Strong was getting to his point. “He’s already a leader. He’s a leader you can count on. He’s a leader you can trust. He’s a leader who can end the January Siege.”
The host had been looking for another way to describe the inauguration of Lamden and Taylor. Now it just rolled off his tongue. “The January Siege.” He smiled in his mirror, quite proud.
“The January Siege! January 20, the day we lost control of the country. Well, Bob Bridgeman is going to Washington and you’re his army. You’re his instrument of justice. Show America that we are united and that you want Congress to change the laws or get out of the way.
“General Bridgeman stands with you. And unlike the parties which created the travesty of the January Siege, Bob Bridgeman also stands for you.” Strong was leading up to his final point. “Bob Bridgeman won’t suppress your freedom of speech. He supports your right to assemble, and he will not take away your ability to own and bear arms. He’ll tell you as much in Washington. So come ready.” The word ready was an intentional choice. The implication, though unstated, was for protestors to come armed and ready.
“Your calls coming right up.” He threw to a McDonald’s commercial. Strong Nation was sailing down the main stream.
Glenbrook Royal Air Force Base
New South Wales, Australia
Thursday, 16 August
The president’s motorcade pulled up alongside Air Force One. Colonel Peter Lewis saluted from the cockpit window when Morgan Taylor stepped onto the tarmac. His favorite mechanic leaned into the cabin.
“You called?”
“Yes, Rossy. Check out number three. Agins caught a power flux.”
“Oh? Like what?”
“Nothing below normal,” co-pilot Bernard Agins added. “But she could use your eyes.”
“Anything else?”
“Not from me. Milkis?” Colonel Lewis asked.
The navigator, Greg Milkis, said he was fine.
“Okay, I’m on it. I’ll let you know. Don’t leave without me.”
“Not a chance,” Lewis replied.
Forty minutes later, with everyone satisfied and the president in his forward compartment, SAM 28000 rolled down the runway. In four hours they’d be in Afghanistan for a quick conference with the military leadership and time to greet the troops. After that, they’d be on the way home, a few days ahead of the much-ballyhooed march.
Washington, D.C.
the same day
The hotels were all booked, but he hadn’t planned on checking in anywhere, under any name. The man had another way to find a room. He stood outside Reagan National Airport. To any passerby, it appeared as if he were waiting for someone. Occasionally, he rubbernecked around some departing travelers, trying to spot a friend. But there were no friends here. The buff man with a baseball cap and a blonde, ponytail was actually searching luggage tags. He already spotted three names and addresses he liked. He was still looking for others—people who lived closer in, within walking distance to the Mall.
The reason he wanted a family was quite simple. It was more likely that they’d be traveling for a longer period of time. He would slip into their apartment with some viable excuse should a neighbor raise a question. But these days, neighbors rarely spoke to one another.
By seven o’clock, he felt confident he had enough locations. At least one should work. He preferred multi-unit buildings.
“Couldn’t find your friend?” one American Airlines baggage handler asked when he saw the man start to leave.
“No,” he said. “Must have missed ‘em.”
They had talked off and on through the last hour. It helped him get close enough to the bags to read and memorize the tags.
“I’ll call them later. Thanks.” He tipped the skycap ten dollars, not once worrying about fingerprints. It was all too benign.
Kandahar, Afghanistan
8 hours later
Rossy was about to check the re-fueling of the president’s plane when a member of his crew radioed for some assistance from the twin 747. Twenty-nine’s got a cargo door problem.”
“What kind?” he said over his com link.
“The latching. I think we gotta check the mechanism.”
Colonel Peter Lewis wouldn’t take off unless every door closed and sealed properly on both planes. Any loss of pressurization caused by a malfunctioning latch could be deadly. Rossy quickly found another member of his team to take over his job.
By the time Ross solved the problem, which turned out to be minor, fueling was complete.
Lewis was nearly through his final pre-flight check when he got the heads-up that the commander in chief was on the way. He called in for the latest weather advisory. Aside from a band of seasonal thunderstorms over the Banda Sea, they’d have clear skies.
Morgan Taylor boarded and went straight to the flight deck. “Colonel.”
“Mr. President, all set for the long haul?” Lewis asked. They carried enough fuel to make Los Angeles or San Francisco. But the flight plan called for them to touch down in Hawaii. If necessary, both were capable of docking with a KC-10 tanker midair.
“Am I! After I give the Mrs. a call, I’m getting some shut-eye.” Taylor automatically scanned the flight controls and gauges knowing what to look for. “If I wake up in time, maybe I’ll join you later. Tell you what, Colonel, we can swap. You figure out how to balance the damned budget and I’ll do what I really enjoy.”
“Half of that deal sounds good,” Lewis laughed. He had his headphones in his hand, so he didn’t hear the radio clearance from ground control. His co-pilot, Bernard Agins, tapped the right cup of his phones. “Excuse me sir, we’re cleared to go.”
“Then that’s my cue,” the president said. “See you gentlemen later.” He said goodbye to Agins, Milkis, and Lewis: all good men.
Two minutes later, the entourage rolled to the end of the runway. The escorts lifted off first. Most of the transports had departed straight for Washington from Glenbrook. Three minutes later, Air Force One was aloft. Lewis reported all was well on take-off, though the plane handled more lightly than expected.
Morgan Taylor was asleep by the time they climbed to cruising altitude. He lost himself in his favorite dream—he was at the controls.
Over the Pacific
The roving mechanic followed his routine. He did it throughout the flight. It started with a check of the visible systems on the plane. Then he went to the guts. He opened panels containing internal wiring and sub systems. Everything was in order.
He made his way toward the flight deck, up the stairs from the first level rear stairs, where he nodded politely to the members of the president’s staff and basically ignored the reporters. Some people were already asleep, a few were typing updates they’d e-mail out via Air Force One’s satellite com center, others were playing poker. He spoke to the crew, making sure they were okay. He was surprised he didn’t find Brady at his post.
Rossy considered Mark Brady solid back-up. Brady was relatively new to the president’s bird—if three years was new. He worked with Ross on both planes. About the only thing he couldn’t do was pilot. But he was always there, diagnosing onboard problems almost as fast as his supervisor.
Rossy cued his com set. “Brady, Rossy, over.”
No response.
The lieutenant took a few steps to the side in case the plane’s frame blocked his signal. “Brady, this is Rossy, over.” He waited a beat, then keyed the mike again. “Brady, give me your location, over.”
Each request was met with silence. Rossy spotted another of his engineering crew members in the galley. “Seen Brady?”
“No, sir. Not since pre-flight.”
Odd. Rossy found another engineer, a corporal who, in a few years, might show the right stuff for the job.
“Blumie, have you seen Brady?”
Blumenstein shot a surprised expression. “He didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
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“Stomach cramps. He said he spent the morning in the john and after refueling he ran back to the head.”
“Not the plane’s?”
“Ah, no. On ground, sir,” Blumie stated.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Rossy turned away to the side and tried his radio again. “Lieutenant Brady. Report! This is Rossy, over.” He waited no more than ten seconds, enough time for Brady to call in, then barked an order for Blumenstein. “Assemble everyone on our team in two minutes! Right here. Check all the johns. Call me if you find Brady!”
“Brady said he was just sick, I don’t think…”
“Do it!”
Two minutes. Enough time for Rossy to make it to the cockpit and back.
The secure door was closed and guarded. Rossy needed to pass through the Secret Service detail.
“What’s up, Rossy?” asked the agent.
“I need the colonel to radio the CO at Kandahar.”
“You know we don’t like to bother the flight crew.”
“One of my men may be missing.”
Normal 89th Airlift Wing security procedures require the crew and passengers to be fully boarded prior to the arrival of the president and his party. The agent was miffed that he was hearing this problem now.
“One second.” The secret service officer notified Colonel Lewis that Lt. Ross wanted in. He then called the supervising agent on duty. Rossy didn’t dissuade him.
“Colonel,” Rossy said before making it all the way into the cockpit, “Get Kandahar on the horn. I need to know if my man Brady’s there. Try the infirmary.”
“Why wouldn’t he be onboard?”
“That’s what I want to find out. I’ll be on the radio,” he said while backing out. “Let me know as soon as you hear.” Lewis nodded affirmatively.
Rossy’s men were now assembled, with one exception—Mark Brady.
“Does anyone know if Brady opted off?”
“No, sir,” came the replies.
“He’s always here,” offered a corporal.
“Well not this time.” Peter Lewis cut through on his radio. “Rossy, negative. Repeat. Negative. No report of Brady at the infirmary.”
“Ask them to check with their security. Did he leave the base?” By now two of the Secret Service agents flanked Rossy. “Do we have a situation we need to know about, Lieutenant?”
Washington, D.C.
the same time
“We’ve gotta match, Roarke,” Shannon Davis phoned excitedly. The Secret Service agent had to think for a moment. “A match?”
“Yes, put your pants on loverboy and get over here right away.” Davis had heard that Katie Kessler was in town. “Depp?” he asked choosing to use his own nomenclature. “Just step on it. We’ll talk about it when you’re here.” Roarke raced across town in a cab. He was in Davis’s office in under twenty minutes. “Let’s have it.”
“Miami. Here take a look. Surveillance cameras at Customs ferreted him out.” It was a nod to the FRT technology. Davis clicked on the photo that Customs e-mailed. Roarke leaned in. Despite the poor resolution and low lighting, it looked enough like Richard Cooper to take it seriously.
“Jesus, what the hell are they trying to do? Save a few bucks on electricity,” Roarke complained.
“Yeah, you’d think.”
“Tell me we have him in custody?”
“Sorry buddy.”
“Shit! Where’d he come in from?”
“Miami, via Madrid.”
Roarke stamped his foot. “Damn it!”
“They did get another picture of him.”
Davis called up a less fuzzy head-and-shoulder shot. “There.”
Roarke studied every detail of the picture, looking beyond the casual clothing, the blonde ponytail, and what could have been a fake scar across his chin. His eyes were narrow. His jaw line was square. The ears were set as he remembered. On personal observation, it appeared to be Cooper, but he wanted Parsons to run a closer scan. “Who’s he now?”
Davis read off a sheet he’d already printed out. “A Kelvin Ruffin. New Zealand passport. Other than that, I don’t know. Nothing that triggered any alarms. The system is a little sluggish and they cleared him along.”
“Have you talked to the Customs agent?”
“Way ahead of you. He remembered him. Said he was polite. A visiting journalist.” Journalist? “Why journalist?” He racked his brain. Davis smiled blankly. Roarke came up with the answer without him. “Jesus, to cover the march! He’s going on another kill!”
“Run his name against all foreign press. New Zealand. Everywhere. You’ll need to connect with Interpol. Send them the picture, too. And e-mail this over to Touch Parsons.” Roarke was already dialing the FBI computer analyst. “I want his unequivocal assurance that this is Richard Cooper.”
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“It’s him!”
“Are you sure?” D’Angelo asked.
“Yes,” Dixon insisted. “Two people in the store ID’d him from the picture.”
“Almost six months later? How could they possibly remember him?”
“His attitude. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Personality. He tried to bargain. Pretty stupid. They said he was belligerent when they told him no. The clerk was ready to call the police. Then he calmed down, bought what he wanted off the rack, and left two suits for tailoring.”
“But no name and address?”
“Just his last name. Alley.”
“Spell it,” D’Angelo said.
“A-l-l-e-y. Like in back alley.”
D’Angelo thought for a second. “Last name, not first?”
“Right. But it’s close.”
D’Angelo realized the same thing. Alley for Ali. Ali Razak. “Very close,” he admitted. “What do you bet he’s our man?”
“Redskin tickets.” Dixon asked.
“You’re on. And if he is in Chicago, then Haddad is too,” the CIA agent concluded. “Let’s start talking with hotels and realtors. Try running Razak with it. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Consider it done.”
“And keep it close to the vest. This one’s ours.”
Aboard Air Force One
They were taking Brady’s disappearance very seriously. Lewis radioed the air base in Afghanistan and the Air Force F-15 Eagle commander on his left wing, while the Secret Service alerted Presley Freedman’s office at the White House.
Lewis asked Milkis to plot a course to the nearest airport.
Milkis scanned his charts. “Jakarta.” He calculated the time. “Fifty minutes.”
“That’s where we’re going. Get us straight into…” Milkis was interrupted by a newly installed alarm in the cockpit: a series of fast, high-pitched bursts. It was triggered when an engine was failing or was within known limits of failing.
“Talk to me,” Lewis ordered. He automatically held the yoke steady.
“Number one’s showing failure,” Agins called out as calmly as possible. He scanned the panel. “Fuel looks good.” There are numerous reasons for sudden engine failure. Fuel flow and quantity usually are not a cause.
The ear-shattering alarm continued, suddenly compounded by another piercing tone. “Shit! Number three’s shutting down,” Lewis called out.
The plane began to rumble and dip. More alarms sounded.
“Rossy!” Lewis shouted out over the Com.
“I’m on it!” he radioed back.
Lt. Ross rushed from the mid-section, now concluding why Brady wasn’t aboard.
The plane’s unusual movement woke the president. The Secret Service agent guarding his door called out.
“Sir!” the agent shouted, not really knowing what to do. The president, still dressed, bolted out of bed, grabbed a leather flight jacket from a hook, and opened the door.
“We’ve lost an engine,” his experience told him.
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“I don’t know.”
“Maybe more,” the president said. “We’ve got to get to the cockpit.” A third alarm was sounding now. “Three!” He started for the stairs. The agent took the lead. At that moment, a massive blast knocked him back in his compartment and onto the floor. A door flew passed him. Then smoke. Shattered glass floated in air for a second, then reversed direction, sucked out by sudden decompression. Air Force One yawed to the left. Oxygen masks dropped. The sound was deafening.
All of this was in the first three seconds.
Taylor had been here before. The plane was going down. He put the oxygen to his mouth, took in a deep breath, and counted to ten to get his heart rate down. The president surveyed the rubble. The Secret Service agent who had come to get him was dead. The door which had blown across the compartment broke his neck.
Air Force One nosed down. Morgan Taylor dropped his mask and struggled up the stairway against the building G-force. He strained to reach the cockpit…
….or what was left of it.
Chapter 67
Taylor grabbed the side of the demolished cabin door and swung it aside. It came off its hinges and he peered inside. Lewis, Agins, and Milkis—all strapped to their seats—were dead. Milkis’s chair was blown completely off its bolts and nearly upside down. A gaping hole through the structure opened up to the second level below. Everything that wasn’t attached was gone: out the window. To balance himself, Taylor stretched his arms out and used the walls of the cabin for support.
There was nothing he could do for the men. The plane? Virtually all of the displays were out. Other operating systems still seemed functional. Taylor struggled to keep his eyes open. The force of the wind blasting through the windshield was almost unbearable. Oxygen! He needed more oxygen. He reached for the mask, filled his lungs, then unbuckled Lewis and tried to slide him out of his seat: an impossible task considering the air blast and the G loads. But out of nowhere, another pair of hands reached in to help him.
Executive Treason Page 46
