Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command

by Gary Grossman

  Words began standing out, surrounded by qualifiers.

  “Substance…cancer causing…death in higher doses…toxic analysis benzine.”

  “Oh my God!” Mulligan certainly wasn’t a chemist, but he knew that, along with anthrax, benzine was bad business.

  He dialed the White House switchboard, which never slept, and asked to be connected with the president. It was one of those 3 a.m. calls.

  The White House

  Minutes later

  Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, Norman Grigoryan, could not mistake the president’s intent on the phone call that in turn woke him up.

  “Norman, I need a full analysis on the nation’s water supplies and our vulnerability. In particular, measure and rate the terrorism threat on wells and rural water supplies. If you don’t have a study on the computer ready to spit out, make one ready. I need it in four hours.”

  Grigoryan checked his bedside clock. 4:20 a.m. The overnight desk would get the next call.

  “We actually started that yesterday, Mr. President,” he said without equivocation. “When do you want it?”

  “I can have it for you by nine.”

  YMCA

  0815 hrs

  Scott Roarke’s drill consisted of a mix of two hundred sit-ups, one hundred marine push-ups, ten minutes on the punching bag, free weights, stretches that would make others scream with pain, and, if he had the energy, five miles on the treadmill, alternating between marathon pace and a fast walk. This menu of hardcore physical fitness kept him fit and focused. It kept him alert and alive. It also allowed him his most private time, which today was spent thinking about where, with all this motion, his life was going.

  It looked like that decision was made for him when Katie Kessler stormed into the YMCA gym and dumped a full duffle bag right beside him. “Here. It’s everything,” she coldly said without concern over his reaction or that of anyone else at the Y. Katie’s voice shook. “Have a nice life.” She turned to leave.

  “Katie!” Roarke looked around. They were drawing everyone’s attention. “Let’s take this outside.”

  “No.” She breathed in deeply. “No,” she added for emphasis. “Your clothes are all there. A couple of pictures. Thank God I didn’t invest more time in you.” She took two steps toward the door.

  Roarke looked stunned. “Please!”

  She stopped, but didn’t face him. “What?”

  “Not like this. Give me a few minutes. We’ll talk outside.” He grabbed his towel and stood up.

  “I heard everything you said. No more.”

  All of this was with her back facing him. As she spoke, she took in the whole gym and all the people now watching. “Good-bye, Scott. I’ve got work to do.”

  Katie Kessler left and didn’t look back.

  Roarke’s powerful body seemed to shrink under Katie’s guerilla assault. He was speechless; defeated. That’s when Christine Slocum moved in.

  Roarke watched Katie’s last step out. If he felt Christine’s hand on his shoulder he didn’t show it.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Roarke nodded slightly.

  “Look, if she won’t talk, I will. Let’s go for some coffee.”

  He turned to look at her. Roarke was suddenly aware that Christine had incredibly beautiful blue eyes.

  “My treat,” she added with a smile. “Go in and shower. I’ll leave you alone this time. Let’s meet in fifteen. I can get to work late today.”

  Roarke considered her offer then added, “Okay. In thirty.”

  The White House

  0830 hours

  Grigoryan, the son of a Russian immigrant physicist, had been chief of police in Boston. He took three things most seriously: law enforcement, threats to America, and the will of the president; especially this president. He was actually at the Oval Office by 8:30 a.m. with a thirty-seven-page report he and his staff prepared. Morgan Taylor was prepared to see him early. Grigoryan gave him the study.

  “Thank you, Norman,” the president said. “Appreciate the head start before the CDC folks arrive. Louise says their plane landed at 8:17. If they’re here earlier, we’ll bring them right in. Now, take me through this.”

  The gray-haired department head started slowly. “Before I get to the heart of the matter, Mr. President, will you allow me to provide some overall perspective?” Grigoryan was aware that Taylor was a cut-to-the-chase leader, but he also encouraged members of his administration to frame their pictures before they hung them.

  “Absolutely, go.”

  “Perspective it is,” he said, without working from notes. The proposal remained on his lap not to be reviewed yet. “The Mississippi. One helluva big river. On average, at any moment 2,100 billion liters of water flows across its bottom. That’s more than 5.5 billion in gallons. Immense volume, right?”

  “Without a doubt,” Morgan Taylor replied.

  “But at any given moment, that 2,100 billion liters represents only one percent of the water in the Mississippi system.”

  “Now you have me confused.”

  “One percent in the river that we see. Ninety-nine percent beneath, within the rock, sand, and sandstone. The aquifer, Mr. President. The water underneath.”

  “Mary, mother of God, I had no idea.”

  “You’re not alone,” Grigoryan noted. “Moreover, ninety-seven percent of the Earth’s fresh water is in the aquifers. The supplies we now tap took thousands of years to accumulate, typically less than an inch a year. Now, because of our use of water, the aquifers are being depleted at a rate that surpasses replenishment.

  “Add to that, in the last century, as the world’s population has nearly quadrupled, we’ve seen rivers become more and more polluted by cities and toxic runoff. The soup, for lack of a better term, is absorbed in the sediment and ultimately feeds back into the aquifers. The waters are becoming increasingly polluted below ground. So depletion and pollution are up against world need. And selfishly, America’s need.

  “Before we even consider the issue of terrorism, understand that ninety-five percent of the rural population of the United States relies on groundwater for drinking. Truth be told, water is our most critical resource; our most valuable natural resource in the world. Americans use about a hundred gallons of water at home each day. If our water resources are threatened, we’ll have to look elsewhere.”

  “Look?” Morgan Taylor asked.

  “Look and take.”

  “Like oil.”

  “Yes sir, like oil.”

  Grigoryan paused to allow his boss to consider what he just heard. The meaning of Grigoryan’s preamble wasn’t obscured by his slight accent. While it may have made President Taylor listen harder, it also made him listen more intently.

  Taylor reached for a glass of water on his desk. He held it then examined it as if it were a fine glass of wine.

  “It was only when I was shot down and roaming the desert in Iraq that I realized how much I’d taken water for granted,” Taylor said. “For a time, I thought there would be nothing more magnificent.” He took a sip and contemplated its powers. “I would have died without it.”

  Grigoryan did not fill in the silence. Protocol. He waited for the president’s cue. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “Well, Norman, I feel you’re just revving up.”

  “Yes, Mr. President. In so many words you asked me to assess our vulnerability to attack. The truth is the United States has been of two minds on the subject of water and terrorism. Social and political. Like so many debates, it comes down to considering regulations to protect environmental health against the need for establishing homeland security measures. We don’t have to dig any further for the answer than a well.”

  “A well?”

  “Plain and simple, a well. A single well or thousands of them. EPA calls for transparency in the locations of the nation’s wells. At Homeland, we want to keep well locations off the books.”

  “And who’s winning?” Taylor asked.


  “It varies from state to state, but if you’re asking me can even an unsophisticated terrorist easily find the location of a water well and poison it? The answer is yes.”

  “What’s our greatest vulnerability statewise?”

  “Again, it’s completely without uniformity. Texas, Illinois, and many others disclose locations of wells. California, for example, does not. I have a list. All a willing terrorist needs to do is go to gov.org and look right on our own government mapping systems.”

  “Even after 9/11?” Taylor was incredulous. Grigoryan was right. So simple.

  “Hate to say it, water was not a top focus largely because the regulations were really governed state-by-state. As a result, our water supplies are extremely vulnerable.”

  “More than vulnerable.”

  “Yes,” Grigoryan agreed. “Contamination of water wells is an absolute risk. More for private wells which have shallower well seals and are more exposed to groundwater contamination. Generally speaking, metropolitan areas are more challenging a target for terrorists because of their volume and communities’ reliance on wells with deeper seals. But independent academic and even Pentagon studies have shown it’s not the poisoning alone that can lead to catastrophic results.

  “What then?”

  “Surely, we project tremendous casualties from such attacks. Tens of thousands of deaths. But nonstop press coverage in a zero-turnaround-time news cycle will lead to a breakdown in civil order on a scale too horrible to contemplate.”

  All of this, Taylor realized, without a sworn-in vice president. Confirmation coming at Washington partisan speed would not be fast enough.

  Before the meeting with Grigoryan was over, Taylor hit his intercom to Louise Swingle. “Get me the Senate leadership in here today. Tell them it’s urgent.”

  Filter Café

  The same time

  Christine Slocum’s objective was Roarke. She hadn’t been told why by her benefactor; a man she’d never met. But he had made so many things happen for her. College, arrangements, and introductions that opened doors to executive offices and important bedrooms. Senator Teddy Lodge was one. Speaker of the House, Duke Patrick, another. And now, Scott Roarke. The possibility of sleeping with him pleased her greatly. It might take a few days, given his state of mind, however she’d get there. Three dates, she thought. Maybe two.

  “I’m really sorry about this morning,” she said over a latte.

  “It’s not your fault,” Roarke said. He played with his coffee, but decided not to drink it.

  “Are you sure. I mean, I came on to you pretty strongly. Did you say anything to your girlfriend?”

  Roarke took his time answering. “I talked around it.”

  “Women have a certain radar. I’d say hers was up.”

  “I guess.”

  Christine extended her hand across the table, much as Katie had a few days earlier. “I really am sorry. That’s the truth.” It wasn’t. “But I do want to see you.”

  Roarke laughed. “I think you already have.”

  She liked that he lightened up and she went with it. “There’s still a good deal left to the imagination,” she cooed. “Dinner, Mr. Roarke?”

  “If you take it slowly.”

  “I promise.” Christine’s legs were crossed.

  The Oval Office

  0915 hours

  “Barbara, Gentlemen,” the president said, addressing Senator Majority Leader Barb Rutberg, Democrat from Massachusetts, and Senate Minority Leader, Dick Webb, a staunch South Dakota Republican. Also present, Senate Pro Tem Joel Solomon of Maryland. “What’s the hold up on the general’s nomination?”

  The hold up was plain and simple. Political stalling. General Jonas Jackson Johnson would clearly get confirmed, but the Democratically controlled Senate was doing what any opposition party did. Delay.

  Webb pointed a thumb at Rutberg.

  “Wait a second,” she said angrily. “We’ve got questions about an active military officer serving as vice president.”

  “Active until he raises his right hand swearing allegiance all over again, Barbara,” Webb stated. “Same flag, some country.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Dick,” Rutberg replied. “You’ve sat on court nominations for months for no reason while you hoped for regime change here.”

  “So now an election in this country is viewed as a regime change?” Taylor shot back.

  “I’m sorry,” Rutberg replied. “A misstatement.”

  “Why don’t you limit that kind of talk to cable news. You’re in the Oval Office now.”

  The senator bowed her head indicting she would take more care.

  “Joel,” the president continued, “your assessment?”

  Solomon was a thoughtful, politically astute deal maker and a veteran with far more experience in Washington’s machinations than even Taylor.

  “General Johnson will have the necessary votes; a clear majority with support from both sides of the aisle, as soon as Barbara is willing to wrap up the hearings.”

  “Barbara?” the president asked.

  “We still have some witnesses to call. A few weeks. Perhaps a month to clear the decks.”

  Morgan Taylor rose from his captain’s chair and pulled his jacket straight. He walked to his desk, once used by Abraham Lincoln, and sat on the edge. “Barbara, you don’t have a few weeks.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. President,” Rutberg interrupted.

  Taylor held up his hand.

  “You don’t have a few weeks because we don’t have a few weeks. In fact, we don’t have a few days.”

  “What?” the three senators either said or expressed nonverbally.

  “I am waiting for verifiable confirmation. It should come into this office at noon today. But it is the administration’s belief that the United States is currently under attack.”

  The reactions took the form of guttural sounds.

  “At this moment I cannot disclose the details. Not even confidentially. But terrorists are targeting vital American resources.”

  “Oil?” Rutberg blurted out. “Where?”

  “I cannot get more specific now except to say it is within our borders. I will inform you before addressing the country at large, which may be as early as tonight. For now, I absolutely insist that you do not leak the substance or nature of this conversation. You will not want to stake your political careers getting out in front of this. It is vitally important to our investigation. Is that clear?”

  Looking around the room from Webb to Solomon to Rutberg, the president read acceptance.

  Barely above a whisper, Solomon asked, “How serious?”

  “Very. And Joel, we’ll leave it at that. Now, I need a vice president. The nation needs a vice president. If I speak to the nation tonight, I want the vote tomorrow,” Morgan Taylor stated without any chance for misinterpretation. “Tomorrow.”

  Taylor rounded his desk, sat, and busied himself with reviewing a file labeled in bold print with only a number designation.

  The members of the Senate leadership got up and left without another word.

  The White House

  “Next,” Taylor said.

  John Bernstein had the list. “Hernandez.”

  “Okay, get him.”

  Five minutes later Mexico’s president was on the line.

  “President Hernandez…” Taylor’s voice was rock steady. “I hope you’ve seriously considered my proposal.”

  “Your ultimatum,” the president of Mexico replied.

  “Your words,” Taylor replied.

  “Your intent, Mr. President.”

  “Call it anything you want. What is your answer? There is a situation developing that I will take care of with or without your approval.”

  This was Morgan Taylor at his best: the commander in chief, the president in charge. Most people never saw this side. Those who did grasped clear distinctions between Taylor and other presidents in recent history, Republican or Democrat. He was pr
esident of the United States, not the president of any one political party.

  “You’ve seen how this government has been prepared to strike; quickly and strategically,” Taylor continued. “In previous administrations and my own. In Indonesia under my watch.”

  “My intelligence department says you have crossed into my country.”

  It was true, but Morgan Taylor only confirmed it through silence.

  “We have global enemies, Oscar. Global. Yet we view each another as neighbors and friends. Your decision to help the security of the United States should represent the best interests of both our nations.”

  Taylor hoped that Hernandez would hear the determination in his voice, for there would be no brokering today.

  “In the interest of our long-standing relationship,” the Mexican president slowly said, “I grant you permission for unimpeded flyovers.”

  “Mr. President, that is not good enough.”

  “And permission to identify strategic targets. But,” using Taylor’s own words now, “in the best interests of both our nations, the armed forces of the sovereign Republic of Mexico will prosecute the targets.”

  This was not the mission Morgan Taylor had set forth. General Johnson, listening on the open line, pursed his lips and mouthed a nonverbal, No!

  Taylor took a deep breath and organized his thought. He couldn’t say too much, but he had to lay the foundation.

  “Mr. President, we are investigating a serious infiltration of foreign nationals with terrorist objectives. I can say no more except that these individuals are finding support and comfort by groups who operate with impunity in your country. Should the security and safety of the United States of America be compromised, I assure you that we will act to protect our citizenry. I give you fair warning now, Mr. President. I am deadly serious. If you hear the news about a terrorist attack of any nature on our people, consider it too late for another conversation. As of this moment, you are forewarned. I hope I’ve made myself clear.”

  Taylor heard some muted arguing on the other end of the phone. An argument between Hernandez and his chief of staff, Elder Cabrera? he assumed. Then, after nearly a half minute, “Mr. President, we will discuss this further.”