Enemies Foreign And Domestic

by Matthew Bracken

  “So where was his boat, when you saw it? How far away is it? Can we drive over and check it out, or should we put the plane up?” asked Shanks. The STU’s single engine Piper Lance was on the main side of the Naval Auxiliary Landing Field in another abandoned hangar, tied down next to its own small fuel truck. Bullard, Silvari and several of the STU operators were licensed pilots. It was not for nothing that many of them quipped that ATF also stood for “agents that fly.”

  “Waste of time, he’s long gone,” said Silvari, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

  Bullard said, “Maybe, maybe, but let’s do it anyway. Let’s get ready to fly; we’ll check out where the boat was, maybe it’s still there. That’s a good starting point. George, you’ll go up with me; you know where the place is, and you know what the boat looks like.”

  Silvari’s cell phone chirped on the table, and he picked it up. His cigarette bounced on his lip as he spoke, “Yeah, uh huh, Newport News? Right. Got it.” He jotted some notes on a pad and put the phone back in his shirt pocket. “You know, if it wasn’t for my support geeks…damn they do good work. Check this out: they not only aren’t using their cell phones, they’re either off the grid completely, or they let the batteries go dead, or they took them out. Both of them. Smart: they must know what kind of tricks we do with cell phones. What are the odds of two people who never met before both killing their cell phones, unless they decided to do it together?”

  “They’ve hooked up,” said Jaeger.

  “Definitely. But it gets better.” Silvari took another pull, and slowly exhaled a long blue stream over the table. “Fallon just used his credit card, an hour and a half ago in Newport News. A place called ‘East Sails’, for 2,000 bucks.”

  “Hot damn!” exclaimed Bob Bullard. “We’ve got him! Let’s get ready to roll! What’s Newport News, thirty miles from here?”

  Silvari’s cell phone chirped again. “Yeah. Okay, right. Virginia Beach? Great, thanks Charles, yeah you do good work. Yup. You got it buddy, a case of Corona. Yeah, tell the boys they earned it.” He put the phone away again. “Gentlemen, Brad Fallon just withdrew $4,900 dollars cash money from the Virginia National Bank on Independence Boulevard, just twenty minutes ago. How ya like them apples?”

  Bullard jumped out of his chair and clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Hot damn! Now we’re cooking. Okay, Tim, get ready to roll the Blue Team.”

  “They’re already standing by.”

  “Okay, we’ll check out the bank; if we miss him there at least we’ll be in the neighborhood, and we can start a box search for his truck. Put the plane on five minute standby; if he uses another card, we’ll send the Bird Dog up and follow him from the air. That’s two electronic transactions this morning; I’m guessing Fallon is going to do a little more shopping today. So if we’re in the area, we’ll be able to vector to him, and nail his ass! Tim, we’ll pull another ‘old buddy’ on him if we can, or we’ll follow him back to his boat and get him there. If we’re lucky, we’ll nail the bitch with him.

  “Take two Suburbans and the party van, just like you did last night. Run it the same way; same people, everything. This is the real deal boys, the plumber was just training. George, you ride in the party van with Tim; you’re the only one who’s seen Fallon, you can make the positive ID.

  “Michael, I know Gold Team is tired after their all-nighter, but put them on a one hour standby, in case we wind up doing a long moving surveillance. If you have to go, don’t take your Suburbans; we don’t want to overdo it. Take the rentals and some personal vehicles; if we’re tailing him we’ll need all the switch cars we can get.”

  “No problemo Bob. Will do,” replied Shanks.

  “That’s it then, let’s do it: let’s nail this bastard. You all know what it’ll mean for the STU Team if we catch Sanderson’s assassin, while the FBI and the whole damn JTF are still holding their peckers.”

  Tim Jaeger said, “You know Bob, I’m getting the hang of this interrogation thing. When I’m finished with Fallon, he’s going to be a confession machine: any where, any time, to anybody. He’s going to give up his murder rifle, he’s going to give up his girlfriend, he’s going to give it all up.”

  ****

  Brad spent 45 minutes in the Boat America store, pushing and pulling a pair of shopping carts up and down the crisply air conditioned aisles. He was in a great mood, because the morning’s genoa jib installation had gone smoothly. The wind was light and directly over Guajira’s bow as she swung on her anchor, so it was simple to pull it up with the jib halyard. The big white 600-square foot jib fit perfectly, looked terrific, and now it was rolled up around the forestay and ready to use. After stopping by a branch of his bank he had a fresh wad of 49 one hundred dollar bills in an envelope, in the right front cargo pocket of his shorts, and he was ready for some serious shopping.

  He knew that once they pulled up their anchor, he would not see the inside of such a maritime cornucopia again literally for years. Critical consumables like epoxy resin, anti-fouling bottom paint, extra dock lines and halyards, rubber fenders, an extra hand held VHF radio, varnish, wet sand paper and dozens of other items large and small filled his carts. He knew that once he left America all of these items, if he could find them at all, would cost two or three times more than today.

  Finally at quarter before twelve he stopped, and headed for the checkout lanes, where he was still remembered dotingly from his previous binge-buying. The manager came out and asked if he was getting ready to go cruising and Brad lied, and said only that cruising was his eventual goal.

  The total came to over $800. He had considered long and hard about using his VISA card, or paying with cash. On the one hand, it was a priority to conserve as much cash on hand as possible. Every thousand dollars of cash meant at least another month of swimming and diving and making love with beautiful Ranya in secluded tropical lagoons.

  With the $4,900 he had just withdrawn, he had built up almost $35,000 cash on hand, always taking it out in increments just under the current federal reporting guidelines. The fact that his latest bank withdrawal had passed without a hiccup led him to believe that the feds were no longer on his case, and that their threats to freeze his accounts had been forgotten. Plus, he’d already used his VISA card once before today at East Sails, to make the second and final payment which had been due upon completion of his new genoa jib.

  Finally, he’d had the clever idea to throw a red herring into the path of anyone who might come searching for him later. In the books and charts section of the store, he selected a variety of paper charts and cruising guidebooks for the Azores Islands, Spain, Portugal, Morocco, and the Mediterranean. He’d previously been careful to only pay cash for his charts and guides for the Caribbean and South America, not wishing to leave any signposts pointing toward his true destination.

  So after careful deliberation, when the total was rung up, Brad left the $4,900 cash in the bank envelope in his cargo pocket, slid his VISA card out of the slot in his wallet, and handed it to the jovial cashier.

  ****

  Two minutes after the cashier at Boat America swiped Brad Fallon’s credit card, Tim Jaeger had his current location. A STU support geek in the thirty-foot converted motor home back on the annex had been tasked with monitoring Brad Fallon’s electronic footsteps in real time: cell phone, banks, ATMs, credit cards. If they were very lucky, and Fallon’s face was scanned by one of Virginia Beach’s dozens of digital cameras, his image and location would arrive on the STU technician’s monitor as soon as it was sent to the Joint Task Force in the Norfolk federal building. (The critical difference was that the STU was actively seeking Fallon and already had a team in place, while the information would remain unseen and unacted on for days or weeks by the more ponderous federal anti-terrorism bureaucracy at the JTF.)

  Moments after the electronic support tech back at STUville “saw” Fallon use his credit card, the amount and location was read by Tim Jaeger, on the laptop in the console of their blue Dodge c
onversion van.

  Jaeger said, “Did everybody copy that? Fallon’s at the Boat America store on Shore Drive, right now!” The blue van was being trailed by two black Chevy Suburbans. “Base, we’re northbound on Witchduck Road, approaching the I-44, ETA is ten minutes, over.”

  Bob Bullard’s voice came across their radios. “Blue leader, this is Bird Dog, I’m rolling now. We’ll be over the place before you get there. If we spot the red truck we’ll get a lock on it, over.”

  “Roger Bird Dog. Let’s do it.”

  ****

  The staff at Boat America packed Brad’s purchases into three large cardboard boxes, and helped him to carry them out onto the parking lot. He locked them in the cab of his truck and returned to the store to wait for Ranya; it was 1155. He returned to the book section to do some more reading from the cruising guides that he had not purchased, soaking in the rich yachtie atmosphere of binoculars, electronic displays, and colorful charts, while keeping an eye on the glass double doors for Ranya.

  It was warmer outside now, and she would be driving her van, not riding her motorcycle, so he hoped that she would be wearing something a little skimpier, a little more revealing, than her usual jeans and jean jacket. He remembered how sexy she had looked in the clingy pink low-cut top she had worn yesterday, which he had peeled off of her in Guajira’s cockpit… Ranya was in the front of his thoughts all the time now; her gentle touch, the smell of her hair, her sometimes green and sometimes amber eyes, her warm inviting smile, her soft lips…

  Any minute now and she’ll be here. We’ll have a nice lunch together, and then go sell the truck, and we’ll be back on Guajira while it’s still warm enough to go swimming. And then we’ll make love again in the cockpit... He stood by the bookshelves staring across the store and out through the glass doors, wishing her here already.

  Once we’re back on Guajira, I’ll put on some romantic music: some Sade or Enigma, maybe some Deep Forest to set the mood, or Shakira to make her think of South America. I’ll pour some Cuba Libre’s with the Captain Morgan’s rum, and we’ll see how gung-ho she is to pursue her vendetta against G-man George. Then we’ll see. Some Captain Morgan’s and Coke, maybe some Enya tunes, Caribbean Blue and Orinoco Flow... Then a pink and silver sunset, and the old Brad Fallon charm…Guajira just twenty-five miles from the Atlantic…a week’s sail from the Bahamas… We’ll see what happens. We’ll just see.

  ****

  “Blue leader, this is Bird Dog. I’ve got a red pickup on the parking lot right out front, it looks like a full-sized Ford, we’ll get a better slant-angle and confirm the tag, wait one over.”

  “Roger Bird Dog, copy. We’re on Shore Drive now, ETA one minute, over.”

  “Blue leader, how’s your connection, are you up? I’ll send you the picture, over.”

  “Oh yeah, we got it, very nice; mark the red truck, over.”

  “Marking it now, over,” said Bullard, from 3,000 feet up.

  A tiny rectangular box outlined a red pickup truck parked about 100 feet from the front of the Boat America store, the lot was one-third filled. The transmitted wireless video feed from the Piper Lance’s “Big Eye” tracking camera was not of great quality, and it refreshed only twice a second, but it was quite useable.

  Tim Jaeger told Hammet, who was driving the blue van, “Okay, there’s Boat America, turn in front of the Taco Bell.” Then on the radio to the airplane, “Bird Dog, we’ve got the red truck visual, over.”

  “I’ll drive behind the truck and confirm the tag,” said Hammet.

  On the tactical net Jaeger said, “Blue Two, get ready to send Jamie in to look for the target, is he wired up?”

  “Roger Blue Leader, he’s ready to go.”

  “Okay Blue Two, I’ve got confirmation on the vehicle tag, send Jamie in.”

  The black suburban carrying Blue Two pulled alongside the strip mall’s sidewalk, and stopped one business before Boat America, in front of PetCo. Jamie Silverton, at 27 the youngest STU Team operator, looked like a “surfer dude” with his almost shoulder length bleached-blond hair. He was wearing a loose untucked brown and white Hawaiian shirt, jeans and a Baltimore Orioles ball cap when he stepped out of the SUV and strolled down the sidewalk and into the boat store. Walkman-type stereo plugs were stuck in his ears, except he was not tuned into rock or country, he was tuned into the STU tactical net. The eye of the orange bird on his black hat concealed the aperture for a pinhole video camera.

  There was a space available next to Fallon’s red pickup, Jaeger directed Hammet to park the Dodge van there. He played with the laptop and a grainy black and white fisheye image appeared: the aisles of Boat America. Silverton began a clockwise circle search around the perimeter of the store, turning and pausing as he looked down each aisle. A salesman’s distorted face loomed into view. “Can I help you find something today?”

  “No thanks, I’m just looking around,” came back through the tinny speakers of the computer, fuzzy but audible.

  Three quarters of the way around the giant store, after passing anchors, spools of rope, rubber boats and plastic kayaks the camera view showed what seemed to be a small bookstore in its own partitioned section. Silverton’s hands picked up a sailing magazine and pretended to read, the image on the computer screen showed his fingers turning the pages in half second jumps, as STU members on the parking lot, up in the Piper, and down at the base all watched in real time. Jamie wasn’t talking now.

  Jaeger asked, “Blue Niner, is that the subject, over?”

  “Uh-huh,” came back the reply from Jamie Silverton, AKA “Blue Niner” in the STU Team. He lifted his view until they could all see the back of a clean-cut blondish Caucasian male. He was wearing a dark polo shirt and shorts, and he seemed to be reading a book.

  “Blue Niner, his back’s not helping us much. Can you slide over and get his face, over?”

  The video image jerked and slid, showed random images of the floor and a book shelf in close up, then it came back to rest. In the party van, George Hammet, watching the computer screen, said, “That’s him. That’s Fallon, I’m 100% sure.” Then he joked, “Hey Tim, he kind of looks like you. You don’t have any bastard half-brothers, do you?”

  Jaeger ignored this remark and asked Jamie Silverton, “Okay Blue Niner, subject is confirmed, give him some room now. Just keep a loose over-watch and give us a shout when he heads for the door, okay?”

  The video image moved up and down, this was Silverton nodding “okay,” and then it moved away.

  “Okay Blue Two, slight variation on last night. The van’s parked right next to his truck. We’ll nail him in the slot. We’ll open our front door and block him in. Send the pushers behind him when he comes out.”

  “Copy, Blue Leader.”

  “Blue Leader, this is Blue Niner, he’s moving, over.”

  “Okay Blue, showtime!” said Jaeger. The van was parked so that its front passenger and sliding doors were next to the driver’s door of Fallon’s red Ford truck. The pickup’s cab was jammed with brown boxes on the passenger side. Jaeger stepped out and walked across the parking lot away from the store, toward the Shore Drive access road, so that when Fallon came out he could stroll back toward the store and meet his “old buddy” just as he neared his truck.

  “Blue Leader, Blue Niner: he’s coming out, stand by.” Silverton’s video showed the back of Fallon heading for the front doors.

  The twin front double glass doors of Boat America swung open. “Okay folks, here we go,” said Tim Jaeger on their encrypted tactical net, and he began his casual walk across the parking lot toward the store. They all had wireless ear buds and throat mikes for communicating clandestinely while on foot.

  Fallon didn’t head toward his pickup truck though, he just stood in front of the doors, looking around, scanning and apparently searching.

  “Blue Leader, Blue Seven. He’s, uh, not walking, over,” said one of the STU “pushers.”

  “Roger, I see him.” Shit! Jaeger bent down between t
wo parked cars, pretending to tie his shoelace. “Tell me when he’s moving again.” A full minute passed. Jaeger had to stand up, feeling like an idiot, totally burned. He turned his back to the store to talk. “Did he make us? What’s going on? What’s he doing?”

  Bullard’s voice came over the net. “Blue Leader, Bird Dog. Advise you abort. Drop back, and let us take it from up here, over.”

  Tim Jaeger didn’t want to quit, not this close to his quarry. The wise thing would be to only observe, and follow Fallon to Ranya Bardiwell and any other conspirators. But he was here, now, for the taking, and he could be made to talk! Once he had Fallon strapped onto the water board, they would catch the rest of the gang easily. If they delayed and the JTF got wind of their coup, the Fibbies would take over the operation, make the collar, and claim all the credit. This was not an acceptable outcome.

  “Bird Dog, this is Blue Leader, I have a new plan.”

  ****

  It was 1210, and there was still no sign of Ranya. Brad was deciding whether to go back inside the store to the book section, go out and wait in his truck and hear what they were saying on talk radio, or stay where he was in front of Boat America for a few more minutes.

  The next store over on the other side from PetCo was Big Ten Discount Sports. When Ranya showed up, he decided he would take her inside to pick out her own swim fins and snorkeling gear, and maybe some different swimsuits and sports tops. He thought she’d look awesome in a clingy spandex halter top… He wondered how Ranya would react when they got to the French and Dutch islands, and all of the girls were going topless on the boats and the beaches. He fervently hoped she would catch the Caribbean spirit and go topless on Guajira! Ranya had exceptionally gorgeous upturned breasts, full but not too big, not saggy at all, just right for going topless…he could picture her swimming underwater, snorkeling on the reefs like a mermaid…