by Deforest Day
Now he volunteered at a substance abuse clinic, and drove three days a week for Meals on Wheels. He’d been clean and sober since January third, nineteen ninety-eight.
Tran was a part-time interpreter for Army Intelligence, and part owner of a bar catering to journalists. He rode along on certain ops that required someone who both spoke the language and had short-term access to large sums of cash. Now he owned a string of gas ‘n’ go convenience stores in Maryland and Virginia.
Lieutenant Fred was ROTC at Howard University, and clever enough to finagle an assignment to a REMF job in a supply depot. He set up and signed off on Poppy’s midnight missions. The ones delivering cargo slings of cold beer to the forward fire bases.
They split the profits; Fred used his share to get an MBA at GW, then used that to get a sinecure with the Congressional Black Caucus. Poppy had invested his money in tonight’s House of Cards.
Because Jack’s principal source of income was his disability check, and Tran’s net worth was in eight figures, the five had long ago agreed the ante was two bits, and the maximum bet was a buck. The game was about food, friends, and the crazy-ass days of yore.
Patty had long ago lost interest in a bunch of old farts playing penny ante poker, and carried Liz's school blouses upstairs to the bedroom they shared. She opened the window, lit up, turned on the little Sony.
Kat and Liz were side by side on the sofa, gnawing ribs, fooling with Linux, and giggling about the adults.
Nick supplied the poker players with fresh beers, and kept a jealous eye on Liz and Kat, who seemed to have entered a girly world beyond his understanding.
Patty had left the living room set tuned to ABC, and the top of the hour news break featured flames, flashing lights, and a breathless reporter. “Three people were killed when an SUV crashed through the windows of a gas station in Nebraska that had just hung a ‘no gas’ sign on the pumps.
“When arrested, the driver, Theodore Cruikshank, said he’s been in line for seven hours, and needed a tank of gas to quote rendezvous with some golfing buddies in the morning.”
The anchor said, “Seriously, folks, with prices a full three dollars a gallon above yesterday’s record numbers, something is going to break.
“We already have reports the A4A organization, Americans For America, fire bombed several CITGO stations in Michigan, home of the erstwhile militia. CITGO is a wholly owned subsidiary of Venezuela's state-owned oil company. Now stay tuned for America's top reality show, Washington Wife Swap.”
Tran tossed another dollar in the pot. “I close two stations in Virginia this morning.”
“Out of gas, eh?”
“No out of gas. Not worth what he said; crazy people, destroy my business. I got plenty gas. Jack. You need a Meals on Wheels fill up, call me.”
“Hey, put the game on.”
“Welcome to Washington Football! Tonight’s game between local powerhouse Dunbar High and rival Coolidge High School is sure to be a thriller. Speaking of thrillers, stay tuned after the game for cable’s most popular reality show: Execution of the Week. Tonight we’re going to rid the planet of a scum bag named Jason Maynard Frond, the man who drowned his wife in the toilet, cut her up, and FedEx'd the parts to her parents. Tonight’s show features a heart wrenching reenactment as the grief stricken parents describe opening those packages. But now it's for the coin toss, and we go down to the field with sideline reporter Mavis Malone.”
The opening kickoff was run back for a touchdown, and with twelve seconds in the history books it was time for the first commercial break of what was to be a long evening. Two thirty second spots by rival candidates for Maryland Governor were followed by a Presidential candidate standing before an American flag the size of a small state. He wore his Good Conduct ribbon in his lapel. “The U.S. military is the most powerful in the world, and when I’m elected I intend to make it stronger!”
Five Viet vets hooted, laughed. Poppy said, “You could say the same thing about the British military, in 1776. And look what happened to them.”
Liz said, “We kicked their butts.”
“Right, honey, but that’s not the point. It’s how they lost. The world’s most powerful army was beaten by a bunch of farmers. Farmers who wouldn’t fight fair. They hid behind trees, for Pete’s sake.”
Howie said, “That’s how I got my Purple Heart. The first one. Got my ass shot off, pardon my French, ladies, by some Pajama Charlie, hiding behind a tree, with his home-made rifle. World’s most powerful military my damaged be-hind!”
Kat’s cell phone rang.
Chapter Eighteen
Baltimore’s salty air had not been kind to the finish of the old four cylinder Buick, but it ran, which was more than they could say about their HomSec pool car. Al said they should report it stolen, when they got around to checking in at HQ. Right now they had to deal with Nico-demo. Last night’s assignment to terminate him had become very personal.
“Head to DC. We’ll start at the Impound Yard. If he ain’t there, we’ll squeeze his home address out of somebody.”
“We need to stop at HQ, get me another gun. Mine’s still someplace in that railroad car.”
Al unclipped the stun gun from his belt, handed it to his brother. “Take this. You won’t need your Glock for what we’re gonna do to Nico-demo. Besides, how do you plan to explain losing your gun and a department vehicle?”
—o—
Kat carried her phone into the kitchen, and still had to stick her finger in her ear to hear her boss. “Kat, your idea seems to be the first to bear fruit.” The FIRST FRUIT database monitored journalists, looking for leakers. Run as a joint NSA-CIA operation, she had no idea HomSec was involved, and even less of an idea of what part her idea played in it. She didn’t even know what ‘her idea’ was, and said so to Levon.
“Two shooters. We have police dash cam video of the latest event. In Chicago. Guy with a rifle in the back of a pickup truck. There was a lead on the owner of the truck, but it didn’t pan out, and they’ve dumped it in our lap. I need you here ASAP.”
Kat told Nick what little she knew on the way back to her Bug. “Just like we figured. Two guys in a truck. I’ll make sure you get halfies of whatever the prize is.”
Nick snorted, “I not going to quit my job just yet. How many is it? Four, five?” He put his fist out, raised his thumb, followed it with the fingers. “Here, Boston, Seattle and LA, Chicago.”
“Six; you forgot Dallas.”
“Six. Twelve guys, and the whole damn country is grinding to a halt. Did you hear what Poppy’s Vietnamese pal said? Tran has gas, but he closed down anyway.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence, each absorbed with their thoughts. Kat’s yellow Bug sat under a sickly white security light. “I really like your daughter; I can see a lot of myself, at that age. And Poppy’s a hoot. Aunt Patty’s kind of cool, too; reminds me of my granny.”
She unfastened her seat belt, opened the door, and the dome light came on. “Call me if Liz wants—”
A small hole appeared in the windshield, just below the rear view mirror. The back window exploded, showering the truck bed with a million glittering diamonds.
Nick swung the wheel hard left, slammed the selector into four wheel drive, and shot across the weeds toward the Cannon Works. “Hang on to your teeth,” he yelled just as they hit the railroad tracks. He cut the headlights, cranked the wheel, hit the gas. The truck spun sideways as it hit the rails, and straddled the tracks.
“What in the hell was that all about?”
Nick pointed at the hole in the windshield. “Someone took a shot at me. Or you. Or us.” He had a pretty good idea of both the target and the shooter, but he kept it to himself.
Kat reached in her carryall, fished out her cell phone.
“Who you calling?”
“911. Who the hell do you think I’m calling?”
“It had to be those two FPS morons. The ones who brought me to your building? No cops.”
; She reluctantly put the phone away. “Paloma? Is there something you’re not sharing?”
He shifted into low gear, followed the tracks for half a mile, then hit the lights as he drove back onto Shepherd Parkway. “It might be a good idea to grab your Glock. All I have is that little Kel-Tec.”
“Nick!” So he told her about the return trip from HomSec, his adventure in the scrap yard, the Moran's train trip. “Good Lord! They could have been killed.”
“Yes, that's quite possible.” He found a scrap of paper on the floor, wadded it up, and plugged the hole in his windshield. “Too bad it didn’t work out that way.” He checked his mirrors. “I don’t think we should go back for your car right now. I’ll have it towed to HomSec.”
He dropped her at the top of the HomSec ramp, where Kat told him to be careful. Because women always do that, figuring without it guys will do something dumb.
Nick returned to the Cannon Works. Parked at the recycling center, followed the shadows of the construction equipment beneath the Interstate. He made his way to the rear of the building, jumped on the loading dock, and put his shoulder against one of the big sliding doors. It squealed, it moved, he slipped inside.
The ambient light allowed him to open the file cabinet, find a night vision scope. He climbed to the roof, spent fifteen minutes looking for the Morans.
He returned the scope, swapped the Kel-Tec for his Beretta, reset the air bag, then headed home for some sleep. He had a feeling he might not have another chance for some time to come.
—o—
Kat stepped out of the elevator into a hive of activity, and she hurried to Levon's office. His techies had enhanced the license plate from the State Trooper’s dash cam. The Illinois DMV gave them the truck's temporary registration, and the buyer's name: José Martí.
Levon was at his keyboard; typing, scrolling, muttering. “There are over sixteen hundred José Martís, in dozens of data bases.” He glanced up at Kat. “We cross-referenced with all fifty states' DMV's, came up with seven hundred and forty-two driver's licenses, twelve in Illinois. The FBI is working the list.” Levon scowled at the monitor. “It's going to take some time to run them down.”
“Waste of time.” Major Machler moved behind him, peered at his list. “Ain’t gonna find nothin’. If the Chicago address was false, then so is José's driver's license.”
She put her cheek next to his, and dropped her hands onto his keyboard. typed, pointed at the monitor. “Looky here. Google says José Martí was Cuba’s Greatest Hero, Poet, Statesman. 1853-1895. Seems like he’s been dead for awhile. We need to find a real person connected to this, this thang. Are we officially calling it a Terrorist Attack yet?”
Levon refilled his cup from Geneva’s carafe. “Above my pay grade. Secretary Edgerton is on his way to the White House, for what he called high level discussions.”
The major shoved her hands in her hip pockets. Tonight she had traded Armani for DKNY jeans and an Army of One T shirt. “I hope the other side, whoever the hell they are, is as dumb-ass incompetent as we seem to be. Bunch of guys driving the Interstates, how many days now, how many ‘incidents’? And all we have is one piece of grainy dash cam footage.” She looked in her coffee cup, thought about a refill, thought better. “Girl, cogitate.”
Kat was still too wired from her midnight gun battle to want anything to do with coffee. Not gun battle, exactly, she decided, but certainly the closest she’d ever been to one. Or wanted to be. She didn’t think this was the moment to mention Nick’s suspicions about the Morans. Those creeps gave her the creeps. “Can I see the whole video?”
Levon pulled it up on his monitor, gave her his seat. Kat ran it, re-ran it, with a running narration. “The film shows a cap on the truck, and the inside is dark as hell's asshole, until the state trooper pulls behind it, and his headlights light up the shooter, resting a rifle on something.” She turned to Geneva. “Nick, Mr. Paloma, said the first thing snipers look for is a stable place to shoot from. And a tripod?”
“Bipod. Yes, exactly. Run it again.” The major leaned closer. “Freeze it. That looks like a sawhorse. And the dude’s sitting in a lawn chair.”
Levon pointed at the screen. “What’s with the two by fours? Because this isn’t just a couple of pissed-off carpenters, on their way home from the job.”
Kat gave Levon a look. He was a city boy, book smart. Back in Boston she'd had to help him assemble an IKEA desk. “They need the camper cap, so nobody can see the shooter. And they need the boards sticking out, so the hatch can be open. If the trooper hadn’t been right behind them, caught them in his headlights just as he fired the gun, we’d never know how they're doing it.”
Major Machler said, “It's a spider hole.” Levon looked puzzled. “Don't you know what a duck blind is?”
Levon said, “Well, I suppose it's plausible.”
The major gave him a dirty look. “Better than anything anybody here has come up with. Girl, you do show some outside the box skills.”
Levon shook his head. “Your supposition is too much deductive reasoning, without benefit of an algorithm to prove the theorem.” He gave them a pained look. “And that makes me feel outside my comfort zone.”
The major punched his arm, harder than necessary. “Bossman, I'd like to drag your ass into a free fire zone, and watch you algorithm yo'self out of it.”
Kat was cogitating, and waved her hand for Levon and Geneva to shut up. She grabbed a yellow pad and pencil. “We have a pickup truck, with a cap. A sawhorse, a lawn chair. Boards, and a gun. There’s a paradigm for you to deconstruct, Levon.”
She turned to Geneva. “Six separate dots to connect. Times six separate teams. All of those things had to have been bought somewhere. Now, if it’s, what are they called; sleeper cells? Six teams, getting ready for this over months, then we’re up shit's creek.”
She grabbed Geneva's arm. “But suppose it isn’t. Suppose all those things were bought close together, both in time and in place.” She handed the pad to Levon. “That’s exactly the kind of things computers and databases are designed for.”
They moved to the sixth floor, to one of the big conference rooms. Levon assembled his best people from Five, and they each brought what they considered their best people from Four. Someone thought to alert the restaurant staff, and the smell of coffee was soon followed by the smell of baking. Everyone in Washington knew the flakiest, buttery soft croissants in the nation’s capitol came from HomSec’s kitchen.
None of the eighteen people thought it odd Levon was using a newsprint pad and a fat black marker for the session. There was no time to prepare a PowerPoint.
“Alan, I want your team looking at truck registrations. Temporary tags. Focus on DC, Boston, Chicago, Houston, LA and Seattle.” He used the marker to underline each of the cities. “Chicago has an APB for the truck, but give them a heads up on what you're doing, anyway. They tell me the vehicle in the video is a ten-year-old Chevy. I’m guessing it's an archetype for the other five—old enough to be both cheap and inconspicuous.”
Major Machler jumped in. “They will have paid cash, used a phony ID. No way we’ll separate the ones with caps, until we talk to the sellers. That’s a shoe leather task. Lannie, liaise with the FBI.”
Someone asked, “What are caps?”
Someone else said, “Canopies, toppers. A fiberglass shell over the truck bed, to keep you from stealing their tools.”
“Or where you take your girlfriend, since you still live at home.”
“Your sister doesn't complain.”
“Knock it off,” Levon said. “Sinclair thinks the lumber is part of the set up.They need it to legitimize the open hatch. Alert all state and local police to be on the lookout for open truck caps with boards sticking out.” He turned to the list of cities. Smacked it with his hand. “OK. Ideas, people. What do you see? Anyone?”
“You're obsessing about some guy who bought a truck. What about the drivers?”
“Yeah! What about the drivers?”
“All those cities have airports. International airports. If these people flew in from abroad—”
“From Muslim countries?”
“Well, we don’t know if—”
“Those militia assholes say it’s Venezuela.”
“Don’t count out Greenpeace. Ecoterrorism.”
“Come on, let’s get serious. Yes, Harry?”
“If these are sleeper cells we should have heard something from our informants. Last year we paid over thirty-five million dollars to just about every visa-carrying ethnic in the country.”
“What’s your point, Harry?”
“My point is, they’re not sleepers. So it follows these six pairs arrived at the same time, in the same cities you have up there on the board. Like you said. International airports. Just like the nine-eleven hijackers.”
Someone yelled, “We’ve already been through this. Siddown, dude.”
“You siddown, George. What I’m trying to say, is these people didn’t get off an airplane, go find a used car lot, a gun store, a chair store, a two-by-four store. Don’t forget, these shootings started, given the time zone differences, almost simultaneously.” Harry savored his moment on stage. “The trucks, the guns, everything, was ready and waiting.”
“Long Term Parking!”
“There should be surveillance video!”
“Also the Arrivals Terminals!”
“Passport control! Visas! INS database!”
“Settle down, kids. Harry, this your baby, run with it.”
“Yeah, and while all of you are searching for these shooters, somebody ought to run down the firearm aspect of this. Whoever bought them is the mastermind. It only takes a driver’s license to buy a long gun, but the dealer still has to run the info through NICS.”
“Hold on a sec. We're forgetting the National Instant Criminal Background Check System is run by the FBI’s Criminal Justice Information Services Division. Our computers can't talk to their computers.”