True patriotism hates injustice in
its own land more than anywhere else.
Clarence Darrow (1857-1938), American lawyer
When thirty-six bad guys are rolled up all at once, the odds are that one or more of them will be willing to sing like a B-list rock star for the prospect of a lesser prison term.
In this case, not even one of the thirty-three surviving terrorists was eager for an extended stay in Guantanamo Bay to live in a military prison forever—and none of the so-called martyrs wanted to die for their country anymore.
General McCandless and Poppy Benedict had their most experienced interrogators debrief all the terrorists who survived. Once the first round of information was extracted, they cross-checked and indexed the information obtained, and then went back at them with clarifying questions.
Even Abdul Fattaah Saladin was given his chance to do the right thing. Regrettably for him and his longer-term prospects for freedom, he remained mute. Of course, his shattered jaw was wired up tight at the time. He did, however, use traditional and universally understood hand gestures to indicate his fundamental unwillingness to cooperate. He was reportedly still using such gestures from his maximum-security cell in Camp Three at Guantanamo Bay, where he would have ample time to reconsider his position.
After a couple of days, a clearer picture of the terror organization was formed. Saladin was a senior officer in Iran’s so-called elite Quds Force, the unit of the Revolutionary Guards responsible for “extraterritorial operations.” He had been sent to the U.S. three years before to establish a quiet base of operations and prepare for a World Series attack, wherever it would be held and with whatever teams were in it.
The thirty-five jumpers were Revolutionary Guards paratroopers specially recruited and trained in airborne operations to be martyrs in the terror attack. They filtered into the country over the Canadian and Mexican borders in ones and twos during the thirty-six months it took to design and prepare the attack plan.
Over the forty-eight hours it took for the intelligence debriefs to be collated and analyzed, it was clear that the weapons, explosives for the chestpacks, identity documents, money—even the personnel—the Quds Force had provided everything, and thus the State of Iran itself. This culpability would be dealt with later by the United States at a time and place of its choosing. But for now, the current mission had one more piece hanging fire.
In the downtown Detroit CIA task force conference room on Monroe, Poppy, Deb Hemme, General McCandless, Major Crosby, Xavier Cloud, and Tracey and Amber sat around the conference table. A new S&T programmer kid brought in a cardboard box filled to the top with foam carry-out orders from Fishbone’s across the street. As the containers made the rounds and everyone scooped portions onto plastic plates, the room filled with heavy Cajun aromas and light conversation.
Tracey and Amber had signed fresh SF-312s and were now using them as lunch placemats.
“Okay, we don’t have all the time in the world,” Poppy began. “Our new terrorist pal Abd al Jabbar just can’t stop talking, looks like. He gave us the daily code words to use to keep the warehouse and the terror cell safe house calm, so they have no idea their team has been policed up.”
Poppy stole a sideways glance at Tracey, sitting to his left at the table. “Policed up” was a term he’d picked up from her.
“With all the statements and confessions and outright pleading our skydiver pals have puked out since we rolled them up, what’s the warehouse plan?” Cloud asked. He poked at his fast-congealed Shrimp Creole with a plastic fork, then pushed it away. Amber, sitting to his left, saw his distaste.
“That’s better when it’s hot, believe me. Here,” she said, sliding her plate over to him. “Try some of this Snapper Beausoleil. You’ll thank me later.”
“Thanks. I will thank you later, in fact, given the opportunity. I’m a German beer drinker, too.”
Amber may have blushed for the first time since high school.
General McCandless took a sip of a Starbucks vanilla latte. Two extra shots, no whip.
“I brought the RPA drivers down to operate the SuperReaper from here. I know we can see everything on our Waldo console, but after the incident with COLOSSUS going a bit off-narrative, I feel a little better having the human operators directly at hand. Poppy and Deb Hemme assure me a new operating system—without the WINGHAVEN PROTOCOL AI module—has been downloaded to the RPA and confirmed operational. I want to get in that warehouse bomb factory these people set up downriver yesterday, but I do not intend to just barge in there after what we learned from the interrogations.”
High above far downriver Detroit, the MQ-9L SuperReaper orbited in lazy, high-altitude circles over River Rouge, a gritty Detroit suburb distinguished by sharp air pollution from factories and petroleum refineries to which residents had long ago become nose-blind.
Even a cursory glance at a Google Earth projection of the area would confound anyone with a passing knowledge of municipal zoning objectives. Elbow-to-elbow residential neighborhoods, all timeworn and on small lots, competed for space with expressways and wall-to-wall industrial presence.
The gigantic Ford River Rouge Complex pickup truck assembly plant, designed by Albert Kahn in 1917, extended from the river all the way up to Dearborn. The city has steel processing facilities, operating and empty warehouses, maritime terminals, auto suppliers, oil plants, and train yards. Always in the air hangs a pungent, dusky pall that mirrors the desperation radiated by many of the neighborhoods.
In the Monroe Street bullpen, the drone control station was now occupied by the pilot and sensor operator who had been working from the air guard base. The station’s high-resolution monitors displayed what the drone saw. The pilot and his sensor operator wore the 3D VR helmets that made them feel like they were in the drone’s cockpit.
They looked down at a specific warehouse with a brighter white roof, making it easy to spot. While an attack plan was being formulated, the pilot had no orders to do anything but remain on station over the tango warehouse headquarters and await instructions. He pinned digital crosshairs to the roof of the building and engaged the drone’s autopilot at max fuel conservation until he could get orders on how to proceed. The drone would orbit that dot until otherwise directed, or until the fuel ran out about a week later.
“Our anxious prisoners said the place only has six full-time guards, but that seven to ten others live in a nearby safe house and can mobilize to the warehouse in only a minute or three,” Poppy said. He took a bite from his Lagniappe salad, chewing thoughtfully. “General, you’re the tactician here. What does the Army field manual say about an urban assault on a secure building filled with bombs and highly infectious poison?”
The general snorted. “I don’t know for sure, but I imagine it says something along the lines of, ‘Don’t assault buildings filled with bombs and poison. Call in air strikes.’”
“Well, we know air strikes are out, even without our concern for the toxin,” Cloud said. “I saw the interrogation debriefs. You gotta give these people their due: The setup is virtually impregnable if you don’t care who dies. They have all the perimeter windows and doors secured, with watches posted up front around the clock. The ground area around the warehouse itself has been cleared for a hundred, hundred-thirty meters or more. There are overlapping and unobstructed fields of fire. It’s pretty noisy during the day with that steel processing plant right up next to the perimeter fence, which is good for us—but we can’t just power in there, because they will still see us coming. Notwithstanding that the neighborhood butts right up to the warehouse property. We can’t have terrorist assholes sprayin’ and prayin’ when we don’t know where the rounds are going. I saw kids’ bikes in those neighborhood yards in the satellite photos.”
Everyone around the table mulled that over. Cloud took another bite of Amber’s lunch. Urban assault was out of Tracey and Amber’s wheelhouse, and the people at the table with operating experience were stymied, too. Minutes elapsed.
“So … how ’bout them Tigers?” Tracey said to the meditating room with a grin.
Just a moment later General McCandless snapped his fingers and looked up from his plate to push a button on the intercom. Deb Hemme, sitting adjacent to the drone controllers out in the cube farm bullpen, answered up. She was working up a solid crush on Dragonite.
“Hemme.”
“McCandless. Can the RPA pilot hear me?”
“Yes sir, I can,” the pilot replied.
“Captain, get me some roof imagery of our target warehouse. One long full-frame of the entire roof, a series of the ground surrounding, and tight close-ups of any HVAC equipment, roof access hatches, vents, ladders, anything like that at all.”
“Yes sir, on the way.”
The pilot took the control stick and thumbed off the autopilot, banking left into a turn that would take the drone’s sophisticated cameras over the warehouse along differing vectors for high-resolution passes.
McCandless released the intercom. “I have a killer idea.”
“Play on words, sir, or …?” Following right along with the general’s thinking, Cloud was already smirking. And shaking his head in disbelief. His idea could only be one thing.
McCandless waved to the room. “You folks should finish whatever you’re eating. We’re taking a trip. Tommy.”
“Yes sir,” Major Crosby answered.
“Call our crew at City and tell them we need to be wheels up in the Osprey in one hour. We’re going to MDZ.”
“Roger that, sir.” Crosby left the room dialing numbers into his cellphone.
McCandless picked up his own cellphone and dialed in ten numbers to the Michigan Drop Zone. Kathie Murphy answered on the first ring and put the general right through to Charlie Bird.
“Charlie Bird here, general. How can I make your day better?”
“Birdman, brother, you are not going to believe the deal I got for you.”