“And our sailors and junior aviators don’t want to spend their lives at sea. So they get out of the service and we have to spend megabucks to recruit and train new people. It’s really a vicious cycle.”
Grafton took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “My group documents the cost of the choices. We explain the options to the decision makers. That’s what I do.”
Yocke wanted to keep Grafton talking. He changed the subject. “I’ve been looking at these soldiers today. They look pretty young to be carrying loaded rifles through the streets of a city.”
“They are young. But they’re good kids. They joined the Army to get a little piece of the American dream — a job, money for an education later, to learn a skill, to earn some respect. Young men have been joining the military for those reasons for thousands of years.”
“Can they fight?”
“You bet your ass. They’re as good as any soldiers who ever wore an American uniform.”
“But they’re not trained for the way you’re using them.”
“Nope.”
The door to the apartment building opened and Rita Moravia and Toad Tarkington came out. Jack Yocke suppressed a grin. Moravia was a beautiful woman, but dressed in khaki trousers, a heavy coat, boater hat and flying boots, she didn’t look the part.
“Hey, Rita,” Jake Grafton said.
“Captain. Mr. Yocke.”
“Jack. Please.”
“Thanks for including me on your expedition. What’s on the agenda?”
“Let’s go watch the guys do a housing project.” Jake consulted the map. “The Jefferson projects. You know where that is?” he asked Yocke.
“Yeah. I’ve been there before.” Yocke pulled the transmission lever into drive and got the car under way.
The supermarket parking lot was unexpectedly crowded. Charon walked between the parked cars and by the people pushing shopping carts to the pay phone mounted on the wall, beside a row of newspaper vending stands. He glanced around to ensure no one was within earshot. The shoppers were too busy with their own affairs. Charon peeled back the leather glove on his left wrist to reveal his watch. Then he removed the telephone from its hook. He read the instructions. No coin needed for emergency calls. Saved a quarter, anyway.
He dialed 911.
The phone rang three times before a woman said, “Police emergency.”
He spoke quickly, as fast as possible. “There’s a woman being murdered in an apartment house on New Hampshire Avenue. I can hear the screams.” He gave the address. “Better hurry.” He hung up quickly and walked back to his car, which was parked in the darkest corner of the lot with a fringe of trees and shrubs behind, blocking the view. Still, anyone in the lot could see him clearly if they only took the time to look. Predictably they didn’t.
He removed his gear from the trunk and carried it twenty feet away. Then he got out the plastique and the timing device and put them on the floor of the driver’s seat. He inserted the fuse in the plastique and very carefully set the timer. He watched it tick on the LCD display for several seconds. Satisfied, he reached into the backseat and got the one-gallon milk jug. He put that on the floor beside the plastique and unscrewed the lid. Between the lid and the jug he had used a piece of plastic wrap to ensure a good seal. Now he peeled it off and tossed it on the seat with the red plastic screw cap.
The vapors from the gasoline in the jug would fill the interior of the car. When the bomb went off in an hour the gasoline vapors would enhance the explosion and ensure that a very hot fire resulted. If everything worked as he thought it would, there would be no fingerprints left for the police. The confusion and uncertainty caused by the bomb would also slow the manhunt.
He had rigged up a half pound of plastique. That was a lot. Maybe too much. Too bad he hadn’t had time to play with this stuff and get a better feel for the proper quantity to use.
The car keys were still in the ignition. Better remove those. No use tempting some kid to break the window before this thing pops. He put the keys under the seat.
What else?
That’s it. He pushed down the door lock and carefully shut the door. It clicked. He then pushed hard until it closed completely with another click.
The first police officers on the scene double-parked. The driver locked his car door and stood on the sidewalk listening while his partner walked around the car as he checked to see if the shotgun was loaded. It was. He ensured the safety was on.
“I don’t hear any screams.”
“Me either.”
They had just started up the stairs when the building literally blew apart. Both officers died instantly. As the fireball expanded it seared the paint on cars a hundred feet away.
The backup officers two blocks away on New Hampshire saw the explosion and called it in. As the seconds ticked away the rubble heap that had been a building became a roaring inferno.
The first fire truck arrived four minutes after the explosion. Firemen flaked out their hoses and opened hydrants. More police cars rushed to the scene and additional fire trucks were directed in.
Sixteen minutes after the initial blast a green 1968 Volkswagen beetle parked a hundred feet away from the apartment building blew up. Investigators later estimated the car contained four pounds of Semtex, a Czechoslovakian plastic explosive. Pieces of the vehicle were found on the roofs of buildings as far away as a hundred and twenty yards.
Seven firemen working on a pumping truck parked beside the VW were killed in the blast. Flying debris decapitated a policeman fifty feet away. The glass in every window on the block that faced the street was blown in, cutting one woman so badly she bled to death. Over a dozen people were injured by flying glass and debris.
The police had sealed the block when Jake Grafton and his junior officers arrived. They stood for a few minutes at the police line and watched the fire in the center of the block rage unchecked. They could just see members of the police bomb squad going down the rows of parked cars, checking each one.
Jake Grafton sent Toad to make a phone call. The military had better have some EOD teams — explosive ordnance disposal — nearby if needed.
Bombs. Terrorists? Or our shooter that lacked the nervous feet?
Nervous feet. What a silly thing to say. The assassin didn’t have nervous feet.
“Captain Grafton?” A uniformed patrolman asked the question.
“Yes.”
“There’s an FBI agent at police headquarters asking for you, sir. They want you to go down there, if you can.”
“Sure. Tell them I’m on my way.”
“Okay.”
Jake looked around. Yocke was talking to Rita. He would know where police headquarters were. Jake had no idea.
It wasn’t a real forest, of course. Here on the side of the ridge in Rock Creek Park where Henry Charon stood the traffic noise was loud. Too loud. It would drown out the noises he needed to hear if anyone came along. Not that that was very likely on a winter’s night like this. Rain, cold, wind. Perfect.
He continued slowly up the ridge, making no noise at all as he moved across the wet ground without a flashlight. On his back was a pack that contained his supplies. A sleeping bag on a string hung from one shoulder.
His weapons were in a long gym bag he carried in his right hand. Three grenades, a disassembled rifle, and plenty of ammunition. Under his coat he carried a pistol. The silencer was in his pocket.
He found the little notch in the rocks without difficulty. His woods sense led him unerringly to it. He felt around carefully. Good! The cache in the crack above his head was undisturbed.
He lowered the bags to the ground and slipped away from the cave. He circled it in the darkness, taking his time, pausing often to listen and look. In ten minutes he returned to the cave and began unpacking.