Strike Force Alpha (10 page)

“Well, if it’s a test,” he declared, “then I just flunked.”

With that, he reached down, grabbed a Bud, popped it open, and took a long, noisy swig. It was his first beer in a hundred days. It seemed more like a hundred years. It went down like spring water from the Fountain of Youth.

That was it. The rest of them grabbed their own cans from the tub—they
were
colder—and opened up. Curry meanwhile dumped his beer into Martinez’s ice.

They didn’t toast; they didn’t know one another well enough for that. But they did drain their cans with the precision of a drill team. Caught in the brilliant orange of the sunset, for a moment, they looked like actors in a beer commercial. No sooner had they finished their first than each man grabbed a second.

Curry was already loose. “I always thought it was a POW thing,” he said, with a burp. “They didn’t want us talking to each other because if any of us got captured and they tortured us, we wouldn’t know anything. They can’t beat out of us something we don’t know.”

The other four just stared back at him.

“Thanks for that assessment, sunshine,” Martinez said dryly. “Let’s make you the morale officer.”

“It
is
strange,” Gallant said. “All this beer, hidden way back in the container—almost as if Murphy didn’t want us to find it until now….”

“Or at least until our training was complete,” Curry said. “He didn’t want us shit-faced in the middle of the South Atlantic.”

“A wise man then…” Ryder said, adding: “We should have looked for it earlier.”

They all finished their second beers in record time. Martinez passed everyone a third.

“Do we ever get to meet this Murphy guy?” Curry wondered, opening his with a whoosh. “I have a few questions I want to ask him.”

Martinez relit his cigar. “How do we know he even exists?” he said mysteriously. “Bingo’s CO might have been full of shit. Or he might have been ordered to intentionally mislead us. Now, I see Murphy’s name on a lot of stuff. And I’ve e-mailed and been in secure chat rooms with him. But is he a real guy? I have not seen anything I could call definitive proof.”

The rest of them opened their new cans of beer. Someone changed the subject…and they began to talk. About everything. Sports, the military, women, the military, and sports again. The predictable arc of men their age and profession.

The conversation continued into dusk and then early evening. As the sun finally sank and the stars came out, the ship maintained its party mood. Music, laughter, people talking.

The mountain of beer slowly got chipped away.

Sometime after 9:00
P.M.
, Gallant asked Curry what seemed to be a simple question: “How did they contact you to join up?”

They’d burned their way through a case of beer by this time and were already deep into a second. Ryder let the others talk. He spent much of the time looking up at the stars and imagining they were moving into elaborate celestial formations over his head.

“They called me in the middle of the night,” Curry replied. “I’ll never forget it. It was the day they found my brother.”

“Found him?” Martinez asked. “Found him where?”

“In the rubble of the World Trade Center,” Curry replied simply. “He was a lieutenant in FDNY. He was one of the first guys to go in. He just never came out.” He raised his beer to the sky. “For you, Jamie….”

“But wait a minute,” Gallant stopped him in midsip. “Your brother was killed on Nine-Eleven?”

Curry nodded.

“We’ve been flying together six weeks—why didn’t you ever tell me that?” Gallant asked him sternly.

“Because we weren’t supposed to talk to each other, remember?” Curry answered. “Besides, what’s the big deal?”

Gallant’s reply was totally unexpected.

“Because
my brother
was killed that day, too,” he said. “He was a commodities trader. He worked in the North Tower.”

Martinez dropped his half-finished beer. The can rolled away, spurting foam all over the deck. He ripped the badge from over his shirt pocket. The one with the picture of the pretty girl inside. He held it up for them to see.

“This is my daughter,” he said, his voice filling with emotion. “She was on the plane that hit the Pentagon!”

Absolute stunned silence from the others.

How strange was this?

Ryder quickly told them of Maureen’s death. But this left them even more perplexed.

They turned to Phelan. “My dad was killed aboard the
Cole,
” he said quietly. “He was a CPO, a fill-in…on the ship for less than a week.”

Phelan angrily whipped his beer can off the end of the boat. It seemed to fly for a mile before it hit the water.

“They told me he was getting coffee when it happened,” he said. “A lousy cup of coffee….”

They all just stared at one another, dumbfounded.

“We’ve
all
lost someone to the mooks?” Gallant asked with no little astonishment. “Could that be? Really?”

Each man repeated his story. Each confirmed that he’d lost someone close because of Al Qaeda.

“This is giving me the creeps,” Curry said. “Unless it’s some weird coincidence.”

“It’s no coincidence,” Martinez said. “Someone wanted to get a bunch of psychologically pissed off guys together, guys who wouldn’t sneeze at some of the stuff they want us to do. And we’re it.”

“Man,
someone
did a good job picking out us Indians,” Curry said.

Gallant replied: “Yeah, someone named ‘Bobby Murphy.’”

Another hour passed—and another case was drained.

There was music coming from several different locations now. Ryder was too old to recognize any of it.

They talked about Murphy, but it was all just speculation. They talked about the missions they’d run, especially the one in the Rats’ Nest, their nastiest affair so far. They talked about the mooks they’d greased and the bombs they dropped.

Then, inevitably, the conversation came back to the ones they’d lost. Curry barely made it through a story about him and his brother skipping school one day and seeing the Mets and catching a foul ball and getting on TV and making the
Sports at Five
—and getting caught red-handed by their parents. Gallant told a moving account of his brother’s last minutes and how he saved dozens of people in the North Tower by forcing open an elevator door, loading it with handicapped employees—and then going back for more.

Martinez spoke of his daughter and her school play; the last time he’d seen her she was onstage, dressed as an angel. Phelan talked, a little, about a car he and his dad rebuilt. Whether it was the beer or not, the young pilot was the most affected of them all. Ryder retold an abbreviated version of his own personal hell—their house, her garden, he and his gun in the motel room. He skipped over the part about his peculiar dreams.

He was literally speaking the last word of his last sentence when the bright moon suddenly broke through the clouds right over their heads. The sky above them had turned from deep black to deep red. Suddenly an eerie glow came over them.

It stayed for only an instant; then it disappeared.
What the hell was that? Do they have Saint Elmo’s Fire in the Med?
Ryder thought. Or was it just that someone up on the deckhouse was fooling around with the ship’s searchlight and had locked them in its intense beam for a drunken moment or two?

He couldn’t tell. But then just as suddenly, Martinez stuck his right hand out, fist balled, and held it there, strong and steady, in front of them. Way off in the distance, thunder crashed. Lightning lit up a faraway cloud. Phelan was the first to catch on. He touched Martinez’s fist with his own, tapping it twice and leaving it on top of his. Then Curry joined in, two taps, then adding his fist to the pile. Gallant followed.

Ryder completed the ritual by laying his fist on top of them all. Then they all drained their beers with their free hands and quite spontaneously let out a great,
“Whoop!,”
something between an Apache war cry and a drunken coyote call. Then they exchanged high fives all round.

Then Ryder asked: “What does this mean exactly?” He was really lit. They all were.

“It means we are now
familia,
” Martinez said, in an exaggerated Latin accent. “Brothers. We now fight as one….”

“We’re family, all right!” Curry yelled. “Family—as in the Mafia….”

He tapped each one of them twice on the head, draining yet another beer at the same time.

“Yeah, we’re the
new
Mafia, baby…” he went on. “And those ragheads better watch out for us….”

The Marines played their Metallica; the Delta guys played poker. The Spooks watched real porno. And the officers on the fantail just talked. Around 2:00
A.M.
, the Navy guys fired up their grills and started making everyone a very early breakfast.

Just before dawn, they collected all the empty beer cans around the ship and threw them overboard, more than 300 in all. Divided roughly among 42 people, that was more than a six-pack each.

When the sun came up, it was a new day aboard
Ocean Voyager
. The ship had a new vibe. The top-secret team was now a close-knit one as well. The sound of people talking was now heard throughout the ship, up on the deck, in the passageways, even way down below. Many conversations, endless and nonstop, all rolled into one. Phelan turned out to be especially loquacious. A case would be made that from this point on, he never really shut up.

As for the order that the team members refrain from too much fraternization during the mission…

That went overboard with the cans.

The ship entered the Suez Canal and traveled all night.

It was
Ocean Voyager
’s third passage in two weeks. They were in radio contact with various people connected with the canal, many employed by the Egyptian government. Most of these communications were handled by Captain Bingo. He’d perfected a nondefinable Middle Eastern accent. The aim was to blend in as one of many. They stayed clear of military ships, paid attention, and followed procedures. And people left them alone.

They reached the Red Sea by sunrise and sailed all that day. When the sun went down again,
Ocean Voyager
was off the west coast of Saudi Arabia, near the city of Yambu. Mecca, the holy Islamic capital, was a hundred miles to the south.

At 11:30
P.M.
, a radar sweep of their area indicated there were no ships or aircraft within 20 miles of them. Their window of opportunity was opened. A new mission began.

Martinez was up on the bridge, lording over the launch operation. He’d spent all day planning the night’s mission, working on intelligence from the White Room Spooks. Now it was time to watch it fly. Below him, the two enormous elevators lifted the pair of Harriers to the deck. Ryder and Phelan were already strapped in, their engines running. The Marine air techs ran one last check of the jump jets’ external systems; everything looked good. Ryder got his thumbs-up. He hit his throttle and was off. Running without any lights, he vanished into the night. Phelan followed him seconds later.

As the two jets climbed to meet the refueling plane, the elevators went back down and retrieved the pair of helicopters. Their engines were turning, too. The team did not fly ordinary Blackhawks; some people called them “Superhawks.” They were not as streamlined as a typical UH-60, being eight feet longer and six feet wider. But every sharp angle on the fuselage had been stretched out and every edge smoothed over, like on a Stealth fighter. Their paint job was basic nonreflective black, the same as a stealth plane, too. Any heat sources, especially around the engines, had been dampened off by thick metal cowlings. Most important the specially adapted engines helped keep the choppers’ noise down near zero. Even now, Martinez could barely hear them.

The helicopters’ call names were
Eight Ball
and
Torch
.
Eight Ball
was the gunship. It carried eight big weapons. A GE minigun was sticking out of its nose. Twin five-inch rocket tubes were mounted on either side of the cockpit. Twin .50-caliber machine guns were located at both doors in the open-air bay. Secured to a slot and pivot on the right side of the bay was a Mark-19 40mm grenade launcher. Essentially a machine gun for throwing grenades, it could fire 60 explosive rounds a minute, earning it the nickname
Grass Cutter
. The helicopter’s extra-heavy-lift turbo engines helped get all this, plus the crew of five, into the air.

The
Torch
ship was dedicated to carrying the Delta guys. It could hold up to 16 troops, fully equipped, plus its own flight crew, though many of the Delta operatives could fly the aerial troop truck in a pinch. There was a single .50-caliber machine gun at each door of the
Torch
and, like the
Eight Ball,
it had rocket launchers set up on rails on either side of the belly. Each aircraft also carried a large American flag, folded under its front seat for display at appropriate times.

Once the helicopters were properly heated up, a line of Delta troopers appeared from a nearby hatch. They hurried across the pancake, in single file and climbed aboard the
Torch
ship with practiced haste. The Marine techs were holding green fluorescent glow sticks to help light the way. The lights gave the proceedings an eerie feel. Once Delta was in place, the Marine techs loaded the strange cargo the
Torch
chopper would also be carrying this night: four metal cages, each holding a twenty-pound pig.

Another radar sweep confirmed no other ships had wandered into their security zone. The helicopters could launch. Up on the forward bridge, Martinez asked for a GPS check. Bingo’s nav guys came back with a good read. They were where they were supposed to be. A phone call from Ryder confirmed the jump jets had successfully hooked up for gas. Martinez put his fingernails to his teeth and went through an imaginary list. This mission had a high probability of being a nasty affair. Had he crossed every
t
? Dotted every
i
? He was sending out 27 guys who might not come back if he fucked up anywhere along the way.

He touched his daughter’s picture and did a gut check. The feeling came back as OK.

He gave the deck officer two thumbs-up.

The helicopters took off.

U.S. Army Sergeant Dave Hunn was riding in the jump seat of the
Torch
ship. There were two squads in the Delta package, eight operators each. Hunn was the squad leader of the first team. He was six-three, 225, a large individual, with less than 2 percent body fat. He looked more Marine than Army. A jughead, with a chiseled chin, beady eyes, and a low brow. He was sporting a goatee and deep tan.

He was wearing the standard Delta ops uniform: a Nomex flight suit, a black Fritz helmet with headphones and a sat-cell phone attached, a pair of shatter-proof goggles, armored shorts to protect his groin, GORE-TEX boots, and a Kevlar vest.

He was carrying an M16A2-CAR-15 specialized assault rifle, the black ops version of the standard M16. It had a collapsible stock, a shorter barrel, held a 30-round magazine, and was equipped with a silencer. The rifle could also carry an M203 40mm grenade launcher under its barrel and any number of special ops gadgets on the top, from low-light and thermal-imaging systems to laser pointers.

Everyone in the squad was equipped with one. Hunn’s team also worked with bayonets attached to their weapons. Few things could demoralize an enemy faster than to see nine inches of razor steel coming at them.

Hunn was from Queens, one of eight kids. He’d been a member of Delta for four years. He’d started out as a “door kicker,” typical of someone good at hand-to-hand combat. He’d gradually advanced to Squad God. Seven guys took orders from him. He was the team’s demolition expert, its backup medic, and its interrogator. He also spoke fluent Arabic.

His youngest sister had been on a job interview at the Twin Towers on 9/11. The last time anyone saw her, she was getting on the express elevator to the top floor of the North Tower, going up to see the view before sitting down with her prospective employer. She’d just turned 18 years old.

She was among the youngest victims that day. Hunn lost it when he found out. A sweet little kid who wanted to be a professional dancer gone, her body never found. The Army put him into a precautionary five-day psychological awareness group the day after the attacks, this instead of allowing him to go home. Hunn told the shrinks all the right things, though. It was a huge blow, he said, but life must go on. “Are you sure?” the shrinks asked. “Positive,” he told them. Truth was, he wanted nothing less than blood to avenge his sister’s death. Whose blood? Anyone from the Middle East would do. He didn’t tell this to the shrinks, of course. Somehow he felt they knew. They let him out two days early.

Time went on, and it was tough. But then he was given the opportunity to volunteer for this unorthodox program. It promised few regs, lots of action, and no PC bullshit. The two civilians in bad suits who came down to see him that warm night at Fort Bragg couldn’t have been more blunt. “Want to kill some sand monkeys?” they’d asked him.

Hunn jumped at the chance.

Hunn tightened his seat belt as the Blackhawk rose into the night. The pigs squealed on takeoff but then settled back down again. Being the end guy, Hunn had a great view. He watched the strange containership fall below as the copter began to climb. There was no moon this night and the deep water of the Red Sea looked particularly black.

Up to 1,000 feet and well clear of the ship, the helicopter made a long, slow bank to the east and headed for the coastline of Saudi Arabia, barely visible on the horizon. Hunn watched
Ocean Voyager
disappear behind them. It looked like it vanished into thin air. A nice trick.

He glanced down the bench. Each of his men was as bulked up as he. In addition to the unit weapon, two were carrying muzzle-mounted grenade launchers. Two more were lugging a half-sized TOW missile unit. Two others were loaded down with field sacks full of incendiary grenades and taser stun guns. One was packing a Mossberg automatic shotgun. They were all wearing the same patch on their right shoulder. It showed a silhouette of the World Trade Towers, with the letters
NYPD
and
FDNY
printed above them and an American flag behind. Below was the team’s motto:
WE WILL NEVER FORGET
….

Hunn slipped a pep pill into his mouth and let it dissolve slowly. One of the pigs let out a plaintive cry. Even though the helicopter’s engines were quiet enough to have a conversation inside the cabin, no one spoke a word during the ride in.

The village of Ubal-Sharif was located along a wadi, at the base of the Hejaz mountains, thirty miles south of Yambu. Only 200 people lived here. But many farmers from outlying areas frequented the village, as its marketplace was the largest in this part of Saudi Arabia. On Mondays, there could be as many as 3,000 people in town. Today was Monday.

There was an apartment located near the center of the village, three rooms in the back of a tea shop. No plumbing, no stove, and just one outlet for electricity, which worked infrequently. Five men were jammed into the front room of the flat, all of them sitting on the bare dirt floor. It was 5:00
A.M.
, but these individuals never slept at night. They could barely sleep during the day.

Two were playing runes. Another was watching an American dance show on an ancient TV. A fourth was cleaning his Kalashnikov assault rifle. The fifth was trying to get his cell phone to work. They were surrounded by boxes of fruit and extension cords, all feeding into the lone electrical socket.

The five men were members of Al-Habazz
Jihad,
a Saudi terrorist group considered among the most fanatical within Al Qaeda. Members of Al-Habazz carried the money for the 9/11 attacks out of banks in the Middle East and to banks in Europe. They also bought all the tickets for the 9/11 hijackers when they first flew to the United States. The group had a reputation for being smart, loyal, and ruthless.

In intelligence terms, these five men were “cutouts” for Al-Habazz, go-betweens that acted as the group’s conduit to the bin Laden hierarchy. Cutouts were very valuable cogs in the
jihad
machine. They handled money, weapons, information. They provided martyrs. They were also responsible for keeping smaller cells in line, especially when it came to funding their operations. Al Qaeda was notoriously tightfisted.

They had gathered here to await copies of a CD-ROM being sent to them directly from Al Qaeda’s provisional HQ. The CD held plans for what some people called the Next Big Thing, a huge operation that promised to dwarf 9/11 and anything since. Talk of this impending attack had been making the rounds for almost two years. Now its time was very near. Al-Habazz had already been told that it would have a major role to play in the mission. They would be among a select few to see exactly what Al Qaeda planned to do next.

The man with the cell phone finally got it to work. The others gave him a fake round of cheers. He quickly dialed the number of another cell phone in the United Arab Emirates. His call was answered by another cutout, a man he’d never met. The man told him, in code, that the CD had been sent out that morning by armed courier and should arrive at any minute. They were to study the CD and then instruct their cell members accordingly. The five were also warned not cause any kind of disruption for the next few weeks. Planning for the big operation was at a critical phase, and no one at the top wanted anyone at the bottom screwing things up. The man with the cell phone said he understood and hung up.

Then he turned to his colleagues and said: “The day of falling sparrows is almost upon us….”

Dave Hunn burst through the apartment door a moment later.

He came in firing, silencer in place, tracer rounds going off everywhere. One round shattered the room’s only lightbulb, plunging the apartment into darkness. Hunn threw his body into the two men playing runes, slamming them to the floor. This cleared the way for the rest of his squad to flood in.

The man with the Kalashnikov turned it toward him—foolishly, because it was not loaded. He got the butt of Hunn’s rifle in the mouth. Teeth went flying in the dark. Hunn’s number-two man, Corporal Zangrelli, pulled his stun gun and tasered the man in front of the TV to the point where he began convulsing. By the time Hunn reached the man with the telephone, the entire squad was inside the room. They began viciously beating and stunning the terrorists. All five were soon writhing on the floor.

The duct tape came out and a binding process began. The five men were being made prisoners and this suddenly frightened them. They had heard about this mysterious American unit with the Twin Towers shoulder patch, heard what they did to just about any Arab who crossed their paths. The man with the cell phone was especially terrified. He knew they were all going to die soon, at the hands of either their captors or their employers. They’d screwed up royally.

Each man was taped across his mouth and then bound with his hands behind his back. The Delta guys then tossed the apartment, finding a treasure of fake IDs, passports, and credit cards. The search was complete in two minutes, with an absolute minimum of noise.

Hunn took out his sat-cell phone and hit the flash button twice. He heard the slight whirring of both Superhawks passing over the top of the apartment building. The choppers had been waiting at their landing site about a half-mile outside the village. They were now moving in for the pickup. Hunn was expecting to hear two return clicks in his earphones, the signal from the pilots that the way was clear for the squad to extract itself and the prisoners they’d come to get.