoss, head of the President’s security detail, speaking from the front seat. “There’s a disturbance outside and we’re taking evasive action. Our route has been coordinated with Summit security to separate us from both the attack and from the other vehicles. We’ll be back at the hotel in a few minutes.”
Despite the uncountable drills he had been forced to endure, Matthews held onto the safety handle like a frightened child.
* * *
The limousine turned onto Barrows Street. It was only three blocks to the safety of the hotel. The street was lined with small shops and pubs, but in the waning light of the day, only the glow from an occasional neon sign lit the street. There were no pedestrians to be seen. The stores had all been closed as part of the Summit’s security precautions.
As the limo rounded a bend, the driver saw a small school bus blocking the road. One side of the bus had been crushed and smoke was pouring out of the front.
“Slow down,” said the agent in the passenger seat.
Suddenly a group of five children ran from behind the bus to the front of the limo, yelling and waving their hands. Their clothes were torn and blackened.
The limo stopped.
A white cargo van appeared, stopping immediately behind the limo. One man jumped out and ran into an alley on the side of the street.
Automatic fire immediately came from both sides of the road, the attackers hidden in the shadows of alleys and shuttered buildings. Despite the brutal onslaught, the heavily-armored limo took the initial fire without substantial damage.
The children retreated from the attack back to their bus, but one armored soldier dashed past them carrying what looked like a backpack.
He ran toward the limo and was preparing to toss the pack at the car when the area exploded in blinding light. There was a deafening roar and the attacker was smashed onto the macadam by a spray of bullets from the sky.
A UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter slowly lowered over the scene, twin fifty caliber rifles sweeping the street from each side of the aircraft. The sounds of the guns combined with the roar of the helicopter’s engine created a paralyzing din.
“Go, go,” cried the limo’s front seat passenger into his comm. He was Ranger Captain John Fields, head of the operation. Three hours ago, he and his team had been having a relaxing lunch at RAF Menwith Hill in Harrogate. Then he had gotten the call from Edinburgh and all hell had broken loose.
All automatic fire suddenly stopped and the doors of the limo swung open. Seven Army Rangers and Fields, all in full battle gear, jumped into the street.
Two teams of three Rangers ran to each side of the road to clear whatever remained of the attackers. Shattered glass and shredded wood were strewn over the sidewalks and street.
Fields and the last Ranger headed to the school bus. The children were screaming and running in all directions from the melee. Fields calmly aimed his specially-modified AR-15. One. Two. Three.
He saw the last two children racing down a side alley. They were easily tracked by the Black Hawk’s torches. He squeezed the trigger. Four. Five.
The fact that he was firing tranquilizer darts rather than full loads was a rationalization that did little to calm his psyche. He had led teams into deadly combat in Afghanistan and Iraq but knew this moment would haunt him the rest of his life.
When the backup squads arrived five minutes later, five children had been incapacitated and six mercenaries had been killed. No other mercenaries had been seen. The children were loaded into ambulances and taken to Western General Hospital in Edinburgh. The fatalities were transported to the MI5 staging area in Leith.
Watching the efficient movements of his support crews, Captain Fields leaned on the hood of the bullet-ridden limo and threw up.
* * *
The Beast pulled into the underground parking garage of the Intercontinental Hotel and stopped in front of the lower entrance door. Matthews stepped out followed by Tanner.
DeVoss was already standing in the doorway.
“What’s the status, Frank?” Matthews asked.
“The intel was correct, sir,” DeVoss replied. “The decoy limo was attacked. The Rangers eliminated the threat.
DeVoss paused. “The attackers were very well prepared, sir. The Rangers found a backpack full of C4. I don’t think anyone would have survived.”
The security team became silent. No one wanted to think about what could have happened. “Losses?” the President finally said.
“One of the Rangers was wounded. Not life-threatening. All the adult attackers are dead.”
“Were there children?”
“Yes, sir. Five children have been transported to the hospital. No serious injuries. That’s all we know at the moment.”
“Thank you, Frank.” Matthews turned to Tanner. He knew what would happen next. The after-action report. Accusations of blame. Recriminations. This was going to be a long night.
But he couldn’t forget about gratitude. “Marcus, get Peter Markovsky on the phone. I guess I have to thank him for saving my ass. Again.”
Chapter 39
South of Queensferry, Scotland
Friday, 4:30 p.m.
The two SRR patrols approached from opposite sides of the old house. Too big for a house and too small for an apartment building, it was an ornate, rambling structure that looked like it had undergone one addition too many. Three windowed stories rose below a sagging, mossy roof. A long covered porch filled with rocking chairs and lounges ran the length of the structure.
The grounds could have been attractive, but it would take a landscaping crew months to clear the area of debris and trim the jungle of hedges and bushes. The only redeeming feature of all this chaos was that it created any number of excellent places to hide.
“Team One, this is Team Two. We have eyes on two adult hostiles.”
“Roger, Team Two.” It was Fogarty. “Sentries?”
“Doesn’t appear so. Just two guys standing on the front porch. But they are armed.”
“Can you neutralize?”
“Not at this time. How would you like to make some noise?”
“We should be able to manage that. How much time do you need?”
“Give us sixty seconds.”
“Roger, Team Two. On our count.”
Two members of Team Two broke from their cover and ran across the side yard to take positions at the end of the porch. They silently hopped the railing and took cover behind a rusting trash bin.
They heard a loud crack from the opposite end of the porch. It sounded like a floorboard breaking. Rockwell’s men spun to the sound. The short stocky man drew his weapon and ran to the disturbance. The taller man stood his ground and waited.
A gunshot shattered the quiet and the Team Two
operatives attacked, the advantage of surprise now lost. Distracted by the shot, the tall mercenary spun too late. One operative clamped his arm around the mercenary’s neck while the other cleared his weapon and locked his arms. The man struggled but was no match for the two younger professionals. Ten seconds later he dropped unconscious to the floor.
“Team Two clear.”
The stocky mercenary had stepped through the broken porch floor and accidentally discharged his gun. He was quickly dispatched by Team One but suffered a fractured tibia in the ensuing scuffle.
”Team One clear. We’re going around back. Time to look inside.”
“Roger, Team One. Ready to breach.”
The two teams entered silently and swept the downstairs. It was a maze of small, claustrophobic rooms, only slightly cleaner than the outside. The front of the house was empty, but Team Two heard noises coming from a back room.
Three minutes later they reported in.
“This is Team Two. We have three children in the kitchen. They were getting a snack. Children are secure. Repeat, three children secure. Central, we’re going to need some special support to extract.”
“Roger, Team Two. Backup is on the way. Did you get anything from the children?”
“Yes, sir. They said most of their family is on an operation. But they think Rockwell, they call him the Colonel, is still in his office in the back of the house. The door will be closed.”
“Roger, Team Two. We’ll take it from here. Stay with the children.”
“Roger, Team One. Team Two out.”
* * *
As Fogarty’s team approached the door, Slattery raised his hand in a fist. “I’ve got this,” he said in a tone that no one misunderstood. He had no misconceptions about the danger of facing Rockwell, but he also knew that their only chance of getting any information on the background of the plot was to engage him personally. It was a chance he had to take.
The two operatives on Slattery’s flank looked back at their leader. He nodded.
Slattery inched the door open. “It’s Roger Slattery, Colonel. I think we should talk.”
