All of this data would be shown on the face mask of their helmets in a “heads-up” display very similar to that which is provided to pilots of high-performance fighter aircraft and advanced helicopters.
Although each man on the team had been allowed to select his own weaponry for the mission—Colonel Davenport didn’t think he should superimpose his notions of ideal weaponry on men who were almost as highly skilled and experienced in keeping themselves and their teammates alive as he was—when he had inspected the weaponry just before takeoff he saw that they had all chosen just about the same gear.
Everyone had a 5.56mm M-4 carbine, which was a cut-down and otherwise modified version of the standard M16A2 Army rifle. These carbines had had another modification: Special Warfare Center armorers had installed “suppressors. ” They didn’t actually silence the sound of firing but the sound was substantially reduced, as was the muzzle flash.
Each man had elected to carry from eight to a dozen spare thirty-round magazines. Everybody, too, had chosen to take eight to a dozen minigrenades. They weren’t anywhere near as lethal as the standard grenades because of their small size. But they were lethal up close, and they were noisy. They came in handy to encourage a pursuer to pursue slowly and to confuse him about the direction you were taking.
A relatively new, very small and light—about two pounds—antipersonnel mine also served as a fine tool to discourage pursuers. When activated, the mines threw out a very fine, very hard to see wire in five directions. Detonation came as a great surprise to anyone who stepped on any of the wires.
Colonel Davenport’s inspection had turned up twenty-four of the miniature mines among the team’s weaponry—in addition to the four he would jump with himself. He was also carrying a silenced (as opposed to suppressed) .22 caliber pistol in case it was necessary to take someone out silently. Davenport knew that Captain Stevenson was similarly armed, and, although he hadn’t seen any during the inspection at Pope AFB, he supposed that there were two—or more—silenced .22s in the team’s gear.
There was also a variety of knives strapped to boots, harnesses, or in pockets. Colonel Davenport personally was not much of a fan of the knife as a lethal weapon. He had been known to comment that if you were close enough to cut someone’s throat with a knife, you were also close enough to put a .22 bullet in his ear, and that was a lot less messy.
On this mission, it was devoutly hoped they could accomplish what they had been ordered to do without unsheathing a knife, much less using any of their other weaponry.
“Colonel,” the pilot’s voice came over the speaker, “I’m going to open it up in sixty seconds.”
“Go,” Colonel Davenport said.
“Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight . . .” the pilot began to count.
Davenport and the others, moving with speed that had come only after long practice, checked the functioning of all their Halo equipment—the oxygen masks and the flask that would jump with them; the functioning of the headsets for their man-to-man radios; the GPS receivers; and the umbilical they would leave behind on the aircraft. This was best done with the fingers. Only after everything had been checked and found functioning did anyone begin pulling on their electrically heated gloves.
“. . . Five, four, three, two, one. Depressurizing now,” the pilot ’s voice said.
“Radio check,” Colonel Davenport ordered.
One by one, everybody checked in.
“Compartment altitude fifteen kay,” the pilot reported.
“Everybody’s magic compass working?” Colonel Davenport inquired.
He got a thumbs-up from everyone.
“Compartment altitude twenty kay,” the pilot reported. “Airspeed four-two-five.”
“Check everybody,” Davenport ordered Stevenson, who nodded.
“Compartment altitude twenty-five kay,” the pilot reported.
Davenport walked to the rear of the compartment, where he got into his parachute harness and then helped Stevenson get into his.
“Compartment altitude thirty kay,” the pilot reported. “Airspeed three-zero-zero.
“Okay, that’s it. We’re decompressed,” the pilot said. “As soon as I can slow it down a little more, I’ll start opening the door. Airspeed now two-six-zero.
“Okay, here goes the door. Slowly. Indicating two-two-zero. ”
There was a whine of hydraulics, followed by a first blast of cold air as the door pushed into the slipstream, and then a steady, powerful rush of extremely cold air.
The door acted as sort of an air brake, slowing the aircraft now more quickly.
“One-ninety, one-eighty-five, one-eighty, one-seventy- five. One-seventy. Holding at one-seven-zero,” the pilot reported.
The door step was now open.
Davenport went to it and waited until Stevenson hoisted his parachute and then connected it to him. Then he sat down on the floor and, reaching beside him, placed a bag connected to his harness on the stairs in front of him.
One by one, the others took their places behind him. The next-to-last man connected Stevenson’s parachute to his harness and then got in line. Finally, Stevenson got in the line of jumpers.
“Everybody ready?” Colonel Davenport asked.
Everybody checked in.
“Pilot?” Davenport inquired.
“About two minutes, Colonel.”
“Two minutes,” Davenport responded.
“You ready, Colonel?” the pilot inquired.
“Ready.”
“Fifteen seconds, thirteen, eleven, nine, seven, five, four, three, two, one.”
Colonel Davenport walked awkwardly down the steps and then pushed himself off and into the air. The slipstream caught his body and hurled him away from the airplane.
It would take him five seconds, maybe a little more, until he could gain control of his fall and assume the position— facedown, legs and arms spread—that he would keep until he popped his parachute.
The object was to get out of the deadly cold troposphere before the toaster battery ran out of juice and the Oh-Two flask was empty. Otherwise, you died.
As quickly as they could, the others waddled under the weight of their equipment to the steps and went down them and into the night.
“Everything go all right?” the pilot radioed.
When there was no answer, he repeated the question.
When there was no answer again, he said to the copilot, “Michael, get on the horn and give them, ‘Mail in the box at seventeen-twenty-two.’ ”
Then he reached for the control that would retract the stairs and door into place. When the green lights came on, he tripped the lever that would pressurize the rear cabin.
[FOUR]
Philadelphia International Airport Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 1345 9 June 2005
“That’s him,” Mr. Terrence Halloran said, indicating with a nod of his head a guy in a white Jaguar XJ-8 pulling up to the hangar.
“Finally,” Major H. Richard Miller, Jr., said, softly and bitterly. They had been waiting for him since quarter to twelve.
A very large African American in his late thirties got out of the car. Not without difficulty. He was as tall as Miller but at least fifty pounds heavier. Castillo had the unkind thought that this guy didn’t get in the Jaguar; he put it on. He was wearing a green polo shirt, powder blue slacks, alligator loafers, and a gold Rolex, and had gold chains around his neck and both wrists.
“What the hell is so important, Halloran?” he greeted them.
“These people need to talk to you, Ed,” Halloran said. “Mr. Castillo, this is Ed Thorne, who owns Aviation Cleaning Services, Inc.”
“I’m with the Secret Service, Mr. Thorne,” Castillo said and held his Secret Service identification folder out to Thorne.
Thorne examined it and then pointed at Miller and Sergeant Schneider.
“And these two?” he asked.
“I’m Sergeant Schneider of the Philadelphia PD,” Betty said.
“My name is Mill
er, Mr. Thorne. I work for Mr. Castillo.”
“So what’s this all about?”
“We need to look at some of your personnel records, Mr. Thorne,” Castillo said. “Specifically, we need the names and addresses, etcetera, of the people who you sent to work at Lease-Aire from May first through the fifteenth.”
“No fucking way,” Thorne said.
“Excuse me?” Castillo said.
“I said, ‘No fucking way,’ ” Thorne said.
“Mr. Thorne, perhaps you don’t understand,” Castillo said. “I’m with the Secret Service. We’re asking for your cooperation in an investigation we’re conducting . . .”
“What kind of an investigation? Investigating what?”
“The disappearance of the Lease-Aire 727 in Africa,” Castillo said.
“Yeah, that’s what I figured. What are you trying to do, tie me to that?”
“No, sir, we are not. But we’d like to check out the people, your people, who worked for Lease-Aire in the . . .”
“You didn’t think I was really going to hand over my personnel records to you just like that,” Mr. Thorne said and snapped his fingers. “What are you trying to do, get me fucking sued?”
“Mr. Thorne . . .” Castillo began.
“You got some kind of a search warrant?”
“We hoped that wouldn’t be necessary,” Castillo said. “We were hoping for your cooperation.”
“You get a search warrant and run it past my attorney.”
“That would take time we just don’t have, Mr. Thorne,” Castillo said.
“You don’t look stupid,” Thorne said. “What part of ‘No fucking way’ don’t you understand?”
“Mr. Thorne,” Miller said, courteously, “can I have a private word with you?”
Thorne looked at him with contempt.
“Please?” Miller asked.
Thorne shrugged his massive shoulders.
“Thank you,” Miller said, courteously. “Over there, maybe?” he asked, indicating the space between two of the hangars.
Thorne shrugged his shoulders again.
“Make this quick,” he said. “I have business to attend to.”
“I’ll try,” Miller said with a smile.
Thorne walked a few steps into the space between the two hangars and turned.
“Okay, brother,” he said. “Like I said, make it quick.”
Two seconds later, he found his face scraping painfully against the concrete-block wall of the hangar. His arm was twisted painfully upward on his back.
“What the fuck?” he protested and then yelped with pain.
“Didn’t your mother, back in the kennel, try to teach you not to use that word in the presence of ladies?” Miller asked, almost conversationally.
“Let me the fuck go!” Thorne yelped. Then yelped again in pain.
“You’re apparently retarded, blubber belly, so I’ll speak slowly,” Miller said. “To begin, I’m not your brother. I’m an officer of the federal government, conducting an investigation. And you are not cooperating. That annoys me. When I’m annoyed, I tend to hurt whoever is annoying me. You understand that?”
Thorne yelped again in pain.
“Good,” Miller said.
“You’ll go to fucking jail for this,” Thorne said.
He yelped again in pain.
“There’s that naughty word again,” Miller said. “You really are a slow learner, aren’t you?”
Thorne groaned as his arm was pushed farther upward.
“Say, ‘Yes, sir,’ ” Miller said.
There was no response until after Thorne again yelped— this time almost pathetically—after which he said, “Yes, sir. Jesus Christ, man!”
“Let’s talk about jail,” Miller said. “I’m not going to jail. You are. You will be charged with assault upon a federal of ficer, which is a felony calling for five years’ imprisonment. During the assault your shoulder was dislocated. If you say ‘fuck’ one more time, both shoulders. That smarts.”
Thorne groaned again as Miller demonstrated the pain that accompanies a shoulder about to be dislocated.
“That white man out there is a supervisory special agent of the Secret Service. Who do you think a judge is going to believe, him or a fat slob wearing gold chains and a Rolex who got rich exploiting his African American brothers and sisters by paying them minimum wage to clean dirty airplanes? ”
“Jesus Christ, man!”
“Yahoo,” Miller said. “You know what that means, blubber belly?”
Thorne shook his head and moaned.
“You Always Have Other Options,” Miller said. “You understand? Say, ‘Yes, sir.’ ”
Thorne audibly drew a painful breath, then said, “Yes, sir.”
“Would you like to know what your other option is? Say, ‘Yes, sir.’ ”
“Yes, sir,” Thorne said, nodding.
“We go back out there and I tell Mr. Castillo that after talking it over you decided that you were wrong and now realize it is your duty as a citizen to cooperate with the investigation and that just as soon as we can get to your office you’ll give us whatever records we want. You understand your other option? Say, ’Yes, sir.’ ”
“Okay, okay. Jesus!”
He yelped in pain, then said, “Yes, sir.”
“And which option do you choose, blubber belly? You cooperate? Or you go to the slam with both arms hanging loosely from your shoulders?”
“Okay, I’ll cooperate. I’ll cooperate.”
“Good.”
“Are you going to let me go now?”
“One more thing. If you say ‘fuck’ one more time in the presence of that lady, I will rip your arm off and shove it up your fat ass. Understand? Say, ‘Yes, sir.’ ”
“Yes, sir,” Thorne said.
“I had the feeling you and I could work this out amicably between us,” Miller said and let him go.
[FIVE]
Philadelphia Police Department Counterterrorism Bureau Frankford Industrial Complex Building 110 Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 1505 9 June 2005
“It’s going to take some time to check out all these people,” Chief Inspector Kramer said, tapping his fingers on the stack of Daily Employment Records Mr. Ed Thorne of Aviation Cleaning Services, Inc., had somewhat less than graciously provided to them, and then went on to explain, “I want to run them past as many people as I can, not just the undercover guys.”
“I understand,” Castillo said. “Have you been able to contact any of your undercover people?”
“All of them,” Kramer said. “But all that means is they know we want a meet. The problem is setting up the meets. That has to be done very carefully. And that won’t happen in the daytime.”
He paused and then raised his eyes to Castillo. “Is there anything else you’d like to look into, like to see?”
Castillo smiled. “You mean that not only wouldn’t we be useful around here but in the way?”
“You said it, I didn’t,” Kramer said.
“Dick, when was the last time you saw the Liberty Bell?” Castillo asked.
“Aside from driving past it, I guess I was in the eighth grade,” Miller replied.
“I think maybe you should have a fresh look at it,” Castillo said.
“Good idea,” Kramer said, smiling. “If anything opens up, I’ll give you a call.”
“I’m sure you noticed the NO PARKING sign,” Miller said to Betty Schneider as she slowed the Crown Victoria, stopped, turned on the seat, and started to back up to the Market Street curb.
He was in the front passenger seat beside her.
“Not only can I read but I can tie my own shoes,” she said. “We’re on official police business.”
She saw Castillo smiling and smiled back.
“Tell him, Sarge,” Castillo said.
“That’s a National Park Service sign,” Miller argued, pointing. “Does that ‘official police business’ business work on the feds? On federal property?”
&nb
sp; “Market Street belongs to Philadelphia,” she said. “Federal property begins just past the sidewalk.” She pointed down the open area to the structure erected over the Liberty Bell and to Independence Hall behind it. “Sometimes, there’s a jurisdictional problem.”
“Really? How so?” Castillo asked.
She was getting out of the car and didn’t reply.
When he was standing on the sidewalk, Castillo saw a Philadelphia police officer walking quickly down the sidewalk toward them. Then the policeman took a close look at the car, nodded, half smiled, and started walking back up Market Street, toward City Hall.
He sensed that Betty had seen him watching the policeman.
“How did he know you were a cop?” Castillo asked. “And on official business?”
“Masculine intuition, is what I think they call it,” she said.
“Touché,” Castillo chuckled.
“I don’t think I’ve been here since eighth grade, either,” Betty said as they started to walk down the plaza toward the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall.
“I don’t remember that,” Miller said, pointing at the words cast into the bell.
“I thought everyone knew that ‘Proclaim LIBERTY throughout all the Land unto all the Inhabitants thereof’ was cast into the bell,” Castillo said, piously. “How many times did you say they kept you behind in the eighth grade?”
Betty smiled and shook her head. Concealing the fingers of his right hand from Betty with the palm of his left hand, Miller gave Castillo the finger.
“I meant that they misspelled Pennsylvania, wiseass,” Miller said. “Only one n.”
Castillo looked.
“So they did,” he said. “I guess they had trouble with eighth grade, too.”
“It also says the ‘Province’ of Pennsylvania,” Betty said. “I never saw that before. I always thought it was called a ‘commonwealth.’ ”
By Order of the President Page 39
