Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) (13 page)

10:30 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Sumner, VA

Assad Ali was hoping for a quiet night.

The next day was going take a lot out of he and the eleven
other drivers who waited patiently in the makeshift "ready room" of
the abandoned shipping yard which stood on the shore of the navigable portion
of the Sumner River.

He yawned, looking around the room at the other men.

Four were on patrol, as dictated by protocol and ordered by
Mohammed Fatal in the operations briefing earlier in the week. The others were
resting. Some played cards, others slept. Still others watched the small
glowing television in the corner of the room.

Assad's eyes fixed on the flickering screen for a moment.
This time of night, as usual, the programming had switched from live coverage
to prerecorded imagery and stories. The newscaster seemed to be doing a story
on September 11
^th
ceremonies scheduled around the east coast.

Good, thought Assad with a cool calculation. The more media
attention that these events derived, the more effective their mission would be.

The plan was simple. Each of the twelve men would depart for
their assigned city tomorrow. They would park the trucks in a population center
and take a taxi to the airport. Their tickets and new identities, along with
their payment would be waiting for them.

None of the men knew what their name would be tomorrow, nor
to where they would be sent.

But all of the men knew this to be a mission from which
there would be no resurfacing anywhere in the civilized world. They would be
the most wanted men in the world after tomorrow.

But it would be worth it.

One day's work and each of the twelve men were guaranteed
early retirement. Two million dollars awaited each of them in a numbered Swiss
bank account. Upon completion of their mission, they would receive this account
information along with their new identities and plane tickets to parts unknown.

Assad sighed heavily, looking around the room again.

Twelve cities, twelve trucks.

The farthest away would be Miami and Boston.

The closest, Washington D.C. and Norfolk.

Twelve trucks.
All loaded for bear
with a potent mixture of Ethylene and Sulfur Dioxide, along with several
hundred pounds of C4 plastic explosives.

The high explosives were laid out in such a fashion as to
give the weapons maximum devastation at close range from a mixture of high
explosive incendiary effect along with shrapnel.

But, the explosion was only a means to an end. The real
nasty stuff was in the fifty-five gallon drums that his coworkers had liberated
from Carmike Chemical yesterday.

Ethylene and Sulfur Dioxide.

Simple enough chemicals, but when combined in the right way
yielded a very potent weapon.
One that had fallen out of
favor in recent years.

Mustard gas.

Assad leaned back on his cot. He supposed he shouldn't think
of himself as Assad anymore. His employers had, after all created two new
identities for him. In the first, the one that the news media would emblazon
across the world, he was an Iranian student, like all of the other men in the
room.

He glanced around at the others, most of
whom
had now settled in for the night.

It was amazing what good hacker could do. He had an Iranian
passport, an actual visa. He had a birth certificate. Even some fake family
photos.

He hoped his new identity would be as meticulously created.
If it wasn't, he was a dead man.

He leaned back, his rumination coming to an end as sleep
started to take him. His eyes had begun to close when the encrypted cellular
phone at his hip began to ring.

Assad stood up hastily, stepping from the darkness of the
makeshift barracks and into the concrete hallway which led to the parking lot
where the twelve trucks were parked, silent death waiting in the darkness with
a sinister purpose.

He pulled the phone from his hip pocket. He knew this call
couldn't be good. Only a few men knew of this telephone. And none would call it
without dire news. The number was masked from sight as he glanced at the
screen.

He flipped the phone open and continued to pace down the
concrete hallway as he spoke deliberately. "Hello?"

"Mr. Ali," said Michael Carmike, "do you know
who this is?"

Now Assad knew that the news couldn't be good.

"Yes, sir."
He said
simply as he stopped in his tracks.

"Good," replied Michael Carmike. "That will
save us some time. Listen. Things have changed. There is a potential threat to
the operation. The threat has already killed three of our operatives, including
Mohammed Fatal and the next two senior members of your team. You are now the
senior operative. It is your job to assure that this mission succeeds according
to plan."

Assad paused.
"Roger that, sir.
Do we have reason to believe the threat has information that could lead him
here?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"Yes."
Said Michael Carmike.
"I will not tell you how to go about defending your location, but I would
consider doubling your security and expecting a visit. The man is highly
trained, and extremely dangerous."

Assad's heart was beginning to beat a little faster.
"I'll comply, sir. We'll double our security details and step up our
electronic monitoring. If he comes within two miles we'll know."

Michael Carmike's voice carried some audible relief as he
continued. "If you catch this guy, find out what he knows and who he's
shared it with. Then, terminate the threat with extreme prejudice."

Assad smiled.
"Yes, sir."
These last two words were cut off by the click of the phone. Michael Carmike
had hung up.

10:32 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Sumner, VA

The blue Chevy Silverado's engine growled as it covered the
distance from the late night eatery and turned onto Interstate 64 towards
Riverside Drive. It was close to a 20 minute drive, and the men used every
second of it to absorb the silence and calm of the vehicle.

In operational settings, each man responds differently to
the stress and anxiety that come in the simple calm before a mission.

Jackson and Mike were both the type to sit and quietly
think. In the teams, some men had joked, or chewed gum. Some even read.

But Jackson and Mike sat silently in the blue Silverado,
just as they had on countless missions in the decompression chamber of a
submarine or the chilly cargo bay of a C-130.

The men were not on an officially sanctioned mission, and
one was a wanted fugitive. But both knew that their current task was as
important as any they had ever undertaken during their careers with the teams.

If they were right, a massive US company with access to
military resources was planning a terrorist attack on American soil and had
enough of some still unknown chemicals to kill hundreds, even thousands of
innocent Americans.

Not on their watch.

So both men sat silently in the Silverado as each
contemplated his own mortality.

While Mike hoped to make it home, he had learned a certain
disinterest towards the personal consequences of each mission.

Jackson, however, did not care whether he lived or died. He
just wanted to take as many of the enemy with him as possible.

Mike turned the vehicle onto the dark and deserted access
road that led to the abandoned shipping facility that sat on a wide stretch of
the Sumner River. The vehicle bumped onto Riverside Drive.

Both of the men suddenly snapped out of their silent
pre-mission contemplation and were back in the moment, rattling down the bumpy
road in the near midnight darkness of the late summer evening.

Thoughts of life and death or of anything beyond the mission
were banished now. Mike and Jackson were here for one purpose, to discover the
location of the chemicals that had been "stolen" from Carmike
Chemical and alert the authorities.

Mike drove the blue Silverado slowly. The lights were off
now, and the vehicle lumbered down the bumpy darkened road that led to the
riverside storage facility.

In the darkness of the vehicle, Jackson inspected the MP5K
machine gun he held in his calloused hands. He tapped the magazine on the
dashboard to loosen the ammunition and slid it into the receiver on the
sinister looking small machine gun.

He glanced at Mike in the driver's seat. "Thank you,
Mike."

Mike just nodded and pulled the well maintained blue 4X4 to
a stop on the darkened road.

"This looks like a good spot. The facility appears to
be approximately a half mile from here. I recommend we hoof it."

Jackson nodded in agreement and Mike shifted the Chevy truck
into four wheel drive. He pulled the steering wheel sharply to the left and
drove into the woods. He pulled the vehicle to a stop around fifty feet into
the overgrown woods that lined both sides of the rarely used road.

The weather this evening was great for this type of mission,
thought Jackson as he stared into the dark moonless night. Admittedly, he
thought, he would have killed for a set of night vision goggles.

But on a mission in
which
stealth
was key, the darkness was their friend.

The thin sliver of moon was obscured by a layer of clouds
and the thick foliage of the trees which surrounded the two men further
obscured any ambient lighting. The
stars,
too were
shrouded by low ceilings making the darkness pervasive.

Both Mike and Jackson were careful as they closed the faded
blue doors of the truck, slowly allowing the latches of the vehicle's doors to
close.

The men walked without a word. Their black clothing obscured
them in the darkness as they crept purposefully towards the once busy facility which
they believed to house the chemicals that had been stolen from Carmike Chemical
the preceding day.

Both men were crouched low, but somehow maintained a silent
grace as they crept through the trees and towards the edge of the unlit
roadway.

Their steps were silent. And while the men's hearts were
pounding in their chest, their minds were clear.

The machine gun that each man held in his extremely capable
hands provided a cool ache against their palms as they walked through the pitch
dark September evening through the shadows and towards the facility.

Both ached to put the weapons to use, especially Jackson.
Unfortunately, he wouldn't have the chance.

The men continued their slow hike. They were crouched low
and their boots made no sound as they stepped along the low ditch beside the
darkened road.

Unfortunately for the two men, however, while the road may
not have been lit, the area surrounding the distribution center was littered
with sensors. Infrared, motion, and night vision sensors were arrayed
surreptitiously around the area.

Jackson and Mike had been spotted before they ever stepped
from the vehicle.

10:35 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Washington, D.C.

Michael Carmike had always loved the smell of jet fuel.

There were a couple of reasons for his love of the odorous
blend of high grade petroleum products. The first was money. Jet fuel was one
of the most profitable products that Carmike Industries produced. At close to
$6.00 a gallon, the stuff was like liquid gold.

The second reason was more personal. It reminded him of the
numerous flights to exotic locations for both business and pleasure that he had
taken in his Gulfstream 500 business jet.

He glanced at the jet as he stepped from the limousine that
had carried him from his home in northern Virginia to Reagan National Airport.
To Carmike, the smell of the jet fuel was intoxicating and liberating,
especially since he knew that this particular flight would carry him away from
what had rapidly become a very tenuous situation at his company.

Carmike frowned as the flight attendants removed his luggage
from the trunk of the stretch limousine and carried the matching leather bags
to the luggage compartment of the plane, which waited on the tarmac, its
engines already beginning to turn in anticipation of the young CEO's arrival.

The co-pilot stepped from the door of the aircraft as
Carmike approached, giving him the customary handshake and offering a simple
question to the young CEO. "Where are we going this evening, sir?"

Michael had to laugh. This was a man accustomed to being
very flexible, like all of the pilots who worked for Carmike Industries. Most
were retired or former military aviators with thousands upon thousands of
flight hours. And, it showed.

Michael could feel the stress of this evening begin to melt
away as he looked the serious and professional pilot in the eyes.

"Aruba," replied Carmike, stepping up the ladder
and into the cabin of the Gulfstream business jet.

The pilot followed closely behind, and after a quick
discussion with dispatch and some hasty phone calls to customs and a Carmike
employee in Aruba, the aircraft began to taxi.

The sleek jet lifted off of its nose wheel at high speed on
the runway, and the lights of the nation's capitol faded into the distance as
the jet climbed to its cruising altitude of 44,000 feet.

Michael Carmike stood up and walked to the wet bar, pouring
himself a glass of Glenfiddich.

In the Gulfstream 500, the flight to Aruba would take around
four hours, or so said the Captain of the aircraft after the jet leveled off at
cruising altitude at speeds close to Mach 1.

Michael Carmike sipped at his expensive glass of scotch as
he eased back in his seat, the supple leather embracing his weary frame as he
reclined in the seat.

There would be a car awaiting him in Aruba.
A suite at the Westin.
Dinner,
drinks and dancing; all in all, it should make for a great working vacation for
the weary CEO.

Most importantly, the trip would offer the young businessman
an alibi, in case this witness continued to make trouble for the company.

Carmike began to close his eyes, reviewing the last few days
in his mind.

It seemed that something was going wrong at every turn.
First, there had been
Winters
. That had been an easy
situation to resolve.

Then there had been the rotund former CFO. Yaeger had been a
difficult call. But Michael's father had insisted. There could be no trusting
the pudgy financier.

His hesitation had been obvious ever since being let in on
the company's plans. And his supervision of the operation had been sloppy at
best, inept at worst.

Yes, Yaeger had needed to be eliminated.

Michael Carmike cradled his drink in his tan hands as he
pressed his jet black, perfectly combed hair into the leather seat, resting his
highly polished shoes on the rear-facing seat in front of him. He exhaled
loudly before taking a big gulp of the brown liquid.

Now there was Jackson Pike.

Michael had been an engineering major at Princeton. He'd
always been good at math, but even he couldn't figure out the odds of the only
witness to the entire operation being a former Navy SEAL, one who seemed intent
on exacting revenge on the company.

Mohammed Fatal's briefing had been so convincingly simple.

But that was the thing. Operations were always simple until
you involved the single variable that most notably changes the best laid plans.

People.

Michael shook his head. And these people had been the best.
Or so they had claimed.

He downed the rest of his scotch as he closed his eyes. He
knew his father had been right. The company could not survive the downturn
created by the end of the war in Afghanistan and the expiration of Carmike's
Iraqi oil contracts in the same quarter.

Carmike Industries needed more lead time if they were going
to, as Yaeger had suggested, focus on ancillary services and contracting work.
Losing money for eight subsequent quarters was not an option.

They needed this plan to succeed. Carmike Industries needed
a war with Iran.