

Recall to Arms

By

Frank Perry, author

Hampton Falls, New Hampshire

Books.by.frank@gmail.com

Synopsis

A young Army officer becomes severely depressed and quits the military after experiencing a horrible event as a counter terrorist operator and can't rationalize ever leading soldiers in action again. He seeks obscurity as a civilian, taking menial jobs with no plans for his future. Then, a nuclear terror threat in the United States forces him back into service, supporting law enforcement as an advisor about an old adversary. He meets an attractive young intelligence analyst assisting the FBI. The emergency that brings them together also creates a barrier to any personal relationship. When the danger escalates further, they may never have any chance to be together.

Copyright © 2016 by Frank Perry

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email to: books.by.frank@gmail.com.

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Acknowledgements

I would like to express my gratitude to the many people who saw me through this book; to all those who provided support, talked things over, read, critiqued, offered comments, and assisted in the editing, proofreading and design. I would like to thank Beverly Heinle for patiently proofing, editing and suggesting improvements that have been invaluable. Above all I want to thank my wife, Janet, who supported me throughout this and edited the first drafts.

I also would like to thank Rick Cesario for laboring through the earliest draft, and making invaluable suggestions. Special thanks to my son, Brendan Perry who developed the cover art.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, world organizations, government agencies, regulations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The author professes no medical training related to the subject matter.

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Other books by Frank:

  * The Cobra Identity

  * Reign of Terror

  * Letters From the Grave

  * Kingfish

  * Sibley's Secret

  * The Dolos Conspiracy

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Prologue

Things never go as planned in the chaos of combat. In fact, about the only certainties are mass confusion, pain, noise, odors, filth, and the gamut of human emotions. Every entry-level military leadership course makes the point. Most soldiers never actually have the experience or fully comprehend its meaning, but the soldiers on this mission were living it.

The mission was risky even by spec ops standards. Their orders were to capture or kill a terrorist, Hasan Abdul-Razzaq, at a training camp in southern Syria. The Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA) said Razzaq would be there. Other missions to capture him had been cancelled or aborted. He was always on the move and it was never possible to isolate him long enough to get him. Tonight had been their best chance yet, but there had only been a week to prepare. Not enough time. Razzaq had been near the top of the enemy list for years, having destroyed thousands of lives around the world. This time was different from other attempts to get him. There was good information and time to get the equipment and personnel to his location...very little time.

The Mission

Splintered safety glass had stopped dozens of the bullets, but shards had peppered his face and arms. The mission was a disaster and the only objective now was to escape. He and his team were fleeing for their lives under torrential gunfire, trying to reach the Israeli border. The Russian-made Syrian 6x6 Army truck slammed over rough terrain in blackness, without headlights, at dangerous speeds. Choking iron-rich dust filled their lungs and obscured the enemy close behind. The Captain used all his strength steering over crevices and rocks, praying that the suspension would hold together. Blood-soaked mud streaked his face and hands as the steering wheel jerked violently. He swore with each jolt to help relieve the terror he felt. His pulse raced and every sense was piqued by the smells of diesel, sweat and gun smoke. His ears hammered but no sound registered as survival instincts took over. His fear wasn't personal; he needed to save his men, his kin.

Rangers trained for the risks of "special operations". The Captain was the oldest member of his team at thirty, except for the Master Sergeant who was four or five years older. He felt a paternal sense of devotion and responsibility to his men. Most of those in the twelve-man squad were younger than twenty-three, boys by some standards, and warriors by another.

Their night drop into the territory had been unconventional using composite Wing-Pack gliders. Wing-pack gliders are rigid wing structures made of lightweight composite materials specifically destined for secret incursions by military Special Forces.

The camp was outside normal commercial flight zones and all air traffic was monitored by Syrian radar. The distance from the jump point inside the commercial route to the landing zone in Southern Syria was about eighty miles, so they used small delta wing structures to cross the distance to their objective. The team had done three practice jumps with the wings, two in daylight and one at night. More practice had been needed, but there was no time.

Hours before, they began forming in a darkened hanger at Prince Sultan Air Force Base, Saudi Arabia. The team had been assembling for hours, arriving separately as transit personnel on different flights. Military units came and went daily, and they had to be cautious about attracting attention of Saudi spies. When they had all arrived, the Captain assembled them together while an Air Force C17 Globemaster cargo plane taxied to the partially open hanger door. The men had known each other most of their brief military lives. The Captain was idolized by some, and all respected his lead-by-example style. They trained together, lived together, ate together and fought together. Almost all of them had been on at least one prior mission with "Six" (Army slang for commanding officer) before. Several had been in firefights with him.

Military protocol mellowed a bit in the special operations teams where mutual dependency meant that everyone played an equal role in keeping the others alive. The chain of command would stiffen when the airplane left the ground, but for now it remained informal. The Captain called the team together, "Wow! I thought Benning was hot! All right men, we got our taxi, so load up quick and quiet."

Precautions had to be taken at the airbase, because the Saudis were, at their roots Middle-Eastern Muslims, and some were spies for Al Qaeda and other radical Islamic groups. The airbase was used by US and Arab military personnel, which complicated security to the point of ridiculousness. No US personnel trusted the Saudis, who provided endless "private" donations to Islamic terror organizations. Part of the team's preparation was aimed at deceiving the Arabs. Everyone moved in slow unison up the cargo ramp, when someone asked in a low voice, "We really goin' this time, Six?"

The Captain answered in a low voice barely audible above the aircraft generator noise, "Yeah, unless someone waives it off in the air, we're doing it." He understood the emotions each man was feeling. He'd felt them many times himself and shared them now. There was a feeling of dread mixed with exhilaration. Every man partially wished that it would be aborted, but also reveled with excitement. A somber reality settled over them as they lugged their gear aboard the plane.

The mood was quiet yet energized. One man said in a low voice, "Yeah, maybe we lose the radio this time."

Engine noise drowned out any more discussion as gear was carried up the cargo ramp. They pushed and shoved each other to release tension, but maintained a routine appearance. Most of the gear taken aboard was personal baggage indicating a routine unit transport to anyone observing from the countless shadowy coveys in the buildings nearby.

Before departing MacDill Air Force Base in Florida, special operations personnel had loaded the gigantic plane with a large wooden structure containing the glide wings in the center of the unlit cargo bay covered from view along with the weapons rack, but the rest of their gear stayed with the men near their seats. For anyone watching, it was just another movement of troops and equipment.

As they settled onto the canvas benches along the sidewalls of the fuselage, someone yelled, "Hey scooter, don't forget your NVGs...oh yeah, we didn't get to bring 'em."

Someone else yelled above the noise, "It's okay Tug, Rangers can see in the dark!"

Outward bravado relaxed tension as the monstrous plane began to roll. From landing to takeoff, the time on the ground had been under twenty minutes, just enough to refuel and load everyone aboard. In less than a minute after starting to roll, the Globemaster III took the active runway 21L and throttles pushed to full military power. Four huge F117-PW-100 turbofans roared to life, each producing forty thousand pounds of thrust. Even with thick insulation, the noise in the belly of the plane was deafening. After accelerating for a mile and a half, the 280,000 pound beast pitched upward suddenly compressing everyone into their seats while climbing at an enormous rate. It was an awesome transition to flight for something so lumbering on the ground. Shortly into the climb out, the plane banked into a right turn, heading north. The flight path would take them over Amman Jordan en route to Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany, on a standard flight plan, but these passengers would not be landing with the plane.

Once airborne, each man sat quietly meditating in an effort to control his nerves. In flight, they began changing into jump suits and assembling equipment. Men fiddled with every Velcro strap, over and over, in tension-releasing rituals. Once changed, most of them just sat back with their eyes closed. It was dark inside the plane with dim red lights providing almost no light. The uncomfortable flight took three hours to cross the Saudi desert before reaching the drop zone near midnight. Maintaining darkness was crucial. They would need their night vision to survive once they jumped.

One big difference between the actual mission and training was the hours of flight time and fatigue they needed to overcome this night. The plane was large enough for them to stretch and exercise, but it was emotionally difficult. The mental fatigue was more important than the physical, since they were all in top shape. For some, this was their last mission before returning to civilian life. Most of them dreamed about lives back home; about wives or girlfriends, school or jobs. No one would admit to being scared. The Captain slumped reflectively, going through a checklist in his mind. He closed his eyes and leaned against the sidewall insulation, trying to control his nerves. He concentrated on keeping his feet from tapping on the non-skid deck and pressed his hands under his armpits, breathing through his nose to avoid hyperventilating.

He'd done special missions many times, but this was the first time as the solo team leader, and they were going to be isolated without any air or ground support. he'd worked through the ranks to senior NCO before Officer Candidate School. On other secret missions he only had to follow orders. The burden of leadership was his alone this time. Once out of the plane, anything could happen and there was no reserve force or other support to help. He could feel migraine pressure behind his eyes. He concentrated on the mission plan, people skills, weapons and navigation. Things always went wrong in the chaos of war...and this was war at its most basic level.

They had done equipment checks, but things could still be overlooked. High altitude jumps were especially dangerous. Compounding it this time were the unconventional Wing-packs, and lack of practice.

The hull of the aircraft vibrated, massaging his back through hard insulation. The jumpmaster was in charge inside the plane, so he tried to relax. With eyes closed, his mind wandered from the mission to his boyhood home in Pennsylvania. It seemed so far away and long ago that he actually had been there--almost half a lifetime. He'd had a girlfriend one summer and he tried to revive the memory of her. After twelve years, he wasn't sure if his memories were more fantasy than fact, but it didn't matter. Fantasies were just as valid tonight.

The senior air crewmember was the jumpmaster. Her task was to keep them healthy until they jumped. Engine noise drowned out normal communications so most of it would be through hand signals. After talking on her headset to the flight deck, she shouted, "All right men, it's time for 'O2';" but her gestures communicated more information than her voice. Every man on the team knew through experience what was being communicated. Small face cups with elastic straps and air tubes along the hull were required to be worn until they switched to individual canisters.

As the plane was climbing through 10,000 feet they would breathe oxygen-enriched air for three hours, then as the jump light turned amber, they would switch to portable mixed-air cylinders carried on their legs for the high-altitude-low-opening (HALO) jump.

It was uncomfortable on the stiff benches, and time went by slowly in the cold belly of the plane. A surreal calmness overtook everyone waiting for the adrenalin rush once the drop zone was reached. The flight seemed endlessly tedious waiting to jump.

Hours later, everyone reacted when the amber light illuminated on the forward bulkhead and a horn blared. It was time to strap on their gear and organize for the jump.

The Captain felt his stomach tighten while yelling in the calmest voice he could muster, "Take your time men, it's crowded in here. Don't get tangled up." The plane buffeted as rising hot air columns played havoc with stability, making it awkward to put on their wings and backup chutes. Maintaining balance on the deck was nearly impossible. Six had coordinated with the pilot before departing to give them twenty minutes assembly time before reaching the drop point. It should have been more time than needed, but he was having his doubts watching the team rattle around like penguins in a hurricane.

They had their weapons and ammunition stowed inside the glide wings and men helped each other harness them to their backs. They formed a line facing rearward, waiting to go while gripping overhead cables as the plane jumped around in the turbulence. From the front of the line someone yelled, "Ladies and gentlemen please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts firmly around your bellies while the captain has the seatbelt sign illuminated." No one responded but all appreciated the levity.

Moments later, the intercom from the flight deck squealed and the jumpmaster grabbed the handset. With hand signals, she instructed the loadmaster to lower the ramp at the tail. All crew members on the cargo deck were tethered with safety harnesses, but not the jump team. The outside temperature was thirty degrees below zero. The inrush of freezing air shocked their nerves, causing some knees to buckle temporarily. All boyish nonchalance was gone. The plane had been cold, but everyone had been sweating nonetheless, and moisture began freezing instantly. The heart-seizing torrent signaled time to depart the safe innards of the plane, for unknown danger ahead.

Six looked down the line of men behind him waiting for sequential thumbs-up signals that everyone was ready to go. Right hands clasp the shoulder of the man ahead. When the jump light turned green, he clenched his teeth and walked cautiously toward the end of the ramp holding the safety cable above with his left hand. Without slowing, he stepped near the end of the ramp before being sucked into the vortex. Men followed at one-second intervals, with the grace of newborn ducklings first learning to fly, each carrying eight-foot composite wings strapped to their backs. Part way down the ramp, an invisible hand seemed to grab each one, thrusting them into a black torrent 31,000 feet above the earth. The C17 airplane is the worst aerodynamic designs ever used for parachute drops. The combination of wind shift and cold was like being kicked in the gut then thrown over an icy waterfall. They tumbled like fall leaves in a gale. At this temperature, there was risk of frostbite in minutes, yet no one felt it. Tumbling into the blackness with no visible references, it took several seconds to get oriented, as each man struggled to gain control. The jump itself was expected to be one of the most dangerous phases of the mission. They could lose consciousness and spiral to their deaths, or they could be alone in the dark abyss, lost over hostile territory. Each soldier gripped tightly to himself, trying to establish equilibrium. They had no way to communicate in the blackness.

Controlling the wing required enormous arm strength and stamina to shift weight, trying to balance and steer. They only had seconds to start maneuvering for rendezvous. The plan allowed only thirty seconds to rally. They could not communicate while breathing oxygen, and anyone unable to find the others in the dark would be alone. It was terrifying over unfriendly territory, not like jumping in training. Endorphins flowed freely as their mental exertion accelerated to new levels of awareness and concentration. Their bodies were rigidly straight to improve aerodynamics. It was almost impossible to point their toes in desert boots, but they all did it.

Six maneuvered in a slow left turn as practiced for a few seconds longer than planned, praying that everyone was with him. In the dark, there wasn't any way to know for sure. He tried looking over his shoulder, but the wing blocked any rear view. After one final rotation, he looked at his wrist GPS display and banked to zero three zero degrees. The camp was located nine kilometers south of the village of Salkhaid inside Syria and village lights could be seen from this altitude.

As they descended below thirteen thousand feet, they would drop oxygen bottles. Wing performance depended on weight and aerodynamics, so every aspect of their dress and equipment was minimized. In the thin arctic air above the desert, they were soaring at over 100MPH covering about four feet forward for each foot of decent. As the air density increased in warmer air at lower altitude, wing lift and forward progress improved. Without the oxygen tanks, they traveled at six feet forward for every foot down. Their only radio was assigned to the smallest man, but was unusable inside a compartment in his wing.

The Captain used the village lights for navigation. The night sky was nearly moonless with crystal clear air, so even the scarce early morning lights could be seen from almost a hundred miles at high altitude. After a few minutes of straight flight, he saw fire light near where the camp should have been, and adjusted their flight path. Foreboding passed through him--it looked bigger than it should.

Six was in the lead as they stayed in a tight "V" formation, using luminescent tape on the trailing edge of the wings ahead for reference. South of the camp, they circled, losing altitude, until reaching five hundred feet AGL then popped backup parachutes. The small chutes were designed for rapid descent and they landed hard in rocks, brush and uneven ground, each man thankful to be alive and with the team. It took several minutes to regroup and hide their jump gear. Two men were limping, but everyone made it to the landing zone.

The Ayn Tzahab camp trained fanatics in sabotage, kidnapping, intelligence gathering, bomb making, and guerilla warfare for the Islamic Jihad Organization headquartered in Lebanon and Syria. The IJO promoted terrorism around the world. Syria allowed the Palestinian Islamic Jihad, Hamas and the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine complete freedom in its camps to train and plan attacks. Funding and supplies came from private charities and Government funding throughout the Middle East.

Two kilometers south of the camp, they stopped and huddled close together. Six said, "Okay men, you all saw what I did...let's start moving but keep it quiet."

One of the sergeants whispered, "Sir, I saw a lot of fires."

"Yeah, I know."

In the still desert air, camp smells and sounds were clues to the size of the force ahead. The camp was essentially asleep, but sentries would be moving around and campfires were still smoldering. Diesel fuel and sanitary smells commingled in the air clearly identifying the camp ahead as military.

They had minimal weapons and no support, attacking alone without artillery, grenades, armor or air power. Each man had an M4A1 assault rifle with seven 30-round magazines. They had one HF radio, no night vision, and no machine guns or mortars. The Op plan did not expect much resistance. The camp was one of dozens under constant surveillance using the Defense Support Program (DSP) satellites controlled at a classified facility in Northern Virginia. It usually held only 50-100 trainees, plus about a dozen instructors. Weapons were locked in the armory at night, except when training. Two of the rangers were assigned to secure the armory. With Razzaq at the camp, his security guards would be armed, but the Rangers had planned for less than a dozen armed enemies.

Four Rangers were assigned to contain the students in their sleeping bunkers with two others assigned to the communications tent. The others would enter the headquarters trailer where Razzaq was expected to sleep. Every member of the team had Razzaq's picture emblazoned in his mind, and wanted to take him alive; but, they could also kill him if capture was too difficult. Since the mission was inside Syria, they were to avoid collateral damage in the process, recognizing that diplomatic repercussions would follow. There would be no military support until they reached the Israeli border. No other Americans would enter Syria.

The team spread out, ten feet apart and began moving slowly, without noise. Every strap or article on their bodies was secured; they crouched with arms away from their bodies and widely spaced legs. Their steps were heal-leads with a rolling foot motion. Without a word, everyone knew that the Op Plan no longer applied. The tactical situation had changed and they would need to improvise. The enemy force was huge. Their only surveillance device was the Master Sergeant's Thermal Weapon Site (TWS). "Master Sergeant," the Captain said in a low voice.

"Sir."

"Scan the camp Link."

"Roger that."

The sergeant moved to the top of a small dune with his M4. The TWS could recognize a human target at 1000 meters in total darkness. It was the one advantage they had over the enemy that did not possess the technology using body heat radiation to show a picture. The Sergeant panned his weapon for several seconds. Voices can be heard for long distances in the still desert night, so communicating was done in low whispers.

He reported, "That's a big-ass camp sir. I could see dozens of vehicles and hundreds of hot spots moving around."

The Captain went to see for himself. Looking through the TWS, he could see that they were either at the wrong camp, or intel had screwed up. The central camp layout was correct, but a large force surrounded it, which was at an alert status. Something had gone wrong. The mission had become suicidal. With only a couple hours until daylight, they were exposed in open terrain with no good place to hide. Their footprints and jump gear would be found and they would be overwhelmed. They had no choice but to evacuate any way possible.

Returning down the mound, he signaled for a huddle; "Okay guys, this place is crawling with bad guys. It's at least two companies, maybe a battalion. We need to get out of here before the sun comes up. Our best way is in one of those trucks, if we can get rolling and not attract attention. It's about twenty miles to the border. We can't hide out here in the open after daybreak, so we're leaving now." He wished that it would be as easy as it sounded, but all knew that military actions never went as planned.

There was several hundred yards of open ground between them and a row of parked trucks. They moved quietly down a dune onto the flats. Fortunately, there was little moonlight and they remained invisible. Weapons were cocked and selectors on "safe." After 100 yards, the Captain raised his right fist and signaled for a thermal recon. After a few seconds, the Sergeant made hand gestures indicating guards at the front and rear of the truck line. A cigarette was visible from one of the guards.

Following muffled orders, two rangers went to take out the guards, while the rest stayed low. The TWS verified when the guards went down. There was no sound.

When the last guard fell, the team moved forward to the nearest truck. Six and the radioman went to the cab of the large open personnel carrier. But, as the radioman opened the passenger door, someone in the darkness yelled an alert in Arabic then bullets strafed the truck. Men were hit behind the truck, and some inside the bed were wounded.

They returned fire as team mates jumped off to help the wounded. Six vaulted into the unfamiliar vehicle and turned every switch on before stomping the starter solenoid on the floor. The diesel engine churned and took several seconds for the glow plug to ignite the fuel. Meanwhile, the firefight intensified as more enemy soldiers surrounded them. The truck's running lights were on, and the firefight grew extremely violent. The engine bellowed, coughed, and started. "Are all aboard?" he yelled.

The reply was "Go, go!"

Before the truck rolled, an enemy soldier jumped onto the running board on the passenger side, shooting a pistol wildly at the cab. The Captain released the gearshift, grabbed his sidearm from his chest holster and fired twice into the man's face. Most of the soldier's shots had missed, but the radioman was hit. Six kicked the throttle to the floor testing the engine then crashed into first gear and lurched forward. As he did, he tried to support his radioman. He steered south into the desert, flooring the throttle and killing the lights. It took several seconds for his eyes to adjust. Bullets hit the truck as they charged into the welcoming darkness, but in less than two minutes they were under fire again from trucks in pursuit.

The rear of the cab was open to the cargo bed. He yelled for a situation report, but got no response. He yelled again, and someone shouted that all were wounded, but two were returning fire. Struggling for control, he grabbed fabric on the now dead radioman to pull him closer. He yanked the handset for the PRC-64 radio and pressed the button, "Angel, Angel, Striker, over."

\---Static---He stretched across the body and turned the volume up.

"Angel, say again! Over."

The radio blared, "Striker, this is Angel, what's your situation? Over."

The Captain gripped the wheel with his bloody left hand, trying to drive and use the radiophone, "Angel, we're driving South-Southwest from bingo, off road in mil truck with heavy pursuit, need gunship and medevac—ASAP!"

"Striker, report casualties, over."

"Me and two others known alive, over."

"Striker, wait one." The response took too long. The support unit under Lieutenant Colonel Lesley Briggs was deployed with a battalion of Israeli Defense Forces, including an air assault squadron. Muscle pain shot down his side while struggling to control the wheel using only his left hand. Holding the handset to his ear, he crashed over a ridge, losing his grip and slammed his head into the steering wheel, breaking his nose.

"Striker, this is Angel, request is denied. Repeat, denied." Unbelievably, the Colonel was going to follow political doctrine and not come to aid his soldiers!

Grappling to regaining control, pain and dread turned to anger, "Shit Colonel, I've got nine men down and trouble up my ass. We need support! Over."

"Understand son, hold it together. Negative on air support. Good luck. Out."

Briggs was close, but frozen at the border. Even without lights on his truck, the dust left a clear trail to follow. At another ridge, his shattered mirrors filled with headlights less than a quarter mile behind. If he'd been alone, he would abandoned the truck and used terrain to escape, but he'd to save his team. Gunfire could be heard above the truck noise. He hoped it would hold together. The Syrians knew where he was headed.

Using their headlights, the enemy trucks could drive faster and continued getting closer. Some flanked left and right, getting out of the choking dust. Russian military trucks were built for severe off-road abuse. The 7.62mm bullets from flanking trucks were missing, as the enemy continued shooting from their their bucking platforms, but persistent fire would ultimately do the job. He pressed the accelerator when more bullets ripped into the front of the truck. Two men were still firing in back, but had to be low on ammunition.

Jumping over another small dune, a dry riverbed suddenly appeared which he saw at the last second, almost driving over the edge. He used all his strength pushing and pulling the wheel to turn right, almost capsizing as the wheels chattering on the rocky ground. After driving a mile parallel to the wash, the bottom of the dry gorge got shallower and he turned southwest again across the riverbed. Momentarily, the chase trucks had a good oblique angle as he turned, and were firing frantically, some hitting their target. The engine compartment and doors and driver window were armored, and the tires were solid. The truck continued working for the Rangers; but there was no more firing from his men. Covered in blood from shard and fragment wounds, he was alone.

He grabbed the handset, "Angel, this is Striker. Over!"

"Go ahead Striker."

"Sir, I again request air support, all my men are down!" he'd never pleaded for support from a fellow soldier before.

Briggs was hesitant when responding, "Striker, we're tracking you with Global Hawk, only two miles away, keep coming! We're moving with you; ETA four minutes, over."

"Roger that!" he threw the handset in fury, aiming the truck across the riverbed. If Briggs had ever been in a firefight he would know that four minutes was an eternity! At the other side of the wash, he gunned the engine and turned on the lights, figuring it would help the choppers see him. With lights, he pressed the throttle harder.

Hasan Abdul-Razzaq

Razzaq's grandparents were shepherds and farmers in Palestine prior to 1948. They lived in a small dwelling in the district of Jaffa, the ancient seaport near modern Tel Aviv. Their families had lived there for generations. Their home had been passed down, and Razzaq often heard fond stories of village life from his grandparents, before they were expelled by the British. In 1949, the family was forced to flee north to the Shatila refugee camp in Lebanon when his parents were too young to remember anything about life in Jaffa.

They grew up in the refugee camp, disenfranchised under constant fear of expulsion or attack. Conditions were squalid and unemployment was always above twenty five percent. Shatila camp was located adjacent to the Sabra ghetto in the southern outskirts of West Beirut. Over several years, the camp became known as "Sabra and Shatila" as the boundaries merged, caused by swelling numbers of Palestinians and Shiites escaping wars to the southeast. The camp was technically administered by the United Nations, but there was little actual assistance. The indigenous Lebanese population, mixed Christian and Muslims, hated the camp people.

For years, the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) used southern Lebanon as a staging base for attacks on Israel. In 1982, Israeli Premier Menachem Begin demanded that Lebanese President, Bachir Gemayel, remove them from his country. However, Gemayel had to balance interests of competing factions within Lebanon and refused many of Israel's demands, including his refusal to allow the Israeli Army to enter his country.

On September 14, 1982, a Syrian agent assassinated Gemayel, and even though the Palestinian and Muslim leaders denied any connection, within hours of the assassination, the Israel military decided to occupy West Beirut. The United States had given guarantees that it would ensure the protection of the camp; however, Ariel Sharon, the Israeli Defense Minister, later told the Knesset, Israel's parliament: "Our entry into West Beirut was in order to make war against the infrastructure left by the terrorists." On September 15th, the Israeli Defense Force (IDF) surrounded the Sabra and Shatila camp, blocking all entrances.

Sharon, and his Chief of Staff met with the Lebanese Christian militiamen, called Phalangist units on September 16, suggesting they enter the Sabra and Shatila camp to kill Palestinian militants. Israel did not want to be seen as attacking Muslims and risk upsetting the US Government. The first unit of Phalangists, armed with guns, knives and hatchets entered the camp at 6:00 p.m. and began slitting throats, axing, shooting, and raping the population, often lining people up for mass execution.

Hasan Abdul-Razzaq had been born in the camp and never known the outside world, except for stories. He was ten years old when the attack came, and paralyzed by fear. During the first night, Israeli forces fired illuminating flares. Hasan huddled with his mother and sister in their tent while his father tried to defend them. His father was a peaceful man, yet the Phalangists killed him. Hasan found his father's mutilated body after the attack. For two days, the Phalangists massacred the inhabitants of Sabra and Shatila, while the Israelis prevented anyone from escaping. Early in the morning of the second day, Hasan's mother grabbed his baby sister, saying "We must get away from here, come with me." As they ran from their tent down the narrow rows, Hasan heard people scream and plead as they were butchered, and as his mother led him through the maze toward the outskirts, he saw mutilated bodies of women, children and men. he'd to jump over corpses to keep up.

When they reached one of the main pathways out of the camp, his mother began running, carrying her baby in her arms as Hasan kept pace. When they reached the outskirts, there were IDF soldiers, many just teenagers, blockading their escape. She begged to let them through, but the soldiers refused. When she pleaded about her baby and son, the soldiers pointed their guns and told her to run back into the camp. Hasan's mother, engulfed in tears yelled, "Come, this way, we must find a place to hide!" After running a few rows into the tents, she led them to a place already ravaged by the Christians. "Here, in here, we must hide here with the dead." She pushed Hasan into a tent over the bloody remains of a young woman. Inside, he saw her two children, dismembered and reassembled in some grotesque montage. They stayed in that tent, surrounded by horror throughout the night, while Israeli illumination continued to cast eerie shadows of cold white light.

At dawn of the third day, speakers blared, saying the violence had ended and all remaining refugees were to assemble on the main paths. Terrified and sobbing, the Razzaq family emerged with others and followed instructions. They had been conditioned for two generations to follow instructions. When they assembled with the others, many covered in blood of loved ones; the Phalangists forced the survivors to march out of the camps, randomly killing more people. In the confusion, militiamen forced Hasan's baby sister from his mother's grasp and handed her to him. His mother was knocked to the ground and dragged away. When Hasan tried to help her, he was clubbed nearly unconscious. His mother cried for help, but was dragged into a tent where several men ravaged her before cutting her throat. Hasan lived, by omission and never saw his sister again.

On the third day, foreign journalists were allowed into the camp at 9:00 a.m. where they found the bodies scattered about. The first official news of the massacre was broadcast around noon, and the actual number of victims was never reported.

Hasan was given medical attention and some food by a foreign medical team. Dazed, he was unable to process the horrors leveled on his family and other innocent people. They had been peaceful, and he'd no comprehension of such brutality. he'd seen horrors no child should endure. For the next three years, he educated himself on the events chronicled about Sabra and Shatila. He blamed Israel for the killings; and, he learned to blame the Americans for supporting Israel, while abandoning his people. It sickened him to hear American rhetoric endorsing the Israeli cause while deploring the Palestinians. He became brainwashed in anti-Zionist dogma beyond comprehension of normal children. For generations, his family had been beaten, driven from their land, humiliated, yet only wanted to live as they had before 1948. Based on his experience at Sabra and Shatila, Razzaq the terrorist emerged. He wasn't driven by any altruistic motives; he just wanted to kill Jews and Americans.

The official dossier on Razzaq stated that he was a high school dropout. He was believed to have journeyed through Jordan, then to Iran, as a young boy, before he went to Afghanistan to fight the Soviets in the late 1980s. He was described as slightly under six feet tall, dark, bearded and thin, like ninety percent of the Muslim male population. It was in Afghanistan that he began his association with al Qaeda and met an expatriate American Pakistani named Masood. They became brothers in arms, nurtured in battle. At the time, they were fighting the Soviet Union. Ironically, they were supported by the American CIA. In Afghanistan and Pakistan, al Qaeda ran training camps where angry young men learned the deadliest arts and formed bonds based on mutually dark motives.

When Razzaq returned to Jordan, he was jailed for three years as a Mujahedeen militant, considered a threat to their national security. He emerged as a homicidal radical who began plotting attacks on the countries he felt were ultimately responsible for murdering his family and pressuring the Jordanians to detain him, the United States and Israel. He fled to Pakistan soon after leaving prison where he began his association with Osama bin Laden.

Razzaq wanted to overthrow the Government of Jordan, which he considered to be a puppet state. His plans were discovered and Jordan sentenced him to death in absentia. He avoided Jordanian justice by finding hiding places in Europe, then back to the Middle East and South Asia. He supported himself through handouts from Islamic relief organizations that were actually terror support cells. He formed an independent terrorist group on the border between Afghanistan and Iran, teaching his students how to use guns, explosives, poisons and chemical weapons in civilian attacks. Throughout the 1990's his whereabouts were never discovered, yet he was successful planning and executing the most deadly attacks of the decade. After the US failed to capture him at Salkhaid, Razzaq was fanatical about his next attack.

American Terrorist

As an American-born Muslim, Malik Iqbal Asif Masood's conversion from an average teenager to jihadist began at his suburban Chicago mosque, in Villa Park. He was easy prey for the preachers of hate. His Pakistan-born father had been sent to prison in Illinois for arson after a fire at his bakery spread to an adjoining apartment building in which someone died. Malik was fourteen. Absence of a father figure at home made him particularly vulnerable to radical teachings.

He was popular in school, enjoyed athletics and claimed he would be a major league baseball player when he grew up. But after his father's conviction, Malik avoided his peers and began spending his free time at the local mosque. It was here that he met a militant Pakistani radical who had fought in Kashmir, a region disputed between India and Pakistan. His father had served in the Pakistani Army, operating with the British before immigrating to the states. This vicarious relationship created a bond with his new friend. In reality, Malik was victim of an insidious recruiting scheme.

He became obsessed with joining the fight for Kashmir independence. As his indoctrination continued, people manipulated him with criticism that he was "too Western." To prove them wrong, he began wearing Islamic clothing and tried to grow a beard. He studied the Koran as interpreted by his friends at the mosque. They actually discouraged this behavior so that he wouldn't be noticed in American society.

He became disdainful of Western women, berating them for their revealing clothes and loose mannerisms. He scared his mother, a native Chicago Catholic woman, enough that she became fearful of him. This response heightened his fervor.

By seventeen, Malik wasn't a full-blown convert to fundamentalism. His fanaticism began to soften through peer association at school and growing sexual urges. His rhetoric mellowed about creation of an Islamic state in America. He was spending less time at religious studies and drifting away from his Islamic friends. So, in order to rejuvenate the conversion effort, members of the Islamic cabal invited him to see a graphic video of Muslims fighting in Chechnya and Afghanistan. His fanaticism rekindled, and he made an ill-fated trip to Pakistan and an al-Qaeda camp.

He had just turned eighteen. To pay for the trip, he stole money and a credit card from his mother, leaving a note behind saying that he was going to regain the honor of his surname by fighting in some unidentified conflict. His mother was heartbroken and terrified. Within three weeks of Malik's departure, she got a letter from him sent from Pakistan. Based on this clue, she and her sister-in-law flew to Pakistan, and through her husband's relatives, gained assistance with Pakistani security officials to help locate her son. She had almost no money and lived in poor circumstances while searching. It took three months to track down the teenager. He was eventually located in a mosque in Kashmir.

He denied he'd been to the terror camps, but it was a lie.

Prior to leaving the US, Malik had come under the spell of the fanatical cleric Sheikh Abdul-Kardar Hussein Mohammed, then leader of a secretive outlaw Islamic movement. The Sheik was responsible for Malik's initial brainwashing. His mother felt heartsick that she was losing her son to religious fanaticism. She wanted to believe he could return to the states and resume life as the young sports-mad child she had raised.

In trying to persuade him to return to the US with her, he would only rebut that she was an infidel, and therefore an enemy. He preached hate-tainted dogma that had nothing to do with religion. He was no longer the little boy she remembered. Following their last time together, she left fearing for her life. With the help of relatives, she made secret plans to go to the airport and return to Chicago, no longer hoping her son would return with her. Departing in the morning from the apartment she had shared with distant relatives, she was attacked by a mob and burned to death. She died screaming in the street. Malik did not participate, but he helped plan her murder. He was pleased with the result.

Several weeks later, he returned to the US to live with his mother's family, who knew nothing about his role in her death. His fanaticism was hidden behind a veil of false grief and American upbringing.

Border Crossing

It was almost midnight when the Chevy Blazer, traveling from Montreal International Airport, slowed, then pulled off the road in North Chemin De Derby, onto a small dirt road cut into the dense woods. The car stopped less than fifty feet into the trees. It had entered the United States.

Like several border towns in Vermont, North Derby straddles the border, making a convenient portal for smugglers and illegal aliens to cross the border, bypassing US Customs and Immigration check points. This part of the Vermont border is a region melding two nations and cultures. Both French and English are spoken and town businesses are dispersed along both sides of the border, which is nothing more than a road. Technically, people were crossing the Northern border illegally every day simply by crossing the middle of the road.

With more federal funding, the Border Patrol increased manpower along the northern borders, but it's impossible to safeguard against all illegal crossings. The Swanton Vermont sector includes 261 miles of International Boundary. 173 miles are land border and 88 miles are water boundary, chiefly the St. Lawrence River. The Sector has only eight stations to monitor activity along the border, with only a few dozen officers on duty at any one time.

At night, North Derby seems to disappear. With only 1600 residents nestled in rural mountain homes, it hardly qualifies for a zip code. For the two Russians, it simplified the effort to enter the United States by flying into Montreal under false Lithuanian passports, then driving two hours to the border.

Leaving the Blazer, the two men began walking another hundred feet to the edge of the woods defining North Derby Road. In punctuated Russian dialect, the driver wished his passengers success then departed. Both were oddly dressed for walking through the woods in casual slacks and colorful shirts not at all characteristic of the local residents. There was no one else nearby and after a cellular phone call, a car arrived in minutes, pausing briefly for the passengers to climb in.

Speaking Russian, the lead man said to the driver, "Thank you Boris, it has been a long drive for you."

"Yes, my friend, but we now must drive eight more hours and we must not get caught."

"Where is the identification I requested?"

"Under your seat, with a gun. There are guns under all the seats."

The passengers armed themselves.

The senior man continued to speak while the other passenger remained silent, "All seems to be in order. You have done well Boris, so be careful to avoid attention on the roads."

Within an hour, both passengers were asleep. The car traveled on Interstate 91 heading south. They would be in New York in the morning to close some loose ends before driving on to Chicago the following day.

New York

Dennis Beal had always been the first person in the office on Long Island. His rise from dockworker came from hard work. He did not have any special attributes beyond very hard work and a desire to make money. He never finished high school, having joined the dockworkers at age sixteen when his stepfather got him into the union by vouching for his age and high school diploma. Physically, he was slightly below average height, and heavy around the belt line. His sandy colored hair curled naturally and, combined with his green-grey eyes and ruddy complexion, he wasn't particularly attractive. He was fortunate to have met Kathy in his hometown of Port Elizabeth at the time of his new-found wealth; otherwise, she would never have looked at him twice. He realized that the attraction was only his ability to get out of one of the poorest and ugliest cities, but it didn't matter...appearances mattered.

As a registered custom's broker, he managed foreign shipments through Government customs and security processes. After fifteen years with the company, it felt good to relax a bit. Newly married, he enjoyed sleeping late and having breakfast with his new bride. His gift to her was financial independence. Months earlier, this would not have been possible, but good fortune had found him. It only happens once in life, if ever, and Dennis had taken the brass ring when it was offered. Leaving home later than usual this morning, he was stuck in Long Island traffic on Interstate 495, so he called the office on his mobile phone.

After one ring, the company operator answered. She said something obscured by the traffic noise, so he answered "Gladys, it's Denny."

"Denny!" There was a brief pause before she said in a hushed voice, "Don't tell me you're running late again?"

"I can't help it, I'm stuck in traffic!"

"He's going to be pissed."

"Look, I can't help it."

"Denny, it's not my place; but you can't keep coming in so late, what's going on with you? You never were late before you got married."

Gladys had known him since she joined the company over ten years earlier, and could talk to him as a friend. She was his mother's age with the usual ailments associated with being over-weight, low income and middle aged, combined with years of broken and abusive marriages. She had always felt protective of Dennis because she had no children and he was about as close as she would ever have. Dennis had achieved more responsibility than he was otherwise qualified to handle and she felt some measure of pride having helped him succeed. She also felt sorry for him in a way, even though he'd risen above the docks into the white collar ranks.

"Look, my being married ain't nobody's business and hasn't got nothing to do with it. I'm just cuttin' back a little to work a normal job."

She responded with genuine care for him, "Well, getting to work two hours after everyone else is a lot of cutting, Larry's getting' upset. He's gonna talk to you."

"Fine, I'll be in whenever."

He pressed the keypad, ending the call. If Larry wanted to talk, so be it. He felt persecuted. He should be appreciated for all the hard work he'd done over the years and made Larry a lot of money. But, Larry still thought of Dennis as the dropout who followed his drunkard step-father onto the docks at sixteen. Well that was half a lifetime ago!

Last year, he'd gotten an unbelievable opportunity dropped in his lap by complete strangers from Eastern Europe. All he'd had to do was manipulate a little paper; and wow, the money was fantastic. He was richer than anyone in his family had ever imagined. It allowed him to have a new apartment, fast car and a beautiful wife. Larry needed to learn some respect, which he would tell him when he got to the office.

At the Glen Cove Road exit, he turned off the interstate, heading south toward Jamaica, NY. He was still practicing his downshifts and made a game of trying to make the transition off the interstate onto the surface street without ever using the brakes. His new Aston Martin DBS stuck to the road like it was in grooves.

Arriving at the office, he sauntered in, pretending that nothing was wrong, but he barely sat down before Larry was in his face.

Larry was on the far side of middle age, with a large gut and a big nose. This morning his nose was red, which happened when his blood pressure rose. Dennis had grown up working for Larry, who had been a surrogate dad after his father had died. Larry had warned Dennis to watch the clock and get in on time, but Dennis had ignored him. This morning, Larry's nose, eyes and ears were flaming red. "All right Denny, what's going on, I told you last week that you needed to get back on a normal schedule. What gives?" Larry was shaking and clearly did not like confronting people this way.

"Look Larry, I know my new hours are upsetting you, but you've got to chill on this. I don't need any grief."

"Grief...grief! Denny, you're not pulling your load and everyone sees it. I've been like a father to you for years, so don't give me any bullshit. I have a business to run and you need to get back on the rails or your career is about to take a U-turn."

Taking a deep breath, Dennis responded, "Larry, I've been a good employee for you. You can't talk to me like this and threaten my job!"

"Denny, I'll do whatever is best for the company; don't think you're special just because you've been here a long time." The tempo of the dialogue was at an escalation point, so Larry stopped talking momentarily and looked at the ceiling before continuing. "But look, we're both getting hot under the collar and should let this cool down. You think about it today and let's see what you decide to do tomorrow."

Before any more was said, he turned and left Dennis alone in his office.

This kind of conversation would have frightened him a year ago. Then, he could not afford to lose the only decent job he'd ever had. With no education, World Wide Shipping was his salvation. But, he would never get rich working for Larry.

After a couple hours of routine work, Dennis realized that he'd another, much greater, opportunity at risk if he lost his job. His recent financial windfall was only possible because of the position of trust he held. If he lost his job, it could mean losing the chance to earn another million dollars, maybe several million, if the same guys came to him in the future. He could not risk that chance.

That evening, Beal walked into Larry's office. He felt and acted more demure that earlier in the day. "Larry, can we talk for a minute?"

Larry leaned back and looked at Dennis with a kind of fatherly concern, "Okay Denny, what's on your mind? Have you been thinking about our little talk this morning?" Larry had known Dennis most of his working life. When he was a young manager expediting shipments for insistent customers, Dennis was driving a forklift stacking pallets and sometimes driving delivery trucks from various New York cargo terminals to Customs clearing warehouses. On more than one occasion, Dennis had helped Larry locate critical goods in the maze of incoming shipments. His memory for numbers and locations impressed Larry; and when he was senior enough to hire people, Dennis was at the top of the list, even though the owners were skeptical of his poor education. Over the years, Larry's judgment regarding Dennis proved correct and had an influence on Larry's ultimate promotion to General Manager.

Dennis replied, "Yeah, kinda" looking at the floor, acting more like a school kid caught stealing than an adult manager. "Look, I want to keep my job and know I've been slacking off since I got married. Hell Larry, I don't want you pissed at me."

Larry responded as a Six to a subordinate, "Look Denny, I don't know what's going on. Six months ago you changed. You moved and got a car none of us can afford, and then got married. Marriage ain't a bad thing, but most guys work harder with responsibilities, they don't slack off."

"What do you mean?"

"Look Denny, I ain't stupid, you're living way higher than I pay you. It's not any business of mine, except if it could get the company in trouble. I don't want to know if you're doing anything illegal, but I'm warning you not to do it through the company."

"Larry, I don't know what you mean, are you accusing me of something?"

"Denny, I'm not going to debate it. Get your ass in gear and don't do anything stupid. You know I won't can you easily; but I will fire you if things don't turn around. Tomorrow is your chance to show me you care about this place and your job."

Nothing more was said. Denny left Larry's office more upset than when he entered. The old man was suspicious and he didn't like it. He shut down his computer, grabbed his jacket and headed out to his car.

In five minutes, he was turning onto the Interstate heading north, with his gas pedal floored. It took less than five seconds to accelerate from forty to over a hundred. He backed off when the traffic ahead blocked his way. He decided to call his wife.

After three rings, she answered.

"Kathy, it's me."

She sensed the edge in his voice, "Denny, what's wrong?"

"Oh, it's work again. Larry's on my case. I may have to quit."

"What, quit? Denny, what's wrong, I thought you were his favorite."

"He's not mine any more, and I don't need the bullshit."

"Denny, let's talk about this at home, when will you be here?"

"I'm stopping by Mel's, I'll be home after dark."

Mel's was a small bar in an old clapboard building in West Islip, near their apartment.

She was alarmed, "Denny, come home, let's talk, you don't need to go to Mel's if you have a problem."

"Look sweetheart, I need to cool down, I won't be too late." He disconnected before she could object again. Mel's was a sleazy bar.

He turned onto Sagtikos State Parkway an hour later, heading south. Mel's was only ten minutes away. He'd only been there once before, but he needed a neutral place to think and relax. Money gave him options that he'd never had before. Above all, he wanted respect and freedom, which money should bring. But he'd to keep his job, even if he hated it now.

Inside the bar, he ordered a gin and tonic at the counter and moved to a small table to be alone. Several drinks later, after ten o'clock, he paid and left. It was only a couple minutes to their apartment, driving slowly.

The parking garage was a separate two-story structure, away from the apartment buildings. When he got to the complex, he drove into the lower level of the garage and angled across two spaces. The lower level was slightly below ground level. He opened the door and almost fell out of the driver's seat, dropping the keys. Reaching down, he was disoriented and tumbled out of the car, barely keeping his balance and hopping several steps before standing erect. He was laughing at himself. After regaining balance and straightening his coat, he walked with faltering equilibrium up the dark ramp.

His building was about fifty yards away if he walked across the grass. At the top of the ramp, he angled toward his building, walking across the lawn in the dark instead of on the lighted walkway. He was thinking about his step-father's useless life. What a stupid jerk. He really was a bastard. He'd died at forty-nine of injuries he got on the docks when a pallet broke, with worthless medical insurance. The man had been a fool, and Dennis wished he'd lived long enough to see how successful he'd become, then died.

As he walked, he never saw the big older man standing motionless behind the shrubs in the shadows of his building. He ambled within five feet of him before sensing the faint smell of an extinguished cigarette. With one more step, the phantom came from behind, throwing a wire garrote over Beal's face, around his throat. Beal never reacted until the loop pulled tight.

The wire was wrapped around wooden handles at the ends that the attacker used to pull his victim backward, off his feet. Dennis clawed at his neck, but the wire had already cut into the skin. He screamed in unheard agony while blood vessels burst and his lungs seized. He flailed and squirmed, but the attacker was a head taller and twice as powerful. The big man jerked backward hard several times, finally rotating Beal to the ground, then pulling hard with his knee on his victim's shoulder. For several more seconds, Beal's legs fought for traction and feet quivered, although he was already dead by any sensible definition.

With another violent jerk, Dennis' muscles twitched one last time; then he stopped moving. The attacker jerked again, turning his body over. Brain death would take several minutes, but the process could not be reversed. With powerful hands, the man lifted upward then twisted the wire securely behind Dennis's neck and dropped the body to the ground. While maintaining eye contact, he removed a folding knife from his pocket. With one thrust, he severed the spinal cord beneath the wire. There could be no doubt.

Intelligence

Diplomatic fence mending over the incursion into Syria would take years. The US had objected to the treatment of its dead soldiers, but there was little support in the international community. Politicians and radicals in the Middle East used the event to further their private agendas. Ten months after Salkhaid, the FBI began receiving alerts issued by the Director of National Intelligence (DNI) about significant increases in suspicious overseas communications involving Muslim extremists in several US metropolitan areas.

One morning, at the security briefing at the FBI Chicago field office, a senior agent gave an intelligence report, complete with several pictures.

"Good morning. Intel has been monitoring this man, Malik Iqbal Asif Masood, since he came back to the states. Masood is a native-born US citizen who works as a taxi driver in the western suburbs and is believed to live alone. I don't have any information about his background or why he is under surveillance, other than he spent time in Pakistan.

"Masood has been communicating a lot with Abu Kalim Aksari, leader of the Pakistani Islamic Jihad that has been responsible for some well-planned bombings in major cities in Southeast Asia. The DNI thinks Chicago could now be a target."

One of the agents in the briefing asked, "What are we going to do with Masood, pick him up or follow him?"

"Not at the moment, we want to see if he'll lead us to other people involved."

He continued, "Okay, I'm going to pass out the text of some of his recent phone calls and emails. The intel guys say there's something planned involving at least one of the terrorist cells in our area. These are mostly broken or illogical sentences, but the bureau says it's serious stuff."

Federal Case

FBI Agent Luke Gallagher had been finishing training at the academy in Quantico Virginia when the raid at Salkhaid failed. Although elements of the raid got some small publicity at the time in the international press, his training schedule interfered with attention to news reports. When he completed basic training, he chose the Counter Terrorism specialty and continued an advanced training program for eighteen more weeks before going to his first choice in field offices, Chicago. He picked Chicago partially based on career ambitions, but also because his best friend from college lived in the city.

Since coming to Chicago, he found work interesting and was getting good feedback from senior agents. He was waiting for his first big case. On Monday mornings, he was usually recovering from the weekend. As a federal officer, he'd to watch his behavior, but he was also a young single guy who liked a good time. On the morning of the intelligence briefing, he was mildly hung over from bar hopping in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, where he spent two days with his best friend, Sam Kleinman, and a buddy of Sam's. They had split the cost of a room at the lake, which was popular with young people looking for fun outside the city. It was far enough that Luke could enjoy himself without feedback at the office. He was technically always on duty, but he left his identification and gun in his apartment safe.

The morning of the intelligence briefing, he was late and had to run-walk five blocks from the Western Avenue METRA station to the office. The weather was clear and pleasant with a cool breeze coming from Lake Michigan. At the corner of South Leavitt Street and Roosevelt Road, he entered the building, stopping at Starbuck's for a "Grande" black coffee. He knew boutique coffee was a foolish extravagance. In five more minutes, he would be inside his cubicle checking crime reports with a coffee pot less than fifty feet away.

The FBI field office is located in the federal building at 2111 West Roosevelt Road, three miles southwest of the loop, across the street from University of Illinois. The Special Agent in Charge (SAC) was Ulysses S. "Sam" Lee. The FBI occupied parts of several floors in the federal building. The main office complex, located on the fifth floor, was a cavern. The elevator door opened and it was like entering a vault with too many florescent lights. The building had an all-glass exterior, but the outer ring of offices and conference rooms blocked the interior from any natural light or outside view. Cubicles divided the inner floor space into neat little private dungeons.

Five Assistant SAC's, twelve special agents and administrative staff filled the office. Luke was assigned to the organized crime and counter terrorist task forces. The FBI tried to identify patterns indicating either behavior. Chicago is a major interconnecting commercial hub with five railroads converging and thousands of trucks transshipping goods from one line to the others. It was also a major hub for air cargo. Both organized crime and terror groups were engaged in clandestine transport on commercial carriers. To move massively destructive weapons required large semi-trucks or rail transportation. Chemical, biological and massively explosive weapons were shipped in large specialized containers.

Luke grew up near Monmouth New Jersey. As a lanky redheaded kid, he was a jokester who played tricks on people, but never had any luck attracting girls. He performed above average academically, and spent his spare time studying science and doing experiments in his basement. He earned his ham radio and first-class FCC licenses before college. His parents expected him to be an engineer and were surprised when he migrated into business school.

He attended Syracuse University in New York as a biology major, but found that lab work conflicted with social time. Although he'd a normal group of friends and always seemed to get invited to parties, he still had trouble with girls. In his junior year, he switched majors to marketing. Five years later, he still thought about his career options if he'd remained in science. he'd trouble finding work after graduation, so went to graduate school, studying accounting. After graduation, he worked for a mid-sized accounting firm, but after three years, the firm closed, and he found himself unemployed. The FBI was recruiting accounting majors with his credentials.

After joining the Chicago office, he was surprised that he loved the work so much. As a federal agent, his work was really important. As a kid, he loved puzzles. Now he was paid to play, and the stakes were high.

Exiting the elevator, he went straight to his cubicle in the maze at the center of the fifth floor. He started each day by reading the morning crime reports. Scanning FBInet, he focused on a murder on a golf course in nearby Cary, IL. An executive from a freight handling company had been killed, mob style. International shipping companies are monitored. Several branches of Government watch them closely. Because the initial report indicated that it could be an execution, Luke was interested.

Monday routines were always the same, an all-hands staff meeting with the SAC and his staff, which lasted one hour. As usual, Luke was almost late. Grabbing his coffee and notebook, he rushed to the conference room. Each of the ASACs was given time to brief the group on investigations and intelligence concerning their assigned areas. Most of it was boring, except the terrorist intelligence that had been growing for several weeks.

After the meeting, Luke made a call to the Cary Police Department asking for Officer Ruiz, who was mentioned in the bulletin. She wasn't on duty and the desk officer had not seen her crime report yet, stating it could take a couple days. Luke planned to call again that night when Ruiz was on duty. He asked for directions to the crime scene. The desk officer told him this was under their jurisdiction, and he would need clearance from the Chief. Luke said he would talk to the Chief later. Next, he called the Lake County Medical Examiner. The ME on duty was in the middle of an autopsy, but said she would fax him the report on the victim, Eric Curran, within 24 hours. She commented that preliminary results indicated the cause of death as multiple gunshot wounds, with the most damaging being in the upper thorax, rear entry, front exit, and a shot to the right temple exiting out the frontal lobe. Either one was deadly. The bullets all exited the body and she thought none were recovered.

Since the scene was fresh, Luke requisitioned a car and drove to Cary. The drive from downtown took over an hour. On the way he called the Cary PD again to tell them he was coming.

Arriving at the station, the desk Sergeant said Officer Ruiz was en route, offering him a drink. Luke accepted a cup of water and sat in the lobby for ten minutes before she arrived. As they exchanged greetings, a state police car pulled up in front, and an officer named Rodgers came in. As the group made further introductions, the Chief of Police, Stefan Stoner, joined them. Apparently, a visit by the FBI was a special event.

Luke spent a few minutes explaining the FBI's interest before asking to visit the scene. Both officers were eager to help, and the Chief deferred to them for escort. Ruiz accepted a ride with Luke, while Rodgers drove his cruiser. He was surprised how short the drive was to the golf course, no more than three minutes. This was a huge crime for a small town. On the way, Ruiz told him about the investigation conducted early that morning. When they arrived, the scene was still fenced off with yellow tape.

On foot, Ruiz pointed to where tire impressions had been taken, evident from plaster on the ground.

"We got some tire impressions, but they could be from patrol cars that were driving all over the place."

Luke just nodded and followed her under the yellow tape, heading toward the fairway. She continued, "It's hard to tell now, but the path was easier to read last night before police walked over everything. There was a trail through the brush and some blood leading over there," pointing toward the fairway.

She showed him where she thought the victim had stumbled or run through the brush. Trooper Rodgers remained silent as they followed Ruiz. The trampled foliage and blood trail were no longer discernable. She interpreted the scene as she recalled it from the morning's dark hours. The clues involved the victim, four nine-millimeter shell casings and a witness. She pointed to the shed up the hill.

To Luke, it had all the characteristics of a mob killing. The murderer was a cold-blooded professional.

Hours later, he was starving, but heading back to the city, he did not stop for lunch. He wanted to investigate the victim.

Although he'd been in Chicago for only a few months, he was working with a new academy graduate, Angela Kerr. She had a degree in computer science, but no work experience before joining the bureau. Growing up as an only child in rural upstate New York, her parents were both schoolteachers and environmentalists. She was smart, but did not have many friends and avoided social interaction. Most men would consider her cute with straight brown hair and clear skin, but not beautiful. Of average height and small build, she liked to dress conservatively on and off the job. As a woman still in her early twenties, she did not draw attention to herself and had no serious romantic relation that anyone knew about.

For the rest of the day, both agents searched various databases for information about Eric Curran. Luke began looking into the shipping company. Like most of them, MLC Ltd. was family owned and operated, close to O'Hare Airport. Trains and trucks handled most overland cargo, but airfreight was common for overseas shipments.

Angela checked Curran's records, finding that he'd attended college in the 1990's at Northern Illinois University, but did not graduate. he'd an easy career in the father's freight business, MLC Forwarding, Inc. There was no marriage record, and no criminal reports. He owned an old house on the Fox River, with the usual assortment of boy toys for a young single executive. His bank records were not accessible without a warrant.

Luke found several citations for inaccurate shipping declarations, but no indictments or sanctions on the company. The records for MLC were on par with other freight companies. Angela began looking into records about Michael Curran, Eric's father. Luke contacted the Federal Attorney's office for warrants to search Eric's home and bank records then he contacted the Cary PD asking for Chief Stoner.

"This is Stoner."

"Chief, this is FBI Agent Gallagher, we met this morning."

"Hello Luke, how can I help you?"

"Chief, we're going to get a federal warrant to search Curran's house, probably tomorrow morning. Could you please have the place secured?"

"Sure, we'll patrol there tonight."

"Okay, that would be great. By the way, did the victim have any personal effects on him?"

The chief said Curran had a wallet, but no driver's license or cell phone.

Late in the afternoon, the police and ME reports were faxed in. Luke and Angela read the reports, which did not contain any surprises. Curran had died from gunshot wounds, probably 9mm. The killer was a professional, yet mob hits usually left a warning or signature, and nothing was found. The victim's driver's license was taken to prove completion of the contract.

Late in the evening they were both tired, so Angela drove Luke to the METRA station.

Country Club

Peter Shields had chosen to be a drifter with no plan for the future. He barely made a living, and didn't need much. He was healthy, standing a bit over six one with a lean body honed over years of endless physical training. Even after six months away from the Army, he was more fit than other civilians. Most days, he wore old jeans and one of dozens of memorable tee shirts stuffed in his travel bags. He still had a boyish complexion with quick green eyes and light brown hair that he kept short through habit. He seldom talked to anyone and preferred outdoor physical labor.

Generally, he was at peace with himself although disoriented occasionally by the choices he'd made over the past year. He spent months prior to leaving the service in therapy and self-induced isolation trying to rationalize his chosen career as a Ranger against his feeling that the Army had abandoned him at his most critical time. He knew it wasn't fair to indict the Army, but faith in fellow soldiers was key to the profession, and he'd seen the faith betrayed, causing all of his men to die. He did not want to face it again.

He understood his depression and disillusionment, but didn't see any value in the psychological treatment offered to him while in the Army. He'd served for twelve years and was conflicted about leaving an unfinished career. After completing his first enlistment, he'd eagerly re-up'ed, joining the legions of "lifers" that formed the nucleus of the profession. He'd been out for six months and some of his reasons for quitting were fading. He was more than half done with his basic twenty for retirement, and just walked away from it all. He still hadn't talked to his parents about it and didn't have any civilian friends, or a girl. So, most nights, he questioned his situation, but was powerless to find any motivation to reverse the course he was on. Months earlier, he'd been sitting on his bunk in a room at the BOQ at the Special Operations Command at MacDill AFB, looking down at his running shoes, still questioning the decision to resign his commission. Then he stood uneasily, said goodbye to some buddies, threw all his possessions into his Ford Explorer, and drove away as a civilian.

Before the last year of his career, he'd done things that few people would ever experience in life. He felt immensely satisfied and had made a difference protecting America. Sometimes he felt like the most stupid individual on earth by leaving it all behind. Who walks out on a successful Army career after twelve years? After refusing his last promotion, he just packed his belongings in the back of his truck and drove off the base.

He had no destination except to stay away from his hometown in Pennsylvania. If anyone had asked him why he left, he could not have explained it. He felt more uncertain about the future than high school kids at graduation. He didn't call his parents and had no plan to see them any time soon. His military lifestyle had always interfered with his personal life, so he didn't have any romantic relationship to think about. Driving north past the Ocala horse farms along Interstate 75 several hours later, he was tempted to take the off-ramp and look for work, but the urge passed. He just kept driving.

Some hours later, he turned west on Interstate 10 toward Tallahassee and followed the sun until dusk. Somewhere in the Florida panhandle, the idea of stopping at Mobile, Alabama started formulating. He'd never been there, and it was a good driving distance for the first day. Growing up near Gettysburg, he had an interest in civil war history, so Mobile Bay became his destination. In the early evening, he checked into a cheap motel in Spanish Fort on the eastern edge of the bay. That night, he walked to a nearby barbeque shack for a rack of ribs and a couple beers. He returned to the hotel less than an hour later.

The room had an ancient Phillips television that only seemed to show southern religious channels, so he read a pamphlet on local history. Spanish Fort and its neighboring Fort Blakely had been the last forts to surrender before Union forces captured Mobile. The battle of Spanish Fort actually occurred after the surrender of the confederate forces at Appomattox Courthouse. He found the history fascinating. That night, exhaustion, beer and uncertainty about the future provided the framework for the best night's sleep in months. His routine was broken and his mind went into hibernation, at least for a few hours of rest.

The next day he drove into Mobile and followed a visitor's map to various historic sites. The area had a rich military history from the Revolutionary war, through the war of 1812 and the civil war. He followed the "Battle of Mobile Bay" trail until nightfall, and stayed in another cheap motel. He hated the nights, fearing that demons would return and he rarely slept soundly.

That second night out of the Army, the nightmare returned, and it was always the same. He was back behind the wheel of a big truck in the desert. He was driving hard, trying to get his men to safety. Bullets ripped at him again; then, a massive concussion jolted the truck nose-high, encased in sand and smoke before crashing to the ground on its left side. Peter was stunned, as though a grenade had exploded below his seat. His head was ringing while the world spun around in slow motion. After impact, it took several seconds for him to fight through the haze of semi-consciousness. His mind registered silence. He crawled out the back of the smoldering cab, falling onto the hard ground. Face down with grit in his mouth and choking in a fog of dust. He could taste the sand. His mind was numb and his limbs tingled. He could only hear the ringing in his ears, and remembered nothing of the moments before. Debris fell all around as he instinctively pulled his M9 Berretta from its holster. Then everything went black as a rifle butt smashed his head.

Sometime later, the dim ebb of dawn jabbed at his eyes as he lay on the ground with his head half buried. It felt split in half. Lying immobile, the smells of war registered as flying insects crawled in his nostrils and ears. Rolling slightly, he saw bodies lined up along the ground beside him. Enemy troops were scavenging everything from his men. Most were stripped, and some were still alive, moaning. A gun blast near his ear rattled him when he recognized Razzaq standing over a body. He saw him shoot the soldier twice more and the death spasms that followed. Peter tried to scream but his mind and body were not synchronized.

Several more shots tortured his ears. A Syrian soldier in rumpled fatigues stripped dog tags from around the neck of each corpse. Some of the Americans refused to die easily and were shot three or four times. Reaching Peter, Razzaq saw the hatred and anguish in the Captain's eyes. With a smirk, he said something in Arabic while Peter closed his eyes and gripped the earth, bracing for the end of life. Several seconds seemed like an eternity, but nothing happened. Razzaq left him alive with his dead comrades.

The Syrian trucks departed quickly as a faint red glow brightened on the eastern horizon. Peter drifted between levels of consciousness before struggling to move. Wounded, stripped, unarmed and without communications, he crawled to each man. They were all dead. Consumed in remorse, he stood awkwardly and began stumbling southward. Sun baked his back, but he was too numb to feel it. he had no concept of time when he heard motor noise and voices in the distance. On a rise, he saw vehicles and helicopters waiting. The sight deepened his despair when he realized how close they had been.

He moved, stumbled and fell, and a soldier ran toward him, while someone yelled to stop; but the man kept running until he reached Peter. The Private was probably nineteen, like many infantrymen. Tears flowed from the young man.

"There was a lot of shooting, but the Colonel wouldn't let us help. Though tears, he continued, "We all wanted to help, but he made us hold. We wanted to help!"

Shuffling upward, Peter saw Briggs near the line of trucks. he'd known officers afraid to take career risks; but he'd never known a senior officer to stand fast while soldiers died in front of him.

The young soldier helped him forward, toward the imaginary border, and then screamed for a medic and water, helping the Captain down onto the sand. Exhaustion and pain overtook Peter for a few seconds, before his resolve boiled over one more time. In seconds, a canteen was stuck in his mouth and a corpsman was working on him. He took one gulp and looked back to the north. He could barely move, but pushed himself to his knees. He got to his feet when Briggs approached declaring, "My god that was really something. You made it!"

Peter looked at Briggs with hatred. He pushed past him and stumbled to the nearest HMMWV. Grabbing the windshield support, he pulled upward to the driver's seat as Briggs ran toward him yelling, "What do you think you're doing!"

"Rangers don't leave men in the field!"

"You can't go into Syria! I order you to stop!"

"Fuck you! Shoot me! If you get in my way, I'll kill you COLONEL!"

Briggs started screaming orders, but no one listened. Peter yelled louder, "Men, I have dead soldiers out there and I need help!" Briggs jumped about in protest, but several men joined in a column of HMMWVs back into Syria, following his footprints.

When they got to the site of the massacre, everyone was silent. The men formed around Peter. "Let's get my men." They could see how their comrades had died. The dead were treated with extreme care while being lifted in to the backs of the trucks. The soldiers all felt the shame of holding a mile away, while these men were methodically murdered in cold blood. They all had tears in their eyes, Peter more than anyone. These men had been his brothers.

Sometime during the Alabama night, his mind cleared and he fell asleep.

In the morning, he was poorly rested, but found a temporary job advertised for the convention center nearby. It was his first civilian job since high school. For several weeks that followed, Peter worked quietly around the other laborers and tradesmen setting up and tearing down exhibits. The work paid enough to cover his meager living expenses. After a while, he'd seen the sites, and decided to head on to wherever he was destined to go. Once again, with no location in mind; he just took the nearest interstate out of town, I65 north.

For several months, he ambled north, stopping and working in Nashville, Louisville, Indianapolis, and finally at the Cary Country Club. he'd seen a newspaper advertisement while stopped for breakfast in Cary one spring morning.

The club wanted grounds keepers. Like the other jobs, Peter was hired immediately. He was a gulf war veteran, and had a quiet confidence that suggested trust and confidence. Again, he kept to himself, but the club manager became interested, and gave him considerable freedom with no more responsibility than he wanted. He decided to spend all summer at Cary. Two weeks after starting, he asked the manager if he could sleep in the small equipment shed hidden on a hill in trees and brush not far from the clubhouse. He didn't want more money, just a place to live cheaply. Everyone thought he was odd, but the staff liked him so he was given permission to stay on the property.

He wasn't able to be anonymous among the other workers for long. An incident occurred at the end of his second week that endeared Peter to the head groundsman, when the weekly paychecks were dispersed in the cart shed. One of the labors became upset about his wages and began yelling at his boss in Spanish-laden English, "Hey man, you're fuckin' cheating me again!"

The boss, Steve, responded, "What do you mean Garza?"

"I got only thirty hour's pay man!"

"You got paid for the hours you worked."

"I worked all week, like the rest of these putas!"

Steve answered, looking straight at Garza, "No, you didn't. I checked your crew all week, like you was warned."

"So, what! You think you can push me around in front of my compadres!"

Steve was small and older than Garza, and experienced enough to try to tone down the dialogue. The Mexican was formidable and used his "machismo" to intimidate. The boss could account whatever hours he wanted, even if Garza was leaving the job during the day, but he wasn't going to cut the big Mexican any slack. Garza had been very close to being fired for dereliction before, and was now forcing the issue.

"Look Garza, if you want to talk, let's go in the office instead of yelling out here."

"Yo man, the only place I'm goin' with you is to get a fuckin' check for ten more hours, or we can see who the real boss is!"

"Garza, I'm not gonna continue this." Steve turned and began walking toward the big garage door exit. He was scared of the bigger man and slowly reached into his pocket for his cell phone.

Peter and the rest of the crew were standing together silently, behind Garza, who had taken a few steps toward Steve. he'd worked himself into a frenzy and was obviously going to do something stupid, pulling a folding knife from his pocket. Peter became agitated, sensing a bad ending to the argument. He wanted to be away from there, but something held him in place. He didn't really fear anyone, just wished this had not started. Without thinking, his vision narrowed and every ounce of attention was on Garza.

Before the Mexican could lunge at Steve, Peter pushed him in the back. Garza stumbled forward two steps then turned fast with rage in his eyes. The knife was in his right hand, waist high, blade pointing forward. In the background, Steve was frantically dialing his phone.

Garza slashed at Peter, who was circling in a clockwise rotation. He slashed several times testing Peter, who remained unhurt. Both men were tall, but the Mexican was heavier. Peter shifted directions, moving right then left, keeping Steve out of Garza's vision. Garza was getting angrier at each thrust. Peter ducked and parried with his hands against Garza's forearms.

"You gonna die Gringo! I'm going to cut you bad and bleed you on the floor!" It was clear to Peter that the big Mexican had probably killed men before.

Both men were crouching; but Peter was lower, with knees bent and hands in front, moving on the inner balls of his feet. Garza was enraged, but growing wearier with each thrust. He knew nothing about Peter except that he was in better shape.

Garza jabbed forward several times yelling obscenities as Peter avoided the knife.

Peter kept silent. Garza drew back and lunged forward keeping his body low as the knife passed under Peter's left arm. Using Garza's momentum, Peter grabbed the shirt behind both shoulders, pulling Garza off balance, twisting and throwing him across his right hip. Garza crashed to the floor between other workers. Peter resumed a fighting position, but did not attack.

He said, "Look Garza, stop this before someone gets hurt."

Jumping to his feet, Garza's eyes were ablaze, changing his grip to an overhead stabbing position. "You scared jefe? You see it coming?" He stabbed toward Peter twice, but was pushed aside both times. Garza was breathing heavily.

Peter said, "Look Garza, this is crazy. You want to kill someone in front of all these witnesses?"

"What witnesses?" he circled again with the knife at his waste again. "These are my people, they see nothing!"

Peter guessed he was right about that. "Okay, enough said."

Garza jabbed again, while Peter moved. As the blade passed by, from left to right in front of him, Peter grabbed the forearm with Garza's knife using his right hand, jerking him forward violently. Garza fell face down to the ground, off balance, as Peter dropped down, slamming his knee into the outstretched arm and shoulder.

The Mexican went down hard as his arm ripped from its socket. As he screamed, Peter snap-rolled, slamming his elbow onto the back of Garza's neck. The man went limp releasing the knife.

Peter rolled quickly to his feet then checked for a pulse, relieved that the other man was still alive. He pulled the knife away from Garza's limp hand as police sirens could be heard in the distance.

The other workers moved away, walking silently out of the shed as the police grew nearer.

After that day, Steve Owen was forever grateful to Peter, who probably saved his life. Peter also gained a wary respect from other workers, which he hadn't wanted.

Despite this notoriety, he continued to be the hardest working person on the grounds crew, but remained more isolated after the fight. He did not want any attention. But that day set the tone for Peter's relationship and trust by club management.

One beautiful mid-summer evening after work and a shower, he was enjoying the breeze while sitting in a folding chair on his hill near the fourteenth tee. He was leaning back against the shed dressed in a sand-colored tee shirt, running shorts and huaraches sandals. He thought about driving into town for a six-pack, but was savoring the wild-flower scented air too much to move. The view was spectacular. He felt lucky to live there even though others could not understand. For all of his adult life he'd planned on a military career and had advanced at an extraordinary rate. Irony replaced ambition and he could only wonder about the future. The military had been predictable, now each day held a new mystery, or perhaps shear repetition leading nowhere. This night he was simply enjoying the solitude and beauty of nature with no expectation of anything exhilarating in the future. He would sleep well tonight.

He had planned to stay at Cary long enough to build up cash to ramble on, probably heading southwest as the weather got colder. He liked working outside and this was the most relaxed he'd felt in a long while.

The club was located forty miles northwest of Chicago along the Fox River. Sculpted through lush rolling hills, the native areas around the fringes of the course were covered with deciduous trees and shrubs. The breeze carried the fragrance of blossoms that would bother some people. Peter enjoyed the setting, and there were only a few days each year when conditions combined like this.

It was the kind of job that had high turnover, and he had no particular ambitions. He liked his perch on the hill. Living in the shed was primitive, without heat or utilities, except for one light bulb. So small, it was difficult to position his cot. Life in an Army tent had been worse, with no privacy or solitude. The fourteenth tee was the highest spot on the course with an amazing panorama. The shack was located one fairway length away from clubhouse. The arrangement suited him, and he used the men's locker room and club laundry facilities at night.

He was enjoying the tranquility, watching the river run alongside the road, past the clubhouse. Except for the road and cottages along the shore, the river was in full view. At dusk, boat traffic diminished; and it was quiet except for the breeze wafting through the trees and brush. He was lost in a daydream, enjoying the smell of cut grass. Other workers speculated about his background, but he avoided talking to them.

Club workers began calling him the "night watchman." People at the club probably thought he was strange, but didn't try to analyze him. He spent reflective evenings alone when the memories were sometimes good, and sometimes not. Deep down, he knew that he was probably a ticking bomb of emotions that would explode one day, but he was disciplined enough to know it was all in his mind. And he could control it. This evening, instead of the bad times, his thoughts took him back to high school and a girl he'd known. She was the only girl he'd ever loved. Peter's recollection of Stacey had dimmed only a little. He closed his eyes and drifted back.

They met during the summer before he reported to the Army. he'd enlisted only a few days earlier. Sometimes he reflected on how things might be different if they met earlier. He was a lifeguard at the town pool and got there early each morning to clean it and prepare for opening. On the day they met, it was cool and the pool was empty except for the staff. Children would start arriving before noon for swim lessons, but as he was sitting bored in the elevated lifeguard chair, a girl walked through the gate and came close to his station. She was about his age and gorgeous. He sat up, more alert, assuming a vigilant posture. After spreading her towel on a lounge, she removed her pullover and hat, lying face down, looking away from him. She wore a snug two-piece bathing suit and he could not resist staring. After a while, she sat up and began applying sunscreen.

Peter struggled to divert his attention until she rose and came over toward him. She was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. Approaching the stand she said "Hi, my name is Stacey, you look bored."

"Oh...hi, I'm Peter, and it's hard to be bored with so much activity in the pool." He was bewildered.

"So, where do you go to school?"

"Ah, well, I just graduated from high school in town, Meyer's High." After a brief pause, "So, where do you go to school?"

"My folks moved here two years ago from Philadelphia, I just finished at McDevitt boarding school in the city and I'm home for the summer. Dad is a mine inspector."

"My dad works in the mines." Peter wanted to disguise his humble circumstances, but Stacey, to his surprise, did not seem to care. He dated a few girls in high school, but had no serious relationships. She had the face of an angel. About five feet three inches tall, slender, but round in the hips with beautiful skin. Her light brown hair would turn blond as the summer progressed. Like all boys, he first stared at her breasts, which were small but nicely shaped. Her eyes slanted upward at the edges and her mouth was heart shaped with perfect teeth.

She kept the conversation going, "Okay Peter, since I'm new around here, what is there to do for fun other than going to the pool?"

"Ah, do you like hiking? There's a bowling alley and a couple movie theaters, and a drive-in. On my days off, I sometimes go into the hills and shoot at bottles. What do you like?"

"I've never done any of that, except go to movies." As she spoke, she started re-banding her long hair, accentuating her bust line.

With obvious hesitation he said, "Hey, I've got an idea; would you like to go bowling tonight and maybe hang out at the diner? Some of the other kids in town will be out and you could meet them."

"Sure, I guess so, but I'll have to ask my parents. If they want to meet you, is that a problem?"

"No, sure, of course, I can meet your parents."

Stacey's eyes seemed to twinkle, "So, what time?"

Peter could hardly contain himself, "How about eight o'clock?"

"How about seven in case my dad wants to talk to you?"

She went to her pool bag and took out a notepad and pen. She seemed more mature than anyone he'd dated in school. She handed him the paper. With her address and phone number, he wanted the day to end; but it seemed longer than any other day that summer.

That evening he skipped dinner. His mother was curious, but his father seemed disinterested in the "new girl." He left the house after cleaning the inside of his old Chevy convertible. The top was up. At Stacey's house, his knees were shaking as he approached the front door and mistakenly pushed the doorbell twice.

She opened the door dressed in a short pleated skirt. Her blouse was open at the neck and hair flowed in soft brown waves. She mesmerized him. Her father and mother stood behind her.

"Mom, dad, this is Peter." Stepping aside, she gestured for him to enter. He realized that she didn't know his last name.

"Peter Shields sir, ma'am" He extended his hand first to Stacey's father, then to her mother. Relief shot through his body when both gave him genuine smiles and expressed pleasant greetings.

The only thing her father said was "Don't stay out too late" and her mother said "Have a good time."

Leaving, he said "Your parents seem really nice" as his pulse rate started returning to normal.

That night, they met some of Peter's friends at the bowling alley, and later at a drive-in restaurant. Stacey enjoyed the camaraderie and was a magnet for all the boys. He was feeling especially good when he took her home before eleven.

Parking in her parent's driveway, they walked slowly to the front door. He felt awkward saying "Stacey, I had a great time tonight. There isn't much to do in town, but you made everything special."

"It was such fun Peter! I lead a pretty dull life at school and it was special to get out with you and your friends." After a brief pause at the door she continued, "I hope we can do it again!" Before he could say anything more, she stood on her toes and kissed him quickly on the lips. "Thanks. See you at the pool."

Peter was dumbstruck, saying nothing as she closed the door gently. Stunned, he wasn't used to being kissed so spontaneously. His emotions raced while walking to the car.

Driving home, he let his mind drift with emotion, finally settling on the disturbing fact that it would end in three months when he reported to the Army. Instead of the hopeful anticipation he felt after the oath, he now regretted it.

They saw each other all through the summer, spending almost every day together. They fell in love; at least they shared feelings that felt like love. For the first few weeks, they spent whatever time Peter was free doing things that Stacey had never done before. Looking back, he wondered if she really enjoyed mountain biking or shooting at targets in the woods. They enjoyed being together and that was all that mattered.

One night in mid-summer, they went to a movie, then mingled with friends at the Burger King, after which Peter decided to drive to Easter Ridge. He was nervous suggesting it, but when she said "Okay", he could barely talk while driving.

Easter Ridge is a barren hilltop north of Wilkes-Barre. Easter sunrise services were held there, but it was otherwise abandoned and isolated. Peter heard other guys bragging about their conquests on "the ridge", but he'd never been there with a girl. His head was exploding with conflicted expectation. The drive took half an hour along a dark lonely road, and they hardly spoke while Stacey played with the radio. There was a full moon.

Exiting the road onto a dirt path, the Chevy bounced across ruts and grooves angling uphill through the forest. Nearing the top, the trees opened to a grassy knoll about a quarter mile square. They were the only people there as Peter parked facing the moon. It was breathtaking.

He turned off the ignition, stopping the radio. They both listened to the breeze blowing across his convertible top. Stacey was sitting at his side with her head tilted, looking through the windshield at the evening sky. "It's beautiful," she said breaking the silence.

"Yeah, I sent a message to God asking him for this night." Pleased with his response, Peter wasn't sure what to do next. he'd never parked with a girl before. After a few still moments, he ventured ahead by stretching his right arm over her shoulders.

She nestled closer saying, "It's chilly up here."

"Do you want me to start the engine and heater?"

"No, that's not what I need to be warm." She lifted her face toward him, inviting his lips to her. He hesitated then kissed her passionately for several minutes. He twisted behind the steering wheel, straining his back muscles. He knew it was uncomfortable for her too, but did not want to lose the intimacy of the moment. With his contorted muscles straining, sweat began forming on his forehead. Stacey said in a whisper "Maybe we would be more comfortable in the back seat."

"In the back seat?"

"Sure silly, that steering wheel has you all scrunched up; you should be more comfortable. Let's get in back."

"Okay." Still unsure of himself, he opened his door and rushed around the front of the car stumbling on the uneven turf. Before he could open the passenger door, she had crawled over the seat into the back.

"Fooled ya," she giggled

He pushed past the front seat and climbed back with her. He was nervous, without any clue about what to do next. Stacey took charge. She was sitting with her back against the driver side with her legs outstretched on the seat. Peter tried to avoid sitting on her legs while slanting forward to resume kissing her, when she said "Okay Peter, you need to get comfy and the seat isn't wide enough for you to lie beside me. Come on, you can put one leg over mine."

He took a breath, terrified, but Stacey was calm as he lay half on top of her. In the dark, he could only imagine her dress high on her thighs as she relaxed under his weight. He was shaking with desire, but too scared to do anything. He could not initiate anything further. Stacey seemed totally relaxed softly saying, "Peter, I know I can trust you and we're in love. I want you to have me tonight."

"I do love you with all my heart. I won't hurt you or do anything you don't want. I promise."

They kissed again, long, lingering and wet. Their tongues played together by mimicking the act of lovemaking they knew was coming. Stacey was equally inexperienced, but she was much calmer than Peter. As they embraced, she lowered her right hand along his back, following his strong physique around his belt line, as their pulses raced.

For the next hour, the young lovers explored sex for the first time. As it ended, their heart rates slowed and the clamminess of their skin began to chill. "We better get dressed" she said, as he looked at her through dreary love-struck eyes.

"Right" was all he could say.

Giggling, Stacey pushed him away with her foot and started reassembling her clothes. She said "Thank you", while getting dressed. Peter moved outside in the moonlight to finish dressing. It was cold, but the backseat was too cramped for both of them. He decided to wait outside until she was finished.

When done, she crawled over the seat again. To his delight, she was sitting in the middle of the bench seat. As he climbed in the driver side, they embraced and kissed again. He felt that they could stay like this until sunrise; but both were fearful of restrictions by her parents. Starting the engine, he turned slowly in a circle, heading back toward town. She was leaning against his shoulder, and he knew there would be more sex between them.

The summer together passed quickly. They continued to have fun, sharing more than sex. They had been virgins together, discovering life's mystery, creating a private bond that would last forever.

At the end of the summer, neither believed they would never see each other again. Stacey moved to Virginia in late August to live with relatives while attending the University. She wanted to be veterinarian, which would mean at least eight years of education. Peter finished the last days of summer getting the pool ready to close for the season and preparing to leave for the Army. Alone at night, he felt glum; he'd been committed to the military before meeting Stacey.

They wrote letters and emails, and talked on the phone for a while; but over time, she found another boyfriend and the communications stopped. As years passed, Peter often reflected on that summer, and wondered how life would be different if he hadn't rushed to join the Army. Tonight, on the hilltop, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the evening. Nights like this were rare. The tepid air seemed to come from all directions, and the sky was clear with an incandescent moon, like Easter Ridge.

Peter went into the shed for his cot shortly after sunset. In the morning, he would walk to the clubhouse before dawn and take care of domestic needs. He would help open the kitchen in exchange for breakfast. Once night fell, the sounds of nature surrounded the shed. The soft rustle of the leaves in the gentle wind and the chirping crickets provided a quiet symphony of nature. He found it soothing, but there was always the fear of the bad dream. It did not come and he was asleep in minutes.

After midnight, something disturbed him, something familiar. As his mind awoke, he wasn't sure if he was dreaming or reconnecting with the real world. Noise penetrated the tin walls like a flashback. He nearly panicked, expecting to wake in the middle of another nightmare, but he wasn't asleep. Gunfire!

In the dark, he stepped into running shoes and slipped outside. The moonlight was intense, but it still took a moment to adjust his vision. On the hill, surrounded by brush, he was unsure where the sound came from. Then there was another shot and he had the bearing. It came from the fairway below, toward the clubhouse. More shots cracked at a deliberate rate. It was a small caliber weapon, probably a handgun, not a rifle. He moved quietly through the brush to get a clear view of the expanse below. Crouching, he saw someone two hundred yards away, midway across the sixteenth fairway between him and the clubhouse. The man was running away from the road toward the trees separating the sixteenth and seventeen fairways. He was losing equilibrium. Two men were running behind him. A few yards from the trees, the runner fell, unable to crawl. The gunmen reached him in seconds, shooting several more times.

Peter could not make out details in the moonlight, except the shooters were wearing business suits. Wind made the only sound he could hear. The shooters searched the victim and seemed to remove his wallet, then tossed it back. They then walked casually across the fairway to the road.

Peter moved down the slope, staying behind brush until reaching the bottom then ran to the trees leading toward the victim. From experience, he knew that the man was dead or nearly dead. He moved carefully along the tree line, watching the road. He wasn't worried about being shot at this range and could outrun anyone unfamiliar with the course. When he reached the victim, he could not tell how many times he was hit. His contorted posture affirmed that he was looking at a corpse, but Peter felt his neck anyway. No pulse. He moved back into concealment for several seconds, watching for motion by the road.

The parallel fairway was behind the trees, undulating toward the clubhouse. He needed to use the payphone. Running to the clubhouse, he checked the parking lot. His Ford Explorer was the only car in sight. There were no vehicles in the shadows. Houses were built along the river farther down the road, but none had windows facing the club. The cottages were oriented toward the river. A few had entry lights on, but it was unlikely that anyone would be up this early in the morning. The killers were gone.

He used his access code at the rear of the clubhouse, passing by the pro shop and locker rooms. he had no coins with him, but figured emergency calls would work anyway. Dialing, he was relieved to hear it ringing. A voice answered, "Nine one one, what is your emergency?"

"There's been a murder."

"Is anyone in immediate danger? What is your name? Where are you?"

"I only want to report that a man has been shot to death at the Cary Country Club and his body is on the sixteenth fairway opposite the Fox River frontage road, about 500 feet from the clubhouse." He hung up.

Heading back to his shed, he took a circuitous route using the trees and service trails for cover. It took five minutes to reach the shed.

From the hilltop, he saw police lights moving cautiously along the service road. Sirens blared as four more police cars arrived. They spent several minutes driving back and forth, slowly assessing the scene. Flashlights panned the area.

Hours later, as the first amber rays of daylight began breaking to the east, Peter was pondering his options when a police officer began coming up the path toward him, "Sir, can I talk to you?"

"Yes ma'am, what's going on down there?"

"There's been a murder, a shooting, which happened a few hours ago on the golf course, did you see anything?"

"I'm a pretty heavy sleeper, but something woke me up. It could have been a gun." It was a lame statement.

As she got closer, the Cary Police shoulder patch was readable. "Were you sleeping in the shed?"

"Kind of, they let me stay here while I'm working at the club."

"You live in a storage shed?"

"I don't need much, it's peaceful and the price is right."

Officer "Ruiz" pulled a notepad from her shirt pocket. "You say you heard gunshots during the night?"

"That's probably right."

"What time?"

"I don't have a clock."

Finally he said, "Look, let me start over." She concurred.

He told her everything he'd seen and about his actions. He admitted having made the emergency phone call, but assured her that the man was beyond help. he'd checked the victim's vital signs.

She recorded his name and asked to see some identification. She needed some way to contact him for further investigation. Peter had an expired Pennsylvania driver's license and a DD Form 214 discharge from the army. He explained that his license had been valid for thirty days after discharge, but that he'd failed to get it renewed. Soldiers were exempt from renewal when deployed in a war zone.

Ruiz called another officer to the shed. She seemed unsure about how to proceed. State Patrolman "Rodgers" came up the hill. It looked like every agency in the state was at the scene. Ruiz met Rodgers ten paces down the trail, and appeared to be asking his advice.

Coming up the hill, Rodgers asked, "Sir, you have no address and have been living in a tool shed?" Peter reiterated most of the story given to Ruiz. He ended by saying, "Look sir, Officer Ruiz has my information, and it won't change." Like Ruiz, Rodgers was hesitant about what to do next. He asked Peter to come with them down the hill.

Casino Man

Many hours earlier, Eric Curran had never felt more exuberant in his life. He could not imagine needing cocaine again. Wealth did that. Although it was nearly midnight when he landed at O'Hare, he was ready for the Monday trip to the office. He spent two days in Atlantic City gambling for stakes he'd only watched on cable television, and won! His new fortune had actually grown over the weekend through some uncanny luck. he'd always felt that he could beat the odds if he had enough money at play; it wasn't really luck, was it? His career was booming, and he was now enjoying his free time with his favorite pastime. As the plane taxied toward the terminal gate, he released the seatbelt and called the limousine service to pick him up.

Chicago has several limousine companies operating at both airports. The cost of luxury transport is about the same as parking for two days. Dozens of limousine services compete, and it's common for passengers to have accounts with their favorite services. The agencies were careful to assure timely convenience, without fare hassles or need to ask for directions. Eric lived in Cary, and used H&S limo service, which had always been reliable. H&S monitored flight schedules and had a car waiting when people arrived. He was arriving at terminal one, on United Express and had learned to make his call to H&S when exiting the plane, so that the car was waiting at the curb outside the terminal when he got there. He would be home in about an hour. Life was good.

One thing curious about H&S was that the drivers were all Russian. Often times, there were Cyrillic newspapers in the front seat. The tobacco odor was offensive, but the service was otherwise flawless. He found his car and driver at the outer parking island reserved for taxis.

Within minutes, he was dozing in the back seat. He'd rested on the plane and could sleep on the ride home. In the morning, he would catch the early express train and be in the office by 8:00, with no lingering effects of his weekend foray. Dreams came easily now that he was financially secure. Eric was concerned about appearances at work; and, as S.V.P./C.O.O. for MLC International, he'd more prestige than most men his age. The job did not interfere with his life outside of work. His father had built the business over thirty years and never taken a real vacation. The only drawback to his nepotistic role at the company was that his father kept his salary equivalent to the other managers. He would never really enjoy the value of the company until he inherited it.

His job gave him advantages of lifestyle. He enjoyed his small riverfront house, a cottage really, with his ski boat and recently-acquired Yamaha Jet Ski. He owned a showroom-condition 1997 Porsche Carrera-4 that never left the garage in winter, and a 2001 Chevy Blazer for routine driving. He generally drove the Blazer to work or took the train. He enjoyed the toys. Next year, he planned to join the country club and learn to play golf. He was within walking distance, living only a quarter mile past Cary Country Club at the end of the frontage road.

During the ride home, he dreamed of Cindy. Eric enjoyed the casinos for more than just gambling. Sex was available as a commodity if you could afford it. Between gambling venues, he could go to the casino lounge and order scotch whiskey, and have a female companion by the second drink. The fancy casinos attracted the most exquisite call girls. He favored the Taj Mahal. For the past several weekends, he made appointments with his favorite girl, "Cindy."

Cindy claimed to be an office manager in New York City, who only came to Atlantic City on weekends. To her, this wasn't whoring, since it wasn't her main line of work, and she was particular about the men she serviced. She said affection had to be real before she would submit.

Eric met Cindy Saturday night on his first gambling trip. He had not played well, and went to the bar to pout. He was only there a few minutes before she asked if he was alone. She sat next to him starting a casual conversation, and he was joyous over his incredible luck meeting a lovely young woman so easily. She was more straightforward than other women and asked him to buy her a drink, which the bartender had already poured. It was her overt nature that Eric liked initially about Cindy. It was business to her, and no commitments were expected.

Cindy looked more provocative than beautiful. She wore a leather miniskirt, displaying her long thin legs. Her raven hair fell straight down her back with bangs helping to shape her oval features. She was striking, and attracted the eye of every man in view. She oozed sex.

They engaged in small talk for several minutes, enough time for Cindy to gauge his income and temperament. After her drink was done, she suggested that they go to his room for some "recreation." Eric downed his whiskey and signed the bill charging the drinks to his room, with shaking hands. As they passed through the slot machines, people stared. Eric enjoyed the attention they created together, even if it was purely professional. Conversation was light and pointless.

When they got to his floor, he started rationalizing the fact that he was with a hooker. When they got to his door and he was attempting to swipe the key, Cindy snuggled behind him with her breasts brushing along his back. It took two tries to open the door. Once inside, she moved ahead of Eric and placed her purse on the bed saying, "Okay Eric, I need to explain the business side. I'm here for your sexual pleasure. I can do anything you like, and can try some things that could be new to you. I charge two hundred dollars for thirty minutes. If you want me to stay longer, my fee is two hundred for each increment. I only take cash."

He responded, "I don't think money is a problem. When do we start?"

It was apparent to her that he was inexperienced. "First, I'll use your bathroom to freshen up. Sometimes I shower, but only if you want me to spend the extra time. Then, we can go to the bed and start to play. If you want to disrobe at any time, that's up to you, we'll use a condom. Okay?"

He was so aroused by her candor that he could only shake his head as she began pulling her top off. She moved with a hint of coyness. She faced away from him while removing her bra, again feigning modesty. From his angle, he could see that her breasts were full.

Her skirt fell to the floor and she was wearing a burgundy thong with a small teddy bear tattoo on her left butt. She was unusually tall with athletic legs. She slowly removed her underwear, glancing at him with an impish smile. He was thoroughly aroused.

After folding everything on the chair, she walked past him into the bathroom. He remained motionless. As he watched her go by, he dropped his pants and shorts before removing his shirt. Oddly, he was conflicted about removing his socks. After a moment, he hopped from one foot to the other until completely naked. He felt awkward walking around, especially with a woman in his bath.

When she came out of the bath, Eric was helpless. Cindy took charge for the next hour. He was fully satisfied with the service. When he was completely exhausted, Cindy stood by the bed and then went back to the bathroom. Two minutes later she was dressing.

"You know Eric; you really know how to make a girl feel special."

Eric was flattered, "Wow, you really are special; I want to be with you again, often. How can we get together next time I'm in town? I plan to come next weekend."

"Well, that's easy, here's my card." Reaching into her purse, she presented a tasteful business card with her phone number. "If you call me, we can schedule our rendezvous. I'll work around anything to be with you, if I can."

Eric looked at the card and planned to enter her number in his iPhone immediately. "Okay, ah, how much do I owe you?"

"Well, it's been over an hour, so it's six hundred, as explained. Of course we can work off the rest of the second hour if you're ready."

"You know, I'll need to work out more to keep up with you. I'd be dead if we continued." Rolling naked off the bed, he went to his pants and opened his wallet. "Listen, I will call. You're fantastic. Here's seven hundred. I loved every minute of this."

She kissed him on the cheek, "Thank you, I'll be expecting to see you next week." With that, she gave him a smile and walked to the door, letting herself out.

For the next four weeks, Eric and Cindy repeated the process, with him becoming more adventurous each time. He found himself dreaming about her most days, and even considered proposing.

He was dreaming of last night with her during the ride home. The drive to Cary was familiar; he had taken this same excursion five times in the past six weeks. The twists, turns and railroad crossings were all in sequence and hardly disturbed his rest. As they entered Cary Township, the car turned off of US Route 14 and wound through a sequence of short streets reaching Country Club Road. His rest was about to end. The road to the club was narrow and unlit with gentle turns following the course of the river. It was less than a half-mile to Eric's house.

Traveling along the dark frontage road, he felt the car slowing then rumble as the right side tires left the pavement. They had not reached his house. He opened his eyes but it was dark. The headlights were off and the driver wasn't moving. While still disoriented, the rear door jerked open and an unseen man reached inside, pulling Eric roughly through the doorframe. He was unable to get footing in the gravel as he was thrust clear of the car. He saw the brute briefly before his door was shut and the interior lights went out. What he saw terrified him.

Eric was average height and worked out. He weighed 160 pounds. The man outside was older and had the bulk of a linebacker. Apprehension turned to panic when the driver appeared. Both men were facing him, but he could not see their faces in the shadows. They said something foreign as the first man reached into his coat. Terror overtook Eric and he bolted. He charged through the brush and small trees. He heard a loud bang, then another, as he tore forward, with his hands flailing, through the native growth. Rage carried him through the undergrowth toward the open space of a fairway. He heard more shots, but was gaining distance from his attackers. On the fairway, he had a running path to the trees beyond. His eyes were adjusting to moonlight conditions and he could see beyond the trees into another fairway. Physical conditioning gave him an advantage running from his older pursuers.

After reaching the fairway, his head began to feel light and vague. Searing pain was growing in his back and it felt like a hot rod was sticking through him. His chest was warm and damp. I'm shot! The first bullet had not missed; it had gone through him. Air and blood was escaping in spurts out of his chest. He clawed toward the trees. The world began swirling and he finally went down hard on the ground. He felt strangely awkward and could not push up on his hands and knees. He tried to crawl. Then there was nothing.

Search Warrant

After getting the search warrant, Luke and Angela coordinated with the Cary police to investigate Curran's house. It was late morning before they arrived in Cary. Along Country Club Road, most of the vacant property was covered with native prairie growth until they passed the club parking lot, where a row of cottages began. Curran had been shot less than half a mile away from his house. Angela was also planning to interview the witness who lived in the shed on the hill above the murder scene.

When they arrived at the scene, Officer Ruiz was waiting. She had patrolled the area all night. The US Attorney had arranged for a warrant with unlimited search authority. They approached the house with measured caution. No one appeared to be there, but they had to be careful. They circled the house looking for evidence of a break-in or anything linked to the crime. It appeared to be undisturbed.

The house was small and probably built as a summer cottage around the middle of the twentieth century. The clapboard was peeling in several places and roof shingles were curling up or broken. It looked like Curran led a carefree lifestyle. The nicest thing about Curran's property was the boat tied to the dock, a nineteen-foot inboard ski boat, and a Jet Ski on a trailer. The Fox River is popular with Chicago residents offering magnificent water recreation within convenient driving distance. The river feeds a chain of lakes that could handle thousands of boaters with ease.

They approached the front door slightly off center as trained at Quantico. Entries under warrant were particularly dangerous. They wanted to avoid stupid mistakes. Luke knocked on the door and announced their authority and warrant. Silence. They searched the front area by the door for a hidden key, but none was found. Getting a crowbar from his car, he forced the door open, prying near the lockset until the doorjamb splintered and broke. Inside, the first impression was that of a male living alone. After a cursory examination, Angela left them and walked to the clubhouse to speak with the only witness. Officer Ruiz stayed at the house. Both she and Luke wore latex gloves to protect forensic evidence. The house only had two rooms, so Luke took the living area and Ruiz took the bedroom.

Interview

Angela walked along the road to the clubhouse, and entered by the pro shop. Although not a golfer, the pro shop appeared smaller than she had expected, and there was only one man in the place. She asked to speak to Peter Shields and identified herself as an FBI agent. He lifted a walky-talky phone from the counter, and pressed the talk button, "Steve, come in."

Several seconds later the phone beeped and a voice said, "Go ahead Lyle."

"Steve, there's a FBI lady here to speak with Peter."

"Okay Lyle, I'll go over to eight and have Peter come in."

"Okay Steve."

Lyle explained that it would be a few minutes before Peter would be coming in, and suggested that she would probably be more comfortable talking to him in the vacant dining room on the floor above.

Angela thanked him and walked outside, and up the stairs to the open veranda by the bar. She was alone except for the bartender, Cheryl, who came from the kitchen moments later. Cheryl offered her a drink and Angela asked for ice water. Since FBI agents do not wear badges, and she wasn't dressed for golf, Cheryl asked if she was waiting for someone. Angela answered that she was waiting for Peter Shields, which got a response immediately, "Oh, you must be a reporter or a law officer."

Angela did not have the patience for probing saying only "FBI", and walked outside onto the veranda. She was alone and could smell freshly mowed grass and watched the crews at work. The ground crew had to be large to keep the course pristine, and Cary was a beautiful golf course from what she could see.

Sipping the water at the banister overlooking the eighteenth green, she saw a golf cart coming along the fairway toward the clubhouse with two people aboard. The cart stopped opposite the veranda and both men walked toward her. The older man said, "Hello, you must be the FBI agent, I'm Steve Owens. This fellow is Peter Shields."

Steve was in his mid-fifties, paunchy, with thin white hair on both sides of his otherwise bald head that had seen too much sun. Peter by contrast was tall, muscular and neatly groomed. She guessed his age to be early thirties. She said politely, "Thank you Mr. Owens, if you two don't mind, I'd like to talk to Mr. Shields alone for a few minutes."

Steve said, "Okay, hey, no problem, Peter's quite the celebrity around here. Take all the time you need."

Steve walked away and Peter suggested that they sit on the veranda where there were no other people nearby.

She started, "Mr. Shields, I know you've been questioned about the murder Sunday night, but the FBI is interested. Do you mind talking to me"?

"No, but call me Peter".

"Okay, Peter, why don't you just tell me what you saw"?

Angela had taken copious notes after several minutes of dialogue and was ready to excuse him so she could rejoin Luke down the street, but Peter was curious, "Agent Carr, or Kerr, sorry, I'm pretty lame with names the first greeting or two. If you don't mind, I have some questions for you." Her look told him she was waiting.

"Since you're a federal agent, I'm guessing you suspect organized crime?"

Angela replied, "Certain details make us interested."

"Okay, the fed doesn't investigate most simple murders. Local cops handle these. So, I would appreciate it if you can tell me what I may be involved in. Bystander or not, my name's in a couple reports."

"All right, my partner and I are part of the Organized Crime Task Force. We're investigating possible mob connections to the crime. We're also part of the Terrorist Task Force." She had violated protocol and wished she could retract her statement. She could see why rookie agents were not sent alone on interviews, but she wasn't going to blame Luke.

"I don't get the connection?"

She did not say more, just stood and excused herself.

The Search

After two hours at Curran's place, their search was ending, and Angela had returned from her meeting. She and Ruiz exchanged observations about Shields' lifestyle.

The most noticeable feature of the house was its lack of a phone. The place was awash with modern electronics. Evidence was organized in a single storage box containing cell phone bills and files taken from a desk drawer. Curran had not had a mobile phone on him, and none was found at the crime scene. Two cars were parked in the garage, but neither had a phone. They would be towed to the police impound lot.

Returning downtown, Angela and Luke theorized about the phone. Records are accessible by search warrant, and the process usually took a couple days even with persistence. Apparently, a couple days were important to someone.

The agents took the evidence to a small conference room to catalogue and examine it, before entering it in the evidence storage room, or sending it to the lab. They checked the phone bills and credit card receipts. They also had records of an account at Bank of America. His salary was deposited direct to the bank twice monthly, and consumed by bills in between. Credit card and phone bills told a story. Mr. Curran had taken trips to Atlantic City almost every weekend for two months. The credit card details included the flight numbers. He always flew United following the same pattern; late departure on Friday from O'Hare, and late night return on Sunday. Curran apparently liked casinos, and he did not make enough income to cover these excursions.

Casinos invite vice and corruption. Curran was killed about the time he would be returning home.

The next step would be to collect Curran's office files. Angela contacted the US Attorney for a warrant to search and seize his files and computer at work. Even if the crime was gambling related, the FBI would look for racketeering implications.

Freight Company

Fortunately, one of the ASAC's on staff was also a federal magistrate and could issue search warrants in an urgent situation. Luke drove while Angela navigated to Hoffman Estates to see Michael Curran, the President, CEO, and owner, of MLC International. Normally, the FBI would not call ahead and alert people when a search and seizure warrant was to be executed. In this case, since Michael Curran's son had been murdered, the agents hoped Michael would be willing to answer questions.

The building was located in an industrial section of town. A five-bay loading dock covered most of the front and there were several trucks being unloaded, or waiting for space at the dock. The office door was located at the extreme left.

The front half of the office was open with about a dozen old desks. Power and network wires came though the acoustic ceiling, creating an appearance of temporary workspace, although it had probably looked the same for years. A desk was positioned immediately inside the door with a young lady sitting there to meet them.

"Can I help you?"

Luke responded, "Hello, we're with the FBI, is Michael Curran available"?

"I'm Mike Curran," came the response from one of the offices at the back. The man walked through the door with stoop-shoulders and pain in his expression. He was probably in his late fifties, but looked ten years older with his sallow complexion, and emaciated physique. He walked to the front of the office space stopping a few feet away.

"Mr. Curran, I'm Luke Gallagher and this is Angela Kerr, we're Agents with the FBI. Is there someplace we can talk privately?" There were no handshakes.

Without responding, Curran turned and walked back to his office with both agents following. He closed the door behind them. Privacy in a small office area was difficult with thin walls and shared ventilation ductwork. "Mr. Curran...first of all, we would like to say that we're very sorry for your loss, and will try not to burden you unnecessarily," said Luke. As the junior agent, Angela wasn't eager to do the talking.

"Thank you. Are you in charge of finding out who killed Eric?" Curran replied.

Luke said, "Technically, that falls in the Cary Police jurisdiction, but the FBI is providing technical support. We're investigating the motives behind the crime. The circumstance of this tragedy has professional overtones, which could imply federal jurisdiction. We're just gathering facts at this time." He was trying to be delicate.

Curran said, "Okay, what can I do for you?"

"Thank you sir. We are trying to understand more about Eric, his work, his time outside the office, associates, anything that can help shed light on motive."

"What do you want to know?"

Angela spoke up, "Mr. Curran, did your son have any serious enemies, or dangerous associations that you know of?"

"No, Eric was good-natured and didn't have any romantic tie ups that I know about. He was a hard worker with a good job, which probably made him attractive to young ladies. But, I don't know of anything serious going on. My wife may know more, but I'd like to ask you not to bother her right know, she's grieving terribly."

"We hope to minimize any further pain Mr. Curran. Did Eric have any business dealings that were tenuous?" Angela queried.

"Well, I'm not sure what that means, but, not really, most of our business is with companies that we know pretty good. We're a service company and give good service, or clients go away. There are lotsa freight companies around the airport."

Angela did not know how to be delicate asking, "Mr. Curran, from our preliminary investigation, Eric has been traveling to Newark, almost every weekend. Did Eric have any problems with gambling?"

Angela started to continue, but Luke interjected, "Particularly high-stakes gambling that might have led to credit problems?"

"I don't think so. He was away most weekends, but we thought he might have a secret girlfriend. He was usually happy on Mondays, but his mother and I didn't know for sure where he was going. Maybe, I should have asked."

Luke said, "Was Eric in financial difficulty?"

Curran responded, "No, not that I know about. He only had to come to me if he was. If he had gotten into some kind of loan shark deal, he gave no indication."

Angela blurted, "Mr. Curran, do you object to us asking questions to others in the office? We'll need some place private."

"I guess not. You can use Eric's office; I don't want to go in there."

Luke responded, "That would be fine. We'll need a list of your employees, identifying any that were disciplined or terminated in the past six months. Also, we would like to go through Eric's office and computer for possible leads. We brought a warrant, standard procedure, but I hope you will cooperate with us without the formality."

Curran said, "Sure, okay, if it will help find out why this happened."

For the rest of the day they questioned other people in the office. They filled boxes with desk files and put them in the trunk of the car along with Eric's computer. He did not have a printer in his office and nothing in his trashcan. They also got copies of the company phone records, employee roster and Eric's expense reports. They thanked Mr. Curran and said they might need to come back. Curran agreed to cooperate.

On the way back to the office, they agreed to work late and stopped by the Panda House for take-out oriental food.

Evidence

After parking in the federal building, Luke went up to the office to get something to help move the evidence. He returned with a handcart that allowed them to stack the boxes and the computer about four feet high. At the fifth floor, the materials were taken to a small conference room.

Food was the next order of the day. Luke was also able to find two bottled waters in their office refrigerator. They ate, and began organizing information. Angela reviewed the updated report from Ruiz, while Luke started looking through financial records.

As the evening progressed, they did not speak ten words. At about nine o'clock, Luke suggested that they quit and put a note on the door not to disturb the evidence. They discussed their findings and planned activities for the next day. When Angela mentioned that Ruiz had interviewed some of the neighbors of the Victim, she noted that he wasn't seen, and his vehicles never moved on weekends lately. His boats had not been used for weeks. No one noticed him at all. They would compare flight schedules with phone records in the morning. Angela offered to drop him at the METRA station.

The Puzzle

On the morning of the third day following Curran's murder, both agents were in the office early, continuing to look at the evidence. This was the stage Luke enjoyed the most, piecing the puzzle together. Angela was pouring through records too. They were able to see a pattern of communications linked to air travel. Within a few minutes of landing from his weekend excursions, Eric always called the same number, which Luke called from his desk phone.

Someone answered, "Hello, H&S limousine service, how can I help you?" The voice was using broken English, and had an eastern European accent.

Luke identified himself. "This is Agent Luke Gallagher at the FBI, who am I speaking to?"

After a pause, the English got a little poorer. "My name is Boris."

Luke said, "Okay Boris, we are investigating phone numbers dialed by someone, and would like to know what records you keep?"

"We record travel reservations," was the reply.

Luke inquired, "How long do you keep the records?"

"We delete record each day."

Luke inquired, "Do you keep other records of the passengers or fares collected?"

"We record fares, yes, not passenger."

Luke said, "I need to verify that a passenger was transported by your service very late last Sunday night from O'Hare to Cary Illinois."

Boris sounded edgy, "I cannot give such information, which is not kept."

"Look, I can get a warrant and seize all your records and computers, if necessary. If you don't have the information, we'll confirm that when we examine everything."

Boris hesitated before saying, "I don' want no trouble. What is your name again? Do you have badge number?" Luke gave Boris his identification information.

Boris seemed to be cooperating; "When you say was time and destination?"

Luke responded, "Sunday night, United Airlines terminal, flight 695. It was scheduled to arrive at 9:35PM, but was delayed. It arrived at the gate around 11:45PM. A passenger, Mr. Curran, called your number around that time."

"What do you want to know?"

Luke asked, "Did you pick up Mr. Curran and drive him home?"

The answer was, "We pick up passenger."

"Was it Curran and did you drive him home?"

Boris answered, "We don't have record of name, but we do pick up at United for this flight."

"I thought you erased all records each day?" Luke retorted.

Boris was sounding weary when he said, "We do! Sunday night is different."

"Please, tell me about it."

"Sunday, our driver Rustoff Libo is taking passenger from airport. We have no contact from him after that. We have no driver and no car."

"Have you reported this to the police?" Luke anticipated the answer. Eastern Europeans, especially Russians, were skeptical of law officers in general and preferred to handle such matters through other means. The FBI had evidence that the Russian mafia had infiltrated many of the livery services in several US cities, including Chicago. With the city's history of corruption, it was relatively easy for organized crime to exist under the veil of legitimate business licenses.

"No, we think Rustoff took trip away."

Luke asked for the vehicle identification and license number. He would report it to the Chicago and Cary police.

He concluded, "Thank you Boris, you have been helpful," and hung up.

When he returned to the conference room, he told Angela all the details of his discussion with Boris, if that was his real name.

They would need the current cell phone records to confirm Curran had called H&S Sunday night. The ability to prove anything was hampered without current cell phone records, or the car.

According to the eyewitness report, there were two assailants. At least there were two individuals present with only one of them doing the shooting. Since limo drivers dressed in business suits, it was beginning to seem that the driver was, at least, present at the murder. Since the killing occurred on the only desolate stretch of the road heading toward Curran's home, he might have felt relaxed until the last moments of his life. The time of the shooting was about right for the travel time from O'Hare, given the late flight. The answer seemed to swirl back again to a preplanned event.

Angela listened patiently while Luke went through his mental exercises. She had graduated from the academy only recently, and was conditioned against speculation and was relieved to hear a more senior agent using his creative powers. She decided to insert some speculation of her own. "Something stands out in the evidence that we should discuss. The tabular listings on his cell phone records go back for at least twelve months. Without electronic records, it's hard to do any statistics, but I was looking for anything that stood out as a pattern, or unusual. Curran's business requires frequent overseas calls, so that's not unusual; there are a lot of country codes and city codes common to all the records. But a little over two months ago, a new number started showing up frequently. It caught my attention because the numbers were so different. The number's always the same 011-995-32-334-9931, it's in T'bilisi, Georgia."

He said, "Okay, that's interesting. Georgia is part of what we used to call the Soviet Union. It's a center for Russian mafia activity. It's also on the Black Sea, which is a smuggling route through the Bosporus Strait in Istanbul. It's well known; the FBI tries to monitor traffic that might end up in the US."

He continued, "Of course most of the stuff is legit."

Angela said, "Yeah, but it does seem to have some sort of correlation with his weekend patterns."

Luke replied that it was time to call Michael Curran to clear up the matter.

He dialed MLC. After being told that Curran had gone home, he dialed Curran's home phone number taken during their earlier interview. After four rings, "Hello" a woman said in a faltering voice.

Luke said, "Is Michael Curran there please ma'am?"

"Who's calling?"

"Agent Luke Gallagher of the FBI."

Her voice trailed away saying, "Just a minute."

Curran's voice was familiar, "Hello, this is Mike Curran."

"Mr. Curran, this is Luke Gallagher. I'm sorry to bother you again, but we've got a question about Eric's agenda in the past few months that we'd like to clear up to save time, if you don't mind."

Curran, "What do you mean agenda?"

Luke responded, "In mid-May, Eric made a series of international phone calls to Georgia. Was this related to his job?"

After a pause, Curran said, "Um, I don't remember anything specific, but he was the operations manager and could have been working with a new client. If it's important, I can have one of our internal agents check shipments from Georgia. Will this help find the person responsible for his murder?"

"Mr. Curran, we wouldn't be bothering you at a time like this if we didn't need the information. We have to eliminate a lot of possibilities. It would be helpful if we could have someone search the records."

Curran said, "All right, I'll make a call down there. Do you want to have someone call you back or, how do you want to get this information?"

"If you don't mind, we would like to come to the company tomorrow." Luke knew this sounded like a backhanded effort to look for shipping fraud.

Curran said, "I don't care. If that's what you want to do, I won't stop you." It could be difficult to get a warrant for this information simply based on a phone record, but Curran was distraught and did not exhibit any resistance.

Luke said, "All right, please let them know that we would like to stop in tomorrow morning. Thank you Mr. Curran, this may be important."

Almost forgetting, Luke added, "Ah, Mr. Curran, did Michael like to gamble? I'm sorry if that's indelicate, it's just another angle we need to understand."

Curran detested talking about Eric outside the family, "Um, you mean like in Vegas?"

"Yes."

"I don't know." Curran sounded frustrated and tired. "Maybe, but he didn't make enough money to do too much. His monthly expenses, the cars and boats, and that shack, they kept him pretty poor."

Luke said, "Okay, thanks. Sorry, I had to ask these questions."

When the call ended, he went back to the room where Angela had some more news. She had called the number in Georgia, which resulted in a recording in a foreign language that she assumed meant the number was incorrect or disconnected.

Background Check

The interview with Peter Shields left Angela wondering about him. Using the secure-access National Crime Information Center (NCIC) database, she searched for any records under Shields' name. When no records were found, she queried the Defense Department. To overcome limitations imposed by the Freedom of Information Act and the Privacy Act of 1974, she had a federal search warrant prepared and submitted with a Government Standard Form 180, "Request Pertaining to Military Records." Like most Government processes, it was a lot of work to fill out the online form and to obtain the warrant. In doing so, she identified him as a "Person of interest" in a federal crime investigation.

Most of the day was spent preparing the warrant and having it approved. She indicated that the need was "Urgent." After submitting the request online, she used the phone inquiry number to begin expediting a response. She was transferred to four different offices in the Pentagon before locating the correct "Desk."

When the phone range at the Pentagon, a person answered, "Personnel records."

"Yes, this is Agent Angela Kerr of the FBI in Chicago, I have submitted an urgent request for the military record on a man we are interviewing in a federal case."

"Ma'am, this is Major Jeff Hostetler, did you happen to fill out any paperwork?"

"Yes Major, I sent in an SF180 with a warrant on the Internet."

"Okay, hold on a minute. I'm looking through our requests now. Okay, yep, I've got it. Ah, let me see what we have. Yep, we have a record on the man, but it's classified."

"Classified? What does that mean?"

"Usually, it doesn't mean too much. We just need to expunge any classified material, and require it to be managed under your facility clearance. Generally, there really isn't very much classified in these records. But, this record is different than any I've seen before. The whole thing is under "special access" control by the DA (Department of the Army), office of Army Intelligence. I don't think we have any of his records in this office."

Angela was mildly frustrated. "Then, what do I do?"

"Ma'am, this is really an abnormal situation. I'll need to do some phone work to put you in touch with the right people. Please let me have your number and I'll get an answer."

Angela intentionally sounding exasperated, "Okay, here's my info, but please try to move this along, it's important." She provided her office and cellular numbers, and concluded the call. Although she was frustrated, Peter Shields also intrigued her. Who was he?

Shipping Records

After another late night, they decided to meet in the morning at MLC International. The drive to the company was about equal distance for Luke and Angela, so they agreed that it was more convenient to drive there separately in the morning. They agreed to rendezvous at 9:00AM at the company.

Luke was pleased and a little surprised that she had arrived before him when he was five minutes early. She even had two Starbucks. This agent would go far in the Bureau. "Thanks," he said. They did not have time to drink much of the coffee before going into the office.

They went through the front door again and stopped in front of the receptionist. From the center of the bullpen, a sandy-haired man in his early 50's stood when they entered, and gestured while speaking, "Hello agents, Mr. Curran asked me to work with you. My name is Henry Miller, but call me Hank."

"Hank, I'm Luke Gallagher and this is Angela Kerr, we're both Agents with the FBI."

Hank said, "Yep, that's what Mike said. Mike said you wanted to know about any business we had with Georgia in Eastern Europe."

Luke clarified, "Yes, well, we have some specific timeframes in mind, and would like to check contact information with companies you're dealing with."

"I guess this has to do with Eric?"

Luke answered, "It's part of the investigation, yes."

"Okay, shoot; what do you want to know?"

"We'd like to see the accounts of all Georgian shipments in the last year." Angela spoke, preempting Luke a little, but he was pleased with her assertiveness.

Hank wasn't sitting at his computer terminal, just standing facing them with his hands in his pockets. "This is really simple, we haven't had any freight from Georgia since I joined the company, that was over five years ago."

Angela again, "Can you search your database for customer contact information based on a phone number?"

"Yep, our software is the best, it's approved by Customs. Heck, we get feds in here all the time and they like our system. Having been around freight handlin' my whole life, you get used to folks snooping around. Always looking for smuggling you know, but we're clean!"

Angela went on looking at the computer display, hoping this wouldn't be a long day; Hank seemed to enjoy the attention. She gave him the phone number in Georgia and asked him to search the database. The search included all accounts, regardless of transaction years.

Hank said, "Nope, nothing even close. Is this a number from Georgia? You know, I still can't get used to business with the Commies. They're gonna always be bad guys to me." Hank was apparently fishing for a reaction.

Angela said, "Thank you Mr. ah, Hank, that's about all we need from the records. I'll need some more information about you then we'll be on our way." She was happy to close out the meeting with just a few notes about identification and contact information.

The coffee was cold when they left the company to drive downtown.

Motive

Luke and Angela arrived at the federal building late in the morning and there was a message on Luke's desk that Sam Lee wanted to see him as soon as he arrived. Luke asked Angela to accompany him to the SAC's office. Sam would routinely want to get progress reports from his staff. This way, he could manage resources and make sure his budget was being used most effectively to serve the people. He also did not want to be embarrassed or blindsided if some investigation reached the press. Sam wasn't gun-shy about allowing his agents to stretch their abilities.

Sam Lee was of average height with an upright stocky build. One lingering remnant of his military service was his short cropped gray "white walled" haircut. He was born in Lafayette, Louisiana in 1947 where his father managed the local John Deere farm equipment franchise. Following high school graduation, Sam joined the Marine Corps for four years. After basic training, he was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 1st Marines were he served two tours of duty in Vietnam. He was engaged in intense combat at the battle for Hue City, Vietnam, in January and February 1968, the longest and bloodiest battle of the war. He was severely wounded and received a medical discharge from the Marines in 1970, having been awarded the Bronze Star, with combat "V", and Purple Heart medals. After three months of treatment and rehabilitation at the VA hospital in Baton Rouge, LA, he made a complete recovery from his wounds.

Following his release from the hospital and military service, Sam lived with his parents and worked at his father's store for a while, saving money to attend college. He went to night school at the local junior college for three years, then enrolled full time at the University of Alabama on the GI bill, receiving his Bachelor of Arts degree in 1977. In college, he decided that he wanted a career in the Justice Department and was accepted into law school. He finished his JD degree at the University of Virginia in 1981 and was admitted to the Virginia Bar that same year. He joined the Federal Bureau of Investigation in October, 1981. He served in field offices in Alexandria, Virginia; Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; Des Moines, Iowa; and the FBI Training Center in Quantico, Virginia. In 1995, Sam was assigned to support war crime investigations following the Bosnian war, resulting in several international indictments. During this period, he investigated crimes for some of the most atrocious human cruelty he could imagine.

Returning from Bosnia in 1996, agent Lee was assigned to the Kansas City office, where his performance earned him a promotion to field supervisor. He served at FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C. in 1998 before transferring to the Training and Inspection Division at FBI Headquarters and becoming an Inspector. In December 2000, he was promoted to Special Agent in Charge of the Chicago office.

Sam had a genuine sincerity and kindly nature that attracted people to him. Some would call it charisma, although he wasn't particularly outgoing and exhibited no egocentric behavior. He enjoyed working with younger agents, helping them advance in their careers. In most social environments, he would be considered reserved and shy, but in the office, he asserted total command of the operation.

After entering Sam's office and being seated, Luke gave an oral report of their four-day-old investigation and their assumptions thus far that it could lead to violation of RICO or smuggling laws. He was an agent just long enough to sense that something worth federal investigation had occurred. Lee was satisfied, they'd made acceptable progress and he agreed with Luke's judgment. Actually, he was fond of both agents and saw their future potential with the Bureau.

The two agents ordered a pizza to be delivered for lunch, vegetarian, as a compromise. Two more water bottles were pilfered, but Angela left a note on the fridge that she would supply a case as repayment. Then they began systematically pouring through files and records.

In the midst of eating lunch, Angela's cell phone rang, "Hello, this is Angela."

A female voice said, "Agent Kerr?

"Yes."

"Agent Kerr, this is Rachael Aston from the Defense Department. I believe you requested information about an Army officer, Peter Shields. Is that correct?"

Angela responded, "Yes, we're engaged in an investigation in Chicago and Mr. Shields is a person of interest."

Aston asked, "Is he suspected of a crime?"

"No, he's just one of several people involved as a witness and I'm trying to get background information on him."

Aston said, "Hum, okay, look, I technically have custody of certain special military files of a highly classified nature. I haven't read Mr. Shields's file, nor do I have a "need-to-know" authorization currently. Is there anything you can tell me that would make this of vital national interest?"

Angela said, "Look Ms. Aston, this is incredible. Is the Defense Department refusing to cooperate with the FBI?"

"Certainly not agent Kerr, but this is highly unusual. We don't have more than a handful of classified personnel records. It's a pain for all involved, including Mr. Shields. Even if he authorized it, we could not release the file to you. It's not about privacy, it's about security."

Angela said, "Okay, what do I have to do?"

"I'm afraid it's more red tape. As I said, even I can't pull his record without authorization, for which there are few circumstances that would allow it. One would be if he were a suspect in a federal crime, which you would submit through the Justice department to the Secretary of Defense. Sorry, I'm not trying to be difficult, but this file seems to contain very sensitive information."

Angela said, "Okay, thanks for your help, it looks like a dead end for now."

"Sorry" and the phone went dead.

Angela was no less curious about Mr. Shields, but she wasn't going to get any more information unless they labeled him as a suspect.

She turned back to the evidence. Curran's phone record showed calls to Georgia starting around the same time as his weekend travel. Mike Curran, and Eric's co-workers knew nothing about the calls or his trips. Angela got their technical support people to open Eric's computer files. Since Eric was also the most computer-literate person at MLC, he was in charge of their network system. No one at MLC knew Eric's passwords, which prevented Angela from opening the computer files. Michael Curran had given his permission to take the files and the computer without the search warrant.

Examining the charge card bills was easier for Luke because they were in printed form. Eric bought everything on his credit card and arranged for automatic payment from his payroll account. Even small purchases at the grocery store were charged. The last few month's expenditures were the most interesting.

Luke spent an hour entering transactions for three months, over three hundred lines, into an Excel spread sheet. Eric had been a master at balancing paychecks against outflow. The statements showed zero payment balance each month. But the data also showed larger charges each month than his paychecks covered.

On a duplicate worksheet, Luke separated out all the weekend charges including hotel and transportation expenses along with some sizable ATM cash advances. The result created more suspicion. When the expense level was returned to the same relative rate as it had been before the travels began, Eric's paycheck inflow covered his charge card expenses, with little to spare. He then copied another spreadsheet and deleted all charges not related to the weekend, and he also eliminated the pay deposits. The data became even more interesting. Eric's weekend trips and corresponding cash transfers into his account were worth more than his normal income. He wasn't financing his weekends with take-home pay.

Luke was able to correlate information to one gambling resort he could identify, possibly two. Eric was living high, and his ATM withdrawals were at the limit every day, Friday through Sunday. Angela interrupted his concentration. "Some of Eric's email messages appear in some kind of code. I'm putting these into a separate file, so our lab can look at them. There are references to position changes and cash flow; things that sound like metaphors for money."

"Okay, get the e-file to Quantico, and let our own cyber lab guys take a look."

Luke was able to get the phone number of the main Casino off the Internet. He wanted copies of all receipts from Curran's stay, and any record of earnings reportable to the IRS. His request took several transfers to different people at the hotel. When he finally got someone in charge, he was curtly told that they wouldn't release any information, particularly over the phone, unless there was a court order. Luke told the person, Ms. Caruso, that a warrant would be served and someone from the FBI would come to her location. He requested that she have the information copied before then, to save time in a major investigation. She asked him to have them contact her personally when they arrived, and provided her direct phone number.

He had to complete a Support Requested form and send it via email to their closest field office, which was Newark, NJ. He indicated "urgent" need, and checked a box for a warrant. To get the warrant required case information adequate to convince a judge. The whole process took about twenty minutes.

In the morning, they would visit Bank of America to find out anything they could about the sources of non-payroll funds transferred into Eric's credit account. Late Thursday night, they secured the files and departed.

Money Trail

The following morning, there was nothing received yet from their field requests, so they headed to the bank. Angela did an online search, and there was a main office on 18th Street, a few blocks away. They decided to walk there, through the University of Illinois campus, which took about fifteen minutes.

Inside the bank, a door greeter led them to a private office where the branch manager, Jerry Flynn, joined them almost immediately. After introductions, Luke explained their purpose, but Flynn was hesitant to provide information. Luke explained that the sole client on the account was the victim in a murder investigation. He could get a court order, but hoped they could avoid a formal search of bank records. Flynn agreed.

Flynn turned a computer monitor so they could see Curran's account. Angela took notes, including his social security number and contact information. Flynn was able to manipulate screens so fast it was hard to follow. He was able to isolate all deposits quickly. Besides his payroll direct deposit and occasional checks for tax refunds, rebates, etc., the information they were seeking started showing up. Eric had opened another account ten months earlier. He'd used his initials and a PO Box. This account was only set up for on-line transactions, no credit cards or checks. It had an initial deposit of one hundred thousand dollars made in August. Another deposit of four hundred thousand followed in January with five hundred thousand more in May. One million dollars.

All the withdrawals were by wire transfer to Curran's main bank account. They thanked Flynn, who printed copies of the information they requested. On the way back to the office, they stopped at the student union for a quick lunch. Their excitement was subdued. Luke enjoyed working with Angela. She was professional and seemed to have good instincts. He was also beginning to enjoy her company. He tried to fight the urge to consider her a person of personal interest, but it was beginning to grow on him. She did not seem interested in him.

Returning to the office after lunch, Luke had received a telefax message from the Newark office. The header on the fax paper indicated it had been sent directly from the casino in Atlantic City. There were copies of lodging expenses and one entry indicating casino earnings of almost fifteen thousand dollars. The bills covered expenses for six weekends and evidence of high-stakes gambling. Luke went to his cubicle to enter it into the cash-flow worksheet he'd started earlier to continue correlating deposits with Curran's ATM withdrawal and transfer records. Angela started looking at the timing of account activity.

Later in the afternoon, they got a response from Quantico's laboratory regarding Eric's email account. The gist of the report said that the syntax and structure of the messages sent by Angela implied smuggling of one large shipment and payment milestones for aiding illegal transportation. Payment was linked to a single event. The report also traced the origin of the incoming messages. Most came from the former Soviet State, Georgia. He called the SAC who then called an urgent meeting of all ASACs with him, and FBI agents Gallagher and Kerr.

Luke went to the evidence room and told Angela to get ready. When the meeting assembled, Lee explained the reason for the impromptu session, and then asked Luke to take over.

"Okay, we have been involved in a case this week, which has led to the possibility that we may have uncovered a shipment of weapons. It originated in the former Soviet Union; I'm concerned it could be a WMD (weapon of mass destruction). We have no specific proof, so I appreciate the opportunity to share with you the things we have learned thus far."

The five ASACs and Sam were silent as Luke gave a brief overview of the case. The bulk of the theory centered on geographic and monetary considerations. Other theories such as drugs and contraband did not fit the evidence. No one in the room was going to seriously question Luke's presentation. Other theories were offered to test his logic and resolve, and to be prepared when higher-echelon authorities got involved. The SAC assigned action items to various participants. Follow-up meetings could be called as frequently as needed.

Limo and Driver

Returning to his desk, Luke retrieved a telephone voicemail message left by Bruno at the limousine company. The car and driver had been found, incinerated. Returning the call, he learned that the vehicle had been located in a remote part of McHenry County, with someone inside who was yet to be identified. The State Police were investigating. Luke then called Patrolman Rodgers. He had official contacts within the State Police, but he knew Rodgers would be eager to help.

Rodgers wasn't on duty yet, so Luke called his cell phone, which went to voicemail. He left a message about the limo and asked that Rodgers call him as soon as possible. He wanted to be tuned into whatever was discovered examining the vehicle. He provided the missing driver's information from the limousine company. After making the call, he wanted to talk to Angela. Killing the limo driver was excessive.

Night Watchman

Piecing together local news accounts of the shooting, there were references to a witness, a night watchman at the country club.

Friday morning, a man dressed as a golfer was sitting at the clubhouse bar. He looked about fifty with short gray hair and a large muscular frame, although it was heavily laden with a layer of fat. He wasn't attractive and didn't seem to care. He wore loose gray trousers with a web belt and a striped polo shirt. The bar had few patrons on weekdays and he appeared to be waiting for friends before tee time, nothing unusual. The manager, Cheryl, was the only person on duty. She filled his drink order, a diet coke. He made a comment about the news reports that someone was killed on the golf course. This inspired her and she described the story as if it was the most exciting and scary thing ever to happen in Cary Township, which it was.

The man spoke with a detectible European accent, "I understand it happened right here at the club. Did it happen here, at the clubhouse?"

"Oh, heavens no. It was out there." She pointed through the picture windows over the veranda toward the fairways, "To the right, just past the trees over there."

"Wow, that close? Golfers are expected to be polite on the course," he baited her.

"Oh, it wasn't golfers. Two killers chased this fellow onto the course around midnight. The course isn't open then. Everything was shut down; no one was here."

He followed up, "Oh yes, I heard something on the news about your night watchman."

"We don't have a watchman; there's nothing all that valuable to protect except maybe the stuff in the pro shop. The papers and reporters used his nickname. He's one of our workers that's living on the course. Well, it's not really living. He just sleeps in a shed and does his laundry here in the clubhouse. Other groundskeepers just call him the 'watchman' cause he's here all night. He saw the whole thing."

"He actually saw the killing?"

"Yeah, there was a full moon and he snuck up right by them, saw everything."

The man spoke precisely and carefully, "That must be some gutsy guy, I would run other way."

Cheryl responded, "Don't know. Maybe he was too scared. It was happening right by the shed where he sleeps."

"Wow, what a story, he was right there?"

"Yep, right up there" She pointed through the treetops. "Right on top of that little hill. Guess you can't see it clear from here, it's right up the hill there. See how the hill starts at the end of the fairway? He was right there and came down the hill hiding in the trees. Saw the whole thing."

"That's incredible. So, you talked to him about it?"

"No, not really, he hasn't said much to people around here, but we read about it." She was obviously embellishing, but he could not take chances with a witness. His orders were clear.

He slid off the stool, "Thanks, I'd better go see if my foursome has arrived." He did not finish the drink, but dropped three dollars on the bar.

Peter was hauling grass clippings to the dumpsite while this conversation was taking place. He would be done in a few hours, shower in the men's locker room after the last golfers were done then grab a bite to eat in the pub kitchen. Officer Ruiz had stopped by early in the day and told him to be watchful. She had heard and read press reports that said there was a witness at the club. She did not think anyone knew his name, but that did not provide much protection if someone wanted to snoop around. She was being cautious, which he appreciated.

Around six in the evening, he went to his Explorer and got some clean clothes and his shaving kit, then went into the lower level of the clubhouse to the locker room. Half an hour later, clean and freshly dressed, he dropped his things in his truck and walked around to the backside of the building, up the stairs to the veranda. Entering the pub, he said hello to Cheryl, and asked if he could grab a bite in the kitchen.

He made a sandwich and helped himself to the condiments and potato chips. The kitchen was designed to accommodate meals for banquets in the dining room, which was empty most nights. The chef was only there on weekends or for scheduled affairs. So, most evenings, he could pick any spot on the counter and sit on a stool. Cheryl brought him ice water. With his new notoriety, he had achieved something close to celebrity status. They chatted for a few minutes while she peered out to the bar from time to time, but it was usually empty until nightfall when local people came in to eat.

He asked her about her day, which had been slow. She also told him that his legend had spread and a stranger at the pub had even heard about him. He was alarmed but tried not to show it. Caution caused his body to tense. He asked a few more questions and stayed there until dusk. He had a dreadful feeling that it was time to run away again, but knew he could not outrun his identity. It sickened him to feel in peril again as he left the clubhouse for the parking lot.

He recognized most of the cars and counted the rest, which matched the number of people still at the bar. He decided to drive along the road back toward town to see if any cars were parked by the property. The round-trip took a few minutes and no cars were parked along the road.

He parked near the back of the lot, but instead of walking directly to the shed, he took an indirect path around the hill using trees for cover. He circled behind the hill to approach the shed from behind. About fifteen minutes were needed to reach the shed. He stopped twenty yards away for several seconds, looking for any sign of an ambush. The shed was made of heavy-gauge steel, immune to combustion and with no windows. The door was still padlocked. The sun was completely set when he went inside. There was no way to lock the door from inside and no windows. It was a death trap and nerves kept him on edge. Inside, he used a small flashlight instead of the overhead light. His hands were shaking slightly as he pulled his olive-drab footlocker into the center of the floor. Secured with a casehardened steel lock, it was too heavy for one person to carry. Less than a year ago, while on active duty, he had the Army's most sophisticated equipment and weapons available, but he was trained to defend himself with nothing if necessary. Inside his locker was a small gun case. He lifted the lid and removed his Beretta 92 nine-millimeter, similar to the military M9 sidearm he carried in combat. There were seven loaded magazines in the case, so he slipped two into his pocket plus one in the gun. He quickly changed into green camouflage utilities. He smeared on face paint, added his floppy head cover, boots, and knives. He slipped two power bars and a water bottle inside his leg pockets before dousing the light. Moving slowly, his eyes took several seconds to adjust to darkness. He chambered a bullet and flipped the safety, then placed the Beretta in his shoulder holster.

He listened for any unusual noise outside while pushing the locker back against the wall then made his cot look bulky under the single blanket. Six months had passed since regular PT workouts, and he wasn't in the same physical shape as before, but working at the club kept him reasonably fit.

Opening the door slowly, he stepped out without locking it. He crouched and moved toward some trees. Brush surrounded the shed. The most direct route up the hill was from the general direction of the river road.

He moved into a tree cluster and settled in a spot twenty yards away that gave a clear view of the shed. The moonlight was excellent, but his head was throbbing again.

The wind noise was low and he was able to synchronize with the natural sounds around him as he closed his eyes fighting off a massive headache.

Hours later, something disturbed the harmony around him. The natural sound was somehow out of rhythm. He sensed movement nearby even before hearing footsteps and heavy breathing. The sound was faint, coming from a path behind him. He concentrated on controlling his respiration and remained absolutely still. The Berretta would be impossible to sight in the shadows, but muscle memory would be accurate enough at this distance. His mouth was dry, and he controlled the urge to cough, sipping water slowly.

He remained motionless, listening intently and controlling his breathing. His pulse raced as sweat beaded on his face. From the sound, a heavy person was moving slowly along the trail toward him. There was mild apprehension, patience--patience. He brought his right hand slowly across his chest and gripped the Berretta under his left arm, flipping the safety off. Any rapid movement could compromise his concealment.

The man coming was careful. Peter turned slightly to his left. Brush concealed the path, but it became thinner about twenty feet away. He waited and listened; controlling his nerves.

Seconds seemed like minutes; then, he saw a shape appear then stop where the path widened. The man had a small flashlight focused with a pencil beam a few feet ahead of him. In the moonlight, the man could see the shed and trees where Peter was hiding. Peter closed his eyes and turned his head back slowly in the direction of the shed. His made no rapid movements. If the intruder used his flashlight to search the area, Peter did not want his eyes to glint. After half a minute, the man crept forward. As he entered Peter's peripheral vision, he slowed. The guy was big and out of shape. From his movement, he was probably ex-military. His head was uncovered with short gray hair or mostly bald, in his late forty's or early fifties. His right hand held a semi-automatic pistol with a muzzle suppressor.

Moving ahead cautiously past Peter's position, he stopped about five feet away from the shed, slightly to the left of the door. Peter was behind him and slowly shifted weight right to improve his aim, careful not to make any noise. He estimated the distance to be about sixty feet.

The gunman pulled his flashlight from his pocket, and held it palm-down in his left hand to support his gun hand.

The door had no handle and opened outward by pulling on the hasp. The gunman moved closer. Using his left hand, still bracing the flashlight, he pulled it open a few inches, and then rotated half way around with his right elbow inside the opening to throw it open. He took a step inside the doorway and used the flashlight. Peter could see the pencil beam oscillate for a few milliseconds. The gun fired twice.

Without hesitating, Peter ran forward, "Don't move! I have a gun; if you move, you DIE!"

He quickly shortened the distance between them, but his aim never left the middle of the attacker's back. The man made a barely-perceptible rotation toward Peter, "I said DON'T MOVE! I have a full magazine and you will die! Don't be stupid!" Peter stopped ten feet away, his gun cradled.

"Keep your hands where I can see them and take one step backward—slow—slow!

"With your right foot, kick the door closed--don't turn around!" His commands were forceful and clear.

Once the door was closed, he said, "Be frozen like ice! I'm going to give you some instructions. If you do everything exactly right, I won't kill you. If you hesitate or do anything stupid, I WILL shoot."

The man responded in a surprisingly calm foreign voice, "Mister, are you cop?"

"Nope, just a guy defending myself. I'm trying to let you live, but I have no problem shooting you either."

"How do I know you even have gun," the man sneered.

"Make a move! It's not hard to find out. Now, drop to your knees, and don't turn one inch!"

The big man did not move for several seconds. He was too old and fat to move fast enough to dodge a capable shooter. So, he lumbered down on to one knee then the other, finding it difficult to remain balanced with both hands in the air.

Peter moved one pace forward. His gun was now aiming just below the base of the neck. He commanded, "Drop the flashlight!" The man obeyed. "Be very careful! Bring your left hand over your head and grab the barrel of your gun." Done, he ordered, "Release the gun from your right hand," and the man obeyed.

"With your left hand, place the gun on the ground to your side." The man moved his left hand with the gun straight down as Peter instructed. Peter said, "Place the gun as far out to the left as you can reach!" The man groaned a little trying to bend his torso toward his left side without turning.

Peter did not want the gun dropped, risking a discharge.

"Place both hands behind your neck, interleaving your fingers." The man seemed to anticipate each command. "With your right hand ONLY, undo your belt, unsnap and unzip your pants." This was done. "Now clasp your hands behind your neck."

Peter moved closer to the man's left side using his left foot to move the gun farther away, and then said, "Now, lay face down, and don't unclasp your hands!" This was painful for the attacker.

Once down, Peter said, "Move your hands slowly behind your back and interleave your fingers," which was done.

The entire disarming and takedown had taken about a minute. With the man under control, Peter removed a cell phone from his shoulder pocket, turned it on, and dialed 911.

He explained his emergency and location. He also mentioned that Officer Ruiz of the Cary Police was familiar with the location.

Ending the call, he picked up the gun on the ground, but never moved his point of aim from the man's back. The weapon in the dirt wasn't familiar, but he located the magazine release button and dropped it. He then cycled the chamber and tossed it away. While doing this, the gunman did not attempt to move. For several minutes, both men remained silent.

Police cars converged along the frontage road. Peter could see their flashing lights, but the road itself was hidden by brush. He was relieved to hear Ruiz's voice from the fairway. "Peter, are you up there?"

"Yes, I've got a guy on the ground by my shed."

"Okay, are you armed?"

"Yes, I have a 9 millimeter pistol pointed at the guy on the ground."

"Can you come out where we can see you?"

"No, this guy is not restrained and dangerous!" He half expected the man to say something, but he remained silent.

"All right, we're going to come up now from different directions, so don't be surprised."

"Okay, but tell everyone that I'm not the bad guy."

"Understood Peter, just keep the gun pointed away from any officers."

That was the last dialogue until the police converged, coming up two different paths. They approached cautiously and instructed Peter about procedures as they relieved him, took his gun and cuffed him in the process. They handcuffed the man on the ground then got him to his feet. Nothing was said between Peter and the gunman. After some dialogue amongst the responders, Peter was released.

Ruiz found herself interviewing Peter once again about an armed attack in their quiet town. She commented on his attire, which he shrugged off. It was going to be another long night, so she asked him to come to the station to give a full report.

Later, at the station, Ruiz got a call from the processing officer handling the shooter. In his wallet, they had found Eric Curran's driver's license.

Ruiz called Agent Gallagher's cell phone number, which went to voicemail.

Peter

Peter Shields grew up in a coal-mining community near Wilkes-Barre PA. Life revolved around the high school even though few of the residents had graduated. The town had a one-screen movie house and a bowling alley, but no library. In the summers, kids would swim and play around the old mining pits filled with milky green semi-transparent water. The ground water was polluted by the sulfur byproducts of the mining process, which probably affected the mortality rate, except most men died of respiratory disease before anything else could kill them.

Peter was a happy kid, but suffered from boredom that overshadowed life in the hills of Northeastern Pennsylvania. He liked school, but there was little incentive to go to college and no way for his parents to pay anyway. Like all teenage boys his stature in the peer community was measured by athletic achievements. The population had a high percentage of overweight people due to high carbohydrate diets. Peter was different. He was a thin kid though muscular, and played wide receiver and safety on the football team. He grew up as an avid hunter and fisherman, at home in the woods and waters. He learned to coexist with nature, to be a sure shot and careful with weapons.

Following graduation, his father planned to enroll him in the Union and get him a job in the mines, but Peter really wanted to get away. Following some of his football friends, he enlisted in the Army. It was the last thing he would ever do following the lead of others. The Army taught a person to think on his own and take charge of his life. When he graduated from basic training and went home for the first time in uniform, he had an entirely different demeanor. He was a grown man, except for his childish good looks. He was composed, poised and spoke with authority, with reverence for his mother. His father was proud even though he'd scoffed at the idea when he enlisted. With the Army routine and three full meals each day, he'd added about twenty pounds of muscular weight in only ten weeks. He filled out the uniform nicely.

Following thirty days of leave, he reported to Ft. Benning, Georgia, for combat infantryman training. His placement test scores from basic were exceptional and he was the company Sergeant. Further testing and evaluations gave him more choices of career fields than average soldiers, but he wanted to be an infantryman. He was a top performer at Benning.

He went directly from infantry to airborne training, again at Ft. Benning. He thrived at the jump school and excelled, completing the qualification course in High Altitude Low Opening, HALO, jumps. He also qualified for the Army Marksmanship badge. After completing the courses in minimum time, he was assigned as a weapons specialist to the 82nd Airborne Division at Ft. Bragg, NC. He had attained the rank of Private first class, E3, out of training, entering his first duty assignment one rank higher than others. Within six months, he agreed to extend his enlistment to attend Ranger school at Benning. Again, the regimen and curriculum was perfect for Peter. He did not enjoy every minute of it, but the bad moments were forgotten when he got his Ranger tab. He'd been in the army two years, yet wasn't even twenty-one years old. He loved the Army.

After another thirty-day leave period at home, showing even more muscles and self-assurance, he was mobilized with his division to Mogadishu, Somalia. They departed in January to provide famine relief and to ensure supplies got to the people in need. Peter deployed as a corporal.

In country, the situation was more hostile than predicted and the Army found itself fighting factional battles with whichever warlord decided to confront them. The environment was hostile and unlike anywhere any of the young soldiers had been before. One October evening, near the Olympic Hotel in Mogadishu, eighteen men from Peter's brigade were cutoff and massacred by overwhelming numbers of street thugs. Peter and his squad watched video of the fight relayed from an unmanned aircraft. They saw the bodies mutilated. The Rangers in Peter's company felt a personal blow watching their brothers die horribly. The action had resulted from a gross miscalculation by the regimental staff and policy from the National Command Authority to minimize the equipment and armor to be used, for political reasons. The Rangers had been sent in alone, without support.

The following morning, before dawn, when the militias were still sleeping in drunken ignorance, Peter and eleven other volunteers jumped silently from a C130 Talon Gold aircraft fifteen thousand feet above the center of Mogadishu. Their mission wasn't retribution per se, although it was a motivating factor. They were going in ahead of a mobile column to reconnoiter the scene of the fighting, and to locate and protect the bodies of their comrades. They jumped into the night with only a few lights below showing in the war-torn streets. Fear changed to exultation as they plunged downward. They knew the streets would be cluttered with massive debris from the fight, and they needed to navigate their parachutes between buildings to safe landings. The broken buildings and burned cars were obstacles that engendered pride, knowing their bothers had not gone down easily.

The events that followed were classified, but most of the American bodies were recovered and all of the raiders escaped, some with injuries, but none fatal. Peter received his first Silver Star for gallantry in action. He also received his first Purple Heart for multiple wounds from rocket fragments and small arms fire. Most in his platoon were similarly wounded. He was in action again in six weeks. Before rotating back to Bragg, he'd earned a Bronze Star with Combat V for valor.

He returned to the states for a well-earned leave at home. While his parents were dazzled by his medals, both were concerned that their son had been in such dangerous circumstances. He was only twenty-two. He did not tell them immediately that he was accepted into the elite Special Forces, the "Green Berets." His next assignment was for more training under the Special Forces Weapons Sergeant program. The curriculum developed the most versatile and lethal soldiers in the world. It was also the most direct route to the most dangerous missions in the military. Peter occasionally reflected on his career choices, wondering if he had a death wish, or was foolish. But he genuinely felt that he was serving his country in the capacity for which he was uniquely suited. He was exceptionally competent in his role.

Special Forces training, which combines elements of other services under their individual designations as SEALS, MARINE RECON, PARARESCUE, GREEN BERETS, provides extensive training in all kinds of weapons and technology. In order to qualify for training the soldier must have a rank of E5, Sergeant, and at least four years of obligated service after training. Peter, again, excelled.

Following training at various military bases, he was assigned to Special Operations Command with headquarters at MacDill AFB, Tampa, FL. SOCOM is a unified command comprised of combat specialists from all service branches with immense flexibility for small-unit combat missions in all environments and circumstances.

For the next six years, Peter took every opportunity and challenge the Army could provide. He continued to gain medals for valor, including the Distinguished Service Cross for 'Extraordinary Heroism in connection with military operations against an opposing armed force'. He earned a Bachelor's degree from Florida Southern University by studying at nights and on weekends, getting some credits for his military training. As the only college graduate in his family, he commanded another basis for pride at home.

He was commissioned after attending Officer Candidate School, and rose to the rank of Captain after assignment with an Infantry Battalion in the 82nd. Over the following two years, he continued to lead missions that could never be made public. Beginning his twelfth year in uniform, he was selected for Major, ahead of his peer group. In his most dangerous mission that year, something went horribly wrong in a counter-terror raid.

His team was captured and he saw his men executed while a senior officer in charge of a supporting Army unit with overwhelming firepower refused to help. The experience had shaken him emotionally. He was ordered to be on medical relief-from-duty for unspecified reasons to keep his evaluations clean. Therapy and relaxation had not helped. Sometimes laying on the beach at MacDill, he found the sand repulsive. It was impossible to sleep when the images reappeared. Nothing the Army could do had any effect.

After several months in rehabilitation, he met with his Battalion commander, a Lieutenant Colonel named Summers, "Well Captain, are you ready to pin on the oak leaf"?

"Sir, I appreciate all that you've done for me, but I think I'll decline."

"Look Peter, you've been through a lot, but I want you to get over it and enjoy your promotion."

"Thanks colonel, but I've decided to resign."

"Peter, you don't need to quit. Take some more time to get over this."

After some short dialogue, Colonel Summers was frustrated, but knew the outcome would be the same. "Peter, I know you well enough not to try to talk you out of this, but I would like to treat it as a request to accept the promotion and transfer to the inactive reserves."

"That would be fine sir."

With that, he saluted the colonel, who extended his hand, "Godspeed brother, just call me any time you want to reconsider. I won't rush to fill your billet."

Regular duty officers are not officially discharged until thirty years of service, both active and reserve duty. His commanding officer reluctantly agreed to Peter's transfer to inactive reserve status, hoping that he would ultimately resolve his problems and rejoin the active force. Both knew that was unlikely.

A few days later, he loaded his Explorer and headed north out of Tampa with no place to go. He did not want to go back to Pennsylvania. It would be impossible to explain things at home. Nor did he want to be in hot sandy climates. He needed to leave the demons behind. So he headed for Middle America, working at several menial jobs, finally arriving at the Cary Country Club, which had exactly the kind of isolation and quiet piece he needed.

The Russian

Luke called Angela on Saturday morning after he woke and listened to his phone message from Ruiz. He asked her to drive to his apartment in Rosemont, which was on the way to Cary. She arrived an hour later with coffee and they departed immediately. En route, the conversation was light and distant. Luke had become increasingly aware of his affection for her and fought the urge to become friendlier. Traffic was light, so it took less than two hours for them to reach Cary.

At the station, they were escorted to a conference room where Ruiz was sitting with Peter Shields, drinking coffee. Both looked tired. Ruiz greeted them and introduced Peter to Luke. They all drank more coffee while Ruiz explained the night's events.

The feds asked a few technical questions, wanting to know more about the shooter. Along with the arrested man, they impounded a Chevy Suburban parked along river Road near the shed. Neither the shooter nor the van had any identification, which had a New York license plate.

Luke asked to interview the gunman. After thanking Peter, the officers went to a small office that would serve as an interrogation room. The police station wasn't set up for this kind of work and the tiny room became oppressive when the man was escorted in.

He was late middle-aged with a hardened look. His stature, face and mannerisms suggested someone extremely dangerous. Angela could not help contrasting him with Peter Shields who was obviously more capable than his appearance suggested.

"Have a seat." Luke offered.

The man moved slowly, menacingly, toward a chair on the other side of the desk. "Would you tell us your name?" Nothing. "You must have a name? Do you speak English?"

"English, yes."

"Can you please tell me your name?"

"No."

"It's a simple question, what's your name!" Nothing.

The man had a frightening presence. Luke tried another tact, "We can resort to other means of identity: fingerprints, DNA, mug shots, if that's your preference." No response, yet the man maintained eye contact with Luke. He never even glanced at Angela.

"You were caught with a gun, trying to shoot someone." Luke was direct. "You tried to kill someone to cover up another crime, a murder you committed five days ago. We also believe you killed a limousine driver."

The man finally spoke, "I shoot rats." He sounded eastern European.

"Rats? What do you mean rats! You shot a bed where a man could have been sleeping!"

"I shoot rats where they live."

"Look sir, we found nine millimeter shell casings on the golf course several nights ago near the body of a murdered man, those shells will match your gun, I'm betting." Luke could not get a rise from this guy.

"I shoot rats by golf course."

"Why do you shoot rats?"

The man's demeanor was steadfast, "For practice, for fun, for food."

"You eat them?" Angela thought she would gag.

He slowly looked at her with distain. No words. Then he turned back to Luke.

After that brief exchange, the man ignored them and the interrogation ended after about thirty minutes.

Suspicion

While the interrogation went on, Peter drove back to the golf course. He knew something about the Russian having met his type before. He'd seen him work and knew he was probably trained by the Russian military. Men of his vintage learned their craft in Afghanistan, and then applied it to illegal enterprise when the Soviet Union collapsed. The man had a thick body that had turned soft, but there was still plenty of killing power. There was an enormous scar down the middle of his head, which gave him a chilling appearance.

In the Russian mob, these were dangerous and ruthless people. The ex-Soviet soldiers often engaged in mercenary warfare, weapons trade and global assassination. He'd been face to face with them before. The FBI could be engaged in something over its head.

When he got back to the club parking lot, he made a phone call. It took several minutes to reach the Operations Center in the Pentagon. The "OC" was built during the cold war deep below ground level when nuclear missile attacks were feared. Peter asked for Master Sergeant Blomstein.

Placed on hold, several seconds passed before someone answered, "Blomstein."

Peter Responded, "Hey, snake eater, it's Shields." Josh Blomstein and Peter had gone through Ranger training together and had been E5 Sergeants in the 82nd Airborne before Peter was commissioned.

Blomstein said, "Pete! Where are you? What have you been doing man? It's great to hear from you; I heard you resigned from active?"

"Well Josh, I'm in Illinois, working at a country club and enjoying a good life."

"You deserve it brother, I'm glad for you. In a few more years, I'll be joining the real world myself. I followed your moves for a while, but hear you up and quit last year. Obviously, I don't believe it. Okay, so tell me what's really going on with you? I'm assuming you have some deeply insidious reason for calling me?"

Peter chuckled. His relation with Josh was forged in desert sand together. Josh had been at the Pentagon for three years and was Peter's primary contact for operational intelligence used for mission planning. He hadn't talked to him in almost a year, which was a long time for two soldiers who shadowed each other.

"You know me well brother...okay, here goes." Peter gave his old friend a complete recounting of the situation in Cary and the inferences he drew from federal involvement.

"Josh, I'd like to snoop around to see if there's anything involving WMDs or bad guys going on around here." He knew it was a security violation; but he also knew Josh could handle it.

Josh was a little coy; "You know I can't provide any information to a civilian. Anyway, I'll check that fishing date we talked about and call you back."

Peter gave him his cell phone number, and went to the clubhouse for something to eat. After that, he rejoined the grounds crew. With his growing reputation, work wasn't as solitary as he wanted. At six o'clock, he went back to his shed.

Shortly after changing into jogging shorts, his cell phone range. "Shields."

It was Josh, "Peter, guess who's back in your life!"

His blood ran cold as he listened. Later that night, he went into his footlocker and rummaged for a small box. In it, there were military mementos, medals and such. He picked through the box until he found what he wanted and slowly lifted the thin metal chain over his head. The cold steel of his dog tags felt good against his chest.

Death in New York

Luke and Angela stopped en route to Chicago for lunch. Luke called his office voicemail and heard, "Yeah, uh, Agent Gallagher, this is Special Agent Jim Freeman at the Newark office. I need to have you call me. After you asked us to check out the casinos on Curran, I thought you should know about another shipping guy here that was whacked about the same time. So, give me a call." Freedman left his office and mobile numbers.

Luke called immediately. "Hello--Freeman."

"Agent Freeman, this is Luke Gallagher."

"Oh, great man, listen, we're checking a possible smuggling case after a freight guy was killed last week. I think this sounds like the Curran guy you had us check out, right?"

"Yeah, um, what have you found out?"

"Not much yet, but we're looking at his financials, kinda like you're doing."

Luke said, "Yeah, looks like our boy had a cool mil stuck away. Look, I'd like to compare notes in a day or so, say Tuesday, to see if there is some kind of business between these guys. How does that sound?"

"Okay call me Tuesday. I think we might have some crossover here."

"Yeah, seems suspicious." The call ended when lunch arrived. An hour later, he and Angela were starting to enjoy the weekend, each in their own way.

When Luke got to the office on Monday, There was a note to see Sam---ASAP. He quickly walked down the hall to the SAC's office where a meeting was already underway. Sam waved him in and the dialogue stopped. "I'd like to introduce our intrepid Agent, Luke Gallagher, who is investigating Curran." Two men and a woman introduced themselves. One was Defense Department, one State Department and one was Secret Service. He missed the names.

"Hi, good to meet you all."

A man spoke, "Agent Gallagher, Mr. Lee has been good enough to outline the case, which we were not privy to prior to leaving Washington." He must be a lawyer with all the words, Luke thought. He thought he was with State Department.

The man went on, "So, can you tell us when and how you found out about this smuggling ring?"

Luke said, "Well agent..." Luke stammered.

The man interjected, "My name again is Graves, Deputy Director of Defense Trade Controls, US State Department."

Luke responded, "So, do you suspect something more than routine smuggling?" He knew he wasn't answering the question yet.

"We don't know yet, but Georgia doesn't export much to the US, and it's usually in violation of the ITAR (International Trade and Arms Regulation). By the way, this is Rachael Aston from the Defense Department. Her office tries to counteract Nuclear Proliferation."

Aston spoke for herself, "Actually Agent Gallagher, we are technically interested in all forms of weapons of mass destruction; chemical, biological and nuclear. Georgia occasionally exports wooden and agricultural products, and these shipments sometimes cover up illegal stuff. The local mafia controls the Government there, and we have to watch for WMDs."

Luke was standing, "Well, actually, we haven't found anything yet. Our theory is that something could have passed by US Customs inspections with the help of this guy Curran, but we're not close to proving anything."

The Secret Service man spoke. "Agent Gallagher, we want you and everyone involved to know that we have information that there may be smuggling of WMDs going on through Georgian ports. By the way, here's my card." His business card read: Stephan Lawrence, Special Advisor to the Secretary of Homeland Security.

Luke had not been expecting this. "Well, sounds like we need to be extra careful."

Graves responded, "More than that, you have to be quick."

Luke was annoyed, "Okay, will someone please tell us what's going on? Why are so many Washington suits interested?"

Graves answered, "I'm afraid we can't tell you more Agent until you get the correct security clearance.

"What! You tell me to make haste, but you can't, tell me why?"

Sam interjected, "That will be all Luke, go back to your work and I'll handle it from here."

Luke was upset, but Sam reiterated, "Go back to your work Agent Gallagher, it's not meant to be an insult, but we have to obey the law, and there are higher classified issues here. I'll try to sanitize it for you later, if I can." Luke said goodbye and walked back to his cubicle.

He was miffed at the rebuke and thinking about what he'd NOT learned.

Later that evening, the SAC called Luke back into his office with a stern look on his face, He asked Luke to close the door.

Sam said, "All right, there isn't much detail I can give you about this, but I'll try to make forty-thousand feet work. Luke, I've requested an upgrade to your clearance. In a few weeks, you should hear about it."

"Sam, Angela is into this thing knee deep with me, she needs clearance also."

"Luke, I'll make the request. I hope she didn't get busted for pot smoking or freshman hazing in college."

"Okay chief, that sounds fair, and I don't think she did anything as serious as you or I in school."

"Look Luke, here's what I can tell you. The truth is that there's concern that nuclear weapons have entered the country. It could be highly speculative, or it could be hard facts, and I don't think I'm cleared high enough to know for sure.

Luke said, "Nukes? Are they serious? What about drugs? Are they sure?"

"We may never know."

To make matters worse, when he returned to his desk, there was a message from Officer Ruiz that a circuit court judge in McHenry County had ordered the release of the gunman.

Deception

Weeks earlier, it had been late when Hasan Abdul-Razzaq drove the old Peugeot 504 Diesel from a parking lot below the Hezbollah Security Headquarters in Beirut. The car was loud and belched smoke badly, and the clutch slipped. The steering rack was worn out and the brakes needed to be pumped to stop, but it was the only vehicle provided to him. It was unlicensed and probably stolen from along one of the battered streets. The owner was either dead, or the car was of such insignificant value that no one would even bother to look for it. He was alone and the condition of the car matched his driving skills. There were no cars when he was growing up, and he'd only driven a few times as an adult. He did not have a driver's license.

It was much later than usual, past three in the morning. Despite his displeasure at transporting himself in dangerous streets, he felt good. He was confident of his rising stature within the militant organization. Tonight, the details of a daring raid into Northern Israel had come together nicely, following his plan. Using the extensive network of tunnels constructed beneath the Golan Heights border region in Northern Israel, it was possible to overwhelm an outpost near the Sea of Galilee and capture, rather than kill Israeli soldiers. In the bargaining that followed any capture of Israeli youths, hundreds of Palestinians could be freed. He had defined the objectives of the operation, which would carry his name. He smiled. Truly, Allah was smiling back on him. But, an even larger plan was underway against the Great Satan that would require his personal leadership. He was alone in the dark, but felt safe in the womb of the Muslim-controlled sector of the great city, the "Paris of the Middle East."

One block away, two men had been sitting in a car, waiting impatiently. Mossad is the secret Israeli intelligence agency, respected and feared throughout the world. They had planned this mission carefully and executed with precise timing.

As Razzaq exited the garage, he turned left onto the street. There were no streetlights anywhere as he turned right, into a canyon between rows of buildings. Several vehicles converged, forming a roadblock on the deserted street. He saw the ambush developing and fear gripped him as his heart raced. Before he could react, another car slammed into the back hard enough to break the headrest. Stunned, he was immobile when the door glass was smashed. He wasn't afraid to die, but before he could react, a needle punctured his aorta without sensation.

Hours later, he awoke in a large darkened building. He could have been anywhere. His head was spinning and throbbed dreadfully. He vaguely realized that he was in a hospital style bed with side rails. There were IV bags above him. Consciousness ebbed and flowed. He had no way to gauge time. During one lucid moment, he tried to lift his upper body, generating pain in his neck and extremities. He remembered the car wreck, but nothing afterward.

He slept lightly with a dim recollection of several people pulling him from the car and dragging him. Through semi-conscious delirium in the bed, he could see two people nearby. They were not dressed like medical people, and did not seem interested in him. Lying still, he could hear some of their dialogue, spoken in low tones--Hebrew! They were Israelis! He knew that they were not interested in his well-being. They would torture him! He knew that there would be no mercy. He remained motionless in the bed, assessing his physical condition. His cheek was bandaged and he could feel the itchy tightness of sutures closing different wounds.

One of his captors sounded frustrated. The man came over and gruffly pushed his left arm, which radiated pain from a large bruise. Razzaq grimaced but did not open his eyes. He rolled his head slightly and let out a groan, but not enough to indicate total consciousness. In Hebrew, he heard the man say he was removing the IVs presumably to stop sedatives or antibiotics. They wanted to begin their grim task. He assumed it was nighttime judging by the few windows he could see. No daylight. The building had the appearance of a large warehouse with a high ceiling, empty except for his bed and the table and chairs where his captors sat with a kerosene lantern.

Through the dim light, he overheard a brief discussion as the Israelis decided to take the lantern outside for more fuel. One said they needed to do it quickly before he woke. Razzaq knew he would only have this one chance to escape. As they moved away into the darkness, he rolled painfully to his left side, thankful that there were no restraints. Muscles ached as he sat upright. He could feel wounds on his arms, legs, torso and back that seemed to have been treated. He found it difficult to stand and needed a few seconds to steady himself with the IV stand. With only his underwear and a blanket, he made his way through the dark. In took several seconds to reach the back of the building. His eyes were able to adjust to the darkness, but he could barely see a window frame at eye level about ten feet to his right. He used a chair to climb onto the sill. The window was hinged at the top and there was a handle allowing him to open it part way. At that moment, turning the handle, he was expecting to feel the searing pain of bullets in his back. But, nothing happened. He turned the handle and leaned over the sill, falling onto the alleyway behind the building.

The narrow ally was lined with other darkened buildings. The area seemed disserted. He stumbled along the wall of a building across the drive for about fifty feet until he found an unlocked doorway. Slipping inside, he crept ahead cautiously in the dark hurting his feet on shards and other unseen trash on the floor. It was cluttered with rubble and he could only navigate by feel. He moved deeper into the building to a place where he felt safe to hide until dawn. The Israelis would not want to be noticed in the city, daylight could mean safety for him.

National Security

The day after the meeting with Sam Lee, Rachael Aston returned to the FBI field office. Luke was at his desk early when Sam invited him in to meet with her again.

After greetings, she said, "Luke, I'm with the Office of Army Intelligence, working on a project with other agencies engaged in counter-terrorism." He was listening intently.

"Our team is working on a case that developed through some of our international partners following a missing SS-18 "SATAN" missile warhead. This warhead carries ten smaller maneuvering warheads, which are each nuclear bombs. Combined, they yield ten megatons."

Luke said, "And you think my investigation has something to do with this"?

Angela had come to the office and was introduced.

Aston said, "We treat information of this sort with extreme sensitivity. Yesterday, and on through the night, we worked on special access clearances for you, the SAC, and Agent Kerr. So today, your official clearance, in addition to your Justice Department clearances, is TS within the Defense Department, for this investigation only. My office in Washington will maintain your actual clearances. There's also a SAR—Special Access Required--designation, which means extra restrictions, but the underlying intelligence information remains classified at the Top Secret level. Is that all clear?"

Sam said, "Rachael, I think we would all like to be brought up to speed on whatever you can tell us."

"Okay, not much is written down that I can transport around, so please bear with me while I give you the oral version. I'll spare you the details, but feel free to ask.

"Several weeks ago, the Russian MOD informed their intelligence agency, the GRU, that an inspection at the Dombarovski Missile Division showed an SA-18 warhead missing. Dombarovski is home of the Red Banner Division and is located in Southern Russia, just north of the border with Kazakhstan. We were informed in accordance with our various international agreements, but we cannot be sure when the warhead was taken from its bunker. These inspections are only done twice per year. With a strong black market and unpaid military, you can imagine the temptations, particularly with a robust mafia.

"Now, this is very rugged country and there are few ways to move something this size. We don't believe it was dismantled. Frankly, it's only safe to transport the whole warhead in its storage container. The container is designed for truck trailers and trains. It will fit in sea-going cargo containers called 'Seavans.' These are the containers you see on ships and trains that transfer to semi-truck platforms.

"Anyway, through cooperation and analysis of DSP, Defense Support Program, satellite imagery, we believe we can partially trace the movement of the warhead to the Caspian Sea. We're reasonably sure the shipment crossed the Caspian to Baku, Azerbaijan, then transshipped by rail or truck to Tiblisi, Georgia. From there it went by rail to Trabzon, Turkey, and loaded aboard ship in the Black Sea."

Angela was engaged by the facts. "So, terrorists bought this warhead and somehow got it into the states?"

Rachael continued, "That's our fear, but let me give you more circumstantial information. Timing of events and convergence of information seems to confirm that it is headed to the US. In fact, with your work here and some related criminal activity in New York, we assume that the weapons have made it across our borders."

A chilling sense of urgency infected each of them.

Aston went on, "Okay, we have some other information that needs to be factored in. We have some crossover events that have happened in the past six months, which seem to be related. Some of this is already being worked at the national level, and we will be issuing alerts to federal and local law enforcement agencies. But, from the intelligence side, we have some ELINT, Electronic Intelligence, primarily cellular phone call interceptions, and some massive funding transfers from accounts known to be controlled by terrorist groups. These are being investigated separately. But, what I can tell you is that we have been monitoring the movement of Hasan Razzaq, a top Hezbollah planner. He entered the US, two weeks ago."

"Why wasn't he caught then?" Angela asked what all were thinking.

"He wasn't recognized by ICE immediately. We have a means of detecting him, but he was out of the airport at Kennedy before we could catch him. Now, it's more important to track him to see where he leads us. We are keeping him under 24/7 observation. We think there is a connection with the killing of Curran.

Angela preempted the SAC and Luke, "So, you think the weapons are here? What is the protocol? What should we be doing?"

Rachael answered, "Protocol is still being worked out. You represent the federal Government here; and should have legal jurisdiction. Although, I suspect other agencies will be claiming authority. It may mean a lot of 'suits' around here and communications will be horrendous. When Timothy McVeigh blew up the Muhr building in '95, forty-one different federal agencies claimed jurisdiction. It was a mess and cost lives. Lines are a little clearer now, but this could still be really messy.

"The Posse Comitatus Act still applies, even with the Patriot Act. The military is highly restricted from any domestic operations. Under the law, the Attorney General can request that the Secretary of Defense provide emergency assistance if civilian law enforcement is inadequate or the threat involves release of nuclear materials. The Governor of the state must also agree."

"So, we could have martial law over this?" Luke wasn't thrilled.

Rachael said, "I don't think so, it's up to the Attorney General to request the assistance, and your SAC has influence there."

Sam interjected, "What we need to do now is to define our next steps. I'll be the lead person at our office, and assume you Rachael are the DOD lead? The other two men we met yesterday are the POC's in their Departments? What other vital information can you share with us, do we have everything?"

She answered in reverse order, "You have everything I can share at this time. I can't speak for the other agencies, but feel free to interface with Graves and that Secret Service guy---I don't remember his name.

"Sam, I'll know everything we find through Intel sources, and I would appreciate regular reports from your office. We'll set up a secure website for email."

Sam responded, "Okay Rachael, but you recognize that I will need to clear this with Washington." Sam had been in the federal game long enough to know how parochial things could get. He used his discretion most of the time based on twenty-five years with the Fed, but not this time.

Shell Game

Sam located an unoccupied office for Rachael. Neither of them was sure how long she would be in Chicago. Luke and Angela went to their cubicles, where Luke called Jim Freeman at the Newark office.

"Jim, its Luke Gallagher from Chicago."

"Hey Luke, what's happening?"

"Jim, I was wondering if anything had turned up on the murder case of that freight guy you were investigating?"

"No, we should probably get at it, but the case is being handled by the local police. Is there some reason you, or we, the Fed, should be checking things?"

"I can't say too much, but we think there may be a connection between the cases. It could involve terrorist smuggling. Do you know what a Seavan is?"

Jim chuckled, "Are you kidding, know about Seavans? Man, these things take up half our time. We exist for illegal trafficking in Seavans. What would you want to know?"

"I'm not sure. Is there a way something as large as a seavan could get off a ship and onto a truck or train without customs inspection?"

"Are you serious? We get over a hundred thousand containers per month through New York. Only about two percent actually get inspected. Security depends on software and reciprocal agreements with foreign countries."

"What if someone needed a guarantee, not ninety eight percent, one hundred percent certainty that the shipment would go through?"

"Enough money in the right places could do it."

Luke said, "So, let's say it involved both of our vics, how could they get a Seavan into port and onto a truck without any risk of detection?"

"Ports are not as secure as we need. Most laws are based on revenue, not security. The bad guys just break things up into smaller loads and rely on the laws of probability that most of the stuff will get through. It's a money game. If it has to be in one container, it'd be hard to guarantee. But inside crooks could pull it off."

"I can't say much, but we think a container made it into the states. I'm not so familiar with seagoing cargo, it's possible these guys were collaborating. Thanks for your help Mark, I'm sure we'll be talkin' again." He hung up and went to the vending machine for a stale sandwich.

After lunch, Luke called MLC International and asked for Henry Miller."

"Yeeellow, this is Hank." Luke identified himself and explained that they needed records of all Seavan transshipments through their office in the past three to eight weeks.

Hank said, "Ah, okay Agent Gallagher, the old man said I could assist you, so I'll figure he still means it. Now, is it just Seavans you want?"

"I think so, unless there are other shipping containers about the same size under different names."

Hank replied, "Nah, we call them all Seavans. Now, we handle a lot of packaged goods, but not so many trucks. Let me see (keystrokes on his computer could be heard); well, it looks like we have had maybe a couple dozen Seavans in the last few months."

Luke asked, "What kind of records do you keep?"

Hank said, "Well sir, as I showed you when you were here, we have a fully automated record system that's approved by US Customs. So, we have everything there is to know."

Luke persisted, "For example?"

"Well, we track all transshipments from the point of entry to the point of final delivery. We track everything consigned to us by the importing company."

"So, if I gave you the name of a company in New York, you could tell me what Seavans came into Chicago from them?"

Hank responded, "If they sent the goods to us for local handling, yes"

"Could you give me copies of everything they forwarded through MLC?"

"Well, ah, I would just need Mr. Curran to okay it."

Luke said, "Listen Hank, I'm trying to prevent further grief for Mr. Curran. I could get a federal search warrant and force you to give the information, but I'd like to avoid all that if we can."

"Okay, look, it'll be all right, but I'll still have to let him know I'm giving information to the FBI. What was the name of the New York company?"

Bombs in the Homeland

After another round of calls to the New Jersey office, Luke got the information to Henry Miller. He and Angela drove out to MLC in the afternoon to get copies of the shipping documents and manifests.

Hank met them when they entered the building, "Hey, my two favorite Fibbies!" Hank seemed to like a beer lunch. "I copied everything. There's three Seavan shipments that came in from World Wide in the past eight weeks. I made copies of the shipping instructions and the shipper's manifest. Nothing suspicious."

After checking the photocopies, Luke instructed Hank and the office staff to retain all records, which they assured Luke was done in any event. En route to the office, Luke called Jim Freeman again and left a message that there were three shipments from New York to Chicago that should be investigated.

Arriving at the federal building at rush hour, Angela was eager to leave for the evening, prompting Luke to kid about a hot date. He was mildly envious; both that she might have a social life, and that someone was lucky to have her as a date.

Luke, on the other hand was prone to work excessively, and this case was the most important one at the bureau. He said, "Go ahead Angela, I'm just going to read the manifests and map out where these shipments went. Have a good time tonight..."

Her response was, "Luke, it's not a date. I have a haircut appointment."

"Oh, sorry, it's really none of my business"

The following morning, Angela looked even better than usual. Luke commented, "Nice hair."

She thanked him wondering if he was attracted to her, knowing it was a bad idea in a small office dominated by men.

Almost on cue, Agent Freeman called from New Jersey. He had copies of documents from World Wide Shipping. One container was exported from Sweden with spare automobile parts for distribution in Chicago. The other two were from China. One was filled with electrical fixtures. The other was laden with soft goods for retail distribution.

Luke commented, "Nothing obvious."

"Yeah, that could be a clue--nothing suspicious."

He went on to explain that containers from the European Union and Asian manufacturers seldom get searched.

Jim said, "With several ships off-loading each day, Customs looks mostly for shipments from higher threat areas. They can't even inspect them all, but the chance of catching something bad improves. So, shipments from 'friendly regions' pass through un-inspected."

Luke added, "We think the shipment went aboard a ship somewhere on the Black Sea, which should attract more attention."

"Yeah, well, someone could have switched containers at the port." Luke commented that it seemed a little far-fetched that someone would unpack and repack contraband on the wharf. "It doesn't have to involve a physical movement. Someone could mislabel two of the containers, switching identities."

"Aren't they marked?"

Freedman answered, "Not like you might think. There're no uniform rules for marking Seavans. They come from all over the world with different standards. One in Kenya last month could be in Scotland now, being loaded with sheepskins for the US.

"Luke, I hate to say it, but one of the vans in your area could be full of illegal stuff if our two boys played with the paperwork. I'll keep looking on this end."

Luke hung up and went to see Angela to explain how the customs process worked. That afternoon, they attempted to trace the three shipments that came to the Chicago area. Each took a manifest and started making phone calls. Luke got no answer at the destination company, while Angela made contact with an electronics distributor in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, that received one of the Seavans from China. Luke called the third consignee and found another electronics distributor in Cicero, Illinois that received the second container from China. Both companies seemed to be legitimate. The first one from Scotland, was more difficult. The manifest had an address and phone number, but the phone wasn't in service. Luke called the Kenosha Wisconsin Police Department, and asked if they would have a patrolman drive by the address. They agreed and then he called Jim Freeman in New Jersey.

When the phone was answered, Luke said, "Jim?"

Freedman said, "Yeah Luke, wazzup?"

"You know that van from Scotland that came to Chicago?"

"Yeah."

"It's beginning to look suspicious. Is there any way to tell if it was swapped with one from Eastern Europe, Georgia or Russia?"

Freedman answered, "I can check ship inventories to see if they were together."

About twenty minutes later, the Kenosha PD reported that the address for the Seavan delivery was an abandoned building. It was located in a depressed part of the city and looked like it had been closed for years. Then there was one more detail; the loading dock had a cargo van on a trailer backed into it.

Luke put the police on hold, and told Angela to expedite a federal search warrant for the property. He handed her the shipping manifest for the address then he returned to the PD call. "Hello, I'm sorry, what is your name."

"This is Sergeant Elsworth, I'm the desk officer."

"Okay Sergeant, I can't explain much except that we are investigating a possible terror threat, which could involve that container. We're getting a warrant and want to investigate the scene today."

"What support do you need from us?"

Luke answered, "This is a national security matter and we would like as much support as possible in the next several hours. Oh, and yeah, keep it quiet. Treat it as classified."

Elsworth started to talk, but Luke interrupted, "Sergeant, we'll need as much logistical support as possible. It will be dark when we get there, can you provide high-power lighting?"

"We can make a call to the highway maintenance guys, when will you come?"

Luke answered, "Probably in two to three hours, depending on the warrant. Also, do you have any radiation detection gear?"

"Geez, I don't think we have anything, but the National Guard has all kinds of stuff. We can call them if you think it's necessary."

Luke said, "Okay, I think you better call them. We'll come to your office and will need an escort to the location."

"No problem!" When the call ended, Elsworth noted his action items. Then it hit him--Nukes!

Forty-five minutes later, the warrant was approved. There was an advantage to the Patriot Act when it came to expediting warrants. A few minutes later, Luke had briefed the staff, and then he and Angela drove north across the Wisconsin border. With rush hour traffic, it took them almost two hours to reach Kenosha, about ten miles north of the Illinois line. The Police station was easy to find on the South end of the city.

Sergeant Elsworth met them at the door, "Hi I'm Les Elsworth, please come in." He was a lot more personable than his phone mannerisms had indicated, "The Chief wants to meet you. Also, I called the Guard, and their Civil Support Team, should be at the scene. The Chief wants to see the warrant."

Luke sensed that Elsworth felt awkward asking for the warrant, but it was a good decision in case some attorney tried to mess up the investigation.

They passed down a hallway to an office at the end where Elsworth announced, "Chief, this is Agent Gallagher and Agent Kerr of the FBI."

The Chief extended his hand. "Hello, I'm Dan Hoover, can we get you something to drink?"

Luke said "No thanks," and extended the warrant to the Chief who reviewed it for a few seconds.

Chief Hoover said, "What can you tell me about this?"

"Actually, we can't say much. We're following leads that might include nuclear weapons smuggled into the US." Luke responded.

"You think it's at this place?"

Angela inserted, "We have to check all leads."

The Chief responded, "All right, let's role. Les, you lead the way. I don't think we need lights and sirens to draw attention."

Luke and Angela drove their car, while the Chief and Elsworth each drove separate vehicles.

The location was ten minutes away in a dilapidated section of town. They parked on a narrow street, probably paved in the 1950's judging by the potholes and weeds. The building was a single story concrete structure that looked abandoned. Window glass was covered with filth, and many panes were broken. Maintenance was years behind. There was a long loading dock along with a large dilapidated parking lot full of weeds. The dock had doors for a dozen trucks. One trailer was backed to the dock, with no tractor attached. Surrounding the property was a rusty chain link fence. The gate was locked with a shiny chain and padlock.

Trailer Inspection

The police used a bolt cutter to open the gate wide for truckloads of equipment that had arrived. Police barricades blocked both ends of the street. Since it was after nightfall, the lighting trailers were placed adjacent to the dock and farther out in the parking lot. A large generator powered the lights through thick extension cords. One cord was placed on the dock for halogen lights to see inside the cargo van. Police officers broke through the office door at the end of the dock and began searching with flashlights.

The Seavan doors were open. Inside, the interior was like any other semi-truck trailer, long and narrow with no windows. The floor was strewn with wooden structures that looked like oversized pallets, plus a lot of packaging rubble. No evidence of a weapon could be seen.

Military trucks drove into the lot as the National Guard CSTs arrived. A Lieutenant Colonel named "Gates" approached the dock and vaulted up without using the stairs and asked to speak to whoever was in charge.

"I'm Agent Gallagher of the FBI." He introduced Angela and gestured toward Chief Hoover.

Gates said, "Mr. Gallagher, we've been asked by the Governor's office to provide support. My team is here to help if we can. So, how can we help?"

Luke answered," Can you check for nuclear radiation in this trailer or the property here?"

Gates responded, "Is this a drill? Guess not, judging by your expressions. Yes, if there is any residue, we should be able to detect it. If we can locate enough, it can be analyzed later for its origin."
Luke said, "Excellent, what should we do?"

"Just get out of the way and let my team go to work."

A few minutes later three men dressed in yellow hazmat suits climbed the stairs to the dock carrying bulky bags of equipment. Colonel Gates stood aside and introduced his team. "This is our radiation team. That is Captain Horatio Scott our Radiation Safety Officer (RSO). The two guys with the equipment are Sgt. First Class Larry Bents and Sgt. Tim Holmes. The equipment they are deploying is a new 'AreaRAE' wireless gamma radiation sensor. In a few minutes, they will sweep the trailer. If they detect any residual radiation, markers will be painted, indicating the location. After the van, they will check the dock and the building. They can even check the parking lot around the truck if you want."

Luke responded, "We'll stay out of the way. How about some coffee if I can find a store nearby?"

Chief Hoover volunteered, "Actually, our Mobile Ops Center will be here shortly and will have refreshments aboard."

Angela had gone into the building to help the search. Luke stayed with the Guardsmen. Shortly after beginning the search; a spray can of yellow luminescent paint was used to make an arrow pointing to a spot on the floor of the vehicle. A decimal number was painted also. Gates said, "They're indicating the center of the 'hot' spot. The numbers indicate the intensity of the radiation reading." Before long, the trailer had several marks on the floors and walls. A somber mood was evident around the area.

Two hours were needed to survey the dock and the building. The large doors leading from the dock to the interior were not opened to prevent air circulation. As the CSTs finished the interior, it was evident that the nuclear devices had been all over the interior of the building.

Luke said, "I'm no expert, but it looks like they might have disassembled the warhead and separated the MIRVs in here, judging by all the markers."

Gates reacted, "Warhead!"

Luke retracted, "Sorry, that part's classified." Gates was the only one in earshot. Angela approached with her preliminary assessment.

"There are a couple offices and an open bay area up front. The rest of the building is this large open area. Except for the support beams, it's essentially one big single-story shell about ten thousand feet of floor space with fifteen-foot ceilings. It's probably just a distribution company."

Luke said, "Is the electricity on? How about the phones? Chief, can you track down who owns the building?"

Chief Hoover said, "We should be able to get all that information, but it'll have to be in the morning when people are at work."

"That's okay."

When the CSTs finished, it took about half an hour for them to get out of their gear and stow equipment. The gamma detector was plugged into a laptop computer. Gates signaled for the federal agents to come to his HMMWV where the data was displayed on his computer, on the hood of the truck.

Gates commented, "This graph shows traces of weapons-grade enriched uranium inside the truck. Graphs of the other hot spots show the same material was present around the building. Some areas are more intense. Since you mentioned a warhead, I'm guessing there could be multiple bombs inside that might've been detached in here."

Luke said, "This's exactly what we needed Colonel."

Angela asked, "Can you tell how many bombs were inside? Also, are the radiation trace amounts dangerous? Should we notify the EPA about this place?"

Gates answered, "Well, I'm not sure how many, since they could have been moved around to several locations in here, leaving traces each place.

"I'll be sending you an e-report with a copy to the Kenosha PD department. I'm also obliged to send a report to the State Radiation Safety Officer, so this thing will probably get some attention."

Luke said, "All right, but please mark it with the highest classification you can. This is extremely sensitive, publicity would jeopardize our case."

"Understood."

Trail from Kenosha

The agents departed from Kenosha after midnight. They knew phones were ringing all over Washington, DC. Since it was late, Luke dropped Angela at her apartment then drove the Government car to his place. He agreed to pick her up at six in the morning.

The next day they stopped at a doughnut shop for coffee and muffins, and were in the office before 7:00. The SAC and several other people, probably from Washington, were already in the conference room. They joined the meeting.

The conference room had laptops and wiring everywhere. More Washington bureaucracy was evident, judging by all new faces. Sam introduced them en mass and asked Luke to brief the group on yesterday's discovery. Rachael Aston was the only familiar face and the others were all older than him.

Luke led them through their findings and asked Angela to fill in details about the physical structure of the building.

Sam asked, "Okay people, does anyone have any questions?" None did.

"So, I'd like to get organized. We need to proceed under strict security with the assumption that we have multiple nuclear devices in the US, possibly still in the Chicago area.

"We have senior personnel from all the federal agencies including ATF, DOJ, DOE, DOS, DOC, and DHS. Rachael Aston, from DOD, will coordinate with the security agencies." He identified her.

"Each day at 1800 we will have a teleconference in this room with the Attorney General and other agencies at the Bureau's conference facility. Agent Gallagher will remain the agent in charge of this investigation, but will coordinate closely with everyone. From this moment on, consider this a war room. Does anyone have anything to say?"

Rachael said, "Sam, I would like to schedule a security briefing at one o'clock today."

Lee finished, "Okay, please get organized. We have about five hours before Rachael's briefing. I apologize for the cramped quarters and we are looking for additional space in the building. Until we get more offices, this will be home. I expect that we will all be working long hours and we will be arranging for meals to be brought in for those who are not out in the field."

Luke could only imagine how tired these folks were. Most had to have been called last night and ordered to Andrews Air Force Base for a flight to Chicago. The adrenalin was flowing freely.

Security Briefing

From the time she was a little girl, Rachael Aston stood out in a crowd. She was five feet eleven inches tall in her early teens. She was introverted, and did not mingle much with other girls. With limited friendships, her passions revolved around riding her horse and playing the piano. Attending prep school in Connecticut, she studied hard and excelled in all subjects. She did not date anyone seriously. Her father was a partner in a New York City law practice, which influenced her career choice. When she graduated at the top of her class in high school, she had her pick of colleges, choosing Boston College. She enjoyed living away from her parents, and the city provided the intellectual stimulation to begin asserting herself. It was okay to display her intellect; she enjoyed opportunities to debate issues with students around the city. With more than 300,000 university students in close proximity, her linguistic skills were tested constantly. She loved it and developed a different persona. Her parents were delighted with her transformation. She also "blossomed" as an engaging beauty.

After lunch, everyone was assembled for the meeting. Rachael connected an LCD projector to her laptop and made a statement that the information was classified as "Top Secret," then began with some picture slides.

"The following three slides will show you damage to our Marine Barracks in Beirut and scenes from other terrorist attacks loosely blamed on groups affiliated with Al Qaeda. They were planned by this man, Hasan el Razzaq." She showed several pictures in Arab dress and in western attire. "Razzaq is a top Hezbollah operative known to aspire to be its leader. He recently entered the US and his entry coincided with the seavan shipment you are investigating. He is believed to be working with an Islamic terror cell centered here in Villa Park. The western suburbs of Chicago have a large Muslim population. It's believed that Razzaq is coordinating a major attack. Given his entry and the evidence uncovered by the FBI, we believe a nuclear attack is probable." She let this information settle in.

A man raised his hand and said, "Ms. Aston, I'm Kevin Kohl, DHS/ICE. Are you sure this fellow is in the Chicago area?"

"Yes, we're certain that he's in the area."

Spank continued, "Ah, why don't we bring him in? As a minimum, he's guilty of false entry."

"We could do that. On the other hand, if we're dealing with nukes, he could lead us to the weapons."

Another question was asked, "Ms. Aston, Julia Crow, DHS/SS. If you know where this guy is, maybe we can squeeze him in interrogation, leaving him free could risk losing him."

"I can't tell you how, but we have had a good way to track him for several weeks."

Someone said, "People slip away from surveillance all the time, we should definitely put this guy away."

"We're not relying on human monitoring, but that's all I can say at this point."

Luke decided to ask a question, "So Rachael, what can you tell us that will help locate the weapons?"

This segued into her next slide, "This is a satellite image of the Chicago area." A monochromatic picture appeared. In the next slide, yellow lines overlaid the image.

"We can plot Razzaq's travels since he arrived in Chicago; which was only a few days before the Seavan got to Kenosha."

"You recorded all of his moves?" Angela asked

"Actually, we've also tracked his cell phone calls and some bank transactions. I believe we can prove circumstantial connection with the Curran and Limo driver murders."

"So, was he at the Kenosha building?" Luke asked.

She showed another slide entitled Kenosha, Wisconsin, with the date and time stamped on it. The slide showed a yellow line over interstate 94 leading directly to the building. She said, "Actually, we can show him at the building for most of three days."

"Ah, Ms. Aston, Ray Britton, DOS, can you show all the activities at the site, trucks entering, etc.?"

"No, unfortunately we can only show you Razzaq's whereabouts. The tracking process is linked to his location only."

Angela asked, "Do you have anyone else under this type of surveillance, anyone associated with Razzaq?"

"No, this technology is unique to him."

Angela continued, "If he's here in the Chicago area, should we have visual surveillance assigned?"

"At some point we may all decide to start following him; but for right now, we don't want to risk his knowing we're tracking him."

Luke asked, "All right, so we can place Razzaq with the Seavan in Kenosha for several days. Do you think it's possible that he could lead us to all the bombs? We believe there are up to ten nuclear devices here."

Rachael answered, "He's our best possibility right now."

The rest of the afternoon was spent laying out an action plan. Some of the tasks consisted of retracing Razzaq's travels by car, checking out phone numbers called, understanding the money flow.

Luke and Angela agreed to retrace Razzaq's travels, since he arrived in Chicago. The plan was to backtrack along each travel route he'd used, beginning at his first day in Chicago. Retracing all of the routes taken by Razzaq and documenting each fixed location would take time.

Luke drove his personal car along the first path. Rachael had re-run the first two tracks showing more detail, including time tags to gauge where Razzaq stopped. She did not show the starting location.

The first day Razzaq was in Chicago, he traveled from the western suburbs to downtown Chicago, taking interstate 90, exiting at Washington Street. He drove over to Michigan Avenue, paralleled the lakefront for a few blocks, then he turned into the city and took LaSalle Street, first going south until outside the high-rise region, then east to Lincoln Park. He had stopped several times. This path went through the heart of Chicago's tallest buildings. He then backtracked toward the suburbs, stopping along the way at a Middle Eastern restaurant.

They returned to the office in the evening, just in time for dinner. Everyone was still at work and Chinese food had been delivered. After eating, they went out on the second track Rachael had prepared. The route maps were colored and time-tagged. Following the maps was like being in a road rally.

The second track traveled northwest almost fifty miles outside Chicago. The track started in Schaumburg near a vast shopping mall, Woodfield, and headed non-stop along route 14, the Northwest highway, to Woodstock, IL. Woodstock is a developing community that is attracting manufacturing companies leaving the expense and congestion of the city. Located in the middle of farmland and dairies, there are several areas of the region undergoing economic redevelopment, or awaiting renovation. The track led to an old area of the village with mostly-abandoned agricultural storage sheds. The area was originally intended to store large equipment. At night, the whole area was void of people and traffic. Investigating at night would be difficult without being detected.

They ended after midnight. Over the next two days, they traced all the tracks, in order. This process began to show a pattern.

Active Duty

The following morning, the task force was beginning to operate efficiently. Rachael got a message asking her to call Paul Woolerman, the Assistant Deputy Secretary of Defense for Counterterrorism. Following the call, she told Luke that Woolerman wanted to have a conference call at ten o'clock.

The call originated in the SAC's office using his speakerphone with the door shut. When it rang, an assistant answered the phone in Washington. Sam Lee stated the purpose of the call and the Secretary picked up; "Woolerman...to whom am I speaking?"

"Sir, this is Sam Lee, Special Agent in Charge of the Chicago FBI office." Sam then introduced the other members on the call.

Woolerman said, "Okay, I am making this call after coordinating with the Army Chief of Staff and the Chief of the National Guard Bureau. We would like to offer the services of a specialist in the National Guard. The officer is being assigned to the Illinois Adjutant General, but is actually an Army reservist with special training."

Lee responded, "What would this fellow provide to the team?"

Woolerman answered, "He's a unique person. He specializes in counter terror warfare. His active duty career has involved several missions against terrorist interests around the world. He also knows quite a bit about the bad guy you're following."

"Mr. Secretary, this is Rachael Aston, I'm with Army intelligence. Is this guy someone who will work with civilians? I mean the military has a little different way of doing things and we need to follow the rules." At her core, Rachael was an attorney.

"Hi Rachael. He's a good guy according to the 3-star who recommended him."

"Can I ask about his background?"

"Well, from what I know, he's recently joined the Illinois National Guard after several years of active duty."

"What? Did he get married or something? Why join the guard?"

"Look, all I know is that this guy is the best the Army has...or had. I don't know his history. Lots of guys move between the active forces and reserves. The Guard is kind of like the reserves.

"He became aware of your situation somehow, and asked to be reclassified to active reserve. We agreed, and transferred him to the Illinois National Guard. He will assist you as long as you need him. He's been brevetted, temporary promotion, from Major to Lieutenant Colonel, to give him senior officer status. I think you'll find that he can be a tremendous addition to your team."

Rachael interjected, "Mr. Secretary, this officer will need special access clearance to get read into our team."

"That's no problem; you'll have his clearance shortly."

Sam said, "Okay then, sounds like this will be a good move, when will he join us?"

"He's currently moving into an apartment near your location and will report in shortly."

After the call, everyone dispersed to resume his or her assignments. Luke went to his desk to retrieve phone messages and check email. He took notes about the phone messages and was about to grab Angela to resume driving when his cell phone range. He answered, "Gallagher."

"Agent Gallagher, this is Peter Shields, remember we met at the Cary police department? I was the guy who the shooter tried to kill."

"Yeah, sure, I remember you."

"Good, I'd like to meet with you as soon as possible. I was just activated with the National Guard to assist you."

Arms Merchant

In late 2003, Al Qaeda began formulating plans and assembling funding for another major attack against the United States. They often relied on other Muslim extremist organizations for logistics and personnel for their operations. One of the most resourceful arms merchants supplying terrorists was Anatoly Machin.

Machin grew up in Kazakhstan. Following his education at Moscow University, he joined the military and after training, began working as a Quartermaster for the Soviet Army. After a few years, he expanded his duties and began supplying commando troops. He could speak several languages fluently, and became active with the Russian army in Angola. However in 1991, he was disenfranchised as a result of the collapse of the Soviet Union. He and his fellow officers were out of a job. With no hope for income, Machin, with his training, had experience with arms sources and important international contacts that he parlayed into a vast moneymaking machine. With the collapse of the army, Machin started the Lucinda Export Cargo Company, which, in 1993, helped supply the warring forces in Somalia. Once his company had been set up, he made contacts with an Afghani group called the Northern Alliance who needed large amounts of weapons. He ultimately supplied several Afghani groups with tons of ammunition and weapons. With the money he made from these deals, allegedly $100 million dollars, he was able to further expand his empire.

His first expansion was a company in Lithuania named Mission Network Group. The company had a new customer, the Taliban. Business was extremely prosperous. He moved to Moscow for a few years, which were generally difficult, since he was under investigation for illegal arms trading. In the late 1990's, he moved to the United Arab Emirates, where he formed a new company, which became his main base of operations. The UAE was a perfect place for a man like him. It was a major financial center and a crossroad for East and West trade; and with its bank secrecy laws and free trade zones, it is a perfect haven for an arms dealer. From the UAE, his focus became Africa. In 2000, Machin founded Angola Cargo Air; this would be the beginning of his nearly exclusive grip on weapons to Africa. He did not care who he supplied with weapons as long as they paid with U.S. dollars. Annually, Machin airlifted tons of assault rifles, mines and missiles, with millions of ammunition rounds into Africa. Without Machin, it was cynically said that there would be peace in Africa. International law enforcement was determined to stop his arms dealing, but was never successful.

Machin had made the political connections and enough money that he was almost untouchable. His businesses were a maze of companies with no assets traceable directly to him. Nothing was registered in his name. Highly placed UAE royalty and officials who often participated in joint business ownership with him protected Machin. The Middle Eastern legal system could be easily manipulated, but this changed after September 11, 2001 fearing retribution from the US.

Al Qaeda was tied closely to the extremist fanatics of the Afghani Taliban. As such, Machin became a top security concern. The U.S. and Interpol were looking everywhere for him, but could not find him. When the Emirates started to cooperate with the western world, he moved back to his homeland, where corrupt officials knew how to hide a man like Machin. From the relative safety of mother Russia, he continued to practice his trade. With the dissolution of the military, he was able to have access to anything in the arsenal, for the right price. With money, the extremists could have access to the most dangerous weapons of all.

Russian SA-18 missile warheads were to be disassembled according to treaty agreement with the United States and others. The actual destruction is difficult to verify. With enough money to the right officials, it is possible to purchase an entire missile warhead. Al Qaeda was able to collect the financing, and had a strong desire to test this proposition.

Hasan Razzaq was selected to negotiate with Machin for purchase and transport of an SA-18 warhead. He traveled through Iraq and into Iran by car, then by airplane from Teheran to Moscow. From Moscow, he followed a circuitous path, with Machin ultimately meeting him on a train en route to St. Petersburg.

After several secretive meetings, they agreed to terms that led to a sizable down payment to an account untraceable to Machin, with final payment to follow delivery inside the US. Delivery was to be at a major city to be specified after passing initial entry in New York. The Russian agreed to provide logistics support in NY through mafia connections. They discussed mechanisms to thwart US Customs. Machin agreed to help circumnavigate the import processes. The Russian also offered to supply weapon technical and logistical support in the US once final payment had transferred.

Razzaq in America

Razzaq was awake after his overnight flight. He'd departed Zurich at 7:00AM on Lufthansa to Frankfurt, and then changed to LH400, landing at JFK in New York City at 12:45AM. The total flight time was 12 hours, 45 minutes. He was able to rest on the plane, but the details of his plan kept his mind working, and the exhilarating prospect of this mission overtook any effects of fatigue.

He passed through Immigration and Customs Enforcement gates with no difficulty as Avner Ackerman using an Israeli passport. Middle Eastern men looked alike to western inspectors. Several hours before Razzaq's morning departure in Switzerland, Mr. Ackerman and his wife had taken a long tumble over a cliff while on vacation.

He took Amtrak from Penn Station in New York City to Chicago. Upon arrival, another Middle Eastern man driving a "Patriot" company taxi met him. They embraced per custom, and Razzaq sat in the back seat for the ride to Villa Park. Along the way, they discussed elements of the plan that Razzaq had revealed in their cell phone discussion. Most of the plan was in his head, unrevealed and undocumented. The driver looked back briefly and said, "Then it begins tomorrow... Inshallah (God willing)."

Razzaq then made another phone call, this time speaking in Russian. His driver, Malik Iqbal Asif Masood, did not comprehend the language. Nevertheless, Razzaq was trained to assume calls were monitored and kept his dialogue cryptic. After two minutes, the phone call ended. He detested the Russians, but they were a means to an end, and the best access any Muslim had to organized criminals in the United States.

The "safe house" was located on West Elm Street in Villa Park, a western suburb of Chicago. It was an obscure side street in a quiet neighborhood. Two Patriot taxis were parked in the driveway. Along the way, he'd seen several such cabs in their familiar white paint with blue and red striping. This taxi company had factored into his planning by his Jihad brothers in Chicago, when developing the plan. The best way to remain hidden in the open was in the ubiquitous taxis.

The Patriot taxi line was a franchise business with each driver owning his own cars. Ninety percent of the cars were ex-police vehicles, Ford Crown Victoria or Mercury Marquis. All were painted identically except for the vehicle number shown in the passenger side of the windshield. These taxis are seen at all hours of the day or night throughout the city. Since most of the taxi drivers in Chicago are Middle Eastern or Eastern European men, they would draw no special attention.

Inside the house, there were twelve other men, all Muslim, waiting to greet Razzaq. He hoped that they did not share full names. They all kissed him and invited him to eat. The food on the airplane and train had not been properly prepared. Islamic law prohibits a Muslim from consuming alcohol, eating or drinking blood and its by-products, and eating the meat of a carnivore or omnivore animals, such as pork, monkey, dog, or cat. They had tea, and then enjoyed many Arabic dishes.

After eating, some of the men left and others adjourned to the bedrooms. Razzaq had a private bedroom, but they all shared the only bath in the house. This would be their base of operations for the Jihad mission. Glory be to Allah.

Chicago

Razzaq slept from 7:00PM until 5:00AM the next morning awaking with a headache. Delayed travel effects. After morning prayers, tea and some country bread, Razzaq had Masood drive him to the central part of the city to verify the target positions. At rush hour downtown, the driving was slow, which fit his plan perfectly. He was content to stop and go along the streets in the taxi with dense traffic. It allowed him to photograph and evaluate specific targets. He already had thousands of digital reconnaissance pictures stored on a laptop. The layout of the city was ideal for the explosion grid he'd conceived.

The next day, Razzaq and Masood went to the warhead disassembly building in Kenosha. He complemented Masood on his excellent choice. They could accomplish the task without drawing attention to themselves. Both men had been good friends for many years and Masood would not be martyred, given Razzaq's friendship, and unique US citizenship and native upbringing.

Over the next few days, he held briefings and managed additional logistics tasks, while awaiting their prized shipment. He visited the building in Woodstock once. The weapons in this case would be automobiles disguised as Patriot taxis. Each taxi would be fitted with a nuclear bomb. They had a Russian engineer who developed the remote detonation devices that would be used after they were parked around the city. The bombs could not be controlled in the cars, so the drivers could not ruin the mission.

At Woodstock, they painted the cars white. After painting, vinyl markings of the Patriot taxi line were applied. Masood had been buying the cars for almost a year. The building had no open doors and the windows were painted. The ceiling was only about twelve feet high so air quality was terrible. When they were painting, the air was filled with the mist of toxic paint. The holy warriors did not expect to live long anyway. Their reward was in heaven. They returned to the house in Villa Park, and shared food in the early evening.

Another matter involved the infidel shipping agents that had been paid an enormous amount of money to import and transport the SA18. Thousands of Palestinians could eat with the money paid to them. Machin promised to arrange their deaths.

For the next few days, Razzaq continued to work on the plan. He tracked the shipment daily on the Internet. On the date of arrival in New York, he was abnormally tense. The first major hurdle was to pass Customs inspection undetected. He knew the NY/NJ Port Authority had both x-ray and nuclear detectors, but they were counting on the decoy containers to work. Still, it would be two or three days before he could feel at ease again.

When the container was loaded on the train for Chicago, he was relieved, but they could not afford to relax again until the mission was completed. At any time, the US Authorities could be watching. Packages, people and cars were frequently "tagged" for tracking. It was important that everything move quickly to protect the mission.

The shipment was tracked from New York to the Chicago Gateway Rail Yards. From there, it was transported by MLC Freight Company to their disassembly building in Kenosha. Once there, his men could use only the available daylight coming through the windows to disassemble the warhead. They could not risk lanterns at night. Doors were kept closed at all times and they had no vehicles near the property. They tried to remain invisible, not even talking. They had some basic moving equipment, dollies, forklift and tools, but everything had to be removed when they left.

The work was finished on the third day. At noon, the gate was opened and two delivery trucks backed to the loading dock. Each reentry warhead, about the size of a standard US five hundred-pound bomb, was stacked in the first truck using special wooden pallets constructed in Woodstock. The loading process took less than twenty minutes and the reentry warheads left for Woodstock. The second truck transported the left over nose cone, equipment, and debris. The building was inspected to assure no trace of the shipment remained before they departed. The Seavan was abandoned. They did not attract attention and it was unlikely that the building owner would inspect the premises until the monthly rent wasn't paid. By then, Chicago would be destroyed.

Snake Eater

The federal team assembled again at 7:30 on Sunday morning. Someone from the administrative staff brought pastries, which everyone ate while complaining about wasted calories. Present for the meeting was LTC Peter Shields. He was in the office at 7:00 as Luke requested for the morning meeting. The others all filed in haphazardly within five minutes, plus or minus, of the scheduled time.

After the SAC called it to order, he asked Luke to introduce the new member from the National Guard Bureau who gave a quick overview of Peter's early entanglement with the case, followed by an invitation for Peter to talk about his background. He wore blue jeans and a frayed Army sweatshirt. He never pinned on the gold oak leaf emblems of his true rank, Major, and did not own a senior officer uniform or insignia yet.

He stared at the curious crowd for a few seconds before speaking, "Hello, I'm Peter Shields and I want you all to know that I have no law enforcement experience. I have a background in counter intelligence in the military, particularly in the Middle East. I have a fair amount of experience dealing with some of the worst extremist organizations, and understand their habits and organizational structure. I also know a little about Russian nuclear weapons."

A hand raised, "Peter, what kind of 'dealings' have you had with Islamic extremists?"

A lot of the answer would be classified, so he hedged by saying, "Mostly, covert military actions to eliminate high threat targets."

Angela did not like being patronized and said, "So, does that mean you killed people on some military hit list?"

He did not want to be baited into some kind of moral consciousness argument, "I can't discuss details for security reasons, but it wasn't about killing people. Sometimes it meant destroying transportation, weapons and supplies."

Angela was being rude, "So, you went to exotic foreign places and met people from another culture, and killed them."

"Okay, that's enough," said Sam Lee. "I take it Colonel that you feel you can add something to this team?"

Peter did not feel unkindly toward Angela, since they would be working together for a while. He looked away from her with an even expression; responding, "Yes sir, I have been in missions against Razzaq in the past, usually with the Israelis, and know a little about his habits and chain of command. I can also cut through the military bureaucracy pretty fast."

Lee responded, "Well that could be useful, and you say you know something about this warhead."

"Yes sir. I know it has ten separate maneuvering warheads that each contains a small yield nuclear bomb able to destroy a couple city blocks pretty easily."

Lee said, "Okay. That should do it unless anyone has more to share?"

Rachael interjected, "Sam, I'd like to spend a few minutes with Luke, Angela and Peter if you don't mind."

"Yes, of course Rachael."

Following the meeting, the group dispersed and Rachael led the threesome to the office she was using. After the door closed she went right to the point, "For the past few days, Agents Gallagher and Kerr have been retracing Razzaq's travels around the area. Prior to that, elements of the US intelligence community have been following him from his entry at Kennedy airport in New York."

She continued, "I want to show you how this surveillance has been carried out, because it will probably be necessary to use the technology in a more tactical manner soon."

"Do any of you recognize this?" She pulled a small electronic device from her purse that looked like an iPhone. Peter gave a slight nod. Rachael said, "It's an electronic receiving device that displays and records the movement of a transmitter up to--a pretty good distance." The specifications were classified. Peter knew that it worked within the cellular frequency band at around 824.6 MHz, although it was encrypted and sounded like minor static on top of other calls. Signals were queried through the mobile phone networks back to the receiver.

Rachael said, "We've been tracking Razzaq's movements to within a square meter using the military-class Navstar Global Positioning System."

Angela asked; "How can you be sure Razzaq has the transmitter with him at all times? It seems like a risky way to track someone without visual surveillance."

Rachael wasn't precisely sure, but had a guess. She went on without answering the question, "We will be starting visual surveillance soon. However, it would be impossible for Razzaq to go anywhere without the transmitter. I don't know precisely how it's done."

Peter looked across at Angela and saw an opportunity to engage in dialogue on a friendlier level, "Maybe I can help answer that part" All looked at him, and he continued matter-of-factly. "I suspect he has had a run in with the Mossad, the Israeli military intelligence agency. They have perfected a small transponder that can be implanted surgically. The controller looks like one I've seen before."

Angela was astonished, "You mean it's inside his body without him knowing it?"

Peter responded cautiously, "Well, I wouldn't expect him to give permission."

Once again he was sparring with her, something he didn't want to continue. Angela wasn't sure if she disliked Peter, but she would need to overlook ethical issues that had developed since childhood. He was the first military man she had met.

Coincidentally, at the Villa Park house, Razzaq lay on his side on a conference table while one of his men prepared to cut his back open with a razor knife that had been dipped in alcohol. A pain had annoyed him in his back that he attributed to the scar from his escape in Beirut, but Masood detected a mass bulging slightly below his ribs. They used a hand-held radio detector to locate a device buried in his back. Trying to focus away from the pain to come, Razzaq concentrated on revisions to the plan and an accelerated timetable. They could not go to a hospital, and there was no anesthesia, so he would endure the pain.

The man cutting his back was an experienced medic. He had no formal training, but he'd tended to many wounds in his young life. He wasn't afraid to touch inside human flesh, but hoped he could avoid digging too deeply into such an important man. Razzaq was their leader. He said a silent prayer as he began to cut.

Razzaq moved involuntarily with the first shooting pain in his back. He managed the pain through clenched teeth and tear-filled eyes. He whimpered silently. Several slices were needed to cut muscle from the thoracic membrane, which was semi-transparent. The opening was about three inches long, following the scar on Razzaq's back. With his fingers, the medic separated the membrane, exposing internal body material. Razzaq' face was pale and breathing labored. It seemed like many minutes had passed.

The man used his uncovered fingers to feel inside Razzaq's body cavity. As he moved his fingers under the ribcage, he located a plastic bag, which he pulled downward with two fingers. It was difficult to extract and seemed to periodically stick. Razzaq vomited. Slowly, the bag came out.

With the bag removed, the wound was closed using a large needle and heavy thread. The medic stitched Razzaq closed quickly then bathed the area in alcohol. They had no antibiotics, so Razzaq would rely on his immune system and regular cleaning of the wound to fight infection. The sealed bag was taken to the kitchen where it was washed, revealing the small circuit card, antenna wire and batteries.

As he lay there on the table, Razzaq began breathing more normally and the pain in his back changed to an intense throb. He needed sleep, but he had a sense of dread. He rolled onto his stomach and rotated off the table onto the floor. Using the table for balance, he stumbled to the kitchen. It felt much like being shot in the back. Masood helped him to the sink. Once there, he took his arms from their shoulders and balanced his weight against the counter. He examined the electronics carefully. Damned Israelis!

He laid the bag down, not wanting to destroy the contents. If his plan was to proceed, it must accelerate. Whoever was tracking him had not been detected by his men. He told Masood to put the package above the cabinets.

He instructed the men in the house to have everyone assemble at the Woodstock facility. They were to move carefully and not draw attention to themselves. At Woodstock, all vehicles were to be parked inside the warehouse and doors were to remain closed. He'd evaded capture many times before. With the tracker removed, he could now move in secrecy. He was thankful that he'd not visited all of their locations.

Late in the afternoon, the federal team agreed to start visual surveillance on the Villa Park address. The tracking device had not moved for hours. Luke and Angela were to watch the house and determine how many people were present. Peter and another FBI agent would drive to Woodstock.

Both surveillance teams used their personal cars and "dressed down." Peter wore jeans and a cutoff sweatshirt over an Army sand color tee shirt. The sweatshirt concealed his shoulder holster. He put two magazines in his back pocket and four more in the glove compartment of his Explorer.

The teams would communicate with hand-held encrypted radios. Luke drove to Villa Park, letting Angela handle the navigation and communications chores. Peter preferred to be in the passenger seat, so he let the Agent drive. En route to their stakeouts, both teams stopped for snack food and drinks. In the back of Peter's Explorer, he had a large athletic bag with clothing and equipment.

Woodstock

Razzaq moved carefully and appeared weak to the sixteen men assembled at the warehouse. He briefed them on the discovery of the tracking device and had them begin searching the warehouse for any kind of surveillance apparatus. The building was about five thousand square feet of open metal construction, so it would be difficult to hide cameras or listening devices. The building inspection included every square inch of overhead, wall and floor space, taking almost an hour to complete. He then had them check their cars, which were more difficult to examine. There were twelve cars, and it took another hour. Finally, he had the men checked with the electronic wand. Nothing was found. The process had consumed hours, which made him more anxious to move forward. They were all assembled with the cars and bombs. They were most vulnerable.

His instructions were given. Each of the drivers was to take their car to one of the three safe houses he hadn't visited. The cars were to be garaged or covered. He would move to one of the houses. Most of the cars had been painted to look like Patriot taxis, but only six had the bombs installed in the trunk. The installation in the taxis required welded supports and modification of the rear seat, removing the spring structure where the nosecone protruded. The rear seat covers had a slight budge. None of the car bombs had the detonation systems installed yet, but this could be done elsewhere. Razzaq knew they could be discovered at any time and ordered the vehicles moved. They would be leaving four bombs behind. After the cars were moved to new locations, none was to be driven unless instructed by him. Concealment was vital.

Masood would rent another warehouse. Each of them would be contacted to bring the cars to that location. They were then ordered to leave the warehouse at two-minute intervals with all lights extinguished while the garage doors were opened.

As the procession began, Razzaq and Masood tried scanning the warehouse for anything that would lead the Americans to them. Remnants of the warhead were all over and there was no way to hide the existence of the bombs.

As Peter and the agent arrived at the warehouse, a car car emerged. Another car came out two minutes later, then another one and another. Peter reported the movement. The dispatcher patched the message to Sam Lee's phone in the office.

Once connected, Peter said, "Sir, three vehicles have exited the building. They all appear to be taxis, the Patriot Company. The building is dark. Should we follow one of them, or maintain our position? Over."

Lee responded, "Acknowledged, hold one" Sam put the call on speaker in the conference room and asked others for any opinions. "Peter, I want you to hold position and count the cars. Get license and taxi numbers if possible."

"Roger that."

The cars were exiting away from them, and it was too dark to read license plates. The cars stopped leaving after several minutes.

Peter reported, "SAC, this is Peter, we counted twelve vehicles exiting the building, all were white, ten were marked, unable to identify numbers. All appears quiet at the scene. Should we reconnoiter sir?"

"Wait one." After a moment, Lee said, "Advise you wait for backup before reconnoiter."

Peter responded "Sir, recommend against backup. I believe I can get into the building more quickly and safely alone."

After a few moments, Lee said, "Woodstock, you are cleared to enter the building."

As the Agent listened to the message traffic, he told Peter that he wouldn't go near the building without backup. Peter told the young agent, Jason, to maintain surveillance from the car. He could do this better alone.

Jason did not complain. Peter went into his glove box for a role of black electrical tape, which he used to cover the interior light of the car. He crawled over the seat to cover the second interior light. He went out the door quietly and moved behind the truck, opening the lift gate. In the dark, Peter was putting on some dark fatigues and a utility vest made of Kevlar with several compartments. He sheathed a fighting knife across his chest and a shorter throwing knife behind his waste. He applied face paint and covered his head with a black floppy hat. His shoulder holster was moved outside. He put a role of duct tape and tie wraps in pockets. Closing the back, he moved to the passenger front door for extra ammunition magazines in the glove compartment. He handed Jason a communications headset and did a radio check. He helped him adjust and operate it. Peter already had his set on. Closing the door quietly, he was gone. Jason did not see him slip away. With few streetlights in the area, Peter had disappeared.

The team at Villa Park was checking status of Razzaq. Intelligence was analyzed in Washington, and Rachael got a report that the transponder was stationary for hours.

Sam Lee called Angela on TAC2, "Villa Park, come in."

She acknowledged immediately, and Lee continued, "The pigeon may have flown, no movement in four hours. How is your view?"

Angela answered, "No movement since we arrived, should we investigate?"

"You are to wait for backup, a warrant is in process." Sam decided to go to Villa Park himself. He and Rachael drove together in a Government car, and she brought the tracking receiver with her. One of the ASACs called the Villa Park police for support, and identified Luke Gallagher as the agent in charge.

While the Villa Park team was waiting, Peter had crossed the street in Woodstock moving in the nighttime shadows to the back of the building across from the Explorer. With almost no light, he moved cautiously. Debris was strewn behind the building. An old chain link fence ran behind, leaving only four feet of clearance. Three minutes passed before he got to the corner of the building next to the target. It was encased in old corrugated steel, typical of utility buildings built before WWII. The gap between the buildings was only ten feet. The side across from him was about fifty feet long to the street with one window and a door located at the front. He crossed the open area in long steps. The backside of the building appeared to be about one hundred feet long.

In darkness, the building seemed symmetrical with windows along the back. They were hinged on top and opened outward. All were closed. He crept along the back quietly finding several windows with faulty latches. He did not try to open any. At the far end, the building had another single window and door on the side near the front. He moved back to the center rear of the building. Peering through the glass, he was sure that all garage doors along the front were closed.

He would need to open a window, cut through the screen if necessary, and then get inside without being detected. He called Jason, "Jason, it's Peter, can you hear me?"

Jason replied in a whisper, "Peter, I was getting worried."

"I'm okay, but I need you to raise a little commotion."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to gather some pieces of concrete block and drive down the street. As you pass the building, throw them at the garage doors, then keep driving around the corner."

Jason answered, "Okay, got it."

Peter tested his gear to be sure it was secure. A minute passed when the first stone landed with a loud crash. When the second one hit, he threw the window up, which had a screen. Finding the hilt of his fighting knife, he slashed twice diagonally and jumped catlike to the window ledge, then rolled inside. He let his knife hand hit the surface using his knuckles to brace his fall. He stopped in a low crouch, remaining motionless as the last brick hit its mark. Jason had done a good job. He turned off his headset and moved it to his neck.

The interior of the building was black until his eyes started to adjust. The only light was distant streetlight ebbing through the darkened windows in the overhead doors. He heard muffled dialogue, which sounded Arabic. There were dark shadows of obstacles on the floor. By elevating, he could see over the debris and scanned the building. Side windows near the front were vaguely discernable. On the right, there were cigarette embers held by men on either side of the window. At least two men were in the building.

Peter crept toward the front by feeling the floor. The men were agitated and talking quietly. They were edgy. Peter moved slowly, listening for other people in the building.

He moved obliquely, following a jagged path around the rubble toward the men. Several minutes were needed to move half the distance. One of the men dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and ignited his lighter. The flame illuminated half of the building. Peter was able to see the men and their weapons. Both carried AK assault rifles. One he could see clearly had an AK74 that was developed in 1974 as a modernized version of the world war II-era AK-47, chambered for smaller 5.45 x 39 millimeter ammunition. He assumed both men had identical weapons. The upgrade of the AK increased the magazine capacity to thirty rounds, which could fire at a rate of six hundred per minute in full automatic mode. Three seconds of continuous fire. Peter had 9mm low velocity ammunition in his handgun. The AK had a muzzle velocity of almost three times faster than his weapon.

He had a clear line of fire from a pallet to the two men. Feeling on the floor around him, he found a loose metal frame. Crouching behind cover, he opened a breast pocket and removed a palm flashlight. When set, he threw the frame over his head, to his left. The metal hit something semi hard with a discernable thud, not a loud noise he'd wanted, but the effect was the same. An Arabic curse sounded and both gunmen began firing randomly toward the noise in cyclic bursts. The muzzle flashes acted like strobe lights showing their postures, hip shooting and spraying the area with bullets.

When the shooting stopped, they had each wasted half a magazine. For a moment, everything was quiet and Peter started to switch on the light when something fell, probably dislodged by the shooting, and the firing began again. One gunman stopped firing and lifted his weapon. Empty. The other one stopped firing.

Peter switched on the light and yelled from behind the cover, "Drop your weapons or we will shoot!" In a combat action he shoot without warning.

Before he could finish speaking, one man bolted to Peter's left as the other man aimed his weapon. Peter fired twice at the fleeing man then fell behind the pallet as the second man fired three-rounds. Peter jumped right, falling on his side with his head and shoulders exposed. He aimed at the man's sternum, firing twice. The man twisted violently to his left, out of the light beam. Peter jumped to his feet, not knowing if either man was seriously injured. He panned the light looking for the first man and saw him on the floor, crawling slowly. Panning right, he saw the second shooter on his hands and knees with his head resting against the front wall of the building. He rushed to the moving man. The rifle was behind him where it dropped. Peter stripped the magazine and cycled the charging handle to empty the chamber, tossing it aside.

He stepped nearer to the crawling man with his gun cradled. His flashlight was balanced in his left hand. The man appeared to be wounded in the buttocks. He moved to within five feet and ordered him to lie still. In pain, the man kept crawling. His hands were empty. Peter buried his knee in the man's back and pulled one hand backward as the wounded man screamed. The man yelled something in Arabic, but he had no means of defending himself. Peter's gun barrel was at the base of his neck. He shifted gun hands then pulled the other hand back. Laying the light on the ground, he pulled a tie wrap from his pocket and bound the man's wrists tightly. He could feel the man's rhythmic deep breathing in defiance, but he was helpless.

Peter then returned to the first man who was now lying on his side. His breathing was shallow and he could see at least one center chest wound. He checked him for other weapons; then put his communicator back on his head and radioed, "Jason, come in."

After a few seconds Jason replied, "Colonel, are you all right? It sounded like a war zone?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Drive to the front of the building. I'll try to find some lights and open a door to let you in."

After locating the electrical box, he opened one of the oversized garage doors and Jason drove through, then it closed behind him. Peter met him as he opened the truck door saying, "Jason, you need to call Sam Lee, and the FBI will need to take charge. We need reinforcements ASAP. Keep the doors locked until the cavalry arrives. In the meantime, let's look around. Oh yeah, tell them we have two shooters down with gunshot wounds; one is critical. I'm going to look around."

They kept the car lights on while Peter turned all the lights on in the building. He scavenged the AKs and put one in his truck, handing the other one to Jason that still had some ammunition in the magazine.

Safe House

The warrant took longer to process than expected while Luke and Angela waited patiently down the street from the Villa Park house. Sam finally arrived in a caravan of cars with most of the task team. Luke met him in the street. Almost simultaneously, the local Police Department arrived with a large van and their SWAT team. They would make the first entry into the house. Police officers were dispatched to the rear of the house and also to the neighboring houses for protection. Four SWAT officers in battle dress formed an assault line at the front door. The first officer in line carried a ramming tool. Four more officers were staged at the corners of the house for perimeter protection. Behind them, uniformed police and the FBI had their weapons drawn.

As the door slammed open, the lead entry officer yelled, "POLICE! FEDERAL SEARCH WARRANT, NOBODY MOVE!" The entire team was through the door in a split second using cover-on-cover protocol, moving with speed and efficiency. Breaching is tricky business and the teams are trained to get to all occupants quickly. The house was empty.

As the team leader announced that the breach was complete, they exited the building so investigators could go to work. Rachael used the locator with efficiency and it took only a few minutes to find the transmitter in the kitchen.

About the same time, Jason's call from Woodstock was received. Sam left Luke in charge and called for a helicopter. Before the chopper arrived, he radioed to the Chicago operations center to have Woodstock Police Department provide immediate police protection at the scene. He used his cell phone to call the Governor's office to report. As he boarded the helicopter, he called the TAG (The Adjutant General), to assess local guard unit specialties in case nuclear weapons were discovered.

Sam radioed Woodstock that he was en route by air with an ETA of fifteen minutes, and that local police were being dispatched. Jason acknowledged and continued following Peter through the building. It was cluttered with painting equipment, tools, and car interior components. Then Peter found what was feared, the remnants of the SA18 warhead. Ten nuclear bomblets had been removed. Not far away on a pallet under a blue cover, they located four of them. They were stacked two on top of two with wooden braces in between. Each was about five feet long and one foot in diameter. The stack was wrapped with metal bands to hold them in place. Under the pointed end of the re-entry vehicles, was a metal box with cables to each of the warheads.

Peter called Sam immediately to alert him to a probable nuclear bomb trap. He then radioed to the Illinois Adjutant General. Sam was, in turn calling the Department of Justice, who would notify the President's staff. This initiated a chain of confused and convoluted response actions.

The Nuclear Emergency Support Team, located within the Department of Energy, was created in 1975 with cognizance over domestic nuclear incidents. NEST, in turn, relies on the Defense Department for actual 'render safe' support using its Explosive Ordnance Disposal teams. These teams are trained to work worldwide under hostile conditions.

The FBI had trained technicians in basic principles of nuclear device construction and operation. About 100 special agents are trained as bomb technicians; however, they cannot render the device safe. This remains the sole purview of the EOD teams.

Sam was the senior federal officer with on-scene authority. Within an hour of the discovery, Woodstock residents were being ordered to clear the area within a five-mile radius. Publicly, the reason was a radioactivity accident. The Governor declared the area a no-fly zone. Efforts were made to keep the nature of the emergency secret. Even the police were not informed except at the highest levels. Once the National Guard arrived, the local police were dispersed to the wider perimeter, in charge of evacuation personnel with Guard support.

Inside the building, with doors closed, everyone waited for the EOD team to arrive.

The closest team with correct qualifications was at Kirtland AFB in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Within two hours of the alert, Sr. Tech Sergeant Jerome (Jerry) Wheeler and five other airmen were en route to Rockford, Illinois, Air National Guard facilities with all their gear. They were flying in a C-130J Hercules at four hundred miles per hour. Their ETA at Rockford was slightly under two hours. At Rockford, they would transfer to an HH60G Pave Hawk helicopter capable of 180 miles per hour. Total time from alert to touchdown on site was five hours, arriving before sunrise on Sunday morning.

Prior to departure, Wheeler had downloaded everything he could find about the SA18 and its reentry vehicles. En route, he distributed copies to his team so they could refresh themselves on the devices, especially the detonation process. This would be the first time any of them had to disarm an actual nuclear weapon. They were traveling light, without protective gear.

The HH60 is a large helicopter and with its extended Pave Hawk refueling boom, requires a large landing zone. The Air Force team had to land at an intersection five hundred feet away. When it sat down, Peter had the Guardsmen help offload the team's gear as they reported immediately to Peter, "Sergeant Wheeler, reporting sir, with my EOD team."

After an exchange of salutes, Peter led them to the bombs.

Wheeler whistled before speaking, "Oh yeah, if these are real, there could a very big bang." He started to examine the markings and checked the access plates. His men were inspecting the box and wiring.

The team huddled for about ten minutes, the Wheeler talked to Peter, "Colonel, I would suggest that all personnel move to the outer perimeter."

Peter acknowledged, "We drew a circle on the map to clear five miles around here, is it enough?"

"Sir, I don't know if twenty miles is enough with fallout."

"I hear you Sergeant, can you disarm the bombs?"

"I think so sir. Our biggest concert is booby traps."

"Okay, I'm staying here with a couple men for logistics support. You should start as soon as people get clear."

After diagramming the cables, wire colors, screw locations and all of the features, the EOD team went to work. The control box was constructed well, designed to be tamper-proof. The case was made from extruded aluminum with top and bottom covers held in place by dozens of flat head screws. All parts were finished in black with no external switches or displays. The only holes were four cables leading to the bombs. It was about twelve inches long by ten wide and four deep. The cables leading inside the bombs entered them through a side cover that was warped enough to allow the cable through.

They were cautious about micro switches hidden underneath the covers of the box that would detonate the bomb if it were opened. Photodiodes that would react to light if opened could also be inside. There could be a timer or radio control. Mercury switches could sense tilting of the box.

The decision was made to work in darkness. It was also decided to cut the box around the center of its girth without removing the covers. The cutting would need to be done carefully to avoid sparks.

They used a pneumatic cutting wheel turning at slow speed by an airman lying on the ground wearing night vision goggles, Nitrogen cooling gas was spraying on the cut, making vision difficult. A young Sergeant dried the lenses of the NVGs. It was tedious and nerve wracking. None of the team had ever worked around a live nuclear bomb before. Four people were engaged in the cutting process, which took twenty minutes to complete.

As cutting progressed, flat wooden sticks were inserted in the cut to prevent the unit from collapsing slightly in the process. Once the cutting wheel stopped, the place seemed eerily quiet. A small infrared laser light was used to scan through the cut, invisible to unaided human vision or photocells. The center of the cavity had some wiring, but no compression switch. The team agreed to lift the top half of the box an inch. This was a tedious process gradually building up the sticks.

Peter could only watch. It was interesting to see how the airmen interrelated, since they were trained to work mostly in silence. With four, and sometimes all five of them working in synchronous fashion on the box, they had to rely on each other completely.

When the lid was finally elevated, Wheeler asked Peter to have all the windows in the building covered with tape to block sunlight as dawn approached. Peter grabbed a couple Guardsmen and went to work. All doors were closed and the circuit breakers turned off.

An airman peered inside the box. The top did have a micro switch under the top cover. One of the team used a small wire stripper to carefully remove insulation from wires leading to the switch. It was cool in the building, but everyone was perspiring. The team took turns wiping faces of others in a practiced routine.

One of them crimped a wire shunt to both of the stripped leads inside the box. The next operation involved cutting the two wires above the shorted area he'd created. Tension was high as he made the first cut. One of the airmen then lifted the top of the box and examined the inside before placing it aside.

The bottom half of the control box was congested with wiring. A large circuit card filled the interior of the box. A nine-volt battery could be seen. The EOD team seemed familiar with the layout. Someone said "photocell" in a low monotone. This time, an airman shorted one of the photocell connections to a terminal saying, "Grounded." There was a small tube of liquid metal with wires exiting both ends mounted on the side of the chassis. By tilting the box, contact would be made, triggering detonation. The airman cut one of the wires disabling the mercury switch.

Wheeler sat upright and removed his NVGs, as did the others. They were more relaxed. He asked to have the lights turned on. Addressing Peter, he said, "The traps are fixed and the main detonation control is a standard circuit board removed from someone's garage door opener. To avoid accidental detonation, there is another circuit board at the edge of the control box, which is a cellular phone card. Before the detonation can occur, the cellular phone number needs to be dialed to activate the detonator. We reset the DIP switches so the detonation system won't arm."

"Is it safe?"

"It's not safe until we disconnect the bombs, but first, we need to take some photographs and make a wiring diagram."

Peter said, "Sounds good, but can I report that the explosion danger is over?"

"Yes sir."

Close Call

It was still early when Razzaq was awakened by voices in the house. He was weak and needed to rest for a couple days. Masood came into his room to alert him that the house in Villa Park was under siege by police. With this news, Razzaq struggled out of bed asking for some tea and bread.

At the kitchen table, there were several electronic devices wired together. One unit had a telephone keypad and another was a radio transmitter. A laptop computer connected to the transmitter controlled the signals needed to detonate the bombs. A different cell phone number activated each bomb. He sat down and began typing. He was the only one in the house with the passwords and phone numbers, besides the Russian engineer. The software was written to allow him to control ten controllers simultaneously. He selected the controller in Woodstock. He dialed a specific cell phone number, which was displayed on the computer screen. He then used the computer mouse to transmit the 'detonate' signal. He expected that it would take over twenty seconds to hear the explosion.

As the EOD techs took pictures and made diagrams, they were removing items from the chassis. The sun was rising and they had opened one of the large doors to allow fresh air and light into the building. The process was progressing well when one of the airmen yelled, "Whoa!"

Wheeler took a look and said, "Someone just tried to blow us up!

He showed Peter, "You see these three colored lights? The green light should indicate that the circuits are operating properly, probably to let the bad guys know it's safe to put the covers on the box. The yellow light means the controller has received an arming command. The red light indicates a detonate command. Only the green light was lit when we took the cover off. The other two just lit up in sequence."

Peter asked, "Are we safe?"

"Yes, we're going to remove the battery and start cutting the wires to the bombs."

Washington Briefing

As soon as things were safe at Woodstock, Sam sent the helicopter for Peter. Before leaving, he asked the local Guard unit commander to take good care of the EOD team, who needed to eat and rest.

While Peter was en route, Sam called Luke and ordered him back to headquarters, leaving Angela in charge in Villa Park. Within thirty minutes, the federal team was reassembled in the Chicago office. All needed sleep, but they had to find the other bombs.

Sam wasted no time kicking things off, "As you all know, we have confirmed nuclear weapons in our area. Four of ten deployable warheads from a Soviet ICBM have been seized but six are still unaccounted for. I would like Rachael to brief you on the people and the group we're up against then I want Agent Gallagher and Colonel Shields to fill in details from their last twenty four hours."

The briefings were given without visual aids. Chicago was the presumed target city, although there could be other cities.

At the conclusion, Sam said, "Okay, we know how the bombs are to be detonated. The delivery mechanism is a fleet of taxis. In a few minutes, we'll have a conference call with the Department of Justice, which may include the Department of Defense, and someone from the President's office. I want to be sure you all understand the gravity of this situation and the necessity to remain 100% accurate in everything we say, no speculation. Is that clear?" Everyone acknowledged.

Using the speakerphone embedded in the conference room table, Sam dialed the number of the DOJ Situation room. They heard one ring before a voice responded, "This is the Attorney General, to whom am I speaking?"

"Mr. Secretary, this is Special Agent In Charge of the Chicago office, Sam Lee. With me are my staff and members of various other departments that are involved in our situation."

The Attorney General said, "Okay, with me are the senior representatives of DOE, DOD, DOJ, NSA, DHS and several members of the President's staff including the National Security Advisor." Several muffled 'hellos' were heard.

Attorney General Javier Hernandez continued, "First, I want to thank all of you for responding to this crisis. Especially, I want to acknowledge Special Agent Luke Gallagher for sniffing this thing out so quickly, and also Peter Shields for his persistence in seeking reinstatement in the military, which I understand has resulted in capturing several nuclear bombs."

Lee said, "Yes sir, we are fortunate to have perceptive and motivated people here."

Hernandez continued, "Alright then, Sam, please explain your situation so everyone here is ready to help. We want to cut through any red tape. Many of the folks here are making themselves the principal points of contact for your team. I will be sending an email today with everyone's contact information."

Lee commenced to tell the whole story with as much brevity as he could.

Hernandez said, "Okay Sam, you need to brace yourself for reporters. I'm sorry, but the citizens must know that we have a nuclear threat. Much as I'd love to give you more time without alerting the terrorists, we can't keep this from our people any longer. We hope we can avoid mass hysteria, but let's face it, nothing this dangerous has happed before."

"Understood sir, when will the announcement come?"

Hernandez answered, "We'll have some written statements issued by DHS in a couple hours, and I expect the President to address the nation tonight."

Lee said, "Thank you sir, we understand."

Plan Change

One of the houses rented by Masood was a dilapidated farmhouse near Aurora, IL. Razzaq was staying there because he'd not gone there before, and he could see the road in both directions. There was an old barn to hide the cars. He needed to accelerate the timeline. Since Woodstock had been discovered, the enemy was getting closer. He needed to maintain surprise. All of his soldiers were called to the farm. They were to call his cellular phone five miles away to be observed. They could enter the driveway only when authorized.

By seven o'clock that night, all men were at the house. Their planning meeting lasted until midnight. The "soldiers of god" were given their assignments and commanded to remain hidden.

The President

The National Security Council had been convened, along with the Joint Chiefs and four Cabinet Secretaries in the White House situation room for several hours as the raid on Woodstock was underway. The debate on information release was heated. In the end, it was decided that the people needed to be informed about the threat, and the Office of the President had arranged for a prime-time news briefing on a "matter of national emergency." At eight o'clock EDT Monday evening, he gave a speech from the oval office.

Good evening, my fellow Americans.

I requested this time tonight to acquaint you with facts about a matter threatening our country.

About two weeks ago, the FBI discovered evidence that a missile warhead, that is believed to contain ten nuclear explosive devices, may have been smuggled onto the United States mainland.

Subsequently, a massive undertaking by our law enforcement, military and intelligence agencies was able to verify the existence of the warhead and to recover four of the explosive modules.

These four nuclear bombs are now safely in our custody.

Six explosive devices are still unaccounted for tonight.

All of our resources are being employed to locate them and the people who may intend to use them against us.

The four bombs that we captured were located in suburban Chicago, Illinois.

We have reason to believe the six remaining bombs may also be in the Chicago area at this time.

Let me stress that we have not received any threats or any timetable when these bombs might be used.

We have activated the National Emergency Operations Center and are working closely with Illinois state and Chicago law enforcement, operating at Chicago's Emergency Operations Center.

Rest assured that all our resources will be working around the clock until this matter is resolved.

I would ask for calm and for your understanding as our most severe emergency measures are taking place.

I have declared a federal state of emergency for northern Illinois, and may extend this into neighboring states. The Defense Department and the Intelligence agencies are directed to provide all available resources to the State as necessary.

Finally, as more information becomes available, I will keep you informed.

Thank you.

The Patriot Plan

Everyone at the FBI office had gone home by midnight. Most had been up for forty hours, or more, and were exhausted. They were all back in the office before eight o'clock. A few hours of sleep and a shower revived them as they continued operating on adrenalin.

Peter was the first person in the office, followed by Angela and several others. Luke slept the longest. Angela formed a theory overnight and wanted to share it with the team.

With everyone assembled, Sam asked her to brief everyone. She was nervous, but addressed the group in a professional manner: "Some of what I'm describing is conjecture, and some is fact, but I think this story holds together. We need to understand the connection between the Patriot taxis at Woodstock and the remaining bombs.

"Individual bombs would fit inside the trunk of a standard taxicab. I bet the Woodstock team witnessed the missing bombs exiting the building in the taxis.

"If you remember, they counted ten marked vehicles and two plain white cars. Something spooked the terrorists before they finished converting all the cabs.

"They knew about our discovery of the bomb site because they attempted to blow up the bombs, probably when their guards didn't check in. Maybe our raid in Villa Park spooked them, we don't know."

She went on, "Anyway, why use taxis? They can't drive outside the city without attracting a lot of attention, right? On the other hand, the Patriot taxis are ubiquitous in downtown Chicago. At times, there must be a thousand cabs in the city."

Someone asked, "Are you saying that all six nuclear bombs are aimed at Chicago? Why waste all six on one city?"

Peter interjected, "Actually, that wouldn't be many, a typical ICBM package would use most of the payloads to destroy one downtown area. A bomb with a yield of one megaton wouldn't destroy an entire downtown area. More likely, the original ten, or even the remaining six, in a grid pattern would be used together, causing catastrophic damage."

Angela went on, "If the six bombs were all exploded downtown, we could lose most of the people and buildings. I did some on-line work this morning. The bomb used by McVeigh in Oklahoma City was equivalent to less than one ton of TNT. We're talking one thousand times that amount for each bomb, and the downtown area of Chicago is pretty compact."

Angela finished, "I would expect an attack at morning rush hour, so the Middle Eastern countries would still be awake to get the news."

Setting the Stage

Angela had articulated what others had been thinking. They needed a plan.

Sam asked, "Okay, does anyone have any ideas where to begin?"

Over the next several hours, the team developed a broad strategy focused first on isolating the vehicles. In parallel, they would focus on locating the terrorists.

Luke and Angela were assigned to work on the taxi strategy. Peter and Rachael worked on intelligence sources. Employing DOD and NSA assets, persistent monitoring of various communications media could help locate the 'bad guys'. Peter felt they might be able to pinpoint the transmitter used to send detonation signals. The receiver at Woodstock could be used to identify the transmit frequency. He speculated that there would be system checks of the detonators before the attack ensued.

NSA would focus on interpreting electronic signals from, or to, Chicago. They would use super computer technology to isolate suspicious phone dialogue, email and facsimile communications.

Rachael took the assignment to coordinate with NSA, and Peter would work the DOD side.

Taxi Company

Taxis were not actually owned by the Patriot Company. Angela was able to get a profile of the organization, even though there is no webpage. The official name was actually the Patriot Dispatch Company, Inc., which manages the assignments of the cabs and the standards for the taxi owners. She worked with the Chicago Department of Commerce to get the contact information for the Midwest Regional VP, located in Chicago. Patriot operated in several large cities. She called Charles (Charlie) Jones and set up a meeting at the FBI building.

Charlie was a small man with poor skin and bowlegs. He wore a tropical shirt and had a Chicago Cubs baseball cap on his head. The title "Vice President" did not fit the physical image of the man that was escorted to a small conference room. Luke closed the door and Angela positioned herself across the table from Charlie. She began, "Mr. Jones, we appreciate you coming to our office today, and hope it isn't a major inconvenience."

Jones said, "Heck no, that's okay. Can you tell me what this is about?"

Angela answered, "Sure, would you like something to drink?" Her hospitality just seemed to make him more nervous.

"No, that's okay."

Angela went on, "All right, did you hear the President's address last night?"

With a quizzical look, he responded, "Okay, so you think our company's involved?"

Angela said "Actually, we don't know much about your company, but we are investigating the possibility that taxis might be used to transport explosives into the city by terrorists. The Patriot cabs must be considered."

Jones said, "My company doesn't actually own any cabs. We set up a distribution agreement with independent operators who own the cars. In some cases, owners have many cars and hire drivers, but a lot of them drive one or two themselves. We have pretty detailed contracts that control the conditions for operating a cab with our logos."

"How many cabs operate in Chicago under the Patriot brand?"

"Roughly, we have about eight hundred taxis in the Chicago branch."

"How do you keep track of so many?"

Jones answered, "We have an online scheduling program that the drivers log onto each morning giving us their active or inactive status. On any given day, about fifteen percent are down for repairs or driver non-availability."

Angela said, "If we needed to contact the owners or drivers, or inspect the cars, can they all be identified?"

"I think so, we have pretty good information."

They continued the dialogue for about an hour. Jones was cooperative and agreed to provide a computer file with all of the current Patriot taxi franchisees. He also agreed to update the information whenever a new cab was added, until the FBI was no longer interested.

Intelligence

In parallel with the discussions involving the taxis, Peter and Rachael were on separate phone calls arranging for surveillance equipment and personnel to be sent to Chicago. Peter knew the Air Force had some sophisticated electronic eaves-dropping equipment that could listen and decipher cell phone signals based on key words or word patterns in any language. Another function was the ability to locate the exact direction to the signal quickly. The process involved selected transcripts developed at the Army's SIGINT facilities at either Ft. Meade or Ft. Huachuca. The Air Force specialists were both ground and air based. Following capture of voice data and analysis, specific phone numbers could be monitored. This intelligence capability led to numerous captures in the Iraq war.

The NSA ELINT capability would be utilized in Washington, DC. In this case, the intelligence analysts would develop search criteria, similar to the processes used by the USAF to distill down to "signals of interest." Post analysis of the data could lead to specific computers.

All of the techniques were highly classified. A secure website would be used at the FBI office for data updates as they occurred.

Within an hour, three EC-130H COMPASS CALL aircraft stationed with the 55th Electronic Combat Group (41st and 43d Electronic Combat Squadrons) at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Arizona, were en route to Scott Air Force Base in central Illinois. These were highly modified versions of the C130 cargo planes, temporarily assigned to the Illinois Air National Guard, reporting to the State's Adjutant General, who holds the military rank of Major General. They would arrive at Scott in about four hours. An OH-58 Kiowa helicopter was dispatched to carry Peter and Rachael to Scott. Using three aircraft would permit continuous coverage over the Chicago area flying in eight-hour shifts.

The EC-130H had a crew of 13 people. Four members were responsible for flight and navigation (aircraft commander, co-pilot, navigator and flight engineer), while nine members operate the electronics. SIGINT operations began at midnight on Tuesday, a few hours after the FBI team finished briefing the air force crews.

Peter dozed on the flight back to Chicago, while Rachael enjoyed the ride flying at low altitude in the Kiowa. They landed on the roof of the federal building, which was quiet except for the team members working through the night in the office. Rachael went to an empty office for a few hours of sleep on a couch.

Razzaq's Re-plan

With the President's announcement, there was chaos in the city. Many of the people were leaving town. With heightened security, the chances of a coordinated attack were small. To be successful, Razzaq had to kill as many people as possible, or the President would claim his warnings saved lives.

He reset the time for attack as Wednesday, seven days away. They could attack sooner, but he wanted security to relax following the President's announcement. He was aware that the Americans have superior intelligence techniques, although he had no specific knowledge about it.

Twelve other men were living in the building with him and they had no amusements except talking, praying and reading the Koran. Given the finality of their mission, they were eager to live a little longer. But, like all men, living too close together with no diversions, not even soccer, wore on their nerves. Razzaq found some of them using their cellular phones. He tried to stop it, but it was difficult to enforce. Most of his men were illiterate and could not comprehend danger as he did. His engineer was educated, but he was also Russian and not accepting of martyrdom.

At the federal building, the conference room was abandoned as the team moved to the second floor of the building, which was vacant. Chicago police, Mayor's office, Governor's emergency management staff and the National Guard were quickly filling the space. Within Chicago, the 911 Emergency Communications Center was activated. Unfortunately, no one knew how long the crisis would last. Even with the horrendous threat, there was no panic and the Government people were united.

Wednesday city traffic was lighter than usual and most employers were closed. Police were on patrol and erratic or unusual driving was dealt with severely.

The Patriot taxi information was sent to Angela's email address. If the scenario were correct, almost all Patriot taxis would be legitimate. They had to find the bad cars quickly, with absolute accuracy.

Many federal personnel were constantly in communications with Washington. Through this interface, Luke found himself on the phone with the Drug Enforcement Agency. The DEA is one of the most secretive in the Government due to dangers their people face every day, with agents embedded in drug smuggling operations. Some of the agency's operations require tracking vehicles, and sophisticated tracking technologies have been developed. Luke was given a number to call and instructed to use a private office and a secure phone line.

After dialing the number a voice on the other end answered, "Hello, please identify yourself." Luke did so and repeated a series of numbers he was instructed to use to validate the call.

"Agent Gallagher, my name is Ben Harris and I work in the Drug Enforcement Agency development laboratory. I'm not a field agent."

Luke said, "Okay."

Harris continued, "I understand that you may need to locate specific vehicles in traffic, and track them, is that right?"

"We think there could be a nuclear attack using cars disguised as taxis. We can identify the valid cabs, about eight hundred, and we'd like to know if there is some way to identify the good ones from the bad in everyday traffic. We need to find up to ten fake cabs in city traffic."

Harris said, "Okay, I may be able to help. If you could find the fake cabs, we could put a transponder aboard with a number ID; but, tracking hundreds at one time in a close area is not practical if you need fast decision criteria."

Luke said, "We can't locate the bad guys, so we'll need to track the good cabs."

"All right then, will the cabs cooperate?"

Luke answered, "If you mean, will they allow us to tag their cars, we can't assume that."

"Okay, can you get the cars in some kind of a situation where you could spray a clear compound on the roof?"

"What do mean?"

Harris answered, "We have a process we call Hotwax that uses a clear coating on a vehicle that can be seen with laser lighting using special goggles. It really is hot wax, one of the new polymers with an extra ingredient. We usually apply it in a car wash, and it lasts for months. The target never knows he's been painted. On crowded streets, all the cars can be scanned with a carbon dioxide laser, and the coated cars will have a bright violet glow. In this case, the bad guy's cars would not glow."

Luke asked, "How would it be deployed? Do we need to have the laser positioned close to the top of every car?"

"No, The best way would be to be located a hundred feet above the street, probably on top of buildings. From the right place, you could scan several blocks."

Luke said, "Ben, we need your help. Can you come here with enough apparatus and chemicals to help us?"

"Agent Gallagher, I'll get back to you ASAP. If I can get clearance to use a military cargo plane at Andrews, we can probably be there in a few hours."

Luke thanked him and was confident they would get military cooperation.

Drug Enforcement Agency

That afternoon, a caravan of DEA trucks arrived at Andrews AFB, just outside Washington DC. Andrews is a special Air Force base, responsible for maintaining emergency reaction capabilities critical to national security. With authority from the President, there was a C-17 Globemaster III airplane landing from the Air Mobility Command at the 437th Airlift Wing, Charleston AFB, S.C. to carry classified equipment to Chicago.

The Globemaster was the newest cargo aircraft in the Air Force. It can carry fully loaded trucks weighing over eighty tons. The DEA trucks would be landing at O'Hare airport in less than two hours.

Angela was in charge of organizing the program for coating all of the legitimate taxis. The program was codenamed "Operation Washdown." It was a big undertaking, convincing the owners to cooperate, coordinating carwash facilities; and it all had to be done quickly. She also had to locate inoperable cars and mark them.

Once the cars were marked, tactics would need to be developed to neutralize the bomb-carrying taxis. That operation would be under Peter Shields. This assignment was code named, "Operation Snakebite." Both operations required personnel, equipment and training; and, they both had to be conducted without alerting the terrorists or alarming the civilian population.

Peter and Rachael

At the office, Peter sat at an old Steelcase desk placed randomly in the open bullpen along with dozens of other people. Rachael stopped by his desk around eight o'clock at night, "Hey, how about we go out for something to eat."

"Ah...okay." He wasn't sure why she asked. "Do you want me to drive?"

"Why don't we walk? There's plenty of food around here and it's a nice night." She suggested that they walk to the university student union, which had a food court.

As they walked, Peter wondered if this was a purely professional or partly social stroll. If so, it had been many years for him.

Exiting the building, she asked, "So, where did you grow up?" She had read his file.

"I grew up in a coalmining town in Pennsylvania." He guessed from her mannerisms that she was from an upper class background, probably in the Northeast. As he described his early years, she seemed interested. He began regarding her on a personal level. "Pretty basic upbringing. Kind of an eighteen-and-out place, unless you wanted to work in the mines. So I joined the army."

She was tall and slim with straight brown hair. She had beautiful skin and looked more like a model than a Government worker. She was smart and pretty.

"I guess I consider the army home now."

"But you left?"

"Yeah, I had to work out some issues. Something happened. I kind of needed to rethink what I wanted from the Army."

They crossed over Roosevelt Road and followed the sidewalk to the student union. They were quiet for several moments. Rachael was accustomed to male reactions in her presence.

Peter said, "Can I ask about you?"

"Sure, what would you like to know?"

They entered the student union, and continued personal profiling while ordering pizza by the slice. Rachael had grown up in Connecticut and attended Boston College, graduating in political science. She then went to law school at Georgetown University. After graduation, she went to work with the Defense Department. Her legal background was initially useful evaluating compliance with international arms treaties, as they related to US Foreign Military Sales (FMS). A couple years later, she found herself promoted to a position in the intelligence directorate, which she could not discuss in much detail.

As supper advanced to coffee, she let Peter know that she had seen his military file. She was able to read the classified sections. She was curious why anyone would volunteer for some of the missions he'd taken.

He answered, "Well, I don't have a death wish if that's what you think." Looking down at his hands, he continued, "I did well in training and needed the challenge. I like the special operations more than the larger Army bureaucracy." He'd found a profession for which he was uniquely suited.

She wanted to know more, if he would share, about the mission in Syria to capture Razzaq. He had resigned his commission after the failed mission.

He couldn't look at her, "It's a little hard for me to talk about."

"What was it that caused you to leave the Army?"

He started to talk about abandonment. When he reached the border, he was the only survivor of his squad. He was embittered by a fellow soldier's refusal to help. The experience left him bewildered and questioning the sincerity of the code of honor. Since then, he'd learned to rationalize it from a military command viewpoint, but he no longer felt he could lead men to their deaths after the raid. Rangers are trained for these missions and understand the risks, but maybe he had been on too many missions. He wanted to try a different way of life. He was uncomfortable talking about it, and she did not pursue it further.

On the way back to the federal building, they took a longer route, walking slowly. Rachael wanted to amend the tenor of her interrogation, and Peter felt a sense of peace being with her. He said, "Look, I'm sorry to get so melancholy; not much practice at small talk."

She put her arm through his and slowed the cadence slightly, "Peter, I shouldn't have pried. It's related to my job, sort of."

"Hum" was his response as he kept his gaze down toward their feet.

Rachael went on, "I really enjoyed hearing about your childhood, it sounds so rich in values. It's not how most people are raised today."

"I wasn't THAT much of a boy scout. Well actually, I was an Eagle Scout." He had a smile on his face. "Look, I know you're doing your job, but I enjoyed having someone to talk to, even if it was a psych exam."

"It wasn't that bad!"

As they reached the building, Peter said, "Okay, maybe we could do this again after this is over, without having a business agenda."

Rachael responded, "I think I would like that." She was looking at his eyes.

Operation Washdown

Ben Harris was on the Globemaster along with tons of materials. He had drained all DEA supplies from their warehouse in Montgomery County, and ordered more Hotwax to be expedited from the factory. He'd packed for several days. As a "lab rat" he did not go into the field often and he was enjoying the break from a back room environment to something closer to an operational role.

As the aircraft landed, it taxied to the American Airlines cargo hanger. In 1993, the Illinois Air National Guard moved from O'Hare to Camp Lincoln in Springfield to more effectively coordinate its efforts with the Adjutant General's staff and the Army National Guard leadership. Today, however, it was considered more prudent to land closer to Chicago in the interest of time.

One of the features of the C-17 is its ability to offload all cargo in just a few minutes after touchdown. As the rear ramp lowered, trucks began rolling off immediately. They were met by members of the Illinois National Guard and escorted to the Army Reserve depot at Ft. Sheraton, north of Chicago. Ben Harris was met by an FBI agent and driven to the federal building downtown.

For the next two days, Ben worked with the federal teams, developing the two operational plans. By Thursday morning, Operation Washdown was underway. To be successful, Charlie Jones needed to involved, but with restricted information about the plan. Ben would not allow a civilian to know anything about the Hotwax process, so they had to develop a sham explanation. Until the whole process was completed, Jones would work at the federal building with every phone call monitored. He would coordinate with the taxi owners.

The plan involved an explanation that certain Patriot Cabs had been dusted with anthrax spores and that the Governor had ordered them inspected at a Government garage. Once in the garage, pressure washers would be used with the Hotwax. Five locations were set up which could handle all the cars. Two and a half days were planned to complete this task. Other arrangements were made on a case-by-case basis for disabled cars. Jones was advised about what to say.

The program was difficult to manage with logistics issues that caused some delays. The operation took longer than expected. Jones cooperated well throughout the process and had to deal with grief from almost all drivers. Part of Angela's job was keeping his spirits up. One of the tasks was screening all vehicles and driver backgrounds and longevity with the cab company. Radiation sensors were also used. By Saturday, Operation Washdown was complete.

Operation Snakebite

Operation Snakebite was more complicated. They had to locate unmarked Patriot taxis and interdict without a nuclear explosion. Plans and contingencies had to be worked out, staffed, equipped and trained. The first stage of the plan involved identifying the vehicles. The second phase would isolate and neutralize the targets. The third phase required that the bombs to be rendered "safe." These phases required different scenarios and personnel, and the timing between phases might be compressed into seconds. Peter requested that senior National Guard, DEA, FBI, Police staff be assigned to the task force for planning and execution.

Around eight o'clock Thursday evening the first reports were received from the Compass Call SIGINT aircraft then analyzed and transcribed by Ft. Huachuca. Rachael printed several copies and called a meeting, including Peter and the FBI team. The messages were transcriptions of Arabic language calls originating in the upper Midwest near Chicago. Lat/Long (latitude and longitude) coordinates were provided for most calls although the accuracy depended on many variables related to the aircraft altitude and distance to the target. Since the aircraft signals were received in three dimensions, Lat/Long/altitude, the conversion to two-dimensional coordinates was difficult and inaccurate.

As the team poured through the translations, some of the signals were garbled, probably because the aircraft was outside range of the cell phone transmitter. Since the algorithms used to identify certain dialogue strings as possible "hits" were developed by cryptographers to overcome crude attempts to disguise the true meaning, the literal translations didn't always seem to be anything interesting. They read through most of the material and did not find anything specific to act on.

At ten o'clock, everyone was feeling the strain of several days without enough sleep, so Sam ordered everyone to leave for at least six hours to get refreshed. They were all gathered in the conference room with laptops and paper scattered everywhere. Following Sam's directive, some of the younger people felt more hungry than tired. They were still too hyper.

Luke suggested that they walk to Pizzeria Uno, a block away. Angela agreed. Peter was about to decline until Rachael decided to go. After logging off and stacking work papers, the group going out for pizza was exiting the building in less than ten minutes. The night was temperate and clear. Initially, the two men walked behind the women, but the organization changed after a short distance and Peter found Rachael beside him as Luke slipped forward by Angela.

At the corner they waited for a signal before crossing toward the restaurant. The women tried to initiate conversation and Luke provided comic relief. Everyone appreciated being away from the ominous situation that brought them together. Peter did not say much. Keeping up with Luke's antics was hard to match. Rachael opened discussions about movies and music, which energized everyone except Peter. She was persistent, trying to find a subject he could relate to. He appreciated her attention and finally mentioned the New England Patriots. Rachael was a big fan and a lively discussion followed. She knew the names and statistics on all the franchised players. Peter had been a fan for many years, after their amazing performances leading to four super bowls. He was equally fond and loyal to the Philadelphia Eagles, but Rachael was a New England girl.

The restaurant was partially empty and they were seated immediately in a large booth. Peter and Luke ordered beers, and the women had wine. All felt the need to unwind and no words were spoken about work. They shared two pizzas and split a salad. Conversation continued about sports in general, particularly centered on New England, which everyone knew about. Since none were Chicago natives, no one mentioned the local teams. Peter admitted being starved for television or music information, having ignored both for years. Rachael and Angela harassed him about getting in tune with his age group, which he admitted was lacking. Everyone enjoyed the time out together.

Walking back to the federal building, the two couples paired up, having separate conversations. Luke and Angela talked about their academy experiences, while Peter and Rachael talked more generally. The FBI team walked briskly, feeling the strong desire to get home for rest. Peter and Rachael were yards behind when they reached the garage. They had talked all the way from the restaurant about life in Washington and experiences they had had working for the Government. Angela offered to take Luke to the Metra station, and then offered to take Rachael to her hotel, the Holiday Inn on Harrison Street. When Rachael declined due to the distance and direction opposite the Metra stop, Peter offered to take her, which she accepted. The two couples separated.

Peter and Rachael walked together to Peter's truck, where he opened her door first. Most men ignored the courtesy except on a date. She thanked him, without saying it wasn't necessary. As they exited the garage, she commented that she felt relaxed for the first time in a week. Peter smiled. He had to concentrate on the street signs, since he wasn't familiar with the downtown area. It took less than three minutes to reach her hotel.

As he drove into the circular drive leading to the main entrance, he threw the gearshift into park and walked around to her side saying, "Lady, your bed awaits."

She smiled and kissed him on the cheek, "Chivalry becomes you!"

He was startled and speechless as she walked through the revolving door. On the drive out of town to his apartment, he could not stop thinking about her. Their moments together had been special.

Big Eyes

Returning the next morning somewhat refreshed, the team was busy again trying to correlate information when a call came in over the National Guard's SINGGARS radio on Peter's desk. One of the most incomprehensible facts in national security is that civil authorities and the military cannot communicate with common equipment. Only in times of national emergencies are assets shared.

Because it was a military communiqué, Peter took the call with the speaker system engaged. "Striker One, this is Big Eye, over."

Peter pressed the handset button, "Big Eye this is Striker One, copy five by five"

"Striker One, we have positive intercept on transmission you requested, with coordinates, can you copy? Over."

Peter said, "Good to go Big Eye. Striker One, over."

"We traced signal at 195 degrees relative our position. At 0912.15, multiple bursts, all quiet now, over."

Eight more traces were recorded in a short time span, which wasn't enough time for the aircraft travel distance to get convergence of the traces.

Peter responded, "Copy Big Eye, what was your posit at intercept, over."

The aircraft controller provided the latitude, longitude and altitude of the aircraft at the time of each signal intercept so that the ground team could begin plotting the line of the relative compass angle from the aircraft for each trace. If the aircraft covered a long distance between traces, they could compute a good target location where the traces crossed on the map. But with too little spacing between signals, the lines were almost parallel.

Peter said, "Roger all Big Eye. Please keep eyes on and notify if more follows, over."

"Roger, Big Eye. Out."

Angela asked, "Wadya think? Was someone testing the detonation transmitter?"

Everyone looked around for a moment. There was silent realization that the terrorists were testing the bomb receivers. The effort to distill information from both intelligence sources gained intensity. The dots on the map, indicating the crude cell phone locations, were clustered around the Aurora area. The test signal plots traversed through the same area. Tactically, it was preferable to have Compass Call on the northern side of the city if another test was made, but they were on a circular course around the city, and it could not be predicted when another transmission would occur.

Megatons in Chicago

The two Arabic-speaking men were traveling at the speed limit on Interstate 88 toward Chicago. The driver was sweating profusely and driving erratically, and the passenger felt equally distressed in the back of the taxi. Both men were armed with Russian nine-millimeter handguns and the passenger also had an AK 74. Their mission was clear; they had done a dry run of the course on Monday. They would exit the interstate in Cicero and wind through the surface streets to the target. The finality of today's mission was wearing their nerves despite all the promises and blessings received when volunteering. They had lived in America for many years and enjoyed the life. Some of their comrades had begun families. "Allah be merciful, Allah be kind," they recited over and over again to themselves.

The city was a mess since the President's alert. Blockades existed on many streets and everyone was suspicious. Tempers flared easily and the streets were lined with cars that had been destroyed in accidents or rage. From the news, the hospitals were full of people injured in the panic. Smoke hung in the air and driving was nearly impossible.

Driving took four hours from Aurora to downtown. Normally, the trip took less than half that time. As they approached downtown, they maneuvered onto eastbound Ogden Avenue until they reached Madison Avenue. Turning right, the traffic was stopped dead, but they were at their target location. The two men looked at each other and the younger one in front began speaking and sobbing in endless streams of dialogue, pleading with the fellow in the backseat who had the cell phone ready to call Razzaq. As he started to dial, the driver bolted, leaving his gun and running down the street around cars in his path. He wasn't ready to die. Watching from the back seat, the second man was distraught. He looked at the cell phone as if it was a mystical device. His chest was seizing, and he could not dial. His companion was a block away and could actually live. He could live!

The second bomber, equally infected with fear, leapt from the car. He had enough composure to engage the electric door locks before running after the other terrorist. People were honking horns in frustration. Many were standing outside their cars, and people on the sidewalks seemed to be shuffling along in a daze. The vitality of the city had succumbed to the general gloom of a battle zone. Both of the terrorists had left their weapons behind. A few more minutes to run were nothing compared to the time it had taken to get the car in position. The man with the phone rationalized that it would take hours for a tow truck to get into position. The bomb was in place and they could live!

On Madison Avenue, as some cars progressed, the abandoned taxi was gaining attention. A frustrated driver in a car trapped behind it had seen the two men run, and did not like his predicament, but there were no people willing to allow him to change lanes. So he opened his door and walked up to the taxi, and peered through the side window. His eyes locked on the weapons on the seats. He was mulling this over while the second terrorist with the cell phone stopped, breathless, to call Razzaq. He could not make the call immediately, having run circuitously more than five blocks, he was too breathless to speak. Two minutes passed while he regained enough composure to dial the number.

Razzaq answered, "Yes?"

The man said breathlessly, "Commander (cough) the package is in place."

"You sound exhausted."

The man said, "Sir, the traffic was very bad and I am, regrettably, (coughing) more nervous than I want to be at this momentous time."

"Allah be praised my brother." The cellular number arming the detonator had been dialed when the discussion started.

Detonation

The massively hot concussion obliterated the front of the federal building. Glass exploded in shards, and searing heat enveloped everything in darkness. Material blew through spaces with lethal velocity. The outer office walls disappeared as people and debris filled the air. Shredded paper was hanging in the air, seemingly motionless. The cubicle walls that defined the bullpen partially protected some people in the interior. Screams could be heard through the smoke and dust. In the bullpen, people were knocked down instantly, and all had been injured. Over-pressure effects on their ears would leave some deaf.

Minutes passed before people began to move. The electricity was gone and the emergency lights were providing just enough to see some of the damage near each person. Outside, it looked like night. The sun was obscured by debris that filled the atmosphere. It was impossible to see the street from the second floor. With eardrums throbbing, the lack of sound compounded the eeriness. Objects continued raining down. The sensation was surreal and terrifying.

Less injured people began tending to others. No one in the bullpen was killed, but scores were wounded, many with severe lacerations. Around the entire second floor, people were sitting or lying with others helping to apply pressure and makeshift bandages to stop bleeding. Blood was everywhere.

After several minutes, some cell phones seemed to work. Around the city, emergency calls were made from thousands of cell phones, two-way radios and aircraft. What wasn't known, was that the city's emergency operations center no longer existed. Located at 1411 W. Madison Ave, it was at ground zero of the attack. Everything within three to four hundred yards was completely destroyed. All life, buildings, automobiles were gone. Located only one mile away, the federal building survived total destruction, but the shock wave and heat had done extensive damage. Everyone on the sidewalks nearby was killed.

Peter was knocked to the ground by a desk than fell on top of him. He lost consciousness briefly and awoke under a pile of office equipment and furniture. His head was ringing when he regained his senses, but the interior of the building was still cloudy. There was no fire. He pushed his way clear and pulled up to his feet.

Luke and Angela were nearby, both with superficial cuts. Peter was bleeding from his scalp, but wasn't seriously injured, thankful that his eyesight was okay. His ears would recover. Sam Lee, Rachael and the other senior Washington personnel had been in the outer offices, and he did not know their condition.

After helping other people in the bullpen uncover themselves, Peter located the military radio which was built to withstand wartime damage. Pulling it out of the rubble, he turned it to battery power and pushed the talk button to call National Guard headquarters in Springfield, "HQ this is LTC Shields calling from downtown Chicago. Do you copy?"

The response was immediate, "Wait one (there was a long pause), go ahead Chicago, please identify again."

Peter responded and described the situation requesting that all available Medevac aircraft and mobile medical teams, civilian or Government, be deployed to the city. He would rely on the Governor's office to contact FEMA and was sure the communications were already underway.

Since they were unable to see anything outside, he called Compass Call again, "Big Eye, this is Striker One, over."

Compass Call responded, "Roger Striker One this is Big Eye. We're all glad you're still with us sir, over."

"Thanks Big Eye, can you give me a visual?"

Compass Call responded, "Roger, ah, from Angels 10 (ten thousand feet) two zero miles southeast of the city, we see a mushroom cloud at about twenty thousand. Dense dust at five hundred about two miles wide around the blast point, nothing visible inside, over."

Peter replied, "Big Eye, this is Striker One, thanks, out."

Compass Call now initiated the call, "Striker One, Big Eye here, we got another track on the transmitter when the bomb blew. It's a good cross point, over."

Peter replied, "Say again Big Eye, do you have a position, over."

Compass Call responded, "Ah, roger-that Striker One, we had a good vector from a new position in our orbit, a clear cross over the prior traces. Only one transmission this time, but it was long and clear. We have the grid, over."

Peter responded, "Big Eye, Striker One here. We are inside the dust cloud you described for reference, probably a mile or two from ground zero. Need to know distance to transmit point, over."

Compass Call replied, "Ah, roger that Striker One, hold one (pause); we compute about thirty air miles two six zero degrees from blast origin, can provide waypoints, over."

Peter responded, "Roger that. Will be in contact. Maintain surveillance, out."

Peter knew the blast had only been large enough for one bomb, and five remained. They still had a chance to stop annihilation of the entire city if they could neutralize the transmitter long enough to disarm the bombs. They would need helicopters. All ground transport in the city would be stopped. He made the call to HQ.

Peter called The Illinois National Guard headquarters on the radio, "HQ, this is COL Shields, over."

The radio response was, "Copy Colonel, over."

Peter keyed the handset, "This is Shields, patch me to J3--expedite!"

The headquarters' response was, "Roger Colonel, please hold (pause). Go ahead, sir."

The transmission ended then resumed again, "This is Lt. Colonel Halstron, J3 OOD Illinois Army National Guard, over."

The J3 code stands for Domestic Operations under the Commanding General. Within the state military organization, this code is responsible for coordinating tactical resources within the state and coordinating with the Department of Defense for broader military support to civilian authority.

Peter said, "Colonel, this is LTC Peter Shields assigned to FBI Counter Terrorist Task Force-Chicago, over."

Halstron transmitted, "Yes Colonel, acknowledged and recognized, what is your situation? Over."

Peter responded, "The situation is piss poor. We just had a nuke go off in the city and need tactical support, over."

A new voice came back on the radio, "Colonel Shields, this is Brigadier General Brodie, J3, ready to support, what do you need? Over."

Peter talked into the handset, "Sir, we need air mobility and tactical assault capabilities on unknown number of terrorists located approximately fifty kilometers from downtown Chicago. Ground transport inop. Request minimum four Little Birds and one Longbow, armed with Hellfires and 30 mike mike (millimeter) cannon ammunition. As many Ranger-qualified forces equipped for urban assault as you can muster, plus two snipers. Staging should be two seven zero degrees at thirty klicks from Chicago. One Little Bird to fly into the city at my position for transport of three or four individuals. I request personal weaps including M4 and M9, seven mags each, plus NVGs for squad leaders, over."

Brodie responded, "HUA (heard understood acknowledged) Colonel, stay by your radio, this channel, for confirmation, over."

Peter answered, "Will do General. Also, I request second Compass Call airborne under my tactical control, over."

Brodie responded, "Roger that, out."

Peter wanted to be sure he could have as much real time Intel, including corresponding directional traces from two air platforms in case the target transmitter began to move.

He climbed through the office rubble to the conference room where Sam and the Washington people had been working. It took several minutes to find the remnants of the outer ring of offices among the clutter and injured. Some people were badly injured and others were dead.

A sense of personal loss and dread flowed through him as he looked for Rachael. He found her on the floor of the former conference room, with people attending to her. They had wiped blood from her face. Her legs were raised, and based on her sallow complexion, she was in deep shock. He felt an emotional twinge. Her eyes were alternately open and dilated, then closed. They had nothing for pain, so her body was reacting, forcing her toward unconsciousness.

Peter knelt beside her and put his face about two feet from hers. He felt weak and stroked her hair, something he'd done whenever his comrades were severely injured. Tears welled in his eyes. He wanted to comfort her. His voice faltered when he said, "Rachael, can you hear me?"

She responded momentarily to his voice, but wasn't cognizant of his presence. "Rachael, it's Peter, can you hear me? I know you're hurt, but I need some information."

Her eyes opened momentarily and her head turned slightly toward him. She had more strength than he imagined which she should have been conserving. "Peter?...wha...happen'd."

Her eyes closed again but her head remained pointed toward him. "Rachael, there was an explosion. You're hurt and need to hang in there while the medics get here." He only hoped that there were enough Medevac helicopters and hospitals. She needed luck to live.

He repeated in a soft voice, "Rachael, it's Peter, I need to talk to you."

Her head wobbled back then forward, and she licked her lips. Her eyes opened with dilated pupils.

"Rachael, I need to know who to call at DOD to coordinate your intel? Please Rachael, honey, we're going catch these guys, but I need to know who you communicate with."

After a few moments, her head turned away slightly, then towards him. In a muted voice she said, "Jim Coates, he's in code..." Before she completed her sentence she was unconscious again and Peter left her alone. He had enough information.

Back at the radio, he called Springfield and asked headquarters to contact Coates, who was working in the intelligence (G2) directorate. He requested tactical control over NSA assets currently employed for ELINT purposes in the area.

After the call, Peter found Luke and Angela in reasonable shape with cuts bandaged. He asked them what combat gear the FBI had in the building. Luke said nothing, but signaled to follow him up the emergency stairwell to where their "armory" was located. Personnel on the fifth floor were in equally bad shape as the people three floors below. The area had been densely populated with people jammed in small cubicles, so the floor was covered in debris. Luke and Angela could only wonder where their spaces had gone. Luke led through the broken partitions and furnishings toward the west end of the floor where a concrete vault occupied the entire end of the floor. The door was locked and it took a few minutes to locate someone with the combination. Inside, the emergency light gave minimal illumination.

Peter made a quick inspection of the equipment available. They had everything from personal communications gear to Kevlar helmets. There was also an assortment of weapons and ammunition. Most of their hearing had returned. "Okay, I assume you both want to apprehend these guys, so let's all get dressed."

Returning to the second floor, they were wearing black BDUs, body armor, and communications sets. Luke and Angela were armed with handguns. Peter would use the military weapons he'd requested. He called headquarters asking for an update.

HQ responded, "Colonel Shields, wait one for the DO. Shields? This is Brodie, over."

"This is Shields, over."

Brodie transmitted, "Colonel, all assets are arranged. One Little Bird is en route your position to transport you to the staging area west of the city. ETA is less than ten minutes. Big Eye two is airborne with ETA your position in about twenty, over."

"Excellent General. Request status of troops and weaps available for assault, over."

Brodie responded, "Peter, your weaps are aboard the transport, we have twelve volunteers, mostly Rangers and all veterans en route to the staging area, some have been filling other MOS' in the Guard, but all have combat experience, you have tactical command, over."

"Roger sir. Out."

He looked at Luke and Angela, "Okay, let's go to the roof. As this goes down, you two represent the civil law authority with arrest power, if there's anyone alive to arrest."

Angela was nervous, "Peter, we're not trained for this. The FBI investigates crimes by analyzing accounting and legal data. We're not usually involved with weapons."

"Look, you're what we have, and you're going on this mission. I won't let you get too close, but you need to be on site."

Luke's ego felt bruised by Angela's comments, but he agreed with her. "Peter, we'll do what's required to get these guys."

"Good, let's move!"

The roof was above the eleventh floor. The air was clearing as he searched the horizon for the helicopter. His radio was set to Guard Channel for general communications. They found the largest open area on the roof and Peter made a call, "Little Bird aircraft en route federal building, do you copy?"

Response, "Identify, over."

"This is Shields, over."

"Roger Striker One, we have your location computed, but smoke is making it hard to see. Can you blow red smoke? Over."

"Negative on smoke, can you see a tall broadcast antenna surrounded by low buildings? Over."

From the aircraft, "Roger we have the antenna in sight, over."

Peter said, "The pickup point is due north of the antenna, about three hundred meters. We're the tall building, over."

"Got it, stand by for pickup, out."

In twenty seconds the helicopter was descending through the haze toward them. Peter moved them away as the Little Bird settled on the roof. The pilot kept the rotor turning, maintaining positive lift in case the roof wasn't designed for such weight.

They jumped aboard the helicopter and the gunner instructed them where to sit. The MH-6JD Little Bird is equipped for target acquisition and light attack operations. It is a modified version of Boeing/McDonnell Douglas Helicopter's MD-530MG airframe, with all of the interior comforts removed. Both sides of the aircraft had sliding doors removed. The 'seats' consist of canvas sling benches with quick-release seat belts. The Little Bird helicopter cruises at 128 miles per hour for three hundred miles. On-board equipment includes thermal imaging system, low-light vision, laser rangefinder/designator, and an optical bore sight system. These systems enable it to operate day and night, and allow target acquisition and engagement at standoff ranges in any weather conditions. It has an accurate navigation system to locate precise locations. This aircraft had most of its equipment removed for personnel capacity and endurance with armed troops aboard. Minutes after takeoff, they reached the staging area in an old shopping mall located in Naperville.

The Farmhouse

Razzaq had his engineer test all of the arming and detonation circuits in the vehicles in the barn. Everything was working. Returning to the farmhouse, he joined his men in a final prayer and offered his personnel blessing, wishing he could join them. Each had a box of personal belongings or letters that Razzaq assured would get to their loved ones. They were assigned to the remaining five marked vehicles in two man teams with personal weapons if police approached them. The only thing they needed to accomplish was to report when they get the cars to the targets.

The city was gridlocked and traffic was almost stationary, and the streets were packed with people. Several hours would be needed for the cars to get into position; so timing was a problem. The cars exited the barn at five-minute intervals, taking slightly different routes.

When the last car departed, Razzaq walked out to the barn. Two plain white cars remained inside. One of these he and the engineer would drive away in a few hours to use as a mobile control point. After detonation, he would kill the Engineer, and drive to New York for flight back to Europe, then Palestine.

He approached the engineer with open arms and they embraced. They spoke of the greatest victory for Islam since the end of the Crusades. "We shall see the Satan driven back into the bowels of the earth---Inshallah!

Razzaq walked back to the farmhouse in the dark, contemplating the exact words he would communicate in his next message to his superiors. Despite a calm exterior, he was excited for the massive victory he was leading. Songs would be written about him. He would be treated as a king throughout the Muslim world. The night was beautiful and clear and he stopped to breath deeply, not aware of the man walking behind him, step for step, since leaving the barn. When his senses alerted him, he began to turn, expecting to see the engineer. Instead, he saw the shadow of two men, one with a large knife.

Razzaq exclaimed in terror, "What the, WHAT ARE Youuu?"--His last words.

Naperville Base

As the Little Bird pilot was radioing in on his approach to LZ1, the Naperville mall, Peter's SINGGARS radio came to life, "Striker One, Big Eye One, Over."

"This is Striker One, over."

Compass Call said, "Sir, we caught your squawker again three minutes ago and got five good traces. Overlay with earlier traces shows precise location of the transmitter. We have coordinates when able to copy, over."

He pulled a pen and small notepad from a shoulder pocket. "Ready to copy Big Eye One, over."

He copied the exact longitude and latitude coordinates. "Thanks Big Eye, maybe we can save some lives together, out."

As they landed at Naperville, Peter jumped to the pavement while Luke and Angela followed. He was met immediately with a salute from a young Captain, "Sir, Captain Stokes Illinois National Guard, strike platoon ready for your orders sir."

Peter returned the salute, "Stokes, I've heard that name, you ever with SOCOM?"

"Sir, I know you by reputation, we served together in the 82nd Airborne at Bragg under Operation Iraqi Freedom. We probably saw some action on the same sand. I was an E4 at the time."

Peter responded warmly, "Well Stokes, you and I need to swap beers sometime. Please introduce your men."

The ritual was always the same, when going into small unit operations, each man needed to depend on the others for mutual survival, regardless of rank. Knowing who was with you was prudent. After introductions, Peter called everyone together, including the pilots and FBI. He said, "People, we are going into an unknown situation. Our first target is a place where the detonation signal came from today. We believe there are five more bombs. Let's locate the bombers, and neutralize them. We will fly four birds in echelon formation, trying to avoid detection. We don't know how many personnel or weapons they have. I will be in the lead with three soldiers." Addressing the Apache helicopter crew, he said, "Longbow, you will loiter close by, your call sign is Blue Thunder. Any questions?"

Everyone wanted to know more; but from experience, they knew there wasn't much information. One of the men asked, "Sir, what about the Feds?

Peter instructed, "I want the agents split between Little Birds Three & Four."

One of the Rangers placed Peter's weapons and ammunition aboard Little Bird One. On the move, he ordered, "Blue Thunder, I want you to stand off five miles for noise reduction. All others, Little Bird One has lead. Let's mount up."

They all ran to assigned transport and within thirty seconds, the strike team was lifting off. The helicopters created an immense amount of wind, noise and pulsating vibration. The transition to flight was invigorating. Shortly after takeoff each aircraft began moving into formation as they flew low, and fast. En route, Peter requested radio checks of communicator headsets. He'd given the target coordinates to the pilot.

He then called headquarters for confirmation that the NSA assets were assigned, and then he made one more call.

After a quick series of relays at MacDill, AFB, Peter was talking to the US Army Special Operations Commander, Lt. General Robert Gardner keyed his handset saying, "This is General Gardner, please identify, over."

"General, this is Lt. Colonel Peter Shields, assigned to the Illinois Guard, supporting the FBI counter-terrorist force en route to suspected hostile zone, over."

Gardner replied, "Peter! So you've finally re-emerged. Damn tough situation up there. I'm glad to hear our best man is on it. How can I help? I assume this isn't a social call, over."

"Yes sir, thank you sir. Sir, the site we are approaching is believed to have an electronic signaling device that detonates the bombs. Five bombs remain unaccounted for. We may need to block the detonation signal while engaging the enemy, over."

"Tell me what you need Peter. I'll provide whatever on earth we have, over."

"Sir it won't do any good to jam the receivers, because we don't know where they are, over."

Gardner said, "So, you want to disable the transmitter. Would a GBU-15 (smart bomb) work?"

"Sir, I have Longbow, but these are probably fanatics, we can't chance a near miss, I need broader area coverage with one shot, with troops in proximity."

Gardner responded, "Peter, active suppression without destruction is still in development. I'll make some calls and get back fast, out."

He knew that he was asking for unconventional help, but he needed to be sure the bad guys could not fire the nukes in some dying effort. Three long minutes passed when the radio sounded again, "Shields, this is Gardner, over."

"Shields, over."

"Peter, can you copy?" Peter acknowledged. "Here goes. An F15E Strike Eagle, codenamed Eagle One, will be over your position in approximately fifty, five zero, minutes with two GBU-XEMP devices aboard. Airburst parameters will be at your command. Do you have designation capability? Over."

"Sir, roger that. Affirm. We have Little Bird with Mast-Mount sights. It will have to do, over." Peter wished the designator would be ground based to protect the helicopters, but he had no choice.

Gardner said, "God speed Peter, out." He silently prayed the experimental EMP (Electro-Magnetic Pulse bomb) wouldn't be necessary.

A New Plan

Razzaq squirmed in pain as the Russians watched, blood draining from several deep stab wounds to his mid-section. When he weakened sufficiently, they each grabbed an arm and dragged him to the house dropping him on the back porch, one saying in Russian, "Good Vasya, now call the cars."

The man did as instructed immediately, just as he'd done when he killed the freight man and the limousine driver. "It's done Tolya."

Vasily Alekseev (Vasya) and Anatoly Machin (Tolya) had grown up together and were life-long allies through the military and in their criminal lives. Machin said, "Can you imagine? This fool actually wanted to blow up a city instead of ransoming it? Did he not recognize the money he could make?"

Alekseev responded, "You know these fanatics. They think there is reward in killing people, from their sick god."

Headlights could be seen in caravan coming toward the farm. Machin instructed, "Vasya, get the detonator and let's be gone." The other man reacted quickly and went to the barn to collect the transmitter. Alekseev had trained as an electronics engineer in the Russian military and had worked on various detonation devices. During the war in Afghanistan, he'd been one of the first Russian paratroopers during Christmas 1979 to land in Kabal. The country was already in an intense civil war. The prime minister, Hafizollah Amin had tried to westernize their culture, which outraged the majority of the population.

Thousands of Muslims fled the capital and went to the mountains. Amin declared a communist Government, which created further discontent. Thousands joined the Mujahdeen, a guerilla force on a holy mission for Allah against the new Government. They declared a jihad, a holy war, on the supporters of Amin, which extended to the allied Russians. Two days after invading, the Russians shot Amim and replaced him with Babrak Kamal. Eventually, 85,000 Russian soldiers were used in an attempt to keep him in power. By the end of the 1980's Russia left Afghanistan, much the way the US retreated from Vietnam.

Alekseev and Machin were stationed together for years. Machin worked in supply, while Alekseev was involved with bombs and other mass killing events, ultimately crafting his trade as a master assassin.

Eight vehicles arrived at the farm, mostly limousines, driven by Russians. The two senior men got into one of the center cars, which departed in convoy through the farmlands west of Chicago.

Striker Mission One

When the assault force approached the target coordinates, the sun had already set for almost two hours. Five miles out, Peter ordered the pilot to maintain distance and fly around the target site at a constant radius. They were flying at three thousand feet and could see for more than twenty miles. As the flight circled, three houses were located close to the center in the sparsely populated farmland.

They flew in orbits as Peter prioritized the targets. One of the houses on the perimeter had no out buildings, so he made the decision to check the other two farms that had barns and other equipment buildings. He pressed his throat mike, "Radio check, Birds Two through Four, report in sequence, over."

All three units checked in, followed by Blue Thunder that was hovering several miles away. Peter instructed, "Little Bird Two, your target is the western farm. Three, you support Two, over."

Two and Three reported in sequence. He commanded, "Little Bird Four, you stay with One. We will take the farm to the east, over."

"Four, roger that."

Peter wanted the two FBI agents split so that they had arrest authority at both locations. His next instructions were, "Okay, my call sign is STRIKER One, Captain Stokes is STRIKER Two, Stokes will lead the western assault. Reform Now!"

Little Bird Four moved forward on One's wing, while Two and Three fell back about a mile, with Two in the lead. Peter ordered, "Commence!, Commence!, Commence!"

Both flights rolled hard forty-five degrees, accelerating toward the ground. Angela had heard most of the dialogue, but did not understand the jargon, except her helicopter was now flying with Peter. She felt the rush of excitement and ignored the discomfort. Riding in the helicopter was cold, noisy, dark and it vibrated terribly. She could smell and feel the hot jet exhaust as they banked hard, and the seatbelt cut into her thighs. The steep bank and fall made her nauseous. They were in total darkness and the only light was from cockpit instruments.

She had no idea where they were with respect to the ground, and the moon was now only a narrow crescent. In seconds, the aircraft leveled off and slowed. Almost as quickly as she adjusted to the new flight attitude, someone tapped her knee and everyone was moving out of the helicopter. As she got to the edge of the floor, she realized that she did not know where to step. She hesitated momentarily then two sets of hands gripped her BDUs and pulled her to the ground. Men on both sides grasped her upper arms and pulled her at a slow run away from the helicopter. They were running through waist-deep crops. She heard the helicopter engine winding down.

About fifty meters away, they stopped and all knelt on one knee. Without the aircraft noise, everything became eerily quiet. Peter said, "All present?" All men responded with "Aye ayes."

Angela's eyes were starting to adjust and could make out the dark shapes of her teammates. She felt amazingly safe. Peter led the way toward the farm buildings about a quarter mile away.

They moved in a wide line about 5 meters apart, except for Angela's escort who stayed right beside her. After traveling part way in a low silent crouch, her back hurt and she was gasping. About fifty meters from the back of the barn, Peter stopped and crouched down into the crops again. Angela needed rest, but no one else even seemed winded. Communicating with hand signals a two-man team moved toward the equipment shed. A second team went left toward the farmhouse. Peter and his backup moved forward toward the barn. The man next to Angela stayed behind. She was fascinated by how quietly they disappeared in the dark.

All the buildings were dark with no light anywhere. Each team moved cautiously around the perimeter, checking doors and windows. The barn had huge sliding doors on the back, which were too noisy to open. Peter moved around the side of the barn toward the front. At the corner, he peered around and could see the front doors were opened. They moved forward, checking all quadrants.

At the barn door, Peter listened for several seconds then signaled that he was going inside. The other man took a covering posture against the door as Peter disappeared. One second later the soldier followed. Both men moved in silence. Peter opened his vest pocket for a small utility light. He panned the interior with a narrow beam. It took about a minute to determine there was no one inside the barn.

Meantime, the team at the equipment shed found nothing and was moving toward the barn. Peter inquired at the house, "Team three, teams one and two are at the barn, all is secure. What is your status? Over."

"Wait one," the pause lasted about twenty seconds, "Striker One, we have entered the house. You need to come over here sir, over."

The two teams jogged to the farmhouse and met the Team Three leader at the back door. He reported, "Sir, no sign of life or unusual equipment, but look here."

Peter's line of sight followed the pencil beam as the Ranger moved his light over to the bloody mess on the floor. Team Three lead said, "Sir, this guy is still breathing. No others located."

One of the soldiers rolled the man over on his back. Peter looked down in astonishment, then instructed, "Team Four, bring the FBI forward to the ranch house, over."

"Four, roger that" The Ranger assigned to Angela stood up, and she followed as they jogged to the house.

Peter starred at the man's face; he recalled their last meeting in the desert. Rage surged as he grabbed Razzaq's hair and forced his gaze directly into his eyes saying, "Hello again asshole, remember me? Your mission will fail and you are a dead man in disgrace. I will be sure everyone in your world knows what a fool you are."

It wasn't possible to know if Razzaq recognized Peter or heard his venom, as he lay near death in the grasp of an enemy. No attempt at medical aid was made. He gasped with blood purging from his mouth, and jerked spasmodically, fighting to remain conscious. Peter dropped his head.

When Angela arrived, Peter realized that he didn't known which agent was in his flight. He wished it had been Luke. He turned the flash light toward the steps leading up to the porch. As Angela entered he said, "Agent Kerr, we have a mortally wounded terrorist. He will be dead shortly." She had a shocked expression when Peter added, "He was in this condition when we arrived, so none of our guys got him." She nodded.

He moved out of her way and used the flashlight to illuminate the terrorist's face saying, "Meet Razzaq, the terrorist we've been tracking." He felt cheated. He wanted to meet Razzaq alive; now, he could only take mild satisfaction that Razzaq would die, in excruciating pain.

Razzaq's eyes were opened staring at the silhouettes behind the light beam in his eyes. With this vision, his face muscles slacked and something gurgled in his throat. No one checked his vital signs.

Angela felt queasy having never seen a bloody corpse before. She had trouble asking, "Any idea why he was killed?"

Peter said, "There's no indication. He was stabbed by the barn and dragged in here."

At that moment the flight's radioman interrupted, "Sir, HQ on the line for you."

He took the handset, "Shields here, over."

"Colonel, this is Brodie, we have a situation regarding the nukes, over."

"Go ahead, over."

General Brodie said, "Peter, the FBI in Washington just received a phone call with ransom demands. Someone wants big bucks for the nukes, over."

Peter responded, "Sir that may be consistent with evidence at this LZ. The terrorist leader was murdered before we arrived, less than an hour ago, over."

Brodie said, "Hold for one, we're putting this through phone patch to a conference call in Washington. Are you there Washington?" 'Yes' was heard. "Striker One, are you there?" Peter affirmed. "Okay Washington, we're listening, over."

With single channel military radios, there was no way to talk over one another in a normal conversation, so protocol required the word 'over' to indicate they were listening, by release of the push-to-talk button on the handset. Peter had signaled his team to find a light switch and they had moved to the kitchen where there was a table and a few chairs. Most of the Strike personnel moved to the living room awaiting orders.

Over the radio, several people were introduced from the FBI and DOD, and others without identifying agencies. One name Peter recognized: Jim Coates, Rachael's coworker at DOD intelligence. Peter gave a quick situation report and listened to considerable chatter at the Capital and felt they were wasting a lot of time if the nukes were in the city. The bottom line was that someone with an Eastern European accent was demanding a billion dollars in ten different foreign accounts, one hundred million per account.

Peter spoke, "People—people, break, please." He released the talk button.

The chatter dissipated and a voice said, "Go ahead"

Peter responded, "We are at the bomb staging area, and the bombs are gone, along with the detonation transmitter. I assume they are in Chicago or en route. We need to find the detonator. Can we get anything from the caller indicating possible location? Over."

After a moment's delay, "Colonel Shields, this is Jim Coates, Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense for Intelligence. I believe you know Rachael Aston? I think you have assets under your control that may be of immense value locating the detonator, over." Peter desperately wanted to ask about Rachael's condition, but was constrained with so many unknown people listening.

"Yes sir, I recognize you. Can you clarify please? Over."

Coates said, "A man has made several calls of short duration, apparently trying to avert our devices, but we got a signature from his mobile phone that we have isolated and can track in near real time, over."

"Sir, is the signal something we can track from Compass Call? Over."

Coates said, "I believe they can track the carrier frequency, but probably not the modulation unique to the phone, but that's probably enough if we can capture multiple broadcasts, over."

"Sir, how frequently has he been calling? Over."

Someone with a voice unfamiliar to Peter said, "He averages around ten minute intervals. Most recently threatening to blow up one bomb in four hours as a demonstration, over."

Peter replied, "Okay, that may coincide with traffic conditions if they want the bombs in the city. Can we keep him talking so we can get coordinates? Over."

Coates said, "We can probably coax him along if all assets are synchronized, over."

"My team needs to locate the detonator. Can you coordinate the transfer of SIGINT to COMPASS CALL--ASAP, over."

Coates agreed, "It will be done in two minutes, over."

"Shields, out."

Peter called Striker Two, who came up negative at the other farmhouse. As the team moved out, running toward the helicopter, he ordered, "Striker Two, and Blue Thunder, return to base ASAP, refuel and prepare for second assault. All Little Birds, start spinning up now! Striker One, out."

The MH-6J Little Bird has one Allison 250-C30 turbo shaft engine, which produces 425 horsepower, that takes about a minute to reach full power from start. As the team ran to their aircraft, the birds began easing forward when the last set of boots was on board.

Peter switched the radio to COM 1, "Big Eye One, this is Striker One, over."

"Striker One this is Big Eye One, over."

"Big Eye, you will receive FLASH Traffic regarding mobile phone signal. It must be tracked in real time, over."

"Striker One, confirm. FLASH traffic received and ELINT equipment being programmed as we speak. We should have capture capability in less than one minute, over."

Peter confirmed, "Roger that Big Eye. Assume racetrack pattern opposite direction with Big Eye Two and maximize accuracy of vectors. We may not have many chances to nail this guy, so keep me current. We are refueling and will be tactical in ten minutes, over."

"HUA Striker One, go get 'em! Out."

The Little Birds merged in formation flying at top speed back to base. The crew at Naperville was ready to top off the tanks with JP4 from fuel trucks as quickly as they landed. Blue Thunder was ahead and already refueling. MH-6Js carry 100 gallons of fuel, good for short flight times. The AH-64 Apache is faster and has a longer range, so the Little Birds were the limiting factor in tactics.

As the pilots radioed their approach into the temporary base, Big Eye One radioed the first intercept of the mobile signal. Peter ordered "hot top off." This is a dangerous exercise because the engines would remain running and the refueling crews would be augmented with fire crews. All personnel would remain near their aircraft. Refueling this way was risky, but time was important.

Moments later, headquarters radioed from Springfield, "Shields this is Brodie, over."

Peter responded, "Copy sir, this is Shields, over."

"Striker One be advised XEMP weaps have arrived. Contact Eagle One on COM2. Fresh fuel from Scott [AFB] and on track above Chicago at Angels 15, waiting your command, over."

Peter responded, "Roger that Sir, Eagle One at COM2. Striker One, Out."

The little Birds touched down moments later.

Terms

The Russian convoy was heading northwest on Randall Road, a course that kept them roughly fifty miles outside the center of Chicago. Machin was becoming increasingly agitated, "Who do they think we are Vasya? Do they think we are joking? You know, I should explode another bomb just to show them who is the boss!" He reached for the controller on the seat between them.

Alekseev cautioned "Be patient Tolya. We are asking for a lot of money. Even the President cannot write a billion dollar check. Maybe we should have asked for less."

"They wouldn't take us so seriously. They will find the money."

They were in a convoy of eight cars, third back from the front. All the cars had heavily armed men, mostly ex-Russian paratroops. All were promised a million dollars, and were loyal to Machin.

Machin picked up his phone and called the lead car. He did not want the convoy traveling too fast. Speed meant more turns and he wanted to stay in the farmland. The only trees along the road were located along the natural streams. Farmers liked to fish in the woods along streambeds near their fields. He regarded farming as a bleak way to live. He would rather be in a Russian prison than slave to the earth and animals. But, desolate little roads were perfect for the next few hours. The bombs would be in place in four to five hours, and by then he would be a rich man. They would all be rich, but none would know how much wealth he retained for himself. He dialed the lead car and spoke his commands in Russian.

Striker Mission Two

Back at Naperville, the Little Birds finished refueling. Peter briefed the entire strike team on the intelligence situation. They could be dealing with a mobile target, so quick reaction and movement would be key for their success. After the briefing he said, "Okay, equipment check, weapons 'cocked and locked', the same flight formation. Let's rock an' roll."

In less than fifteen seconds the four Little Birds and Blue Thunder were airborne and moving toward the first set of coordinates. After midnight, there was little traffic on the roads as they moved westerly, over more farm country. The residential streetlights gave way to dark terrain.

Four minutes later they had arrived at the first waypoint, at the little suburban community of Batavia. The precise location of the signal intercept was slightly north of town along Randall Rd. They made a sweeping two-mile turn at one thousand feet around the location, but there was nothing but farmland. After two circles, Peter ordered the pilot to turn to the second intercept point. The other Birds and Thunder maintained formation following Little Bird One.

The second waypoint was farther north in the town of Geneva, also along Randall Road. Again circling the location, the downtown area was completely barren. Only one car was in a parking lot that warranted investigation, so Peter ordered Little Bird Four to descend and investigate. They watched as the rear-most helicopter dropped to a few feet away. The helicopter turned on its landing lights looking inside the vehicle, "No visible occupants Striker One" was radioed.

"Roger that Four, reform." The strike team had continued orbiting and the Little Bird requested momentary landing lights to locate them. The flying was dangerous in formation, so their air traffic controllers remained coordinated closely with the civil air authorities. The only reference each pilot had to the others was reflective markings on the sides of each helicopter.

The flight group was reformed in less than a minute. The target was moving north on Randall Rd. The time and distance between the two intercepts suggested a car traveling at moderate speed. Peter decided to order the pilot north, following the road at forty knots. The air current was blowing west to east, so it wouldn't be a factor in their forward ground speed, which would be around forty-five miles per hour. He would follow this course hoping for another Big Eye intercept.

Peter switched the radio to COM2 to contact the F15 that was loitering somewhere overhead in the blackness. He radioed, "Eagle One, this is Strike Force, Colonel Shields, over."

"Strike, this is Eagle One, over."

Peter said, "Eagle One, what is your position and weapons load? Over."

"Striker, Eagle One, orbiting above Chicago, currently south southeast of center at angels 30, packing two AGM-XEMP weaps with GBU guidance system, over."

"Roger Eagle One. Proceed at 270 degrees about forty miles from center and orbit. Contact Naperville Guard Forward Air Traffic Control. ATC will coordinate. Shields, over."

The pilot, "Roger 270 degrees at forty, contact Naperville ATC for vector, over."

Peter inquired, "Eagle One, not familiar with XEMP parameters, please advise best launch altitude, over."

"Sir, this is Eagle One, WSO (Weapons System Officer), suggesting angels fifteen for launch at five miles from the target, over."

Peter said, "Roger Eagle One, maintain angels fifteen at orbit. Will advise target, over."

Peter inquired again, "Eagle One, one more thing. Please advise weapon delivery time, over."

The F15 WSO said, "Striker, Eagle One, weapon flight time from angels fifteen is less than twenty seconds, over."

Peter answered, "Roger Eagle One, Shields, out."

Switching back to COM1, Big Eye One reported a fresh coordinate almost due north of their position. Peter ordered the flight speed increased to one hundred knots, almost one hundred fifteen across the ground. At one thousand feet above the ground, references that could be seen were racing past. Everyone began to sense the confrontation coming. All were upright in their seats. Angela, back in Little Bird Four, was tensing up.

Randall Road is relatively straight running north of Geneva. As the navigation system provided information to the next waypoint, the flight path was directly above Randall Road. The pilot reported that they were two miles from the waypoint. They were only seconds away at their current speed. With time correlation from Big Eye's last intercept, they were probably about five to ten miles behind the target. Peter instructed the pilot to maintain speed and begin navigating along the road below, holding altitude constant.

Peter ordered, "Thunder, proceed to parallel our position, standoff one thousand right, over."

Response, "Thunder, roger, over."

Within fifteen seconds, the Apache attack helicopter was parallel to the lead helicopter about one thousand meters to the right. The AH-64 Apache 'Longbow' is a heavy attack helicopter with combat mission speed of 167 mph with duration of over two hours. For armament it carries multiple HELLFIRE missiles, 2.75" rockets and 30mm chain gun. The crew consisted of two members, a pilot and a co-pilot/gunner. It was fully armed.

Peter checked his watch and timed their flight. At two minutes, he disengaged his seat restraint and stood by the open doorway to see the road ahead. The wind in his face was too much without using his goggles. Two miles ahead, he saw a line of cars traveling together at close interval. He sat down again and used the intercom to talk to the pilots, "Gentlemen, do you see the line of cars we are approaching northbound on Randall Road?"

"Aye Colonel, the line is in sight."

Peter said "Lower to five hundred and close to one half mile." The pilot pushed the helicopter nose down and was diving for the ground.

"Roger sir, 500 AGL and closing, out."

The flight leveled again after ten seconds in decline. Angela felt woozy again after the quick fall. Peter went to the door again. They were about six miles northwest of St. Charles with almost thirty miles of farmland ahead.

Big Eye One reported, "Army 502, this is Big Eye One, we are tracking your position. Be advised that the latest squawk from the target is under your position, over."

From Little Bird One's pilot, "Roger that Big Eye, we have target in sight, out."

Peter was monitoring the dialogue with his headset. The target was located, so he needed an attack plan. This was one of those times he really wished they were back at the base camp where he could convene a war council with his team for coordination and ideas. Attacking the convoy would be tricky and it was depending on his decisions alone. He needed to keep the battle area away from cities and needed to act quickly.

He ordered the flight leader to match the convoy speed and set back one mile. He switched to COM2, "Eagle One, you copy? This is Shields, over."

The F15 pilot responded, "Copy fivers sir, over."

Peter asked, "Can you engage a moving target with XEMP? Over."

The WSO responded, "Sir, how large is the target area? Over."

Peter answered, "Estimate 400 feet, it's a line of eight cars, fifty feet nose to nose, over."

The response was, "Negative sir, that ground coverage is at the limits of the weapon aperture, I need to hit the center, that's were the laser spot will need to be, over."

"Eagle One, understand. Will need to stop convoy and put laser on the center. Estimate twenty-second delivery once engaged, is that correct? Over."

"Ah, yes sir, twenty seconds to deliver, but I will need to be on terminal approach for a few seconds to verify signature and drop the package, over."

Peter responded, "Got it. Eagle One, switch to COM1 please sir, over."

"Roger that, COM1, over."

Peter switched to COM1 open channel to the other aircraft, "All aircraft, this is Striker One, standby for instruction." Pause. "Thunder, can you lay in a few dozen cannon rounds ahead of the lead car without hitting it, enough to destroy the road?"

"Striker One, be advised I'm packing 300 rounds of tank bustin' 30's that I can lay through the front door window if you want, over."

"Thunder. On my mark, fire a burst 100 meters ahead of lead car. Then evac at max speed until you see a large explosion, then rally back for close air support. Do you copy? Over."

"HUA Colonel! Thunder, out."

Peter continued, "Little Bird Two on my second signal, laser designate the center of the convoy, regardless of configuration. Stand off one mile, over."

"Roger Striker One, Bird Two, out."

As he continued the instructions, the Apache moved ahead, directly above the top of the convoy, 100 feet above the ground.

The helicopter prepared to fire a ten-round burst at the road. The ammunition was mixed with armor piercing, explosive and tracer rounds. One thirty millimeter HE cannon round could blow a four foot crater in the ground. Ten rounds would equate to a bridge washout. The noise and explosive flashes would also be temporarily blinding to the drivers. The convoy would definitely stop.

Peter continued, "Striker One will land one hundred meters behind the convoy and block the exit, on my mark."

Convoy

The Russians were speaking in English, making it difficult for the driver to understand. Machin had the controller resting on his lap and was fondling the controls with nervous anxiety. He said, "I do not know Vasya, they seem to be playing games. They know we are serious. Why are there such delays? Their processes are more bureaucratic than Moscow." Machin was getting perturbed with the delays in Washington, but before his comrade could respond, the brilliant white light above them filled the sky with a cannon burst lasting half a second. The driver in the lead car saw the road ahead explode. Men in the rear cars recognized the rhythmic cadence of the chain gun firing overhead. The lead driver slammed his brake pedal, fighting for control as they were enveloped in dust, dirt and smoke. The cordite smell settled on the rear cars as the dark hull of the attack helicopter disappeared.

The cars slammed together, shortening the length of the convoy to less than two hundred feet. Machin was disoriented in the confusion and failed to give any immediate instructions. He wasn't a combat soldier, lacking the conditioned instincts of the commandos in his caravan, lately of the H&S limousine company. When he did react, he jumped out of the car shouting, "Back fast!"

Little Bird One landed hard on the road, 100 meters behind the caravan with its landing lights blazing. A canyon now bisected the road ahead, and the fields on both sides were full of crops. In the darkness, Little Bird Four landed in the field to their left flank. Little Bird Three went to the right. Little Bird Two hovered above Three, firing an invisible laser at the center of the convoy.

Fifteen thousand feet above, the F-15E Strike Eagle was waiting.

The crew and squad aboard Little Bird One scrambled to the fields, taking firing positions in the darkness. Peter stayed aboard momentarily, using the radio to command the F15 above, "Strike Eagle One, this is Striker One, you are cleared to engage. Verify, over."

The Strike Eagle is a dual-role fighter designed for air-to-air and air-to-ground missions. The F-15E can fight day or night, in all weather conditions. It has two crewmembers, a pilot and WSO and can fly over two thousand miles per hour. Eagle One was flying slow, about three hundred miles per hour, at fifteen thousand feet, five miles south of the convoy. The WSO called over the intercom to the pilot, "Sensor active and we have acquisition."

The pilot radioed, "Roger Striker, Eagle One is engaging, over."

As the response came, Russians began firing on his position.

Above them, Eagle One's pilot flipped the master arm switch safety cover forward saying, "Weapon one is hot--firing!" The pilot depressed the weapon release on his control stick and the starboard bomb fell free. He then radioed to Peter, "Striker One, package en route, standing by, over."

Peter was avoiding gunfire in Little Bird One and could not respond.

Over the personal communicator heard by the entire strike team, he ordered, "Everyone down! Now! Take cover for blast!"

Little Bird Two held position for about ten seconds, then dove for the ground, landing hard. Everyone jumped to the ground, face down in the dirt, arms covering their ears. Luke and Angela were thrown down and surrounded by the Rangers yelling, "Cover up! Cover up!"

Some Russians rushed into the fields, and others were charging Little Bird One. Silently above, an experimental bomb, "X" designation, was falling to earth at nearly five hundred miles per hour. A small parachute deployed from the tail cone to help stabilize flight toward the center of a laser spot. The parachute was used to orient the weapon; it did not slow it much. A modular GBU-15 guidance kit attached to the nose, with airfoil controls, controlled the experimental bomb. The F-15 WSO steered the device using a radio data link.

At five hundred feet above the ground, the bomb exploded in a blinding flash of light and incredibly loud concussion. The bomb was a secret weapon encased in cellulose to avoid shrapnel damage. The intense sound drove the Russians to the ground. Machin, still inside the middle car was dazzled. Had the bomb missed? His head was throbbing and his vision swirled, but he was able to grab the detonator box. He could hear the growing gunfire. He stared at the keypad for several seconds, unable to do anything. Then rage overtook him, and he started pressing numbers to activate the bombs. The EMP bomb had worked.

Electro-Magnetic Pulse effects were first observed during the early testing of airburst nuclear weapons. A powerful blast created an electromagnetic shock wave capable of inflicting irreversible damage to electronic equipment. Military systems are hardened with special electronic shielding to resist the effects of EMP, while ordinary electronic circuits are destroyed. Peter had known about the experiments conducted at Eglin Air Force Base while he was stationed at SOCOM.

Soldiers were exchanging fire with muzzle flashes lighting the fields left and right of the convoy. The firefight gained intensity, while Peter worked the radio, still on board the aircraft. On COM3, he yelled, "Striker Three, this is striker One. Do you copy?"

"Roger One, over."

"Striker Three execute Snake Bite, execute, execute! Over."

"HUA Colonel. Phase three execute! Over."

"Out" was all he could say leaping through the door as bullets slammed through the windshield. He was in the open, lying on the road as 7.62mm bullets ricocheted around him. He was behind the landing lights, but full automatic fire was ricocheting all around. Hot pavement and bullet fragments hit his upper body, shoulder armor and goggles, damaging unprotected arms. His face was bleeding from numerous wounds.

As bullets mauled the helicopter and the lights, he rolled right, over the edge of the road. He stopped after sliding in loose gravel in prone position, presenting the smallest target possible. Aiming his M4 toward the muzzle flashes, he flipped the selector to semi-auto and began squeezing off rounds. There were more than thirty enemy personnel. They were well trained from their disbursement and supporting fields of fire. They had enough firepower with Thunder, but his troops could be in the way.

He crouched and ran back to the helicopter. The radio was still working. Over COM1 he yelled, "Thunder, lay some rounds into those cars. Do not overshoot. We have troops on both sides, over!"

Thunder responded, "Wait one."

Without acknowledgment, Thunder had been hovering at five hundred feet and was climbing to one thousand when the call came. The altitude would increase the firing angle. About ten seconds went by when a burst of 30mm ammunition exploded the center of the convoy. Three limousines blew into the air before bursting into fuel-fed fires. This gave more light behind the Russians and the fight began favoring the outnumbered Rangers.

Three men charged Peter with guns blazing. He rolled to his right again, not able to shoot. They were within a hundred feet when he resumed firing. Someone to the right saw the charge and also fired. One attacker faltered from a well-placed shot, but two were too close to Peter for a second shot.

He flipped to full auto and fired a burst as bullets ricocheted around him. He half rolled again, firing without aiming. One of the men fell. The second man tried to fire at ten feet, but his magazine was empty, or the weapon jammed.

Peter rose as the attacker threw his weapon at him, causing him to stumble. The man jumped on him cursing in Russian. The man's knee pounded his abdomen, knocking him backward. He instinctively crouched, shaking his head violently in a low fighting position as the bigger man charged again. The attacker was expertly trained and relentless in his attack. This wasn't a points match; it was hand-to-hand combat that would end with only one alive. Peter stopped being the mission commander and became an individual grunt. His focus narrowed; his hearing shut out all noise; his pulse quickened.

They both went down clutching and clawing, rolling several times before Peter pushed himself free. He recognized the Russian killer who had tried to kill him at the country club.

The Russian had grasped Peter's fighting knife in his right hand. In the tussle, he'd pulled it from Peter's scabbard. Peter circled right. In the background, gunfire had slowed. Most Russian combatants were down. He kept circling, waiting to lunge. His opponent wasn't inclined to rash movement. Peter had seen the man move at the shed and knew he'd lost some flexibility. He could not crouch and rotate for long. The Russian lunged. Instead of backing away or parrying the thrust, Peter dodged and leapt forward, gripping the knife hand and arm under his left arm. They were momentarily locked together when Peter dropped and swung his right leg in an arc throwing the man off balance. With quick reaction, Peter pulled his smaller throwing knife from behind his waist and thrust it into the man's larynx. The Russian was paralyzed for one second, and then with superhuman force, pulled Peter's knife hand free, but his coordination was wasted. Peter thrust again, slicing the knife sideways inside the bigger man's throat. Blood gushed in torrents while the dying man's eyes remained fixed on Peter's face. He fell onto the road, still flailing, then his body began to spasm as life drained away.

Peter recovered his fighting knife and M4. He checked the magazine and moved toward the enemy. Muzzle flashes were left and right. He could see both FBI agents firing their pistols from prone positions along with the soldiers. There was no firing ahead as he jogged toward the convoy. About ten people remained engaged in the fight on both sides and he sensed that the Russians were now the minority. When he reached the rear of the cars, he yelled, "Cease fire, Army Rangers, Cease fire!"

He could see all the cars clearly in the firelight. A few shots followed then it stopped. In the firelight, he could see dead and wounded Russians on both sides, his troops were out in the fields in better shape. Some Russians moved to their feet and raised hands, but most were motionless. He saw the FBI jackets first, and then his men started taking shape in the darkness.

Blue Thunder had killed Anatoly Machin, the arms merchant and extortionist. The detonator box was destroyed. Within minutes after the shooting stopped, the situation was under control and Striker Two was left in command. Luke Gallagher was the senior law authority on scene and took operational control with the Guard soldiers supporting. None of the soldiers were seriously hurt. Angela was also unhurt and exhilarated, knowing that she had helped strike back against the bombers. She was shocked at Peter's bloody appearance. He explained that his wounds were superficial and most of the blood wasn't his.

He ordered the Strike team to mount up on Little Birds Two and Three for transport into Chicago. Little Bird One was destroyed. Thunder would accompany them. Angela asked to join the trip back to the city, since Luke had plenty of backup.

Fox Hunt

En route to Chicago, the Little Birds were re-designated as One and Two. Little Bird Three was re-designated One with Peter aboard. They flew to Naperville for fuel, rearming and food. The total time on the ground was limited, so Peter instructed anyone wanting to sleep to stay close to the helicopters. He walked to a mall restroom, which was re-opened for their use. He stripped and washed off blood and dirt. The cuts on his face had coagulated, but some would need to be sutured once this was over. Some of the bullet fragments that had glanced off the road surface were still embedded in his face, legs and arms.

He took a wet cloth and cleaned his body armor and BDUs as much as possible before re-dressing. He laid his weapons across several sinks and cleaned away dirt and blood. His sidearm had remained holstered and only needed superficial cleaning. His knives were wiped clean. His M4 had fired almost two full magazines, forty shots, but there wasn't enough time to clean it.

Redressed, he went to the armory for fresh 5.56mm M4 magazines. After rearming, he headed for the mess trailer grabbing three power bars and an orange juice box. Then he went back to Little Bird One to use the radio. When he checked his watch, he still had thirty minutes before liftoff. Most of the other soldiers were drinking coffee, still exhilarated from the morning's action. Some were sleeping.

His first call was to the Compass Call, "Big Eye One this is Striker One, over."

Compass Call responded, "Striker One, this is Big Eye One, over."

"Big Eye, be advised the mission to neutralize weapon controller was successful. Thanks for your help! Over."

"Thanks sir, I'll pass along, over."

Peter continued, "Roger that Big Eye. We're now moving to help locate and disarm the bombs. Please coordinate with DOD SIGINT for any chatter that will help us locate the five remaining weapons, over."

"Roger Striker One, acknowledge mission for detonator is now over. New mission to locate five platforms through chatter, over."

"Roger, Striker One, out."

He switched COM channels and began to key the mike when he saw Angela standing about ten feet away drinking coffee and looking at him."

Lowering the handset, he said, "Hi."

She seemed a little coy, "Hi. You clean up well." He started to speak but she continued, "I was wondering, how you can manage to pull off such a plan, clean up like you've just been working in the garden, and behave calmly after such an experience?"

He starred back a little too long without speaking. He wasn't comfortable with this dialogue. He answered, "I dunno, haven't thought about it like that before."

She continued, "Colonel, you're a unique guy. I admire you. We came through this thing without any serious injuries. Those men weren't amateurs and you were outgunned on the ground, yet somehow, I sensed that you knew we would be all right"

He stammered a little, "Agent Kerr, Angela, I, ah, just have confidence in military equipment and training. That's all."

"Okay, I just wanted to say something to you before you take off again." She took one long sip of coffee then turned her eyes from him. He watched as she moved away. He was thinking: 'Man, this isn't the time for this. I wish I knew what to say to women...forget it.' He found himself conflicted with emotion.

He resumed keying the handset, "This is Striker One. Wheeler are you up on COM1? Over."

Wheeler answered, "Wheeler Aye sir, over." The EOD team was staged with their equipment. Ben Harris, DEA, was also with them with the illumination systems and goggles.

Peter said, "Wheeler, is Harris ready? Over."

"Yes sir, we're all ready to go on your orders, over."

Peter said, "Okay, stand by, Little Birds en route for pickup at the federal building, ETA is twenty-five minutes. This op is going airborne. Have minimum equipment per man. The transmitter has been destroyed, only threat now is local detonation, over."

"Roger sir, HUA, awaiting pickup sir, over."

"Striker One, out."

Wheeler and his men had been reviewing their notes and video from Woodstock. In the meantime, Ben Harris had been preparing his equipment for deployment, and training the EOD team. They were ready to get into the action. Airmen did not always carry weapons, but they all had M9 side arms for this mission.

As the MH-6J's approached the city, flying at three thousand feet, they saw an astonishing and eerie sight. The city was dark except for billowing smoke and fire. It looked like Gotham City on a bad day.

Peter asked, "Wheeler, can you help light the rooftop? Over."

Wheeler answered, "Sir, we have our flashlights and will try to show the corners. Sorry, we have nothing else."

The pilot then said, "Sir, I have their lights in sight. We'll be fine on approach, but only one bird can land at a time."

"Roger that. Wheeler, divide your men for two birds, over."

When the first helicopter landed, Angela got off with one of the Rangers to make space for two EOD airmen with equipment. The second flight did the same thing. The Rangers would help care for any injured people remaining below in the offices.

Locked and Loaded

Fortunately, the military had provided combat air controllers to the city to take charge of the air traffic; even fixed winged aircraft could navigate between buildings along the wide boulevards.

Peter briefed the teams on tactics. The pilots were briefed separately. The EOD would be seated on the edge of the helicopter deck with safety harnesses. One would operate the laser, while the other would wear the goggles. The laser operator, without eye gear, would try to identify the Patriot taxis for the observer and focus the lasers on the target vehicles. When the observer did not say the word "verified" which would represent a Hotwaxed vehicle, it was called a "bogey." Each bogey would be investigated.

Thunder was instructed to locate a helipad in the center of the city and keep one engine idling at all times. The Little Bird pilots were instructed to fly down specific streets between buildings. The speed and altitude would be adjusted as directed by the EOD team. Dawn was appearing as the aircraft flew to their starting points in the city. Their flight routes were planned and the two teams would work independently. The first search routes were along the main streets through the city that were at most risk. Little Bird One took Michigan Avenue from North Avenue, flying south. Bird Two took LaSalle Street south.

The helicopters flew about two hundred feet above the ground. The observers learned to coordinate effectively. The process was painfully slow as they cruised along the street at no more than twenty miles an hour. Michigan Avenue was relatively clear compared to LaSalle, which had more damage. Several taxis were present as people walked east toward Lake Michigan. Each taxi had to be examined to see if it had Patriot logos. In the first block, they saw several Patriot taxis at work, and all glowed purple. The coating worked remarkably well.

When Little Bird One crossed over the Chicago River, into the heart of downtown, they located their first "bogey." The observer yelled, "Tally ho! Bogey below."

Peter responded, "Is the taxi parked or moving?"

"It's parked sir. At least it's not moving and appears to be parked on the side."

Peter instructed, "Roger that, pilot, move to higher altitude and rearward about two blocks." The early morning sky was still dark.

The helicopter rotated, reversing direction and Peter ordered him to turn right up Wacker Drive. Once they were hidden, the helicopter descended as the two Rangers and two EOD personnel jumped out with their gear.

Peter and the other Ranger jogged ahead, traveling south parallel to Michigan. When they reached a cross street, they turned toward Michigan, stopping at the corner, one hundred meters ahead of the taxi.

On Michigan they started walking, holding their weapons to their sides. Darkness helped. The taxi was located between other abandoned or parked cars. Crouching, they could not see inside the taxi. EOD had remained at the corner, out of sight. No cars were moving and the closest headlights were probably ten blocks away.

Peter asked the other Ranger to cover him while he circled behind, farther down the street. The sky was beginning to brighten slightly with the dawn. Peter moved between cars to the opposite sidewalk and was moving cautiously up the street using architecture for cover as much as possible. When he reached the car, he stepped closer until he could tap the window with his M4 muzzle. The other Ranger was aiming at the driver's side window. The rear window shattered as an AK rifle took aim at Peter, who instantly fired a volley inside the car. The driver's window disintegrated in an explosion of glass as the Ranger unloaded half a magazine of ammunition from across the street.

No one was in the front seat, but a dead man in the back appeared to be Middle Eastern. Opening the door, Peter pressed his barrel against the man's chest as he grabbed his belt and jerked him out of the car. The body was limp, oozing blood with a face shredded by gunfire. Peter whistled and gestured for the EODs. The Ranger pulled the trunk release lever. The reentry warhead and detonation device were inside. They could hear sirens coming in their direction as the EODs went to work disabling the detonator.

Two police cars stopped down the street when they saw armed soldiers at the taxi. Tires squealed as the lead car skidded to a stop nearly colliding with the other car. Officers jumped to cover behind their cars with weapons drawn yelling, "Police! Drop your weapons and step away from the car."

Peter ordered the men to keep working, shouting back, "Back off! We're National Guard in support of the FBI."

All the police officers were obviously tense. One repeated, "I say again, drop your weapons!"

Peter insisted, "We're not dropping anything! This is a nuclear bomb here and we're making it safe. So back off!" His M4 was set for automatic fire, still pointed at the ground, but he was prepared to use force if the police were too stupid to back down. The EOD team was sweating profusely as the standoff continued.

An officer crouched behind his car, remaining low as he used the radio for instructions. The EOD team remained at their job. "Safe!" The airman crawled back out of the trunk. Peter could see his sweat in the dim light. He told his men to get all their equipment and standby. Using his radio, he called for the Little Bird One to come to their location.

Peter walked toward the police cars as they continued to point their handguns. He yelled, "Officers, this car is a nuclear bomb. We're under orders from the President. There are four more around the city and we have no more time for discussion. Take charge of this car and keep it guarded! The car must not be touched; it's still a live warhead. I repeat a live warhead!"

As Peter finished instructing the police, they continued to point their guns in his direction, which he ignored. The police were helpless, since most of the command structure had been obliterated. When the Little Bird arrived, the police knew they were outgunned.

Peter ordered his men aboard the helicopter, which moved ahead of the police vehicles in low hover. Its rotor blades were barely above the car roofs. As the team rose to observation altitude, the police were standing in their same positions looking at them.

At one hundred feet of altitude, they resumed their hunt down Michigan Avenue. The radio squawked, "Striker One, This is Striker Two, over."

"Go ahead Two, this is One, over."

Peter Two said, "Sir, we have located and disabled one car on LaSalle Street, no occupants, over."

"Good work Two. Did you secure the location? Are the police in custody of the nuke? Over."

"Yes sir, all is secure. The street's a mess and the car was pinned in. Police were everywhere when we arrived. They now have custody, over."

"Good, resume search, we have three more to find."

The process was tedious. At the end of Lasalle Street, Striker Two turned onto State Street and began a search moving opposite their original direction. Within a few minutes, they had discovered a second suspect taxi among considerable rubble from building facades that had fallen. They were able to set the Bird down on the roof of a parking garage two blocks away. Once again, the mix of Rangers and EOD were moving fast to the scene.

Little Bird One reached the end of the high-rise area and turned one hundred eighty degrees up Wabash Avenue, when the radio blared, "Striker One, this is Striker Two, over!"

Gunfire was recognizable in the background. Peter answered, "Two this is One, over."

"Sir we've got bad guys behind rubble with automatic weapons. Request assistance, over."

He asked for coordinates and instructed Little Bird One's pilot to land nearby. Peter and the other Ranger in his flight were on the ground in less than forty-five seconds. Gunfire was audible as Peter ordered the pilot to a safe location. The Rangers ran toward the gunfire. The fight was raging on West LaSalle Street in front of the Federal Reserve Bank. The taxi was parked in the middle of the street with muzzle flashes from within the stacks of broken concrete and twisted rebar.

Peter found Stokes across from the taxi, pinned down without much cover.

Stokes said, "Sir, we were trying to get to the taxi when all hell broke loose."

"Understand Captain. How many are there?"

"I believe two, well protected, sir."

Peter said, "Okay, you, pointing to one of the Rangers, take right. I'll take left; Captain, you two lay down suppressing fire. Here are two more magazines. Let's go!"

The Rangers bolted across the street while the two remaining fired automatic bursts toward the enemy. Their suppressive fire forced the gunmen to keep down. The attacking men ran fast and the terrorists fired back, ineffectively. The Ranger on the other side tried moving between covered positions, but realized he was falling behind Peter and it was important to be synchronized. He also knew the suppressing fire would run out of ammunition.

When they were near the barricades protecting the gunmen, Peter stopped next to a concrete abutment that provided about thirty percent cover. The other flanker was more secure in a doorway. The terrorists could not get a clear shot. Each flanking Ranger was firing. Peter signaled to stop firing. When the firing quit for a moment, the terrorists both jumped up and tried to take aim, but Peter had been waiting in firing position. He fired two headshots, side by side. The gunfight was over. They charged the position, each firing more rounds into their targets.

Behind them, Striker Two and his soldier ran to the taxi. Daylight was helping now and they could see that the taxi was empty. The Striker Two EOD team was hailed as Peter called Little Bird One for pickup.

Back in the air, Striker One continued east on Wabash against the snarled one-way traffic. The observation team was becoming adept at using their tools and was able to move their gaze up the street faster than the Little Bird was flying. After two hours of flight time, they needed fuel. Peter had allowed Striker Two to return a few minutes earlier when they finished one route. His team finished Wabash and turned toward base. It took ten minutes to fly to Naperville, with fuel below minimums at final approach.

On the ground, everyone was given thirty minutes of personal time. Peter got a bottle of water and an apple, then went back to the helicopter to use the radio. He called headquarters for information regarding casualties at the federal building. He wanted to ask specifically about Rachael, but felt it would sound too much like a personal call.

Headquarters said, "Sir, the latest info confirms three dead and roughly twenty-five seriously injured, five very critical, over."

Peter felt a pit in his stomach thinking that odds did not favor Rachael, "Ah, roger, where are the injured now? Over."

Headquarters answered, "Wait one. Sir, it looks like they were Medevac'ed to several suburban hospitals, but we don't have specifics yet, over."

"Roger that, Shields Out."

He had a severe headache from sleep deprivation and dehydration. He needed sleep, and lots of water. Thirty minutes went by quickly.

Peter instructed his team, "All right men, you know the drill, two bad guys to go."

The sun had risen above the horizon. This would help the observers to spot suspect taxis. Peter ordered, "All right men, mount up, let's go get some terrorists!" Within a minute, the aircraft were spooling engines with everyone aboard.

They reached the outskirts of town flying over massive destruction and gridlocked cars, which had not been so visible in the earlier darkness. Looking at the destruction below galvanized the resolve of the Rangers.

Little Birds One and Two resumed sweeps for the next hour, without results. Frustrated, Peter decided to freelance down the arterial streets leading into Chicago, the biggest being Grand and Warren. He radioed Striker Two.

Two answered, "Two here sir, over."

Peter spoke, "Striker Two, when you complete current sweep, turn south down Warren Blvd. I will take Grand. Maybe our boys are snarled in traffic, over."

Stokes said, "HUA Colonel, over."

"Striker One, out."

Little Bird One banked left at Grand and flowed along the endless stream of cars, many abandoned, blocking the avenue. About a mile from downtown, they found their prey. Caught between other non-moving cars, the taxi could not move. The driver could be seen clearly with his head resting on his forearms against the wheel. As the helicopter approached, he looked up, saw them, and became panicky, yelling and screaming inside the car. As the helicopter past over slowly, the rear door of the cab thrust open and a gunman stepped out, taking aim. They were only one hundred feet above when bullets came through the floor. Both airmen were hit before the pilot could get the nose down to gain speed. The Rangers could not reach the EOD team while the helicopter maneuvered wildly. The pilot's seats are armored, so they have some protection from ground fire, but the passengers were vulnerable.

The pilot dove to within a few feet of the car roofs, then pulled level accelerating through 100 miles per hour. After traveling about a quarter mile, he banked hard away from traffic. The EOD airmen were pulled back into the helicopter and battle dressings applied. Both had been hit in the legs. One was hit in both legs with arterial bleeding. Peter radioed Striker Two and ordered him to their position ASAP. He then ordered the aircraft to hover above the cars where he could jump out, sending the aircraft to medical facilities. The other Ranger was told to remain aboard to aid the wounded. He then jumped to the hood of a car five feet below. The helicopter departed immediately.

He rolled off the car and crouched between the rows. No people were visible. He began running toward the taxi. In the distance, he could see Striker Two approaching fast at low altitude. They needed to get closer for the headset communicator to work. He ran about a hundred more meters and began calling Little Bird Two.

Peter yelled, "Striker Two, abort! Abort! Over."

Next, he saw the underbelly of the helicopter as the pilot yanked up and rolled left gaining distance from the car. They were no longer among the tall Chicago buildings. Little Bird Two moved a quarter mile away awaiting contact with Peter.

Over the radio he heard, "Striker One this is Striker Two, over."

Peter complimented, "Good move Two. See the bogey at your four o'clock? I'm 100 meters south in the line of cars, over."

Stokes said, "Ah, roger that One, I have visual of bogey and your position, over."

"Okay Two, I need you to flank with a strafing run. Have M4's firing with a fast pass at two hundred meters standoff range. Fire high to avoid other cars. You'll be a decoy, over."

"Roger One, we're the lamb. Will begin strafing run on your mark, over."

He could see activity in Little Bird Two moving the EOD men behind the shooters and the Rangers outboard.

"Okay Two---Mark!

The Little Bird dove downward and forward gaining speed. The pilot went south of his position before turning parallel along the line of cars. Peter began running toward the taxi, farther up the line of cars. At full speed, someone threw open his car door ahead of him. An angry man jumped out of the car, yelling something hostile. Peter could not stop to banter with the man. His M4 barrel hit him squarely in the abdomen sending him down like a brick. Peter slammed the door, which pinched the fellow's chest viciously. He'd lost about three seconds and ran at full speed. Little Bird Two sped past him with carbines blazing as instructed. While still three car lengths back, the gunman in the taxi opened fire on Little Bird Two, which jinxed right and left to thwart his aim. The shooter tried to aim again at Little Bird Two as they maneuvered, when Peter stopped and fired. His shot was perfect, and the man's head exploded like a watermelon. The body jerked forward onto the trunk of another car. Peter fired twice again into his back.

There was another fanatic face in the car. He wasn't in the driver's seat, but sprawled across the back wildly trying to pull out the rear seat. With the mercury switch, he could detonate the bomb with a violent thrust. His eyes appeared in the rear window as he looked up to see Peter behind the car aiming at his face. In desperation the man raised his arms and shouted something in Arabic as he tried to surrender, "Sorry man, no prisoners today." Peter fired three rounds into his face. "Enjoy your seventy virgins friend."

Peter called Stokes, "Striker Two, copy?"

Stokes replied, "Roger One, we're fine. Ready for EOD? Over."

"Good to hear, let's get this thing secured, out."

The EOD team was on the ground in a few seconds after the Little Bird Two landed beside the road. The Rangers huddled along with the pilots allowing them the work. Within minutes the bomb was secure and the car locked. They were getting the routine down--one bomb to go!

Taking to the air again, they continued the grid-based search throughout the morning, returning for fuel every two hours. At noon, there was quiet resolve that the last bomb was well hidden. This discouraged the teams that had had such great success earlier in the morning and the bodies showed their weariness. Peter called headquarters and requested that the Governor send all available Guard and state law enforcement to the area to do a ground search, including inside parking areas.

Late in the day, they needed fuel and food. Peter also knew the men needed sleep, so he declared a six-hour rest. The pilots had rotated every fuel stop, but they were also handling constant stress flying in close quarters. For safety, Peter knew they all needed rest.

At base in Naperville, some cots had been setup in a military frame tent. During his gulf assignments, Peter had lived in these tents; and right now, they looked like home. He removed his armor vest and utility belt, and crashed onto the cot, sleeping for about four hours, despite the daytime noise surrounding them.

Sleep wasn't completely restful. Fatigue forced him into moments of deep sleep, but most of the time visions of his comrades at the federal building kept him from peace. In high-intensity conflicts, combatants bond closer than siblings. These people had become his kin in the hours leading up to the explosion. In the field, the Army Reserve Rangers and the FBI pair were bound by blood and mutual protection. He'd forgotten these feelings since leaving active duty. But something was different, more mellow and satisfying this time. Women were in his dreams. These women, Rachael and Angela had fought with the men. His kindred feelings had never included women before and it complicated his dreams. He wanted to be with everyone again in some kind of group huddle or social gathering, some place where they could all hug and laugh and make life-long pledges to reunite in the future, but it was only a dream.

Unknown to Peter, Rachael was fighting to stay alive. She lay in a dream state with no recollection of anything except a vague memory of talking with Peter. Her first awareness in the emergency room was of floating near the ceiling. She could see herself lying calmly in the bed below. She was aghast at seeing her blood-caked skull. Nearby she saw a female member of the medical team and felt a great need to get her to communicate. Then a male voice said that there was blood on her eardrums, and that she might be deaf. "I'm not deaf! I'm not deaf!" she shouted to herself. All visual images were secondary to the desire to communicate verbally. Then the female said, "We don't know how much brain damage there is and she might be in a vegetative state. She yelled in silence at her, "I'm not in a vegetative state!"

She saw lights and did not know what they were from. She felt unconstrained, free and giddy with an amazing ease of movement. She felt like screaming and shouting with intoxication. She began rising through the ceiling, through the floors above, and finally, into the sky above. Then without warning, she began to fall. As she accelerated downward, terror displaced euphoria. Again, she wanted to scream, this time in sheer terror as she saw the building, floor and bed approaching at tremendous speed. Then suddenly, she was suspended in a darkened space, with no sensation of falling anymore. She was unconscious and near death.

Rachael had suffered severe head and spine trauma. The force of the blast had collapsed one lung and she was bleeding internally. She was fighting for her life without much help. A cardiac monitor beeped in the background and she had a breathing tube down her trachea. IV tubes were dripping something into both arms.

To make matters worse, the Intensive Care Unit of the University of Chicago Medical Center was filled beyond capacity from people injured or dying from the blast and radiation. They were being treated in the hallways and some were lying on hospital beds and gurneys in the waiting room. The emergency room physicians at UCMC are some of the best in the world, but the frightening truth in massive trauma care events, is that decisions must be made at various levels to apply resources where they yield the highest mortality rate. Doctors and nurses are sometimes forced to make decisions about who to save when catastrophes overwhelm them. They must "pick" to save some people over others with lower chances to survive, in their opinion. Dr. Len Perlstein was the Resident in Charge of the ICU and rushing from patient to patient doing cursory assessments. He'd already seen Rachael and concluded that she wouldn't survive. As soon as he could get back into the main ICU, he planned to have the staff remove the respirator and move her out of the ICU for more "urgent" patients--those that he thought could be saved.

Rachael hovered in darkness, unable to feel any part of her body, and none of her senses were registering. She could not hear, see or smell anything. At some point, she had the sensation of someone around her removing devices attached to her body. Then her mind faded into resolute darkness, without sensation of any kind.

Her bed was wheeled out of the ICU and they moved her to the linen closet where it was dark and she could die peacefully.

At 11:00 AM, Peter woke and mustered the troops. He rallied the Striker One team and got the Little Bird One pilots to pre-flight their helicopter. Striker Two was instructed to resume their flights at a higher altitude to see if they could cover the surface more quickly. Peter's team would go first to the federal building to assess their operations capability and possibly moving the base from Naperville closer to downtown. With the city's emergency operations center destroyed, the federal building seemed to be a logical location for emergency command purposes. He also wanted to know more about the wounded.

In the afternoon sun, the pilots had no difficulty navigating to the city using roadmaps for guidance. Chicago has a distinctive grid pattern that can be interpreted from the air with ease. The federal building was easily spotted at the crossroads of Western Avenue and Roosevelt, and the diagonal convergence with Ogden Avenue. The roof was clear for landing. The pilot approached at an altitude about fifty feet higher than the roof and encircled the building to assess wind. Peter was sitting in the right rear seat next to the open door looking below. They were about three miles away from the city center, slightly outside the grid pattern they had been navigating. As the aircraft banked around the north side of the building, directly above Roosevelt Road, he froze. In the street below, parked squarely in the center of the federal building was a Patriot taxi! Worse, there was a tow truck starting to hoist the nose of the vehicle.

He commanded, "Pilot, abort rooftop, get to the street below! Fast!"

The pilot leveled the helicopter momentarily flying along Roosevelt to the Ogden intersection then banked hard right in a reversal that virtually stalled them in flight. The helicopter plummeted downward as the federal building loomed larger along their right side. With the nose down, the pilot eased back on the control stick and came to a low hover behind the parked car. This pilot was good, but there was no time for praise.

As they jumped down, the tow operator stopped what he was doing looking stunned as the Rangers raced toward him. Peter shouted, "Halt that, don't touch a thing!"

The truck operator raised his hands and said, "Oh, oh, okay"

"Put your hands down, but don't touch the controls."

The operator was cooperating fully and wanted to get away from these menacing people. He moved toward the controls to drop the vehicle when Peter shouted for him to stand fast and get onto the curb. He then signaled the EOD forward to disarm the bomb saying, "Look men, the car is partially elevated. The mercury switch may be close to detonation; be extremely careful with this one--got it!"

"Yes sir." Both responded in unison.

The helicopter throttled down to conserve fuel. Inside the federal building, people were lined up along the open window frames watching the commotion. The other buildings in the area, mostly associated with the university, were severely damaged.

The EOD team opened the trunk and climbed in. With the front wheels elevated, the rear suspension swayed more than normal. They started the disarming process when hell erupted. Across the street, inside one of the darkened buildings, a hailstorm of automatic gunfire exploded. Peter was hit immediately and thrown to the ground. He was dazed and knew he was seriously wounded. A bullet had torn through his upper left arm into his chest. Another bullet ripped his left thigh as he lay there. The other Ranger was also down. The truck driver was safe behind his truck. The Little Bird was riddled and the pilots were both slumped in their seats. The EOD airmen were trying to hide in the car trunk.

Peter lay on the street surface with his head facing the gutter. He could not get enough air in his lungs and his vision was blurred with pain. He could not feel his left arm. Instinct told him to lie still, but logic told him to move. His left side burned intensely and he tried to move his right arm from under his body for leverage, but any movement made his chest ignite in pain. Resting momentarily, he could see the sole of a military boot a few feet away hanging over the curb. The other Ranger was down. He lay still for several seconds trying to gain his breath and muster enough strength to move.

Dazed and stunned, Peter needed cover, but movement would attract fire. At that moment, Little Bird Two came roaring down the street, twenty feet off the deck with guns blazing, the cavalry had arrived! As Striker Two drew fire, Peter struggled to his knees and cradled his arm as he moved to the sidewalk falling behind the tow truck. His body was numb from pain, which actually helped him momentarily. Amid the sound of gunfire, he heard someone yell "SAFE!" Then both airmen tumbled onto the sidewalk. The truck driver helped Peter settle to the ground and said something about bleeding but his vision was spinning and sounds were blurring together. With his right hand, Peter struggled to pull a battle dressing from his vest, then tried to tear it open with his teeth, but faltered. The driver helped. As he lay on the ground with his back propped against the truck wheel, he looked up to see FBI and others firing through destroyed windows. The bad guys would wish they had just kept on running with so many angry people shooting to kill. Then there was blackness.

Hospital

Peter was groggy when awakening, taking several minutes to get oriented. He had a vague feeling of weightlessness and his inner ear buzzed. There was a smell of fresh linens and a thin cotton blanket over him, all white. As he became more alert, he could see stainless steel sidebars on both sides and his right arm was taped with intravenous tubes. There was no sound except for some quiet motor hum and a cardio monitor. His chest was constrained by body wrapping and a huge bulge of bandage over his left arm. He slowly rocked his head back and forth to clear his vision and shake off cobwebs. His mouth was incredibly dry. Someone, a nurse, walked to his bedside.

She said, "Hello hero, how are you feeling?"

Peter stammered, "I don't know...ah...Where am I?"

"You're in the ICU unit at Delnor Hospital. It's in St. Charles."

Peter asked weakly, "When...how, did I get here?"

The nurse said, "You came here by helicopter five days ago after losing a lot of blood. You've been in the O.R. twice and under sedation and antibiotics since then. You've been in this bed recovering for about twenty hours."

Peter was confused, "Twenty hours? ...I, ah...can I have a drink?"

She left for a couple minutes and returned with a squeeze bottle and some crushed ice, "You might try some ice chips to begin, the water is cold and might make you sick if you don't take your time." She elevated the bed for him and helped spoon some ice into his mouth.

Spilling ice chips from his mouth, he said, "Uh, thanks. Can you tell me what happened? ...I mean, what about my men?" He was starting to have some recollection, but the details were not clear."

"Well...I don't know about your men, you were the only one I have seen in here. How many others were with you?"

Peter replied, still groggy, "I...I don't remember...my team on Little Bird One, Striker Two...a lot of men—ambush!" He remembered.

Her eyes deflected momentarily before she told him to rest and not worry about anything. People had been by to see him and could probably tell him what he wanted to know. She either did not know what had happened or wouldn't say. He closed his eyes for a moment, and he let the sedatives push him into deep sleep again.

When he awoke again, night had fallen outside and the nurses had changed. The drowsiness passed a little faster this time and he was cognizant after several minutes. A woman in a business suit was talking to the nurses when he started to stir and she came over to his bedside, "Well, hello sir, I'm Dr. Nancy O'Connor, one of the surgeons attending to your wounds yesterday. Do you recall your injuries?"

He struggled to sit up a little higher and the doctor helped him adjust his pillow and the bed angle. She also handed him the squeeze bottle of water without his requesting it, then he said, "Ah...hello doctor, I, ah...remember being wounded and lying on the street. Lots of gunfire all around."

Then Dr. O'Connor took over, "You had two gunshot wounds and several superficial cuts and scrapes, some from bullet fragments and others from pavement around you."

She continued, "When you arrived at the hospital, you were in shock and vital signs were poor due to loss of blood. First, we got you stabilized and cross-matched for blood. Your most serious wound was to your upper arm and chest where a bullet passed through several muscles and the bones. It cut an artery, which would have killed you if not for a tourniquet. In the OR, we fixed the artery and pinned the bone, then sewed the muscle tissue back together. We found the bullet in your chest and removed it. You've had lung damage. Then we went to work on the other wounds, which shouldn't cause any permanent problems for you if we can keep infection under control. The damaged areas were highly contaminated as you can imagine."

Peter said, "Wait ...wait, please...I've been wounded before" She had seen the scars. "Go back to the arm. You said the other wounds were not life threatening. What about my arm?"

"It's too early to tell. It was without full circulation for a long time, at least thirty minutes. If the tissue doesn't recover or if it becomes gangrenous, the arm will need to come off. I'm sorry, but I think you want the truth."

"Yeah, the truth. Ah, what are my chances of keeping it?"

"Mr. Shields, I wish I could be encouraging, the next twenty four hours will tell. Now let's have a look."

She carefully pulled back the side of his blanket and it was the first time Peter realized his arm was in a cast from shoulder to wrist. His fingers were black and swollen. The sight terrified him. He could face mortal danger, but to be lying in bed with others in control of his welfare scared him. He was helpless to defend himself or even tend to his basic needs. He'd been in this circumstance before, and it was always the same. He knew that his body could take a lot and beat long odds, but would it be enough this time?

His focus changed, "Do you know about the rest of my team?"

O'Connor responded in a softer tone, "Not all of them, the FBI will be back later this evening and may know more. How many are in your team?"

"I...I don't know, maybe twelve, or ten ...I don't remember for sure."

O'Connor answered, "Look Colonel, there was one other soldier on the helicopter that came in with you. He was shot in the neck and both feet." Taking a deep breath, she continued, "we didn't get him in time. I'm sorry."

Peter turned his head away and eventually closed his eyes; he let the sedatives work. He remembered the young Ranger down on the street next to him.

A few hours later he was lying in drug-induced dullness as more details of the ambush came back in memory. Most of the details were clarifying in his mind when he heard voices coming nearer. Since he was the only patient in the ICU, he expected company.

He was overwhelmed to see his two friends, Luke and Angela. Behind them, Captain John Stokes followed in clean BDUs. He struggled to be alert; his joy was genuine, "Hey! My favorite Feds! And Stokes! Welcome brothers and sister! It's really good to see you!"

Luke said, "Look at the conquering hero! How you feeling Colonel?"

Peter said, "Hi Guys, I'm only a Major, Light Colonel was a temporary rank, but from now on, it's just Peter, and I feel fine, under the circumstances."

Angela leaned over the edge of the tall bed to kiss his cheek. She brought flowers, which touched him deeply. These were true friendships. Stokes came up to his bedside and took his good hand, "Brother, I consider it a privilege to have served with you; but I hope we don't do it again anytime soon!"

Looking into Stokes' eyes Peter said, "Thanks Ranger, you saved my ass a couple times. I won't forget it."

Stokes said, "As I see it sir, we worked well together and I don't think anyone else could have beaten these guys."

He started to feel a tear welling as he thought of the others. "Tell me about the others."

After a little stammering, Luke said, "Sam Lee and most of the ASACs and most of the folks from Washington died in the window offices when the blast went off. Dozens are in hospitals."

Stokes added, "Sir, in the ambush, we lost Sergeant Rodriquez and your two pilots in Little Bird One. The two EOD airmen are all right with a few dings, but we got 'em sir. My team, the Rangers, and all the FBI agents really laid into those two assholes. They looked like shredded liver when it was over."

Peter felt a little better, "So, it's over. We got all the bombs?"

Luke said, "We got 'em Peter, all nine are being guarded by police and National Guard, and will soon be under care and feeding of the DOE."

Peter reflected, "It's worth it then. We stopped the bastards." Good people had died stopping these cowards. It was a familiar story played over and over for him.

Angela was standing by the window looking outside, allowing the men to talk. Peter was weary and hoped there were no more people today, especially the media. He just wanted to rest and be quiet with these friends. At one point, she stepped back slightly and her gaze was following motion outside. The men asked about his arm while Angela walked to the door of the ICU, then back to his bed. She said, "Peter, someone else has come to visit."

He turned his head to the door just as Rachael entered the room. She was on crutches and had a few minor wounds on her face, but otherwise, she looked fresh and beautiful, "Hi soldier, can I have the next dance?"

Angela moved over to help her balance as she leaned to hug and kiss him. He moved his right arm to embrace her, disregarding his IVs. He wanted to hold her. For the first time in decades, he was overcome with tears of relief and joy, "I...I...it's good to see you."

He could not talk further; his feelings for her were stronger than he'd allowed himself to realize when he feared she was lost. Tears ran from his eyes.

Epilogue

After eight weeks of recovery, Peter's left arm was out of the cast. Each week thereafter, he had more feeling and motor skills in the arm. He started rehabilitation to regain strength and motion. His left bicep was disfigured, but with time and weight training, he would regain most of his strength and physical abilities. He was particularly thankful to Nancy O'Connor who never brought up the possibility of amputation again. Peter's attitude was good and his recovery showed the effect of good friends, especially Rachael who was with him every day, while recovering from her own wounds. Peter had not had a female friend since high school. As he recovered, he began wishing their relationship would go to the next level. Maybe it was already there and he was too dense to realize it. She returned to Washington after a few weeks, but they spoke every day. Her parents had visited the hospital and her mother stayed with her until she was well enough to return to Washington and a partial work schedule. They had treated him with special regard, which he found humbling and heartwarming. Every moment with Rachael was special.

While recovering, he was visited frequently by John Stokes who drove from Southern Illinois, often with his wife Carolyn and sometimes with his daughters. For months after his release from the hospital, he was honored in many ways and had important jobs offered, but he just wanted to regain some measure of tranquility in his life. He had national recognition. Officially, he was still on the DOD payroll, in rehabilitation, but he could resign at any time and retain medical treatment. One Monday in the fall, he called his old boss at the Cary Country Club and asked to come out. He did not actually believe he could ever go back there, but it was part of his past that he enjoyed.

When he arrived at the Club House in his old Explorer, no one came out to greet him. He walked around to the back and looked toward the hill and his shed; it was beautiful and peaceful, as he remembered it. He then walked up the steps onto the veranda and crossed to the door opening into the dining room. As he entered, cheers erupted from people he'd worked with or members that knew him. Many people were there that just wanted to meet the local hero. In uniform, Officer Ruiz and Patrolman Rodgers waved from the crowd. He was once again the center of a lot of attention.

After a banquet lunch and speeches by the people that had shared part of his experience, it was time to go. At one point he jokingly approached the manager again about his old job, or even a promotion; but they both knew he could not sink back into obscurity. Instead, the Club gave him a lifetime membership and free use of the course whenever he wanted. Maybe he would actually learn to play.

As he drove out of the parking lot, he had one tranquil thought; he thought of Rachael.

His peace was broken when his cell phone rang. "Hello, Shields here."

A voice said, "Major Shields, please hold one."

After a momentary pause, he heard the phone switch on the other end, "Major Shields, this is Lt. General Harold Cole, I'm Chief of the National Guard Bureau."

"Yes sir, I know who you are." Peter pulled to the side of the road, barely a hundred yards away from the club parking lot.

Cole responded, "Good, you did a hell of a job up there Major and I wanted to congratulate you personally."

"Thank you sir."

"Major, I know you've got some options about your future, but I want to run something by you if you have a minute."

"Yes sir, go ahead."

"Major, the threat of terrorism on our shores is real and not going away any time soon. I've petitioned the DOD and congress to establish a new active duty directorate in my J3 staff for Counterterrorist operations. I want you to take the job."

Cole continued, "It'll mean you'll have to relocate to DC."

Peter responded, "Sir, I'm honored for your consideration. Can I think about it?"

"You bet soldier, take what time you need then call me back."

"I'll do that sir, thank you."

They disconnected and he sat in his truck for a few moments before stepping out. His head was swimming with emotion as he wandered back onto the country club property. He wanted to clear his mind as he meandered onto the fairway.

At the clubhouse, many of the people had moved onto the veranda to enjoy the afternoon air overlooking the course. Ruiz was the first to spot Peter. He was walking up the hill toward the shed.

***END***
