Cloudburst (24 page)

“Do you remember any of these men?” Frankie asked, watching Daryl for any reaction as his eyes went between the form and the strip of three photos.

“Yeah. Last week, I think.”

“Which one,” Frankie probed, sidestepping closer to the light as her heartbeat picked up.

“This one here. On the left.”

“Jackson,” Thom said to his partner, who nodded.

They had been right. It had been a simple hunch, but then that was good police work. Some of it could be taught: the investigative techniques, to an extent, and the reckoning of fact with conjecture, most notably. But that gut feeling that good cops got was inborn. Not every agent had it, but all street agents worth their salt did.

“Let’s check it out,” Frankie said, her manner now more serious. The time for glee was past. “Mr. Patel, the gentleman that Daryl just identified is wanted for questioning in the assassination of the president. You can imagine how serious this is. Now, we can have a search warrant here in less than an hour, if you wish, but it would be a great help if you would allow us access.”

“I do not know. What if it is not the same man…the one you want?”

Frankie shot her partner a look, which sent him walking toward the car.

“No! No! No!” Patel said rapidly, stopping Thom after only a few steps. “I will let you in. Jira,” he called to his wife, finishing the sentence in his native language. She disappeared momentarily, then returned with a key. “Come. Come.”

The agents followed the diminutive man to the gate, which he opened with a card, and on to the small storage space. Daryl stayed outside near the window, still somewhat perplexed by what was happening.

The door to the space was orange, and only slightly larger, both in height and width, than an ordinary entry door.

“I’ll take the key,” Frankie said. “Would you wait back by the gate?”

Thom waited for the owner to get out of earshot. “Do you think it’s tricked?”

Frankie shook her head. “Why would it be? These guys were interested in getting in and out, clean and quick. Jackson, too, I figure. The car they used wasn’t booby-trapped. These guys had specific targets, which means that random killing just doesn’t fit. Plus, what if someone had opened this up before they did their deed? It might have been enough to spook the Service.” She ended with a raised-eyebrow invitation for rebuttal.

“So why have him move back?”

Frankie grinned. “What if I’m wrong?”

Thom coughed, half laughingly and half from the realization that she could be right. “It’s comforting to know that you and I will be the only victims.”

The key clicked upon being inserted. Without hesitation Frankie turned it, and the door swung an inch inward once released. Thom pushed it farther until it stopped against an inside wall, then he reached in, feeling for a light switch. “Here goes.”

It was a single-bulb fixture on the ceiling in the room’s center, but bright enough to clearly show the contents. Frankie didn’t have to move any closer to see the pile of wooden boxes against the back wall.
Idiots!
she thought to herself. She looked at Thom, whose smile was that of a satisfied cop.

“Does the term
jackpot
have any meaning, pardner?” she asked, getting a congratulatory handslap in response.

Pope AFB

There should have been a share-and-share-alike attitude among those that might do the same job, but that would be in a perfect bureaucratic world. McAffee knew the realities, so the delay—a nearly three-hour one—in his getting details on the HRT plan was expected. They had it now, which was what counted. Ten copies of the ten-page assault plan were in the hands of the team, all of whom sat around a rectangular table beneath the 747’s left wing.

“Interesting,” Graber mumbled quietly halfway through the brief, which included operational details and several diagrams.

The HRT plan—code-named RETRIEVER—was radical in concept. Its basis was the belief by the Bureau’s psychological advisers and criminal behaviorists that the terrorist could not wear and keep active the deadman’s vest for the duration of the hijacking. Aside from being physically draining, the emotional trials that one would have to endure, knowing that a slip would mean death, and failure, would be degrading. Therefore, the head doctors theorized, he must take it off after takeoff and put it back on after landing.

It was during the latter when the HRT plan called for the assault to take place. As the 747 slowed on the runway, two Bureau Blackhawk helos would approach from the rear with four agents slung beneath each on STABO rigs. Before the jet stopped, the men would be deposited on each wing, where they would blow the number three doors, perform an entry, and neutralize the hijackers.

McAffee let each man finish examining the plan. “Okay, troops, tear it apart.” He paused for a few seconds. “Anyone?”

“The op is good,” Antonelli said halfheartedly. “At least detail wise.”

Quimpo nodded. “I agree. It’s doable, but tricky. Really tricky.”

Sean flipped back to the second page, finding his point of reference. Joe Anderson, sitting on his right, saw this, and also the quizzical look on the captain’s still boyish face.

The major did too. “Problem, Captain?”

Sean’s head came up. “Sir. Sorry, what was that?”

“You seem engrossed. Is our discussion disturbing you?”

Graber laid the stapled stack down. “Maybe it’s me, but this is a pile of shit.” The veteran officer leaned in. His blue eyes were serious and cold against an expressionless face. “The plan for the actual takedown is good, but pretty standard. Even the entry isn’t all that stunning. We considered something like it back in eighty-seven. It would have worked on smaller jets, where they’d need only four men, maybe. That’s my biggest concern with the operational side of it. Those helos would have to stay out near the wingtips to make sure their rotors cleared each other, unless they came in one at a time—but there’s nothing in this about that. It calls for a simultaneous insertion and entry.”

“There’d be about sixty seconds of lag if they separated,” Buxton figured.

“Nah,” Antonelli contradicted him. “Their helo jocks must be as good as ours, and ours could do it in half a minute easy.”

“With four guys on rigs swinging below?” Buxton retorted.

Antonelli shrugged. “Maybe.”

McAffee took it in. “Good call, Captain. Anything else?”

“Sure. It won’t work even if they get in position perfectly. Look at the second page, at the psych profile.” Graber waited until everyone had found the place. “Let me ask you this—if you were that guy on the plane, when would you be most nervous: touchdown or takeoff?”

The understanding was obvious on the major’s face, while the rest of the team exchanged looks of realization.

“I sure as hell wouldn’t be feeling at ease if I were about to land in a potentially hostile environment, or anywhere for that matter. I’d have that security blanket on, just in case, until I was in the air.”

He was right. The team knew it. Graber’s seldom used nickname was TR, for ten ring, the centermost circle on a pistol target. Sean could put round after round through practically the same hole. The moniker also lent itself to his ability to analyze a given problem or situation past the cursory and simplified look others usually gave. He saw what others did not in many instances, a sensory ability born more of an instinctive nature than of any training he had received. It was valuable to the team and, thankfully, not a sporadic talent.

McAffee gave his copy a last look. “So, is there anything usable from this?”

Graber shook his head. “They’ve got it backward, sir. He’ll be at ease after takeoff, and their plan doesn’t work in reverse.”

“There’s no doing that wing-walking crap when the bird’s gonna fly,” Antonelli said.

It was frustrating…damn frustrating. The Bureau plan wouldn’t work, and Delta, as yet, hadn’t been able to come up with anything better. McAffee pulled a breath of the cool, humid air deep into his lungs. It was representative of the weather outside, cold and becoming downright nasty. He looked up at the hangar’s ceiling. Maybe the weather and their surroundings were a visual and emotional echo of the real problem. They were cut off, isolated from the bad guys. Whoever put this thing together had known their stuff. A terrorist with brains, the major thought. Perfect! Security was airtight. They couldn’t be touched, but they had to be.

“We need something. Something to work with. The colonel wants an op ready to go in one hour.”

Buxton’s blond flattop bobbed up. “What about the lean plan?”

“Not with this one,” McAffee responded. The lean plan was a sort of off-the-shelf rescue whose operational details could be tailored to make it work with most situations.

A few seconds of silence passed, feeling more like minutes.

“It’s tough, sir.” Graber flattened the suspect page of the report with both hands. “I just don’t see any openings yet.”

“Look!” McAffee shouted. “We don’t have much time, if any. The word could come in a minute, or in ten, or in an hour, and we are going to have a goddamn debacle here unless we’re ready to jump at the word go! Do you think Iran was bad? You haven’t seen anything.
We
haven’t seen anything. We fucked up back then, but no innocents lost their lives. That’s forgivable. But if we go in without a workable plan and slaughter a bunch of hostages like the Egyptians did, then we’ll certainly be in the shit, or dead—probably both.”

The team wasn’t accustomed to Blackjack blowing his lid. That was a show of emotion, something that wasn’t supposed to happen. But they hadn’t faced anything quite like this before, a situation with two possible outcomes: bad and worse. They had seen their leader angry before, but never out of control. He, too, was at a loss for a solution.

Sean, however, heard none of the tirade past a reference the major had used. The light had gone on, instantaneously as usual. But…
You’re nuts, Sean. It’s ludicrous. It’s… It’s…

“Sir.”

“Captain,” McAffee breathed more than spoke.

Graber was tentative beginning. “This may sound crazy, but humor me. Triple Seven might’ve fucked up royally,” he allowed, referring to the botched attempt by Egyptian counter-terrorists to rescue passengers from a hijacked EgyptAir jet at Malta’s Luqa airport in 1985, “but there may be something we can use.” He went on for nearly five minutes, outlining his idea as everyone listened silently.

“This is nuts!” Joe exclaimed. “You want everyone dead? This’ll do it.”

The major eyed him. “Mr. Anderson, if this works will your job be affected in any way? Will you still be able to deal with whatever is in the belly of that bird?”

Anderson swallowed hard, his eyes scanning the men around the table. He knew the comment was meant to put him in his place, separate from the warriors. In real comparison, he was simply a technician, but one with enough years behind him to know when to accept a mild slap. “If it works…not at all.”

McAffee’s voice eased. “Then we’ll get on with the operational details, and leave you to your preparations.”

The metal legs screeched as Joe slid his chair back. The team watched the civilian move into the adjoining office. They also knew that he could be absolutely correct in his analysis of their chances.

The discussion was picked up again, and carried on for ten minutes before McAffee summoned Colonel Cadler. If they were going to offer up something this outlandish, then there would have to be a stamp on it from the GFC. The approval would be for the real brass, not for Delta. The troops knew that their word would be sufficient for the colonel. If they liked it, and wanted to go with it, then so would he.

Graber laid it out again. This time some of the team’s added contributions were incorporated.

“That’s a damn bold idea, Captain. It’s yours, I take it.”

“The basic idea, sir. Everybody fed in on the last hashing.”

Cadler turned to his second. The smile was slight, but noticeable. “Major, if this is it, then it’s a go from me. Pappy will go for it, too, so don’t worry about any upper-echelon bull.” He stopped and pulled on his baseball-style fatigue cap. “Get with the tech boys to work on those charges. The captain here’s right when he says they’re going to have to be right on the money. Power and placement.” Cadler paused momentarily. “Maybe we better get the crew of this bird here to help on the placement end of things. They might be able to give us something on the structural side.”

“That could be a factor,” McAffee agreed.

“With this cockamamie plan, you’d better believe it.”

“I’ll get them over here.”

“Good,” the colonel bellowed. “Damn good work. Now … perfect it. Run it through, up and down, all around. I want to give Pappy the word in three hours that we’re ready to go with this plan. Enough time?” The troops agreed that it was. “Damn fine work, men. Jesus, this is good work!” Cadler smiled openly, if quickly, before walking away. At the office door he looked back at the men. His men. He was proud of them and their harebrained scheme, mostly because he was sure they could make it work.

Los Angeles

Progress drove Art. It inspired him as much as frustration, only the feeling was better. His pen attacked the legal pad.

There are now two direct links between Jackson and the suspects: (1) Filings found on the floor of Jackson’s bedroom have been identified as metal residue from the sanitizing of one of the two M-16A2 rifles.
He looked to the technical brief from Jacobs. It was his job to paraphrase and de-techspeak the information, which would go into his report to the director.
Analysis has determined that metal samples are a perfect match.
Art decided to drop ‘something or other spectroanalysis’ for brevity, since such terms usually took twenty or thirty words to explain in everyman’s English.
(2) Packing crates for the weapons were found in a public storage facility that had been rented by Jackson, pointing to a pickup by the assassins. A melted plastic access card was found with one of the assassin’s bodies, and it matches those used by the facility in composition and appearance.
To Art it was a lump of plastic, but the lab, as always, worked its miracles once it had something to compare the lump with.