“That toy,” the staffer said, pointing to the ungainly weapon at the lieutenant’s side.
Antonelli held up his unloaded weapon. “This is the OHWS: Offensive Handgun Weapon System. Basically it’s a specially designed HK pistol chambered to fire forty-five-caliber rounds.” The weapon was quite ordinary-looking from the grip to just before the trigger housing. There forward it jumped into the twenty-first century in appearance. “This thing under the barrel is an IR Laser Aiming Module, or LAM. It paints the area you’re aiming at with IR light that lets us see through our new goggles damn good in the dark. That was why we needed the new ones, ‘cause they are primarily tuned to the IR spectrum. We gave up some I2—that’s image intensification — capability for it. Trading some ‘low’ light for better ‘no’ light capability, you might say. So we can see what the LAM paints, and it also puts a focused aim point where our shots are going to hit. We have the same capability on our other weapons now, also.”
“Well, that explains some of the precision,” another member of the group commented.
“Some of it,” Captain Buxton observed. There was more to it than gadgets.
“And this long box coming off the barrel?” the lady asked, pointing to the device that lengthened the weapon considerably.
“Sound and flash suppressor, ma’am. We not only like to be accurate, but invisible and quiet also.” He smiled as his presentation ended.
“Look at this,” one of the aides said to the congressman, pointing to the four holes punched in the cardboard cutout. They were all within an imaginary two-inch circle above the nose.
“That’s called turning off the switch,” Captain Buxton explained. “Bad guys don’t pull triggers with four bullets in their brains.”
“My son’s a cop, Major Graber,” the Honorable Richard Vorhees began, turning to Sean. “They train them to go for center-mass hits. The bigger target, you know. Upper torso.”
“That’s correct, sir. But we can’t do that. We have to make sure the bad guys don’t get to pull the trigger. Our job is to make them dead fast, before they make some innocents dead.”
The congressman shook his head in some disbelief at the skill exhibited. He was not unfamiliar with things military, as evidenced by his slight limp. A Cuban mine had taken his leg off at the knee in the Grenada invasion, ending a planned military career with just a pair of oak leaf clusters on his collar. But that had led to a career in Congress, which he was now enjoying after a meteoric rise to one of the governing body’s most powerful positions. “That’s a pretty tall order, Major. The chance for a miss has got to be much greater.”
Sean smiled agreement at the analysis. “That is right, sir, which is why we have to be that much better. Our business functions on a zero-defect basis.”
“What’s that?”
“No mistakes. We hit everything we want to every time we try. Period.”
Vorhees’s eyebrows went up at that. “Come now, Major. Isn’t that a bit overstated?” He ended the question with a chuckle.
Sean’s expression went dead serious, something the visitors immediately picked up on. “Do you think I would sit inches from these targets and let my men shoot at them if I doubted their ability one bit?”
That hit home to the congressman. The men he was among were not just soldiers, as he had once been — they were technicians. The term “professional” did not do them justice. Their job, and their skill, were unique. And must remain so, he had just been convinced.
“Major, I think I can assure that you will get your full budget request. And I doubt Congress will quibble over it.” Vorhees offered his hand, which Sean gladly took.
“Then I can assure you, we’ll be ready if we’re needed.”
The entourage followed Captain Buxton and the four men from his squad outside to answer any questions about the tactics and equipment they had just seen employed.
Sean went into the observation room and sat down, removing the glasses that had protected his eyes from powder discharges during the exercise. Chalk another one up for being shot at, and for being able to display it. The new facility that housed Delta at Fort Bragg was known as Wally World, an homage to the mythical amusement park in one of the National Lampoon movies, and the moniker was appropriate. All kinds of wonderful “rides and attractions” were theirs to practice on. The hostage room with its viewing area was one of them. No such capability had existed at the Stockade, Delta’s former home at Bragg. Without it Sean wondered if he would have been able to demonstrate the unit’s-need for the millions of rounds of ammunition it used each year. Miss with a thousand to hit with one when it counts.
The phone in the observation room rang. “Graber here.”
“Major Graber.” It was Colonel Cadler, Ground Forces Commander of the Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC). “How did our little pre-sentation go?”
Sean marveled at how his boss, a Texas native, could make any word sound like someone in Waco had invented it. “We’ll get our ammunition.”
“Hot damn,” the colonel exclaimed. “Good work. Now that you’re done giving tours, we’ve got some real work to do. I want you to get a squad ready for deployment ASAP. Clear, Major?”
“Yes sir,” Sean replied. “What kind of job, Colonel?”
“Baby-sitting.”
CHAPTER FOUR
DISCOVERY
The offices of the Los Angeles Times are located in an externally beautiful facility in what is known as Times Mirror Square. It is a visual oasis of sorts in an area of downtown Los Angeles that is reminiscent more of the urban centers of the former East Germany than of the perceived ideal associated with great American cities. The usual gathering of denizens and the down-and-out abounded in the area, mixing with the workday crowd of suits and blueshirts to create a patchwork representation of social standing that existed on a nine-to-five schedule, five days a week.
“Depressing,” Art commented as he pulled the Bureau Chevy into a space marked with a familiar No Parking placard.
Frankie stepped out of the car onto the sidewalk. “Things sure have changed.”
The senior agent nodded at the observation as he came around the rounded nose of the shiny blue Caprice. As much as he loved the feel of Los Angeles and its architectural mix of old and new, the city was becoming something he’d never dreamed it could. “Let the social theorists come hang out down here for a week.”
Francine Aguirre, product of the Pico Aliso housing projects in what had become one of the city’s worst areas, knew firsthand just how much things had changed. She had seen her community begin a slow downward spiral over the years. People she had grown up with were now more likely residents of Sybil Brand Institute for Women or the men’s central jail than the old stomping grounds they had shared. Times were simpler then. Funerals came when cancer, old age, or a car accident took one of the neighbors whom everybody knew. Now they happened weekly, and the young were passing at a pace that had surpassed the mortality rate of the community’s elders. The place of her youth was dying, and the disease that caused it had spread to envelop areas once thought untouchable. And people, she thought.
“Quite a bed we made,” she said, walking past a man covered in the tattered remnants of what had once been a coat. His hand was out, reaching up from where he sat against the building, his eyes locking with Frankie’s in a plea for spare change. She remembered the “we” in her last statement and continued into the building without acknowledging his presence, much less his existence.