Uncivil Liberties (22 page)

From the sketchy and unsubstantiated attack plans that had been outlined by the captured weapons dealer, Wolff, and the conclusions drawn by Trojan in their analysis of impending disaster, Queensland, Australia, fourteen hours ahead of Washington D.C., was the first to learn about the validity of the threat.

As Easter Sunday rolled around the world, the fear of further terrorist attacks took on new meaning as Muslim extremists unleashed a new order of terror against predominately Christian populations in the Commonwealth nations and the United States of America. Innocent Australian citizens were the first to shed blood in the latest round of terrorism. Great Britain would follow some ten hours later. And America was to be next, but on a far broader scale.

The Atlanta Braves took the Sunday afternoon game 6–3 against the Los Angeles Dodgers in a nearly packed house. William Foster and his wife, Shari, made their way down the exit ramps on the west side of Turner Field, along with nearly 36,000 other happy Braves’ supporters. Another winning season was underway, and the Damn Yankees had better get ready for the next World Series.

The owner of a miniature golf course and driving range about twenty miles north, Foster had lived in or near Atlanta all of his forty-four years. He’d met and married Shari eighteen years earlier, and they had three children, all of whom were distraught that they hadn’t been allowed to attend the game, but Foster had been adamant: “
The Easter Sunday game is traditional for me and Mom.”

Easing through the exit, shoulder-to-shoulder with several hundred other patrons headed for the west parking area, Foster was at first confused by what appeared to be his wife’s stumble. He tried to grab her elbow to keep her from falling, but he was unable to support her weight and she dropped to the pavement, with the crowd trying to step around her rather than halting their progress. He knelt to speak to her as people continued to jostle around them as they pressed ahead. He spoke to her, but her eyes appeared confused, disoriented. The fans continued their relentless surge to get to their cars and to head home.

At Safeco Stadium, Seattle, Washington, the story repeated itself. Not to be outdone by his Ford Motor Company competition’s “Employee Appreciation Day” the previous month—a chartered fishing vessel into Puget Sound with 125 employees on board—Ralph Tunston, owner of four Toyota dealerships located along I-5 from Seattle to Portland, had purchased 136 tickets to the Easter Sunday game, pitting the Seattle Mariners against the visiting California Angels. There was to be a picnic dinner following the game at Northwest Fantasy, the new theme park developed west of Puyallup.

Three chartered buses were waiting at the southern entrance of Safeco Stadium and everyone had been advised to be on their bus by 4:15 or find their own way to the picnic. The only person to not make the bus was the boss, Ralph Tunston. As the buses pulled away from the stadium, Ralph was being lifted into an emergency vehicle for transport to Seattle’s Emergency Trauma Center, one of the finest in the nation if the victim arrived within the ‘golden hour.’ But no trauma team on earth could have saved Mr. Tunston, who was shot in the back. He was pronounced dead on arrival. Cause of death: a gunshot wound through the rib cage, entering from the back and exiting the chest, after tearing a hole through the heart.

Helen Clark was essentially a ‘plank owner’ in Busch Stadium, St. Louis, Missouri, having attended the first game, a twelve-inning marathon against the Atlanta Braves, after completion of the new stadium in 1966. She’d attended hundreds of games since. Her ten-year-old niece, Shelly Liston, and their German Shepherd, Gus, remained in their vehicle in the parking area of Busch Stadium for over an hour after the stadium had emptied out. One shot to the head of each of the women and  one to the chest of the dog had left them quietly in their van until later that afternoon, when the clean-up sweepers began to scour the lot.

America’s favorite pastime had taken on a new dimension, and a lazy afternoon at the ballpark had forever changed.

Pug Connor sat near the open door of the balcony of his three-bedroom, three-storied townhouse in the suburban community of Reston, Virginia, a slight breeze playing against the curtain on the first truly warm day of the late arriving spring.

Pug nibbled at the second slice of homemade pizza from the previous evening as the fourth and final round of the Honda Classic Golf Tournament was being broadcast on ESPN. Chad Sorensen, a thirty-one-year-old club pro from Southern California, who had regained his touring card the previous year, was leading the event by two strokes. Immediately after Sorensen teed off on the fifteenth, the Breaking News logo scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

11 dead or wounded in multiple shooting incidents at sports arenas throughout the nation. Further information to follow.

Off and on throughout the day, highlights of the burning frigate in Brisbane and the shootings in Surfer’s Paradise had been reported on network television. Pug felt as if he were waiting for the other shoe to drop, but as yet, nothing had transpired in America, and he’d received no notice of action related to a response directed at Australian terrorists.

Pug clicked the remote and shifted channels to Fox News. Weekend anchors Jonathan Sharp and Leslie McWilliams sat behind the joint presentation desk, their normally well-groomed appearance and calm demeanor disrupted by what appeared to be slight tension. Leslie was speaking.

“ . . . not only that, Jonathan, but literally moments before the top of the hour, the Fox News desk received an unidentified claim that the shootings were planned and directed by . . .” she paused, looking at a small slip of paper in her hand, “ . . . by a group calling themselves World Jihad. For those of you who have just joined us following announcements on other networks, throughout the past ninety minutes we have been receiving reports of multiple gunshot injuries at various locations throughout America. At last report, thirty-seven people have been shot in nineteen separate locations, primarily at professional baseball stadiums after the close of the games when crowds were leaving the grounds. There are eleven confirmed dead at this time, with reports still coming in.”

Pug was up and grabbing his keys by the time the audio shifted to Jonathan Sharp.

“This is unprecedented . . .” he heard Jonathan say as he clicked off the TV.

“You got that right, buddy,” Pug said  as he bounded down the stairs, two at a time, to his ground-level garage.

Pug’s cell phone rang just as he exited the Eisenhower Executive Office Building elevator and headed for his office. The name on the caller ID was not unexpected.

“Good evening, Mr. Secretary.”

“You’ve seen the news?”

“Yes, sir. I’m just entering my office.”

“Good. I assume you’ve alerted the team and have arranged to assemble Trojan. I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” General Austin said.

“They’re on the way, sir.” When Pug reached his desk, his mobile rang again, with no name visible.

“General Connor.”

“Pug, it’s Colin McIntyre.”

“Good afternoon, Brigadier. You’ve been watching the news, I presume.”

“Indeed, and receiving initial reports from Whitehall. We’ve had several incidents at home as well, it would seem. Add that to the bombing and shooting incidents in Brisbane yesterday, and it would appear the war has started.”

“Yes, sir, it would appear so. I’ve advised Secretary Austin that I am convening Trojan to discuss our next step.”

“And what
is
the next step, Pug? How will you seek to curtail these not-so-random attacks?”

“Brigadier, as we said at our last gathering, this is not a question of using Delta Force, SAS, or Seal teams. Even the Marines or British Para’s can’t storm this beach. There are no easy answers.”

“Correct, indeed. General, would you be willing to allow an outsider under the tent flap at your meeting?”

“Sir, there will be nothing discussed that would not benefit from your presence. We’re gathering at the EEOB conference room immediately.”

“Thank you, Pug. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

By 1630, seven of the eight Trojan members were assembled, plus Brigadier Colin McIntyre, military attaché to the British Embassy. In the short history of their tenure, they had used existing staff for a couple of covert missions, but increasingly it was certain they would need to call on outside military assets.

General Pug Connor and Carlos Castro made up the command structure. The remainder of the team included two Army Rangers, Captain Ted Prince and Lieutenant Carlyle Sanderson, Navy Lieutenant Roger Steppes, a SEAL team leader, and two experienced FBI Hostage Rescue Team members. One man each from the CIA and FBI were assigned as liaison, although not designated as part of Trojan. The JCS tried a politically correct attack and had criticized Connor for not appointing any women to the team, but he had stood fast in his decision, and their end run failed.

One of the attributes that all Trojan team members had in common was that each of the men seated around the table would rather have been at the pointed end of the stick—all had actually been there on more than one occasion—commanding the action team, rather than sitting around this table discussing options. As Director, Pug used the training he had received from General Austin, that most intelligence operations were won or lost in the planning stages. None of the team agreed, but they all followed their orders and had begun to coalesce as an operational team.

When General Austin and then Brigadier McIntyre arrived, Trojan assembled in the conference room. On a large monitor on the far wall, the Fox News live feed continued to update the casualty lists. Forty-seven people had been shot, most at close range in crowded conditions. Thirty-four were confirmed dead, including seven children. Most importantly, the group calling itself World Jihad had issued a statement to Fox News via a taped message. Pug had already called the television station to request a copy of the electronic version of the tape be relayed to the White House, which was then transmitted to his office. The Trojan team sat around the room listening to the surprisingly well-spoken male voice deliver his tirade in excellent, British-accented English.

“Allah be praised. This is the voice of World Jihad. We have struck at the heart of your country. This is only the beginning. Hundreds of Allah’s warriors have been placed throughout America, England, and Australia. No longer will your people be safe from Allah’s justice. No longer will you have free access to violate the homeland of those who follow the true faith. We can strike wherever and whenever we choose. You believe your government has created homeland security. You have no security. Your families are not safe, your children are not safe, your homes are not safe, your schools are not safe, your communities are not safe. Now you will know what the oppressed people of the world have suffered for many years at the hands of the Great Satan. You will feel our pain. You will suffer as we have suffered. Prepare to die. This is the voice of World Jihad. Allah be praised.”

Those around the conference table were silent, the boldness of the message disturbing to the core. Pug turned off the tape player and General Austin sat quietly for several seconds, his fingers steepled in front of his chin, his face impassive. Finally he spoke.

“There we have it. Open, declared war, with no enemy in sight. I’ll confess to you, gentlemen, I cannot recall a time when I’ve felt more helpless, more . . . more unable to respond. Across the river, our Pentagon counterparts are putting together every contingency plan you can imagine, including further invasions of those countries we think are behind this. Most of that will be to show the public that we are responding, doing something . . .
anything.
But I don’t believe that’s the answer, nor do I believe it will solve the problem. And I’ll tell you one more thing that’s very disturbing to me. When we get to the bottom of this, I think we’ll find that some, if not most, of these current attacks are home-grown.”

“
Americans?
” Brigadier McIntyre asked.

“I believe so, Brigadier. You’ve had similar British nationals attack your public transportation system. Increasingly, we’ve seen more and more Americans buy into this ‘America done us wrong’ philosophy. The common thread seems to be attendance at a local mosque and occasionally some out-of-country training. Religion is a strong persuader of what’s right and what’s wrong.”

McIntyre nodded. “That certainly has been the case in Britain.”

“In which case, if they
are
Americans, even racial profiling would be insufficient to identify them,” Pug said.

“That’s right. These cells are small and widely scattered. It’s probably the same in Britain and Australia. Many British Muslims are second and even third generation. They’ve been coming to Britain since the end of the nineteenth century. We should not discount overseas directions, and most likely they’re funded from countries that hate the U.S., but ideology has no geographical boundaries. We would be fooling ourselves if we think we’re looking for a car with two Middle Eastern men, with full facial hair, turbans prominently displayed, driving around with rifles hanging out the window.”