The Shadows of Power

by James W. Huston

  “The air shows,” Rat said, nodding

  “He’s smart. They think he’s stupid because he called their sting number. Granted it wasn’t the smartest move, but I’m beginning to wonder if he wanted them to know he was out there.”

  Rat thought for a moment. He looked around the table at some of the most experienced and talented counterterrorism operatives in the world. And they couldn’t find one man. “Groucho, what about at the Agency?”

  Groucho looked around the conference room, then remembered it was actually a SCIF—a Specially Compartmentalized Information Facility—a place where they could keep top secret information and discuss it freely. “They’re working some angles in Algeria and even working with the FBI on some American Algerian angles. But so far they got no location on this guy at all.”

  “All right,” Rat said finally. “The real change now is that I had to tell Stovic and the team what’s happening. Everything will be different. He’s going to show that he knows. He won’t mean to, but he’ll show it. And then his wife will start to show it. She’ll be looking around when she goes to the grocery store, and she won’t take the kids to the park anymore, or go to the beach. I know that’s what she’ll do, sure as shit. So if our target is watching, he’ll know we’re waiting for him.

  “We’re going to shift every available person to the air show section. With me. We can’t miss anything. The next show is in New Orleans. I’ll be going there with the team, and I’ll expect the rest of you to be there already. Let’s be real smart in this because if we fail, we will have failed a lot of people.

  “Clear any new developments through me right away. And if you locate this guy, don’t close on him unless you have to. If you have time, call me.”

  * * *

  The Blue Angel pilots sat in the leather chairs in the ready room in Pensacola waiting for the Boss to appear with his “guest.” He had called an emergency all-officer meeting and was being very coy about the content. The pilots were all convinced it was good news based on the sparkle in the Boss’s eyes and his efforts to suppress the smile that was struggling to get out.

  Stovic had no idea what it was about and thought that speculating about it was ridiculous. “Just wait about five minutes and then you’ll know,” he said to Bean, who had come up with the latest new rumor, that the brass were going to cancel two air shows and let them all stay home with their families. Not that Bean believed that. He just thought it would be nice. In fact, Bean had made it up completely and was trying to sell it as a rumor that he had heard from someone else. So far he had no takers.

  Stovic sipped from his #6 coffee mug and wondered if perhaps the announcement had something to do with him.

  Bean leaned over to him. “How you handling everything?”

  “I look in my rearview mirror a lot.”

  “What about Karen? How’s she doing?”

  “Not that great. She had figured out how to handle the regular danger—accidents, flying into the water, night carrier ops, you know. Now she feels violated. Especially when she remembered seeing this guy drive by our house in Virginia Beach. She’s spooked.”

  Bean nodded sympathetically. “Let me know if you need anything from me.”

  Stovic stood up to get some more coffee as the Boss came into the ready room with an Admiral in tropical whites behind him. “Attention on deck!” the Boss roared.

  The command caught so many of them off guard that several nearly pulled muscles struggling to their feet with unexpected haste.

  “As you were,” the Admiral said.

  As Stovic’s heart recovered its regular beat, he sat down and looked at the Admiral’s uniform. He was tall and distinguished looking, with gold Navy pilot’s wings over his left breast. He had several ribbons, none of which was for a medal of any note. The only combat ribbons were “been there” ribbons. Nothing for valor, no air medals, no Silver Stars or Distinguished Flying Crosses. He looked at the Admiral’s face. It was the same Admiral they’d seen in El Centro in civilian clothes, the one who had told them they were being cut from the budget. Great, Stovic thought. More bad news.

  The Boss spoke. “This is Rear Admiral Don Hooker. I’m sure you remember him from El Centro.” The Boss gave his pilots a cautious look. “I know what you’re thinking—this is the guy who cut us out of the budget. True enough, except most of you have been in the Navy long enough to know that when a request comes from uphill—from your superior—there’s only one right answer. The request to cancel the Blue Angels didn’t come from Admiral Hooker but from his superior. But he’s not here to talk about that. He’s here to talk about something else. I’ll let him explain.” He pointed to the Admiral. “Sir,” he said, turning the floor over to him.

  The Admiral cleared his throat as if he were about to address Congress through a microphone sitting on a table with green felt. “Good morning, gentlemen. It’s a pleasure for me to be here.” He paused.

  They nodded at him, waiting.

  “I fought to keep the Blues alive for next year, and I’m sorry that I was unsuccessful.”

  They stared.

  “Something has occurred to me, though, that might give us a chance to bring the Blues back. Something rather different.” He fought back a smile. “I came down here to discuss it with Captain McMahon. When we were done, he asked if I would be willing to discuss it with you. Or at least tell you about it.

  “The reason the Blues lost their line in the budget is because of the shortfall on the Joint Strike Fighter. . . .” He hesitated. “Especially considering the problems they’ve been having with carrier suitability, they’ve had to do some major shifting around of money to keep the program on schedule. I don’t have to acquaint you with the problems. They’ve been in the press.

  “The Admirals who are the cheerleaders for the JSF thought it needed to be showcased, to show what a great airplane it is and how it will be the savior of the Western world of aviation. They’ve arranged for the JSF to fly in an air show coming up in two weeks. All the Admirals will be there in their best uniforms to cheer on the JSF.” He waited until they were all looking at him. “The same Admirals who took your money.

  “Those Admirals haven’t seen you fly—haven’t seen the Blue Angels fly—in ten or twenty years. They still remember fondly when the Blue Angels were flying A-4s!” He laughed.

  They smiled and kept listening.

  “Those Admirals need to be reminded of what naval aviation is all about, what the Blue Angels are—the representatives of everyday Navy pilots. They need to see you fly again. I’m here to ask the Boss if you would be willing to cancel the air show that’s currently on the schedule and add this one in its place.”

  The Blue Angels frowned. Big deal. Another air show. One show or the other didn’t really matter to them. Must be D.C. so they can wheel all the geezer Admirals to it.

  Oden was typically skeptical. “Why would we cancel one air show for another? Wouldn’t it be a lot easier just to fly the Admirals in for one of our other shows? Say, Annapolis?”

  Admiral Hooker smiled. “Normally, yes. But I haven’t told you where the air show is that I have in mind.”

  “Go ahead,” the Boss said, sitting hard on his enthusiasm.

  “Paris.”

  The pilots sat up and tried not to gape. “As in the Paris Air Show? The one in Paris, France?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Seriously?” Oden asked.

  “Seriously. And as it turns out, the Truman is heading across the pond next week for a two-week NATO exercise in which the French are—miraculously—going to actually participate. She could carry you close enough to France to fly off and arrive three days prior to the air show. Long enough to get over the time change and have a little fun. You could stay over a couple of days too, maybe even bring your wives—at your own expense, of course—if you want. What do you say?”

  “And the idea is that we would actually fly a show in Paris?”

  “Exactly. Now I tell you the why. It
’s the biggest air show in the world. It’s only held every other year. The Blue Angels have never flown in the Paris Air Show, and I think it’s about time they did. The air show is going to be used by the DOD to showcase the Joint Strike Fighter, the very plane that has stolen your budget for next year. Well, I thought you guys could return the favor—steal a little of the JSF’s thunder. It will fly at the Paris Air Show to try to encourage some other countries that are considering signing on to the program—particularly Norway, Belgium, and England. We need their participation to buy more fighters. It brings down the per unit cost—well, you don’t need to hear about that. The JSF will be flying, but more importantly, the Admirals that cut your funding will be there to cheer on their baby. Maybe if you fly in front of them, stir their loins a little about flying for the Navy, maybe you can turn them around. Who knows, maybe if those other countries sign on, they can restore your funding for next year. And if not, well, may as well go out in a blaze of glory.”

  “Shee-it hot!” Hoop yelled.

  Stovic immediately saw a chance to bring some good news to Karen. Finally he could do something for her. They had never been to Paris. They had always wanted to go. When they got married, they had the fantasy of her chasing the carrier, flying to ports in Europe and the Mediterranean and meeting him when the ship pulled in. They had a dream that he would take leave from an Italian port and go to Paris, or vacation in Greece or Italy. But she had gotten pregnant, once, then twice, and their dream had never materialized. But now the children were old enough to stay with her parents in Charleston. The two of them could spend a couple of days together in Paris.

  The Boss stepped to the front, the reason for his excitement now evident. “We’d have a lot to do, but I’ve already told the Admiral we’re game. Anybody disagree?”

  They were unanimous. “Can we tell our wives about it? Can we fly them over?”

  “Sure,” the Boss said. “I called the organizer of the Paris Air Show this afternoon, just to see if it was even possible this late in the game. When I told him who I was and what I wanted to do, he said we could fly anytime we wanted, and they were willing to move whatever was in the way. He was thinking one show on Sunday afternoon, the last day of the air show. So why not?”

  Oden spoke up. “Boss, look, if they’re going to cancel us, they’re going to cancel us. We’re not going to change their minds by flying in front of a bunch of Admirals. You’re just trying to get us a good deal as part of our last year. I for one want to tell you we appreciate it. I don’t really care whether we convince them. I just want to go to Paris. Thanks for looking out for us!”

  * * *

  Ismael waited by the side of the road in the dark countryside of Tennessee just outside Knoxville. It was just after midnight. His rented Toyota was suspended on a jack. The left rear wheel projected a little more than was comfortable into the narrow mountain road. He had spent the day confirming what he already knew—where the man lived, where he worked, and how he got to work.

  A car was coming. Ismael looked to be working a little harder than he actually was, as if one of the lug nuts was frozen on his flat tire. As the headlights caught him, he dropped the tire iron in apparent disgust. He held a rag in his right hand. The car slowed. Ismael shielded his eyes to see who was coming to his aid. It was him. If he didn’t stop to help, he would run over the tack strip lying across the road thirty feet ahead.

  The white Jeep slowed to a stop behind him with its lights on. The man who climbed out was a young man, twenty-four according to Ismael’s information, a large man, perhaps six feet two inches tall and well over two hundred pounds. “Need any help?” he asked kindly.

  Ismael looked embarrassed. “I can’t get the wheel off. I have a flat tire. I have to get on my way. I have a spare, but I can’t get this one off!”

  The man nodded knowingly. “Maybe I can get it. I can be pretty mean to a tire iron!” He smiled, walking toward Ismael.

  Ismael stepped back, nodding eagerly, as the man bent over to look at the wheel. Just as he was ready to pick up the tire iron and have a try at freeing the wheel, Ismael spoke to him. “How do you like working at the Coca-Cola bottling plant?”

  The man looked at him curiously. “It’s okay. I like it. I’d rather not work at night, but it’s steady. I’m in line to be an assistant manager in a couple of years.”

  Ismael leaned toward him. “Does it provide well for you and Mrs. Stovic?”

  The man turned back quickly. “How do you know my name?”

  “You are Rick Stovic, aren’t you?”

  Rick frowned. The tire iron lay on the pavement. “I asked you a question. How do you know my name?”

  “Because I came here to find you.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “No, I’m a friend of your brother’s.”

  Rick wasn’t buying it. “How do you know him?”

  “He did something very special for me,” Ismael said, his voice getting louder as he recalled everything.

  “What?”

  “He changed my life forever.”

  Rick had seen and heard enough. “I’ve got to get going. Hope you can get that tire off.”

  “No, wait,” Ismael said before Rick could move a step. “I have come to you to return the favor. I need to give you what your brother gave me. It’s like a pact.”

  “What did he do for you?”

  “My brother was Chakib Nezzar.”

  Rick frowned, looking up and down the road for traffic. “Who is that?”

  “The Algerian pilot. Your brother killed—”

  Rick knew what was coming, and before Ismael could finish his sentence Rick rushed him.

  But Ismael had more in his hand than a rag. He lifted his right arm and fired. The bullet slammed into Stovic’s chest and dropped him to the ground. He looked up at Ismael as he lay on the road. His chest gurgled as air escaped from his punctured lung.

  “He killed my brother!” He fired again into Stovic’s chest, into his heart, killing him instantly.

  He put the gun in his belt, lowered his car to the ground, put the tire iron and the jack into the trunk, pulled up the tack strip, and climbed into the Corolla to drive back to Washington.

  * * *

  “Hello,” Stovic said, grabbing the ringing phone while climbing out of the vivid dream that had been dominating his unconsciousness. “Hello?” he repeated, unsure of whether he had already said it.

  “Who is it?” Karen asked, concerned, sitting up in the bed next to him. She reached for the lamp on her side of the bed and looked at her luminescent alarm clock. It was 3:00 a.m. She was the lighter sleeper and was instantly awake. She didn’t have to clear the cobwebs.

  “Eddy!” a woman’s voice cried. “Eddy!”

  The plea was like a shot of adrenaline to Stovic. His heart raced. He knew the voice. “Debbie?”

  “Eddy, oh God!”

  “Debbie, what is it? Is Rick okay?”

  She broke down. She couldn’t say anything. She sobbed on the phone.

  “Who is it?” Karen asked again.

  Stovic put his hand over the receiver. “It’s Debbie. She’s out of control.” He moved his hand. “Debbie, what is it? What happened?”

  “Rick . . . was working at night. At the bottling plant. He was coming home. They found him on the side of the road—”

  “Was he in a wreck?”

  “No, he was shot!” she blubbered.

  “Shot? Is he all right? Is he in the hospital? I’ll be right there. Are you okay?”

  “You don’t understand,” she cried. “He’s dead!”

  “Dead? Rick’s dead?”

  Suddenly the FBI agent in the house ran into the Stovic’s bedroom. He had heard the phone ringing followed by the commotion. His hand was on his hip where his gun was. “Everything okay, Mr. Stovic?” he asked.

  Stovic shook his head. “My brother’s been shot.”

  “Where?” the agent asked, wincing.

  “Knoxville, T
ennessee.”

  The agent ran out of the room and down the stairs.

  “Debbie, I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “No, you don’t need to. There’s . . . nothing, you can’t . . .”

  “I’ll take care of everything. I’ll be there tomorrow. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. He loved you so much.” Stovic remembered. “You were such a good wife to him. God, I’m sorry, Debbie.”

  “Come tomorrow,” she begged. “I need you, Eddy.”

  “I’ll be there. Get some sleep.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do they know who did this?”

  “No. He was shot twice in the chest. They found him lying on the road.”

  “Where was his Jeep?”

  “Right behind him.”

  “Broken down?”

  “No. It was fine.”

  “All right. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.”

  Stovic hung up and looked at Karen. He felt as if he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. “Rick’s dead. He was shot twice. They don’t have any idea who it was.”

  “Oh, Ed,” she said. She grabbed his head and pulled it to her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  Stovic fought back the tears that had raced to his eyes.

  A block away Rat stood up as tall as he could in the van. He slammed down the headphones in which he had been listening to the phone conversation and yelled at Groomer, who was sitting at the console next to him. “Shit!” He punched the metal wall next to the console. “How could they have been so stupid? They didn’t cover his brother?”

  Groomer threw his headphones down. “We’ve been blindsided.”

  Rat threw his head back and grabbed his face. He tried to think of what the next step should be, and how he was going to explain this. “I’m going to get this guy if it’s the last thing I do, even if I have to go to Algeria to do it.”

  “He’s smart,” Groomer remarked.

  “So are we.”

  “Carl, Sarah.”Carl Dirks, the Attorney General, was taken aback. He didn’t think the National Security Advisor had ever called him, and certainly not at home as he was stepping into the shower at 5:00 a.m. “Hello, Sarah. What’s the matter?” he asked, quite aware of the hour.