American Elemental, Wild Horse Mountain Facility
Once the black Suburban had fought its way out of the Vegas city limits, the rest of the drive to the rare earth elements production facility had been a smooth ride. It was a thirty-mile straight shot northwest on US Route 95 to the exit that had been built specially for the sprawling complex.
After the conversation he’d had with his uncle about the potential source of the intelligence leak—actually, a fucking traitor—Mike Benson had used the time to clear his head and focus his thoughts. The drive also afforded him the opportunity to contact the facility and check with security at Wild Horse. Unfortunately, all calls to the various numbers listed on the company’s website ended in the same automated message from the phone carrier—“We’re sorry, but your call cannot be completed at this time. Please try your call again later. Thank you and have a nice day.”
It’d been a bad omen, but rather than assume the worst, Special Agent Marcus had reached the company’s CEO through the field office. He’d assured her that the loss of communications was actually a common occurrence since they’d begun construction of the facility. It was usually due to heavy equipment cutting one of the various large fiber-optic cables that snaked underground all over the facility and exited the premises through one large pipe that led to Indian Springs, thirty miles away.
The CEO promised he’d call Matt Stillman, the head of his small security detail, just to ensure everything was okay. Less than five minutes later, he’d proven true to his word and called back to report nothing out of the ordinary at the facility. Security was aware of the communications outage, and they’d already been assured that a repair crew had been dispatched from Indian Springs and should arrive within the hour. He’d asked Matt to do another walk-through of the major production buildings and report back to him once he was finished.
It all seemed copacetic, but Mike didn’t believe in coincidences, not with the attack on the MGM Grand.
“Lance, I still don’t like this. I don’t care what the CEO says,” Mike said as he turned to face the head of the FBI’s HRT Red Team, which specialized in counterterrorism and in extremis hostage rescue operations. Lance Foster was an imposing figure, a midfortyish African American in phenomenal shape who wore a sharply defined goatee.
“I know, sir,” Lance said, addressing Mike with the professional courtesy due his position, although they’d been close friends for years. “We’re still in khakis and you might look like a suit, but we both know we’re all ready to rock ’n’ roll at a moment’s notice,” Lance said, smiling.
“Good. That’s exactly what I want to hear. Be prepared for anything,” Mike said.
“Don’t worry, brother. Me and my gang,” he said, referring with a thumb over his shoulder to Special Agents Jason Champion, a former Navy SEAL and EOD technician, and Tommy Chaney, a former Delta operator and expert marksman, in the third row of the Suburban, “we’ve got your back.”
The two lethal HRT members leaned in toward one another, smiled, and formally waved at the deputy director of the FBI as if they were queens of England.
“I’m surrounded by children. No offense, Special Agent Marcus,” Mike said, and shook his head.
“None taken, sir. They’re just like my big brothers,” Special Agent Marcus said, showing no intimidation at the playful display of immaturity, yet silently wondering how she’d ended up in the Suburban.
The daughter of a pediatrician and a criminal defense attorney, she’d gravitated toward her father’s profession in law by the early age of nine. By the time she was in high school in the suburbs of Chicago, she knew she didn’t want to defend criminals; instead, she wanted to put them away, permanently. Her path had become tragically clear when a former associate of one of her father’s clients had shot and killed him as he’d left his office one evening. It’d been retribution for her father’s not being able to avoid the death penalty for his client, who’d ordered the murder of a Korean family, including two young children.
Special Agent Marcus was driven by her anger—which she’d learned to harness—to earn a spot in the renowned Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Her plan had been to excel at her field assignment in Las Vegas and then apply to ViCAP at the first opportunity.
Yet now she found herself in an armored Suburban driving the deputy director, the chief of the FBI’s HRT Red Team, and two superbly trained shooters. Definitely didn’t see this one coming, she thought as the Suburban approached an open gate at the end of the dirt road.
A newly constructed guard shack divided the entrance, and she noted the bulletproof glass. A rising arm traffic barrier was lowered across the road. She stopped the black SUV. Beyond the guardhouse lay the expansive sprawl of American Elemental’s Wild Horse Mountain Facility. The dirt road gradually sloped downward, affording them a bird’s-eye view of the layout.
Several buildings of varying size and shapes, like giant Tetris pieces, stood in close proximity to one another. They resembled ordinary—albeit enormous—warehouses, but Special Agent Marcus recognized their true purposes as components of the rare earth element production process. Multiple exhaust pipes, ventilation systems, and aqueducts ran throughout the compound between buildings.
A complex power station comprised of multiple buildings and towering exhaust stacks several stories tall occupied the center of the compound. Steel girders containing power lines jutted out in several directions, working their way in ninety-degree angles to all buildings in the complex.
It’s like an enormous Erector Set, she thought, recalling a long-forgotten toy from her childhood.
And just beyond it all was a vast hole in the earth at least a half mile wide—the ore deposit. Only the first forty feet were visible, exposing a layer of narrow roads carved into the sides of the enormous bowl. The dirt and rock roads spiraled downward and dropped below their line of sight into the high-desert pit.
“Wow,” Lance said from the backseat. “That’s quite a view, including plenty of potential targets for the bad guys to hit.”
“No kidding,” Mike said as a young guard wearing a uniform and a Glock 9mm pistol exited the guardhouse and approached the vehicle.
Special Agent Marcus rolled down her window, and the young guard leaned in to speak, only to be interrupted by Mike.
“I’m FBI Deputy Director Mike Benson,” Mike said. The young man raised his eyes in surprise at the mention of his title. “I believe you’re expecting us. I was told by the CEO to find Matt Stillman, and he’d escort us through the facility.”
Chirping from a cell phone erupted in the backseat.
“Yes, sir. We’ve been waiting for you guys,” the college-age guard said. “Mr. Stillman’s not back yet, and I’ve been trying to reach him since I saw you driving down the road. He should’ve been back by now.”
Mike and Special Agent Marcus exchanged glances as Lance Foster answered the call.
“This is Special Agent Foster.” A pause as he listened to his second in command. “You’re secure, Danny. Go ahead.”
“Son, what’s your name?” Mike asked.
“It’s Eugene Wabash, sir,” the guard replied. “Why?” he asked cautiously.
“Well, Eugene. We’re going to need your help. When was the last time you spoke to your boss?” Mike asked.
From the back seat, Mike heard, “That’s absolutely fantastic, Danny. Outstanding job. I’ll let the deputy director know. I’m sure he’ll be as relieved as I am.”
“About ten minutes ago, sir,” Eugene replied. “He’d checked all the main buildings and was proceeding to the power plant. He reported nothing unusual. We’ve only got a skeleton crew working. They’re finishing up production of the wastewater treatment facility. Otherwise, everything else is done. One more thing—landline external communications are still down. No ETA on when they’re supposed to be back up.”
Mike felt a mounting sense of persistent concern in the back of his mind. It wasn’t panic yet, more akin to a dog scratching at the back door to be let in from the cold.
“Copy all, Danny. Let forensics do their thing. Tell Special Agent Hunt we just arrived at the facility—literally, we’re at the guardhouse—and we’ll check in after we get a look around. Again, great job. Next round’s on me. Out here,” Lance said, and hung up the phone and waited for Mike to finish with the guard before providing his update.
“Eugene, can you point us in the direction of the power plant, although I’m guessing it’s the one in the middle with the four tall stacks?” Mike said, pointing through the windshield and down the road.
Eugene nodded.
“You have an extra Motorola handheld we can borrow? I need you to stay here and man the gate, but I need to be able to reach you.”
“Yes, sir. Give me one sec,” Eugene said, and disappeared from the window.
Mike turned around to meet the smiling face of Lance Foster. Thank God. It must be good news, he thought.
“Tell me,” he said, hoping his assumption was correct.
“It’s over,” Lance said. “Danny and his team took out all the bad guys, all four—dead—without any more civilian or friendly casualties. Forensics just arrived and is processing the scene. The civilians wounded in the initial assault are being transferred to Valley Medical and University hospitals.”
“How?” Past experience had taught Mike the harsh realities of hostage rescue operations, especially when the hostiles weren’t interested in negotiating, which had been the case with these terrorists.
“The bad guys secured the entrances and backstage exits to the theater. But this theater is enormous, seats hundreds, and has a gigantic stage they can manipulate and change during each show. In addition to the stage, there’s a catwalk architecture that’s used during shows for aerial acrobatics. Danny and his team realized one of the catwalks was right below a major heating and cooling air duct. They inserted four shooters without being detected. He said it was shockingly easy because they never looked up once. Guess they hadn’t seen the shows. Too bad for them. The hostages made more than enough noise to conceal any sounds from our guys. Plus, they were almost seventy feet up and in the dark, above the lights. The fuckers never had a chance. Danny gave the order as soon as they were in place, and they took ’em all out at once—clean head shots,” Lance said proudly.
“That’s fantastic. The best news I’ve heard since this whole affair started,” Mike said, a tsunami of relief washing over him.
“No kidding,” Lance said, sharing the brief moment of victory. And then he laughed. “It initially traumatized the civilians, seeing the terrorists drop dead from bullet wounds to the head, Danny said. But they were able to breach the entrances immediately and evacuate them. By the time it was over, they were just grateful to be alive.”
“I’m sure,” Mike said. “Do they have any idea who the bastards were?”
“Negative, but they definitely were not Islamic terrorists,” Lance said. “Once they cleared the theater of civilians, they removed the dead guys’ masks. Danny said they looked more Asian than Middle Eastern. They’ll be running their prints and DNA through every international database as soon as they can.”
“Let’s hope this goes as smoothly,” Mike said as Eugene approached the vehicle, a black radio in hand.
“Sir, here you go,” the guard said, and handed the radio to Special Agent Marcus. “I’ve set it on channel three, and it’s good to go.”
Mike’s ears perked up. “What did you say, Eugene?”
“I said you’re good to go, sir,” Eugene answered cautiously.
“Which branch of the service, although I think I can guess?” Mike said, his eyes raised in amusement.
“The only one that matters, sir. The Marine Corps, of course,” the guard said proudly, grinning for the first time.
“What the fuck did he just say?” one of the two HRT operators in the third row shouted in mock outrage.
Eugene’s grin faltered, and Mike laughed. “Son, I’ve got a former SEAL and a Delta boy back there. I think you hurt their feelings.”
Eugene’s eyes widened, but he stood his ground. “Those are some tough bastards. I did a tour in Afghanistan and crossed paths with the SEALs a time or two. Didn’t see much of Delta, but we heard about their exploits.”
He stuck his head partially through the window—making Special Agent Marcus slightly uncomfortable from the close proximity of his grinning face—and said, “No offense intended. I just love the Marine Corps.”
Jason Champion and Tommy Chaney exchanged a glance. Jason, the older of the two veterans, said, “None taken. It’s a pleasure to meet someone who served in the mountains.” He nodded and touched an invisible cap.
Eugene nodded in return and stepped away from the vehicle.
“Now that the lovefest is over, one last question.” Mike said. “Eugene, did your laundry trucks arrive today?”
“Yes. About thirty minutes ago. Both of them. Why?” Eugene asked, thinking the question odd.
“You notice anything strange about them? Different drivers, perhaps?”
“As a matter of fact, both drivers were new. I asked them about it, and they said there’d been an illness at the Laundromat,” Eugene said.
“Did they have anyone else with them?” Mike asked.
“Negative, sir. Not that I could see, but then again, I didn’t check the backs of the trucks. We’ve been using the same place since we began construction a few years back.”
“Thanks, Eugene. And stay available. Let us know if you get comms up,” Mike said and turned to Special Agent Marcus. “We need to go. Now.”