Steve Martini - The Rule of Nine

The opening day of the Supreme Court’s new session, the first Monday in October, is always high ceremony. The chief justice first welcomes any visiting judges and lawyers from abroad. He then swears in lawyers applying to become members of the Supreme Court bar. All of this takes time before the court begins to hear the argument in the first case of the day.

I can see from a block away as we run through the East Plaza behind the Capitol that a crowd has already assembled out in front of the Supreme Court Building, in the distance across the street.

I glance at my watch. The court would already be seated at the bench. This must be the overflow, members of the public who have been turned away because the courtroom is full.

There is a line of television cameras up on the west plaza, facing the building’s white stairs and portico. Reporters are staged in front of them using the stark white glare of the temple’s gleaming marble as a backdrop.

“Thorn could be anywhere,” says Joselyn. “We’ll never find him.”

“I don’t think so. He’s going to have to be close by somewhere.”

“Why?”

“The model plane,” I tell her.

“Stop,” she says. Joselyn is out of breath.

“He was practicing against that shed out in the field for a reason. That little toy has something to do with his plan. If that’s the case, he won’t be able to get beyond the range of the radio controls.”

“You don’t understand,” Joselyn says. “The military can fly their drones from anywhere in the world.”

“Yes, but they have satellites. Thorn’s not the U.S. military,” I tell her. “He wouldn’t have access to satellites. He’s going to have to stay within the line of sight to maintain radio control. If his little bird gets behind a building, he’s going to lose it. That means he has to stay somewhere close to the target.”

“But he could be in a building or a car,” she says. “We may not be able to see him. Let’s call 911.”

“And tell them what?” I say.

“That there’s a bomb in the Supreme Court Building.” She looks at me and arches an eyebrow. “The worst that can happen is that they arrest us. But at least they’ll have to clear the building.”

We are directly in front of the east steps behind the Capitol. I look at her. “Do it,” I tell her.

“I can’t. I don’t have a phone. I left my purse back in the room.”

I grab my cell phone off the clip on my belt and flip it to her. “You stay here. I’m going to keep looking for Thorn.” I turn and start running toward the Supreme Court Building three hundred yards away.

“How do I stay in touch with you if you don’t have a phone?” she says.

I turn, palms up, shrug my shoulders, and shake my head as I skip away and start to run again.

“Potomac air control. This is VNG 118. That’s affirmative, he’s got all three engines burning hot and fast. No sign of any engine trouble.” The F-16 flying behind the FedEx flight had a clear view of all three engines and could see that they were throwing heat.

The other F-16 alongside hit his afterburner and pulled out in front of the big 727. He wagged his wings a couple more times in a clear indication that the larger plane was to follow him. Then the fighter made a long, slow, sweeping turn northeast, toward Dover Air Force Base in Delaware.

Ahmed reached down, tightened his seat belt, and told Masud to get his oxygen going. Ahmed put on his own mask, tightened the straps behind his head, and then pulled back hard on the yoke. The nose of the 727 started climbing as Ahmed watched the dial on the altimeter start to turn like the second-hand sweep on a watch. Every thousand feet added range to the bomb. The plane had already penetrated both the outer and inner defensive zones. Anything Ahmed could get now added insurance. He put his fingers on the lever controlling the airstairs in the back.

“This is VNG 118. I have a lock on the target.”

“VNG 118, you have authorization to launch. Repeat, you are authorized to launch.”

The fighter pilot flipped up the cap cover on the trigger and pressed the button. The sidewinder fell away from his right wing. Just as the rocket motor cut in and the missile began to streak ahead, the rear ramp on the 727 suddenly yawned open. A large bomb fell away, separated from its metal carrier, and before the fighter pilot could react, both the bomb and the carrier were below and behind him.

Two seconds later the sidewinder streaked into the exhaust port of the 727’s starboard engine and exploded. The F-16 pulled skyward, and a second later a massive yellow fireball filled the air where the FedEx flight had been. Hot shards of flaming metal streaked from the fiery blast as the debris pattern left curling contrails in the sky.

“Andrews control, this is VNG 118, target destroyed, but incoming ordnance is in the air.”

“Andrews control to VNG 118, say again.”

“This is VNG 118. The target was able to release ordnance.”

“Can you describe, kind and type?”

“Negative.”

“Any chance you can get a radar lock?”

“No, sir. Item was too small, and from what I could see, there was no heat source.”

“Tower to VNG 118. See if you can pick it up.”

“VNG 118 to Andrews control, will do.”

On the east side of the United States Capitol, East Capitol Street is like a broad bridge, a concourse for pedestrians only about a hundred and thirty yards long until you reach First Street.

At that intersection, cars cross it going north and south, and vehicles can drive in an easterly direction on East Capitol. On the north corner of First and East Capitol Street is the Supreme Court Building. On the south corner sits the Library of Congress.

I jog past tourists milling in each direction on the pedestrians-only walkway until I am about sixty yards from First Street, when I see him. At first I am not sure if it’s Thorn. From this angle I can see only a portion of his face. He is sitting on a concrete bench near the end of the concourse, no more than twenty yards away.

I stop running so as not to draw attention to myself and wander over toward the railing on the left-hand side of the walkway to get a better look. I lean against the railing with my back to him and then slowly turn.

At the moment his head is down. He has an attaché case on his lap with the lid open, both hands inside. Whatever he is doing, his attention is focused inside the case. He is wearing dark glasses and his face is shaded. Then suddenly he looks up, turns his head the other way, and for several seconds he stares across the street, not in the direction of the Supreme Court Building. Instead he is looking toward the Library of Congress, up high, toward the copper dome.

In that instant it clicks, the copper wings on the model plane. He has already landed the little brown bat. What it’s doing up there I have no idea. But there is no time left. Without thinking I push off from the railing and run straight at him.

Thorn hears my footfalls on the hard concrete and starts to turn his head. Running at full bore, six feet out from the bench I launch myself into the air.

Just as Thorn’s startled eyes turn to fix on me I roll my right shoulder into his upper body and smash into him.

The impact moves Thorn’s thumb on the computer track pad and sends the servomotor for the camera gimbal on the back of the little brown bat gyrating. The laser signal darts skyward just as the sensor in the bomb’s nose cone homes in. The servomotors on the canard and tail fins suddenly rotate, lifting the nose of the bomb from its sharp dive to a more flattened trajectory as the control surfaces bite into the air.

The impact of my body drives Thorn off the bench and sends both of us sprawling across the pavement. The attaché case flips into the air and slides across the concrete as the laptop flies out of it and skitters along the ground.