Code 13 (22 page)

“Hey, boss, there's Interstate 5!” a third white-shirt remarked.

“Okay, let's turn the bird to the north and follow the interstate awhile,” the lead controller said. “I want to see the park!”

“Great idea, boss.”

Paul stood behind the civilian DHS controllers with his arms crossed. The civilians acted like starry-eyed kids who had just unwrapped a new toy found under the Christmas tree. Why did it seem like the JV team had just taken the field? Whoever came up with this idea had to be a lamebrain bureaucrat with no grasp on reality.

Bureaucrats, politicians, and lawyers: probably a committee of that worthless group of bloodsuckers had come up with the notion of putting DHS paper pushers in command, or even in partial command, of U.S. military assets. No class of human beings came closer to epitomizing cold-blooded slugs and vermin than these three people groups.

Of course, there were exceptions to that rule. Very rare exceptions, but definite exceptions.

He smiled as he thought of Caroline. Her blood was anything but cold. This he knew, though he'd never held her close enough to feel her pulse and know for sure.

But still, he knew.

Time was on his side. Soon he would hold her close to him. Soon and very soon. He knew it in his gut.

The screen showed the view from the drone flying north up Interstate 5.

“Hey, there's Balboa Hospital,” a short-sleeved white-shirt said.

“Yep.” The lead controller spoke with a sense of satisfaction in his voice. “We're coming into the southern end of the park.”

Why did this fat-belly have an obsession with Balboa Park?

“Hey, I see the Air and Space Museum,” one white-shirt said.

“And there's the Friendship Garden and the Old Globe!” another said.

“It all looks so green from the air,” a third controller said.

“Hey, Stewart. Get me a close-up of the Friendship Garden,” the lead controller said. “I thought I saw something.”

The drone circled in the air, and already Paul felt like he'd seen enough. As the DHS controllers played with their toy, he whispered to Commander Jefferies, “You got any coffee?”

“Coffee mess is in the back, sir.” He pointed. “Right back there.”

“I'll be right back, gentlemen,” Paul said.

He turned and headed toward the coffee mess. But before he made it out of the room, cackling laughter erupted from the civilian controllers.

“Go for it, dude!”

“He's getting started early!”

“She looks like she's ready.”

He turned to see what all the commotion was about, and when he turned, he saw a close-up image of a man and a woman on a park bench, kissing, making out, and apparently about to do more than that.

“Okay, get that off the screen!” he snapped, his blood boiling.

The civilian controllers complied, and the close-up was replaced by a large overview of the park, with the kissing couple no longer visible.

“I'm gonna step into the coffee mess for some battery acid. Let me know when the drone is in position over DC. Commander? Want to join me?”

“Aye, sir.”

NATIONAL MALL

WASHINGTON, DC

CIRCLING THE WASHINGTON MONUMENT

The breeze had cooled down a bit, and the circle of American flags flapping in the breeze gave a sudden boost of patriotic adrenaline.

The monument marked the halfway point of the run, P.J. had told her. From here they would run the loop around the monument, then run back down the Mall, past the World War II Memorial, past the Lincoln Memorial, back across the Memorial Bridge, then skirt the edge of Arlington Cemetery and head back to the Pentagon.

This was her first run on the Mall, and she didn't want to look like a tourist. But still, something about the size and grandeur of that great obelisk, the Washington Monument, compelled her to stare upward.

“You're going to get dizzy if you keep looking up,” P.J. said.

“I know. I feel like a stupid tourist.”

“Don't feel bad.” He showed no sign of being winded. “I did the same thing for the first week.”

They circled around the back side of the monument, the U.S. Capitol side, then approached the Lincoln Memorial side.

“Hey, wanna kick up the tempo a little bit?” she said.

“Let's do it.”

He jumped out ahead of her a little, looking fabulous in navy blue running shorts and a white T-shirt. She took in the view for a second, then responded with an extra burst of speed and caught up with him, now on the down stretch toward the reflecting pool.

“Trying to make me look bad, are you, big boy?”

“You're the one who wanted to pick up the pace.”

“I figured you needed to get back to do some finishing work on your big brief.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” He sounded less than enthusiastic.

“Sorry. Didn't mean to bring up a sore subject.”

“No worries. I'll just be glad to get it over with. The whole thing is a stupid idea, if you ask me.”

They approached a young couple holding hands, coming down the gravel walkway in the opposite direction. Caroline split right. P.J. split left. A second later, past the couple, they reconverged, running shoulder to shoulder, and jogged across 17th Street, now almost at the beginning of the World War II Memorial.

“Hey, you know what?” P.J. said.

“What?”

“We should slow down a little bit when we circle the World War II Memorial out of respect. This is the most hallowed ground in DC, if you ask me. I don't want to be a distraction to people trying to get in here.”

“Agree.”

They slowed their tempo to almost a jog as they took a semicircle path to the right around the World War II Memorial.

Caroline looked to her left at the large, oval-shaped monument. It was surrounded by fifty-six granite pillars and a huge fountain out in the middle. P.J. was right. People milled within the monument, moving slowly, with a solemn respect for the sacrifice of four hundred thousand Americans who gave their lives for the liberation of Europe and the Pacific. She felt the same goose bumps she had felt when they jogged past Arlington Cemetery.

They said not a word until they had cleared to the west of the Memorial, with the beginning of the reflecting pool now in front of them.

“You mind if I change the subject?” she asked.

“Please do. Anything other than my writing assignment.”

“Sooo . . .” She hesitated. “What's going on with Victoria?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the first time she laid eyes on me, she shot me the look of a cobra ready to strike.”

“You think she looked like a cobra?”

“Okay, more like a jealous paramour determined to protect her property.”

“So what are you getting at?”

“You know what I'm getting at.”

“Are you asking if there's anything between me and Victoria?”

“Like I said. You know what I'm getting at.”

The sound of an airliner roared overhead. P.J. responded, “Okay, so we went out once. No big deal.”

“I didn't hear an answer to my question, Counselor.”

“Do you care?”

“Don't know about care.” She picked up the pace, moving about a half step ahead of him. “But I can be curious, can't I? I mean, we were almost engaged.”

“You know what they say about curiosity, don't you?”

“Yes, curiosity killed the cat. But you still didn't answer my question.”

“I'll put it this way. There might be something there from her perspective. But for me? I'll be honest. I'm glad you got orders to Code 13.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Race you back to the Pentagon,” she said.

“You're on.”

She picked up the pace again, pulling now a full step ahead of him, taking in the glorious sight of the Lincoln Memorial ahead and the sparkling waters of the reflecting pool just to their left.

The single, popping sound at first seemed like a sharp clap from the traffic along Constitution Avenue over to their right. No, maybe it came from the cherry and elm trees above.

A moment later, when it seemed like she was running alone, she glanced back over her shoulder.

He was down, face-first in the gravel walkway beside the pool, and his right hand beat against the ground.

Blood rushed from a gaping hole in his temple.

She stopped, turned around, and screamed at the top of her lungs.

“Help! Somebody help me!”

She sprinted to him and kneeled, weeping, screaming. “No, please! No! P.J.! Wake up! Please! P.J., please! Not this way! No! Please!”

OPERATIONAL HEADQUARTERS

U.S. NAVY DRONE COMMAND

U.S. NAVAL AIR STATION “PAX RIVER”

LEXINGTON PARK, MARYLAND

Paul sat in the coffee mess chatting with Commander John Jefferies, drinking coffee and snacking on a handful of dry-roasted almonds.

“So, John, level with me. You've done some dry runs with these DHS guys. What are your thoughts?”

Jefferies hesitated. He sipped his coffee. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“That's why I asked you.”

“I think this drone project, for purposes of allowing us to patrol coastal waters, gives us an opportunity to enhance national security, sir. But when it comes to domestic surveillance”—he took another sip of coffee—“the chemistry with these Homeland Security controllers is awkward, to say the least.”

“Exactly my thoughts. Plus, they act like a bunch of voyeurs from what I can see. Like perverts with a new spy toy.” A sip of coffee. “Leave it to the lamebrain politicians to come up with a proposal that is neither practical, nor workable, nor compliant with the Fourth Amendment,” Paul said. “All for the sake of money and power. And my orders are to go help sell it to Congress.”

“I hear you, Captain. I think everybody on the military side of the house has grave reservations about the civilian use of the drones. And frankly, no one has been impressed by anything we've seen from Homeland Security so far. But as far as the military mission goes, we're big-time vulnerable to maritime terrorism attack. ISIS or some group like that could sail a ship into New York Harbor and set off a nuclear bomb on board, and
kaboom
. You know as well as I do, sir, that our radars can't see over the horizon. So we've only got about a seven-mile window of alert before they're on top of us. But with
this drone fleet on patrol, we've got a chance to see them hundreds of miles out to sea.”

“I know, Commander. Which is why I'm willing to hold my nose and do all I can to get this passed. Because you're right. We're vulnerable to maritime terrorism attack. Anyway—”

“Excuse me! Captain. Commander.” Paul looked up. Ensign Simpson stood at the door with a look of bewildered excitement on his youthful-looking face.

“What is it, Ensign?” Jefferies asked.

“Drone 1 is now over DC, and there's something I think you might want to see.”

“Not the DHS bureaucrats getting excited about spying on a sex party, I hope,” Paul quipped.

“No, sir,” Simpson said. “Something's happened on the National Mall, sir. Down off the reflecting pool. Flashing blue lights. Ambulances. Hopefully not a terror attack, but we can't tell yet.”

“Let's check it out,” Paul said.

“Aye, sir.”

They stepped out of the coffee mess back into the adjacent control room.

Five large flat screens mounted on the bulkhead above the civilian controllers showed the same image. The drone circled in an orbit over the western section of the National Mall, its shadow making a wide loop on the ground between the Washington Monument and the World War II Memorial.

The growing crowd burgeoned along the portion of the Mall from 17th Street to the west, in and around the World War II Memorial and spilling down toward the eastern end of the long, ruler-shaped reflecting pool. Already, police cars were parked along 17th Street in the shadow of the monument, and police could be seen roping off the street as ambulances and fire trucks poured in, their red lights swirling.