by Mike Bogin
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Across every photo, Spencer’s face had a constant quality: his eyes and face never squinting, his mouth neither grim nor smiling. Calm, not curious. Capable. Serene. One photo revealed something more. He was in a green t-shirt and fatigues, squatting down on a ridge with a green valley below him and brown hills beyond, his right hand around the grip handle of a rifle that was below the photo frame. A wind was blowing so that his shirt pressed against his torso and arms. He was making no effort to pose. Still, the outlines of deeply-carved taut musculature defined the physical capabilities of the man. He had the startling intensity of a leopard surveying the savanna.
Washington and Lee University. A full-ride scholarship. Straight A’s. History, philosophy, physics, and analytical geometry classes in his first year. Then he left to sign up as an army grunt when he could easily have gone ROTC and entered as an officer with a degree. Why? Owen wondered. Thirty-six months on the ground in Afghanistan. Lost a kidney, but how? Battle wound? Infection? Maybe he was born with a bad kidney? Now discharged. But what was the connection to hunting down rich people? Why? There were hundreds of thousands of ex-military; none of the rest of them went over the edge. Why I Kill Rich People?
Owen reviewed the photos of Jonathan Spencer again, and again he asked Dansk to put Spencer’s image out in the open. Her argument didn’t hold water. Of course once his name and pictures were released to the press, Spencer might go to ground and hide. That could happen with every suspect every time. But that could also stop the shootings, so how bad would that be?
Dansk wasn’t just stopping the photos and description from being released to the press. This wasn’t about keeping Spencer from going to ground. She was refusing to disseminate his photo even within DID. The department spent three billion dollars on surveillance systems. Intel Division employed cutting-edge facial recognition software. But she wouldn’t put it to use.
“Is this about the drones?” Owen asked. He might not be anything like the chess player Al was, but he was seeing some pieces starting to fit together. “You’re not doing anything because you’re waiting for your new toys. Is that what’s going on here?”
“They aren’t toys,” Dansk hissed. “Unmanned Aircraft represent the most significant technological advance in the history of policing. No other system offers the combined assets of instant mobility and high-density data-collection across the urban landscape. Systems that have been proven in the most demanding wartime conditions can now support police forces with real-time imagery available to every visual platform. From laptop computers in squad cars to smart phones, unmanned aircraft give police forces in the field a level of visual acuity that bald eagles wish they had. By joining that technology with data-mining software, police departments will someday be enabled to proactively survey entire cities for criminal situations before events even occur.”
Owen could only stare. Dansk sounded like the narrator of a PowerPoint presentation. She was going to keep every other resource out of action until she had her drones up and running. She wants to save the credit for the drones.
* * * * *
Gonzalez located his infrared scanner along with a young tech geek-turned-Army Reserve Specialist who could calibrate and operate it in the field. The device was the only edge they had.
Now, despite his lingering concerns, Gonzalez felt too invested to back down. But he made it crystal clear that he didn’t want outsiders coming along. Gonzalez had grown more confident that Spencer would attack the river cruise as his target, if the website theory was proven correct and Spencer’s motorcycle accident had not injured him too severely. Spencer had at least twenty miles of perfect ambush while anyone on that cruise was exposed on open-river like sitting ducks. Triple Threat. Tower of Power.
They weren’t tracking any ordinary soldier. The device might turn the element of surprise in their favor, but there were still so many variables that no one could control. Even with the technological marvel on their side, Gonzalez’s doubts ran deep.
The major pulled up a map of the city on his laptop to illustrate what they could be up against. “The Bunker is here,” he pointed, “at the center.” He tapped keys until a circumference showed on his screen. “This is a mile radius around. With a clear sight-line, Bigfoot could take out every one of us from positions here, in the middle of the Hudson River, here at the Museum of Natural History, and here at Rockefeller Center.”
Gonzalez pinged his forefinger right between Al’s eyes. “From any one of them, he’d put a bullet right HERE.” Al showed no reaction, but Owen caught Tremaine’s sideways glance. Point taken.
He was blunt. “I’m not here to babysit,” Gonzalez told them. “This is for professionals. If the shooter is Jonathan Spencer and if he does select targets from your websites and if we have a real pattern and if he chooses to attack, none of you should be within a mile.”
* * * * *
The organization calling itself the Twenty-Fives originated in 1919, the same year the Chicago White Sox threw the World’s Series. The sons of its founders were freshly home from World War One. Their raison d’être was their shared outrage at the Federal Income Tax. Rich people have been fighting taxes since the dawn of tribal existence.
When the tax was established in 1909, the marginal tax rate never went above 25 percent for the wealthiest Americans. It was bad enough that an income tax existed at all, but an outrage that it should go above 25 percent. During the despised “reign” of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, these marginal federal income tax rates were pushed incrementally higher until they rose from 25 percent to 94 percent for earnings above $250,000 per year.
This was only partially about taxes; FDR was determined to constrain the power of money so that the wealthy could not buy up the country at Depression-Era discounts. According to the gospels of the Twenty-Fives, FDR’s social engineering was the road to communism.
Once the Second World War was won, the Twenty-Fives at that time saw no damned reason why their incomes should be taxed while their tax dollars were being spent to rebuild Europe and Japan. The war had ended. The Depression was ended. They should be taxed again at 25 percent, not paying for government institutions that would not die; it was not their obligation to pay off the national debt! If you had asked the Twenty-Fives during their inaugural cruise in 1946, they would have said that FDR and Truman, the uneducated little man from Kansas who succeeded him, were both communists. Sixty-six years later, they maintained their traditions, still hating the New Deal but now expressing it by smacking to pieces an FDR piñata filled with chocolate gold coins. Their conservative politics had been chiseled in stone across four generations.
The Summer Cruise was not about political correctness. Although theme attire was a must, behavior was relaxed. Everyone aboard knew one another; the only additions were new spouses and grown children joining in for the first time.
Mosquitoes were the only annoyances. Cell phones and photography were prohibited. Of course, not even the wait staff included a single black person or a Latin or an Asian. There were no Jews aboard, and no Catholics either. Their position, and their right to exercise it, was not about prejudice, but about tradition.
The Twenty-Fives were about permanence in a world gone mad; their overnight trip was their annual opportunity to socialize with friends and put together their promising youngsters. Nobody needed to watch his language or worry about outside views.
The Twenty-Fives might be too-easily dismissed as an anachronism, but then, too, so could Harvard’s dining clubs or Yale’s Skull and Crossbones. Members of the Twenty-Fives were helping gain the momentum to drive down big government. Income taxes needed to be sufficient to pay for interstate transportation and national defense. Nothing less and nothing more.
Each year, the lifelong members, men with names like Pierpont and Mortimer, Gaylord and Camden, drew lots amongst two dozen volunteers to determ
ine who had the opportunity to host. The annual event was a tradition through the Korean Conflict, through Vietnam, and every other national crisis.
They were not about to be cowed into postponing by anything or anyone. Not even 9/11 had stopped them, although they had lost eight of their membership to the terrorists that day. Core members of the Twenty-Fives were far more than “old money”; they had regularly supported a dozen foundations that were dedicated to conservative causes. Members were on the boards of Americans for Patriotic Action. They had Vision Partners aboard, too. They were made of solid stock. If the sniper worried anyone, certainly none of the crewmen showed significant concern even when the special equipment was brought onboard.
The scanning technology went aboard at Hastings on Hudson on Friday afternoon, allowing one day for tuning and testing before the social cruise motored north to West Point. The system consisted of two sheet metal boxes each the size of a dormitory refrigerator. These, along with Gonzalez’s two-man detail, plus the tech, the crew, and the one hundred-strong group of Twenty-Fives would set off the following afternoon. Their itinerary would take them north on the Hudson River to West Point, docking for the night at Hyde Park.
* * * * *
Six miles south from the United States Military Academy at West Point, Mine Dock Road runs from the west down to a narrow navigable deep water channel only two hundred yards offshore. Abandoned derelict industrial sheds lie rusting along the riverbank. A half-mile to the south, roadways distribute to both sides of the river and west, first to the Palisades Parkway, and to the New York State Thruway beyond that.
Ten possible routes distributing in opposite directions within five miles.
The leg was stiff, but serviceable. He had allowed the wound sufficient attention to keep it from limiting his capabilities, but he refused to acknowledge any pain. He washed it with a bleach solution before pressing ice against the wound until the surface nerve endings were dulled. He then wrapped it tight with duct tape with one half still exposed. Using a sewing needle and dental floss, he sutured the exposed area. Once the first half was sewn closed, he removed the tape and finished the job. The two-inch deep gash would take time to heal, but the floss was strong enough to allow for movement without re-opening the wound. It remained angry to the touch, but in the days after the accident he detected no signs of infection.
Departing Hastings on Hudson at 16:00, the boat carrying the Twenty-Fives would be passing under Bear Mountain Bridge nearing 21:00, then drawing closer to the west bank inside the channel. No turn-around for 2,000 yards upriver.
Photographs of the boat, the Arcadia, were instantly available on the web. It had open decks fore and aft along the main salon; the entire upper deck an open area ninety feet long. Metal gunnels along the main deck could afford safety. Marginal safety, too, on the floor inside the main salon. Open rails made for full exposure on the upper deck.
From his position on the west bank, he would have unobstructed visuals onto the entire port side of the boat. By keeping them from getting to the stairway, their only shield would be the boat itself; they would need to jump overboard on the starboard side to find shelter. Even allowing for currents, nothing in the world could save anyone trying to escape by entering the water to the port side; there he could hit center bull’s-eye at will.
Two-point-five minutes from bridge (800 yards) to shortest range (80 yards), then three-point-five minutes more within ten-inch sets, using the Barrett. Half that on the KAC, but speed trumps range every time in effect fire. Six minutes with no possible evasion. Impossible to carry that many rounds of ammunition.
A turkey shoot.
The arm was scabbed over, but the damage had been done. Blood and DNA. No one else to blame. High ankle sprain further reduced mobility. That was a problem. Kneeling impossible. Upright or prone? Won’t matter. Near ranges for two minutes.
Metal roof. Hot. Exposed visibility to bridge traffic. Low light at 21:00. Using fiber mesh, gray, will conceal shape, definition. Suppressor will muffle sound direction and muzzle flash.
Climb roof as prow comes under bridge.
* * * * *
Two twenty-one foot fiberglass-hulled speedboats, each with a cuddy cabin in the bow, wide-open decks, and powerful 225 horsepower four-stroke Evinrude outboard motors waited dockside for Major Gonzalez and his six-man FBI sniper squad. Gonzalez had intended to break them into two threes, with even distribution between the two boats. He couldn’t do that now. The second boat carried Cullen, Bull, and Al Hurwitz. It had to trail with one of his team running as driver and one more as security. With one of his snipers riding on the one-hundred-twenty-foot Arcadia, that left Gonzalez with just three from his sniper team along with him on the lead craft.
Inside the wheelhouse on the Arcadia, the Specialist was tasked with operating the scanner. Infrared heat detection is equally effective night and day, but in order to maximize contrast during daytime use, the Specialist needed to create a closed, light-impervious environment. He would be covered under a smothering black-cloth hood that made him look like an old-time photographer. Until he set up, nobody had thought to confirm that the Arcadia’s bridge was air-conditioned (it was).
Each team member checked and double-checked his weapon, ammunition, and communications. Routine.
Routines save lives.
Gonzalez walked Owen, Al, and Tremaine aboard the trailing boat. His man driving had clear instructions to maintain a back-up position toward the Arcadia’s stern. Even so, they had just one boat running on either side of the Arcadia, which meant that in an attack each one of them had a fifty-fifty chance of ending up being first in the line of fire. A coin toss. That was one more reason why amateurs had no business in HIS business, Gonzalez thought.
He produced an iPad, with which he brought up a detailed map displaying the route between Hastings-on-Hudson and West Point. On the map he had indicated the highest-probability positions that a shooter might take along the thirty-mile route. Included amongst these was the channel beyond Bear Mountain Bridge.
“You three are to remain inside this cabin and you don’t come out,” Gonzalez ordered. “Those are my conditions or this mission is aborted now. I don’t care if it’s dark, either. He’ll spot you clear as day with night-vision scopes and blow holes through your skulls. This man, your driver, is under orders that if you come out of the cabin, he radios me and mission is scrubbed. You get that?”
Owen and Tremaine looked down into the small v-berth with a port-o-potty in the corner. Riding aboard the Arcadia held more appeal now that they saw the tight quarters. Two four-inch tall sliding windows a foot wide on either side or an open ten-inch square hatch offered the only ventilation. A five-hour trip.
“He’s had a dozen chances to shoot guards and waiters and drivers and he hasn’t shot at any of them,” Owen countered. Gonzalez was being unreasonable. Staying stuffed into that place for hours?
Gonzalez read their faces. “I don’t care if you are melting or you need to puke your guts out, you don’t come out of that cabin.
Use the bucket. You don’t talk to my men; you don’t even know their names. Nothing you have to say will be anything but a distraction. This isn’t a little boat ride. Our guy hasn’t shot at anybody else because nobody else has shot at him. You think about that and keep the hell out of our way.”
Gonzalez could feel in his legs the slight rocking as gentle ripples slapped against the side of the boat. Once they were running on the river, the movement would multiply a hundredfold. If he was out there, the shooter would be shooting from a fixed position on solid ground. Gonzalez hoped that the shooter would choose a bolt-action weapon again. Fire intervals would be 10 times faster if he used a semi-automatic. Gonzalez and his three men aboard the lead boat were all armed with fully-automatic weapons. Even so, they would only gain an edge if the scanner and the specialist manning it were effective in
doing their jobs.
Al had not said a word since getting into the car in Manhattan. He seemed indifferent to the major’s orders and the cramped cabin both. Oblivious. He stepped down inside the cuddy and dropped himself just inside the entry hatch, where he was blocking the narrow opening. Owen had to slither his long body over Al to get inside. Tremaine pressed inside last, looking like a big man getting into a clown car, his girth pushing against both walls until he popped through.
Upon getting into the cabin, Tremaine struggled to pull off his jacket then unbuckled his belt and burst open the button on his pants.
Owen shook his head.
“What? If we’re gonna be stuck like this, I’m getting as comfortable as I can get. Nice trip my ass.”
“Lose some weight.”
“Shit. We haven’t even got any food.” No magazines, no cards. Tremaine pulled out his phone to play games and flopped back against the hull wall with his chin pressed down against his chest.
Owen’s mind replayed the scene inside the attorney’s office, just as he had been doing fifty times a day. Callie was getting cozy with Shelley’s real estate agent, bringing home ideas about lease options and renting to own. At least they had a house now. Who was guaranteeing that the next place would be any better?
Why would anyone even rent their house to somebody in bankruptcy? he asked himself.
They could hear people shouting greetings to new arrivals, even the sounds of shoes on the gangplank as the Twenty-Fives boarded the Arcadia. “Welcome aboard” and “Bon Voyage.”