The Shadows of Power

by James W. Huston

  She made a quick note on her clipboard and spoke to him without looking. “Why not? If you promise we can actually shoot cans.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “How about tonight? After dinner?”

  “Do I have to bring my own gun?”

  He was surprised. “You have a gun?”

  “No, but I could go get one.”

  “Nope. Ten-day waiting period in California.”

  “Too bad. Do you have one I can borrow?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Sorry, they’re taking off. I have to pay attention.”

  So, Bradley,” the Secretary of Defense said. Stuntz sat in his leather chair and leaned back slightly, having gotten Walker’s attention. He touched the fingers of one hand against the other in an annoying, attention-getting way. “Thank you for coming over here. It’s not every day I get to talk to a member of the National Security Council staff.”

  Right, Walker thought. Just the National Security Advisor herself. “Sure,” he said guardedly.

  “I’m sure you’re curious about why I’ve asked you to come here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have a large staff of my own, you’ve reminded yourself. What could I possibly want with you?”

  “Exactly,” he said.

  “What would you do if you found out that somebody was leaking classified information out of the National Security Council?”

  “What would I do?”

  “Right. What would you do?”

  “Well, I don’t know. It would depend on how I found out, who was doing it, and who else knew. But I’d probably tell the FBI.”

  Stuntz pressed. “It is my belief that someone is operating within the National Security Council in a way that is contrary to usual practice. Contrary to norms. You know, against the national interests.”

  Walker was baffled. “In what way?”

  “By communicating with someone or someones, if that’s a word, outside the circle of people cleared to know what the NSC knows.”

  “How?” Walker asked, seeing where this was going.

  “Through the use of computer encryption software that is not on the NSA list. To which they . . . we . . . don’t have the key.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?” Walker asked.

  “We’re not sure. We thought you might be able to tell us.”

  “How would I know?”

  “Because the communications have always occurred when you were in the building. I had them check the log-in sheets.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Must have been someone else there as well.”

  “Yes. There were a few others. That’s why we don’t know who it was. You see, it may not actually be illegal. But it gives me great pause.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you keep your eyes open?”

  “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

  Stuntz sat forward. “I’m turning this over to the FBI as well. I wanted you to know that. They’ll be doing an investigation,” he said, drawing it out for emphasis, “and seeing if anything classified has been lost.”

  “Well, I hope they find out whatever is going on.”

  “Yes, so do I. And Brad,” he said in a falsely friendly tone, “if you become aware of anything, would you let me know personally?”

  “Sure, Mr. Secretary. Happy to.” Over my dead body, Walker thought, disgusted by the Secretary of Defense and his love of machinations. He worshiped Sarah St. John and would do anything for her. She was straight-ahead, honest, and skeptical. Incredibly competent yet doubted from many sides, for reasons Brad couldn’t quite figure out. “Happy to.”

  * * *

  Rat and Andrea drove out one of the many two-lane country roads in Imperial County. It was dark, but there was a nice moon high up on the horizon. Rat watched the road and occasionally glanced down at the portable GPS—Global Positioning System—receiver sitting on the seat between them.

  Andrea was watching him with bemusement. “Do you actually know where we’re going?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the desert.”

  “We’re surrounded by the desert, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “We’re going to a particular place in the desert.”

  “Have you been to this particular place before?”

  “No.”

  “Hence the GPS receiver.”

  “Exactly.”

  She picked it up and examined it. “You’re just Inspector Gadget, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely. Happiness through technology and gadgets.”

  “So what is this for? Don’t you have a map?”

  “The guy gave me the turnoff as coordinates. He said we’d never find it in the dark in a million years without a GPS fix. How much farther?”

  “Four hundred meters.”

  He slowed, staring at the opposite side of the road, looking for the dirt road turnoff. “There it is,” he exclaimed as he wheeled quickly off the road and onto the narrow, rutted dirt road that climbed away from the country road up a hill.

  Andrea grabbed the door handle as they flew along the dirt road, up and down through several turns, then to the top of a small hill.

  The rented Cherokee climbed the dirt hill effortlessly and leveled off at the top. Rat brought it to a quick stop, waited until the dust settled, and climbed out enthusiastically. Andrea climbed out and stood next to Rat, who was looking around the hilltop.

  “This is perfect,” he said.

  “For what?”

  He went to the driver’s door and pulled out a night scope. He closed the door and held it to his eye. He scanned the entire area slowly.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Making sure we’re alone.”

  “Aw,” she said smiling. “How sweet. You want to be alone

  with me.”

  “I sure do if we’re going to be shooting guns.” He put the night vision scope back in its sleeve and looked at the sky. “It’s sure pretty out here tonight.”

  She nodded. “It’s so peaceful. It’s sort of sacrilegious to break up this peacefulness with gunfire.”

  He looked down at her. “You chickening out on me?”

  “No,” she said. “But don’t you like the peace? The quiet?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “So you ready?”

  “For what?”

  “To shoot.”

  She shook her head and shrugged ironically. “I guess.”

  “Great,” he said. He walked to the back of the Cherokee and opened the doors. There were several cases. “What do you want to shoot first?”

  “I don’t care. If you just want to talk, that’s fine with me. I don’t feel any great need to shoot if you don’t want to.”

  “No, it’s no problem.” He took several cans and threw them out onto the rocky, sandy terrain thirty yards away. “Targets.” He opened a small box and took out a black semiautomatic handgun. “Best handgun in the world. Para Ordnance 14.45 LDA. You’ll love it. It’s like a classic 1911—” He looked at her face. “You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Well this one carries fourteen rounds of .45 ACP ammo. Very powerful, but still not much bigger than the standard .45 auto. The kind the military carried from 1911 through some time in the nineties when they went with the 9-millimeter Beretta instead. This one you can carry with the hammer down, totally safe, and then when you pull the trigger, it’s double action. Don’t need to cock it at all. Just pull the trigger.”

  “Okay.”

  He pulled a clip of ammo out and rammed it into the handle, releasing the slide. “Ready.” With no warning, he turned and fired at the four cans in rapid succession and hit them all. They leaped into the air and clattered back down to the desert in protest.

  “How can you even s
ee those cans?” she remarked, amazed.

  “Look for the labels. Here you go,” he said, handing the handgun to her.

  She took it gingerly. “It’s heavy.”

  “Not really. Only forty ounces. Pretty light, really. Have you fired a handgun before?”

  “Sure. I qualified with the 9-millimeter.”

  “Go for it.”

  She pointed the gun toward the cans, looked carefully through the sites, and fired. The gun jumped in her hand, and a can rose up into the sky.

  “Shit hot!” Rat exclaimed. “Keep at it.”

  She turned back and handed it to him. “That’s enough for me.”

  “One shot?”

  “Yeah.”

  He wasn’t quite sure what to do. “What now, rifle? M-16? I have an automatic. Ever fired in automatic before?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He looked disappointed, then smiled. “Want to see something that will really water your eyes?”

  “I don’t know. Depends what you have in mind.”

  “A gun. Rifle, actually.”

  “Is it legal?”

  “It is, actually. Largest rifle that can be privately owned in the United States.” Without waiting, he pulled out a long case that extended under the backseat and touched the driver’s seat. He opened it, assembled it, and stood up with it. He held it across his chest and pointed it away from them.

  “What is that?” she asked, truly frightened.

  “My favorite weapon. The Barrett M82A1.50 caliber semiautomatic rifle.”

  Andrea took a step backward. “It’s enormous!”

  “Five feet long and thirty pounds,” Rat said. “During Desert Storm, a Marine shot one of these rifles at an Iraqi armored personnel carrier from a mile away. It exploded in a fireball. All the Iraqis climbed out thinking they’d been hit by a missile. But it was just one bullet from this rifle.”

  Andrea was standing with her arms folded. “What do you have it for?”

  Rat realized he had gone too far. He had no possible reason as a private citizen to own his favorite sniper rifle. It just wouldn’t do to tell her it was the best for long-distance sniping. “For my security company. Sometimes we’re called on to set up a defense, and what’s coming may be heavily armed, or a helicopter.”

  “You some kind of gun-nut psycho?” she asked, half joking.

  He tried to laugh it off. “Yeah, that’s me. Psycho.”

  “Would you mind putting it away?”

  “Not at all,” he said, putting it back into its case and then into the Cherokee. He pulled out two light nylon bags and quickly assembled two camping chairs. “You weren’t really up for blasting this peaceful night away anyway, were you?”

  “I was, but then I got here, and it was just so pretty and quiet. Thanks for getting out the chairs.”

  “No problem. Would you like something to drink? I brought a cooler.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Beer, wine, soda.”

  “Any water?”

  “Sure,” he said. He gave her a bottle of spring water.

  She drank it quickly. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Uh-huh.” He took a bottle of Dos Equis out of the cooler and opened it.

  “I don’t believe you, about the whole photographer thing. You’re no photographer. Maybe as a hobby, but not to make a book.”

  Rat sighed and smiled. “Maybe you’re right. I may be here for something else too. And you’re bound to find out fairly soon, when the Boss tells everyone else, which, according to what he and the FBI have told me, will be before the first air show in Arizona this Saturday.”

  “So tell me now.”

  “I have several men here to protect Ed Stovic. The FBI is here too, but they’ll have a lot more people in Arizona.”

  She touched his arm in alarm. “From what?”

  “An Algerian is trying to kill him. The brother of the pilot he shot down.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “We’re sure.”

  “And the government has hired you?”

  “More or less.”

  “So you’re not some psycho.”

  He smiled. “I may be, but this gear is here for a purpose. I shouldn’t have shown you the Barrett. It’s kind of intimidating.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  He pondered her offer. She might be useful. “Not right now. But maybe. I’ll let you know. You have to keep this to yourself.”

  She nodded and put her head on his shoulder. He leaned down and kissed her. She kissed him back gently.

  “Should we be getting back?” he asked.

  “Not unless you want to. I’d just like to watch these amazing stars awhile longer.”

  * * *

  The Blue Angels flew in loose formation across the California desert, past Yuma, Arizona, and across Arizona to Mesa on the eastern side of Phoenix. They taxied to the parking spots that had been set aside for them on the tarmac and shut down their jets. Dozens of smiling people from the air show organization were waiting for them, thrilled even to be near the Blue Angels. The pilots went straight to their luxury hotel in Scottsdale where they had already been checked in. The perfectly manicured golf course across the street beckoned to several of them who tried to play whenever they could, but they knew they wouldn’t have time that afternoon because of the “commit” they had, a little earlier than usual.

  Rat had beaten them to the hotel. He had left Groomer in El Centro with the other half of his group. The rest of his squad, as he liked to call them, had left early with him to get to Scottsdale and check into their hotel. By the time the Blue Angels arrived he had been to where they had to go that evening and been over every foot of the hotel in which they were staying.

  He was waiting in the lobby for them when they arrived. Andrea was quietly telling all the pilots they just had time for a workout and giving them a map of the hotel that showed where the cavernous fitness room was. They all nodded and headed toward their rooms.

  Rat changed into his gear in the room next to Stovic’s and watched his small TV monitors as Stovic changed. As soon as Stovic was ready to leave his room, Rat stepped into the hallway, where they met.

  “Nice timing. You coming to work out?” Stovic asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “You’ve probably already worked out ten times today,” he said as they walked down the thickly carpeted hallway.

  “Just once.”

  “You’ll waste away, only working out twice a day.” He looked at Rat’s heavy gym bag. “What’s in the bag?”

  “Camera gear,” Rat said, telling part of the truth.

  “Still doing the camera thing.”

  “You bet. Got to get some pictures of the Blues lifting weights. Part of who you are.”

  “True enough.”

  They walked to the hotel spa. Stovic was speechless. He had never seen a weight room like it in his life. It looked like something you might see in an NFL training room. A really nice NFL training room. A hundred people could work out there at once. The other Blue Angel pilots were arriving. They looked at each other, nodded at Rat, and stared. They were standing just inside the glass doors, and the few people who were there stared back at them.

  Their shorts and T-shirts gave no indication they were the Blue Angels. The others stole glances at them, wondering who they were. They had to be someone. No business group would have good-looking men in their twenties or thirties, all of whom were in perfect shape, wore their hair in various conservative cuts, and traded barbs with each other like brothers. They spread out quickly and began lifting as pairs, trading off, watching each other, spotting for each other. Three of them had brought gloves and weight belts.

  Stovic and Rat worked around the free weights with each other, talking and laughing about nothing in particular. But all the Blue Angels stopped to watch when Rat slid under the bar and started doing bench presses with so many forty-five–pound weights on the bar that it bent a
s he pushed it away from his chest. Stovic was spotting for him. “Geez, Rat, don’t kill yourself. How much do you have on there?”

  He struggled to lower the sagging bar back to its cradle, exhaled, and said, “Two ninety.”

  Stovic was impressed. “You’re a stud,” he said.

  “Just steady. You work out enough, keep adding weight, you build up. That’s all.” Rat lay on the bench, preparing for his next lift.

  Stovic leaned down to him so no one else could hear. “There’s some weird contraption in the corner of my room. Where the ceiling meets the two walls. It looks like a camera or a motion detector. You know anything about that?”

  Rat hesitated, looked at him, and reached for the bar suspended over his face. He lifted it and pressed it again, grunting against the huge weight, then put the steel back in its cradle with a loud clang. He sat up. He reached for one of the bottles of water nearby and looked at his friend. “It’s mine,” he said quietly.

  Stovic looked concerned. “What is it?”

  “Camera. Video camera. Wireless. Same kind I put in your house in Virginia Beach.”

  “What for?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “He could have come to El Centro too. You didn’t have anything in that room.”

  Rat stood up and took two forty-five–pound weights off the bar. “You sure about that?”

  “You had cameras in my hotel room?” Stovic cried.

  “This guy is serious. So am I.” He sat down on the bench again across from Stovic. “But I think he’s likely to use a SAM. I don’t think it’s just about you and him anymore. It’s about him and the U.S., him and the Blue Angels.”

  “To shoot us down?”

  Rat didn’t want to give him too much. “Maybe. And if you were going to do that, to make a point, where would you do it?”

  “At an air show. In front of a million people.”

  Rat watched his friend’s face. He was sorry he had to ruin his tour with the Blues, to fill it full of concern and fear, regardless of whether or not Stovic allowed it to show.

  Stovic stood in front of the air vent and let the cold air blow over him. He was angry, but it had stopped building. He realized he was angry at the wrong person. “So now what?” he said to the wall.

  “Now we up the ante. We’re going to have cowboys all over the place. FBI, NCIS, local police. And at some point, the Boss is going to tell the rest of the team. Probably tonight.”