partially shielded the building from view. There were two gates, one in front of the reserve center and intended primarily for passenger vehicles and smaller trucks, the other reached via a side road to the north of the compound and used by heavy equipment such as flatbed trucks, Marine assault vehicles, and two Army Corps of Engineers bulldozers.
Jackson stopped in a swath of bushes just outside the fence and surveyed the parking lot. “Just like they said — but two cars there, not one.” Jackson said. Prior to 9/11, the building had been unattended after normal working hours. In case of an emergency or mobilization order, the caller was advised by the answering machine to contact the duty officer via his pager. Now, most reserve centers were manned 24-7 by at least one body. This late at night, Jackson had been expecting to see just one car, that of the duty officer.
“They didn’t say anything about two people,” Thornburg said. “But that’s not a problem.”
Jackson grunted. No, it wasn’t a problem, but he didn’t like it. Faulty intelligence was the major downfall of most operations, and he was particularly determined that this would go exactly as planned.
“Could be somebody’s car just broke down over the weekend,” Jack suggested. “We can check if there’s dust on the windshield, see if it’s broken.”
“Good idea. But it’s under the lights.” The parking lot had a separate set of streetlights and every inch of it was illuminated. “What if somebody decides he needs something out of his car? No, we go in like we planned. If somebody else turns up, we deal with it.” Jackson’s voice was grim.
They went in the way that they had briefed, circling the compound through the brush and trees to approach the heavy equipment yard. There, the large trucks and vehicles were parked near the fence close to each other and provided additional shadows. Jackson took the wire cutters and unhesitatingly made the first cut in the chain link. They retreated to a safe distance and waited for twenty minutes, but nothing happened. Their source had been accurate. There were no ground pressure sensors or sensors on the fence to alarm whoever was inside the reserve center. They returned, cut enough strands to open a hole, and slid into the heavy vehicle yard.
Like the parking lot, the concrete lot that housed large equipment for several units was well illuminated, but badly planned. Several vehicles were parked in such a manner as to provide a continuous trail of shadows to cover their approach. It was not entirely accidental. The same source that had provided the details on the compound security was also part of the motor pool.
He had also provided a key, both to the back door and the administrative section, where the duty personnel usually stayed. Jackson and his men moved quietly, three large, camouflaged figures out of place in the white passageway with well-waxed floors. The double doors that separated the administrative section from the drill hall were steel-paneled with two windows, one on each side. Jackson and his men crouched down so as not to be seen as they used their key. The door opened easily.
Yeoman Second Class Anthony Hillman looked up as the door opened. He froze for just a moment, then slammed away from his desk and started running. Probably for the duty room, Jackson thought. There’ll be a telephone there.
Hillman was fast, but the three men caught him easily. Jackson slammed him against the wall and put a knife to his throat. “The keys to the armory — now.”
“I don’t have them,” Hillman said, his voice a little shakier than he would have liked.
“Sure you do.” Jackson pressed the tip of the knife into Hillman’s throat. Hillman moaned as the blade penetrated the skin. Rough hands moved over him, plunging into the pockets of his uniform. Thornburg pulled out a ring of keys.
“Well, well. Let’s go see if these fit the armory. I hope not. I would hate to think you’d lied to me.” Jackson twisted Hillman’s arm behind his back and marched him to the armory. After fumbling through half the keys, Thornburg found one that fit. The door swung open. They were confronted by a steel cage secured with another lock. Thornburg tried all the keys, then shrugged. Hillman had been partially accurate, anyway. “Only the gunner’s mates have that one” Hillman said, his voice a little stronger. Sure, he was still scared, real scared, but he was pissed, too.
“I have a key,” Mertz announced. He pulled out his.45 and shot the lock. The bullet destroyed the lock, ricocheted once, then buried itself in the cement wall.
“Go get the truck,” Jackson ordered. “I’ll keep our new friend company.” He shoved Hillman down the floor and stood over him, a faint smile on his face as he aimed his own.45 at the petty officer’s face.
Greenfield appeared to be completely fascinated by the condition of his fingernails as he listened to Tombstone speak. Finally, when the former admiral was finished, he looked up. “Why me?”
“Why not?” Tombstone asked. “The FBI is more familiar with this sort of operation than anyone else.”
“I sure am.” There was no mistaking the bitterness in Greenfield’s voice.
“Would you like some more time to feel sorry for yourself?”
Greenfield finally looked up. “Try again, mister. The only people I feel sorry for are those three who died in the fire. I see those kids every time I turn around. Or I see an adult that looks like they will ten years from now. I’ve seen their pictures in the paper. I know what they looked like. That wasn’t how they looked the last time I saw them.”
“Then keep it from happening again. Take on the XO billet.”
“That an order?”
Tombstone shrugged. “If you want it to be. Call it a request for now.”
“Try Bratton. That’s more his style.”
“He suggested you.”
Greenfield nodded. “That makes sense. It’s to the CIA’s advantage if this goes wrong.”
“Maybe I made a mistake,” Tombstone said in an entirely different tone of voice.
“That would make two of us. Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate it. But I couldn’t keep things from going wrong when I was in charge of the operation. You’re asking me to step into the number-two position and take responsibility for your decisions.”
“No.” Tombstone’s voice was firm. “That’s what happened to you before. I’m asking you to make sure that my decisions and orders are carried out. That’s all. Any shit rolls uphill in my organization, buddy. That’s evidently not the case in the FBI.”
Tombstone turned and stalked away. He hadn’t gone more than ten steps when Greenfield said, “OK. I’ll do it.”
Tombstone stopped. “Good. The first thing you do, set up communications with whatever state and local agencies there are around here. Something is going to go down — it’s just a matter of when.”
Seaman Greg Vincent Hedges completed his security round and was heading back toward the building when he saw a shadow move. He froze where he was, his eyes focused on the spot, and then saw a man moving between the shadows. His right hand went to his belt where he normally carried a.45. In civilian life, Seaman Hedges was with the Butte Police Department. But security patrols at the reserve center were armed with nothing more than a walkie-talkie. He had it riding on his left hip, and he reached out and turned it off, hoping the click the switch made wouldn’t be audible. He slid to his right, finding a shadow of his own to provide cover, and watched.
There were three of them, all in camouflage and armed. He saw them make their way to the reserve center, unlock the back door, and disappear from sight. Hedges made a slow, careful circuit of the area himself, more skillfully than the three men had done. When he was certain there were no others waiting, he put a truck between himself and the reserve center and pulled out a cell phone. He dialed 911.
“So which one of those cars out front is yours?” Jackson asked heartily, as though making conversation.
“The white Toyota.”
“And the other car?”
“Just left it here, huh? You’re not standing a very tight watch if you don’t know who it belongs to.”
“I haven’t read the pass-down log yet. Maybe there’s something about it in there.” As soon as the words left
