Cloudburst (23 page)

“Major, I want a workable assault plan by oh-two-hundred. I can’t give Pappy our lean plan for this one.”

McAffee shook his head. “I know. I know. This one is tough. If that bad guy has that vest on we can’t do much except force him to blow it.”

Joe shifted his look between the two officers. “What vest? What are you talking about?”

“Our hijacker friend is decked out in a self-destruct device,” the colonel answered.

“With a hell of a deadman on it,” McAffee added.

“Thanks for telling me earlier,” Joe said. “This could have an effect on my work, you know. That thing you’re talking about could very well trigger the device.”

Cadler pursed his lips. “My oversight. Major,” he continued without missing a beat, “I anticipate pressure from another quarter. Word has it the Bureau’s Hostage Rescue Team has been working on this one, too, and that they’ve got a good plan.”

“How did HRT get wind of the details?”

“Remember, Mike, even if there’s a go to take it down, if that bird is on nonmilitary soil the Bureau gets the call—that’s the law.”

The major didn’t like that. Cops taking down an aircraft with zero experience in the field just didn’t make sense, just as the idea of Delta going in to clear a gunman out of a bank was ludicrous. The HRT was good, McAffee believed, but they were a SWAT team, pure and simple— not counter-terrorists.

“Sir, can you get me some info on their plan?”

Cadler smiled wryly. “Are you thinking plagiarism, Major?”

“Not exactly, but I would like to give it a look-see. Maybe it can give us some ideas, and maybe the Bureau boys have done too favorable a job of self-evaluation this time.” Blackjack set the flat-black titanium helmet on his head and cinched up the chin strap.

“I think that can be arranged,” the colonel replied. “Also, I want Anderson in on the planning to give us any insight on that thing on board that might affect us doing our job.”

“Yes, sir.” The major tossed a salute and trotted up into the aircraft.

Cadler turned his attention to the civilian, studying him for a second. “Now, I understand what you do is classified.”

“Much of it.”

“Well, some of what we do is classified as well, and a hell of a lot more is highly unconventional, to put it lightly.”

“I can imagine,” Joe lied. He couldn’t imagine, and he didn’t really care about their methods. “Colonel Cadler, I know you don’t like me, and that’s okay: Most people don’t.”

“And you have the luxury of not having to worry too much about it, because
you
”—a thick finger pointed at Joe’s nose—“are a precious commodity. No one does what you do.”

Joe knew it wasn’t flattery. “Maybe. In any case, I just want you to know that I am on the same side as you and I don’t repeat what bears being kept quiet.”

“Despite the attitude?” Cadler asked.

“What attitude?” Joe inquired, instantly aware that he had made a joke when he intended to be serious.

Nine

DESIGNS

Los Angeles

The thirty-five teams were feeling the frustration of a zero batting average. No registration records or eyewitness accounts could place the shooters or Jackson at any of the hotels or motels close to the freeway. Frankie and Thom had finished their area, with no success, and were heading to the north side of the 10 to assist two other teams and, by their generosity, share in the frustration. They figured theirs would be a helping and a half for the day.

And that day, so far, had been sixteen hours of monotony, played out by the seventy agents as the mounting negative reports were broadcast over the radio. With the long hours taken into account it was slightly more than amazing that Frankie’s senses were keen enough to notice something that no one had considered. The Bureau Chevy slowed in the right lane and glided to a smooth stop curbside. Both agents were looking to the right, Frankie leaning forward on the steering wheel.

“Thom?” she said, her smiling brown eyes studying the building and its surroundings.

“Yeah.”

“Are you seeing what I am?”

“Sure am,” Thom answered, unbuckling his seat belt. “It makes sense. Private. Looks like a card-access gate. It’s not a motel, but it’d serve the purpose.”

“Exactly my thinking.” Frankie checked the traffic before opening her door. “Call it in on the cellular. I’m gonna start knocking.”

Within ten minutes all those teams that had struck out on the motels were directing their efforts elsewhere, hoping against the growing odds for a success.

USS Vinson

The night sky was a sea of darkness rushing past the Tomcat’s clear canopy. Dick Logan was riding shotgun, sitting where the radar intercept officer usually would.

“My rear ain’t happy about havin’ to hitch back on a COD,” the pilot told Logan, the cow pies practically dripping from his staticky words. “You must be important.”

Logan knew better than that. His agent was the important one.

Silence answered the pilot’s question better than words. “Yep. I see.” His white helmet shook with wonder. “Mister, you ever land on a carrier?”

“Vertically.”

“This is a bit more violent than a helo touchdown. You cinched up?”

Logan checked his harness. “Roger.” The quick preflight instructions they had given him at Sigonella were supposed to prepare him for this. Why, then, did he feel like he’d just bent over in a prison shower room?

“Ready, then?”

“Ready what?” Logan asked with surprise, craning his neck to see past the pilot’s headrest and bulbous headgear. There was only blackness ahead.

“On the deck in one minute, mister.”

The CIA officer felt his stomach tighten up.
These Navy birdmen are fucking crazy! Where the hell is the ship?
All he could see below was deep black, and he knew that beneath that was an even deeper ocean.

The sixty seconds evaporated quickly, ending when the thirty-ton aircraft’s tail hook snagged the number one arrester wire. Logan didn’t have the luxury of experience in this, and his tense body was thrown forward, testing the harness with force. Internal organs were mixed and pressed forward, nearly heaving the small base meal from his stomach into his oxygen mask.

Then, it was all over. Fast. The canopy came up and deck crewmen, dressed in different primary-colored shirts, were all over the plane, removing both men to the welcome feel of the solid, rolling ground that was the ninety-thousand-ton USS
Carl Vinson
.

A khaki-uniformed officer, peaked cap and red flashlight in hand, met Logan at the Tomcat’s right wingtip and led him into the carrier’s island. After a quick introduction they continued down through corridors that a stranger to the ship couldn’t trace his way through on a lucky day. A knock and announcement at a door not like the steel ovals they had passed through brought him into a nicely appointed, if small, office. The lieutenant left with an informal salute, and a smile that was not for the visitor.

“Mister Logan,” the man seated behind the desk began without rising or offering his hand, “I am Commander Harrold Keys.”

Logan felt exposed standing before the officer, a feeling that reminded him both of his short stint in the Air Force years before, and of a firing squad scene from some movie he’d seen. “Commander.”

“I run the air group aboard this ship. The
Vinson
herself belongs to Admiral Drew. The planes and their crews are mine. They’re my responsibility, Logan, and mine alone. None of them are expendable. None are worth wasting. I take this all very seriously. Do you understand?”

Logan felt the tips of his ears burn. He was sure they were red. “Clearly.”

Keys folded his hands on the desk, his elbows stretched straight out. He was the picture of a naval aviator. His strong, sincere brown eyes spoke volumes about courage and determination, and the wave of black hair was cropped close the way pilots preferred, not in a Marine-like flattop. The uniform, what Logan could see of it above the desk, was pressed neatly, but not impeccably, indicative of the fact that this man was a hands-on commander, one who more than likely hopped behind the stick on occasion to chase birds. On his breast were a modest few ribbons, and on his right hand he wore the ring of honor—that of an Annapolis graduate.

Logan had to respect the man, even if he was an ass at the moment.

“I do not care much for this mission,” Keys explained, quite unnecessarily. He slid back from the desk and stood. “Risking good men for some raghead traitor goes against my grain. Way against it.”

“He’s on our side, Commander.” Logan knew the words were worthless to Keys.

“Let me share something with you, Mr. Logan.” Keys gestured toward two chairs at room’s center, where they sat. “About twenty-five years back, not more than six months in the front seat, I caught myself some flak at six hundred knots in my good ol’ F-4. And, mind you, there weren’t any friendlies below. Just a slew of pissed-off gooks. Can’t say I blame ‘em, being that we’d just blown the crap out of a road network around their village. Anyway, my backseater didn’t make it out before we hit—his seat must’ve screwed up or something. I hit the ground in damn good shape, which ain’t supposed to happen in an eject. Nothing broken. Nothing at all.” Keys’s head shook slightly, almost wistfully, as the time came back. He looked up at Logan. “I was the only one to survive from the flight. Six planes. Eleven good men—dead. Thank God SAR got to me before the locals. And do you know why? Because we were getting our intel from some gook insider. He gave us lots of good stuff as a lead-in: a bridge here, and maybe some rice convoy or some other piddly shit. Just enough so our intel guys were comfortable with it all. Just enough so he could draw a bunch of us in to a grade A bushwack. We bit at it, and good.” The commander looked down and then at the spy again. “He was on our side, Logan. Think about that.”

Logan breathed deeply. “The orders, Commander, come…”

“I know, Logan.” Keys waved off the reminder. “From the top. You see, that’s where I differ from that candy-ass raghead of yours.
I
obey orders.
I
am loyal to my country, and to my men. You’ll have everything you need to complete this mission. Everything. If you need a goddamn turkey dinner waiting here for him, you’ve got it. But take this advice: don’t be surprised if your beloved traitor—you know, the one on our side—don’t be surprised if he’s playing both sides of the fence.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Keep this in mind, too, mister: There’ll be a helo full of good men going in there with you to pull that guy out. You’re not the only one who could get killed. You’ve got a lot of lives on your shoulders, Mr. Logan.”

He was right, as much as Logan wanted to not believe it. DONNER, like any other agent, could be a pawn.
Damn!
“Message received, Commander. Loud and clear.”

Keys nodded. “The lieutenant will take you to your bunk. It’s small, but it’s private. I assume you’ll want to brief the helo crew ASAP.”

“And the special ops troops,” Logan added. “Who do we have?”

“A squad of recon Marines from
Guam
. Eight men…Good men.”

“Point well taken, Commander.”

Logan looked for some common ground that they could work from, but since he knew of the commander’s distaste for DONNER, a man he had not yet met, settling for noninterference would have to do. He knew he would have all the help he needed, but he wanted more. Not approval—at least not for himself, and definitely not from this man. Maybe he was hoping for acceptance for his agent, so the man wouldn’t come in from the cold and realize that home had been a hell of a lot warmer.

“Very well. Briefing in forty minutes.” Keys returned to his chair, again without taking the CIA officer’s hand. It was a cold signal, one that Logan heeded, immediately, picking up his escort outside the door as he left.

Los Angeles

If their average was translated into baseball terms, Agents Francine Aguirre and Thomas Danbrook would be candidates for yearly multi-million-dollar contracts. Already the word had spread that they were blessed, the Buddha whose tummy one rubbed to bring luck. That was before the immediate moment. This one, if it was a hit, would put them in the realm of legends.

Frankie heard it first. The lowered white Hyundai pulled slowly into the driveway to avoid dragging its ground- hugging underside. Its bass-heavy stereo system thumped until going silent as the headlights faded to darkness. The driver stepped out and approached. His babyish face was framed by the dark strands of his wet-curl perm, and the white Nike sweat suit glowed, even in the dim light from the distant sodium lamp. He walked toward his boss and the two agents waiting outside the sliding night window of the storage yard.

“Daryl, come here.” The owner spoke in a heavy Indian accent. His dark-haired wife watched worriedly from inside.

“Watsup?” Daryl James had almost thought the phone call from his boss was a joke, but Mr. Patel was a serious man. That he knew for sure. “You almost didn’t catch me. I just walked in when the phone rang.”

“Daryl,” Frankie said, offering her hand. The young man, polite and calm, accepted it. “I’m Agent Aguirre and this is Agent Danbrook. We’re with the L.A. FBI office.”

The young man straightened up at that. “Hey, man…I mean lady. I don’t do none of that shit that you all handle. No drugs or gang banging. Honest.”

Thom was skeptical, but not Frankie. The kid wasn’t a street slime, like so many others she had seen or grown up with. No expensive jewelry or flashy clothes. Even his car was sedate when compared to what other young guys who looked the part were driving. Thom, a new agent, had seen too many movies and spent too much time behind a desk.

Frankie smiled. “Don’t sweat it.”

Thom handed Daryl a page from the facility’s register book. It was similar to that of a hotel, showing who rented each particular space. This one was for space 141, one of the small walk-in units. A picture was also passed over, which Daryl held under the light over the night window.