Authors: Jason Elam
Blown Coverage (13 page)
SATURDAY, MAY 16, 8:45 A.M. MDT FRONT RANGE RESPONSE TEAM HEADQUARTERS DENVER, COLORADO
“If I wanted to know what everyone else knows, I would have recruited out of Quantico or Langley! But I didn’t! I recruited
you! So quit feeding me information that everyone else knows, and give me something new!”
Scott Ross watched as Jim Hicks stormed back into his office and slammed the door behind him, shaking all three of the glass
walls. Adrenaline rushed through his body as he struggled to control his own temper. Any other supervisor, any other time
of his life, Scott would have let his inner passive-aggressive spend the next five minutes plotting the best way to sabotage
the casters on his boss’s roller chair. However, Hicks had proven to Scott many times in the past months that he was a man
to be respected.
Scott turned back to the conference table. Despite the heavy air-conditioning in the room, there was a lot of heat coming
from where his team sat—most of whom were plotting their own methods of creative revenge. He took a long pull on his Yoo-hoo
& Diet Mountain Dew Code Red, feeling the cool carbonation hit the back of his throat and slide on down.
Let it go; set the example.
It’s
time to grow up.
He could see the anticipation in the eyes of the analysts, waiting for him to throw out one of his classic Scott-isms.
Sorry, guys, not this time.
“Jim’s right, gang! Let’s hit it!”
A look of disappointment spread across the faces of his team. Evie tentatively raised her hand.
“Yes, Evie,” Scott reluctantly said, knowing that whatever she had to say would not be helpful in the least.
Wearing her most innocent puppy-dog look, she asked, “Does this mean we aren’t going to have an opportunity to assuage our
wounded feelings by exacting revenge against Mr. Hicks through cutting gibes and biting sarcasm?”
Scott tried to fight back a smile.
Come on, set the example. Set . . .
the . . . example! Yeah, right! Who am I kidding? Besides, I think growing
up is best done with baby steps.
“I’m sorry to say that’s true, Evie. Besides, with Mr. Congeniality so audibly back in his office, such comments, although
well deserved, would technically be behind his back, thus having the very real potential of infracting the Office Sniping
Code of Ethics. So, let’s leave Mr. Feed-Me-Something-New alone. Now, is there any other business we must address before we
get down to it?”
Not one to be left out of a meaningless banter session, Virgil Hernandez answered, “Well, now that you mention it, Scott,
I was thinking it would really be cool to get one of those Dippin’ Dots vending machines—you know, that super-frozen ice cream
stuff— and, like, any money we make off of it we could put toward an end-of-the-year Christmas party.”
“Dude, I love Dippin’ Dots!” Gooey said, looking interested in the conversation for the first time since their meeting began.
Evie and Williamson joined in with their support for the idea.
“It’s against code to have vending machines in this building’s work rooms,” Tara quickly pointed out.
“Scott,” Khadi said with a look of impatience. She moved her hand in a circle indicating that she would very much like to
get the show on the road.
“Right,” Scott replied, taking control of the meeting again. “Virgil and Joey, you form an off-hours vending machine task
force. If you get one, bring it in at night and make sure you hide it well. Remember, it’s only a code violation if you get
caught.” Scott ignored the exasperated sigh from Tara and pressed on. “Now, how about a little business? Is Mr. Attitude really
right that we don’t have anything new on Philly or SoCal?”
“I’m afraid he is,” Khadi answered. “Right now we’re depending on other sources for our intel, and it’s slow in coming.”
“Is that because they don’t have any new intel or because they aren’t giving it?” Scott asked.
Hernandez, suddenly very agitated, answered, “I can guarantee you they’ve got more than they’re giving us. They’re just not
in any rush.”
“It’s just more of that interagency politics we’re always dealing with,” Khadi added.
“Can you hack in and get whatever they have?” Scott asked Hernandez.
“Not without permission,” Tara quickly pointed out.
Scott pressed a button on the phone in front of him. Hicks’s voice came over the speaker. “What?”
“Can we have permission?”
“To do what?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Granted.” The line went dead.
“Looks like you’ve got your permission,” Scott said to Hernandez. To the rest of them, he said, “Go do your thing for the
next two hours. Right now we’ve got nothing. When we come back together, that nothing better have become something.”
SATURDAY, MAY 16, 5:45 P.M. EEST
ISTANBUL, TURKEY
“The third bomb! Why have we not heard of the third bomb?” A vein in al-’Aqran’s forehead throbbed as he pointed an accusing
finger at Tahir Talib. “If I discover that this Ghani did not properly receive his instructions . . .” Al-’Aqran dropped back
into his chair, letting the implied threat hang in the room.
The Cause’s leadership council was again sitting around the small apartment’s kitchen table. Talib was visibly shaking, which
was just how al-’Aqran wanted him. The man’s voice took on a pleading tone. “I swear upon the holy book,
sayyid
, all instructions were communicated, and the devices were delivered. I—I can’t explain what has happened.”
Al-’Aqran stewed for a few minutes while the rest of the team sat around him not daring to speak. A standing fan loudly oscillated
past him, circulating the hot air in the room and cooling the sweat that was on his face. CNN International ran on a television
to his right, but he had mentally tuned it out. All the pertinent information about the attacks on Philadelphia, Pennsylvania,
and that cesspool, Hollywood, California, had been given. He didn’t expect the small-town operations to make international
news until someone made the connection with the overall attack.
But not word one has been
mentioned about the university. What happened to the university?
Then a thought struck him.
“The notes! The notes left in the houses! We announced the university attack in them, did we not?”
Talib looked to his comrades for support, and finding none, he answered, “Well, not in so many words, but we did reference—”
Al-’Aqran exploded, throwing a small dish with the remains of a biscuit at Talib, just missing his head. The dish crashed
instead against an ancient Westinghouse refrigerator. “Not in so many words? What does that mean? We talked about their universities,
true? And now we have nothing to back that up! We look like fools!”
“
Sayyid
, look at the news,” Talib pleaded, pointing toward the television. Sweat was pouring off his face, and the damp stains under
his arms had just merged with the ones on his chest and back. “Look at the destruction in the subway. Look at how their decadent
entertainment industry has gone into mourning. I would hardly say we look like fools.”
“Are you stupid? Answer me! Are you stupid? You must be, because you obviously do not get it! Even young Babrak knows what
I’m saying! Explain it to him, Babrak, because apparently he can’t understand my voice.”
Babrak Zahir, who until then had been calmly twirling a pen through his fingers, said, “If you reference an attack and it
takes place, it is a show of strength. If you reference an attack and it does not take place, it is a sign of weakness—a lack
of infrastructure or courage. Is that simple enough, my dear Tahir?”
Talib’s face quickly turned red with anger. “I understand the ramifications. I don’t need them explained to me by some freshly
weaned whelp of a—”
“Ah, but apparently you do,” al-’Aqran interrupted with a slam of his hand on the table. “Apparently you do! And you may want
to watch what you say to young Babrak. This freshly weaned whelp has grown quite a set of teeth.”
Talib’s complexion turned from red to white, and al-’Aqran noticed the waver in his voice. “I meant no disrespect to either
of you. I’m just at a loss. Truly,
sayyid
, everything was set for the attack at Notre Dame University. I don’t know what has happened, but I will find out and deal
with it.”
“With the strongest possible measures?”
“With the strongest possible measures.”
Still not trusting Talib, and also wanting to humiliate him a little more, al-’Aqran turned to his right-hand man and said,
“Hamad, you will work with Tahir to discover the source of this problem and remedy it.”
“Of course,” answered Hamad Asaf.
“Very well, you may all go except for Babrak. I must speak to you.” Al-’Aqran noticed the fear in Talib’s eyes at Babrak being
held back.
Good. The man deserves to be in fear of his life. Incompetent fool!
When everyone had left the room, al-’Aqran motioned for Babrak to join him in the small living room. The older man turned
off the television and twisted the fan so that it was facing the new setting. He eased himself into his usual blue fabric
wing chair. Above the chair was a stylized drawing of a nineteenth-century pilgrim going on a
hajj
. A stiff beige couch supported by peeling chrome-plated legs stretched along the wall to his right. Across that whitewashed
wall was a long, framed banner with the Arabic words of the
shahadah
—
I
testify that there is no god but Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet
.
Al-’Aqran was gratified to see Babrak continue standing until he nodded him to a place on the couch.
This young man knows something
about respect.
“Tahir is a good man; we both know that,” al-’Aqran began, “but he has made a costly mistake. I want you to remain cold to
him for the next several days. Put some fear into him, but do not touch him. Do you understand?”
“Yes,
sayyid
.”
“Good. Now what has been done about our Egyptian friend?”
“Kamal Hejazi met his fate and is now in the Bosporus. As for his son, he suddenly removed himself from his studies at October
6 University, and no one has heard from him since—nor will they.”
“Excellent. Learn from this, my young friend. Never leave a cancer in the body. It will only spread.”
“Yes,
sayyid
.”
“I am proud of you, Babrak. You give much honor to the name of your father. Now go. And please greet your mother for me.”
Al-’Aqran watched as Babrak walked to the door and left the apartment.
He has courage and ruthlessness, but does he have conviction?
The first two will turn you into a killer. The third is what transforms you
into a leader. I guess only time will tell with this one.
SATURDAY, MAY 16, 9:00 A.M. MDT INVERNESS TRAINING CENTER ENGLEWOOD, COLORADO
A strange mood hovered around minicamp this morning. The typical playful excitement was nowhere to be found. Although nobody
spoke of the attacks of the previous night, they seemed to be in the forefront of everyone’s minds. The moment the reports
had begun to air on the news, many of the players and coaches had flashed back to that devastating Monday night game five
months ago.
Now, in the linebackers’ room, fear, anger, and grief all mixed together into a cloud that hung over the players. Emotions
were high, and tempers were short.
Linebacker coach Rex Texeira was covering the front whiteboard with a diagram of a coverage scheme in which Riley would have
the option of holding back in short yardage or driving in toward the quarterback. “What’s going to be your trigger, Pach?”
he asked.
Unfortunately, Riley’s body and his mind were in two different places.
“Covington, you with us?” Texeira tried again.
Keith Simmons leaned forward across the thin table that held his bulky playbook and clapped Riley on the back of the shoulder.
“Pach, man, Coach’s talking to you.”
Riley’s mind quickly snapped back to the present. “What? Oh, hey, Coach, my bad. What’d you ask?”
Frustration was evident in Coach Texeira’s voice as he began to explain the play again. As soon as Riley saw that it was a
play he had already committed to memory, he found his mind trying to fade out again. His feelings were too strong to be worrying
about whether the three slot opened up or not.
He started looking around the room, trying to keep himself in the here and now. There were fourteen long, thin tables lined
up in three rows. Each table had one black office chair stationed at it. Each veteran had his favorite place to sit, and woe
to the rookie who sat in a veteran’s seat.
The room was surrounded by whiteboards, all except for the rear wall, which housed a projector for showing film on the drop-down
screen at the front of the room. The rear wall also held a small video camera. That little camera, known to the players as
“big brother,” linked into Head Coach Burton’s office so that at any time he could look in on what was going on in the individual
position meetings.
The boards on either side of the room were mostly clean except for a number of large magnets labeled to represent the offensive
and defensive positions and a list written in thick black erasable ink. This was the linebackers’ fines list: about twenty-five
infractions, each paired with a dollar amount ranging from $25 to $150, written out in descending order. At the top of the
list were basic issues, such as
Late
- $150
,
Sleeping - $100
, and
Holding Back - $100
. As the list progressed, however, the terms became more obscure:
Stupid - $75
,
Drama - $50
,
Dogging - $50
, and the all-too-descriptive
BRAAAP! - $25
.
“Now, I’ll try it again,” came Texeira’s voice cutting through Riley’s room inventory. “What’s going to be your trigger, Pach?”
“QB drops, receivers gun, and I can pop three,” Riley answered, trying to mask his absolute lack of interest.
“Exactly. Welcome back,” Texeira said sarcastically.
Yeah, you can keep your
“
Welcome
back,”
because
I’m
not staying
long,
Riley thought as the screams and panic of that night not many months ago poured back into his brain.
SATURDAY, MAY 16, 10:25 A.M. MDT
FRONT RANGE RESPONSE TEAM HEADQUARTERS
DENVER, COLORADO
The numbers and letters cycled through at a blinding pace. Gooey could have set the program to not show the password combinations
as they were tried and rejected, but really, what would be the fun of that? It had taken him long enough to build the firewall-busting
program; the least he could do was watch it fly.
He glanced to his left to see if Joey Williamson was sufficiently impressed with the program and was frustrated to see him
riffling through some recently printed flash-traffic.
“Not a firewall alive that can withstand this onslaught,” Gooey said proudly, nodding toward the computer screen.
“Mmm, cool,” Williamson replied without looking up.
“And while this computer is looking for a way through the front door of the LAPD server, I’m over on this one digging me an
SSH tunnel through the rear.”
“Wow,” an unenthusiastic Williamson muttered.
“‘Wow’?” a frustrated Gooey said as he snatched the papers from his coworker’s hands. “Is that the best you can do? ‘Wow’?”
Williamson snatched them back. “What do you want me to say? All hail Gooey the Great! Thou art majestic and all-powerful in
thine hacker-ocity!”
“Forget it,” Gooey said, turning back to his screens. “You wouldn’t know good hacker-ocity if it came up and . . . Boo-yah!
We’re in!”
Williamson dropped the flash-traffic on the desk and leaned in. On the “back door” screen was a map of the main LAPD server.
“Gooey the Great does it again!”
“And don’t you forget it, son,” Gooey gloated as he began his search for uploaded videos of the attack in Hollywood.
Within three minutes, files were pouring through the hole Gooey had punched in the firewall. In the time it took Williamson
and Gooey to go to the office refrigerator, mix Red Bulls with canned Starbucks Doubleshots, and pound the drinks down, every
digitized scrap of information the LAPD had on the tragic event had been transferred to the FRRT server. Fully caffeinated
and sugared, the analysts sat back down to begin sifting through their newly acquired treasure.
As they cycled through video after video—some from news crews and entertainment shows, others from ATMs and various other
passive surveillance cameras—they searched for anything that might give a clue to the identity of the terrorist or terrorists
responsible for the deaths of so many people.
Soon, Gooey’s frustration level rose. He sat back in his chair. “We don’t even know what we’re looking for!”
“Go back to the crane shot,” Williamson said. “Something’s bothering me about that one—like we’re missing something there.
Anyway, it’ll help us reestablish our bearings.”
Gooey did some quick mouse and keyboard maneuverings, and a video with a view from high above the red carpet appeared.
“Good,” Williamson continued. “Now back it up to ten minutes prior to the blast and dial the speed back from triple time to
time and a half.”
Both men leaned in close to the monitor. The video showed what one would expect to see at a movie premiere—limos pulling in;
limos pulling out; paparazzi taking pictures; stars waving to the ever-growing crowds of people.
“Wait! Back up the video again,” Williamson said suddenly. “Look at the top of the screen. Check out Miss Babelicious walking
out of the media pit.”
“Woof,” Gooey responded appreciatively.
“Down, Goo-dog; that’s not what I meant. Back up the video. . . . Now, see, she’s coming out of the pit—so where’s her camera?
Where’s any equipment?”
“Maybe she’s the on-air personality. No equipment needed for that, and she certainly seems to have the necessary ‘talents,’”
Gooey said, bouncing his eyebrows up and down.
Not taking Gooey’s bait, Williamson went on, “Look at her clothes. TV chicks don’t wear jeans to a premiere. Besides that,
she’s leaving before the main stars arrived. What kind of entertainment babe does that?”
“Dude, it’s such a long shot.”
“It’s better than anything else we got.”
“True that,” Gooey said, warming up to the possibilities of this lead. “Tell you what, why don’t you slide on back to your
workstation. Let’s split the videos and see if we can find her on any other camera. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky. Tell
you the truth, I’m kind of anxious to see if we can put a face to that walk,” Gooey finished with a sly wink.
10:45 A.M. MDT
INVERNESS TRAINING CENTER
ENGLEWOOD, COLORADO
Riley sat on the low, carpeted bench and leaned back into his locker. The fingers of his right hand picked at the grain of
the maple that made up all the lockers and trimmed the whole room. He had blown it this morning, and he knew it.
After the position meeting, the linebackers had hit the field to run some basic plays. Riley could see that first-round draft
pick Afshin Ziafat was struggling with the Mustangs’ defensive system. However, the compassion he typically felt for the rookies
seemed to be nowhere in sight for this newbie. Through head shakes and audible sounds of disgust, Riley let Ziafat clearly
know how little he thought of his game.
What was worse, when he could see that he was getting under Ziafat’s skin, it only made him want to do it all the more. Finally
everything broke after one play in which Ziafat ducked inside when he should have gone outside. His path took him right into
Riley.
Riley saw him coming and with one well-placed forearm stood Ziafat straight up. “Son, have you ever even played this game
before?”
It was very apparent that Ziafat had had enough. He went chest-to-chest with Riley and shouted, “You got a problem with me,
Covington?”
Riley was more than prepared to dish it back. “Yeah, I got a problem with you! My problem is that you don’t answer direct
questions! I asked you if you’ve ever played this game before?”
Ziafat looked like he was ready to give back a little of what Riley was giving him, but then his features softened. “Listen,
Riley, I know this is a tough day for everyone. I can’t imagine—”
Suddenly Riley’s hands drove into Ziafat’s chest protector. Ziafat flew backward to the ground. Riley stood over him with
his finger pointing at Ziafat’s face. “You’re right! You can’t imagine! In fact, you have no idea! So just start playing your
game and stay out of my way!”
Riley turned and walked away before Ziafat had a chance to respond. Behind him, he heard linebacker coach Rex Texeira call
an end to their drill. That had been twenty minutes ago. Since that time, everyone had wisely given Riley some space.
That was a stupid thing to do,
Riley berated himself.
Face it: you
weren’t
climbing on the kid because of his game. You were on him because
of his name! Welcome to the land of bigotry, buddy! How does it feel? The
one thing you swore you would never be . . . well, here you are.
Riley walked to the glass-front drink refrigerator and pulled out a twelve-ounce bottle of Gatorade. He twisted off the cap
on the way back to his locker and thought for the thousandth time,
They can pay
us millions of dollars a year, but they
can’t
afford to get us full-size bottles.
He sat back into his locker and downed the drink in one long swig.
Lord, help me get control of
myself—
especially where Ziafat is concerned.
Forgive me for my attitude and for going at him when he
didn’t
deserve it. Forgive me for my prejudice. Give me love in my heart,
’
cause
right now, it
ain’t
there.
Riley tossed his empty bottle across the room and into the garbage can. “Nice shot,” a voice said.
Turning his head, Riley saw Ziafat standing at his locker. Riley nodded. “Had a little practice.”
Ziafat took a few tentative steps toward Riley. He looked like he had something to say, so Riley waited him out. Finally,
Ziafat said, “Are we cool, Riley? I mean, I know I was messing up out there, but this seems like it’s more than just my game.”
What did Pastor Tim say that one time?
Riley asked himself.
Sometimes
you’ve
just got to say words of love and hope your heart will
follow.
“Call me Pach. And, yeah, we’re cool. I’m just working some things out. Got a lot of stuff that’s still a little fresh with
me.”
Riley could see the relief on the kid’s face, which did seem to lighten his own mood a bit. “Excellent, man. Thanks. I just
really want to learn from you and Simmons—you know, bring my game to the next level. I remember taping your games back when
you were at the Academy. You had some mad skills. I’d sit with a remote in my hand and watch . . .”
Ziafat’s voice went on, but Riley was no longer paying attention to it. Creeping up behind Ziafat were six players—two defensive
linemen, three offensive linemen, and a fullback. All eyes in the locker room were on these men.
When they were a few feet behind Ziafat, they pounced. All six players drove the rookie to the ground and held him there while
he struggled and squirmed. Chris Gorkowski ran up with a full box of athletic tape in one hand and a jar of Vaseline in the
other.
The players began grabbing tape out of the box and wrapping it around Ziafat. Cheers and taunts sounded through the locker
room. Soon Ziafat looked like a giant white cigar with a head sticking out the top and a couple of shoes at the bottom. Riley
noticed that even though he was yelling threats at the players, Ziafat was laughing the whole time. They stood him up, and
Gorkowski stepped in and coated the tape with a thick layer of Vaseline.
Riley just shook his head. Trying to get athletic tape off is a pain; trying to pull up a corner when it’s covered with Vaseline
is nearly impossible. As Gorkowski was finishing, Ziafat turned to Riley and said with a smile, “Sucks to be a rookie.”
“No doubt.”
No sooner were the words out of Riley’s mouth then Ziafat was hoisted up on the shoulders of the offensive linemen and taken
into the training room. Riley listened until he heard the splash of something very large being dumped into the ice tub and
the accompanying cheer.
Hopefully they dropped him in feetfirst,
Riley thought, knowing Ziafat would be stuck in the tub until some trainer had pity on him and helped pull him out. Then he
would spend the next hour or two trying to get the tape off.