America's Trust

by McDonald, Murray

  “I think that’s enough,” said Chan, tapping Smith’s shoulder. The flames spiraled out of what must have been a sunroof in the RV.

  Smith reluctantly lowered his rifle. “You never know with this guy,” he said warily.

  Chan couldn’t dispute Smith’s assertion. Butler had been evading them for some time and every time they got close, he somehow managed to get away. Only a couple of hours earlier, they had had a gun at his head and were pulling the trigger.

  “Hmm, perhaps, just a few more, to be sure,” he said, nodding his head in agreement.

  Smith smiled and raised his rifle, his pace quickening as a flash of movement from below the RV’s floor line caught his eye.

  ***

  The bullets stopped pinging, and Swanson rolled to her left, leaving the security afforded by the RV’s wheels as the heat began to take hold above them. They needed to get out from under the RV or it would surely become their crematorium. In one swift movement she rolled and withdrew her service pistol. She scanned the area ahead for their would-be assassins but saw nothing; the area in front of the RV was clear.

  Butler made a similar move to the right, his eyes scanning the area ahead and, like Swanson, coming up empty.

  “Shit!” brayed Swanson. “I can’t see anybody.”

  “Me neith--” Butler began, a gunshot killing the end of his sentence.

  ***

  Chan caught the same movement and hurriedly moved his own rifle scope into position. The view of the female FBI agent soon filled his scope, her head turned to her right, looking towards her companion. Chan scanned his scope quickly to the left, only to be first dazzled by a flash and then blinded by a redness that filled his vision.

  ***

  “Run!” screamed Butler, firing his second shot into the RV opposite. His first bullet had hit, the spray of blood testament to his shooting practice. However, he was not at all sure of the second. It was fired at a distance from a pistol in haste towards a moving target.

  Swanson didn’t need to be asked twice. She followed Butler and both scrambled out from under the RV on the opposite side of the shooters and made a break for the nearby woods.

  “Your papers!” she shouted as they ran.

  Butler looked over his shoulder. “The important stuff is up here,” he said, tapping his head. “You’re just going to have to make sure nothing happens to me.” He smiled and picked up the pace.

  ***

  Chan wiped desperately at his scope to try and clear it of the blood and sinew of his now lifeless partner that lay by his side. Smith’s head had literally exploded beside him but Chan’s attempts were in vain. The sleeve he was using was itself covered in a fine mist of arterial spray. The RV they had broken into earlier as a last ditch attempt to find Butler had paid off; at least in the sense of it being the only place they were aware of that he might visit. It certainly hadn’t paid off for Smith. Chan’s flinching at Smith’s death had inadvertently saved his own life and it was with a renewed energy to avenge his partner that Chan burst out of the RV and took up the chase. He raced beyond the burning RV and past a second RV that skirted the woods before grinding to a halt, his reflection in the RV’s window stopping him in his tracks. His blood smeared face and clothes had him looking like a deranged killer some would correctly argue, but it was certainly not the image he was expected to portray. He grabbed his cell and barked a number of commands. Five minutes later, his driver appeared and between them, they secured Smith’s body in the trunk before leaving the scene for the local police to try and make sense of.

  ***

  “Stop! For fuck’s sake, will you please stop!” squawked Swanson breathlessly. She was spent. She doubled over and screamed in pain, her lungs gasping for oxygen. Butler looked around warily as he jogged back to the struggling Swanson.

  “We need to keep going,” he emphasized ruthlessly.

  Swanson responded by sitting on the ground and leaning against a tree. “Knock yourself out!” she replied between gasps, waving him onwards.

  “I can’t leave you here!”

  “You’re going to have to. I think I’m dying!” she said dramatically.

  Butler had a choice to make. One life against the many. His goal was to save a country not an individual. Nothing was more important than getting his information to the president.

  “Best of luck,” he said in parting. He eHeturned away and left Swanson to catch her breath and hopefully a large chunk of luck.

  Chapter 18

  “Get me the FBI director,” Jack demanded of his PA.

  Less than a minute later, an extremely nervous FBI director was on the line. “Mr. President?” he asked, his voice shaky; it was the first time the president had ever called him personally.

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Jack cheerily, instantly calming the director down, “I’d like an update on the Victor situation but I don’t want any fuss or link to you on this. I believe you’ve got a young woman heading up the Washington field office. Send her over with an update. I’d like to meet her.”

  “I’ll brief her myself and send her over, Mr. President.”

  Jack replaced the receiver, extremely pleased with himself at his ruse to uncover more info on Tom Butler. The woman who was head of the local FBI office and who had arrested Tom would be with him shortly.

  His phone buzzed. “Yes?” he answered.

  “I have the Russian president for you, Mr. President,” replied a very flustered Joan.

  Jack looked at the line blinking and became a little flustered himself. The president of Russia was calling him on a public line.

  “Mr. President?”

  “Ilya?” replied Jack suspiciously.

  “I apologize for having to contact you in this way,” began the President Chernov. “It has not been easy and will, as you may already know, require us to be careful in what we say.”

  “Hmm, yes, Ilya, this is very…”

  “Unconventional,” offered Ilya to speed up the conversation. “I apologize, Jack. I may not have long, many more ears listen in my country than yours.”

  “How can I help, Ilya?”

  “Our current situation is not of our making.”

  “And by current situation, you mean…?”

  “Our current escalation in military standing. Somebody is playing us, Jack, and playing us both very well.”

  “Who?”

  “That, I don’t know yet, but I didn’t get to where I am because I roll over and take it.” The image of that actually happening to him flashed through his mind and caused him to pause.

  Jack was about to speak when Ilya began again with a far greater resolve in his voice.

  “I will uncover what is going on, but please rest assured, Jack, that we are not your enemy. This is not our doing.”

  “I really do want to believe you, Ilya, but today--”

  “Was a well-orchestrated plan. Both myself and my prime minister were drugged with Flunitrazepam and our bodyguards abandoned us.”

  “Fluni… what?” Jack looked down at his phone, noticing that every light was blinking, signifying a number of people were desperately trying to contact him.

  “I believe you guys call it the date rape drug, Rohypnol.”

  “Dear God!”

  “Let’s just say my defense minister has some footage I would rather he didn’t have, but I will deal with that separately.”

  Before Jack could respond his door burst open and Kenneth Lee, accompanied by both Rick, the NSA and the CIA director, burst in.

  “Hmm, okay,” replied Jack, unsure of how to respond, given his audience.

  “Jack, I must go but trust me, we are not your enemy.”

  A door bursting open on the other end was the last Jack heard before the line went dead.

  “Mr. President?” asked Kenneth of the stunned looking Jack, who was still holding the receiver in his hand.

  Jack replaced the receiver and recited word for word everything that had just taken place.
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  “Jesus, what I’d give for that tape!” said the CIA director.

  “Seriously, after everything I’ve just said, that’s what you wish for?” replied Jack furiously. “We’re almost at war and you want a fucking tape?”

  “I was meaning for the leverage it would offer us, sir,” replied the director meekly.

  Jack shook his head in disgust and turned to Rick Holland. “Any chance it’s the Defense Secretary himself?”

  “Not a chance. He doesn’t have the money, connections or power to attempt a coup. In fact, he probably has the most to lose. The Russian president is his biggest supporter and he knows it. It’s definitely not him.”

  “What about the old KGB network?” asked Kenneth.

  “More plausible,” replied Rick. “They have been a thorn in the side for many years and still hold significant power within SVR, the new KGB, and it certainly is a tactic they would use.”

  Jack stood up and began to pace. He was thinking - something he always found easier on his feet. “Do we believe him?”

  Three nods

  “We are at DEFCON Three. Would we help Ilya by going back up to four?” mused Jack.

  The response was far less enthusiastic as each mulled over what Jack had suggested.

  “It may help him but we expose ourselves. We stay at three,” he concluded before anyone of the three managed to respond.

  Joan knocked on his door and entered. “The FBI director on line three, Mr. President.”

  Jack looked at his uninvited guests, a look that said they had overstayed their welcome, and each left quickly and quietly. Kenneth tried to hang back but was ushered out by Jack as he lifted his handset.

  “Mr. President, I’m afraid--”

  “Christ, what now?”

  “We’re not able to send over Agent Swanson, it appears she has gone AWOL.”

  “AWOL?”

  “It’s all very strange, to be honest. However, I will send over her deputy to update you.”

  With everything else that was happening, Jack couldn’t help but feel this was somehow connected. “I think I’m more interested in your agent in charge going AWOL. Would you care to explain that one a bit further?”

  “I’m just being brought up to speed myself, it seems she has perhaps gone rogue. We have just had confirmation that she is wanted in connection with a shooting. Her accomplice was a man she arrested last night and who it seems she is now on the run with.”

  “A shooting?”

  “Apparently two federal agents have been gunned down and she was involved.”

  “Federal, as in FBI, like her?” quizzed Jack.

  “Not exactly,” replied the FBI director nervously.

  Jack did not say anything, knowing the man would fill the void.

  “Homeland Security.”

  “What, like customs agents?”

  “No, Mr. President.”

  “Immigration?”

  “No, sir”

  “Will I run through the entire list of agencies before you tell me?” Jack asked angrily.

  “Secret Service, Mr. President,” he replied reluctantly. “Agent Swanson is with a man called Tom Butler, a man who we believe is endeavoring to assassinate you.”

  “Says who?”

  “The United States Secret Service.”

  “They have not informed me of this fact.”

  “I believe you are due to be briefed shortly, sir.”

  “This man, you had arrested him you said?”

  The line went silent. It was the FBI director’s turn to try the silent approach. It didn’t work. Jack waited.

  “He was, but was released this morning,” he coughed awkwardly as he spoke.

  “A potential presidential assassin released?”

  “He was released into the Secret Service’s custody, from whom Agent Swanson intercepted and aided his escape, Mr. President.”

  Jack was as unaware of the paperwork being changed to reflect the new reality as was the FBI director. However, the video footage of Swanson’s intervention played out perfectly to fit the new story.

  “Jesus,” replied Jack, realizing that his trip last night and the note from Tom Butler, were all arranged by his would-be killer. A killer who had the head of the local FBI office onside, a woman who knew his security procedures as well as anyone could.

  “I believe your security is being enhanced as a result, Mr. President.”

  Joan’s head appeared at the door. She nodded towards a senior Secret Service agent whom Jack had never met before. Jack ended the call with the FBI director, waved in the agent and listened as the Secret Service agent repeated the story almost word for word.

  The door closed, leaving him alone in the Oval Office. Jack had a decision to make. Trust the Trust or trust a man he had never met; a man who had gained the trust of a career veteran FBI agent in less than twenty-four hours. When he thought of it like that, he began to wonder if there was anybody left he could trust at all.

  Chapter 19

  Poland – Belarus Border

  Western Europe

  Capt. John “Shades” Grey listened with some relief to the stand down order being relayed from his commanding officer at Spangdahlem Airbase. It had been a tense afternoon and evening as he and his colleagues from the 52d fighter wing had rushed to defend Western Europe from the suddenly awakening Russian threat.

  The skies had filled with NATO fighters, and it seemed that somebody forgot to tell the Russians that the party they had organized had already started. However, as the afternoon wore on, the numbers began to balance. Two Russian-built Sukhoi SU-27 flankers with Belarusian markings had eventually appeared and begun to mirror John and his wingman’s movements from across the Belarusian border.

  As the commanding officer ordered them home, John threw his opposite number a salute. The Belarusian pilot who, from what John could see, was as bewildered as they were as to what was going on, returned it with a smile.

  “Let’s get home,” said John, radioing to his wingman, flying just a hundred yards over his shoulder.

  “Thank the Lord!” screamed his Texan wingman. He awaited John’s turn and burn that would see them back in Germany within the hour.

  ***

  Brest, Belarus

  Belarusian – Polish Border

  201st Russian Rocket Regiment

  Major Georgiy Papovich was equally relieved to receive the order to stand down. He commanded the 201st Rocket Regiment, a frontline missile defense battalion that was currently tracking over 120 NATO fighters in the skies above, significantly more than his battalion of eight missile launchers would have been capable of targeting, should the worst have actually happened. Like the rest of his colleagues, what had been a normal day had escalated from nothing into the largest peacetime mobilization in history.

  “Close it all down,” he commanded to an equally relieved team of operators.

  A number of beeps indicated that the systems, as instructed, closed down.

  “Major?” insisted a rather concerned operator.

  “Yes, Sergey?”

  Major Papovich commanded twenty men but knew each of their names, their wives’ names and the names of any children they had, legitimate or not.

  “My system is not responding.”

  Major Papovich walked over calmly. A system not responding was of no concern.

  “Unplug it!” he shouted when he witnessed the image on the screen.

  Sergey unplugged the computer but it failed to react; the image on the screen remained in place.

  “Disconnect us from the battery!” he yelled over the high-pitched tone, a tone that preceded the deafening whump of the launch of a 9M96 medium range missile from one of their launchers.

  Papovich raced back to his screen and identified the target. The least he could do was warn the pilot. He began to stammer a warning across the airwaves, realizing the futility. He didn’t speak English and the pilot wouldn’t understand speed Russian.

  ***
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  John began to push his throttles forward for home. His instrument panel exploded into life, with warnings screaming at him to take evasive action. He spun his head around in an attempt to identify the threat. The Belarusian pilots were still nearby but were in no way a threat.

  “What the fuck is going on?” he heard through his headset. His wingman was apparently experiencing the same warnings.

  The next thing he heard was a Russian voice and then silence. All the time he was looking desperately to identify the threat. Whatever the garbled Russian message had been, the Belarusian pilot had obviously understood as he himself exploded into life. He began pointing down, gesticulating wildly that whatever the threat, it was from below.

  ***

  “Major, we have the Belarusian pilot responding to you.”

  “What the hell are you doing? They were no threat to us!” screamed the Belarusian.

  “Our systems malfunctioned, this is a terrible mistake,” pleaded Papovich. The implications of what could be started by just such a shooting had plenty of historical precedence. The war to end all wars had started with one shooting, and perhaps the war that really would end all wars was about to start the same way, albeit on a far more complex scale.

  Papovich buried his head in his hands and watched the missile scream towards the F-16. There was nothing that could be done, they couldn’t even warn the American to jettison - none of them had any idea what the English word for “evacuate” or “jettison” was.