36: A Novel (26 page)

I was surprised at the response.  Thoughts of Julie being secreted away to a black site prison because she knew too much had been running through my head.  If Patterson was telling the truth, she was being well cared for.

“I want to talk to her.  Hear from her that she’s OK,” I said.

Patterson and Agent Johnson exchanged looks.  I couldn’t tell if they were worried about me uncovering a truth, or were not expecting this response.  They were both quiet for a short moment before Patterson looked at me.

“Fine.  Agent Johnson will arrange that once we’re finished here.”

I nodded, looking up when the door to the room suddenly burst open.  A young woman, who I’d noted was usually at Patterson’s side, stood in the entrance, breathing like she’d just run a sprint.

“Director,” she said in a haunted voice.  “The President has just been assassinated.”

“I am declaring an event,” Patterson said immediately, leaping to his feet and heading out the door.

Agent Johnson and I stood, following.  Patterson’s assistant tapped on her iPad and a moment later the klaxon began blaring.  There was an almost instant response, people dropping whatever they were doing and dashing to their assigned work stations.  The organized chaos flowed around us as we hurried to the operations center.  The woman raced ahead, opening the door with her keycard so Patterson could pass through without breaking stride.

“What do we have?”  He barked as he walked into the room.

Johnson and I pulled to a stop and stepped to the side so we weren’t in the way.  Looking up I saw the large TV tuned to CNN.  An image of a smoldering building was on the screen, a banner across the bottom scrolling a repeating message:
Washington DC attacked – President Scarsdale believed dead
.

“Nothing confirmed yet, Director.  A large explosion at a restaurant where the President was dining with the Speaker of the House.  We’re only a few minutes in and that’s all we know at this time.”

I glanced at a large screen displaying a countdown clock.  It read -35:51:18. The bomb, if it was a bomb, had detonated eight minutes and forty-two seconds ago.  Johnson tapped my arm and I followed him to a small table with a pair of chairs in the back corner of the room.

“We wait here and watch,” he said in a low voice when we sat down.

My seat had a clear view of the TV and I watched as fresh images began being shown.  A wide angle shot of the whole block from a news helicopter gave a better perspective.  A four lane street ran through the area. 

Along each side were single story businesses, the road lined off so there was on-street parking in front of each.  The structure at the center of the shot was mostly demolished, nothing more than smoking debris remaining.  The buildings to either side had sustained heavy damage and one of them was on fire.

The shattered remains of four Suburban SUVs, the Secret Service’s favorite transport vehicle for POTUS, were resting on their sides in the middle of the street.  Spotting something, I stood and stepped closer to the screen, but the image changed back to ground level.

“Did you see that?”  I turned to Johnson, but he shook his head.

“What?”  He asked.

“Not sure,” I said.  “Anyway to get that feed on your laptop so we can see it again?”

He nodded and opened his computer’s lid.  I sat down and scooted my chair close, watching as he worked.

“Aerial shot.  Right?”

“Yes,” I said.

Patterson had taken note of our conversation and moved to stand behind our chairs, peering over our heads at the laptop screen.

“Here,” Johnson said.

The same aerial image began playing and when I told him, he froze it.  I leaned close to the screen for a better look.

“Can you zoom?”

He clicked a couple of keys and the image jumped, enlarging the devastated building.

“There!”

I pointed at a crater blasted out of the foundation.  It was almost perfectly circular and penetrated all the way through the concrete, exposing the dirt beneath.

“Bomb,” Patterson said.

I looked over my shoulder at him and shook my head.

“That’s not a bomb,” I said.  “I saw plenty of these in Iraq.  That’s a missile strike.  Bombs will shatter concrete, but not make a perfect crater like that.  A missile, coming in fast, will penetrate before the warhead detonates.  That initial penetration weakens the foundation and lets the blast wave inside the cement.”

“You sure?”  Johnson asked, not sounding convinced.  “Won’t a bomb do the same thing?”

“Sorry.  When I say bomb, I’m thinking of the kind of bombs we faced.  Suicide vest.  Backpack bomb.  Improvised Explosive Devices.  IEDs.  An air delivered bomb will do this, too.  What I’m saying is this was something launched or dropped from an aircraft.  It was going fast when it struck the concrete.”

Patterson stepped away and began barking orders.  He wanted the radar logs from the FAA and nearby Anderson Air Force Base reviewed immediately. 

“You sure about this?”  Johnson asked me quietly.

“Yep,” I said.  “My platoon got sent in more than a few times to clean up after drone strikes.  Seen this lots of times.  And seen too many places where some fucker just set off a bomb he built in his basement.  I’m sure.”

We turned our attention back to the CNN broadcast as the people around us worked feverishly.  Perhaps I should have been as shaken by this event as I had been by the slaughter of the school children, but I wasn’t.  Not even close. 

Sure, it’s a horrible thing when a President is assassinated.  But, in my mind at least, it’s a risk every person who has ever held the office willingly took.  Then the import of what I’d noticed hit me.  An aerial strike.  A bomb dropped or missile fired.  This wasn’t uneducated jihadists.  And it wasn’t a foreign nation.  Not operating an aircraft over Washington DC.  I was willing to bet that didn’t happen after 9/11.

When I thought about who could be flying an armed drone or aircraft around restricted airspace, there was only one answer.  The US military.

We sat and watched the broadcast.  Soon the scene was flooded with men and women wearing FBI, ATF and Secret Service windbreakers.  There was no audio to go along with the images, but I didn’t really want any.  It would be nothing more than reporters repeating the same two or three facts.  Then they would interview someone who was a retired something or other, and that would just be speculation.  I knew I’d get the most factual briefing available as soon as we knew something.

Forty minutes later, Patterson walked over and looked down at me.

“You were right,” he said.  “Preliminary analysis at the scene has found residue consistent with the primary explosive in a Hellfire missile warhead.”

I nodded, not happy that I was right.  It would be bad if a terrorist had been able to get close enough to the President to take him out with a backpack or vest mounted IED.  It was about a hundred times worse to think our military had decided it was time for a regime change.

“That means our military.  Right?”  I asked, hoping there was another explanation.

“Possibly,” he said, grimacing.  “The CIA has some drones that are armed, but I think the Air Force are the ones that actually operate them.  Regardless, there aren’t supposed to be any in operation over US soil.  That’s being checked.  Hellfire missiles have also been sold to several of our allies, so it is possible one fell into the hands of a terror cell.”

“Along with an aircraft to deliver it?”  I asked.

He stared back at me for a moment before shaking his head.

“This is going to take a while,” Johnson interjected.  “You need some more rest so you’re ready to go when we have an event point.”

Patterson nodded his agreement.  But I didn’t want to go.  I wanted to see every bit of information the moment it came in.

“I’m good,” I said.

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” Johnson said, his voice firm.  “It will take hours, maybe even a day, before we have an idea of
when
to send you.  You have to be fresh and ready, and you’ve not even been back in real time for twelve hours.  Get some rest and I’ll come get you when we know something.”

I sat there staring at him for a long pause.  I didn’t want to be cut off, but I knew he was right.  With an irritated sigh, I stood up and nodded.  Taking a last look at the screen, I walked out of operations and headed for my quarters.

31

It was four hours later when Agent Johnson came and found me.  I hadn’t even tried to sleep.  I was too keyed up.  Needing to burn off some energy, I had headed for the kill house.  The former Delta Operator, known only as Ray, had been more than happy to review my performance with me.  We’d gotten the segment that began with me waiting outside the door to 2C and ended after I’d put the final two rounds into the terrorist leader.

He’d run it all the way through without pause or commentary, then restarted the video.  It ran for all of two seconds before he stopped it.  I was standing a few feet from the target door, waiting for the first tango to open it on his way out.

“You need to be to the side,” he said, leaning forward and tapping a spot on the screen with a thick index finger.

I looked where he indicated and almost blushed in embarrassment.  Directly in the upper middle of the door was a peephole.  It was only blind luck that they hadn’t checked first and seen me standing there with a rifle at the ready.

“You should have been against the wall, on the knob side.  They can’t see you through the peephole, and if they just crack the door open to peek out, you won’t be visible because of the angle.  As soon as the door starts to open, you roll around the jam and push in, leading with your weapon.  Understand?”

I nodded, burning the lesson into my memory.  Ray set the video in motion again, pausing after the first terrorist fell out of the way and I fired the first shot at the one behind him.

“Why did you hesitate between these two?”

“Waiting for the first guy’s body to be out of my way so I had a clear shot,” I answered, not seeing what could be wrong with this.

“Mistake,” he grumbled.  “Fortunately for you, these guys don’t seem to be that well trained.  If I had been that second man, in the time you were waiting for the first one to drop, I’d have moved around behind the door, out of your sight, and put a whole ass-load of rounds through it.”

“So what should I have done?”

“Let’s back it up,” he said, rewinding the video a few seconds.  “Now, the door begins to open.  You have a target and you stand perfectly still and fire two rounds.  He drops,
then
you push forward and slam the door fully open to enter the apartment.”

As he talked, he started and stopped the video so it was in sync with his narration.

“You should have charged the instant that door began moving.  Come forward, put the muzzle right against the first guy’s chest and use the rifle to shove him back as you’re pulling the trigger.  Push the body aside and bring your weapon onto the guy behind him, firing as you’re moving. 

“From the moment that door began to move until you put the second guy down, nearly four seconds passed.  That’s an eternity in this world.  You can’t hold back once you’ve committed.  Movement is critical.  Stay static, and someone’s going to blow a hole in you.  Got it?”

I nodded, realizing I’d been very lucky.  We went through the rest of the clip in the same manner.  Where I’d done something wrong, or could have done it better, Ray paused the playback and explained what he would have done.  Once we had gone all the way through, he rewound it to the beginning and had me take control and explain errors to him just like he’d done.  Highlighting my own mistakes really drove the lesson home, and I was glad I’d sought him out.

This took us a couple of hours, then we suited up and ran several different scenarios in the kill house.  All of the walls, doors and even sections of the floor were motorized and computer controlled.  This meant he could reconfigure it in less than five minutes, and every time I went through it was different.  Windows could be added or removed with the click of a mouse.  Life sized targets representing good and bad guys could be set to pop out at random times in unexpected locations.

I spent a couple of hours running through a variety of different scenarios.  When we were done for the day, I felt like I’d learned a lot.  And I only had three additional bruises from rubber bullets.  That was a new low, and I was proud to have improved.

“You’re showing a lot of promise,” Ray said as we were cleaning up.

That was high praise from him.  In fact, it was the first actual compliment he’d ever given me.  I smiled like a kid who’s finally gotten something right.

“But don’t let it go to your head.  As soon as you think you’re good, you’ll make a mistake that could get you killed,” he said, popping my bubble.

“Gee, thanks,” I grumbled.

“Look,” he said, glaring into my eyes.  “I know I’m a prick.  I don’t give a shit.  My job is to make sure you can do yours.  I’m not trying to run you down.  I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I’ve seen a lot of guys get put in the ground because they got complacent or overconfident. 

“The truly good ones, the warriors that can walk through hell and make it out the other side, are the guys that never stop training and trying to get better.  They take nothing for granted.  Ever.  There are people out there that are smarter than you.  Faster.  A better shot.

“You want to know what will set you apart?  Keep you alive?  Training.  Doing it over and over.  Reviewing what you did and not letting your ego get in the way.  Admitting when you could have done something better or different, even though what you did worked.  This is a great start to that. 

“I was going to come find you and go through an after action debrief, but you beat me to it.  And you listened to what I told you without trying to argue that it had worked.  That’s why I said you’re showing promise.  But you’ve still got a long way to go.”

This was the most he’d ever said to me at one time in all the months we’d been working together.  And I appreciated what he said, because he was right.  I’d been feeling pretty badass and cocky after successfully putting down eight terrorists, single handed.  Now, I saw how many opportunities there had been for things to go wrong.