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.
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.
The office reverberated with a loud knock.
“Come in, Ed.”
Toronassi grinned his way in.
“You sound like you’re serving warrants,” Art joked.
“It gets me in. You got any java?” Eddie saw the almost empty pot before an answer came. There was always a pot in his boss’s office, full or not. “Hey, you want something good for the director — well, maybe it’s good.”
Art took the two fax copies. “What do we have?”
“Relatives.” Eddie leaned over the desk and pointed to the top sheet. “We found two brothers of ol’ Marcus, but that’s all for close blood. Once we talk to them there may be some aunts or something. Who knows.”
Interesting. “The older one has quite a tail.”
Eddie nodded in mid sip. “That’s how we found him. Ernest Jackson is a scuzzball, if only a minor one. Guess it runs in the family. GTA and ADW are the biggest, but no deaths yet.”
“Didn’t break into the majors.”
“Lucky for a lot of folks. He’s got a bunch of other stuff with the biggies, going back a long way. Most of it’s violent in one way or another.”
The present whereabouts box caught Art’s eye. “He’s in Joliet. What for?”
Eddie twisted his neck uselessly, then walked around behind the dark wood desk. “Looks like assault with intent and grand theft. Must be federal.”
“He could play a part in this,” Art said as he pressed hard on his tired lids. “Contacts for the weapons, maybe. At least this keeps the trail moving in the same direction.”
“Huh?”
“You didn’t hear?”
“Hear what? I’ve been hunting these guys down most of the afternoon.”
It was Art’s turn to share some good news. “Frankie and Thom struck pay dirt again.”
“Who smiled on them?” Eddie was glad it had been Francine Aguirre. She was a good agent, and had worked her ass off to shake any misgivings about female street agents. It wasn’t supposed to be that way in these days of so-called equality, but old doubts died hard.
“They found the weapon stash in one of those storage places. You know, thirty bucks a month for a room or garage. Lois and I used to keep our RV in one of them.” Until we sold it…had to sell it, by some damn court order.
The Italian-American agent’s pearly whites shone more. “Like she thought.”
“Yep. The crates and all the packing stuff were still there. Markings and all. The stuff came from an Army facility in Illinois, so…”
“What?” Eddie jumped in.
“What’s wrong?”
“The source, boss. Look at the other brother’s info. PFC Samuel Jackson, currently stationed at Rock Island Army Munitions Depot…in Illinois.”
“That’s a nuke and chemical facility.”
“Right,” Eddie said. “Which means they’d have plenty of guards, and plenty of firepower. They’ve gotta store the stuff somewhere.”
Art scanned the page. Samuel Jackson was just a kid, literally. In uniform for just over eighteen months. “How long has he been there?”
“A year, about.”
Ed was silent as Art read over the full report. Samuel, the youngest of the Jacksons, could have been the source of the guns and LAWs, which would have put Marcus in the middleman position. It was unlikely that Marcus was behind the whole thing, even more so now that they knew of his little brother’s military connection. Still, he might have been the front man in L.A. That, too, was hard to swallow completely. Nothing pointed to Marcus being either a brainy sort or one with any tangible relations to the Khaleds. There was more. Somewhere, if Art was piecing this together correctly, there would be a tie-in. A college professor had once told him that the road to certainty was paved with coincidences. That wisdom of yesteryear was now proving itself in spades.