by Bob Mayer
Harry slammed on the brakes, then just as quickly punched the accelerator, causing Trace to yelp from the sudden pain of being slammed first against the seat belt, then back against the seat.
"Sorry, missy," Harry said as they shot underneath the helicopter, the skids barely five feet over the roof of the car, the pilot reacting too late. They were back in the shelter of the trees.
*****
"Get down, right above those fuckers," Quincy ordered. "I'll stop them." He leaned out the left door, hooking his arm through the seat belt to steady himself as he tried to get aim on the car.
Isaac brought the helicopter down as low as he could, concentrating on the trees whirring up toward them and by below.
Quincy fired a three-round burst. It was impossible to see where the bullets had gone, but he knew for sure that he had missed. "Lower!" he ordered.
*****
Trace looked out ahead, then twisted her head. The man was leaning out, looking like he was firing at them. She looked ahead again. "Oh my God," she whispered.
Harry grinned, seeing what she saw.
*****
Isaac never saw it until it was too late. He was concentrating on the immediate danger of the trees just below.
"Jesus!" Isaac screamed. He hesitated for the briefest of seconds, not sure whether to try to go over or if he could make it between two of the massive steel girder supports of the New York City Aqueduct which loomed across the valley floor, blocking the entire way up over 200 feet.
It really didn't matter that he froze. He could have never made it over and there wasn't room to pass between. The blades struck first, a fraction of a second before the nose of the helicopter impacted with a steel girder.
From a forward speed of over seventy miles an hour to zero, the helicopter compressed into the unyielding steel girder, the shattered pieces flying about, littering the valley floor for hundreds of feet.
*****
"Now we go," Harry said, not bothering to stop to admire the wreckage.
"Where?" Trace asked, no longer capable of being surprised by anything.
He drove hard. "Colonel Rison's place, missy."
After putting a dozen miles between them and the crash site, he pulled over. Pulling a military-issue first aid kit from behind his seat, he quickly bandaged Trace up as best he could. "The ribs will have to heal on their own. Try not to laugh too much, eh, missy?"
"I'll try," Trace said.
"We got a long ride. Let me give you a shot for the pain."
Trace was in no mood to object.
Harry smoothly slid the needle in and pushed the plunger. "This will help you sleep."
Trace was too tired to ask again and too tired to be irritated at the lack of a clear answer as to the destination. She could already feel the effects of whatever was in the needle. She leaned her head back against the headrest and was unconscious within seconds.
*****
In the superintendent's office back at the Academy, Hooker put down the now-silent radio. He sat still for a few moments, then looked up at his aide. "You take charge here. Try to track them down. I need to go to Hawaii immediately."
CHAPTER 20
WAIWA, HAWAII
4 DECEMBER
10:00 a.m. LOCAL/ 2000 ZULU
A day had passed, and Boomer was ready to explode on all fronts. No word from Trace—Skibicki had checked with Maggie. They had taken no action here, which meant that whatever The Line had planned was going along quite well without their interference.
"I'm worried about Trace," Boomer said. "She would have checked in by now. Something must have gone wrong."
"I'm worried, too," Skibicki said. "There's a hell of a lot at stake here. More than just the safety of Major Trace. She's got the proof and with Colonel Rison dead, we're up shit's creek."
"Is there any other information you have that might be helpful?" Boomer asked. Skibicki had gone over to Fort Shafter the previous evening and, without going to the tunnel, had checked in with some friends to see what was going on.
"A DDS from Special Warfare Group One is missing along with a Mark IX Swimmer Delivery Vehicle. No one knows who's got it," Skibicki said.
"You mean the SEALs who own it don't know where it went?" Boomer asked incredulously.
"Roger that," Skibicki said. "Someone from Pacific Fleet came in and loaded it up on a cargo truck and wheeled it away. They could have taken it anywhere and mounted it on the Sam Houston."
"But isn't the Sam Houston controlled by Navy Special Ops?" Boomer asked.
Skibicki shook his head. "Negative. All those ships are under control of Fleet Headquarters. My buddies in Navy Spec Ops have no idea where the Sam Houston is."
"So it looks like your idea about the DDS and SDV is correct," Boomer said.
"We got to go to someone," Vasquez said.
"There's an advance security detail from the Secret Service here already," Boomer said. "I suggest we go to them and tell them what has happened so far."
"We might as well pack our bags for a prison stay, then," Skibicki said. "Or are you forgetting those two men we killed out at Kaena Point?"
"Like you said—this is bigger than Trace; this is also bigger than us," Boomer replied. "We know something's going on. Let's turn it over to people who can handle it better than we can. We agreed last night that if we didn't hear from Trace we would act."
"But if they don't believe us, we end up in prison, and that leaves no one out here in the real world who knows about the plot and can try to do something about it," Skibicki countered.
"What can someone do by themselves?" Boomer asked.
"Well, we could have fucked up their jump into the island," Skibicki said. "Maybe with a little better idea of what we're up against, we can do a better job. We can't go out to sea to check out these subs, but if they're planning anything in Pearl Harbor we can go down there and check things out."
Skibicki closed his eyes in contemplation. When he opened them his mind was made up. "All right. I agree someone has to go to the Secret Service, but only if someone stays out here in the real world and does the best they can to stop this thing if the Secret Service doesn't react in time."
Boomer could read between the lines. "I guess that means this 'someone' "—he pointed at himself—"goes to the Secret Service, and that 'someone', " he—pointed at Skibicki—"stays out here."
"Pretty good figuring for a West Pointer," Skibicki said, slapping him on the back.
"Take me downtown," Boomer said.
OAHU, HAWAIIAN ISLANDS
4 December
11:00 a.m. LOCAL/ 2100 ZULU
"Excuse me, the lady at the front desk said you were with the Secret Service, and I need to talk to you."
Stewart looked over at the man who had approached him from across the lobby and decided he didn't like what he saw. Whoever he was, this man spelled trouble—the eyes that were flickering around the lobby, taking in everything, the untucked shirt with slight bulge underneath the right shoulder that suggested a concealed weapon and, most importantly, the uneasy feeling Stewart picked up, an instinct that he'd learned to trust.
"I'm Agent Stewart. How can I help you?" Stewart edged sideways, looking over the man's shoulder. The rest of the lobby was clear, and Stewart could see two of his men watching them carefully, so he felt somewhat more at ease.
Boomer dug out his special Federal ID and showed it to Stewart. "Major Boomer Watson, Delta Force."
Oh shit, Stewart thought. Not a gunslinger from Bragg. He'd dealt with Delta before and had not enjoyed the experience. He hadn't been told that any of them were going to be involved here.
"Special Agent Mike Stewart. Presidential security detail. What can I do for you?"
"Is there somewhere we can talk?" Boomer asked.
Stewart checked his watch. He had an appointment with his counterpart in the Honolulu PD in thirty minutes. "Reference?"
"Reference security for the President's trip," Boomer replied.
&nb
sp; "I've got a meeting in thirty minutes," Stewart said. "You need to be more specific. I wasn't briefed that your unit had any jurisdiction or responsibility here on the island."
"We don't," Boomer acknowledged. "I'm not here in an official capacity. I showed you my ID to let you know I am legitimate."
"What can I do for you?" Stewart asked, weary of the roundabout conversation.
"You don't remember me, do you?" Boomer asked.
Stewart frowned. There was something familiar about the man.
"I roomed with your second detail Beast squad leader," Boomer said.
"You're class of 'eighty-one?" Stewart asked. "Third company in Beast?"
"Right."
"So—I repeat my question—what can I do for you?"
"Can we talk somewhere private?" Boomer repeated.
"You just told me you're not here in an official function," Stewart said. "I am here on official business and I don't have time for games. You got something for me, lay it out."
"I think there's a military plot against the President," Boomer said in an even voice.
*****
Two hours later, Boomer was exhausted. He was seated with Agent Stewart in a room on the floor below that was reserved for the President. He'd laid out the story from the beginning, including his part in the killing of the two men found at Kaena Point—leaving out Skibicki's name. Stewart had made several phone calls to check on their story. Boomer wasn't certain how well his theory had been received but he knew one thing—he had crossed his Rubicon and he could not recross. The fact that Stewart was a West Pointer had worried him when he'd first spotted him from the hillside in Waiwa, but the more he thought about it, the more Boomer realized this might be a good break. He very much doubted that Stewart was in the employ of The Line. If he was, Boomer would find out very shortly.
"You've heard nothing from this Major Trace who supposedly has evidence of the existence of this organization called The Line?" Stewart asked.
"Nothing since she called after leaving the stadium," Boomer said.
"Philadelphia PD has no report of a shooting at the Army-Navy game," Stewart said, giving him the results of at least one of his phone calls. "The only confirmation I have of your story is that two bodies were found up at Kaena Point and that they were killed with 9mm rounds." He looked hard at the man across from him. "But that does little other than make your confession of murder legitimate. It says nothing of a plot against the President."
Boomer had said all he could.
Stewart leaned back in his chair, then picked up his special Satcom phone. He punched in a special code and accessed the special link with Air Force One.
"This is Agent Stewart Is General Maxwell on board?"
There was a brief pause, then Stewart continued.
"General, this is Secret Service Agent Mike Stewart in Honolulu. We talked at Fort Myer at General Faulkner's funeral. I have a rather strange situation here that I'd like to run by you." Stewart proceeded to succinctly relay what Boomer had told him in about five minutes, with a few interruptions as he was obviously asked a question. When he got done, he listened for several minutes then put the phone down.
"What now?" Boomer asked.
Stewart held two fingers a fraction apart. "You were this close to having me call Honolulu PD and you being taken into custody."
"Were?" Boomer asked.
"Were," Stewart confirmed. "Now we wait. Air Force One will be here and the Man will have to decide what to do."
AIRSPACE, WEST COAST, UNITED STATES
4 December
1:30 p.m. LOCAL/ 2130 ZULU
Air Force One was cruising at 34,000 feet, heading west toward Hawaii. The airspace for 100 miles around the plane was kept clear by air traffic controllers. Inside that space, besides the large 747, two F-16 Fighting Falcons flew escort, shadowing the bulky plane like two sleek watchdogs, their radars scanning the skies all around, their missiles armed and ready for firing.
Inside Air Force One, General Maxwell slowly put the phone down. He glanced up as Senator Jordan walked down the aisle. Jordan had been spending more time with Maxwell over the course of the past month, feeling him out on his views. Maxwell knew that Jordan was a key player between the White House and Congress. Most importantly, though, was the fact that Jordan had the President's ear and Maxwell knew the best way to approach the President was through the senator.
"What's wrong, general?" Jordan asked, taking the deep seat across the way from Maxwell.
"We might have trouble in Hawaii."
Jordan waited silently. Maxwell began with the phone call from Agent Stewart, then worked backwards, telling the story he'd just been told. When he got done, Senator Jordan made no comment.
"What do you think?" he asked.
Maxwell took a deep breath. "I'm not sure. I don't know this Major Watson who came to Agent Stewart. However, I don't think we can afford not to believe that the story may be true, particularly with all that has been happening between this administration and the Pentagon. Before he departed on advance security I told Agent Stewart to be on the lookout because I've been concerned about the strained relationship between the President and the military."
Jordan shook his head. "This is ridiculous. This country has never been concerned about its military doing something like this. What you're talking about here—the plot this man has come to Agent Stewart with—it's unthinkable."
Maxwell thought that was a rather simplistic approach. "We have to consider it as possible, sir."
Jordan frowned. "This Major Trace. She supposedly has some sort of proof that this organization exists?"
"Yes," Maxwell said. "Unfortunately she has not been heard from in the last twenty-four hours. She was last seen at West Point."
"Is there anything we can do to track her down?"
Maxwell nodded. "I'll make some calls."
"And the soldier?" the senator asked. "What is his status?"
"I've asked Agent Stewart to hold him until we arrive. Technically speaking, of course, Stewart should be turning him over to the local police for questioning on homicide charges."
"You did right holding him," Jordan said. He paused in thought. "Have you ever heard of this Line?"
"No, I haven't."
"And you've been in the military for over thirty years. Don't you think you would have run into it? Especially when you were in command over in Yugoslavia? If you've never heard of it, I doubt that it exists."
Maxwell considered his thoughts carefully. "I have never heard of an organization called The Line, that is true. But I also could not swear to you that such an organization does not exist. I have seen and heard too much in my years of active service in uniform to discount the possibility. There has always been a closing of ranks among senior officers from the service academies."
"That's not a stand, general. I can't go to the President with that." Jordan pressed home. "Do you believe—yes or no—that an organization called The Line exists?"
Maxwell thought for a few moments, then startled himself, never mind the senator, with his next words. "Yes, I do believe it exists."
"Oh shit," Senator Jordan said, losing his composure. "Do you believe that there's a plot against the President in Hawaii?" he demanded.
Maxwell's forehead furrowed. "I think something is going to happen. I've felt all along that at the very least the President was going to be confronted by General Martin and the Joint Chiefs in Hawaii over some of the issues."
"Confrontation and assassination are two radically different words," Jordan said.
"I know that. But this information is disturbing, the Special Operations Forces parachuting off the North Shore and the Vice President just happening to be vacationing up there. The movement of the Special Ops sub toward the SHARCC—the President was scheduled to participate in a highly classified exercise on board there, yet these people know about it—that meant others knew about it."
"I want you to check on that, general," Jordan said. "Find
out who authorized those troops to move and what their mission is. If there is a mission."
"I'll check on it."
Jordan pushed the call button and a steward appeared. Jordan raised a finger and glanced at Maxwell.
"Coffee," the retired general said.
The steward returned with a drink for the senator and the coffee. Jordan took a sip. "Maxwell, you were one of them." He held up a finger as the general started to protest. "No, listen to me. The President has no ties to the military," Jordan chuckled. "That may be the understatement of the year. So talk to me. What's going on in the Pentagon?"
Maxwell cradled the coffee mug in his hands. "They want the President to back down on the MRA and allow it to die in the Senate. They also want him to allow full funding of the Hard Glass system and cut all support for the Ukraine."
"What are they going to offer in return?" Senator Jordan asked.
"I think they'll endorse the recommendations of the Fortney Commission," Maxwell said. The Fortney report had been done by a group hired by the Pentagon in response to the administration's MRA research. Its recommendations, mollified by the fact that the Pentagon controlled the commission's budget, had been mild to say the least, and bore little resemblance to the sweeping changes in the MRA.
"And?" Jordan asked.
Maxwell shrugged. "That's all."
Jordan blinked. "You're joking."
Maxwell's face didn't betray any emotion. "No, I'm not."
"And if the President refuses?"
Maxwell shifted his steel rimmed glasses toward the senator. "We have a problem. Now you understand why I'm inclined to believe Agent Stewart's report."
Jordan stirred the ice in his drink. "General Martin is political. He has the support of the opposition in Congress. The Joint Chiefs could embarrass the President with some incident if they so desired. But a military coup is a far cry from political embarrassment. It surprises me that you believe the situation could be this critical." Jordan looked at the folders piled on the seat next to Maxwell. "Have you seen a draft of the President's speech?"
