Chapter 13 Chapter Eleven
Today is the martyrdom day of Tariq Terry Hussein.He got up before dawn in the morning.With the curtains drawn, he purified his body according to ancient etiquette.Sheets hang on the bedroom wall with relevant scriptures.He sat in front of the sheets, turned on the camera, and recorded his last words to the world.Then he logs on to the Jihad Channel and sends it out to the world.By the time national authorities noticed it, it was too late.
It's a beautiful summer dawn.He drove the car through the first commuting traffic in the morning.Some came from Maryland and went to Virginia; others went in the opposite direction.Most headed in the direction of the District of Columbia.Hussein is in no rush, but he wants to be on time.
He parked the car in the outer lane of the road.This is a major commuter artery and cannot be parked for long periods of time.Too early and those commuting will slow down and cause congestion.They also slam the horns hard, which gets attention.Helicopters circling nearby would soon call in state police cars.It was a struggle to get through heavy traffic, but two policemen with guns were sure to come.This is the result Hussein wants, but the time has not yet come.
If it was too late, the target he thought of might have passed here, and he couldn't wait for the next target to appear.At ten past seven he reached Keye Bridge.
There are eight bridges on the surface of Washington, five across the Potomac River, separating Virginia from Washington; the other two are on the Washington state side, crossing the Chesapeake-Ohio Canal and K Street.There are lobby groups based in Washington representing the interests of major companies gathered here.The Eighth Bridge, another frequently used commuter route, crosses George Washington Memorial Drive on the Virginia side.
Route 29 has six lanes, and Hussein approached the bridge from the outside lane.When the car was in the middle of Washington Memorial Boulevard, he hit the brakes and the compact car came to a slow stop.The vehicles behind started to drive around him angrily.He got out of the car, walked to the back of the car, and opened the trunk.He took out two red triangular "fault" signs from it and placed them on the road.
He opened the two side doors to form a small "box" with the guardrail.He got in, took out his gun, leaned over the parapet, squinted, and looked at the torrent of steel passing through the scope through the scope.The gun was loaded with two convertible clips containing forty rounds.At this moment, if someone passes by from behind, they can see what the person in the middle of the two doors is doing.But they either didn't believe what they saw, or they put their heads down and were busy steering the wheel as they retracted to avoid collisions.
It is ten past seven.Almost one-tenth of the cars under the bridge are buses.There are also some operating lines in the SAR subway system, some of which are blue and some are orange.The orange one is the 23C line, which runs from the Rosslyn subway station to Langley, Virginia.The terminal is the gate of the CIA.
The traffic under the bridge is not considered to be congested, but the vehicles are connected end to end and travel very slowly.Tariq Hussain had searched the Internet before, and he knew what kind of car to look for.When he was about to give up, he found the orange roof in the distance.The helicopter had been able to see the car parked in the middle of the bridge, but it turned around and flew away from the Potomac River.Hussain prayed, wishing the orange bus would come closer.
The first burst of four bullets pierced the windshield, killing the driver.The car made a sharp turn, hit a car next to it, was blocked, and stopped.The man lying on the steering wheel was wearing a subway company uniform and was dead.The crowd began to react.
The side-hit car under the bridge also stopped.The driver climbed out of the car and shouted excitedly at the bus that hit him.At this time, he noticed that the driver was lying there.He thought that maybe the driver had a heart attack, so he took out his cell phone.
The drivers behind the two cars started honking.Some drivers also got out of the car.One of them looked up and saw a figure on the parapet, shouting a warning.The helicopter flew over Arlington and headed for the Key Bridge.Hussain kept shooting.The bullet penetrated the stationary bus.Twenty rounds later, the firing pin struck the empty magazine.He unloaded, reversed, inserted the spare, and continued firing.
Below him was chaos.Word spread.The drivers jumped out of the car one after another and got on the back of the car.At least two people were on their cell phones, yelling into the phone.
There were two women on the bridge, running back down the road, screaming as they ran. The roof of the bus on line 23C has been torn off, and the inside is like a blood-stained morgue, full of dead bodies and hysterical people.At this time, the bullets from the second magazine poured down.
It wasn't the gunman on the helicopter that ended it all, but an off-duty patrol officer.He was also on Route 29, just ten cars behind Hussein.He was smoking a cigarette, letting the car window open so that his wife wouldn't notice the smell when he turned around.He heard the sound of firing, and from the sound he recognized a powerful rifle.He got out of the car, grabbed his sidearm, and ran toward the gunfire.
The window glass of the open car door next to Hussein suddenly shattered, and he knew someone was coming.He turned his head and saw a man running towards him.Hussain raised his gun at the man, the magazine empty.But the police officer who was still running towards this side didn't know.The officer stopped twenty feet away, crouched on his knees, gun in both hands, and fired all the bullets at the car door and the man behind it.
It was later learned that the shooter had been shot three times, which was fatal.By the time the officers arrived at the car, the gunman was lying on the side of the road, breathing weakly.Thirty seconds later it was dead.
For most of the day, Route 29 was in chaos.The road was closed and the forensic team removed the body, gun and car.But that was nothing compared to what was happening on Washington Memorial Drive under the bridge.
The interior of the Roslyn-to-Langley bus was like a slaughterhouse.Figures released to the public afterwards showed that seven people were killed, nine were seriously injured (five of them had amputations), and twenty were slightly injured.The roof was completely taken off.
Thousands of Langley workers were stunned by the news.It's like someone declaring war on America, except it's a dead man.
The Virginia State Police and the FBI didn't delay for a moment.They traced the killer's car through the driver's licensing agency.Special operations teams stormed the house outside Fairfax.The room was empty.However, the forensic team still wore tight jumpsuits, first stripped off all the wall coverings, and then dug three feet into the ground.
Within twenty-four hours, the scope of interrogation has been very extensive.Counter-terrorism experts pored over the shooter's laptop and diaries.Listening to the gunman's death proclamation, the men and women in the various offices of the FBI's Hoover Building fell silent.The manifesto was copied to the CIA.
The bus that was attacked also made other stops, so not all of those on board worked for the CIA.But most headed for the terminus - Langley in Maclean.
The CIA director exercised his prerogative to meet the president one-on-one in the Oval Office before the sun went down.Staff in the hallway said the president had been fuming and livid.
It is rare that the head of a country's secret service likes the enemy's opponent, but there are still cases.During the Cold War, many in the West had to respect the man at the helm of East Germany's spy agency. Markus Wolf, code-named "Misha", has very little funds, but his enemies are very powerful-West Germany and NATO.He didn't even try to turn against the cabinet ministers of the Bonn government.His targets are the invisible men in the offices of those high powers.They dress poorly, run around all day, but without them, the entire office cannot function.They are the private confidential secretaries of the ministers. After careful research, he found that these confidential secretaries are usually old girls who live alone, and their days are boring and monotonous.So he targeted them and sent them young and handsome lovers.These "Romeos" are patient and slow to move.Let their cold life have a warm embrace; on sunny days, promise to stay together for life after retirement.All it takes is a quick glance at the stupid papers that are forever circling ministers' desks. They did, these Ingrids and Waltauds.They made copies of all the confidential documents left unattended on their desks and passed them on as the minister walked away for a four-course lunch.Infiltration into the Bonn government has gone so far that even NATO allies are afraid to tell Bonn what day of the week it is.Because within a day, intelligence about a connection to Bonn would have reached East Berlin, and then Moscow. Eventually the police came and "Romeo" disappeared.The white mice in the office huddled together, their eyes dimmed with tears.Soon, they were taken away by two big police officers.The small house where they lived alone was replaced by a small cell in the prison. Mischa Wolfe is a ruthless bastard.After the collapse of East Germany, he retired, stayed in West Germany, and finally died of old age in his own bed. Now, forty years later, MI6 wants to snoop into Chauncey Reynolds' office too, to find out what's going on in there, what they've said.However, the entire room of Julian Reynolds was thoroughly inspected by a team of high-caliber electronics experts.Some of the team were actually retired from national intelligence. So, this summer, in Gareth Evans' private office, while MI6 wasn't using state-of-the-art covert technology, they sent Emily Bulstrode.She could see, read, and hear all of it.She carried the tray of teacups and no one noticed her. The day Harry Anderson yelled in Gareth Evans' face, Bulstrode bought her usual sandwich at the corner deli and walked into her favorite phone booth.She doesn't like those trendy things that people carry in their pockets.They always ring during meetings.She liked to visit the few remaining red-painted coin-operated telephone booths.She dialed the Vauxhall switchboard and asked for a connection.After saying a few words, she returned to her office. After get off work, she walked to St. James' Park, where she sat in the chairs she had reserved and waited for someone to join her, feeding the ducks crumbs from her sandwiches.During the day she kept thinking that her beloved Charlie was in Moscow.Charlie goes to Gorky Park every day to take top-secret microfilm from former Soviet traitor Oleg Penkovsky.These state secrets ended up on President Kennedy's desk, allowing him to outwit Nikita Khrushchev and, in 1962, get those pesky missiles removed from Cuba. A young man came and sat down beside her.They usually need to do some harmless small talk to establish the real identity.She glanced at him and smiled.Little boy, she thought.When she crossed the Iron Curtain and infiltrated East Germany for the company, he might have been an intern, or maybe he hadn't even been born yet. The young man pretended to be reading the Evening Standard, he did not take notes.In his coat pocket, a tape recorder was working silently.Emily Bulstrode didn't take notes either.She has two magic weapons of her own: a completely harmless personality, and a superb memory. So, word by word, she told the "intern" in detail what happened in the law firm this morning, word for word and the actual situation.Then she stood up, walked to the station, and took the commuter subway to her little house in Coorston.Sitting alone, she watched the scenery of the suburbs south of the city drift past the car window.She, too, had tried to get rid of the dreaded secret police, and now, at seventy-five, she was just making coffee for the lawyers. At dusk the young man returned to Vauxhall and began to write his report.He noticed a note that the director had agreed that all news about Somalia needed to be shared with the US embassy counterpart.He didn't understand what the ruthless warlord in Galaad Bay had to do with hunting missionaries.But an order is an order.So he copied a copy to the CIA. The tracker's shelter was half a mile outside the embassy.He was almost packing his bags when his BlackBerry vibrated.The tracker kept scrolling through the screen, read the message from beginning to end, then closed it, thought for a while, and opened the luggage again.Good God had just given him the bait he wanted.
Gareth Evans talks to Abdi the next morning.The Somalis were sullen when they arrived. "Mr. Abdi, my friend, I have always thought of you as a civilized person." Gareth began. "I am a civilized man, Mr. Garris, I am," replied the negotiator at Gala Ad Bay.Evans could hear his voice tightening with concern.He believes this is likely to be true.Of course, no one can ever be 100% sure.After all, both Abdi and Afrit belonged to the Howbar Jidir tribe, otherwise, Abdi would not be a negotiator under the trust. Evans thought of the advice he had been given many years ago, when he was with Customs and Excise in the Horn of Africa.His mentor at the time was an elderly colonial supervisor.The man's skin was like parchment, and his eyes were yellow with malaria.He told Evans that there were six important things about Somalis that would never change. The first thing is himself, then family, clan and tribe, and finally country and religion.The last two items are only involved when fighting foreigners.When they were alone, they would fight each other.Frequently change alliances and masters according to their own judged advantages, hatred and dissatisfaction. He blew his head off when the colonial authorities threatened to send the aging executive back to the rainy British mainland in his near-retirement.His last words to young Evans were: "Normally, you can't buy the loyalty of Somalis, but you can temporarily buy it." Gareth Evans was in Mayfair on this midsummer morning with an idea on his mind: to see if Ali Abdi was loyal to himself, or more loyal to a man of his own tribe. "The way your client has treated one of the hostages is disgraceful and unacceptable. It will take our entire negotiation off course. And I must tell you that I was more than happy that this happened between you and me time, because I believe we are all decent people." "I think so too, Mr. Garris." Evans had no idea how secure the phone line was.He wasn't thinking about Fort Meade and Cheltenham - he knew that was to be expected - but did any of the warlord's men who were listening to this call speak fluent English? ?But he had to bet Abdi could understand the sentence. "So I thought, my friend, you see we've all reached Shuraya's place." There was a long silence.Evans bet that if there were other Somalis listening, who weren't educated enough to understand what he was saying, Abdi would. Abdi finally spoke. "I think I see what you mean, Mr. Garris." Shuraya Phone is a satellite communication system.Somalia's mobile communications are controlled by four telephone companies: National Unicom Telecom, Holmde, Sema Telecom and France Telecom.They all require an antenna.And Shuraya only needs those American satellites slowly orbiting the earth in space. What Evans said to Ali Abdi meant that if he had it, or if he could get his hands on a Shuraya phone, he could ride into the desert on something by himself and call Evans from behind a rock.That way they can say something very personal.Abdi's answer shows that he has understood and will do so. The two negotiators chatted for another 30 minutes and brought the ransom to 18 million US dollars. Both parties promised that they would contact each other after negotiating with their clients.
Lunch was ordered by Adrian Herbert, the Tracker's MI6 contact.He chose "The Shepherd's House" in Marsham Street.For privacy, he asked for a cubicle.But trackers insist the U.S. government pays for it. The atmosphere of the meeting was very friendly, and both sides were very moderate.But both of them knew that all of this meant more than just eating and drinking.Herbert was surprised when the American threw out his thoughts, and he put down his coffee. "What do you mean 'dug out'?" "'Dig out' is a bit of an abstraction, dragging out to isolate yourself from other people." "You mean kidnapping. On the streets of London? Without warrant or prosecution?" "He's helping a well-known terrorist. The terrorist has committed four murders in your country, Adrian." "Yes. But it would be absolutely devastating if information leaked out after a forced kidnapping. We need the authorities to do it, and we need the signature of the Home Secretary. She will consult a lawyer. They will demand a formal prosecution. " "Adrian, you did a great job before and helped us a lot." "Yes. But they're on a street that's been cleared of all problems. Knightsbridge is not Karachi, you know. And Dadari is ostensibly a respectable businessman." "You and I both know that's not the case." "Indeed. But only because we broke into his mansion, bugged him, and hacked his computer. It would have been perfect with a public trial. Sorry, Tracker, we wanted to help, but that's already It’s all we can do so far.” Adrian stared at the ceiling and thought for a while. "No, this won't work, old man. We've got to be like a 'Trojan horse,' with permission to do this." They paid their bills and left in different directions on the sidewalk.Adrian Herbert walked back to Vauxhall's office.The tracker called a taxi.He sat in the back seat of the car, thinking over Adrian's last words. What does that allusion have to do with this incident?Back in his room, he checked online.It took him some time, but he finally found it. "Trojan Achievement" - a small company specializing in security, located on the outskirts of Hamworth, Dorset. He knew that it was the territory of the Royal Marines.Their sprawling base is in nearby Poole.There are a lot of people who have spent their entire lives in Special Forces and retired to live near their old bases.They often work together with several partners to set up a private security company - the usual business includes: bodyguards, property protection, and bodyguards.If the investor gives less money, they will work at home.Further searches revealed that the Trojan horse achievement was located in a residential area. The tracker made the phone call on the Internet and booked an appointment for the next day.Then he called a car rental company in Mayfair and booked a Volkswagen Golf, starting three hours before the appointment.He explained that he was an American tourist named Jackson.He has a US driver's license, which is valid.He needs a car for a day, to go to the south coast with friends. He had just hung up the phone when the BlackBerry vibrated.It's from Technical Operations Support, encrypted for anti-interception.The identification code showed that it was from Gray Fox.However, what the identification code cannot reveal is that the commander of the four-star general of the Joint Special Operations Command has just left the Oval Office with the latest instructions. Gray Fox wastes no time.His message was just a few words: Missionary.Don't live.
Notes:
It is rare that the head of a country's secret service likes the enemy's opponent, but there are still cases.During the Cold War, many in the West had to respect the man at the helm of East Germany's spy agency. Markus Wolf, code-named "Misha", has very little funds, but his enemies are very powerful-West Germany and NATO.He didn't even try to turn against the cabinet ministers of the Bonn government.His targets are the invisible men in the offices of those high powers.They dress poorly, run around all day, but without them, the entire office cannot function.They are the private confidential secretaries of the ministers. After careful research, he found that these confidential secretaries are usually old girls who live alone, and their days are boring and monotonous.So he targeted them and sent them young and handsome lovers.These "Romeos" are patient and slow to move.Let their cold life have a warm embrace; on sunny days, promise to stay together for life after retirement.All it takes is a quick glance at the stupid papers that are forever circling ministers' desks. They did, these Ingrids and Waltauds.They made copies of all the confidential documents left unattended on their desks and passed them on as the minister walked away for a four-course lunch.Infiltration into the Bonn government has gone so far that even NATO allies are afraid to tell Bonn what day of the week it is.Because within a day, intelligence about a connection to Bonn would have reached East Berlin, and then Moscow. Eventually the police came and "Romeo" disappeared.The white mice in the office huddled together, their eyes dimmed with tears.Soon, they were taken away by two big police officers.The small house where they lived alone was replaced by a small cell in the prison. Mischa Wolfe is a ruthless bastard.After the collapse of East Germany, he retired, stayed in West Germany, and finally died of old age in his own bed. Now, forty years later, MI6 wants to snoop into Chauncey Reynolds' office too, to find out what's going on in there, what they've said.However, the entire room of Julian Reynolds was thoroughly inspected by a team of high-caliber electronics experts.Some of the team were actually retired from national intelligence. So, this summer, in Gareth Evans' private office, while MI6 wasn't using state-of-the-art covert technology, they sent Emily Bulstrode.She could see, read, and hear all of it.She carried the tray of teacups and no one noticed her. The day Harry Anderson yelled in Gareth Evans' face, Bulstrode bought her usual sandwich at the corner deli and walked into her favorite phone booth.She doesn't like those trendy things that people carry in their pockets.They always ring during meetings.She liked to visit the few remaining red-painted coin-operated telephone booths.She dialed the Vauxhall switchboard and asked for a connection.After saying a few words, she returned to her office. After get off work, she walked to St. James' Park, where she sat in the chairs she had reserved and waited for someone to join her, feeding the ducks crumbs from her sandwiches.During the day she kept thinking that her beloved Charlie was in Moscow.Charlie goes to Gorky Park every day to take top-secret microfilm from former Soviet traitor Oleg Penkovsky.These state secrets ended up on President Kennedy's desk, allowing him to outwit Nikita Khrushchev and, in 1962, get those pesky missiles removed from Cuba. A young man came and sat down beside her.They usually need to do some harmless small talk to establish the real identity.She glanced at him and smiled.Little boy, she thought.When she crossed the Iron Curtain and infiltrated East Germany for the company, he might have been an intern, or maybe he hadn't even been born yet. The young man pretended to be reading the Evening Standard, he did not take notes.In his coat pocket, a tape recorder was working silently.Emily Bulstrode didn't take notes either.She has two magic weapons of her own: a completely harmless personality, and a superb memory. So, word by word, she told the "intern" in detail what happened in the law firm this morning, word for word and the actual situation.Then she stood up, walked to the station, and took the commuter subway to her little house in Coorston.Sitting alone, she watched the scenery of the suburbs south of the city drift past the car window.She, too, had tried to get rid of the dreaded secret police, and now, at seventy-five, she was just making coffee for the lawyers. At dusk the young man returned to Vauxhall and began to write his report.He noticed a note that the director had agreed that all news about Somalia needed to be shared with the US embassy counterpart.He didn't understand what the ruthless warlord in Galaad Bay had to do with hunting missionaries.But an order is an order.So he copied a copy to the CIA. The tracker's shelter was half a mile outside the embassy.He was almost packing his bags when his BlackBerry vibrated.The tracker kept scrolling through the screen, read the message from beginning to end, then closed it, thought for a while, and opened the luggage again.Good God had just given him the bait he wanted.
Gareth Evans talks to Abdi the next morning.The Somalis were sullen when they arrived. "Mr. Abdi, my friend, I have always thought of you as a civilized person." Gareth began. "I am a civilized man, Mr. Garris, I am," replied the negotiator at Gala Ad Bay.Evans could hear his voice tightening with concern.He believes this is likely to be true.Of course, no one can ever be 100% sure.After all, both Abdi and Afrit belonged to the Howbar Jidir tribe, otherwise, Abdi would not be a negotiator under the trust. Evans thought of the advice he had been given many years ago, when he was with Customs and Excise in the Horn of Africa.His mentor at the time was an elderly colonial supervisor.The man's skin was like parchment, and his eyes were yellow with malaria.He told Evans that there were six important things about Somalis that would never change. The first thing is himself, then family, clan and tribe, and finally country and religion.The last two items are only involved when fighting foreigners.When they were alone, they would fight each other.Frequently change alliances and masters according to their own judged advantages, hatred and dissatisfaction. He blew his head off when the colonial authorities threatened to send the aging executive back to the rainy British mainland in his near-retirement.His last words to young Evans were: "Normally, you can't buy the loyalty of Somalis, but you can temporarily buy it." Gareth Evans was in Mayfair on this midsummer morning with an idea on his mind: to see if Ali Abdi was loyal to himself, or more loyal to a man of his own tribe. "The way your client has treated one of the hostages is disgraceful and unacceptable. It will take our entire negotiation off course. And I must tell you that I was more than happy that this happened between you and me time, because I believe we are all decent people." "I think so too, Mr. Garris." Evans had no idea how secure the phone line was.He wasn't thinking about Fort Meade and Cheltenham - he knew that was to be expected - but did any of the warlord's men who were listening to this call speak fluent English? ?But he had to bet Abdi could understand the sentence. "So I thought, my friend, you see we've all reached Shuraya's place." There was a long silence.Evans bet that if there were other Somalis listening, who weren't educated enough to understand what he was saying, Abdi would. Abdi finally spoke. "I think I see what you mean, Mr. Garris." Shuraya Phone is a satellite communication system.Somalia's mobile communications are controlled by four telephone companies: National Unicom Telecom, Holmde, Sema Telecom and France Telecom.They all require an antenna.And Shuraya only needs those American satellites slowly orbiting the earth in space. What Evans said to Ali Abdi meant that if he had it, or if he could get his hands on a Shuraya phone, he could ride into the desert on something by himself and call Evans from behind a rock.That way they can say something very personal.Abdi's answer shows that he has understood and will do so. The two negotiators chatted for another 30 minutes and brought the ransom to 18 million US dollars. Both parties promised that they would contact each other after negotiating with their clients.
Lunch was ordered by Adrian Herbert, the Tracker's MI6 contact.He chose "The Shepherd's House" in Marsham Street.For privacy, he asked for a cubicle.But trackers insist the U.S. government pays for it. The atmosphere of the meeting was very friendly, and both sides were very moderate.But both of them knew that all of this meant more than just eating and drinking.Herbert was surprised when the American threw out his thoughts, and he put down his coffee. "What do you mean 'dug out'?" "'Dig out' is a bit of an abstraction, dragging out to isolate yourself from other people." "You mean kidnapping. On the streets of London? Without warrant or prosecution?" "He's helping a well-known terrorist. The terrorist has committed four murders in your country, Adrian." "Yes. But it would be absolutely devastating if information leaked out after a forced kidnapping. We need the authorities to do it, and we need the signature of the Home Secretary. She will consult a lawyer. They will demand a formal prosecution. " "Adrian, you did a great job before and helped us a lot." "Yes. But they're on a street that's been cleared of all problems. Knightsbridge is not Karachi, you know. And Dadari is ostensibly a respectable businessman." "You and I both know that's not the case." "Indeed. But only because we broke into his mansion, bugged him, and hacked his computer. It would have been perfect with a public trial. Sorry, Tracker, we wanted to help, but that's already It’s all we can do so far.” Adrian stared at the ceiling and thought for a while. "No, this won't work, old man. We've got to be like a 'Trojan horse,' with permission to do this." They paid their bills and left in different directions on the sidewalk.Adrian Herbert walked back to Vauxhall's office.The tracker called a taxi.He sat in the back seat of the car, thinking over Adrian's last words. What does that allusion have to do with this incident?Back in his room, he checked online.It took him some time, but he finally found it. "Trojan Achievement" - a small company specializing in security, located on the outskirts of Hamworth, Dorset. He knew that it was the territory of the Royal Marines.Their sprawling base is in nearby Poole.There are a lot of people who have spent their entire lives in Special Forces and retired to live near their old bases.They often work together with several partners to set up a private security company - the usual business includes: bodyguards, property protection, and bodyguards.If the investor gives less money, they will work at home.Further searches revealed that the Trojan horse achievement was located in a residential area. The tracker made the phone call on the Internet and booked an appointment for the next day.Then he called a car rental company in Mayfair and booked a Volkswagen Golf, starting three hours before the appointment.He explained that he was an American tourist named Jackson.He has a US driver's license, which is valid.He needs a car for a day, to go to the south coast with friends. He had just hung up the phone when the BlackBerry vibrated.It's from Technical Operations Support, encrypted for anti-interception.The identification code showed that it was from Gray Fox.However, what the identification code cannot reveal is that the commander of the four-star general of the Joint Special Operations Command has just left the Oval Office with the latest instructions. Gray Fox wastes no time.His message was just a few words: Missionary.Don't live.
Notes: