Special Access

by Mark A. Hewitt

  From the bottom of the safe, he took out four medium-sized plastic cases containing binoculars, spotting scopes, and NVGs. He closed the safe, gathered his weapons and optics, and climbed the stairs.

  Over the next thirty minutes, he established a sniper hide in his living room. He closed all blinds except for the ones covering the large picture window facing the driveway. He arranged some of the furniture in the center of the room, then removed lamps to the dining room, overturned the sofa, brought two coffee tables close and draped camouflage uniforms over everything. One spotting scope was set up on a table to look out over the driveway and out past the road.

  As he placed the spotting scope on the table, he didn’t see a white van trundle down the road or the driver who looked carefully at the house up the long driveway. McGee was determined if a sniper was able to target and kill his fellow warriors, then a sniper was needed to neutralize another sniper. He told Hunter and Lynche that the other SEALs never knew they were targeted for assassination. If they knew, they would have taken aggressive action to protect themselves and their fellow SEALs. They would have gone on the offense and hunted the would-be hunter.

  Like most professional warriors—SEALs, Green Berets, Rangers, and Marine Recon—they weren’t only users of weapons, they were masters. Over time, professional warriors experimented with different types of combat arms, from those that were merely useful to those that were purely lethal. They collected those that impressed them.

  McGee’s collection of weapons reflected raw lethality and elegance, and he selected the cream from thirty years of firearms testing to become his crop. His only hope was that his counterattack effort wasn’t misdirected. He shifted the armor plate on his chest, as he hunkered behind the slightly armored hide and dragged a laptop toward him to send text messages to Hunter and Lynche that he was safe at home. Phase one was in place.

  While he ate a banana, McGee relaxed for a moment and checked his e-mail. There wasn’t any other SEAL or trusted agent in the Newport area for him to be friendly with. He was comfortable teaching graduate school for coming generations of warriors at the Naval War College, but, when he finished class, he looked forward to coming home and seeing his family.

  Workouts at the gym dropped off to three times a week, not three times a day. He felt the time spent with his growing family was more important. His girls were nearing driving age, and he looked forward to intimidating any young stud who cast an eye toward one of them. The love of his life, his kindred spirit, Angela, drove him wild with pride and passion. Three former wives couldn’t compete with the service to his country and his young SEAL pups. He wanted to live long with Angela at his side. He didn’t want it to end.

  Not surprisingly, the e-mail in his in box was filled with hysteria, anger, grief, or bravado from other SEALs who became aware of the string of friends who died of terminator bullets to the chest. He shifted his position, moved his chest protector slightly, becoming more attuned to his predicament. As he scrolled through the list of e-mails, one stuck out. It was from Ox, Danny Cox, SEAL Team Six Commander and hero of the free world.

  “What does Ox have to say? I hope he isn’t gloating.”

  The e-mail was two short lines: Got your buddy. Any ideas what to do with him?

  McGee was confused. “Got my buddy? What the hell does that mean?” He checked the date and time and saw the e-mail was sent only twenty minutes earlier.

  That made no sense. Was the message hung up in cyberspace for a month and was finally being delivered? His heart racing, he put his head in his hands as he rubbed his eyes.

  “I would’ve thought my buddy would mean OBL, but OX and the Team delivered his ass to Allah. What’s he trying to…?”

  McGee’s head jerked up, his eyes wild. He moused and clicked Reply, then typed, There are times when cheating is the most sacred of duties. What can I do to help?

  Two minutes passed, then he received a reply. Need a better place to play 20 questions. Plan to leave Texas soon.

  McGee burst out in loud, raucous laughter. He hadn’t laughed so hard in a very long time. “Holy shit. That’s incredible, Ox. You’re fucking incredible.” He was struck by the incongruity of the situation and was ready to type a reply when a new message appeared in his In Box Hope to catch the 775 Thursday. May be OOA/C for a month. He typed quickly. Let me work a pickup. Check back in 24? McGee, setting his laptop aside, sat upright, the M-4 and Weatherby at his side. He stole a peek over the camouflaged sofa, as his mind raced. Ox had gone rogue. It wasn’t like him to wander off the reservation—not Ox. After almost ten years of chasing Osama bin Laden and the highly publicized victory tour by the president, the IC and SOF communities were livid that the terrorist mastermind hadn’t been captured and interrogated as planned.

  “Something pretty dramatic must have happened for Ox to snatch and hide him,” he mused, unable to think of a reason for it.

  Why hadn’t the team captured Osama bin Laden and interrogated him? They’d still be heroes, and America would still love them.

  The only weird thing had been the president’s recent actions. Suddenly, he acted like the military was a great thing. His newfound concern and admiration for the men and women in uniform was completely bogus. There was nothing in there that would make Ox snatch Osama bin Laden and hide him.

  Then McGee realized someone changed the orders. SECDEF couldn’t do it unilaterally. Only POTUS had that power.

  “Holy shit. Ox, you’re a true patriot.” McGee became excited when he thought about what his friend did and the ramifications of being able to ask Osama bin Laden twenty questions, as Ox put it. He needed to talk to Lynche and Hunter. That was more their area of expertise—when you're inside the other side of Special Access. McGee reflected he would still need help and thought, Maybe the old spook still knew how to conduct a rendition or a place to interrogate someone.

  “And, maybe I can be part of it,” he said. “If I survive this.”

  He sent a quick text message to Hunter and Lynche. Have to make sure I live. Need you more than ever. Have new info.

  He set the laptop aside five minutes later without getting a reply. A little dejected, he reflected for a moment and said, “I wonder who the hell they dumped in the IO?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  0800 June 11, 2011

  Office of Security CIA Headquarters Washington, DC

  Nazy Cunningham looked like the impeccably dressed senior intelligence service executive in a gray suit skirt, white silk blouse, black pumps, and free-flowing hair spilling across her shoulders.

  A black backpack over her shoulder provided a little incongruity, as the security guards overtly admired the view. Her heels clicked across the stainless and granite headquarters entrance.

  After four hours of fitful sleep on the sofa, she dragged herself down to the HQ gym for a workout and shower. She was alone in the aerobics and cardio room, lifting a few weights. After nearly an hour of intense exercise, she went to the women’s locker room, where she undressed, wrapped a towel under her arms, and entered the sauna.

  Nazy sat down, pulled her legs to her chest, and broke down. She was on the edge of confusion and drifting toward helplessness. Duncan was always there to listen to the trials and tribulations of the new immigrant and high performing intelligence officer. He was there to catch her when she “got too far over my skis,” as she learned to say. He was demonstrably proud of her and highly supportive of and confident in her abilities. Between sobs, she just wanted him to look at her, talk to her, hold her, tell her she’d be OK, and they’d take a vacation soon.

  The material in the two books was comprehensive, with information and dispatches from MI6 and Mossad detailing the activities of the skinny, chain-smoking kid with big ears and a penchant for making friends with some of the world’s most lethal terrorists. Suddenly, he was the President of the United States.

  Drenched in sweat, with tears rolling down her face, she slowly calmed herself, left the sauna, and walked na
ked to the shower. Composed and invigorated, she dressed quickly as if going to a meeting, tossed her backpack over her shoulder, and headed toward the parking garage.

  She entered her red Mercedes SL380 and immediately checked her BlackBerry for messages from Duncan and exchanged short notes that she’d been successful, was frightened, and needed to see him soon. She didn’t understand why he wanted her to go to Greg Lynche’s, but it seemed important to him, and he was being protective of her. Duncan was guiding her and it made her smile.

  She glanced at her backpack, then out the front window. The old Mercedes started easily and the air-conditioning hummed in the background as she drove. Soon, she turned toward the main gate.

  As she approached security, she slowed and braked for the black-clad, M-4-toting security guards. She rolled down her window, and the guard’s eyes rocketed from her legs and eyes to her décolletage.

  She presented her blue badge.

  “Ms. Cunningham, the Chief of Security has authorized a random search of your vehicle. Please turn off the engine, exit, and open the doors, hood, and trunk. Please provide your badge, license, registration, and proof of insurance.”

  Nazy momentarily froze, then lowered her head and complied, removing documents from her console and purse. “I’ve never had to do this before. Is this normal procedure?”

  One armed guard positioned himself to watch her slide from the sports car. “Yes, Ma’am. This is normal, just a random spot check. Your badge and license?”

  The three guards attempted to maintain their professionalism, but Nazy saw their eyes following the movement of her legs in the car. She pulled the hood and trunk levers, mashed her knees together, opened her door, and swung her legs over the sill and stood. She walked around the car to lift the trunk and open the passenger door. Bending over to unlatch the hood, she lifted it before walking back to the gate.

  The three men watched her closely. Thinking the bored guards had the show they wanted and the stop was part of the harassment package for leaving the compound on Saturday morning, she was momentarily distracted when the guard on the other side of the car removed her backpack from the front seat and emptied it onto the car’s convertible top.

  She hesitated, unable to shout, “No!” Frozen in place, she nearly fainted when the guard extracted the stack of books, looked at them, and thumbed through each. When he closed the books and continued rummaging through her gym bag, she turned to the other two and watched indifferently as one guard scrutinized her documents and copied information onto his clipboard.

  From her peripheral vision, she saw the other guard replace the books in the backpack and replace it on the seat. After her papers and badge were returned, she walked around the car to close the trunk, passenger door, and hood before getting in the driver’s side. She brought her knees together and slid into the seat, moving her legs under the steering wheel, as she gently closed the door. It wasn’t the time for her to lose her composure. She wanted to slam the door, but her fury and fear were contained for the moment.

  “Thank you for your participation, Ms. Cunningham. Have a great day.”

  The guard in the shack picked up the telephone, as the little red car drove off. He was answered before the second ring.

  “Security, Jamerson,” a voice said.

  “You’re right, Jim. She does have the best legs in Virginia.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  1700 June 11, 2011

  7445 Polo Court Drive Newport, Rhode Island

  McGee studied the activity along the treeline. For several hours, squirrels intermittently played chase while birds flitted about. He panned the spotting scope left and right, looking for disturbances in the background, his mind taking pictures and comparing them to his mental archive. Nothing changed.

  Hunting for a professional sniper trying to get into a firing position undetected is very challenging but not impossible. At scout sniper school, the final exam for newbies was the culmination of a land-navigation course to get into the general area, evaluate the surroundings and environment to improve a ghillie suit that would mesh with that environment, and transition to conceal and maneuver.

  Graduates learned their lessons and tricks to move so slowly that multiple spotters couldn't detect them reaching a firing position even in daylight. When the sun started falling in the west, detecting subtle changes in the background was nearly impossible unless the sniper made a mistake and telegraphed his location and intentions. Treelines were especially useful to hide in if the shot could be made from deep within the foliage, not from the edge. Animals would flee from humans tromping around in the brush and cover, and avoided them as quickly as they could.

  Evidence of someone moving in the bush was usually the sudden appearance of birds leaving the area. After birds left, usually four-legged critters scattered to make room for the intruder.

  Once the sun set, the rules changed. McGee recalled his participation and successes and failures during Broken Lance exercises, parachuting into an area at night and quickly navigating across unknown territory to get into position with GPS and night-vision goggles to illuminate the way. Animals rarely refused to get out of the way and would highlight an intruder’s presence.

  Several small animals at the wood’s edge maintained their search for food and weren’t alarmed. A pair of rabbits munched grass at the edge of the trees, and a pair of squirrels raced around another. McGee maintained his vigilance at the spotting scope when his mobile device vibrated. Lynche was on his way and Hunter was nearing Newport.

  It might not occur that day or the next, but the three men were positive a sniper would come for McGee and had to be in the area. The pattern of the killings, the modus operandi, the logistics and timing virtually assured them that the killer of the SEALs was either bearing down on Newport or was in town preparing for the hit. They felt the momentum shift in their favor. Unlike the SEALs and their friends, who were killed one-by-one, McGee maintained a close network of friends and other SEALs, first through e-mail and then through social media. What began as a forum for students at the War College to stay abreast of class assignments, world events, and school programs grew into a hydra of chat rooms, blogs, and resumé banks.

  McGee was connected, and, as events occurred and were reported daily, information, pictures, articles, and trends funneled into his mailbox. Through the noise of hundreds of email or social network postings, a picture emerged with a few SEALs passing away at different locations. That the three dead SEALs were related by three separate events might not have been noticed, except they were McGee’s men in battle in Afghanistan, his classmates at the War College, and his teammates on Broken Lance.

  Too many unique coincidences would have otherwise been missed. McGee analyzed the pattern of killings and the direction of travel of the killer. He and his friends were fully aware of the threat.

  They went into full protection mode and had prepared to go on the offensive. All they needed was an op order from the Bullfrog. McGee called Hunter.

  Lynche caught a break with the owners of the grass strip. A former Green Beret, who served in Vietnam, lived in the farmhouse with his son and daughter-in-law. The son was a former Army helicopter pilot who flew a crop duster and sprayed nearly every field in a seventy-mile radius of Bridgeport, Connecticut.

  The father and son initially had difficulty believing Lynche's assertion that he was on his way to an air show and had to set the interesting black plane down for a precautionary emergency landing. When the two were invited to look at 007, Lynche was proud to show off his rare plane.

  It looked fairly innocuous if not hideous with its huge canopy, long glider wings, and massive, six-blade propeller. The crop-duster pilot looked at it carefully, noticing it didn’t have the required registration identifier on the side. He almost asked, “Where are your N numbers?” but thought better of it.

  When a black airplane without identification lands in your back yard, it probably didn’t pay to ask too many questions. Hidden from
view was the equipment that made the YO-3A a bloodhound of the sky—the forward looking infrared thermal-imaging gyroscopically stabilized ball was folded into the fuselage when not in use or stowed for takeoffs and landings.

  The former Green Beret looked over the aircraft, from nose to tail and tried to remember when he’d seen something like it. His son studied the aircraft with a skeptical eye. The black paint, huge six-bladed propeller, and twenty-foot muffler screamed it was a spy plane.

  “That’s a Yo-Yo!” his father suddenly shouted. “I remember now. I knew they were called something strange, and I remember they were…hugely successful.”

  “What do you mean, Dad?”

  “There was a small number of these aircraft. They weren’t painted like this, but they were the original stealth airplanes. They were so quiet, the Cong couldn’t hear them. They flew only at night over Vietnam and Cambodia. Those pilots never came back from a mission without contacting the enemy. What else? Oh, yeah, those Yo-Yo pilots couldn't do enough for us. I don’t know of anyone who took a round. That’s one special airplane, Mr. Jones.”

  As the son listened to the old man, he walked around the aircraft for a better view of the instrument stacks in the cockpits. With the canopy raised, the crop duster noticed the flat glass panels, few analog gauges, and the data plate in the cockpit.

  Manufactured by the Lockheed Corporation Type: Y03A Serial Number: 007

  Date of Manufacture: 02-14-1969

  “Lockheed,” the crop duster said. “Maker of the most famous spy planes. Forty years old. Never seen anything like it. Damn….”

  “Damned if it doesn’t look like one of them spy planes James Bond would’ve flown,” the young man said, obviously picking up on an unstated theme.