The General's Briefcase, page 4
“Whoa, Hoss!” Steve revealed his Texas roots in his reaction to Amal’s pronouncement. “We’re forgetting this cell is under the direct control of an ISIS higher-up. The cell depends on the Islamic State for money and other resources to pull off any act of terrorism.”
Hans waved his hand impatiently. “It’s a mistake to think of the Islamic State as having a well-defined chain of command. The overseas cohort is even more loosely organized. Motivation is personal and situational. This terrorist cell will act on its own.”
Alex moved to cut off debate. “Jo and Amal are right. If the cell passes on the report, our job is easy. We close up shop and turn over the problem of protecting the United States to someone else. Our only course of action is to pursue the cell as if they are the prime movers out to create a high-impact terrorist disaster.” He pointed at the whiteboard.
“The next question is: How much time do we have before the first attack?”
All eyes turned to Amal.
“Here’s the good news,” Amal said. “We have two to six weeks to track down the bad guys.”
Steve guffawed. “How the hell could you possibly know?”
Alex sized up the dissension in the group and decided to let the argument play out.
Showing no anger at the tone of Steve’s question, Amal said, “My assumption is the terrorists will try to hit a home run. In other words, attempt to pull off one or more of the strategies outlined in the report that would inflict the maximum number of casualties. No lone wolf gambits for them. Other cells are as well or better equipped to carry out smaller scale attacks, since those mainly depend on one or two individuals, usually young American citizens, who’ve been inspired by ISIS’s social media. They may have no direct contact with Middle Eastern terrorists.”
“Suppose you’re right,” Steve countered. “Where’d you come up with a precise two- to six-week time window?”
“If you recall, we listed the pros and cons of each terrorist strategy. Two weeks was the minimum time for any of the high impact options. In a best-case scenario (from the bad guys’ perspective), we calculated a suitcase nuke could be procured and detonated in six weeks.”
“That’s a pipe dream,” Steve said.
“Read the report,” Jo countered. “I agree with Amal. The terrorists will attempt to do their worst in two to six weeks.”
As the team was leaving, Felix, who’d remained silent during the discussion, pulled Alex aside. “Amal and Jolene are wrong. The terrorist cell will already have an incident planned. We should expect a strike at any moment. One designed to paralyze our leaders and scare the hell out of the general public. Time will tell how it will compare with 9/11. US authorities will be caught off guard. Our team will be discredited, and the responsibility for tracking down the cell will be turned over to another group. The terrorist cell will have room to maneuver to carry out the ultimate attack.”
CHAPTER 9
Kandahar Province, Afghanistan—Three Years Earlier
“Sarge, I don’t want to hear any more. We’ve got a job to do. And your job is to follow orders.”
Captain Jacob al-Sadi, or “Jake” as he was known by soldiers in his unit, had lost patience with Sergeant Reid Berkowitz. For his part, the sergeant looked ready to take a punch at the captain.
The two men were physically evenly matched. Jake was tall, with broad shoulders and slim hips—what his swim coach at West Point had described as an ideal build for a champion, long arms and a powerful torso. Berkowitz matched Jake in height—large-boned, with well-muscled arms and shoulders, a winner of several Special Forces heavyweight boxing matches.
Recognizing the flared nostrils and heavy breathing that foreshadowed aggression, Jake said, “Sarge, simmer down. Unless you want to spend time in the stockade.”
Long-standing tension between the two men had come to a crisis over their dealings with local Afghans. Berkowitz had refused to take a meeting with the village chieftain that Jake had needed to miss because he’d been summoned to a briefing with Colonel Wendell “Buck” Stewart.
Jake’s Muslim heritage, coupled with an ear for languages, opened him to a variety of assignments interacting with the Afghan National Army, the Afghan police force, private Afghan militias, and village leaders—all of whom were instrumental in helping NATO curb Taliban encroachment. To a unique extent among US officers, Jake could make himself understood in spoken Pashto and, being fluent in Arabic, he could read and write Pashto and Dari, the dominant languages among Pashtuns in Kandahar Province.
Berkowitz had none of Jake’s language skills, but he could pass on a written message to Abdul Khan, a former Afghan general.
Many GIs resented the need to work closely with the Afghans, believing, with some justification, their effectiveness as allies was undermined by corruption and incompetence. A few transferred that resentment to Jake, since he was the officer in command who gave the orders. Sergeant Berkowitz was the most outspoken in voicing his disdain for the Afghans, Muslims in general, and for any assignment that called for cooperation with Afghan officialdom.
The two men had frequent disagreements over the nature of whatever was the assignment of the day—army, police, militia, or civilian authorities.
After the confrontation, Jake allowed Berkowitz to stalk away, deciding there would be better opportunities to settle the pissing contest.
That day’s argument was the last straw for Berkowitz. He resolved to get even with Captain al-Sadi. He mumbled to himself, “What kind of a name is al-Sadi for an American anyway?”
Corporal Lou Hardee looked up from his bunk when he overheard the comment. “That you bitchin’ about the captain again? You hate his ass so much, why don’t you request a transfer?”
“Why should I have to transfer? He’s the Muslim son of a bitch who doesn’t belong in the Army.”
“Whether he belongs or not, you better pray he doesn’t find out about your nightly trips into the village and what you do to the teenage girls who won’t fuck you.”
Berkowitz grabbed Hardee by the front of his jacket and jerked him to his feet, drawing his fist back. “If you ever say anything like that again, I’ll beat you within an inch of your life.”
“Okay. I’m just saying. The captain’s got more clout than we have, whether he’s Muslim or not.”
Afghanistan was a hazard-rich environment. Every day brought a new story about military or civilian deaths from improvised explosive devices (IEDs), bombings, crossfire, night raids, and day-to-day combat.
Berkowitz considered ways the captain could succumb to one of those risks. He decided death by IED was the most certain, and the one least likely to leave his fingerprints as the assassin. Unlike fragging during the Vietnam war, when a military grenade was used by a fellow soldier to kill a superior officer, an IED had no link to the US military. It was a common threat from the Taliban and easy to come by, since troops performing clearing operations stored the explosive devices in a temporary warehousing area.
Around midnight one cloud-filled night, Berkowitz broke into the warehouse and stole an IED. He chose a simple device that relied on military munitions for explosive power and could be detonated by a cell phone call to initiate the firing sequence.
He relished the irony that al-Sadi, in a sense, would be responsible for his own death. The bastard captain awoke early, before the crack of dawn. Known for iron discipline and regular habits, the West Pointer followed the same trail for each day’s morning run.
Leaving himself ample time, Berkowitz began digging a hole to plant the explosive device at four o’clock in a dark area beside an ammunition supply depot. He had a moment’s concern the IED’s detonation might set off the explosives stored in the depot, but he shrugged his shoulders, deciding his chosen observation post was sufficiently distant that he’d be okay no matter what happened.
Satisfied the bomb’s location would not be spotted by the captain during the run, the sergeant hid behind a metal storage outbuilding a safe distance away. He wore a Kevlar vest and helmet and lay stretched out on his belly. His cell phone was primed to send a fatal signal with the final push of a button.
After what seemed like an interminable wait, Captain al-Sadi came into view, running at a steady pace. Berkowitz imagined he could hear the runner’s footfalls, although at one level, he knew that was a fantasy. No sound ruptured the unaccustomed quiet of the base.
No sound, that is, until he unleashed hell with the push of a button. Even with earplugs, his head was ringing like he was in the belfry at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in his native New York.
To his shame, Berkowitz hid his face when he fired the IED, so he failed to witness the climactic explosion as it tore the captain’s body to shreds. He was relieved no echoing detonation occurred in the ammunition depot. Shakily, he rose and hurried to the site of the blast.
As he observed the carnage wrought by his assassination, with bloody body parts everywhere, Berkowitz threw up, soiling his boots and MultiCam pants.
Colonel Buck Stewart scowled at the shavetail lieutenant standing rigidly at attention who was elaborating on the news of Captain al-Sadi’s death.
“Repeat what you just said, Masters.”
Second Lieutenant Adam Masters blinked nervously. But he responded in a strong voice.
“Responsibility for the captain’s killing rests clearly on the shoulders of Sergeant Reid Berkowitz.”
“What’s your evidence for that accusation?”
“Security cameras recorded the sergeant stealing an IED from the warehouse, digging a hole, and planting the device on the path Captain al-Sadi is known to run every morning.”
“Masters, who gave you authority to investigate the captain’s killing by an IED?”
“You did, sir. When I first arrived, you said it was my responsibility to investigate any suspicious events.”
Angry with having to deal with this can of worms, the colonel mumbled curses under his breath.
“What did you say, sir? I couldn’t hear you.”
“Never mind, Masters. You’re confident the evidence you’ve compiled proves Sergeant Berkowitz’s guilt?”
“Yes, sir. Without a doubt.”
“Listen to me carefully, Lieutenant. And, when this conversation is finished, you will forget everything that’s been said in these quarters. Is that understood?”
His nervousness palpable, the lieutenant said, “Yes, sir.”
Colonel Stewart wagged his finger for emphasis. “You will destroy the evidence and any related records or reports. You will tell no one about your investigation. The official record, which I shall write myself, will show Captain al-Sadi was killed by an IED planted by the Taliban.”
“But what about Sergeant Berkowitz? Does this mean he gets off scot-free?” The lieutenant looked shocked at the apparent injustice of what the colonel had just said.
“You leave him to me. Berkowitz will be taken care of. The less you know about details, the better.”
After Masters left his quarters, the colonel summoned two of the captain’s closest officer friends, both of whom were present when al-Sadi had won a Silver Star for valor in combat. He briefed the men on the manner of the captain’s death.
“Are we agreed Berkowitz can’t be allowed to get away with it?”
They both nodded grimly.
The colonel continued. “The kicker is top brass in the Pentagon have made it clear we can’t have incidents in Afghanistan that remind the media of the fragging of officers during Vietnam.”
Reading the expected agreement on their faces, the colonel went on to outline a plan for Berkowitz to be sent on a hazardous assignment with the two of them.
“You will return. The sergeant will not.”
CHAPTER 10
Wedged into Jo’s office, seated behind her desk, Alex faced Amal and Jo in the two captain’s chairs. Her tight-lipped frown telegraphed annoyance at his having usurped her rightful seat.
He briefed them on Felix Goldblatt’s theory the terrorists planned to strike immediately, keeping US intelligence sources off balance while they prepared a massive assault based upon the report stolen with the general’s briefcase.
Although he had full faith in Jo and Amal’s abilities, he realized after talking with Felix, they may have miscalculated. The glib confidence with which they’d touted their belief the next act of the terrorists would be to launch a major assault employing a nuclear weapon or some other devastating strategy—hence, giving the Americans a two- to six-week window to prevent the tragedy—glossed over the possibility the cell had already planned their next move to catch the intelligence community by surprise.
“In short, based on Felix’s input, we should take seriously the possibility of an imminent terrorist attack.”
Amal, nonplussed, sat back in her chair. After a few moments, she hit her forehead with the heel of her hand.
“Of course. To play it safe, we need to accept Felix’s theory. If we gamble on a longer time window and the terrorists strike, we’re discredited since we don’t know what the fuck’s going on. Another team is given the ball, and we’re sent to the showers.”
Jo reached over and clasped Amal’s hand. “Let’s face it. The bitch may be smarter than both of us.”
Alex said, “So are the terrorists pulling a bait and switch? Threatening a big strike but settling for less devastating hits. Or is the tactic to distract us and buy time for the Big One?”
“They’ve been planning this caper for months,” Amal said. “Whatever happens next could be a gambit to buy time. I repeat—if I haven’t already squandered whatever credibility I had—they’ll seek to acquire a suitcase nuke.”
“I agree,” Jo said. “But today’s question is, if they’re planning a first strike, how do we stop that?”
“I’ll inform Mansfield of our current assessment,” Alex said. “He has the responsibility to advise the president and affected agencies to prepare for an imminent terrorist attack.” He shrugged. “Even though we have no idea what target to protect.”
CHAPTER 11
Imoh Objekwu had been driving a taxi for five years, ever since he had immigrated to Fairfax County, Virginia from Nigeria, with the help of his sister and brother-in-law. For the past year, he’d owned his cab, an almost-brand-new white Toyota Camry. He guessed this must be about the hundredth time he’d pulled up in the departure lane outside the United ticket counter at Dulles International Airport. He glanced at his watch and congratulated himself on making good time from Vienna. It was one minute to four o’clock.
His passenger, a well-spoken Korean—who said he was a software engineer, whatever that was—had just paid the fare from his McMansion in Vienna, including a ten-dollar tip for the half hour ride. Imoh watched the husky Asian drag two suitcases into the United concourse.
Imoh checked out the rear seat prior to pulling back into traffic and noticed a package his passenger had forgotten. Mindful of good will and the generous tip, he jumped into the back, retrieved the package, and hurried toward the entrance to intercept the Korean before he was lost in the four o’clock crush of passengers eager to “Fly the Friendly Skies.”
Lumbering ahead of him was a young Muslim woman wearing a hijab, who had just gotten out of a beige Honda Civic that had seen better days. Imoh was not puzzled at the garment that covered her head and chest—a hijab was ubiquitous among the numerous Muslims in Nigeria and was growing increasingly common in Fairfax—but he was astonished her entire body was cloaked in a voluminous raincoat. He looked up to remind himself the sky was blue and cloudless, and the temperature was over ninety degrees, a typical July afternoon. To his surprise, he realized he was sweating.
The woman crossed the concourse and was partway to the counter by the time Imoh entered the departures/ticketing area. Alarmed, he saw a pistol appear in her hand. She commenced firing at passengers clustered nearby. An elderly man in a wheelchair was the first casualty. Next was a mother carrying a small boy. Imoh’s Korean passenger grabbed for her hijab in a clumsy attempt to intervene. She shot him in the face.
Imoh stopped watching and fled to the supposed safety of his taxi.
He opened the door and was about to slide behind the wheel when a tremendous explosion shut down his hearing. A million particles of glass shrapnel bombarded his Camry, some of the smaller pieces embedding themselves in his head and face. Nearly blind from blood streaming into his eyes, he forced himself to climb into his Toyota and drive away.
He narrowly missed a red Escalade that raced past and sideswiped a black Hyundai with a Lyft sign in the window. Barely conscious, he steered his still functioning vehicle onto the Dulles Toll Road. He hurried to escape the Dante’s Inferno the terminal had become.
Thanks to the communications network Jo arranged, Alex was able to keep up with fast breaking events in real time. That was the good news. The bad news was that all the news was bad. Worse than bad, catastrophic.
The first accounts Alex received were from Dulles, around four thirty. Transportation Security Administration and Fairfax County Police Department officers at the airport reported one or more terrorists had opened fire in the United ticket area of the main concourse. A female terrorist, wearing a hijab and a dark raincoat, detonated a suicide vest. Nearly two hundred people of all ages, nationalities, and both sexes were killed or wounded.
