Vasquez interlaced his fingers and rested them on the desk in front of him. “Then the crew chief acts like a mother hen, inspecting the aircraft and signing it off as fit for flight. The pilots then come out and take another look at it.”
“You’re assuming that the person who planted the bomb sabotaged the part he was assigned to repair or replace,” Uzi said.
“He could’ve been assigned to replace a battery,” DeSantos said, “then placed the explosive beneath the rotor assembly. No one would see it, and none of the follow-up inspections would catch it. The inspectors would merely see the new battery and sign off on it.”
Vasquez was silent as he studied his desk.
“Is that possible, Major?” Uzi asked.
Vasquez looked up at Uzi. “Yes.” Before he could elaborate, his phone buzzed. He listened, straightened, then said, “Send him in.”
The door opened and revealed a man his late forties with a red grease rag in his left hand. “This is Master Sergeant Cole Conrad,” Vasquez said. “We call him ‘Top.’ He’s the Cage’s Flight Line division chief. Participated in Desert Shield and Desert Storm with a Super Stallion squadron. Top here can tell you anything there is to know about these beasts.” Vasquez indicated his guests with a nod of his head. “This is FBI Special Agent Uzi and Hector DeSantos, DOD.”
“Master Sergeant,” Uzi started, “I’m going to give you a hypothetical, and I want you to treat it with strict confidence. It’s only a hypothetical, and if what I’m about to tell you is taken as the truth, a whole lot of shit’ll be stirred up. We clear on that?”
“Very clear, sir.”
“If I told you a bomb took down Marine Two and Three, what would you say about that?”
Conrad shifted his feet. “You asking me if it’s possible?”
“Let’s start with that,” DeSantos said.
Conrad shrugged. “Yes, sir. Very possible.”
Uzi glanced at DeSantos, then said to Conrad, “Possible because a bomb could take one of these things down?” Uzi asked. “Or possible because someone could gain access to the fleet?”
“The former, sir.”
“Even the Super Stallion?”
“Even the 53s. Yes, sir.”
“How would you do it?”
Conrad chafed his hands against the red grease rag. He looked over to Vasquez before answering. After getting a permissive nod, the master sergeant said, “A standard military M112 demolition block — that’s only a pound and a quarter of C-4—placed on the rotor hub would cause her to drop like a rock, with no hope of recovery.”
Recovery, Uzi knew, was another term for “autorotation,” a way of regaining control of the craft with the tail rotor gone.
Conrad continued: “Assuming I had access to the explosive material, it’d be a relatively simple deal. In fact, I could take the Stallion down with only half a pound, really.”
“Where would you put it?”
“Well, the pilot or crew chief always does a walk-around before the flight. So I’d want my explosive to be well concealed.” He shoved his grease rag through a belt loop, then shrugged. “If the pilot’s good, and we’ve got only the best here, he could set the bird down even without a tail rotor, so I’d probably put the explosive on the main rotor hub.”
“Ever hear of the Jesus Nut?” Uzi asked.
Conrad smirked, then snorted. “‘Course.” His smile faded. “This bird isn’t named the Super Stallion for nothing. It’s the largest, most powerful and technologically advanced helicopter in the world. Its only weakness is the Jesus Nut. Every mechanic worth his salt knows that.”
“So if a block of C-4 was placed near the Jesus Nut, no one would see it on their walk-around?”
Conrad nodded knowingly. “The thing about C-4 is that it can be molded into just about anything. If I was doing it, I’d shape and paint it to look like part of the rotor head assembly.”
“How would you detonate it?” DeSantos asked.
After a moment’s thought, Conrad said, “Radio detonator or timer. I’d choose a discrete radio channel and detonate it where and when I’d want to.” He threw a nervous, sideways glance at Vasquez, then added, “Hypothetically, of course.”
Uzi and DeSantos were quiet.
Conrad again looked to Vasquez, then back to Uzi. “Anything else I can help you with?”
“Anyone on your staff show any strange tendencies?” Uzi asked.
“Sir?”
“An affinity for molding C-4,” DeSantos said. “Or sympathy for right-wing groups. Or anyone who’s made derogatory comments about Glendon Rusch. That type of thing.”
Conrad angled his eyes ceilingward for a moment, then said, “No one, sir.”
DeSantos crossed his arms over his chest. “I know it’s a tough question, Master Sergeant. I’d be asking you to rat on a colleague, which is something Marines just don’t do. I understand that. But we need an honest answer.”
The “rat on a colleague” remark made Uzi flash on his own situation with Osborn. Like a pinprick to a fingertip, the comment caused some pain.
“Yes, sir. If I think of anything, I’ll let Major Vasquez know.”
“Thanks, Top,” Vasquez said. The Master Sergeant nodded, then left.
Uzi sat there in the silence thinking how it easy it would’ve been to blow up those choppers— something he wouldn’t have thought possible fifteen minutes ago. But there were still too many unanswered questions that required leaps of logic to bridge all the gaps.
“How about work attendance?” DeSantos asked. “Drug problems, disciplinary actions?”
“Impeccable records. All of them. I wish I had a smoking gun, a problem Marine who’d been reprimanded, but you wouldn’t find that here. There’s really nothing I can think of. I assume you’ll want to interview each of them?”
DeSantos nodded.
The major lifted the phone and selected the extension for the Maintenance Material Control Officer. “It’s Vasquez. Assemble the maintenance personnel in The Cage in fifteen minutes.” Vasquez listened for a second, then asked, “How late?… Yeah, I’ll hold.” He cupped the phone and took the copies from his assistant, who had just entered the major’s office. He handed the papers to DeSantos and said, “All personnel on Alpha shift will be available for questioning. One of the men is reporting in late—” He turned back to the handset. “Are you sure?” Vasquez chewed his bottom lip. “Fine. Thank you, Gunner.”
“Problem?” DeSantos asked.
“One of the men was due in late, but hasn’t shown yet.”
“Is that unusual?” Uzi asked.
“He’s an hour and a half overdue. Yes, that’s unusual, Agent Uzi. Very unusual.”
Uzi and DeSantos shared an uneasy look. “Tell you what, Warren,” DeSantos said. “Why don’t we postpone our interviews with the flight crew. Uzi and I will check out your missing man.”
“It’s probably nothing.” Vasquez stood, then shook his head. “Shit.”
Uzi ended his call as they approached the Tahoe. “My people already did some legwork for us. They’ve assembled a spreadsheet with backgrounds on all the flight crew, including the crew chiefs and maintenance personnel. They’re sending it through right now.”
“Sending it through to where?”
Uzi held out his phone. “To this.”
“Your phone?”
“This is no ordinary smartphone. I’ve rooted it — hacked it, modified it. Made it… smarter.” Uzi winked. “Just a bit. I mean, just a byte.”
DeSantos looked at him. “Is that some kind of computer joke?”