Wild Storm (9 page)

“I agree. How do we use this against him?”

“By giving him a target. A big fat one.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“How about Air Force One?” Storm said.

“Are you out of your—”

“Not with the president on board, of course. Hear me out. We have the White House make a big announcement: the United States is the mightiest nation in the world and does not bow to the will of terrorists. ‘By executive order, domestic air travel will resume in two days. But in the meantime, as a show of faith to the American people, the president, several cabinet members, and a handful of brave members of Congress and the Senate are all going to hop aboard Air Force One at Andrews Air Force Base and fly in a big circle over the eastern United States before landing back at Andrews.’ We’ll show footage of them getting on board, waving and smiling and all that, and then have a dummy plane painted like Air Force One and being remotely piloted actually make the flight. There would be no one on board.”

“But how do we—”

“I’m not done,” Storm said. “We have to make our terrorists feel like they’re earning this. So we give a fake flight plan to the press. The one we really fly will supposedly be a secret. But, of course, we’ll stick it on the FAA’s server.”

“Which is secure, but is easy enough to hack into,” Jones said. “The techs do it all the time. And we can assume whoever is carrying out these attacks has a similar capacity.”

“Exactly. Then we make sure our circular flight plan has only one spot where it is both over land and seventy nautical miles away from Andrews. We monitor the area via satellite from the cubby, then make sure we hide enough boots on the ground to capture the weapon and whomever is operating it.”

Jones was nodding, even though Storm couldn’t see it.

“You think that’ll work?” Jones asked.

“I don’t know,” Storm said. “But I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve yet to hear anyone else come up with a better idea.”

CHAPTER 13

KILMARNOCK, Virginia

hey were doing it wrong. All wrong. Storm could have told them; but, of course, no one was asking him.

They had set up the operation exactly as Storm had specified. The White House had made its announcement. Both the real and the fake Air Force Ones had been readied. A host of faux-brave officials, from the president to the secretary of state to the speaker of the house, had volunteered to pretend to be on board.

Then they made out the route, both the one announced to the press and the unannounced one planted on the FAA server. The unannounced one made its approach to Andrews from the south. At exactly seventy nautical miles from the field, it passed over Kilmarnock, a small town in the Tidewater part of Virginia. It was in a sleepy part of the state known as the Northern Neck, a peninsula bordered by the Potomac River to the north, the Chesapeake Bay to the east, the Rappahannock River to the south, and a whole bunch of farmland to the west.

It had been strategically chosen for its remoteness and its difficulty of access. The nearest highway, Interstate 95, was close to an hour away. There was only one main road running through the region north–south and only one running east–west. Both were single lane for much of the way. Getting in or out of the area involved crossing bridges. Storm was working under the assumption that the weapon was camouflaged to a certain extent. But, at the same time, it was large enough that it couldn’t be completely hidden. Putting up roadblocks and checking vehicles—car-by-car, truck-by-truck—would be relatively easy. The weapon would not be able to escape.

The plan was perfect.

Then the bureaucrats had gotten involved.

They called it Operation Mockingbird, in apparent ignorance of the secret CIA campaign to influence the media during the 1950s that bore the same name. Still, Storm approved—if only because he so adored the Farrell Lee novel of a similar name. But then they decided neither Storm nor Jones would be allowed to run it. Being that it was on American soil and had to involve more people and equipment than even the CIA could reasonably expect to hide, Storm and Jones had been forced to hand execution of the plan over to the FBI, which had started making mistakes from the moment it took over.

First, they put a man named Jack Bronson in charge. Big, bald, and obstinate, Bronson was ex-military of the worst kind. Too hierarchical in his thinking. Too much enamored with chain of command. Too impressed with the fact that he was at the top of it.

Second, they had set up a task force that involved too many other agencies. The Department of Homeland Security. The Transportation Security Administration. The Federal Aviation Administration. The Department of Defense. The Federal Emergency Management Agency. It really started getting ridiculous when a pencil pusher from the National Aeronautics and Space Administration showed up, making noises about how Operation Mockingbird’s success was needed to keep a satellite launch on schedule. Storm half expected someone from the Department of Agriculture to show up and ask if they were taking proper care not to harm any crops. It was enough to make Storm yearn for another government shutdown.

Third, there was just too much noise. Storm had envisioned an operation where every single piece was undercover, made to blend with its surroundings. The Northern Neck was a quiet area, filled mostly with retirees, farmers, and the occasional Chesapeake Bay waterman who didn’t want to give up on that way of life. Folks moved slow, talked slow, drove pickup trucks, and dressed comfortably in T-shirts and Crocs.

So it just felt wrong to have a bunch of government agents in sedans racing around, filling the air with urgent chatter, wearing tailored suits and sharp-toed shoes. Everyone involved in the operation stuck out as did every piece of equipment that had been brought in. Even if the terrorists were unfamiliar with American culture, they would be able to smell out the trap.

And, having ceded control to the FBI, there was nothing Storm could do about it. He was being allowed to “observe,” with the implicit understanding that observation meant keeping his mouth shut.

Bronson had set up a temporary command post under a set of tents in the parking lot of a bowling alley just off Main Street. There was a thin, pathetic attempt to disguise it as a FEMA training exercise, but even the most guileless locals weren’t fooled. FEMA wasn’t known to have anti-personnel tanks in its arsenal. Some of Bronson’s agents had skipped all pretenses and wore gear with “FBI” emblazoned on it. Storm wondered if Bronson’s next step would be to engrave invitations announcing the task force’s presence.

Storm had his hands in his pockets and, in a shoulder holster, his gun of choice: a Smith & Wesson 629 Stealth Hunter, a sleeker, modernized version of a .44 Magnum Clint Eastwood first made famous. Storm called it “Dirty Harry” in his honor.

Feeling both restless and bored, he roamed from tent to tent, looking at the FBI’s gadgetry with only mild interest. Jones’s stuff was cooler.

He had come in from California on a military transport plane that morning, grabbed his Taurus from the parking lot at Langley, and made impressive time down to Kilmarnock, passing a whole lot of slow-moving traffic on the single-lane roads.

He paused in front of a screen that had been set up in the communications center. There were two pieces of footage playing on a loop on CNN: first the president and other dignitaries boarding the plane, then the mock Air Force One taking off from Andrews.

The plane was scheduled to fly over Kilmarnock at 2
P.M.
—which everyone agreed made sense, given that the terrorists seemed to like that time. It was 1:52 when Storm’s journey took him back to the main tent. There he found Bronson, his face glued to his phone’s small screen.

“Things still on schedule?” Storm asked.

“I imagine so,” Bronson said, pointedly not looking at Storm.

Storm looked up in the sky, which was blue and empty of air traffic any larger than a passing sparrow. “Where’s the plane?”

“Not here.”

“I can see that. Is it late? Will it be here soon?”

“Not unless this is Cape Charles.”

“Excuse me?”

Bronson finally looked up. “It’s a town at the tip of the Eastern Shore of Virginia.”

“I’ve heard of it. But what does that have to do with the plane?”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot you weren’t on that distribution list.”

“What distribution list?”

“We changed the flight plan. We’re bringing Mockingbird up the Eastern Shore instead of over this airspace. DoD didn’t want to sacrifice a plane. Those things are expensive, you know. Boeings don’t grow on trees.”

Storm stared at the man hard. Airplanes were expensive, yes. But human lives were priceless. That’s what the Department of Defense should have been prioritizing. Storm spoke through gritted teeth. “And when were you going to tell me this?”

“It was need to know.”

“You’re really going to pull a ‘need to know’ on me?”

“Yes. All of the people who needed to know did. And that didn’t include the CIA or any of its semi-illegal contractors. It doesn’t change the operation as far as you’re concerned. We’ve got the roadblocks in place. We’ll get the weapon before it gets very far.”

“Please tell me you’ve also got people in place on the Eastern Shore.”

“No need,” Bronson said. “The FAA logged several unauthorized attempts to breach its system coming from Damascus. One of the attempts was successful. The hacker went right for the phony flight plan.”

Bronson bent his head toward his phone again. Storm stared at the top of Bronson’s shaved pate for a moment. “Do you think we’re dealing with idiots?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you really think that people who are smart enough to build a weapon that—”

He stopped himself. Storm figured he was only allotted so many words and so much breath in this lifetime. No sense in wasting either on a man like Bronson.

“Never mind,” Storm said.

If Homeland Security, the TSA, the FAA, the DoD, FEMA, NASA, and untold other federal agencies were all aware of this plan, the terrorists surely were, too. All the people and equipment the FBI had clogging up this little town in Virginia might as well have been actors and stage props. They would not be needed. Not here, anyway.

Storm made a decision and started walking over toward an open field where an FBI helicopter sat idle. The pilot was sitting in the cockpit with the window open, oblivious. He was also paying more attention to his smartphone than anything around him.

Without bothering to speak, Storm reached up into the cockpit. The pilot finally looked at him, more curious than anything. Storm’s hand was traveling for a spot on the side of the pilot’s neck. Storm grabbed, squeezed, held. The pilot made a brief croaking noise, then slumped over.

“Sorry, friend,” Storm said.

Storm quickly boarded the helicopter. He removed the pilot’s helmet and put it in the passenger seat. Storm then unbuckled the pilot’s slumbering body and lowered it to the ground. He closed the helicopter’s cargo door and window, then assumed the pilot’s seat. In front of him was a dashboard crowded with dials, buttons, and switches. He grabbed the flight stick, his thumb naturally finding the trim switch.

An AS550 Fennec helicopter was, fundamentally, similar to an AS350 Ecureuil, which Storm had once flown through a typhoon in the Gulf of Tonkin. He figured flying this one on a balmy day over the Chesapeake Bay would be no problem.

Within two minutes, before anyone from the FBI could figure out why the rotors on the helicopter were whirring, Storm had lifted off and was on his way. The last thing he saw on the ground was a phalanx of stupefied FBI agents running toward him.

He paid them no mind. He had a laser to find.

IT IS A LITTLE-KNOWN FACT
that the geographic feature now called the Chesapeake Bay was once a fairly narrow river, back when the world was colder and more of its water was locked in polar ice. And while in this warmer, wetter epoch, the bay is wide enough that a person standing on the shore near Kilmarnock cannot see the other side, it is not so wide that a Fennec Fox can’t get across it rapidly.

Storm tilted the Fennec forward, accelerated to its top speed of 150 miles an hour, and was soon over water. The gas gauge was close to full. The stick felt comfortable in his hands. The chopper responded nicely to his commands.

He increased his altitude to one thousand feet where the flying would be a bit smoother. He figured it would be eight minutes before he was back over land.

He used the time to call someone who might be able to tell him where he was going.

The voice of Javier Rodriguez soon filled Storm’s Bluetooth: “Yo, bro, you don’t happen to know who just stole a helicopter from the FBI, do you?”

“It wasn’t stealing. It was borrowing without express permission,” Storm corrected him. “I’ll give it back when I’m done.”

“From the chatter we’re hearing on the fibbies’ frequencies, you might want to do them a favor and fly it straight to Leavenworth. Because it sounds like that’s where they want to send you right about now.”

“Too bad I’m allergic to Kansas,” Storm said. “They’ll forgive me when I find their laser beam for them and then give them credit. I assume you’re tracking the Mockingbird?”

“It’s on our big screen right now. The only way I could get closer to that plane is if I was on board with a flight attendant serving me pretzels.”

“Good. You got a fix on my location, too?”

“Yeah, I see you. You’re the little funny-looking tweety bird that’s about to get shot down by those F-16s that you should see closing in shortly from your three o’clock.”

“I’ll worry about that in a second. Can you tell me where Mockingbird will be when it’s seventy nau—”

“Check your phone, bro. I already sent you a course correction.”

Storm looked down at his phone and tugged the flight stick until he was heading in the proper direction.

Rodriguez continued: “You’re heading near a little town on the Eastern Shore called Crisfield. I hear they got great crab cakes there. Pick some up for me and Bryan when you’re done, huh?”

“Will do. In the meantime, can you do something about those F-16s?”

“Other than hope that you made me a beneficiary in your will? Not really. Jones is on the line with the air force right now, but so far they’re not interested in anything we have to say on the subject. You seem to have crossed into a serious no-fly zone. They don’t want to hear about anything in the air that doesn’t have their stripes on it. Especially not stolen helicopters.”

“Borrowed. It’s borrowed,” Storm said, aware that a pair of fighter jets was closing in fast above him. “Anyhow, looks like my friends are here. I’ll talk to you later.”

“I seriously hope so, bro,” Rodriguez said.

Storm ended the call and took stock of his situation. A Fennec could be armed, but this one wasn’t. And his 150 miles an hour, which had felt so fast moments earlier, suddenly seemed pokey. The two F-16 Fighting Falcons coming to join him could hit supersonic speeds without straining themselves. And he could see the full complement of sidewinder missiles on their wings.

The helmet was still sitting in the seat next to him. He could hear a voice chattering through the earpiece inside. He got the helmet on in time to make out the voice of what he presumed was one of the F-16 pilots.

“November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, identify yourself or you will be treated as hostile.”

“Hostile!” Storm said. “You guys are the ones with the missiles under your wings and I’m the one who’s hostile?”

“November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, identify yourself or you will be treated as hostile.”

Storm realized the microphone in the helmet was switched off. He corrected the problem, then said: “I’m actually quite friendly once you get to know me.”

The F-16 pilot did not seem convinced. “November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, be advised you are flying into restricted airspace. Identify yourself immediately.”

“I’m just the orphaned nephew of a poor moisture farmer from the planet Tatooine. Tell Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru I’m not coming home for supper.”