“What do you know about this group?” Eric asked.
“Mostly petty criminals until about 2 years ago. It was guns and meth, but they graduated to armed robbery. They have strong views about an upcoming race war.”
Nancy pursed her lips. “Are they on the feebs radar?”
Karen laughed. “The FBI has a file on them and it goes back decades, but they don’t know about the robberies and murders of the past two years. They liked them for an anthrax scare six months ago, envelopes sent to a congressman’s office. They could never make it stick, but the Office has an email trail. They’re good for it.”
He felt a knot twist in his stomach. “Great, a white supremacist group with anthrax.”
“No, sir,” Karen said, shaking her head, “they didn’t have anthrax. Turned out to be flour.”
“I’d suggest we turn it over to the FBI,” Eric said, “maybe send the gun-running info to the ATF.”
“Good plan,” Nancy agreed. “We funnel the info to them, let them clean up the mess. Dismissed, Kryzowski. Now, what about Afghanistan?”
Eric turned back to Clark. “What’s the status?”
“Same as usual. Insurgents all over the place, Taliban mostly. The high value targets are on the run, they’ve dug in deep in the mountains or blended in to the urban areas. We have picked up some signals, back channel stuff. We’re surveilling their cell phones and what few landlines they have, Internet activity is being logged and filtered, but they’ve gotten smart, they do everything via courier and paper. HUMINT remains weak. You were stationed in Afghanistan for some time, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I’d say that was top secret, but I’ve a feeling you already know that.”
Clark grinned. “Yes, sir. We keep a pretty good eye on the Delta Operators, and your name came up often.”
“I’ll take it as a compliment. So, what is the nature of the threat, if we don’t have hard intelligence?”
“An Internet posting. There was a photo with stego’d information, no details, no names—”
“Is there anything scheduled,” Deion interrupted. “Any major activity planned?”
“No,” Clark said. “It’s one photo. It could be nothing. JSOC isn’t aware of it, and if you pass it to them without hard data, there’s not much they can do.”
Eric turned to Nancy. “What do you recommend?”
“You’d think with all this information flowing through here we would have more hard intel,” Nancy said, “but this is usually all we get. Without actionable intelligence, we have to let it pass. Or, we could ping JSOC and have them shake the trees, but each action has a reaction. What do you think might occur?”
Eric recalled his past experiences. “You make the rounds from corrupt politician to corrupt tribal leader, but nobody ever knows anything. What intelligence you get is useless, or worse, deliberate misinformation. Or, they shake you down for money. It’s a waste of time.”
“Exactly. For now, we’ll continue to watch. Sergeant, have them follow up with that photo. Find out who owns it and flag it for review.”
Clark saluted, but Nancy had already turned her attention to the main monitor. “When will Frist be ready?”
“Hard to say,” Deion replied. “Even with the training, his first time out will be rough. It’s different in the field.”
She turned to Eric, lips pursed “You think he’ll perform?”
“He’ll perform,” Eric said. “He’s shaping up to be a competent soldier.”
“He should have been shot.”
“You don’t like him much do you?”
“I have no use for him,” she said. “The project was my father’s idea. Frist is a murderer and a traitor and I’d just as soon see him dead. When you’re done with his training today, I want both of you in my office at 2000.”
John took one look and turned back to Eric. “What is this place?”
They were in a small hangar, looking at a construction of drywall and paneling held together by 2X4 walls. There were windows with lights and cables strung everywhere, and inside he could barely discern the furniture-filled room.
“The shooting house,” Eric said. “This is where you learn to shoot.”
“I thought I was learning to shoot,” he protested. “I’m at the range every day.”
Eric laughed. “We’ve created the first floor of an apartment building. There are pop-up targets, stationary targets, and movable targets. Don’t worry about ricochets, the bullet traps will catch them. Now, it’s time to pick your weapon.” He led John to a table near the front.
Eric picked up one of the many handguns on the table. “This is your standard Colt M1911. Nothing fancy. It’s been cleaned up and fine-tuned, and we swapped out the hammer for an upgrade so you won’t get pinched in the webbing between your thumb and index finger. It’s a perfectly serviceable weapon.”
He picked it up, inspected it, then handed it back to Eric. “Why a .45?”
“You lose round capacity over a nine millimeter, but it has more stopping power.” Eric picked up another and handed it to John. “This is a standard Sig-Sauer M11, but chambered in .40 instead of 9 mil.” He handed it to John, who inspected it as well.
“This one,” Eric said, picking up another, “trades stopping power for magazine capacity. It’s a Browning Hi-Power, 9 millimeter. You get almost double the rounds, and it’s accurate. It’s the pistol that shoots like a rifle.”
John exchanged the Sig-Sauer for the Browning, sighted, then looked up at Eric. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Pick one. Your weapon is a personal choice, it has to feel good to you.”
The Browning felt good in his hands. He pulled back the slide, checked the chamber, then picked up a full magazine from the table and inserted it.
“Concentrate on the weight of it. The feel of it. Don’t sight down it, just let it become one with your arm. Do you feel it?”
John nodded. “Yeah, it feels good, just not quite right.” He swapped the Browning for the Colt, and even though he had more experience with it, it held no appeal. “Something is off with this one. It’s almost there, but let me try the M11 again.”
Eric took the Colt and handed him the M11.
He extended his arm and closed his eyes, letting his hand move with the weight, and he knew he had found it. “I don’t know why, but it just feels right. That’s the one.”
Eric shook his head, disappointed. “I was hoping you’d go for the Colt, but it’s your choice. I’m going to teach you to become more than a good shot. Anyone can learn that. You’ll become magic. You’ll be able to go through the shooting house and put bullet after bullet in the same place. When we’re done with that, you’ll do it all over again with the Battlesuit. And, again with the VISOR. Then with the Implant activated. It gets fun after that, because we’ll start with sub-machine guns like the MP5. I hope you like this place, you’re going to be living here.”
He groaned.
Abdullah and Naseer worked on Fahad’s ancient white Toyota Helix. A dusty light-bulb cast a faint glow across the room, a chill settling in the air as the sun set.
“We place the charges around the engine, along here and here,” Abdullah pointed. They struggled to lift the scratched and dented hood from the truck, then set it along the far wall. “Bring me the satchel.”
“Others could do this,” Naseer protested.
“You must learn patience. If I were to ask another man to do this, I would place my trust in that man. I would take his word that he did the job correctly. What if he were to make a mistake? Would he take the utmost care? No, if I do the job myself, I know it is done correctly. This is something you must learn, Naseer. You cannot depend on others to help you.”