by Jake Aaron
Chapter 48
January 10
Orlando, FL
Hap and Mirasol Johnson enjoyed a nice breakfast in bed, as did the grandchildren. Orlando had been a delightful break from the fishbowl of Washington. Mirasol had even stopped flinching every time she caught a glimpse of their protection detail. The grandchildren, not surprisingly, liked the novelty of having agents around. They had to be counseled several times to stop running up to the agents demanding, “Show me your gun!”
Hap added, “Boys, hiding from the agents is also not acceptable.” Hap sternly reprimanded the boys about these behaviors while not-so-secretly being about to “bust a gut” laughing.
Having grandchildren was almost as good as being young again.
The mini-vacation had been a welcome break in routine, but it was time to return to Washington. The entourage left by the service entrance of the hotel. Use of the service entrance is a common security precaution for high profile figures. President Reagan had said that he could always tell when he was arriving or leaving a hotel, because he could smell garbage. In the same vein, Mirasol quipped, “You always bring me through the nicest places.”
“I love the smell of garbage in the morning?” Hap jested, referring to a line about napalm in Apocalypse Now. “It smells like vacation.”
The two agents in earshot snickered. That made Mirasol smile. She had been calling them the Buckingham Palace guards due to their usual stoic bearing. The grandsons had become more compliant after one of the agents had sworn them in as a “special agents.”
The family piled into the black suburban with two agents up front. An identical suburban with two other agents played leapfrog with them on the way to the airport — standard protocol — a shell game. Only a trained observer could tell that one suburban had six souls on board, the other, two. The shocks on the six-soul vehicle were compressed slightly compared with the second. As a result, there was also a dampened reaction to bumps in the road in the six-soul SUV. En route to the airport, the procession moved along smoothly as the grandsons sang 100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall. Even the agents in their lead SUV joined in until the driver had to apply threshold braking to perfection as he had practiced in training. Just before the point he knew ABS braking would kick in, he kept optimal brake pressure to come to a rapid full stop. A large cardboard box in the driver’s lane and oncoming traffic forced the stop, with the trailing SUV caught a little off guard, despite a curt warning. With maximum ABS braking, it had hopped to a stop abeam on the right of the lead vehicle. The cardboard box turned out to be empty — not a bomb. The adults hyperventilated; the kids laughed.
On Exit 17 from SR-417-TOLL N/Central Florida Greenway, the formation of SUVs stopped behind three cars. The line of vehicles yielded for a left turn on Boggy Creek Rd. Cross traffic on Boggy Creek Rd. appeared unending. The six-soul SUV was now in second position. Its occupants became impatient with the wait. They hungered for motion to distract themselves. Even on vacation, Americans crave activity or motion. Distraction came in short order in another form.
“Smoke on the right!” echoed simultaneously through the agents’ earpieces as the lead SUV agent riding shotgun called out. Everyone’s attention in the SUVs shifted involuntarily to the violet smoke from a 26.5 mm H&K gun flare billowing thirty-five feet to their right. Misdirection is the predicate to many fatal surprise attacks.
There was a stutter in the situational awareness of the agents. The driver of the second SUV picked up the movement in his side mirror too late. Disarmingly fast, a helmeted motorcycle rider in black leather leapt from a position behind a van in the rear. The motorcycle driver’s black leather jacket bulged slightly due to a kevlar vest underneath. President George W. Bush had worn one of these routinely when he appeared in public. At full throttle, the black Ducati Multistrada 1200 S Sport rocketed abeam Hap’s SUV. Its driver had observed the rear SUV riding slightly lower on its struts than its twin ahead. He adroitly slapped a magnetic device on the left door of the rear SUV — next to Hap Johnson. Hap’s driver called out, “Motorcycle on our left!”
The driver of the SUV ahead of Hap’s reacted smartly. He swung his door open hoping to cause the motorcycle to impact it, having ruled out swerving left into oncoming traffic. The motorcyclist had already jinked left to avoid the opening door and threaded the needle created by oncoming traffic and the lead SUV door. A third of a second later with his left hand, the motorcyclist skillfully pitched an open container of motor oil backward over his head onto the windshield of the lead SUV. Meanwhile, the oil on the lead SUV’s windshield spread and worsened visibility when the agent driver tried to use the windshield wipers to clear the view. The passing helmeted motorcyclist hunched over for aerodynamics and for a lower profile against potential gunfire. The Ducati turned right, meshed with the cross traffic, and vanished into a sea of other vehicles.
The driver in Hap’s vehicle reacted to the clank of the magnetic bomb being slapped on the SUV. “Open right side doors, NOW! Everyone out the right side! Get out! Run! Get away! Magnet bomb!” The agents directed the family to the rear. They feared return of the cyclist from the front. The field to their right was fenced. The left side of the SUV had the bomb. The “ring of iron” protection ordered for Hap was broken by the threat of an imminent explosion.
Everyone in the Johnson’s suburban ran to the rear — except Mirasol. She had pulled one agent’s back up Springfield XD subcompact pistol from his ankle holster as he held the door for the family. She had seen the gun earlier when the agent kneeled to tie a shoe. Mirasol pivoted and rose from a running crouch facing the the general direction of the fleeing cyclist: “Come back heer yo pendejo. I will cut off yo cajones and feed theem to the crowcoodiles!” While pendejo literally means pubic hair, the common Cuban usage means coward.
Mirasol assumed a near perfect Weaver stance for firing the pistol. The gun’s owner stopped her just in time to avoid a shot into traffic. He took away the pistol with a quick twist of her wrist and pulled her back with the others. Elated at surviving a bomb attack and amused at his wife, Hap began to laugh. It was like someone laughing at a funeral: too much repressed emotion set off by a trigger.
Publicly, Mirasol was known for her perfect English, polished manners, and sophistication. In private, Hap knew she could revert into the hot-tempered behavior she’d learned from her mother. That had just been the case.
In contrast to Hap’s outburst, his two agents were all business. They herded the four in their custody to the rear. They ordered occupants of the five following vehicles to follow them. The agents and the Johnsons kneeled behind the fifth vehicle to their rear.
The two agents in the lead suburban heard the commotion in their earpieces. Traffic congestion had prevented their pursuit of the motorcyclist, as did their blurred windshield. Their next move was to crouch in front of their SUV with their Glock 22 pistols drawn. They hoped they were in defilade from the pending explosion. They could not shoot at the motorcyclist without endangering surrounding civilians in traffic, even if they could spot him. The agents braced for a second onslaught. They could still provide cover fire for the occupants of the second suburban if the motorcyclist returned.
There was no immediate explosion, but after thirty more seconds white smoke billowed from the magnetic bomb at the same time a high-pitched alarm sounded. When the smoke stopped coming from the magnetic bomb, one agent from the lead vehicle evacuated the area within a 200-foot radius in case there was an explosion. The other agent in the lead vehicle summoned the Orlando Police bomb squad. Hap’s two agents huddled around the family in event of another attack.
Hap’s bearing was now back. By now, however, he would normally have made a joke to defuse the situation, Ronald Reagan-style, but the intense look on Mirasol’s face told him this was not the time. The older grandson was thrilled by all the excitement. His younger brother had to be reassured by his mentor fed: “We agents are brave, aren’t we?” The little guy protruded his lower lip and meekly nodded in agreem
ent. Tears rolled down his reddened cheeks. He nodded for courage, despite his frowned face.
Joint Base Andrews, MD
Meanwhile, an Air Force Major “Slim” Phat, the 89th Military Airlift Wing duty controller at Joint Base Andrews, put together three options to deal with possible outcomes for transporting the Johnson entourage. His planning was not helped by the interloping presence of the brigadier general wing commander, or the overlapping and repeated calls from the White House, National Counterterrorism Center, and FBI Headquarters. The major had seen many less dramatic crises play out before. He would work from a mental coolness taught by Rudyard Kipling: “If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you…” He was also wise enough to know that acting too cool would provoke hostility and beg for recriminations for inevitable missteps. No, he had to project a Goldilocks veneer — not too hot, not too cold. He set all three plans in motion. One saving grace expedited his planning: Cost was no object with such a high-level VIP.
Despite “Slim’s” decisiveness and record-setting attention to detail, the red-faced wing commander hypercritically exclaimed, “Jesus, man, what’s taken you so long?”
Major Phat was “samurai.” He appeared respectful when he answered, “Just trying to cover all the bases, sir.” He knew if he’d rushed his planning, the general would have been even more critical. His four years at the Air Force Academy at Colorado Springs had prepared him well to survive double binds. He exhaled when he remembered his first day as a doolie. One upperclassman had told him to do one thing. A second upperclassman told him to do another that conflicted. Then each upperclassman alternated in chewing him out for not doing as told. He felt a small smile come to his lips: Thank you, harassers!
Orlando, FL
Hap watched as the bomb squad brought in a robot to remove the still-beeping magnetic box from the vehicle and stow it in a reinforced container. When the bomb was contained, an orange Coast Guard MH-65 Dolphin helicopter landed in a field to the northwest. There was just enough room for the crew of four, the Johnson family, and two agents. The chopper flew an evasive circuitous route to Tampa International. At the same time, the Air Force C-37A was repositioning to the same airport from Orlando International. There would be a “hot” — enginesrunning — offload from the Dolphin and onload of the passengers to the C-37A at Tampa for a return to the DC area. Major “Slim” Phat’s option #1 was proceeding. It successfully handled all realistic security concerns over a compromised initial itinerary.
Aboard the C-37A, Hap’s agents huddled to give the family a moment alone to recover themselves. The agent whose weapon Mirasol had taken whispered to his partner, “How we gonna handle this? At best, I’ll get a reprimand.”
His partner whispered back, “I’ll talk to the Speaker. He seems approachable. I don’t think anyone saw her take your gun. I also don’t think anyone took pictures during the attack. You never know, though. I’ll ask a buddy at HQ to lose any showing the gun grab… You know, the Bureau will ask everyone who took pictures to turn them in. As long as there aren’t copies — I think you’re okay.”
“Let me think about that. I might just report myself. That ole thing, cover up is worse than the crime. I think it’d be no more than a reprimand. I don’t think I’ll get fired, and I don’t want to jeopardize you… That seems to be the thing to do. I can ask Mrs. Johnson for help if it gets too bad… I think she likes me… She only threatened to remove one of my cajones when I took the gun back.”
_______________
By the time the magnet bomb’s smoke started clearing, the motorcyclist was miles away on back roads. His adrenaline level began to fall. He had monitored the coming and going of the SUVs from the hotel. The motorcyclist’s mode of operation was reminiscent of attacks carried out against Iranian nuclear scientists in recent years. The Mossad was widely credited with training locals on the tactic of using a motorcycle to slap a magnetized bomb on the side of a targeted vehicle. Surprise and quick escape are the hallmarks of this tactic.
The motorcyclist loved it when a plan came together. His post-game relief was amplified because he had such little time to prepare. He wanted to bask in the glory, but his training taught him not to relax and to double up on awareness.
Congress must stop overspending.
Chapter 49
January 11
District of Columbia
Safely back in Washington, Speaker of the House Hap Johnson called the Director of the FBI. “Sam, your agents were heroic in all the chaos down there in Orlando. The same goes for the Secret Service ones. They worked so well together, I couldn’t tell one agency from the other. Wish we could work with the Senate that way.”
“Glad, you are safe, Mr. Speaker. You and your wife will have ongoing protection…”
“Anything on catching the biker?”
“We have an all-points-bulletin out for him or her. Wide net over the entire area… Meanwhile, we’re puzzled that someone would go to all that trouble… leave a magnetic device with no explosive. Inside, we only found a timer and that ear-piercing alarm that went off with the smoke. The I’m sure you heard it.”
“Sounded like a smoke detector,” Hap observed. “I popped my head up from my duck-and-cover position because of it. That’s when I saw the smoke… Tell you what, though, I’ll take the white smoke any day over mail containing toxic white powder… Gives my staff the idea I’m a junkie.” The irrepressible Hap was back, bad jokes and all. He alluded to previous congressional mail scares involving anthrax powder.
FBI Director Sam Vincent laughed obligingly but convincingly, a job prerequisite most of his field agents did not have. “Mr. Speaker, to reiterate what my agents said yesterday, I’ll ask you to tell no one, not anyone, about the attack. As you know, we are getting hundreds of threats attributed to Custos. We don’t want to encourage them. For now, we’re still officially calling this a drill. The purple smoke south of your SUV in Orlando and the white smoke from the bomb make that believable. Our experts are confident that the real Custos would have employed an exploding bomb, although his modus operandi may also have changed.
“None of that diminishes the trauma you and your family experienced. We’re making professional counsellors available to you and your family. I’ll leave you a number to call to set up appointments…
“We’ll take the pressure off you for having to explain the ‘drill’ with a short FBI press briefing. If you’re asked by the press about what happened, please just say you were glad to participate in a drill. Refer further questions to the FBI. I’ll let you tell the same to your wife and grandsons. Remember: We don’t want to give credit to Custos.”
_______________
That evening Hap’s son and daughter-in-law brought the grandchildren over for supper. Hap tried to assuage the outrage of his grandson’s parents. “Hey, I’m sorry to cause you concern. It was a last minute drill. I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to participate in the exercise when I heard about the helicopter ride for the boys. The boys liked the action, especially the helicopter ride. Didn’t mean to alarm you. He looked at his son, “Are we now even for all the times you scared the hell out me when you were growing up?”
After a trifle sundae dessert, the younger boy whispered in Hap’s ear. “Grandpa, I want to show you something outside.” In the backyard, alone with Hap, the boy pulled a small folded envelope from his pocket. “The crossing guard gave this to me today. He said it’s a secret between just you and me. He said to give it to you when no one else was looking. Here it is.” Hap’s pulse raced as he opened the sealed envelope:
Brother, I spared you for greater things. Too many have died. Be a statesman, not a panderer. Let me be a poet, not a murderer. Congress must stop overspending! CUSTOS
The panderer part was a low blow, unworthy of a second thought. Hap, however, couldn’t shut out the echoes in his mind of recent jokes around the Capitol about CONgress. That was emblematic of how low Congress was currently held
in national esteem. He had to acknowledge the motorcyclist was rather brutal in his own personal self-assessment.
It had to be post traumatic stress disorder. Hap sat down in his lawn chair. He was in a cold sweat. Blood drained from his face. The whole bomb attack came back to him. To know you will die, then to slowly wait for it to happen — the horrible sequence of emotions was indelibly recorded in his gray matter.
Hap recovered some. “What did the man who gave this to you look like?”
“He looked like the grim reaper. He had a hood over his head from a sweat shirt and a baseball hat underneath. He wore sunglasses. He had a stop sign in his hand. But he was nice: He helped us pick up money from the sidewalk when someone dropped a jar of quarters.” Hap got the picture: The sender had posed as a crossing guard. Custos had outsmarted the two agents specifically assigned to that grandson.
Hap thought quickly and spoke confidently to his younger grandson. He knew the lad would do anything for him. “For now, this is between you and me, okay. Let’s make it our secret. Let’s go back in the house now. Thanks for giving me the secret papers. I’ll let you put the secret papers in my shredder. After that, you and I will play checkers. We’ll tell everyone playing checkers was our secret reason for leaving the table. What do you say?”
Chapter 50
January 11
FBI Headquarters
“Barb, Director Vincent reminded me about compartmentalizing the investigation. For now, the attack on the Speaker in Orlando publicly will be termed an exercise — specifically a ‘drill.’ That’s fine, but you and I have to figure out how the Orlando event fits in the big picture. Since the facial recognition probables on Trench Coat did not pan out, this seems to be a crumb line to follow. Now we need to find Mag Bomber.” Zach found a memorable name for the motorcyclist to be a focused way to stimulate investigator interest.
“Noted. Zach, to date all the attacks had been in the vicinity of Washington. The occurrence in the Sunshine State raises all kinds of questions. Assuming we don’t have a copycat based down in Florida, how would a DC-based Custos get down there and back?”