by Tom Haase
"Hey, man. No can take the thermos into the plane. Absolutely forbidden. Only your electronic gear to do the diagnostics. Sorry, but they’re the new rules."
Claude knew better than to make a scene over the thermos, since he would lose, thanks to whatever security maniac had instituted the new procedure. Last week, he had been able to bring it into the plane and do the dry run for today’s actual mission, but now he would have to improvise. This must be the will of Allah, and he would provide the necessary answer to his situation.
"I can’t really drink it in the small space anyhow. Okay if I leave it here on the platform?"
"Sure. Go ahead and I’ll check back in a while to see how you’re coming along. Remember, this bird has to fly at noon to Atlanta."
"No problem. I’ll get it done by eleven at the latest. I already suspect what is wrong, and I’ll have to reformat the master disc and then run a few checks."
"Okay, man. Whatever you say. I don’t understand any of that electronic stuff. Give me hydraulics and I know what to do," he said, giving Claude a broad grin. He did a military about-face, and walked away across the floor of the hangar.
Claude climbed into the belly of the aircraft and started his procedure for reprogramming the database, modifying a few items with ones he had created to ensure the plane would go to Atlanta International Airport. The thermos that contained the bomb he planned to connect to the system to enforce compliance on the part of the flight crew in landing at Atlanta International lay outside the aircraft. He went ahead and installed the warning not to deviate from the flight plan into the software.
When, or if the crew deviated from the direct flight plan Air Force One always received from the FAA controllers, then the designated warning would appear on their screen to inform them that a deviation of over five nautical miles or more would cause the detonation of three pounds of plastic explosives. The five-mile limit would allow for traffic approach control maneuvering at Atlanta, and it would be enough for them to signal the plane had a bomb on board. That would reinforce the need to land at Atlanta rather than going somewhere else to take care of the problem.
Claude concentrated on getting everything accomplished on time. He didn’t know why it was so important for the plane to land at Atlanta. He didn’t want to finish early in order to avoid any suspicion that only a small problem existed. What to do now that the bomb would not physically be on board? What could he do?
Then it came to him. Allah had given him this mission, and it would be his last. He felt prepared to sacrifice himself to destroy the president of the satanic U S of A. Yes, that crystallized as his only course of action. The solution to the problem now appeared simple, by the will of Allah, as he only needed to prove to these infidels that a bomb had been placed on board. They only had to believe it to ensure the success of the rest of the overall plan. Claude felt in his pocket for the key chain and clenched it in his hand. He held the means to detonate the explosives by simply pushing the panic and door buttons at the same time.
He finished the reprogramming at 10:30, and the crew performed a run-up of the engines and checked the GPS navigation system. Sergeant Reed took Claude to the snack bar, and they waited for the test results. The plane radioed back that the system functioned satisfactorily and the presidential party was about to embark, for the flight to Atlanta. Claude finished his snack and drink and started to leave. Reed said to wait a few more minutes to confirm that the aircraft departed and that no more problems arose.
The president’s plane departed the base reporting all systems operational. Reed thanked Claude and they headed for the door. Claude still couldn’t figure out how to make them believe he actually had placed a bomb on the plane.
A roving air policeman had been on the other side of the hangar when Claude arrived. Claude walked toward the exit door as an air policeman and his guard dog came into the building. The dog went ballistic. It growled and circled Claude with it’s fangs showing. The AP pulled his gun and pointed it at Claude. He searched the equipment box Claude had used for his reprogramming, and when he set the thermos on the ground, the dog barked and barked at it.
"You are under arrest," said the AP in a shaky voice. "How in the devil did you get it in here?"
Claude smiled, knowing that in his arrest, he had received a way to ensure the plan would work. He thanked Allah for this miracle.
39
This Morning —Washington, D.C. — 9:02 AM
Major General Andrei Marshankin dialed the number of Colonel Ivanov as he walked outside of the old Post Office building. The clouds hung low over the capital, giving a feeling of more snow to come. A few pieces of paper swirled in the air next to the side of the structure in one of the little recesses near the entrance. The temperature remained in the high thirties, but the wind chill factor brought it down into the teens.
"Ivanov here."
"Colonel, where are you?"
"We’re on the way to Atlanta. We should be there soon."
"I have an address for you. Get there fast, since the competition also has this information and will be acting on it as we speak." Andrei gave him the address and closed the cell. He hailed a taxi.
“Take me to the Russian Embassy.”
* * *
Mary Jean watched as Andrei left the building and waited for a few minutes to observe her surroundings. No one paid any attention to her, and she headed for the exit. In her peripheral vision, she caught a glimpse of a man in a woolen sailor’s cap looking at her. Damn, she thought, I think maybe someone is following me. She stopped and looked into the glass of the directory billboard. No, no one near her. Then she doubled back into the building—still no one. Guess I’m jumpy, she figured, from those bastards that tried to kill me last night.
She felt relieved. After a few seconds, she turned and headed for the exit. Outside, she decided to take a cab to Alexandria instead of the Metro. That way at least provided a different form of transportation from the way she’d arrived. It felt good to be in the groove again, practicing what many euphemistically called “the craft.”
She felt elated to keep her hand in on the operational aspects of the agency, even though her specific responsibilities entailed handling the myriad details necessary to run a worldwide counterterrorist intelligence operation. She functioned on a daily basis as a manager, not really an operative anymore, unless something like Avery got her juices up, and her division heads actually handled the day-to-day decision making, except when she took an interest in a particular mission.
Mike Anthony sat at a table near the back of the Alexandria restaurant, and smiled when he saw her. He got up to shake her hand while giving her a light peck on the cheek.
"First of all, how’s the head?"
"Not bad at all. Can you see anything?"
"Not a thing. You’ve got it camouflaged perfectly," said Mike with a grin. He held up a glass. "Water? I’ve got to go to a big meeting this afternoon on the other terrorist attacks we’re experiencing all over the place." He scanned around. Even in the restaurant, she noticed he never let his guard down. "They’re up to something big,” he continued in almost a whisper. “I just know it."
"I think you’re right, and I think I know what it is," said Mary Jean in the same low conspiratorial tone.
"Come on… give." Mike used a loud, guttural whisper.
"You were in on the meeting with the president when he ordered Matt to go after this guy Yuri, right?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said as he indicated for a waiter to come over. They gave their order for the lunch special of veal and asparagus with some sparkling water.
"So, since you gave me a report that never existed, I’m going to give you information I don’t know." She waited as the server approached and poured the water. Once he departed, she continued in a barely audible tone. "My team has tracked the weapon to Atlanta, and the target was with an FAA flight controller from Hartsfield International Airport. Matt is on the way to get her now and find out what she knows."
"You want our help. I heard the president order us to assist if your man asked," Mike said.
"Not yet. I’d suggest you get some people alerted in Atlanta that we’re working this. I read in the morning file from FBI that your guys are deep into an investigation on the bombing at Dobbins Air Force Base yesterday. How bad was it?"
"Thirty dead. The bastards snuck the explosives into the mess hall in a meat delivery truck. When they rolled the dollies into the center of the building, they exploded. The terrorists were suicide bombers, and we think they came from one of the nearby universities."
"Damn, Mike. What can we do to stop them? They’re corrupting our kids at college. Look at the billions the Saudis are pumping into our higher education establishments. They manage the appointment of the chairmen of the departments they create, who may or may not be terrorists, and they teach or preach that we are the bad guys. Our schools do it to get the cash. What the hell are we to do?"
“You’re preaching to the choir. The problem is, as I see it, the public doesn’t know the extent to which these radical jihadists have infiltrated our society. We’re trying to fight on the old system of an even playing field, and they’ve stacked the deck.” The food arrived, and they remained quiet for a few minutes as they ate.
Mary Jean broke the silence. “This is really tasty. I was hungry. I’ll run tonight to take off the calories.” She said it in a halfhearted manner, and Mike smirked with his eyes lifted to the ceiling.
"I have a report that I never got for you and as far as I am concerned it doesn't exist." He reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced a one-page typed letter with a photo attached on the back.
Mary Jean opened the folded paper and started to read.
SPECIAL REPORT
FOR: DEPUTY DIRECTOR MICHAEL ANTHONY
FROM: SPECIAL AGENT THOMAS SYLVESTER
I followed up on the subject Julie Johnson. She married an Army paratrooper, Sergeant Richard Johnson, in the 82nd Airborne Division, stationed at Fort Bragg, NC, twenty-three years ago. From interviews, it appears they were a happy couple. Sergeant First Class Richard Johnson was killed in an airborne operation in Afghanistan.
The wife left Fort Bragg eight years ago, and no one here knows where she is today. Her husband did not reach twenty year’s service, so there is no retirement check to go to his widow, and her present address or even a general location is not a matter of record with the Department of Defense.
The attached photo is from the DoD file for the last military ID card she was issued at Fort Bragg.
This completes the investigation here, and no further action can be taken.
Mike, you owe me a big one.
This is the only copy of this report.
Mary Jean gave him a grateful look. "Mike," she said, "it’s wonderful to have old friends." She smiled ear-to-ear, her white teeth gleaming, and rotated the paper to view the attached photograph.
Her mouth dropped open.
40
This Morning — On Route to Atlanta
Matt called the office. The bright blue sky sported only a sprinkling of puffy morning cumulus clouds above the hills ahead of them. The temperature on the car’s outside thermometer read a pleasant seventy-two while Matt drove at eighty miles an hour on I-16. They passed Dublin, Georgia, and approached Macon, only an hour outside of Atlanta.
Julia answered his call.
"Anything new?" he asked.
"Not a thing. Laura is here before school. You want to talk to her?"
"Yes, in a minute. I want you to look up a name for me on the computer and double-check the address." He gave her the name and address Mary Jean had provided and waited. He heard the parrot and Laura talking in the background. It sounded like Laura's attempts to get the bird to eat something were not working.
"That name and address appear valid. What’s the story?"
"We got the info from the general, and she’s on the trail of someone we think might be connected to all this. We can’t contact her again till after she has lunch in Old Town. So, when we get to Atlanta, we’ll find out if this woman knows where Yuri is. She was with him in Savannah. We’ll keep you informed. Please put Laura on."
Matt talked with Laura for a minute before she said she needed to run to catch the school bus. Matt said good-bye and ended the call.
"It's a current and valid address for Ms. Grosse," he told Bridget.
"How’s Laura?"
"Sounds fine, but I have to see her to really get a handle on how she’s reacting to the murders." After a minute he said, "The car needs gas, and I could use a drink. How about you?”
"Could use a pee break," Bridget chimed in.
Matt turned on the radio on the hour to get the latest news. Nothing good. Another terrorist attack on a bus of soldiers at Fort Benning near Columbus, Georgia, had killed four. "Do you think all these attacks in such a short time are a diversion to keep all the law enforcement agencies in turmoil and expending all their efforts on tracking down these bastards?"
"It’s possible. They’ve been quiet for a few years, and now all of a sudden they’re active all over the country, just when we know for sure that a madman has a weapon of mass destruction in the States. Might be more than coincidence. They’re using the attacks to tie up all the federal law enforcement agencies and a lot of state assets too."
"Maybe their overall organization is orchestrating the multiple terrorist attacks to provide a cover for the main event," said Matt. He saw a gas station and stopped to fill up.
* * *
In Old Town Alexandria, Mary Jean and Mike finished their lunch and gave one another a hug in front of the restaurant before going their separate ways. Mike headed down King Street, and Mary Jean started to walk up the hill to find a taxi. Again, she felt that someone was watching her. In order to satisfy herself that it couldn't be the same old jitters, she stopped in front of a store, went in quickly, and looked back out the front window. She watched for at least thirty seconds. Only a few people had ventured out in the cold.
Then she saw him.
He wore jeans and tennis shoes with a blue ski jacket, his head covered by a sailor’s watch cap. The man stopped across the street to look in a window and stared into the window too long, way too long for a person to linger on a cold day. She decided to go back toward Mike. She started walking and that’s when she saw a weapon appear in his hand.
She looked toward the back of a nearby car, where she saw a leg come around the bumper. Then the gun started upward in the man’s hand. The assailant came completely into her field of vision as he raised the weapon to put a round into her at less than ten feet. She dashed around the back of the car. No question of accuracy at this range.
The gun came to a firing position. Their eyes met and she saw hatred, fury, and evil in his stare. The hatred remained on his face as his left eyeball exploded out of his head. Blood and tissue peppered Mary Jean’s coat. She screamed. The sound of a weapon discharging reached her, but she felt nothing. Then the man toppled to the sidewalk, and Mike Anthony stood five feet away, his gun still pointing at her assailant.
She looked down at her clothes and almost fainted. The blood and mess almost made her stomach convulse. She controlled herself in order not to throw up. Her hands shook from her close brush with death.
"We gotta stop meeting like this," he said. "Who the hell is he?" He put his hand down to help her get up.
"Don’t know, but I think he’s been following me all day." She took a couple of big gulps of air to attempt to slow down her heart rate. "I sensed it earlier but spotted him before he opened fire."
"This will take some explaining. The deputy director is not supposed to be out shooting villains on his lunch hour. Let me handle the police," Mike said while helping her to her feet.
"Sure, you do that. I think this attack on me is connected to the attempt last night. Come to think of it, I’m quite sure." Mary Jean leaned against the car to recover her composure and tried to rela
x. Her heart slowed with each inhalation. This was too much like her days in combat in the Gulf. She recalled the deaths and destruction she’d seen over there.
"Don’t you want to know why I came back to save your ass?" Mike asked as he holstered his weapon. Sirens sounded nearby.
"Sorry, Mike. Of course, why the hell did you come back to save a damsel in distress?" Mary Jean tried to shake the crud that had come out of the dead man off her coat, without much success.
"For one thing, to pay you back for the last time you saved my neck, and for another, you forgot to take the picture that shocked you. I don’t want to know why, because I sensed it was none of the FBI’s business or mine. So I came to give it to you."
"Thank you for both reasons. Someday I may tell you about it, but not right now. Here come the local gendarmes. Someone called them with all the shooting."
"This was a robbery gone bad is the story we tell. I just saw this guy try to gun you down for your purse. Do you have an ID in that bag that’s not really you?"
"Yes," she replied.
"Get it out. We don’t want the world to know who or what you really are."
41
This Morning — Atlanta, GA — 11:00 AM
Yuri couldn’t believe the luxury of the home in the Buckhead area of Atlanta. The mansion-sized house perched on top of a hill standing three stories tall, with a pool and a three-car garage, and even sported a small basement apartment for hired help.
