Amir said, “This is a wonderful opportunity to embarrass the Great Satan. Americans are greedy and don’t follow the tenets of Islam. Most of them have no faith at all and have been left wandering by their leaders. You have a chance to find glory for our cause.”
Severov listened as a translator repeated everything in Chechen, with a slight Chantish accent. He recognized him as a sergeant who worked in the motor pool. Many of the Chechens were reduced to more menial jobs. That might change after tonight.
Amir looked over to Severov and smiled. He knew there was nothing the Russian major would do in front of an audience of Chechen truck drivers. He couldn’t hide his satisfaction at seeing flames behind the major’s profile.
Severov knew he’d have to deal with this terrorist sooner rather than later.
Mike Rosenberg prided himself on keeping his cool. As a G-2 in the marines he frequently went out on missions with the platoons who were receiving his intelligence. He even managed to get permission for Derek Walsh to come on a couple of the missions, although most of them were relatively quiet.
His toughest combat assignment was in Afghanistan when the small unit on patrol that he was attached to came under attack and was forced into a defensive position between two mountains. They never knew the exact number of enemy combatants facing them, but from the rate of fire Rosenberg had estimated that somewhere between 120 and 150 fighters had converged on the spot after the first few hours of the fight.
Their radio operator had been killed in the initial assault, and it took an enterprising Apache pilot to start searching for them off the usual trails. In the hours that they were pinned down by enemy fire, Rosenberg kept his cool and returned fire when he had a clear target and generally tried to keep his head on straight. The Apache pilot managed to scatter some of the closest fighters and call in an air strike, which to this day was etched in Rosenberg’s memory like a still photograph.
The four F-15s roared across the valley and dropped a mixture of ordnance that was so explosive it sucked the air out of his lungs for a moment. The few trees and exposed boulders were vaporized instantly.
He stepped out from behind cover and looked out over a barren valley, knowing no one had survived the air strike. But he was never scared.
At this moment, he had to admit he was in a panic. He had just found one of his best friend’s phone number on the toll records of a suspected terrorist. He had gone through dozens of potential explanations, and none of them panned out in his brain. His next thought was that if he found these records, someone else would be onto them very soon as well. He doubted the FBI would waste much time in tracking down Bill Shepherd, and Rosenberg’s fear was that they wouldn’t give him a chance to explain. Exactly like what had happened with Derek Walsh. It was this mistrust of the premier federal law enforcement agency that had Rosenberg incapacitated with fear. He had nowhere to turn.
He checked the toll records again and saw that Shepherd had called the number and the number had called Shepherd at least nine times in the past month. This wasn’t just a wrong number.
He looked up at the clock. Now it was nearly nine o’clock, which made it about three in Germany. He didn’t know if he could wait much longer.
32
Derek Walsh sat at a long table and finished off his third turkey sandwich while Charlie parked himself across the table like a guard dog, keeping the other residents from getting too close while he ate. The shelter was just five large rooms that used to be a grocery store. The first room was a welcome center that allowed visitors a respite from the cold or heat of New York and offered water and snacks all day. The second room was for overnight visitors and had six picnic tables that would hold a total of thirty-six residents. The third and fourth rooms were male dorms with a single cot for each resident, and the last room was for female residents and held up to eight women. Showers and bathrooms were attached to each dorm. The place was clean and ran smoothly.
A TV in the corner of the room played a local New York newscast, which was covering the explosion that had killed two people in Brooklyn. Right now all anyone knew was that the FBI had entered an apartment and the result was two dead people and the evacuation of the building while they searched for hidden explosives. Of course everyone assumed it was some sort of terrorism investigation. The most persistent speculation was that it was tied to the terror bombing of the Whitehall subway station that killed nine people. The city was in an uproar.
Walsh looked up at the screen and recognized the street he had run down to escape. Every person the TV station interviewed on the street had a Russian accent, and every one of them had some comment about Muslims moving into the neighborhood being why things like this happened.
It was true that blood was thicker than water, and every ethnic group tended to protect its own and blame someone else. The Russians used this to great effect, making their organized crime apparatuses extraordinarily difficult for the police to infiltrate. Walsh had read a number of articles about how the Russians had not integrated into society as much as other groups, and one of the theories about why was that it was difficult to tell a Russian from an American just walking down the street. They didn’t face the pressure of other ethnic groups to conform.
Walsh’s personal experience told him it might have something to do with their ruthlessness as well.
Charlie said, “I won’t ask you any questions about what happened, but by the way you keep watching the TV, I’m guessing that explosion had something to do with you.”
“I should have it all cleared up by tomorrow.”
“That’s what you said two days ago.”
“That seems like a lifetime.”
Charlie chuckled and said, “I hope you at least learned something from all this. That’s the only reason God puts us through all these tests.”
Walsh thought about the older man’s comment as he glanced around the room at the other homeless people. He had learned quite a bit. He would never complain about a job or apartment again. He no longer regretted that he had not seen much combat in the marines. Half the men in the room were veterans. It wasn’t like half the U.S. population was veterans, especially here in New York, where they had one of the lowest rates of military recruitment in the country. These were issues he had never considered before. Combat had greatly affected these men and the way they dealt with other people. It was as if an entire generation of heroes had failed to assimilate back into society. Walsh had no idea how to fix the problem. But he would no longer ignore it.
Charlie said, “You look like shit.”
“In this case, looks are not deceiving.”
“You think a good night’s sleep will help? Me and some of the boys can stand watch if it would make you feel better.”
For the first time since any of this had happened, Walsh felt safe. He could trust his brothers in the military to look after him. Tomorrow he’d call Mike Rosenberg and explain everything that had happened. Maybe by then Rosenberg would have made some progress on his end.
Anton Severov paced back and forth as tanks fell into position. A young lieutenant, who wore his hair slightly too long and had an urban accent from Moscow, jogged up to Severov and saluted.
Severov didn’t have the energy to ask any questions; he just looked at the younger man.
The younger man said, “Our jump-off time has been delayed, Major. The colonel would like you to meet him in his command tent in forty-five minutes.”