Ian Slater: Payback

“No hints,” Freeman said. “You either see it or you don’t.”

“I’m sorry, Douglas, I can’t see—”

“A thin probe, like a thin wire just visible in the nose. May I use your phone? Long distance. I’ll use my card.”

“Of course.” She smiled unabashedly, as if having let her guard down once, she was resigned to go all the way — the new Margaret coming out. “The house is yours.”

The general called “Aussie” Lewis, who was the longest-serving member of Freeman’s once-elite SALERT — Sea Air Land Emergency Response Team. There was no answer, so he left a message to ring him back.

Next he phoned Sal, Salvatore Salvini, one of Freeman’s toughest and most experienced SALERT warriors, who also didn’t answer the phone. Freeman glanced at his watch. By now it was about 10 P.M. in Brooklyn. The general left a message on the voice mail to call him. Next he dialed the Washington State number for “Choir” Williams, the Welsh- American who was one of Freeman’s ex — Special Forces SALERT.

Choir, who’d been channel-surfing following the reports of the three terrorist attacks, was delighted to hear from his ex — gung ho commander. “Lot of planning on this one, General,” Choir opined in his soft-spoken Welsh voice, which could rise to a Pavarotti high C when called upon.

“You mean lots of planning for these three attacks,” Freeman corrected him. “Particularly given the fact they were simultaneous.”

“That’s what I mean. Acquisition of the Stingers is one thing, but organizing—”

“They’re not Stingers, Choir,” cut in Freeman. “Least not from that video from LAX. Looks like an Igla to me. Russian MANPAD.”

“Well, whatever they used, it took some planning, right? But DHS’ll get whoever launched them.”

Choir’s easy, informal tone between the ex-NCO and officer, typical of so many ex-SpecFor types, nevertheless annoyed the general this evening. No one was in a good mood, given the tragedy wrought by the attacks, but Choir, uncharacteristically, seemed to be missing the point. Oh sure, have DHS, Department of Homeland Security, go after the scumbags who fired and organized the “Triple Play.” Choir was correct there — the meticulous planning necessary to effect three simultaneous attacks on three of what were presumably the most secure airports in the U.S. must have left some kind of computer/paper trail for DHS to follow. Of course the bastards had to be hunted down — that was a tactical, political imperative — but to protect the nation in the long run, Freeman knew that catching the trigger men of the three MANPADs wouldn’t be enough, merely a Band-Aid.

“Have you seen any tape on the other channels of the Dallas/Fort Worth or LAX hits?” the general asked impatiently.

“No,” said Choir. “NBC’s saying it has something coming in from JFK but that could be more shots of the wreckage — howling relatives, usual media-stoked drama.”

To anyone else, the Welshman’s comments might have sounded callous, but Choir disliked the way news, through multichannel competition, had become “infotainment,” each network vying for ratings with the most gruesome footage available. Those CBS-shown shots in ’04 of Princess Diana in her death throes were obscene. And he was annoyed with himself for watching. But while normally eschewing the usual sensationalist “film at eleven” reports, he, like millions of other Americans, had been drawn to the tube by the sheer magnitude of the latest attack against his country, his sense of patriotism, like that of so many immigrants, felt more passionately than that of many native-born Americans.

“So what’s your take on the transport?” Freeman asked him, the general once again exhibiting his willingness to seek advice from fellow pros, despite the marked difference in rank between the four Special Forces vets.

“Pickup trucks for sure,” answered Choir. “Or a flatbed.”

Freeman nodded, adding, “Then they left the vehicles?”

“It’s what I’d do,” said Choir. “Airports’ perimeter cameras should have picked up the backblasts, zeroed right in on the vehicle. Dollars to doughnuts, General, none of those lads had beards. No mustaches either. Terrorists have become very careful about that. Still, you’d’ve thought that our agencies would have been on to at least one of the teams.”

“No,” said Freeman gruffly, his annoyance not so much with Choir not seeing the long-run problem as impatience with not yet having seen any comparable missile flight tape from Dallas/Fort Worth. “Every damn agency in the country missed the signs leading up to 9/11. One guy, just one, an FBI agent, warned the agency about Mid-Eastern guys taking lessons on how to take off in a commercial jet, but no lessons on how to land it. But the FBI guy’s message couldn’t be passed on to the CIA because some liberal ass congresswoman had written a law forbidding too much cross-agency sharing of personal information.”

Choir murmured his disgust.

“Problem is— Hold on, Choir. CNN’s cutting in with more New York tape. I’ll call you back.”

The pictures were of pandemonium at JFK — police everywhere, pallid-faced relatives being ushered in by walkie-talkie-wielding airport officials, more ambulances. The general felt his cell phone vibrating. It was Eleanor Prenty. “Douglas, the man is desperate for information.” She meant the President. “Homeland Security, FBI, CIA — nothing. Absolutely zilch. He is not happy, Douglas. We’ve spent billions on antiterrorism and—”

“A convertible,” cut in Freeman. “Near LAX. Tell our guys to look for a convertible — its hood up. Rope off all motels, hotels, in the area. Have the FBI’s garbage can, Dumpster guys sweep for cordite deposits and discarded clothing, especially coveralls. Motel, hotel details should sweep the showers for cordite, sulfur residue, et cetera. The terrorists will try to shower themselves clean of any trace chemicals from the MANPADs. Backblast from those things is the same as a shoulder-fired antitank round. Throws crap everywhere. Discarded goggles are also a giveaway. Look for goggles.”

“Hang on, Douglas. I can’t take all this down. I’ll put you on speaker.”

“Fine.”

“Before I do, why didn’t you call me on all this stuff?”

“Standard procedure. Thought your guys would already be doing it.”

“Convertible?” she said. “Is that standard — for terrorists?”

“No, that’s mine. I’ve been watching the LAX tape. The background. A lot of convertibles are there. Hollywood. I think it’s a good bet. Hood down, fire, hood up. Ditch.”

“All right. That’s smart. But have you any idea about what we can do to prevent another attack?”

“That’s what I’m working on. Have the Pentagon, NSA — anybody — gotten pics of the missiles’ exhaust trails, apart from the LAX video?”

“We’re working on that. Trouble I guess is that some people don’t know what they’ve got till they rerun their tapes, take a close look at the background. Some haven’t got the equipment to go into the background. Truth is, CNN’ll probably have bought them all, see them before we do. Like the Zapruder film of the JFK assassination.”

“Your guys should have confiscated them at each airport!” he said gruffly.

“We’re doing that. We’re not letting any video cameras out of the airport. But have you seen the size of some of those mini video cameras? You can slip them into your handbag.”

“I wouldn’t know,” replied the general. Besides, some of the women’s handbags he’d seen could carry enough gear to launch a Saturn rocket. “And,” he continued, “they download it to their home computer first via cell. Then give you the cameras.”