Hard Target (9 page)

A moment later, the man handed back their cred cases and admitted them onto the base.

The Marine Corps Air Facility, thirty miles and a stone’s throw by helicopter from downtown DC, resides in a densely wooded Virginian paradise with its own marina off the Chesapeake, a private golf course, riding stable, recreation areas, sports leagues, youth centers, and school system.

As they drove along the main drag, Fuller Road, Uzi noticed what appeared to be residential apartments peeking through the trees about thirty yards to his left. “Base housing?”

“Nope. See that creek?” DeSantos asked, nodding at a shallow grass-covered bank with water tumbling through. “That’s the boundary of the base. Twenty feet beyond that is Triangle, Virginia. Civilian neighborhood.”

“No secured wall along the perimeter?”

“Hard to imagine, huh?”

“So,” Uzi said, “anyone could walk right onto the base. Not even a chain-link fence to climb.”

“The town of Quantico is civilian, too. Located a couple miles down the road. I guess you could just tell the guard at the main gate you were going into town and they’d have to let you in.”

“Yeah, right.”

DeSantos shrugged. “They probably figure you gotta be crazy to try something on a military base with a thousand armed Marines walking the grounds.”

Uzi thought of the suicide bombers he’d encountered, the mass destruction of 9/11, the planned attack on Fort Dix. Problem was, these people
are
crazy. “How much further to HMX?”

“Couple minutes.”

In addition to serving as the training facility for a plethora of Marine units, Quantico’s least publicly known function was to house and operate Marine Helicopter Squadron One, the only operational fleet on the base. Officially coded HMX-1, the squadron’s primary purpose was to provide helicopter transport for the president and vice president, as well as for cabinet members and foreign dignitaries as authorized by the Director of the White House Military Office. HMX-1 was where the ill-fated Marine Two and Marine Three flights had originated on election night, having pre-positioned earlier in the day closer to Washington.

As Uzi and DeSantos approached the air facility, encircled by nasty razor-wire-topped chain-link fencing, they came upon another security checkpoint. After again providing their credentials for verification, they waited while the sergeant-of-the-guard phoned Major Warren Vasquez to obtain permission for them to access the Cage Hangar.

Vasquez apparently gave the sergeant whatever authorization he required, because the gate opened and the guard returned their IDs. Uzi proceeded down a circular drive along the two-lane road, then parked his SUV across from the large brick barracks building, where both of them got out. “Even if someone got onto the base,” DeSantos said, “getting into HMX is a different story.”

They headed toward the Cage’s entrance, where they were met by more guards. The corporal examined their credentials yet again, then informed them that Major Vasquez was en route.

As the guard pulled his two-way radio from a clip on his shoulder, a large, glistening bottle green and white helicopter approached in the distance. It hovered fifty yards away, the wind from the beating blades ruffling Uzi’s hair and kicking up a windstorm of dust that cascaded outward from the ground beneath the chopper. Uzi held up a hand to shield his face and watched as the bird touched down on a red circular plank of wood set out on a grassy field that simulated the landing area on the White House lawn.

“That’s a VH-3D,” DeSantos said above the grind of the engines. “Presidential transport.”

“I’ve seen photos.”
And pieces
. “Beautiful bird.”

DeSantos nodded. “They’ve got a dozen of them, all identical. Uh, they had a dozen.”

Uzi covered his ears to lessen the whining thump of the rotors. “Damn noisy, though.”

“Only on the outside. Sound dampers around the engines bring it down to less than seventy decibels inside. No louder than a car.”

A man in dress blues with graying temples and a leathery, pocked face pulled in front of them. His formal demeanor evaporated when he caught sight of DeSantos. He climbed out of his SUV and grinned broadly.

“Santa. How’ve you been?” He threw his hand out and the two vigorously shook.

“I’m still breathing, so all’s good. You?”

His grin sagged. “Doing well till yesterday.”

“That’s why we’re here. Aaron Uzi, FBI.” Uzi extended a hand and received a more subdued, official greeting. “We need to talk with you about the pilots who handled both birds that went down, the VH-3D and Super Stallion, as well as the maintenance personnel who’ve worked on them.”

“I’ve got the information in my office.” Vasquez turned to the Marine behind him. “Corporal of the Guard, provide these two gents with visitor badges.”

After Uzi and DeSantos signed in, they were handed their red clip-on placards and escorted through the turnstile by Major Vasquez.

“HMX-1 is divided into two areas,” Vasquez said as they walked. “A green side and a white side. Green is where new personnel are screened and observed when they’re first assigned here. After they clear the background check, which can take a year, year and a half, they’re transferred to The Cage—the white side—which operates and maintains the Executive Detachment. That’s the fleet that transports the president and vice president, their wives, and high-ranking support staff.”

“The Cage?” Uzi asked.

“It was once surrounded by a tall security fence,” Vasquez said. “Looked like a cage. Now it’s a modern looking metal hangar connecting those two red-brick buildings you saw outside that go back, I don’t know, maybe fifty years. All together, the 150,000-square-foot building is where we store the dozen helicopters, support offices for Crew Chiefs, Flight Line Division Chiefs, and the AMO—Aircraft Maintenance Officer.”

“Nice setup,” Uzi said.

“Started out in ’47 as an experimental Marine unit to test and evaluate military helicopters. Wasn’t long before it became an important part of presidential transport after Eisenhower used a chopper for an emergency trip from Rhode Island to DC. He was hooked—very convenient and very fast. Bang, we started using helicopters to ferry around the executive staff.”

“What’s the ‘X’ stand for?” Uzi asked.

“Experimental. All new birds and their modified systems were tested and evaluated right here. Now we do it at Pax River, NavAir HQ over in Lexington Park.”

As they entered the large hangar, Vasquez motioned with a sweeping wave of his hand. “Welcome to The Cage. Ever been inside here, Agent Uzi?”

“No, sir. Fascinating place, though.” He craned his neck around the cavernous structure, which currently housed about ten aircraft.

“You got H-3’s, like the one that went down,” Vasquez said as he pointed to the far wall. “Some of the threes are still in service since the Kennedy administration. It’s a tribute to our vigilant maintenance program that they’ve lasted so long.”

Unless someone blows it up
.

“Then you’ve got the newer members of the fleet, the VH-60s. We put them into commission around eighty-eight. These things are the real deal.”

“Black Hawks,” Uzi said. “I’ve flown them. Great bird.”

“Yes they are,” Vasquez said with a slight nod. “These may be a bit different than the breed you know. State of the art. Not as comfortable and roomy as the H-3, but we can fold these things up and pack ’em into the back of a C-5 and take them overseas. They’re a crucial part of our emergency relocation service because of their versatility. We can mobilize them damn near immediately. Since you know the basic Black Hawk design, you know they’re battle-hardened. Ours can take a hit from a twenty-millimeter shell and still keep flying.”

Just then, the whine of a craft’s rotors filled the hangar. Uzi and DeSantos glanced out the open doors and saw a VH-60 powering up. The noise began building as Vasquez placed his hands against their backs and ushered them to an office along the periphery of the Cage’s interior.

Vasquez shut the door, muting the noise. Models of fighter jets and helicopters adorned his large desk, with framed commendations and photos of Vasquez mugging with three presidents, including a glossy 8-by-10 with Jonathan Whitehall, on the wall behind him.

“Gentlemen, please.” He motioned to two chairs in front of his desk. “I’ve got some materials I can share with you. Documents prepared for our internal investigation.”

DeSantos settled into his seat. “We’ll need a list of all the mechanics and maintenance personnel who have clearance to be near those choppers.”

“Got it right here. Just about to go out to the safety board. I can run a copy for you.” He pressed a button on his desk phone and a lance corporal entered the room. “Two copies of each document,” he said, holding the file out to the young man.

“What can you tell us about the pilots?” Uzi asked.

Vasquez’s shoulders squared up. “The men assigned to HMX-1 are some of the best we have to offer, Agent Uzi. They go through rigid training in evasive maneuvers, zero-visibility and close-formation flying. We’re like the post office. Neither rain nor snow nor sleet will keep us from our jobs. The president or veep need to go somewhere, we go. No questions asked.” He looked down at his desk, hesitated, then continued. “As to the men who went down with their choppers, I can tell you each of them was an extremely competent, highly decorated pilot. No problems with any of them.”

“Then let’s talk about others who had access to the birds,” Uzi said. “Crew chiefs and maintenance personnel. You looked over the list. Any cause for concern?”

“Same story goes. Best of the best. Crew chiefs and other maintenance personnel are selected for assignment to HMX-1 based on exceptional performance and integrity while assigned to squadrons of the Fleet Marine Force. Their competence is beyond reproach.”

“I wasn’t asking about their competence, sir. I was questioning their patriotism.”

Vasquez and Uzi shared a long stare. Uzi knew that questioning a Marine’s commitment to his country was tantamount to the worst insult one could muster.

DeSantos cleared his throat. “I don’t think Uzi means any disrespect, Warren. We have reason to believe an explosive device was planted aboard the craft. Most likely here.”

Vasquez’s brow crumpled and his mouth slipped open. “What?”

“It’s all preliminary, and of course confidential. But I think you realize there are tough questions that have to be asked. No one wants to be asking them, least of all us.”

Vasquez’s face softened. “I know that.” His gaze drifted off to somewhere on his desk. He sighed deeply. “Damn.” He reached for the phone, punched an extension, chewed his lip until someone answered. “Top, I need some info. Get your keester over here ASAP.” He shook his head. “Then drop everything. Just get over here.”

As he hung up the phone, Uzi said, “Let me ask the question I asked before. Given that new information, does anything about these men stand out? Anything at all?”

Vasquez thought for a moment. “Nothing. One thing I didn’t mention earlier. These guys go through a Yankee White. Know what that is? Hector?”

“Very thorough background check for personnel who have regular contact with the president and veep. Includes an SSBI—Single Scope Background Investigation. Bottom line—they’re looking for unquestioned loyalty to the United States.”

“All well and good,” Uzi said. “But we’ve got a set of facts that don’t jibe.”

Vazquez squinted. “Bombs. You sure?”

“It’s preliminary,” Uzi said. “Lab’s working it up now. The debris was scattered over a large area, and the techs don’t like to jump to conclusions. Especially in a case like this. Obvious question is, How could a bomb be planted on one of those choppers? It’d have to be done here, right?”

Vasquez shifted uneasily in his chair. “I don’t see where else. But you need to understand something. These birds are treated like fine gems. They’re polished inside and out. We have rigid procedures for anything and everything done to them.”

“I didn’t mean to imply you don’t.”

“We have built-in redundancies and checks and balances every step of the way. So after a mechanic completes his work, he signs a form indicating exactly what was done and how long it took. An inspector then checks his work to make sure it meets our highest standards. He signs a form stating he’s checked it. Then a Collateral Duty Inspector gives it his once-over and a Quality of Work Inspector signs off on it.”

Vasquez interlaced his fingers and rested them on the desk in front of him. “Then the crew chief acts like a mother hen, inspecting the aircraft and signing it off as fit for flight. The pilots then come out and take another look at it.”

“You’re assuming that the person who planted the bomb sabotaged the part he was assigned to repair or replace,” Uzi said.

“He could’ve been assigned to replace a battery,” DeSantos said, “then placed the explosive beneath the rotor assembly. No one would see it, and none of the follow-up inspections would catch it. The inspectors would merely see the new battery and sign off on it.”

Vasquez was silent as he studied his desk.

“Is that possible, Major?” Uzi asked.

Vasquez looked up at Uzi. “Yes.” Before he could elaborate, his phone buzzed. He listened, straightened, then said, “Send him in.”

The door opened and revealed a man his late forties with a red grease rag in his left hand. “This is Master Sergeant Cole Conrad,” Vasquez said. “We call him ‘Top.’ He’s the Cage’s Flight Line division chief. Participated in Desert Shield and Desert Storm with a Super Stallion squadron. Top here can tell you anything there is to know about these beasts.” Vasquez indicated his guests with a nod of his head. “This is FBI Special Agent Uzi and Hector DeSantos, DOD.”

“Master Sergeant,” Uzi started, “I’m going to give you a hypothetical, and I want you to treat it with strict confidence. It’s only a hypothetical, and if what I’m about to tell you is taken as the truth, a whole lot of shit’ll be stirred up. We clear on that?”

“Very clear, sir.”

“If I told you a bomb took down Marine Two and Three, what would you say about that?”