“Okay,” Jonathan said aloud, trying to pull up his EOD training from back in the day, “how much explosive would it take?”
There were a lot of variables, the most important of which was distance to target. The inverse square law of physics said that for every tripling of distance from the surface of the explosive-say from three feet to nine-the energy of the blast is reduced by a factor of nine. Assuming the president wasn’t going to be sitting on the panels-in fact, assuming that the panels were going to be a good fifteen or twenty feet behind him, maybe more-Copley would need pounds of explosives to get the desired effect.
“How the hell would you do that?” Especially in a product whose primary selling feature is its light weight? Plus, he assumed that the Secret Service x-rayed and dog-sniffed every bit of equipment and organic matter that came that close to the president. Surely an explosive would be detected.
Or, maybe not. Jonathan wasn’t an expert in state-of-the-art explosive compounds, so maybe if there was some non-nitrate formulation, the dogs wouldn’t find it. Besides, the explosive would have been planted ages ago. Maybe once a purchase is made and the objects get into the warehouse, nobody pays much attention to them anymore.
He decided to assume that to be the case. So, how do you set it off?
Jonathan ruled out a standard detonator or fuse, simply because there’d be no opportunity to place it.
Again, he thought of the Barrett. He’d never believed in coincidences, and he wasn’t about to start believing in them now. The Barrett was too specialized a weapon-and one that had not been deployed in any of their previous terror raids-not to have some momentous importance.
“I suppose he could shoot Marine One out of the sky,” he mumbled, referring to the president’s helicopter. Certainly the Barrett had enough wallop to pull it off. When he navigated back to POTUS’s schedule, though, he saw that he was scheduled to arrive by limousine, and it was back to square one. Everyone in the Community knew that the presidential limousine-not so affectionately referred to as The Beast-was armored to the point where even the Raufoss would be impotent.
Which again left him with the explosives, and with it the whole weight ratio thing. Contrary to what many people think, most popular explosives are not easy to detonate. You can shoot at a block of C4 or PETN all day, and chances were pretty good that it would never explode. They need the hard hit of a primary explosive to really get going. Primary explosives, on the other hand-the azides, picrates, and others-are so sensitive to impact, friction, and heat that they’re impractical for use in large quantities, and suicidal for use in the explosive-laden panels that Jonathan had conjured in his mind.
So what Venice appeared in the doorway. “Yes, the Secret Service uses Appalachian Acoustic panels. Their most commonly used model is-”
“The Model 9000 Acoustic Reflector,” Jonathan interrupted, stealing her thunder.
She looked stunned. “How did you know?”
“I’ve been looking at their website,” Jonathan explained. “It’s the one that made the most sense. Now I have to figure out how he’s going to use them to kill the president.”
“What makes you think it has to be this event?” she asked. “Or, even that it has to be this week or this month?”
“You know how I feel about coincidences,” he said. “Plus, they’ve got momentum going. This is the moment in time when they can do the most damage.”
“And you think this guy planted explosives in the panels?” Venice pressed. Clearly, she wasn’t buying.
Jonathan walked her through his analysis.
“Okay, if he’s got such a special gun, why not just shoot through the panels?” Venice asked.
“Because the gun only has a ten-round magazine, and it doesn’t go fully automatic. Even if he had a general idea, you’ve got to hit-” He stopped in midsentence. Could it really be that simple?
His hand shot to the mouse quickly enough to startle Venice.
“What?” she said.
He ignored her and navigated to the part of the Appalachian Acoustics’ website that bragged about the attractiveness of the back of the Model 9000 Symphonic Reflector. Perfect for outdoor venues where cosmetics matter, said the site.
“Ho-ly shit,” Jonathan breathed. He looked to Venice. “Box is at my place. Wake him up. Gail, too. Time to go back to work.”
CHAPTER THIRTY – SIX
Jonathan laid out his theory. “You don’t have to see the target to hit it,” he finished. “The optimization instructions are very specific. ‘For optimum quality when dealing with a single speaker, the podium and lectern should be situated fifteen to seventeen feet from the upstage panel, and equidistant from the center panels of the side walls.’”
“That sounded like math to me,” Boxers growled. His bearlike qualities magnified significantly when he was awakened from hibernation.
“What it means,” Gail said, her eyes wide, “is that the target is a fixed point in space. With a little trigonometry, by figuring your height relative to the target, and the angle of the side walls, you can be at any other fixed point and kill the target by shooting a point on the panel.”
Boxers got it. “That’s freaking brilliant,” he said. “Son of a bitch has been planning for this forever.”
Jonathan said, “The best terrorists are the most patient terrorists. What makes it particularly brilliant is that Secret Service protocol considers a protectee covered when he’s out of view. He’s got all the time in the world to settle into his sniper’s nest and avoid the Secret Service sweeps.”
“Doesn’t even have to do that,” Venice said. “From what you say, he’ll probably be in an area where they wouldn’t even be looking for a sniper.”
“And that means no countersnipers,” Gail said.
“I’m impressed,” Boxers said. “This asshole’s crazy as a freaking loon, but this is a great plan.”
“You’re not going to tell the Secret Service, are you?” Gail phrased the question as an accusation.
“Let’s play that scenario out,” Jonathan said, rising to the bait. “What exactly would you tell them that’s not going to make you sound like one of the hundreds of crazies who call them every day?”
“There has to be a way,” she said, though her face testified to the opposite. If they told the Secret Service that there was an imminent assassination plot, the agents would want to know details, and they couldn’t talk about the details without confessing to all the nastiness in West Virginia. Not only would that get them all thrown in jail for the rest of their lives, it would also sully whatever case was ultimately built in court against the bad guys.
Plus, there was always the possibility that they were flat-out wrong-if not about the plot, then about the day.
“Suppose we just convince them to move the podium forward or backward a few feet,” Venice said. “If he’s shooting blind, wouldn’t that make a difference?”
“That depends on the configuration of the stage and the lectern,” Jonathan said. He tapped the keyboard and brought up a satellite photo of the Iwo Jima Memorial, the most prominent feature of which was the statue patterned after the famed Joe Rosenthal photo of six marines raising the American flag atop Mount Suribachi in February of 1945. The park was laid out as a rectangle that covered about an acre of land. The long sides of the rectangle ran north and south, with the statue situated on the eastern edge, facing west.
“Okay, Box,” Jonathan said, “and Special Agent Bonneville. Pretend you’re a sniper. Where do you want to be?”
“Zoom out a little,” Boxers said.
Jonathan could tell that Venice was getting twitchy not being in command of the computer, so he intentionally clicked the wrong button, and the picture went away completely.
“Get out of my way,” Venice said, elbowing him out of his chair. He stood, and she took charge. When the satellite image returned, she zoomed out to about a thousand feet.