The Permit

by William B. Scott

  Despite repeatedly being shoved into the background, Win-the-engineer managed to score a few points: Who was that shooter-cop? Young or old? Experienced or rookie? How long had he been on the Metro force? What exactly transpired, after he confronted Erik? What possessed the guy to fire, when, according to several witnesses, Erik presented no threat?

  Win-the-reporter fought to keep some distance and look dispassionately at broader, more-subtle elements. Don't jump to conclusions. Assemble the facts and witness reports, then search for linkages. Listen carefully to whatever Las Vegas "officials" were uttering, but look for holes. Maintain a discriminating skepticism.

  Butt-covering was the norm for modern "official-dumb," especially when some government fool screwed up. Keep the BS antennae up and rotating. Watch for tell-tale signs of misdirection, obfuscation and outright cover-up, but give the system a reasonable benefit-of-the-doubt—at least in these early hours of confusion and uncertainty.

  Then strike fast: Contact insiders and sources ASAP, before still-fresh tracks vanished. Finally, rely on a mixture of facts, experience and gut-feel to nail the real story.

  Win soon had pages of questions, but only one solid fact, a lone element of stark truth: Erik was dead, shot to death by a cop. All else was maybe, what if, could be and yet-to-be-determined unknowns.

  As Win studied each question, adding a note here and there, the three selves—father, engineer and reporter—gradually converged into a singular, powerful mental image: A roiling, black-laced mushroom cloud rising above a fleet of Las Vegas Metro black-and-white cruisers ringing the Summerlin Ho's warehouse store.

  Anger was winning the battle with logic. Above all else, Win Steele wanted to destroy the evil forces that had killed Erik. He desperately yearned to put a .45 against that asshole cop's forehead and pull the trigger.

  On the ground in Chicago, Steele left the 767 and hunted for his connecting flight to Denver. Tired and emotionally numb, he marveled at other passengers, aircrews and concession workers going about their business.

  Didn't they realize that a magnitude 9.0 upheaval had struck, silencing a superb, successful man? That today and a forever of tomorrows were completely, totally different than all yesterdays?

  How could people be so oblivious, so casual, so… normal? He fought the urge to stop a coat-and-tie businessman with a Bluetooth bug jammed into an ear, or a four-stripe pilot dragging a wheelie topped by an airline-issue flight bag, and compel them to understand.

  Our Erik was killed! My son is dead! For God's sake! Don't you care? Does anybody care?

  Totally illogical, senseless, mental screams. But he couldn't help it. They were there, swirling amid turmoil and hurt. A cocktail of confusion, pain and fury.

  Win bought a cup of steaming coffee and settled into a padded seat at his departure gate. He re-checked his e-mail, scanning news accounts of Erik's killing. Each dutifully regurgitated crap spewed by Metro's Captain Michael Greel, a cocky weasel Win was learning to despise. A close-up photo of Greel showed a porky, forty-something cop with a beer belly and thinning, prematurely gray hair losing the battle of bald. Dark, squinty eyes were unusually close together.

  Greel was quoted liberally, spouting details that could not possibly have been vetted and verified, prior to a hurry-up press conference in the Ho's-Summerlin parking lot. The damned fool never used qualifying terms a reporter would expect to hear from a law enforcement professional immediately after a tragic event. No "alleged," or "victim," or "it's too early," or "that will be determined by an investigation."

  Just BAM! Abject certainty: "The suspect pulled a gun and our officers had to shoot him."

  Suspect? Suspected of what? Hell, Erik was no criminal! Yet that arrogant captain implied the "suspect" was a despicable dirtbag, who deserved to be gunned down!

  Win fired off a thumb-typed e-mail to Ned Scott, a top-notch TV reporter for Channel 7, KWNV, The Voice of Nevada. Over a fifteen-year span, he and Ned had shared leads, tips and insights, as they investigated "black-aircraft" stories for their respective news organizations. They had endured more than a few nights in a rental car and TV news van, staking out the borders of Groom Lake, the U.S. Air Force's ultrasecret test base in north-central Nevada.

  After he retired from International Aerospace magazine to write novels, Win had been a periodic guest on Ned's late-night radio show, discussing Steele's techno-thriller books, covert spaceplanes, "black" ops and cutting-edge, secret technologies being employed against terrorists.

  A gate attendant was pre-boarding the Denver flight, when the iPhone Violet Hawthorne had given Win vibrated. He tapped a memorized code to unlock the crypto-secure device and read a curt text message:

  Win: Just learned of your tragic loss. Erik was murdered in cold blood. Call as soon as you get home. We can help. — Doc

  That would be Michael David Black, who Violet had mentioned the night before as Win's contact. A neighbor and friend, Doc was the former sheriff of Jefferson County, Colorado.

  The initials "M.D." explained the nickname "Doc," though Black had no association with the medical profession. A career peace officer, he'd been an exemplary, two-term sheriff for one of the state's largest, most-populous counties, retiring with a string of awards and the admiration of colleagues and citizens.

  Known as a tough, fair and scrupulously honest lawman, Black had been snapped up by aerospace giant Lawhead Corporation and assigned as the company's liaison to U.S. Northern Command headquarters, the Colorado Springs-based military partner to the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. He also provided Northcom and DHS with first-hand expertise about large cities' first-responder capabilities and limitations.

  Black also was a committed, serious author. As Violet had noted, Win and Doc periodically met to discuss the trials of modern-day publishing and trade ideas about plot lines and characters.

  After boarding, Win re-read Doc's message, trying to comprehend how his friend might have learned about Erik's death. Win hadn't called any Colorado Springs-area friends, and had no family living in the Pikes Peak region to spread the tragic news.

  Doc, as Lawhead's Northcom/DHS liaison, had access to intelligence captured and assessed by military, CIA and contractor experts manning Northern Command's high-tech operations center.

  Win had been inside that ops facility, watching exercises in real time, and had written Aerospace International stories about Northcom's voracious appetite for information funneled from across the North American continent.

  But the senseless killing of an innocent civilian by Las Vegas police officers hardly warranted the attention of a Northcom watch officer. Still, how else might Doc have been alerted about Erik's murder-by-cop?

  The United jet pushed back from its gate, then threaded a maze of Chicago-O'Hare taxiways, its high-bypass engines whining a low, early morning lullaby. Steele closed his eyes and breathed slowly, trying to relax — and crack a suspected between-the-lines code in Doc Black's cryptic message. A thought drifted across his consciousness, a tantalizing maybe, a tickle of possibility.

  What if, through some miracle, he could tap into the "black world," that ultra-classified confluence of intelligence, advanced technology and covert operators? Would any of his insider contacts step up and assist him now, during the worst crisis of his sixty-three-point-five years? Had Doc Black's message implied as much?

  Doc was part of Lawhead Corporation, which had a long, storied history in the "black" arena, where lines between contractor and customer blurred. Shadow-warriors could peel the onion of a cover-up in Las Vegas, and certainly inflict great pain on bad guys. But would they help an old alumnus? And why would they?

  Sure, Win Steele had once been an integral member of that "black" community, while assigned to the National Security Agency and flying classified missions. On several occasions, he'd held a Top Secret security clearance augmented by a handful of Special-Access-Required add-ons. Later, though, as an Aerospace International investigative reporter, he'd also been a thorn
in the black world's supersecret buttocks.

  Wouldn't it be a hoot, if the spooks would actually help me retaliate against Erik's murderers?

  Not a chance. However, the crazy, fatigue-induced fantasy coaxed a weary smile, the first in more than fifteen hours.

  Though unrecognized, at that moment, God had already dispatched the first of many Earth-angels to guide Win Steele through the most ferocious battle of his existence. Rather than ethereal winged beings, though, His terrestrial warrior-angels flew sophisticated "black" aircraft, and commanded an arsenal of deadly, off-the-books weapon systems that surpassed the imagination of Hollywood's best.

  A war had been declared, and Las Vegas Metro's smug killers had no inkling that they had incurred the wrath of unimaginably powerful, invisible forces.

  Erik's avenging angels were inbound.

  CHAPTER 10

  TERRORIST THREAT

  "I want them lying awake at night,

  worried that they might be next.

  I want you to scare the shit out of them."

  Thomas Stansfield

  CIA Deputy Director of Operations

  American Assassin

  by

  Vince Flynn

  MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

  "Mr. Bright's expecting you, sir," the gate guard said. A broad smile exposed tobacco-stained teeth. "Have a good one, general."

  A black-and-yellow vehicle barrier rotated from horizontal to vertical, granting Gray Manor's Range Rover access to one of Northern Virginia's most upscale gated communities. Known as the Beverly Hills of nearby Washington, D.C., McLean was home to diplomats, congressmen and senior government officials.

  "Thanks," Manor replied. He hesitated, giving the guard a long once-over. "Have we met?"

  "I was in your unit, during Desert Storm, sir. Just another scared ground-pounder humping a rucksack and rifle."

  Manor stuck a hand through the open window. "Well, thanks for serving with me, Marine. You make the Corps a career?"

  "Yessir," the man said, gripping Manor's paw. "Retired as a gunny with twenty-one… and fifty-percent disability."

  The hint of resignation was a subtle, practiced invitation for the "What happened?" question.

  Probably wounded, Manor thought, nodding.

  "Gotta run, but thanks for the howdy, Gunny. We did kick some Iraqi butt, didn't we?"

  Manor flashed a grin and popped a half-salute. The startled guard instinctively snapped to and returned the honor.

  Manor hooked an elbow over the open window's sill and maneuvered the boxy Rover through tree-shaded, narrow streets. The air was humid and heavy, but cool at this early hour. He and Julia had been guests of Todd and Toni Bright several times, and admired the old-money feel of this secluded neighborhood. Stately brick houses were set well back from streets overarched by huge deciduous trees. Each was fronted with well-manicured lawns and tasteful, professional landscaping.

  Manor swung into the Brights' crescent drive. Grabbing his modified, crypto-secure "Tactical" iPad, Manor again wondered why Todd had called, asking that his Checkmate director "drop by" for an impromptu Sunday-morning meeting. The Brights were regular churchgoers, but Todd had hinted that the two men might be "tied up for a spell." A Southern Baptist from Oklahoma, Todd rarely skipped Sunday devotions.

  Something damned important must have popped up, Manor concluded, taking the front-porch steps two at a time.

  As Deputy Secretary of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, Todd Bright was Manor's boss. Consequently, declining his offer for a last-minute coffee klatch wasn't an option.

  Todd hadn't explained why a Sunday meeting was necessary. However, the invitation had come minutes after Manor e-mailed his boss a summary of the Erik Steele shooting and requested a Monday strategy meeting.

  Todd answered the door.

  "Howdy, Gray! Good to see you, son! Come in, come in!" The two shook hands. "There's a pot of coffee a-waitin' in the den. Black, right?"

  "Morning, Todd. Yep, black, sir."

  Manor followed his boss down a hallway lined with rich cherry-wood paneling. Standing six-feet-four, Bright was physically imposing and fit for a man in his seventies. Unruly steel-gray hair, plus a rich voice gave the military-science expert a decidedly professorial aura.

  The two had met, when Manor was a young, gung-ho Marine Corps lieutenant colonel attending the National War College at Fort Lesley J. McNair, an historic Army post bordering the Potomac River. Todd was Manor's faculty advisor, and they had quickly established a strong mutual respect.

  Obviously on the fast track, with general's stars in his future, Gray Manor was one of the most thoughtful, insightful, intellectually curious — yet practical — students Bright had ever encountered. The men had spent many evenings debating next-generation special operations concepts. Many were later validated in table-top wargames.

  Manor's ideas for combating twenty-first century terrorism on a global scale were ahead of their time, and the Pentagon's old guard had dismissed them as irrelevant. That is, until the Berlin Wall fell, the old Soviet Union disintegrated, and, finally, America's national security posture was upended on September 11, 2001. Shocking al Qaeda attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon shattered the five-sided building's stubborn Cold War mentality. Suddenly, Islamic terrorism was front and center, the nation's top priority.

  As an advisor to the president's national security team, Todd Bright was heavily involved in crafting America's response to al Qaeda's murder of approximately 3,000 citizens. Bright also was responsible for Gray Manor's appointment as commander of a new counterterrorism cell within U.S. Special Operations Command — and rapid promotion to brigadier general.

  Overnight, Manor's once-dismissed ideas for combining high-tech weaponry with behind-enemy-lines tactics were being fielded in Afghanistan. His unit's small teams of highly trained special operations forces were the storied "horse soldiers," who rode with Afghan tribes in the autumn of 2001, calling in air strikes that quickly decimated the Taliban in Northwest Afghanistan.

  Later, when the Department of Homeland Security was established, Todd Bright was the logical choice to head that fledgling agency's domestic counterterrorism operations. Although an academic, who had taught military science at the Air Force Academy, before taking over the National Policy Research Department at the National War College, Bright had tempered theory with firsthand experience. He'd routinely ventured into the field, observing and listening to SOF commanders and troops engaged in real-world combat with terrorist groups throughout the Middle East, Pacific, and Central and South America.

  Bright waved Manor to a chair, filled two oversized ceramic coffee mugs and handed one to his guest.

  "I read your summary of the Steele shooting. Damned shame, son. Absolutely shocking and completely senseless. That kid had real promise.

  "Obviously, losing Steele screws our Latin-operation plans," he continued. "We'd considered using him on a case in Honduras, as I recall. I don't see anybody in Checkmate with the combination of combat and language skills that Steele brought to the fight. Correct?"

  "That's right, sir. We had Comet 'pre-fragged' for his first international mission next month. He'd logged three successful domestics, and ops had tasked him for a quick out-and-back mission to Denver tomorrow."

  "Any chance this was a setup? Do we have a security breach in Vegas?"

  Manor shook his head. "Don't think so. Comet's shooting feels too random. Our Vegas team's still scarfing up info, but I don't see how Comet's murder could have been prearranged. Too many moving parts and people involved.

  "As of today, I'd say there's a ninety-five-percent probability that Steele simply ran into a perfect storm of unbelievably bad luck."

  Bright nodded absently, sipping his coffee. "I see. But after that Miles kid was killed by Vegas cops… Sheesh! Let me know ASAP, if something pops up to change your mind.

  "Anything else?"

  Manor expanded on his brief e-mail report of the Echelon-ca
ptured conversation between Las Vegas Metro's Captain Mikey Greel and Antone Galocci, the powerful, Mob-linked resort-casino boss. He described the public administrator's break-in of Erik's condominium, accompanied by a Metro police officer, and Manor's interpretation of Steele's actions and subsequent shooting, based on the Ho's surveillance video.

  "Your conclusions?" Bright asked. Deep set brown eyes probed those of his guest.

  Todd Bright reminded Manor of former Senator Fred Thompson — physically large and dominating, with a rich voice. In contrast to his look-alike, though, Todd had hair, and the accent was vintage Oklahoma twang, not genteel, sipping-whisky-smooth Tennessee.

  Bright had never faced a TV camera, unlike Thompson, a well-known politician, talk-show commentator and Law and Order actor. Todd was every bit as effective in Washington circles, though, working quietly behind the scenes, master of a shadow world steeped in intrigue, secrets and covert operations.

  "Erik Steele was executed by dim-witted cops for no logical, discernible reason," Manor declared without qualification. "Based on the Ho's security video, Comet never touched his concealed weapon. Some fat-assed… "

  Manor arrested a flash of anger and drew a slow breath, before continuing.

  "A lard-belly cop confronted Comet in the middle of a crowd, yelled something, and fired. All within two seconds, max. Probably because Steele had a BlackBerry in his right hand.

  "That moron couldn't tell the difference between a cell phone and a forty-five semiautomatic! Unbelievable."

  His head wagged in distress.

  "And you want to sic the FBI onto Metro. Have 'em jump on the Steele killing toot-sweet. Investigate it as a civil rights-violation case?"

  "Proof's right here, Todd," Manor said, tapping his secure iPad. "The Ho's security video of Comet's murder, several intercepted phone calls among Captain Greel and his cops, then between Greel and Galocci, and two voicemails left for Kyler Steele by that frantic public administrator — who's a former cop, by the way.