Hard Target

by Alan Jacobson

  “What’s the ‘X’ stand for?” Uzi asked.

  “Experimental. All new birds and their modified systems were tested and evaluated right here. Now we do it at Pax River, NavAir HQ over in Lexington Park.”

  As they entered the large hangar, Vasquez motioned with a sweeping wave of his hand. “Welcome to The Cage. Ever been inside here, Agent Uzi?”

  “No, sir. Fascinating place, though.” He craned his neck around the cavernous structure, which currently housed about ten aircraft.

  “You got H-3’s, like the one that went down,” Vasquez said as he pointed to the far wall. “Some of the threes are still in service since the Kennedy administration. It’s a tribute to our vigilant maintenance program that they’ve lasted so long.”

  Unless someone blows it up.

  “Then you’ve got the newer members of the fleet, the VH-60s. We put them into commission around eighty-eight. These things are the real deal.”

  “Black Hawks,” Uzi said. “I’ve flown them. Great bird.”

  “Yes they are,” Vasquez said with a slight nod. “These may be a bit different than the breed you know. State of the art. Not as comfortable and roomy as the H-3, but we can fold these things up and pack ’em into the back of a C-5 and take them overseas. They’re a crucial part of our emergency relocation service because of their versatility. We can mobilize them damn near immediately. Since you know the basic Black Hawk design, you know they’re battle-hardened. Ours can take a hit from a twenty-millimeter shell and still keep flying.”

  Just then, the whine of a craft’s rotors filled the hangar. Uzi and DeSantos glanced out the open doors and saw a VH-60 powering up. The noise began building as Vasquez placed his hands against their backs and ushered them to an office along the periphery of the Cage’s interior.

  Vasquez shut the door, muting the noise. Models of fighter jets and helicopters adorned his large desk, with framed commendations and photos of Vasquez mugging with three presidents, including a glossy 8-by-10 with Jonathan Whitehall, on the wall behind him.

  “Gentlemen, please.” He motioned to two chairs in front of his desk. “I’ve got some materials I can share with you. Documents prepared for our internal investigation.”

  DeSantos settled into his seat. “We’ll need a list of all the mechanics and maintenance personnel who have clearance to be near those choppers.”

  “Got it right here. Just about to go out to the safety board. I can run a copy for you.” He pressed a button on his desk phone and a lance corporal entered the room. “Two copies of each document,” he said, holding the file out to the young man.

  “What can you tell us about the pilots?” Uzi asked.

  Vasquez’s shoulders squared up. “The men assigned to HMX-1 are some of the best we have to offer, Agent Uzi. They go through rigid training in evasive maneuvers, zero-visibility and close-formation flying. We’re like the post office. Neither rain nor snow nor sleet will keep us from our jobs. The president or veep need to go somewhere, we go. No questions asked.” He looked down at his desk, hesitated, then continued. “As to the men who went down with their choppers, I can tell you each of them was an extremely competent, highly decorated pilot. No problems with any of them.”

  “Then let’s talk about others who had access to the birds,” Uzi said. “Crew chiefs and maintenance personnel. You looked over the list. Any cause for concern?”

  “Same story goes. Best of the best. Crew chiefs and other maintenance personnel are selected for assignment to HMX-1 based on exceptional performance and integrity while assigned to squadrons of the Fleet Marine Force. Their competence is beyond reproach.”

  “I wasn’t asking about their competence, sir. I was questioning their patriotism.”

  Vasquez and Uzi shared a long stare. Uzi knew that questioning a Marine’s commitment to his country was tantamount to the worst insult one could muster.

  DeSantos cleared his throat. “I don’t think Uzi means any disrespect, Warren. We have reason to believe an explosive device was planted aboard the craft. Most likely here.”

  Vasquez’s brow crumpled and his mouth slipped open. “What?”

  “It’s all preliminary, and of course confidential. But I think you realize there are tough questions that have to be asked. No one wants to be asking them, least of all us.”

  Vasquez’s face softened. “I know that.” His gaze drifted off to somewhere on his desk. He sighed deeply. “Damn.” He reached for the phone, punched an extension, chewed his lip until someone answered. “Top, I need some info. Get your keester over here ASAP.” He shook his head. “Then drop everything. Just get over here.”

  As he hung up the phone, Uzi said, “Let me ask the question I asked before. Given that new information, does anything about these men stand out? Anything at all?”

  Vasquez thought for a moment. “Nothing. One thing I didn’t mention earlier. These guys go through a Yankee White. Know what that is? Hector?”

  “Very thorough background check for personnel who have regular contact with the president and veep. Includes an SSBI—Single Scope Background Investigation. Bottom line—they’re looking for unquestioned loyalty to the United States.”

  “All well and good,” Uzi said. “But we’ve got a set of facts that don’t jibe.”

  Vazquez squinted. “Bombs. You sure?”

  “It’s preliminary,” Uzi said. “Lab’s working it up now. The debris was scattered over a large area, and the techs don’t like to jump to conclusions. Especially in a case like this. Obvious question is, How could a bomb be planted on one of those choppers? It’d have to be done here, right?”

  Vasquez shifted uneasily in his chair. “I don’t see where else. But you need to understand something. These birds are treated like fine gems. They’re polished inside and out. We have rigid procedures for anything and everything done to them.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply you don’t.”

  “We have built-in redundancies and checks and balances every step of the way. So after a mechanic completes his work, he signs a form indicating exactly what was done and how long it took. An inspector then checks his work to make sure it meets our highest standards. He signs a form stating he’s checked it. Then a Collateral Duty Inspector gives it his once-over and a Quality of Work Inspector signs off on it.”

  Vasquez interlaced his fingers and rested them on the desk in front of him. “Then the crew chief acts like a mother hen, inspecting the aircraft and signing it off as fit for flight. The pilots then come out and take another look at it.”

  “You’re assuming that the person who planted the bomb sabotaged the part he was assigned to repair or replace,” Uzi said.

  “He could’ve been assigned to replace a battery,” DeSantos said, “then placed the explosive beneath the rotor assembly. No one would see it, and none of the follow-up inspections would catch it. The inspectors would merely see the new battery and sign off on it.”

  Vasquez was silent as he studied his desk.

  “Is that possible, Major?” Uzi asked.

  Vasquez looked up at Uzi. “Yes.” Before he could elaborate, his phone buzzed. He listened, straightened, then said, “Send him in.”

  The door opened and revealed a man his late forties with a red grease rag in his left hand. “This is Master Sergeant Cole Conrad,” Vasquez said. “We call him ‘Top.’ He’s the Cage’s Flight Line division chief. Participated in Desert Shield and Desert Storm with a Super Stallion squadron. Top here can tell you anything there is to know about these beasts.” Vasquez indicated his guests with a nod of his head. “This is FBI Special Agent Uzi and Hector DeSantos, DOD.”

  “Master Sergeant,” Uzi started, “I’m going to give you a hypothetical, and I want you to treat it with strict confidence. It’s only a hypothetical, and if what I’m about to tell you is taken as the truth, a whole lot of shit’ll be stirred up. We clear on that?”

  “Very clear, sir.”

  “If I told you a bomb took down Marine Two and Th
ree, what would you say about that?”

  Conrad shifted his feet. “You asking me if it’s possible?”

  “Let’s start with that,” DeSantos said.

  Conrad shrugged. “Yes, sir. Very possible.”

  Uzi glanced at DeSantos, then said to Conrad, “Possible because a bomb could take one of these things down?” Uzi asked. “Or possible because someone could gain access to the fleet?”

  “The former, sir.”

  “Even the Super Stallion?”

  “Even the 53s. Yes, sir.”

  “How would you do it?”

  Conrad chafed his hands against the red grease rag. He looked over to Vasquez before answering. After getting a permissive nod, the master sergeant said, “A standard military M112 demolition block—that’s only a pound and a quarter of C-4—placed on the rotor hub would cause her to drop like a rock, with no hope of recovery.”

  Recovery, Uzi knew, was another term for “autorotation,” a way of regaining control of the craft with the tail rotor gone.

  Conrad continued: “Assuming I had access to the explosive material, it’d be a relatively simple deal. In fact, I could take the Stallion down with only half a pound, really.”

  “Where would you put it?”

  “Well, the pilot or crew chief always does a walk-around before the flight. So I’d want my explosive to be well concealed.” He shoved his grease rag through a belt loop, then shrugged. “If the pilot’s good, and we’ve got only the best here, he could set the bird down even without a tail rotor, so I’d probably put the explosive on the main rotor hub.”

  “Ever hear of the Jesus Nut?” Uzi asked.

  Conrad smirked, then snorted. “‘Course.” His smile faded. “This bird isn’t named the Super Stallion for nothing. It’s the largest, most powerful and technologically advanced helicopter in the world. Its only weakness is the Jesus Nut. Every mechanic worth his salt knows that.”

  “So if a block of C-4 was placed near the Jesus Nut, no one would see it on their walk-around?”

  Conrad nodded knowingly. “The thing about C-4 is that it can be molded into just about anything. If I was doing it, I’d shape and paint it to look like part of the rotor head assembly.”

  “How would you detonate it?” DeSantos asked.

  After a moment’s thought, Conrad said, “Radio detonator or timer. I’d choose a discrete radio channel and detonate it where and when I’d want to.” He threw a nervous, sideways glance at Vasquez, then added, “Hypothetically, of course.”

  Uzi and DeSantos were quiet.

  Conrad again looked to Vasquez, then back to Uzi. “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “Anyone on your staff show any strange tendencies?” Uzi asked.

  “Sir?”

  “An affinity for molding C-4,” DeSantos said. “Or sympathy for right-wing groups. Or anyone who’s made derogatory comments about Glendon Rusch. That type of thing.”

  Conrad angled his eyes ceilingward for a moment, then said, “No one, sir.”

  DeSantos crossed his arms over his chest. “I know it’s a tough question, Master Sergeant. I’d be asking you to rat on a colleague, which is something Marines just don’t do. I understand that. But we need an honest answer.”

  The “rat on a colleague” remark made Uzi flash on his own situation with Osborn. Like a pinprick to a fingertip, the comment caused some pain.

  “Yes, sir. If I think of anything, I’ll let Major Vasquez know.”

  “Thanks, Top,” Vasquez said. The Master Sergeant nodded, then left.

  Uzi sat there in the silence thinking how it easy it would’ve been to blow up those choppers— something he wouldn’t have thought possible fifteen minutes ago. But there were still too many unanswered questions that required leaps of logic to bridge all the gaps.

  “How about work attendance?” DeSantos asked. “Drug problems, disciplinary actions?”

  “Impeccable records. All of them. I wish I had a smoking gun, a problem Marine who’d been reprimanded, but you wouldn’t find that here. There’s really nothing I can think of. I assume you’ll want to interview each of them?”

  DeSantos nodded.

  The major lifted the phone and selected the extension for the Maintenance Material Control Officer. “It’s Vasquez. Assemble the maintenance personnel in The Cage in fifteen minutes.” Vasquez listened for a second, then asked, “How late?... Yeah, I’ll hold.” He cupped the phone and took the copies from his assistant, who had just entered the major’s office. He handed the papers to DeSantos and said, “All personnel on Alpha shift will be available for questioning. One of the men is reporting in late—” He turned back to the handset. “Are you sure?” Vasquez chewed his bottom lip. “Fine. Thank you, Gunner.”

  “Problem?” DeSantos asked.

  “One of the men was due in late, but hasn’t shown yet.”

  “Is that unusual?” Uzi asked.

  “He’s an hour and a half overdue. Yes, that’s unusual, Agent Uzi. Very unusual.”

  Uzi and DeSantos shared an uneasy look. “Tell you what, Warren,” DeSantos said. “Why don’t we postpone our interviews with the flight crew. Uzi and I will check out your missing man.”

  “It’s probably nothing.” Vasquez stood, then shook his head. “Shit.”

  UZI ENDED HIS CALL as they approached the Tahoe. “My people already did some legwork for us. They’ve assembled a spreadsheet with backgrounds on all the flight crew, including the crew chiefs and maintenance personnel. They’re sending it through right now.”

  “Sending it through to where?”

  Uzi held out his phone. “To this.”

  “Your phone?”

  “This is no ordinary smartphone. I’ve rooted it—hacked it, modified it. Made it...smarter.” Uzi winked. “Just a bit. I mean, just a byte.”

  DeSantos looked at him. “Is that some kind of computer joke?”

  “It was supposed to be.” They got into the SUV and Uzi fired up the engine. He navigated his phone’s screens, then handed it to DeSantos. “Page down through the spreadsheet.”

  “Is this thing secure?” DeSantos asked, taking the device.

  Uzi chuckled. “I’m using Serpent-Twofish-AES encryption, which is three ciphers in a cascade—”

  “Uzi. Uzi—I don’t know what that shit means.” He quickly raised a hand. “And I don’t wanna know. Brian was a technogeek. He thought a good time was finding a way to hack into government and corporate computer systems. I never had the head for any of that crap.”

  “I spent five years working on chip design for Intel. I led the team that designed and built the Pentium 4.”

  DeSantos winced. “Why do I attract people like you?”

  “Other way around. People like us are attracted to know-nothings like you. Makes us feel superior. Besides, I’m not a total techie. My motorcycle’s a thirty-year-old dinosaur. Suzuki 450. Air cooled engine. Sat in my parents’ garage for a dozen years till I moved back to the States, dug it out, and gave it mouth to mouth.” He flashed on the rides in the hot New York summers— frigid wind rippling his shirt, intense acceleration as he twisted the throttle, the engine roaring with power. When he had told Dena he missed his motorcycle, she forbid him from buying one in Israel because it was too dangerous. If she only knew what I really did for a living.

  “Wife bought me a Harley last year for my fortieth.”

  Uzi eyed his partner. “Nice gift.”

  “That’s what home equity lines are for. Guess I should be thankful we’re not underwater,” he said absentmindedly as he sifted through the names on Uzi’s phone. “This shit’s gonna take a while to go through.”

  “Start with our missing Marine.”

  “Corporal William Ellison.” DeSantos continued scrolling through the document until he found the entry. “Got it. Lives on base, a lettered apartment on John Quick Road. Couple miles from here.”

  He gave Uzi directions, then started reading the backgrounder on Ellison.

 
Uzi departed the Air Facility, then turned onto Barnett Avenue. “Anything pop out?”

  “Guy’s a model soldier, like Warren said.” His eyes flicked right and left through the summary. “Could be a dead end.”

  Uzi accelerated. “We’ll find out real soon.”

  UZI TURNED ONTO JOHN QUICK ROAD and drove up to the 2000 block, then pulled in front of Corporal Ellison’s residence. The three-story, six-family base-issue apartment building, with its thirties-style architecture and red-brick masonry, reminded Uzi of the school he attended in New York.

  Two anonymous-gray aluminum gang mailboxes rose from the sidewalk like sentries guarding the entrance. Concrete-and-wood park benches stood astride the front walkway.

  A patrol car sat parked at the curb, its radio crackling with dispatch chatter. Uzi craned his neck to look at the cruiser through the passenger window. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

  “Marines wouldn’t let the FBI get the jump on their investigation,” DeSantos said. “Despite my relationship with Warren.” He handed Uzi back his phone, then got out and followed his partner to the front door. “How much of a lead you figure they got on us?”

  “If they were on patrol and passing by, five or ten minutes.”

  Uzi led the way across the threshold, holding out his credentials case as he encountered the first military police officer stationed in the entryway.

  “FBI. Aaron—”

  “I know who you are, sir.” The MP was a couple of inches shorter than Uzi, but his crisp uniform and formal demeanor gave him an air of control. “They’ll be done in a few minutes.”

  Uzi said, “We’ll just head on in and look around. I’m sure Major Vasquez wouldn’t mind.”

  “Ellison here?” DeSantos asked.

  The MP, his jaw tight, answered with a terse, “No.”

  DeSantos shouldered past the officer, followed by Uzi. After passing through the hallway, Uzi and DeSantos split up, each taking opposite ends of the rectangular apartment. Five minutes later, Uzi entered the family room and caught DeSantos’s eye. They walked out of the apartment building together and stopped behind the Tahoe. Uzi glanced over his shoulder to make sure the base police were not within earshot. “Anything?”