Reston, Virginia
Easter Sunday, March
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 attache 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.”
Austin continued. “So, let’s take this one step at a time. General Connor, for the purposes of this meeting, you now command the infiltration force. How would you set them up? How would you communicate?”
Before assuming command of Trojan, Pug had worked for General Austin for a bit over five years at the NSA and CIA, and was familiar with his method of dumping a hypothetical problem on the table and letting those present sort it out. Assigning the role of the enemy commander was one of his favorite mechanisms to accomplish the objectives.
“Mr. Secretary, I’d rather play the good guy this time,” Pug said.
“I bet you would, General, but that’s my role tonight. Get on with it,” Austin said, his normal humor absent in the face of the unfolding crisis.
Pug was silent for about ten seconds. “They would use the 21 ^st century ‘dead-drop,’ Mr. Secretary. An Internet cafe and e-mail.”
“Agreed. How would you set it up?”
Just as Pug was formulating his thoughts, preparing his initial answer, the door was opened by a Secret Service agent who glanced around the room. He stepped back into the hallway to make room for President Snow, who immediately entered the conference room. Everyone came to their feet.
“Please, gentlemen, be seated,” the president said. “May I join you for a few moments, Mr. Secretary?”
“Certainly, Mr. President. Sit right here,” Austin said, drawing up one of the second-row chairs next to his. “We were just beginning to formulate our thoughts.”
“That’s what I came about, actually,” the president said, taking his seat. “I’ve just spoken to British Prime Minister Winters. They’ve had eleven shooting incidents with fourteen people dead. Yesterday evening, I spoke with Australian Prime Minister Hunter from Canberra. Seventeen Australian sailors died on the Defiance and two on the rescue ship. Seven people were shot in the melee at Surfer’s Paradise. Five have since died.” The president looked around the table briefly, his gaze stopping on McIntyre. “I presume that you are Brigadier Colin McIntyre.”
“I am, sir.”
“Good. Glad to see you here. General Austin, if you have no objections, Prime Minister Winters has asked if we could include Brigadier McIntyre in the Trojan strategy meetings. He has asked our military attache in London to participate with his response team.”
“I would be pleased to have the brigadier’s expertise on our side, Mr. President. Consider it done.”
“Good,” the president said. “Now, just before coming over here, I signed a presidential order designating this situation as ‘Troy,’ authorizing full authority to Trojan to call upon any and all assets necessary to counter this new form of attack. General, while there is still some coordination to arrange with governors and, in some cases, mayors, those assets will include local law enforcement as well as military. Full federal funding for local law enforcement will stand behind that directive. I’ll deal with Congress later. We’re not yet considering declaring martial law, but the idea has been raised by several senators. Congressional leaders are meeting tonight to discuss emergency measures to remove all restrictions from the Patriot Act and to grant far broader discretion to law enforcement and the military. Since we’re dealing with a domestic issue, that expansion of the Patriot Act will open a whole new debate among the liberally minded. You and General Connor will have a copy of my memorandum within the hour. The JCS and the secretary of defense will receive copies this evening as well. I know you’re only just starting your meeting, but are there any initial thoughts or response to today’s attacks?”
“We’re not surprised, Mr. President, only perplexed at the moment as to how to best counter an unidentified, widely dispersed enemy who can freely choose his place and time of attack. General Connor was just about to assume the role of a terrorist and take us through operational planning as if he were the group leader.”
The president tilted his head and smiled grimly. “I hope for our team’s sake, General, that you will remain on our side in this fight.”
Pug smiled briefly. “They have to obtain communication from somewhere, Mr. President,” he said. “Perhaps we can think of a way to get inside that communication network, maybe even identify at least when, if not where, they’ll strike next.”
“That may be, General Connor, but we can’t discount that they may already know what they’re supposed to do, that they don’t need constant direction. For all of their technical know-how, we’re still dealing with a medieval mentality. In those days, the warriors were just told to go and kill, with overall objectives established and plenty of discretion for the field commanders. Well,” the president said, rising, “I won’t keep you from your meeting.” The officers around the room also stood. President Snow paused as he headed for the doorway.
“Thank you, Brigadier, for working with us on this problem. My condolences for the losses your British citizens have suffered today. As usual in times of crises, the British and American people are hand-in-hand against an enemy. Mr. Secretary, please assure that I’m briefed on what actions General Connor’s team determines to implement?”
“Certainly, Mr. President. Thank you for meeting with us this evening.”
When the president left, Secretary Austin picked up where he had left off, once more asking about communication between the terrorists. “A 21 ^st century dead-drop, you said, General?”
Pug did not respond, and for several seconds silence filled the room.
“General Connor, ” General Austin said, his voice more emphatic. “Your thoughts, please?”
“Sorry, Mr. Secretary, I was, uh… I-”
“You were drifting, General. Get focused. Communication. That’s the subject. Stay on topic.”
“Yes, sir. My apology. It was something the president said that got me thinking,” Pug said, pausing for a long moment. “General, they may not need any communication.”
“What? How could they operate such a widespread, coordinated attack without communication?”
“Consider this, sir. They’re all suicide bombers, in a sense. They may have received a very simple instruction before they left wherever they came from. Go kill Americans until you’re captured or killed.”
“No, the opening attacks were too well-planned. All sports arenas, all baseball games.”
“Understood, sir, but they may already have several predetermined places, times, and dates for coordinated attacks for maximum impact, the rest to be selected at random. They may also have a website where they can check in occasionally to receive a change of orders. Mr. Secretary, it doesn’t matter if they shoot two people in Chicago or Atlanta, Modesto, California, or Ashland, Oregon. Public fear of the unknown is their greatest weapon. At first, everyone will think it will happen somewhere else. Sort of like the random freeway shootings in Los Angeles a few years ago. But if shootings occur in small town America, in our backyard, so to speak, as well as the larger cities, all our citizens will be terrified.”
“You don’t paint a very bright picture, General,” Brigadier McIntyre said.
“No, sir, I don’t. But it’s only one thought. And I am the enemy commander.”
“It’s not a pleasant thought, Pug, not pleasant at all,” Secretary Austin added. “But you’re still the terrorist commander for the evening. Let’s brainstorm around the table for a few moments, based on your idea that these individual terrorist cells may act as free agents. Any reasoned idea, or unreasoned for that matter, should be entertained. Captain Prince, your thoughts, please.”