Operation Assassination

by Anne Fox

  “You know, I hadn’t even thought about having a firing range built out in Nebraska. But the guy I know who I’m hoping will get the project for converting the old Camp Chaos complex into our new digs is pretty familiar with them. I’ll bet he could do a nice job for us. Then Luigi can go schlep downrange and set snowball targets during the winter months for us.”

  Amigo was peering through the spotting scope. “Pretty sure I’ve got one of your coconuts.”

  Hank settled down with her rifle. “Tell me.”

  “You see your infantry targets down there. Look at the front row, third from the left, a little less than half way from it to the next one to the right.”

  Hank scanned the ground with her rifle scope. “Ok. I think I have it.”

  “Firing solution...” Amigo began. They both pulled out ballistics charts and studied them, Hank merely for confirmation as Amigo seldom got a firing solution incorrect. “Eight point six MOA drop, wind drift isn’t even worth worrying about. Spotter ready.”

  Hank adjusted her scope, counting the clicks that would result in the correction needed, never taking her eye off her intended target. “Shooter ready.”

  “Send it.”

  Hank watched as the rifle steadied, then gave a smooth, light touch to her Sako’s sensitive trigger. The pop of the round as it exited the silencer on the barrel was never her cue to take her cheek off the rifle’s stock. Rather, she watched until she saw the coconut jump and spray coconut milk.

  “Nice shot. Dead center,” Amigo confirmed.

  “Now if Luigi had just put a pineapple and a bottle of white rum down there, we could have had piña coladas.”

  “An’ then got all our asses tossed for breaking the ‘no alcohol’ rule,” Luigi chuckled.

  “I said we could have them. I didn’t say we could drink them,” Hank said to the amusement of the other two.

  “Ok. I’ve got another one of your coconuts.”

  The sniper team continued to work at identifying the coconuts Luigi had placed on the range bottom and shoot them, Amigo and Hank alternating between being the shooter or being the spotter.

  When they had completed shooting ten coconuts, Hank asked Luigi, “Are there any more? Or did we get them all?”

  “The critters will be happy that the two of you made all the coconuts into coconut pie for them.”

  Hank sat up, and sitting cross-legged stared downrange. “I’m bored,” she announced. “This range is only a thousand yards deep, and that’s just not much of a challenge for either my gun or me. Maybe if I could go for smaller targets, but then you can’t see them, even with a spotting scope.”

  “You just have to learn how to jitter a little,” Amigo said with a laugh. “Then the range will be challenge enough.”

  Luigi laughed. “You should have seen the medical team run in the first time she took a few shots in the range down in our facility. They can get pretty excited when someone’s heart stops beatin’.”

  Amigo looked at Hank quizzically.

  “A bit of a story best left for another time,” she said.

  “No need to do any tweakin’,” Luigi said. “Both rifles are shootin’ as well as the ammunition can fly.”

  “Still, we have to find a way to do some more challenging and creative practice,” Hank said. “This is getting too easy.”

  “We should go down to the border where we can run through arroyos and up through the mountains,” Amigo said. “I had to do that enough chasing drug runners while I was in the Border Patrol. That’s a challenge.”

  “That might be a bit of a bad thing to do, though,” Hank observed. “Both of us were stationed close enough to the border that someone might recognize us. And we’re supposed to be dead.”

  “You can maybe get just a little bit off of the border,” Luigi said.

  “How?” Amigo asked.

  “Go to the remote base in Roswell.”

  “We have another remote site?” Hank asked.

  “We got a bunch-a them,” Luigi said. “That one’s another old Atlas site, just like the one you were at in Nebraska. You’ve got a good airport there in Roswell, and its near enough to the mountains. You could get in some good snipin’ exercises there. I think the committee in D.C. that funds the unit would like to keep us here just because Quantico is close enough to D.C. that they feel their hides are being protected, but the two of you know full well now that terrorists strike all around the country. So, we’ve got bases all over the place.”

  “And they just sit unused most of the time?”

  “Not really. The team will go out to one of them every so often just to train.”

  “I think I’m going to need a chat with the rest of the team,” Hank said. “If, for no other reason than I’m sure Amigo and I could both use the opportunity to sneak into El Paso for some decent Tex-Mex.”

  “Cloud and Crow are trying to figure out how to get the Archer over to Roswell,” Edge said, coming in from having completed a flight lesson with Crow. “They’re saying they don’t want us to transition to another aircraft at this point in our training, and the flight school at Roswell flies Cessnas.” He sat down next to Hank and Spud after grabbing a cup of coffee.

  Spud looked at his shirt. “I thought you were soloing today.”

  With a huge grin, Edge yanked off his green t-shirt to reveal his first solo shirt. Hank reached over and gave him a “high five.” “OORAH! Way to go, Edge!”

  “We’re thinking about having our two student pilots leap frog the Archer over to Roswell,” Crow said.

  “They both need cross-country time,” Cloud added.

  “They can’t fly together?” Voice asked.

  “No,” Crow said. “Student pilots can’t carry passengers. It’s either go with an instructor, or go solo.”

  “So, let me get this straight. You want my wife to handle half of a trip from Virginia to New Mexico flying solo?” Spud asked.

  “Your point is?” Hank asked.

  “My point is, you’re a student pilot.”

  “And my point is, I have to get the cross-country time in anyway, as well as minimum time for commercial pilot later on. And the FAA doesn’t say that time has to be acquired after I get my pilot’s license. This is a great opportunity for Edge and me to get some serious flight time in.”

  “I think we’re about to see Spud and Hank’s first marital spat,” Amigo said, joining them at the team’s table.

  “I see the advantage of not having a wife,” Edge observed. “No one to argue with me on this one.”

  “Either Cloud or I will meet them at each point. We can slip down to the El Paso area and rent a twin from a little airport in Santa Teresa, New Mexico. Or, if the powers that be allow, we can just ferry the two of them along the route with the Latitude we’ll be taking to Roswell.”

  “Why rent a twin when you’ve got the Latitude?” Edge asked.

  “It has to do with how maintenance intervals are computed for piston versus turbine aircraft. Pistons have required maintenance based solely on flight hours. Turbines take into account landings as well. You’ll learn all of that when you get into your type rating for the Latitude, Edge. Which reminds me: we got the go-ahead to make an offer to Frank Hughes.”

  “I gather that flight will go before the move to Roswell for mission training?” Edge asked.

  “Yeah, but it shouldn’t be more than just the typical one-day affair,” Cloud said. “Flight time is about four hours, and El Paso is in Mountain time so we pick up two hours on the way out. We can leave here at 0600, Spud and Hank can eat breakfast on the plane. That puts us meeting with Frank at 0800 Mountain time. We’ll need to get our DHS gunny to let him off work to talk with us, but that’s the easy part. The hard part will be convincing him to take up residence first in Virginia and then in Nebraska. He’s so Texan he thinks the Cowboys play good football.”

  “In my humble opinion,” Edge began, “if twenty-two guys want to fight over a ball that isn’t even round, I’ll b
uy them each one of their own so I can watch something more interesting. Like hockey.”

  “Oh, here we go,” Voice muttered.

  “What’s so special about hockey?” Hank asked.

  “For one thing, Edge thinks it’s ok if a bunch of guys start knocking each other’s teeth out with big sticks,” Spud explained.

  The team members all laughed.

  “Although Hank is the one who seems to be the expert on knocking out teeth,” Spud added.

  The team laughed again as Hank yanked out and waved the small, leather medicine pouch that contained the two teeth she knocked out of Spot’s mouth when he attempted to rape her.

  “One day, we’ll catch up with that sonuvabitch and I’ll help her fill that little pouch with a few more teeth,” Spud said, fire in his eyes.

  “I didn’t see it on the camera feed like the rest of you did,” Amigo said. “But from everything Hank’s told me, I think I’ll help you with that.”

  “Enough,” Hank said, rubbing Spud’s back. “I’ll kick out his fucking teeth myself.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Spud said, regaining his composure. “Spot ran, just like the dog he is. And we’re not the only dog catchers looking for him.” He put his hands behind his neck and stretched. “I’ve got my suit, but I’m not sure what Hank has for this, unless we’re going to have her play the flight attendant part again.”

  “I still have my ‘come to Jesus meeting’ suit.”

  “I thought we buried you in that,” Voice said, smiling as he recalled her mock funeral.

  “After I rose from the dead, I had it dry cleaned. It’s in my closet.”

  “That’ll work as long as Mike doesn’t get wind of it. If he does, the flight out to Texas will be delayed a week while he insists on alterations.”

  “What I really need to do to keep him happy is have him make me a wardrobe that will anticipate mission requirements,” Hank said.

  “Seems like we’re pretty much set, then,” Cloud said. “We’ll make sure the Latitude is ready, and Spud and Hank can get some sleep. For a change.” Knowing what he was referring to, the rest of the team laughed.

  Hank came back to the cabin of the Citation Latitude after taking Crow and Cloud some coffee and pastries from the galley. Sitting down across from Spud, she said, “It seems weird to be wearing this suit again. And if I recall, you were wearing that one when we first met aboard the DOJ’s Gulfstream 550.”

  Spud smiled. “It seems I recall someone telling a bunch of guys that you’ve always loved me in this suit.”

  She smiled back. “What can I say? I have a good eye.” She leaned over and gave him a kiss. “I love you out of it even better.”

  Spud chuckled. “I know.”

  In the cockpit, Cloud leaned over to Crow and said, “Make you a bet.” Whispering the challenge to Crow, he took a quarter from his pocket and set it in a depression in the instrument console between them.

  “You’re on,” Crow said, putting a quarter of his own along with it.

  “This is going to be a long day,” Spud reflected. “Four hours to El Paso, woo this guy Frank Hughes, then another four hours back.”

  Hank shrugged. “Even on mission training exercises, sometimes we do days a lot longer than that. Sometimes we do days and days a lot longer. This will be a piece of cake, assuming Hughes isn’t a hard sell.”

  “I have to agree with Crow, though. He certainly has the experience we could use, and it will be better to have our own mechanic who knows enough not to ask questions when we make the move to Nebraska.”

  “We’ll be asking him to do a lot of moving, though. First to Virginia, then to Nebraska. And I’m not sure if he’s going to like the snow in either place, given he’s spent so much time in El Paso. Then there’s his wife. Remember what I’ve said before: If the woman ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. If she decides she hates Nebraska, we might be making another flight to woo a different mechanic.”

  “Thirty minutes out,” Crow announced from the cockpit.

  Hank got up and went forward to collect up dishes from the cockpit, then returned to the cabin and did the same, stowing everything in the galley. “It’s nice that we’ll be parked at Atlantic,” she said, sitting back down with Spud. “We can get the linemen to do the dishes for us and have catering delivered for the trip back. Plus, I understand they’re going to have a rental car for us right there waiting on the ramp.” She stood. “I think I want to move up to the bench. I’d like to listen in on the cockpit communications. El Paso is a Class C airspace, and I’ve never experienced anything other than a Class D when I did my takeoffs and landings at a towered field. El Paso has a radar approach control.”

  Walking forward, Hank popped her head into the cockpit. “Any chance I can listen in on communications?”

  “Sure.” Cloud indicated a flight case behind his seat. “There’s a hand-held radio in there, and also a spare headset. Hand the radio up here and I’ll get the Center frequency in for you. Then you can just retune things as you hear the controllers instruct us.”

  She handed up the radio, and Cloud put the Center frequency in for her. Handing it back, he said, “Just don’t forget, Hank. We observe sterile cockpit under 10,000 feet above ground level.”

  “Fine by me,” she said. “I’ll be too busy listening, anyway.”

  Hank listened with fascination to the communications between the Latitude and the ground, the aircraft getting its handoffs to the various controllers. She wished the Latitude had a jump seat the way the G550 did so she could compare what she was hearing with what she was seeing as the Latitude was cleared to land on El Paso’s 12,020-foot-long runway 22. Clearing the runway, they took the taxi route around the t-hangar area and past what was known as the “Winnebago hangar.”

  “There’s our guy,” Crow said, pointing out the right side window. “Thin guy with the blond hair.” Leaning back, he told Hank, “We deliberately requested the scenic route so we could show off the Latitude to the guy we’re hoping to get on board with us. Also, doesn’t hurt for you to know what he looks like.”

  “What are you guys going to do while Spud and I are trying to get him to sign?” Hank asked.

  “See if we can find some Mexican food to take back with us. We’d both like to know if that little butt-hole-scalding we got from your enchiladas is typical or if you deliberately spiced things up a bit.”

  Hank laughed. “I fed you Albuquerque Mexican. You’re going to find out – maybe the hard way – that El Paso Mexican is a whole lot hotter.”

  Once the Latitude was shut down, Hank opened the airstair and climbed out, Spud and the two pilots on her heels. They stopped briefly on the ramp while Crow put in a fuel order, then proceeded inside where Crow asked about the catering they’d ordered for the return trip and arranged to have the dirty dishes from the galley washed.

  “We should have two rental cars waiting for us as well.”

  Contracts signed and keys handed over, Spud asked, “Can you tell us how to get from here to the Winnebago hangar?”

  “Sure, said the girl at the desk, who brought out a local area map and traced the route for them.

  As Spud and Hank headed to their rental car, she heard Cloud ask, “Where’s a place we can eat?” Hank wondered if they intended to eat Mexican food for lunch and were planning out their trip to a restaurant, thinking, This could be bad news on the way back to Quantico.

  Arriving at the Winnebago hangar, they walked in and were greeted by a man who introduced himself as the director of maintenance. “We were told to expect you. Let me take you out to the hangar.”

  As they approached the hangar door, Hank heard a man inside curse out, “Damned fucking French helicopter!”

  Hank put her hand over her mouth, then laughed. “That guy sounds just like my father! Only for my dad, it was a damned fucking French airplane.”

  “That would be Frank,” the maintenance director said. “And just to warn you of two things. First, we don’t
want to lose him, so we’re hoping he doesn’t take you up on your offer. Second, if you do manage to snatch him away from us, expect a lot more of that. That aside, we’ve been told to cooperate with you fully, so let me make the introductions and then I’ll let you see if you can make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

  Walking into the hangar, they noticed the man that had been pointed out to them during their taxi to the fixed base operation climb off the bottom of a ladder that stood next to one of the helicopters being worked on and head toward a mechanic’s tool box.

  “Frank, you’ve got visitors,” the maintenance director said.

  Frank put a tool back into a drawer of the box and looked around. Hank stood, smiling at him, with Spud observing over her shoulder.

  “Mind if I take a look in your tool box?” she asked.

  “Have at it.”

  Hank slid open the drawers and noted that each tool had a place, and each place held its tool. Neat and organized. The sign of a man good with his hands, she recalled her father always saying.

  “I didn’t realize there were ladies present,” Frank said.

  Hank laughed. “For what it’s worth, my dad was an aviation mechanic, so I know all the damned fucking phrases.”

  He laughed.

  “Sounds like you just found your soulmate,” one of the other mechanics nearby said to Frank.

  “Yeah, and you’re Number One,” Frank replied, holding up his middle finger.

  Hank laughed and slapped her thighs. “I love this guy,” she said, turning to Spud. “Let’s pay him whatever he wants.”

  “Only if you understand that you’re already taken,” Spud said.

  “My hubby isn’t really jealous,” she told Frank. “He knows where my heart is. But you’re so much like my father it isn’t funny. Right down to the blond hair. That’s where I got mine,” she added, ruffling the waves of short-cut sandy blond hair on the top of her head.