The Shadows of Power

by James W. Huston

Johannson—Oden—taxied onto the runway. He went to full afterburner without hesitation and began his takeoff roll. He watched his airspeed carefully, and as soon as he had enough speed he lifted off the ground and continued pulling his nose up, leaving his gear and flaps down. With the nose twenty degrees above the horizon and barely enough airspeed to keep flying, he rolled the Hornet over on its back in a dirty roll, a move that looked for all the world like an airplane trying desperately to fall out of the sky. Oden continued the roll all the way around and back upright until his extended landing gear was pointed back at the runway a mere twenty feet below him. He raised his gear and flaps and flew away. The excited crowd sighed in relief.

  Stovic had already taxied into position on the runway while the crowd watched Oden do his dirty roll. As soon as Oden raised his gear, he went to afterburner and guided his Hornet down the runway. He waited until he had enough speed to fly . . . longer . . . a little longer still, holding it on the deck . . . now. He pulled back on the stick sharply and the Hornet jumped off the runway. He pushed the nose back down for the plane to settle into level flight just feet off the runway. He held the throttles full forward, throwing raw fuel into the engine exhaust—the afterburner—to generate as much power as the plane had. He kept accelerating, holding the jet down near the ground, until he reached the end of the runway. The pavement stopped and the dirt began and he pulled back hard on the Hornet. It pivoted, pointed its nose up, and rocketed away from the earth. In the VIP section Patricia filmed the entire air show with her reverse lens engaged, checking every face in the crowd that she could see. She didn’t see anyone that gave her concern.

  Ismael, sitting high in the stands fifty yards away from Patricia, was amazed at how low Stovic had stayed over the runway. He tried not to be impressed, to pay no attention to how aggressive and courageous the pilots were. He wondered whether his brother could have made it flying in such a formation, then quickly dismissed such heretical thoughts from his mind.

  He checked the time and wrote it down in the top right corner of the small sketchpad that had been under the book in his lap. He began diagramming the entire routine for the aircraft with the number six on its tail. He watched the diamond come and go and the solo passes and climbs. As the air show progressed, he drew a series of small boxes on the page, each box representing a maneuver in which number six was involved—every climb, every dive, every pass with the lead solo in which they flashed by each other mere feet away from complete destruction—and noted the exact elapsed time over center point since Stovic’s takeoff. He then put two numbers next to each box, the time to the second when the maneuver crossed the center point of the airfield, and a ranking from one to ten of how vulnerable number six was in each maneuver; which would cause the most damage to the team, the crowd, and American pride.

  The routine went off beautifully. The Blues were thrilled with their second show of the season. A long season lay ahead of them, but if they could build on the precision they had shown today, it would be a great year.

  After the show the Blue Angels walked into the debriefing room to view the videotape and conduct the confidential no-holds-barred debrief. The Boss walked next to Stovic, then stopped him. “I think we owe it to the team to tell them what’s going on.”

  “Yes, sir. I agree.”

  “Tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They went in to the confidential debrief. Everyone from outside the team was excluded. The pilots ran through the videotape of the show and went around the table with comments. They first criticized themselves, then mentioned “safeties,” things that could be done better to improve the safety of the show. It could be a brutal, painful process. No one held back, and each said exactly what he thought. But it was constructive and allowed the team to build a better show each time they went out. At the end, when each of them was done with whatever he had to say, he would say what every Blue Angel pilot said at the end of his portion of the debrief, the phrase that each of them meant: “Glad to be here, Boss.”

  Stovic had never meant it more.

  The Blue Angels had changed into jeans and polo shirts and were standing around small tables in the bar of their hotel in Scottsdale. Stovic didn’t have his usual enthusiasm. All he had been able to think about during the air show was whether someone was targeting him. It was his first air show after leaving El Centro, the beginning of their official air show season, and he should have been concentrating on flying as well as he could. He had done that, but all under the dark cloud of being a target. He didn’t know if he could take an entire season of being a target. The Boss walked in with a grim look on his face. Whoever saw him first got the attention of the others at the table. The Boss gave one short jerk of his head toward the door. The Blue Angels tossed money on the tables and walked out with him. “My room,” the Boss said heading for the elevators. The others looked at each other with confusion, but followed. They went into the Boss’s room and sat around the edges of the bed and in the two chairs against the picture window. The room felt crowded and tense. Waiting for them were Lew, Pat, and the two officers from the NCIS. Andrea sat on the floor next to Rat, who was leaning against the loud air conditioner in the corner. Everyone noticed.

  The Boss spoke. “I learned something recently that I haven’t told you about. I didn’t want to spook you or change the way you flew. But sometimes being overly cautious in our business can be more dangerous than not. I think it’s time for you to know what’s going on. I probably should have told you about it before the show today. I’m sorry, but now I’m going to rectify that.”

  He looked at the FBI agents, then back at the team. “You may have seen these people around before. They’re with the FBI. They’re here to talk to us, but the bottom line is . . .” he hesitated. He didn’t know what effect it would have on the team, but he couldn’t just let it go anymore. “Somebody’s out to get us.” He searched for the right words to tell them, something accurate and comforting at the same time. Nothing came. “Tell you what, rather than just flail around here, I’m going to turn it over to Special Agent Lew Savage of the FBI.”

  Lew stood with some difficulty and adjusted his brace for maximum comfort. “Evening. I’m Special Agent Lew Savage, and this is Special Agent Patricia Branigan. We’re with FBI Counter-Terrorism. One of the little things I do is I leave a phone number in a lot of magazines for people looking for things they shouldn’t be looking for. It’s sort of an ongoing sting operation. Anybody stupid enough to call it is usually up to no good. A few weeks ago, I got a call. I met with a guy who was looking for weapons. ‘Aviation related,’ he said. For some reason I haven’t yet figured out, he spooked before we got close to the deal. I don’t even know exactly what he was looking for. So he skipped out. But we got his photo, and we got his voice on tape. We’ve traced him down. He’s an Algerian student studying electrical engineering in Washington.”

  “It’s me he wants,” Stovic blurted.

  Lew replied, “That’s our guess. The Algerian pilot who was killed in the shoot-down that Lieutenant Stovic here was involved in? That was our man’s brother.”

  Others shifted nervously on the bed. The springs protested. The air conditioner by the window kicked on noisily in the silence.

  Lew continued. “It’s not just that he wants to get Mr. Stovic. We think he’s trying to shoot down the Blue Angels. The team. Or whatever of it he can.”

  The pilots grew increasingly uncomfortable. “How the hell is he going to do that?” Hoop asked.

  “That’s what we wondered. I think when he contacted me he was looking for a shoulder-fired surface-to-air missile. Maybe even a Stinger.”

  “A Stinger? Is that even possible? Are they available on the black market?”

  “Very hard to come by and very expensive. But if someone is dedicated to getting one, yes, it can be done.”

  “Well, shit,” Oden exclaimed. “Think he got one?”

  “He called me out of an ad in Weaponeer, for God’s sake. H
e’s an amateur. He’s probably heard of Stingers but wouldn’t recognize one if he saw it.”

  “So there’s nothing to worry about, really. Right?” Bean asked.

  “I think he probably called us first, before he knew what the hell he was doing. Since then either he quit—which I don’t believe for a second—or he’s getting smart or getting help.”

  “We’re not sure,” Patricia added.

  “Why not?” Oden pressed.

  “We haven’t seen him since Washington. So this may be a lot of worry about nothing. He may have gone home when he found he couldn’t get a missile.”

  Lew continued, “But I don’t want to paint it too rosy either. This started in Algeria. He was seen with some men from a particularly vicious group in Algeria. They’re well connected.”

  The Boss interjected, “So now what?”

  “It is our belief that he will be able to get shoulder-fired missiles.”

  Stovic pushed him. “And do what? Smuggle them into the United States?”

  “Maybe. That’s hard. But maybe. Or maybe he’ll try something completely different. We just don’t know. We do know that you’re going to have to look out for yourselves too. We’re here and will be at every air show. And we’re going to do everything we can to track this guy down before he has the chance to do anything. But we’ve got a hard job too. If he’s truly working alone, it makes it even harder.

  “So you have to be vigilant and look out for yourselves. But we might be wrong. He may decide to go after Lieutenant Stovic all alone or do something else crazy that we haven’t yet thought of. Keep your eyes peeled. By the way, here’s his picture,” Lew said holding up an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven copy of the photograph Patricia had taken with her telephoto lens. “I’ve got copies for each of you. Keep this to yourselves. If you start advertising to the air show organizers that there’s some lunatic after you, they’ll either cancel or you’ll be playing to empty stands.”

  The pilots sat silently and stared at the photos. No one wanted to say anything. No one knew what to say. Finally the Boss broke the silence. He stood and looked at Lew. “Thanks for coming. We’ll let you know if we see anything, but until then, we’re going to keep right on going as if nothing has happened.”

  Lew and Patricia looked at the NCIS agents and motioned for them all to leave. The Blue Angels needed to talk alone.

  The door closed behind them, and the pilots and others sat silently.

  The Boss spoke again. “I also want to introduce Kent Rathman.” He pointed to Rat. “You have already met him. But he isn’t a photographer. He’s a former SEAL who is on special assignment from the government to protect Animal.”

  Bean interrupted. “Looks to me like he’s protecting Andrea a hell of a lot better than Animal.”

  The pilots laughed. Rat smiled.

  The Boss continued. “So if he asks you to do anything, please cooperate.”

  Rat stood. “If anyone sees anything unusual at all? Please let me know. I’ll be here every step of the way until this is over, one way or the other.”

  Stovic spoke. “If you guys want me to resign, to leave the Blues so maybe he won’t come after you guys, I’ll do that. It’s not fair to bring this to you.”

  Oden, the one who had been the closest to voting against Stovic after his interview in Pensacola, spoke quickly. “It isn’t you, Animal. It could have been any one of us. They’re targeting you because you did what you were supposed to do as a Navy pilot. You didn’t sleep with his sister. You didn’t attack his family at night in their house. He’s trying to divide us. To make us think it’s personal so we’ll turn on each other. Well, as for me, I’m going to keep flying the lead solo, and the only guy I want as the opposing solo is you. This is the last year for the Blues. We’ve got to make it a good one. We’re off to a good start, and I say we just keep right on going. If this guy sticks his head up, he’s going to get it shot off.”

  * * *

  Rat’s chartered jet landed at Ronald Reagan airport in Washington, and one of his men picked him up in his BMW. They drove to their office in D.C. where the team heads were to meet at 0700. Rat noticed the traffic was already heavy at 0600, not that it surprised him. The traffic around Washington was horrendous and getting worse.

  They wheeled into the underground parking garage and took the elevator to their offices on the fourth floor overlooking Arlington.

  Rat was the last one to arrive, even though he was thirty minutes early. He looked around the conference room at his friends, now his “employees.”

  “Morning, men,” he said.

  “Morning, sir,” most responded.

  “Thanks for coming. I know it’s not easy for you to get away from your teams, but I wanted to tell you the latest developments and our plan. Anybody have any trouble getting here?”

  “Nope,” they replied, downing their Starbucks coffee by the pint.

  “Good. Well, it’s out of the bag. Everybody knows what’s going on. The Blues know Nezzar is after them.” He poured a cup of coffee for himself. He had been up all night revising his plans and thinking through the problem, and was starting to feel that tug of fatigue. “Let’s start with Washington. Robby, how are things going?”

  Robby nodded his head slowly. He was black and wore his hair in dirty dreadlocks. He wore some kind of African or Jamaican shirt and black-framed sunglasses with yellow lenses. His baggy pants hung down over his flip-flops. “Good, Rat. Nothing—”

  “You’re looking pretty good, Robby,” Rat smiled.

  “My supersecret ultraconvincing look. The one that gets me no second looks in Washington City, bro.” Robby smiled.

  “Nothing happening?”

  “Nothing. It’s boring. I guarantee you he’s not coming back to his apartment—”

  “How much did you have to give away to get the apartment next door anyway?”

  “Five large. She almost choked when I told her I wanted to sublease that piece-of-shit apartment. She wondered why, but not for long, not once she saw the cash.”

  “You got all you wanted through the walls?”

  Robby nodded. “No problem. Phone lines, cameras, motion detectors, everything. Only activity has been the FBI, who come about once every couple of weeks to see if their secret dust on the floor has been disturbed or if there are any other signs of life. They’re always disappointed.”

  “You still need to be there?”

  “Nah, I need some more excitement. I’m a social animal, Rat, I need some companionship. I’m sick of watching an empty apartment.”

  “Good. I need you on the air show detail. I want you with me.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Robby said nodding, sending his shoulder length dreads wagging as he gave the man sitting next to him some kind of made-up incomprehensible handshake.

  “The feds getting anything?” Robby asked.

  “No. They’re still playing catch-up. They don’t have anything we don’t already know.”

  “Well, if they paid attention to what they had, they might get better.”

  “Meaning?”

  “That digital video you sent me—the one the Fibbies took of the crowd at the air show in Mesa?”

  “Sure.”

  “I ran it through our face recognition software. Instead of trying to get it to match a database of known terrorists, I pulled the photos we have of Nezzar, made a composite, and put that in the software. I ran their tape through just against that composite. Check this out.” He pressed some buttons on the small remote he had been playing with, and a projector hanging from the ceiling threw a large bright image on the white wall at the end of the conference room. “Here’s the video of the air show. You can hear the jets in the background. It’s when the Blue Angels are flying. She zooms in on a couple of people, and I expect they ran those faces. But I bet they didn’t run the others in the frame. It’s a high-resolution camcorder. We got some good data. Check it right . . . here.” He froze the image. “She’s che
cking out the guy in the blue baseball cap with the USS Enterprise on it? See the scrambled eggs on the brim? But look down to the left. See the guy with the Lawrence of Arabia look?”

  He pulled up the face recognition software display window and showed the computer comparison of the air show man and Nezzar. “It’s not perfect. Enough of his face is hidden by the hat, the shadow, and the sunglasses that the software can’t get as many reference points on the face as it would like, but it gave us an eighty percent likely on the ID.”

  Rat stared at the face. “Groomer? What do you think?”

  Groomer studied the images. “Can’t say for sure, but it sure looks like him.”

  “He’s very bold. For him to come into an air show with obvious security, FBI all over the place, and knowing he’s been seen in person in Virginia Beach and in D.C.”

  “And to pull it off,” Robby said. “We were there too, don’t forget. We didn’t see him.”

  “A lot of people at an air show.” Rat wondered where Ismael was. He had become invisible. “Groomer, what about Pensacola? Seen anything suspicious?”

  “No, sir, but the FBI don’t want us there. They don’t understand why we’re there, and resent it, frankly. They think we’re much more likely to get in the way than help.”

  “They’re primary on the family. That’s clear. Our job is to get Nezzar. Their job is to protect Stovic’s family. You think you’ll recognize him if he shows up?”

  “He might recognize me from when I tried to rip his head off in Virginia Beach. Which raises an interesting point. Are we cleared to slot this guy if he shows up?”

  “No. We’re not. Just take him down. They would love nothing better than to interrogate him.”

  “What if he makes an aggressive move?”

  “Well, if called to respond, we can’t help that, now can we? But you’ve seen nothing?”

  “Feds are going to put at least one special agent inside the house. Pretty good idea, I think, but we have to take care of where this guy is likely to show up.”