COLEMAN AND THE O’ROURKES STAYED AT THE cabin until almost 10 A.M., talking about which course of action to take with Arthur. After the O’Rourkes left for D.C., Coleman spent most of the afternoon checking out the neighborhood where Arthur lived. From his SEAL training, Coleman had developed a knack for memorizing maps. He drove down every street within five miles of Arthur’s estate, checking for unmarked service drives and paths that led from the road down to the water, making mental notes of anything and everything that might be useful. Before taking any action against Arthur he wanted to be completely familiar with the neighborhood. The closer he got to Arthur’s estate the more details he took in: which houses had security cameras, which ones had Beware of Dog signs, and which ones had guardhouses. He only drove past Arthur’s gate once. Anything more than that might arouse some suspicion. Besides, he was more worried about the houses that bordered Arthur’s. Augie’s file stated that neither had high-tech security systems. Both had security company signs at the end of the driveway, but neither had gates or fences, which probably meant the houses were wired but not the grounds.
After his sight-seeing tour, Coleman drove
out to Sparrows Point, just south of Baltimore on the Patapsco
River. The large industrial yard was once entirely occupied by
Bethlehem Steel, but with the decline of the U.S. steel industry it
was now partitioned into extremely cheap warehouse and waterfront
dock space. The SEAL Demolition and Salvage Corporation was located
in a dirty, dank building that faced Old Road Bay on the east end
of the point. The lease was a meager one thousand dollars a month
for one thousand square feet of finished office space and another
ten thousand square feet of bulk warehouse. Coleman pulled his Ford
Explorer into the large warehouse and got out. Earlier in the day
he had called his only two employees and told them to meet him at
the office around 4 P.M. They were standing next to the office checking diving
equipment when he arrived. Dan Stroble and Kevin Hackett were also
former SEALs. They had served on Coleman’s SEAL team for three
years and had left the Navy about six months after their
commander.
Since the inception of the SEAL Demolition
and Salvage Corporation four months earlier, they had only done one
job, for British Petroleum. BP had quietly contracted to have one
of their abandoned oil rigs in the North Atlantic demolished.
Somehow, word had leaked out, and Greenpeace was mobilizing a group
of protesters to occupy the rig and prevent
the demolition. They
wanted BP to dismantle the rig girder by girder. To the executives
at BP the decision was simple: demolish the rig at a cost of two
hundred thousand dollars or dismantle it piece by piece at an
estimated cost of $5 million.
BP scrambled to put together the
demolition team and blow the rig before Greenpeace could mobilize.
BP’s best estimate was that they could have all of the charges in
place and ready to go within forty-eight hours. They found out that
a boat loaded with Greenpeace activists was docked in Reykjavík,
Iceland, and set to leave port the following morning. The activists
would arrive at the rig by noon the next day and storm the
platform, creating an international media event that would bring
public and political pressure down on BP to dismantle the rig. BP
needed to slow the protesters down so they would have enough time
to blow the rig.
The vice president of operations at BP was
told to find a way to stop the activists from reaching the rig
without making it look as if BP had had a hand in it. The executive
made several calls to his contacts in America and Britain and found
out that a new, upstart company in Maryland might be perfect for
the job. The man called Coleman and explained the situation to him.
He had twenty hours to get to Reykjavík and stop the boat from
leaving the harbor. The man didn’t care how it was done, just so
long as no one was hurt.
Coleman had a rough idea of how much it
would cost BP if they had to dismantle the rig, so he said he’d do
the job for three hundred thousand dollars.
The BP exec agreed, and
Coleman, Stroble, and Hackett were on the next flight out of Dulles
with their diving gear.
They landed in Reykjavík just before
sundown and were down at the pier by eleven that evening. During
their tenure as SEALs, they had spent countless hours swimming
around dirty harbors attaching explosives to hulls and disabling
propellers and rudders. The only thing that was difficult about the
mission was the temperature of the water. Even with their neoprene
wet suits they could stay in the water for no more than fifteen
minutes at a time. They took turns swimming over to the ship from a
berth about two hundred feet away. Using an acetylene torch, they
cut away at the U-joint where the driveshaft met the propeller. The
boat would be able to maintain steerage and prop speed up to about
ten knots. Anything more than that and the laws of physics would
take effect. The increased torque on the propeller would cause the
sabotaged joint that connected the driveshaft to the prop to
snap.
They sat at a café the next morning and
wagered on whether the ship would make it out of the harbor.
Coleman didn’t feel guilty about the job. He’d been around the
ocean his whole life and had a deep respect for and healthy fear of
it. Sending a couple thousand tons of steel to the ocean floor
wouldn’t harm it a bit. As they drank coffee and waited for their
8 A.M. flight back to Washington, a tug moved in and towed the
ship out to the main channel. The lines were released and the ship
was under way. A white froth churned up behind the
stern of the boat as it
headed for the open sea. It had just cleared the seawall when the
frothy wake subsided and the ship stalled, turning sideways in the
middle of the channel. An hour later, Coleman, Stroble, and Hackett
were on their way back to Washington. Over the last month they had
received two more offers for jobs, but they had told the
prospective clients they were too busy to take the
work.
Coleman slammed the door of his car and
walked over to Stroble and Hackett. “How are you guys
doing?”
“Great, sir. How about
you?”
“Fine. Have you checked the
messages?”
“Yep,” answered Stroble. “There was
nothing on the machine.”
When Coleman asked if they’d checked the
messages, he actually meant, have you checked the office and phones
for bugs? They knew that eventually the FBI would put them under
surveillance. They needed an alibi that would explain all of the
time they’d spent together while planning for their mission, so
with some seed money from Seamus they had started the SEAL
Demolition and Salvage Corporation. They weren’t the only retired
SEALs living in D.C. who were working with each other. Coleman knew
of two others a little older than him who ran a charter fishing
operation out of Annapolis and had a sneaking suspicion that they
did a little work for the CIA on the side. There were also several
other groups of SEALs that ran security firms, providing bodyguards
for diplomats and corporate executives. Coleman and Seamus had
agreed that
the key to not getting caught was making sure they afforded the FBI
no hard evidence. That meant no fingerprints, no eyewitnesses, and
no ballistics that would link them to the killings. They wore
gloves during every phase of the operation and kept their faces
concealed. The rifles used to kill Koslowski and Basset and the
pistol used to kill Downs were now rusting at the bottom of the
Chesapeake. No real evidence linked them to the murders. If the FBI
came, all they would find would be three former SEALs trying to
launch a new business venture.
Coleman went into the office and came back
out saying, “Let’s get the gear together. I want to take the boat
down to Annapolis and do a bid on a project. If the weather stays
nice, we might be able to get some fishing in on the way back.
Let’s pack up and shove off in about thirty
minutes.”
While Stroble and Hackett gathered up the
diving gear, Coleman topped off the tanks on the boat. Within
thirty minutes they were under way and headed for the Bay. They
centered their conversation on inconsequential small talk until
Stroble finished going over the boat with a sensor. Coleman stood
behind the wheel on the flybridge and watched the movements of the
ships and small vessels around them. He feared that the FBI might
try to bug the office, his apartment, or his car, but that didn’t
scare him. Those could be detected, and if they were dumb enough to
bug him, they would tip their hand. What he feared most was the use
of directional microphones. The CIA had been using them for years,
and the technology was getting better
and better. A person
could stand over three hundred feet away and eavesdrop on someone’s
conversation by merely pointing a microphone at them. The CIA had
developed the technology to listen through walls and other hard
materials where it was difficult to place a
bug.
As they reached the open water of the Bay,
Stroble and Hackett huddled next to Coleman on the flybridge. With
the engines roaring, the wind rushing past, and not another ship
within a mile, Coleman started to fill them in on the details of
Seamus and Michael’s meeting with Augie. Neither Stroble nor
Hackett was surprised by the story. They’d heard the rumors about
Higgins before, and it seemed well within the realm of
possibilities that he was responsible for the murders of Olson,
Turnquist, and their bodyguards. By the time they reached
Annapolis, Coleman had given them all of the details regarding the
meeting he’d had with the O’Rourkes.
They cruised south past Annapolis to Tolly
Point, and Coleman headed for shore. He told Stroble and Hackett to
stay below until they were back out in the Bay. The sun was setting
in the west, and patches of gray clouds were moving in off the
Atlantic. Rain would be welcomed but not crucial. Still atop the
bridge, Coleman maneuvered his boat into the marina at the end of
Tolly Point. He saw someone standing next to the gas pumps on the
dock and raised his hand to block the low sun. Coleman swung the
boat in and came up alongside the dock. Michael jumped on board
holding a fishing pole and tackle box.
“Welcome aboard, Congressman. It looks
like we’re going to have a nice night for fishing. Stow your gear
and grab us a couple of beers out of the cooler.” Spinning the
wheel around, Coleman headed back through the
channel.
Michael set his gear down and flipped open
a red cooler. Grabbing two beers, he climbed the ladder to the
bridge and handed one to Coleman.
Coleman smiled and nodded. A second later
they passed the no-wake buoys, and Coleman pushed the throttles
down, gunning the engines. As the noise increased, Michael
whispered, “Are Dan and Kevin here?”
“Yeah, they’re below. I told them to stay
there until we were out of sight. Did you have any trouble getting
here?”
“No, as far as I could tell, no one
followed me.”
Coleman looked at his watch. It was
5:21 P.M. “The sun should be down in another fifteen minutes, and
then we have to stop and pick up some equipment. . . . We should
get there around seven P.M.” Coleman hugged the coast as they headed south
toward Thomas Point. The Bay was calm. A light breeze was coming in
from the east, and the boat traffic was light. Most of the
recreational boaters on the Chesapeake were done until next spring.
The temperature was around fifty-eight degrees and dropping. He
continued past Thomas Point for exactly 1.3 miles and turned due
east, cutting across the main shipping channel of the
Bay.
Stroble and Hackett, in the meantime, had
changed out of their clothes and put on wet suits. Michael stood on
the flybridge with a pair of binoculars
and scanned their path
for any ships. When they reached the other side of the channel,
Coleman pulled the boat up next to one of the large red buoys that
marked the shipping channel and dropped anchor. Stroble and Hackett
had their diving gear on and were giving each other one last safety
check, going over each other’s equipment like pilots doing a
preflight instrument check. Coleman and Michael stayed atop the
flybridge and kept a lookout for the Coast Guard while Stroble and
Hackett went over the side.
About five minutes later, they came back
up with a large trunk. Michael and Coleman lifted the heavy
container into the boat. It was five by four feet and about three
feet high and was made out of dark green fiberglass. Coleman popped
the hermetically sealed clasps and opened the trunk. Set in foam
cutouts on the top section were six pairs of night-vision goggles.
Coleman grabbed four of them and handed them to Michael. Next, he
grabbed two handles and lifted the top section out of the
container, revealing a cache of weapons also set in foam cutouts.
Coleman snatched three MP-5 submachine guns and a sniper’s rifle
from the container along with silencers and ammunition clips. After
closing the airtight trunk, he and Michael handed it back over the
side to Stroble and Hackett. They took the trunk back down to the
bottom and covered it with rocks.
When Stroble and Hackett were back on
board, Coleman raised the anchor and headed back across the Bay on
a southwesterly course. Stroble and Hackett checked all of the
weapons to make sure they were clean and well oiled and then packed them into
waterproof backpacks. When they were finished, Hackett took the
helm so Michael and Coleman could get ready. Everyone was fitted
with a waterproof radio and headset that was worn under their wet
suits. About a half a mile from Curtis Point, Coleman took back the
helm and slowed the boat to about ten knots. He pulled to within
about a quarter of a mile from shore and turned south, counting the
houses as he went. When they passed the sixth house in from the
point, Coleman told Stroble and Hackett to put on their
night-vision goggles and scan the ridgeline of the cliff and the
docks for people.
The entire shoreline consisted of an
elevated cliff that ranged from fifty to eighty feet in height.
Arthur’s estate sat in the middle of a small swale. The cliff on
either side of his estate was about ten feet higher than it was in
front of his. Stroble and Hackett announced that no one was in
sight. Coleman continued for another four hundred feet and pulled
to within thirty feet of shore, cutting the engines and dropping
anchor. Before leaving the bridge, he turned off all of the running
lights.
It was a good night for reconnaissance.
What little-moon there was, was sitting low in the night sky and
partially obscured by clouds. Coleman gathered everyone close
together for a radio check and quick briefing. He spoke in a low
whisper. The acoustics of the water caused sound to travel much
farther than people realized.
“All right, I’m Zeus; Michael is Apollo;
Dan, you’re Hermes; and Kevin, you’re Cyclops.” Hackett
smiled at
the code name, which referred to the sight on his sniper’s rifle.
“Everyone check your watches. I’m reading nineteen zero eight on my
mark.” Coleman waited for his watch to strike 7:08
P.M.
and said, “Mark.”
Everyone synchronized their watches.
“Arthur’s estate is loaded with motion
sensors, laser trip wires, and tremor plates. There is no way we
are going to sneak in there without being noticed. What I want to
do tonight is get a better look at the two neighbors’ yards and get
a general feel for the layout. Kevin, I want you and Dan to scout
out the neighbors to the north. As far as I can tell, their
security systems are for their houses only, not the grounds. Make
sure you check out the dock and the stairs leading up to the house
before you use them. When you reach the top of the cliff, check out
the fence that runs between Arthur’s yard and the neighbor’s.
Kevin, as soon as possible I want you to find a spot in one of the
big oak trees that run along the property line. If anything goes
wrong, I want you to be in a position to give us cover if we need
to bug out.”
“What are my rules of engagement?” asked
Hackett.
“I want to get out of here tonight without
anyone knowing we were here.”
“What if he steps out for one of his
cigars, and I have him dead in my
sights?”
Coleman pondered the question. “I’m
tempted, but the answer is no. I don’t want to rush into anything.
We are here to gather information and get out.” Michael, Hackett,
and Stroble nodded. “If something goes wrong and one of his guards
opens fire,
take him out. Otherwise let’s keep our fingers off the triggers. .
. . One more thing, the wind is out of the east. Keep that in mind
if they start patrolling with the dogs.” Everyone nodded. “All
right, be careful.”
Stroble and Hackett sat down on the diving
platform and put on their fins and diving masks. They stuck their
snorkels in their mouths and slid into the water, quietly swimming
away. Before Michael and Coleman got in, Coleman asked, “Do Recon
Marines know how to swim?”
“No.” Michael smiled. “I thought you were
going to tow me in.”
“Good one. Let’s go.” The two slid into
the water and headed for shore. They sliced through the water using
only a leg kick, the large black fins making the task easy. The
only thing showing were the thin black snorkels and the top of
their masks. When they reached the dock of the neighbor to the
south of Arthur, they swam ashore and took their backpacks and
diving masks off. Coleman whispered into the tiny microphone
hanging in front of his mouth, “This is Zeus, we’re ashore,
over.”
“This is Cyclops, we’re almost there,
over.”
Michael and Coleman knelt on the small
strip of sand between the water’s edge and the cliff. Craning his
neck backward, Michael looked up at the dark wall of rock. It
looked to be about the height of a three-story building. Coleman
tapped him on the shoulder. “Get your gear ready. I’m going to take
a look at this dock and see if it has any security devices.”
Coleman pulled the night-vision goggles down and waded out into the
water. Without touching the dock, he looked underneath it to
check for wires or cables. When he got out to the end, he swam
under the huge yellow-and-white tarp where a thirty-six-foot
Chris-Craft was docked. After checking the entire dock, he swam
back to shore and grabbed his backpack. Michael had already put a
magazine into Coleman’s MP-5 and attached the silencer. He handed
the weapon to Coleman, and the former SEAL checked to make sure a
round was in the chamber and the safety
on.
Coleman looked at Michael with a grin. “Do
you remember how to do this?”
“It’s coming back to
me.”
“Good. Let’s go.” Michael followed as
Coleman led the way up the stairs. The stairs zigzagged up the
cliff, changing lateral direction about every twenty steps. Not
counting the bottom and top, there were three landings in between.
When they neared the top, Coleman held up his fist signaling
Michael to wait while he checked things out. He crawled just short
of the last step and checked the posts of the railing for a motion
sensor. He knew there wasn’t a laser trip wire or it would have
showed up on his night-vision goggles. Next, he scanned the large
house for movement, and after several minutes of checking
everything in and around the house, he waved O’Rourke up. They
stayed low and scampered along a row of hedges that separated the
lawn from the edge of the cliff. At the end of the hedges they
reached a small patio and gazebo. Just on the other side of the
gazebo was the ten-foot brick fence that separated Arthur’s yard
from his neighbors’.
Coleman grabbed one of the patio chairs
and brought it around the back side of the gazebo. He and O’Rourke
slung their weapons over their backs and climbed onto the roof.
They lay on their stomachs and looked over the fence. The view from
atop the slightly angled, octagonal roof was perfect. Almost all of
Arthur’s backyard was visible. Coleman spoke into his mike, keeping
his voice barely above a whisper, “Cyclops, this is Zeus, are you
in position, over?”
“That’s affirmative, Zeus. I found a nice
little nest with a bird’s-eye view,
over.”
“Have you seen any guards yet,
over?”
“That’s affirmative. I count one man and a
canine. They swept the back side of the house about two minutes
ago, over.”
“Roger. I’d like you to do a check on my
position. We are directly south of you just on the other side of
the fence, over.” O’Rourke and Coleman lay perfectly still for
about sixty seconds and then Hackett’s voice
responded.
“I’ve got you. Just barely though, it took
me four passes. Make sure you keep a low profile. The sky is pretty
dark behind you, but your silhouettes will still show,
over.”
“How high up are you, Cyclops?
Over.”
“I’m a good twenty feet up,
over.”
“Roger, let me know if the dog shows up
along my fence line. It’s my only blind spot,
over.”
“Will do,
over.”
“Hermes, this is Zeus, what’s your
position, over?”
Stroble was standing on the lowest branch
of an old oak tree. He hugged the trunk and peered
over the
fence at the front of Arthur’s house. “I’ve got a good view of the
front of the house, over.”
“What do you see,
over?”
“I’ve got two guards by the front door,
both are accompanied by a German shepherd,
over.”
“How are they equipped,
over?”
“They’re decked out in combat boots, dark
jumpsuits, and combat vests. One of them is carrying a sidearm . .
. check, make that both of them.” Stroble peered through his
goggles and then lifted them up onto his forehead and grabbed his
field binoculars out of his breast pocket. The guards were standing
under the light of the front door. The detail was much better with
the binoculars. “They are both carrying Uzis, and it looks like
they’re wearing flak jackets, over.”
“How are they set up for communication,
over?”
“They are both wearing shoulder mikes, and
it . . . looks . . . like their radios are mounted on their upper
back, left side, over.”
“Is one of them the guard that just
finished the sweep of the backyard,
over?”
“That’s a roger,
over.”
Coleman looked at his watch. “All right,
you guys know the routine. Announce any movements and mark the
intervals. We should have one more guard at the front gate and one
more in the house. Let’s see how good these guys are,
over.”
For the next hour they watched the two
guards and their dogs patrol the grounds. One of them always stayed
by the front door while the other roamed the estate. There was no
rhyme or reason to the intervals. A guard would leave for one
lap around
the house one time, and the next time he would wander around the
estate for ten minutes. To the common observer it looked
disorganized, and in a way it was, but by design. Set patterns and
predictability were liabilities in this business, not assets. These
guards were professionals.
Stroble was getting tired of standing, so
he sat down on the large branch. He was just barely able to see
over the top of the fence and into Arthur’s yard and could still
see the two guards and their dogs at the front door. Both guards
reached for their shoulder mikes and said something. Then they
turned and headed in opposite directions toward the sides of the
house. The unusual movement caught Stroble’s attention, and then
without warning bright flood lamps illuminated the tree lines to
the north and south of Arthur’s estate. Stroble leapt down from the
tree and started running as quietly as possible for the water. He
whispered into his mike, “I think they may have seen me,
over.”
Coleman and O’Rourke instantly crept
backward when the lights came on and were huddling on the other
side of the roof. Coleman asked, “Hermes, where are you,
over?”
“I’m making my way toward the cliff,
over.”
“Roger, Hermes, stand by at the cliff and
wait for Cyclops, over. Cyclops, I need some intel. What’s going
on, over?”
“I’ve got both guards and their dogs
working their way down the fence line towards the water. They are
looking in the trees, but neither of them have their weapons drawn.
It appears that they’re doing some kind of sweep,
over.”
“Do you still have good concealment,
over?”
“That’s affirmative,
over.”
“All right, you are going to have to give
us the play-by-play because we can’t see anything,
over.”
“Don’t move or make any noise. The guard
and the dog on the south side are coming up on your position. I
have him in my sights.”
Hackett kept his voice below a whisper.
“Good. Zeus, they are looking over the edge of the cliff down at
the water. . . . The guard closest to you just said something into
his mike and is heading back to the house.” Without warning, all of
the floodlights were extinguished and darkness returned to the
landscape.
“What in the hell was that all about?”
asked Michael.
“I don’t know,” whispered Coleman.
“Everyone sit tight for a couple minutes and see what happens next.
Don’t talk unless something develops, over.” Coleman and Michael
crawled back to the crest of the roof and looked over the
fence.
Less than a minute later Hackett broke the
silence. “I think I hear a car pulling up the
driveway.”