Cloudburst

by Pearson, Ryne Douglas

  “I can imagine,” Joe lied. He couldn’t imagine, and he didn’t really care about their methods. “Colonel Cadler, I know you don’t like me, and that’s okay: Most people don’t.”

  “And you have the luxury of not having to worry too much about it, because you”—a thick finger pointed at Joe’s nose—“are a precious commodity. No one does what you do.”

  Joe knew it wasn’t flattery. “Maybe. In any case, I just want you to know that I am on the same side as you and I don’t repeat what bears being kept quiet.”

  “Despite the attitude?” Cadler asked.

  “What attitude?” Joe inquired, instantly aware that he had made a joke when he intended to be serious.

  Nine

  DESIGNS

  Los Angeles

  The thirty-five teams were feeling the frustration of a zero batting average. No registration records or eyewitness accounts could place the shooters or Jackson at any of the hotels or motels close to the freeway. Frankie and Thom had finished their area, with no success, and were heading to the north side of the 10 to assist two other teams and, by their generosity, share in the frustration. They figured theirs would be a helping and a half for the day.

  And that day, so far, had been sixteen hours of monotony, played out by the seventy agents as the mounting negative reports were broadcast over the radio. With the long hours taken into account it was slightly more than amazing that Frankie’s senses were keen enough to notice something that no one had considered. The Bureau Chevy slowed in the right lane and glided to a smooth stop curbside. Both agents were looking to the right, Frankie leaning forward on the steering wheel.

  “Thom?” she said, her smiling brown eyes studying the building and its surroundings.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you seeing what I am?”

  “Sure am,” Thom answered, unbuckling his seat belt. “It makes sense. Private. Looks like a card-access gate. It’s not a motel, but it’d serve the purpose.”

  “Exactly my thinking.” Frankie checked the traffic before opening her door. “Call it in on the cellular. I’m gonna start knocking.”

  Within ten minutes all those teams that had struck out on the motels were directing their efforts elsewhere, hoping against the growing odds for a success.

  USS Vinson

  The night sky was a sea of darkness rushing past the Tomcat’s clear canopy. Dick Logan was riding shotgun, sitting where the radar intercept officer usually would.

  “My rear ain’t happy about havin’ to hitch back on a COD,” the pilot told Logan, the cow pies practically dripping from his staticky words. “You must be important.”

  Logan knew better than that. His agent was the important one.

  Silence answered the pilot’s question better than words. “Yep. I see.” His white helmet shook with wonder. “Mister, you ever land on a carrier?”

  “Vertically.”

  “This is a bit more violent than a helo touchdown. You cinched up?”

  Logan checked his harness. “Roger.” The quick preflight instructions they had given him at Sigonella were supposed to prepare him for this. Why, then, did he feel like he’d just bent over in a prison shower room?

  “Ready, then?”

  “Ready what?” Logan asked with surprise, craning his neck to see past the pilot’s headrest and bulbous headgear. There was only blackness ahead.

  “On the deck in one minute, mister.”

  The CIA officer felt his stomach tighten up. These Navy birdmen are fucking crazy! Where the hell is the ship? All he could see below was deep black, and he knew that beneath that was an even deeper ocean.

  The sixty seconds evaporated quickly, ending when the thirty-ton aircraft’s tail hook snagged the number one arrester wire. Logan didn’t have the luxury of experience in this, and his tense body was thrown forward, testing the harness with force. Internal organs were mixed and pressed forward, nearly heaving the small base meal from his stomach into his oxygen mask.

  Then, it was all over. Fast. The canopy came up and deck crewmen, dressed in different primary-colored shirts, were all over the plane, removing both men to the welcome feel of the solid, rolling ground that was the ninety-thousand-ton USS Carl Vinson.

  A khaki-uniformed officer, peaked cap and red flashlight in hand, met Logan at the Tomcat’s right wingtip and led him into the carrier’s island. After a quick introduction they continued down through corridors that a stranger to the ship couldn’t trace his way through on a lucky day. A knock and announcement at a door not like the steel ovals they had passed through brought him into a nicely appointed, if small, office. The lieutenant left with an informal salute, and a smile that was not for the visitor.

  “Mister Logan,” the man seated behind the desk began without rising or offering his hand, “I am Commander Harrold Keys.”

  Logan felt exposed standing before the officer, a feeling that reminded him both of his short stint in the Air Force years before, and of a firing squad scene from some movie he’d seen. “Commander.”

  “I run the air group aboard this ship. The Vinson herself belongs to Admiral Drew. The planes and their crews are mine. They’re my responsibility, Logan, and mine alone. None of them are expendable. None are worth wasting. I take this all very seriously. Do you understand?”

  Logan felt the tips of his ears burn. He was sure they were red. “Clearly.”

  Keys folded his hands on the desk, his elbows stretched straight out. He was the picture of a naval aviator. His strong, sincere brown eyes spoke volumes about courage and determination, and the wave of black hair was cropped close the way pilots preferred, not in a Marine-like flattop. The uniform, what Logan could see of it above the desk, was pressed neatly, but not impeccably, indicative of the fact that this man was a hands-on commander, one who more than likely hopped behind the stick on occasion to chase birds. On his breast were a modest few ribbons, and on his right hand he wore the ring of honor—that of an Annapolis graduate.

  Logan had to respect the man, even if he was an ass at the moment.

  “I do not care much for this mission,” Keys explained, quite unnecessarily. He slid back from the desk and stood. “Risking good men for some raghead traitor goes against my grain. Way against it.”

  “He’s on our side, Commander.” Logan knew the words were worthless to Keys.

  “Let me share something with you, Mr. Logan.” Keys gestured toward two chairs at room’s center, where they sat. “About twenty-five years back, not more than six months in the front seat, I caught myself some flak at six hundred knots in my good ol’ F-4. And, mind you, there weren’t any friendlies below. Just a slew of pissed-off gooks. Can’t say I blame ‘em, being that we’d just blown the crap out of a road network around their village. Anyway, my backseater didn’t make it out before we hit—his seat must’ve screwed up or something. I hit the ground in damn good shape, which ain’t supposed to happen in an eject. Nothing broken. Nothing at all.” Keys’s head shook slightly, almost wistfully, as the time came back. He looked up at Logan. “I was the only one to survive from the flight. Six planes. Eleven good men—dead. Thank God SAR got to me before the locals. And do you know why? Because we were getting our intel from some gook insider. He gave us lots of good stuff as a lead-in: a bridge here, and maybe some rice convoy or some other piddly shit. Just enough so our intel guys were comfortable with it all. Just enough so he could draw a bunch of us in to a grade A bushwack. We bit at it, and good.” The commander looked down and then at the spy again. “He was on our side, Logan. Think about that.”

  Logan breathed deeply. “The orders, Commander, come...”

  “I know, Logan.” Keys waved off the reminder. “From the top. You see, that’s where I differ from that candy-ass raghead of yours. I obey orders. I am loyal to my country, and to my men. You’ll have everything you need to complete this mission. Everything. If you need a goddamn turkey dinner waiting here for him, you’ve got it. But take this advice: don’t be surprised if your be
loved traitor—you know, the one on our side—don’t be surprised if he’s playing both sides of the fence.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Keep this in mind, too, mister: There’ll be a helo full of good men going in there with you to pull that guy out. You’re not the only one who could get killed. You’ve got a lot of lives on your shoulders, Mr. Logan.”

  He was right, as much as Logan wanted to not believe it. DONNER, like any other agent, could be a pawn. Damn! “Message received, Commander. Loud and clear.”

  Keys nodded. “The lieutenant will take you to your bunk. It’s small, but it’s private. I assume you’ll want to brief the helo crew ASAP.”

  “And the special ops troops,” Logan added. “Who do we have?”

  “A squad of recon Marines from Guam. Eight men...Good men.”

  “Point well taken, Commander.”

  Logan looked for some common ground that they could work from, but since he knew of the commander’s distaste for DONNER, a man he had not yet met, settling for noninterference would have to do. He knew he would have all the help he needed, but he wanted more. Not approval—at least not for himself, and definitely not from this man. Maybe he was hoping for acceptance for his agent, so the man wouldn’t come in from the cold and realize that home had been a hell of a lot warmer.

  “Very well. Briefing in forty minutes.” Keys returned to his chair, again without taking the CIA officer’s hand. It was a cold signal, one that Logan heeded, immediately, picking up his escort outside the door as he left.

  Los Angeles

  If their average was translated into baseball terms, Agents Francine Aguirre and Thomas Danbrook would be candidates for yearly multi-million-dollar contracts. Already the word had spread that they were blessed, the Buddha whose tummy one rubbed to bring luck. That was before the immediate moment. This one, if it was a hit, would put them in the realm of legends.

  Frankie heard it first. The lowered white Hyundai pulled slowly into the driveway to avoid dragging its ground- hugging underside. Its bass-heavy stereo system thumped until going silent as the headlights faded to darkness. The driver stepped out and approached. His babyish face was framed by the dark strands of his wet-curl perm, and the white Nike sweat suit glowed, even in the dim light from the distant sodium lamp. He walked toward his boss and the two agents waiting outside the sliding night window of the storage yard.

  “Daryl, come here.” The owner spoke in a heavy Indian accent. His dark-haired wife watched worriedly from inside.

  “Watsup?” Daryl James had almost thought the phone call from his boss was a joke, but Mr. Patel was a serious man. That he knew for sure. “You almost didn’t catch me. I just walked in when the phone rang.”

  “Daryl,” Frankie said, offering her hand. The young man, polite and calm, accepted it. “I’m Agent Aguirre and this is Agent Danbrook. We’re with the L.A. FBI office.”

  The young man straightened up at that. “Hey, man...I mean lady. I don’t do none of that shit that you all handle. No drugs or gang banging. Honest.”

  Thom was skeptical, but not Frankie. The kid wasn’t a street slime, like so many others she had seen or grown up with. No expensive jewelry or flashy clothes. Even his car was sedate when compared to what other young guys who looked the part were driving. Thom, a new agent, had seen too many movies and spent too much time behind a desk.

  Frankie smiled. “Don’t sweat it.”

  Thom handed Daryl a page from the facility’s register book. It was similar to that of a hotel, showing who rented each particular space. This one was for space 141, one of the small walk-in units. A picture was also passed over, which Daryl held under the light over the night window.

  “Do you remember any of these men?” Frankie asked, watching Daryl for any reaction as his eyes went between the form and the strip of three photos.

  “Yeah. Last week, I think.”

  “Which one,” Frankie probed, sidestepping closer to the light as her heartbeat picked up.

  “This one here. On the left.”

  “Jackson,” Thom said to his partner, who nodded.

  They had been right. It had been a simple hunch, but then that was good police work. Some of it could be taught: the investigative techniques, to an extent, and the reckoning of fact with conjecture, most notably. But that gut feeling that good cops got was inborn. Not every agent had it, but all street agents worth their salt did.

  “Let’s check it out,” Frankie said, her manner now more serious. The time for glee was past. “Mr. Patel, the gentleman that Daryl just identified is wanted for questioning in the assassination of the president. You can imagine how serious this is. Now, we can have a search warrant here in less than an hour, if you wish, but it would be a great help if you would allow us access.”

  “I do not know. What if it is not the same man...the one you want?”

  Frankie shot her partner a look, which sent him walking toward the car.

  “No! No! No!” Patel said rapidly, stopping Thom after only a few steps. “I will let you in. Jira,” he called to his wife, finishing the sentence in his native language. She disappeared momentarily, then returned with a key. “Come. Come.”

  The agents followed the diminutive man to the gate, which he opened with a card, and on to the small storage space. Daryl stayed outside near the window, still somewhat perplexed by what was happening.

  The door to the space was orange, and only slightly larger, both in height and width, than an ordinary entry door.

  “I’ll take the key,” Frankie said. “Would you wait back by the gate?”

  Thom waited for the owner to get out of earshot. “Do you think it’s tricked?”

  Frankie shook her head. “Why would it be? These guys were interested in getting in and out, clean and quick. Jackson, too, I figure. The car they used wasn’t booby-trapped. These guys had specific targets, which means that random killing just doesn’t fit. Plus, what if someone had opened this up before they did their deed? It might have been enough to spook the Service.” She ended with a raised-eyebrow invitation for rebuttal.

  “So why have him move back?”

  Frankie grinned. “What if I’m wrong?”

  Thom coughed, half laughingly and half from the realization that she could be right. “It’s comforting to know that you and I will be the only victims.”

  The key clicked upon being inserted. Without hesitation Frankie turned it, and the door swung an inch inward once released. Thom pushed it farther until it stopped against an inside wall, then he reached in, feeling for a light switch. “Here goes.”

  It was a single-bulb fixture on the ceiling in the room’s center, but bright enough to clearly show the contents. Frankie didn’t have to move any closer to see the pile of wooden boxes against the back wall. Idiots! she thought to herself. She looked at Thom, whose smile was that of a satisfied cop.

  “Does the term jackpot have any meaning, pardner?” she asked, getting a congratulatory handslap in response.

  Pope AFB

  There should have been a share-and-share-alike attitude among those that might do the same job, but that would be in a perfect bureaucratic world. McAffee knew the realities, so the delay—a nearly three-hour one—in his getting details on the HRT plan was expected. They had it now, which was what counted. Ten copies of the ten-page assault plan were in the hands of the team, all of whom sat around a rectangular table beneath the 747’s left wing.

  “Interesting,” Graber mumbled quietly halfway through the brief, which included operational details and several diagrams.

  The HRT plan—code-named RETRIEVER—was radical in concept. Its basis was the belief by the Bureau’s psychological advisers and criminal behaviorists that the terrorist could not wear and keep active the deadman’s vest for the duration of the hijacking. Aside from being physically draining, the emotional trials that one would have to endure, knowing that a slip would mean death, and failure, would be degrading. Therefore, the head doctors theori
zed, he must take it off after takeoff and put it back on after landing.

  It was during the latter when the HRT plan called for the assault to take place. As the 747 slowed on the runway, two Bureau Blackhawk helos would approach from the rear with four agents slung beneath each on STABO rigs. Before the jet stopped, the men would be deposited on each wing, where they would blow the number three doors, perform an entry, and neutralize the hijackers.

  McAffee let each man finish examining the plan. “Okay, troops, tear it apart.” He paused for a few seconds. “Anyone?”

  “The op is good,” Antonelli said halfheartedly. “At least detail wise.”

  Quimpo nodded. “I agree. It’s doable, but tricky. Really tricky.”

  Sean flipped back to the second page, finding his point of reference. Joe Anderson, sitting on his right, saw this, and also the quizzical look on the captain’s still boyish face.

  The major did too. “Problem, Captain?”

  Sean’s head came up. “Sir. Sorry, what was that?”

  “You seem engrossed. Is our discussion disturbing you?”

  Graber laid the stapled stack down. “Maybe it’s me, but this is a pile of shit.” The veteran officer leaned in. His blue eyes were serious and cold against an expressionless face. “The plan for the actual takedown is good, but pretty standard. Even the entry isn’t all that stunning. We considered something like it back in eighty-seven. It would have worked on smaller jets, where they’d need only four men, maybe. That’s my biggest concern with the operational side of it. Those helos would have to stay out near the wingtips to make sure their rotors cleared each other, unless they came in one at a time—but there’s nothing in this about that. It calls for a simultaneous insertion and entry.”

  “There’d be about sixty seconds of lag if they separated,” Buxton figured.

  “Nah,” Antonelli contradicted him. “Their helo jocks must be as good as ours, and ours could do it in half a minute easy.”

  “With four guys on rigs swinging below?” Buxton retorted.