“As you all know, the Jamie L. Whitten Building was bombed just before three PM yesterday, resulting in eleven deaths and forty-six casualties, twenty-three of which were serious and required hospitalization. As of twelve-forty this afternoon, one of the fatalities was secretary of Agriculture, Thomas Ketteridge.” A murmur rose from the crowd. Secretary Ketteridge had been recovered from the rubble late the previous night, and while his injuries were serious, it was widely believed he would survive. The fact that he had succumbed to his injuries was a shock to the whole room.
Clarkson put word to the thought shared throughout the room. “The president is intensely committed to finding the person responsible. He called me personally ten minutes ago and I was able to share some of the preliminary investigation results with him. He would like to be briefed daily with new updates.” The cold steel in Clarkson’s eyes and the grim set to his mouth clearly spoke of the pressure he was under. “We will not disappoint him.”
Brian leaned in to whisper in Meg’s ear. “Clarkson is pissed. He looks calm and collected, but underneath you can see the anger.”
“Unless there is a crucial need,” Clarkson continued, “or a life in the balance, as of right now, all other cases for this task force are on hold. We have reason to believe this is only the first incident in a series of intended incidents, so we must catch the person or persons responsible immediately. So let’s get the room up to speed. EAD Peters?”
A balding man of medium build stepped up to the mic, adjusting wire-framed glasses on a slightly bulbous nose. Executive Assistant Director Peters was so average looking he tended to meld into the people around him, taking on a cloak of anonymity, and it made his skill in the field legendary. Because he was never seen, he could slip in and out of locations and no one ever remembered him or was ever able to identify him with certainty. Smart, quick on his feet in a crisis, and willing to use his looks to the Bureau’s advantage, he was a brilliant undercover investigator and moved up quickly through the ranks. By the age of forty-five he was already the EAD for the Criminal, Cyber, Response, and Services Branch, including the Critical Incident Response Group and the Criminal Investigative Division. Everyone in the room knew Clarkson answered to the president, but the man really running the show was Peters. Never a micromanager, he gave his special-agents-in-charge the room they needed to work, but was always in the background to encourage, advise, or offer his considerable knowledge if needed.
“As you all know, we’re only in the beginning stages of this investigation, but we’ve already made significant headway. I’m going to call up each of my relevant division heads to brief the room.” He turned to a woman standing slightly off to the side. “SAC Maloney?”
Maloney stepped up to the podium with the confidence of someone comfortable in her own skin. In an organization overwhelmingly composed of men, Maloney never felt the need to compete or be “one of the guys.” She simply put aside all the politicking and concentrated on doing the job right the first time. While it may have taken her longer than Peters to rise through the ranks, she showed great promise and many thought she might one day be the first female director of the FBI. But, for today, she was in charge of the Criminal Investigative Division.
“The bomb was delivered to the Whitten Building by a drone. Detonation was at fourteen fifty-seven yesterday afternoon. The first eyewitnesses report seeing it at approximately fourteen fifty-two flying over Pennsylvania Avenue by the Grant Memorial. It was then tracked by multiple witnesses flying over the National Mall, on a direct trajectory for the Whitten Building. We have several bits of video footage as evidence, from eyewitnesses and local security cameras, but this is the best of them.” She picked up the remote from the podium and turned to the screen at the front of the room.
Video footage instantly appeared on the screen. Taken on a cell phone, it showed a drone, inky black against the cloudless blue sky, as it flew about thirty or forty feet overhead. In the background, two male voices could be heard.
“I thought drones were banned this close to the White House and the Capitol.”
“They are. Probably just some joker out on a lark, but they’re going to fry his ass when they catch him.”
The videographer looked like he must have been standing in the middle of the Mall opposite the Air and Space Museum as he followed the dark shape of the drone past the hexagonal Norman tower of the Smithsonian Castle and out of sight before the video ended.
“Agents in the Cyber Division were able to isolate this image of the drone.” A still picture flashed up on screen. It was blurry and over-pixelated, but aspects of the drone were clearly visible. “This is the drone itself. It has been identified as a handmade specialized octocopter, as opposed to an off-the-shelf model from a hobby shop. This means there won’t be any built-in kill switch and it’s likely been customized to carry the maximum amount of weight. As you can see at the front, it has a high-res forward-facing camera to allow the operator detailed visuals along its flight path. As for the operator, he or she would have been using a radio transmitter with some sort of view screen to pilot the craft.”
A hand was raised in the front part of the room. SAC Maloney pointed to it. “Yes.”
“Based on the range you’ve outlined, the drone was likely too far away to have been piloted from a position close to the target.”
“It was. So our working theory is this.” She pulled up a map of the National Mall, running from the Lincoln Memorial in the west to the Capitol in the east. “The suspect doesn’t want to be seen with the drone when it’s in the air, so he hides it somewhere near the Capitol. A location where it would be clear for takeoff, but not where someone might pick it up and inadvertently set off the bomb early. Perhaps it was placed in an alley between buildings where it could have a vertical liftoff. Or perhaps it was on the rooftop of an office building surrounding the Mall. Go in looking like a delivery guy with a big box, go up to the roof, unload the drone, exit the building like a delivery guy, except your box is actually empty at that point. No one would look at you twice.”
Walking over to the map, she circled a number of buildings northeast of the Capitol. “We’re going to search the area to confirm, but we hypothesize the drone was left in this area. We think the suspect then moved to a much more central location.” She circled the center of the Mall. “Possibly somewhere in this area. More chance of being spotted in the open, so he probably was near one of the buildings away from an entrance, or maybe in one of the sculpture gardens. This would make the one-mile radius for the drone to fly anywhere from this centralized position. It could come in from one side and fly to the target on the other, giving it a much longer range to avoid detection of the suspect. Witnesses confirm the drone entered the Mall from the east, flew west down the Mall on a direct line for the Whitten Building at approximately sixty feet off the ground, matching the height of the building. Witnesses reported it didn’t have to fly up over the building, but moved right into place and then dropped out of sight as it lowered into the courtyard. The camera would have given the suspect full visuals to guide it exactly into position. We have no witness reports of anyone suspicious who might be responsible. Anyone who noticed the drone was looking up at it, not around for who was controlling it, but we haven’t closed that avenue of investigation yet.” With a nod to Peters, Maloney moved back from the podium.
Peters quickly stepped back in front of the crowd. “Now, on to what many of you are really waiting to hear about—who is responsible. As of an hour ago, we have a considerably better idea of that. I’m going to turn the floor over to SAC Williams.”
Special-Agent-in-Charge Williams, head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit for counterterrorism, arson, and bombing matters, was in his late thirties. He wore a stylish suit with quietly expensive Italian leather shoes and had a surprisingly athletic build for what many considered the “egghead brigade”—agents who spent more time studying suspects than actually confronting them in the field. “Good afternoon. Late this mo
rning, reporter Clay McCord of the Washington Post”—a collective groan filled the room at the mention of the Post, but Williams ignored it—“received an anonymous message through their SecureDrop system from someone claiming to be the bomber. Accompanying the message was a digital image so we’d know it’s legitimate.” He brought up the image on screen. A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Meg stifled a small gasp. She’d seen that gridwork of the courtyard skylight from below just yesterday, and had no doubt she was now looking at a bird’s-eye—or drone’s-eye—view only a matter of seconds before the drone dropped into the courtyard and exploded. Sensing her disquiet, Hawk raised his head from his paws and nudged her calf. She reached down to stroke him, both quieting him and trying to reinforce her own sense of calm. He was too smart for her to fool him, but he put his head back down anyway.
“It’s been confirmed this is the roof of the Whitten Building,” Williams continued, “directly above the skylight over the courtyard. This picture is likely a still from the video feed that the bomber was using to remotely control the drone. Cyber Division has already had a quick go at the file, but the image has been scrubbed of all meta data. And this is the message he sent.” He put the bomber’s message up on screen and then stepped back for a moment to allow the agents in the room time to read it for themselves.
Leaning forward, Meg skimmed the message, her hands going clammy with each new line. “Tyranical government.” “A man who’s been crushed too long under its jackboot heal.” “His first Goliath.”
“Holy Mother of God,” Lauren breathed. “He’s a spree bomber.”
“A homegrown spree bomber,” Brian agreed. “He’s not an Islamic terrorist. He’s one of us.”
The low roar gradually started to build as heads turned to each other all over the room. Peters finally stepped forward again and tapped the mic twice for their attention. “Settle down. Williams, please continue.”
“We’ve only had a short time to consider this note, but several things are immediately obvious. He outright states he’s a man, and there’s nothing in this note to contradict that. From the writing itself, it’s someone with minimal education, who spells phonetically, and therefore makes substitution errors. He uses the term ‘jackboot,’ which many modern city dwellers won’t even recognize, but was a well-known term during the Second World War and into the nineteen fifties. It’s unlikely he himself was ever in the military, but considering the language, it’s possible a male relative like a father or an uncle might have been. There’s a famous quote by George Orwell of 1984 fame that a jackboot is what you put on when you want to act tyrannical. So we’re getting overkill of the ‘government as tyrant’ message.
“This is a man who works alone and likely views himself as a patriot. He acts not only for himself, but also for anyone else who is oppressed by the government. Note the first line—he doesn’t consider himself a terrorist. As far as he’s concerned, no red-blooded American standing up for his rights could be considered a terrorist. That’s a label strictly for foreigners. Clearly, we have a different view of the matter.”
Williams contemplated the screen, his hands on his hips. A full ten seconds of silence passed before he turned back to the room. “Our biggest concern is the statement that this is only his first salvo—‘the first grenade,’ ‘taking down the first Goliath.’ He plans to do this again. His only slight remorse is for the injured children, but it’s clear he considers them collateral damage and martyrs to the cause. More than that, he’s assuming any children in Washington could only be the children of those who work for the ‘tyrannical government’ he hates so much, and are therefore beneath his notice.
“As far as a profile, we’re looking at a white male in his mid to late thirties, from the lower income brackets. Minimal education, likely not even finished high school. He’s not necessarily geographically local to DC; he may have traveled here to make his point. Considering what he would have been carrying, he would only have traveled by car, not air. But that could put him anywhere on the eastern seaboard. We’re checking every hotel register within a two-hundred-mile radius, but if he’s close enough, he could be using his own home as a base. As more data come in, we’ll be able to provide a more detailed profile.”
Peters took charge again. “In light of the content of the message, all government buildings will remain on lockdown and extra Secret Service details have been assigned to the president. While there’s been no direct threat against the president, there’s been a threat against the government of which he’s the head. We’ll be reviewing his schedule with his staff and canceling any events deemed potentially dangerous.
“We’ve set up a public tip line to channel the incoming information.” Behind him, a 1–888 number splashed onto the screen. “Anyone who saw anything suspicious yesterday, or overheard a conversation in their local bar, can call and give details. We’re putting this number out on every TV and radio station, and it’s already going viral online.
“As with any incident like this, there’s going to be a lot of incoming information. We’re going to need every pair of hands we can get. So we’re pulling in everyone we can. If you work in my division and aren’t called out into the field for this investigation, you’re going to be sifting through data, researching leads, and getting that information out to our field agents for follow-up. Ninety-five percent of the information that comes in isn’t going to be relevant, but we need to work through it all and weed out what’s not useful to us. We only have so many agents to go out and do time-consuming legwork, so we need to minimize those efforts here in this building. It’s going to be new work for many of you, but I have every confidence you’ll apply your existing skills to this new task.”
The screen flashed back to the bomber’s message. “This kind of effort is going to be extremely important,” Peters continued, “because we’re giving the Washington Post the green light to publish this message. We want to know if anyone recognizes the writing or the mind-set behind it. Normally, we wouldn’t do this so quickly, but considering the threat of continued attacks, in the name of public safety we won’t hesitate. We expect a landslide of tips from that alone. It’s going live online at fifteen-hundred hours today to give us enough time to get ready for the onslaught, and will go out in print format in tomorrow’s edition. After this meeting, everyone is to meet with their direct supervisors for their assignments. Thank you.” Peters moved back into the line of suits at the wall.
Clarkson stepped back up to the mic. “Thank you all for your time and attention. We have a lot of work ahead, and the country’s eyes are fixed on us. Now is the time for your very best. Bring that to the table and we’ll have the bomber in custody very quickly. Thank you very much.” He turned and left the room without a backward glance.
The room instantly filled with chatter. But Meg only silently met Brian’s grim gaze.
One angry David taking down his first Goliath . . .
They had their orders. Now it was simply a matter of waiting. But whether it would be for data or to be called out to the next bombing was anyone’s guess.
Chapter 7
Staging Area: A designated area where nose work competitors who have not yet searched wait and prepare.
Thursday, April 13, 10:09 AM
Outside Moorefield, Hardy County, West Virginia
The man strode through the deserted barn, flanked by empty stalls, only a scattering of old, rancid straw marking the animals that once lived there. His boot heels echoed against warped and weathered boards, laid down over a century ago in an old-fashioned barn raising. The floor was scarred by decades of cloven hooves of goats and sheep and gouged by iron-shod hooves of horses, while the ceiling overhead was darkened with the smoke of a century of glowing lanterns.
He hardly noticed the stalls or the empty tack room. Instead his eyes trained upward, toward the ceiling and the dark gap that opened at the end of the aisle above the crude wooden ladder.
Grasping the rough-hewn run
gs, he hauled himself up the ladder and into the dim space above. All around him, light snuck through cracks edging warped wall boards and around the rectangle of the loading door at the far end. Dust motes danced in the rays of sunlight that fell over the few bales of hay that still remained.
He didn’t need the light. He could have made the trip in the dark if need be.
Partway along the length of the hayloft a short ladder rose to a small platform tucked under the roofline. He scaled the few steps easily.
Boxes were neatly stacked under the waterproof cover of a tarp. He flicked back the corner and pulled the closest box toward him. Elongated blocks wrapped in olive green Mylar stamped with CHARGE DEMOLITION M112 WITH TAGGANT (1-¼ LBS COMPC -4) filled the box.
He smiled down at death and destruction sleeping peacefully inside. But he knew just how to bring it to life.
He placed eight of the blocks in an empty box he’d left there for transferring materials and added a bag of blasting caps and a spool of detonation cord. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped the tarp back into place. He settled the box in the crook of one arm and then scaled backward down the ladder one-handed.
Back down on the hayloft floor, he allowed himself a moment to scan the space, seeing it as it had been when he was a boy—full of fragrant hay, row after row of bales stacked to the roof. Closing his eyes for a moment, he could hear his brother’s shriek of laughter as he tumbled off the highest bale and fell spread-eagled into the embrace of a loose pile of fragrant strands. Back when they were boys, when snow covered the ground and drifted up against the barn walls, their best place to play had been the warm, dry hayloft.
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