First to Kill

Korean War. It happened in March 1951 during the advance to Line Boston on the south bank of the Han River south of Seoul. His Marine platoon had been reassigned to shore up I Corps. They’d been pinned down by machine-gun and mortar fire for half an hour. In an act of rage more than anything else, he’d climbed to the edge of his foxhole, stood up, leveled his M1 at the hip, and emptied five clips at the enemy position. Bullets had thumped the ground in front of him, not one of them finding its mark. Inspired, the platoon to his left added their bullets, giving the platoon on his right the chance to advance and overrun the enemy’s mortar position. Stone had been decorated for that reckless bit of bravery, receiving his nickname in the process.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” Stone said. “I apologize for the late hour, but the subject matter demands it.” He made eye contact with everyone seated around the table. “I’ve called for this meeting because of a critical new development. I’ve already been briefed, but everyone here needs to know about the new threat.”

The CDT consisted of a hardworking group of five men and four women, all handpicked by the senator. Each of them represented a federal law-enforcement agency. It was the first group of its kind. A prototype. In theory, having a representative of each agency encouraged mutual cooperation and sharing of information. In reality, tension often filled the room. But despite their many differences, they all shared one thing in common: loyalty to the United States of America. Without exception, everyone seated around the table shared a strong resolve to defend and protect the security of the nation.

Stone turned his radar toward his right-hand man, the FBI’s member, Special Agent Leaf Watson. Watson was a career fed who’d entered the FBI academy after spending seven years in the Air Force as a herky bird driver. He was a no-nonsense guy who didn’t mince words. In his mid-forties, he walked with a slight limp from a helicopter accident dating back to his Air Force years.

Watson shuffled some papers and cleared his throat. “The FBI has had an undercover agent on the inside of an arms-smuggling group called Freedom’s Echo for several months now. Until now, Freedom’s Echo has dealt in small weapons. Many of the guns aren’t even illegal until they’re modified to fire on full auto, which this group does. The group’s located in Lassen County in Northern California and operated by two brothers, Leonard and Ernie Bridgestone. You can read about this pair in your briefing packet, if you haven’t already. To summarize, they’re both in their mid-forties and the older brother, Leonard, is a trained Army Ranger, retired. Ernie Bridgestone was a Marine drill instructor and got himself court-martialed for killing a pedestrian while driving drunk. He spent five years in Fort Leavenworth. Both brothers had plenty of disciplinary citations in their files, and both left the military without looking back. Neither they nor their younger brother, Sammy, who works for them, got much attention from law enforcement until they came into possession of a large quantity of Semtex.”

Stone McBride nodded for Watson to continue.

“Semtex was originally manufactured in Communist Czechoslovakia. As some of you might recall, when that regime toppled the new government gave the world some very bad news. The old Communist regime had exported at least nine hundred tons of Semtex to Qaddafi’s Libya and similar amounts to rogue states such as Syria, North Korea, Iran, and Iraq. Worldwide, there could be as many as forty thousand tons of Semtex out there.”

While Watson let that sink in, Stone got up, walked over to the corner table, and poured himself a glass of water. Even though he’d been briefed on all of this earlier, the number still seemed outrageous. Forty thousand tons translated into eighty million pounds. Eighty million pounds. How could that be? Who besides the military or mining companies needed even ten tons of the stuff, let alone a thousand tons. But forty thousand tons? Where was all of it? How much had terrorists already stockpiled?

Watson resumed. “We think Leonard Bridgestone made a connection with a Syrian official when he was stationed on the northern border of Iraq. He and his brother appear to have obtained around one ton. As you know, Semtex is extremely potent. In 1988, less than a pound was molded into a Toshiba cassette recorder and used to bring down Pan Am flight one-oh-three over Lockerbie, Scotland, and an undetermined amount was used to bomb the USS Cole when she was moored in Yemen. Semtex was also used to bomb our embassy in Nairobi.”

“Now,” Stone McBride said, “we come to the point of this meeting. Our missing man is Special Agent James Ortega. All you recognize his last name because his grandfather is former FBI Director Frank Ortega, who served in that capacity under two of the portraits on these walls. Among other things, Frank Ortega is a lifelong friend of mine. We were in the same unit in Korea. James Ortega is the third generation to serve with the bureau.”

“He volunteered for the job,” Watson added. “When he failed to make a scheduled check-in and officially became MIA, the FBI had to assume the worst. In his last report, he saw several pallets of Semtex being unloaded from a rental truck and stacked inside the compound’s main building. We’ve had the compound under constant surveillance since his report. As far as we know, the Semtex is still there.”

The chairman leaned on the table with both hands. “I called this meeting to give everyone a heads-up on what’s about to happen. The FBI will be raiding the compound tomorrow at fourteen-thirty hours, local time. The FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force will conduct the raid, so we can count on a certain degree of media fallout. Something of this magnitude can’t be kept from the press for long. We’re hitting that compound at full force tomorrow. I’ll brief you afterward on the status of James Ortega, the Semtex, and the teams that conduct the raid. Until then, thank you all again for coming on such short notice.”

The committee members stood, gathered their belongings, and silently filed out of the room.

Watson started to leave. Stone stopped him. “Not you, Leaf.”

Watson faced the senator.

Nathan McBride’s father gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat. I’ve been in touch with the president. We have a few things to discuss.”

Nathan and Harv’s flight helmets crackled to life with the approach controller’s voice. “Helicopter Five- November-Charlie, contact Sacramento Executive tower on one-one-nine point five. Frequency change approved. Good night.”

From the left seat, Harv pressed a preset button containing the tower’s frequency and pulled the transmit trigger. “Sacramento Exec, Helicopter Five-November-Charlie is with you with information sierra.”

The tower’s response came back immediately. “Helicopter Five-November-Charlie, radar contact confirmed. Maintain heading and speed for landing on Taxiway Hotel. Advise upon two-mile final.”

Nathan made a slight course correction and eased the collective down a hair. Harv acknowledged the tower’s instructions. Although they could speak to each other any time they liked through the intercom system, Nathan hadn’t felt like talking much. He knew Harv was aware of his mood. There was little he could hide from his friend. He appreciated the distance given at times like this, but sooner or later, Harv would mention it, saying something like, You’ve been a little quiet lately, is something bugging you? Nathan planned on telling his friend what was bothering him, he just didn’t feel like doing it now.

As if on cue, Harv spoke. “You’ve been awfully quiet since we left San Diego. Want to talk about it?”

Well, there it was, out in the open where it belonged. No avoiding it now. “I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about Ortega’s grandson, how much time’s passed since his last check-in.”

“You figure he’s been compromised and interrogated.”

“It pisses me off thinking about it. They probably tortured the shit out of the poor kid. Maybe still are.”

“That’s not the only thing bugging you.”

Nathan didn’t respond, didn’t have to.

“It’s how far Greg and Frank are willing to go to save James. You’re wondering why your father didn’t go to the same lengths to find you.”

Harv had hit pay dirt. That’s exactly what he’d been wondering. For many, many years. During his four-day crucifixion, he’d had lots of time to think about it. Hour after hour, then day after day, he kept waiting for the cavalry to arrive, hoping for the cavalry to arrive, praying for it to arrive. Toward the end, his prayers changed and death had been welcome.

“You okay?”

Nathan nodded. “I just don’t like my father knowing of our involvement. It makes this whole thing… I don’t know, seem dirty.”

“Come on, that’s not fair. The CDT is a vital part of the nation’s security. It’s an important job, being the chairman. Of course he’s involved.”

Nathan said nothing.