“You told me to be quiet,” Karen whispered.
“Then warn me quietly.”
“I’ll try,” Karen said and loosened the collar of her Oxford blouse. “David, it’s getting really hot in this area.”
“The whole ceiling space is heating up and we’re rapidly becoming dehydrated,” David told her. “Without some replacement fluids soon, we’re going to be in deep trouble.”
“We—we won’t have to give up, will we?” Karen asked hesitantly.
“Not while there’s bottled water down in the kitchen.”
“How will we get to it?”
“Watch.”
David removed a ceiling panel and, holding onto the metal grid, lowered himself onto the sink. He paused briefly and listened for sounds. There weren’t any. He jumped to the floor and hurried over to the refrigerator. In a flash he had the door open and the top off a bottle of ice-cold water. He gulped down a pint and was reaching for a second bottle when he heard footsteps approaching. Quickly he grabbed the second bottle and tossed it up to Karen’s outstretched hands. In a split second, he closed the refrigerator door and discharged his empty bottle onto a nearby counter. Then he leaped up onto the sink and climbed into the crawlspace.
As he replaced the ceiling panel, the door opened and a terrorist entered. David slowly backed away, thinking the terrorist might see the discarded bottle and become suspicious. Quietly wiggling backwards, he was unaware that his stethoscope was slipping out of his side pocket. It dropped down onto a steel grid and made a loud, metallic ping. David froze in place. The terrorist must have heard the noise.
David heard the terrorist grumble, then grunt. Then everything became quiet. The silence lasted for several seconds before the terrorist grunted again. The man sounded closer now. David remained absolutely still, barely breathing. Slowly the ceiling panel directly in front of him slid away. David saw the terrorist’s large hands reaching up through the opening.
A moment later the terrorist’s head appeared in the crawlspace, his eyes staring straight into David’s.
“Ali—,” the terrorist began to yell.
But before he could utter a complete word, David grabbed the terrorist by the throat and, placing his thumbs over the Adam’s apple, crushed the man’s larynx and shut off his airway completely.
The terrorist struggled to free himself, but David lifted him up so his feet dangled in the air. The Chechen could make only a gurgling sound, with his larynx shattered and caved in. He twisted and turned as he suffocated to death.
David released his hold and the terrorist fell heavily to the floor, bouncing up once before settling. Then all was quiet again.
David hurriedly climbed down, trying to think where he could hide the body. There were no closets in the kitchen, and the space under the sink wasn’t large enough to contain the terrorist. His gaze went over to the dumbwaiter, but then David recalled it was booby-trapped. Suddenly there were voices in the corridor. Two voices! Maybe three! David reached for the terrorist’s Uzi, but it was attached to a sling and crammed under the man’s body. The voices came even closer.
Thinking quickly, David picked up the terrorist’s head and slammed it against the tile floor, causing an obvious depressed fracture over the temporal area. Then he scrambled up into the crawlspace and slid the ceiling panel back into place. Motionless, he waited and watched through a narrow slit in the ceiling. He barely noticed Karen moving up beside him.
“My God, David!” Karen hissed, stunned by the ruthlessness she’d just witnessed. “You killed that man!”
“I sure hope so,” David said tonelessly.
“It was so cold-blooded.”
“Killing usually is,” David retorted. “Now be quiet. More of those bastards are coming.” He peered down through the slit in the ceiling once again before adding, “And don’t move an inch.”
Aliev and the terrorist with the injured arm entered the kitchen and saw the body on the floor. Both men instantly had their Uzis at the ready. They spread apart and carefully searched the room, even looking into the dumbwaiter but not touching it. Aliev grumbled loudly as he checked the area under the sink.
“Vella”—Dead, the other terrorist said in Chechen as he leaned over the body to feel for a carotid pulse. “And look at his head! He must have tripped and hit his skull on the floor.”
In the crawlspace above, Karen pressed her ear against a panel and tried to hear the conversation. “Do you understand anything they’re saying?” she asked in a barely audible whisper.
“Not a word,” David whispered back. “Now be double quiet. Don’t even breathe hard.”
Below in the kitchen, David heard Aliev and the other terrorist exchanging angry utterances. They kept raising their voices. David couldn’t comprehend what they were shouting about, but he surmised they weren’t convinced the man’s death was an accident. Soon they would conclude that there was a Secret Service agent still alive on the Pavilion, and they would scour the entire area looking for him.
Aliev was growling in Chechen. “The man was a fantastic soccer player. Athletes do not trip over themselves and smash their heads in.”
“What would account for it then?”
Aliev’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Maybe there is an American agent still on the Pavilion.”
“But we searched and …”
“Then search again!” Aliev cut him off. “Search everywhere! Every room! Every closet! Under every bed! Make certain we didn’t leave an enemy agent alive.”
“And if we find one?”
“Kill him,” Aliev said, and stormed out of the room.
Thirteen
“Madam Vice President, we’re in contact with Eagle Two,” a communications officer called out.
“Put them on the speakerphone,” Halloway said, hurrying back to the conference table in the Situation Room.
The other members of the National Security Council quickly took their seats and leaned forward. Eagle Two was the code name of the Gulfstream turbojet carrying the Secret Service Special Ops team out of Mexico.
“This is the Vice President,” Halloway said into the phone, her voice firm and even. “To whom am I speaking?”
“Special Agent Joe Geary, ma’am.”
“Are you the agent in charge?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m commander of the Special Ops team.”
“Have you been briefed on the crisis we’re facing?” Halloway asked.
“Pretty much,” Geary replied. “We’re still getting some details from our agents on the ground in Los Angeles.”
“How far are you from Los Angeles?” Halloway asked the key question.
“Two hours and forty-two minutes,” Geary answered.
Halloway groaned to herself. The deadline for meeting the terrorist’s demands was two hours and thirty minutes away. One hostage in the Pavilion was sure to be executed, and a second probably to follow. “I assume you’re traveling at full speed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Geary confirmed. “We are at 586 miles per hour, which is top speed for this aircraft.”
“And you’re on the shortest possible route back to Los Angeles?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
There was a brief silence at the conference table as all members of the council were now certain the Secret Service team could not be back in time to meet the deadline. To a person, they wondered which individual the terrorists would choose to execute first. In their heart of hearts, they hoped it would be one of the Russian officials.
Halloway gestured to Arthur Alderman and pushed the speakerphone over to him.
“Agent Geary, this is Director Alderman,” he began.
“Yes, sir,” Geary said, his voice more crisp.
“First off, did you get your team out intact?”
“Y
es, sir.”
“Is our Mexican problem solved?”
“Well, sir,” Geary said flatly, “we won’t be hearing from Miguel Estrada again. But there were some difficulties.”
“What difficulties?” Alderman asked promptly.
“The local Mexican police decided to protect Estrada and took some hits.”
“How many?”
“A half-dozen or more,” Geary replied. “And there was trouble at the airstrip outside Manzanillo as well. The authorities on the ground insisted on an additional bribe.”
“And?”
“And it was a poor decision on their part, sir.”
“How many casualties?”
“I can’t be sure, but I’d estimate another half-dozen or so.”
Alderman stared at the speakerphone, digesting the new information and not liking it. “Stand by, Commander.”
“Roger that.”
Alderman put the phone on hold and turned to the other council members. “We’re looking at a diplomatic disaster.”
“Why?” Halloway asked.
“Because that plane is carrying personnel who shot and perhaps killed a dozen Mexican policemen, and it’s still in Mexican airspace,” Alderman explained. “Their authorities will track it and no doubt send up fighters to intercept it.”
Halloway narrowed her eyes. “Are you telling us they’d actually fire at our plane?”
Alderman nodded grimly. “That’s what I’m telling you.”
“No way!” Toliver blurted. “They wouldn’t dare attack a clearly marked American plane.”
“And therein lies our problem,” Alderman went on. “The plane is unmarked except for a tail number that will show it’s registered to Executive Transport Services, Incorporated. The corporation has a list of directors and executives that exist only on paper. All have recently issued Social Security numbers and addresses consisting of a post office box. None of the names have a residence, telephone, or work history.”
Toliver’s expression suddenly turned worried. “Do the Mexicans know this?”
“If they don’t, they will shortly,” Alderman told him. “Our plane had to file a flight plan into Mexico and give its identification number. In addition, it was on the ground in Manzanillo for a goodly length of time. You can bet the authorities there have the plane’s ID number and have relayed the information to Mexico City.” He paused to let the information sink in, then predicted, “They’ll send up their fighter-interceptors and try to force the plane down.”
“We can’t let that happen,” Halloway said resolutely. “We desperately need that team if we hope to save the President and the hostages.”
“From the standpoint of international law, the Mexicans have every right to shoot our plane down.” Alderman spoke in a low, deliberate voice. He already had a solution to the problem, but he thought it best to let the military advance the idea. “And of course Eagle Two is unarmed.”
“Could we have our plane change course so it’s over international waters?” Halloway suggested.
“We could,” Alderman said unenthusiastically. “But we’ll waste valuable time doing it. And the Mexicans would no doubt continue to pursue it because it’s a rogue plane that in their minds committed a criminal act.”
Halloway slammed her hand on the conference table so hard it vibrated. “They’re not going to shoot that plane down! Not while I’m sitting in this chair.”
“Maybe we should have them fly low enough to avoid detection by Mexican radar,” Toliver proposed.
Alderman shook his head. “That would significantly reduce their air speed. And flying under four hundred feet can be very dangerous, particularly over mountainous terrain. Then there’s the problem of fuel consumption, which is substantially increased at low altitudes.”
“How do you know so much about this plane?” Toliver asked.
Alderman pushed a thin folder across the table. “I had my aide obtain the specifications for the Gulfstream turbojet.”
Toliver glanced through the folder, searching for misstatements Alderman might have made. There weren’t any. He slid the folder over to the Vice President, who ignored it.
“I need workable ideas,” Halloway urged. “And I need them now.”
An awkward silence fell over the room. No one seemed to have an answer to the dilemma. Their collective gazes went to the giant video screen. A small, pulsating figure of a plane was very slowly moving northward along the Mexican coastline. The screen was pinpointing the position of Eagle Two.
“There are ways to protect that plane,” Walter Pierce said tonelessly.
“How?” Halloway asked.
“With our planes,” Pierce said and turned to the Navy Chief of Staff. “Do you have any carriers nearby, Emmett?”
“I’ll find out.” Emmett Sanders was the first black full admiral, the first black naval chief of staff. He gestured over to an aide, who hurried into the communications room.
“This is becoming a military operation,” Toliver proclaimed. “Which means I should be in charge.”
Halloway turned to him, her expression now cold as steel. “You’ll be in charge when the Attorney General says you’re in charge.”
“The regulations state otherwise,” Toliver insisted again.
“I don’t care about your damn regulations,” Halloway snapped. “I only care about the Constitution, and that’s what we’ll follow—to the letter. So let’s stop wasting time on protocol and start coming up with ideas that could save one of the best presidents this country has ever known.”
“Amen!” someone in the background muttered unintentionally.
Before Toliver could turn around to see who had uttered the remark, two small silhouettes of naval ships appeared on the video screen. One was in port at San Diego, the other at sea well off the coast of northern Mexico.
Sanders reached for a phone and spoke briefly, then walked over to the video screen. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and balding, with a thick mustache. He produced a pointer and drew the council’s attention to the aircraft carrier at sea. “This is the USS Ronald Reagan, steaming westward to Pearl Harbor, now four hundred and forty miles off the Mexican coast. With your permission, Madam Vice President, I can have her turn about and head due east, with a squadron of her fighter jets good to go.”
Halloway hesitated only a fraction of a second before saying, “Do it!”
There was a sudden flurry of activity. People began moving back and forth, the air now filled with a dozen conversations going on at once. Everyone felt the excitement. Something was finally being done. A plan was being put into motion.
Alderman gestured subtly to the Vice President, letting her know he agreed with her decision. Inwardly he smiled to himself. The military minds were only five minutes behind his in coming up with the answer to their problem. But things would move more quickly now, particularly with Emmett Sanders at the wheel. The admiral was a superb tactician who had designed the plan that destroyed all of the Iraqi coastal defenses and naval installations during the First Gulf War, and he did it without losing a single man or plane.
Sanders was still standing by the large video screen, his eyes glued to the silhouette of the USS Ronald Reagan, which was slowly turning about. “Madam Vice President, we should plot a course that will allow our fighter jets to intersect with the Secret Service plane in the shortest possible time.”
Halloway nodded. “Order it to be done.”
“And our pilots should be on high alert, and suited up in full flight gear,” Sanders advised.
“Agreed,” Halloway said, nodding again. “How many planes can we put up on short notice?”
“A dozen F-18 Hornets at the rate of two every thirty-seven seconds,” Sanders answered. “They can fly escort and, if necessary, take out the entire Mexica
n Air Force.”
Which would be interpreted as an out-and-out act of war, Halloway thought miserably. At minimum it would provoke a diplomatic nightmare that would sour relations between the United States and Mexico for years to come.
Her gaze drifted to the only empty chair at the table, the one that should have been occupied by Mitchell Kaye, the President’s National Security Advisor. Kaye was also an excellent diplomat who was fluent in Spanish and had close contacts high up in the Mexican government. He would have been the ideal person to deal with this crisis, but Kaye was currently a patient at Bethesda Naval Hospital, his body and mind ravaged by widespread pancreatic cancer. Halloway had visited him a week ago and barely recognized the man. A tragedy, she thought sadly, for Mitchell’s family and for the country. With effort she cleared her mind and looked over to Alderman. “Perhaps we should call the President of Mexico and explain our situation to him.”
“That won’t do any good and could cause a lot of harm,” Alderman told her. “First, the Mexican government is like a sieve. Within an hour of you telling their president of our predicament, the word would be leaked out and the entire world would know. Terrorists would be emboldened, all American interests abroad threatened, more hostages elsewhere taken, and stock markets around the globe would start crashing, and on and on. Second, under no circumstances would the Mexican president allow that plane to leave Mexico. Remember, we just executed one of their high-profile citizens, shot up an airport, and killed a dozen or more of their police. Can you begin to imagine what would happen to the Mexican president if he simply let that Secret Service plane go? He’d be seen as a weakling, a coward, and a puppet of the United States, and no doubt would be run out of office. There is no way he’s going to let that plane out of Mexican airspace.”
Pierce nodded his agreement with Alderman’s assessment. “If the tables were reversed, we’d never allow a rogue Mexican plane to get away. And if they tried, we’d shoot it down in the blink of an eye.”
“So everything depends on Eagle Two evading those Mexican interceptors,” Halloway concluded. Then she added in a firm voice, “But let’s get that Navy SEAL Team Six in Florida airborne and on their way to California, in case the worst happens.”
Patient One: A Novel Page 15
