Hard Target (36 page)

He gave one last look around the desk and was about to close the drawer when he saw a small yellow notepad tucked beneath a book. He scanned the pages, which contained scribbled notations at varying angles. Whoever took these notes had no use for ruled lines. As Uzi read the various entries, he realized it was a scratch pad, kept by a phone, where reminders, names, and events could be scribbled, transferred later to their respective repository: a calendar, a contact list, a database program.

While it would not be something someone would miss, he played it safe nonetheless. He removed the second and fourth pages, figuring Tim Meadows could use alternative light sources and other forensic techniques to raise the imprinted notes taken on the pages directly above them.

Uzi grabbed a pen from the drawer, unscrewed the two halves, and removed the refill. He deftly rolled the two sheets of paper into a tight tube, then slid it into the hollow case. He slipped the pen into his backpack, then checked to see how much time had elapsed. He was three minutes behind schedule.
Patience
.
The easiest way to find trouble is by cutting corners.

He positioned the chair the way it had been before he sat, then retraced his steps toward the tunnel, moving swiftly. Rodman and crew were now doing their thing. He needed to do his.

THE MILITIA MEMBERS began pouring out of a pedestrian gate several feet to the left of the guard house. The men fell into position encircling the grounded chopper, with several peering into the cabin glass. But the windows were deeply tinted, and with the near total darkness inside and the security spotlights brightening the front of ARM’s compound, they would be staring into mirrors.

Rodman waited, drawing it out, not making a move until forced to do so. Finally, one of the men walked up to the cockpit and rapped on the front side window with the muzzle of his assault rifle.

Rodman keyed the mike. “Back the fuck away!” He needed to establish authority without delay. Although he was accustomed to relying on his size, in this case broadcasting his deep baritone voice over the external speakers served as his sole means of intimidation, leaving him less confident of success—particularly considering the neutralizing roar of the copter’s turbines and rotors. But the sooner they realized they didn’t have a pushover in the command chair, the less likely they would be to aggress. Yet he had to be careful not to incite them. It was a fine line.

The man behind the submachine gun quickly dumped his own testosterone into the mix by bringing his Kalashnikov up to his cheek and taking aim through the side window, in the general location of Rodman’s head.

Rodman knew his chopper was made to fly soldiers into combat. It had a built-in tolerance to small-arms fire and most medium-caliber high-explosive projectiles. His team could withstand an assault, but he doubted the cockpit glass was impervious to a high-powered round fired at such close range.

He flipped the commo to the internal channel and informed his crew of the situation and ordered them to stand ready for countermeasures: the release of more smoke from the specially-installed exhaust pipes near the tail. The parasoldiers would likely back off for fear of explosion or asphyxiation.

Rodman switched back to the external speakers. “We’ve got problems with our bird. Didn’t mean to land in your front yard, but we didn’t have much choice. We’re making repairs, but there’s still danger of explosion. Keep back.”

He kept his explanation and warnings incomplete and cryptic, to make them think—and waste time while they debated what to do. But at some point his friends would become frustrated with one-sided communication. How long did he have?

He got his answer faster than he had hoped: ten more armed men moved into position and brought their weapons to eye level. Beads of perspiration oozed from Rodman’s forehead. Their sudden and unexpected reaction made him feel weak—an emotion he did not often experience. Whoever was calling the shots for this group was either a battle-tested military commander, or a decisive and impulsive individual. Either scenario was not good.

Rodman’s eyes stung from dripping sweat. He scraped a shirt sleeve across his face and tried to remain clear-headed. He told himself it wasn’t fear so much as nerves—the lack of control over an unstable situation with an unknown, and unpredictable or underestimated, adversary. If he was only free to deal with these yahoos the way he’d been trained to do, he’d feel much better.

But for now, he had to stare the enemy in the eye and refuse to blink. Action was his strength, not diplomacy. He silently urged DeSantos and Uzi to hurry—then dabbed at the pimples of sweat, and waited.

DeSANTOS LOWERED HIMSELF into the small building through the roof vent. He landed on the floor with both feet, leaving his rope dangling in midair as he started his search. He was aware of the time limitation but pushed it out of his mind, focusing on his mission objectives: searching the interior’s contents as quickly as possible, without leaving trace evidence behind.

He turned on his mini flashlight and moved through the storage building, which he estimated at twenty by fifty feet. Large, free-standing rusted shelves were arranged end to end and back to back, dividing the space into aisles. He took mental inventory of the shelves’ contents—primarily sequentially numbered boxes stacked atop one another—then pulled down one of two unmarked cartons. After slicing through the tape with his knife, he lifted the flaps— and froze.

HAVING MADE HIS WAY BACK through the tunnel, Uzi closed the floor panel and gave one final pass around the interior. After he shut off his flashlight, two long squelches blurted from the radio: he was out of time. He fumbled with the brass pins to get the door lined up and restored to its original state, then took off in a sprint, less concerned now with the motion sensors. He figured—hoped—that at this point everyone on the compound would be dealing with the Black Hawk.

But he was wrong.

TWENTY OR THIRTY SMALLER BOXES emblazoned with Cyrillic letters stared back at DeSantos. He pulled one out, stuck his thumb under the edge of the flap, and pried it open.

Egg crate packaging separated and protected the three-inch Russian rounds. Match-grade ammo—the kind used by snipers for accuracy. He removed one, bagged it, and shoved it into an inside pocket of his underwear. Positioned properly, despite his skintight outfit, it might pass as a part of his anatomy. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

He rummaged through his backpack for the roll of packaging tape. He resealed the box, restoring it to the condition in which he’d found it, and rotated it to the bottom of the stack.

As he packed himself up to leave, two squelches puffed over his radio transceiver. Time to go. He grabbed hold of the dangling rope and pulled himself up toward the roof.

UZI WAS NEARING the rendezvous point when he stepped in a camouflaged hole and went down hard, smashing his head and right shoulder into a sawed-off tree trunk. Sharp pain shot through his face and neck. He tried to pull himself to his knees but lacked traction on the wet leaves and slippery pine needles.

A flashlight beam hit him in the face.

“Who the fuck are you?” the voice behind the light said.

Uzi raised his left hand as a shield—his right was pinned behind him, preventing him from reaching his knife—and tried to make out the silhouetted figure against the glare.
Is he armed?

“I said, ‘Who the fuck are you?’”

“I was out hiking and got lost. You know how I can get out of here?” Uzi knew it was a bullshit excuse, but he figured it would buy him some time while he sorted out his jumbled thoughts and tried to reason a way out of the jam. Keep the captor talking and you had a chance. If he made you lay down and tied you up, the guy was a pro and you were in deep shit.

The man lowered his flashlight a bit, but still kept it pointed at Uzi’s face. Dimly lit by the penumbra of the beam’s errant light, his face sported sharp features and thin lips. Combined with military-short hair, dark stubble, and pseudomilitary accouterments, he fit Uzi’s image of GI Joe.

“Take off your glasses and mask,” Joe said. He waved his light as if underscoring his words.

It was an expected request. See your adversary, watch the language of his face. People inadvertently give away a lot about themselves and their motives by the simple involuntary ticks, creases, squints, and frowns woven into subtle facial expressions. Uzi was going to try to do the same with Joe.

“Now! Take ’em off!”

Uzi reached up with his left hand and complied. Joe took a step forward, his head creeping forward and tilting slightly, studying Uzi’s face as if he recognized him from somewhere. If Joe was one of the ARM members who’d seen him on one of his prior visits, Uzi was in for a rough time. Uzi again thought of the knife and began moving slowly in an effort to free his right arm.

“Do you know how I can get out of here?” Uzi asked again.

Joe tilted his head left, then, with his eyes locked on Uzi’s, lifted his chin toward Uzi’s right.

Was he showing him the way out? Letting him go? Or was he toying with him, planning to shoot him in the back when he turned to leave?

But before Uzi could test the veracity of his new friend’s offer, DeSantos appeared at Joe’s side, his knife drawn, the rough tooth-edged blade jammed up against the man’s neck.

“Down!” DeSantos said into his ear.

Joe complied, the sharp edge being most persuasive. He lay prone on the ground, remaining completely still while Uzi did a quick search of his body and removed his weapons and radio. Joe obviously knew the drill. He had figured out that they had control of the situation, and the best thing he could do now was to comply and wait for an opportunity to bolt. DeSantos was making every effort to ensure that never happened.

Uzi emptied the ammo and then dumped the rounds into the camouflaged hole while DeSantos, with his left knee squarely in Joe’s back, loosely fastened flexcuffs to their captive’s ankles and wrists.

That done, he motioned to Uzi to follow him toward the fence. Joe’s bindings weren’t permanent, but would last long enough for them to make their escape. The man would then be able to free himself before anyone got to him. Partly out of embarrassment and partly out of a desire not to admit he had failed at his job, Joe would never speak of his adventure—unless it had been caught on video. Uzi hoped that was not the case.

As they stood in front of the fence, they pulled their homemade clawhooks from their backpacks, uncovered the fiber mat, and went to work.

RODMAN’S PARASOLDIER ADVERSARIES were getting restless. He knew the feeling. He wished he would get some indication from either DeSantos or Uzi that they were free of the compound so he could lift off.

But his radio remained quiet.

Rodman tapped his foot, perspiration continuing to pour from his face. But his hands tightened on the controls when he saw the ARM team leader tug at his shoulder mike. Something was happening. Rodman watched with rapt attention as the men simultaneously touched their earpieces as if straining to hear their orders.

A few moved first, then the others got the idea and followed suit. They charged the chopper en masse and slammed the butts of their weapons against the doors and windows.

“Goddamnit!” The chopper rocked violently from the angry mob’s fury. “Do not engage,” Rodman said. “Bravo, give me more fog!”

Thick black smoke again poured from the chopper’s rear jets. Rodman couldn’t see their response, but he knew the men had to be choking pretty well about now. The banging slowed, then stopped.

Rodman accelerated the rotors, as he would normally do in preparation for liftoff. The mob instinctively recoiled, some abandoning their weapons as they ducked and ran a haphazard retreat.

They had waited as long as feasible. Rodman needed to get airborne. He switched the frequency on his radio, then squeezed off two long squelches. They blew some last coughs of smoke out the tail, then the chopper lifted off, banking sharply and paralleling the periphery of ARM’s boundaries.

10:50 PM

63 hours 10 minutes remaining

While in the car on the way to Tim Meadows’s home in Alexandria, Uzi and DeSantos inventoried their ill-gotten goods. This “evidence” could not find its way onto FBI grounds, or it could mean the end of their careers with a fanfare from which the Bureau itself might never recover.

“I like the pen idea,” DeSantos said.

“Works well unless the person who interrogates you tries writing with it.” After a moment’s reflection on what had happened with the militia guard, Uzi asked, “Why do you think that guy was gonna let me go?”

“It was all in your head. You thought he nodded at the fence. But it was dark, man. Maybe he heard me coming and tilted his head, but couldn’t place the noise.”

“Doesn’t matter. Lucky for me, you saved my ass.”

They turned on King and Uzi quickly located Meadows’s street.

As DeSantos pulled against the curb, he said, “Basement light’s on.”

Meadows, a night owl by nature, took the materials without asking where they had come from, but Uzi told him they were never to be brought onto Federal property, nor would he acknowledge ever having given them to him.

“You’re putting me in a tough spot,” Meadows said. They were standing on his porch, the tech dressed in a pair of threadbare jeans and an FBI sweatshirt with a pair of Wal-Mart reading glasses hanging from his neck on a gray pull-chain necklace. “What’s the deal with this stuff?”

“You don’t want to ask that question,” Uzi said. He gestured at the light in the basement window. “How’s your project going?”

Meadows folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t change the subject on me, Uzi.”

“You can have the oysters, okay? Two orders.”

Meadows arched backward. “Two appetizers?”

“Maybe that way you won’t order an entrée.”

Meadows took the package. “Don’t count on it.” He nodded at Uzi’s car, where DeSantos was seated, leaning back against the headrest, staring at them with glazed, disinterested eyes.

“What’s wrong with your partner?”