Andrew Britton - The American

Vanderveen understood how dangerous a test fire could be. Even now, with nothing more dangerous than four blasting caps at his immediate disposal, he took all necessary precautions.

After all, he didn’t need to see the detonation. He only needed to see the effects.

He stood behind the bulk of the Econoline van and pulled the second cell phone from his pocket. The number to the first was on his speed dial. His breath came faster than usual, despite the fact that nothing important was about to happen. His finger hovered over the button. All around him, still air and dust particles floated in the dim light of the barn.

There was no sound from the woman. Why not? He peeked around the corner of the van to examine her still form. He realized, with a start, that he had not heard her move for at least twenty minutes. She must have died when he first started to run the wire out over the cement.

He was a little surprised that she had gone so quietly, but it didn’t really matter. He returned to his position, completely focused on what was about to occur. His back was against the cool metal of the van, the number was on his screen. He breathed deeply, felt the dry air of the barn enter his lungs.

He pushed the button.

Joshua McCabe, the assistant director of the Secret Service’s Office of Protective Research, arrived at midday to confer with the head of the advance team. Jodie Rivers was a petite, pixie-faced woman with inquisitive hazel eyes and shoulder-length auburn hair. At thirty-two years of age, she was young for her position, but a sharp intelligence, combined with the ability to spot problem situations long before they developed into full-blown situations, had earned her rapid escalation through the ranks, along with the grudging respect of her superiors.

After instructing his driver to wait with the Lincoln Town Car, McCabe followed her along the gangplank as she pointed out the various implementations that had been made. The assistant director knew her reputation within the Service as a go-getter with unparalleled energy, but he thought Rivers now looked tired and overwhelmed by the magnitude of her task.

“As you can see,” she was saying, “the security fencing closes off the end of Water Street underneath the bridge. It’s a dead end anyway, but we’re waiting on concrete barriers that will go up on the other side of the fencing. We’ll have at least three, and probably five checkpoints for pedestrian traffic moving through the area — I haven’t finalized those arrangements yet, but we’re taking a hard look at the spots where 6th, 7th, and 9th streets run into Maine. Those areas worry me because they’re so open. We’ve designated 4th Street as the eastern edge of our perimeter, and we want to use Arena Stage as the command post. I have to talk today with the artistic director to see if that’ll work… The main thing is keeping vehicles out of the area. Explosives are the big concern, so that’s where we’ll focus our efforts.”

“What about the background checks?”

An agent was calling for her attention. She gestured for the man to give her a minute, and then focused on the assistant director’s question. “It’s going well so far — nobody’s come up on our radar yet. We still have a long list to run through, though. We started with the business owners, because they’re the ones who are going to give us the most grief over the vehicle restrictions. From there, we’ll concentrate on the people who have boats docked at the marina. We’ve already gotten a lot of cooperation from the GPSA… That’s the Gangplank Slipholders Association.”

McCabe nodded. “That was a good call, getting them involved. You’ve closed off the marina parking lot, right?”

“Of course.” She hesitated. “Sir, pulling all civilian craft out of the marina is not a realistic option. In fact, that would crowd up the channel and work against us. We need to clear out all the slips within about a thousand feet of the Sequoia, though. Even a thousand isn’t good enough to serve as a standoff, but we won’t get much more than that. Keeping vehicles out is the easy part — it’s these boats and the channel itself that have me worried.”

“If you weren’t worried, Rivers,” McCabe said, “then I’d say you weren’t doing your job.” He gave her a little smile to show her he was joking. “Besides, that’s the navy’s baliwick. They’ll bring in their minesweeping equipment tomorrow. One other thing I want you to do is coordinate with the Coast Guard. I want to see cutters positioned at the entrance to the channel and at least two other points on the Sequoia ’s route, in addition to our own personal escort. Also, make sure we have a designated UHF channel on marine radio. Apart from that, everything looks good to me. What about the motorcade?”

With McCabe’s words, she felt a little bit of the tension start to drain away. Jodie Rivers had always tried to place herself above the politics of her job, but praise from her superiors felt as good to her as it did to anyone else. “We’re going to stay with the route we’ve got. If we take Maine through the tunnel to 12th and follow it north to Pennsylvania, we can limit the number of sharp turns and push the speed up. Furthermore, 12th will be a whole lot easier to close than 7th, and we don’t have too many options; most of 14th and 12th north of Pennsylvania are shut down for construction, so we have to detour on 13th Street-”

“I’m aware of that,” McCabe reminded her. “The construction was covered in the preliminary report.”

Rivers shrugged off the momentary lapse in her memory. “The route will be shut down on the night before the event, anyway — that’s when the crews are scheduled to weld the manhole covers and remove the mailboxes.”

McCabe was genuinely impressed with what she had already managed to accomplish. He touched her lightly on the shoulder, careful not to make it seem like anything more than a friendly gesture.

“You’re working too hard, Rivers,” he said. “Let some of your people help carry the weight. Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. You look like you could use it.”

The explosion was nothing more than a sharp crack muted by the weight of the sandbags. When he pulled them off to examine the blasting caps, he was pleased to note that not one remained intact.

Vanderveen was slightly bothered by the delay that was inevitable when using a cell phone trigger. When the ringer on the exposed circuit board was activated, the circuit was closed and the power found its way from the wet-cell battery to the blasting caps. The process took time, though, and Brenneman’s motorcade would not indulge him by stopping right next to the van.

He would have to time it well. The news of the recent security escalations surrounding the State visit had not given him cause for concern. Most of the changes would be made around the marina itself, but he would be far away from the checkpoints and rooftop observers when the bomb was triggered.

In fact, he already had a perfect seat for the show.

Will tossed the shredded sandbags into the straw, then cleared the cement before taking a seat at his worktable, which was now empty with one exception. The document that lay on the wooden surface was 134 pages long, double-spaced with diagrams.

The first page was titled, “Program Events and Protocol.” It was stamped CONFIDENTIAL.

He had never asked Shakib where the document had come from, and had made a conscious decision to force the question from his mind. It would not help him to dwell on the fact that his success was entirely dependent on the accuracy of the information contained in its pages.

He knew that the report was authentic. He had seen the same economical wording and phraseology used in countless other documents in his former profession. What he didn’t know was how the recent NSSE designation would affect the security arrangements, and with Shakib gone, he had no way of finding out.