“I’ve got the information in my office.” Vasquez turned to the Marine behind him. “Corporal of the Guard, provide these two gents with visitor badges.”
After Uzi and DeSantos signed in, they were handed their red clip-on placards and escorted through the turnstile by Major Vasquez.
“HMX-1 is divided into two areas,” Vasquez said as they walked. “A green side and a white side. Green is where new personnel are screened and observed when they’re first assigned here. After they clear the background check, which can take a year, year and a half, they’re transferred to The Cage — the white side — which operates and maintains the Executive Detachment. That’s the fleet that transports the president and vice president, their wives, and high-ranking support staff.”
“The Cage?” Uzi asked.
“It was once surrounded by a tall security fence,” Vasquez said. “Looked like a cage. Now it’s a modern looking metal hangar connecting those two red-brick buildings you saw outside that go back, I don’t know, maybe fifty years. All together, the 150,000-square-foot building is where we store the dozen helicopters, support offices for Crew Chiefs, Flight Line Division Chiefs, and the AMO — Aircraft Maintenance Officer.”
“Nice setup,” Uzi said.
“Started out in ’47 as an experimental Marine unit to test and evaluate military helicopters. Wasn’t long before it became an important part of presidential transport after Eisenhower used a chopper for an emergency trip from Rhode Island to DC. He was hooked — very convenient and very fast. Bang, we started using helicopters to ferry around the executive staff.”
“What’s the ‘X’ stand for?” Uzi asked.
“Experimental. All new birds and their modified systems were tested and evaluated right here. Now we do it at Pax River, NavAir HQ over in Lexington Park.”
As they entered the large hangar, Vasquez motioned with a sweeping wave of his hand. “Welcome to The Cage. Ever been inside here, Agent Uzi?”
“No, sir. Fascinating place, though.” He craned his neck around the cavernous structure, which currently housed about ten aircraft.
“You got H-3’s, like the one that went down,” Vasquez said as he pointed to the far wall. “Some of the threes are still in service since the Kennedy administration. It’s a tribute to our vigilant maintenance program that they’ve lasted so long.”
Unless someone blows it up.
“Then you’ve got the newer members of the fleet, the VH-60s. We put them into commission around eighty-eight. These things are the real deal.”
“Black Hawks,” Uzi said. “I’ve flown them. Great bird.”
“Yes they are,” Vasquez said with a slight nod. “These may be a bit different than the breed you know. State of the art. Not as comfortable and roomy as the H-3, but we can fold these things up and pack ’em into the back of a C-5 and take them overseas. They’re a crucial part of our emergency relocation service because of their versatility. We can mobilize them damn near immediately. Since you know the basic Black Hawk design, you know they’re battle-hardened. Ours can take a hit from a twenty-millimeter shell and still keep flying.”
Just then, the whine of a craft’s rotors filled the hangar. Uzi and DeSantos glanced out the open doors and saw a VH-60 powering up. The noise began building as Vasquez placed his hands against their backs and ushered them to an office along the periphery of the Cage’s interior.
Vasquez shut the door, muting the noise. Models of fighter jets and helicopters adorned his large desk, with framed commendations and photos of Vasquez mugging with three presidents, including a glossy 8-by-10 with Jonathan Whitehall, on the wall behind him.
“Gentlemen, please.” He motioned to two chairs in front of his desk. “I’ve got some materials I can share with you. Documents prepared for our internal investigation.”
DeSantos settled into his seat. “We’ll need a list of all the mechanics and maintenance personnel who have clearance to be near those choppers.”
“Got it right here. Just about to go out to the safety board. I can run a copy for you.” He pressed a button on his desk phone and a lance corporal entered the room. “Two copies of each document,” he said, holding the file out to the young man.
“What can you tell us about the pilots?” Uzi asked.
Vasquez’s shoulders squared up. “The men assigned to HMX-1 are some of the best we have to offer, Agent Uzi. They go through rigid training in evasive maneuvers, zero-visibility and close-formation flying. We’re like the post office. Neither rain nor snow nor sleet will keep us from our jobs. The president or veep need to go somewhere, we go. No questions asked.” He looked down at his desk, hesitated, then continued. “As to the men who went down with their choppers, I can tell you each of them was an extremely competent, highly decorated pilot. No problems with any of them.”
“Then let’s talk about others who had access to the birds,” Uzi said. “Crew chiefs and maintenance personnel. You looked over the list. Any cause for concern?”
“Same story goes. Best of the best. Crew chiefs and other maintenance personnel are selected for assignment to HMX-1 based on exceptional performance and integrity while assigned to squadrons of the Fleet Marine Force. Their competence is beyond reproach.”
“I wasn’t asking about their competence, sir. I was questioning their patriotism.”
Vasquez and Uzi shared a long stare. Uzi knew that questioning a Marine’s commitment to his country was tantamount to the worst insult one could muster.
DeSantos cleared his throat. “I don’t think Uzi means any disrespect, Warren. We have reason to believe an explosive device was planted aboard the craft. Most likely here.”
Vasquez’s brow crumpled and his mouth slipped open. “What?”
“It’s all preliminary, and of course confidential. But I think you realize there are tough questions that have to be asked. No one wants to be asking them, least of all us.”
Vasquez’s face softened. “I know that.” His gaze drifted off to somewhere on his desk. He sighed deeply. “Damn.” He reached for the phone, punched an extension, chewed his lip until someone answered. “Top, I need some info. Get your keester over here ASAP.” He shook his head. “Then drop everything. Just get over here.”
As he hung up the phone, Uzi said, “Let me ask the question I asked before. Given that new information, does anything about these men stand out? Anything at all?”
Vasquez thought for a moment. “Nothing. One thing I didn’t mention earlier. These guys go through a Yankee White. Know what that is? Hector?”
“Very thorough background check for personnel who have regular contact with the president and veep. Includes an SSBI — Single Scope Background Investigation. Bottom line — they’re looking for unquestioned loyalty to the United States.”
“All well and good,” Uzi said. “But we’ve got a set of facts that don’t jibe.”
Vazquez squinted. “Bombs. You sure?”
“It’s preliminary,” Uzi said. “Lab’s working it up now. The debris was scattered over a large area, and the techs don’t like to jump to conclusions. Especially in a case like this. Obvious question is, How could a bomb be planted on one of those choppers? It’d have to be done here, right?”
Vasquez shifted uneasily in his chair. “I don’t see where else. But you need to understand something. These birds are treated like fine gems. They’re polished inside and out. We have rigid procedures for anything and everything done to them.”
“I didn’t mean to imply you don’t.”
“We have built-in redundancies and checks and balances every step of the way. So after a mechanic completes his work, he signs a form indicating exactly what was done and how long it took. An inspector then checks his work to make sure it meets our highest standards. He signs a form stating he’s checked it. Then a Collateral Duty Inspector gives it his once-over and a Quality of Work Inspector signs off on it.”