T-Ball wore the response pack. He handed Jazz two radios. As they walked back by the command post, Jazz gave one to Detective Iglesias.
“We’re on channel two.”
“We’ll be standing by.”
The hand-drawn map was inaccurate. T-Ball pointed to a door in the kitchen.
“I’ll bet that’s it, sir.”
“Yeah or it’s a pantry.”
T-Ball took a flashlight from the IED thigh pouch and walked over to the door next to the refrigerator. It was slightly ajar. He pointed the light into it.
“Cereal and canned goods. That’s gotta be it,” he said pointing to the second door.
“Do we remote open it?”
“Nah, looks clean and someone has already been through it.”
Jazz opened the door. The lights in the basement were already on, illuminating open stairs and part of a workbench. The two men slowly descended.
“Damn,” T-Ball said. Jazz was speechless.
On the table in front of them were approximately one hundred blocks of C-4 plastic explosive. Some were wrapped in olive drab plastic with yellow-stenciled writing. Others had been opened, looking like long white bars of soap. Some were even molded like silly putty into indiscernible shapes.
T-Ball set down the response pack and removed the digital camera.
“Step back, LT.”
The camera beeped as he took digital stills of the workbench.
“What’s in the box, sir?”
Jazz stepped closer and peered into a cardboard box on the right side of the bench. Inside were smaller boxes the size and shape used for crayons. Jazz looked to the right and saw another longer workbench that ran the entire length of the far wall.
“There’s more shit over there.”
“Yeah, but what’s in that box there?”
Jazz opened one of the crayon boxes.
“Holy Shit.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Electric blasting caps.”
“Damn, these guys are not playing around, C-4 and military initiators. Tell ya what, sir, don’t move anything else. This is like ATF and FBI stuff.”
“Yeah, let’s take some photos, conduct a good recon, draw a better map for these guys and get out.”
“Okay, LT. What’s on that other bench?”
Jazz looked closely at the components on the long workbench.
“I don’t know, T-Ball. Internal components of some kind. What do you think?”
T-Ball stepped next to his lieutenant.
“Sir, those are proximity fuzes.”
Something was wrong; Gabriel sensed it. First he noticed several police cars passed him within five miles of the house. One of them was an unmarked car. From a long distance away he could look over the fields and observe his house. This was one of the features that helped him in selecting this home.
At the intersection for his street he turned right instead of left. In his rear view mirror he noticed that his neighbor’s driveway had more police vehicles in it. He was caught.
He cursed to himself, but tried to remain calm.
How the hell did they find me?
Gabriel grabbed a cell phone from the passenger seat in his pickup.
“Hello.”
“Do you guys have a copy of ‘When Harry Met Sally?’”
“Uh, wrong number buddy. This ain’t a video store.”
“Sorry.”
Gabriel hung up. The verbal exchange was a secret code developed in case their phones were tapped. Dean’s response told Gabriel that he was not compromised.
Twenty minutes later he drove by his friend’s home. Gabriel noted that the garage door was open with the lights on. He drove around the block before pulling into the driveway. Dean was waiting for him there.
“I don’t know what happened!” he said slamming the door of his truck.
“I do.”
“Was it San Diego? I’ve been racking my brain and I cannot come up with anything there.”
“No. We did San Diego by the book.”
“It’s our supplier then. He’s breaking with us, called in an anonymous tip or something…”
“No, it’s not that either. After all, he doesn’t know where you live — or does he?”
“Uh, no he doesn’t.”
“Okay then. I am pretty sure that this is just a case of bad luck.”
“How do you know?”
Dean surveyed the street.
“Let’s go inside,” he said putting his arm around Gabriel’s shoulder. “Let’s get you a beer, chill out, and I will tell you what happened.”
Gabriel sat down on the couch in the basement. His friend remained standing.
“After you called, I did like we planned, like Nasih taught us. The missus was on the phone shaking her head at me with each call.”
“Nobody else had been compromised.”
“Exactly. Meanwhile I was listening to the scanner. It was the old woman.”
“What? She knows?”
“No, they think it’s her house.”
“What!”
“She went over there today like she still owns the place…”
“I bought it from her a year ago!”
“I know, I know. Point is she’s crazy. She went over there, poked around and then called them. First a patrolman goes in with her…”
“Thinking it’s her place…”
“Right, thinking it’s her place that she is renting to someone, because that’s what she told ‘em. He finds the shit in the basement.”
“So they need a warrant right? It is illegal now. Illegal search and seizure.”
“Idiot. We can beat them in court but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re compromised.”
“Shit!”
“Ah yes, now it is really dawning on you.”
“What do we do now?”
“Well, I’ve got a few of our closest friends coming over here. We’ll figure something out.”
“I have a better idea. Let’s call Nasih.”
An hour later Jazz was back in the command center while he waited for Harmon to pick up the line. Suddenly he realized that he had not called Melanie.
“Shit,” he said under his breath.
“EOD Mobile Unit Six. Can I help you, sir?”
“Harmon.”
“Jazz, what’s up?”
“I’m in some heavy duty shit here.”
“Really, whatcha got?”
“Military C-4, blasting caps, and a full up assembly line for building IEDs.”
“You mean like a kitchen?”
“No, I’m talking Henry Ford stuff. We got several completed IEDs, obviously constructed the same. Each one has an opaque plastic housing.”
“Proximity fuzing.”
“Exactly.”
“How many?”
“About twenty complete, but the material for many more.”
“What’s the net explosive weight?”
“Hundreds of pounds.”
“Damn.”
“We gotta get ATF, FBI, and NCIS involved now. Someone should send a message to the EOD Technology Division.
“TECHDIV… got it,” replied Harmon
“I intend to get the Army EOD unit in San Antonio here. We do not have the storage or demo range to handle this stuff.”
“Wow. I’m calling Captain Solarsky. He’ll let me know what he wants to do.”
“Right. I’ll recommend to the local police here on scene to get ATF and FBI involved.”
“Roger, call you later,” said Harmon.
Jazz immediately dialed home. After one ring Mel picked up.
“Where the hell are you! I’ve been worried sick!”
“Sorry, hon, I…”
“Is T-Ball with you?”
“Yes.”
“Damnit, Jazz, you always call! What’s going on? Where are you?”