Despite having to work within significant constraints, Anderson’s challenge had seemed eminently achievable; that was until the various possibilities slowly reduced to a big fat zero. They had adjusted the criteria, the agricultural research centre escaping their initial trawl mainly due to its size, sixty acres. Its formal links with the small community of Terrill had also made it seem an unlikely option, although that should strictly have moved it up the rankings, McDowell having similarly worked hard to integrate August 14’s UK base into local life. An inconclusive business search, followed by discreet enquiries into the type and extent of the facility’s electrical work, had moved the research centre ever higher; its final placement at the top eventually confirmed when the chairman of the Spotsylvania County Agricultural Committee had recognised Lee Preston.
Terrill itself was sixteen miles west of Fredericksburg, on the border of Spotsylvania and Orange Counties, the population of just over four hundred spread out along Route 621. The research centre was on the northern edge, a wedge-shaped strip of land containing six buildings in total, the three largest of farmhouse and a pair of converted barns set back a quarter of a mile from the main road.
There was the expected website, its references to ‘alley cropping systems’ and ‘production hedges’ meaning little to Anderson. In practice that seemed to involve long lines of stumpy bushes, all in neat rows north to south, some ten yards between each line. In the alleys between them were a complex mix of crops, several acres in total of each, and at different stages of growth, some just left as grass and clover.
McDowell was obviously determined to keep up the pretence of an agricultural research centre, its green credentials reinforced by a wind turbine and an array of solar panels, back-up power provided by a battery bank and diesel generator. There were also four satellite dishes, McDowell similarly sticking with his philosophy of technological overkill.
The larger buildings formed three sides of a square, the open end facing the main road. The FBI’s main target was the middle structure of the farmhouse: brick-built and two storeys, most of the electrical work had been concentrated on the top floor, making it the most likely location for the computer centre.
Anderson had waited expectantly for Flores to pass across a detailed map with the positons of McDowell’s men duly highlighted, but the relevant satellite data was considered off-limits, Flores’ team having to make do with a twenty-minute briefing and a quick sketch. Anderson had however been issued with the essential of Kevlar helmet, goggles and bullet-proof vest; no weapon, as he was simply expected to observe until the area was fully secure. The police would only be informed once the attack was underway, Flores determined to keep the operation as secret as possible.
No back-up, no real intelligence as to what they were likely to face, and the weather now brightening after the heavy rain – to Anderson it was a recipe for disaster, not that the FBI seemed worried. Flores estimated at least eight targets, maybe as many as twelve, his guess based purely on the fact there were six vehicles parked between the main buildings. Anderson’s maths was a little different: four SUVs and two medium-sized cars could easily add up to a more worrying total of twenty.
Fourteen – plus Anderson – versus anywhere between an over-optimistic eight and a disastrous twenty: such differing numbers didn’t help Anderson’s confidence level. However, some of those eight to twenty would be academics and computer experts like Jon Carter, so hopefully less keen on risking life and limb.
Flores spoke briefly into his radio; then nodded at Anderson. Moments later the first two agents moved forward in a crouching run, MP5 sub-machine guns held ready for instant use. Flores had split the FBI team into three groups: five men attacking from the south-east; Flores and four other agents plus Anderson coming in from the south-west; the final four agents would form a holding line to the north, McDowell’s most likely route of escape.
There were some hundred and fifty yards of ground to the wire fence surrounding the main buildings. Perched high-up inside the fence were security cameras, two to each side, but as yet no sign of any guards. The bushes between the alleys weren’t particularly thick and maybe three feet high, providing a certain amount of cover. Anderson would have personally opted for an elbow-wrenching crawl from one from line of bushes to the next; the FBI preferred a more direct and somewhat speedier approach, working on the principle that the cameras would catch them whatever route they took.
Once the two agents reached halfway to the fence, Flores led the rest forward, Anderson nervous and keyed-up, ready to react at the first sound of a gunshot.
Ahead the fence was now being cut, Anderson puzzled as to why there was still no response, with at least one of the cameras easily revealing their advance. Their initial target was the western barn: two-storeys and timber-framed, the side facing Anderson was some thirty feet long with two narrow windows and a chunky-looking wooden door.
As the first two agents squirmed through the gap in the fence, gunfire belatedly erupted from the barn; one agent instantly collapsed to the ground, hands clawing at his neck. Anderson saw no more as he flung himself forwards, hugging the rain-soaked earth, sensing Flores returning fire.
Anderson glanced up, ears bombarded by the gun battle around him. There were just three rows of bushes between him and the fence, offering a deceptive sense of cover and he could easily see through the screen of branches. Beyond the second barn, muzzle flashes revealed that the twin attack was similarly pinned down. To Anderson it seemed pointless to stay where he was, a bullet just as likely as not to hit him, and he squirmed forward, following Flores as he headed towards the gap in the fence.
The gunfire slackened and Anderson squeezed through the fence. One agent was dead, shot through the throat; another lay hunched-up, his hands stemming the flow of blood from a wound in his lower leg.
Anderson edged closer intending to help, but the man merely nodded towards his sub-machine gun. Anderson didn’t need any further encouragement and he grabbed the MP5, Flores choosing not to argue.
The western barn was no more than thirty yards away, windows shattered, the wooden planks pockmarked and splintered. Its bulk in turn protected them from the farmhouse, the barn’s defenders either dead or keeping their heads well down. A word of instruction from Flores and with the two remaining agents giving covering fire, Anderson and Flores charged towards the barn, both men sliding to a halt beside the outer wall, one either side of the door.
Gunfire was now sporadic, both sides carefully picking their targets; still nothing from inside the barn. McDowell didn’t look to be pulling out just yet, perhaps realising the attackers couldn’t count on additional support.
Flores gestured at his two colleagues. Seconds later he lobbed a stun grenade through one of the windows into the room beyond. Even before the explosion died away, he fired a three-round burst at the door lock, the other two agents sending another volley through each of the windows.
Flores shoulder-charged the door, stumbling inside, Anderson close on his heels, a single shot ringing out.
* * *
Despite the surging anger of those first moments, McDowell worked hard to maintain an aura of studied calm. His normally reliable sources had given him no warning as to an attack, and he had no idea as to the FBI’s numbers. Maybe a dozen men and lightly armed, but they had already managed to fight their way into the two barns. The computer room was at the rear of the farmhouse, on the top floor, out of direct view of the attackers; safe for maybe another five minutes at most.
Terrill was fast outliving its usefulness and McDowell knew he couldn’t afford to delay any longer. Five more days was all he had wanted, even three might have been enough. He moved across to where Jon Carter sat, the Englishman more focused on checking the local police reports than the drama outside. They had practiced such a scenario just the once, the four non-combatants primed as to what to do and say, no-one expecting them to make a fight of it. And if everything went to plan, they’d most likely be back
on the streets within seventy-two hours. The key figures were already working as one to remove the President from power, it assumed success would drag along with it the ambitious and the naïve, the silent majority confused enough by recent events to follow their natural inclination and do nothing.
A hand on Carter’s shoulder and a nod of affirmation was all it took to seal Terrill’s fate. A brief word to the others, then McDowell grabbed his M4 assault rifle, thundering down the stairs before ordering Preston to check out the back.
At the front there was a temporary lull, the FBI no doubt reviewing their strategy before the final assault. McDowell had started with seven men, all ex-military; now he was down to just three – time to leave, if they could.
With a raucous clatter the FBI renewed their attack, McDowell instinctively ducking as the wall beside him exploded with plaster and brick. The defenders fired one last burst and then pulled back to the rear of the farmhouse.
Carter and Preston waited by the door, the latter’s binoculars focused on the fields to the north.
“Cameras picked out several more agents,” Carter advised. “’Bout two hundred yards to the north; nothing east or west.”
“West,” McDowell ordered without hesitation. “We’ll aim for 604 and try to hijack a vehicle.” He glanced at Carter, “Stay here, Jon; your job’s done.”
“No thanks,” responded Carter, shaking his head. “Even twenty-four hours stuck in a cell is too long, let alone seventy-two.”
McDowell merely nodded in understanding. A final check and then he led the way out the back. The double gates at the rear threatened to be a choke point, McDowell wasting precious seconds opening them while Preston and Lavergne provided covering fire to the north. There was some return fire but the FBI agents looked to be more interested in edging their way closer, trying to anticipate which way McDowell would run.
Once past the fence, the basic plan was to adopt a standard withdrawal, McDowell and Lavergne sprinting ahead for forty yards and then covering the other three as they chased past, not that Carter had a gun. Even as McDowell slithered to a halt beside a stumpy bush, there was a renewed rattle of gunfire from the north.
McDowell returned fire, more as a deterrent than with any expectations. A shout to Preston and the final three ran out from the rear of the farmhouse; Carter first, Preston the last to leave, a three-shot burst through the hall towards the front door his parting gift.
The shooting from the north was now persistent. Carter weaved first one way and then the other in the hope of escaping a bullet, suddenly stumbling. He fell just short of McDowell, coughing blood. McDowell started to move toward him but was waved away, it obvious even to Carter that the FBI was for once the healthier option.
Preston raced past, stopped, fired, and then shouted McDowell forward. Now they were also taking gunfire from the farmhouse, McDowell urging everyone on, hoping that it was all worth the effort. If they could get hold of a car then they stood a chance, a police helicopter his greatest worry.
Three of them made it to the treeline. Not that there was any sign of active pursuit, the FBI seemingly content with the prize of the research centre and its secrets.
* * *
Jensen sat in his office staring thoughtfully into space, his phone still hot from the many calls he had made that morning. To have been the first in the Cabinet to test the waters as to the President’s competence definitely seemed disloyal, but Jensen was simply doing his job, trying to work out whether there were others who shared Thorn’s views. And in any case, everyone in the Cabinet must have struggled with their conscience at some time over the past few days.
Without a Vice-President, the Cabinet was powerless to act even if a majority considered Cavanagh incapable of discharging his duties. Of its present fourteen members, four were willing to voice their concerns and Jensen sensed the vote would have been tight, but not necessarily conclusive either way. The next full Cabinet meeting was set for the Wednesday, when the tensions between them all were likely to be exposed; more so with the Midterm results promising to be an absolute disaster. The Republicans might well get to crow at their victory but in reality no-one would have actually won.
All of the signs were that Cavanagh’s Administration was close to collapse, the Cabinet divided on what it wanted to do, with two of the fourteen indicating that they were close to resigning. It wasn’t as if any of them truly believed the President was weak, more that recent circumstances had evolved to show him in that light, his actions in the South China Sea sensible and judicious.
Dick Thorn was the one person who could have held the Cabinet together, but now he acted more as Cavanagh’s nemesis, determined to bring the President down. Thorn had borrowed from Louisa Marcelo and had urged people out onto the streets of D.C. in a mass protest against Cavanagh, his message reinforced by a host of influential figures; several had even gone so far as to advocate a boycott of the Midterms, with Election Day instead becoming an opportunity to show America’s politicians what the public really thought of them all.
Publicly Thorn hadn’t quite gone to such an extreme. In fact, his new campaign to squeeze in as many media appearances as possible looked to be more like an early play for future political nomination. Cavanagh might still have two years left in office but most political observers believed he would struggle to complete them, let alone run for a second term. The public mood was angry, the Cabinet – and politicians in general – suffering as a consequence.
Even when there was good news it was never quite the breakthrough Jensen wanted. Although McDowell’s base and several of his associates had been captured, McDowell and two others were still on the run, their hijacked car found abandoned west of Fredericksburg. The trail back from Hanson had similarly reached something of a conclusion, reaching all the way up to the Deputy Director of Naval Intelligence. However, the evidence against him was still fairly circumstantial and for the moment the DDNI was merely under surveillance, Jensen waiting to see whether other high-ranking military personnel might also be involved.
Not that either success would be likely to stop the momentum for change, each hour seeing a new voice adding their support to Thorn’s day of protest. Businessmen, journalists, academics, even senior – albeit retired – military figures: Thorn’s message was being shouted out loud and clear, social media the ideal mechanism to help boost support. It was even being used to organise transport to Washington, together with suitable accommodation.
Despite the President’s enforced absence, the Government was functioning as normal, the Secretary of Defence working with Admiral Adams to work out their response in the South China Sea. The ROV would be in place by daybreak, the search for the submarine and the investigation into its origin expected to take days if not weeks. Well before then the Philippines and Vietnam would have to decide whether to back down or go ahead with their exclusion zone.
The confrontation between China and Russia also showed no signs of abating, both countries moving reinforcements to the border. To add to the mix, North Korea had finally decided it was the perfect moment to act: over a three-hour period, North Korean artillery had hit three islands off South Korea’s west coast with several dozen shells, killing at least eight civilians. South Korea had responded in kind, the military moving to a heightened alert, all leave cancelled. Taiwan had pointedly offered its support to South Korea, high-level talks on economic and military co-operation brought forward.
President Cavanagh’s truncated speech at the United Nations had met with a mixed reception, his implied threat to leave the U.N. seen as no more than that. America’s allies had been more positive, many keen to see the U.N become more effective and reforms introduced, although Britain and France would be unlikely to voluntarily give up their veto. That said, no-one believed Cavanagh had come up with a genuine solution to the present impasse.
The President himself was still at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York, suffering blurred vision, dizziness and bouts of confusion; tests were ongo
ing, the concern that he had been poisoned seemingly confirmed when Amy Pittman had also fainted. The means and identity of the poison had yet to be determined but both the President and his National Security Advisor were expected to make a full recovery; a minimum of two days.
To Jensen it was just one more element in the conspiracy against Cavanagh, events heading quickly to their climax. Jensen and the Secretary of Defence had put certain safeguards in place, but there were far too many unknowns to know if they would be enough. Jensen had mulled over whether to recommend going public with their fears, and even publicising that Cavanagh had been poisoned. A week ago, such an approach might just have succeeded; now it could easily be taken as a form of desperation, Thorn and his allies doubtless ready with a suitable counter.
If Russia’s coup d’état was to be the model, then the conspirators would include politicians and the military, most well-respected, with one certainly taking on the mantle of people’s favourite. Thorn could certainly fit into the final two categories, but Jensen had no firm view as to the identities of his accomplices; Thorn might even be out to grab total power for himself, unlikely though that seemed.
Jensen was convinced that the decisive act would be played out tomorrow, and the White House Situation Room was already fully manned, the Old Guard on alert. For now, all he could do was wait.
* * *
Flores stood beside the mobile command centre smoking a cigarette. Not that he smoked, but he had desperately needed something to calm his nerves: one agent killed, six more injured. At the time the risks had seemed worthwhile, his concerns as to an FBI mole fully justified; now his decisions would be analysed and slowly pulled apart, Flores no doubt condemned for acting without proper authorisation and a more realistic evaluation of the dangers.
The final coroner’s van had only just left, two of McDowell’s men also killed. Seven others had been arrested, four on their way to hospital. Although the prime target of McDowell had managed to elude them, the capture of Carter and the farmhouse complex was a certain justification for Flores’ actions, but perhaps still a poor reward for the death of one of his men. What made it worse was the attitude of those captured: there was a certain amount of apprehension but no real fear, one even able to crack a joke at the FBI’s expense – something instantly regretted when the butt of an agent’s gun had ‘accidently’ connected with his stomach.
The Trust Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 2) Page 28
