“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
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.
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.”