by Don Brown
“The best-laid plans of mice and men,” she mumbled aloud. She slid the two white earbuds in her ears, draped the small white cord down to a white communications box about the size of a man’s wallet, and clipped it to her white belt.
“The white color will camouflage the communications device so the shooter won’t be able to see that you’re wired,” Mark had assured her.
She reached down and pressed the Talk button. “Testing. Testing. This is Lieutenant Fladager. Does anyone copy?”
Static buzzed in her ears.
Then, “Lieutenant, Drone Control at Pax River. Copy loud and clear. We’ve got a drone circling at one thousand feet over the townhouse. So far the coast is clear. Looks safe from here.”
“Victoria, this is Mark. We’ve got four NCIS units in the area. The coast is clear, whenever you want to come out.”
“Okay, that’s good to know.” A sick feeling weighed on her stomach. “I’m about to open the front door now.”
“Roger that. We’re watching for you.”
“Okay. I’m opening the door.”
She unlocked the deadbolt, then turned the knob and stepped out into the morning sunlight onto the front stoop. Why had their assurances that the coast was clear not soothed her stomach?
She put on her sunglasses and looked overhead to see if she could spot the drone.
Nothing there.
She reached for the keys Captain Kriete had given her for Caroline’s townhouse. She fiddled with them, inserting the front door key into the lock.
UNIDENTIFIED TOWNHOUSE
NEAR LIEUTENANT COMMANDER CAROLINE MCCORMICK’S TOWNHOUSE
WEST SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA
6:38 A.M.
Peering through the garage door window, the shooter felt his heart racing faster than a lightning bolt exploding from a raging thundercloud.
With a jolt of adrenaline seizing his body, he punched the garage door opener, and as it raised the door, he worked the action on his 9-millimeter pistol, jumped into the driver’s side of the Mercedes, and cranked the engine.
OPERATIONAL HEADQUARTERS
U.S. NAVY DRONE COMMAND
U.S. NAVAL AIR STATION “PAX RIVER”
LEXINGTON PARK, MARYLAND
6:38 A.M.
“Sir, we’ve got a red Mercedes pulling out of a townhouse down the street!”
“What the—” Commander John Jefferies looked at the screen. “All units! Red Mercedes approaching at point-blank range! Repeat! Red Mercedes approaching at point-blank range! Victoria! Hit the deck!”
SPECIAL AGENT MARK ROMANOV’S CAR
NEAR LIEUTENANT COMMANDER CAROLINE MCCORMICK’S TOWNHOUSE
NEAR THE INTERSECTION OF HUNTSMAN AND SYDENSTRICKER ROADS
OXFORD HUNT
6:38 A.M.
“What the heck!” Mark watched the Mercedes drive by his car just as Drone Command announced it. He cranked his car and hit the accelerator.
Just ahead, a hand and gun emerged from the Mercedes, taking aim at Victoria.
“Shots fired! Victoria’s down!” Mark yelled, then cursed. He pulled out his 9-millimeter and fired at the taillights of the Mercedes.
Like a fighter pilot hitting the afterburners, the driver of the red Mercedes gunned his accelerator, opening the distance between the Mercedes and Mark’s car.
“I’m in pursuit. All units follow that Mercedes. Drone Control! Call an ambulance for Victoria!”
“Drone Control. Roger that.”
Mark ramped up his speed. “I’ve lost him! Where’d he go?”
“Task Force Leader. Drone Control. He’s turned northwest onto Sydenstricker, sir.”
“Roger that. I’m turning onto Sydenstricker in pursuit. What’s going on with Lieutenant Fladager?”
“Task Force Leader. We’ve lost communication with Lieutenant Fladager. Her transmitter is off. Do you want me to break the drone off the target vehicle and circle the drone back around to check on her?”
Mark slammed his fist against the center console and swung the Taurus onto Sydenstricker Road. “That’s a negative. Stay on that Mercedes. But call an ambulance for the lieutenant.”
“Roger that. Already done. We’ll keep the bird over the Mercedes. Be careful down there, Agent Romanov.” Static. “Okay, update. The Mercedes is turning right on Huntsman.”
“Copy that. Turning right on Huntsman,” Mark said. “All units, report.”
“Task Force One. Copy, sir. I’m just ahead of you. Turning right on Huntsman.”
“Task Force Two. Following One onto Huntsman.”
“Task Force Three. Right behind you, sir.”
“Task Force Leader. Drone Control. He’s turning right onto Old Keene Mill Road.”
Mark cursed again. “Probably headed to 95.”
“Task Force One. I’m on him, boss. Turning onto Old Keene Mill.”
“Stay on his tail. I’m right behind you.”
THE PENTAGON
SOUTH PARKING LOT
6:48 A.M.
The morning sun had already started to blanket the Pentagon parking lot as Captain Paul Kriete pulled into his reserved parking space. He had gotten no sleep all night. His mind had been consumed with the risky operation he had authorized using one of Drone Command’s experimental drones and, frankly, with the safety of Caroline McCormick.
Paul reached down and turned up the volume on the closed-frequency military radio receiver. He didn’t have two-way radio capability so as to avoid interfering with the NCIS radio traffic, and to avoid any charges that he was working in the law enforcement action. But as commander of Navy Drone Command, he wanted to keep track of the radio traffic, given that one of his drones was providing crucial air cover for the operation. So he had taken a receiver unit to monitor the radio traffic.
“Drone Control to all units! He’s turning onto I-495 East!”
“All units. Drone Control. He’s merging from 495 to I-395. He’s in the HOV lane! Looks like he’s headed toward the District!”
“Drone Control. Task Force Leader. I still don’t see him. I’m a couple of minutes behind. Stay on him.”
“Task Force Leader. Roger that.”
Paul turned down the volume and calculated his position. If the Mercedes remained north on I-395, it would be passing the Pentagon in approximately three minutes.
He checked his watch, then glanced back over his shoulder at the Washington Monument, its marble and granite visage reflecting the orange glow of the morning sun.
Next he looked in his phone for the number for Commander Charlie Wong, his XO working under him at the Pentagon, then hit the speed dial.
“Navy Drone Command. Pentagon headquarters. Commander Wong speaking.”
“Charlie. Captain Kriete.”
“Morning, sir. How may I be of assistance to you?”
“Listen, Charlie. I need to be working on a project with Pax River today. If the admiral needs me, I’ll be available by phone. Otherwise, don’t expect me in.”
“Roger that, sir. We’ll hold down the fort for you.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
Paul reached into the glove compartment and pulled out his service weapon, a 9-millimeter Beretta pistol that many Navy and Marine Corps officers elected to use.
He popped open the empty magazine and reached for a brick of bullets, also in the console, and began loading bullets into the magazine.
One.
Two.
Three.
I-395 NORTHBOUND
APPROACHING SHIRLINGTON ROAD EXIT
6:57 A.M.
Mark cursed just as he approached the Leesburg Pike exit. So far, by driving illegally in the HOV lanes at speeds of sixty to sixty-five miles per hour, he had been able to avoid much of the bumper-to-bumper crawl of the Washington rush hour.
But now intermittent brake lights had started to flash, even in the HOV lane.
The red Mercedes was nowhere in sight. In fact, neither Mark nor any of the other special agents in pursuit had s
een it at all. They were totally dependent on their eye in the sky, the U.S. Navy drone.
“Drone Control. Task Force Leader. I’ve lost him. What’ve you got?”
“Task Force Leader. Drone Control. He’s coming up on the South Glebe Road exit.”
“Drone Control. Roger that.” Mark cursed again. The Mercedes had opened distance on him.
That was part of the problem with working for a lower-level federal agency like NCIS. A Ford Taurus was hardly the vehicle suited for a high-speed chase into the District of Columbia.
The DOJ boys? Different animal. Those guys could drive anything they needed and match the bad guys horsepower for horsepower.
“Carraway. Frymier. Naylor. Report your positions.”
“Task Force One.” The voice of Special Agent Ralph Carraway. “We’re behind you, sir. I’m at the Braddock Road intersection. Naylor and Frymier are behind me, around Seminary Road.”
“Roger that. Stay on it.”
“Task Force Leader. Drone Control. Subject vehicle is now approaching Arlington Cemetery and Pentagon exits. Stand by to see if he exits.”
“Roger that, Drone Control. Let me know what he does.”
Still dealing with slowing traffic, Mark looked down and punched up the live GPS depiction of the interstate half a mile or so ahead of him.
Where was this guy headed? Was he headed to the Pentagon parking lot? Possibly to open fire? Just like when he shot Caroline McCormick?
Or was he headed across the river into the District? Thank goodness the Virginia state police hadn’t gotten involved in the chase, at least not yet. The last thing he needed was local interference.
“Task Force Leader! Drone Control. He’s breaking off the right. Definitely headed across the bridge into the District.”
“Drone Control. Roger that. Keep an eye on him.” Mark tapped down on his brakes and blew the horn at the slower-moving car in front of him.
“Move, lady!”
THE PENTAGON
SOUTH PARKING LOT
7:04 A.M.
“That does it,” Paul said to himself upon learning that the red Mercedes was now only a few hundred yards away from him and was about to break across the I-305 bridge into the District of Columbia.
He popped the loaded magazine of ammunition into his pistol, closed the gun up in his glove compartment, and wheeled out of his Pentagon parking space.
The driver of that Mercedes was probably the same guy who tried to kill Caroline. And for Paul, that made it personal.
DC had some of the strictest handgun laws in the country, so hopefully he wouldn’t get pulled over once he crossed the bridge. But then again, those ridiculous laws clearly violated the Second Amendment, and DC handgun laws or not, Paul wasn’t about to let Caroline’s attempted killer get away.
He wheeled out of the parking lot and onto the on-ramp for I-395 North.
Now there was no turning back.
He would do this for his fellow naval officers who had been murdered.
He would do this for Caroline.
He would do this for his country.
SOUTHEAST WASHINGTON
I-695
NEAR WASHINGTON NATIONALS PARK
7:25 A.M.
“Drone Control. All units. He’s pulled off I-695 and he’s headed down First toward Potomac Southeast. Looks like he’s headed down toward the Anacostia River waterfront across from Nationals Park.”
Paul wheeled into the exit for Nationals Stadium as the radio traffic continued between Drone Control and the four NCIS cars behind him.
As Paul’s Suburban reached the bottom of the exit ramp onto South Capitol Street Southwest, Mark Romanov’s voice broke the airways in response to John Jefferies at Drone Control.
“Drone Control. Task Force Leader. I’m just pulling onto 695 now, so I’m a few minutes behind. The other three units are behind me. Just stay on top of him.”
“Roger that. Still watching him.”
“Task Force Leader. Will do.”
Paul slowed down when he reached Capitol Street Southwest, awaiting further directional instructions from Pax River.
“Task Force Leader. Drone Control. He’s headed south on South Capitol Street Southwest. He’s slowing down. He’s passing the stadium on his left. He’s . . . he’s swinging around the stadium and turning a hard left on Potomac Avenue. Driving real slow, like he’s looking for something.”
Paul punched Nationals Stadium into the Suburban’s GPS.
“Okay. He’s making a hard left from Potomac to First. He’s slowing down, turning into a warehouse on the right, near the intersection of Potomac Avenue and First Street Southeast. Stand by for the address.”
“That does it,” Paul said to himself. “I’m headed there.”
“All units. Drone Control. Okay, that address is 1448 First Street Southeast. Right across from Nationals Stadium and down by the river. Stand by. Suspect is getting out of the car.”
Paul cruised down South Capitol Street, hanging on to every word being spoken by his second in command, Commander John Jefferies, back at Pax River.
The red light at M Street forced him to bring the Suburban to a stop. He looked up into the skies, just over the Nationals Stadium in the direction of his front left bumper, and for the first time caught a glimpse of the blue Blue Jay drone that was allowing the good guys to track down this killer.
In a strange way, he felt a sense of pride that his command, his brand-new command that had caused so much internal controversy, that had in fact not even been born yet, was playing a role in something so good, so essential to justice and protection of the Navy.
At the same time, a sick feeling permeated his stomach over Victoria Fladager. The last report received from Drone Command was that she was down and all communication with her had been lost. Paul prayed silently in that moment that she had survived the shooting.
But something told him in his gut to expect the worst.
He also prayed that they would nail the animal who had rained murder and destruction on Code 13, the JAG Corps, and the Navy. Apparently, now that animal had caged himself in a warehouse in a crime-infested area of Southeast Washington.
Who knew what they would find at the warehouse, now less than a mile away? Part of him wished the NCIS agents were out in front of him. They were the professionals, and he certainly wasn’t going to lead the assault of that warehouse. But if this sucker tried getting away again, Paul was prepared to stop him.
“All units. Drone Control. Suspect has parked behind the warehouse. Three other cars are present. Car is not visible from the road. Suspect is now emerging from the vehicle. Suspect is a white male wearing a blue denim jacket, looks like brown and gray hair. Stand by . . .” A pause. “Suspect is walking toward back of warehouse. Okay, suspect has entered warehouse and has disappeared from our cameras. Will maintain coverage until NCIS units arrive. Over.”
Slowly, Paul drove past Nationals Stadium on his left. Then a moment later made a hard turn back onto Potomac Avenue Southeast, with the Anacostia River now just a few yards off to his right.
The short section of Potomac Avenue ended at the outer perimeter of Nationals Stadium and then cut back to the left, going up First Street Southeast.
There.
On the right, just past the turn.
1448 First Street Southeast.
The warehouse had a plain brick front, stretching maybe fifty yards from left to right. A concrete driveway stretched from the street to the right of the warehouse, appearing to lead around back.
No sign of the red Mercedes. At least not from out front.
He thought about parking in front of the warehouse and waiting.
But if he was spotted, that might blow cover for the NCIS agents on the way.
He decided to drive down the street a couple of blocks and do a U-turn.
“Task Force Leader to all units. I’m turning onto Potomac. Stand by.”
Thank God.
“Task Force Leader
to all units. I’m turning on First. I’ve got the warehouse in sight. I’m pulling up now. Stagger in threes and draw weapons upon arrival.”
“Unit one. Acknowledge instructions, sir.”
“Unit two. Acknowledge instructions.”
“Unit three. Roger that.”
Paul executed a U-turn and headed back toward the warehouse just as the first government Ford Taurus pulled up on the curb in front of the warehouse. A second later, as two other Tauruses rounded the corner from Potomac to First, Mark Romanov jumped out of his car and pulled out his pistol, then ran over and knelt down on one knee, pointing his pistol straight across the hood of his car toward the warehouse.
With a bullhorn attached to his belt on his left hip, Romanov had stashed another gun, a silver revolver stuck in the back of his pants.
Paul pulled the Suburban up across the street from the warehouse and stopped. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the 9-millimeter.
Three more NCIS agents pulled up in their cars, got out, pointed their guns toward the warehouse, and crouched down low behind their cars. Guns still pointed, they mimicked the posture of Mark Romanov.
Paul recognized two of the men as Special Agents Carraway and Frymier, the two agents who were in the Pentagon parking lot the same morning the animal inside the warehouse shot Caroline.
He didn’t recognize the third agent.
He decided at that moment, with Nationals Park behind him, that he would play the role of the center fielder in this operation, hanging back with his gun, and would intervene if the red Mercedes or its driver emerged from that warehouse.
Still crouched down, Romanov moved forward, away from his car, into the side driveway, and motioned the other agents to follow.
They disappeared behind the corner, and suddenly Paul remained out front alone.
He picked up the gun, worked the action, and waited.
WAREHOUSE
1448 FIRST STREET SE
WASHINGTON, DC (NEAR NATIONALS STADIUM)
7:45 A.M.
They moved single-file up the driveway beside the warehouse, hugging the brick wall to his left. Mark took the point, followed by Special Agents Carraway, Frymier, and Naylor.
