Uzi flicked a glance over his right shoulder at their tail, and figured the man was out of earshot. “Our Nelson Flint wasn’t very forthcoming.”
“Didn’t expect him to be. Idea was to piss on their land, stake out our territory for our next visit. Maybe we’ll stop by again in a few days.”
“Something tells me he won’t let us in again.”
A grin broadened DeSantos’s face. “He won’t have to.”
“I don’t wanna know what you have in mind.” Uzi breathed in deeply. “Nice chunk of land they’ve got here. Smell the pine?”
DeSantos unwrapped another stick of gum and sniffed it. “I like this smell better.”
“You gotta be kidding. Juicy Fruit?”
“Brian used to chew it all day. Every day. Can’t get it out of my head. It’s all I’ve got left.”
“It’s hard losing a partner. On the job?”
DeSantos nodded. “Took a bullet. A black op we were running for Knox.” DeSantos shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his wool overcoat. His eyes roamed the trees and building façades. “CCTV cameras on the redwoods every thirty feet.”
Uzi had been checking as well. “Standard resolution color, infrared motion sensors. Wired. Pretty basic stuff.”
They walked a few more feet in silence before DeSantos continued. “Brian died the same day his wife gave birth to a baby girl. My goddaughter.”
Uzi thought back to the gum and DeSantos’s comment. “You took it hard.”
It was a moment before DeSantos answered. “Still am.”
Uzi and DeSantos drove in silence to Quantico Marine Base, a trip Uzi was accustomed to making because the FBI Academy was located on the eastern portion of the same campus. The Marine Corps’s history on this site was well rooted, dating back to its establishment in 1917 following America’s entry into World War I. Quantico became one of the largest shipyards in the country.
Uzi pulled in line behind a dozen or so cars and waited to gain admittance to the base. A brick gateway stretched across both lanes of traffic, emblazoned with large block letters:
QUANTICO — CROSSROADS OF THE MARINE CORPS
“Never came through the main gate before,” Uzi said. He eyed the stiff military formality of the checkpoint, then the granite-based commemorative statue of soldiers raising the American flag at Iwo Jima, just off to the right. “Definitely more… Marine-like than the FBI side of the base.” He looked at DeSantos, whose gaze was off somewhere in the distance. “Ever been here?”
“A few years ago. Did some training with the top dog, Major Vasquez. The AMO, Aircraft Maintenance Officer. He’s responsible for all the upkeep done on the executive helicopter fleet.”
Uzi pulled up to the guard post, where they were greeted by a lance corporal dressed in a crisp, fresh uniform. They showed him their credentials, explained why they were there, and waited while the Marine made a call to obtain authorization.
A moment later, the man handed back their cred cases and admitted them onto the base.
The Marine Corps Air Facility, thirty miles and a stone’s throw by helicopter from downtown DC, resides in a densely wooded Virginian paradise with its own marina off the Chesapeake, a private golf course, riding stable, recreation areas, sports leagues, youth centers, and school system.
As they drove along the main drag, Fuller Road, Uzi noticed what appeared to be residential apartments peeking through the trees about thirty yards to his left. “Base housing?”
“Nope. See that creek?” DeSantos asked, nodding at a shallow grass-covered bank with water tumbling through. “That’s the boundary of the base. Twenty feet beyond that is Triangle, Virginia. Civilian neighborhood.”
“No secured wall along the perimeter?”
“Hard to imagine, huh?”
“So,” Uzi said, “anyone could walk right onto the base. Not even a chain-link fence to climb.”
“The town of Quantico is civilian, too. Located a couple miles down the road. I guess you could just tell the guard at the main gate you were going into town and they’d have to let you in.”
“Yeah, right.”
DeSantos shrugged. “They probably figure you gotta be crazy to try something on a military base with a thousand armed Marines walking the grounds.”
Uzi thought of the suicide bombers he’d encountered, the mass destruction of 9/11, the planned attack on Fort Dix. Problem was, these people are crazy. “How much further to HMX?”
“Couple minutes.”
In addition to serving as the training facility for a plethora of Marine units, Quantico’s least publicly known function was to house and operate Marine Helicopter Squadron One, the only operational fleet on the base. Officially coded HMX-1, the squadron’s primary purpose was to provide helicopter transport for the president and vice president, as well as for cabinet members and foreign dignitaries as authorized by the Director of the White House Military Office. HMX-1 was where the ill-fated Marine Two and Marine Three flights had originated on election night, having pre-positioned earlier in the day closer to Washington.
As Uzi and DeSantos approached the air facility, encircled by nasty razor-wire-topped chain-link fencing, they came upon another security checkpoint. After again providing their credentials for verification, they waited while the sergeant-of-the-guard phoned Major Warren Vasquez to obtain permission for them to access the Cage Hangar.
Vasquez apparently gave the sergeant whatever authorization he required, because the gate opened and the guard returned their IDs. Uzi proceeded down a circular drive along the two-lane road, then parked his SUV across from the large brick barracks building, where both of them got out. “Even if someone got onto the base,” DeSantos said, “getting into HMX is a different story.”
They headed toward the Cage’s entrance, where they were met by more guards. The corporal examined their credentials yet again, then informed them that Major Vasquez was en route.
As the guard pulled his two-way radio from a clip on his shoulder, a large, glistening bottle green and white helicopter approached in the distance. It hovered fifty yards away, the wind from the beating blades ruffling Uzi’s hair and kicking up a windstorm of dust that cascaded outward from the ground beneath the chopper. Uzi held up a hand to shield his face and watched as the bird touched down on a red circular plank of wood set out on a grassy field that simulated the landing area on the White House lawn.
“That’s a VH-3D,” DeSantos said above the grind of the engines. “Presidential transport.”
“I’ve seen photos.” And pieces. “Beautiful bird.”
DeSantos nodded. “They’ve got a dozen of them, all identical. Uh, they had a dozen.”
Uzi covered his ears to lessen the whining thump of the rotors. “Damn noisy, though.”
“Only on the outside. Sound dampers around the engines bring it down to less than seventy decibels inside. No louder than a car.”
A man in dress blues with graying temples and a leathery, pocked face pulled in front of them. His formal demeanor evaporated when he caught sight of DeSantos. He climbed out of his SUV and grinned broadly.
“Santa. How’ve you been?” He threw his hand out and the two vigorously shook.
“I’m still breathing, so all’s good. You?”
His grin sagged. “Doing well till yesterday.”
“That’s why we’re here. Aaron Uzi, FBI.” Uzi extended a hand and received a more subdued, official greeting. “We need to talk with you about the pilots who handled both birds that went down, the VH-3D and Super Stallion, as well as the maintenance personnel who’ve worked on them.”