The chamber exploded into the chaos. At least a few of the delegates appeared prepared to attack Wexler personally, each one convinced that she herself was the force behind the Secretary General’s action.
Wexler tried to tell them that she was as puzzled as they were, that she had had no warning herself. Surely that should have been evident from her reaction. However, the delegates were accustomed to her normal impassive expression, and simply thought her surprise was feigned.
The ambassador from Great Britain elbowed up next to her, adding his security forces to hers. “I suggest we leave now,” he murmured, gently urging her toward the door. His own security force and hers quickly melted into one team and herded their charges out.
“What the heck was that?” Wexler asked as they exited the chamber and headed for an elevator. “How the hell did the SecGen come up with that little maneuver?”
The British ambassador regarded her fondly. “It wasn’t so long ago that they were our colony,” he said quietly. “And, contrary to most expectations, the current government is often inclined to take our advice. As you know, we still provide considerable assistance to them and, unlike Pakistan and other nations, they have not forgotten that.” He fixed her with a stern look. “That skill is one that the United States needs to learn.”
“Thanks.” An elevator door opened, and her people broke away from the Brits and herded her into it. As the door closed, she saw the British ambassador smile.
SIXTEEN
Abraham Carter parked five miles down the road from the reserve center, pulling off on a road barely more than an animal track and following it until he was out of sight. Two trucks containing six other men followed him.
Abraham’s truck had a radio dialed to the frequency of his strike force, and he carried a shotgun in addition to the side arm. None of that was unusual, not in Montana. In fact, it would have been out of the ordinary if a vehicle didn’t have some firepower.
Jackson and two other men piled out of the truck and grabbed their gear from the back. Abraham watched them uneasily. This had to be done, and Jackson had insisted on taking the lead.
Jackson and his men took their time making their way from his father’s truck to the reserve center. He and his companions, Bill Thornburg and Jack Mertz, had known each other since their teenage days. The other two men were completely trustworthy and eager to participate in the mission.
The reserve center was maintained by the National Guard and the U.S. Army Reserve, with troops from both forces sharing the facility. The Army provided uniforms, equipment, and some operating funds. In exchange, the Montana National Guard was subject to mobilization and federalization, a process during which it would cease to become a state law-enforcement agency and become part of the federal military forces. A small Naval Reserve unit was temporarily attached as well, its prior reserve center a victim of the latest round of base closures.
The three-acre tract was nestled between two mountain ranges on a relatively flat bit of terrain. It was surrounded by a six-foot chain-link fence that had been there since shortly after the Korean War. In the last few years, the support posts had been extended and razor wire curled around the top rail. There had been some talk of installing motion sensors and pressure sensors along with remote-surveillance TV, but Montana was exceptionally low on the reserve funding list.
At each quarter of the reserve compound, a large streetlamp illuminated an area both inside and outside the compound. Large stretches of the area surrounding the building itself were still in darkness, and clumps of trees partially shielded the building from view. There were two gates, one in front of the reserve center and intended primarily for passenger vehicles and smaller trucks, the other reached via a side road to the north of the compound and used by heavy equipment such as flatbed trucks, Marine assault vehicles, and two Army Corps of Engineers bulldozers.
Jackson stopped in a swath of bushes just outside the fence and surveyed the parking lot. “Just like they said — but two cars there, not one.” Jackson said. Prior to 9/11, the building had been unattended after normal working hours. In case of an emergency or mobilization order, the caller was advised by the answering machine to contact the duty officer via his pager. Now, most reserve centers were manned 24-7 by at least one body. This late at night, Jackson had been expecting to see just one car, that of the duty officer.
“They didn’t say anything about two people,” Thornburg said. “But that’s not a problem.”
Jackson grunted. No, it wasn’t a problem, but he didn’t like it. Faulty intelligence was the major downfall of most operations, and he was particularly determined that this would go exactly as planned.
“Could be somebody’s car just broke down over the weekend,” Jack suggested. “We can check if there’s dust on the windshield, see if it’s broken.”
“Good idea. But it’s under the lights.” The parking lot had a separate set of streetlights and every inch of it was illuminated. “What if somebody decides he needs something out of his car? No, we go in like we planned. If somebody else turns up, we deal with it.” Jackson’s voice was grim.
They went in the way that they had briefed, circling the compound through the brush and trees to approach the heavy equipment yard. There, the large trucks and vehicles were parked near the fence close to each other and provided additional shadows. Jackson took the wire cutters and unhesitatingly made the first cut in the chain link. They retreated to a safe distance and waited for twenty minutes, but nothing happened. Their source had been accurate. There were no ground pressure sensors or sensors on the fence to alarm whoever was inside the reserve center. They returned, cut enough strands to open a hole, and slid into the heavy vehicle yard.
Like the parking lot, the concrete lot that housed large equipment for several units was well illuminated, but badly planned. Several vehicles were parked in such a manner as to provide a continuous trail of shadows to cover their approach. It was not entirely accidental. The same source that had provided the details on the compound security was also part of the motor pool.
He had also provided a key, both to the back door and the administrative section, where the duty personnel usually stayed. Jackson and his men moved quietly, three large, camouflaged figures out of place in the white passageway with well-waxed floors. The double doors that separated the administrative section from the drill hall were steel-paneled with two windows, one on each side. Jackson and his men crouched down so as not to be seen as they used their key. The door opened easily.
Yeoman Second Class Anthony Hillman looked up as the door opened. He froze for just a moment, then slammed away from his desk and started running. Probably for the duty room, Jackson thought. There’ll be a telephone there.
Hillman was fast, but the three men caught him easily. Jackson slammed him against the wall and put a knife to his throat. “The keys to the armory — now.”
“I don’t have them,” Hillman said, his voice a little shakier than he would have liked.
“Sure you do.” Jackson pressed the tip of the knife into Hillman’s throat. Hillman moaned as the blade penetrated the skin. Rough hands moved over him, plunging into the pockets of his uniform. Thornburg pulled out a ring of keys.