Project StrikeForce (10 page)

“I don’t see why we have to do everything,” Nasser
grumbled.

“Quit complaining. It is good to work with your
hands. You will learn this, in time.” He took the discarded American ammo
box—prepared with explosives—from the stack against the wall. “This is the
mixture of ammonium nitrate and diesel fuel. Here, help me place it.”

They worked with the charge, using thin wire to
fasten it inside the engine bay.

Naseer eyed it skeptically. “Won’t the heat cause
it to explode?”

“No, it is stable. We will wire the detonators on
top when we are done. Now, bring another.”

As they hung more charges around the engine, he
questioned Naseer on the timing.

“Fahad is prepared,” Naseer said. “When he
approaches the checkpoint, he knows what he must do.”

“He understands what will happen?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “That is good. He must not turn away
from the checkpoint.”

“May I ask a question?”

“Never be afraid to ask me a question.”

Naseer paused. “Do you hate the Americans because
of what they did to your wife?”

Abdullah stared thoughtfully at Naseer. “Did I
tell you that I spent time in America?”

“Yes, but you never say more.”

“The Americans helped us with the war.”

Naseer nodded for him to continue.

“There were many Mujahideen who thought that war was
over. I traveled home, to Saudi Arabia, but I found there was no place for me.
My brothers had inherited the family business, and they didn’t want to hear
stories of my days with the Mujahideen. I had done this great thing, fought and
sacrificed, but they cared only for money. Then a man contacted me, an American
who helped during the war, the man who taught me to make bombs. He helped me go
to America, to New York City.”

He stopped and stared off into space. “You can’t
imagine how large it is. You think the city might go on forever.” He resumed
tying off the wire holding the charge. “The people were…not unfriendly. I
studied at university.”

He paused, holding the device inside the engine
bay. “I met my wife. She was a student as well. From a good family. A very good
Muslim. We mingled there, the men and women. I told her I was an Arab, but she
knew, somehow. She called me a proud Afghani and I told her that my people fled
Afghanistan a long time ago but that my father had sent me back at my
grandfather’s behest. That I helped fight the Soviets. That I committed myself
to Jihad. She told me that I’d fallen in love with Afghanistan.”

He continued fastening the wire to the charge,
tying it to the sidewall. “Have you thought about marriage, Naseer?”

Naseer coughed. “I am committed to Jihad.”

He smiled. “Spoken as a youth.” He patted Naseer
on the hand. “It is a fine thing, to marry. To have children. And so we did. We
loved and we married. But, we were unable to have children.”

“It must have been very hard for you,” Nasser
said. “Did you think of taking another wife?”

“No. Never. She completed her studies and came
back to Afghanistan. I followed the next year. I’d had enough of war. I wanted
to marry and live in peace.”

“And they begged you to lead?”

“Hardly,” Abdullah said. “Her family saw only a
hardened man, a killer. The village leaders saw only an Arab, not an Afghani.
They wanted nothing to do with us. But, this pleased me. I wanted nothing to do
with them. We found a place to live on the edge of her village. It was quiet,
until the Americans invaded. The Taliban came, asking for help. I didn’t want
to. I was content to live in peace. They persisted. I showed them how to make
bombs. They came from far away and the more I taught, the more who came. I
didn’t mind. I like to teach, and it was nice to have students. I was no longer
a fighter, just a tired man who wanted to spend time with his wife. Until they
killed her.”

Naseer winced. “You don’t have to continue.”

He frowned. “My life was always for Jihad. I was a
fool to think otherwise. Now I will kill the Americans, here and abroad.”

He finished hanging the last charge in the engine
bay, then with Naseer’s help they put the hood back on the truck. “It’s time to
start on the inside. Help me remove the seat.” He waved to the stack of
remaining charges. “The night is long and we have much to do.”

Area 51

ohn tossed the flash-bang grenade
through the door, the explosion of light and noise illuminating the darkened
room. The VISOR displayed a ghostly green image, the sound muted. He rushed
through the door and put two shots in the enemy’s chest.

His aim was better as proved by the last hundred
shots that Eric and Deion pulled from the dummies. They were now mere fractions
of an inch apart.

He continued on, the VISOR displaying simulated
thermal imaging from an overhead drone, his own heat signature blazing bright.

As he entered the second room, a dummy popped from
behind a couch, spraying his position with Simunition rounds, paint cartridge
bullets designed to leave vivid color markings. They hit like a paint-ball and
stung like a bastard.

He sidestepped and put another pair of rounds in
the dummy’s chest. His HUD lit up, the red outline of a person in the room
ahead. He ran through the door, fast and hard, and the dummies on each side
fired. He dropped and spun, firing his Sig-Sauer, but the bullet jammed.

Damn it!

The heat signature was a blonde in a short blue
dress. His amped-up nervous system twitched. Unlike the Simunition rounds, his
were real. One wrong move and he could kill her.

Damn it. Damn it!

His mind raced as the dummies tracked him, time
slowing. He dropped the magazine, cleared the misfire, and slammed in a new
one, cycling the receiver. He spun sideways and put three bullets into the
dummy on his left, then tracked to the right, preparing to fire. In the VISOR
he saw the blonde jump up and knew he had only seconds to save her.

He swept his leg out, tripping her, to keep her
safe while he took out the remaining dummy.

Suddenly, the woman was upright, a knife in hand.
She was behind him, but he caught the movement in his VISOR as the knife arced
down. He spun and tried to knock it away with the M11, and in that second, time
froze.

He tried to figure out what to do, but drew a
blank. He had assumed she was a hostage.

Big mistake.

He screwed the pooch. If he hit her, he might
genuinely hurt her, and she was probably a PFC roped into the shooting house.
If he didn’t strike back, Eric would give him hell.

Time started to flow again and he kicked her hard
in the shin. She grunted and collapsed down on him, the hard plastic knife
finding its way below the VISOR and hitting him in the throat.

It was hard plastic, not the rubber training
knives he was used to, and he choked on his own tongue. She kneed him in his
groin and he came completely off the floor, choking back vomit.

When the overhead lights blazed on, the blonde sat
on top of him, a small pistol in her left hand, jammed into his stomach.

“What the fuck was that?” Eric’s voice thundered.

He gasped, then popped the catch on the VISOR, and
flipped open the face-plate. He took raggedy breaths, and the taste of vomit
was still heavy in the back of his throat. He looked up at the pretty woman.
“You win?”

She stared at him, incredulous. “I win? I gut shot
you, and would have cut your helmet off and put the blade through your eye. Of
course I win.”

“Sorry, Ma’am?”

Eric and Deion joined them in the shooting house.
Deion shook his head, smiling, but Eric didn’t let it go. “What happened,
John?”

“Sorry, sir. I wasn’t ready for a civilian.”

“A civilian? You think she was a civilian? After
she tried to kill you? I told you the house was live, and I gave you permission
to engage the targets.”

Heat rushed to his face. “What was I supposed to
do? Shoot her? There’s never been anybody in the house before, except you and
Deion. It’s always been training dummies. How was I supposed to know there was
a woman in here?”

Eric glared at him. “You weren’t supposed to
think, you were supposed to react. Besides, I traded out the ammo in your
second clip. You didn’t even notice.”

John craned his head. Sure enough, the dummies
sported bright blue splotches from the Simunition rounds. “How about that.”

Eric stuck his hand out to the woman. “Nancy? You
can get off him now.”

The woman stood, still eyeballing him. He
struggled to sit, his balls aching, and he finally managed to swallow.

Deion grabbed his outstretched hand and hauled him
to his feet. “This is Nancy Smith,” Deion said. “She’s one of the head
honchos.”

John took a deep breath while sizing her up. She
was a looker, but there was something in her face. He felt it in the back of
his head, in the primitive lizard part of the brain dedicated to the primal
urges. She was dangerous. He decided to salute, and he held the salute while
she glared, until she finally looked away.

He grinned.
Score one for the guy with the
aching balls.

“Nancy will observe your training,” Eric said.
“She’s also going to work with Deion to teach you spy-craft. Now, do it again.
Go swap out for the MP5 and we’ll reset the house.”

“Any more surprises?” he asked.

Deion snorted. “Always expect it, man, ‘cause in
the real world, that’s all you’ll get.”

* * *

Washington DC

Smith entered his office, carefully
shutting the door behind him. His office was located just blocks from the White
House, but no one would ever suspect that its occupant was one of the most
powerful men in the world. The bare gray walls were empty, no awards or
commendations, not even a window. In fact, except for the large desk, steel
briefcase, and computer, the room was barren. He sat and plugged in the video
camera, connected the network cable, then initiated the video call.

He smiled when his old friend answered. “How is
he, Hob?”

“As well as can be expected,” Hobert Barnwell said,
shaking his head. “You’re taking one hell of a risk.”

“We need him.
I
need him. What if he
discovers the truth before we’re ready?”

“It’s just a matter of time.”

He knew Hobert was correct. “We’ll deal with it
when the time comes.”

“Speaking of, how’s your memory?”

“I don’t know, how’s your drinking?”

Barnwell’s smile hardened. “No worse than usual.
Keeping tabs on me?”

“Of course. Victoria worries about you.”

“She shouldn’t. It’s under control. Quit avoiding
the question.”

He can sense it
. “I’m not a young man, Hob.
I’m reminded of that daily. This
must
work.”

“I know. I’ll be watching.”

“Good. How is Nancy?”

“You can’t wish her well, Fulton.”

He wanted to yell at his old friend. “There is
nothing
wrong with her. It’s her upbringing.”

Barnwell leaned closer to the camera. “Biological
or environmental, at this point it doesn’t matter. I’m not saying she
can
change, but if she does, it must be self-initiated. I’m speaking as a friend,
not as a doctor.”

He felt the guilt pressing in. “It’s my fault, of
course.”

“Yes,” Hobert agreed. “I thought we were beyond
that. If you want to
protect
her, let her choose her own path.”

He glared at his old friend. “I’ve done exactly as
you suggested.”

“That’s the best any father can do.”

* * *

Kandahar, Afghanistan

Abdullah scribbled in his journal
when Naseer entered with Fahad. He glanced up and was taken aback by Fahad’s
deathly pallor, his clammy skin, his sweat-stained pato.

“Peace be upon you,” Fahad struggled.

“And upon you be peace,” he replied. “You are
unwell,” he said softly.

Fahad nodded. “I am weak.”

“Will you be able to carry out your task?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “Naseer told me you understand your
instructions. You are ready?”

“Yes, I am ready.” Fahad coughed, the phlegmy
rattle deep in his lungs. “I have not taken opium. I am ready for Jihad.”

“Remember what Naseer has taught you,” he said.
“You must perform your task with great care. Allah will be with you in this. We
have arranged to send money to your wife. She will not want for food or shelter
and your children will receive an education.”

Fahad’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, sir.”

There was soft footsteps as Koshen joined them.

Abdullah nodded and motioned him to sit. “Were you
able to complete the preparations?”

“The men in Germany will be waiting,” Koshen said.
“They are preparing for your arrival.”

“Very good. Please, stay.” He turned back to
Fahad. “Will you pray with us?”

Fahad nodded weakly.

“Naseer, bring the mats. We will honor Allah and
we will pray for his guidance.”

Naseer brought the prayer mats and placed them on
the dirt floor. They performed Isha, the nightly prayer, Fahad barely able to
prostrate. Koshen and Naseer helped him up.

He tenderly grasped Fahad’s hand. “Brother, I have
faith in you and I have been honored to know you.” He smelled Fahad, the
sickness and death that clung to him, and knew Fahad had a short time before
the cancer claimed him. He held the dying man’s hand and gave silent thanks to
Allah for sending Fahad to him.

Fahad bowed as deep as his fading strength
allowed. “I won’t fail you.”

* * *

Area 51

John sighed as Eric held up another
type of explosives from the table and shook it at him. “C4,” John mumbled.

The days were now a blur, and the explosives
training was just one more hour in an already full day of strength and weapons
training.

Deion stood next to Eric, holding another block,
yellow this time. “And this?”

“Semtex.”

Eric nodded. “Good. And both are a type of?”

He concentrated, but exhaustion made it hard to
think. “RDX?”

“Correct,” Eric said. “And, how might you find
Semtex?”

“I probably wouldn’t. They don’t make it anymore.
Any Semtex I find would be left over from the nineties.”

Eric picked up a container of white crystals. “How
about this?”

He examined it. “Urea nitrate?”

Eric glanced sideways at Deion.

“He got you,” Deion said. “I didn’t help him.”

Eric picked up another container and handed it to
John. “Okay, how about this?”

John took the container full of light blue
finely-powdered balls. He struggled to place them. They looked like laundry
soap, but he instinctively knew that was wrong. He turned the container in his
hand, but could not place it. “Uhm. I don’t know.”

Eric tilted his head. “You sure? You were on a hot
streak.”

He struggled to remember everything they taught
him. “I’m stumped.”

Deion watched closely. “You really don’t remember
this one? Come on, man. You got to have an idea.”

He closed his eyes. Names tumbled through his
mind, and just when he seemed on the edge of finally placing it, the name
slipped through his grasp.

Eric nodded patiently. “It’s a common explosive,
John. It was used here in the US a couple of times.”

Eric’s words did not register.
Explosives in
the US?
He opened his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Oklahoma,” Eric prompted. “Does that help?”

Oklahoma? That sounded right, somehow, but the details
eluded him. “Guys, I don’t remember. What happened in Oklahoma?”

“The bombing,” Deion said. “You don’t remember
Oklahoma? McVeigh? The Murrah building?”

“Sure, I remember now. A bombing.”

A cool spring day. Had he seen it on television?
Yes. He remembered his classroom in Pasadena and how Mr. Henry wheeled a metal
cart with a television into the classroom and soberly explained that a federal
building had been bombed. “I was in school. We watched it on the news.”

“Right,” Eric said. “That was ammonium nitrate.
Just like this. Ring a bell?”

“Vaguely.”

“It was probably the same thing they used in the
IED that hit your convoy in Iraq. They also used it in the Red Cross bombing.”

The IED happened so fast. A pile of debris on the
side of a dusty road, so familiar, they had passed a million just like it, the
heat beating on them, making it hard to concentrate, the fear and the sweat and
the dust covering them. The smell of garbage was everywhere and they just
wanted to finish their patrol, head back to base, get some chow in the mess,
and get back to their air-conditioned tent.

“John?” Eric asked, breaking his reverie. “The Red
Cross bombing?”

The memory faded and he stared at Eric blankly.
“The Red Cross bombing?” he asked, softly. “I don’t know.”

“Virginia. Someone blew up the Red Cross building?
How do you forget that?” Deion asked.

Eric shot a dark glance at Deion. “Are you sure
you’re not having any side effects from the concussion?”

“No,” he said. “I mean, I don’t have nightmares
anymore, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No side effects at all?”

“Sometimes I get a little foggy,” he admitted.

“Maybe we’ll have Doc Barnwell check you one more
time,” Eric said. “Just to be sure.”

“I’m fine,” he protested. “Have I done anything to
let you down?”

Deion smiled. “You’re good, man. You know how Eric
is, he’s nervous in the service.”

“This isn’t a joke,” Eric said. He turned his
glare to John. “We’ve put a lot into you, John. Another checkup won’t kill
you.”

John nodded. “Whatever you say, Eric.”

* * *

Nancy leaned back in Eric’s chair.
“What does he remember?” she asked.

Eric gave Deion a sidelong glance. “He doesn’t
remember anything.”

“The memory overlay is holding,” Deion agreed.
“Frankly, I’m surprised.”

Eric shook his head. “You still don’t like him, do
you?”

“Hell, no, man. I try to put it out of my mind,
but it’s a hard thing to forget. How can
I
trust him? How can
you
trust him?”