Hard Target

by Alan Jacobson

  “I thought you’re in the adult crimes unit.”

  “So you were paying attention.” She play-punched his shoulder. “I know some politicians behave like children, but last I checked, this is an adult crime.”

  Uzi grinned at her. “I’ve missed working with you, Karen.”

  “Actually, this should’ve been Art Rooney’s case, but Rooney just went on medical leave. They assigned it to my partner, Frank Del Monaco. But he’s caught up in traffic on the way back from New York. So you got me.”

  “Don’t know Del Monaco.”

  “Let’s just say you lucked out.”

  Uzi held up a hand. “Hey, any time I get a chance to work with you, I’ve got the four-leaf clover thing going.”

  “You’re not Irish, Uzi.”

  Uzi jutted his chin back. “Are you holding that against me?”

  “We all have our handicaps.”

  A man wearing an NTSB jacket brushed against Uzi’s shoulder. “All right,” Uzi said, “you know the drill. Put on those mind-reading sixth sense glasses, take a good look around, then tell me who did this.”

  “Mind if I click my heels three times first?”

  Uzi puckered his lips and nodded. “So that’s how you profilers do it.”

  “Hey, boychick!”

  Uzi turned and saw a silhouetted figure moving toward him.

  There was only one person who ever called him “boychick,” a Yiddish term that meant “male buddy.” A few more steps and his vision confirmed the approaching man to be Hector DeSantos, a Department of Defense covert operative. Tall and lean, with the coolest pair of tiny, rectangular-framed designer glasses Uzi had ever seen, DeSantos sauntered with the confidence of a battlefield soldier armed with an AK-47 and a belt full of ammo.

  “Santa, my man. Long time.” The two men bumped fists.

  “I heard somewhere you were with the Bureau. How’ve you been?”

  Uzi bobbed his head. “Been better. You?”

  “Same here. It’s been, what? Four, five years?”

  “A little over six. Not that I’m counting.”

  DeSantos leaned around Uzi. “Is that—Karen?”

  “I was wondering how long it was going to take you to notice me,” Vail said.

  “Hey,” DeSantos said, holding up a hand. “I never have a problem noticing a beautiful woman. This oaf was blocking my view.”

  Uzi jutted his chin back. “Oaf?”

  “Great to see you,” DeSantos said as he gave Vail a hug.

  Uzi dug both hands into his jeans pockets. “I’d never figure you two for friends. You’re at, like, different ends of the personality spectrum. If there is such a thing.”

  “We worked a case together,” Vail said.

  “A pretty intense case,” DeSantos said with a chuckle. “I gotta warn you, Uzi, she’s a goddamn pistol.”

  Uzi tilted his head in appraisal. “I’ve always thought of her more as a shotgun.”

  DeSantos nodded. “Deadly at close range.”

  “Exactly.”

  Vail rolled her eyes. “Don’t know about you two, but I’ve got work to do.”

  “Catch up with you later,” Uzi said.

  “Is that a promise?” She winked, then walked off.

  “So.” DeSantos waved a hand at the burning wreckage. “This your case?”

  “Lucky me. What about you? You don’t handle shit like this. Don’t you still work in the basement, doing things nobody’s supposed to know about?”

  “I’m kind of on leave from the secret spy stuff. Better left for another time.”

  “Consider it left. So whaddya got on this crash? You always know where to bite to get through the gristle.”

  DeSantos chuckled. “Here’s the scoop: Air Traffic Control received a communication from Marine Two at twenty-three hundred-oh-one. They thought something hit their tail rotor. About the same time Marine Three reported a bright flash from Two’s aft, and then they thought something hit them. ATC had the two birds maintaining formation, so it’s pretty clear they didn’t hit each other. ATC was thinking maybe it was a piece of Two’s tail rotor that hit Three. They instructed Two to head for Quantico. Few seconds later, Three lost contact with ATC. Last communication at twenty-three oh-two, Two reported a second jolt and a complete loss of control.”

  Uzi mulled this a moment. “Maybe we can get something more from Rusch and that Secret Service agent.”

  “The agent just bit the dust.”

  “Shit.” He shifted the toothpick in his mouth. “Rusch?”

  DeSantos shrugged. “Medevaced out. Burned pretty bad. How bad, I don’t know yet.”

  “I assume they’ve activated COG,” Uzi said, referring to the Continuity of Government plan that provided for a shadow government to run the country’s infrastructure from a secure, hardened location in the event a terrorist attack wiped out Washington’s buildings and leadership.

  DeSantos consulted his watch. “They should be boarding the transport choppers right about now. Until we get a handle on what the hell’s going on, Whitehall’s not taking any chances.”

  Uzi glanced out at the wreckage. “Damn straight.”

  “This kind of hit has gotta be a well-planned, coordinated attack. What do you think— al-Qaeda? Can they still pull off something like this?”

  Uzi grunted. “There are sixty-nine major terrorist organizations in the world. Al-Qaeda’s a good place to start, but as to whether or not they could pull off something this complex, I don’t know. Not only have we taken out bin Laden, we’ve eliminated some of their top planners. Latest thinking is that AQ’s a loose collection of regional ‘affiliate’ groups that operate independently and use the AQ ‘brand’—no relationship to one another except for name and ideology. The stuff we found in bin Laden’s compound showed he was frustrated with those groups—they didn’t always do what he told them to do. But how AQ operated before we killed bin Laden, and how they’re operating now, could be different. Some think the leadership now sets the targets and their affiliates take care of business. Centralized decisions, decentralized execution.”

  DeSantos shoved both hands into his jacket pockets. “And to think, we’re partially responsible for creating this beast.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “We bankrolled bin Laden back in the eighties.”

  “Oh, that. Yeah, well, it’s the Middle East. Your friend today is your enemy tomorrow. That I get...but what kills me is that while we’re sending bin Laden two billion in taxpayer money to fight the Soviets, he was teaming up with a Palestinian Islamic member of the Muslim Brotherhood to build training camps in Pakistan. Al-Qaeda’s birth.”

  “That shining moment in world history.” DeSantos tilted his head. “Two billion? Was it that much?”

  “Something like that. Soon as we realized what was going on, we cut them off and shut down the banks that handled their money, but—”

  “That’s when they started their own private banking system. The How— Howula?”

  “Hawala. Yeah. Our sanctions worked, that was the good news. Bad news was it worked too well. It forced them to get their act together, form a more traditional centralized command and control structure. They used the illicit drug trade to develop affiliates and franchises in other countries. Bottom line—we had the right idea, but there was no way to know that freezing their money would force them to become a better organized, more professional organization.”

  “Kind of like no way we could know that funding bin Laden to fight off the Soviets in the eighties could lead to him blowing up the Twin Towers and killing almost three thousand Americans twenty years later. What’s the saying? ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time’? At least we finally got the fucker.”

  “Yeah, we got him. But I’m not sure how much good that really did. I mean, yeah, we avenged the thousands he’d killed. And taking him out may’ve disrupted the group and created a temporary leadership scramble. But in terms of impacting their effectiveness, not so muc
h.”

  “Maybe,” DeSantos said. “Maybe not. But if we go on the assumption that AQ is now more a network of franchised groups, what’s your gut say about who we should be looking at?”

  Uzi blew a mouthful of air through his lips. “Al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula’s generally considered the most dangerous, but close behind is Islamic Jihad of Yemen, Al-Qaeda in Iraq, Al-Qaeda Organization in the Islamic Maghreb, al-Shabaab, al-Humat, Egyptian Islamic Jihad, Libyan Islamic Fighting Group, East Turkestan Islamic Movement. Maybe a handful of others.”

  “I asked about your gut, not our Ten Most Wanted.”

  As Uzi opened his mouth to reply, an electronic guitar sung from DeSantos’s pocket.

  DeSantos patted his jacket, found the BlackBerry, and brought it to his face. “Yeah.” His eyes narrowed. “Okay.” He listened a moment, then turned to Uzi. “So much for the obvious.”

  “We don’t want it to be too easy. That’d be no fun.” Uzi nodded at the phone.

  “Not sure yet. Intel could be good, could be shit. I’ll check it out, let you know.” DeSantos’s voice—and gaze—suddenly drifted beyond Uzi’s shoulder. “Mm, mmm. Who’s that?”

  Uzi turned and immediately locked on the woman DeSantos was looking at. “Don’t know. I ran into her a few minutes ago. My brain turned to mush.”

  “Yeah, well, my other brain ain’t mush, I can tell you that.” DeSantos tilted his head. “Fine looking thing.”

  “Aren’t you married?”

  “Last time I checked, a marriage license didn’t come with blinders. Besides, Maggie and I have... an agreement.”

  “I don’t think I want to hear it.”

  “You probably don’t. Knowing you, it’d make your ears curl.”

  Uzi was staring at the woman, watching her lean frame as she moved amongst the wreckage. “Yeah,” he said, not really hearing DeSantos’s comment.

  “You know, you gave me shit, but looks to me like your radar’s locked in on the same target. You’re married—and I know your wife ain’t as understanding as Maggie.”

  “Yeah.” Uzi tore his eyes from the woman. “I mean, no. It’s— It’s a long story.”

  DeSantos’s gaze was again stuck to the woman’s body like Crazy Glue. “Miniskirt and high heels. Strange shit to be wearing at a crash scene, don’t you think?”

  “Do me a favor, Santa. Get me her name and find out who she’s with.” Hoping his question wouldn’t initiate a discussion, he quickly added, “It’s for the investigation.”

  DeSantos dipped his chin and looked at Uzi over the tops of his glasses. “Right. ‘The investigation.’”

  Uzi saw three of his task force members approaching in the distance, led by Agent Hoshi Koh, his office confidante. He got their attention with the wave of a hand, then told DeSantos he would meet up with him later.

  As DeSantos walked off to begin his own analysis, Uzi shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his long black leather coat and met his colleagues a few strides from the perimeter of the wreckage. He filled them in on what he knew— which wasn’t much. As Uzi expected, with the exception of Hoshi, they gave him a cold reception. Word traveled fast in field offices, even one as large as WFO.

  Uzi and his team split up to begin their respective tasks. While en route to the site, Shepard had called Uzi to inform him that two dozen additional agents had been dispatched off-site to work the crash’s behind-the-scenes logistics: interviewing the executive transport division’s mechanics, pulling maintenance records, amassing weather reports for the region, and visiting with Air Traffic Control in an effort to reconstruct the helicopter’s flight path during its last fateful moments.

  Uzi looked for investigators wearing NTSB coveralls and eventually located Clarice Canfield. She was a take-charge woman, five-foot-one in thick-soled boots and a short, military-style hairdo. They made introductions and canned the small talk.

  “So what can you tell me about the aircraft?” Uzi asked.

  “Which one, the VH-3 or the Super Stallion?”

  “Let’s start with the H-3.”

  “Walk with me,” she said. “I’ve got to find what’s left of the cockpit.” She started moving, faster than Uzi had thought possible with such short legs. Uzi flicked on a small flashlight and followed close behind like a puppy.

  “I can tell you anything you want to know about it,” she said.

  “I flew H-3s in the military, so I know about its older cousin. But I need to know everything you can tell me about this particular model, the executive fleet.”

  Canfield shrugged. “It’s your basic Sikorsky masterpiece, souped up for VIPs. This model started transporting the executive staff with the Kennedy administration. Just about my favorite chopper. Thing’s a bulldog. Energy-absorbing landing gear to increase crash survivability, self-sealing puncture-resistant fuel tanks. Even the seats are shielded. This thing can take twenty-three-millimeter shells and live to tell about it. But inside the cabin, it’s luxury all the way. Even has a galley and restroom.” She paused long enough to turn around to glance at Uzi. “I feel like a used car salesman.”

  Someone passing by caught Uzi’s shoulder and spun him half around. He took a couple large steps to catch up to Canfield, who had continued walking. “Carries a dozen people?” he asked.

  Canfield stopped abruptly, then knelt beside a pile of foam-covered twisted metal. “These have a crew of three, sixteen passengers. Top speed, a hundred-seventy knots. Range, four-hundred forty-five miles.” She shined her flashlight on the wreckage, shook her head, then stood up.

  “And the Super Stallion?”

  “Also built by Sikorsky. CH-53. Three GE turbine engines, air-to-air refueling, max speed about the same as the H-3. It’s the military’s workhorse. Whatever you need it to do, it can do. Special ops, military transport, search and rescue, you name it. Coolest thing is it can carry sixteen tons of supplies, cargo, vehicles, artillery, and troops.”

  Uzi’s eyebrows rose. “Sixteen tons?”

  “Think of it as the most powerful helicopter we’ve got—on steroids.”

  “So the Stallion’s a stud. How does something like that end up looking like... chopped meat?”

  “Don’t know enough yet to say.”

  “Come on, don’t hold out on me. You must have some idea. You can’t tell me you haven’t already started formulating an opinion.”

  Canfield tilted her head, leaned closer to something on the ground, then straightened back up. “Can’t draw any conclusions till we have all the evidence collected. You know the drill.”

  Uzi lifted his flashlight and lit his face from below. “Based on what you’re telling me, both these choppers were designed to withstand attack. The Stallion’s built like a fortress, the closest thing we’ve got to a flying tank. Seems to me nothing could take it down unless someone was aiming a Sammy at it. Am I right?”

  She shrugged a shoulder, then looked away to avoid eye contact.

  Uzi stepped to within a foot from her. “Could it have been a Sammy?” Not surprisingly, she did not answer. Uzi knew this was a sore subject. “Sammys,” or SAMs, were shoulder-launched surface-to-air infrared heat-seeking missiles that traveled 1,500 miles per hour— but stood only five feet tall and weighed a stingy thirty-five pounds. Known terrorist groups had gotten hold of at least three hundred of them several years ago. Then there were the Chinese and Russian versions, which could’ve fallen into who-knew-whose hands, and the Iraqi SAMs unaccounted for after the US invasion.

  “Clarice.” Uzi waited until he had eye contact. “Could it have been a Sammy?”

  “Not likely. You’d need several missiles striking the choppers at the same time. These birds are equipped with state-of-the-art anti-missile technology.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Fast-blinking strobe lights, like the ones in nightclubs and discos. Infrared jamming. The strobes confuse the SAM’s eye and throw the missile off course.”

  “We used to use a low-tech version: throw
a hot flare out of the aircraft.”

  “Same principle. You mind?” She pushed away Uzi’s flashlight, which had strayed toward her eyes. “They’re also equipped with lasers so bright that they’d confuse the missile’s guidance system. Kind of like blinding someone by pointing your flashlight in their eyes.” She forced a smile, then crouched beside a small section of the chopper’s metal skin. “Then there’s IR-attenuating paint that dims the helicopter body’s infrared signature.”

  She ran her own light over the fragment, which was nearly free of foam. “They also spread crucial helicopter components around the vehicle, and install backup copies. That way, the chopper’s not as likely to be destroyed by a single missile.”

  Uzi nodded. He had forgotten about that. “What about the shell of the helicopter? What’s it made of?”

  “Aluminum alloy. But parts of it have been ballistically hardened. Tough, lightweight armor is placed around the body.” Canfield shut off her light and replaced the fragment from where she had taken it.

  Uzi stood there a moment, lost in thought. Finally, he said, “But bombs, strategically placed, could take these choppers down. Right?”

  She forced her gaze back to his. Her eyes lingered there a long second, then she turned and walked away.

  UZI SPENT THE NEXT NINETY MINUTES covering the crash site and talking with investigators. He kept asking questions designed to prod them into reaching preliminary conclusions as to causation. Though he would not hold any of them accountable for such early impressions, he wanted to get a jump on where to focus his investigation.

  No matter who Uzi spoke to, no matter which agency they were with, he kept getting the same opinion: this did not look like mechanical or structural failure.

  Either Clarice Canfield was wrong, and a shoulder-mounted missile had been successfully fired at the chopper, or a fuel tank exploded—or a bomb was detonated from inside the craft. Any of these possibilities, even a few years ago, would have raised eyebrows, even led some to chuckle. But after TWA-800’s supposed gas tank catastrophe, and after discovering stolen SAMs and detailed al-Qaeda manuals in Afghanistan as well as bin Laden’s own operational notes— not to mention security breaches at countless military bases— all three scenarios now made his list of possible explanations.