Chris Jordan - Measure of Darkness

The Bunker is his own dedicated unit, off-line and off the books. Here in the States, GSG has recently acquired a long-established company that supplies uniformed security guards, patrolling office buildings, investigating employee theft and so on. But the bulk of GSG’s business-the big revenue generator-remains overseas, employing ex-military in a number of venues. Armed security details for civilian contractors, plus load and flight crews for the full-size missile-firing Predators deployed over countries identified as terrorist hot spots. That particular subsidiary, tasked with operating unmanned aerial vehicles, is funded by an open-end, no-bid contract worth hundreds of millions per annum. All of which has made it possible for him to run his own security operations here at home, in his own stomping ground, as it were, without regard to budget. An operation that includes not only reconnaissance UAVs and the tech crews required to run them, but a stealth helicopter and a superbly trained special-ops team available on a moment’s notice.

In Gatling’s mind he’s continuing in the patriotic tradition of General Curtis LeMay, who for a crucial time in American history had the entire Strategic Air Command under his unquestioned leadership, answerable to himself alone. Like his hero, Taylor Gatling, Jr., is prepared to cut through the bullshit and accept the responsibility of making difficult decisions for the protection of the homeland. He may not have access to thousands of nuclear warheads, but in his own small way he’s making a difference, standing guard against those who want to destroy America. In particular, unreliable characters like the late Joseph Keener, who openly consorted with the enemy, and who, if he wasn’t actively passing secrets to the enemy, certainly had the capacity to do so. The FBI, in Gatling’s opinion a bunch of useless, vacillating, butt-covering ’crats, had declined to keep the professor under close surveillance. So Gatling had made the call, and even though the unexpected had happened and the crap had hit the fan, he didn’t regret the original decision. Plus, how could he resist the opportunity to put a personal enemy’s reputation in the shredder?

Things hadn’t gone according to plan; it happens, and when it does a righteous leader makes adjustments. That’s what he’s doing now, making adjustments.

In the Bunker, Gatling makes straight for the team controlling the Minis. A couple of New Hampshire kids, fraternal twins, who’d started out as gamers and progressed to joysticking-or “sticking”-unmanned aerial vehicles. Known in the Bunker as B1 and B2, the brothers affect swamp-water Yankee accents-“ayuh, bubba” their equivalent of “hey, bro”-but they’re bright and capable and love what they’re doing. Gatling likes hanging out at their consoles because their enthusiasm is infectious, and because they defer to him as something of a legend, a local boy who made spectacularly good and who has all the toys to prove it.

The brothers look up from the glow of their LCDs, shaking heads in tandem. B1, aka Bart, has the active bird, with images split on screen. B2, or Bert, has control of the Mini that has just landed, and is going through the remote checklist as the plane is refueled.

“Sorry, boss. We tweaked the receiver to high-gain but the birds are still deaf.”

The phrase “birds are still deaf” pronounced without recourse to the letter r . Gatling grins like a sympathetic older sibling, slaps them both on the back. “Not to worry, boys. You’ve established that the building has state-of-the-art shielding, just as I suspected. So now we know.”

“That sucks,” says B2. “But look here, boss, what we got on viz. Intruders.”

Introodahs.

“Damn,” says Gatling, watching the LCD as a black SUV circles the block, dropping off operatives, picking them up. “When was this?”

“Within the hour. Plus we picked up a scrambled broadcast from a white van parked on the same block. Some kind of walkie-talkie bullshit on an FBI frequency.”

Gatling’s expression darkens as he turns serious, and none-too-pleased. “For future reference, I need to know this in real time. Pull the bird pronto. Get it out of there.”

“Boss, there’s no way that-”

“Now.”

At the tone of his voice, brooking no argument, the twins seem to shrink into their swivel chairs. “You got it,” says Bart softly, working the joystick. “Bird Two disengaging target area.”

“Vector eleven degrees until clear of Logan airspace,” says Bert, flipping though the checklist. “Maintain seven hundred feet.”

“Vector eleven, maintaining seven hundred.”

“Cleared target area. Going to auto.”

“Standby for next waypoint.”

“Standing by.”

The brothers push back from their consoles, letting the Mini fly itself to the next waypoint. Obvious, from their tense postures, that they’re awaiting further instruction, expecting to be reprimanded.

Gatling takes a deep breath, calming himself. “I thought I had made it clear at the beginning of the operation, but let me explain again. It is absolutely essential that any and all surveillance of this particular target go undetected. No one can know we’re there. No one can suspect. And now that you’ve detected an FBI operation in progress-congrats on that, by the way, job well done-our invisibility is even more critical. If I can spot a Mini a thousand yards away, coming in for a landing, then a Bureau agent might do so as well, even if the odds are against it. For the time being we will stand down. All recon flights suspended. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” they say in tandem.

Without another word-how could these morons have failed to understand? — Gatling exits the Bunker and trudges back to his office, all lightness gone from his step. Talk about a mood crash. He’d anticipated the FBI or some other Homeland agency would investigate the mysterious death of Professor Keener-that was a given, from the moment it happened-but running a full-scale surveillance on the private investigator Naomi Nantz? That made him extremely uneasy. What did they hope to find? His great disdain for bureaucrats-that’s why they call it the Bureau-doesn’t blind him to the fact that if enough monkeys type on enough keyboards, eventually a plausible story will emerge.

It’s essential that whatever scenario the Bureau comes up with, that it not include Gatling Security Group in any meaningful way. Which means that finding a solution for the Kidder problem is all the more crucial.

On the way into his office Gatling briskly instructs his secretary to hold all calls. He locks the door, reclines on his ten-thousand-dollar leather couch and for the next hour or so thinks seriously about murder.

As I organize my notes for this narrative, it becomes clear that this was the day when the case finally began to break wide open. Day Four. The day we went up to the roof deck for iced tea while Teddy examined Shane’s laptop, and Jack Delancey smoked his smelly but interesting cigar, and Naomi and I stared out at the river, wondering aloud why the FBI had us under surveillance.

“Shane’s old boss visits him in the hospital, chats with Dane, next thing we’re being followed,” I say, making my point. “Can’t be a coincidence.”

“She was never Shane’s boss,” Naomi says, taking a sip of her tea. “They were colleagues. Friends. In Dane’s opinion she’s sincerely concerned for his well-being.”

“Still, she’s a big mucky-muck. Director of Counterterrorism.”

“Assistant director. There’s only one director of the FBI. The subordinates are designated as deputy director, associate deputy director and, down the line, a number of assistant directors. AD Monica Bevins reports to the associate deputy director, who reports directly to the director.”