Chapter 4 - The Pressure Cooker
The wheels of the VH-60 hit the runway at Joint Base Andrews with a screech of burning rubber and a heavy thud that jarred Claire’s teeth. Outside, the rain was coming down in blinding gray sheets, whipped into a frenzy by a summer gale that swept across the Potomac.
The ramp did not lower onto an empty expanse of concrete.
Waiting through the blur of rain stood three black Chevrolet Suburbans, their blue and red emergency strobes flashing in hypnotic rhythm. Surrounding the vehicles were half a dozen men wearing charcoal-gray tactical suits, carrying short-barreled carbines at the low-ready position.
"Those aren't CID," Miller said, his hand dropping instantly to the Glock 19 holstered at his hip. "Those are Pentagon Force Protection Directorate. Tactical Response Team."
Vance stood by the helicopter door as the hydraulic locks hissed open. "Stay behind me. Miller, keep Morgan on your six. If anyone reaches for that case, put them on the asphalt."
"Understood, sir."
The side door slid back. The blast of cold rain and jet fuel exhaust hit Claire like a physical blow. Vance descended the steps first, his bearing regal, unhurried, and immensely imposing. Claire followed, the twenty-pound Pelican case held firmly in her right hand, her eyes scanning the periphery with the instinct of a trained scout.
A man in a civilian trench coat stepped forward from between the armored Suburbans, holding an umbrella against the downpour. He was thin, hawk-nosed, with silver-rimmed glasses and the smug, bureaucratic posture of a man who fought his battles with legal briefs and executive orders.
"General Vance!" the man called out over the screaming engines of the Black Hawk. "I am Deputy Assistant Secretary Leonard Cross. By direction of the Secretary of Defense, I am here to take custody of Sergeant Claire Morgan and all materials related to the unauthorized data exfiltration from Fort Stewart."
Vance didn't stop until he was six inches from Cross’s umbrella. He looked down at the civilian with undisguised contempt.
"Cross," Vance rumbled. "You're five hundred miles outside your lane. The Secretary of Defense does not possess statutory authority to seize evidence in an ongoing joint criminal-IG investigation without an Article 32 warrant signed by a military magistrate."
"This is not a criminal matter, General," Cross replied smoothly, producing a laminated document from his breast pocket. "This is a matter of National Security Classification. Sergeant Morgan has violated 18 U.S. Code § 793—gathering and transmitting defense information. Her security clearance was revoked forty-five minutes ago by the Defense Counterintelligence and Security Agency. She is currently an unauthorized person in possession of Top Secret compartmented data. Hand over the case, General, or my agents will take it."
Behind Cross, the two tactical officers shifted their weight forward, their hands tightening on the grips of their weapons.
Miller moved instantly, his body angling to shield Claire, his right thumb unsnapping the retention hood on his sidearm holster. Claire did not retreat. She shifted her balance, planting her boots wide on the slippery concrete, her eyes locking onto the lead tactical officer.
"Try it," Vance said. The words were barely louder than a whisper, but they cut right through the roar of the rain.
Cross frowned. "General, do not turn this into an armed standoff. You are a distinguished soldier, but you cannot defy the executive branch—"
"I am the Senior Active Duty Flag Officer on this installation, Leonard," Vance said, his voice dropping into pure ice. "And unless you have the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff standing behind that umbrella with a signed presidential directive, your pieces of paper mean precisely jack-shit to me."
Vance raised his left hand and made a sharp circular motion toward the perimeter fence.
From behind the nearby maintenance hangars, two massive Oshkosh armored security vehicles belonging to the Air Force 89th Security Forces Squadron rolled forward, their heavy diesel engines roaring. Mounted on their ring turrets were M2 .50-caliber machine guns, both manned by Airmen in full combat gear. The heavy barrels swung down, tracking directly onto the three black Suburbans.
Cross’s face drained of color. The umbrella in his hand wobbled.
"This installation belongs to the United States Air Force, Mr. Cross," Vance said coldly. "The Base Commander answers to the Chief of Staff, and the Chief of Staff happens to be my roommate from the Class of '84. If your boys don't get back into those Suburbans within the next ten seconds, I will have the Security Forces breach your doors and lock you in a transient holding cell until the next fiscal year."
Cross looked at the massive .50-caliber barrels aimed at his convoy. He looked at Vance’s implacable, stone-hewn face. Then he looked at Claire, his eyes narrowing with bitter venom.
"You're protecting a traitor, Vance," Cross spat. "This girl broke into the secure servers of a prime defense vendor. She stole trade secrets. She altered test reports to create a panic—"
"She documented murder," Claire interrupted.
The words came out of her like steel striking an anvil. She stepped forward, past Miller’s shoulder, confronting Cross directly.
"Three weeks ago, Staff Sergeant Raymond Garza was incinerated in an M2A4 Bradley outside Erbil," Claire said, her voice shaking with raw, controlled fury. "His family was told an advanced anti-tank missile penetrated the hull. I ran the metallurgical analysis on the remnants of that hull plate, Mr. Cross. It wasn't an advanced missile. It was a fifteen-year-old rocket-propelled grenade that should have bounced off the reactive skirts. The armor fractured because your friends at Vanguard Global substituted industrial glass for silicon carbide to inflate their quarterly margins."
She took one step closer, until Cross was forced to tilt his umbrella back to look at her.
"I didn't steal secrets," Claire said. "I collected the receipts for the murder of my friends. Now tell your men to move their trucks, or let them draw their weapons and find out what happens when you threaten a United States soldier on an Air Force ramp."
Cross swallowed hard. He looked at the Air Force gunners, whose gloved hands were resting firmly on the spade grips of the heavy machine guns.
"This isn't over, Sergeant," Cross whispered, his voice trembling. "The committee convenes at 0900 tomorrow morning. You won't make it to the witness table."
"I survived three roadside ambushes in the Euphrates Valley, Mr. Cross," Claire said, her expression colder than the rain running down her neck. "A bunch of lawyers in Italian suits don't scare me in the slightest."
Cross turned on his heel. "Fall back! Into the trucks! Now!"
The tactical team scrambled backward, retreating into the Suburbans. Within thirty seconds, the three black vehicles had executed sharp U-turns, their tires spraying rooster-tails of water across the tarmac as they sped toward the main gate.
Vance watched them leave, then exhaled a long breath through his nose. He turned to Miller.
"Move the bird into Hangar 4. We aren't taking the highway to D.C. They'll have surveillance teams on every overpass between here and the Capitol."
"How are we moving, General?" Miller asked.
Vance looked toward the far end of the flight line, where a nondescript, unmarked gray Air Force transport van was pulling up alongside the security vehicles.
May you like
"We go underground," Vance said. "We use the auxiliary rail tunnels under the Anacostia River. Sergeant Morgan, keep that Pelican case chained to your wrist. The next twelve hours are going to be the longest night of your life."
***
