The 4 Phase Man

by Richard Steinberg

  “Your daddy really a Nazi?”

  The German shrugged. “Not in a noticeably provable way. But what if he was?” The man seemed relaxed for the first time. “In this country, every man is judged as himself; not as his father’s son.”

  “God bless America, Canvas said affably to the German’s discomfort.”

  Ten minutes later he watched them reboard the small boat. Standing on the beach—watching silently, thought-fully—until they disappeared around the point for the covert rendezvous. Knowing that—other than the German—he would never see any of them alive again.

  “I will miss Lissy, though,” he mumbled as he turned and started back.

  Clearing his mind of everything but squirrels, vulnerabilities, and Pacific islands for the rest of the afternoon.

  3 Hours 40 Minutes to Zero

  Washington, D.C.

  “Where are we supposed to be, Michael?” DeWitt asked as he straightened his tie.

  “Car’s waiting, sir.” The personal aide had already made his—as usual—thorough preparations. “Twenty-minute drive, then the seminar, then brunch with selected members of the host committee.”

  The attorney general nodded. “Right.” He exhaled a deep, cleansing breath. “Any updates?”

  “No, sir. Not on anything.”

  DeWitt nodded. “Okay.” He started to pour himself his second vodka of the early morning.

  “Uh, sir. Maybe not today?” Michael braced for an outburst.

  Instead, the man looked down at his hand on the bottle, then slowly drew it away. “You’re right.”

  Thirty minutes later, joined by an equally tense Buckley and Kingston, DeWitt took his place on the dais.

  “Good morning,” the youngish moderator said pleasantly. “And welcome to our third in a series of meetings with”—a dramatic pause—“our leaders of tomorrow. Our guests today are Attorney General Jefferson DeWitt; the junior senator from Colorado, Rod Buckley; and the director of the Peace Corps and former counsel to the president, Lane Kingston.”

  After the applause the man sat down. “Before we begin the questioning, we’ll hear briefly from each of our guests. Director Kingston?”

  Kingston smiled. “I’m very pleased to be here today, Carl. My job is directly linked to the topic of these meetings… addressing the future of the world. A thought never far from my mind. Because it is the next generation that will lead us through the early days of the new millennium. And it is the youth of the world—which I hope I’m not too far removed from”—light laughter from the crowd—“that we must turn to for new ideas, new appeals, new ways of looking at things in order for us to move forward into the new, American century.”

  Enthusiastic applause, as the moderator turned to Buckley.

  “Well,” the senator said as he checked a note from his aide, “leadership is what this is all about. Isn’t it? But the form of that leadership is what concerns me. Will the next wave or whatever you call them merely be parrots of the old strictures and tired concepts, or will they be able to see things with new eyes? Young, fresh eyes, which will recognize that in our uncertain future old enemies might become our friends, and old friends might well become enemies.”

  Sage nods from around the room. “Personally I hope for a new generation of leadership that is both flexible and thoughtful. A generation that will lead America forward, and not remain too trapped in the past.”

  “Mr. Attorney General, the moderator said, nodding to DeWitt.”

  DeWitt grinned. “Sounds like a presidential debate to me.”

  The moderator smiled. “Perhaps in a couple of years. The crowd laughed, along with the panelists.”

  “God help us all.” DeWitt smiled back. “What do I see for the leaders of tomorrow?” He seemed to think the question over. “New ideas? Sure. Flexibility? Absolutely.”

  He suddenly grew deeply introspective. “But what strikes me is that we’ve heard the same thing for each of the political generations that has come before us. And the more they call for change, the more things seem to stay the same.”

  He sighed deeply. “What I would like to see, what I pray to see, is far simpler than all the lofty declarations of all who have come before us.”

  “The challenge to the next generation of leaders must be to create an America where no child goes to bed hungry or illiterate or abandoned at night. Where no man or woman loses self-respect through work that demeans and doesn’t provide a basic living wage; or through the plague of racism. Where every American’s basic dignity is not only protected by their government but embraced and worshiped by it as well.”

  Loud applause and the slightest mocking applause from Kingston and Buckley beside him.

  Buckley leaned over and whispered to DeWitt, “Nice speech. You write it or did Michael?”

  “Jealous?”

  Buckley shrugged. “Just thought I might steal the one person in your office who knows what he’s doing.”

  “Cynic,” DeWitt said out of the corner of his mouth. “Michael and I are the same person.”

  And the questioning began.

  2 Hours 25 Minutes to Zero

  The Safe House

  Canvas sat in a fully extended recliner, feet up, head back, eyes closed. A cup of coffee sat ignored on a table next to him. Maps of The Box on the walls in front of him, charts, tables of organization, the nuts and bolts of an elaborate plot laid out within easy reach.

  But he didn’t need any of it. In his mind he was already in the kill box; moving with the growing crowds, examining, accepting, rejecting, adjusting things until they fit the pattern he’d designed.

  The operation had been forced to become fluid, not planned so much as felt, so his instructions to his teams had been general at best, mirroring his relaxed, “go with the flow” state of mind in the chair.

  “You all know your nests, but we’re not married to them,” he’d said at the final briefing the night before. “You want to move, do it. Just make sure your facilitators know where you’ve gotten.”

  “And all of that goes for post-zero as well, right? We all know what we want to do, what we planned to do, but after zero use your own best judgment. Instinct says ‘split, you just split! Call in at the approved times to let us know you haven’t run off with the family silver.’”

  Then his voice had grown solemn, quiet, concerned.

  “Don’t none of us like this cowboy nonsense, but there’s where we sit, lads. In it up to our exposed throats, we are. So make sure you get your shots off, as many as you can without putting yourself at maximum risk. Then get the bleeding Hell out of there! And if you have to drop Mr. or Mrs. Nosy Pants to get it done or on the way out, then you drop ’em, mates.”

  He’d smiled easily then, as he’d handed out the small five-round clips he’d personally loaded with rounds he’d personally manufactured.

  “Can’t afford any more insurance payments on this here thing, can I?”

  But that was hours ago. And although he’d heard nothing since they’d wordlessly left, he knew the teams and their facilitators were in position, waiting.

  Ready.

  Just as he now knew it was time to check that knowledge.

  He picked up the microphone from the Handie-Talkie on the table next to him, sighed, then pressed the call key.

  “Zhè shì qé jînán de liè-chë ma?” he said firmly into the radio.

  A long, static-filled silence.

  “Yï.” A voice cut through the white noise.

  “Líng.”

  “èr.”

  “Sän.”

  “Sì.”

  “Wû.”

  “Lié.”

  The primary on-site supervisor and the five teams were in the box with clear fields of fire.

  “Chü shì le,” he said simply.

  And his mind drifted away from the shooters to other problems of the day.

  1 Hour 47 Minutes to Zero

  The Hospital

  “Hey! What are you doing here?�
��

  The surgical resident shrugged as he shook his colleague’s hand. “Got called back from vacation a couple of days early is what. Immerman got a job interview at some high-line body shop in Palm Springs, so I gotta fill in.”

  “The way it’s running, I guess.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  They started down the corridor together.

  “Well,” the first doctor said, “I’m covering for Singh, who got his knee broken in a mugging last week.”

  “Shit,” the second doctor said. “They got to do something about security out here. It’s like a war zone.”

  “You’re talking about Darlene.”

  “Yeah. I mean when the senior scrub nurse gets raped and beaten in our own parking lot, you know things are getting out of control.”

  They shook their heads and began to discuss the latest hospital gossip as they entered the emergency room.

  35 Minutes to Zero

  A Bed-and-Breakfast

  The renovation work had been going on for over ten days.

  There was the usual jumble of pickup trucks, vans, concrete mixers, and tools spread across the front lawn. An eyesore, but the people of the neighborhood didn’t mind really.

  A reopened Pleasantry B&B could only mean fresh business for their arts and crafts shops.

  So a little inconvenience of workmen and their lewd comments or slovenly habits could be put up with.

  And besides, none seem to be around right now.

  Other than two men, bent over the open hood of the truck, mostly hidden from view.

  15 Minutes to Zero

  John Dickinson Elementary School

  “Goddammit, get those doors open!”

  The men leaned against the double doors, kicked at them, but they refused to move.

  “Sonofabitch!” one yelled as he began to choke on the growing black smoke. “There’s no way out!”

  A woman came running up. Slapping at her blouse, trying to put out flames, she screamed out at the men.

  “Fire’s worse back there! God in Heaven,” she cried as children’s screams could be heard over the ringing alarms and approaching sirens, “what are we going to do!”

  “Everybody to the roof, the principal ordered, praying they had time and no one would be left behind.”

  5 Minutes to Zero

  The Safe House

  Canvas turned down the television, answering his cell phone on the second ring. “Candle.”

  “Proceed. The line went dead.”

  He brought the microphone, already in his other hand, up to his lips.

  “Käi mén,” he said clearly. “Käi mén.”

  He put down the radio, started to leave, then stopped, turning up the TV for one last look.

  “Reports are still sketchy, details still coming in,” the announcer was saying as he shuffled several papers in his hands, “but this much, at least, is clear. About twenty minutes ago there was an explosion at the factory of American Banners in Kaohsiung, Taiwan. The factory—which makes U.S. flags and sports pennants—is said to be fully engulfed in flames, with the bulk of its workforce trapped inside.”

  “An anonymous call to WIN’s Taipei Bureau claimed that the bombing was, and I quote here, ‘the first blow, of many yet to come, against America for its gradual sellout of her Nationalist Chinese allies.’ We go now to…”

  Canvas shut the set, studied the blank tube for a moment, then moved into another room.

  Five minutes later he was gone, the house an inferno—accelerated by solid rocket fuel spread throughout. The most that would ever be found was a soft, white ash.

  Zero Plus 9 Minutes

  Chevy Chase, Maryland

  “My point is, Mr. Attorney General, that your generation just has never appreciated the sacrifices those of my generation made in order to give you the chance to turn on and drop out.”

  DeWitt laughed easily. “I’d hardly say we’ve dropped out, Mr. Williams. Three-quarters of the president’s cabinet is made up of men and women of my generation. At the polls, we voted in greater numbers than did yours, in business we have become CEOs and COOs of half the Fortune 500 companies.”

  “Still, y’all never seem to get it right! You may have the numbers for the moment, sir, but…”

  “Well,” Kingston added between bites, “let’s just say our generation and yours don’t see things the same way, although our motivations are the same. A better, stronger America.”

  The lunch with senior members of the Democratic National Committee had been going on for about half an hour. The committee members challenging, testing, evaluating the three men who were the leading candidates—if undeclared—to replace the lame duck incumbent.

  “Motivations by whose definition, gentlemen?” another committeeman interrupted. “The hippies or the fogies?”

  Buckley laughed. “I vote with the hippies, Robert, but deeply respect my fogy constituency.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Attorney General.” His aide—Michael—hurried up to him, a concerned look on his face.“It’s FBI Director Hayes for you. Quite urgent.” He handed him a cell phone as the table moved onto another argument.

  Zero Plus 18 Minutes

  The Hospital

  “Goddammit, I am not going to lose this man!” the first doctor shouted.

  “Pulse is too fast to count,” the scrub nurse called out as she gave the horribly wounded man an injection. “He’s shutting down!”

  “I got eight holes in his back and chest.” Maybe five of them entries, the second doctor called out. “Hang two more units of whole blood and push em! Also all the Ringers you can get!”

  “V-fib,” a nurse called out.

  The first doctor grabbed a cardiac needle and plunged it straight into the man’s heart. “Dammit, what next?”

  Zero Plus 29 Minutes

  Chevy Chase, Maryland

  The table was hushed, stilled. All eyes stared at the attorney general, silently begging not to hear the news they’d all heard before—too often—in their lifetimes.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a voice choked with emotion as he handed the phone back to Michael. “Director Hayes informs me that the vice president died of his wounds approximately five minutes ago.”

  “Sweet Jesus, someone gasped.”

  DeWitt shook his head—stunned—as he stood up. “I have to get back to Washington.”

  Zero Plus 4 Hours 15 Minutes

  Lafayette Park, Washington, D.C.

  In his life, the German would never face more danger than he would in the next few minutes. He’d hoped to have more time, more practice, a closer relationship with the old man he must now move into place. But orders were orders, so recriminations and doubts were for another time.

  With a sigh, he straightened his suit and crossed the street.

  Zero Plus 7 Hours 30 Minutes

  The White House

  The two men sat in front of the television, comparing their private notes to what they were hearing.

  “Let me repeat that,” the anchor was saying. “There are now confirmed eyewitness reports that three to five Asian men were seen leaving the area of the shooting at a high rate of speed. One of them was described as having—and I’m quoting from the wire-service copy here—a tattoo of a green tiger on his left forearm.”

  “We turn now to our expert on Asian terrorism, retired Army Special Forces Colonel Clay Merit. Colonel, is there anything you can tell us from this new information?”

  The camera pushed in on a middle-aged, paunchy man who quickly looked up from the printouts in his hand.

  “Well, Bernie,” he said, shaking his head, “it is difficult to say this out loud, but the green tiger has always been a symbol for the covert operations wing of the Dàn Jì. Taiwan’s secret intelligence service.”

  The anchor looked shocked. “Are you saying, Colonel, that this man the police are seeking may have worked for our allies, the Nationalist Chinese?”

  The man nodded. “Unfort
unately, as this and previous administrations have moved closer and closer to fully normalized relations with the Communist Chinese, our friends in Taiwan have grown more and more militant in their opposition to this. And I’m reminded it was the vice president who served as the chief negotiator in setting up the recent summit between the premier of the People’s Republic and the president.”

  He paused, trying to decide whether he should put on his serious or concerned look. “When taken in concert with the flag factory bombing earlier today, there seems to be little doubt left for anyone. However much the FBI might withhold direct comment.”

  A Secret Service agent interrupted the men. “The attorney general, Mr. President.”

  The president muted the TV, then turned to shake the hands of the younger man. “Jeff, you know George Steingarth.”

  “Mr. President. George, how are you? The son of German immigrants shook his hand as they all sat down.”

  “Well,” DeWitt began without preamble, “here’s where we stand.” He handed a copy of his file to the president. “The FBI has confirmed that the hit team was Asian and staying in a dilapidated old bed-and-breakfast very near the assassination site. A title search shows that the building had recently been purchased by a dummy corporation that has had ties to Nationalist Chinese intelligence.”

  “Swine, Steingarth said under his breath.”

  “Can we prove they came from Taiwan and were acting on their government’s orders? The elderly president squinted as he continued to read.”

  DeWitt shrugged. “There’s knowing and there’s proving, Mr. President. Unless we catch one of them, unless he talks, we may never be able to actually prove what we are all certain of. At least not in court.”

  “I’m not fucking interested in courts,” the president growled as he finished reading. “I’ve got a hundred and seventy-five dead—thirty of them Americans—in a factory in Taiwan, a dead vice president, and the military all over my ass! We have a Crisis Management Committee meeting in ten minutes, and I need some fucking answers!”

  DeWitt nodded. “Director Hayes is preparing a full presentation of the evidence to date for them.”