Nunn rubbed at his chin. “Okay.”
“I don’t have to tell you his facial burns are going to be disfiguring. Fortunately, I think we’ll be able to manage these fairly well with plastics. The idea is to make him look as normal as possible. We’ve already taken steps. The best surgeon in the country is en route from Los Angeles. Per his orders, we’ve excised small pieces of skin from other parts of the vice president’s body and have them growing in tissue cultures. When they’re ready, they’ll be used for covering the wounds on his face. I won’t lie to you, Mr. Nunn. This will be a long process. Rehab alone could last six months, if not more.”
Nunn bowed his head. “Jesus.”
“In the acute phase, we’ll be debriding his wounds. Once the wounds are appropriately covered, we’ve got contractures to worry about, particularly where the injured skin crosses joints. Fortunately, there’s very little joint involvement. If you’re going to burn your hands, the best place to do it is on the palmar surface. If the backs of his hands had been burned, even gripping a pen would cause major pain—and take a year of therapy to accomplish.”
Nunn lowered himself down into a hardwood chair at the small table. “How—” He stopped himself, thought a moment, then said, “How can he govern like this?”
“If he can endure a grueling presidential campaign, he’s probably an extraordinary individual. In times like these extraordinary people do extraordinary things. But my concerns go beyond running the country. Between the psychological effects of the facial burns and the loss of his family, he’s going to require substantial counseling and a good support network.”
“Of course.”
“Medically, he’s fortunate, and I’ve tried to impart that fact to him.”
Nunn’s face crumpled into a one-sided squint. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“He’s sustained minor burn damage to portions of his esophagus and larynx, but if it’d hit the lungs his prognosis would’ve been far worse—pulmonary edema can be quite serious because he’d have to be on a ventilator. No, given what happened—the explosions, a freefalling helicopter, the fire... He was very lucky. That’s a tough concept when your family’s dead, you’re hooked up to tubes, we’re peeling away layers of skin, and you’re looking at permanent disfigurement. Fact is, this could’ve been much, much worse.”
Nunn nodded solemnly, then rose tentatively from his chair. “Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your candor.”
Farber pushed away from the wall, grabbed his clipboard, and extended a hand. “The vice president has given me permission to keep you updated, so feel free to contact me if you have any questions on treatment requirements or timelines, things of that nature.” Farber’s phone vibrated, and he checked the display. “I’ve got to take this.”
The doctor walked out, leaving Nunn alone. He stood there for a long moment, then headed toward Rusch’s room. He nodded at Dick, who was still waiting beside the secured door.
“We should be okay now, sir.”
“Then let’s give it another shot.” Nunn extended his finger, the device scanned his print and a few seconds later, the green light appeared.
“Door break, authorized entry,” Dick said into his sleeve. He pushed it open and stepped aside.
Nunn pulled the blue paper mask into place, and then walked into the room. A Secret Service agent stood at attention along the far wall, a hand pressing against the earbud that coiled down along his neck and disappeared beneath the navy suit coat that was barely visible under his gown.
But Nunn’s attention was drawn to the bed, where a heavily bandaged man lay. Only his eyes were visible—save for a nose hole and a slit where his swollen lips were coated with what appeared to be a thick layer of petroleum jelly.
“My god.” The words rolled from Nunn’s mouth without warning. He instantly wondered if the whirring machinery had drowned out his uncensored comment. Without lifting his gaze from Rusch, Nunn said, “Agent, can you give us a few moments?”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Look,” Nunn said, trying to keep his voice level, “I’m the vice president-elect, I’m not going to harm my friend and running mate.”
“Yes, sir.” The agent’s demeanor remained impassive. “Sorry, sir.”
Nunn sucked his bottom lip. Apparently, he was again asking the Secret Service to break with procedure, and that wasn’t going to happen. He walked to Rusch’s bedside and placed a light hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Glen.”
Rusch slowly turned his head to face Nunn. “They tell me I’m lucky,” he said with great effort, his voice possessing all the smoothness of cracked cement.
Nunn leaned closer to hear. “Have you been briefed?”
Rusch’s eyes glossed over, and he turned away. “They’re dead.”
“My deepest condolences, Glen. There’s nothing I can possibly say other than I’m— I’m just so very sorry. I can’t believe they’re...” He choked back a sob. “That they’re gone.” He placed a hand atop his friend’s shoulder.
“I want these fuckers caught. I want to do unspeakable things to them.” Rusch turned to the Secret Service agent, who quickly averted his eyes. “But this can’t be a personal vendetta, Vance. We have to show the world that no one can do this without suffering the consequences. We have to do it right. Bring them to justice.”
Nunn glanced briefly at the hovering agent, then said, “I’ve spoken with Director Knox, and he assures me that everything that can be done will be done to find them.”
Rusch closed his eyes. After a long moment, he said, “Whatever the Bureau does, it’ll be so... insufficient. Nothing will bring back my family.”
Nunn felt it was best to let that comment float on the air for a moment before continuing.
“Quentin’s been fully briefed,” he finally said. “I assume he’s been by.”
Rusch didn’t reply.
“He and Jordan are researching our options. I’m sorry—I really don’t mean to talk business, but I just wanted you to know we’ve got things covered. Take whatever time you need. Heck, we’ve got two months to get our house in order.” He glanced again at the agent, then said, “Plenty of time.”
Rusch remained silent. He was staring off at the ceiling, or the wall...Nunn wasn’t sure which. But he knew what was on the president-elect’s mind. And though they had plenty of time, the truth was that there was still a great deal that needed to be done.
Nunn gave Rusch’s shoulder a gentle pat, then left the room.
9:39 AM
Following his brief visit with Dr. Rudnick, Uzi met with the task force members assigned to the chopper crash investigation. They occupied the command post on WFO’s fourth floor, an expansive suite of six rooms constructed after 9/11 to bring all functions of a terror investigation into one centralized area. Its main room was equipped with five rows of ten state-of-the-art computer work stations and six forty-two-inch plasma screens, all overseen by the assistant director’s command office through a floor-to-ceiling window that dominated the rear of the room.
Beyond the sliding glass doors along the left wall, an ever-expanding group of JTTF support personnel had set up shop. In the past few hours, dozens of agents from the Secret Service, ICE, US Marshals Service, Military Intelligence, National Security Agency, and CIA had reported to their new posts.
Uzi ran through introductions and assignments, then split them into groups that reconvened at the crash sites, with the lead agents remaining behind to monitor the computers.
At first light, the NTSB team working through the night completed an aerial survey that identified three distinct debris fields, the first and most distant one containing a majority of the Stallion’s fuselage, the second containing portions of the Black Hawk’s tail rotor, and the third consisting of what was left of the vice president’s chopper.
The stench of burning brush, smoldering metal, and incinerated bodies hung on the thick, hovering mist.
DeSantos met Uzi as he climbed from his Chevy Tahoe,
which Uzi parked at the perimeter of Crash Site C, the resting place of the VP’s helicopter. “We’ve got three areas to cover,” Uzi said.
“I’m dialed in. Been to the others already. And I’ve got some info for you.”
Uzi walked with DeSantos toward a concentration of technicians, who were still scouring the wreckage. The flame retarding foam had dissipated, having done its job of suffocating the fire and superheated residue. Without the sudsy film blanketing the site, the debris scene was like an ancient city freshly unearthed by archeologists: what now lay bare before the investigators provided a more complete picture of what had happened. String grids divided the site into sections, enabling the technicians to document the exact location where each piece of evidence was found before being removed to the lab for analysis.
“That chick you wanted me to check out,” DeSantos said. “Name’s Leila Harel. CIA, Counterintelligence.”
Uzi stopped walking. “The one with the body? CIA?”
“So I’m told. Her family’s from Iraq but they moved to Israel to escape persecution. She speaks Farsi and Arabic fluently—”
“Probably how she got recruited in the first place.”
“Exactly.” DeSantos dodged a technician approaching on the run and shifted right, out of the path of other oncoming workers. “First posting was in Jordan. She did well, and now she’s stateside.”
“What do you know about Earl Tasset? What’s he all about?”
“Real piece of work. Quiet, passive aggressive. People have a tendency to underestimate him, think he can be pushed around. But underneath it all, the guy’s a pit bull. He and Knox have squared off more than Tyson and Holyfield. Results were usually the same. Both came out bloodied, but Knox won. Tasset’s career CIA, worked his way up. Good strategist.”
“So what’s the friction with Knox about?”
“They’re sharks feeding off the same food chain, boychick. When there’s enough food— money for their budgets— neither cares how much each one eats. But when things tighten up, they start circling each other in the water, nibbling at each other’s blubber. Sometimes it gets bloody.”
Uzi snorted. “Nothing like uniting against a common enemy.”
“They’ll be okay. They know what they’re doing. And I can tell you they’re both committed to getting the job done.”
They stepped around a roped-off grid and passed a couple of technicians collecting a soil sample. “Knox gave me nine days to find out who’s responsible.”
“Nine days?” DeSantos stopped along the edge of the crime scene. “Doesn’t sound like Knox.”
Uzi took up a position to DeSantos’s right. “Meaning what?”
“Could’ve come from on high. Don’t get me wrong, Knox wants answers as fast as the next bureaucrat. But he’s been in the trenches with us. He knows you can’t just pick a date and say, ‘Time’s up. Give me the answer.’”
“That is basically what he said.”
“Gotta be a reason. Nine days... what’s happening in nine days? Not eight, not ten. Nine.”
Uzi thought a moment. “Beats me.” He pulled out his smartphone and tapped the screen a few times. He threw his head back. “How did I not see this? International Conference on Global Terrorism.”
“That changes things a bit. Does he think something’s going to happen during the conference?”
“Or,” Uzi said, “maybe he wants to use the big stage to make a high-profile announcement? Conference on terrorism, big terror attack on the US, bang—nine days later, the FBI catches the assholes.”
“It would make you Fibbies look awfully good.”
“And Knox,” Uzi said. “Let’s not forget politics. Frazier and Ali. Budgets and shark blubber.”
“Tyson and Holyfield, not Frazier—” DeSantos eyed him over the tops of his glasses. “You making fun of me?”
“Whatever the reason,” Uzi said, “it gives us less time. Conference starts at two.” He swiped his finger across the screen, then slid the phone back into his pocket. He walked in a circle, pacing, lost in thought.
“What’s with the pacing? What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking we don’t have a whole lot of time to solve this thing.” He stopped and stroked the stubble on his cheek. “Okay. We attack it on a few fronts. First we pay a visit to Quantico and interview the flight crew and maintenance personnel who worked on the choppers, then get with CIA and NSA to see if they picked up any chatter they didn’t process fast enough.”
DeSantos was nodding at each of Uzi’s suggestions, then added, “We also need to look into the backgrounds of the other people on the choppers. Just in case. It’s easy to get myopic, too focused on Rusch as the target. That’s the most obvious, but it could also be way off base.”
“Already on it. Two members of my task force are meeting right now with the Special Agent in Charge of the Secret Service Presidential Protective Division. He’s putting together a list of agents and staff who were aboard both choppers. There were also some journalists on the Stallion.”
“Yeah, but journalists don’t make enemies.”
Uzi smirked.
“Okay, so they make enemies. But not the kind who’d go to the trouble of killing the VP just to knock off a White House press correspondent.” DeSantos’s gaze lingered somewhere behind Uzi. “Your curvaceous spook is approaching.”
Uzi was tempted to look, but thought better of it. “Give me a few minutes, then we can head over to the base.”
DeSantos grunted. “Go do your thing, boychick. I’ll do mine. When you’re ready, come get me.” He winked, then walked off.
Uzi nonchalantly turned, caught sight of Leila Harel, and headed in her direction. She was wearing terrain-appropriate boots, with black form-fitting tights stretched from her narrow waist down her long legs to her ankles. Clutching a clipboard against her chest, she knelt to examine something on the ground.
“What do you see?” Uzi asked. He was standing behind her and just off to her left.
Without turning, she said, “Charred dirt.” She lifted a handful and sifted it through her slender fingers.
He noted her manicured red nails, then said, “Charred dirt. Strange thing to find at a crash site, don’t you think?”
Still facing the ground, she said, “No.”
Uzi frowned. His attempt at humor passed right through her, like an apparition. “What agency are you with?”
She did not answer.
“If I had to guess, and that certainly seems to be the case, I’d say you look like CIA.” He rubbed his chin in mock thought. “Yeah, I’d say CIA.”
Leila tossed the rest of the dirt to the ground, then slowly uncoiled her legs and stood. “I thought you were here to investigate the wreck.” She turned her body, shoulders first, followed by her hips and legs. The form-fitting tights were complemented by a red turtleneck that clung to her full breasts.
Uzi felt his eyes wander down to admire the sweater before he abruptly brought them up to her face. Her comment about him investigating the wreck was mocking him, taking his stammering remark from last night and throwing it back in his face. But after the split second of embarrassment, he realized that she had remembered exactly what he had said.
“There are a lot of things here to investigate, it would seem,” he said with sudden confidence. As he held her gaze, he could see a slight wavering in her eyes. There was warmth buried inside, though she worked to keep it hidden. “So am I right, CIA?”
“You’re very persistent, Agent Uziel.”
And she remembered my name. “Call me Uzi.”
“Calling you by a nickname would imply a certain casualness to our relationship that we don’t have.”
Uzi shrugged. “Not really. No one uses my last name, not even people who hate my guts.”
Leila’s phone began to ring. She reached into her shoulder-slung purse, answered the call, then turned her back on him. After waiting a few moments, Uzi walked off to find DeSantos.
�
�THAT THING I WAS WORKING ON.” DeSantos held up his BlackBerry as Uzi approached. “Got something.”
Uzi waited a beat, but DeSantos did not elaborate. “You gonna keep it a secret?”
DeSantos glanced around to make sure no one was nearby. His gaze still off somewhere, he said, “Word is that ARM had a hand in this.”
Uzi chuckled. “ARM had a hand? Is that a joke?”
“No boychick, no joke. Reliable intel. American Revolution Militia.”
“My focus since—well, since 9/11—has been foreign. Bureau’s all about counterterrorism and counterintelligence. ARM’s domestic. I’m a little thin here. Help me out.”
DeSantos buttoned his wool overcoat while formulating his thoughts. “I pulled together some info this morning, so I’ve got the basics. They came together about thirty years ago. Dude named Jeremiah Flint started a chapter in West Virginia that grew slowly over time. Then Jeremiah was gunned down during a routine traffic stop in Arlington.”
“That must’ve gone over real well.”
“Better than you think. He became a martyr. The new guy who took over focused them, started running them as a business. We may have a copy of their charter on file. I’ll pull it. Basically, they’re like most militias: they don’t like the government. They think everything should be handled at a local level. They dispute just about anything that restricts them or takes their money: the Constitution, the IRS, the Federal Reserve, our court system. You know the deal.”
Indeed he did. Patriot groups like The Freemen, and disasters like Ruby Ridge and Waco were required reading at the Academy. “The JTTF keeps up on domestic threats, but we’ve had our eye on homegrown Islamic radicals. They travel in different universes than domestic militias.”
What Uzi kept to himself was that the man in charge of his task force’s domestic terrorism unit happened to be the agent he just put on report: Jake Osborn.
“What makes the American Revolution Militia different from all the other crazy groups out there?”
Hard Target Page 6
