[Matthew Richter 01.0] In Sheep's Clothing

by L. D Beyer

  After a moment, Derek nodded. “You’re afraid that if we go home, we’ll tell someone that you’re alive.”

  The president held his gaze for a moment. “Yes.”

  Derek smiled. “Dave…sir. This is going to sound stupid, but this is an adventure for me.” He blushed. “Stupid and immature, I guess.” He hesitated a moment. “I drive a forklift in a warehouse. I load trucks. The guys I work with are pretty cool. But compared to this? Trying to help the president? Look, even before I knew who you were, I wanted to help you. I know there’s a dead guy outside and that this is dangerous, but if you’re asking me to tag along, then I’m definitely in.”

  Jack shook his head and grinned. “That’s why I love Derek. Without him, my life would be boring.”

  They all chuckled.

  “Dave. Mr. President. Sir. I understand what you’re asking, and I’m willing to do whatever I can to help you. You have my commitment.”

  “You don’t know how much this means to me, guys. Thank you.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Thursday, April 29

  Emil Broder slammed the door and barked at his driver.

  “Back to the office! Now!”

  He rubbed his chest, popped a couple of Tums in his mouth, and waited for the burning to subside. He’d been FBI Director for almost eight years and, the truth was, he had turned the organization around. Compartmentalized and plagued by infighting when he took over, the Bureau had been slow to change with the times. He had fixed that. He had streamlined the Bureau, cutting out the dead wood, and centralizing the decision-making. And in the process, he had become feared throughout the organization. People referred to him as J. Edgar—behind his back, of course. He viewed it was a compliment. He ran the FBI with an iron fist and, in that respect at least, he was like the first FBI Director, who had built and commanded the Bureau for almost four decades. But now, all of the progress he had made seemed to be for naught.

  As the driver turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue, he pondered his next move. Rumson had summoned him once again and had demanded to know why his vaunted FBI had not yet recovered Kendall’s body. He had failed to acknowledge any of the progress they had made over the last five days. To Rumson, the priority was on bringing an end to the uncertainty surrounding President Kendall, not on the criminal investigation.

  “I don’t pay you for excuses, Broder,” Rumson had said. “I pay you for results.” There had been no mistaking the scorn in his voice.

  He sighed. It was time to call Monahan. Shit ran down hill.

  ____

  Despite the wind and snow, the smells were overpowering: a mixture of jet fuel, burnt plastic and rubber, and worse, burnt flesh and death. Brenda Hughes had only spent four hours at the actual site, but the smell seemed to follow her. Even now, two days later, she could still smell it in her clothes, in her hair, and in her room on the base. Despite repeated washings. She remembered her first accident investigation three years ago. She had made an offhand comment about the lingering odors to other members of the team and they had smiled in a strange way and told her it was normal. The smells even haunted her dreams.

  This was a brutal job, and she wondered how people like Burton did it. It didn’t help that she spent the better part of the day inside an aircraft hangar, with the growing collection of debris, or in the adjacent hangar, which had been converted into a temporary morgue. She remembered from her first investigation that uncovering what had gone wrong—what had caused a highly sophisticated, multi-million dollar aircraft traveling at over four hundred knots to break apart in mid-flight—was a laborious and time consuming task. The larger pieces had been extracted first, raised up by cable and winch to hovering helicopters and then flown to Portland Air Guard Base. Tens of thousands of pieces of twisted metal, upholstery, cables and wires, luggage, pieces of laptop computers, shards of glass and dishes, pieces of clothing and unidentified debris had been recovered so far. These, too, were flown to Portland.

  As bad as that was—the growing evidence of a major devastation—the bodies were the worst. Many were burnt beyond recognition by the explosion as the fuel-laden wings impacted the ground at over four hundred knots. A large number of bodies that weren’t burnt were naked, their clothes stripped off by the tornado-force winds that had ripped through the passenger compartment as the plane broke up. Many were missing a hand, or a leg, or sometimes a head. These they found separately, if they were found at all. A severed foot still in its shoe. A hand and a portion of an arm, the wristwatch intact. She would never get used to the magnitude of the death, the wholesale destruction of human lives on an unimaginable scale. It was one thing to read about it in the papers or hear about it on the news, but to see the devastation to what once were living, breathing human beings; well, that was almost too much to bear. Thank God there were no children.

  ____

  Cursing, Monahan crushed his cup and threw it against the wall. It bounced and fell to the side of the can. He took several deep breaths as he watched the half dozen coffee splatters snaking their way down to the floor.

  The call had not gone well. He took several more deep breaths and, as he thought about it, realized that he should have seen it coming. For the last several days he had sensed Broder’s growing frustration. And today the volcano had erupted.

  “For Christ’s sake, Monahan! I’ve got the Attorney General on my ass! I’ve got Congress on my ass! The vice president’s dragging me to the White House at least once a day! It’s been almost a week! How tough is it to find one fucking body?”

  He had brushed it off—or tried to anyway—and told Broder about their progress: the number of bodies recovered, the identifications made so far, the lead on Lt. McKay. And while Broder had listened, what really set him off was the NTSB’s speculation—a speculation he now fully supported—that they would never recover all of the bodies.

  “Emil, there’s evidence that at least one passenger may have been sucked into one of the jet engines. It’s also likely that some passengers may have essentially been cremated. Keep in mind the wings were loaded with fuel, so depending on where they were when the plane struck the ground…..”

  Broder never let him finish the thought.

  Monahan sighed again, stood, took another deep breath, then left in search of paper towels to clean up the mess he’d made.

  ____

  In the large hangar on the guard base, the painstaking task of reassembling the airplane had begun. As Stan Burton had explained it, Brenda Hughes thought, they were essentially assembling a large three-dimensional puzzle. Once they had enough pieces, they could analyze each fracture, each point where the airplane had separated, to determine why it had come apart. Their preliminary suspicions, Burton had told her, were that there had been a high-energy event, which had initiated a cataclysmic chain of events, leading to the inevitable crash of Air Force One. A high-energy event. Brenda Hughes shivered at the thought. That meant an explosion, a bomb.

  They should be able to validate their theory in the next day or two. The black boxes were currently being analyzed. If it survived the crash, the cockpit voice recorder would provide clues to the crew’s stress levels and their reaction, assuming they had had any warning at all. The Flight Data Recorder would tell them how the aircraft was functioning up to the point of the crash. In all, almost one hundred and fifty separate parameters were measured over periods of time, including airspeed, altitude, direction and bearing, the performance of the power plant or jet engines, the positions of the flaps and stabilizers, and control and actuator positions.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when Pat Monahan and General Trescott arrived, followed thirty seconds later by Stan Burton and Major Conklin.

  ____

  Richter stopped every minute or two and scanned the area with binoculars. So far, there had been no signs of anyone else in the forest. He was careful to follow the same route each time, not wanting to leave any more tracks in the snow than he had to. As he plodded along in his snows
hoes, the only tracks he saw, other than their own, belonged to deer and other animals. He was relieved to see that Derek and Jack had followed his instructions and had stuck to the patrol route. Although he had showed them what to do and what to look for, and although they were experienced hikers and familiar with the area, he wasn’t comfortable unless he made at least one round per day.

  His patrol route was a large loop around the cabin, the president no more than a quarter mile away. He knew he was taking risks, leaving the president with Jack and Derek and leaving tracks in the snow that led back to the cabin. And while he trusted Jack and Derek, it was difficult to leave the president exposed, with no one protecting him. He had considered leaving Derek Mosby’s Sig Sauer but was not comfortable with the thought of someone else with a gun—someone he’d met only days ago—so close to the president when he was so far away.

  Sitting in the cabin, the president was an easy target, with no defensive position and no easy way to escape. That left him no choice but to accept the risk of periodic patrols. It was unlikely that search and rescue personnel would be anywhere near the cabin. He had studied the hiking maps and had plotted the likely crash site. Based upon that, the search and rescue operation would be focused on an area nine or ten miles to the east. It was also unlikely that he would encounter any recreational sportsman. The snow was far too deep for hunters or hikers and, while snowmobilers or cross-country skiers might be tempted by the pristine snow, access roads were likely impassable. Snow cleanup would be focused on the major roads: the interstates first, then the heavily traveled state and county roads. It would be some time before the fire roads and forest service roads, currently buried below four or five feet of snow, would be plowed, if they were at all. Besides, according to Derek and Jack, this area was sparsely populated. No, he had to assume that anyone he might encounter in these mountains was a threat, and he could not sit idle while the president recuperated, hoping they wouldn’t be discovered.

  He began walking again, scanning his surroundings, following the path into the trees. He was in the middle of a grove of spruce when the growl of an engine broke the silence. He dropped to the ground then snaked himself below the snow-covered branches of a large spruce. The sound echoed through the mountains, seemingly coming from one direction one moment then another the next. He cursed as he calculated how far he was from the cabin.

  The sound grew louder then became steady, coming from his right. Richter held the binoculars to his eyes, searching for movement, for a flash of color. The growl of the engine grew louder still, seemed to peak, then suddenly dropped. Over the sound of the wind, he could hear the sporadic low rumble of the motor idling. He crawled forward for a better view and, gently pushing a branch to the side, noticed a clearing twenty yards away. He scanned the area but saw nothing. The engine revved again, and a few seconds later a vehicle emerged from the trees into the clearing. With a large red, enclosed cab, and tracks instead of wheels, the truck reminded Richter of the trail-grooming machines on ski slopes. Shit! A snowcat!

  The snowcat stopped in the middle of the clearing, fifty yards away. A second later, a man jumped out, sinking into the waist-deep snow. He was partially hidden behind the open door, but Richter could see a dark blue wool cap and a matching one-piece tactical jumpsuit. The man was speaking to someone inside. After a moment, he closed the door, then began to survey the clearing. The other door opened and a tall black man jumped out. Similarly dressed, the black man held his hand to his eyes, shielding his face from the swirling snow. He, too, began surveying the clearing. Richter felt his pulse quicken as first one, then the other, looked in his direction. Thankfully, they continued on. A moment later, both men turned and Richter cursed silently. In bright yellow letters, the back of their jumpsuits proclaimed they were federal agents.

  The noise of another engine startled him and he crouched lower. Moments later, a second snowcat pulled into the clearing. One man, dressed in a grey jumpsuit instead of blue, hopped out. The two federal agents looked over expectantly. The man in the grey jumpsuit shook his head. As he turned to climb back into the snowcat, Richter read the words on his back. State Police.

  Shit, he swore silently. Could they be part of the search and rescue effort? he wondered. Yet, something didn’t feel right. What would they be looking for here? He flinched again, this time at the sound of a cell phone. He watched as the black man fumbled with his glove before reaching into his pocket.

  “Yes?” The man’s deep, baritone voice was surprisingly loud.

  He studied the man’s face and felt a prickle on the back of his neck. There was something familiar about him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He had met many federal agents in his career, but his gut told him that wasn’t it. Why did he feel that he’d seen that face before?

  “No. He’s a no-show.”

  Richter felt a chill run up his spine, suddenly remembering the tall black man in the crowd at the University of Seattle.

  “We’re at the primary site, but there’s no sign of him.” There was a pause. “No. We checked the alternative rendezvous points, but nothing.”

  Alarm bells started going off in Richter’s head.

  The black agent shook his head. “No. Maybe he never made it off the plane?”

  ____

  “Lab analysis shows traces of RDX and PETN.” Monahan flipped through his notes. “These were found on numerous pieces of luggage, on the bottom of Senator Dykstra’s seat, and on portions of the fuselage, particularly on the peeled back skin on the starboard side.” Monahan nodded to Burton. “Looks like you were right, Stan. The isolated holes below the VIP cabin would appear to be the main blast site.”

  “Hang on,” Hughes interrupted. “What are PETN and…the other one? Explosives?”

  Monahan nodded. “PETN stands for pentaerythritol tetranitrate. It’s used in military and industrial-grade explosives. It’s also used in certain heart medications. We know that Senator Wentworth suffered from angina and was taking a drug containing PETN. The key here is the RDX. This is a nitroamine and is also used in the manufacture of high explosives. When RDX is mixed with PETN and several other agents, they form a plastic explosive called Semtex.”

  Hughes’ face went pale. “Is there any other possible explanation for these compounds?”

  “The lab boys tell me that the odds are slim. Based upon the ratio of PETN to RDX, the levels or amounts that we’ve found so far, where they were found, the analysis of the scorch marks on the luggage and on the aircraft skin, the isolated holes on both the starboard and port sides of the aircraft as well as the hole in the passenger cabin, all in very close proximity, it is highly probable that this plane was brought down by an improvised explosive device.”

  “Could it have been a missile?” Hughes asked.

  “No.” Major Conklin answered immediately. “We had an E-3 up. There was no missile launch.”

  “So, we come back to Lt. McKay,” Monahan continued. “With the traces of Semtex on his hands, understanding his role in this is crucial.” He turned to Burton. “We need to find the triggering device. ASAP.”

  “We’re on it,” Burton responded, the frustration evident in his voice. “You know my team has been working around the clock.”

  “I know, Stan. I know. But the sooner the better. Okay?”

  Burton nodded.

  “Anything else?” The general barked.

  “Yes. We didn’t find evidence of any chemical taggants, which indicates that the Semtex was fairly old, produced before 1991.” Monahan noticed the questioning looks. “Due to the increased use of Semtex by terrorist organizations in the seventies and eighties, all Semtex produced after 1990 contains chemical taggants to aid in detection. Once we suspected that this was the explosive used, it begged the question of why screening by both the Air Force and the Secret Service didn’t detect it. This may help explain why. Our next step is to determine exactly where this Semtex came from. Semtex was widely sold on the black market, and numerous terrorist
organizations and rogue states were suspected of acquiring varying quantities over the years. The IRA. Libya. Various Islamic terrorist organizations in the Middle East. The list goes on. It may take us some time to trace the source. But we will find it. I’m confident of that.”

  ____

  Jack glanced out the window.

  “Matt’s coming.”

  “Good.” Derek replied. “Just in time for dinner.”

  The door burst open and Richter hurried in, his face dark.

  “We need to leave! ASAP!”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Friday, April 30

  They could hear the throaty hum of the generators from a distance and continued in the direction of the noise. Midnight had come and gone, but the half-moon against the cloud-free night sky provided ample light. They continued hiking and soon noticed a shimmer through the trees. The glow intensified as they moved forward, careful to stay in the shadows. As they got closer, they saw a large dump truck through the trees.

  “That definitely wasn’t here before.” Despite the noise, Derek spoke softly.

  Jack checked the GPS. “You’re right. We went right past this point when we hiked in last week.”

  They studied the scene for a moment before Derek nodded. “This is a construction site. No doubt about it. They have portable lighting systems so they can work at night. Those are the generators we hear.” He pointed to the dump truck. “And that right there looks like a yuke truck.”

  “A yuke truck?” Richter look puzzled.