7

 

The Special Training Unit supervisors had been playing poker and drinking in the basement club room at Wally Malvone’s house for a few hours.  This was their normal Friday night routine when they were in Washington.  Malvone lived in a moderately sized older home, on the Maryland side of the Potomac River, a few miles south of the DC beltway.  What his house lacked in size it made up in location, with water frontage on a small bay that opened onto the Potomac.  His long narrow property bordered large wooded estates on both sides, so he had no close neighbors to complain about raucous party noise no matter what the hour.  All night blowouts with twenty or more STU members and sometimes their wives or girlfriends were common, because Malvone believed that both hard training and hard partying promoted team camaraderie.

Bob Bullard turned over the last card in his hand.  “Three ladies Joe.  Looks like you’re sucking hind tit again.”  He raked in a pot of well over four hundred dollars in red white and blue chips.

“That’s all for me gentlemen, I’m finished,” said a younger agent across from Bullard, pushing back from the table.  He was a good looking young man with light brown hair.

“Count on Hollywood to bail out first,” said Joe Silvari.  He was the second in command of the Special Training Unit, and was the leader of its ten man technical support team.  “Hollywood” was Tim Jaeger, one of the two team leaders.

Malvone said, “Joe, if you had a hot piece of ass like Cindy’s warmed up and waiting in the sack for you, you’d be bailing out too.”

“That’s the truth,” Silvari replied, laughing.  “Hell, you would’ve never seen me here tonight at all!  I mean, I haven’t had anything like that in oh….well I guess I never did, dammit!  Nobody as hot as Cindy anyway!  Don’t get old Hollywood, what ever you do, don’t get old.”

The rest of them stretched, scratched, yawned and began to get up.  Malvone said, “Look, before you and Michael take off, I’ve got some goodies for you.” 

Tim Jaeger, the one they called Hollywood, and Michael Shanks, who with his beak-like nose and weak chin would never be mistaken for a movie star, were the leaders of the STU’s “Blue” and “Gold” teams.  Each was a former military junior officer with specops qualifications.  Jaeger had been a Navy SEAL, and Shanks an Army Ranger.  Both were hard chargers in their early thirties, and both had seen action in Iraq and Afghanistan.

“I’ve got a couple of bags for each of you.”  Malvone went to a closet under the stairs which led up to the kitchen, and dragged out two heavily-loaded green canvas military duffel bags.  Then he went back into the closet and carried out two black vinyl gym bags.  The duffel bags were lashed into stiff bundles with green parachute cord cinched around them. 

He said, “The big ones each have ten assault rifles in them.  We got them from a couple of militia nut-jobs.  None of them were ever logged in, so they’ll all trace back to their original point of sale, and then to the morons we took them from.  The dumb jerks always think they’re catching a break, just having their guns confiscated!  If they only knew…  And don’t ask me how I wound up with them, you don’t need to know.”

“The gym bags each have ten pistols, same story.  Here’s the deal: when we start going after these militia groups, these guns will be our insurance policy.  No matter what else we get, we can always pin possession of the guns on them, and the serial numbers will connect them to other militias.  That way, we’ll tie them all into one big national militia network, and once that happens, it’ll be a lot easier to start getting really proactive on their asses and taking them out.”

Jaeger and Shanks were smiling as they easily lifted the heavy bags, hefting their weight and imagining the cool toys inside.

“Dirty tricks are what I’m talking about boys, dirty tricks.  We’re taking the gloves off.  We know who the enemy is, and we’re going to hunt them down and destroy them.  We’re going to fight fire with fire!  We’re not going to sit around waiting for them to hit us first any more.” 

Tim Jaeger flashed his movie star grin and exclaimed “Hoo freakin’ ya! It’s about time!”  He gave Shanks a casual high five.

Malvone said, “We’re not going to Norfolk for now, not just yet, but stand by, I have a feeling things are moving down there.  Keep these little bundles safe and handy, and remember: they’ve never been logged in, so be careful.  All right guys, that’s all I’ve got for now, see you on Monday.  And Tim, give Cindy a wet one for me… okay you assholes, beat it, and take care of those bags.”            

Shanks and Jaeger went out the basement door, which exited at ground level to the backyard on the river side of the house.  Each of them toted a duffel bag over a shoulder by its carrying strap, and a gym bag in their free hand.  The duffels weighed nearly a hundred pounds each, but both operators handled them like they were full of Styrofoam packing peanuts.  Nobody in the Blue or Gold Teams bench-pressed less than 250 pounds, including the team leaders.  The STU operators were all seriously muscular guys, able to climb scaling ladders like apes while wearing full tactical gear and body armor, and of course carrying their weapons.  It was not a job for pencil neck geeks to say the least.

When they were gone Joe Silvari said, “Wally, I’ve got to take off too.  We’ve been on the road training for I don’t know how many weekends, and I can’t be sneaking in at zero dark thirty smelling like a brewery when I’m finally in town.  If I keep this up, what’s left of my marriage is going to go straight down the old shitter.”

“Well Joe, I guess it’s just a question of your priorities.” Malvone said this only half jokingly.  “I was married twice, how many was it for you Bob, three times?  Yeah, if you can stay married to one woman for ten years in this business, either you’re not working hard enough, or you have one hell of an understanding woman.”

“Or a woman who can’t wait for you to hit the road, so that she can step out on you,” said Bob Bullard, who was now sitting on the couch channel surfing with the sound muted on the big screen TV.  They were still showing replays of the football fans going over the railings, and showing survivors in hospitals, and more funerals than anyone could keep up with.  Unlike in the aftermath of 9-11, the bodies of the Stadium Massacre victims were all very much available for funerals and burials.

“Yeah, well, maybe.  Anyway Wally, I can’t push it, I’ve got what I got and I don’t want to lose it.” 

Malvone walked with Silvari out through the back door, around the house and up the path to his car.  “Joe, I gave Castillo my proposal to activate the STU and turn it into the Special Projects Division today.  You know he’s by the book, so he won’t go for it, but he’ll pass it on up to Boxell.  Wilson’s already got a copy; he’s just waiting for it to come through channels.”  David Boxell was the Director of the BATFE; Paul Wilson was the Deputy Attorney General.  “Boxell’s a dip shit, but he’ll see which way the wind is blowing and go along.  Wilson’s already in our pocket, he’s going to be our pitchman to the Attorney General and the President.”

“Is Wilson still banging that little senorita in the hot tub?” asked Silvari.

“I guess so.  I think she’s still at his place.  Who’d have ever guessed that an old goat like Wilson would go for a teenage taco like her?” 

“Did Wilson’s wife ever find out?”

“No, and she won’t as long as he does his part,” said Malvone.

“You sent him a copy of the video tape?”

“Damn right.  It’s my favorite movie; I’ve only watched it about a hundred times.”

“Yeah Wally, that was a nice morning’s work.”

The STU had its own single-engine Piper Lance, and had obtained a BigEye surveillance pod for it.  The BigEye was a stabilized combination video camera for daytime use, and infrared camera for night use.  An operator up in the plane could put the camera’s cursor mark on a stationary or moving ground target and the camera would lock on to it even as the plane circled high above, out of sight and sound of its quarry. 

The extensive use of light planes was a tradition in the ATF going back decades; from the time when the “revenue agents” had flown them to spot bootleg liquor stills from the air.  These pilot-qualified agents bragged that for them ATF stood for ‘agents that fly.’  The numerous flying special agents and ATF light planes often permitted them to reach the scenes of federal crimes involving illegal firearms or explosives before any other agencies.  Any one-horse Podunk town with a dirt landing strip nearby could usually have ATF agents on the ground in a few hours at most.  The ATF was independently air-mobile to a greater degree than most other agencies at the light plane end of the aviation spectrum. 

After a brief familiarization period with the BigEye Malvone gave his air team the addresses of a dozen senior government officials who were in a position to help the STU.  They hit pay dirt on a Sunday morning in June when the Piper was flying lazy eights over Fairfax County Virginia, and they noticed activity at the estate of Deputy Attorney General Paul Wilson.  A Mercedes arrived with a young couple who turned out to be Wilson’s daughter and son-in-law.  Mrs. Wilson then left with them to attend church services.

Soon after the driveway’s automatic gate closed behind the Mercedes, Paul Wilson had appeared in a bathrobe on the back patio of the mansion by the swimming pool, accompanied by someone else.  The stabilized zoom lens of the BigEye then recorded in intimate detail the white-haired federal official and a black-haired girl playing in the Jacuzzi, with no detail left to the imagination for the next fifteen minutes.  Upon further investigation the girl had turned out to be the 16 year old daughter of the Wilson’s Costa Rican housekeeper, who had taken the day off. 

Malvone was smiling broadly at the memory.  “As soon as I saw that tape I knew we’d own Wilson, we’d have him in our pocket.  When the time comes he’s going to go to bat for us, big time, and we’ll get the Special Projects Division approved.”

“The FBI’s going to fight it.  They’ll never let ATF have a new division with that much power.”

“That’s where you’re wrong Joe, the STU or SPD or what ever we end up calling it is going to be seen as a dirty outfit for dirty jobs, and the FBI won’t want any part of it.  If the SPD falls on its face, the stink won’t rub off on them.  They’ll be glad to let the ATF have it, and let the ATF take the hit if things go wrong.  By the time they figure out what’s really going on, the Special Projects Division will be too big for them to stop.”

Silvari said, “Yeah, that’s one of the things I love about this the most: sticking it to the FBI.  For once the ATF is out in front.” 

“When I got that jerkoff Boxell to authorize the STU, he never dreamed what kind of ‘Special Training’ we’d be doing.  And once we got Wilson’s ‘nanny problem’ on video tape I knew I’d be able to push the SPD through, it was just a matter of time.  And you know what?  I’ve got a feeling it’s going to finally happen this week.”

“And all because of Shifflett.”

“Yep, all because of Shifflett.  I guess there really is a silver lining in every dark cloud.  Sometimes good things even come out of tragedies.  Take it easy Joe, see you Monday.”

“See you Monday.”

 

****

 

Malvone went back into his house through the front door on the first floor, then into his kitchen and down the stairs to the basement club room.  Bob Bullard had switched from beer to Wild Turkey, and held out another smoke-colored glass for his boss.  Malvone sipped it, but he was more of a scotch drinker himself, when he wasn’t having a martini.  He went over to his stereo and turned the volume up on a twangy country music station.  Silvari had swept the basement for bugs earlier, demonstrating some new gadgets for the other STU leaders, but Malvone and Bullard were old school and still liked to crank up the music before having a sensitive private conversation. 

“Since the stadium, we’re right at the critical point,” said Malvone.  “We just need to give a little push, and the President will be ready to let the STU go hot.  I’ve seen some reports that covert militia groups in Virginia are planning more actions, but their timetables are unknown, and we don’t know their targets.  What we need to do is disrupt them, throw them off balance and put them on defensive.  What I’ve got in mind is an ‘accidental’ premature explosion.  I’ve got a list of three possible subjects for you.  I want you to head down to Norfolk tomorrow morning, but don’t check in with the Field Office, obviously.  Use the credit card I gave you for your expenses, and use this prepaid cell phone to call my pager and I’ll call you right back.  Don’t use your own cell phone down there, okay?  Don’t even take it.  Don’t leave any tracks.”

“When does it need to happen?”

“No later than Monday morning.”

“A house or a car?”

“A vehicle if possible, but a house if you have to.”

“Do you have a device, or should I put one together?”

“I’ve got one.”  Malvone went back into his storage closet under the stairs and brought back two small brown cardboard shoe boxes.  “There’s ten pounds of C-4 in this one; the caps and firing assembly are in the other one.  It’s a radio firing device: dual frequencies, multiple safeties.  The old garage door opener; nothing tricky.  Check it out, you’ll see.”  One of the advantages of working for the ATF in the firearms and explosives division was ready access to demolition materials for training purposes.  After a day at the Fort A. P. Hill demo range blasting holes in the ground, it was impossible for anyone to ascertain just how many pounds had been detonated, and how many pounds had gone home in the trunks of cars.

“I got the picture Wally.  An unlucky stray radio emission, and a dangerous militia terrorist goes kaboom on his way to planting a bomb.”

“That’s it exactly—kaboom too soon.”  They both chuckled at their witticism.  “You provide the ‘stray radio signal’, and America breathes a sigh of relief that the incompetent bomber blew himself up, instead of his target.  Same old-same old.  I’ll admit it’s not original, but it always works.”

“What about bystanders?”

“Well, just use your judgment.  Try to avoid collateral damage, of course, but it’s got to happen by Monday morning.  When it’s done, call the pager number I gave you with the prepaid phone, I’ll call you back. Don’t get sloppy; do it right, okay?”                  
                “Wally, you know I’m a professional.”

“I know you are Bob.  By Monday, right?”

“You got it.  By Monday morning.”  Bullard swallowed the rest of his bourbon and left through the basement door with the two shoe boxes. 

 

****

 

Malvone glanced at the wall clock over his bar; it was after one AM, early Saturday morning.  He’d been prowling between his first floor office (where he was checking a few news-oriented websites while keeping an eye on the cable news channels) and his kitchen, where he was grazing on the honey ham and roast beef left over from his party.  By now things should be happening in Tidewater Virginia, and any time he’d be getting the first situation report.

 Nothing was being reported on the television from southeastern Virginia yet.  CBA news was rerunning an old documentary on right wing militia types firing fifty-caliber rifles on a farm in Wyoming.  It was at least the second time Malvone had seen that five year old “special report” aired since the stadium.  Any piece of videotape showing middle-aged white men in camouflage uniforms firing “assault rifles” which had been shot in the last decade had been dusted off and re-aired as if it were breaking news.  These clips were always accompanied by dire warnings from Malvone’s old boss Senator Jack Schuleman, or other perennial gun control advocates such as Senator Geraldine Randolph of Maryland, or Senator Ludenwright of Delaware.

Over on FreeAmericans, the usual paranoid anti-government right wingers were spouting their usual conspiracy theories.  The beauty of these conspiracy nuts was that their ravings totally discredited any factual information that surfaced which could point to an actual conspiracy.  As long as these “tin foil hatters” (as they were called) continued to weave everything from the JFK assassination to Oklahoma City to 9-11 together in grand plots, no “serious” reporter would ever pay attention to what had actually happened 1,250 yards east of the stadium last Sunday. 

Some of the many posters on FreeAmericans were treading dangerously close to what had actually happened, but their bits of information, mainly on Shifflett’s background, were still submerged in a sea of absurdity.  Anyway, Shifflett had already been analyzed, discussed, and dealt with in the media.  The “fact” that he was a white racist militia kook was accepted as gospel truth on all the networks, even on the right wing TOP News. 

At 1:35 AM a “FreeAmerican” with the screen name of SwampFever posted a self-generated news story that there had been several arsons in Tidewater in the past two hours, and that according to information gleaned from police scanners and eyewitness accounts, the arsonists seemed to be targeting gun stores.

Malvone’s pager chirped.  Hammet was contacting him.  It was a pager he had bought for thirty dollars cash at a mall kiosk, good for a year, with no contract required and no information given.  He jotted down the number, converted it to the number of the pay phone he would call, and punched the new number into his prepaid throwaway cell phone.  The call was picked up after the first ring.  There would be no trace of the call that could ever be connected to Wally Malvone.

“Hello.”

“Hi boss, it’s me,” said George Hammet

“Uh huh.  I’ve been watching the news.  Nothing’s on TV yet, but there’s something being reported on the internet.  Tell me about it.”

“It looks like we went eleven for eleven.  Clean sweep.”

Malvone replied, “I see…great.  Well, we’ve really jammed a sharp stick in their eye now.  We’ll just have to wait and see what happens next.  Any loose ends?  Any problems?  Any exposure on our side?”

“No, none.  The cars were all wiped down and abandoned; everybody used gloves, no problems.  Say boss, I’ve been watching the local news down here today; I might have a nice target of opportunity.”

“Hmm… tell me about it.”

“We’ve got sort of a local Louie Farrakhan down here.  He’s on all the local news, raving that Shifflett was a white Christian racist, the ‘militias’ are trying to start a race war, the usual stuff.  He goes everywhere with armed guards.  You know, ‘we’re going to defend ourselves by any means necessary’ and that kind of talk.  He’s a very intimidating guy, and he’s a pretty big player in the local black community.”

“What did you have in mind?” asked Malvone.

“He has a storefront ‘mosque’ in Portsmouth.  I was thinking a drive-by might liven things up.”

“Hmm…  Well, that has potential.  Sure, why not?  Keep this one to yourself, and definitely don’t use any of your local contacts.  Do it solo.  Use one of the, ah…items…I gave you, and then leave it there.  Just hit the property, keep your exposure to a minimum, and don’t take any chances.  Don’t do it unless it’s just right.  This sounds pretty good, it sounds like you’re doing some great work.  Keep it up, and we’re going to go far together.”

“Thank you sir, I won’t let you down.”