Call It Treason (The Adam Drake series Book 4)

by Scott Matthews

  As he opened the door of the Dodge Charger that stopped beside him, he heard the explosion that signaled the death of Delta Boeing 767 at the end of its short flight.

  CHAPTER 34

  Drake was in his hotel room studying a Google Earth map of the camp site in West Virginia. Casey was at the airport gathering equipment when he called.

  “Turn on the TV,” Casey said. “They hit us again.”

  Drake found the remote control on the night stand and turned on the news at Fox 5, WTTG.

  A breathless young reporter stood on the bank of the river, with flashing red lights bobbing on boats over her shoulder.

  “Eyewitnesses report seeing an explosion on the plane’s right wing engine shortly after takeoff. The plane nosed over and plunged into the Delaware River near Camden, New Jersey. Rescue efforts are underway for the 355 passengers on board the downed Boeing 767.

  We have an unconfirmed report from a New Jersey state Trooper saying that he saw something streaking up from the New Jersey side of the river just before the explosion. Police are searching the area around the Red Bank Battlefield Park.”

  “Are you on your way back?” Drake asked.

  “Thirty minutes away,” Casey reported.

  “I’ll call Liz and find out what she’s heard.” He searched his contact list and found her home number.

  “You have your TV on?” he asked when she answered.

  “Yes, the senator just called. Those bastards!”

  “Have you heard anything from your contacts at DHS or the FBI?”

  “Beyond rumors, no,” she said. “No one wants to confirm anything, but it’s Allah’s Sword, a terrorist group with a list of demands.”

  “Is Allah’s Sword some Iranian or Syrian group?”

  “No one’s connected them to either country.”

  “Then why send a carrier to Syria?”

  “Maybe he thinks he can scare them into backing off,” she suggested.

  “I can’t believe that’s his answer to all of this,” Drake said with disgust. “Is that all he’s got?”

  “That and the armed drones he sent to protect our major airports.”

  “Philadelphia International Airport must have been left off the list,” Drake said. “Liz, Mike’s headed back to the hotel. Would you like to join us for dinner at seven?”

  “I’ll be there,” she said, “and I’ll make some calls before then.”

  Drake paced in front of the flat screen on the wall. There would be major panic in America when it was learned that even armed drones couldn’t protect air travel in the country. The airports would have to be closed again. Paralyzing domestic air travel would cause further damage to the economy already weakened by the first shutdown. Business would scream and, amid the shock of all the funerals being held for the passengers who died, who would continue to fly when the president couldn’t guarantee that it was safe?

  With the same anger he felt on September 11th, Drake left the room and headed downstairs to the bar to wait for Casey.

  The mood of the patrons he found there was close to his own.

  “What the hell,” one man said as he thrust his mug toward the TV and sloshed his beer over the bar. “Why can’t we stop these SOB’s?”

  “Because we’re afraid to round up all the rag heads in the country and put them in camps, like we did the Japs,” the man beside him answered.

  Drake saw a number of others who had heard the comment nod in agreement. He spotted an empty table in the back and stopped to order a bottle of Sam Adams. As he opened a tab and gave the bartender his room number, Mike Casey walked through the hotel lobby. He held up the bottle of beer the bartender handed him and asked for another for his friend.

  “If the traffic streaming out of Dulles is any indication,” Casey said, “I’d say the airlines are in for a rough time even if the airports don’t shut down. People are getting out of town any way they can.”

  “Did the president close down air travel again?” Drake asked.

  “Not that I heard, but he didn’t have to. Who in their right mind would fly the not-so-friendly-skies now?”

  A waitress dropped off another bottle of beer and a dish of peanuts at their table, and Casey scooped up a handful.

  “I invited Liz to join us for dinner,” Drake said. “She’s making some calls to find out the latest intel the government has on these guys.”

  Casey quickly finished his beer and signaled for another. “A small wager says she won’t learn a thing. I think the government is clueless on this one.”

  “Or, they know exactly what’s going on and don’t want the rest of us to know.”

  “Why would they do that?” Casey asked. “You’d think they would want the public’s help identifying these guys.”

  “Could be a number of things,” Drake said. “There are a lot of MANPADS on the black market, especially after the ones in Gaddafi’s arsenal went missing when we helped topple him.” He took a sip of his beer before continuing. “Or, maybe the White House and Congress don’t want it known they quietly stopped funding research on protecting against MANPADS for civilian air travel.”

  “After terrorists tried to shoot down that Israeli jetliner in 2002, several agencies were ordered to come up with an answer to the threat. They spent 276 million dollars on research, and then pulled the plug. They decided the threat probability was low, and they found the price of installing defensive equipment on the airline fleets was too expensive.”

  “How do you know that?” Casey asked.

  “I read a lot,” Drake said and smiled. “Actually, the guy who keeps Lancer when I’m away is a retired United Airlines pilot. He told me about it.”

  “I guess you wouldn’t want to tell voters the threat probability is low now, after three jetliners in a week have been shot down.”

  “Not if you want to stay in office,” Drake said. “It’s easier to blame Syria.”

  They watched what looked to be the futile efforts of the first responders to find survivors, until Drake broke the gloomy spell. “Did you get the equipment for tonight?”

  “All locked and loaded in my Tahoe. I told my guys we’d leave the keys to the Tahoe you’ve been driving at the front desk, if they need it tonight.”

  “All locked and loaded for what?” Liz asked, as she walked up behind them.

  Casey looked to Drake with raised eyebrows. “Just an old army expression,” he deflected.

  “I’ll tell you about it over dinner,” Drake said, “after you tell me what you were able to learn.”

  “The White House is in full panic mode,” she said, “And there’s a lot of finger pointing going on. The president is said to be considering his options.”

  “He’d better come up with the right one pretty quick,” Casey said. “The natives are getting restless.”

  “They already are,” Drake said. “They already are.”

  CHAPTER 35

  After being summoned once again to meet with Layla Nebit, John Prescott was delivered by limousine to the West Wing of the White House. He was then escorted by the Secret Service to her office, where he found her watching the coverage of the tragedy outside Philadelphia on the Delaware River.

  “He wants some new ideas,” she said, without taking her eyes off the TV. “Your last brain child hasn’t done us much good.”

  Prescott sat in the chair in front of her desk and struggled to remain calm. He was a lobbyist, not a military strategist or national security advisor. Surely the president had plenty of advice from men much more qualified. What game was the woman playing?

  “What have you learned about Allah’s Sword?” he asked instead of proposing a solution.

  “They haven’t contacted us again. CIA hasn’t heard of them and the combined efforts of DHS and FBI haven’t turned up anything useful. Why do you think I’m askin
g you? We need to get ahead of this, shape the narrative to keep people calm.”

  “Layla, you’re from that part of the world. Isn’t there someone you could reach out to who might know something? A rumor they’ve heard, or even a suspicion about who’s behind this?”

  When her dark brown eyes bore into his, he knew he’d crossed into enemy territory. If she had connections in the Middle East, she clearly wasn’t going to talk about them.

  “I hope you didn’t mean to suggest that I would know anyone who might even remotely be responsible for this,” her voice cut coldly.

  “No, of course not. But you are the one who put me in touch with the sponsors for the youth camp foundation. I’ve never met any of them, but you have. They must know people in the region who might be helpful.”

  She slammed her hand down on her desk. “That’s enough! I didn’t bring you here to tell me to solve this crisis on my own. That’s what I pay you to do.”

  “You don’t pay me to do anything,” Prescott snapped and stood.

  “Sit back down!” she hissed. “Every time you’re paid as the chairman of the American Muslim Youth Camp Foundation, I pay you. Every time you tell someone you work closely with the White House, I pay you. When the president asks for your support on a bill, because I tell him to, and you wind up being interviewed by NBC getting free publicity, I pay you. You’re starting to sound like you don’t appreciate that much, John. Do you want to sever our relationship, is that what you want? Because if it is, you may as well close your office and crawl back to Chicago. That’s all you’ll be able to do when I get through with you.”

  He never wanted to strangle anyone as much as he wanted to wrap his hands around her little neck, and watch her eyes bulge when she couldn’t draw another breath. She had an office in the White House and the president liked her, but she didn’t know who she was threatening. He had a long memory and knew where almost all the bodies were buried in the capital’s political cemetery.

  Prescott forced himself to relax. “How about using the State Department to back channel to Iran and see if they know anything? It may cost you something in your negotiating with them on their nuclear program, but if you don’t end this soon, it will be a long time before your party ever wins another election.”

  The one thing he knew she understood was the number one rule of politics; once you have power, do whatever it takes to keep it. He had to give her that. Whether she was clever enough to elevate her game from domestic politics to the world-wide stage remained to be seen.

  He watched her consider his suggestion. She leaned forward and pressed a button on her phone console and said, “Tell the president I need to see him.” Prescott resisted smiling. He had won, for the moment.

  “Call me tomorrow morning,” she said over her shoulder, as she walked out and left him sitting in front of her desk. “The Secret Service will show you out.”

  Prescott followed his Secret Service escort back to his waiting Lincoln limousine and climbed in back. Nebit was not going to drive him back to Chicago, because he was going to make sure he kicked her skinny butt out of the White House first. The material Walker was sending him tomorrow, hopefully, would give the ammunition he needed to get the job done. If not, there had to be others who could dig into her past for him.

  Prescott picked up the phone from the console on the floor and called Edward Grimes, senior counterintelligence officer in the CIA. It was time to see if his slimy pet spook had anything he could use.

  “What do you have for me, Grimes?” he asked.

  “I’m in my office. I’ll have it for you in an hour or so.”

  “What’s the holdup? I need it now.”

  “The holdup is that some of her files are classified above my level. The ones that aren’t are heavily redacted.”

  “Can you get the classified files?”

  “If I do, it will trace right back to my desk.”

  “If my hunch is right,” Prescott said, “you’ll probably get a promotion out of it.”

  “Or a bullet in the back of my head,” Grimes said. “Someone’s been covering for her.”

  “Just get me the files, Grimes. I don’t care how. Bring them to my office. I’ll be working late tonight,” Prescott ordered and hung up.

  So the CIA had files on Nebit. It might just be that it kept files on everyone close to the president in the White House. Even so, what did it mean that hers were highly classified? Something was in play, and he needed to know what it was.

  CHAPTER 36

  Despite a dinner-long plea from Liz to join Drake and Casey to revisit the youth camp, she finally accepted the decision for her to remain in Washington. If something went wrong, they would need someone who knew what they were doing and why.

  Casey had retrieved weapons, night vision goggles, and tactical communication gear from his company’s Gulfstream, then stopped at a local convenience store for bottled water, beef jerky, and a variety of energy drinks for the trip. The gear he borrowed was limited to the supply of equipment stored on the jet. The choice of nourishment wasn’t.

  Neither man packed clothing for a night-time hike through the back country of West Virginia, so a quick stop at the nearest Walmart was necessary. They each selected insulated camouflage parkas and pants, waterproof hiking boots, thermal socks and underwear, and black Gore Tex watch caps. The goal was to look like local hunters who were out poaching on the camp at night, in case they were caught. They didn’t expect to be caught, of course, but they’d both seen enough action in the military to know to always prepare for the unexpected.

  Drake studied the terrain surrounding the camp from the Google Earth mapping and satellite views. He’d found a dirt road that ran close to the camp on the side farthest from the buildings and Quonset hut sleeping quarters. By the time they arrived in Romney and found their way to the dirt road, all of the kids and counselors should be sleeping, if they were lucky. Drake hadn’t seen dogs on the property, which made him happy when he recalled the last time he’d been chased by a pack of Dobermans. Casey had been able to pick off the dogs just in time with his sniper rifle, but Drake’s memory of the night was not a fond one.

  “What’s the plan if we run into any of these yahoos?” Casey asked from behind the steering wheel of the Tahoe. “We’ll be trespassing on their property.”

  “We should be able to see them long before they see us. If they see us first, they’d have to be using equipment like ours. If they are, this camp isn’t what it claims to be and we’ll explain ourselves to the authorities later. Escape and evasion with no casualties is our rule of engagement. Let them shoot first, and then we’ll defend ourselves if necessary.”

  “You really think it might come to that?” Casey asked.

  “Oh yeah, I’d say there’s a good possibility, Mike. The camp manager fits the description of the man who beat up Congressman Rodecker. The welcoming party that met us looked and acted like they’ve had military training of some sort.”

  They were on the road for an hour when Casey asked Drake to get into the Igloo cooler on the floor behind his seat and get some jerky for him.

  “This does bring back some memories,” he said. “Must be why my stomach’s growling.”

  “Why, because you think you’re not going to eat for a while?” Drake asked. They served together in Delta Force and Casey was a sniper who, more than once, saved him with a shot from a camouflaged hide he’d been in for days on the side of a hill a half mile away.

  Casey turned and smiled. “Nah, I think it’s the anticipation of having a little fun with these boys. All the excitement of a good little skirmish, and we don’t have to fly halfway around the world for it.”

  They stopped in Winchester, Virginia, to trade places and drove on to Romney, West Virginia. Drake pulled over at a truck stop just outside the town to get a hot cup of coffee and use the restroom.

  “
In case anyone asks,” Drake said as they walked in, “we’re going to a hunting preserve south of here to hunt hogs tomorrow.”

  Casey held the door open for him and asked, “Where did you come up with that?”

  “This is rural West Virginia,” Drake pointed out. “Guys wandering around in hunting garb late at night get noticed. Having a good reason to be on the road might come in handy.”

  Two men sat eating chili dogs and drinking coffee at one of the picnic tables in a small eating area. A young man sat at another table playing a game on an iPad, with an energy drink in front of him. No one looked up when they entered.

  “I don’t think anyone here cares a whit that we’re passing through,” Casey said quietly.

  Drake ordered two large black coffees and paid for them and the hand full of Snickers candy bars his ever-hungry friend picked up.

  As soon as they left, the young man clicked out of the game he was playing, walked to a window looking out on the parking lot, and sent a text message:

  Two men just left the truck stop. One matches picture you sent.

  They’re dressed as hunters, driving a white Chevy Tahoe.

  CHAPTER 37

  It took Drake half an hour to drive from the truck stop to the northeast corner of the youth camp for their insertion into the property. He parked the Tahoe in a wide spot of the road under a red spruce tree, and helped Casey unload their equipment from two tactical duffel bags.

  First, Drake strapped on his Kimber Master Carry Pro .45 in its leather belt holster, and then slipped his Harsey Tactical folding knife in the pocket of his parka. Next, he took out the night vision goggles in his bag.

  “These are very cool,” Casey said. “I got them from L3 Warrior Systems. This is the AN/PSQ-36 Fusion Goggle System. It allows you to switch from 100% night vision to 100% thermal imaging whenever you want. Catch sight of someone, then lose him, and switch to thermal to relocate him. You might find the one guy you saw now has three more standing behind him.”