A drive along the ancient highway toward Zighan uncovered two Humvees and ten bodies. Soon afterward, they found the Zighan landing strip, and the deserted vehicles there. Ten murders, thought Richard. Eleven if you included the guy at the airport. Someone was serious about this. Someone already knew what the Semtex could do, and they’d gone out of their way to get their hands on some. He’d bet his life that they already had a plan in place for it.
He was back on the phone to Jon later the same day. “Here’s what I think happened. We found the two Humvees hidden halfway between Zighan and Bazemah. We found the empty Volvo flat-deck at the Zighan landing strip. That Volvo was used by the Libyan army to transport the Semtex. We also found two Toyota pickups at Zighan, and the airport attendant was murdered.”
“I think I can figure it out from there,” said Jon.
“Yeah, it ain’t rocket science,” replied Richard. “They had a plane standing by. The authorities are checking for a flight plan, but nothing so far. I’m going to guess they used an old DC-3. They, whoever they are, loaded the stuff onto the plane, and flew off into the wild blue yonder.”
“Think you’re right. Time for some police work, Richard. Do you have any idea what time the plane might have taken off?”
“Just a range. There were several loads moved from Benghazi in the past three days. Most of the Semtex was stored up there. The initial indication from the bodies is that the murders probably happened sometime yesterday. We don’t have much in the way of forensics here, Jon. We’re in the middle of the fucking wilderness.”
“Look, given the seriousness of this, I think we’ll probably get some cooperation from the Libyans. This doesn’t look too good for them, and they’ll want it resolved. Maybe they’ll allow some of our people over to look at the crime scene. It might give us a better indication of what we’re dealing with here. I’ll call Bob directly. This is going to move pretty quickly.” Jon hung up the phone and dialed Robert Baxter.
Jon knew it would be early morning when the call reached Baxter. He also knew that Baxter would be there. He always was. He worked 70, 80, and 90 hours a week. He had worked through three marriages before he quit trying. He was married to his job, and his greatest fear was his retirement, scheduled to happen in about five years. Baxter was the head of the Middle East and Africa Office, within the CIA. In fact, he had been awarded the position when the brilliant Liam Rhodes had moved over to TTIC. His reaction to the news was the same as Jon’s had been.
“How the hell much, Jon?”
“Lawrence says 4,303 kilos.”
That was the extent of the conversation. Baxter took a moment to think it over, and fired off an email on the encrypted line.
Jon Duncan of the Cairo bureau advises that Richard Lawrence, who was in charge of the Libyan Semtex destruction operation, advises that 4,303 kilos (aprx. 4.5 tons) has been stolen, likely by a highly organized terrorist operation. We believe that the material, once stolen, was transported by air, likely to Sudanese airspace. We will need NRO and other agencies to assist in search. Three American soldiers were killed. All overseas embassies should be cautioned that a very large amount of plastic high explosive has now entered the terrorist marketplace.
It never occurred to Jon to mention the seven Libyan soldiers who had also been killed, or that one Libyan civilian had died. The email was sent to the CIA executive director, the DDCI, the DCI, the Office of Information Resources and, as an afterthought, to Rhodes at TTIC.
“Johnson,” said Rhodes. “Can you put the email on my screen up on the central 101? We’re going to need to talk about this.” He was also motioning to Dan.
“You’d better have a look at this, Dan,” he said, when the commander finally walked over. “This one looks ugly.”
Dan nodded in agreement as he read the email from the large central screen. He motioned to his staff. It was still early in the workday. The latest PDB had been dissected, but nothing else of importance appeared to be happening.
“Could I have everyone’s attention please?” Dan asked, rapping his pen on the desk surface. “Let’s all have a look at the email on the central 101.”
“Here we go,” muttered Rhodes to himself.
“Maybe I should start it this way. Rahlson, how much trouble could you cause with 4,303 kilos of Semtex?”
“Well, Dan, I could probably knock the planet off its axis with that much Play-Doh,” Rahlson quipped.
Some nervous laughter threaded through the group. “No, Rahlson, not you personally. The garden-variety terrorist. The plane crasher. The train exploder. You know, your basic al-Qaeda death-wish jihaddist,” Dan clarified.
“Oh, right,” retorted Rahlson. “Well let me tell you what you can do with that much of that particular explosive.” Derek Rahlson proceeded to give them his Plastic Explosives 101 lecture. He was the closest thing the agency (as he called TTIC) had to James Bond. He was retired from operations now, and had been for a number of years, but in his day he had been involved in many a melee, on both sides of the Iron Curtain. When, to his great disappointment, the curtain fell, he became involved in operations in the Middle East. He had gone behind the lines in the first Gulf War. He knew almost everything that anyone could want to know about firearms, explosives, and bare-handed combat. He apparently knew no fear, and had a restlessness about him that was somewhat unsettling. As the only “operations” person at TTIC, he was there because someone in the President’s inner circle felt that TTIC needed a “real spook.” He reviewed and assessed the operations reports as they came in. Like Turbee, he had initially felt like a fish out of water with the more highbrow TTIC crowd. But he was as bright as any of them, and had a gallows sense of humor that made up for any other perceived inadequacies.
“Let’s start with Lockerbie,” he began. “Flight 103 was brought down by approximately 11 ounces of Semtex. So 4,303 kilos could theoretically knock down, umm…” He paused for a second, looking for a calculator.
“About 13,769 jumbo jets,” Turbee piped up.
“Yeah OK, kid. Something like that. Now, take the Madrid train disaster,” he continued. “Each packsack contained, we think, about 50 pounds of plastique. The quantity of Semtex you’re talking about would yield about… Turbee, how many 50-pound packets?”
“By my count, 189,” replied Turbee.
“That would be enough packsacks to totally destroy the subways of New York, London, Paris, and Tokyo, all at once. London, for one, would be paralyzed for months, because of how many people use the Underground there. New York and Paris would be hit almost as badly. Not to mention the civilians killed in the explosions. It would be a devastating terrorist strike.”
“Now hold up a second, Rahlson,” said Dan. “I don’t believe that theory for a second. Before, when al-Qaeda was at its height, it could pull off multiple strikes simultaneously from different launch points. But not today. We’ve been kicking the crap out of them for more than five years now. They’re pretty much done in Afghanistan, and their leaders, if they’re still alive, are hiding in a cave somewhere for fear of detection by the Predator Drones or satellite systems. Their communications are totally compromised. Cell or Sat-cell calls would inevitably be picked up by the NSA, especially with the resources we’ve devoted to the Middle East in the past years. Internet connectivity is out of the question. Regular telephone communication, or Internet communication, stands in high jeopardy of detection, and everyone knows it. Communication, if it’s done at all, has to be done the old-fashioned way, by camel, horseback, and written note. Anything high tech would be intercepted. There is no way that al-Qaeda could possibly take out an entire city, or hit several targets at once.”