Mike shrugged his broad shoulders. “Hell, I never even got a chance to use up last year’s days. And now the First Kid goes and turns sixteen, and this year’s vacation’s down the tube too.”
Mike had been postponing the same vacation for as long as the brothers had known him.
“What have you got for us?” Thomas asked.
“Come on back, and I’ll show you,” Galloway replied cryptically.
They followed their escort down a tiled hallway that held a series of small, vacant offices. At the far end of this corridor, Galloway pushed open a pair of large swinging doors and led them into a cavernous room that comprised most of the warehouse.
Overhead racks of powerful mercury-vapor lights illuminated an entire mail-sorting facility, currently staffed by a crew of some two dozen individuals. Galloway proceeded to one of the active loading docks.
The large U. S. Postal Service semi that they had seen outside was backed up to this bay, and a trio of workers were in the process of loading it with dozens of parcel-filled, cloth carts. Upon closer examination, the brothers could see that the majority of these parcels appeared to be colorfully wrapped gifts.
“This truck they’re loading,” Galloway explained, “is the sixth similarly packed load we’ve filled this week. Believe it or not, each of those parcels is a birthday gift that’s been sent to the First Kid.
They’ve originated from every corner of the planet, and so far, we’ve counted over ten thousand of them.”
Without waiting for a response, Galloway took them over to the adjoining bay, where the Federal Express van was being unloaded. The cargo was a combination of letters, boxes, and tubes. Upon entering the warehouse, each item was placed on a conveyor belt, where it was routed to a manned X-ray machine, much like one would see at an airport security checkpoint.
“Of course, just like every other letter and package addressed to either the White House or Executive Office Building, we have to carefully scrutinize each of these gifts.”
They watched as a particularly large box passed through the X-ray machine. The conveyor belt briefly stopped, and while the staff checked its contents on the monitor screen, Vince vented his curiosity.
“Once they pass inspection, do the gifts ever make it to the House?”
Galloway was quick to answer. “The only ones that make it inside are legitimate parcels from the First Family’s friends and relatives.
Protocol sent us a comprehensive list of acceptable return addresses, and so far, this has amounted to less than ten percent of all items received here.”
“What happens to the other ninety percent?” Thomas asked.
“A volunteer group of White House staffers are responsible for opening each and every one of them. They’re taken over to an empty warehouse on G Street. Toys, clothing, and other appropriate items are being donated to the homeless, with almost ten thousand thank-you cards having been sent out so far.”
“Talk about a serious case of writer’s cramp,” returned Vince.
Their escort ignored this remark, and led them to a large office located at the very back of the facility. Two clerks were at work here, busy checking items off a computerized manifest list. This conscientious duo didn’t even bother looking up from their screens as Galloway picked up a large, flat envelope that lay on the table between them.
Thomas and Vince viewed the envelope’s contents simultaneously. It was a twelve-by-fourteen-inch photographic negative. Clearly visible on the flimsy plate were the outlines of a pair of nine-volt batteries, placed side by side on the far right-hand side of the negative. The outlines of what appeared to be several twisted wires could be seen stretching from the four battery terminals to the muddled, unidentifiable contents of the rest of the picture.
“The suspect package was addressed to the White House. It was unloaded off the morning USPS truck, approximately two hours ago,” revealed Galloway. “Our scanner team tagged it on the first X-ray pass. This is the plate that triggered our code nine.”
The negative looked disturbingly familiar. Vince traded an anxious glance with his brother before asking the next question. “Where is it now?”
“We’ve just finished securing it in isolation.” Galloway gestured toward a rear door. “If you’ll follow me, I’m sure you’ll find the parcel itself most interesting.”
They exited the warehouse and found themselves on the back portion of the compound. A two-and-a-half-acre plot of woodland had been completely cleared there, leaving a flat, grass-filled lot, dominated by a single, squat concrete block structure set in the clearing’s center.
An asphalt walkway connected this structure to the warehouse. A helmeted technician, in full protective bomb gear, was in the process of utilizing a remote-control device to steer a four-foot-tall, child-sized robot down this pathway. Nicknamed Freddie, the robot traveled on tractor-tread wheels as it headed back to its storage shed inside the mail-sorting facility.
Thomas and Vince received a nod from the technician as they passed him and continued on to the blockhouse. Then-escort opened the structure’s heavy steel, blast proof door, and led the way inside.
The twelve-by-twelve-foot room was cool and dark. Its thick, concrete-block walls absorbed sound like a sponge.
There was a certain unearthly quality to the atmosphere as Mike Galloway switched on a bank of red-tinted lights. This ghostly illumination revealed a concrete bench set in the cell’s exact center.
A single red, white, and blue USPS Priority Mail box sat on this bench.
The unopened parcel was 15’/2 inches long, 12!/2 inches wide, and had a depth of 3’/4 inches.
Thomas fought a subconscious urge to hold his breath as he cautiously approached the bench. With Vince close at his side, Thomas bent over and quickly scanned the hand-printed, Priority Mail address label.
There was no ignoring the sender’s distinctive cramped penmanship.
Thomas wasn’t all that surprised upon noting the familiar return address.
“Do you believe the audacity of this sick bastard, giving it another try like this?” Vince whispered, disgusted.
Thomas had seen enough. He stood up straight and backed away from the bench.
“I told you you’d find it interesting,” reminded Galloway.
Thomas was already thinking ahead to how the investigation should proceed. “I hope this time they’ll let us disarm it. It will just happen all over again, if they go and blow the device and destroy all the evidence in the process.”
“If this IED”—Improvised Explosive Device—“is packed with C-4, instead of a mere blasting cap, I sure wouldn’t want to be the one tasked with disarming it,” said Vince.
Thomas looked at his brother and countered, “Someone’s going to have to take a look inside without blowing it to shreds. Otherwise, one of these devices is eventually going to slip through the system, and take out an entire wing of the White House.”
As if to emphasize this statement, his beeper began buzzing. A quick check of the pager’s digital display identified the caller, and Thomas reached for the door handle.
“I’m going to need a secure line, Mike.”
“You’ve got it,” Galloway replied, before leading the way back to his office in the main building.
While his brother made his phone call, Vince was able to get his longed-for Dr. Pepper with some help from Galloway’s wallet. With an extra can for Thomas, they returned to Galloway’s office in time to intercept Thomas in the hallway.
“That was short and sweet,” said Vince, handing his brother the soda.
“What did he want?”
Thomas popped the can’s aluminum tab and took an appreciative sip before answering. “The director was calling from the seventh hole of a charity golf tournament in Fairfax. It seems he’s already been briefed on the nature of our code nine.”