by Bob Mayer
Maxwell nodded.
"How do you think the military audience at Pearl will react?"
Maxwell remembered all too well the chilly, almost insubordinate, reception the President had received at a military post early in his campaign several years ago. "In a military manner," he said.
"What's that mean?" Jordan asked.
"It means," Maxwell said, a bit of exasperation in his voice, "that they will be exceedingly polite to his face and say 'yes, sir yes, sir, three bags full.' If he orders the Navy band to jump off the memorial into the Harbor, they will jump off into the water in perfect step. But he cannot control what they think or feel, and I don't think he should try."
"Is there something you aren't telling me, general?" Jordan asked quietly.
Maxwell's composure cracked slightly. "I don't know."
"You don't know what?" Jordan pursued.
The mask returned to Maxwell's face. "Nothing."
Jordan leaned forward. "General Maxwell, I deal with half a dozen to a dozen crises a day. I have to be able to trust the people close to me to not only tell me the facts, but I have to trust their instincts. I haven't been able to think about this trip to Pearl for more than a few minutes amid all my other duties. You've been across the river at the Pentagon and focused on it for several days. You seem a bit agitated about something. You just told me you believe this Line organization exists, yet you offer no proof. If there's something I need to know and bring to the attention of the President—even if it's just speculation on your part—I need for you to tell me."
Maxwell was ill at ease. "I really don't know. But I've had a strange feeling about this whole trip to Pearl ever since it was announced. Something's not quite right. I used to be able to go anywhere in the Pentagon, but the JCS war room is now off limits to me."
"That could simply be because you are no longer on active duty," Jordan noted.
"No," Maxwell replied. "I had access until last week. Now, though, they're enforcing a new access roster—one that excludes me."
"And?" the senator prompted. "Is there anything else bothering you?"
Maxwell's eyes were fixed on the bulkhead over Jordan's left shoulder. "I did my first tour in Vietnam as a lieutenant assigned to advise a Vietnamese Ranger company. They had an old Vietnamese sergeant that always walked point for them on patrol, and he'd never once led them into an ambush. He'd been fighting almost all his life. First with the French, then with us. One day I talked to him through an interpreter and I asked how come he never had been ambushed. He told me the spirits warned him of danger on the trail."
Jordan took another sip of his drink, waiting for Maxwell to make his point.
"Later, on my third tour, I met some of the men we sent across the border into North Vietnam and Laos. Members of our best recon teams and I talked to them, and they told me the same thing—the ones that managed to survive dozens of trips into enemy territory—except they called it something different. They told me there was a sixth sense that they paid very close attention to—that they trusted their lives to. I felt it occasionally too in combat. Once before my infantry company got attacked, I could feel something was wrong—that something bad was about to happen. And it did."
Maxwell shrugged. "I've had the same feeling about this trip. I can't put my finger on anything specific, but I have had a bad feeling about this trip from the beginning." He picked up a folder from the seat next to him. "I looked at the itinerary. I see that the President is to participate in a national command and control exercise on the night of the sixth. I assume that will be aboard the SHARCC."
"Yes, that's been scheduled for months," Jordan replied. "I don't know the details of the exercise. It's required by memorandum of agreement between the Office of the President and the Department of Defense that he participate in one C&C exercise every six months. Been in effect for over forty years."
"I would say that is the opportune time for General Martin and the Joint Chiefs to confront him. Just before he gives the speech at Pearl," Maxwell said.
Jordan smiled. "Then we can cancel the exercise, which will solve that problem. We'll make Martin and his cronies come to us."
Maxwell nodded. "That will help minimize the potential for problems. But don't underestimate General Martin. In Vietnam he won the Distinguished Service Cross—the second highest award, just below the Medal of Honor. He also has a Purple Heart with three oak leaf clusters, which means he was wounded three times—and he didn't get those wounds sitting on his ass in the rear. He walks with that limp because a large-caliber machine gun bullet took away most of his right thigh. I disagree with some of his philosophies, but he is one hell of a soldier."
"I served my country in World War II, so don't be trying to pull the wool over my eyes because of Martin's background," Jordan said sharply. "He's not the only one who was shot at in the service of his country."
"Senator, I say that merely as his due, because there are some nagging doubts about the general that even his record can't remove."
"For example?"
Maxwell held up a binder with TOP SECRET stamped on the cover. "The Backfire incident."
"I've read the report," Jordan replied.
"I don't think it's complete."
Jordan waited. Maxwell took a deep breath. He felt out of his league. "I question how they knew that Ukrainian aircraft would be making that particular flight with this particular pay load."
"According to that report the military didn't know," Jordan replied. "It was coincidence. They picked it up on AWACS as it crossed the Black Sea. The two F-16s were participating in a NATO exercise and were able to be diverted to intercept the Backfire."
Maxwell nodded. "But the report states that while this was believed to be the first attempt by the Ukrainians to smuggle out a nuclear weapon, there were previous flights of the same sort, carrying conventional arms. How could General Martin and his people know that?"
"That information did not originate from General Martin," Jordan said. "It came from the CIA."
"I know that," Maxwell said. "But when did the CIA report that to Martin? Before or after the Backfire incident?"
Jordan didn't have an answer to that.
"If the CIA informed Martin before, then it should have been brought to the President's attention, and he could have tried diplomatic means to stop the shipments, instead of ending up with a nuclear incident over a friendly country and the loss of two pilots."
Maxwell flipped a few pages in the report. "It says right here that Martin specifically ordered U.S. forces in Turkey on alert for three days prior to the incident looking for such shipments."
"So you're saying Martin allowed it to happen?" Jordan asked. "Why?"
Maxwell ticked off reasons on his hand. "To support his own agenda. Hard Glass. Shooting down the MRA. To reduce confidence in the President." Maxwell picked up another folder. "And then the incident in the Ukraine," he continued.
Jordan finished his drink. "What are you trying to say, General?"
"I don't really—"
"If you have some facts, then you put them down on paper and you give them to me," Jordan snapped. "The President has a lot on his mind and until you have something solid, I'm not going to worry him with speculation." He stood up and left the cabin.
HICKAM AIRFIELD, HAWAII
4 December
1:00 P.M. LOCAL/ 2300 ZULU
The head air policeman for Hickam Field threw a couple of extra-strength Tylenol into his mouth and washed them down with a swig of orange juice. "Who the hell is that?" he asked irritably, as the chief air traffic controller acknowledged an inbound flight. "We're shut down for all but emergencies and specifically authorized flights until we get Air Force One in and out of here." The two men were standing in the control tower, both exhausted from the extra preparations for the high-level flights that were coming in.
"I don't know," the head ATC said. "Some VIP from the mainland. I got a personal call from General Dublois telling me to give this
flight top treatment and direct clearance. It's not on the list of authorized flights, but I'll take General Dublois's word that it's authorized."
Given that General Dublois was the Air Force Chief of Staff, the head security man for the airfield knew he wasn't going to argue. He watched as the unmarked Lear jet rolled to a halt and a large limousine with darkened windows pulled up next to it. An old man was escorted down the short flight of stairs and into the waiting car, which immediately took off, heading for the gate to adjacent Pearl Harbor.
"Are there any other authorized unauthorized flights coming in?" the security man asked sarcastically. He wondered who the old man was to rate such high-class treatment and why the Lear didn't come into the international airport, which would have been just as easy.
"That's the only one I know of," the head ATC said. "I think I'm going to go home and get a couple of hours of sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a busy day."
CHAPTER 21
HONOLULU, HAWAII
4 DECEMBER
4:00 p.m. LOCAL/ 0200 ZULU
"It's a damn zoo out there," Stewart said as he carried in a pizza that had just been delivered downstairs. "The President is arriving soon and everyone is going crazy."
"Can I make a call?" Boomer asked.
"To whom?"
"To the person who got me the information on the submarines and the in-flight refuel of the combat Talon."
"Go ahead, but put it on speakerphone so I can hear," Stewart ordered.
Boomer punched in the number for Maggie's car phone, and Skibicki answered on the first ring with a gruff hello.
"This is the Boomer. You got anything new?"
Skibicki knew when to be direct and to the point. "The Sam Houston, the Special Ops sub, just turned away from the Glomar Explorer and the SHARCC. It's heading for Pearl and it's moving fast. If it keeps up its present speed it will be off shore by this evening."
"What are you up to?" Boomer asked.
"I'm going to check out Pearl tonight," Skibicki said.
"Are you safe where you are?"
"So far. I keep moving and I haven't been to the places they'd expect me."
"Anything else?"
"No. Maggie's worried about you, and she hasn't heard anything from Major Trace."
"All right. Tell Maggie I'm fine. Out here." Boomer hung up.
"What does that mean—the sub coming toward Pearl?" Stewart asked.
Boomer grabbed a slice of pizza and devoured half the piece, thinking as he chewed. "I don't know. Maybe The Line is afraid their plan for the C&C exercise has been uncovered and they're going to backup plan B, which involves Pearl itself. Maybe stand off with the SDV, swimmer delivery vehicle, and pop off a Mark 32 Standoff Weapons Assembly—which is fancy Navy talk for blowing the shit out of the Arizona Memorial with a big-ass torpedo while the President is on board, or maybe hit the launch carrying him out there—even The Line might think twice about destroying the memorial." As he spoke, Boomer realized he had stopped adding modifiers such as "if" to his speech. Since he had come to Stewart he had to believe in this plot until he was proved wrong.
"They think they can get away with that?" Stewart asked, shocked at the concept.
"The only thing these people care about is not getting caught," Boomer said. "They can blame it on the Ukrainians, the North Koreans, or the Chinese—hell any shit-ass terrorist organization." He pointed at the newspaper lying on the coffee table. "You've seen the article in there about the Iraqis protesting our downing that Ukrainian bomber. They do have a few submarines. I wouldn't be surprised if the damn Navy doesn't have one or two Iraqi subs captured in the Gulf War that they've stashed to use as a blind for some sort of operation like this."
"Pearl's secure," Stewart said obstinately. "I was just out there."
Boomer laughed sarcastically. "Hell, Pearl's the most unsecure place you could think of right now. You don't get the picture do you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You're not dealing with some psycho writing threatening letters here. You're dealing with professionals trained in these kind of operations. Infiltrating Pearl and taking out the launch with the President on it, with the equipment these people have, is a piece of cake. And you can be damn sure they know every single security measure you have planned since you probably briefed the chief of security at Pearl. Correct?"
Stewart didn't answer, and his pizza grew cold on the paper plate in front of him. He'd be glad when the President and General Maxwell arrived. This soldier was correct. He was way out of his league and he didn't like it one bit. He'd received word a little while ago that the two bodies discovered at Kaena Point had still not been identified, and not only that, but that someone had tried to claim them using government. ID. Only the fact that Stewart had called earlier had kept the officer in charge of the case from turning them over. The men who had shown up for the corpses had disappeared. That made the threat of a plot all the more real.
"The President will be here within the hour," he said. "We'll figure out what to do then."
HICKAM FIELD, HAWAII
4 December
4:27 P.M. LOCAL/ 0227 ZULU
At Hickam Field, as soon as the President and his party debarked, Air Force One was rolled off the tarmac into a secure hangar. An outside security cordon of Air Force police moved in around the building while the normal four-man Secret Service detail set up shop inside, securing the interior doors of the hangar with sensors—they themselves were the final line of security on board the plane itself.
In the sky above the airfield, another specially equipped plane circled once before making a final approach. The modified Boeing E-4B was one of four in the Air Force inventory—specially designed as a post-attack command and control system code-named Looking Glass.
Right now, it was serving as a ride for the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It touched down and was immediately met upon stopping by a limousine. The chairman and the rest of the service chiefs exited and were driven to their quarters at Pearl Harbor where they would be staying for the duration of the ceremonies.
The E-4B was directed to a parking place adjacent to the hangar holding Air Force One. Another security blanket of Air Force police was unfolded and placed over the E-4B. The chief of security at Hickam, an Air Force full colonel, breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't often they received two VIP flights in one day. He was glad that they were all safe.
BENSON, NEW YORK
4 December
9:30 p.m. LOCAL/ 0230 ZULU
Trace heard the words as if from a great distance, echoing through her skull. "You've got a fever. I've put you on antibiotics. Your leg has also been set. Just take it easy and rest."
She tried to blink to clear away the film of haze that covered her eyes but had no success. A large dark figure—she assumed it was Harry; the voice sounded like his—was leaning over her.
She felt something on her arm, then the prick of a needle. "You'll be all right. You're going back to sleep now."
"The diary," she managed to rasp out.
"I've got it. As soon as you're better, we'll be able to call Hawaii again. Sleep tonight. Tomorrow's soon enough."
With those encouraging words, Trace gave up the fight. She lapsed into a deep sleep, her body sinking into the comfort of a large bed.
Leaving the room, Harry went into the living room. He glanced at the memorabilia on the wall—all Colonel Rison's—a legacy of years of service. Harry picked up the phone and dialed long distance.
"She's out again."
He listened to the voice on the other end.
"She's in no shape right now to do anything. She's got two broken ribs, she was hypothermic when I found her and severely dehydrated."
A pause.
"Sometime tomorrow. Probably late morning." Harry looked about. "I'm going to need help with transportation." He nodded. "All right." He hung up the phone, then glanced at a picture of Colonel Rison in camouflage fatigues and nodded. "I'll see it through, sir."
HONOLULU, HA
WAII
4 December
5:00 p.m. LOCAL/ 0300 ZULU
"Senator Jordan, General Maxwell, this is Major Watson."
Boomer noted that Jordan didn't shake hands, although Maxwell did. He stood at attention as the senator moved directly to the desk dominating the room. He gestured for the others in the room to be seated. "I wish I could be more cordial but I'm afraid I have neither the time nor the inclination. From what I have been told, you could well be facing charges for your recent actions."
Boomer sat motionless, waiting.
Jordan continued. "I must also tell you that I am not predisposed to believe that there is a coup or assassination plot in the works."
Now Boomer reacted, but the senator held up a hand, forestalling any spoken response.
"However, I am predisposed to believe that there are actions taking place that are prejudicial to the welfare of this country. Actions that may be initiated by some members of the military. Perhaps they are being organized by such a group as this Line you have briefed Agent Stewart about. Perhaps it is simply members of the Joint Chiefs acting in what they believe to be the best interests of the country. But it appears those actions may be crossing the line into areas, that while not directly illegal, are harmful."
Jordan paused and Boomer jumped into the gap. "Senator, with all due respect, I firmly believe that this is more than just the Joint Chiefs making a political play. There are military forces at this minute maneuvering in a manner that are clearly a threat to the President's welfare."
"We have only your word on that," Senator Jordan said.
"You can check on it," Boomer said.
"I can assure you that we are," Jordan replied.
Boomer tried to keep the initiative, something he'd been trained to do. "There is something I have not told Agent Stewart. I thought it was best to present it personally."
