From 8185554590: Lifting off.
Each three-man team outside the airport was supported by another three-man team inside; these inside teams were from sleeper cells planted in the country years prior. They worked as custodians or baggage handlers or at any of the dozens of businesses located inside the terminals. They were simply spotters with good intel that supported the flight data Samad could view on his computer. Their job was to watch, report, and, above all, not be identified or captured.
He stood near the van’s hood and tapped on his iPhone to bring up the Airline Identifier application that he’d downloaded from iTunes for $4.99. He pointed it at the plane flying just overhead, one that had taken off before their target, and the application correctly identified the airline, the flight number, the speed, the destination, the distance from Samad, and more. While the software wasn’t always accurate, and while Samad felt certain that the next flight coming would be theirs, he’d instructed all the other teams to be doubly sure that they had the correct flight. Rahmani had been very specific about that, because at the designated time, a sleeper agent aboard each plane — a man who was going to martyr himself — would read a statement to the passengers. These men didn’t need to hide explosive liquids inside travel-sized containers while trying to comply with the 3-1-1 rule for liquids. They could board the plane completely naked and still deliver their message. The Department of Homeland Security’s Transportation Security Administration (TSA) was powerless to stop them while they had Allah’s will on their side. Moreover, the sleepers would instruct passengers to turn their camera-equipped cell phones back on and record what happened. That video would be released to the American public, either through e-mail, streamed directly to the Web, or after being recovered from the wreckage.
Samad squinted into the distance, heard the deep baritone of approaching jet engines, then rapped twice on the van’s hood. The back doors opened and Talwar came out, although the missile launcher was still inside. Talwar held up his cell phone, as though talking, but he was, in truth, getting into his firing position. The plane’s flashing lights appeared in the distance, and then finally the fuselage came into view and streaked past them as Talwar pivoted toward it.
“Three, two, one, fire,” Samad whispered.
“And three, two, one, reload,” Talwar answered.
Niazi shifted beside his friend and nodded. “Reloading in three, two, one. Ready to fire.”
“Ready to fire. Three, two, one, fire,” said Talwar.
Samad counted another five seconds to himself, then said, “Let’s go.” He took one last look at the plane and then consulted the iPhone app, which correctly IDed it as Delta flight 2965. He climbed into the van, then glanced around at the other drivers around him. Not a single person had looked up from his or her cell phone. Wouldn’t it be ironic if Talwar had been wrong? Perhaps these Americans were so hypnotized by their technology that not even a shoulder-fired missile launch right beside them would be enough to pry them away from their apps and games and YouTube videos and social-networking sites. After all, they strolled through shopping malls like zombies, staring blankly into the tiny screens clutched in their hands, never looking up, never considering that the fire that would burn their souls forever was already in their hands.
“I don’t see any problems,” said Talwar, reinspecting the Anza launcher from the back of the van. “The battery is still fully charged.”
Samad nodded.
The men echoed. And as they drove away, Samad remembered a question that Talwar had asked him. “What will we do when it’s all over? Where will we go? Back home?”
Samad had shaken his head. “We can never go home.”
The clock read 1:21 a.m., and Jorge Rojas grunted, threw an arm over his forehead, and closed his eyes. Again. Alexsi lay beside him, sleeping quietly. Somewhere in the distance, Rojas thought he heard the sound of a helicopter — another police chase, to be sure. He cleared his mind and let himself drift further into the darkness.
Miguel rolled over and discovered that Sonia was gone, but a thin wedge of light came from the door leading into the bathroom of the posh villa they had reserved for the night. He reached for his phone to check the time, but it wasn’t on the nightstand where he thought he’d left it. Hmmm. Probably still in his pants pocket, then. The bathroom light flickered, shadows shifted. Perhaps she wasn’t feeling well. They’d had a pretty good day together, although he was still depressed and she seemed distant. Neither had been in the mood for sex, so they’d just talked for a little while about the restaurant and the waterfall, and then they had returned to the hotel, toured the magnificent gardens that were alive with the fragrance of tropical flowers, then went inside for their massages and a quiet dessert. He’d called his father to let him know where they were, pretending that he hadn’t noticed his father’s two bodyguards tailing them.
The bathroom light went off. He heard her padding toward the bed and pretended he was asleep. She slid in next to him and pushed herself up close against his back.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
“Yes. Just a little stomachache. Let’s go back to sleep …”
Fernando Castillo always kept three things on his nightstand: his phone, his eye patch, and the Beretta his father had given him when he’d turned twenty-one. Set into the Beretta’s grip was a golden cowboy that resembled his father, a rancher, and Castillo had only fired the weapon once or twice per year to be sure it was in good working order.
He wasn’t sure which had woken him up first: the thumping of the helicopter, the vibrating of his phone, or the faint hissing from somewhere outside. With a chill, he bolted upright, answered the phone, a call from his guard monitoring the cameras in the basement.
Even as he listened to the report, he went to his closet, where in the back stood a large gun safe, large enough for dozens of rifles or weapons even more powerful.
Given the assumption that Rojas had the most complex series of redundant security measures found anywhere in the world, and given the fact that cordoning off the house and its environs was a top priority and would be completed before they initiated the raid, the decision had been made to go in as a team and go in hot, without cutting power to the entire neighborhood, which they’d originally considered. Attempting to bypass each security measure so an agent could slip inside and locate Rojas would be too time-consuming and pit one man against an unknown number of combatants inside. They needed to minimize the risk, maximize the chances of getting Rojas, and create an opportunity to capture or kill any of his other people — lieutenants,
Moore, a man who had once believed only in himself but had been taught teamwork by Frank Carmichael and the Navy SEALs, wholeheartedly agreed with that assessment.
Yes, they would strike in the wee hours as a team, and they would do it now, while, Sonia had assured them, the man would be home. Every time she called her father in Spain, that call was rerouted to Langley, and her two most recent reports indicated that Rojas was on edge and might be planning to travel soon.
Neutralizing the twenty-two guards that Rojas had posted around the home, throughout the two-acre gardens, and along the brick walls that encompassed the grounds was already in progress.
A Ford F-250 series “minicommando” truck had pulled up across the street from Rojas’s main gate, a ten-foot
