Voyager

by Carl Rackman

  “Do you have new intel? Over,” squawked Morrison through the earpiece.

  Ferguson yelled above the noise, “Affirmative. Suspect may be posing as a police marksman. Please advise all channels. Over.”

  “Ross One-York-Six, what is the source of this new intel? Over.” The little pen pusher’s pedantry was distracting; Ferguson’s stress level rose as noon approached. “Sir, I received it from the same source we picked up in New York yesterday. The Field Office just texted me the info. Over.” The lies came easier this time.

  “Roger, Ross One-York-Six. That intel is now logged. I’ll pass it along, but you need to produce the text at debriefing. Out.”

  Morrison’s interest in Ferguson’s source was bordering on monomania. Probably in full ass-covering mode. Come on, Barnes!

  The helicopter slowly trawled along the edge of the Reflecting Pool and buzzed back up to a holding position.

  On the rooftop a few paces away, Ferguson noticed the D.C. Metro sharpshooter team urgently shift its focus to where the FBI helicopter had hovered just moments before. “What’s happening over there?”

  The Metro lieutenant supervising the team looked quizzically at him. “It just came through the net. Chopper spotted suspicious activity in the crowd line along the pool. We’re checking it out.”

  Ferguson pulled out his phone to speak to Barnes without using the monitored radio. “Barnes, are you there? It’s Ferguson.”

  “Hello, sir. I’m about halfway round the perimeter. Nothing concrete yet.”

  “Good job, son. Keep going. FBI chopper just reported something in the crowd line right by the Reflecting Pool.”

  Ferguson was about to say more when another call came in. He thumbed the answer key without looking at the display. He guessed it was Alex.

  “Am I speaking with Special Agent-In-Charge Ferguson from the New York Field Office?”

  The British drawl took him completely by surprise.

  “Yes, this is Special Agent Ferguson speaking. I’m very busy at the moment—”

  “Yes, I know. That’s why I’m calling actually. You’re looking for a special someone, aren’t you? Six of them, in fact?”

  Ferguson looked at the caller display in shock. It was a blocked ID. "Josephson? Is that you?"

  The voice continued without acknowledgement, “Let’s just say that you and I have a similar objective this morning, which is why I’m going to point you in the right direction. Are you listening carefully?”

  “Yes,” Ferguson replied calmly, but his mind and body were spiked with adrenaline.

  “Your shooter is a valuable asset. He’s not a suicide bomber, he is a high-value covert program operative. He wants to get away alive and not get caught, does he not?”

  “Yes. He’ll have a covert position and egress route.”

  “Which means, dear Agent, he must be hiding in plain sight, no?”

  Ferguson was getting impatient. “We know he’ll be in some sort of disguise, probably law enforcement. Do you know where he is?”

  “I can tell you he’s one of your own and is somewhere up high. And that goes for the spotter as well, in a sense.”

  “Can we skip the cryptic clues and give me some actual information? Where is he? The Monument?" Ferguson turned to observe the distant Washington Monument. It was the highest point for miles around, but would give the shooter a very challenging one-and-a-half mile shot and he’d still have to get away unseen.

  “A crane? Cherry-picker?” Ferguson’s watch now read 11:58.

  “I have to go now, Agent Ferguson. But make sure you put your assets on target in time. Remember – eyes up!” He rang off.

  Ferguson fumbled the woman’s number.

  “Jones.”

  “Agent Jones, I’ve just received a tip-off from a very reliable source.”

  “Was it the British? MI5 again?”

  “There’s no time. But I believe he’s trying to help. He said the shooter is up somewhere high and ‘one of your own’. I think they could be disguised as FBI.”

  “What’s the highest place the FBI have a shooter?”

  “I’ll have to ask His Holiness, the Deputy Director in Charge.”

  “Try the Monument first. It’s a long shot, but Supra could make it. Call me back.”

  He went straight on the radio. “Brad! New intel. The shooter is somewhere up high. Check the monument.”

  “Sir, I checked it. There are two teams up there, both military. No one matching our description. Every rooftop is clear. Nobody acting suspiciously. I know it’s going to be tight, but until the President steps up for the oath, I won’t know if anybody’s pointing a gun at him.”

  “Barnes! We’re too late. He’s stepping up now, Goddammit!”

  The crowd swelled spontaneously into a dull roar of cheers like an airliner revving up for takeoff. Here was the man of the moment, and he held the beliefs and hopes of half the nation on his shoulders. The expression of the crowd was visceral, a roar of hope and relief. Thousands of flags waved frantically across the crowds. The roar was underpinned by a scrawny and ineffectual chorus of jeers and tears from those who saw their new Commander-in-Chief only as the sum of all their fears. It had been many years since such a divisive figure had stepped up to take the Presidential Oath.

  Ferguson looked around wildly, unable to find what he was looking for. They had maybe seconds to find the shooter.

  His phone was buzzing. Jones. He picked up.

  “Ferguson! I need a vector,” she said.

  “Talk to Barnes. He’s our last hope. I got nothing,” replied Ferguson.

  She hung up.

  He heard the helicopter again. It approached the same point by the Reflecting Pool. The Metro sharpshooter drew a bead on the spot beneath the chopper.

  The President-Elect was just saying his final words of the oath. He would be President in a few seconds.

  Ferguson’s eye caught the white ‘FBI’ lettering again as the helicopter hovered.

  He’s one of your own.

  He’s somewhere up high.

  “The chopper! They’re in the chopper!” he screamed into the radio. “Barnes! Shooter in the helicopter!”

  “Alex! Shooter in the helicopter! Positive ID!” Brad’s urgent voice knifed through Ferguson’s ear.

  Alex? Is that Jones? Ferguson continued screaming at the police sharpshooter team, but the chopper had turned rear-end on to them masking the opening in the door.

  He yelled into his radio, “Magic Six! The chopper is bogus! Shooter is in the FBI chopper! For the love of God, get guns on it now!”

  “Ross One-York-Six, calm down! Which chopper?”

  “The FBI one! Hovering right there in front of the platform!”

  “Wait one.”

  Ferguson threw the radio down in disgust and pulled his personal weapon, a S&W 40 pistol.

  The Metro lieutenant’s eyes popped. “What are you doing? You’ll hit the crowd!”

  The helicopter came in much lower than before, blowing hats off spectators and sending papers flying.

  The crowd began to part as the rotor windstorm touched the ground. The helicopter was now barely a hundred feet high. Water from the pool began to lick up in a fine spray; the noise was deafening.

  On the platform several hundred yards away, the President turned to the crowd grinning broadly. He held both hands clasped above his head like a victorious boxer. He then held a high thumbs up with his right hand while his left hugged his beautiful wife around her waist as she stepped forward to join him. The roar from the crowd was audible even above the screeching hiss of the helicopter engines.

  Ferguson felt the same sense of helplessness he’d experienced when arriving at the house in Queens four months before. I’m too damned late.

  Over on E Street and 3rd, five blocks and almost one kilometre away, Berkoff and Savage had heard Ferguson’s first scream on the intercom link and immediately saw the Jones’ Charger light up and screech into 3rd St, lancing like
a black missile towards a darkened underpass. It had barely emerged on the far side when it slewed to a halt across the lanes in full sight of several astonished Metro cops.

  The agents pulled up behind her, sirens blaring and lights casting red halos all over the dark interior of the underpass. They arrived in time to hear every radio around explode into a shriek of conflicting crackles – the words ‘chopper’ and ‘shooter’ prominent. They saw the black FBI helicopter in the distance settling into a hover.

  In front of them, the tall woman had burst from her car roaring, “Federal Agent!” in a commanding voice, and then wrenched the rear door open so violently that it hung askew. She was wearing a tight, full-length camouflage bodysuit with web belts around her shoulders and waist.

  The disbelieving cops backed off as she pulled a tubular rocket launcher from the back seat, like a six-foot length of drainpipe.

  Berkoff recognised it immediately – as did the cops, who backed away even faster.

  “Oh, no! She’s not going to—”

  She hefted the Stinger missile launcher onto her shoulder and waited for it to lock. The helicopter was barely five hundred yards away against a clear sky.

  The Stinger acquired the target in a couple of seconds, and she pulled the trigger. The missile coughed from the launcher and burst into life with a crackling whoosh. It covered the five hundred yards in less than a second. The chopper spectacularly disappeared in a puff of bright yellow flames and grey smoke.

  Ferguson watched in disbelief as the chopper exploded before his eyes, showering parts of itself all over the crowded thoroughfare across 3rd Street.

  The crowd seemed to magically evaporate as people rushed from the immediate vicinity. The remains of the chopper pitched forward from the momentum of the impact and crashed right in front of the Reflecting Pool, mercifully clear of the thinning crowd.

  Ferguson looked back toward the inaugural platform and saw a tight bunch of jostling black-suited arms and legs hurtling back into the Capitol Building through the doors; the Secret Service had mobbed the new President and were rushing him away from danger.

  Meanwhile, pandemonium broke loose all along the Mall as thousands of people rushed to clear the scene of the crash.

  Wreckage was burning, fuel lay in volatile puddles, and intermittent pops and bangs revealed where the occupants’ ammunition was still cooking off.

  Sirens and loudspeakers added to the confusion while police with whistles desperately tried to direct people into side streets to avoid stampedes.

  Ferguson gradually realised his radio earpiece had been squawking for some time. He picked his radio unit off the floor.

  “Ross One-York-Six, I say again, respond! Over!” Morrison was panicking. He probably wasn’t too concerned about the people, but was scared that the burning wreckage was a pyre for his future career.

  “Magic Six, Ross One—”

  “Where have you been?” Morrison practically screamed the words.

  “I’m here. Position Alpha Thirteen. I haven’t moved.”

  “Get that crash site secured! Assume local control, now! Nobody touches anything until we get the Fly Team in. Set a perimeter at fifty metres. Nobody goes in!”

  “Sir, I’m just liaison here, I—”

  “Get your people down there now, Ferguson. That is a direct order. I’m clearing the other personnel from the area.”

  “Sir. Ross One-York-Six. Out.”

  Ferguson called Brad. “Barnes, what happened?”

  “The missile impact was enough to throw the shooter off. The bullet went into the second-floor window about twenty feet from the President. The Secret Service got him away fast. He’s on his way underground to the tunnels right now.”

  “What about the men in the helicopter?”

  “There were two in the back, the shooter and the spotter, I guess. The third one, probably the wheelman, was flying. Just three, sir.”

  Ferguson ran down the steps to the first floor, rushing past the surprised cops at the entrance.

  “Barnes, they weren’t going to fly out of here. They must have had a rendezvous outside the secure zone. There are three more guys out there looking for Jones!”

  “I’m on it, sir.”

  Ferguson switched to the radio. “Laurel One-Four, do you read?”

  Berkoff answered, sounding dazed. “Laurel One-Four. I can’t believe what I just saw, sir.”

  “Just grab Jones and keep her out of sight. We still have three of their operatives unaccounted for.”

  “Ross One-York-Six, Magic Six. How do you know there are other operatives? Over,” said Morrison, butting in again.

  Doesn’t he have anything better to do? “Sir, the intel was specific. Over.”

  “One-York-Six, that is need to know only! You will divulge your source to me personally. I’m approaching the crash site now. Over.”

  Ferguson was still fighting through fleeing crowds. “I’ll be there momentarily, sir. Out.”

  Ferguson arrived at the same time as his old FBI sparring partner. He held up his badge and set the first responders to cordon off the area, but the fires were still burning.

  Ferguson was appalled as he ducked through to where Morrison was already wandering through the wreckage.

  “Sir, the evidence is disappearing in flames here!”

  Morrison completely ignored him. “Where is your team, Agent Ferguson? Which one is the asset? Who is Agent Jones?”

  “I’ve called them, but I don’t know how long it’ll take them to get here. The roads are blocked with people,” answered Ferguson, evading the rest of the questions.

  Morrison glared at him through his designer frames. “How did you know there were three other suspects? That fact is known only to me.”

  Ferguson was confused. “We had a special intelligence source. How did you know about it, sir?”

  “I have my sources, too, Agent Ferguson. That information was classified.” Morrison turned away, pushing his glasses up on his nose and surveying the debris. He walked around the edge of the cordon, briefly passing through the heat haze from the flames and smoke palls of the scattered piles of wreckage.

  Ferguson dialled Brad. “Barnes, get to the crash site. I don’t like this. Watch Morrison. I’m going to warn off the rest of the team. He’s acting weird for a ‘by the book’ boy wonder.”

  “Roger, sir, I’m almost there.” Brad was out of breath and his head was pounding. He hadn’t expected this much excitement; his body was protesting all the way.

  Ferguson deliberated over the mysterious call he’d received earlier.

  He’s one of your own.

  Somewhere up high. That goes for the spotter as well.

  He’ll be dismounted. Running interference.

  He finally made the connection. “I think Morrison’s dirty, Brad,” said Ferguson. “He’s working for them. Nobody on the outside could have known about Supra. And if he was ours, he’d have circulated the descriptions immediately. He’s the spotter.”

  ”Roger that, sir. I’m almost there.”

  Ferguson switched to his own mic. “Laurel One-Four. I need you to make an arrest at my location.”

  “Roger, sir. What about Jones?”

  “Tell her to keep out of sight. This place will be crawling with SWAT in a few minutes.” He turned back to watch Morrison still poking around aimlessly. “Eric. Who are you waiting for?

  “What did you say?”

  “I’m going to leave. Before your colleagues arrive.”

  “Stay right there, Agent Ferguson! That’s an order!”

  “Forget it, Morrison. But we’ll catch up soon.”

  Morrison began moving quickly around to Ferguson while fumbling behind his waist for his sidearm.

  Ferguson backed off with his hand on his own holstered weapon.

  Morrison pulled his gun and levelled it at his former colleague. “My Fly Team will be here shortly. You will stand fast until they do.”

  “Fly Team, my ass.
I know who’s really coming.”

  “Tell me your source, Ferguson. How did you know about the operatives? And the helicopter?”

  “I think you need to let me go, Morrison.”

  “Your asset. It’s the woman, isn’t it? She’s working for you?”

  “How would you know about the woman, Eric?”

  “I know she’s on every Most Wanted list in the government,” Morrison sneered. “Look at yourself, Ferguson. Aiding a known fugitive and suspected cop-killer.”

  “It doesn’t explain how you knew about her. Or the chopper. And why you stalled when I gave you the shooter’s location. You’re dirty, Eric. And when Supra is neutralised, I’m putting the cuffs on you myself.”

  Morrison’s eyes flashed with anger. “Tough words, Ken. But it’s going to look very bad for you.”

  “It’s looking pretty bad for you right now, Eric.” Ferguson gestured with his open hand at the DDC’s chest.

  Morrison looked down momentarily and saw the steady laser dot positioned over his chest. As he looked up, the dot moved across his left eye to his forehead.

  Ferguson keyed his radio. “Is that you, Jones?”

  Morrison watched, puzzled. “Who are you talking to? Is it her?”

  “My asset. Back off, Eric. Put down your weapon and let me walk away, or our lady friend will blow your head off.” Ferguson fought to contain his disgust. “I want a meeting at your office when this is over. Deposition protocol. Video recording and a transcriber. Then we’ll try to make some sense of what’s going on here because right now, I don’t even want to spit on you.”

  He turned, slowly dropping his hands, leaving Morrison shaking with his gun pointing at the floor and a red laser spot fixed on the centre of his forehead.

  Alex crouched behind the bonnet of her car; she aimed her unwavering sniper rifle at Morrison’s head barely a hundred yards away.