Executive Treason

by Grossman, Gary H.

  “Expect the worse and prepare for it,” added Chaskes.

  “Never fight fair,” Pintar piped in.

  “Talk the assholes back home out of proposing commando ops during daylight hours,” added SEAL Derek Shaughnessy.

  Then, one after another they chimed in with the other rules that would keep them alive.

  “Conserve your rounds…HQ might not know what the fuck is going on…Bad weather is your buddy…Review procedures…Review maps…Wire cutters come in handy…Be ready to kill.”

  “And?” Nolt called out as a cue to a well-rehearsed line.

  “Get the job done!” they all shouted.

  They were pumped up. Soon they would sleep. He left them with one other thought for now.

  “Once again, I remind you, this is not an exercise,” Nolt stated. “We are in an operation fully sanctioned by the government of the United States of America, under the command and coordination of General Jonas Jackson Johnson and the Joint Chiefs. We even have ourselves a code name. OPERATION EAGLE CLUTCH.”

  “Ouch!” yelled Pintar.

  “Snatch and grab,” Lt. Nolt summarized. “Our claws are going to be sharp.”

  The Cabinet Room

  “Speaker Patrick, I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

  Eve Goldman, the attorney general, had been appointed to talk to the congressman.

  Patrick stood, but that was his only nod to decorum. “Attorney General,” he blustered, “I’ve been wasting my good time for over an hour. I demand to know what is going on!”

  “And so you will. Have a seat, Congressman Patrick.”

  “I’ll stand,” he said defiantly. He never liked Goldman. In fact, he opposed all of Taylor’s appointments when he was part of the minority. If she, or any of his other cabinet members ever came up for another assignment, Patrick, now leader of the democratic majority would make life impossible for them.

  “Fair enough, congressman. Here it is. Air Force One went down in the Pacific earlier today.”

  “What?” Even this was too much for Patrick to comprehend. His knees buckled and he sank into the chair he wasn’t going to take.

  She chose her words carefully. She was speaking to one of the country’s greatest leaks, let alone the man next in line to succeed Morgan Taylor. “Roughly three hours ago, the president’s plane encountered a series of mechanical problems.” She kept the actual details off the table. “We’re still determining the exact cause.”

  “And Taylor?”

  “President Taylor,” she said correcting him.

  “President Taylor,” he noted without a hint of respect.

  “That’s a question, Mr. Speaker?”

  “Yes, it’s a goddamned question. What about President Taylor?”

  “We haven’t heard from him since the crash.”

  “And that was hours ago?”

  “Yes, his plane went down in the South Pacific. The Navy has been overflying the area.”

  “Then?” he asked anticipating his immediate future.

  “We have a decision to come to, Congressman.”

  “There’s no decision to come to, Madame Attorney General. It’s already been made for you. The 25th Amendment. Remember? I’m next in line.”

  “Well, yes, and no, Mr. Speaker.”

  “What do you mean, Goldman?” He was completely full of himself. “This is the law!” The door to the Cabinet Room suddenly flew open. “You can’t stop me.” Two Secret Services agents entered. Duke Patrick ignored them. “You need to swear me in. The country has to have a president!” Patrick was so self-absorbed that he didn’t see who followed the Secret Service agents into the Cabinet Room.

  “The country has a president,” pronounced a frail, but authoritative Henry Lamden.

  “I believe you’re in my seat, Mr. Speaker.”

  Patrick had to look down. Lamden was in a wheelchair, rolling under his own steam. “Mr. President, I had no idea,” he said more angry than embarrassed.

  “Apparently not. But then, you had no reason to think otherwise.” Lamden pulled up next to his chair at the cabinet table.

  Still shocked, Patrick remained in the seat at the middle of the table. “My chair? Mr. Speaker?” In a completely awkward moment, Patrick stood and made way for the president to transfer from his wheelchair.

  Henry Lamden had lost a good deal of weight, but none of his acrimony for Duke Patrick. They were from the same political party. That was the end of what they had in common.

  “Gentlemen, Attorney General Goldman,” Lamden said, “can you give us a few minutes alone?”

  The Secret Service agents filed out with a great story to tell their colleagues. Eve Goldman would have given her eyeteeth to stay and listen, but she took President Lamden’s cue. “You may sit down,” the president said. “I think I’d like to stand.”

  “I would feel more comfortable if we saw each other eye-to-eye, Congressman.”

  Another awkward moment. Patrick looked around the room, hoping one of the statues or paintings might feed him the right line. None came and he sat down opposite Lamden. When the door was closed, the president continued.

  “So, my friend, three quick surprises for you in one day. Air Force One goes down. For a fleeting instant you see yourself in the White House, then an old pal crashes your party. I can’t begin to imagine what you’re feeling.”

  “I’m relieved to see you, Mr. President.”

  “Oh, cut the bullshit. Of course you’re not. You’re pissed as hell. You got this close! Right here. But not today, Patrick. Not this day, or God willing, any day soon. It’ll have to be over my dead body. And as you can see, I’m not quite there yet.”

  “You have me all wrong, Mr. President. The country needs you.”

  “That is debatable. The real truth is the country doesn’t need you.”

  Patrick bolted to his feet in defiance. “Mr. President, obviously you’re not well. You should be back in the hospital. You can’t run the country. You don’t have the strength. You’re irrational. Listen to yourself. You’re attacking the Speaker of the House of Representatives. Me.” He started for the door. “I’m going to talk to the attorney general and the White House lawyers.”

  “Mr. Speaker, I’m here because of them, and a smart young woman attorney who encouraged them to get me out of bed. She’s the one who spoke to the doctors. They cleared me. I guarantee you, if you go down that road, you will not win. More importantly, you will not survive another week in this town.”

  For one of the first times in his life, Duke Patrick decided to shut up.

  “While we’re talking man-to-man, in another day, you’ll introduce the biggest single danger to the American public since Joe McCarthy. Maybe I underestimated you. You’re a better politician than I thought. But I have to ask you—what the hell do you think you’re doing tying in with that crackpot? The best Bridgeman will give you is VP. And let me tell you, if you think that sycophant behind him has an ounce of interest in you, you’re crazy. Strong will eat your heart out right on national radio. You’re not in his great plan for the country. He’s designing a hate-filled America, with laws that serve the extreme. There’s no room in his nation for the Constitution, and there’s no room in it for you, Mr. Speaker. So again I ask—what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “You may dismiss the voice of the people. You can call Strong and all of the others like him sycophants or egomaniacal hate-mongers—whatever you want. But the power is shifting. There is a tyranny of words mounting, and it’s going to take you down, along with every other old-time politician. People don’t listen to you anymore. You’re a sound bite. Seven seconds, eight. If you’re lucky, ten. They’re the whole show. A caller on the radio gets more airtime. The only rule is you have to agree with the host. So what am I doing? I’m joining the new media, Mr. President. I’m agreeing with the host. And I’m going to be heard. Not you. Me. Enjoy your presidency while you can, because t
his isn’t over. You just kicked the can down the road a little bit. We’ll see who will or won’t survive in this town.”

  The Speaker of the House left the Cabinet Room, and with it, any tie with the administration.

  The White House Press Room

  “I have a brief announcement to make,” Bill Bagley said. “I’ll take questions for a short period after.”

  Ninety-minutes earlier, the White House press corps received an advisory that a major announcement would be forthcoming. They’d been waiting and speculating. Advance word had not leaked, so the press secretary’s statement caught everyone off guard.

  “The Pentagon received a report early this morning that Air Force One crashed into the South Pacific Ocean. The president’s plane was en route to Andrews Air Force Base from Afghanistan. At present, I am unable to give you the exact location of the crash due to security in the area.” His voice cracked. Bagley fought back his grief, then continued with a hollow and labored delivery. “I can tell you that President Morgan Taylor was onboard along with members of the White House cabinet and staff, and colleagues of yours. Contact was lost with the president’s plane west of Indonesia. The 7th Fleet has been assigned the task of rescue and recovery. I have no further details on cause of the disaster. I’ll share what I can throughout the day.”

  Hands shot up in the air. A dozen voices yelled out questions. However, Bagley had more to say.

  “According to the 25th Amendment, ratified in 1967, succession would pass to the speaker of the House, in this case Congressman Duke Patrick.” He paused, sensing the anticipation in the room. “However…”

  The however brought instant gasps.

  “…when appraised of the situation, President Henry Lamden, recovering at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Bethesda, advised Attorney General Eve Goldman that he would resume his duties as president, pending discharge by his doctors. President Henry Lamden has since returned to the White House. At this hour he is conferring with his cabinet and he’ll speak to the nation tonight at nine o’clock, eastern time. He has informed the speaker, who was ‘relieved to see’ the president.”

  “Questions?” Bagley asked. They all came at once:

  “How long were we without a president?”

  “Is President Lamden healthy enough?”

  “Do we know if there are survivors?”

  “What happens if….”

  Lebanon, Kansas

  Midway through his next call, Strong’s wife frantically waved a paper at him. She was in the control room, trying to get his attention. Strong, annoyed by the distraction, ignored her. She then spoke into the intercom. “Look at your computer.” While the caller from New Hampshire rambled on about how he was going to be in the first row for Bridgeman’s speech, Strong read the message screen.

  “Oh my God!” he blurted.

  “What?” asked the caller.

  Strong’s reaction was genuine: maybe his first honest one in years. “Bring it in,” he said over the air.

  His wife ran in with the bulletin from the Associated Press. As he scanned it, she typed a quick Internet link on his computer. The full story appeared.

  Elliott Strong rarely read anything cold on the air. He usually marked pages with one-word cues for adlibs and practiced what he wanted to say. Not this time. He got the gist of the news brief, dropped the caller, who was talking again, and began.

  “Darice has just handed me a story from the Associated Press. Honey, keep on this,” he said off mike. “We aren’t the first to report this, but here it is. From AP, maybe a minute ago, ‘Washington, D.C. White House Press Secretary Bagley announced that Air Force One has crashed in the South Pacific, near a chain of islands that comprise Indonesia. President Morgan Taylor, and a contingent of administration staff and reporters were returning from Kandahar, Afghanistan, when Air Force One suffered a catastrophic incident. No further details are known at this time. When notified, President Henry Lamden returned to the White House to assume the office of president.’”

  Strong’s voice wavered as he read the news. An accident? Intentional? This was different than anything he’d been told. What’s it going to mean to the plans? He’d send an e-mail out during the break to see if there were any new instructions. For now, he decided to stay the course.

  “Tragic news. But the march will go on.”

  Chicago, Illinois

  Luis Gonzales switched off his radio and stared out the window at the city below. Taylor was gone. The Prophet’s hand was evident. But a final act was yet to come. Chaos and death. Lamden would be blamed. He would follow the news en route to his next destination. It was time to leave Chicago now. He had things to attend to in Paraguay. Business. The kind that filled his pocketbook and the kind that filled his heart. Money and revenge. Both made him happy.

  The White House

  War Room

  0534 hrs ET

  “Oh, Christ!” Roarke caught the time. Where the hell? he asked himself. Hours had gone by and he’d completely forgotten about his meeting with O’Connell.

  “Give me a sec,” he told Evans backing away. The National Director of Intelligence was going over the latest recon photos. “I have to check on something.”

  He went to the closest phone and called the White House switchboard.

  He asked for the marine guard at the North Entrance. “Roarke,” he said getting connected. “Do you have a visitor there for me. O’Connell? Michael O’Connell?”

  “No, sir,” the marine replied. “I have his name, but he hasn’t shown up yet.”

  Roarke was clearly perplexed. “Okay, thanks. Call me if he does.”

  Next Roarke scrolled down to O’Connell’s number in his Treo’s call log. He pressed the center oval button to connect him. After five rings, the reporter’s voice mail message engaged.

  “O’Connell, Roarke. You said you were coming down? Where the hell are you?”

  With that, he hung up, not entirely disappointed that he didn’t see the Times reporter. Not today. Not now. Too much going on.

  Roarke rejoined the conversation with Evans.

  “Is everything okay?” the intelligence czar asked.

  “Yeah. Any change?”

  “Quiet.” The latest satellite intel showed rugged mountain terrain with ample cover. “But we’ve got heat signatures for some three hundred. Until the SEALs are in place, we’re not going to know much more.”

  “What’s J3 say about the chances?” He hated asking a question like that. There’s never a good answer. Roarke knew. He’d been in Special Forces.

  Evans shook his head. “Surprise will be on our side. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Roarke examined the computer printouts of the terrain. “It’s rough going.”

  “Most of it up. And not along the paths.” Jack Evans pointed out the route of ascent the SEALs would take, compared to the way the terrorists went.

  “What about noise?” Roarke asked.

  “Oh, there will be a lot of it,” Evans added. “But not from the SEALs.” He explained what J3 had in mind. Roarke actually smiled. He wished he could be there.

  Chapter 72

  Arafiira Sea

  “Somebody up there likes us,” Rear Admiral Clemson Zimmer explained to J3, who was en route to the Special Ops C2, the Command Center at MacDill AFB in Florida. Zimmer was 12,000 miles away aboard the USS Blue Ridge. “We’ve got a pair of SDV MK VIII’s on the USS Essex. Pure luck.”

  General Johnson breathed a sigh of relief. Actual good news, or what could be termed as good news.

  “I suppose we can thank the terrorists who planted the bomb in Sydney. When Australia invoked ANZUS, we spread the 7th Fleet out. The Essex was assigned to the Malukus, right where we need to be,” Zimmer added. “SEAL Team THREE will drop in the Banda Sea, about fifteen kilometers off shore. They’ll get a swift, all-expenses paid trip to Huruku, with an on-time arrival.”

  “And their cover?�
�� J3 asked.

  “We’re ready. Targets have been set. What’s your ETA for MacDill?”

  General Jackson didn’t have to consult his watch. His internal clock had been ticking off the time since he left. “Thirty-eight minutes.”

  “Roger. The details will be there waiting for you. But here’s the general idea.”

  Haruku Island

  Every time the prisoners started falling asleep, the terrorists roamed the tent and kicked the captives. “Where is your American strength now?” asked one of the guards in broken English. He stood over the president who was gagging on blood from his last beating. He couldn’t spit it out; his mouth was covered with tape. “The Great Satan doesn’t look so great tonight,” he boasted.

  The rebel circled to the president’s back. Ross was tied to him. They were both covered in mud from being dragged up a hillside. They itched and smelled of urine. They sat on hard, unforgiving, dusty ground. Ants crawled around and while the hostages did their best to kick them away, the ants, like the insurgents, were winning.

  Without warning the guard rammed his rifle butt into Rossy’s ear. The lieutenant fell over, pulling the president with him. The other prisoners looked on. Some had broken ribs, a few suffered broken noses.

  The beatings came every fifteen minutes, each time from a different terrorist. It was as if the leader was putting his men to the test. Did they have the stomach for the job? One after another, they did.

  Taylor shifted his weight to the side, helping Ross back up. The lieutenant whispered his thanks, knowing that if the guard heard him, he’d earn another, more crippling blow.

  “We’re gonna start losing guys pretty fast, Mr. President,” he said.

  Rossy was right. The president felt like he had a rat’s-eye view of the Titanic.

  3,500 feet over the Banda Sea

  2320 hrs local time

  “Coming around again,” reported the pilot to the ramp of the C-17. The SEALs would jump momentarily. Their equipment and specialized gear had been dropped on pallets with flotation devices on a first pass, released by a series of automated floor locks, controlled by the C-7′s loadmaster.