This novel picks up a few years after the ending of Shadow Partners. Manfred Kurtz is still the Special Agent in Charge (SAC) of ATF's Detroit Field Division, and Angelo Tana is his assistant. The joint ATF Detroit Police Department (DPD) task force continues to work successfully on matters that cross jurisdictional lines. The story begins with a series of brutal murders in three separate States. Seemingly, they are not connected. Local jurisdictions are busy investigating the crimes, with no reason to suspect any relationship to other incidents. When she chances upon a Detroit crime scene, AUSA Janet Evergreen misses being killed by seconds. Although Janet had not witnessed the assassination of a DPD officer, she did take note of the driver of a getaway vehicle-a man who recognized Janet. Manfred Kurtz and the Task Force members become involved after another source reveals facts about another murder. Assigned ATF agents and DPD officers again begin work on what first appears as a simple case. Far from being an elementary, the men and women will become embroiled in political corruption, murder, firearms trafficking and the first (ALPHA) strike against America by a determined terrorist organization. China wants to make inroads into America's love of guns through established firearms' importation procedures. However, the legitimate effort has been subverted by new adversaries from China. Led by a Chinese colonel from the People's Liberation Army and a cabal, consisting of a select group of military and political members of China's elite, a subplot surfaces. Alliances and treacherous activities will quickly pit radical Muslims from Iran, Iraq and China, against Kurtz, the Task Force and Chinese investigators with similar credentials as ATF. Before long, the race is on to identify and neutralize the terrorist group responsible for many dead Americans. The country's law enforcement is stymied on the makeup of the group and where they might strike again. In a bizarre turn of events, ATF becomes the number one target of criticism from all sides of the firearms' issues, and is blamed for the attacks. With the ATF/DPD Task Force morale wavering, even with promising leads in hand, the Director of another agency decides ATF has been mortally wounded. He calculates that the time is right to scrape up the tidbits developed by the Task Force. His agency identified what the group's acronym stands for, and intends to parlay what he has into a chance for significant publicity. Even so, the Director might not have all of the information he requires for success, or does he? Faced with having to relinquish the investigation, Manfred Kurtz and Angelo Tana receive a lifeline. It's tossed to them by a Chinese criminal investigator. Colonel Mozi Zemin has come across information vital to the Task Force. However, Kurtz and Tana must travel to Hong Kong where they race to intercept a shipment of weapons of mass destruction. Back in the U.S., the Task Force investigation continues--and so do the assassinations of American citizens. Progress is being made, though. Bit-by-bit, ATF and DPD officers and their support people begin to build a picture of the scope of the terrorist operation. But, just before a national enforcement operation, Washington decides to hold back ATF. Instead, their bosses at the Treasury Department acquiesce to a partial case-takeover by the Departments of Defense and Justice. A small carrier task force will search the Pacific for the arms shipments, while ATF handles the countrywide raids.

In the Red Dragon's Shadow - Come the Jackals

Alpha Strike at AmericaBy B. H. La Forest

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 B. H. La Forest
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-1986-9

Chapter One

Alpha (1st) Strike Against America—The Beginning

Cold March days were common in St. Paul, Minnesota. Today was no exception. Strong upper level winds whipped menacing dark clouds around the gray skies. Meteorological action guaranteed some form of precipitation would hit before noontime.

Harold Bauer had just kissed his wife of thirteen years goodbye at their suburban home in Popple Creek. Before their father walked down the steps, he had paused, turned and gave each of his three boys a generous hug. He strolled across the yellowed grass, opened the door to an old brown Chevrolet, and started the engine. Backing out of the double-ribbon, cement driveway, Bauer waved in the direction of the porch before he drove away, headed to his job in St. Cloud. The loyal postal worker would not return to his family that day, to his wife and children waving back from the porch.

Two blocks north of Bauer's home, a large white step van eased away from the curb. Slowly accelerating, it eventually picked up speed and pulled behind the brown Chevy. The driver was a dark-skinned young man, dressed in a black leather jacket, Levi's and military-style boots. In one smooth motion, he reached down with his left hand and pressed a small button alongside his seat.

Two red lights winked on-and-off inside the concealed portion of the truck. Sitting quietly on bench seats, two bearded men in their early thirties moved when they saw the lights. A rectangular-shaped table ran the length of the vehicle's cargo area. Someone had worked hard at installing well-built wooden cabinets above the benches, and on the front wall of the cargo area. Between the upper and lower units, a skilled carpenter had built modest work areas for tasks described in detail. Down the center of the van, some dandy metal work complemented the cabinets. The carpenter had installed an eight-foot long stainless-steel table, and bolted it to the carpeted floor. Beneath the table were built-in metal drawers of various dimensions.

Someone had treated the step van's metal-paneled walls with a heavy, rubberized padding. In all, they had achieved the desired effect. Only the muted sounds from outside traffic made it through the barriers on both sides of the vehicle. The latter modification made little difference to the bearded men, since neither was listening for interference from the outside. Both were calmly attending to their all-important task for that morning. While assembling a brand-new Type-81 machine gun and its telescopic sight, the older man took the lead.

Recently issued to members of the People's Liberation Army (PLA), the machine gun looked almost identical to China's AK-47 platform. Even so, the Type-81's design greatly enhanced the traditional AK-47's reputation. It had much less recoil, a better flash suppressor, and included certain elements that had increased its efficiencies as a sniper platform. Chinese manufacturers had copied the latter characteristic from Russia's Draganov sniper model which Yevgeny Dragunov designed in the 60's. It was quickly becoming a standard squad support weapon for the PLA.

The other man was a bit younger, and occupied himself with a state-of-the-art video camera. Associates had recently stolen the professional system from a local TV station. Along with the camera, thieves had also swiped a case that held a first-rate telephoto lens.

Up ahead, Bauer glanced in his left-side mirror when he neared the intersection for the right turn onto Hwy 23. As he did, he noticed the driver of an idling step van was glaring at him. Bauer watched the man's reflection in the Chevy's side mirror. The guy's threatening, unwavering stare, made the postal worker squirm in his seat. Spying an opening behind a blue pickup that was waiting to turn left, Bauer suddenly accelerated and jerked his steering wheel to the right. After his turn, he checked over his shoulder and out the rear window. Pleased with himself that the rapid move had worked, he could see the step van was still at the stop sign.

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Bauer was about to drive onto the DeSoto Bridge. At more than thirty feet above the swollen Mississippi River, the span would deposit him near the post office at Second Street and Ninth Avenue. Taken by surprise, Bauer was not prepared when the step van changed lanes behind his car. A streak of white flashed across all three of his mirrors. He thought he had left the delivery truck behind. The postal carrier applied his brakes and slowed, still shocked at its appearance. He watched it drive by on the right side, then pull well ahead of his Chevrolet. Relieved by the indifferent maneuver, he was pleased to see the step van traveling a little faster than before. The more distance placed between his vehicle and the van was a good thing, thought Bauer.

Ignoring its presence, Bauer attempted a grin at his momentary fear of the other driver. When he thought a bit more, his smile promptly faded. No denying, the van's driver had acted belligerently. Who the heck would want to hurt an innocent mailman, he thought?

Almost in the center of the bridge now, he checked his rear view mirrors for other traffic. Oddly enough, the morning's DeSoto Bridge traffic was unusually thin. With only seven blocks to go before he arrived at the post office, he felt safe. Even when the white step van slowed perceptively, the postal carrier did not consider it a hazardous omen. He had already dismissed the issue from his mind as he passed the center mark of the span over the Mississippi River.

Harold Bauer never made it to the other end of the DeSoto Bridge. Fidgeting in his seat while he tried to light one last cigarette before work, he missed seeing the open slot in one of the van's rear doors. Just two inches of the barrel protruded from the small aperture. Strapped to the table inside the van, was a new Type-56. Its specially thickened barrel rested securely in a black tripod.

Dressed in camouflage fatigues, the middle-aged passenger lay on the metal table. From this prone position, he took careful aim at the driver's head. It filled the twelve-power scope's eye piece, less than fifteen car lengths behind. The sniper watched for a brief moment, amused to see his mark struggling to light his last cigarette. A tiny hole formed in Bauer's windshield a micro second before his head jerked back. A copper-jacketed, 7.62 round passed through his skull, the headrest, and through the rear window—leaving a bloody trail in the backseat. Before the spider web had begun to form across the surface of the windshield, the Chevy careened out of control.

Traveling fifty yards behind, the driver of a GMC pickup heard a thunk when something struck his bumper. He paid little attention to the sound—more concerned with what was happening to the car in front of him. He watched, fascinated, as the Chevrolet gained speed as it swerved from side to side. Without warning, the car straightened, and then roared headlong toward the right-side of the DeSoto Bridge. A second and a half after it smashed into the high curb, the car was airborne. Flight lasted just until the Chevy's two front wheels struck the rail running along the top of the cement wall. Rubber from blown tires flew in every direction as both front wheels buckled underneath the car and snapped. When that happened, the sheer weight of the vehicle flipped it forward and through the air. The driver in the GMC had slammed on his brakes and skidded to a stop. Gripping his steering wheel with both hands, he watched in horror as Bauer's car disappeared from view—plunging toward the icy Mississippi below.

Inside the step van, the two assassins leisurely disassembled their gear. As he unloaded his video camera, the photographer punched a button mounted on the corner of a cabinet. Both men felt the truck surge forward, signaling that the driver understood they had successfully accomplished their mission. After a quick look at the camera's preview window, the camera operator popped out the VHS cassette, confident they had captured the entire episode on videotape. He was especially pleased to see that he had captured the crimson spray inside Bauer's car. The military round had turned the driver's skull into bloody pulp.

Much later the same day, police divers tried to find the Chevy in the Mississippi River's fast moving current. After their attempts had failed, the assigned accident investigators remained at a loss to explain the crash. Their single witness—the motorist in the GMC pickup could add nothing to what appeared to have been an unfortunate accident.

That was what the people of St. Cloud heard on their evening news, along with a wrenching interview with Mrs. Bauer and her three young boys. The viewing audience also watched a short video clip showing the reaction of a representative from the Postal Inspection Service, assigned to the Minneapolis office. The inspector was there because of a requirement that called for an investigation of all traffic accidents, where the death of a postal employee had been involved. He had some well chosen and thought-provoking words to offer about Harold Bauer. All the public heard was "good man" before the anchor switched to the weatherman's preliminary report.

Four days later, in California, a few miles north of Crescent City, a truck belonging to one of the state's utility companies drove along Highway 101. George Lamont and Hector Ruiz had just completed a two-day assignment without having to call in other technicians. After lunch, they decided to drive on through—a little over two-hundred miles. Both had agreed to stop for coffee and donuts at a small, family-style restaurant north of Fort Bragg. The place was famous for its friendliness, bracing Hawaiian coffee and freshly baked pastries. After the quick stop, their plan called for driving south a few miles on the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH). Lamont and Ruiz had a favored spot along that portion of the Mendocino Coast, just off the highway at a Pacific overlook.

Late that afternoon, Ruiz volunteered to pay for the donuts and coffee, and returned to the truck in quick order. The aroma of fresh java wafted up from the individual holders, while the bag of baked goods tickled their noses with other delicious scents. They resumed their journey south on the PCH, toward one of their favorite Pacific outcrops.

A few miles farther, the young Mexican was commenting on how beautiful the Pacific looked at sunset. Ruiz always became animated when he was describing his preferred region of California, near the Western Section of the Redwood National Forest.

While he listened to his partner's visual travelogue, George Lamont repeatedly eyed his left-side mirror. The white step van had been tailing their service truck since they had pulled out of the restaurant's parking lot. He could not see the driver's face, although, something was suspicious about the way he kept behind them—never trying to pass.

Up ahead, Lamont saw the turn off. He signaled, slowed and pulled onto a dirt road that led up a slight rise. Through a grove of Cypress trees, the narrow path continued three quarters of a mile to the Pacific Ocean. At the end of the trek, their heavy utility truck came out of the trees and into a large clearing. At this point, they were not very far from the edge of a high bluff and the ocean below.

Lamont opened his door and stepped out. Stretching arms above his old-style brush-cut, he admired the incredible view of the blue water below. From far below, he could hear the sound of surf as it crashed against the escarpment's craggy foundation.

Then he heard Ruiz's door slam shut. "Madre mia," exclaimed his cheerful partner. "What a fantastic site! It makes a person thankful to be alive to enjoy it."

Lamont shook his head in agreement. "You bet! California has it all. Just look at that gorgeous orange sun, no place on earth I would rather live."

Both turned at the sound of the truck coming through the tree line, and Lamont was instantly uncomfortable. The dread increased exponentially when the truck pulled to a stop. He could see that the driver was a young, dark-skinned guy. The man just sat in the truck, staring at Lamont and Hector.

Lamont was apparently not the only person concerned about the sight of the other truck. "What the fuck is he up to?" asked Ruiz.

"He's been on our ass since we left the restaurant," answered Lamont. "Let's get out of here. I don't want any trouble."

The two utility line installers turned and reached for their doors, but that was as far as they got. "George Lamont! Hold it right there!" The voice was hard, full of authority.

Lamont wheeled around, expecting to find the driver of the step van. Instead, he saw two men—wearing black knitted balaclava and camouflage fatigues. Both were carrying Kalashnikov machine guns. Lamont tried to cover his fright with a challenging facade. "Who are you? How in the hell do you know my name?"

The beauty of the late afternoon was abruptly shattered. A flock of seagulls roosting on the sides of the cliff reacted to the piercing sound of gunfire. Squawking loudly, they soared out and over the water, away from the rocky precipice.

Lamont and Ruiz lay on the ground near their utility truck. Hector was dead, shot several times in the chest and head. Lamont, although wounded severely, had crawled toward his truck's running board. He hoisted his bleeding body, and leaned his back against the bottom of the cab.

As the two men approached where he lay, Lamont whispered, "Why? What the hell did we do?"

"Nothing! You did not do anything, George. This is for Allah and the greater good. I can tell you that much." The older of the two—a bearded black man, had stepped in front of the younger shooter. He stared at Lamont for several seconds, and then stepped aside. "You're a lousy fuckin' shot, Mukhtar. Now, finish him."

Walking forward a few paces, the second man looked down at Lamont. Giving up, the wounded man simply turned toward the ocean. Three rounds, in rapid succession, tore into his back and exited through his chest.

Inside the step van, the driver busied himself with television equipment-checking to see if Mukhtar got everything. He turned off the video recorder, extracted the tape and moved to the rear of the van. Meanwhile, the other two had pulled off their balaclava coverings and were casually walking back to the parked step van.

After dark, a California Highway Patrol (CHP) officer checked the overlook for suspicious cars as part of his evening routine. He found the abandoned utility truck and looked around the site. Finding nothing immediately, the officer called in what he had to his dispatchers.

By 8:30 p.m., he and several investigators had concluded their search of the area. They found little evidence besides tissue spatters on the side of the truck, and two dried pools of blood. It would be the following morning before they searched the crime scene again, and in much greater detail. With the benefit of the sun, homicide investigators recovered several 7.62 slugs, along with a single, shiny 7.62 casing.

Two hours before the CHP had begun their early search; heavy rain had transformed a normally busy morning commute in Detroit. It had changed from just being annoying, to being extremely treacherous. Most of the winter snow had melted off the steep sides of the "ditch," the John Lodge Expressway. However, torrents of rain were rearranging the hillsides, washing paper, plastic, mud and other assorted trash down to the expressway.

Detroit Police Officer Burtrum Graybrook was cruising along in his new Buick Riviera. Stereo speakers blasted the sound of the rain from his mind as he headed for work at 1300 Beaubien—Detroit Police Headquarters. Graybrook still resented his reassignment, and felt the early shift in the Records Bureau was a total pain in the ass. Although, it did afford him the luxury of avoiding the worst of traffic, on both ends of his tour.

Just after his car sped underneath the Clairmont overpass, the officer had to tap his brakes—hard. A white step van shot across the freeway from the entrance ramp, and into his lane. Disgusted and angry, he yelled, "You fuckin' ass hole!"

(Continues...)

Excerpted from In the Red Dragon's Shadow - Come the Jackalsby B. H. La Forest Copyright © 2011 by B. H. La Forest. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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