by J C Ryan
The six of them looked at the latest intel gathered by the drones and the forward team, consisting of the two Dessert Phantoms and two CIA assets. Their preferred plan was for Rick and Samantha to hack into the ISRD’s computer network and electronic security system and take control of it. Once that was accomplished, they would eliminate the guards and evacuate Mackenzie and Liam.
If Rick failed to break into their computer and security systems, they would have to land the team a few miles away from the Institute and approach in vehicles. Doing it that way meant they would have very little opportunity to get into the place by stealth and almost certainly meant they were going to be engaged in a heavy firefight.
There were 14 armed guards; not an insurmountable number for 12 Special Forces operators with the element of surprise on their side.
Rick and Samantha had 18 hours to break into the Institute’s electronic systems. If that proved to be impossible, Plan B would kick into operation.
The drones were recalled to the ship, where Rick and Samantha upgraded the onboard firmware, and software then re-launched them.
When the drones were returned to their surveillance positions over the Institute three hours later, they started collecting and sending information about the Wi-Fi routers. It took Rick and Samantha less than an hour from the time they received the first data from the drones to break into the Institute’s computer network. From then on it was as Rick loved to say, “Once you know where to look and which buttons to press its smooth sailing.”
By 7:00 am the next morning Rick was smiling from ear to ear when he joined Sean, Dylan, Carter and James at the breakfast table, and told them Plan A was on. He and Samantha had collected every bit of information they needed, wiped out their electronic tracks, and were ready to go into the system again that night.
They had a little less than 17 hours to H-hour, the military terminology for the time of day at which a significant event such as an attack, landing, or any other military operation is scheduled to begin.
***
H-hour was 00:05 when a white twin-cab Toyota Hilux pulled up and parked on the side of the road near the main entrance to the ISRD. Two men, Abbadi Haijar, and Rayan Qureshi, dressed in the uniforms of SASS – Saudi Arabia Security Solutions, the security company contracted by ISRD, got out and approached their two ‘colleagues’ on duty in the guardhouse.
SASS was a big company with well over 300 staff working in different locations and shifts around Mecca, and they didn’t all knew each other. To the two men in the guardhouse, seeing uniforms identical to their own was enough; they didn’t suspect anything.
The two visitors introduced themselves and explained that they got lost on the way to a site that they had to attend because of an alarm that went off.
Abbadi got the attention of the two men when he pulled out his cellphone, displaying a map, and asked them to show him on the map where they were now and where they should go.
Rayan took a step back so that the two could stand beside Abbadi. With their backs turned to him and their attention on Abbadi’s cellphone screen they didn’t see Rayan pulling the two hypodermics from his jacket pocket. They almost didn’t feel the slight sting when the needles entered into the muscle at the base of their necks.
While, Rayan pulled the unconscious guards into the bathroom at the back of the room, tied, and gagged them, Abbadi went outside and called the two roaming guards to come to guardhouse saying there was an urgent message for them from headquarters.
70 miles away on the warship, the Wolves of Freydis were all strapped into their seats inside the two Sikorsky MH-60 Seahawk helicopters, ready for takeoff the moment they got word from Abbadi and Rayan.
Rick and Samantha would remain on the ship from where they would conduct the electronic invasion of ISRD. For the Seahawks, it was a 25-minute flight from the ship to their destination.
The extraction team would have 20 minutes from the time they landed to eliminate the remaining guards, extract the hostages and be airborne again; any longer than that would place them at risk of having to deal with Saudi reinforcements and their police.
In Washington, DC, 6,600 miles away, the President, Gen Crawford, the Chief of Staff, Bill Griffin, and Irene O’Connell were watching from a small conference room adjoining the main conference room referred to as the Situation Room. They had direct audio and visual connections with the two team leaders, Sean, and Dylan, through a live feed from a drone flying overhead.
The men in the Seahawks were all quiet; the noise from the engines and rotors made it nearly impossible to carry on a conversation anyway. Sean looked around, assessing each of his men, noting their alert high tensile awareness.
Henry Louis "H. L." Mencken, a German-American journalist, satirist, cultural critic and scholar of American English once said, "What men will fight for seems to be worth looking into.”
Through the ages military commanders had sought to understand man’s psychology in battle and how to stimulate combat motivation. The ability of a group of combatants to recognize and defy danger, group bonding in times of anxiety, the focus to achieve a single objective, selfless dedication, the ability to overcome the innate survival instinct and willingness to die for others, were important survival traits and basic human nature.
Carter was seated next to Sean. It wasn’t hard for Sean, a veteran warrior, to know exactly how he was feeling. After so many years and so many missions, he still felt as if it were the first time, and that was good; a complacent soldier was a dead soldier.
He noticed the telltale signs of anxiety on Carter’s face, leaned over and said, “make sure you stay close to me, exactly as we have done during training and everything is going to be okay.”
Carter gave him a nervous smile and a thumb up.
If asked, Carter would have been hard put to describe his feelings. Certainly he was tense about the mission - his first mission, but it was far more than that. It was Mackie and Liam, the thought of seeing them again after so long. He was excited, but what if she wasn’t there after all? There was a dreadful mix of anticipation and terror. How would he feel, how would he cope if it turned out they’d made a mistake? What if she were somewhere else instead? After all, they had not been able to confirm she was there; they were relying on the word of a crooked Vice President; was he lying?
It was 00:09 when Rayan’s voice came over loud and clear in Sean’s earpiece. “Loki, Quebec, do you read me? Over.”
“Quebec, Loki, loud and clear. Over”
“Loki, Quebec, Ahote, I repeat Ahote. Over.”
“Quebec, Loki, Ahote confirmed. Out”
‘Ahote’ was the signal to confirm that the four guards on the outside of the ISRD were out of action and had been replaced by the two Dessert Phantoms and two CIA assets parading as SASS security guards.
Sean pushed the button on his throat mic. “Okay ladies, we’re a go. I repeat, we’re a go.”
Twenty-five minutes later Sean and his team of black-cladded men fast-roped from the Seahawk onto the roof of the parking garage where the secret entry to the underground section of the ISRD complex was located. At the same time, 300 yards away, Dylan and his team of black-cladded men fast-roped out of the second Seahawk onto the roof of the ISRD building.
Rick and Samantha had taken control of security cameras ten minutes before the landing and were streaming 30-minute old video to the screens of the security guards inside the buildings. The two of them were now watching their computer monitors and listening for the signals from Sean and Dylan to flip the switches on the power supply and disable the alarm system.
The noise created by the helicopters was a big worry. They expected the security guards might want to come outside to see the helicopters and might notice the men coming down on the fast ropes. To take care of such an eventuality the two ‘new guards’ on roaming duty would position themselves at the front of the building close to the entry to take care of the problem.
The Seahawks hovered over the buildi
ngs for less than 20 seconds before continuing their journey east for a few miles, and then they would start circling.
Sean and Dylan were the first men of their teams to land. They ran to the entry doors on the top of their respective buildings shoved an electronic card, connected by a thin wire to a small handheld metal box, into the card reader slot next to the door, and waited. The rest of the team took defensive positions in a circular pattern around the door.
One of Dylan’s men took position at the end of the roof looking down at the main entry. Shortly after, he saw the two security guards from the lobby walk out of the building and look up at the helicopters. One of them pointed at the helicopter directly above and said, “Those aren’t ours, they’re American.
He spoke into his throat mic, “Keeva, Jay, two spectators. Over.”
Sean replied, “Give them ten secs, then take care of it. Out.”
Jay raised his sniper rifle and got the first guard in his sights; he took a deep breath, let half of it out slowly and had started curling his finger around the trigger when he heard two faint plop sounds that almost sounded like one and saw both men drop to the ground. He looked up through the telescope and saw the two Phantoms, Abbadi, and Rayan, rising out of the shadows of the shrubs next to the front wall.
The minute it took for the algorithm to find the entry code, which would unlock the doors felt like an eternity.
“Keeva, Loki, do you read me? Over”
“Loki, Keeva, loud and clear. We’re in. Over.”
“Keeva, Loki, so are we. See you soon. Out.”
Sean spoke into his throat mic again, “Romeo-Sierra, it’s Loki, lights, I repeat lights.”
Rick replied, “Keeva, it’s Romeo, lights confirmed, I repeat lights confirmed.”
Samantha pushed the button and a few seconds later the entire ISRD complex was engulfed in total darkness.
The team members lowered their balaclavas over their faces, night vision goggles over their eyes, and followed Sean and Dylan in single file down the stairs inside the buildings.
As Dylan and his team crept down the stairs of the main building, he posted a man on each level that gave entry to that particular hallway. He was going to take the ground floor where they knew a small hidden lift and stairs that led down to the subterranean levels.
When Abbadi and Rayan had stashed the bodies of the dead security guards in the shrubs, they went straight to the main electrical switchboard, which was located on the wall behind the security desk. They opened the box unscrewed the faceplate and cut all the wires. When the backup generator kicked in, no power would reach the building.
***
Sean and his men had reached the ground floor of the parking garage and went to the lift allocated to the ISRD staff. Sean again used Rick’s magic door opener, and when the door slid aside, he poked his head in and listened carefully.
The two security guards controlling access to the tunnel leading to the underground facility were just one floor down, and according to the floor plans and body heat images from the drones, they were facing the lift doors.
Sean signaled Carter to follow him and to the rest of his men to stay down in their positions and then entered the lift. When he and Carter were inside, and the door started closing he whispered to Carter, “You cover everything from the center to the left, and I’ll cover the right. When the door opens, and you see anyone going for a gun you shoot and keep on shooting until I tell you to stop.”
Carter nodded, swallowed, and raised the silenced .45 Glock 21. He could feel the sweat on his face under the balaclava. Somehow he felt calm, almost relaxed; he didn’t know how it was possible; he’d never fired a shot at another human being, but for the past seven months that was what he had trained to do.
For weeks, he’d been drilled endlessly in point shooting - a technique that required total focus on the target, not the sights of the weapon.
“Don’t aim; there’s no time, point and fire. It’s that spilt-second that determines who remains standing afterward. Point and shoot, point and shoot. Don’t think, just point and shoot.” His instructors had drilled that into him – first with dry shots, then with a laser gun, and finally with real ammo.
“Don’t aim. Orientate your body, then point and shoot; your body will do the aiming for you, just point and shoot.”
The door opened, and everything went into slow motion for Carter, three yards away, slightly to his left was a man in uniform looking right at him, the man’s eyes flared wide, a fleeting second of shock, before his right hand that held a gun started raising.
Carter felt the gun recoil in his hands twice; blood spattered against the wall behind the man, and Carter saw him and his chair flip over. He scanned further to his left, nothing, pointed back at the man and the chair and started shooting again.
“Stop!”
He looked to his right; Sean had his finger up. In front of Sean, three yards away was another splash of blood against the wall, and a man sprawled on top of a fallen chair on the floor.
“Cover the tunnel; I’ll let the men know to come down.”
Carter nodded. He couldn’t get a word out. He turned to his left, holstered the pistol and slipped the Mossberg 590 Combat Pump-Action Shotgun from his shoulder and trained it on the entry to the tunnel, seven paces away.
Sean spoke into the throat mic, “Joe, Keeva, coast is clear. Quebec and Hotel in place? Over.”
“Keeva, Joe, affirmative. We’re on our way. Out.”
Quebec and Hotel were the Phantoms. After they had cut the electrical cables, they ran over to the parking garage, entered through a side door, and joined the rest of Sean’s team on the ground floor. They had to guard that entry while Sean and his men went through the tunnel to the underground levels of the ISRD.
***
Dylan had each floor covered. He was on the ground floor. He spoke into his throat mic, “Keeva team, confirm.”
One by one the men on each floor replied they were ready. They had removed their night vision goggles as they were expecting people with flashlights, candles and even mobile phone lights in the hallways and rooms which would blind them if they had their night vision goggles on.
The doors through which they would enter were in the middle of the floor next to the lifts. The surveillance information showed that the security guards on each floor had cubicles about five paces away to the left of the doors where they were about to enter.
“On three,” Dylan said and started counting.
Each of them had stuck a tiny device on the door lock in front of them which would explode and break the lock with a plop sound, nothing louder than a small pistol with a silencer.
“Three.” Each one of them pushed the buttons on the remotes, and the locks were broken.
The doors on all six floors opened almost simultaneously, and the men slipped in. There was too much noise and talking going on; no one had heard the explosions. There were quite a few people in the hallways most of them had their cellphone lights on; there were also a few flashlights.
“This is a drill!” The six men shouted in Arabic. “Move back into your rooms and stay there until you can be evacuated. Everyone go now!” And just to make sure the staff followed their orders, they threw smoke grenades into the corridors.
It worked; people immediately rushed back to their offices and rooms and closed the doors to get away from the smoke. The hectic shuffling of people gave the men a chance to reach the cubicles of the unsuspecting security guards, most of who were on their cellphones trying to find out what had happened.
From the moment the six men stepped into the hallways, overpowered the six confused guards with etorphine darts, and hide their unconscious bodies beneath their own desks, was less than a minute.
One by one the men reported to Dylan as they completed their tasks and made their way down the stairs to the ground floor.
Daiyan Nasser, the Director of the Institute, was in his office, literally burning the midnight oil on a report fo
r Xavier Algosaibi when he heard the helicopters. He stopped typing for a moment, frowned, and then went back to typing. He cursed when the lights went out. The backup generator would start in five minutes if the main power didn’t come back on before that. He was tired; he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
He sat up again when he heard someone shouting in Arabic, “This is a drill! Move back into your rooms and stay there until you can be evacuated. Everyone go now!”
A drill? What drill? I haven’t been informed. He felt around for the handle of the top drawer of his desk, opened it, found the flashlight, switched it on, and found the keys to the bottom drawer where he kept his pistol.
Nasser was a scientist, not a hunter, or a soldier. He had a Ph.D. in Human Biology and protested when he was told that he had to have a gun when he took the job. However, after working in the position for a short while, it became clear why he had to carry a gun, and he had taken the time to learn how to use it.
Sitting at his desk, the pistol in his right hand, the switched off flashlight in his left, he saw light through his open door, coming down the corridor towards his office and he raised the gun. When he saw a shadow appear, he shouted in Arabic, “Who are you? What’s going on?” At the same time, he pushed the button on the flashlight and, registering the masked face, aimed the gun at the figure.
Dylan had dropped to his knee when he heard the voice; his finger was tightening around the trigger when the sudden beam from the flashlight landed on his face. It threw his aim off by a tiny fraction of an inch, and the bullet hit Nasser in his right shoulder instead of his chest.
Nasser was thrown back in his chair by the impact of the bullet, and the gun dropped out of his hand on the floor. Dylan took three steps, kicked the gun away, and pushed his gun against Nasser’s head. Two of his men arrived in the room; guns pointed at Nasser.
The element of surprise was still on their side. If Nasser had been able to fire off his unsilenced gun, they would have had a lot of unwelcome attention from the staff; thankfully that had been avoided.
“What’s your name?” Dylan asked in fluent Arabic.
