by Dalton Fury
Raynor gave the hospital itself only a cursory inspection. He was more interested in determining lines of sight and possible locations from which Shiner might be able to make his next attempt. As they rolled by, he snapped several photos of the horizon in every direction.
They stopped in a mall parking lot a couple miles up the road to coordinate their coverage strategy. Raynor brought up Google Earth on one of the tablets, and displayed his recon photos on the other.
“The clearest shot is from the south,” he said. “From one of these buildings in Bethesda.”
The screen showed the divided highway, but in the distance, several tall structures were visible.
Hawk checked the range on the satellite image. “The closest is about a thousand meters. That’s within his range.”
“It’s also close enough that the Secret Service will probably check it out,” Digger countered. “Especially after what happened in New York.”
“We’re not going to duplicate their work,” Raynor said. “We’ll push out farther if we have to. I wouldn’t put it past Shiner to attempt to break his old record.” He switched to another picture. “The National Institutes of Health campus is due west. There are some good vantages here, but they’re close in. Maybe too close. And easy for the Secret Service to keep tabs on. They’ll probably have teams on every rooftop there.
“Then there’s the north.” He switched to the last image, which showed another road gently rising to disappear in the tree line.
“Lot of good places to hide there,” Slapshot said.
“Yeah,” Raynor agreed. “Too many. That’s about a klick and a half from the main entrance.”
“You’re assuming POTUS is going in through the front door. Do we know for sure how he’ll be arriving?”
“No.” Raynor shook his head. “But my money is on helo transport. Marine One. The helipad is here.” He tapped the satellite map, indicating a perfectly square paved area on the hospital lawn, just inside the south entrance, then shifted his finger to the nearest structure. “Med services are here. They might drive him, but foxtrot is also a possibility with all those cameras around.”
“Visiting the old lady in the hospital,” Slapshot put in. “Great photo op.”
“I can call Todd and verify the method of travel if you want,” Digger said.
Raynor looked up in surprise. “He’s still talking to you? You’re not on the Secret Service shit list with the rest of us?”
Digger grinned. “The bonds of brohood are strong. And he’s still young and eager to impress.”
“You mean naïve,” Hawk added with a snort.
“Let’s hold off on that as long as we can. If Simmons finds out we’re in his AO, he might try to shut us down.” Raynor turned back to the satellite map. “POTUS will be most vulnerable during movement from the helo to the hospital.”
“Or when he leaves,” Slapshot added. “What goes in has to come out.”
“We’re going to find Shiner long before either happens. Okay, specific tasks. Shaft, Venti, Joker … you have the south. Recce the area, try to narrow the list of possibilities. Mostly, you’re just pre-positioning, waiting for the UAV to show us where he is. Stay entirely lo-viz.” He emphasized the last part.
“Got it, boss,” Shaft said quickly. “Basically, do what we’ve been doing for the last two months.”
“Slap and I will hit the woods to the north. If he’s there, FLIR will show us where he is.”
“Hot today. Gonna be hard to differentiate body heat. Maybe we can call POTUS and get him to wait until after dark, when it’s cooler.”
Raynor shrugged. “I didn’t say it would be easy.” He turned to Digger and Hawk. “I want you guys on the inside.”
“Secret Service knows us, boss,” Digger said. “Probably better than any of you guys.”
“Why do you think I picked you two for this detail? Try to stay off their radar if you can, but if … make that when we find Shiner, I want you guys coordinating with them, both to keep POTUS out of the line of fire, and to direct their assets to deal with Shiner.”
The others stared at him in shocked silence. Finally Slapshot said, “Boss, I thought we came here to kill this fucker.”
“That’s why I came here. Then you guys showed up and I realized we have to at least make the effort to do this within the regs. We’re just concerned citizens reporting a threat. The idea is to pull this off without going to jail.”
“Right. So we call the Secret Service, then we kill him. In self-defense, of course.”
Raynor didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
* * *
Slapshot drove the Silverado around the wooded neighborhood half a mile north of the WRNMMC, while Raynor, in the passenger seat, looked for anything suspicious in the trees, and alternately monitored the live-stream newsfeed.
The helicopter carrying FLOTUS arrived about an hour after the group dispersed to their respective assignments, and the news cameras captured every moment. The patient, strapped to a collapsible stretcher, was lifted out of the helicopter and then placed immediately into a waiting ambulance for the short ride to the back entrance, where the reporters were not allowed to follow. The coverage finished with an unconfirmed report that the president would be arriving within the hour.
That was how much time they had left to find Shiner.
“He could be set up in the attic of one of these places,” Slapshot observed.
Raynor looked up as they passed between a pair of three-story brick manor houses.
“I hope not. If we have to, we’ll check each one.”
“You think folks’ll just let us into their attics to poke around? We gonna pretend to be termite inspectors?”
“We’ll tell them the truth. That we’re part of the protection detail.”
“That’s the truth?”
Raynor shrugged. “We should be able to narrow it down once the UAV gets here. Speaking of which…” He switched the tablet to the page with the UAV feed. The video image looked about the same as it had the first time he’d checked it, but the GPS indicated that the drone was now over Northern Virginia, still about eighty miles away.
At its present speed, the aircraft was about half an hour out—another thirty minutes before they would be able to start looking in earnest.
He called the contact number Pete Grauer had given him. A female voice answered, “Flight operations.”
“This is…” He paused, wondering how to identify himself. The client?
“Racer? Is that you?” The voice did sound familiar. “It’s Pam Archer.”
He laughed despite himself. “Pete didn’t tell me that you would be running the show today. Honestly, I didn’t think he’d ever let you behind the stick again after you crashed Baby Boy in Pakistan.”
Slapshot looked over, one eyebrow raised. Raynor mouthed, “Long story.”
“He reminds me of the fact every time I ask for a raise,” Archer said.
“In case I forgot to say it then, thanks. And thanks for doing this.”
“I just do what Pete tells me. What do you need?”
“We’re up against the clock here, Pam. Can you squeeze a little more out of her?”
“Done.” On the embedded HUD, the flight speed indicator began ticking upward as the landscape below flashed by even faster. The numbers leveled off at about 240 knots. “Revised ETA, eighteen minutes.”
Raynor grimaced. It wasn’t as much as he’d hoped for, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. “Thanks, Pam. Pete told you what we’re looking for?”
“He told me where to point the cameras. I assume he told you that the area you want to look at is in restricted airspace.”
“He mentioned a workaround.”
“The airspace around Washington, D.C., is a special flight rules area. What it basically means is that all aircraft have to file a flight plan and stick to it, and be in radio contact with air traffic control. Within that airspace is a smaller flight restricted zone, where only g
overnment planes and scheduled commercial flights can go. Bethesda is within the FRZ, and we don’t have a waiver to enter it or deviate from our flight plan. We’ll only get one pass. That’s the bad news. The good news is that the flight plan will take us along the outer edge of the FRZ. The bird is equipped with the ARGUS 1.8 megapixel dual-mode camera. Natural light and infrared. The resolution is good enough that you should be able to zoom in close enough to identify a person if they happen to be looking up. From fourteen thousand feet, which is as high as we can go without a flight plan, we can observe an area of about one hundred square miles. We’ll also be recording FLIR data and you can review that after the pass. I can skirt the edge of the FRZ and give you an oblique view of the objective.”
“Oblique,” Raynor muttered. That news was even more disheartening, but he wasn’t going to complain. “We’ll work with it. Thanks, Pam. Let me know when you’re set.”
* * *
From the comfort of the air-conditioned flight operations center, a small modular building perched on the edge of the Key West International Airport, Pamela Archer teased the limits of the no-fly zone surrounding the nation’s capital. Private aircraft—everything from small planes to remote-controlled quad-copter drones—were not permitted inside the FRZ, but inadvertent violations were commonplace, mostly the result of amateur pilots making minor navigational mistakes. The consequences of entering that space ranged from mild—a visual laser-warning system—to severe, which included the possibility of being engaged and destroyed by interceptor aircraft. While there was no physical risk to Archer or her crew, on the ground almost a thousand miles away, the penalties of anything beyond that first gentle warning were severe enough to ensure that she kept the Predator B well away from the virtual fence.
And now Kolt Raynor was pressuring her to get closer.
As promised, she had put the aircraft over the designated area—technically, about eight miles west of it—less than twenty minutes after Racer’s first call. One of her techs oriented the gimbal-mounted camera in the direction of Bethesda and began transmitting high-def live video directly to Racer’s tablet—the same images that now appeared on the big wall-mounted plasma screen in the op center. A smaller monitor showed the same landscape in grayscale, but it was too hot for infrared feed to be of much use to Raynor. The trees and landscape were still well defined, but everything appeared white, as if blanketed in snow.
Archer glanced at the other screens from time to time, but kept her attention mostly focused on the GPS, flying by instruments. The camera’s resolution was startlingly crisp, allowing for a slow panoramic view of the target area. Racer and his Delta boys would be able to freeze and zoom any part of the image at will, or rewind and start over again if necessary. Unfortunately, the part of the image that Raynor was most interested in was at the effective limit of the camera’s range, and partially obscured by the oblique angle.
She wore two headsets, one to monitor the air traffic control frequency assigned by the ZDC—the Washington Air Route Traffic Control Center—which played in her left ear, and one that connected her to the open conference call with Raynor and his mates. They were calling out areas of interest, but also complaining about the limitations of the technology and the ticking clock they were up against. As she finished her pass, Raynor addressed her directly.
“Pam, this isn’t going to cut it. You’ve got to make another pass, closer this time.”
“That’s not going to happen, Racer. I told you, one pass is all you get.”
“Bend the rules,” he pleaded. “It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. Tell the FAA it’s a nav error. They’re not going to shoot you down. Not over a populated area. You’ll be out before they can even scramble the interceptors.”
“Kolt, ground control has our transponder code. They know who this aircraft belongs to and who’s operating it. If I violate the FRZ, they won’t just shrug it off. At a minimum, I will lose my flight status and my job. Radiance will lose its government contracts and get fined out of existence. I am not going to do that to Pete.”
“Pam, there is a sniper down there, the same guy who hit FLOTUS from a mile and a half away. In about ten minutes, he’s going to take a shot at the president. He doesn’t miss, Pam. If we can find him and stop him, nobody is even going to ask you to apologize for trespassing, but if we don’t, this country is going to explode. That’s what’s at stake, Pam.”
Archer felt her throat tighten. The passionate urgency in Raynor’s voice seemed to vibrate through her entire body. Raynor was asking her to risk a lot on the basis of what really amounted to nothing more than a gut instinct.
Eight years ago, she had ignored her own instincts—followed the rules, played it safe—and men had died.
If she played it safe this time, how many would die?
“Five minutes,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Racer, wisely, refrained from expressing his gratitude.
She realized that the sensor techs were looking at her, eyes wide. “Might be a good time for a smoke break,” she said.
The two men exchanged a glance. One of them muttered, “Been meaning to quit.” The other just shrugged and turned back to his monitor.
“Okay, then.” Archer worked the joystick control, banking the UAV into a wide left turn. The landscape on the screen, an emerald tapestry dotted with houses and other buildings, and crisscrossed with a seemingly random pattern of roads and streets, began to shift and rotate. The GPS indicator showed the aircraft’s position and the edge of the FRZ drawing closer, and then the line was crossed.
For a few seconds, nothing happened, but then a bright green light flashed at the top of the big screen. It was followed an instant later by a red light, then green again, strobing like a light show at a concert.
“That’s the laser warning system,” Archer said. “We’re in the no-fly zone.”
“Understood,” Raynor said. “Stay on this heading as long as you can.”
Archer nodded absently without replying. Five minutes was pushing it. She would be lucky to give him two.
After about thirty seconds, she heard Raynor’s voice again. “We’re over the north limit. All eyes on.”
The Delta operators began talking amongst themselves, pointing out irregularities and suspicious areas in the field of view, dismissing them as shadows and artifacts. Archer ignored most of the chatter, staying focused on the task before her, but she paid attention when a female voice said, “Racer, we’re hearing Marine One is ten minutes out.”
“Roger, Hawk,” Raynor replied. “Keep looking.”
At almost the same instant, her left earpiece squawked. “Radiance Zero-Two, this is Leesburg Ground. You are off course and entering restricted airspace. Maintain your present altitude. Come right to three-three-zero and await further instructions. Acknowledge, over.”
Archer considered ignoring the transmission. Radio silence and the nav error would both fit the narrative of a signal interruption. Things like that did happen, but if there was any kind of follow-up investigation, the story would fall apart. She tried a different tack.
“Leesburg Ground, this is Radiance Zero-Two. We have authorization to enter the FRZ, over.”
There was a momentary pause as the air traffic control officer went looking for verification.
Just bought you an extra thirty seconds, Racer, Archer thought.
“Radiance Zero-Two, negative. You do not have authorization. Break off immediately.”
“Time to double down,” Archer said before hitting the push-to-talk. “Leesburg Ground, check again. The Secret Service requested us to provide aerial surveillance for the president’s visit. They should have submitted the authorization waiver.”
“Radiance Zero-Two, until we can confirm, you must leave the restricted area. If you do not immediately signal compliance, intercept aircraft will be alerted.”
Archer looked up at the big screen. The UAV was almost directly above the Walter Reed medical center
. “Sorry, Racer. I did my best.”
She put her thumb on the push-to-talk, but heard Raynor’s voice in her other ear. “Thirty more seconds, Pam.”
“Acknowledge, Radiance Zero-Two.”
Archer clenched her teeth and hit the transmit button. “Acknowledge. Turning right to three-three-zero. Radiance, out.”
She squeezed the joystick handle, but did not move it. Not right away. For Racer’s benefit, she started counting down. “Turning in five … four … three…”
A voice, so loud she couldn’t tell who it was, blasted in her ear. “That’s him!”
Archer hauled the joystick hard to the right, and let out the rest of her breath in a relieved sigh.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Raynor zoomed in on the frozen image. The angle of approach was perfect, giving him a head-on view of the man. The resolution wasn’t quite good enough to make out recognizable facial features, but there was no mistaking the black patch covering the man’s left eye. It didn’t hurt that Miric was facing north, looking almost directly into the camera lens, as if he knew Raynor was looking right at him.
He heard Pam Archer’s voice again, communicating with air traffic control, still trying to bluff them into believing she had permission to be there even as she talked her way through the course corrections that would take her out of unrestricted airspace. He ignored her, focusing instead on the fruit her bold action had produced.
“Get a location on him,” he said.
“Got it, boss,” Shaft came back. “Chevy Chase Trust Building. West tower. Address is 7501 Wisconsin Ave.”
Raynor zoomed the image back out, noting the location of the tall, sturdy-looking white commercial structure, smack in the middle of town.