Fear that the discovery of a bomb at Ville St. George might be merely a portion of a larger attack, the prime minister called an emergency cabinet meeting. Depending upon the success of the bomb squad, now at work at the hotel, ANZUS might be activated again.
The Sydney police bomb demolition team was in the storage room. The electrician had been dead-on. The container was suspiciously wedged in the crawl space. Black electrical tape covered what appeared to be a cardboard box. The LED fired a red burst every thirty seconds. There was no reason for it to be transmitting. The device was waiting for a signal.
The first question was, how long? They wouldn’t know until they peered inside through a portable X-ray to determine the power of the storage batteries.
There was another, more critical question: What did the batteries power?
The next steps were textbook. Evacuate the building. Secure the site. Assess the immediate threat. Shield the radio from incoming signals. Disarm the bomb. Remove the explosives.
Space was limited. After the X-ray, it would become a two-person job.
The bomb squad used a Dynalog portable X-ray machine patched into a Sony laptop. It took a non-invasive video in wide angles and close-ups. The first scan, starting from left to right, revealed a package of twenty silver oxide, 1.55 V watch batteries with wires leading to a compact circuit board—instantly recognizable as a receiver. A lead went right to the antennae.
The officer at the monitor shook his head. “This thing could last for years.” That was the unspoken good news. It probably wasn’t intended for detonation tonight.
The next scan showed the really bad news: twenty soft, chalky bars, with the consistency of modeling clay, wrapped in cellophane. Each bar was twelve inches long, two inches across, and one inch thick. No one watching needed any explanation. The contents were comprised of cyclotrimethylene-trinitramine (C3H6N606). Properly manufactured, it went by a much easier name to remember: C-4. There was enough power in the plastic explosives to shoot a fireball through the elevator shafts, weaken the structural integrity of the new hotel, and bring it down.
“Okay, get the shield up, and absolutely no radios in here.”
The SAS commander, Colonel Randolph Tyler, had quietly stepped into the room. He and his men came in unobserved in unmarked vans. The chief of the bomb squad nodded to him and gestured to the screen. They both knew how to read the information. No words were necessary. No one wanted to hear them anyway. The local police and the Australian special forces had trained together.
Tyler signaled to the chief. He came to the opposite corner of the room.
“We’ve got to get a little smoke circulating out in the ether. There’s a lot of press.”
“Yeah,” the Sydney officer noted.
“Let’s cut the electricity to the hotel, starting at the top floors and working down. The emergency lights will go on for anyone still coming down. Then you get word out that a water main has broken under the building. We’ve turned off power simply as a precaution.”
A cover story. Hopefully it would convince anyone with a finger close to the trigger to relax and stay with the plan—whatever it was.
“Good idea.” the officer said.
He spoke to one of his men. Word quickly relayed through the chain of command. While the bomb squad worked to set up the radio shield, Tyler stepped out to make a call of his own. His message would be carried to headquarters, and on to Washington.
Langley, Virginia
George Bush Center for Central Intelligence
Monday, 18 June
the same time
Barely two hours after the box was discovered in the basement of the Ville St. George, and only fifty minutes following the first news report, Jack Evans was on the phone with the head of the Secret Service at the White House. He went right to the point.
“Presley, move Big Sky now.”
“What?” Presley Friedman asked. “He’s wheels-up in another two hours.”
“Move him now!” ordered the director of the National Intelligence Agency.
“Is this…?” The Secret Service chief didn’t get to finish his question.
“Code: Rising Thunder.”
“Copy that. Rising Thunder.” The cryptogram was the president’s own choice for a fast moving emergency.
“Yes,” Evans barked.
“We’ll get Big Sky on his way,” Friedman responded. He was already typing the order into his computer.
The fact that President Lamden was staying in a specially outfitted suite in a Los Angeles hotel was exactly why he had to move. There was an evacuation at another hotel, with a similar suite, also dubbed Rip Van Winkle. That hotel was on the itinerary for President Lamden’s visit in August, set by the Office for Strategic Initiatives.
“He’ll be out in three minutes,” the Secret Service director acknowledged.
“I’ll alert the vice president and the speaker. Call me when he’s cleared the building. Again, when he’s on the road. At the airport and in the air.”
Now Presley Friedman wondered about the exact nature of the emergency. He’d find out soon enough.
Los Angeles International Airport
the same time
Eric Ross had very few of the worries of the average American. His meals were covered. The same for his laundry bills. His clothes were provided. He had a per diem wherever he traveled, and he traveled all over the world without paying a dime to the airlines. It was a perfect deal for a private man with no family and few friends.
But Ross did have responsibility.
Eric Ross was a career U.S. Air Force officer. He served with the Air Mobility Command’s 89th Airlift Wing, stationed at Andrews AFB, Suitland, Maryland. He had high security clearance and access throughout the base. He grunted more than talked, worked more than socialized. Cohorts who’d served with him could hardly say they actually knew Rossy, even after 12 years. But he wasn’t there for his personality. It was for what he could do. Eric Ross supervised the maintenance of the two most important airplanes in the United States: a pair of specially configured Boeing 747-200Bs built at Boeing’s Everett, Washington, plant.
The planes flew with the designation VC-25A and tail numbers SAM 28000 and 29000. In military parlance, SAM referred to Special Air Mission. These were definitely special jets.
When Ross’s boss was onboard either craft, the radio call sign became Air Force One.
This afternoon, the planes were serviced and waiting at a satellite terminal on the ocean side of LAX. The president was in Los Angeles for two days of meetings with Western governors. Ross had to make sure they were ready to fly at a moment’s notice.
Blindfolded, Lt. Eric Ross could successfully inspect the most hidden quarters of his SAMs. Performing specific diagnostic tests in the dark was part of his education. However, Rossy exceeded the minimum standards. He’d been trained behind closed doors by Boeing’s top engineers. He had the reputation for being able to smell virtually any trouble. What he couldn’t personally figure out, he could get help for, day or night, from anywhere on the planet. Ross had direct access to unlisted numbers of people with very special knowledge. Most importantly, he had the guarantee that there would always be an answer.
For years, the 44-year-old, five-foot-ten career officer passed on putting in for a transfer to far easier duty. He said Air Force One was his life. It called out to him. The last three presidents always felt better when they saw his name on the roster, better yet when he accompanied them in the air. And when the current commander in chief, still getting used to the trappings of his flying Oval Office, asked, “Is everything looking okay, Rossy?” the thumbs-up put him at ease.
The confidence came from the sense that these were Rossy’s planes, and his hands-on approach to their care made the whole experience of flying on Air Force One more secure.
If Ross hadn’t put in the 238 miles of wire in each plane himself, more than twice what is found in a typica
l civilian 747, he certainly acted like he had. They weren’t just wires. They were his wires. And not just ordinary wire at that. These were lifesaving strands, with a shielding over the core to protect the planes’ systems from any electromagnetic pulse—the kind generated by a thermonuclear blast.
Unless he was sicker than a dog, Ross traveled everywhere with the Airlift Wing. The planes couldn’t be serviced by commercial aviation ground crews or even regular Air Force. Security reasons alone made that impossible. That’s why Ross and members of the 89th were so vital.
According to the orders that had come down, the VC-25As were scheduled to depart for Andrews at 2215 hrs. Both planes. These days they always had to be flight worthy, 24/7. One ferried the president; the other was support. Ross couldn’t pilot either 28000 or 29000, but he could ground them with a check mark in the wrong box.
In addition to their actual operation, Rossy had extensive knowledge of the history of Air Force One—actually a misnomer, because the call sign doesn’t belong to any one plane. Air Force One is actually any airplane the president is aboard, whether it’s a 747, an F/A-18 Super Hornet, a S-3B Viking, or even a Cessna. And once a president ceases being a president, through death or resignation, the designation of the aircraft immediately changes.
Such was the case on August 9, 1974, after Secretary of State Henry Kissinger read President Nixon’s formal resignation letter, and Gerald Ford was sworn in as the thirty-eighth president. Air traffic control in Kansas received the radio message from the plane carrying Nixon: “Kansas City, this is former Air Force One, please change our call sign to SAM 27000.”
The lieutenant was not permitted to discuss classified information about the twin jets, or reveal details on anything already on the record. Occasionally, freshmen members of the White House press corps would try. “Come on, Rossy. Where’s the escape pod?” There was none, but he would only smile and shrug his shoulders.
“How many parachutes does this thing carry?” Again, no comment, even though they were not equipped with parachutes. The dangerous slipstream created by the 747 in flight prevented their use.
“What about the range of this thing?”
“I dunno, pretty far,” he offered, even though the reporters could find out on the Internet that the planes were capable of flying halfway around the world without refueling, and with midair fill-ups, they could probably fly indefinitely.
Ross was not known for volunteering much. But he did like telling reporters, “When you really come down to it, my job’s pretty simple. I just have to think about the unthinkable and make sure it doesn’t happen.” For that reason and a hundred others on the official checklists, Air Force One was gassed up and ready to go.
They were happy he was working for the good guys.
Century Plaza Hotel
Los Angeles, California
the same time
“Mr. President, we have to go,” said the lead agent, a 6-foot-tall bulldog of a man. The Secret Service agent closest to the president had gotten the message before Friedman was off the phone with Jack Evans. Word also had been radioed to the Air Force, which urgently launched a pair of F-15s out of Nellis AFB in Nevada. Already aloft were two Navy Super Hornets from San Diego, an E-3 Sentry AWACS Boeing 707/320, and a KC-10 tanker, all flying sweeping figure-eight patterns off the coast. Since 9/11, their contrails created a haunting white web above many of America’s cities; a visible reminder of how the world had changed.
“What the…?” Lamden managed.
“This way, sir.” The agent was absolutely insistent. “We have a situation. We need to leave the hotel immediately.” He took Henry Lamden by the arm, making his intensions perfectly and immediately clear. Another agent fell in step on the other side of Big Sky. The Secret Service had come up with the designation name when they officially were assigned to guard him during the primary elections. It was an appropriate handle for the then-Governor of Montana.
Though they trained for this, Henry Lamden recognized that this was not another drill. This was the first time it really felt like an emergency. His heart quickened.
“Okay, okay. But I need to get….”
“We’ll take care of everything, sir,” the agent answered.
The president’s guard force hurried him out of the secure suite at the Century Plaza Hotel. He noticed that the other agents looked equally as serious as the two men who flanked him.
The freight elevator door was open. Two more agents were posted there. Thanks to the use of an override key, they went down without stopping. Once in the basement, they proceeded along a planned exit route through a myriad of unmarked tunnels that led to a closely guarded garage exit and the waiting presidential limo. Lead and tail cars were already in place. The LAPD escort would have to catch up.
The agents pressed the president’s head down, almost shoving him into his car. A second later they were screaming through the garage tunnels, faster than they’d ever practiced.
From the Reagan Presidential Suite to the backseat of the bulletproof, iron-lined underbelly Lincoln: 2 minutes 45 seconds. Acceptable only because Big Sky was alive, and they were clear of a Rip Van Winkle House.
Chapter 4
Washington, D.C.
minutes later
“Mister…” the DNI hesitated over the telephone. This was still hard for him to get right, “…vice president.”
“Yes, Jack.” Morgan Taylor responded to the Director of National Intelligence. “You don’t sound happy.”
“I’m not. We have a situation developing in Sydney.”
“The evacuation at the St. George?” The vice president had seen the news. “Am I correct to assume there’s no water main break?”
“Right. I hope the story sticks long enough to disarm about twenty bricks of C-4.”
“Any idea who?” Taylor asked.
“No. Maybe there will be some signatures in the work. But my educated guess is al-Qaeda. Maybe Abu Sayyaf. And if you want my two cents?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t think it was intended to go off today or tomorrow.”
The vice president’s mind raced. “The Ville St. George. Isn’t that one of the hotels designated for presidential visits?” He hadn’t stayed in it yet, but he was certain it was the venue for the upcoming nuclear proliferation conference. The session was already on Lamden’s calendar, though not officially announced.
“Right again.”
“August?” Taylor said after putting it all together.
“Yes, sir.” Evans acknowledged. “It’s a miracle some house electrician found the device now. SASR says it had enough battery power to keep the Energizer bunny going for years.”
“Give me the wide shot, Jack. Short-term, long-term impact.”
“In the immediate, all the Rip Van Winkle houses will be off limits for you and the president until they’re turned upside-down. Long-term, millions around the world in security upgrades, from initial construction through identity checks on the lady who changes the toilet paper.”
Morgan Taylor suddenly remembered the president was in one now. “Henry?”
“On the road as of seven minutes ago,” the nation’s chief intelligence officer answered. “We implemented Rolling Thunder as soon as we heard.”
“Wise decision.”
“Has Congressman Patrick been informed?” The vice president referred to the new Speaker of the House, Duke Patrick.
“Next on the list.”
“What’s Homeland Security saying?”
“Nothing yet. But I don’t think you and the president will be able to take a piss without your boys looking over your shoulders.”
There was a knock at the door. “Mr. Vice President.” Taylor recognized the voice of his principal Secret Service detail.
“Like clockwork, Jack,” he said over the phone.
“Thank you. Secret Service wants you at the White House until the president is safely b
ack. I’ll have the Speaker driven there as well.”
Taylor didn’t relish spending any more time than necessary with Congressman Patrick, but protocol dictated. Patrick, a self-made man and a fast decision maker, retired twelve years earlier from Dynlcom, a multi-billion dollar Internet provider, with a billion of its profits. Taylor should have liked him, but politics drove them apart. Patrick went into Congress as a Republican, then five years ago recast himself as a “modern Democrat.” That meant that as Democrats go, he was way right of center and suddenly someone to watch. Duke, as he liked to be called, wasn’t even the kind of Democrat that Lamden could wholeheartedly embrace, but he was the man that the party looked to for the future. As speaker of the House, he was also number three in the order of Presidential Succession.
“Mr. Vice President!” the voice came more forcefully through the door.
“Yes, yes. I know. I’ll be right with you.”
“Get going, Mr. Vice President, I’ll keep you posted,” Evans stated.
“Before I go, give me your real sense, Jack.”
Evans always appreciated Morgan Taylor inviting his personal appraisal. It often told more than some of the hard facts. “We got a lucky break, Morgan. No immediate danger to Henry,” he used first names only with Morgan Taylor. “Next time we might not be so lucky. The enemy is getting smarter.”
“But who’s the enemy, Jack?”
The national intelligence chief answered before the blink of an eye. “Nothing’s changed. Everyone.”
Morgan Taylor wasn’t good at being vice president. He knew it. What’s more, most of the press within the Beltway also knew. Hell, I should have just gone fishing! he constantly told himself.
After running the country with the intensity with which he flew his Navy F/A-18s, this job was the worst. A typical day: Presiding over the Senate…enduring the hours of posturing from young jerks he’d all but thrown out of the White House…shaking hands and not meaning it.
Executive Treason Page 4
