Final Vector (12 page)
He enticed them with promises of wealth and power in another country upon completion of one simple task first.
Now, sitting alone in the cool semidarkness of his D.C. base of operations, hours after he had sent his men home, Tony waited patiently for the sat phone to make the connection. When it had been established and his contact had been called to the phone, Tony wasted no time on small talk or pleasantries. Those things were pointless. "We're ready," he announced amiably into the handset.
"You have succeeded in acquiring everything you will need?"
"Yes."
"Good. You already know the president's itinerary. All that remains is for us to discuss your team's extraction once the mission is complete. There is an abandoned grass landing strip in northern Massachusetts roughly halfway between the two locations where you and your men will be operating. I sent you the GPS coordinates of this airfield last week. I assume you have familiarized yourself with it?"
"Of course."
"Good. That is where we will have a small aircraft waiting to transport you and your team to a freighter which will depart out of Newport News, Virginia, immediately upon completion of your assignment to bring you home at last. Assuming you suffer no casualties, you will need a plane big enough for the pilot plus a five-man team; is that correct?"
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"No, that is not correct."
"You mean to tell me I have been misinformed as to the size of your team?"
Tony chuckled. "No, I mean to tell you that you have been misinformed as to the likelihood of the potential casualties that will be sustained by my team."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning there will be some. Four, to be precise."
There was a pause. Then the man thousands of miles away on the other end of the satellite connection chuckled, too. His voice took on a hard edge. "Am I correct in assuming you will not be one of them?"
"I certainly hope so."
"So, you . . ."
"That's right. If all my men survive this mission, I will ensure none of them survive this mission."
Tony's contact paused again. The seconds ticked away in silence. Finally he asked the question Tony had been expecting.
"Why? These men are going to help us achieve our greatest tri-umph, greater even than the success of September 11, 2001."
"True," Tony conceded. "But the answer is quite simple. For all their technical proficiency, these men are still nothing more than filthy infidels. They know nothing of our culture and religion, care nothing of them, either. They are greedy, unclean pigs, and I will not be responsible for infecting the sacred land of my country with the likes of them. They will help us accomplish our goal, and then they will be executed. A two-seater plane will be sufficient for the flight to Virginia."
Tony broke the connection and placed the bulky satellite phone inside the bottom drawer of his desk, locking it securely. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag, exhaling slowly, watching as the smoke drifted away on the invisible currents of air circulating through the drafty garage.
Special Agent Kristin Cunningham reviewed all the material removed from Nick Jensen's home for about the thousandth time in the last several days. To Kristin and Frank, it had been instantly clear that the information Jensen notified the Merrimack Police about could mean only one thing: some nameless and faceless group had planned to hijack Raytheon-made Stinger shoulder-fired missiles somewhere between the company's home base in Tucson and the ultimate destination of the weapons, in this case Fort Bliss.
Their assumption had been right on target too, although Kristin felt no satisfaction being right. Last week, on the very same evening that Kristin and Frank sat in Nick Jensen's living room discussing the strange collection of information his dead wife had hidden inside their closet, that nameless and faceless terrorist group had indeed hijacked an Army transport truck, murdering the two soldiers assigned to the delivery and dumping their bodies by the side of the road in the desert.
There were no witnesses, at least none who had survived, and by now the missiles could be anywhere in the country--or possibly even overseas--under the control of a terrorist organization that had already murdered four people.
Over the last several days, Kristin had been in almost constant contact with officials from the Department of Homeland Security.
Their working theory was that the stolen Stinger missiles were hidden somewhere inside the boundaries of the United States and had been hijacked with a specific domestic target in mind. The murder of Michaels was executed cleanly and professionally, but no serious effort had been made to mask the killing. To Homeland Security, this indicated the group in possession of the Stingers was planning on using them soon.
The theft had triggered red flags throughout both the law enforcement and intelligence communities, because the stolen missiles were almost completely intact. In most cases, Stingers were delivered in several separate pieces to guard against an occurrence like the one that had just taken place. In this case, however, time-sensitive critical software modifications had been made, necessitat-ing the shipment of missiles that were virtually complete. The only thing missing was the guidance system, which, if added, would give whoever possessed the shoulder-fired Stingers the ability to wreak untold havoc and kill potentially many thousands of people in a disaster that could rival the September 11, 2001 attacks.
The likelihood that the group which had stolen the weapons was actually in possession of the software needed to accurately control them was slim, but still, law enforcement agencies at all levels around the country had been put on the highest alert status. This would remain the case until the missiles had been safely recovered.
Kristin felt a surge of annoyance that Nick Jensen had waited a couple of days after discovering the notes and other materials before alerting the authorities. Had he done so even one day sooner, DHS and the FBI could have set up a sting operation, driving a decoy truck along the mapped-out route that night with nothing inside it but a few empty crates. They could have taken down the terrorist organization that had purchased the information, and today there would be one less group of murderous fanatics out there bent on the destruction of the United States or some other Western country.
Of course, Kristin couldn't really blame Nick. The poor guy had just lost his wife in a terrible accident and didn't have any idea what he had stumbled upon when he found it hidden in the back of a closet. Plenty of people would never even have bothered to contact anyone. They would have tossed the binder in the trash and gone on with their lives, never giving it a second thought.
It was hard to blame Nick's wife, either. Lisa was employed as a civilian auditor at the Pentagon, whose investigations were mostly limited to staffers stealing pens and surfing inappropriate Web sites at work. She had clearly known she was dealing with something big, but she had been too hesitant in informing her supervisors. Hell, maybe she had been concerned that a supervisor was involved and hadn't known who she could trust with the discovery.
Ultimately, Lisa had been involved in something much bigger than she was prepared to handle, and it had cost her her life.
Kristin found her mind wandering back to her meeting a few nights ago with Nick, and she was embarrassed to admit that she felt a tug of attraction. The man had just lost his wife for God's sake. Still, she couldn't help how she felt, and even though his face had been drawn from sorrow and lack of sleep, there was something about him that she found alluring. He wasn't football-star handsome, had probably never dated the prom queen in high school, but still, he seemed honest, with an easy smile and natural charm . . .
Jesus
, she thought,
what's wrong with me? There's a group of
homicidal maniacs running around with a stolen truckload of lethal
weapons, and I'm daydreaming like some love-struck junior high girl
about a guy whose wife is barely in the ground.
She shook her head, disgusted with herself, and got back to work.
An eight-foot-high chain-link fence encircled the outer perimeter of the large plot of land housing the Boston Consolidated TRACON.
The upper eighteen inches of fencing consisted of four strands of tightly wound barbed wire angled outward at a forty-five-degree angle. The fence was set back from the ugly mustard-colored brick building a minimum of fifty feet in all directions.
Ornamental trees, mostly small and insignificant looking against the backdrop of the big building, dotted the landscaped property, but most of the area had been left open, presumably for security purposes. Anyone somehow managing to scale the fence without being incapacitated by the barbed wire strands--in addition to leaking copious amounts of blood--would be forced to cross a wide expanse of well-lit open ground before getting anywhere near the BCT building itself.
Closed-circuit cameras were mounted on all exterior corners of the building, providing three hundred sixty degrees of CCTV
surveillance around the BCT, as well as in dozens of locations throughout the interior. The cameras were monitored twenty-four hours a day by armed security personnel quartered inside a brick guard shack, complete with bulletproof glass, located at the only entrance to the facility. A reinforced steel gate could be trundled across the entryway at the touch of a button, repelling access by any vehicle smaller than a tank.
Outside the fence, though, was a different story entirely. The land immediately behind the property was heavily populated with fir trees. They were big and ancient and provided excellent cover for anyone interested in observing the facility while keeping his presence a secret.
Sitting quietly in this thickly forested area were Tony, Brian, and Jackie. It was Sunday, just shy of 3:00 a.m., and United States President Robert Cartwright was scheduled to fly into Logan Airport on Air Force One in approximately two hours. Tony's goal was to ensure that it was the last time the president ever flew anywhere, except straight to hell where he belonged.
Clouds gathered overhead, thickening rapidly, effectively obscuring the quarter-full moon. Ambient light would not be a problem. The weather forecasters were calling for ceilings to continue to lower and eventually for a light but steady rain to begin falling across the region. If the conditions deteriorated too quickly, it would spell problems for Dimitrios and Joe-Bob, who were hunkered down in a remote location outside Logan Airport with the stolen Stingers, but Tony wasn't worried. He had studied several different forecasts, and it was unanimous that the worst of the conditions around Logan would not occur until much later in the day--long after their mission had been accomplished.
All his men needed in order to fire upon Air Force One as it hung in the sky over the airport--exposed like a fish in a barrel, just waiting to be blown to bits--were cloud bases of as low as a few hundred feet. Assuming the current forecast was accurate, in a few hours the president would be killed in a fiery plane crash. Once the job was complete, the clouds could extend all the way down to the ground; it wouldn't matter to Tony in the least.
The faint sound of rubber-soled shoes scuffling on pavement floated through the still air. Tony glanced at his watch. Three o'clock. Right on time. He and his men had staked out the BCT
for several days now, and each morning at exactly three, one of the two security guards on duty clomped by on the paved walking path encircling the facility just inside the perimeter of the security fence.
Protocol, not to mention common sense, should have dictated that the guards vary the timing of the nightly sweeps, but it had become quite clear to Tony that security at this facility--located far off the beaten path--was inexcusably lax; the guards had not varied their routine the slightest bit from one evening to the next.
A damp breeze rustled the massive evergreens all around them, and the group held their positions, standing perfectly still in the shadows as the patrolling security guard materialized out of the darkness. He yawned and appeared to be practically sleepwalk-ing as he strolled along the path, paying little attention to his surroundings and moving with the gait of someone who couldn't wait to get back to his favorite chair and take a load off.
***
He sighted down the barrel of a TCI M89SR sniper rifle, patiently tracking his prey. The compact semiautomatic weapon, originally manufactured for the Israeli Defense Forces and now in common use by the special forces units of numerous countries, was fitted with a sound suppressor and rested comfortably in a portable bipod, barrel angled upward. Jackie followed the ambling gait of the unwitting guard, making minute adjustments, keeping the man's body centered in the crosshairs.
Minutes earlier, Jackie had taken out the lone security camera monitoring the grounds behind the BCT building. The camera, mounted high on the back wall of the building, had been programmed for constant motion, continually scanning for anything out of the ordinary. Now, however, this area remained free of electronic surveillance, the camera currently resting in a thousand useless pieces scattered across the rear parking lot.
***
