Stovic nodded. Stovic’s eyes grew even more intense. “This guy won’t stop if I run away and hide.”
“He might. He might disappear and regroup and think of an entirely different plan that we would hope to discover before he got close. You know how rare it is to be onto a guy like this before he pulls the trigger?”
“So if I stay in the team, he’ll come after us. As long as the Boss is okay with that . . .”
“But it’s about you, Animal. He’s going to try to kill you. You’d better be sure,” Rat said.
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
“No. You won’t be. You’ll feel like you’re under attack even when you’re not. And he might take months to get his weapons, set up, maybe even recruit some other men.”
“From where?”
“Wherever. It’s not hard. The people he was dealing with in Algeria are hard-core.”
Rat watched Stovic continue to relax into a fighter’s mentality, someone who now recognized the threat and was evaluating how to deal with it.
“If I stay in the Blues and keep flying, hang my ass out, you think we can get this guy?”
“I do.”
“You don’t think he’ll go after Karen, do you? Or the kids.”
Rat didn’t want to speak too quickly. “You never know. We’ve got a lot of people there. It’d be hard for him, but it’s possible. He does get his motivation from a death in his family. . . .”
Stovic thought about all the possibilities. He only knew he couldn’t run away. “I say we keep right on going.”
“It may not turn out like you think it will.”
“I know.”
“You sure about this?”
“I’m sure. Come on. We’ve got a commit to go to tonight.”
Rat and Stovic showered quickly and joined the others in the lobby, Stovic in his invincible superhero blue flight suit and Rat in his casual photographer’s gear and a large bag that was loaded with camera equipment and several nonphotographic items. A number of FBI special agents had flown to Phoenix as well as the Navy’s NCIS agents, the Navy Criminal Investigation Service, formerly the NIS. They had been told that the Blue Angels had a commitment that night away from their hotel and would be heading off in a caravan as soon as they arrived. Lew and Patricia had arrived in Phoenix late and had rushed over to the hotel to be part of that caravan.
Lew had called the Phoenix office of the FBI, and they were sending a dozen special agents to the public appearance and more to the hotel. The air show would receive as much coverage by as many special agents as they could put together from the western United States. Ismael’s pictures—his student visa, his passport, and the photos Patricia had taken in Washington—had been circulated to everyone concerned.
Lew wheeled their rental car into the driveway of the ornate hotel. Lined up next to them, as if a race were about to start, were several identical red Pontiacs with stickers on them announcing their Blue Angel numbers. Lew, Patricia, and two special agents from the Phoenix office jumped out and looked for the commanding officer of the Blue Angels. John Grundig, the administrative officer of the Blue Angels, and the one to whom Lew had spoken when they were finally connected to the team, recognized the four as likely federal officers and jogged to where they stood in a cluster. “Hi. I’m Lieutenant Grundig.”
“Lew Savage, FBI. We spoke.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where’s the Boss?”
Grundig looked around. “He’s right over there. Next to the car with the number one on it.”
They walked over to the Boss’s car. The other Blue Angels and support people looked on with curiosity. It was not unusual for people outside of the squadron to be in the caravan, but it was unusual to see four people wearing suits approaching the Boss at a time like this.
The admin officer tapped the Boss on the shoulder. “Boss, these are the people—”
The Boss stopped getting into his car and stood up. He looked at them. He smiled. “Hi. Steve McMahon.” They all shook his hand. “I don’t really have time to talk right now. Can we do this after?”
“Up to you. But we’d like to go along tonight, if you don’t mind.”
Boss nodded. “My one request is that I decide when to tell the rest of the team. I have to think about how it will play into the preparation for the air show. Understand?”
“Completely.” Lew nodded.
“John, anyone have any extra seats?”
“Yes, sir, Boss. There are two seats in Oden’s car and two more in mine.”
“There you go. See you there.” Without waiting for a response, the Boss climbed into his car and started the engine. The others followed his example.
“Come with me,” the admin officer said. He pointed Lew and Patricia to the car Oden was driving, with Stovic in the passenger seat, and told the NCIS agents to ride with him. Lew struggled into the backseat on the passenger side, and Patricia sat behind Oden. They shook hands with Oden and Stovic, smiling, and Oden started the engine.
Oden looked in the rearview mirror. “Who are you guys with?”
Lew glanced at Patricia, then at Stovic. “We’re from Washington—”
“And we’re here to help you,” Stovic said.
Lew tried to smile. “Yeah, that’s it. We’re with the Bureau.”
“Of what?”
“FBI,” Lew said.
“Oh,” Oden frowned, confused.
Less than a minute later, on the Boss’s signal, the police lights were activated and the two lead motorcycles led the caravan out of the driveway and onto the wide streets of Scottsdale. After a fifteen-minute drive through the flat, scenic outskirts of Phoenix, they arrived at their destination, a single-story sprawling, luxurious hotel that reeked of class and sophistication. They climbed out of their cars in the huge circular drive in front of the hotel and walked into the wide open lobby. In the back of the hotel they could see the crowd-filled patio and grass around the enormous pool, with torches burning all around and a Hawaiian-shirt–Blue-Angel theme present everywhere. The pool wasn’t just large, it was the size of a small continent. You could swim from one pool to another through caverns and moving waterways, down slides and into hot Jacuzzis. The pools were acres large, deep blue, and glistened in the late desert sunshine. The air was warm but not hot the way it would be in three months. It was the perfect time to be in the desert.
The Blue Angels lined up inside the lobby at the top of the stairs that led down to the lawn area and the pools. Stovic was sixth in line. On the signal, the Boss led them down the stairs and onto the landing for the first flight of stairs, with a balcony in front of it. They stood six or eight feet above the crowd. They were surprised by the large number of people there to see them. Many wore Blue Angels shirts and hats, others wore airplane logos and squadron insignias. They smiled and strained to see the pilots.
A short, rotund air show organizer stood by them on the landing. He had a portable microphone and a large PA system set up to point down. He spoke at length about the air show that they were all excited about seeing the next day, the largest air show in the history of Arizona, the largest static display of airplanes anywhere, the largest display of war birds—airplanes restored to their World War II greatness—and of course, the most exciting aerial demonstration ever, capped on Saturday and Sunday by the Blue Angels. He beamed as the crowd burst into thunderous applause.
The Blues stood quietly, their hands crossed behind them in a casual parade rest, and waited for their turn. The chairman of the air show committee, at the zenith of attention of his short-lived appointment, introduced the Boss: “Now, ladies and gentlemen,” he grinned, “it is my great pleasure to introduce to you the commanding officer of the Blue Angels, Captain Steve McMahon!”
The Boss stepped forward and took the portable microphone casually. He smiled as he waited for the applause to die down. He finally greeted the crowd and conveyed to them what a great pleasure it was for the Blue Angels to be able to fly a
t the air show in Arizona. He continued to smile as the cameras flashed in the darkening evening. He went on to introduce the team.
As he went down the line, Stovic waited with great anticipation as his name was finally called. He stepped forward to receive the adulation of the crowd as the opposing solo, the cowboy of the team, the one who flew the fastest and lowest and gave the show its zip. He was amazed at how much he loved the applause, the adoring looks, and the respect he was receiving. He let it all wash over him. He knew you weren’t supposed to love it, but he found it hard not to. As he stood there looking over the crowd with Rat to his right and just behind him, he also realized how vulnerable he was. He found himself studying the faces of the people in front of him for hostility and weapons, thoughts he had never had before.
After the presentation and questions, the Blue Angel teams stepped into the throng of people and spread out so they wouldn’t crowd each other. They signed T-shirts, posters, or programs, whatever was offered to sign. He always signed the same—“Lt. Ed Stovic, #6.” He relished the attention, the status as some kind of a star, and the fact that he always had to carry a Sharpie permanent marker to sign autographs. He was all smiles and encouragement, with occasional quick glances up at those standing in line to see if anyone was about to kill him.
* * *
“Here’s the latest e-mail,” Brad said handing an innocent-looking notebook to Sarah St. John.
“Thank you,” she said placing the flat NSC notebook into her soft leather briefcase. “Any problems?”
“No. But ever since Stuntz ‘invited’ me to his office, I’ve been gun-shy. They’re trying to break this.”
“No doubt. Probably illegally. We may have to look into that.”
“Maybe they’re reading them.”
“Maybe so. Wouldn’t change what I’m doing.”
“It would save me a hell of a lot of trouble.”
“Don’t lose your nerve now,” she said smiling. “I’ve been thinking about the last few e-mails. Pretty clear what’s going on. But seems to me, we may have an opportunity to get creative here. To do something different, sort of dissonant. Something they wouldn’t expect at all.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure yet. But now that they’re going to eliminate the Blue Angels from the budget next year, we need to use that to our advantage.”
“How?”
“Did you see the report from the CIA?”
“Yes.”
“They think this Algerian is wired into the very highest echelons of the Algerian government. He’s considered by some to be their brightest star. Yet they play this student, out of touch game with him. And he was in fact studying—”
“That doesn’t mean anything. The head of Hamas got his Ph.D. in the U.S. and lived openly.”
She nodded. “Anyway, I’m sure they have a plan that’s much bigger than just having their man ram his car into Stovic. It makes me wonder what really happened there. What were they actually trying to accomplish? How did he just disappear? Why show himself, then disappear? I don’t get it. Anyway, they want a big show. So we may just give them one.”
“Is our friend on board?”
“I’ll find out as soon as I read what you just gave me. Did you read it?”
“You asked me not to read those e-mails.”
“I know I asked.”
“I do what I’m told.”
“Good for you. Do you think Stuntz suspects you’re the one who has the encrypted e-mails?”
“Sure. Why else would he have invited me to his office? As if I matter.”
“Now you see why we’re doing it through you. I’ve always wanted to drive Mr. Stuntz crazy. If this helps, even a little, it will be a nice bonus.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Don’t get weak-kneed on me, Brad. Hang in there. It’s just about to get interesting. I’m thinking of a plan. Do you know Admiral Hooker at the Pentagon?”
“No.”
“Look him up. Tell him I want to talk to him.”
* * *
The day had dawned beautiful and clear, and the community was anxiously awaiting the show. Several hundred thousand people made their way to the airport long before the Blue Angels were to fly. The aerial demonstrations started at 10:00 a.m., with the Blue Angels scheduled to fly at 2:00 P.M. as always.
The stands were packed with the usual array of children, parents, and air show aficionados. The spectators’ eyes raced back and forth through the empty sky, trying to see what would happen next. They shielded their eyes from the blazing sun as the Navy Leap Frog Parachute Team prepared to jump from a CH-46 helicopter hovering thousands of feet above the runway. Patricia walked along in front of the stands holding a small digital camcorder aimed at the runway. What the small screen showed her was not obvious from her posture. The camera in fact had two lenses: a large one that looked like a normal camcorder and a smaller one that blended in with the body of the camera and actually pointed in the opposite direction, allowing Patricia to film things directly behind her in which she had no apparent interest. As she pointed toward the runway, she was in fact studying the faces in the crowd and recording them all digitally, later to be enlarged and examined. She tried to find some indication that would direct her to his face—a beard, perhaps, or an unusual haircut that looked new—but she didn’t see anything obvious. She zoomed in and back on several men, but none was Ismael. She moved down toward the other end of the stands, closer to where the Blue Angel VIPs were sitting. She had been invited to sit with them. She didn’t want to miss any of the actual air show.
Behind the stands, Ismael walked from one booth to another, examining the Blue Angel paraphernalia, the military recruiting trailers, and the airplanes that were on static display. He had trimmed his thick beard and hair so that now it was short stubble. He wore a hat that had a Lawrence of Arabia look—a long white cloth hanging around the sides and back to protect the neck from the sun. Ismael used it to protect his face, to make sure no one would recognize him. He had also bought gaudy sunglasses for a dollar that made him look silly and superficial. He was sure they were looking for him. He was well aware of the enormous chance he was taking by even being there. But he had to get the information he needed. It was worth whatever risk he had to take to get it. He didn’t think they’d really expect him to show up at an air show in Mesa. He wore a T-shirt with an airplane on it, and running shoes, apparently the American uniform for attending an air show.
He stopped as he noticed one particular booth that seemed to specialize in the Blue Angels. He scanned the offerings: hats, T-shirts, photograph books, videotapes, calendars, and plastic airplanes. He bought three different videotapes of the Blue Angels and four books about the team. He made his way to the viewing stands and took a seat in the middle of the stands, surrounded by a mob of people. He watched the air show out of the corner of his eye while he began reading one of the books about the Blue Angels. He wanted to know everything about them, their history, their traditions, their air show routine, and whether it was the same at every show. In other words, whether it was predictable. Targetable.
Ismael paid no attention whatsoever as one airplane after another took to the runway to put on the next demonstration. He had no interest in them. He read the book, flipped through the program, and waited for the Blue Angels.
Ismael sat up quickly when the Blue Angels’ narrator, #7, Larry McKnight, as Ismael now knew—said loudly over the public address system, “Goooood afternoon, ladies and gentlemen!”
McKnight continued his memorized lines with his back to the runway, never actually looking at the Blue Angels or what was happening. He was like a conductor who always faced the audience.
In San Francisco Ismael hadn’t been able to see the Blue Angel pilots prepare for the air show. They had flown out of Oakland airport, and the show took place over the water. Here, as in most other venues, their shiny blue jets were parked right in front of the crowd.
The
Blue Angel pilots were lined up at attention, their blue flight suits matching their immaculate jets. They wore their Navy officer hats and aviator sunglasses. Ismael watched every step. Stovic was on the left, closest to the airplanes. He looked strong. Very good military bearing. The pilots formed into a line, shoulder to shoulder, and marched down the line in front of their airplanes. As each pilot reached his airplane, he would execute a smart right turn and go directly to the ladder the plane captain had already lowered from the shoulder of the Hornet. The Boss was the first to his airplane. His plane captain saluted him crisply and climbed up the ladder after him to help him strap in.
The others followed and were quickly seated in their jets. Dazzlingly bright yellow helmets covered their heads, and gold-mirrored visors covered their eyes. They adjusted their lip mikes to touch their lips for easy talking on the radios. The canopies came down simultaneously, and they started their engines. On a radio signal from the Boss they tested their smoke together, blanketing the runway and grass behind them with dusty white smoke. Off it went, and they were ready to taxi.
The Boss was the first out, with #2 joining on his wing immediately, just inches away. They taxied in three pairs toward the short hold area of the runway. Then the four that made up the diamond taxied onto the runway itself. Ismael raised his eyebrows as he realized for the first time that they were going to take off in a formation of four airplanes. They ran up their engines and rolled smoothly down the runway in a deafening roar, inches apart.
They were airborne in seconds, and #4 quickly slid into place in the slot forming the diamond as they raised their landing gear. Inside their airplanes the Boss came over the radio: “Up . . . we . . . go . . . a lit-tle more . . . pull. . . .” They all pulled back harder on the stick on the p of “pull.”
Ismael started the stopwatch on his new digital watch.
The Shadows of Power Page 16
