Strike Force Alpha (13 page)

Illinois

The interior of the flight simulator could get very warm in the afternoon.

It was the electronics, Tom Santos supposed. The panel lights, the read-out screens. The false pressurization devices. They all contributed to a temperature rise that Santos guessed was 10 degrees or more.

At least, that’s what he
thought
was making him perspire so much.

He was somewhere in one of Chicago’s suburbs, in a Boeing facility. He knew this because all the techs wore coveralls of Boeing Blue. He’d been here five days, living in a Ramada Residence nearby. The men who’d picked him up that day at his house were now occupying the rooms on either side of him. He still did not know their names. He was given all his meals, but they had to be taken in his room. He had access to a large-screen TV, free HBO, a Jacuzzi, and a free minibar, but he could not use the phone.

At night, when he got tired of TV, he would write letters to Ginny. Many recalled some special place they’d visited early in their marriage, a certain restaurant, a certain beach. A certain bookstore. Each letter ended with a promise to visit these places again very soon.

He could not mail the letters of course. But that was OK—he’d deliver them personally when he got back home.

He was being taught how to fly a jet airliner. What type didn’t seem to matter. The simulator had such extensive software, it could mimic any number of passenger jets, such as the Boeing 747 and 777 and the smaller MD-80, even a DC-10.

But his training was going slow. Santos had flown B-52s for most of his military life, but there was a big difference between driving a Hog and flying a 747. The Stratoforts he used to fly were nearly as old as he was at the time. True, they’d been constantly refitted and upgraded, but they were still not like modern airliners. He tried to explain this to his tight-lipped hosts, but they didn’t understand. To them a big plane was a big plane. It was obvious they thought his tutelage would be easier than this.

So he worked hard to learn what they were trying to teach him. There were similarities, of course, between what he used to do and what they wanted him to do now. Roll time was crucial. Weight of aircraft, wind across the runway. Making sure every control was set properly. The flight checklist for a B-52 was a lengthy affair. So was the one for a 747.

In real life, most airliner takeoffs were done by computer. But Santos had been told he would have to learn how to do a takeoff manually, and this is what took the time. Whether the controls were too fast for him or he was losing his reflexes or a combination of both, he’d “crashed” on takeoff a number of times the first couple days. This did not make his hosts happy.

But he had always been persnickety when it came to learning how to fly a new bird, and nothing had changed. He was very methodical, very cautious. Very slow. In the back of his mind he imagined that he was soon going to be called on to take off with a cabin full of passengers. He wanted to be a fully prepared when that time arrived. What was the biggest difference between taking off with 250 people in the back and a load of nuclear bombs? The passengers were counting on you to get them back down again.

So he was trying to be careful. But again, his hosts were getting impatient. They had a clock ticking, though Santos had no idea just what it was ticking down to or where or why. He was just doing his duty, something his government had asked him to do.

He was doing it to the best of his ability.

When the simulator got hot in the afternoon, Santos would begin to sweat. In minutes, his shirt would nearly be soaked through. When his hosts saw this, they would reluctantly, but gently, suggest he take a break. He welcomed the time-out. He would visit the rest room, then be taken to a small adjoining suite that was air-conditioned and had a TV. There was a glass of ice water and one of his yellow pills waiting for him whenever he walked into this room. There was also a couch and a pillow if he wanted to catch a few winks.

He could take as long a blow as he wanted. But there was a training quota that had to be met every day. If it meant him staying until 10:00 or 11:00
P.M.
to get the required number of hours in the simulator, well, that’s how it was going to be done.

But then, even after his training session was over, he still had to go under a tanning lamp for two hours. This, too, was mandatory.

By the end of the first week, Santos was exhausted. And losing more energy by the day.

But he had a hell of a tan.

The Persian Gulf

Ryder had never been inside
Ocean Voyager
’s captain’s quarters. He didn’t even know the ship had one.

It was located on the top level of the bridge house, above the glassed-in control deck where Bingo’s guys actually ran the ship. The CQ was huge but also amazingly elegant. It had leather chairs, leather couches, large windows, Oriental rugs, and artwork covering the walls. A very ornate and valuable wood desk sat in one corner. A satellite TV, several CD and DVD players, and a Bose stereo were also on hand. A long dining table dominated the center of the room. Two dozen people could eat dinner here and look out on the sea at the same time. A nice touch.

This place was now Bobby Murphy’s cabin.

It was high noon and
Ocean Voyager
was moving north, toward the upper Persian Gulf. Murphy had summoned the strike team to his compartment to sit and speak with him. Everyone was there: the Marine techs, the Delta guys, the Air Force chopper pilots, and the Harrier drivers. Many were drinking coffee. Ryder was drinking a beer.

Murphy was at the head of the table. He didn’t seem like much of a mystery man in person, and hardly a master spy. He seemed more like a guy who sold life insurance or ran the local hardware store. An uncle. A neighbor. He seemed…
ordinary.
Yet somehow he’d put together this extraordinary thing. How?
That
was the mystery about him.

Murphy introduced himself and explained why he was here. He spoke with a soft southern rasp, a voice that would have sounded perfect narrating a documentary about the Civil War. Head down, hands flat on the table, he looked like an elderly history professor on his first day of class. He did not appear to be particularly brainy, though, or endowed with ESP—or insane, or a booze hound for that matter. He seemed shy, out of place. Nervous. Not the John Wayne everyone expected him to be.

Yet he knew the intimate details of every mission the team had run so far. And he knew every man in the room, too, and had addressed each of them by his first name. He’d also walked the ship from stem to stern an hour before, reciting volumes about each of its components, from the pancakes to the hidden CIWS guns. If it was tied down somewhere on the ship, Murphy knew where it was.

He also knew, intimately, the people they were out here to kill.

“We are up against a very devious enemy,” he told them. “Al Qaeda is tighter than the Italian Mob. Their version of
omerta
is to cut their
own
tongues out. Why are they so good? Because they have what all the other terrorist groups have lacked. They have
organization.
In fact, they are an
organization
of organizations. That’s their secret. They can pull members in from other groups. When the job is done, they separate again. Oily bastards. It makes them very hard to catch.

“And as you know, they work in cells. The cell members are given a mission and are trained to do it. A cell can hold five to fifteen guys; the number doesn’t matter. None of them know each other. They don’t know any personal details about each other. They don’t even know each other’s real names. They are told not to discuss personal issues or even have idle conversations. This is how they handle their security. In many ways, they are strangers acting in concert.”

Some curious looks went around the table at this. Every one seemed to be saying:
That sounds likes us….

Murphy went on: “They seem unbeatable, or that’s what a lot of people think. But every enterprise reaches its peak, and then, in one defining moment, something happens that causes it to go back downhill again. Sometimes that defining moment comes from a punch in the stomach, sometimes a kick in the nuts.

“As we all know, our aim out here is to pop anyone we can find whose hand was in Nine-Eleven. Despite everything that has happened out here since, this is still our noble job to do. I understand we’ve already rid the earth of a load of these bastards—and their families. In my opinion, that’s great. I hope I don’t sound cold when I say that. If I do, I’m sorry—but don’t cry for me, Argentina. Those people attacked our homes, our country, our citizens. Our neighbors. Our friends.
Our
families. It is up to us to exact some blood in return. It’s really as simple as that. If we teach one terrorist a lesson or, better yet, change one’s mind by what we do out here, then it will all be worth it.

“So maybe at least we can lay the groundwork for that defining moment. That’s why we always have to hit them hard and quick and never let them know how we are coming at them next. And you people have performed that mission brilliantly so far, and I’m here to tell you how proud I am of you all.”

A sip of water.

“But I am out here for another reason, too. Something just as important. Simply put: Something big is coming. Really big. The mook chatter is off the charts. We are intercepting five times the usual number of phone calls, and they are clogging up the porn lines. There’s been a run on cell phones all over the Middle East. And one thing we know about these guys: when they start talking like a bunch of old hens, smoke will soon become fire.

“I believe they are talking about the Next Big Thing. The next big attack. As we know, they are constantly trying to outdo themselves in getting their ‘message’ out. That’s another of their traits. So we can never underestimate them. They might act small sometimes, but they
always
think big, and so should we.

“Now the chatter our friends downstairs have picked up tells me the mooks are already spreading the word to their cells about what and when this Next Big Thing is going to be. So we all have to be on the lookout while running our missions. Especially you guys on the ground. Keep your eyes peeled for anything that can carry information from one mook to another. Tapes, computer disks, even CD-ROMs. Anything that might give us a clue as to what they are up to.

“For every mission we run, and for every mook we take down, we get closer to the head of the snake. And we are going to continue this. Word is spreading about us and we will not let up. In the next few days we will be delivering some ‘messages’ to them that will have their heads spinning, guaranteed.”

Another sip of water. Or was that gin?

“But one thing we must always remember: At the end of the day, these guys don’t run on bombs or bullets. They run on money. Their network is like a corporation; that’s what makes it so tough to crack. But just like any other corporation, they have a lot of people they have to support. Their expenses are very high. It costs them fifty million a year just to keep everyone fed, and paid, and still many of these cell members are put in slum conditions, just to save money. Now, you might have heard that at one time the Original Big Cheese was a billionaire. That’s not really true. His
father
was a billionaire. The guy himself inherited only forty million or so. And by the way, he’s not the type to spend his own money on all this, no matter where he is. In fact, the whole organization is as cheap as they come.”

“They’re
cheap?
” someone asked.

“They’re oily cheap,” Murphy confirmed. “Here’s an example: They figured it would cost five hundred thousand dollars to plan and execute the hit on the World Trade Center. It wound up costing about four hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars. The day after the attack, NSA picked up a phone message from the Big Cheese to the guys who were still alive inside the Nine-Eleven cell, the very bastards we are out here looking for. What do you think the Cheese said to them? ‘Congratulations’? ‘Good job’? Nope. The first thing out of his mouth was, ‘Where’s the fifteen thousand?’ His plan to kill scores of Americans had just succeeded beyond his wildest dreams—and he’s looking for the leftover fifteen grand. That tells you a lot about the whole
jihad
organization.”

Ryder looked about the room. Any initial skepticism had all but drained away. He could see it in the faces of those around him. It wasn’t so much what Murphy was saying but how he was saying it. There was a sincerity in his voice that made you want to believe him. And it was hard not to like him. He was a funny little guy with big ears, but he also had seriously big ideas. After just a few minutes, he had everyone in the room hanging on his every word.

In a strange way Ryder knew this was exactly what the team needed; another part of the puzzle fit into place. The team had bonded in their beer ritual a few nights before. They were tight like fingers in a fist now. But the brains of the operation had always been somewhat remote. Until now. Finally, they were getting a leader.

“We were blindsided September Eleventh,” Murphy went on. “Absolutely sucker-punched. Why? Because our institutions let us down. The CIA? Slower than hell, and when things go wrong they’re the first to run for cover. The FBI? Useless. They practically had every one of the Nine-Eleven hijackers delivered to them on a platter months before the day. They did nothing. Homeland security? Are you kidding? And what about our political leaders? Back when this thing should have been nipped in the bud, they were more concerned about whose bud the Chief Executive was nipping. You see, this is the problem.
These
are the people everyone is counting on to get back what was taken from us. To prevent it from ever happening again. Well, God help us, because we’re going to need it.

“Our country changed that day—how many times have you heard that? But it’s true. That’s the sad thing. A guy goes to work, trying to provide for his family, trying to get ahead, and now he’s got to worry about some asshole flying an airplane into his building? Or poisoning his water, or his mail? That is
not
the way America is supposed to be. Maybe that’s how some people like it, living in their little shithole countries, but not us. We are Americans and we are special. Don’t let anyone tell you different. We went to the goddamn moon and we saved Western civilization three goddamn times in the past hundred years. But damn it, we have got to learn how to take care of our own! And we can’t leave that up to the CIA or the FBI or anyone else, because history shows they’ll just get it wrong.
That’s
why
we
are out here. This is our job. Take the gloves off and put it right on their doorstep and see how
they
like it. Very few people back home know it, but we’re the ones they are counting on. And we’ve got to do what we can. For them. For everyone who died that dark September day. Thank you.”

Murphy closed his briefcase and put his glasses down on the table. He was finished.

Ryder looked around the room again. He saw tears in many eyes. It was amazing. Every man at the table was a battle-hardened special ops guy. They’d been to places few people would ever want to go. They’d seen it all. Heard it all. Done it all.

Yet at that moment Ryder believed every one of them would have taken a bullet for Bobby Murphy.

Himself included….