Against All Enemies

39 THE FIRE IN THEIR HANDS

In times of war, preparations must be made.

Men must be sacrificed.

And Allah’s wisdom must not be questioned.

When Samad was a boy growing up in Sangsar, a small village on the outskirts of Kandahar in southern Afghanistan, he’d stare up at the snow-covered peaks and watch as planes cut across them. He would imagine the pilots making sharp turns and landing their aircraft directly on top of the peaks so that passengers could come outside and take pictures. Samad and his friends would meet them up there and sell them souvenir postcards and jewelry to commemorate their extraordinary trip. Samad had never figured out exactly how he and his friends were supposed to climb the mountains, but that wasn’t important. Sometimes he imagined himself flying aboard one of those planes to some place where they had candy — chocolate, to be more precise. He dreamed of chocolate …every day …for years. White, milk, sweet, semisweet, and dark were all his favorites. He’d come to learn a few names of the manufacturers, too: Hershey’s, Cadbury, Godiva, and he had even watched a black-market videotape copy of the movie Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on TV in the back of a rug salesman’s booth at his local bazaar.

As he sat there in the idling van, with Niazi in the passenger’s seat and Talwar shouldering the missile launcher in the back of the van, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the picture of his father, wearing that broken-toothed grin, his beard like steel wool, his face blurred by the yellowed plastic. He reached into his other pocket and withdrew a Hershey’s Kiss — he’d bought a package at the Dollar Tree. He unwrapped the candy and placed it in his mouth, letting the chocolate melt across his tongue.

I’m not an evil man, he’d told his father. The infidels have brought this upon themselves, and I am Allah’s instrument. You have to believe that, Father. You can’t doubt it for one second. Please …

He checked his watch, pocketed the photo, then told Talwar and Niazi to wait as he stepped out of the van.

The text messages from their team inside the airport had already been pouring in:

Each three-man team outside the airport was supported by another three-man team inside; these inside teams were from sleeper cells planted in the country years prior. They worked as custodians or baggage handlers or at any of the dozens of businesses located inside the terminals. They were simply spotters with good intel that supported the flight data Samad could view on his computer. Their job was to watch, report, and, above all, not be identified or captured.

He stood near the van’s hood and tapped on his iPhone to bring up the Airline Identifier application that he’d downloaded from iTunes for $4.99. He pointed it at the plane flying just overhead, one that had taken off before their target, and the application correctly identified the airline, the flight number, the speed, the destination, the distance from Samad, and more. While the software wasn’t always accurate, and while Samad felt certain that the next flight coming would be theirs, he’d instructed all the other teams to be doubly sure that they had the correct flight. Rahmani had been very specific about that, because at the designated time, a sleeper agent aboard each plane — a man who was going to martyr himself — would read a statement to the passengers. These men didn’t need to hide explosive liquids inside travel-sized containers while trying to comply with the 3-1-1 rule for liquids. They could board the plane completely naked and still deliver their message. The Department of Homeland Security’s Transportation Security Administration (TSA) was powerless to stop them while they had Allah’s will on their side. Moreover, the sleepers would instruct passengers to turn their camera-equipped cell phones back on and record what happened. That video would be released to the American public, either through e-mail, streamed directly to the Web, or after being recovered from the wreckage.

Samad squinted into the distance, heard the deep baritone of approaching jet engines, then rapped twice on the van’s hood. The back doors opened and Talwar came out, although the missile launcher was still inside. Talwar held up his cell phone, as though talking, but he was, in truth, getting into his firing position. The plane’s flashing lights appeared in the distance, and then finally the fuselage came into view and streaked past them as Talwar pivoted toward it.

“Three, two, one, fire,” Samad whispered.

“And three, two, one, reload,” Talwar answered.

Niazi shifted beside his friend and nodded. “Reloading in three, two, one. Ready to fire.”

“Ready to fire. Three, two, one, fire,” said Talwar.

Samad counted another five seconds to himself, then said, “Let’s go.” He took one last look at the plane and then consulted the iPhone app, which correctly IDed it as Delta flight 2965. He climbed into the van, then glanced around at the other drivers around him. Not a single person had looked up from his or her cell phone. Wouldn’t it be ironic if Talwar had been wrong? Perhaps these Americans were so hypnotized by their technology that not even a shoulder-fired missile launch right beside them would be enough to pry them away from their apps and games and YouTube videos and social-networking sites. After all, they strolled through shopping malls like zombies, staring blankly into the tiny screens clutched in their hands, never looking up, never considering that the fire that would burn their souls forever was already in their hands.

“I don’t see any problems,” said Talwar, reinspecting the Anza launcher from the back of the van. “The battery is still fully charged.”

Samad nodded. “Allahu Akbar.”

The men echoed. And as they drove away, Samad remembered a question that Talwar had asked him. “What will we do when it’s all over? Where will we go? Back home?”

Samad had shaken his head. “We can never go home.”

The clock read 1:21 a.m., and Jorge Rojas grunted, threw an arm over his forehead, and closed his eyes. Again. Alexsi lay beside him, sleeping quietly. Somewhere in the distance, Rojas thought he heard the sound of a helicopter — another police chase, to be sure. He cleared his mind and let himself drift further into the darkness.

Miguel rolled over and discovered that Sonia was gone, but a thin wedge of light came from the door leading into the bathroom of the posh villa they had reserved for the night. He reached for his phone to check the time, but it wasn’t on the nightstand where he thought he’d left it. Hmmm. Probably still in his pants pocket, then. The bathroom light flickered, shadows shifted. Perhaps she wasn’t feeling well. They’d had a pretty good day together, although he was still depressed and she seemed distant. Neither had been in the mood for sex, so they’d just talked for a little while about the restaurant and the waterfall, and then they had returned to the hotel, toured the magnificent gardens that were alive with the fragrance of tropical flowers, then went inside for their massages and a quiet dessert. He’d called his father to let him know where they were, pretending that he hadn’t noticed his father’s two bodyguards tailing them.

The bathroom light went off. He heard her padding toward the bed and pretended he was asleep. She slid in next to him and pushed herself up close against his back.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

“Yes. Just a little stomachache. Let’s go back to sleep …”

Fernando Castillo always kept three things on his nightstand: his phone, his eye patch, and the Beretta his father had given him when he’d turned twenty-one. Set into the Beretta’s grip was a golden cowboy that resembled his father, a rancher, and Castillo had only fired the weapon once or twice per year to be sure it was in good working order.

He wasn’t sure which had woken him up first: the thumping of the helicopter, the vibrating of his phone, or the faint hissing from somewhere outside. With a chill, he bolted upright, answered the phone, a call from his guard monitoring the cameras in the basement.

Even as he listened to the report, he went to his closet, where in the back stood a large gun safe, large enough for dozens of rifles or weapons even more powerful.

Given the assumption that Rojas had the most complex series of redundant security measures found anywhere in the world, and given the fact that cordoning off the house and its environs was a top priority and would be completed before they initiated the raid, the decision had been made to go in as a team and go in hot, without cutting power to the entire neighborhood, which they’d originally considered. Attempting to bypass each security measure so an agent could slip inside and locate Rojas would be too time-consuming and pit one man against an unknown number of combatants inside. They needed to minimize the risk, maximize the chances of getting Rojas, and create an opportunity to capture or kill any of his other people — lieutenants, sicarios—who might also be inside. This was not the time or place for single-handed heroics or the time to cause anything that the home’s occupants might view as out of the ordinary, such as a power failure.

Moore, a man who had once believed only in himself but had been taught teamwork by Frank Carmichael and the Navy SEALs, wholeheartedly agreed with that assessment.

Yes, they would strike in the wee hours as a team, and they would do it now, while, Sonia had assured them, the man would be home. Every time she called her father in Spain, that call was rerouted to Langley, and her two most recent reports indicated that Rojas was on edge and might be planning to travel soon.

Neutralizing the twenty-two guards that Rojas had posted around the home, throughout the two-acre gardens, and along the brick walls that encompassed the grounds was already in progress.

A Ford F-250 series “minicommando” truck had pulled up across the street from Rojas’s main gate, a ten-foot affair of iron with ornate leaf patterns, attached to a pair of stone columns standing at least fifteen feet high. The truck was manned by three of Soto’s men, who immediately got to work before Rojas’s security teams could react. Mounted on a railing fixed to the truck’s flatbed was a CIS (Chartered Industries of Singapore) 40-millimeter automatic grenade launcher capable of dispensing 350 to 500 rounds per minute, with a muzzle velocity of 242 meters per second. The launcher came equipped with a folding leaf sight, and its feed system was a linked belt of 40x53-millimeter grenades that were not fragmentary but instead carried a modified and less-than-lethal version of Kolokol-1, an opiate-derived incapacitating agent developed in a military research facility near Leningrad during the 1970s. The drug would take effect within only a few seconds, leaving Rojas’s exterior security force unconscious for two to six hours. According to intelligence sources, Spetsnaz troops had employed a more unstable version of the gas during the Moscow theater crisis in October 2002, resulting in the deaths of at least 129 hostages. While Moore, Towers, and the rest of the FES forces were not particularly concerned if one of Rojas’s security men accidentally succumbed, the thought was to limit the number of fatalities to Rojas’s staff (maids, cooks, etc.), which the Mexicans agreed would earn them even more glory.

Thus, as one of Soto’s men began launching the cylindrical gas grenades onto Rojas’s property, the hissing ordnance arcing over the gate and landing in strategically placed locations as close to the guards as possible (and within the weapon’s 2,200-meter range), another operator armed with an M240 machine gun stood on the flatbed and guarded him from any attacks outside the gate. A driver sat at the wheel, waiting to bolt as soon as they came under heavier fire.

Meanwhile, following Soto’s plan, a much larger force of nearly one hundred operators were cordoning off every street leading up to the neighborhood. For this job they employed more commando pickup trucks and several Russian-made BTR-60s and -70s, eight-wheeled armored personnel carriers whose presence would immediately strike fear into the hearts of the local residents, if not any of Rojas’s forces who spotted them.

Moore sat beside Towers inside the UH-60 Black Hawk with the word MARINA painted across the helo’s fuselage and underside between the landing gear. The Mexican pilot, the copilot, and two crew chief/gunners manning the 7.62-millimeter miniguns with Gatling-style rotating barrels were waiting for the good-to-go signal from Soto’s lieutenant on the ground.

Soto, who sat beside Moore, was in close contact with his ground team. Mission time was 0134 hours. They reported that some of the guards were fleeing back toward the house before they succumbed to the gas. That was not unexpected, and the assault team would keep them busy once the first-floor entrances were breached. The team planned to gain access through a kitchen door, a door leading into the master bedroom, the living room’s sliding glass doors, the garage doors, and the main entrance doors. Explosives and battering rams would take care of those obstacles.

“All right, all right, we’re good to move in!” Soto cried over the intercom. He removed his helmet and tugged on his gas mask, as the others had already done.

The Black Hawk banked hard, causing Moore to tighten his grip on the edge of his narrow seat. The three FES troops seated directly across from him, their knees nearly banging against Moore’s, grew wide-eyed. In addition to their alien-looking masks, they wore black combat helmets and matching fatigues, with heavy Kevlar vests beneath their shirts and the tactical web gear that covered their chests with pouches for knives, spare ammo, grenades, zipper cuffs, flashlights, compass, and canteens, and beneath that they wore their heavy pistol belts. Moore was dressed similarly, with patches on his shoulders, back, and chest that IDed him as “Marina.” His two trusted Glocks were tucked into a pair of TAC SERPA holsters at his hips, though he’d detached the suppressors. He had also been given a choice of an AK-103, an M16A2, or an M4 carbine. Did they have to ask? Of course, he chose the M4A1 with SOPMOD package, including Rail Interface System (RIS), flip-up rear sight, and Trijicon ACOG 4x scope. SOPMOD stood for Special Operations Peculiar Modification, and Moore considered himself a peculiar kind of guy, well suited to such a weapon. Besides, the rifle was exactly the type he’d often fielded on SEAL missions, and while the M16 he’d fired on Zúñiga’s roof had felt like home in his hands, the M4 felt like a million bucks. Now, with the gun balanced between his legs and his breath coming hard through the mask, he waited as they wheeled around once more and began to descend, the chopper’s engine revving.

At the far south side of the gardens and higher up the hillside stood a smaller building, a two-car detached garage that served as both a lawn and maintenance equipment storage facility and an armory for the guards.

A few of them were dashing toward the building when the pilot pulled back up and called out the targets to the crew chiefs, both of whom unleashed hell, their barrels rolling, the guns booming, tracers lashing out like red lasers toward the building, which began to shatter under the barrage of 7.62-millimeter fire. The portside gunner jerked his rifle to the left and cut down three guards. They were nearing the garage, just as motion-activated lights above the doors clicked on to reveal their bodies, bloody and still writhing.

Before Moore could fully take in that scene, the pilot cut the stick once more and descended sharply, bringing them in over that second-story sundeck at the southwest corner of the house.

The crew chief on the starboard side slid his arm under the first of two fast ropes attached to a support arm extending from the chopper’s open bay door. Each rope had been created out of a four-strand round braid that reduced kinking, created an outer pattern that was far easier to grip than any smooth rope, and allowed operators to better control the speed of their descent through a towel-wringing motion as they slid down. Each rope had been coiled into a loop with the diameter of a truck tire, and the crew chief sent the first one flying over the side, followed by the second.

Moore wasn’t just a little experienced with fast-roping out of a helicopter. He’d spent entire weekends doing it over and over and over again until he could fast-rope in his sleep. When the Navy was dropping you off somewhere, there was never any time for long good-byes or thanks for the hospitality. They booted your ass out of a helicopter, and down you went. As many a crew chief had advised him: Be ready.

“Ropes out,” the chief hollered in Spanish, then glanced over the side. “Ropes on the deck. Ropes clear and ready. Go, go, go!” He pointed at Moore and Towers, who threw off their safety harnesses and got to their feet.

Moore slid the M4 over his back, making sure the single-point storm sling was secure, then he shifted over to the rope on the right side, while Towers took the one on his left.

“One more radio check,” said Towers.

“J-One, this is J-Two, gotcha,” Moore answered. A toothpick-thin boom mike ran down the side of his cheek and was attached to an earpiece even smaller than the average cell phone’s Bluetooth headset.

“This is Marina One, I got you, too,” Soto added over the channel.

“All right, this is J-One. We are good to go!”

Moore braced himself, making sure his heavily padded gloves felt secure on the line. He leaned forward, then swung himself out of the chopper, beginning his descent, the rope firmly guided between his boots. He glanced over and saw Towers on his line, just a meter above. Allowing himself to slide a little faster, Moore craned his head down to better judge his speed and approach.

And that’s when something struck the helicopter with a muffled thud, followed by an ear-shattering explosion that sent Towers and Moore sliding wildly down the ropes.

Moore could barely see what was happening above him, but he felt a rush of heat and suddenly the rope was dragging him away from the sundeck and toward the lawn.

When he glanced up, he saw only smoke and flames.

Fernando Castillo lowered the rocket-propelled grenade launcher from his shoulder, then rushed back into the house, through the sliding glass patio doors. He began to cough, to feel sick to his stomach, because he’d breathed in a bit of the gas before putting on the gas mask and fetching the RPG from his closet.

As Jorge Rojas’s right-hand man and chief security man, Castillo had planned for every scenario his imagination could muster, and an assault using tear gas — or whatever kind of chemical agent the Navy was using against them — was not very creative.

He’d already called his boss, ordered him to go to his own closet gun safe, arm himself, and don his own gas mask. He would get down to the basement, where they would go through the vault within the vault and take a tunnel that led back up the hillside to the two-car garage, where inside was parked Castillo’s armored Mercedes. Castillo would try to hold off the attackers for as long as he could.

Beyond the doors, the helicopter plummeted in a great conflagration, crashing onto the hillside beside the garage, the rotors snapping off as though they were made of plastic, the secondary explosion and burning fuel igniting across the slope and creating walls of flames.

Castillo had but another second to turn away, drop the RPG, and lift his rifle. Waves of gunfire tore through the windows and, as he hit the deck and hunkered down behind a sofa, another volley blasted through, followed by the heavy footfalls of approaching soldiers.

After hearing the gunfire, the hissing of gas, and the much louder droning of the helicopter, Jorge Rojas had gone to his window and had spotted the truck across the street with the soldier launching grenades onto his property. Then Castillo had called.

God, it seemed, had come for Rojas.

And Rojas wished he had the courage of his brother to simply go out there and face his attackers, confront them head-on, but he had to escape. That was everything.

So he’d donned his bulletproof trench coat over his silk pajamas, fetched an AK-47 and spare magazine from his gun safe, along with the gas masks that Castillo had insisted they wear, then told Alexsi to meet him in the basement. She was frightened out of her mind, of course, and twice he’d had to scream at her: “Get to the basement!” She tugged the mask on and dashed off.

Rojas reached for his phone and speed-dialed Miguel. His son did not pick up, and the call went directly to voice mail.

Then what sounded like a great thunderclap came from the backyard, rattling the walls and throwing Rojas off balance.

Moore and Towers had dropped some three meters onto the lawn, hitting the grass and rolling as the chopper had come spinning erratically behind them. They buried their heads as the helo hit the ground, and the explosion ripped across the gardens, flames shooting from the helo’s fuel tanks, the heat billowing in greater waves, the bird’s engines still wailing as the fires began to engulf the chopper.

“Oh my God,” Towers said over the radio, and groaned. “Soto and the rest of them.”

Gunfire boomed from inside the house, multiple weapons, Soto’s men, and an AK-47, at least one.

Moore cursed. “We need to move!” He bolted to his feet, bringing his rifle around. “Now!”

Towers fell in behind him, rifle at the ready. Still fighting for breath, they charged toward the sliding glass doors, which had already been blown in by the first assault team, whose job was to secure the first floor.

Moore didn’t see him at first, only heard the rat-tat-tat of his rifle, and when he turned in that direction, he spotted the bare-chested figure wearing a gas mask and driving the stock of an AK-47 into his shoulder. Moore wasn’t certain, but he thought he saw an eye patch, and if so, then this was Fernando Castillo, Rojas’s head of security.

In that instant, as Moore was about to return fire, Towers cried out and fell to the carpet near Moore’s boot.

Repressing the desire to look down toward his fallen boss, Moore fired, his salvo piercing the air where their assailant had been.

Leaping on top of a coffee table, then throwing himself toward the sofa, Moore opened fire again, believing the man had ducked down behind the sofa, but as he hit the carpet there, he saw the guy was already darting down the adjoining hall.

“Max,” Towers called over the radio. “Max …”

As if on cue, automatic-weapons fire echoed loudly throughout the house, coming from the front. Glass shattered. Unfamiliar voices lifted, punctuating the rounds with curses in Spanish.

As Rojas rushed into the basement, breathing steadily through the gas mask, he spotted a soldier leaning over his fallen comrade in the living room. And then, beyond them, past the blown-out back doors, he saw more gunmen rushing toward the house. Who were these bastards? And why had no one called to warn him? Heads were going to roll.