36: A Novel

by Dirk Patton

  So, the plotters would get together. Maybe not right away, if they were smart and cautious, which I was sure they were. Perhaps in a few weeks, if the President was careful to not give anything away. Then they’d feel secure enough to meet and begin planning their next attempt.

  And that was what concerned me. The use of a Hellfire missile told me they weren’t concerned about collateral damage. A lot of people in addition to POTUS and the Speaker of the House had been killed. It wasn’t exactly a surgical strike weapon, despite how it might be referred to when we used it against an enemy.

  If they were willing to cause the deaths of a large number of other people, and that plan didn’t play out, why wouldn’t they be willing to escalate? There are many weapons with a much greater potential for destruction in the military arsenal. A Hellfire missile really is a small attack in the scheme of things. What if the next attempt was a 1,500-pound bomb right on top of the oval office? Or a thermobaric bomb that would take out the entire building and then some?

  But why the hell were they going about it like this? As I kept running things over in my head, I came back to my theory that this was a false flag. Someone other than the US military trying to make it look like this was an operation coming out of the Pentagon. But why? Who stood to gain from killing the President and the Speaker of the House, and placing suspicion squarely on the military?

  I’d been wandering around as these thoughts swirled through my head. I hadn’t had a destination, and was mildly surprised to find myself on the lower level, standing outside Ray’s training area. Thinking I should check in and make sure my weapons had been cleaned and stowed, I cracked the door open and stepped through.

  Ray was in his small office, working on his computer when I stuck my head in. He looked up, a quizzical expression on his face.

  “Just checking on my weapons,” I said by way of explanation.

  “Cleaned and in their locker,” he said. “Got an event point?”

  I shook my head, leaning against the door jam. He watched me for a few seconds before closing the lid on his laptop and standing up.

  “Come with me,” he said, pushing past and heading for the pistol range.

  “What?” I asked, falling in behind him.

  “You got something you’re trying to figure out,” he said over his shoulder. “Think on it too hard and you’ll never get anywhere. Get a gun in your hand and ventilate some targets. Focus your body on something and give your head a chance to work.”

  Five minutes later we each had paper targets set up at 25 yards. They were hanging from motorized tracks that would let us retract them, check our shooting, and send a fresh one back downrange with the press of a couple of buttons. It was a nice system, and beat the hell out of tromping back and forth after every twenty or so rounds.

  “Loser buys the beer,” Ray said.

  Still looking directly at me, standing with his side to the target, he raised his right arm and fired a single round from his pistol. We both turned to look.

  “Fuck me,” I said when I saw a neat hole inside the ten ring. “How the hell did you do that?”

  “Twenty years of five thousand rounds a month,” he grinned. “I knew where the target was, just had to be sure my arm cooperated with what I’d seen.”

  “Shit,” I mumbled, raising my pistol and aiming carefully.

  I fired three quick shots, two of them barely inside the ten ring, one of them falling out into the much larger eight ring.

  “You’re an asshole,” I said under my breath.

  “Yep.”

  Ray popped off five quick shots and I cursed again when five more holes appeared almost dead center in the ten ring. I was pretty sure I could lay a silver dollar on the target and it would cover all the holes.

  We kept shooting for a while, only stopping after I’d gone through 300 rounds. If my targets had been a person, they’d have certainly been dead, even if some of my shots would have hit a shoulder or stomach or arm. Ray, on the other hand, never had a single round drift outside the ten ring. Fucker.

  Cleaning up our brass and dumping it in a bucket, I followed him to a large bench at the side of the room. It was immaculately clean and organized, holding a variety of items needed for cleaning firearms. We sat down, broke the pistols apart and began working on them.

  “Want to talk about it?” Ray asked as he ran a brass bristled brush through the barrel of his pistol.

  I did, so I told him everything. He listened attentively without interrupting, continuing to clean and oil his weapon as I spoke. He finished before I did, loading the pistol and slipping it into a holster inside the waistband of his cargo pants. Adjusting his shirt to hide the gun, he leaned back and listened to the rest of my story.

  “Hmmm,” he said when I was done.

  Opening a drawer in the bench, he retrieved a pack of cigarettes, lighter and battered metal ashtray. I thought I did a good job of hiding my displeasure, but guess I failed.

  “Don’t be a pussy,” he said as he lit up.

  I flipped him off, then scooted a few feet away as he blew a plume of smoke in my direction and smiled.

  “OK, so I think you’re asking the right questions,” he said, growing serious again. “Who has something to gain? What jumps out at me is this. Everyone’s up in arms about POTUS getting taken out. That’s fine. To be expected, in fact. But what about the Speaker?”

  “What about him? I don’t even know who it is?”

  “Yeah,” he mused. “They don’t let you see any news or get on the internet. That’s normal. Until you’ve been around a while and they trust you.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “The Speaker and the President are from opposite ends of the spectrum, even if they are in the same political party. The Speaker is a retired Navy Admiral and very pro-military. The President tolerates the military at best. Kind of treats them like a necessary evil. He’s cut the defense budget more than at any point in history.”

  “So?”

  “So, if it’s the military behind this, I don’t see them taking out the Speaker, too. Maybe a rogue General might get a burr up his ass to wax POTUS, but not the Speaker.”

  “Alright,” I said, getting even more confused. “You’re saying this has to be a foreign power?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. You asked a question. Who would benefit? Let me rephrase it for you. Who would benefit from taking out the anti-military President, and the pro-military Speaker of the House? And blame it on the military?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “That’s why I’m asking the question.”

  “OK, so you have no idea of the current state of political affairs in this country. Safe to say?”

  I nodded, staring at him.

  “Let me back up. Do you know the Presidential line of succession? Who takes over if the President is dead?”

  “The Vice President,” I said. “Everyone knows that.”

  “Yeah, but what about after that? So the Prez is assassinated. The VP moves up. But who moves into the VP’s office?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. I’d been more interested in the hot little red head that sat a row in front of me in high school civics class. I’d gotten a D for the semester, but I’d also gotten her to go out with me. All things considered, it had been a good semester.

  “The VP nominates someone, and they have to be approved by Congress. But the Speaker’s party controls both the House and Senate, and he’s enormously popular. More popular by far than either the President or VP. Probably going to run for President next year, and will most likely win by a landslide.

  “So, let’s play this out. POTUS is killed. The VP moves up. If he nominates anyone other than the Speaker, it’ll probably never make it through Congress. He’s a savvy political animal, so he knows this. But the VP is even more anti-military than the President, and wouldn’t want the Speaker and his pro-military views anywhere near his new administration. Certainly not with an election looming.

&n
bsp; “Now, take the Speaker out of the equation. That opens up the pool of candidates. There’s plenty of Senators and Representatives that would love to slash the defense budget even more in favor of programs that keep getting them elected. So the VP takes the oath of office, moves in to the White House, and nominates a pet Senator as his replacement.

  “Can’t be someone too controversial, or it’ll never make it through both houses of Congress. But I’m sure he can find someone who will say all the right things, and has the right voting record. Once that happens, we’ve got a new President and VP who gut the military based on evidence from the assassination.

  “And who can argue? Hell, if I’m right, there’s already been a few high ranking officers who’ve been selected to be the scapegoats. Wouldn’t surprise me if there’s not some manufactured evidence already in the VP’s possession, just waiting for the right moment to be delivered to the FBI.”

  I was stunned. Didn’t know what to say. Sitting there, I started going back over the scenario Ray had just laid out. I didn’t know anything about current politics or who the players were, not much political news in prison, so I had to assume he knew what he was talking about.

  “Or I’m full of shit and a rogue General got pissed off and sent a missile up POTUS’ ass,” Ray grinned.

  “Jesus Christ,” I breathed. “Are you serious? Really?”

  “Hey, look, I don’t know. I’m just answering the question you asked; who has something to gain? I’m just a dumb Delta trooper. What the fuck do I know about politics?”

  “I don’t understand? Say it is the VP behind this. What does he have to gain by dismantling the military?”

  “Power. Pure and simple.”

  “But if the military gets cut too deeply, we’re vulnerable. There’s lots of countries in the world that would dance a jig on our graves without a strong deterrent.”

  “We’re still a nuclear power,” Ray sighed. “We’ve got enough bombs to wipe out the human race. Several times over, if need be. But if you’re someone with an ultimate goal of seizing total power over the US, the first step is to eliminate the possibility of the military spoiling your plans. With a drastically reduced force, held tightly under control by pet Generals and Admirals, there’s no one other than citizens to stand against a tyrant.”

  I sat and thought about what he was saying, still struggling to put all the pieces together in my head.

  “Let’s say you’re right. If so, how does the VP convince anyone in the military to go along with a plot to assassinate the President?”

  “Who says it’s the military?” Ray asked, sounding too much like Mr. Miyagi. “The CIA has armed drones at their disposal. I know that first hand. Supposed to be under Air Force control with the CIA defining the missions, but that’s just what they tell the public. Fucking Agency has had armed drones operating overseas for years. Under their full control. How hard you think it would be for them to bring one stateside?”

  I sat quiet for a few minutes.

  “It all fits,” I finally said. “And if you’re right about the politics, it fits really well. I need to talk to Director Patterson.”

  I stood, ready to head for the Director’s office. Seeing the expression on Ray’s face, I paused.

  “What?”

  “Just thinking,” he said, lighting another cigarette. “If I’m right, and I’m not saying I am, this ain’t just the VP. Something like this takes a lot of people to pull off. People that will do whatever is necessary to keep from being exposed. After all, they get caught, it’s a fast trip to the firing squad.”

  “You’re not saying the Director is involved, are you?”

  I moved closer to him, despite the smoke, and involuntarily looked around to make sure we were alone.

  “Nope. Just saying I’d be very careful who I talked to if I was you.”

  33

  The time until Patterson’s deadline went by slowly. Agonizingly so. I was more than a little distressed after my conversation with Ray. But after thinking about the conspiracy theory he’d laid out, and the warning he’d given me, I decided to keep it to myself. After all, it was just a theory without a shred of evidence to back it up. Sure, it sounded good, but even if someone believed it, it couldn’t be proven. At least not by me.

  With half an hour left to the deadline, I was called into another meeting with the Director, Agent Johnson and Carpenter. I hadn’t seen Johnson since the last meeting, which was unusual, but suspected he’d been spending a lot of time with Patterson. They probably had to figure out the best way for me to carry a warning back in time.

  “Mr. Carpenter, any status update?” Patterson asked as soon as we were all seated around the table.

  “No, sir. We’ve gathered a mountain of data and are still parsing through it, but nothing to point us at a specific perpetrator or group of perpetrators. We have made no progress in breaking in to the Pentagon servers. They just completed a system wide hardening project, facilitated by the NSA. While we’re confident we can get in, it will take more time than we have.”

  “Very well. Continue with those efforts, but we shall proceed with sending the asset back with a warning. Do you have the brief I requested?”

  “Yes, sir. But again, I must protest sending him back so soon. There is still twenty-four hours available to us. We should use as much of it as possible before utilizing the asset.”

  “Noted. However, we will proceed as I stated,” Patterson said.

  “Mr. Director, I must vigorously protest,” Carpenter began before being cut off by a sharp look from Patterson.

  “Mr. Carpenter, my decision is final. Get on board, or I will have you replaced. This matter is not open to further discussion.”

  “My apologies, sir,” Carpenter said, eyes downcast.

  He slid a small flash drive across the table. Patterson picked it up and slid it into a pocket.

  “Mr. Whitman,” the Director turned to face me. “I am going to record a personal message, to myself, and load it onto this flash drive. Once that is done, we will send you back. Your destination will be a Project Athena safe house, thirty-six hours distant. Upon your arrival, you will deliver the flash drive to the agent on site and instruct him to transmit the data to me immediately. Is that understood?”

  “Why a safe house? Why not here?” I was suspicious, but that was probably Ray’s theories making me look for conspiracies where there were none.

  “Because there is a potential risk that you will be here. The you from thirty-six hours ago,” he said.

  I gave him a blank look.

  “Ah, forgive me. In your particular circumstance, there was no need to brief you on this issue. Two versions of the same object cannot occupy the same space and time, simultaneously. If you were to encounter yourself, the results could be catastrophic.”

  “Excuse me?” I said. “What the hell do you mean?”

  “I’m talking about theoretical physics. What I mean is, up until now, there was no chance of you going back and encountering your past self as you never leave this facility. As far as the theory, which we’ve never been willing to test, if you were to encounter yourself in the past there is a high, theoretical probability that an extremely violent reaction would occur, potentially destroying this facility. Dr. Anholts is convinced there would be an explosion of a magnitude on par with a thermonuclear warhead.”

  “Let’s trust her and not find out,” I said, reminded how we were playing with things man was never meant to do.

  “Quite,” he answered, standing to indicate the meeting was over. “If you’ll accompany me, I’ll have the flash drive ready in only a few minutes.”

  He breezed out of the room without saying anything to Carpenter or Johnson. I rushed to keep up with him, a moment later hearing Agent Johnson’s heavy footsteps as he followed.

  We went straight to the Director’s office, waiting in the hall for him to record whatever message he wanted to send to his past self. Johnson was quiet as we stood there, and I w
as nervous. I didn’t understand why. Maybe Ray’s crazy ideas, or maybe because as I continued to think about them, they didn’t sound so crazy.

  “So, I’m going to a safe house?” I asked after a few minutes of silence.

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s going to be there?” I asked.

  “An experienced agent named Kirkpatrick. Just do what the Director said and hand him the drive. Tell him to transmit it to the Director, then you’ve got a thirty-six-hour pass. Sleep. Get drunk. Whatever, as long as you stay in the safe house.”

  “Where’s the safe house?” I asked.

  “You don’t need to know that,” Johnson said, giving me a sideways look.

  “Really? You don’t trust me? Where the hell am I going to go and what am I going to do? I was just curious.”

  I was also lying. A thirty-six-hour break with nothing to do? There was plenty I could do in that amount of time. First and foremost, I hadn’t been laid in about eleven years. There was some serious back-up going on. If I couldn’t find a willing woman in thirty-six hours, I would have to seriously consider relinquishing my man-card.

  “This is the price for your life, Mr. Whitman. I understand it may feel like a prison sometimes. At some point in the future the Director and I may decide to loosen the reins, but for now this is the way it is.”

  I nodded and didn’t say anything else. Stood there and waited for Patterson. It wasn’t a long wait, the Director’s door opening a few minutes later. He held the small drive out for me to take. I put it in my pocket.

  “Are you ready, Mr. Whitman?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I’m going to ops. Agent Johnson will escort you to transport.”

  With that he pushed past and disappeared around a corner. Johnson tilted his head and I led the way to the transport chamber. We went through the same routine with the Marines, then were granted access.