He cares more about his own career than he does that kid, not to mention the rest of the crew. By God, if I thought I was endangering anyone on the ship, I’d be howling for that evacuation right now.
Easy to make snap judgments, though. Arnot grimaced. After this cruise, he’d be up for promotion to one-star himself, and someday might be sitting in the seat Jette occupied now.
And would I want my captain thinking about me the things I’m thinking about Jette?
No. He’d give the admiral the benefit of the doubt, Arnot decided.
Or give him enough rope to hang himself.
Aft crew galley
1400 local (GMT +3)
With the forward galley secured since Griffin had fallen ill, the aft galley was far more crowded than normal. Williams entered the galley, and saw that the line stretched around the compartment before arriving at the stack of trays and the food line. Those going on watch had front-of-the-line privileges, and he started to walk around the line and invoke them when he noticed a woman standing at the end of the line. Short dark hair framed translucent skin, the mouth broad and generous, the eyes dark blue. She had the look of someone who was about to laugh at any moment. Where had he seen her before?
Oh, right. In the galley. She had just finished her tour of mess cranking when he reported in.
He headed for the end of the line to stand directly behind her. She didn’t turn around. Williams cleared his throat, scuffed his foot on the floor, and finally said, “Hey.”
She glanced behind at him, and a look of recognition crossed her face. “Hey.” She nodded a pleasant if not altogether friendly acknowledgment.
“Hey,” he said again, a bit at a loss for words. “You were in the galley, weren’t you?” He could see the look of disdain on her face — of course she had been in the galley — all sailors spent a tour there. Probably every guy in the world tried to come on to her, so she was playing it cool. Well, he would just have to show her he was different. “You got off right after I got here,” he continued doggedly, wondering if he was making any sense at all. “I just got off last week. Three months total.”
“How very nice for you,” she said politely, then turned to face forward. He noticed the insignia on her sleeve.
“Engineman, huh? How do you like it down there? I’m in aviation data systems. VF-95.” He saw her start to lose interest at the mention of aviation, and said, “It’s really pretty interesting. And dangerous. I was down in the hanger bay when the fire broke out.” There was a small flicker of interest in her eyes. He debated telling her how the petty officer had called him a wild man, but had the good sense to quit while he was ahead.
“I was on the bridge when it happened,” she said finally. “I saw the boat just before it fired.”
“Really? What did it look like?”
She shrugged. “Small, wooden. An outboard motor. I almost missed it. Not that it would have made any difference if I had, I guess. We still got hit.”
“It could have been a lot worse,” he said. “We had enough time to get the hanger bay doors at least partially shut and there was only one missile fired.”
“Yeah. I guess. But if I’d seen it a minute earlier, maybe even thirty seconds before…” Her voice broke off and she looked over his head as if staring at something only she could see.
“A minute — we could have gotten the doors closed all the way if we’d had that long,” he said unthinkingly. She recoiled as though he’d slapped her. “But there wasn’t any way to, was there? I mean, it wasn’t showing up on radar or anything, I heard.”
“No. That’s why we have lookouts. But still — it was there. Like I said, if I’d seen it earlier, things might have been different.”
“Yeah, and if we were off the coast of Florida, it wouldn’t be so damn hot,” he said.
Her head snapped up, eyes suspicious, as though she suspected he might be making fun of her. He continued, hurrying. “From what I hear, most people wouldn’t have seen it all. The first we would have known about it was taking a missile in the gut. But the way it did go down, we had the fire crew on scene and we were able to contain it before it spread to any of the aircraft. The warning we did get made the difference between being out of commission for a long time and taking a little hit. That’s what I meant.”
Her face was still hard, but he thought he saw a slight softening around her eyes. “I keep wondering what would have happened if I paid more attention,” she said quietly.
“Could you have?” he asked, aware of the tremendous risk he was taking.
She shut her eyes, squeezing them shut as though reliving the incident. “Maybe.”
“No. I don’t think so. And if you keep thinking like that, you’re just going to screw everything up. You’ll be thinking about that, and you will miss the next one. You weren’t slacking off — and you know it.” He made his voice as hard as her expression.
She opened her eyes the slightest bit. “You seem to think you know a lot about me.”
He nodded, the feeling of certainty settling on him. “Yeah, I think I do. You don’t look like the type to screw around while you’re on watch. Did anyone tell you that you should’ve done a better job, seen it earlier?”
“No. Actually…” She hesitated for moment, a blush coloring her cheeks. “The captain told me I did a good job. He transferred me to engineering just like I wanted.”
“Well, there you go. The captain, he’s been in the Navy how long? Twenty-four, maybe twenty-five years? And he told you you did a good job and you don’t want to believe it? Well, I know who I believe.”
She considered him for moment, then stuck out her hand. “Andrea Smith.”
He took her hand in his, feeling the small, delicate bones, the silky skin over them. “Gary Williams. Nice to meet you again.”
“Williams?” Then her expression did relax. She laughed, even. “I heard about you and the fire. Somebody said—”
A new voice broke in. “Hey, you two lovebirds want to move ahead?” Williams looked up and saw that the line had already reached the stacks of trays. They’d been edging forward as they’d talked, but a gap was developing between them and the people in front of them.
“Oh, boy,” she said, taking a tray and handing him one. “It either looks better than usual or I’m starving.”
Williams followed her through the line, barely paying attention to what was put on his tray. It might be galley food, but he had a feeling this was going to the best meal he’d had in a long time.
SEVEN
Bull Run, Idaho
Friday, 14 September
0300 local (GMT -7)
Hank Greenfield was hungry, tired, and a damned sight colder than the weather warranted. He was wearing a lightly insulated jacket, as were the other FBI agents clustered around him. But the chill in his bones came from inside, a cold, clear warning signal he’d learned long ago not to ignore. There was something very wrong about this mission, and his body was reacting to it as though it was a threat to self-preservation.
Greenfield had joined the FBI fifteen years ago, following two tours in the Army. Despite his military experience, he’d come out with a strong belief in his country in general and law enforcement in particular. With his college degree in military justice and his test scores, he’d been accepted on his first application. He began his career with several tours in field offices, working on every type of case from breaking up drug rings to organized crime and kidnapping. It was on his last case as a junior agent, the kidnapping of the three-year-old daughter of a wealthy oil tycoon, that he began to experience the first glimmers of doubt about the FBI way of life.
The kidnappers had been clear — and to Greenfield’s mind, entirely serious. The money was to be delivered or the girl would die.
He’d watched dumbfounded at the political maneuverings that had taken place over what to do. The father, who had insisted on calling in the FBI over the mother’s protest, supported the FBI plan to nab the kidnappers at th
e pickup. If the girl wasn’t with them, they would force whoever they got to lead them back to her. Everything would be, the agents assured the father, all right. They had used this tactic countless times.
What the father had not asked, but the mother had, was how many times it had worked. Greenfield had watched the senior agent dodge the question, offering soothing remarks about the mother’s state of mind, the horrible tragedy of it all, and advising her to leave it all in their hands. Reluctantly, and only at the insistence of the father, she had acquiesced.
What they had not reckoned on were the kidnappers’ political leanings. One was a former employee at the father’s business, mentally unstable at best, psychotic at worst. The FBI had nabbed the pickup man, who led them back to the house where they were holding the girl. But by the time they’d arrived, both the girl and her other captor were dead. The small crumpled body with its throat covered with hard black bruises was never far from Greenfield’s thoughts.
Why think about that now? He tried to shake the memory off, to concentrate on the operation at hand, but her face kept intruding on his thoughts. Maybe it was the house — yes, that was it. The house where they’d finally tracked her down bore an uncanny resemblance to Smarts’ home. Both were isolated, small white buildings with mountains in the background. The only difference was that Kyle Smart’s home looked a good deal better kept than the other one had.
It wasn’t that he disagreed with mounting a raid on the Smart residence. At least, not in principle. The militia groups rising up around the United States were almost as much a threat to national security as the possibility of a foreign terrorist act. Drug dealers, child pornography peddlers, and domestic terrorists, they were all the same to him.
But however much he might agree in principle, as a law-enforcement action, this mission was something entirely different from any he’d ever been involved with. Operating under the direction of the new Homeland Security policy, and given what was probably domestic terrorism in post-September 11th America, the HSD had decided to take preemptive action. Greenfield knew that the power struggle going on in Washington right now was driving part of the decision to act. The Homeland Security folks were growing increasingly insistent that all domestic law-enforcement agencies should be under their command, including the FBI. The FBI, for its part, was adamantly opposed to being drawn in under the broad HSD umbrella. Having outsiders peering into their private files and their carefully developed informants and sources, changing procedures and practices that had served them so well for decades, was anathema. The FBI needed to be what it thought it was — a lean, mean crime-fighting machine. No matter that layers of bureaucracy and political battling had always been part of its culture, being supervised by Homeland Security was far worse than anything the FBI had ever dreamed up itself.
“Everybody straight on the plan?” Greenfield asked, surveying the faces around him. They were in camouflage, with masks of paint and fabric, and each was armed with an automatic weapon.
One by one, they nodded their readiness. Greenfield cast around for some reason to delay the inevitable, but there was no help for it.
Intel supporting this operation was far too skimpy for his tastes. Greenfield had a hard-won law degree, earned at night at the University of Columbia. Many agents did, but he had the feeling that he took his a good deal more seriously than others. Evidence, probable cause — for most agents, these were artificial barriers to doing the right thing. To Greenfield, the successful preparation of the case was far more important.
He ran through the evidence — if you could dignify the meager collection of facts with that name. A few confidential informants, one whose information had proved to be reliable in the past. Some intercepted e-mails, Kyle Smart’s visits to subversive Web sites, and what sounded like a few hastily spoken political opinions. Hardly sufficient, in Greenfield’s mind, to justify what they were planning.
But the decision wasn’t yours, was it? You do what you’re told, just like a good little soldier.
But I’m not a good little soldier. Regardless of what they think, this isn’t the military. And okay, maybe I take my membership more seriously than most of them do.
Above your pay grade. Get on with it.
“All right. Positions, everyone. Wait for the go signal.” More nods of agreement. Greenfield had no doubts about his team. Most of them were experienced field agents, and the ones who weren’t were paired with senior agents. It was the people who had sent them here that worried him.
Five minutes later, a series of clicks on his headset indicated that everyone was in place. Drawing in a deep breath, fighting down his doubts, Greenfield whispered, “Now.”
Bull Run, Idaho
0315 local (GMT -7)
Kyle heard the dog bark once, a sharp, warning sound, followed by a low growl. The flap covering the dog door made a small scratching noise, and then the dog padded quietly into the bedroom.
Kyle reached for the rifle. He put his hand on Betsy’s mouth to wake her and whispered, “Get the kids.”
Betsy’s eyes went wide with alarm, but she nodded. She slid out from under the covers, pulled a.45 pistol from under the mattress, and moved quietly down the hall to the kids’ rooms.
Now that he was fully awake, Kyle could hear the noises that had alerted the dog. Small sounds like an inexperienced man trying to move silently, an almost inaudible clink of metal on metal. For just an instant, he wondered what unit would tolerate such sloppiness.
He slipped on his shoes, crouching down to avoid being outlined in the window. The dog followed. In the hall, the door that led down to the basement was just closing behind Betsy and the kids. Better that they remain below, out of the line of fire.
What the hell is happening? I can’t believe it — no, this isn’t real. I’m dreaming.
The Rottweiler muttered a low warning growl. Not a dream. All too real.
I’ll just walk out and deal with them. There’s obviously some sort of misunderstanding — something we can clear up right away. Hell, it’s probably the boys playing a trick on me, anyway. For just a moment, Kyle considered that possibility.
The Rottweiler growled again. He waited.
To Kyle’s right, a front window shattered. Something hit the floor, then rolled, followed by a hissing noise.
Tear gas! Dear God, it’s real!
Kyle ran to the kitchen and grabbed a dish towel. He wet it down and held it against his nose and mouth. The Rottweiler’s growl turned to a whimper as the tear gas enveloped the room.
Another canister, the metallic gleam noticeable even in the faint moonlight leaking through the curtains. Kyle coughed, the wet towel helping some but not enough.
“FBI with a search warrant!” a loudspeaker blared out. “Open the door slowly, and come out with your hands up!”
Kyle tried to answer, but every time he opened his mouth the gas forced its way into his lungs. His eyes were watering so badly he could barely see. Beside him, the Rottweiler was moaning, writhing in its skin.
“You’ve got until I count to five,” the voice said. “One.”
Kyle stumbled through the living room, headed for the front door. He heard the short, distinctive noise of a round being chambered in a shotgun. If he set foot outside the door, they would kill him. Coughing hard now, he waited.
“Two.”
The back door burst open at the same time the front one did. Men looking like bugs clad in gas masks swarmed into the room, black silhouettes with fluorescent yellow FBI letters on the backs.
“Drop the gun!” one shouted, his voice distorted by the gas mask. “Put it down. Now!”
Kyle stumbled and fell forward, keeping his hold on his rifle. He hit the ground, his finger inside the trigger guard, and the gun discharged.
“Three, four, five.”
Kyle had just a split second to realize how fatal his error was before the man opened fire.
“Hold fire!” the voice shouted, commanding. “Fall back, regroup.”
The men pulled back, and the man who’d shouted advanced to check Kyle’s body. “Get some windows open and get this area cleared out.” He turned to other men. “The computer — don’t touch it. The rest of the team is on its way in.”
Suddenly, the lace curtains framing the front window burst into flames. The man swore, and another darted over to put it out. But the flames consumed the thin fabric and, fanned by the breeze from the open windows, jumped to the couch, then the carpet and the rest of the furniture. Before they could even begin to control it, the room was an inferno.
“Pull back!”
They retreated, swearing, not entirely sure who’d given the order, but recognizing the futility of trying to fight the fire. There was no chance that the local rural fire department could deal with this, not as quickly as it was spreading.
Greenfield was the last man out of the building. He staggered, coughing up the last of the tear gas as he crouched on the ground. In his brief glimpse of the interior of the house, Greenfield had seen nothing to confirm the reports that this man was a renegade leader. Nothing at all.
I told them not to do it this way, not to plan a commando-type strike, not the kind that had gone wrong so often enough in the past. But no — somebody at the top had decided that this was going to be a demonstration, that this would be the one arrest that made the rest of them sit up and take notice.
The noise increased as the flames consumed the structure. But even over the roar of the fire, Greenfield could hear the thin screams start from the basement.
Four hundred yards away, Special Agent A. J. Bratton watched the fire race out of control through the small house. He was too far away to hear the screams himself, but his directional microphone aimed at the scene picked up the shouts of the agents trying to brave the flames and the anguish in Greenfield’s voice in the intercepted phone calls demanding local firefighting assistance. Bratton stayed in position until he was certain he understood what had happened, then moved silently through the trees and brush to clear the area. Five minutes later, there was no trace of his extended surveillance on the Smart house.
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