Troubleshooters (Jackson Chase Novella Book 2) by Connor Black Page A
Authors: Connor Black
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the cool efficiency he had yesterday. The poor man wasn’t used to this, and needed a little support getting things rolling.
“Lieutenant,” I said, “I think it might be wise to take the passengers from this flight to a safe location. I saw an empty hangar just down the ramp, so I’d suggest organizing the group there.”
This seemed to kick him into gear, and he immediately pulled his shoulders back and said, “You’re right, Commander, thank you. This flight was taking tourists to the Serengeti. We will get the manifest and match it to the passengers.”
“And if you can, get a photograph of each of them along with a statement.”
He nodded in affirmation. I turned to Sterba and said, “Let’s have a look around.”
“What are you looking for?” Kahembe asked.
“The outlier, Lieutenant. The one who stands out with too much—or too little—interest,” I said, my eyes beginning the search already.
As we looked over the distraught passengers on the apron, Sterba asked, “Uncommanded det?”—An accidental detonation, common enough with IEDs, improvised explosive devices.
“That’s my guess. Either from the bag falling off the dolly or some sort of radio interference from airport operations.” Something else was bothering me, so I asked, “Why so little damage?”
“Small amount of explosive material. No shrapnel. Wouldn’t need much to take down a small plane like that, and anything more than necessary would have made the bag noticeably heavy.” He was right. The skin of the plane was thin enough that even a small detonation would have had the desired effect.
As Kahembe’s men moved the passengers across the ramp to the empty fire brigade hangar, we looked over each face. And while we were looking for the fidgety nervousness of a bomber, we only saw fear and sadness. These tourists had come to Tanzania to fulfill a dream of seeing Africa’s beautiful wildlife. If today had gone as planned, they would have been setting down on the Grumeti’s dirt strip, watching a group of giraffes carefully nibble leaves from the Acacia trees. Instead, they we being ushered into a hot shed, left to wonder what would have happened had their plane taken off.
“He’s not in that lot,” I said.
Sterba nodded. “Increase the perimeter. Could have been thrown on the baggage cart by someone not on the flight. Easy enough here.”
He was right. While there was a fence around the perimeter, it had likely been put up ages ago more to keep animals off the runway than anything else. Efforts had been made to secure the row of small hangars and sheds that ran parallel to the runway, but the scraps of gates and fencing could easily be hopped.
We walked by the terminal building, the sturdiest building of the lot that looked more like a standalone restaurant. Faces, a mixture of black and white, stared out at the tarmac. To the right was a tiny wooden building, its age and colonial style leading me to believe it was the original airport terminal. There was a gap between the little old building and a rusty corrugated hangar just beyond. It was obscured slightly by a large green dumpster and some old barrels.
Sterba turned away so as not to look directly at the suspicious location, and said, “Looks like a good spot if you needed to do a BDA.”
While we assumed that the bomber had left, there was still the chance he’d stick around to do a battle damage assessment. I doubted jihadists used the term BDA, but I was pretty confident they’d want to see how many infidel notches they could put in the stocks of their AKs.
“Let’s keep the pace, then jump,” I said.
And so we strode with a slow gait past the gap, as if headed towards the fire brigade shed further down the ramp. When we were just past the dumpster, both of us spun quickly. Sterba drew and covered deep down the weed-strewn space between the buildings. I charged the dumpster, arriving there in a flash.
Nothing. I made a quick circuit of the area
“Lieutenant,” I said, “I think it might be wise to take the passengers from this flight to a safe location. I saw an empty hangar just down the ramp, so I’d suggest organizing the group there.”
This seemed to kick him into gear, and he immediately pulled his shoulders back and said, “You’re right, Commander, thank you. This flight was taking tourists to the Serengeti. We will get the manifest and match it to the passengers.”
“And if you can, get a photograph of each of them along with a statement.”
He nodded in affirmation. I turned to Sterba and said, “Let’s have a look around.”
“What are you looking for?” Kahembe asked.
“The outlier, Lieutenant. The one who stands out with too much—or too little—interest,” I said, my eyes beginning the search already.
As we looked over the distraught passengers on the apron, Sterba asked, “Uncommanded det?”—An accidental detonation, common enough with IEDs, improvised explosive devices.
“That’s my guess. Either from the bag falling off the dolly or some sort of radio interference from airport operations.” Something else was bothering me, so I asked, “Why so little damage?”
“Small amount of explosive material. No shrapnel. Wouldn’t need much to take down a small plane like that, and anything more than necessary would have made the bag noticeably heavy.” He was right. The skin of the plane was thin enough that even a small detonation would have had the desired effect.
As Kahembe’s men moved the passengers across the ramp to the empty fire brigade hangar, we looked over each face. And while we were looking for the fidgety nervousness of a bomber, we only saw fear and sadness. These tourists had come to Tanzania to fulfill a dream of seeing Africa’s beautiful wildlife. If today had gone as planned, they would have been setting down on the Grumeti’s dirt strip, watching a group of giraffes carefully nibble leaves from the Acacia trees. Instead, they we being ushered into a hot shed, left to wonder what would have happened had their plane taken off.
“He’s not in that lot,” I said.
Sterba nodded. “Increase the perimeter. Could have been thrown on the baggage cart by someone not on the flight. Easy enough here.”
He was right. While there was a fence around the perimeter, it had likely been put up ages ago more to keep animals off the runway than anything else. Efforts had been made to secure the row of small hangars and sheds that ran parallel to the runway, but the scraps of gates and fencing could easily be hopped.
We walked by the terminal building, the sturdiest building of the lot that looked more like a standalone restaurant. Faces, a mixture of black and white, stared out at the tarmac. To the right was a tiny wooden building, its age and colonial style leading me to believe it was the original airport terminal. There was a gap between the little old building and a rusty corrugated hangar just beyond. It was obscured slightly by a large green dumpster and some old barrels.
Sterba turned away so as not to look directly at the suspicious location, and said, “Looks like a good spot if you needed to do a BDA.”
While we assumed that the bomber had left, there was still the chance he’d stick around to do a battle damage assessment. I doubted jihadists used the term BDA, but I was pretty confident they’d want to see how many infidel notches they could put in the stocks of their AKs.
“Let’s keep the pace, then jump,” I said.
And so we strode with a slow gait past the gap, as if headed towards the fire brigade shed further down the ramp. When we were just past the dumpster, both of us spun quickly. Sterba drew and covered deep down the weed-strewn space between the buildings. I charged the dumpster, arriving there in a flash.
Nothing. I made a quick circuit of the area
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