by Dale Brown
Cortez climbed down from the fence, thankful he didn’t rip his suit trousers on the razor wire or dent the hood of his Bureau car. He retrieved his badge case from a trouser pocket and opened it. “Cortez, FBI. We came here to talk to the CO.”
“FBI?” the soldier asked. “What’s the FBI want with us?”
“I’d rather talk it over with the CO.”
“Why were you climbin’ the fence?”
“I saw the hangar door open and thought I’d better check it out.”
“Why didn’t you just use the front door?”
“It’s locked. No one up there.”
“What? No, the secretary’s there.” He motioned with a couple fingers at the badge and stepped toward the fence. Cortez showed it to him again. “Did you knock or what?”
“No, I didn’t knock, but I didn’t see anyone up there. It looked like you were closed.”
“Well, you got that right.”
“Say again?”
“Closed. I mean, we’re closin’. The unit’s moving, back to Fort Indiantown Gap. Annville.”
“When?”
“End of the fiscal year, I guess,” the soldier said. “That’s better than an hour from where I live. Right now it’s easy for me to just get off from work and go to drills, but with the move, it’s a real hassle to…”
“Can you let us in so we can talk to the CO?” Cortez interjected.
“Oh. Oh, sure. C’mon over. The CO, he ain’t here, but the first shirt is around here somewhere and he can fill ya in. Right over here.” The soldier walked toward the rear of the red-brick building. Cortez jumped off his car and retrieved his jacket, and he and Taylor went to the front entrance. A few moments later, the soldier opened the front door and let them in.
The reception area looked neat and tidy, just deserted. The floor was polished to a high sheen, the computers were on, there was no dust built up anywhere; the live plants looked well cared for. Obviously it was geared heavily toward recruiting, with lots of posters and brochures around touting the educational and training opportunities in the Pennsylvania National Guard. “What’s your name?” Cortez asked.
“Conway. Eddie Conway. Sergeant First Class. Helicopter maintenance specialist, Troop F, First Battalion, One-Oh-Fourth Cavalry.” He turned to Taylor and motioned again with two fingers. “Do you mind?”
“Troop F?” Taylor asked as he showed his badge and ID card again. “You mean, ‘F Troop’?”
“The first shirt, he don’t like the negative connotation,” Conway said. “I just learned what the big gag was, and I still don’t get it—F Troop, the TV show, that part I get—but he’s a baby boomer so he’s pretty sensitive about it.”
“You guys usually closed on the weekdays like this?”
“We usually open a couple days before a drill weekend,” Conway said. “But with the unit relocating, the schedule’s all dicked up. The CO hasn’t been around since, oh hell, I don’t know—I haven’t seen him in a while. I just see the first shirt. I try to stay out of the old man’s crosshairs, know what I mean? But the choppers still need the maintenance, know what I mean?”
“Sure,” Cortez said. “We’ll just check in with the first sergeant and get out of your hair, let you get back to work.”
“Heck, I like the break, know what I mean?” Conway said with a smile. “I got credit for a training day whether I crawl under one bird or six, know what I mean?” Cortez thought that this was the kind of guy who needed lots of supervision, but he remained silent as they headed toward the offices in back.
“What do you guys do?” Taylor asked.
“We’re a maintenance unit detached from the rest of the aviation battalion,” Conway said. “We fix ’em all—Apaches, Kiowa Scouts, Black Hawks, Hueys, everything, even the vehicles like the Bradleys and Humvees. We’re not really a combat unit but we can do field maintenance behind enemy lines if necessary.”
“What about the rocket launchers?”
“Oh, that’s just here for chassis maintenance—the carrier vehicle has the same chassis and drive train as a Bradley,” Conway said. “It’s been unloaded, safed, and secured twelve ways to Sunday or we don’t touch it. I don’t know nothin’ about those things, the business end of it at least, know what I mean?”
“Sure. Are all these helicopters and armored vehicles armed?”
“Nope,” Conway replied. “We can do field maintenance on the weapon systems if necessary, but usually that’s just R&R—‘remove and replace.’ We expect all the choppers and vehicles that come here to be completely unloaded, disarmed, and safetied, but we find ordnance in them all the time. So what are you guys looking for?”
“We’re investigating National Guard units who have reported losses in the past few months,” Cortez said. “This unit’s reported losses have spiked, and I was hoping to get some indication as to why that might happen.”
“Well, I’m not exactly sure why, but I’d bet it has to do with the move to Fort Indiantown Gap,” Conway said. “Things get misaudited all the time—drive a Humvee to Annville and log it into their TO&E, then forget to fill out the transfer sheet back here. Part of the unit got back from the Middle East just two months ago too.”
“The move might explain a lot,” Cortez agreed.
They passed a few more offices, went through the unit meeting room, and then to a door with two flags on either side of it. Conway knocked on the door. “Come!” they heard.
“Good. He’s in there. Right this way, gents.” He led the way through the doors, and Cortez and Taylor followed. Inside were several metal shelves and a large set tub—it looked like a janitor’s…
Cortez heard several loud thummps! behind him—and then his vision exploded into a field of swirling shooting stars. Crushing pain shot through his head and neck, and he hit the linoleum floor hard. Another blow to his rib cage took the breath out of him. He felt several more sharp blows to his head and neck…then nothing.
“Hey!” Conway shouted. “You didn’t say nothin’ about killin’ these guys!”
“What the hell did you expect us to do—sit ’em in the corner and tell them to be quiet and behave themselves while we rip this place off?” the assailant asked derisively. “They’re FBI, for chris-sakes!”
“Our job was to just get the vehicles and choppers ready to roll…!”
“Then get your ass out there and finish up while I clean up this mess,” the assailant said. “We don’t get paid unless those vehicles are on the road by sundown.”
“They said they were investigating losses at National Guard units,” Conway said nervously as the other man started checking the bodies for weapons and ID. “Think they’re on to us?”
“If they were, this place would be swarming with cops and troops,” the assailant said. “I know of at least a dozen other units involved in this scheme too, and they haven’t been investigated yet either. But after tonight, we’ll be done and on our way to Argentina with our money.” He looked at Conway, who had frozen in place looking at the dark blood and brain matter oozing out of the FBI agents’ heads. “What’s up with you? You never seen a dead guy before?”
“Sure. Two tours in the Sandbox in five years, I seen plenty. Just not one clubbed to death right before my eyes. One second I was talkin’ to the guy, the next…whammo. I didn’t sign up for this to kill our own, know what I mean?”
“Get real, Conway,” the assailant said. “You signed up for this because they’re paying us a shitload of money and a free airline ticket out of the country. What do you think they’re going to do with all this equipment—have a fuckin’ Fourth of July parade? They’re gonna blow somethin’ up with it. Banks, the IRS office in Philly, a bunch of raghead mosques, who knows? I don’t give a shit as long as I get my money and I’m not around to watch it.”
“But we killed two guys…!”
“First of all, Conway, you didn’t kill nobody, hear me?” the other man said. “You don’t know who did it, you didn’t see or hear nothin�
�. Second, we’ll be out of here by tonight. Third, you made a deal. You back out now, and those crazy motherfuckin’ Russians will be back for your eyeballs. Now get finished and let’s get the choppers and tracks ready to roll so we can get the hell out of here.”
The White House Press Briefing Room, Washington, D.C.
Two days later
The President of the United States emerged from the back of the White House Press Briefing Room in the west colonnade of the executive mansion and took the dais, followed by Harold Kingman of TransGlobal Energy, National Security Adviser Robert Chamberlain, White House Chief of Staff Victoria Collins, and other members of the President’s staff. The reporters in the packed briefing room got to their feet as the cameras clicked and whirred furiously.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, good morning,” the President began, the indication for everyone to be seated. He waited a few moments while the White House press corps found their seats; then: “It gives me great pleasure to announce today that Mr. Harold C. Kingman, president and CEO of TransGlobal Energy Corporation, will be the keynote speaker, panelist, and honored guest at the first annual American Energy Conference, to be held next month here in Washington.
“As one of the world’s, and certainly one of America’s, largest, most diverse, and most technologically advanced energy providers, TransGlobal Energy’s role in shaping, defining, and implementing strategies to providing the energy the world needs is pivotal,” the President continued. “In today’s highly competitive energy industry, however, few companies wish to share their vision for fear of giving away their company’s blueprint for profitability. But there is one American not afraid to share his vision with us, and that is this gentleman right here beside me, my friend Harold Kingman. He’s not afraid to tell us what the future holds in store for him and his company because he is a leader in the industry. As a leader, he’s not afraid to take new directions, explore new possibilities, and challenge the conventional notions of service to humanity versus profitability, responsible stewardship of the environment, and natural resources versus innovation.
“I know there are still many concerns about security for this energy summit,” the President went on. “Our hearts and prayers go out to the victims of the terrorist bombings in the San Francisco Bay area, and more recently over in Cairo, Egypt, near the Great Pyramids. However, thanks to Robert Chamberlain, my National Security Adviser, along with Attorney General Wentworth, Secretary of Homeland Security Calhoun, and National Intelligence Director Kallis, I believe America has never been more secure and more aware, and we are strengthening our security every day with the help of the American people. Our country is safer and more secure because of you. I thank you for your efforts, and I urge you to keep up the fight. I and my administration stand shoulder to shoulder with you.
“I’d like to invite Mr. Kingman to say a few words and then we’ll take a few questions. But we have a tee time here soon at an undisclosed location, where I assure all of you that I will try my best not to look like the duffer I am. Harold?”
Kingman took his place behind the microphone, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Thank you, Mr. President,” he began. “I am honored and privileged to be a part of the energy summit, and I hope I can contribute something to the discussions.” Off to the side a clerk handed Victoria Collins a note; she read it, stared blankly ahead for a few seconds, then stepped up behind Kingman as he was speaking and whispered into the President’s ear. The President adopted that same blank stare for a few seconds, then nodded reassuringly to his chief of staff.
“I’ll have much more to say during the summit,” Kingman was saying, “but for now, my primary goal and the goal of everyone at TransGlobal Energy is energy independence for America. It can and will be achieved. Thank you.”
The press corps started tossing questions to the podium, but at that moment Collins took Kingman by the sleeve and escorted him off the dais. The President stepped to the microphone and said, “Unfortunately there’s a development that warrants our attention, so we’re going to cut the press conference short. I ask all of you to follow the staff’s directions in a calm and orderly fashion. Thank you.” The President left the dais, which was immediately occupied by a tall, burly Secret Service plainclothes agent. The press corps immediately erupted into bedlam as the reporters scrambled to get more information and contact their bureaus.
“What in hell is going on, Robert?” the President said between clenched teeth as they were escorted by the Secret Service to the west wing of the White House. It was not quite an evacuation, but the Secret Service agents were making all of them walk very quickly indeed.
“Homeland Security issued a code red terror warning for Washington, D.C., and the surrounding area, sir,” Chamberlain said, reading the notes passed to him by an aide. “Two National Guard armories in Pennsylvania and Maryland and the Marine Corps base at Quantico had quantities of weapons and vehicles stolen recently, and two FBI agents were found bludgeoned to death at one of the National Guard armories. The Pentagon is setting THREATCON Delta and the Secret Service is recommending the same for all government buildings, including the White House. The thefts fit the same pattern as just prior to the attack on San Francisco.”
“Oh, my God…”
“The problem is, there are so many Guard and Reserve units deployed around the city that it’s hard to tell which ones are the real ones and which are bogus,” Chamberlain went on, “so Secretary Calhoun decided to call a Code Red until everything can be straightened out. Unfortunately, that means evacuating the leadership, sir. I hope you concur.”
“I most certainly do not concur, Robert!” the President said. “I am not going to evacuate the capital just on a suspicion of danger!”
“Sir, I don’t think that’s wise,” Chamberlain said. “Victoria?”
“I agree with the President—there’s no concrete reason he should evacuate right now,” Chief of Staff Collins said. “We don’t have troops stationed around the White House, for God’s sake! If we did, it would be active-duty forces, and they’d be properly vetted. This is nonsense, Robert…!”
“It’s not nonsense. It’s prudent and wise. We should…”
“I’m sorry, Robert, but I’m not leaving the White House,” the President said firmly. “I’m going to monitor the situation in the West Wing. If anything happens we’ll go to the Situation Room and we’ll put the contingency evacuation plan into effect. But I’m not leaving the White House unless there’s an attack in progress.”
“This is insane!” Harold Kingman exclaimed. “What in hell is going on?”
“Relax, Harold, this is just a precaution,” the President said. “You’re perfectly safe here in the White House.”
“Your confidence in your people is reassuring, Sam, but I’d prefer my own security forces, if you don’t mind.”
The President looked at his primary Secret Service escort, who immediately shook his head. “Let’s wait until the situation stabilizes before you run off, Harold,” the President said. “Watch my boys in action. You’ll be impressed.” Kingman was obviously still not convinced, but he fell silent and allowed himself to be hustled down the corridors to the West Wing of the White House.
No one at all challenged the convoy of two Humvees and a military tractor-trailer as it made its way south on Interstate 95 through Maryland to the District of Columbia. The military convoy raced down Interstate 95 at speeds sometimes exceeding seventy miles an hour. Upon reaching Exit 27 in the southbound lane near Powder Mills, Maryland, just before reaching the Beltway, the convoy stopped—right in the middle of the freeway. Traffic immediately began backing up behind it, and soon traffic in the northbound lane slowed to a crawl as “rubber-neckers” strained to see what was going on. One Humvee in the convoy went on ahead and blocked access to the southbound freeway from the Capital Beltway on-ramp, while a second Humvee unloaded three soldiers and then covered the mounting traffic behind them in the southbound lane. A few cars that were
already too close to the convoy were allowed to pass, but all others were kept at least a kilometer away.
While the Humvees set up a perimeter, the crews on the tractor-trailer in the middle of the convoy removed the chains holding an M270 Multiple Rocket Launcher System to the trailer and drove the vehicle off. It maneuvered in front of the tractor and turned. Two soldiers got into the fire control cab, while two others stood guard outside. The crowds on the northbound side of the freeway started to leave their vehicles—they were stopped anyway in what had quickly become an immense parking lot—and stood by the guardrails to watch.
The rocket platform on the M270 soon swiveled until the launcher was facing south-southwest, and soon the onlookers saw the platform elevate. A few of those watching applauded, and one of the soldiers in the cab waved. Police sirens off in the distance sounded like they were getting closer, and a few onlookers got back in their cars although the traffic jam, now over a kilometer long in both directions, wasn’t moving at all. This was a pretty unusual demonstration, all right, but this was the District of Columbia, some thought; they were pretty close to the Naval Surface Weapons Center, and maybe these guys had broken down. Maybe the military guys had to practice doing things like…
Suddenly there was a tremendous fwoooosh! and a huge cloud of smoke, and five rockets ripple-fired off the M270 and streaked toward the capital. The launcher platform turned and elevated once again and a few seconds later another four-round salvo flew off into the distance. Then, as casually as if they were street performers just finishing a juggling act, the soldiers got out of the cab of the M270, loaded up into the Humvees, and drove off at high speed onto the Capital Beltway, abandoning the empty M270 and its tractor-trailer on the freeway.
