Night Hush (23 page)

Brian Seifert held up a hand. “Wait a minute. That's got the potential for disaster. The Secret Ser­vice . . .”

“Are protecting the president,” interrupted Jace. “We're responding to a direct threat against a US air base on foreign soil.”

Seifert stuck his thumbs through his belt loops. “I know that. I just don't want tensions to run so high we end up shooting at each other. Just remember you won't be able to get within our outer perimeter. If you're challenged, be ready to stand down. All right?”

There were nods all around.

Jace rapid-­fired commands. “Christina, get this photo circulated as widely as you can. Military police, Secret Ser­vice, CIA, gate guards, everyone. Steph, I need you to identify those last three men in the photo. We need names. Addresses, families who might know where on base they're going to be. Cell phone numbers, if they have them, so we can triangulate in on them. Known associates. We can't assume the four Aa'idah knows of are the only ones.”

Trevor poked at the photocopy in her hand. “The one next to Aa'idah's brother is Na'il Fakhoury. He was a classified courier for the Embassy. He's the one who brought the vials of phosgene in, hidden inside the classified materials pouch. He died in a car accident. That's how we found the phosgene.”

Gabe peered over her shoulder. “I recognize al-­Farouk. He was second-­in-­command at the Kongra-­Gel training compound. Mean son of a bitch.”

Which meant he was probably the bastard who had hurt Heather. Jace sprinted out the door, his men hot on his heels. “Someone call Heather Langstrom and fill her in. Have her come in and help ID those last two terrorists.” And keep her safely out of the line of fire in the process.

“We're right behind you,” said Seifert. “Two minutes.”

Jace, Gabe, Tag, Mace, Alex, Ken, and the Sandman jogged over to the armory. It took a few minutes, but at last his men strapped on their sidearms. The decision had been made not to alarm the civilians and guests on the installation by carrying semiautomatic rifles. It potentially put them at a tactical disadvantage if the terrorists had somehow managed to smuggle rifles onto the installation, but sidearms were better than no weapons at all. Finally, they piled into Ken's truck and Jace's BMW.

Jace hit the button for Brian Seifert. “We're heading up to the parade ground. Who're we going to be coordinating with up there?” He listened, then disconnected. “Seifert's on his way now.”

Even breaking every speed limit, it took fifteen minutes to get to the parade ground. Silence filled the car. They all knew the stakes, knew the consequences of failure.

They would not fail.

Nevertheless, Jace's heart sank.

Americans and Azakistanis packed the grounds. His halfhearted hopes the area they needed to cover was, indeed, the size of a normal parade ground disintegrated. The area set aside for this celebration encompassed several city blocks. Normally a huge, empty patch of dusty ground, metal barriers had now been erected around it, patrolled by a mixture of Secret Ser­vice and military police. A finite number of entry points and metal detectors allowed access onto the grounds; a separate but only slightly smaller area with a newly constructed chain-­link fence was further restricted for access to the president.

Many of the Azakistani locals had parked outside the Air Force base's main gate and had been transported by small buses into the area. Security Police directed traffic at each intersection, moving the foreign nationals into the designated areas. Jace showed his identification.

“We're meeting the Secret Ser­vice liaison . . .”

“Yes, sir. We've been briefed. Go on through.”

With Ken's truck following, he drove right up to the pedestrian barriers. Without waiting for the others, he jogged over to one of the access gates. Brian Seifert was waiting for him.

“Every Secret Ser­vice agent knows you're here,” he said, by way of greeting. “And the military police. Major Carswell's SAS team, they're here, too. As long as you defer to my agents with respect to direct access to the president, they'll cooperate as far as they can. But you understand, right, their first priority is keeping President Cooper safe?”

“Yeah. And our first priority is stopping an explosion.” Jace looked around. “Christ, there are a lot of ­people.”

Hundreds wandered inside the pedestrian barriers, or patiently waited to pass through the metal detectors. Booths had been set up, selling food and T-­shirts. A gaggle of teenagers gathered around a dunking booth, shouting with laughter. An inflatable bouncy castle swayed and jerked with the force of tiny feet smashing it. He could even see a tank and two helicopters, their crews patiently explaining the inner workings while wide-­eyed children climbed in and around them.

He shaded his eyes, trying to get a good look at the inner parade area. Huge banks of bleachers lined one side of the grassy area. A platform, a raised dais with podium, had been set up across from the bleachers. Secret Ser­vice agents stood around the area, keeping the curious at bay.

“All right.” Jace pulled the photocopy of the picture Aa'idah had sent from his pocket. “Check perimeter areas. Rest areas with benches, play areas with swings or whatever. Porta-­Potties. Even strollers. We don't know how big this bomb needs to be.” He looked at each of them in turn. “You know who we're looking for. Go find them.”

His team dispersed.

 

Chapter Thirty-­Seven

September 11. 2:10
P.M.

TOC, FOB Hollow Straw, al-­Zadr Air Force Base

T
HE SECOND TIME
Heather entered the Tactical Operations Center, she was in control of her emotions. She approached Private Stephanie Tams.

“Can you get me the logs of all traffic in or out of the gates on base?”

“You bet. Gimme two minutes.”

Heather sat down at an empty desk, shrugging a little. She had heard Delta operated outside of military norms. They weren't undisciplined—­far from it—­but the culture was quite different from the strict customs and courtesies of her former unit. Most tended to be on a first-­name basis regardless of rank, something that would not normally be tolerated.

“There's no way they're bringing a bomb on base, especially not today of all days,” Heather said to Trevor, who scrolled through pages and pages of complex formulae, evidently in a biochemical weapons database. “What if they brought it on in pieces, over the course of weeks?”

Even as she said it, she rejected it. “They didn't have that kind of time,” Trevor confirmed. “Jace's team disabled the SCUD not even a month ago. Whatever their Plan B is, they've had to cobble it together in a hurry.”

An electronic log popped up on the screen in front of her. Stephanie peered over her shoulder and pointed to it. “This is today's police blotter. It includes traffic onto base. Use this filter to isolate your parameters. Press this icon to break it down to entry activity by gate, or this icon to change the date range.”

Heather studied the installation map, finding and marking each of the three gates. Military police manned the gates, logging all traffic onto the base. Unfortunately, only access
to
the base was restricted. Anyone could
leave
the base . . . or not leave.

“Assuming they intend to plant the phosgene bomb near the public areas where the president is speaking . . .” Damn it. Something felt . . . off. Wrong. “The Secret Ser­vice and the Security Police are vetting everyone who's coming through the main gate.” She clicked her way to the more remote gates. “Ignoring military residents . . .” She scanned through the entries. Foreign nationals who worked on base. Deliveries to the commissary and gas station. Visiting spouses. Nothing jumped out at her.

She did the same thing for the previous day, then went back as far as a week ago, then switched her view to encompass all entries, not just vehicular traffic. The police blotter had the usual assortment of entries for the week: a reported break-­in at one of the housing areas; two brawls outside the noncommissioned officer's club; a teenager shoplifting a blouse at the base exchange. A dispute between the entertainment facilities manager and a local company over the delivery of too many boxes of supplies. Too many? Usually the problem was being shorted in a delivery.

The blotter didn't specify the type of supplies or the delivery location. Curious, Heather looked up the facilities manager's number and punched it in. The call went directly to voice mail. Of course. Only essential personnel worked today.

The company providing the supplies sold water treatment products. The delivery agent with whom Heather spoke insisted the order had been completed correctly.

“Yes, madame. One renewal order, an annual delivery of chlorine cakes my company has made every year for the past five years, plus a separate rushed order for enough shock chemicals to clean and sanitize two standard fifty-­meter pools, whose filtration system apparently became compromised. We ser­vice both community pools on the air base.”

The processing agent knew nothing about the subsequent dispute. Thanking him, Heather disconnected. She pushed away from the computer screen, shoving strands of hair fallen out of her French braid back behind her ears. She rolled her chair over to Christina, who watched Trevor clicking the mouse and muttering to himself. The other woman glanced her way.

“Anything?”

“No,” admitted Heather. “You?”

Christina shrugged. “Aa'idah didn't know the last name of the man we haven't identified. We're running it through the known terrorist database, but it could take a while.”

Heather looked over the young agent's shoulder, and found herself face-­to-­face with her abductor. Her world tilted. Grabbing the arms of her chair, she fought for a moment to breathe.

The close-­up of his face had obviously been cut from a larger photograph. In it, the man smiled, friendly, at ease. It was so far from the terrifying man who had questioned her for days Heather gave her head a sharp shake. Christina gave her a curious look, then understanding dawned.

“Is that him?”

“Yes.” Her voice came out as little more than a gasp.

Christina handed her a faxed copy of a group photo. “His name is Zaahir al-­Farouk. He's Omaid al-­Hassid's second in command. Remember the third email we found, dated to happen today? ‘Pick up transportation vehicle and link up with me.' I'm thinking Zaahir al-­Farouk is the one calling the shots here, and one of these two men was supposed to get a car. Maybe the bomb is in the car?”

Heather forced herself to take the photo. “Doubtful. I'm still thinking we're missing a big piece of the puzzle here.” She examined the men in the photo. “This one might have been at my convoy's ambush. It's hard to remember.” Deep breaths. Just keep breathing. Her head cleared.

Trevor joined them. “I'm heading up to the parade grounds,” he said. “I'm not getting anywhere here. Maybe if I see something, I'll recognize it. Besides, whoever finds it will need my help neutralizing it.”

“Whatever
it
is.”

Trevor blew out a breath. “Right. Whatever it is. My team's already there. I'm going to join them.” He looked at the two women. “Are you staying here?”

Christina gave an unamused laugh. “Jay wants me back at the embassy, where he can keep an eye on me. I was supposed to be on my way back an hour ago.” She forced a smile. “Guess I'll be paying for my mistake for a long time.”

She and Trevor exchanged a wry look. He seemed to know exactly what she meant.

“What happened?”

Christina shook her head. “Too long a story. I messed up, my first time out of the gate. My very first mission. That's what Jay meant the other day, in his office. Trevor bailed me out. Tell you the story another time.”

“Sure,” said Heather. “When this is all over. Cup of coffee, my treat.”

The TOC seemed quieter after they left, its hum less intense. She rubbed her arms. She was missing something, she could feel it. Something hovered, just at her periphery.
Damn it!

She was doing no good here.

Wandering over to Colonel Granville, she waited while he finished being briefed by someone in a T-­shirt and cargo shorts, who winked at her as he walked away. She rolled her eyes, and Granville grinned. “Whatcha got, kid?”

Heather couldn't help but smile back at her new boss. “Very damned little, I'm sorry to say. Since I know what Zaahir al-­Farouk looks like, and the other two as well, I'd like permission to go help Captain Reed's search team.”

He stared at her for several long minutes. Heather had to force herself not to squirm. Granville balanced his unlit cigar across the top of his coffee cup and folded his arms.

“Well, it entirely depends, Lieutenant. You're here in a completely advisory role as long as I think you're not field-­ready. And your doctors tell me that might not be for a few months. Convince me.” He jabbed a finger at the chair his previous visitor had just vacated.

Heather perched on the edge of the seat. “It's not like I'm going into combat, sir. And I'm one of the few ­people who will recognize Zaahir al-­Farouk without a photograph. Possibly the other two, as well. The truth is, I'm not much use here at the moment, but I can be up at the parade grounds.” Granville was still staring at her, so she kept going. What did he want to hear?

“Sir, I'm not going to deny it's been a challenge. It's only been four weeks. I get that. I do. But how many of your operators would just give up? Versus how many of them would just get back up, dust themselves off, and jump back into the saddle?” She met his gaze squarely. “Treat me the same as you would them. No better, no worse. Just the same. That's all I ask.”

Granville sat back in his chair, looking smug. “Then what the hell you still doing here, Langstrom?”

Heather dashed to her car. The nagging feeling wouldn't go away, and she knew she wasn't going to find that missing piece in the TOC. What she'd told the colonel was true. The part she'd skipped burrowed a lot deeper. She had to do this. Going after the man who'd hurt her, stopping him, was the best therapy she could think of and the fastest way to heal.

As she drove, she reviewed the information they had. And again. Grabbing her cell phone, she dialed Jace.

“Nothing yet,” he reported. “We started near the area the president's going to be speaking at, and we're expanding as we clear each section. It's slow going, and he's due to speak in less than two hours.”

“I'm heading your way now,” she said. “And Trevor's five minutes ahead of me. Two more sets of eyes to help.”

“No!” The negative was an explosion of sound. “Nuh-­uh. Your place is at the TOC.”

Say what? Had she heard that right? Heather's mouth tightened. Her voice dropped several octaves. “My
place
?”

There was dead silence at the other end.

“My place, Jace? What, exactly, does that mean?” Heather's voice rose, despite her attempts to modulate her tone. “Tell me. 'Cause I really want to know how you feel about me.”

She heard him blow out a breath. Then, “Shit. Shit shit shit. This is
not
the time for this conversation.”

Heather gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white. “Seems to me this is the perfect time. If you didn't want my particular skill set working for Delta Force, why did you get me transferred into your unit?”

Jace gave a frustrated hiss. “I did not have anything to do with your transfer. That was all the colonel's idea. And if I'd known, I'd have nixed it. Fast.”

Heather didn't move for several long moments. She stared blankly, unseeingly out of the windshield. Nixed it? Funnily enough, she believed him. Jace
didn't
want her in his unit.

“Why?”

Silence.

Heather slowed at an intersection, glancing around. Which way to the parade grounds? The gas station and mini mart sat on her left. The parking lot was deserted; yellow covered several of the pump heads, indicating they were drained. It seemed everyone was up at the parade grounds for the celebration.

If the gas station was on her left, she needed to turn left. She signaled, spun the wheel with one hand, and pulled out onto the road, still clutching her cell phone to her ear.

“Why?” she asked again.

“Look, Heather . . .”

She cracked her teeth together in fury. And hurt. “Don't ‘look, Heather' me,” she shouted. “Just say it. I want to hear you say it.” He thought she wasn't good enough, tough enough, skilled enough. Which one was it this time?

It didn't matter. Either way, Jace didn't think she could handle herself.

Heather had been hearing it her entire career.

“I . . .”

Heather braced herself.

“I need you to be safe.” The admission was almost whispered.

That stopped her cold. “You . . .”

“Want you safe,” he growled. “Out of danger. So what if it's not politically correct. So it alters your three-­star general career trajectory. I don't care. You asked what I want? That's what I want.”

Heather's throat closed up. She couldn't have managed more than a squeak at that moment if her life depended on it.

Damn it. She had gone the wrong way. The parade grounds were behind her.

Heather spun the car around, ending up back at the intersection with the gas station and mini mart. Pulling into the lot, she slammed the car into park.

“I don't suppose I have to tell you,” she said, finally able to get her vocal cords working, “what
I
want is a career. The same opportunities men have. I have a place here, too. I'm good at what I do. I'm making a difference. Saving American lives.”

There was a long pause. “I know. And I know my views are archaic. And I know I have no right to ask you to do this, but . . . turn around and go back to the TOC.”

She clutched the phone. “I won't do that, Jace. I can't.”

He sighed heavily. “I know. Just . . . I had to ask.”

Heather swallowed the hard knot of disappointment in her gut. “We're going to be working together soon. I have to know if you're going to sabotage me, hold me back.”

“No!” He actually sounded shocked. “Of course not. I don't like it, but okay. There it is. There's nothing I can do about it.”

Heather rested her head against the window, not really seeing anything. “I don't see there's any ‘of course not' to it. So what was all the bullshit about your respecting me?”

Another sigh. “I do respect you. I just also love you.”

His words hung in the air between them. Heather chewed on her nail as she fought to find a response. A car pulled in past her and maneuvered over to a gas pump, and immediately pulled ahead as the driver noticed the yellow covering on the pump.

Yellow covering.

“Heather?”

Brows pulled down, Heather looked more closely at the driver, who was now out of the car with the nozzle in hand. The middle-­aged woman looked curiously back at her.

Yellow covering.

“Jace, I'll have to call you back.” She flipped her phone closed.

Two of the four pumps at the gas station were covered. Empty.