John Gilstrap - Threat warning

Which again left him with the explosives, and with it the whole weight ratio thing. Contrary to what many people think, most popular explosives are not easy to detonate. You can shoot at a block of C4 or PETN all day, and chances were pretty good that it would never explode. They need the hard hit of a primary explosive to really get going. Primary explosives, on the other hand-the azides, picrates, and others-are so sensitive to impact, friction, and heat that they’re impractical for use in large quantities, and suicidal for use in the explosive-laden panels that Jonathan had conjured in his mind.

So what Venice appeared in the doorway. “Yes, the Secret Service uses Appalachian Acoustic panels. Their most commonly used model is-”

“The Model 9000 Acoustic Reflector,” Jonathan interrupted, stealing her thunder.

She looked stunned. “How did you know?”

“I’ve been looking at their website,” Jonathan explained. “It’s the one that made the most sense. Now I have to figure out how he’s going to use them to kill the president.”

“What makes you think it has to be this event?” she asked. “Or, even that it has to be this week or this month?”

“You know how I feel about coincidences,” he said. “Plus, they’ve got momentum going. This is the moment in time when they can do the most damage.”

“And you think this guy planted explosives in the panels?” Venice pressed. Clearly, she wasn’t buying.

Jonathan walked her through his analysis.

“Okay, if he’s got such a special gun, why not just shoot through the panels?” Venice asked.

“Because the gun only has a ten-round magazine, and it doesn’t go fully automatic. Even if he had a general idea, you’ve got to hit-” He stopped in midsentence. Could it really be that simple?

His hand shot to the mouse quickly enough to startle Venice.

“What?” she said.

He ignored her and navigated to the part of the Appalachian Acoustics’ website that bragged about the attractiveness of the back of the Model 9000 Symphonic Reflector. Perfect for outdoor venues where cosmetics matter, said the site.

“Ho-ly shit,” Jonathan breathed. He looked to Venice. “Box is at my place. Wake him up. Gail, too. Time to go back to work.”

Jonathan laid out his theory. “You don’t have to see the target to hit it,” he finished. “The optimization instructions are very specific. ‘For optimum quality when dealing with a single speaker, the podium and lectern should be situated fifteen to seventeen feet from the upstage panel, and equidistant from the center panels of the side walls.’”

“That sounded like math to me,” Boxers growled. His bearlike qualities magnified significantly when he was awakened from hibernation.

“What it means,” Gail said, her eyes wide, “is that the target is a fixed point in space. With a little trigonometry, by figuring your height relative to the target, and the angle of the side walls, you can be at any other fixed point and kill the target by shooting a point on the panel.”

Boxers got it. “That’s freaking brilliant,” he said. “Son of a bitch has been planning for this forever.”

Jonathan said, “The best terrorists are the most patient terrorists. What makes it particularly brilliant is that Secret Service protocol considers a protectee covered when he’s out of view. He’s got all the time in the world to settle into his sniper’s nest and avoid the Secret Service sweeps.”

“Doesn’t even have to do that,” Venice said. “From what you say, he’ll probably be in an area where they wouldn’t even be looking for a sniper.”

“And that means no countersnipers,” Gail said.

“I’m impressed,” Boxers said. “This asshole’s crazy as a freaking loon, but this is a great plan.”

“You’re not going to tell the Secret Service, are you?” Gail phrased the question as an accusation.

“Let’s play that scenario out,” Jonathan said, rising to the bait. “What exactly would you tell them that’s not going to make you sound like one of the hundreds of crazies who call them every day?”

“There has to be a way,” she said, though her face testified to the opposite. If they told the Secret Service that there was an imminent assassination plot, the agents would want to know details, and they couldn’t talk about the details without confessing to all the nastiness in West Virginia. Not only would that get them all thrown in jail for the rest of their lives, it would also sully whatever case was ultimately built in court against the bad guys.

Plus, there was always the possibility that they were flat-out wrong-if not about the plot, then about the day.

“Suppose we just convince them to move the podium forward or backward a few feet,” Venice said. “If he’s shooting blind, wouldn’t that make a difference?”

“That depends on the configuration of the stage and the lectern,” Jonathan said. He tapped the keyboard and brought up a satellite photo of the Iwo Jima Memorial, the most prominent feature of which was the statue patterned after the famed Joe Rosenthal photo of six marines raising the American flag atop Mount Suribachi in February of 1945. The park was laid out as a rectangle that covered about an acre of land. The long sides of the rectangle ran north and south, with the statue situated on the eastern edge, facing west.

“Okay, Box,” Jonathan said, “and Special Agent Bonneville. Pretend you’re a sniper. Where do you want to be?”

“Zoom out a little,” Boxers said.

Jonathan could tell that Venice was getting twitchy not being in command of the computer, so he intentionally clicked the wrong button, and the picture went away completely.

“Get out of my way,” Venice said, elbowing him out of his chair. He stood, and she took charge. When the satellite image returned, she zoomed out to about a thousand feet.

“Hmm,” Gail said. “There are a lot of options.”

“Not really,” Jonathan argued. He walked to the screen so he could point as he spoke. “We can write off any shots coming from the east,” he said. “That’s the Potomac River. He’d have to shoot from the roof of the Kennedy Center or Lincoln Memorial, and even then he wouldn’t have enough elevation. Down south here, it’s nothing but gravesites in Arlington. No elevation at all.”

“But look north and west,” Gail persisted. “Tall buildings everywhere.”

“Look there on North Meade Street,” Boxers said, pointing to the left-hand, or western, margin of the park. “You’ve got fancy townhouses right there. What is that, a hundred-yard shot? A ten-year-old who’s never fired a gun could make that.”

“Depends on how tall the trees are,” Gail said, pointing to what appeared to be a copse of hardwoods along North Meade Street.

“Think it through, folks,” Jonathan said. “We’re looking for the back of the stage, not the front. The president is going to want the statue as his backdrop.”

“Well, ain’t nobody shooting through the statue,” Boxers said.

“And I disagree that he needs the statue as the backdrop,” Venice said. “This is the Marine Corps’ birthday and it’s just after Veteran’s Day. The statue itself needs to be the star. With all the heat the president takes for putting himself before the military, he’d be nuts to block the view with a stage.”

She had a point, Jonathan thought. Symbols mattered, after all, and the incumbent was having a hard time with his media image.

“Is there anything on how many people are expected to attend?” Gail asked.

“I imagine it’ll be huge,” Jonathan said. “Certainly a lot of military. I’m guessing a lot of politicians, too. Security there on the ground will be really tight.”