Free The Intercept by Dick Wolf Page B

lock was struck, the movers going in and out with hand trucks, transporting the detritus of the late Osama bin Laden’s possessions to the waiting Globemaster.
    The helicopter to Frankfurt was set to lift off in forty-five minutes. Maybe enough time to get a shower, but more likely not. Geeseman was walking around all rooster-chested, thrilled to have such sensitive and potentially lucrative intel going out under his name. He was giving the movers a hard time, following them around like a grandmother making certain her crystal would not be broken.
    “Heavy stuff on the bottom,” he said, and Fisk caught one of the airmen rolling his eyes.
    Fisk rubbed his. He was stuck between feelings of satisfaction for the discoveries they had made, and frustration for the discoveries they had not. His tired mind was tailing off into a useless spiral, so he forced himself to go get cleaned up at the officers’ quarters. He changed clothes and was ready just in time for the ride out to the chopper pad, taking a seat in the front next to the driver.
    It was the same airman whom Fisk had seen rolling his eyes at Geeseman’s officiousness. “It’s Boyle, right?” said Fisk.
    “Right, sir.” He twisted his shoulder toward Fisk so that Fisk could confirm this by reading the name tape across his left breast pocket.
    “Did you put the heavy stuff on the bottom, Boyle?”
    “Yes, sir,” he snapped. Then his gaze flickered to Fisk. He saw Fisk smiling, and then Boyle relaxed. He checked the mirror to make sure Geeseman was not in the vehicle with them. “Just like I learned in grocery-bagging school, sir.”
    Fisk nodded, pleased to find a guy with a decent sense of humor. “So what do you do when you’re not hauling around a bunch of nosy civilians?” he asked.
    “Mortuary Affairs, sir.”
    “What’s that? Undertaker?”
    “Kind of, sir,” said Boyle. “All the bodies from both wars come through here on their way home. Not the best assignment, though in a sense it is an honor to be doing it . . .”
    “Grim work,” said Fisk.
    “That’s the word for it, sir. Just seeing the dead for real . . . it’s something I thought I’d never understand.”
    “Does that mean you understand it now?” asked Fisk, the chopper coming into view ahead.
    “Not exactly, sir. I understand that the big picture doesn’t mean a damn thing to any of those men and women anymore.”
    Fisk nodded. “You’re dealing with the pixels, just like we are. Everyone else gets to stand back and take the wide view.”
    “Sir?”
    “Nothing, Boyle. I’m practically talking in my sleep here. My mind’s still back in that bunker.”
    “Intense work, sir.”
    “Eh. Sounds like you’ve put in your share of hard days, Boyle.”
    “I have, sir. But it’s okay. I’m good with it. Nothing compared to what you all were doing in there. Not that I know for sure, but I think I have an idea. Of course, we’re at opposite ends of it. But you’ve got a hell of a lot better chance of impacting this fucking thing than I do.” Boyle winced at his curse word. “Sir.”
    Fisk thought back to bin Laden’s words, which might turn out to be his final statement, his ghoulish message from the grave. They must be made to believe that we repeat ourselves out of a desperation to act.
    Fisk could not quite decipher it right now. He only knew that it meant one thing.
    Something was coming.

Part 4
    Chatter
    A Few Years Later
    Thursday, July 1

Chapter 14
    B oston Center, Scandinavian 903 heavy is with you. We’re out of Atlantic Uniform, flight level three six zero, direct Newark.”
    “Scandinavian 903 heavy, Boston Center. Good morning. Maintain three six zero. Expect descent clearance at 1655 UTC.”
    “Roger, Boston Center. Maintain three six zero, clearance at 1655. Scandinavian 903 heavy.”
    Captain Elof Granberg raised his arms over his head in a groaning stretch, his fingertips pointing to the cabin ceiling. The pressure in his bladder had just reached