Viper: A Thriller (16 page)

He swung the
truck behind the cover of the maintenance building and pulled to a stop several
yards into the grassy field near the southern banks of the Bogotá River, just
over a mile from the control tower and even further from the airport terminals.

The truck barely
came to a complete stop within the five hundred foot gap between El Dorado’s
two main runways before the Viper swung her door open and hopped down from the
cab. She came around to the back of the truck, unrolled the canvas wrapping
around the missile, and heaved it out of the bed. She leaned it upright on the
ground against the truck’s fender and checked the time. It was 4:43PM.

The target was
Avianca Flight 224, departing at 4:45PM on Runway 13L-31R for New York. The
plane was an Airbus A320, and well over a hundred of its one-hundred-fifty
seats were to be filled, according to the ticketing information Ibarra had
obtained. Many of the passengers were Americans.

The whine of the
A320’s two turbofan engines picked up and carried over the airfield, and the
Viper heard the jet accelerating down the twelve-thousand foot long runway. She
had her back to the maintenance building, the open grassy field and river in
front of her, so that she would be presented a clear field-of-fire.

The Viper
hoisted the SA-24 onto her shoulder, angling the long missile/launch tube combo
upwards into the sky. She placed her left hand beneath the battery coolant unit
at the front of the launch tube to help support the weight, with her right hand
clasped around the grip stock. Her index finger reached around right of the
grip stock to flip the arming switch from “safety” to “arm.” The battery
powered up the missile’s systems. Once activated, the battery lasted less than
a minute and needed to be replaced after each launch.

There was the
howling scream of the engines as the Airbus lifted off the ground, but the Viper
did not see the aircraft until two seconds later as it passed over the low
maintenance building behind her. The aircraft’s nose was pointed steeply up as
the Airbus darted into the sky. The Airbus’s massive shadow passed over the
Viper as she tracked her target through the launcher’s iron sights while
half-applying the trigger. She recalled the words of Mirsad Sidran in her head,
instructing her on how to use the weapon in both a manual engagement and
automatic mode. The latter was necessary for use against fast moving targets,
like a fighter jet equipped with defenses. The former was sufficient for the
giant, helpless civilian airliner.

The Viper
elevated her aim to match the aircraft’s ascent. The Airbus was at a thousand
feet altitude and sharply rising, maybe a mile away from her now. Her finger
depressed the trigger the remainder of the way. She felt the kick of the grip
stock and the back blast of the heat exhaust several feet behind her. She
flinched for a second, blinked, and when her eyes flicked open they followed
the smoke contrail through the sky as the missile, guided by the infrared and
ultraviolet sensors in its thermal seeker head, travelled at four-hundred-seventy
meters per second toward its target.

Adding to
SA-24’s lethality, even if the missile did not achieve a direct hit, its
proximity fuse would detonate when it passed within five feet of the target,
spraying the targeted aircraft with high velocity shrapnel fragments. Quite
simply, there was no escape from SA-24.

The plane’s
flight crew had no warning of the missile launch and, even if they did, they
had no defenses against it, like chaff, flares, or jamming capabilities. The
missile impacted the Airbus in the undercarriage below the rear inlet for the
auxiliary power unit, which provided the power to start the aircraft’s engines.
The impact immediately detonated the fragmentation warhead’s two pounds of high
explosives.

If the missile
had hit a wing, where fuel is stored, the entire aircraft could have exploded
in mid-air. Instead, in this instance, those inside the doomed Airbus felt the
impact and the extreme turbulence as the aircraft’s flight was destabilized as
a result of the shredding of its tail structure and rear fuselage by the
explosion and the subsequent shrapnel. This was followed by the quite abrupt
and terrifying descent as the Airbus dropped through the sky and returned
toward the earth. The pilots tried to maintain control of the aircraft. It was
a futile effort from the start, but they weren’t going to simply give up
without at least giving the people under their care a chance at living through
this. Passengers screamed, held onto whatever they could, and others were
thrown from their seats. Some remained quiet, accepting and making peace with
their impending end. Several of the passengers seated in the very back of the
cabin were already dead or wounded, bloodily sliced apart by shrapnel. Thick
black smoke poured out of the flaming hole in the fuselage where the missile
hit, while pieces of luggage flew into the sky through the perforated cargo
bay.

The second the
missile connected with the Airbus, the Viper had turned around on her feet and
climbed with the launch tube into the cab of the truck. When the 110,000lb
plane collided into the earth and broke apart, she felt the ground shake
beneath her feet.

Trujillo threw
the truck into gear and pressed the accelerator, taking them back across the
airfield. Not long later, fire trucks and ambulances with sirens blaring raced
past them, heading in the opposite direction toward the crash site. The
presence of the emergency vehicles and first responders was exactly why the
Viper opted not to use the narrow access road cross the Bogotá River on the
northwest end of the airfield, near the crash site.

They abandoned
the OPAIN truck and proceeded on foot through the terminal building, which was
now filled with police and USAF Security Forces personnel as word quickly spread
of the crash. Despite personnel in the control tower having witnessed a smoke
contrail, indicating a missile launch, this information had yet to be passed
along, so the authorities thought they were dealing with an accident.

Carlo Ibarra
waited in a Nissan Pathfinder in the lane of vehicles picking up newly arrived
passengers. The Viper and Trujillo climbed in. Ibarra pulled into the traffic
on the outbound lane of Avenida El Dorado, which ran nine miles from El Dorado
to downtown Bogotá. After covering two miles on the highway, they exited and
made their way into Bogotá’s Engativá locality, where the Viper’s safe house
was located.

Eighteen
hours later, National Police officers waved the Lincoln Continental through the
front gates of the US Embassy compound in Bogotá. Avery and Culler got out and
identified themselves to the marine security guards at Post One, near the main
entrance, where Avery flashed his ID and the green badge identifying him as a
CIA contractor. Culler had called the station chief earlier to clear Avery, and
Avery was handed an additional bar-coded badge giving him access to the embassy’s
most secure areas.

The building itself is one of the largest and most
expensive American embassies in the world. The white fortress-like compound
with dark reflective glass sat atop bright green, flawlessly maintained lawn. Satellite
dishes and antenna jutted out from the roof of the main building. Monserrate, a
10,000 foot tall mountain in the center of Bogotá, was prominent in the
background, reaching up toward the low clouds. In addition to serving as one of
America’s most opulent diplomatic outposts, the embassy also housed one of the
largest regional American intelligence bases in the world.

 Avery followed Culler into an elevator, down a
corridor, past another security checkpoint, and through the cipher-lock doors
into the top secret Intelligence Fusion Center. Known as the Bunker, this is a
small, enclosed, windowless Sensitive Compartmentalized Information Facility
(SCIF), a fortified, copper-plated room-within-a-room secured against all
manner of internal and external electronic and audio surveillance.

Manned twenty-four hours by a rotating staff of CIA
analysts and NSA signals and communications specialists, this is where American
intelligence agencies track enemies of the Colombian state all across the
country. Intelligence collected in the field was analyzed and relayed to
regional fusion centers by the Real Time Regional Gateway, an NSA-designed
computer link-up, which, as its name suggests, allows for the real time sharing
of intelligence.

Interactive digital maps laced with red, blue, green,
and white dots were displayed on wall-mounted monitors with chyron labels
indicating the positions of assets, ongoing operations, and possible targets.

 At crowded rows of computer workstations, NSA
analysts worked with Colombian army SIGINT technicians to decipher radio,
cellular, and digital communications intercepts from satellites and American
aircraft that scoured the Colombian skies tracking cell phones. Monitors at
other terminals displayed the live footage from Predator surveillance drones.

The stench of coffee, cigarette smoke, and microwaved
food left sitting out hung in the cool climate-controlled air, along with sweat
and body odor from technicians who seemed to live at their computers,
forgetting to take breaks. Trash receptacles overflowed with plates, food
containers, and aluminum cans. The sound of computers humming, fingers tapping
keyboards, radio chatter, and voices calling out to one another filled the
background.

“Look familiar?” Culler asked Avery.

“Feels like I’m back at the Death Star. Only thing
different are the maps.”

The Death Star was the nickname given to Joint Base
Balad, where CIA and JSOC once coordinated its search for insurgent and
terrorist high value targets in Iraq. JSOC might hit a terrorist safe house and
seize the occupants’ cell phones and laptops. Data from those devices would be
passed to the NSA spooks at the Death Star, and within hours NSA would have
another target for JSOC. It wasn’t uncommon for them to launch as many as three
or four raids in a single night based on intelligence fusion, and that was the
model for the Bunker.

Daniel and Slayton were present, the former drinking
coffee and looking like he hadn’t slept in days. They were speaking to a
shorter, heavier, haggard-looking bald man, with his tie loosened, sleeves
rolled up, and sweat stains beneath his pits.

Culler introduced the man as Vincent Rangel.

Avery had caught glimpses of the CIA Bogotá station
chief the previous week during the planning for Operation Phoenix, but they
hadn’t formally met until now. The son of first-generation Guatemalan
immigrants to Miami, Rangel was a twenty-year veteran of the National
Clandestine Service’s Latin America Division. He’d spent his career pursuing
FARC, M19, ELN, and Shining Path terrorists; disrupting Bolivian and Colombian
drug cartels, rigging elections, buying politicians, and playing a role in more
than one coup.

“Matt’s told me a lot about you,” Rangel said, shaking
Avery’s hand. His tone and his narrowed gaze indicated the statement wasn’t necessarily
intended as a compliment. He kept a firm grasp of Avery’s hand a couple seconds
longer than necessary, while he openly appraised Avery. Then Rangel released
his grip, and his tone softened. “Hell of a job you did for us in Venezuela.
Come on; let me show you around.”

Avery frowned, not quite caring for people knowing,
who didn’t need to, that he was the man on the ground for Operation Phoenix. Rangel’s
manner also had him on guard now. Behind Rangel’s back, Avery gave Culler a
questioning look, but Culler pretended not to notice.

“Most of the Colombians’ ops against the FARC
leadership are coordinated from right here,” Rangel said, “and the Bunker’s
connected to regional fusion centers across the country. From here, we have
instantaneous access to ANIC files, Predator drone feeds over the northern
rainforest, or intercepts of FARC chatter in the Andes. Up until recently, we
were almost as heavily involved here as we are in Afghanistan.”

By “we,” Rangel meant CIA. Avery knew that American agencies
were so deeply immersed in the Colombian conflict that it was known amongst
those involved as America’s Other War. There were plenty of contractors like
Avery working here, ostensibly doing security, but he knew plenty of them were
also running direct action ops alongside Colombian special ops in the jungles
against FARC and the cartels.

“If the Viper’s still in-country, we’ll find her,”
Rangel said confidently.

“And if she isn’t?” Avery asked. Her primary target
was the US. She wouldn’t have shot down the Avianca flight if she hadn’t
already had her exit plan in place and ready to execute.

Rangel shrugged. “Then chances are we’ll find the lead
to pick up her trail. We have the world’s most advanced tactical intelligence
collection system arrayed against her. She won’t get away.”

As they walked along a row of computers, Rangel said,
“Ah, here’s Abigail Benning, the bright, young lady who makes most of what we
do here possible.”

Hearing her boss’s voice mention her name, the woman
in question swiveled her chair around from her computer screen and lowered her
headset. She was in her early-thirties, had a pale complexion from a lack of
sunlight, soft features, and light hair tied back in a knot.

Abigail Benning ran the Bunker’s Geo Cell,
electronically tracking targets, intercepting e-mails and satellite
communications, and listening to phone calls.

“Christ, Abby,
how long have you been down here?” Rangel asked. “Must be going on ten hours
now.”

“Almost, Vince. I’ve
been going through our databases for anything and everything connected to the
Viper. We’ve got ECHELEON sifting through all the usual suspects.”

ECHELEON was
NSA’s global signals and electronic intelligence gathering network capable of intercepting
nearly all telecommunications. If a certain codeword, like viper, Arianna, Moreno,
SA-24, missiles, etcetera, triggered the filters, then a human analyst would
check it out and determine if the subject was worth pursuing.

“Any luck?”

The woman
squirmed a bit, awkwardly, obviously not appreciating being put on the spot in
front of others. “I think I might have found something, but I don’t want anyone
to get too excited just yet. I’ll let you know in a few, okay?”

“Got it.” Rangel
winked. “Don’t worry. We’ll stay out of your way.”  

As they stepped
away from the woman’s workstation, Rangel told Avery and Culler, “While we’re
waiting on Abby, let me bring you up to speed on everything from our end.”

What Rangel had
to say instilled little confidence in Avery.  

Colombian
National Police and Army were presently sweeping Bogotá and the surrounding
area for the Viper. The search was described publicly as a planned security
exercise unrelated to Avianca Flight 224, because the Colombian government, in
the interests of not alarming the public and to have an upper hand over FARC at
the peace talks, had not yet publicly attributed the crash to an act of
terrorism. At a press conference, even as the army cordoned off the crash site
and collected debris clearly recognizable as missile fragments, a police
official said there so far was no indication that the plane was deliberately
brought down, but that they still had not yet ruled out an act of terrorism.

The most obvious
and easiest way for the Viper to get the missiles into the US was through the
drug trafficking routes, so that’s where Slayton’s agents focused their
attention. All DEA offices across Central America and the Caribbean were
pressing their informants and offering cash for word of any unusual cargo or
deals orchestrated by a woman fitting Arianna Moreno’s description. DEA was
also coordinating with SOUTHCOM. The US military’s regional command was moving
assets into place for increased aerial surveillance of smuggling routes.

The CIA station
chief in neighboring Peru, a country that recently replaced Colombia as the
world’s leading producer of cocaine, was notified and given the intel package
on the Viper. The Peruvian drug gangs flew cocaine directly to Mexico, and the
Viper was known to have connections with the Shining Path. With assistance from
American Special Forces, Peruvian troops increased their patrols in the remote
northern part of the country and covertly monitored the terrorist camps,
smugglers’ landing strips, and drug labs they came across in case there was
sighting of the Viper, while Predator and Reaper drones prowled the skies.

Meanwhile, the
White House authorized increased security measures domestically. Pictures of
Arianna Moreno were distributed to every major airport. Along the US-Mexican
border, reinforced Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents and Border
Patrol forces used ATVs, helicopters, and unmanned aerial vehicles to hunt
coyotajes
,
the smugglers bringing humans, drugs, and weapons into the United States every
day.

Rangel seemed
satisfied that everyone was kept busy, but Avery shook his head and muttered
softly to Culler, “Come on, Matt. This is a waste of time. They’d don’t have a
damn thing.”

 “You have
something to say, Avery?” the irritation was clear in Rangel’s voice. “Let’s
hear it. You’re supposed to be the counterterrorism expert. I mean, I’ve only
been heading the Agency’s war against FARC for the past six years, so I’ll
defer to you.” 

Avery took a
deep breath and held it for a second before responding, keeping his temper in
check. “I don’t need to be an expert to see that none of that will do us any
good if we don’t have solid HUMINT telling us where to start looking.”

“Hey,” Rangel
said defensively. “Abby’s ELINT led the Colombians to Reyes and two dozen other
bad guys, not to mention all those tangos in Yemen, Somalia, and Pakistan who
have gotten Hellfires launched up their asses. We just need to be patient and
wait to play our hand.”

“But it was eyes
and ears on the ground and interrogations that led us to UBL,” Avery pointed
out. CIA’s reliance on drones and cell phone tracking was a topic he didn’t
want to get into at the moment, because it always pissed him off like no other,
but he was already pushed and couldn’t let Rangel’s comment go unchallenged.
“How many times have civilians been hit by a drone because NSA metadata
collection fucked up? Few hundred at least. Hell, CIA killed a damned hostage
in Pakistan because they decided to launch missiles on an al-Qaeda leader’s
cell phone without having eyes on the ground.”

Rangel scowled. As
a senior CIA officer with aspirations to make division chief, hearing from an
uneducated knuckle dragger that they needed old fashioned human intelligence,
an area which the CIA often failed, wasn’t something he wanted to hear;
especially when he knew Avery was right.

And technology
aside, running a broad manhunt simply wasn’t productive.

When Boston
Police, Massachusetts State Police, ATF, FBI, Homeland Security, and the
National Guard conducted an unprecedented manhunt for the Boston Marathon
bomber, they cordoned off and scoured a twenty-block area of Watertown, using
helicopters, unmanned aerial drones, SWAT units, and armored vehicles. Public
transportation was shut down, and residents were instructed to stay in their
homes while police went door-to-door. And they still only found Dzhokar
Tsarnaev after a resident discovered the wounded bomber hiding in his boat in
his backyard,
outside
the search area. 

The Viper wasn’t
just another amateur, lone wolf terrorist. She was a professionally trained
operator with nearly two decades of experience under her belt. The dumb
terrorists were found and eliminated early on. The intelligent ones adapted and
learned how to survive. She sure as hell was smart enough not to risk carrying
a cell phone in Colombia for too long. Once she reached the US, it’d be nearly
impossible to find her until after she struck at least once and, hopefully,
began to leave a trail of evidence.