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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.”