“You, too.” Moore introduced Towers, and they quickly followed Soto into the building. They reached a conference room after navigating three hallways that had not seen a janitor’s mop in some time. They stepped inside, where about twelve men all dressed in civilian clothes like Soto had clustered around a long table. Much to Moore’s surprise there was a projection unit at the back of the room where they could plug in their computers and iPads to display images. They had requested the equipment but weren’t sure the FES would come through.
Soto took his time introducing them to each and every operator, all seasoned Navy personnel turned Special Forces operators. Two of the men were pilots. Once the introductions were finished, Towers switched into briefing mode, cleared his throat, and in Spanish said, “All right, gentlemen, what we’re about to do will make headlines. Jorge Rojas isn’t just one of the richest men in the world. He’s one of the most significant drug cartel leaders in history, and tonight we’re going to take him down and dismantle his cartel.”
“Señor Towers, our group is used to making history,” said Soto, eyeing his team with a healthy dose of admiration. “So you can count on us.”
Moore glanced around the room. The men were beaming with anticipation, and seeing that, Moore’s pulse began to race.
He thought once more of Khodai, Rana, Fitzpatrick, Vega, and Ansara, and how tonight he would ensure that none of them had died in vain.
Towers raised his voice. “Gentlemen, we have the blueprints to Rojas’s mansion, and we’re going to go over them very carefully, but we have to assume that not everything is on here. After that we’re going to analyze the entire neighborhood and fine-tune our attack plan. Once again, I need to emphasize that this entire operation is highly classified. We cannot, under any circumstances, allow the government to know this operation is taking place.”
Soto nodded. “We understand, Señor Towers. All the arrangements have been made …”
39 THE FIRE IN THEIR HANDS
In times of war, preparations must be made.
Men must be sacrificed.
And Allah’s wisdom must not be questioned.
When Samad was a boy growing up in Sangsar, a small village on the outskirts of Kandahar in southern Afghanistan, he’d stare up at the snow-covered peaks and watch as planes cut across them. He would imagine the pilots making sharp turns and landing their aircraft directly on top of the peaks so that passengers could come outside and take pictures. Samad and his friends would meet them up there and sell them souvenir postcards and jewelry to commemorate their extraordinary trip. Samad had never figured out exactly how he and his friends were supposed to climb the mountains, but that wasn’t important. Sometimes he imagined himself flying aboard one of those planes to some place where they had candy — chocolate, to be more precise. He dreamed of chocolate …every day …for years. White, milk, sweet, semisweet, and dark were all his favorites. He’d come to learn a few names of the manufacturers, too: Hershey’s, Cadbury, Godiva, and he had even watched a black-market videotape copy of the movie Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on TV in the back of a rug salesman’s booth at his local bazaar.
As he sat there in the idling van, with Niazi in the passenger’s seat and Talwar shouldering the missile launcher in the back of the van, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the picture of his father, wearing that broken-toothed grin, his beard like steel wool, his face blurred by the yellowed plastic. He reached into his other pocket and withdrew a Hershey’s Kiss — he’d bought a package at the Dollar Tree. He unwrapped the candy and placed it in his mouth, letting the chocolate melt across his tongue.
I’m not an evil man, he’d told his father. The infidels have brought this upon themselves, and I am Allah’s instrument. You have to believe that, Father. You can’t doubt it for one second. Please …
He checked his watch, pocketed the photo, then told Talwar and Niazi to wait as he stepped out of the van.
The text messages from their team inside the airport had already been pouring in:
From 8185557865: The flight is pulling away now.
From 8185556599: Taxiing to the runway.
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.