Gibson raised his eyebrows. “Offhand, I can think of about a million good reasons why I don’t want a drone falling on my head.”
“Let the lady talk, Luke,” Swanson said, realizing that he was beginning to think of Gibson as an equal, a workable partner. “Why a drone?”
She went back to the desk and brought the computer to life as she flipped through several screens, referring to the latest list of official passwords. “Most of the birds used in strikes in the Middle East, Africa, and Afghanistan are parked here. The pilots are back in Nowhere, Nevada, but we have the hardware and launch the missions. You know all that, right?” They nodded. It was public knowledge, because a couple of whistle-blowers had wanted their fifteen minutes of fame.
“If I can get clearance from Director Atkins, we can outfit each of you with a transponder to track your movements, and until this thing is done I can earmark a drone for your call. We’ll have it circling overhead when you finally move in on Nicky Marks.” Del Coda clicked the computer and the screen went black again. “Because of the protests, I got drones to spare, boys. Want one?”
The men looked at each other and nodded. “Okay, thanks,” Swanson said.
“Good idea,” Gibson conceded. Inside, he brightened a bit at the memory of how a Reaper smart bomb had blown away the home of Mahfouz al-Rashidi right before his eyes not so long ago. This might come in handy.
Del Coda was on her feet again, seeming to drop the stress she’d complained of like an old blanket. She liked actually doing something again rather than being an administrator. “Come on. We’ll have some dinner, get you geared up, and you’ll be out of here tomorrow morning.”
Fog and rain slid across the Shenandoah Valley like moving curtains on a stage, forcing Lucky Sharif to keep the wipers going almost all the way as he drove from Washington to the stately layout of the Virginia Military Institute. He did the math in his head on the way down. If Luke Gibson was in his early thirties, as Kyle estimated, then he would have been at VMI between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one, which would put him in a graduating class between 1998 and 2000, give or take a year. The problem was that Sharif didn’t want to mention the name by itself, so he would have to plant some misdirection.
The state-run military college prided itself on a long history that had produced such leaders as George Marshall and George Patton. Stonewall Jackson was a professor there before the Civil War. Among the throngs of spit-shined young men and women moving with determined purpose around the grounds today were future officers who might carve their own niches in history, or fall in the line of duty.
Sharif didn’t seek out the superintendent — not yet — but made his way to the offices of the archivist, an efficient woman drinking a cup of tea at her desk. He showed his badge, which she examined closely, as if identifying the metal, then took a good look at the identity card.
“This is the surprise of my day, Special Agent Sharif. My name is Clara Cooper.” She got up and extended her hand. The mop of red hair was showing signs of gray, and Sharif believed it was due for another henna rinse. “Are we in trouble with the FBI?”
Sharif gave a soft laugh. “No, Ms. Cooper. Not at all. I’m just doing some routine background checks. I would like to see some Bombs.”
“Why, you could have saved yourself a trip, sir. The yearbooks are all posted online. We have a wonderful electronic archive.”
“I’m sure you do. But we prefer not to rely only on electronic copies. You’d be surprised what hackers can and will do. So we double-source whenever possible.”
“Certainly, certainly,” she clucked like a mama hen. The idea of some hacker rudely disrupting her archives turned her mouth into a firm, straight line. “What year would you like to see?”
“How about 1988, ’89, and 2000? Can you do that?”
“Of course. You can look at them right here in my office if you wish privacy. Make yourself at home while I fetch them. Please, have some tea.”
She was back in five minutes, cradling three large volumes, which she placed on a conference table beneath bright halogen lamps. Sharif put on some reading glasses, pulled out his notepad, went to work, and struck gold on the first try, in The Bomb for 2000.
Instead of looking for individual names, he had fanned through the pages just to get a feel for how the book was organized, and he stopped at a formal portrait of two young men — the top officers of the entire regiment. They were resplendent in full-dress blue-gray uniform coatees and white pants, black-plumed shakos, white belt across the chest, three rows of shining brass buttons, red sashes, swords on right shoulders, and arms laden with gold-lace chevrons. The man on the left, the regimental executive officer, wore five chevrons. The square-jawed regimental CO wore six, plus other markings to signify that he was top dog. He was identified as First Captain Lucas Gibson.
Sharif spent another thirty minutes going through the yearbooks, then handed Clara Cooper a list of six names that included Gibson and asked for their academic records. He had expected her to protest about privacy and confidentiality and that sort of dodge, but Clara had understood that the FBI badge could override all that, so why make a fuss? The cadets from those long-ago classes would by now be rising high in their military or other careers, and that meant higher clearances for secrecy. Why make a bother when the outcome was inevitable? After all, it was a routine background check. The special agent had said so.
“I’ll go over to the superintendent’s office and get approval and dig these up for you,” she said with a wave of the folded paper. “Won’t be long.”
Sharif took a break and walked outside. Cadets were marching crisply, doing PT, or busy at their other assigned chores around the pristine 200-acre campus. Discipline was evident everywhere; this wasn’t the kind of place where a phony would thrive, and Gibson had made it to the top. Sharif talked with a few of them to get a feel for the type of personality that could handle such a strict environment.
Clara came back with the paperwork, and he delved into the files, examining each folder equally, but caring only about Luke Gibson. The rest were cover. Gibson and one of the other cadets had been valedictorians of their high-school classes. The boy had it all — grades, leadership ability, physical fitness, and fluency in two foreign languages — French and Arabic. He majored in international relations and affairs, finishing tenth overall in academics, captained the baseball team, and scored as an expert marksman on the rifle team, taking an individual first in the annual match against West Point. Sharif tapped his pen in thought. Gibson was the gold standard that year, and had made the promotion selection committee’s job easy.
He went back to the files. Five of the six cadets became commissioned officers upon graduation: two Army, two Air Force, one to the Coast Guard. There was no such notation on Gibson’s transcript. Sharif asked the archivist about that, and she explained that, unlike federal schools like Annapolis and West Point, VMI graduates were required to take the training but didn’t have to join the military.
“Ah.” This was where the CIA had scooped him up. After this, Gibson was off the official radar.
“Thanks for all your assistance, ma’am,” Sharif said. “But, like the old detectives, I have one more question. I noticed that the Bomb from 2000 was dedicated to First Captain Gary Smith, who was the regimental commander. That seems to be a discrepancy, because the commander for that year was a fellow named, uh, Gibson. Lucas Gibson. How can that happen?”