Hard Target

by Alan Jacobson

  DeSantos smiled, then slipped both hands into his jacket pockets. “Top of the list, my man, is that none of the others is suspected of trying to assassinate the vice president of the United States.”

  LEAVING DESANTOS’S RED CORVETTE at the crash site and taking Uzi’s Tahoe, they drove to the ARM compound, a heavily wooded parcel set on gently undulating hills just east of Vienna, Virginia. While en route, DeSantos read Uzi a hastily prepared intelligence brief to give him a deeper sense of what—and who—they would be facing on their arrival. After finishing the three page summary, DeSantos suggested they arrive unannounced, even though he expected the guards to be on full alert because of the helicopters’ downing—particularly if they’d had a hand in their demise.

  Uzi stopped the car in front of the eight-foot-tall masonry wall topped with sharp razor wire. “They mean business,” he said, eyeing the barricade.

  DeSantos ripped open a Juicy Fruit pack and folded a stick into his mouth. “If they’re anything like my source described, we ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  Uzi continued on to the main entrance, a fortified wrought-iron, motor-driven gate on wheels. A guard shack stood on a concrete slab off to the side. As the Tahoe’s tires crunched the gravel road near the gate, a man dressed in combat fatigues and thick Remington camo boots emerged from the shed with a submachine gun clutched between his hands. He took a position behind the gate, legs spread wide.

  Uzi pulled his SUV up to the gate, then rolled down his window. He held open his credentials wallet, the ID and shield facing the paramilitary man. “We need to talk with Nelson Flint.”

  “Got yourself a warrant?” The man’s voice was cigarette raspy, thick with a Southern accent.

  Uzi frowned. “Do we need one?”

  A click followed by a muted voice blurted from the man’s radio transceiver. He pulled the device from a leather harness on his belt and brought it to his face. He listened a few seconds before lowering it and slipping it back onto his belt. “Someone’ll be by to get you.”

  Uzi and DeSantos got out of the Tahoe and leaned against the fender, the guard fingering his weapon and staring at them with contempt. DeSantos nudged Uzi’s forearm, then nodded at a small, round, black-and-gray device mounted above the guardhouse. “Surveillance camera,” he said by Uzi’s ear.

  Uzi had already taken notice. “I count fourteen. And anticlimb sensors on the fencing, and ground-loop vehicle sensors in the pavement where we’re parked.” The chomp of rubber on gravel snared their attention. Along the curve just beyond a stand of mature pines, an olive green Humvee appeared amid a low-lying dust cloud.

  DeSantos played with the Juicy Fruit between his front teeth. “Welcome wagon arrives.”

  The SUV pulled to a stop alongside the guard shack, and, on the parasoldier’s signal, the pedestrian gate opened electronically. Uzi followed DeSantos through and they climbed into the Hummer’s backseat beside a man with close-cropped black hair. DeSantos slammed the door, and the driver, also sporting a Marine-regulation hairstyle, accelerated. The escorts remained quiet during the brief drive to the compound’s apparent headquarters, a rectangular two-story Civil War-era brick house with two large Ionic columns that swallowed the entrance.

  The vehicle stopped beside the front porch. Uzi and DeSantos were ushered to the side of the structure, where two small wood steps rose to a separate entrance. They entered and moved through the kitchen into the dining room. Clearly used for meetings now, the worn oval table that dominated the space sat covered with neatly stacked file folders, five smartphones, and an equal number of laptops.

  Each of the window panes on the far wall had the wavy and bubbled appearance of era-specific glass. Hanging on the eggshell walls were faux Wanted posters sporting the Federal Reserve Chairman’s face, a Nazi flag, and a framed reproduction of the Declaration of Independence.

  “The fuck you people want?”

  The deep, southern drawl came from the hallway behind them. Uzi spun and saw two men clad in combat fatigues, one fireplug short and squat, the other tall and lanky. As they approached, Uzi extended a hand. “Special Agent Aaron Uziel.” He indicated his partner. “Hector DeSantos.”

  The squat man looked Uzi in the eye but did not offer his hand. Instead, he shook his head. “A kike and a spic. The fuck this country’s coming to.”

  DeSantos tilted his head, appraising the two men. “You know, Uzi, they kind of remind me of Abbott and Costello.”

  The thin one crossed his arms. “Don’t much care for your humor.”

  “Sorry if I offended you,” DeSantos said. “We spics aren’t very polite.” He nudged Uzi with an elbow. “Stringbean here is Rodney McCourt. Half-pint’s Nelson Flint, heir to the throne after his father passed on.”

  Flint’s chest puffed. “You mean was murdered.”

  “Pull a gun on a law enforcement officer, bad shit happens,” DeSantos said.

  Flint rooted a cigarette from his pocket, then stuck it between his lips. “Guvament’s been spying on us again, Rodney. Using their fancy satellites to intrude on the average citizen’s right to privacy.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Flint,” Uzi said. “We know all about you. And you know a lot about us, too. Like why we’re here.”

  “Haven’t the slightest,” Flint said with a straight face.

  DeSantos smiled wryly. “I’m sure if you think about it, it’ll come to you. You’re a semi-intelligent person.”

  “Six months ago,” Uzi said, “your man, Bryce Upshaw, told a reporter for the Washington Times that Vice President Glendon Rusch would be sorry if he didn’t re-examine his views on the right to bear arms. He’d be sorry. Those were his words, Mr. Flint, not mine.”

  “And now the Veep’s helicopter is blown out of the sky,” DeSantos added. “We don’t think it was a coincidence.”

  “Mr. Upshaw was not speaking for our organization.”

  “Of course not,” DeSantos said. “That would cause some...trouble for you, wouldn’t it?”

  Flint’s face shaded red. “Upshaw was a goddamn fool. He’s no longer part of our organization.”

  Uzi and DeSantos shared a look. “Was he a fool because he said stupid things, or because he said things in public that were best left behind closed doors?” DeSantos glanced behind him at the entrance to the room. “These doors, in fact?”

  Flint pulled the unlit cigarette from his lips, then pointed it at DeSantos as he spoke. “You two fuckers are here because I allow you to be here. Don’t push your luck. I give the word, my guards’ll haul your asses off our property.”

  DeSantos took a step forward into Flint’s space. He looked down on the diminutive man and said, “You’re a coward, Flint. A small man with a small man’s brain. The only way you or your father could ever amount to something was for you to start your own organization where you could be the boss. Anywhere else you’d be sweeping floors or sorting garbage.”

  Flint’s face flushed. “You son of a bitch—”

  “You have something to do with those choppers going down,” DeSantos said. “And we’re going to prove it.”

  Flint grabbed DeSantos by the collar and pushed him back against the wall. “Get the fuck off my land!”

  Before Flint could react, DeSantos swiped the man’s hands to the side and spun him around. Rodney moved toward them, but Uzi stepped to the right and blocked his path.

  DeSantos pushed Flint’s face against one of the windows as he snapped handcuffs on his wrists. “You’ve got a hard-on for the government? Fine. That’s your right. But don’t assault a federal officer. That’s just stupid, even for you.”

  Flint struggled, his nose grotesquely deformed by the glass. Mucus sucked in and out of his right nostril as a tear ran down his cheek. “You’re... on my property... asshole.”

  DeSantos pulled up on Flint’s handcuffs and the man cried out in pain.

  “Santa,” Uzi whispered into his ear, “turn down the volume. Let him go.”

  DeSantos hesitated a se
cond, then fished out a long black key from his pocket and unlocked the handcuffs. “If we find anything connecting you to that chopper blast, we’ll be back with an arrest warrant. Then we’ll be chatting on my property, asshole.”

  Uzi eyed the tall man behind him. “We’ll be seeing you two again.”

  TELLING THE HUMVEE DRIVER to go to hell, they hoofed it back to Uzi’s SUV, taking the opportunity to survey the compound. A well-armed guard trailed at a distance, his purpose to offer assistance should his visitors encounter difficulty finding the way back to their car. Actually, he was almost assuredly tasked with ensuring they didn’t take any unwelcome detours—or photos—while traversing the ARM property.

  Uzi thought of the intelligence DeSantos had shared with him: it suggested an as-yet undisclosed figure was involved with ARM, someone with the business sense and management skills that Nelson Flint didn’t possess. After this brief meeting, Uzi agreed with the assessment: Flint was a figurehead. There had to be a string puller lurking behind the scenes.

  Uzi flicked a glance over his right shoulder at their tail, and figured the man was out of earshot. “Our Nelson Flint wasn’t very forthcoming.”

  “Didn’t expect him to be. Idea was to piss on their land, stake out our territory for our next visit. Maybe we’ll stop by again in a few days.”

  “Something tells me he won’t let us in again.”

  A grin broadened DeSantos’s face. “He won’t have to.”

  “I don’t wanna know what you have in mind.” Uzi breathed in deeply. “Nice chunk of land they’ve got here. Smell the pine?”

  DeSantos unwrapped another stick of gum and sniffed it. “I like this smell better.”

  “You gotta be kidding. Juicy Fruit?”

  “Brian used to chew it all day. Every day. Can’t get it out of my head. It’s all I’ve got left.”

  “It’s hard losing a partner. On the job?”

  DeSantos nodded. “Took a bullet. A black op we were running for Knox.” DeSantos shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his wool overcoat. His eyes roamed the trees and building façades. “CCTV cameras on the redwoods every thirty feet.”

  Uzi had been checking as well. “Standard resolution color, infrared motion sensors. Wired. Pretty basic stuff.”

  They walked a few more feet in silence before DeSantos continued. “Brian died the same day his wife gave birth to a baby girl. My goddaughter.”

  Uzi thought back to the gum and DeSantos’s comment. “You took it hard.”

  It was a moment before DeSantos answered. “Still am.”

  12:03 PM

  193 hours 57 minutes remaining

  Uzi and DeSantos drove in silence to Quantico Marine Base, a trip Uzi was accustomed to making because the FBI Academy was located on the eastern portion of the same campus. The Marine Corps’s history on this site was well rooted, dating back to its establishment in 1917 following America’s entry into World War I. Quantico became one of the largest shipyards in the country.

  Uzi pulled in line behind a dozen or so cars and waited to gain admittance to the base. A brick gateway stretched across both lanes of traffic, emblazoned with large block letters:

  QUANTICO - CROSSROADS OF THE MARINE CORPS

  “Never came through the main gate before,” Uzi said. He eyed the stiff military formality of the checkpoint, then the granite-based commemorative statue of soldiers raising the American flag at Iwo Jima, just off to the right. “Definitely more...Marine-like than the FBI side of the base.” He looked at DeSantos, whose gaze was off somewhere in the distance. “Ever been here?”

  “A few years ago. Did some training with the top dog, Major Vasquez. The AMO, Aircraft Maintenance Officer. He’s responsible for all the upkeep done on the executive helicopter fleet.”

  Uzi pulled up to the guard post, where they were greeted by a lance corporal dressed in a crisp, fresh uniform. They showed him their credentials, explained why they were there, and waited while the Marine made a call to obtain authorization.

  A moment later, the man handed back their cred cases and admitted them onto the base.

  The Marine Corps Air Facility, thirty miles and a stone’s throw by helicopter from downtown DC, resides in a densely wooded Virginian paradise with its own marina off the Chesapeake, a private golf course, riding stable, recreation areas, sports leagues, youth centers, and school system.

  As they drove along the main drag, Fuller Road, Uzi noticed what appeared to be residential apartments peeking through the trees about thirty yards to his left. “Base housing?”

  “Nope. See that creek?” DeSantos asked, nodding at a shallow grass-covered bank with water tumbling through. “That’s the boundary of the base. Twenty feet beyond that is Triangle, Virginia. Civilian neighborhood.”

  “No secured wall along the perimeter?”

  “Hard to imagine, huh?”

  “So,” Uzi said, “anyone could walk right onto the base. Not even a chain-link fence to climb.”

  “The town of Quantico is civilian, too. Located a couple miles down the road. I guess you could just tell the guard at the main gate you were going into town and they’d have to let you in.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  DeSantos shrugged. “They probably figure you gotta be crazy to try something on a military base with a thousand armed Marines walking the grounds.”

  Uzi thought of the suicide bombers he’d encountered, the mass destruction of 9/11, the planned attack on Fort Dix. Problem was, these people are crazy. “How much further to HMX?”

  “Couple minutes.”

  In addition to serving as the training facility for a plethora of Marine units, Quantico’s least publicly known function was to house and operate Marine Helicopter Squadron One, the only operational fleet on the base. Officially coded HMX-1, the squadron’s primary purpose was to provide helicopter transport for the president and vice president, as well as for cabinet members and foreign dignitaries as authorized by the Director of the White House Military Office. HMX-1 was where the ill-fated Marine Two and Marine Three flights had originated on election night, having pre-positioned earlier in the day closer to Washington.

  As Uzi and DeSantos approached the air facility, encircled by nasty razor-wire-topped chain-link fencing, they came upon another security checkpoint. After again providing their credentials for verification, they waited while the sergeant-of-the-guard phoned Major Warren Vasquez to obtain permission for them to access the Cage Hangar.

  Vasquez apparently gave the sergeant whatever authorization he required, because the gate opened and the guard returned their IDs. Uzi proceeded down a circular drive along the two-lane road, then parked his SUV across from the large brick barracks building, where both of them got out. “Even if someone got onto the base,” DeSantos said, “getting into HMX is a different story.”

  They headed toward the Cage’s entrance, where they were met by more guards. The corporal examined their credentials yet again, then informed them that Major Vasquez was en route.

  As the guard pulled his two-way radio from a clip on his shoulder, a large, glistening bottle green and white helicopter approached in the distance. It hovered fifty yards away, the wind from the beating blades ruffling Uzi’s hair and kicking up a windstorm of dust that cascaded outward from the ground beneath the chopper. Uzi held up a hand to shield his face and watched as the bird touched down on a red circular plank of wood set out on a grassy field that simulated the landing area on the White House lawn.

  “That’s a VH-3D,” DeSantos said above the grind of the engines. “Presidential transport.”

  “I’ve seen photos.” And pieces. “Beautiful bird.”

  DeSantos nodded. “They’ve got a dozen of them, all identical. Uh, they had a dozen.”

  Uzi covered his ears to lessen the whining thump of the rotors. “Damn noisy, though.”

  “Only on the outside. Sound dampers around the engines bring it down to less than seventy decibels inside. No louder than a car.”
<
br />   A man in dress blues with graying temples and a leathery, pocked face pulled in front of them. His formal demeanor evaporated when he caught sight of DeSantos. He climbed out of his SUV and grinned broadly.

  “Santa. How’ve you been?” He threw his hand out and the two vigorously shook.

  “I’m still breathing, so all’s good. You?”

  His grin sagged. “Doing well till yesterday.”

  “That’s why we’re here. Aaron Uzi, FBI.” Uzi extended a hand and received a more subdued, official greeting. “We need to talk with you about the pilots who handled both birds that went down, the VH-3D and Super Stallion, as well as the maintenance personnel who’ve worked on them.”

  “I’ve got the information in my office.” Vasquez turned to the Marine behind him. “Corporal of the Guard, provide these two gents with visitor badges.”

  After Uzi and DeSantos signed in, they were handed their red clip-on placards and escorted through the turnstile by Major Vasquez.

  “HMX-1 is divided into two areas,” Vasquez said as they walked. “A green side and a white side. Green is where new personnel are screened and observed when they’re first assigned here. After they clear the background check, which can take a year, year and a half, they’re transferred to The Cage—the white side—which operates and maintains the Executive Detachment. That’s the fleet that transports the president and vice president, their wives, and high-ranking support staff.”

  “The Cage?” Uzi asked.

  “It was once surrounded by a tall security fence,” Vasquez said. “Looked like a cage. Now it’s a modern looking metal hangar connecting those two red-brick buildings you saw outside that go back, I don’t know, maybe fifty years. All together, the 150,000-square-foot building is where we store the dozen helicopters, support offices for Crew Chiefs, Flight Line Division Chiefs, and the AMO—Aircraft Maintenance Officer.”

  “Nice setup,” Uzi said.

  “Started out in ’47 as an experimental Marine unit to test and evaluate military helicopters. Wasn’t long before it became an important part of presidential transport after Eisenhower used a chopper for an emergency trip from Rhode Island to DC. He was hooked—very convenient and very fast. Bang, we started using helicopters to ferry around the executive staff.”