As they prepared to cross the street, they had a short discussion concerning who would lead. Kendall seemed well trained and proficient with a firearm — her movements were fluid and thus far she’d been composed under pressure — but she quickly conceded that Harrison was likely far better trained and more experienced in combat, and agreed to let him lead.
She followed Harrison across the street, where they stayed close to the building, working their way toward the door, a heavy metal contraption with a lever-type handle. Harrison tried to lift it slowly and hopefully silently, but it didn’t budge. The door was locked.
Harrison moved toward the nearest window, which was a multi-pane design that couldn’t be opened, and peered inside. The window was too filthy to see through, so he wiped most of the grime away with his sleeve; enough to get a decent look.
Inside the building was an eighteen-wheeler truck cab attached to a flatbed trailer, atop which sat a CONEX box. In the truck cab, a man sat slumped in the driver’s seat, either asleep or dead. Nearby was a table with a laptop connected to several video monitors. A small desk lamp illuminated a man seated at the table with his back to the window. Also inside the warehouse was a green Ford Fusion, matching the description of the missing realtor’s car.
Jackpot. They had found Mixell and whatever he had purchased from Futtaim.
There was no one else in sight, although Harrison didn’t have a clear view of the entire interior. He searched for another entrance, scanning the other two walls. Unfortunately, the only feature was a large garage door on the opposite wall, which was shut.
There didn’t seem to be a way to enter the building without alerting Mixell. The metal door looked too heavy to break through, and the last thing they needed was to give away their presence in a failed attempt. The window panes were large enough to squeeze through, but that was a bad idea. Mixell would be alerted the moment they broke the glass, and they’d be easy targets as they pulled themselves into the building.
He let Kendall take a look. Her eyes canvassed the interior, then she dropped below the window. “The garage door in the back. It’s a long shot, but maybe there’s an external controller.”
Harrison led the way around the building, stopping beside the industrial-sized garage door. But there was no external controller.
They’d have to call for backup, requesting a unit with forced entry capabilities. It was times like this when Harrison missed being a Navy SEAL. A single four-man fire team would have been sufficient. Fire teams typically included a breaker — a SEAL trained in explosives — who was an expert at blasting entrances open.
Kendall retrieved her cell phone and pulled up her contacts, selecting an FBI card. She scrolled through the numbers, then selected one and placed the phone to her ear.
“Tony, this is Pat Kendall. We’ve found Mixell. He’s in a warehouse in Alexandria on the corner of Oronoco and North Union.” There was a short pause, then Kendall said, “Just my partner, and Mixell is alone as far as we can tell. But his CONEX box is inside, and there’s no telling what kind of weapons he’s got.” There was another pause. “No, no, no,” she said. “I need more than just firepower. I need a unit that can bust in. How about the HRT?”
She looked at Harrison for corroboration. The HRT was the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, manned by over one hundred specially trained FBI agents. Renowned for its low subject fatality rate and frequently idle without any hostages to rescue, it often served as an elite FBI SWAT unit. There were three tactical units, one based in Washington, D.C.
Harrison nodded his agreement while Kendall waited for an answer.
“Thanks, Tony. I owe you one.”
After she hung up, she said, “They’re sending an HRT unit.”
“How long?”
“About an hour.”
Harrison didn’t like the prospect of sitting around for an hour, but Mixell didn’t seem to be up to anything nefarious at the moment.
“Let’s move back to the other side, where we can monitor what he’s up to.”
Kendall nodded her agreement.
71
K-561 KAZAN • USS NORTH CAROLINA
Kazan tilted upward, rising toward periscope depth as the Watch Officer kept his face pressed to the attack periscope, the aft of the submarine’s two scopes. Despite the crowded Central Command Post, now at full Combat Stations manning, it was quiet while Kazan rose from the deep.
Captain Lieutenant Yelchin announced, “Periscope clear,” and began turning the scope swiftly, completing several sweeps in search of nearby contacts.
Kazan settled out at periscope depth as Yelchin declared, “No close contacts!”
Conversation resumed now that there was no threat of collision, and Yelchin completed a more detailed scan of the ocean and sky, searching for distant ships or aircraft.
While Plecas waited for Yelchin to complete his search, he focused on the pending launch. From Kazan’s launch point, its missiles could destroy all designated targets, which had been loaded into Kazan’s Missile Control System: the twenty largest military command centers in the United States aside from the Pentagon itself. There would be casualties, but the targets were military, which had been a key reason Plecas had agreed to the plan.
The American paying for his daughter’s medical treatment was being funded by a Middle Eastern organization, and he had convinced its leadership that the proper targets were military and not civilian. By attacking military command centers, they could defeat the American claim that they were terrorists, and instead demonstrate that they were soldiers in a war against Western aggression. The only arguably civilian target was the White House. However, the president of the United States was the head of its military, and thus met the criteria in Plecas’s mind.
The missile strikes would still claim many lives, but not more than those suffered by the Russian Navy at the hands of the Americans a few months ago. It was a fair quid pro quo as far as Plecas was concerned, an acceptable request in return for his daughter’s treatment.
“Hold no contacts.”
Yelchin had completed his search; there were no surface or air contacts within visual range.
Kazan had spent fifteen days traveling from Gadzhiyevo Naval Base through the Barents Sea, the Atlantic Ocean, and had finally reached the designated launch point in the Gulf of Mexico.
After Yelchin’s report, the men turned toward Plecas, one by one, awaiting the next order.
It was time.
Plecas announced, “Prepare to Fire, full Kalibr salvo, vertical launch tubes One through Four.”
The Weapons Officer acknowledged and prepared to launch all twenty missiles.
“All missiles are energized,” he reported. A moment later, he said, “All missiles have accepted target coordinates.”
Yelchin initiated the next step. “Open missile hatches, tubes One through Four.”
The hatches atop the submarine’s port and starboard sides began retracting.
“Conn, Sonar. Detect mechanical transients, bearing two-four-one, designated Sierra four-five.”
As the Officer of the Deck acknowledged the report, Wilson stood and evaluated the bearing on the navigation table. His request to move North Carolina to the waterspace behind Mad Fox zero-four had been approved, and North Carolina had entered its new operating area ten minutes ago, slowing for an initial sonar search. The search had turned up nothing, and Wilson had decided to return to ahead full and proceed to the middle of their new operating area.