He approached a group of bikers—three men dressed in leather jackets that declared them to be members of Hell's Angels. Good. They wouldn't be afraid to get into a fight.
"There's a man over there," he said to them in a low voice, pointing to Ihbraham. "An Arab man. He's acting really strange. I'm going to go find one of the Secret Service guys—I know they're around here somewhere. But will you keep an eye on him? You know, get close to him, make sure he doesn't go anywhere. And if he does anything, just, you know, beat the shit out of him."
"That guy in the blue T-shirt?" one of them asked.
"Yeah," Husaam said. "With the sandals. Don't let him out of your sight. I'll be as fast as I can, but I may have to go all the way back to the gate."
"You got it, chief."
They moved closer to Ihbraham, as Husaam, true to at least part of his word, moved back toward the gates, well out of range of all the weapons he'd helped smuggle onto the base.
"When the President climbs up the stairs," the woman named Myra—Joan's boss—told Charlie and Vince for the umpteenth time, "he's going to stop and greet you and your husband. You'll already be on your feet—everyone will stand when his car pulls up. But if you need to sit down, don't be ashamed or afraid to do it. It's quite warm out today. No heroics, do you understand?"
"Absolutely," Charlie told her. "I'm not a hero—I'm only the wife of heroes. Did you know that my husband, Chief Vincent DaCosta, was a frogman during the Second World War?"
One of the officers with the fancy uniform—Admiral Crowley—turned to face them. "You were a frogman, sir? With the UDT—the Underwater Demolition Teams?" he asked Vince. He had a craggy face filled with character and lines, but for the briefest of instances, he looked like a wide-eyed little boy.
"I was," Vince replied.
"Where did you serve, Chief?"
"I was in the Pacific from March '44 to the end of the war, sir."
"He also served as a Marine at Tarawa, back in November 1943," Charlie added. "He never bothers to mention that. Or the fact that he was on the team assigned to scout and clear landing zones on mainland Japan. I thank God every day that the Japanese surrendered before that ever got off the ground."
Crowley was looking around at his staff members. "Why didn't we know any of this? Sir, it's an honor and a privilege to meet you." He snapped to attention and saluted.
Vince laughed as he returned Crowley's salute. "That's really not necessary, Admiral. It's been a long time since I've been anything but Vince or Gramps. In fact, I'd prefer it if you called me that. Vince, I mean."
Crowley smiled as he shook Vince's hand. "Call me Chip. I'd love to sit down and talk to you sometime. Can I have my secretary call you and set up a time we can meet for lunch?"
"If you want war stories, Chip, it's best to meet in the afternoon or the evening, after dinner. It's not the kind of conversation that mixes well with food. For me, at least."
Crowley nodded. "Then we'll have to get together twice— once to share a meal and talk about our grandchildren."
"I'd like that," Vince said.
"Excuse me. The President's going to arrive soon. Since this is my party, I better get ready. I'll look forward to our lunch." Crowley went off to talk to several of the other officers.
Vince looked at Charlie and laughed. "He thinks I'm some kind of hero."
She shook her head in disbelief. "The thing that I don't understand, Vincent, is why you don't."
"We were just scared kids, doing what had to be done," he told her. "That's the way I think of it. The real heroes are the boys who didn't come home."
"My God," Charlie said. "Is that actually what you believe?"
But he didn't answer because now the other admiral was coming over to meet him and shake his hand.
Mary Lou cleaned the second French fry machine while Aaron the asshole flirted with Brandi, the new girl he was allegedly training to work the cash register.
Kevin was leaning back against the counter, taking a load off. "Lunch rush is going to be nonexistent today. Everyone's over watching the SEALs do their supermen thing."
"Either that or everyone's going to decide they're hungry and need a burger and descend on us all at once." Aaron laughed. "We'll be the ones needing Secret Service protection."
God, he was a fool. The congealed grease she was cleaning was ten times funnier than he was.
"The area they're in is fenced off from the rest of the base," Kevin said. "They can't get here from there."
"Some fence," Aaron said. "You could go through that thing with a pair of wire cutters in a matter of seconds."
"Yeah, well, look where it is," Kevin pointed out. "Inside a Navy base. Like there's a lot of dangerous terrorists here on base, looking to crash through the fence and assassinate the President."
"Good point," Aaron said. "Although some of the sailors I've seen around here are pretty terrifying."
Yuck, yuck, yuck. Like he was such a prize himself. What an asshole.
"Did you say that President Bryant was going to be here?" Brandi asked.
Get out much, new girl? Bryant's impending visit had been a big story on the evening news for the past two weeks. Lord, did only foolish and stupid people work here? Mary Lou had to find a new job.
Maybe she could help Ihbraham do yard work. She could bring along the travel playpen for Haley and work outside all day. She'd probably lose weight. But the cool thing was, if she didn't, Ihbraham wouldn't care.
"Yeah, didn't you see that security by the gate?" Kevin asked Brandi. "You think they would do that for just anyone?"
Mary Lou could become one of those women who went barefoot and wore flowing cotton dresses without a bra. She would help Ihbraham grow flowers in the most beautiful gardens in town. And every day, in the afternoon, when Haley was napping beneath the shade of a tree, they would take a break and make love right there on those wealthy people's patios.
She wondered what Ihbraham looked like naked. Was his skin that same rich color all over? AH over?
"You know, this would be the perfect time and place to assassinate Bryant," Aaron said, interrupting her thoughts.
Salacious thoughts, she realized. Who ever would have guessed? "Imagine the uproar it would cause."
"Yeah, but how would you do it?" Kevin asked.
"It would have to be a bomb," Aaron said—as if he had even the slightest clue what he was talking about. Brandi was looking at him all wide-eyed, like she was actually impressed and thinking about fucking him. Yeah, that would be a smart move. Sleep with the manager of a fast-food restaurant, and who knows what it'll do for your career. Maybe someday you'll get to work the drive-through window.
"There's no way you could smuggle a gun past that security," Aaron continued. "You couldn't even get a water pistol onto this base today. They checked my car so thoroughly, I was tempted to ask them to vacuum it out while they were at it."
Har har har.
"I guess it would be easier to smuggle a bomb in, but you'd have to do it in pieces," Kevin speculated. "Assemble it once you were inside—and that'd be hard to do. The place is crawling with those dudes from the Secret Service."
"Yeah," Aaron said. "That's the way to go—smuggle it in way in advance and hide the various pieces around the parade grounds until you're ready to use "em."
Mary Lou dropped the fry basket with a clatter.
"I've got a man in the crowd with some kind of radio in his ear," Jenk said suddenly from his perch at the open door of Seahawk One. "I've been watching him for a while because he's got a baby stroller but no baby. Seemed kind of weird, like, where's his wife and kid? But he's definitely alone."
Sam ordered the helo pilot to take them back around as he moved to Jenk's position. "Where?"
He could see the president's limo pulling up to the dais, the Secret Service surrounding him in a V-pattern as he climbed out of the car and headed toward the back stairs.
"He's in the crowd that's standing—he's about ten people back, left side of the dais, farthest from where Bryant is right now. White shirt, dark complexion, beard. Stroller, no kid. I guess it's possible that his wife and kid are sitting in the stands."
Sam had him. "Jesus, you have good eyes. I see the stroller, but I can't even tell if this guy has ears, let alone a radio. Someone give me a pair of glasses."
"He was fussing with it a second ago, sir," Jenk reported as Wildcard tossed Sam a pair of binoculars." 'Course, it could be a hearing aid."
Through the glasses, the man in question leapt into sharp focus. Sure enough, he was wearing a wire that led from his right ear down into his collar.
"We've got him now, too," Nils reported from the other helo. "That's definitely not a hearing aid. But maybe he's listening to the game."
"What game?" Jenk—also known as Mr. ESPN—:asked. "There's nothing scheduled until this afternoon."
"If he were listening to a Walkman, why conceal the wire inside his shirt?" Sam watched the guy closely, wishing that all terrorists had the words Friend of Osama tattooed on their foreheads. "It's possible he's one of us. Commander—"
"I'm on it," Paoletti's voice came through loud and clear. "There are plainclothes personnel in the crowd. If he's one of us, he's going to take off his hat—if he's wearing one—and scratch the top of his head. The Secret Service is sending that message now to everyone out there."
Sam kept the binoculars trained on the man. Who didn't so much as scratch his ass. "No movement from our man."
"I've got someone about twenty yards away from him scratching away," Jenk reported.
"We need to get this guy checked out."
"President's on the dais," Muldoon's voice reported. "Should we get him back to his car?"
Something was going on.
Joan moved closer to Muldoon, to try to hear what he was saying.
Although it was hard to hear anything, because both helicopters were circling steadily now.
The crowd was applauding President Bryant's appearance, and the United States Navy Band had started to play "Hail to the Chief." The Secret Service agents who had led Bryant to the stage were still forming a half circle around him, one of them gesturing for him to hold up. So he chatted with her grandparents, leaning close to hear them over the din and shouting back into their ears.
That was nice for Gramps and Gramma, but something was definitely going on. She inched even closer to Muldoon.
The Secret Service agent who was in charge of the President's safety joined Paoletti, Muldoon, and the SEAL team's enormous XO, Lieutenant Jacquette.
"Get the weapons out of the racks," she heard Paoletti order. "Duke, I want this guy in your sights."
Weapons...
"You need to let us take care of this." The man in the dark suit didn't sound happy.
"Your snipers haven't located him yet," Paoletti said.
"We can't pick him out from the sniper towers—the angle's wrong—but we're coming at him through the crowd. We'll find him."
"And until then," Paoletti said, "we 'II be ready to take him down from the helos."
"He's probably no threat at all. Security here is tight, Commander. The only danger I see comes from putting live ammo into the hands of saltwater cowboys. I'd like to remind you that you have absolutely no authority here."
"You can give me that authority, Pete," Paoletti said.
"Dream on, Commander. This is my show. If there is trouble, we will take care of it."
Muldoon saw her standing there. "Get back," he said in a low voice. "Get back to the edge of the stage, Joan, as far from Bryant as possible. If there's trouble, you drop, do you hear me? Right to the ground. And you stay there."
She stared at him. My God, he seriously thought...
If there was going to be trouble, it was going to be focused on this stage—on the President.
Who was still talking to Vince and Charlie.
* * *
"Careful," Aaron chastised Mary Lou. "Those things cost money."
"Sorry." Her heart was pounding. The guards had checked her car when she'd pulled onto the base this morning. And she'd sat there thinking, Thank God Sam didn't leave an automatic weapon in the trunk today.
But what if that gun had never been Sam's? What if someone else had put it in her trunk? Someone who knew the lock was broken. Someone who knew that she worked here on base and regularly drove past the guards at the gate without ever being stopped and searched. Someone who wanted a weapon carried onto the base—to be used later.
Like on a day when the U.S. President was scheduled to appear.
What if Mary Lou hadn't brought just that one gun onto the base? What if she'd been used to carry a full arsenal of weapons?