Decency

by Rex Fuller

  “NRO. Get infrared on it.”

  “Coming up in ten seconds.”

  Horton keyed the display screen to split. The Joint Stars radar-generated graphic appeared on the left half. The NRO half on the right was unlit.

  “Kimberly do you have a line open to the State Patrol?”

  “Sure.”

  “Patch ‘em on to the speaker.”

  Suddenly the NRO’s Global Hawk infrared video display blossomed on the right hand screen. The right half of the display speckled with thousands of lights showing every hot target within a hundred mile radius of the farm. The drone’s visual and infrared sensors could be focused on the farm for a long loiter time if it came to that.

  Even before Horton spoke, “Zooming.”

  The UAV’s display stepped down, centered on the farm, eliminating objects by the hundreds every tenth of a second, until nothing but the farm in ghostly grays rested before their eyes.

  Horton gave Sandoval the news.

  “Santos, NRO infrared does not indicate warm bodied people in the house. But that doesn’t mean it’s empty.”

  “Understand. Let’s get someone in there soonest.” Sandoval knew the infrared spectrum did not penetrate walls.

  The connection clicked audibly.

  “State Patrol, calling Horton.”

  “Horton here, welcome aboard.”

  “This is Captain Dan Schneider, on-scene and team commander for the Nebraska State Patrol SWAT team.”

  “Captain, this is Craig Horton, do you understand you are operating under our control?”

  “Roger, sir.”

  “Fine. We badly need your help right now. Do you have anyone there in normal State Patrol uniform?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Okay, call someone who is, the closest one to you, or the sheriff. We need a normal looking officer to drive past a vehicle, probably idling, three quarters of a mile west of the house. Don’t stop. Just check it out. See who’s in it. Get a tag number and report through you to us. Then, locate the Pierces if you can.”

  “Roger, all.”

  Joe Manckovic swung his Dodge Ram out of Swain’s Grocery parking lot, a brown sack with Enfamil on the passenger side of the seat, and the glove box stash of Red Man restored.

  …wouldn’t hurt none to pick up a Bud for the trip home…

  Tom Koonce’s cherry top was at the cafe.

  …say hello to him too…remember to catch the door from slammin’ or Kathy’ll yell, again…

  “Hey, Tom, good seein’ you.”

  “Well, there’s the son of the devil himself. How you doin’, boy?”

  They shook hands with a big right hook wind up the way they have since junior high football.

  “Tom, you ought to be out on the road makin’ the world safe.”

  Kathy said, “Hey, Joe, how’s Marie and that new baby?”

  “Hey, beautiful. Marie’s a little under the weather but she’ll come around. I’m doin’ extra duty while she’s sick. That boy, though, he eats more than a new calf.”

  “Tell Marie we said ‘hi’ and if there’s somethin’ she needs…”

  “I’ll do it. Kathy, let me have one longneck Bud…for when the baby goes to sleep.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  Tom Koonce knew the baby better be down for the count right now if that’s when the beer was for.

  “Joe, you keep the cap on that goin’ home. Hear?” Tom knew he had to give him a reason. “A sick woman hates the smell of alcohol breath.”

  “Okay, Tom. Say, you want somebody to harass instead of wastin’ the tax money in here, you ought’ go swing by Kathy and Harlan’s…three quarter’ mile west. There’s two Ori-en-ls from Omaha road huntin’ pheasants.”

  “Orientals?”

  “I know. But, hey, Omaha gets squirrelier every year.”

  “That’ll be a buck eighty six, Joe.”

  He slid two ones across the counter and took the brown sack wrapped longneck.

  “Keep the fourteen cent’ on my credit. See you all soon, or in the great hereafter.”

  “Take care of yourself, hoss.”

  The door slammed behind him. Kathy did not yell.

  The Sheriff lifted his short style Stetson from the counter and paid for his coffee.

  “Best get rollin’. Tell Harlan, sorry I missed him.”

  “You probably just did. He’s on his way. Say hi to Tammy.”

  On the way out the door, the walkie talkie strapped to his side scratched. “Base, 45/20…”

  The Sheriff snapped the button on the hand set pinned to his collar and spoke into the mic.

  “45/20.”

  “State Patrol requests you contact them. Channel 14.”

  “Roger.”

  In the car Tom dialed channel 14 as he was pulling away from the curb.

  “State Patrol, County unit 45/20.”

  “County Unit 45/20, request you drive past but do not stop, repeat, drive past but do not stop at, vehicle on county road 16A approximately three miles west from highway 26 and observe. Report observation.”

  “State Patrol, County Unit 45/20 on the way. But a friend just told me they’re Orientals from Omaha. Bird huntin’.”

  “County Unit 45/20 repeat transmission, please.”

  “State Patrol, I’m on the way but they’re Orientals from Omaha. Bird huntin’. A friend just told me”

  “Understand. What’s your ETA?”

  “Eight minutes.”

  “Request you report observation.”

  29

  “Ma’am…

  “Ma’am…

  “Ma’am…”

  It took deliberate effort for Kelly to realize she was “Ma’am.”

  She twitched and slowly started to uncurl.

  “Ma’am, we are in Omaha. You can depart the plane now.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Being in Omaha did not feel very good just then. There was a sore spot on Kelly’s hip because the pillow slid down and for some time she pressed up against the armrest. There was a buzzing pain in the back of her head from the tension headache that hadn’t gone away. And just to make it interesting, there was a hungry badger running around in her stomach snarling for food. She realized she had not eaten for two days, except for the coffee in the Pavilion when she sat with Fitzgerald.

  …in fact, all things considered, dying right here would be okay…just wait a minute…

  She started to sink back into her nest.

  “MA’AM! You have to clear the plane now.”

  “Oh, sorry…”

  Kelly struggled to unfurl and get to her feet. She was slightly dizzy from the hunger and the seat caught her behind the knees, buckling her, and she sat back down.

  “Are you okay, Ma’am?”

  …my God, they think I’m drunk…

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  Kelly fetched her briefcase from the overhead and noticed she was alone on the plane except for flight attendants and the cleaning crew. She straightened her trench coat, and gradually assembled more of her bearings with each step down the aisle. At the door she heard one attendant whisper.

  “I don’t know. She didn’t drink anything.”

  The other wished her to “Have a good evening.”

  All the way to the rental car area she wrestled with the aches and pains. As the clerk completed the contract, she went to the restroom and swallowed some Tylenol from the bottle in her briefcase, knowing that it would not help for at least ten minutes. She splashed water on her face and dried with paper towels. This time, she looked much better than she felt and the look would still spook wildlife. Outside, she settled into the rental for the drive. The Tylenol kicked in much quicker because it was the only thing in her stomach.

  …digestion certainly leaped on those two little pills… …maybe I could live after all…

  With thought patterns returning to normal, she reached into her coat pocket, pulled out the cell phone and turned it back on. She resis
ted the temptation to call somebody, anybody, to find out if something, anything, was done with the motion since it was delivered this morning.

  …if NSA or the Attorney General manage to lift it out of their in-box, Bonnie will hear and call…

  “Horton, State Patrol.”

  “Go ahead, Captain.”

  “The closest unit is a sheriff eight minutes away. He’ll report but he said a friend just told him they are Orientals, repeat Orientals, from Omaha, hunting pheasants.”

  There was stunned silence in the Situation Room. Sandoval heard it too.

  “Captain, ask him to see if there is any indication of hunting pheasants he can see, a shotgun barrel, anything.”

  Silence held while the State Patrol relayed the request.

  “He’ll check…still without stopping though, right?”

  “Right. If they’re who we think they are we don’t want them to move. They can’t even hear the planes we’re watching them from.”

  Tom Koonce’s patrol car came into the field of view displayed from the Joint Stars and moved south down the screen in the Situation Room. After a minute it turned west, inched the remaining three miles toward the light parked west of the farm, and became a glow on the drone’s infrared display.

  When closing on the parked vehicle, the State Patrol Captain’s voice relayed the report from the Sheriff.

  “One five oh yards ahead…must be heavy smokers, smoke is coming out both driver and passenger windows…license plate number one eskimo mike rover three seven niner, repeat one eskimo mike rover three seven niner… passing them now…two Oriental males…driver about forty five, passenger about thirty…Enterprise rental sticker on rear bumper…no indications they are pheasant hunting…no indications they are not.”

  “Horton, I’m running the renter’s id with Enterprise now…”

  “Good, Captain…”

  “I’m bringing the Sheriff to my location…”

  “Enterprise reports vehicle rented from Omaha airport facility this morning, by Mr. Michael Cheng, address 16742 Hyacinth, Long Beach, California, no listed employer, and Mr. John Yang, same address…”

  Horton’s mind raced through the analysis in a millisecond.

  …unbelievable, they used their normal cover ID’s….we have probable cause on espionage on the Chinese…can we say these are the Chinese even though we know damn well they didn’t fly from California to hunt pheasants in front of the Pierce farm…? don’t look a gift horse in the mouth…Terry v. Ohio says we can stop and frisk on reasonable grounds short of probable cause and progeny cases say the same for cars… the Pierces are somewhere safe… no sign of Fitzgerald to spook him off…

  “Captain, how long will it take you to apprehend them, doing it very quietly?”

  “Two minutes, forty five seconds.”

  Horton did not ask him to explain how on God’s green earth he knew that.

  “Do it.”

  Captain Schneider and his team knew this deal was done. Before they started to roll they knew when it would finish. They knew because they had practiced. And practiced. And practiced. They had practiced for stationary target buildings, vehicles, and persons. They had practiced for moving target vehicles and persons. They had practiced on streets, highways, gravel roads, and dirt roads. They had practiced in steady rain and storms. They had practiced in heavy snow and blizzard. They had practiced in summer heat so hot they sweated through their kevlar vests and uniforms. Their vans were much squatter and more stable than commercially available models. They knew how long it took to accelerate the two vans to maximum safe speed for the surface, how long it took to travel the necessary distance at the maximum safe speed, and how long it took to decelerate to a controlled stop.

  And they had spent most of the afternoon calculating for just such as this. They knew one van would travel two and one quarter miles around the section adjoining the Pierce farm, approach the target from the rear, and block it from escaping in reverse gear. They knew the other would travel one and three quarters miles in the opposite direction, approach from the front, and block that route.

  They knew each would hit maximum safe speed of seventy six miles per hour. They knew the time at which both would turn on their 10,000 candle power searchlights to blind the occupants. They knew at what second they would exit the vans.

  The only thing they did not know was whether they would open the doors of the target vehicle, or the occupants would choose to, and manage to, do it for them.

  They knew there would be no spoken commands.

  They knew because they had practiced this many, many, many times before…and performed in real cases too many times.

  Fitzgerald rose from his seat when the bong rang indicating the plane was stopped and chocked. He reached up to the overhead, pulled down his suitcase and queued up with the rest of the passengers for the elephant walk to the terminal.

  The long-haired, pony-tailed wig and the walrus mustache that he put on in the restroom before going to his seat for take-off were tiresomely too warm, but even more necessary now than ever. The perceptual geometry they suggested to the observer’s eye distorted his appearance considerably. It would not be long before he could take them off in the rental car. He put his Australian bush-style hat on over the wig.

  He exited the jetway, turned right, and trudged toward the rental car area. He noticed a pair of TSA police walking toward him to the gate where he just arrived. He knew there was no facial recognition equipment in use in Omaha’s Eppley terminal and was confident the humans’ eyes could not see through the disguise. They were glancing at pictures in their hands and checking the arriving passengers as best they could.

  They looked at him…then moved on to the next person.

  …idiots…

  The Situation Room action team watched the lights indicating the highway patrol vehicles started moving, and Horton called out, “FAA, what’s the ETA for Sandoval and the Hostage Rescue Team?”

  “Sandoval ETA, Offutt seven minutes. HRT ETA, Offutt twelve minutes.

  “Santos, I want you to marry up with the HRT at Offutt and helicopter to the site together.”

  “Will do.”

  In the failing light just at sunset, Colonel Zhin noticed the rising dust boiling out behind the approaching van when it turned toward him only two hundred yards away. Just as he realized it must be moving very rapidly it seemed to slow down.

  …ouch…that light is far too bright…

  The light so startled Captain Ming he screeched in his native Mongol tongue, intelligible to no one for many miles, what roughly translated to, “Horse’s ass, depart!”

  …no, it can’t be…

  The Colonel ducked his head and reached for the gear shift lever to get the Jeep moving. But he was unaccustomed to its position and fumbled. He finally felt it and shoved it into drive. He looked up to guide the truck and could barely see the way ahead was already blocked.

  The door opened. Surprisingly strong hands grabbed his collar and left leg and jerked him out so quickly he sat directly down in the road. Someone jumped past him into the driver’s seat.

  …surely, the tailbone is cracked…

  Instantly he was thrust face forward into the road, both arms jerked behind his back. A knee crashed down on the back of his head grinding his face in the dirt and gravel.

  Before he could turn his face enough to scream, manacles were clamped too tightly around his wrists. Hands shoved his head to turn it. As his mouth opened heavy tape was mashed to his lips and across his eyes.

  He was jerked again to his feet. Arms shot under his shoulders, pulling his wrists against the manacles.

  He was propelled forward, lifted and heaved, head first, and landed on a metal surface.

  Feet shuffled around him. A door closed.

  This must be the van he saw coming. It moved.

  The Situation Room attendees watched the NRO display as the vehicles converged, eerie little holographic ghost figures spilled out of the SWA
T vans, swarmed the car, dragged other figures from either side, paused, took each occupant to separate vans, and entered. They saw one of the SWAT Team figures enter the Jeep and all three vehicles move west, away from the highway and away from the Pierce farm. They watched them turn south to return to the point they started from.

  Horton looked at his watch. It had taken two minutes and thirty eight seconds.

  Captain Schneider’s voice, stone calm, not out of breath, came over the speakerphone.

  “Target is secure. Zero casualties. Ready to re-launch in two minutes and thirty seconds.”

  Not a soul doubted it in the slightest.

  “Good job, Captain. Put the Chinese in the Sheriff’s car and have him lock them up. Seal up their vehicle as soon as you can for it to be hauled from your site. Now, get the local sheriff or whoever you can to locate the Pierces.”

  “Wait one.”

  The action team listened for the silence to break.

  “Horton, State Patrol.”

  “Go.”

  “The Sheriff who did the drive-by reports Kathy Pierce is in the Pierce cafe in the town of Weeping Water, serving customers. Harlan Pierce’s location unknown.”

  “All right. Captain. The Pierces do not trust us. Get a local uniformed officer, if possible one who knows them, to see if he can find out from her where Harlan Pierce is.”

  “Roger, sir.”

  A beautiful harvest moon rose, promising a windy, cold, clear evening bright enough for shadows. The wind was lifting from a high pressure region over North Dakota being sucked to the south by a low centered on Arkansas. In other words, weather features of a clear and bright night offered no benefits at all. Overcast would not hinder the satellite and aircraft observation platforms, but would have reduced the available light for enemies, assuming they did not have night vision equipment. Moreover, wind would at least risk delay of, or possibly hamper, the helicopter insertion of Sandoval and Hostage Rescue. Precisely this weather would complicate everything they needed to do.