Situated amid a sea of construction equipment, the semi-trailer could not have been more ordinary. Over a half million commuters had crossed the new Frederick Douglass Bridge that week, yet not a single one would have recalled anything special about it. The workers on the job site were equally disinterested; such containers were as common as trees in a forest, and they came and went without notice.
The trailer in question was hidden in plain sight near the edge of a perimeter ditch. All around it was a soil-churning array of dump trucks, payloaders, mobile offices, and no fewer than twenty other box trailers displaying various grimy logos. The construction zone had been active for nearly six years—to the workers, closer to a career than a job site—and while the primary objective of replacing the old South Capitol Street bridge was complete, considerable work remained to revitalize the surrounding Riverwalk and parks.
The trailer sat propped on its rear wheels and forward legs, like a pioneer wagon waiting for a horse. No one could really say when it had arrived or who had left it there. Were anyone to investigate its DOT registration number and license plate—no one ever had—they would learn that it was registered to a company purporting to install sewer lines and stormwater culverts. That vision planted, it was only a small extension to imagine the trailer being filled with pumps, pipes, and trench shoring equipment.
In fact, the generic off-white container held nothing of the sort.
The body of the trailer had undergone subtle modifications. The original access doors in back had been reinforced and strengthened, as had the sidewalls all around. The massive lock on the unit would require nothing short of an acetylene torch to breach. All these fortifications were crude and evident from the outside. This, too, was by design: thievery on construction sites was rampant, and the owner wanted to make clear that there were softer targets elsewhere.
The most significant alteration, however, involved the roof. The forward thirty feet of the trailer’s ceiling had been cut into four sections and reinstalled on hinges. The panels folded down and inward, and were actuated by a series of modified garage door openers. These changes could be seen only from above, and even in daylight were barely distinguishable. At night the revisions were all but invisible.
At dusk that Saturday evening, the construction yard was deserted. The trailer near the ditch was as still as the distant monument to Lincoln. There were a handful of pedestrians walking the river’s far shore, and the usual weekend traffic buzzed along Capitol Street—altogether, a mere handful of distant passersby.
All of whom were oblivious to what was about to happen.
Inside the trailer a lone figure sat behind a builder’s table—eight cinderblocks supporting a section of 5/8-inch plywood. The man was average in height and had a lean build. His features were vaguely Asian, although with something else perhaps mixed in. He sat motionless behind a laptop, staring at his phone. His close-cropped black hair and patchy three-day stubble were floodlit by the computer’s screen. The only other illumination in the trailer was a spray of amber cast by a battery-powered work light zip-tied to one wall.
He was getting used to this drill. In truth, more familiar than he wanted to be. For all his attributes—and there were many—patience was not among them. As an experienced operator, he knew that routine was a weakness. He had sat in this same trailer on three previous occasions, waiting and watching, only to see the mission abort. He’d always known it might play out that way, yet each attempt brought an additive measure of risk. Someone might see him a second time, wonder what he was doing inside the trailer.
His index finger tapped the plywood table. Given what was at stake, he was ready to finish this job and get the hell out of town.
He wore construction clothes—frayed jeans, heavy shirt, and steel-toe boots. All of it was worn and dusty, and hung from his wiry frame with the right degree of looseness. Less convincing was the hardhat near the door, a requirement for the job site. He had purchased a used item, only to find that it was far too large—it sat on his head like a football helmet on a deer. Still, the big plastic shell had its uses: it was good for hiding his face from security cameras. He was an expert on surveillance, and had identified three on the work site.
A trickle of sweat rolled down his back, although it wasn’t a matter of nerves. A native of Manchuria, he had been born to the cold. The trailer had felt like a sauna when he arrived three hours ago. Leaving the back door open was not an option, so he’d cracked one of the roof panels early. Each week the mission dragged on brought summer that much closer. He would simply have to suffer through it.
While he had never been a religious man—much to his grandmother’s disappointment—a few nights ago he’d actually prayed that his time in America would end soon. He was on the cusp of victory, not to mention a once-in-a-lifetime paycheck. He only hoped he would live long enough to see it. If all went as planned, he would be forced to disappear for some time. A year, possibly two. Yet he was not distracted by visions of seaside villas or mountaintop retreats. Not yet. The Manchurian’s focus was as singular as ever: an absolute drive to be recognized as the best.
The text he’d been waiting for finally arrived: Juneau! Standby!
The exclamation points were lost on the Manchurian. His body didn’t react in the usual way. There was no skipped cardiac beat, no churn in his gut. To the contrary, he felt a palpable sense of liberation. After so much planning, so much risk mitigation, the waiting was over. This was the moment he’d been working toward his entire life, the culmination of years of training and operational expertise. Execute now, and I will become a legend.
He entered the preliminary command on the laptop: Power up
For two seconds a clatter of clicking noises filled the stagnant air.
The safety bolts on the roof panels were already loose, and he began the final preparations. The well-practiced sequence took less than thirty seconds: all four panels pivoted inward. The system worked perfectly, leaving the forward half of the trailer open to the soft evening sky. The heat dissipated instantly, fresh evening air taking its place. He looked up into the gray dusk and saw the night’s first star, barely visible to the southwest. All his attention returned to the phone, his fingertips poised over the keyboard. The Manchurian’s ears reached for any sound, but he heard nothing beyond the din of traffic on the distant bridge.
Soon, very soon, that would be replaced.
They’d run estimates for every conceivable variable, and come up with a window: from the time Route Juneau was confirmed, it would take between two and three and a half minutes for the helicopters to arrive overhead.
His fingertips hovered, ready to input the final commands. To deploy too soon risked discovery and evasion. Launching too late meant missing the chance. Either error would blow the mission entirely. He had one shot to get everything right.
He allowed one glance into the darkened bed of the trailer. One hundred and eighty-six green eyes stared back. Then the Manchurian discerned a vague thumping noise, more by feel than anything audible. For a moment he thought it might be his heartbeat. Then the intensity rose, resolving into the familiar thrum of rotors. He recalled the sound from the previous aborted attempts when, though tantalizingly close, the choppers had passed a mile distant.
His phone vibrated.
Sixty seconds. Route confirmed.
He entered the penultimate command on the laptop: Launch
The great swarm of drones bristled to life, an ocean of tiny propellers humming in unison. Because the roof opening was not large enough for all of them to launch at once, the aircraft rose in four waves, perfectly spaced and orderly, like a military parade. Twenty seconds later, the entire fleet was airborne, organized in the programmed formation. The swarm hovered above the container, awaiting the final command. The Manchurian was watching the drones, mesmerized, when the final text came.
Target center-west.
He replied to the text: Center-west. Allahu Akbar!
The last two words were something between humor and misdirection. Encryption or not, in a day, possibly two, the NSA would likely uncover the message thread. He quickly typed the targeting command into the laptop, and when he sank the ENTER key, it was fittingly with his trigger finger.
The great flock of weapons responded.
The drones communicated via a discreet network and, using distributed brain technology, arranged themselves not unlike a single organism. The formation climbed in unison, and in the dim light they resembled a flock of birds. From that point, the Manchurian was little more than a spectator. The formation was now autonomous, actively seeking and ready to destroy. He avoided the urge to stand and watch. Whether the mission succeeded or not, it would be recognized within minutes. An hour from now this construction site, this trailer, would become ground zero in a massive manhunt.
He raised the roof panels back up and bolted them in place. Hurrying to the back of the trailer, he unlocked the right-hand door and dropped silently to the ground. He levered the door nearly shut, then attached a pair of uninsulated wires and one of the garage door remote controls to the handle. None of it had any function, but it looked for all the world like a crude booby trap. Enough to give any EOD man pause. It would take time to call in the dogs and the robots. At least an hour, two if he was lucky.
He walked away briskly, scanning the surrounding acres of dirt for signs of life. He saw no one. The thrum of the helicopters was unmistakable now, closing in fast.
Finally, he relented.
The Manchurian paused and looked up into the fast-darkening sky.