The Red Cell André Gallo (essential reading .txt) 📖

girlfriend’s apartment in Sausalito to his stock brokerage office in downtown San Francisco full of pride and eager to tell his officemates of his feat. He and Roxanne, who was also his dance instructor, had decided to stay at her place last night. His condo at the Knolls was thirty-six miles from the city and too much of a challenge for a bicycle commute. But from Sausalito and across the Golden Gate, it was less than ten miles to the office, off Market Street near the Moscone Center.

Gardiner had been preparing mentally and physically for this moment for two weeks. His carbon frame RS Peugeot racing bike was his pride and joy, and he enjoyed his rides, which gave him the solitary moments he needed to think.

As he passed one of the Marinas on Bridgeway, he heard a boat engine coughing and then coming to life. A fishing boat getting ready for a day on the bay, he thought. Had he made a mistake in putting some of his clients into gold? The market was hesitating while President Tremaine threatened missile strikes against Syria. But now that Russia had taken over the diplomatic initiative, the market was rising and gold was falling. What about that fellow Steve Church he had met last night at the Knolls? The outsider was smoking near the pool. He would have to write a letter to the board. Owners had a responsibility to inform their guests of the rules. That Church fellow would probably have thrown his cigarette butt on the ground, or maybe in the pool—disgusting! He would have to instruct the board that guests should not be allowed to use the condo units without the presence of the owner. People were so irresponsible. Sometimes you had to treat them like the children they were.

Gardiner’s legs felt solid, but he hoped he hadn’t underestimated the difficulty of the ride or overestimated his own capability. He pedaled past the Horizon restaurant, which on a clear day, favored its clients with a beautiful view of the water and of the seals basking in the sun. The most difficult part was ahead, the climb toward 101, then the tunnel under the highway after which he would be on the bicycle/pedestrian part of the bridge.

He downshifted as he started to climb the long hill.

 0500

Hayder Kazemi edged his boat away from the Sausalito docks carefully, the darkness and fog limiting his visibility to a few feet. Although he had planned to run without lights after he left the pier, he changed his mind when he realized the cargo ships in and out of the Port of Oakland could split his craft in two and never know it. On the other hand, there was a Coast Guard station near the bridge and, once he got out into open water, it might be a good idea to turn the lights off. He and Yosemani had not been able to agree on the specifics of the plan. He had suggested the general simply board the Soledad in Oakland and supervise the whole operation from the ship. But Yosemani had insisted on running the team from the Headlands overlook, which only complicated everyone’s lives, because he would have to be picked up on the shore.

Kazemi touched his pocket, confirming he still had Jannat’s letter, her first in many months. He had been afraid to open it but, to his relief, it conveyed good news. “I will finally get my degree this year,” the letter said. “You have been away a long time. Too long. I want you home this summer. Why couldn’t you request to come back early? It’s time to start our life.”

Little did she know he would see her before the month was over.

If everything goes well, he thought—if this did not turn out to be a suicide mission.

He focused on following the lights that would keep him in the channel. He then turned south, with Alcatraz on his left. The Quds Force commandos should be on their way to the bridge. And the Soledad was probably out at sea, waiting.

 0505

“We’re at the admin building,” McCabe said over the transceiver that was part of the jammer device Al had signed out from the Camp Pendleton Counter-IED shop under General Holm’s authority. “We’re going to take a ride with the guard on duty in the patrol cruiser across the bridge and back. Over.”

“Roger that,” Steve replied.

 0515

Al, with help from Steve and Kella, had assembled and set up one Skylark-2 and the Skylark-3, as well as its bungee-cord-powered launcher within fifteen minutes of arriving at the Nike site. Al thought about the three white Nike Hercules antiaircraft missiles he had seen the day before, standing only a couple of hundred feet away in the night, as though still ready to attack any invaders. The rolling fog allowed him a glimpse of the once-lethal birds outlined on their launchers against the dark sky.

Al’s prior military experience had been unlike anything he was doing. The Night Stalkers was an elite unit and part of JSOC, the Joint Special Operations Command, headquartered in Tampa, Florida. The raid against Osama bin Laden’s compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan, was typical of the missions Al had flown. He operated in a high-risk profession, and he had always felt secure as part of a highly skilled group with a well-defined, command-and-control structure, and supported by the finest military organization in the world. Yet here he was, in the middle of a parking lot, working with two civilians who, although their reputation for special ops had been gained honestly, they were not military. Being under the direct command of a civilian was not in the natural order of things. Who knows what goes on in the mind of a civilian? Still, they had been anointed by the White House, and he was well aware this mission had been given top priority.

With Al’s coaching, Steve hand-launched