The FBI's view of the northern approach was limited by the shallow angle of the street-facing windows along Coney Island Avenue. FBI observers could not effectively see beyond the intersection of Foster and Coney Island. Fortunately, their position north of the market gave them ample time to respond to any threats coming in from the north.
The only other road emptying into this crowded stretch of Coney Island Avenue was Glenwood Road, which passed just under the FBI apartment and was under direct surveillance by a large contingent of FBI SWAT vehicles hidden at the edge of a church parking lot fifty meters back from Coney Island Avenue. They counted fourteen radios at that location. Radio traffic indicated that this would be the primary response team. Three additional teams sat hidden in similar locations off Coney Island Avenue, each consisting of eight SWAT agents in two vehicles. One would seal Foster Avenue to the north, and another would block the south, emerging from a hidden location in a funeral home on H Avenue.
The third team had the most difficult job. Eight agents had to cover the claustrophobic alleyway approach that had multiple points of access leading into the darkened, trash-strewn space from the driveways and homes on the residential street behind the market. They could only rely on these agents to provide an early warning. There were too many points of entry and positions of cover in the alley to effectively engage a trained terrorist group without the assurance of friendly casualties or the deployment of thirty additional agents. The FBI's tactical team leader had been uncomfortable spreading his agents so thin along the rear approach, especially since they would not be "geared up" like the rest of his agents. They would be in street clothes, equipped with compact submachine guns and concealable body armor. He needed them to somewhat blend into the neighborhood, even if they were just sitting in cars or hanging back in the shadows. The agents watching the alley would rally together and respond on foot once the entire threat picture developed.
From Graves' point of view, the FBI's deployment looked solid. This assessment had been slightly reassuring to Sayar, who might have to rely upon the FBI's response to stay alive. Sayar would need to keep True America's assault team at bay for at least thirty seconds, until the FBI arrived. As always, this assumed that the FBI assault teams hadn't been detected. If True America ran interference against the responding agents, Sayar and his team could find themselves in an even more desperate situation. He hoped they could give the FBI advanced warning. It could mean the difference between life and death for Sayar's crew. Early detection hinged on the same method used to identify and map the FBI's deployment.
Graves watched Gupta's eyes shift between the two screens in front of him. Aside from his fingers tapping at a thin silver wireless keyboard, nothing else moved. He sat locked into the chair, intensely focused on their mission, taking only a fraction of a second away from the task to deliver the occasional, well-deserved sarcastic comment. Normally, these comments would flow freely, but under pressure, Gupta became tolerable inside the cramped utility van. Blessed silence let Graves know that Gupta was ultra-focused.
Graves noticed a change on one of the screens. Gupta's fingers started typing before he could form the thought to speak.
"What's that?"
"Working on it. We might have an encrypted transmission," Gupta said.
Their system continuously scoured the airwaves for encrypted and "in the clear" radio signals, processing each transmission's electronic characteristics through protocols designed to detect an inbound covert operation. The system was intimately familiar with all of the "background" noise within a three-block radius of El Halal Market. Wireless routers, personal handheld radios, local police channels, cordless telephones, cell phone towers…all of it categorized by the antenna Grave's had installed on the roof of the apartment building currently used by the FBI on Coney Island Avenue. The sensitive, multi-spectrum receiver had "listened" to the neighborhood for nearly twelve hours, passing information to the van. The data processed and catalogued by their software provided an intimate look at the area's electronic signature. After twelve hours, any new transmissions stood out like a sore thumb. A previously undetected P25 encryption protocol suddenly appeared on his screen.
"Market, this is Over Watch. Possible assault inbound. We are in the process of confirming," Graves said.
He received acknowledgements from the team in the market and Sayar. Fayed sat with Tariq Paracha in a stolen Honda Accord three blocks away from the market, waiting to play their role.
Gupta furiously typed commands, trying to stay a few steps ahead of the incoming data analysis. He didn't bother telling the computer to break the encryption code. The coroner would be zipping up body bags by the time their proprietary blunt-force crypto-hack program provided the intruder system's encryption protocols. All he really needed was to determine locations, which would be simple. The system isolated the data layer used by the encrypted signal, and Gupta ordered the remote relays to repeatedly "ping" all users within that layer. As the new radios silently responded to his "ping" request, the digital street map of the neighborhood changed, and Graves stopped breathing. They would have seconds instead of minutes to make a difference.
Special Agent Shawn Barber stared out of the third-story bedroom window at the El Halal Market storefront. From his position in one of the apartment's south-facing windows, he could see the sidewalks on both sides of the street. Several sodium vapor street lamps cast ample light onto the busy street, eliminating his need for the tripod-mounted night vision scope pushed into the corner next to him.
His eyes flickered to the left, catching the faint outline of Special Agent Stephan Woods on the other side of the darkened room. The young agent sat forward in a folding chair, staring through the enormous night vision scope attached to his bolt-action Remington M40A1 .308 sniper rifle. The rifle, with its bipod extended, rested on a small table pushed against the wall under the other south-facing window.
Barber's weapon hung by a combat sling designed to keep the weapon diagonal across the front of his chest. His right hand rested on the rifle's pistol grip, ready to release the safety and put the weapon into action in a moment's notice. He heard talking from one of the rooms adjacent to the bedroom, but didn't turn to look. The task force's leadership team had occupied the rest of the apartment, setting up a disorganized gaggle of folding tables and chairs to hold up the computers that they seemed dependent upon to breathe. He had been with the FBI long enough to know a time when everything didn't depend on internet protocols and email. A time when the job didn't require four technicians to support every agent in the field.
He had joined the bureau after returning from the first Gulf War. His Boston-based Marine Corps reserve unit had been activated in the fall of 1990, just a few months after he completed his bachelor's degree at Stonehill College. As the platoon's only "officially" trained sniper, Staff Sergeant Barber spent most of Operation Desert Storm attached to his battalion's reconnaissance element, riding in an open HUMVEE well forward of the front lines. Upon returning to the States in April 1991, he applied for a job with the FBI, hitting the post-Vietnam federal retirement wave perfectly. He found himself back in Quantico, Virginia, just in time for an unmistakably miserable mid-Atlantic summer.