The Blue Angels looked at each other. They tried not to show the contempt they were feeling for this pretty Admiral and his burning conscience. They were willing to take the risk, but now they weren’t going to be allowed.
“Just like that?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. It isn’t worth the risk.”
“We’ve been living with this risk, Admiral. We think it is worth the risk. We’re willing to do it. It wouldn’t be fair to the team to bring us all this way when we know the risk. Has something changed? If anything, it’s gotten better. We’ve been told the French have taken care of most of the risk. I say we go forward.” He looked at the other pilots sitting around the table. He knew them well enough. They didn’t need to say anything. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we need to continue briefing.”
“It isn’t that simple, Boss. This is an order. From Washington.”
“From whom, exactly?”
“SECDEF,” Hooker replied. The Secretary of Defense.
The door flew open, and François and Elizabeth burst into the room. “Excuse us, but we wanted to inform you right away,” she said, looking at the Americans sitting along the walls of the room and the Blues sitting alone at the table. She ignored Lew’s skeptical stare. “We have broken up the ring of terrorists that was after you,” Elizabeth announced triumphantly. “We have captured or killed them all. The last one, this Ismael, who started all this, was sighted in a plumbing van. He fought and was killed. His Stinger missile was captured intact.” She smiled with closed lips, a smug, self-important smile, which showed that she had not discussed with François who was going to make the announcement and had done it herself before he could say anything.
The Boss sat back, showing the relief all the Blues felt. “Thank you.” He looked at Admiral Hooker. “Well. We were briefing, Admiral. Would you like to join us? There’s a seat right over there.”
Admiral Hooker got it right away. He nodded, his face showing color again, and walked to the door. “Perhaps after I go tell the people who are here with the JSF. They would want to know. Maybe we can still kill both birds with one stone.” His smile faded. “Bad analogy. Sorry. Anyway, please forgive me for interrupting, Boss. You’ve got work to do.”
Lew walked over and extended his hand to Elizabeth. She took it triumphantly.
He spoke softly, so the others couldn’t hear. “You sure you got them all?”
“Yes. We believe we have,” she said a little less firmly.
Lew heard the equivocation. “Are you sure?” Lew pressed.
François replied. “We found their warehouse and got there at the same time as their leader.”
“I know that. But what about Ismael?”
“They arrived to pick up their missiles,” François said, ignoring him, “and ended up in a gun battle with several of them. Two—actually one—was captured and described the vans and trucks the others had. Over this morning we have located every van and every missile. We have captured all the shooters.”
The Boss had been eavesdropping. “Even the one who had it out for Animal here?”
“Yes, sir. He had changed his appearance somewhat, grown his hair out, grown a beard, but it’s him—”
“And you found all the missiles?” Lew pressed.
“Every one.”
“You believe him?” Stovic asked, focused.
“We had our best interrogator on it. He is quite confident.”
“One of them had a Stinger—”
François jumped in. “We got the Stinger. It was in this Ismael Nezzar’s van—a plumbing van. There was an exchange of gunfire, but we got the Stinger. And in that exchange of bullets, this Ismael, this terrorist from Algeria, was killed, I am proud to tell you. You won’t hear about it on the news—we don’t like giving them their sought-after martyr status.”
Lew was uneasy. “Did you identify the body?”
“He has been identified.”
“By who?”
“By one of our best officers.”
Lew stood. “Take me to his body. I sat across the table from him. I’ve stared at his photo every day for weeks. I want to ID him myself.”
“It is not necessary—”
“Take me to him!” Lew yelled.
François hesitated. “You do not think we are capable of identifying a terrorist?”
Lew wasn’t going to play games. “No. I don’t.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t feel like arguing with you, Francis. Just take me to his damned body. Is his face intact?”
François reddened, then nodded. He looked at Elizabeth, then motioned with his head for her to take Lew to the body. She was furious at the way it had been handled, not recognizing any of it as the payback for stealing François’s thunder. She stormed off with Lew behind her. Patricia stayed where she was.
The Boss sat back and drank some water. “We okay to keep briefing, Admiral?” he asked Hooker.
“Of course. The risk has been taken care of. I will communicate to Washington. The JSF will still go first. Fly a great air show. Make us proud!” Hooker smiled as he hurried off to make sure the JSF team could stay on schedule.
The Boss looked at the overhead photo and got himself back in the correct mind-set. “Lining up for the diamond flyby.” The Blue Angel pilots returned to their meditative positions. “Coming . . . left . . . a lit-tle . . . more . . . pull. . . .”
* * *
Rat had been in place for three hours. He had chosen the perfect tree in the early morning before daylight. He had donned his gillie suit and aimed his long-range .50-caliber sniper rifle in the direction where he expected the threat to appear. He had taken the last water and food he would consume before assuming his current position. He had stopped moving.
The small cell phone earpiece in his left ear came alive. His French phone was on auto answer after one silent ring. “Yes,” he whispered.
“Rat?” Jean said.
“Oui.”
“We got them.”
“Ismael?”
“Yes. Including his Stinger. It was a plumbing van, as our new friend told us.”
Rat was surprised. “Congratulations,” he whispered. “Were you involved?”
“No, it was the Police Nationale. The GIPN.”
Rat frowned. “You have confidence in them?”
“Yes. They are excellent.”
“But you didn’t see Ismael. You weren’t there.”
“No.”
“How do we know it was him?”
“Who else would it be?”
“I have no idea. Who identified him?”
“Someone from the DST.”
“He wasn’t destroyed in the fight?”
“No. He was shot several times, but his face was intact.”
“So we’re sure?”
“Yes. We are staying in place, but the DST have told our government and yours that the threat has been eliminated.”
“Stinger?”
“I told you. Intact. In the van. You can come down out of your tree and enjoy the air show.”
“Thanks,” Rat said, still whispering. He cut off the connection. The relief he felt was immediate and complete. He knew he would pay with stiffness for the stillness he had maintained for some time now. It would be nice to stand on the ground and move around.
He sat up and looked through the site lines he had established out of the tree, toward the building straight away from the runways, the route Stovic would take when he approached with Oden, the line to his right, toward the runway itself, the line directly behind him toward the crowd, the buildings, and the operations center. He had a good spot. There wasn’t one better anywhere nearby. And now he wouldn’t need it. He sighed and smiled as he started packing his gear. He put away two of the miniature radios, then stopped.
Ismael let himself be caught in a van? True, they probably weren’t in contact with each other; they wouldn’t want their comm tracked. That was the error made by their spy, the one w
ho was now looking for some bandages and antiseptic. So of course Ismael could have been caught. The French knew what to look for, and he didn’t know they were after him.
But Ismael was clever. Things with him weren’t always what they appeared to be. Rat was still convinced Ismael had contacted the FBI on purpose. He settled back down into his perch with his sniper rifle and huge scope under leaflike camouflage. He put his right eye back to the scope. It wouldn’t hurt anything to stay where he was. If nothing else came of it, fine. He listened to the other radio earpiece. The security forces were passing the word. The terrorists had been caught. Some were laughing, some were celebrating the good teamwork of the Emergency Committee that had brought everyone together and successfully stopped a known terrorist threat. They were crowing quietly and patting themselves on the back. Even the FBI’s channel was full of self-congratulation. There had been reports among the French that some of the FBI’s special agents had magically shown up to support the attack on the terrorists’ weapons garage. The men there unmistakably had their FBI jackets on and were American. They knew more than they let on was the conclusion and had appropriately stayed out of the way to let the French take the lead. They had gotten a lot of credit for that too.
Rat looked through his scope again. He picked up his scan where he had left off—any place for a shooter to hide. Everything was amazingly quiet. He looked over the top of the rifle. Nothing out of the ordinary or out of place. He shifted his weight. He put his face against the stock of the rifle again and looked through the scope, moving it slowly, waiting for nothing.
* * *
Stovic and the other Blue Angels stood in a line shoulder to shoulder in front of their polished blue jets. They were five minutes away from starting their walk down the line in front of their aircraft to begin their air show. Stovic glanced over at the stands and into the VIP section. He had never seen more Admirals in one place in his life. Directly in front of them was the Admirals’ baby, the Joint Strike Fighter, the one that had been selected in 2001 in a flyoff between Boeing and Lockheed. The Lockheed design had won the contracts for some four thousand airplanes. This was the winner, the one selected to replace the aging attack planes of the Navy, Air Force, and Marine Corps. It had just finished its flawless air show routine, sure to inspire interest from other countries that were sitting on the fence. It had landed triumphantly and taxied to its position in front of the stands.
The Boss spoke the command to begin marching, exactly as he had at every show and every practice, quietly but unmistakably. “Atten-hut!”
“For-ward, har.”
The Blue Angels marched down the tarmac with their shoulders touching. As they reached each jet, a pilot executed a smart right turn and marched to his airplane. Stovic was first. He climbed up into his cockpit. His crew chief followed him up the ladder, helped him strap in, and handed him his helmet. He caught himself looking around at the buildings, the crowd, the runways, the perimeter of the airfield; anything different, out of the ordinary, threatening, shining, anything. He knew they had found Ismael and the others but found his relief incomplete. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. The blueness of the sky seemed brighter than he remembered it when they had arrived for their brief under a smothering police escort. The 9-millimeter Glock in his pocket felt silly. He was sure the other Blues had noticed the bulge, which made him feel even more stupid.
On command, the Blue Angels lowered their canopies and turned on the radios. Stovic lowered his gold-mirrored visor in front of his eyes and positioned his lip mike until it touched his lips. No oxygen mask for the Blue Angels. No G-suit. Just their blue flight suit and the straps for the parachute over their shoulders and lap, and they were ready.
* * *
Lew thought the Police Nationale car was a joke. It was so small he could fit a six-pack of them into his garage. Riding in the backseat was torture. His brace, belly, and attitude were all in the way. He didn’t even try to put on the shoulder harness. It would take a contortionist to get his arm to where the seat belt rested behind his left shoulder. They motored through the streets of Paris at a leisurely clip, no lights, no siren; just driving along. He was furious. “Can we hurry it along a bit?” he asked.
Elizabeth turned and glared at him. “You want us to use lights and siren?”
“Yes!” he replied.
“To see a dead body? He isn’t going anywhere,” she quipped.
Lew held his tongue for the remainder of the fifteen-minute ride. The car finally pulled up in front of yet another stunning marble building built two hundred years ago and beautifully maintained. But this one housed the Paris morgue in the basement.
Lew was sweating profusely as he hurried to keep up with Elizabeth. She was angry, and her dislike of Lew was showing. She didn’t care if his neck hurt or even if it stopped him completely. She was insulted that he insisted on seeing the body of a man already identified by the French.
The basement of the building was cold and clammy, but nothing stopped Lew’s sweating. Part of his sweat was from the exertion that had taxed his ability to endure the pain of his not-quite-healed cervical spine. The other part was from the haunting fear that they were being outmaneuvered while the hands on his watch approached 10:00 a.m.
They walked quickly into the reception area, which was brightly lit and clean. A Frenchman in a white coat greeted them, unhappy that they were there. Whenever anyone visited the morgue who didn’t work there, it was always bad news. Either they were there to identify someone who shouldn’t be dead, or they were there because they thought the dead person was other than who he had been identified to be. Always bad news, always trouble. He hated visitors.
Elizabeth nearly yelled. “We need to see a body. He was brought in here this morning. Arab. Several bullet wounds.”
“I have a few of those.”
“This one would have been about . . .” She dug in her purse for the information she had been given on her cell phone on the way over. “Here he is, decedent number six-six-five.”
The man nodded as he examined the number on the piece of paper she had read from. “Your ID?”
Elizabeth gave it to him. He looked at it and gave it back.
“What about him?”
Lew hadn’t understood anything either of them had said, but could tell the man was expecting something else before access would be granted. “Look, dumbass, we need to see this body now!” he yelled.
The man looked at Elizabeth again. “And who is this loud person?”
“American. FBI.”
“Tell him I need to see his identification.”
“He needs to see your identification.”
“To see a dead person? This is bullshit!” Lew roared. He pulled his FBI identification out and showed it to the man. “There! Where’s your ID as the person in charge of dead people?” he roared, hoping the man didn’t speak English.
“What is the matter with him?” he asked Elizabeth.
“He is an angry American.”
The man nodded, gave Lew a condescending look, and led them to a refrigerated room full of small stainless steel doors. He opened the door corresponding to six-six-five and rolled the man out. He lifted the cover and showed the face to them.
Lew walked around so he was looking at the man as if he was standing up. There was a bullet hole just over the left ear that had distorted the shape of the head, but not so much that there was any doubt. Lew’s heart went cold. “Shit! It’s not him!” he said, his mind spinning to the various possible places Ismael could be now. “It’s not him!” he yelled. “We’ve got to get back. Get on your phone.” He pulled out his radio and tried to call the other FBI agents, but his radio wouldn’t work in the basement. “Can you get out?”
She tried her radio. Nothing. She looked at him with a pained, embarrassed look. “Are you positive?”
“Yes! I’m positive!”
“We’ve got to get back to the airport! Now!”
The Blue Angel diamond pulled u
p into their loop. White smoke streamed behind them as the Admirals and the enormous crowd followed their trajectory in the sparkling blue sky. Stovic’s heart pounded as he waited at the end of the runway. He listened to the boss, “A . . . lit-tle . . . less . . . poooower . . . ,” as the Blue Angel diamond pulled over the top on their backs, looking for all the world like four airplanes welded together three thousand feet above the ground. “Speed breaks . . . now.”
Oden lifted off and kept his landing gear down. He maintained the minimum speed necessary to stay airborne, pulled his nose up slightly, and rolled the airplane over on its back with its landing gear sticking up away from the ground like a dead bug. He kept rolling back over in a fluid motion that brought it around again so that the landing gear was only twenty feet off the ground. It was a scary roll to watch as the airplane completely lost lift twice when its wings were perpendicular to the ground. Since he was at minimal airspeed and altitude, any miscalculation would bring the Hornet slamming down into the runway. But Oden had perfected the roll. His execution this time was no different as he cleaned up his aircraft, raised his gear and flaps, and threw his throttles full forward to race off to his reference point for the pass with Animal.
Stovic jammed his throttles outward and forward into full afterburner. He released the brakes and leaned slightly forward as his Hornet raced down the runway. He kicked in a little right rudder and made a mental note that the crosswind was slightly stronger than briefed. He held his Hornet on the deck a little longer than usual . . . one hundred forty, one fifty . . . he pulled the nose up sharply but just until he was ten feet off the ground and pushed the nose back level quickly. He pulled up the landing gear and flaps. The perfectly tuned hydraulics whirred the flaps up and carried the gear into the belly of the plane.
The Shadows of Power Page 34