Air Force One called Kippr and was told to transfer to the tower frequency.
Chong dialed it into the radio and was in time to hear the tower roger the call of the Air Force One pilot.
Chong told Joe, “He just crossed Kippr at two hundred ten knots. Kippr is five minutes from us. He’ll be abeam us at nine thousand six hundred feet, ready to dirty up.”
“Three more minutes, I think. Then I turn the bird to intercept.”
They had practiced this interception a dozen times using a fighter plane that flew a similar track, at the same height and airspeed. The last four interceptions were good, but there were a lot of variables, not the least of which was wind, which would change the drone’s velocity and require a heading correction of some magnitude.
They didn’t have to fly the Raven into the big Boeing, merely get it within three hundred feet. Then its integrated controls would trigger the explosive charge the Raven carried, generating a large pulse of electromagnetic energy that should be enough to overcome the light shielding in the plane’s computers and control system, burning them out. At that point the 747 would become uncontrollable. The electromagnetic pulse would fry iPhones, computers, pacemakers, the air data computer, the fly-by-wire, the engine controls, all of it. The plane would crash. Presumably all the crew and passengers would be killed. Including the president of the United States.
Chong used his binoculars to sweep the fields and roads. No one around. No traffic on the road since the farm truck went by. He pointed his binoculars to the north and searched the sky. The seconds ticked by.
“There it is,” he told Frank.
“Turning to intercept.”
Chong focused his binoculars on the oncoming plane. It should have its flaps out, be slowing to gear speed. He just couldn’t tell from this angle, which was almost head-on, but looking up.
“Got him on the camera … Damn, we have a tailwind. Drone is making ninety over the ground.”
“Don’t lead him too much.”
“Denver Tower, Air Force One with you, approaching Japex. We have the glideslope.”
“You are cleared to land, Air Force One.”
“The bird is going too fast. It’s too high and won’t come down.”
“Try to detonate it right over him.”
Frank was good, really good, but …
“Drop the gear,” Chong whispered at the Air Force One pilot.
If the plane would slow, Frank could get the drone down.
“Shit, the wind changed. It’s driving the Raven to the east. Too fast.”
Chong glanced at the video presentation on the laptop. The drone had missed the big Boeing to the right. Frank was turning back toward it, steeply, and the camera picture blacked out. The turn was too steep.
Chong heard the Boeing and looked up. The president’s plane was passing overhead.
“We missed it,” Joe said, the disgust evident in his voice.
“Recover the drone and let’s get the hell outta here.”
“Sorry,” Frank said.
“We’ll try again when he takes off. He’s only going to be here four hours.”
I found Zoe Kerry in the CIA cafeteria eating a salad. I dropped into the seat beside her. I had two hot dogs with chili, mustard and onions on my plate. “Hey,” I said.
“Where you been, Carmellini?”
“Doing serious hot important things.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. This is the CIA, after all. How goes the investigation?”
“The piece of plastic they found under Tomazic’s boat was from a diver’s scuba mask faceplate. They even have the brand name.”
“How long was it in the water?”
“Less than twenty-four hours.”
“So it begins to look like murder?”
“Yes.”
Boy, this would stir them up. In addition to the director of the FBI, the director of the CIA was also murdered. I could visualize the headline.
I ate my hot dogs. The chili they used in the cafeteria was actually pretty good. And real beef hot dogs. God only knows what part of the steer the meat came from, but parts is parts.
Kerry was still messing with her salad when I finished off the dogs and took a long, slow sip of coffee. Not as good as McDonald’s, but acceptable. The upside to not being a gourmet is that you are easily pleased.
“How about friend Reinicke?”
“The fire investigators don’t have much to go on. They are sure the epicenter of the explosion was in Reinicke’s apartment. Natural gas. Hell of a fire. Not much left. Tomorrow, maybe, or the next day. If there is anything to find.”
“You up for dinner tonight?”
“No.”
“Is that no never, or no tonight?”
“Never is a long, long time. Let’s just say, not tonight.”
I gave her my most charming let’s-get-laid-soon smile, picked up my tray and headed off for more serious hot important things. She actually gave me a small smile in return. It must be that old Carmellini charm that worked so well for dear old Dad, and Granddad … and Great-Granddad …
I got in to see Grafton about three that afternoon. He was on his computer. I waited, and when he finished he swiveled his chair to me. “Anything?”
I told him about the morning visit. About the special agent in charge of records, George Washington Lansdown. Tossed the piece of notepaper on his desk. He picked it up, held it under the light so he could see the faint indentations of the file numbers.
“Is this worth following up on?” he asked.
He wanted an opinion. So I gave him one. “They don’t want to share it, so presumably it is interesting reading. Her computerized files that the dragon lady said didn’t exist might be, too.”
“Kerry lied about PTS.”
“And she is sitting on Tomazic’s murder, which may be coincidence or cause and effect. She says that piece of plastic in the water came from a scuba diver’s faceplate. If there was a diver in the water when Tomazic drowned, it was murder.”
“I heard about that.” Grafton sighed and rubbed a hand over his hair, smoothing it down or scratching his dome. I don’t think he even knew he did it when he was thinking.
“I’ll see what I can do about this,” he said, nodding at the notepaper. “Thanks, Tommy. Stick with her.”
“Yes, sir.”
After Carmellini closed the door behind him, Jake Grafton looked again at the file number indentations. He held the paper up to the light and jotted down the numbers on his own notepad. Then he picked up the phone and called the FBI assistant director, Harry Estep. After ten minutes and two executive assistants, he got through to the man himself.
“Harry, Jake Grafton. My man Carmellini came over there this morning and read Zoe Kerry’s files. No problem there … Thanks. Anyway, he wanted to see the two files she got in shootouts over before she came here … Uh-huh … Case files.”
“You know we can’t show you those, Jake.”
“Oh, bullshit, Harry. Like I’m gonna call a reporter. I’ve got this woman waltzing around Langley and I’m up to my ass in Chinese spies and she was involved in a couple of their messes. I’m curious.”
“Sorry, Jake. Department of Justice regulations.”
“I hate to put our professional relationship on that basis, Harry, but you’re pushing me.”
“I have my orders.”
“Have a nice day,” Jake Grafton said, and hung up.
Chinese espionage seemed to be cropping up with distressing regularity, he thought. A coincidence, or cause and effect? The CNO, Cart McKiernan, was worried about the Chinese, and Jake had the greatest respect for him. Just that morning at a department head meeting he had asked for a synopsis of everything the agency knew about Chinese cyber-espionage and naval force readiness. Once again, he was appalled at the reliance of the U.S. intelligence services, including this one, on satellite reconnaissance and electronic intelligence. Only spies on the ground could tell you what the other side was thinking, and unfortunately the United States had far too few of them. In part that was because the U.S. intelligence services had both traitors and moles, who had in the past betrayed human assets with fatal results.