FATAL eMPULSE (39 page)

Although he hoped for Gitmo, if this ever came before the court, Beck hoped the case would be brought before this judge. This old boy from Texas—now a powerful federal judge—could not be intimidated. Ever. He could imagine the judge sitting up on his bench with a slew of terrorist defendants cringing in front of him—one hand on a gun he carried under his robe, dispensing justice at every opportunity amid the howls and rants from defense attorneys and the ACLU.

Warrants in hand, Beck supervised a team of agents as they monitored each line, each communications link, covered by the warrant. Sooner or later, one of these terrorists—Fotouh, Hassan, or Raed al-Azmah—would make a mistake. They would say the wrong words, send the wrong message, make an error that would give Beck the right to swoop in and arrest every last one of them seeking to destroy his country.

Until then, he would be patient. His time would come. As he watched his team trying to stay awake, waiting for a call that they could analyze, he thought about Gerrit and Alena on the other side of the planet. They were trying to stay alive, trying to figure out where the Syrians spirited Shakeela. Frank briefed him on the latest, and Beck knew time was essential to their success.

Those thoughts made what he was doing here seem inconsequential. Like Collord, Beck felt frustrated and helpless. Right now, there was nothing he could do. His frustration turned to anger, but he tried to fight against these emotions. He needed to suppress it and channel that energy into productive efforts here in the nation’s capital. The one person he wanted to catch the most sat across town in the White House, leaking information to the enemies, betraying President Chambers and our nation.

Someday this traitor would make a mistake.

March 16
Al Horjelah, Syria

N
o more voices. Only silence. It had been several minutes since Kadar Hanano stormed past Shakeela on his way downstairs. The man seemed focused and stared at the ground as he strode by. She saw him punch in the password but could not see the sequence from her location. A few minutes later, another man swept by and joined Hanano downstairs. How many were left down here?

She took off her shoes and silently padded down the hallway. If there were any more men down here, she did not want to alert them. She came to an L-shaped turn and followed this until she came to a single door that blocked her path. It appeared this entire building was built around the security of this one door. Where did it lead? What was inside?

It was unlocked, standing ajar a few inches. Opening it a bit wider, she peered in and saw what appeared to be a war room. No one inside. She eased her way through the doorway and toward a pinup board bearing a group of photos. Atash Hassan, Mohamed Abul Fotouh, and Raed al-Azmah. Off to the right and a little lower, four more photos caught her attention, photos of herself, Alena, Gerrit, and Max, apparently caught on a surveillance camera at the hotel here in Damascus. This confirmed their suspicions. Syrian intelligence knew they were in country and where they had been staying. She must get out of here and warn the others.

Shakeela started to leave when she spotted another pinup board containing aerial photos and a timeline etched out in pen on a rolled-out piece of white butcher paper. In one of the photos, she saw all the An-26 aircraft lined up on the tarmac at the military ramp near the Damascus airport. One of the planes had been circled in red. She noted its location in relationship to the others. If they had not moved it, she would be able to pinpoint that plane from an updated satellite photo. She saw a second photo labeled
Katzrin
with a date of March 18 underlined. Katzrin was in the Golan Heights, and she realized the Syrians knew the date, time, and location of when the president and prime minister would visit that region. Al-Assad was going to attack. Here was the proof.

Shakeela started to turn and head for the door when she saw a cell phone lying on the table. She snatched it up and headed for the door, starting to dial Gerrit’s number. She glanced at the face of the phone—it had no signal. Glancing around her, she realized this entire building was designed for security, with walls too thick to allow cell-phone coverage. Once she got outside, she’d call Gerrit and let him know what she found out.

Max and the others needed to know this before it was too late. She dashed from the room and scampered down the hall, getting close to the exit when she heard the door creak open. She flung herself into the room she had hidden in earlier just as the door opened wider.

Hanano came charging through the doorway. He stormed past her on his way down the passageway. She peeked out and saw he was halfway down the hallway. Swiftly, she moved into the light and made her way toward the door before it latched. Grasping the handle, she was able to stop its progress before the locking mechanism closed. Glancing back, she saw Hanano already rounded the corner. Hopefully, he never looked back.

She shot through the doorway and allowed the door to close behind her. Slipping her shoes back on, Shakeela started to move toward the stairs when she saw a man at the foot of the stairs.

It was too late to go back. Quickly looking around, she moved to her left and hid beneath the desk, shadows concealing her from the man slowly climbing. From her position, she could see beneath the desk as the man climbed. He seemed distracted, reading a document in his hand. He finally reached the top.

Shakeela sank back into the shadows, hoping the desk would block the man from seeing her. He punched in the code, opened the door, and disappeared inside. Once the door latched shut, she dashed down the stairwell and hurried toward the front door. Car lights shone ahead. Someone was driving toward this building. She could not escape through the front door. She quickly moved to the rear and exited through the same door as before.

She pulled out the stolen phone and began calling.

Wind continued to build up during the night as Gerrit felt the car buffeted by strong gusts, dust billowing around them so thick that he could taste it. Almost impossible to see the main gate from here, headlights puncturing the darkness as military vehicles swept by.

Several hours ago, he suggested Alena might like to rest while he kept watch. She started to lay back, closing her eyes. Just when he thought she might be asleep, she said, “Wouldn’t it be quicker if we sneaked over the security fence on foot and tried to rescue her? Time is of the essence.”

“I know, but if she’s hurt, how are we going to get her out? And if we have a set of wheels from the Army, we’ll be able to cover more ground faster. It gives us options when we approach and gives us transportation out of here. We don’t know where they might have her underground. I’d imagine those tunnels run for miles. If this doesn’t work soon, then we’ll try it on foot.”

Alena nodded and appeared to fall asleep. A few minutes later, she moved, resting her head on his shoulders. She stayed that way, motionless, for the next fifteen minutes.

Another five minutes slipped away. One vehicle, a half-ton with one person on board, approached the front gate from inside the base. The driver got out and seemed to be chatting with the sentry. The driver pointed down the road before driving off.

Gerrit decided to play a hunch. Something about the driver made him think this guy was in no hurry to leave the area. “Alena, time to rise and shine.”

He kept his eye on the truck and started the engine, looking over to make sure she was ready. He slowly moved down the dirt road, lights off, until he reached the main highway. Without using the brake lights, he approached the highway and followed the truck, turning on his headlights once he reached the paved road.

The truck lumbered down the main road for about three miles, brake lights coming on when the vehicle began to slow. The truck—desert camouflaged, canvas covered, and a green body—seemed to be riding high, no weight in back. Since the man rode solo, Gerrit guessed that no soldiers lurked in the truck bed. The driver took a secondary road, rather narrow, and continued due north from the highway.

Gerrit slowed down, and just before he turned onto the road, he killed his lights once more. He would have to drive carefully because this small rural road was most likely riddled with potholes and gullies from past rains. He tried to track the truck ahead to see if it hit any obstacles. “Hey, would you reach in my bag and pull two sets of night goggles?”

She fumbled through the bag, then handed him one. “How far are you going to follow this guy?” Alena peered ahead after activating her own set.

He did the same and saw the night lighten to a greenish hue. “As far as he goes. My guess is he’s going to pick a nice quiet place, far enough away so he doesn’t get caught, and sleep for the rest of the night.”

Brake lights flared ahead. “There! See, he just pulled over and killed his lights.” Gerrit eased to a stop and switched off his engine. In the quietness, he heard the target’s truck engine still idling. Finally, the engine went quiet. He sat back and watched the truck through his goggles. The soldier remained in the cab. “Let’s go pay him a visit.”

Max sat in the darkness, prone on the ground, watching the enemy patrol dead ahead. He saw a Jeep with two solders inside slowly follow the perimeter of the security fence. Off to his right, he tried to ignore the lights and roar of a passenger jetliner as it lifted off the tarmac, screaming its way into the darkness. Howling winds swept the barren soil around him, and at times he had to close his eyes to keep the dust from reaching his eyes in spite of the night-vision goggles he wore. This sand and dust seeped into everything.

Three other men from his unit lay to his left and right, fanned out so they had 360-degrees of coverage. One man remained at the farmhouse with the remainder of the unit, keeping radio contact. “Our target still in the nest?” Max asked, keying his transmission button.

Two clicks told him Scott Henderson was inside that building straight ahead, about a thousand klicks. To reach it, they would have to cut the wire and traverse open, level ground for the entire distance, skirting patrols and avoiding any spotters that might be using night-vision scopes like theirs. There had been no military flights coming or going, and he could not see any activity around the military aircraft, including the six An-26 planes nestled in a straight line, wingtip-to-wingtip.

He and his men blended with the terrain. He was not worried that Syrian patrols might spot them. It had taken them two hours to inch their way to this spot. Soldiers would stumble over them before they ever saw them lying here on the ground. Without moving his head, Max scanned the entire layout of the military building that lay just beyond where the Air Force taxied their planes.

Between where the military planes were kept and the main highway leading to the Damascus International terminal where civilians boarded planes, he saw one main hangar in the far left corner of the military compound. Beyond the hangar, he saw a scattering of buildings, each connected by paved roads that intertwined before leading out to a main sentry gate. The main gate was the only access to the 29th Brigade’s well-guarded airfield.

They had worked their way from the south, past the main runways used by military and civilian aircraft, to avoid a concentration of military person and security patrols. Max slowly brought a thermal-imaging camera to his eyes before transmitting. “Okay, guide me in.”

A man’s voice came over the radio. “See the hangar?”

“Yeah, got it.”

“Work to your right and back about one hundred meters. See the three-story building?”

“Yes. Give me a location.”

“Top floor, southwest corner.”

“I see it. A light’s on.”

“That’s where they’re keeping the target.”

“Got it.” He adjusted the zoom. “I see three heat images register, one in that room and two elsewhere on the second floor close by. The rest of the structure is clear.” He zoomed over to where the An-26s sat. “I see no heat signatures near the birds.”

Max slowly put the camera away and adjusted his night-vision goggles. “We’re going in for a closer look.”

March 16
Al Horjelah, Syria

N
asty weather made for a welcome companion as Gerrit and Alena closed in on the truck. Gerrit carried a satchel and Alena a duffel bag. Gerrit moved fast. His night-vision goggles coupled with the howl of the wind—muting the sound of his boots as they tread across hard soil—made progress easy. Alena kept pace moving to his right, approaching the right rear tailgate.

He reached the left side of the military transport, peeling back the canvas cover to peer inside. Empty. Lowering the canvas he nodded toward Alena, gesturing that he was about to make his approach. She moved to the right, out of sight.

Clutching his handgun, Gerrit felt along the truck’s panel as he edged forward to see if there might be any movement inside the cab. The door lock had been raised. Great. He could yank the door open without having to break glass. Creeping closer to the driver’s window, he took a peek—the driver sprawled across the seat, his feet resting on the passenger door, head lying between the steering wheel and the back of the cushioned seat.

Taking a deep breath, Gerrit quickly threw open the door and reached inside, grabbing the man’s collar and yanking the soldier out with a violent thrust. The startled man landed on the ground before he could react, the sudden impact causing him to lose his breath. The soldier started to struggle until he came face-to-face with the barrel of Gerrit’s handgun pressed against his nose.

In Arabic, Gerrit ordered him to freeze. A moment later, Alena was at his side, tying their prisoner up with duct tape. The man looked from one to the other, first with fear—until he realized they were not going to kill him—and then with hate.

Gerrit knelt next to him. “Do you want to live?”

The man’s eyes widened. Gerrit saw in the prisoner’s expression that he was not a candidate for martyrdom. The soldier gave a slow nod, looking from one to the other. “Yes.”

“Good,” Gerrit said, “because I’m going to take off your shirt and strap a bomb to your chest. If you do what I say, the bomb will not go off. If you do one thing wrong, I will trigger the bomb and you and I will die. Understand?”