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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: The Blood of Patriots
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C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-NINE
Ward napped for the entire ride—if passing out and then being jarred awake twenty minutes later can be called a nap.
State Police didn't come up with any sightings of the vehicles registered to the community center or any of the kids whose identities were known. Again, not a surprise; if there were some kind of plot against the airport, the perpetrators would either hide the ATVs and steal a car or take public transportation. At this hour, getting any kind of information from bus companies was difficult; no cabs had gone from Basalt to the airport, but that didn't mean anything. The kids could have gone somewhere else first to throw the police off.
“Or they could've had motorcycles stashed in garages for this purpose,” Officer Webb pointed out after updating Ward. “They could have trucked them in from out of state and ditched them somewhere close by.”
Or they could have thumbed a ride. Or maybe someone drove them. Or maybe they aren't even here and are getting ready for a second-wave attack to retake the training camp.
Ward couldn't think clearly, but that didn't stop him from thinking too much. His brain was foggier than when he'd slumped into the seat.
Ward couldn't believe all that had happened since the last time he'd seen this airport, with its simple chalet-style peaked roof and great glass windows. The first shots and stabbings and beatings against the American homeland had taken place by jihadists. This wasn't a one-time event like the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks. This was the Boston Massacre, Fort Sumter, the face-to-face struggle that marked the start of the real war. The battle had started with a skirmish on the Randolph farm and raged through the dry cleaning van and then into Debbie's home. It spilled into the cave in the valley and now, here, the finale of Act One was about to take place. Ward felt a kind of tidal momentum wash against his lawman's soul.
“Are you okay, sir?” Officer Webb asked as he parked at the curb.
“Why?”
“You look like you want to bite someone.”
Webb—a blond, blue-eyed rookie—had a good eye. Ward did feel himself going feral. “I do, and the enemy's feeling that too. Don't give him quarter.”
“I haven't really been briefed,” the young man apologized.
“You will be,” boomed a voice from behind him.
A man the size of a brown bear was walking through the automatic door. He was followed by two other men, each broad and powerful-looking—but still small beside the speaker, despite the ominous, black AR-15 assault rifles they were carrying. The three men were wearing the sharp cobalt-blue shirts and what looked, in the morning light, to be grayish trousers of the Colorado State Patrol.
“Walt Crockett,” he said to Ward. He did not give his rank; there was no need. He wore it on his sleeve and projected it in his voice. He offered his hand which the detective was loath to take; it looked like it could shatter a beer bottle. Ward survived the grip, but just barely. “Troopers Holt and Big Tree,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. The men acknowledged with a nod as their names were mentioned. They did not smile. Their lips did not part. They knew the major was The Major and this was his show. Now Ward knew it too.
“Good to meet you all,” Ward said. Webb nodded his own agreement though he seemed a little surprised and intimidated by the breadth and firepower of the men.
“We've got three more men inside,” Crockett went on. “This time of day, there's not a lot of traffic moving out. Visibility and line-of-fire are both A-1.”
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Ward asked, noticing a pair of skycaps looking anxiously in their direction.
“The Airport Facilities Manager's office is at our disposal,” Crockett replied, leading the way. His two men stepped aside then fell in behind Ward and Webb.
They walked through the brightly lit terminal with its vaulted ceilings and still-shuttered shops. They walked through a wood-panel door that said Authorized Personnel Only. The night crew was still on the clock, consisting of three people. No one was using the office of the AFM. At a signal from the major, only he and Ward went in.
“The tactic is deterrence, then,” Ward said as Crockett shut the door.
“You mean the show of firepower?” Crockett said. He set a big thigh on the edge of the desk. “Yeah. Our policy is to discourage terrorists from attacking our airfield. I understand you're here without-portfolio.”
There was an edge of disapproval in his voice; it teetered, like a seesaw, with his obvious intention to be a good and professional host.
“If you mean I'm defrocked and unarmed, you're right,” Ward answered. “If you mean I'm a guy with experience fighting these thugs, you're also right.”
“By ‘these thugs' do you mean the alleged terrorists in Basalt or the street vendor in New York?”
“The kids in Basalt,” Ward replied. He felt stupid. He hadn't realized he was being brought in this room for interrogation. “And there's no ‘alleged' about them. I fought some of these goons in the back of a van.”
“Their van, which you invaded,” Crockett said.
“Yes, in response to the discovery of a money laundering operation and a prior attack against one of the townspeople.”
“It is believed but not proven,” the major pointed out. “I understand there were deaths last night in an operation under civilian control. And one of your team members is said to have shot first.”
He felt, at that moment, like he was back in New York being grilled about the Muslim in the park. Major Crockett was twisting everything Brennan had told him so that defense of the homeland was coming across as blind bias and preemptive aggression. “They boxed us into the valley where I had found their weapons cache,” Ward said. “The single shot fired at them was a warning.”
“Announced as such and preceded by a verbal admonition to lay down their arms, both delivered as per protocol by a deputized officer of the law?”
“No, and I hope this is all part of some cover-your-ass drill so you can testify later that we did the dance, you conducted due diligence. Because the threat is real, major. All these rules you're trotting out—they don't work anymore. They're being used
against
us.”
The major rose from the desk. “Thank you for the primer, Mr. Ward.” His eyes were steel and his manner was even more formal now that he'd been called out. “You are here to ID any of the perpetrators you may notice from past encounters. We will handle quarantine and neutralization.”
“Fine.”
“You have no function beyond advisory.”
“Okay,” Ward said. “Then I advise you to get out there with your men and start doing a threat analysis.”
“Based on what?” Crockett asked him. ”We are out there collecting observational data—”
“Based on the fact that we found a terrorist camp not too many miles away and we think this airport is the target. All you're doing is waiting to
respond
to something. That may be too late.”
“Do you have some kind of actionable intelligence ?”
Do you have any intelligence?
Ward wondered. “I'm not following your game plan, Major. Are you telling me we're just going to sit here?”
“We're going to wait here while my men watch for suspicious activity,” the major went on. He patted the small radio mounted proudly to his shoulder. “These are new, Mr. Ward. One mile range and maximum clarity, much better than the old hip models. I promise, we'll know at once if anything comes up.” He took a few steps toward Ward. “We do not act recklessly. We do not assault innocent citizens of Colorado or their guests.”
There was a try-and-rough-
me
-up challenge in the major's expression. Ward was tempted. Instead, he went to the door.
“Where you going?” Crockett asked.
“To wait with Officer Webb.”
“You'll wait with me,” the major replied. He tapped the radio with a finger. “I may need your input.”
Ward reminded himself that this man was small town, by-the-book, with no practical field experience. He didn't know any better. The problem was, there was no way Ward would convince him. The job of intercepting an attack was in the hands of his troopers. He hoped, but doubted, “the book” was equal to the task. The Muslims would know the rules too.
They sat in the office for over an hour. Somewhere in the distance Ward heard sirens. So did Crockett. The major got on his radio to find out what was going on. Before any of the troopers could answer, the door flew open and a woman charged in. She was about forty-five, dressed in black slacks, a blue windbreaker, and a baseball cap with the airport logo. She wore no makeup and locks of platinum blond hair dangled here and there. There were coffee containers in the trash but none in her hand; Ward surmised she had been called in too suddenly to get a cup.
The woman stopped and stared. “Who the hell are you two?”
“Major Walt Crockett, State Patrol,” he said, rising. “This is civilian advisor John Ward. You are?”
“Pilar Ireland, the woman whose name is on the door,” she said harshly. “I saw your troopers parading through my airport, major. What the hell are you doing?”
“Ma'am, I've established a perimeter according to the provisions of the existing Severe Alert status.”
Ward was confused by her confusion. “Police Chief Brennan was supposed to have called you,” he said.
“Who?”
“Basalt PD,” Ward told her. “Hold on. It wasn't you Chief Brennan said she was calling. It was Natalie Ford.”
“My boss,” Pilar replied. “I haven't heard anything from her.”
Major Crockett seemed puzzled, but Ward suddenly understood. “You're not here because of
our
threat,” he said.
“I was in the shower and I got a text from parking lot security,” she told him. “What's
your
situation?”
“Possible terrorist strike modeled on last week's dry run,” Ward said. “What happened in the parking lot?”
“Bus fire,” she replied.
Those were the sirens Ward heard. His mind was working the new information, the timing, the location.
“You've got an airport fire department,” Ward said.
“Yes, and I've also got morning rush about to get underway,” Ireland replied. “Two planes are already making their approach.”
“Right. Smoke and visibility concerns,” Ward said. “I'm betting the wind is blowing in the opposite direction from the landing pattern.”
“Yes.” Ireland seemed impressed.
“Far end of the parking lot?”
“The farthest,” Ireland said. “That's where the bus terminal is located.” Now she was really impressed.
“It's a feint,” Ward told her. “They want our assets as far away and as widely dispersed as possible.”
“For what reason?” she asked.
“I don't know yet,” Ward said as he reached for the door. “But we damn well better find out.”
C
HAPTER
F
IFTY
Ward left the executive offices and looked around the terminal. Ireland was beside him, Crockett behind, still in the doorway. Officer Webb was behind him. The state troopers were scattered.
“Can you find out if the bus was parked there all night?” Ward asked Ireland.
“Do you want to know if any buses are on their routes?” she asked as she called the parking lot security officer.
“Not necessary,” Ward shook his head.
“What's this about?” Crockett demanded.
Ward didn't seem to hear him. “This new situation is
not
about getting cash into the United States,” he thought aloud.
“How do you know that?” Webb asked.
Ward seemed startled by the voice. He hadn't realized he'd said that aloud. “The Muslims already have a functioning system, one that was not in any fear of discovery when they rehearsed their attack last week.”
“Maybe it's not about contraband,” Webb suggested.
“Possibly,” Ward agreed. “Major, you should probably get your men off the floor, let things unfold so we can stop it—”
“That's not going to happen,” Crockett said sharply. “Don't even
think
of telling me my business.”
Ward let it go. One of the things he'd learned dealing with New York politics is it was better to be on the wrong side of a tactic and succeed by chance than fight among each other and fail for sure. But he knew that Crockett's deterrence was no deterrence. Ward had worked undercover long enough to know that more often than not, public displays of security simply redirected the enemy, sent them to where you weren't. They had to be let in and trapped, not bounced back and pursued. He also knew that the bulletproof vests obviously worn by the troopers under their shirts were telling the bad guys where not to aim. It counseled them to get close enough for a head shot.
“That burning bus had just rolled in,” Ireland told the detective. “It came from Redstone.”
“Which is where?”
“West of here.”
“They didn't catch it in Basalt,” Ward said.
“Who?” Crockett demanded.
Ward ignored him. “Where's the driver?”
“They can't find him,” Ireland replied.
“Crap. Major, have your men check roadsides along the route,” Ward said. “I'm betting you'll find the driver and whatever other passengers were on the bus. Hopefully, they're alive.”
“Hopefully? You're ‘
betting
'?” Crockett said. “You better share whatever data you're working off, because you are
not
running this operation!”
Ward turned on him. “You want data? The terrorists are here. You'd do well to
find
them!” He turned to Ireland. “Arrival board?”
“On my computer—”
“No. I want to be out there.”
She pointed to the left.
Ward started in that direction and Crockett grabbed his right shoulder with a thick, powerful hand.
“
You
want?
I
want everything you know,” Crockett said. “Now.”
Ward faced him again. “You're looking for a tall, skinny Muslim about twenty years old. Four or five accomplices, maybe more. Automatic weapons, probably basic scatter tactics for maximum coverage. An attack is imminent. I'd profile the hell out of this crowd as I evacuated the airport. Now, Major—run your team and leave me alone.”
Ward pushed the hand off hard and jogged to the board. Ireland and Webb ran with him. Crockett followed at a slow, military run.
Ward scanned the board. Two planes had just landed.
“What are these?” he asked Ireland.
“One's a 737 from Atlanta, the other's a private jet from Philadelphia.”
“Passenger manifest on the Philly jet?”
“There wouldn't be one,” Ireland informed him. “Only for commercial.”
“City of origin?”
“I'll find out.” She got on her radio.
Ward was trying to consider all the possibilities. He was thinking aloud again. “If the flight originated overseas we've got to stop them from disembark—”
There was a loud bang, like someone hitting a trash can. It originated far to the right of their position.
“What's over there?” Ward asked
“Baggage claim.”
“But there's no baggage yet,” Crockett said. He got on his radio to send his men over.
“Just send one,” Ward told him. “It could be another distraction, like the bus.”
Crockett didn't argue. He ordered a man to investigate and report.
“The plane originated in Paris,” Ireland told the detective.
That made sense. France had a huge Muslim population. “What else is in the baggage claim area, something a terrorist would want to take out? Cameras? Security?”
“Yes—” she said. She stopped as though afraid to say the rest.
“What's there?” Ward prodded her.
“The GRS,” she said. She was already in motion.
Ward and Crockett followed.
“What's the GRS?” Ward asked.
“Gamma radiation sensor,” she said. “If there's a threat-level dose of radiation an alarm will sound.”
“Unless someone has blown it up,” Ward said.
Everyone took a moment to process that information.
“So all we need to do is contain the bags,” Ireland suggested.
“Not all, but it's a start,” Ward said.
Ireland got on the radio and gave the order to one of her five operations officers, who was just about to call and tell her that someone had detonated what appeared to be a hand grenade in the baggage claim area, right under the GRS.
“Injuries?” Ireland asked.
“Only to the equipment and doors,” he replied. “Glass is everywhere. None of the skycaps was injured.”
Ireland told him to institute standard lockdown procedure—the gates on all the roads to the airport were to be closed to all traffic except the local police and fire departments. “And get IDs from the drivers before the bar is raised. I want to know we're letting real personnel in.”
“Is that the only sensor?” Ward asked when she was done.
“Yes.”
“But the door at the gate and the main door are the only exits,” he asked urgently.
“For passengers, yes.”
Ward turned to Crockett. “You'd better get men to the employee exits. Someone may try to get out that way. Forget the baggage claim.”
“Why?” Crockett asked.
“Commercial luggage would have been scanned at the point of departure since commercial and private all goes out the same chute,” Ward said. “But not carry-on for a private jet. There are no checks.”
Crockett understood. He gave the command.
“Where's the gate for the Philly jet?”
“All gates are that way,” Ireland told him, pointing in the direction opposite the baggage claim.
Ward ran toward the gates. The results of the explosion were already being felt. Airport security personnel were heading in that direction and shops and cafés where the gates had come up were not yet open for business. Updates were coming in on Ireland's radio about smoke in the baggage claim area, but no fire. She asked one of the operations officers about the incoming flights.
“We've got the private jet in the SPHR,” he said.
Ward shot her a questioning look.
“Screened passenger holding room,” she told him. “How many people?” she asked the ops officer.
“Five passengers, three crew.”
“We're en route,” she said into the radio. “Keep them there until we arrive—”
The pops came from what sounded like every direction at once. The echo of the gunfire blurred into a single drone that enveloped the three. Crockett stopped and listened, trying to get a read on any of the points-of-origin.
“Sir, we've got shooters at security!” a voice shrilled from the major's radio.
The officer ran hard toward the gate, followed by Ward and Ireland. Another radio voice punched through the din but Ward couldn't make it out; there was a burst from behind them and Crockett went down, the legs cut from under him. Ward grabbed Ireland and threw her to the tile floor, himself on top, as he turned to try and spot the shooter. It wasn't difficult. The man was approaching openly, firing semi-automatic bursts from the left hip, swinging the barrel easily from side to side. The airport workers had scattered or gone down, so only store windows, benches, and planters were being struck. In his right hand he held a .45. He didn't need it yet. The handgun was pointed down.
He was near enough so that Ward could see his face.
It was one of the Muslims from the van.
This wasn't how they planned it
, Ward thought. They had been expecting to do a repetition of the previous week: get everyone out of the terminal after the blast in the baggage claim area. Ireland's lockdown of the SPHR instead of evacuation had screwed them up. Carnage was Plan B.
Crockett swiveled on his bleeding legs. He had landed on his holstered Smith and Wesson and managed to draw the M&P 40 unseen. The major didn't get to fire. His movement drew the attention of the shooter. The AK-47 spat a short volley and the officer's forearm flopped back, nearly severed in a thick ribbon of blood. The major turned to grab the gun before realizing that his hand was useless.
“Lie still!” Ward ordered Ireland.
Even before the handgun had finished spinning across the floor, the detective was after it. He elbow-crawled behind the major which afforded him a moment's protection. The gunman might have thought he was merely trying to escape. The Muslim was in no hurry as he swung the assault rifle toward him, chewing up the tiles as it stitched a line toward him. Ward reached the weapon but did not pick it up: he flopped his chest on it as he continued forward, toward a green metal trash can. The clanging of the bullets against the iron was painfully loud and Ward screamed as though he'd been hit. The cry was purely reflexive, angry, but the gunman seemed to think he had struck him. The killer turned his fire toward Crockett and Ireland. Ward snaked around the far side of the trash can and shot the man in the belly. The AK-47 spit for a moment longer and then went silent.
Ward jumped to his feet, ran over and yanked the guns from the Muslim's hands. The kid was biting his lower lip, trying not to cry out. His knees were stacked on their sides, curled toward the wound which was just above his belt line. Ward did not consider helping him.
Unless putting a bullet in his black damn heart is considered help
, he thought as he ran back to Crockett. Ward lay the guns down and, grabbing the front of the officer's shirt, dragged him behind the trash can. He unhooked the major's radio. He made sure it had a loudspeaker function then slung it around his neck. As he went back to get the guns, he motioned Ireland over. She hurried there on hands and knees.
“Do what you can to stop the bleeding,” Ward told the woman.
“What are you going to do?”
“Stop them,” he said. He checked the clip and set one of the guns beside her. “When you're finished, I need you to do something.”
“All right,” she said, though it was as much a question as a statement.
As Ireland used her kerchief and belt to try and stop the arterial bleeding, Ward told her what he wanted her to do. She expressed some reservation about her ability to carry it out. He told her that this was a battle in a war and that we mustn't lose it. She said she'd do what he asked.
The drone of gunfire was converging ahead of him. The Muslims obviously wanted to get someone out of the secure zone. Someone who ordinarily would have been evacuated because of the grenade but wasn't. Someone who obviously was carrying something they didn't want to have checked by customs.
“State patrol, this is Detective John Ward,” he said into the radio. “Major Crockett is down. I'm armed and headed toward Gate A.” He added, “Don't shoot me.”
Ward tucked the handgun in his waistband and raised the AK-47. He walked forward briskly, watching the corridor through the gun sight. His knees were slightly bent, lowering his center of gravity, leaving him ready to absorb the recoil of the gun or move to one side or the other as needed.
There was no one about. He reasoned that anyone who was leaving the area had already done so or had been cut down in the attempt. As he passed a fast food restaurant he found the bodies of two custodians, shot in the chest, lying with their heads toward the gate. A single set of bloody footprints lead from the corpses. They had been shot by someone who came through the main entrance, moving in the direction Ward was moving. That meant the shooter's back would be facing him. Ward had never shot anyone who hadn't threatened him, who wasn't facing him. But the two poor souls bleeding out on the tile had been gunned down for a sick religious dogma, not necessity. The detective would have no trouble executing their killer from any direction that worked.

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