Sunlight spread across the flat countryside causing the stark features of the ground to come alive. Mike began flying his east-west pattern with each pass, covering a swath of land about five miles wide. He worked his way north, nose down to give him an open view. On his fifth pass he saw a bright yellow patch off to the right. He swerved toward it and dropped down to 500 feet, then 200. His first pass proved it was not a natural feature. On his second pass he spotted what looked like a human form lying near the colored spot. He circled and then landed, shut down the engine, and unbuckled. The rotation of the blades slowed. Mike kept his eyes on the object while he strapped on his sidearm and jumped to the ground. As he walked forward, he saw a movement and started to run.
Mike Porter had seen plenty of blood in the past, but never got used to it. The woman sprawled on the ground reminded him of those bad old days. He glanced up and spotted the parachute pinned to a clump of cactus, and then knelt down and touched the woman gently. "Can you hear me?
A vacant stare slowly focused on him. She spoke with a weak voice, "Is that you, Walter?"
Mike took his flight jacket off, folded it, and put it under her head–a head matted with dried blood. He saw cuts and bruises all over her exposed body, and a foot bent at an odd angle. He paused for a second, but couldn't think of anything more to do, except get help.
He ran to the chopper, leaped into the cockpit, and turned on the radio. He immediately identified himself, gave his co-ordinances, and called for a medivac unit. "Make it quick. She needs medical help right now." Mike grabbed a bottle of water and ran back, hoping the medics would get there in time. He offered the woman water, which she drank in small sips when she drifted into consciousness.
Fifteen minutes later the Black Hawk set down ten yards away and two medics hit the ground hunched down under the whirling blades. Mike got out of their way fast. Both men assessed Ashley's condition and motioned for a portable gurney. Two more medics arrived and the four lifted her onto the gurney and dashed for their helicopter. Mike timed the operation. Landing to lift off took fewer than six minutes. The Black Hawk headed for the base hospital.
ASHLEY BECAME AWARE that people were helping her. She heard the steady sound of the chopper blades beat the air and felt strong hands moving her. Her pain eased, and then disappeared. Voices shouted over the noise. She felt a thump when the chopper set down. Men in desert khakis lifted her. She felt cool air. A hand touched her shoulder, and a man's voice said, "You're in the base hospital. You're going to be okay, Miss."
Base hospital. I'm in a hospital–they can help me?
Awake now, she raised her head. There were plastic bags of fluid hanging from metal hooks above, tubes dangled down, feeding an IV taped to her left hand. She watched white walls roll by her and felt the vibration of movement. A woman, a nurse or doctor in a white coat, leaned over. "The commandant has ordered a private room for you. Colonel Myers is waiting."
Ashley tried to make sense of what was happening to her. Her pain had vanished so she must be all right, but if she was all right what was she doing in a hospital? And, why a special room? She felt the sheet under her move. Two nurses pulled her off the gurney onto a stationary bed; then they transferred the plastic bags of fluids.
A man, a uniformed officer with colored ribbons pinned to his chest stepped to her side and smiled down at her. "Good morning, Ms. Kohen, welcome to the Nellis Air Force Base Hospital. We have prepared for your arrival. I'm Colonel Myers, Deputy to General Brunel, the base commander."
Ashley looked up. "How do you know my name?"
"Oh, we know all about you, Ms. Kohen." He said with a faint smile.
She turned her head to the side. "Then you must know I'm with the FBI."
"Yes, of course. Of course. That's why the general has assigned you this room and will post two guards at your door."
"Guards?"
"Yes, Ms. Kohen." Myers dropped the smile. "The general has asked that I place you in protective custody."
"Protective custody?"
"Yes, for your protection."
Ashley's eyes widened. "Protection from what?"
"General Brunel feels it's in your best interest that you be kept safe for now. We'll take good care of you. You've had quite an adventure." Myers face remained passive as he backed away. As he left the room, he mumbled something to the guards. They exchanged salutes.
What the hell is going on? She lifted her head to see if her "guards" were facing the hallway. The nurse came into the room. "Okay, my dear. We have to get you out of those dirty clothes and clean you up." She started to pull off the sheet.
"I need a drink of water. If that's possible, please?" Ashley assumed a pitiful expression.
"Why of course, dear. I'll be right back–don't you worry."
Ashley watched as the nurse left, then went for Bashir’s phone lodged in her right pants pocket. She pulled it out, woke it up, and then tapped the Settings feature. It searched for a Wi-Fi signal. Her hand trembled while she waited. Come on, damn it. The fan shaped icon lit up. She tapped quickly with her thumb, and held the phone up to her face.
When the nurse arrived with a cup of water, the phone was back in her pocket.
SEVENTY-SIX
WITH HIS EYES FIXED on his open hands, Bill Johnson couldn't stop thinking about this awful night that had now turned into a Monday morning. He sat at his desk unable to concentrate on anything except the loss of Ashley. It was so horrible, so shocking, and so sudden his mind didn’t accept the truth. He covered his face with hands that soon became wet. His shoulders shook. It wasn't right.
On the floor he saw the paper airplane he’d made to tease her. He picked it up, crushed it into a ball, and threw it in the wastebasket. Ashley represented the best of the young people of today–smart, dedicated, determined, and able to take whatever came her way and keep going.
The cell phone in his pocket vibrated, alerting him to a call. He decided to ignore it, then thought it might be Walter, cloistered in his office upstairs. Bill touched the home-key and the phone came alive. The telephone icon had a number one circled in the corner. He tapped it and a picture flashed on the screen. A face smeared with dried blood and many wounds looked at him. A familiar face. Ashley's face. A rush of adrenaline surged through his body. He screamed, “Ashley you're alive!”
His pulse raced as he checked the send-date and time: today one minute ago. He stared at that battered face. The eyes were red rimmed, but he felt they talked to him. They said, I'm here, come get me.
Johnson bolted from his office and climbed the stairs faster than he had in many years. Out of breath, he rushed into Kent's outer office. A somber Dorothy Hogan turned toward him. Kent's door, always open, now stood shut.
Between gulps of air he asked, "Is he in there, Dorothy?"
"Yes, but don't go in. He's hurting and needs his private space right now."
Without a word, Johnson leaned over her desk and placed his phone in front of her. Dorothy braced herself. "Is that Ashley?” She clutched her throat. "You mean she's alive?"
"Yes. That's Ashley as of," he checked his watch, "four minutes ago."
She moved her hand from her neck to her mouth. "Oh my God, look at the poor thing." She touched Bill's arm. "How bad is it?”
"We're going to find out. Let's go in." She nodded. They both walked to the door, knocked, and then entered. Bill Johnson had never seen his boss so wretched and distraught as he appeared at that moment. After the explosion in the Nevada desert, Walter controlled his emotions as he would at any crime scene. But that brave front was gone now, replaced with slumped shoulders, puffy eyes and a face full of pain.
Bill and Dorothy glanced at each other, then Bill moved forward. "Walter, I have some good news. I received a selfie."
Walter squared his shoulders. "A selfie?"
"Yes. I got this a few minutes ago." Bill showed him the phone image.
There was a moment of silence. Walter raised his head. "This is Ashley." Bill nodded. "W
hen was this taken?"
"Time dated six minutes ago"
Kent pushed his chair back a few feet as the reality of Ashley being alive took hold. "How did you get this?"
"It popped up on my phone. Someone we care about sent it to me...to us I believe."
Kent came alive as if waking from a bad dream. With a nervous laugh he said, "This is a miracle!" Their faces brightened and all three gathered in a group hug followed by an awkward, joyous celebration that lasted a full minute.
Walter calmed down. "Let's see that picture again. Ashley looks like she's gone through hell. Do you know where she is?"
Bill shook his head, "Not yet."
Dorothy studied the image. "My sister's a nurse. That’s a monitor for vital signs like blood pressure, and heartbeat in the background.”
Bill agreed. "A hospital. That makes sense, considering the shape she's in. The question is, what hospital? I'll trace the call." Within minutes he learned the call originated from Nellis AFB.
Walter felt convinced Ashley sent the picture from the base hospital. With the speakerphone on he got through to the Nellis operator a few minutes later, and asked to speak with the commanding officer. The operator switched him over to General Brunel's administrative assistant, who asked the nature of his business. He explained it had to do with an FBI investigation that affected the General.
"Good morning, this is General Brunel. How may I help you?"
"I understand you have one of our agents on your base. FBI Special Agent Ashley Kohen."
"Who is this?"
”Special Agent in Charge Walter Kent, Albuquerque Field Office."
"What makes you say I have one of your agents here?"
"It's not a guess, General Brunel. I know she's there." He winked at Dorothy. "I need to talk to her about a current investigation."
The general didn't answer.
"General Brunel, I'm waiting."
"I'm not at liberty to discuss this matter with you, sir."
"Agent Kohen is a federal law enforcement officer, and I'm her superior. I expect your full cooperation, General. It's urgent."
Another moment of dead air.
"I have my orders, Mr. Kent. I suggest you take this talk with your superiors. That's all I have to say. Have a good day." The line went dead.
Bill Johnson screwed up his face. "He didn't deny she's there, nor did he confirm it. That’s a no denial confirmation."
Kent agreed. "It's time to call Director Delong."
SEVENTY-SEVEN
IN HIS CONFERENCE ROOM in Tysons Corner, Virginia Leo Adornetto surveyed the faces of his closest associates who, technically, answered to him on all matters of national security and intelligence. Admiral Henry Smithy of the NSA, Pat Fitzgerald, head of the CIA, Ed Delong, FBI chief, and Mike Johansson, his Assistant Deputy, had assembled on short notice. They gathered to view the President's message to the nation, carried on every major TV channel. At the end of the speech Adornetto snapped the TV off to avoid the inevitable post analysis by the media.
Everyone sat silent in the wood-paneled room lined with photographs of former Federal officials who used this space to protect the country from its enemies of the past. CIA chief Pat Fitzgerald spoke first. "What the hell was that all about?" His comment caused a snicker and a few head shakes.
Johansson, with a strained voice, answered. "That's Graham Steward skipping the eulogy for two FBI agents who, in the past forty-eight hours, have fallen in the line of duty: Rashid al Youris and Ashley Kohen."
"Please forgive Mike, he has good reason to be bitter." Delong placed a hand on his friend's arm. "Youris was a longtime friend and partner to Mike, and Kohen was a bright young agent new to the service. Both heroes in my mind." He jammed an unlit cigar in his mouth. "But I agree. The President is playing politics with the truth."
Admiral Smithy snorted, "Our leader has proven, once again, he knows how to lead–in the wrong direction."
Adornetto leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. "You don't know the worst of it. Earlier this morning I came from a meeting of the National Security Council. The President not only refused to recognize the greatest national security success of our time, he smothered it with a top secret classification, essentially banning it from public view."
"Doesn't he know the system worked exactly as we have designed it to work?" said Fitzgerald. "Because of our mutual cooperation we have averted a terrorist attack that, if successful, would have murdered thousands of Americans and plunged us into yet another bloody war." He slammed his fist on the conference table. "We have diverted a tipping point in world affairs. The country needs to know we have protected them from our enemies."
Adornetto's mouth turned down. "I tried to explain that to him this morning, but he cut me off. He listens to the advisers who tell him what he wants to hear. The President has supported draconian cuts in our budgets and piled more work on the intelligence community. Now that we have something big to prove our worth, he shuts us down."
Delong straightened his well-worn brown sport coat. "I think we can agree the President left us out in the cold. We also have to agree there's not much we can do about it."
The conversation continued with everyone trying to control their disgust and soften their opinions of Graham Steward. A man entered the room unnoticed and whispered in Mike Johansson's ear. Mike turned around in his chair, and then followed the man into the next room. Three minutes later he slipped back in, took his place next to Delong, and handed him a cell phone while rapidly speaking to him in a hushed tone.
Delong studied the phone in disbelief and a quick shake of the head. "Incredible," he whispered, and then got everyone attention clustered around the table. "Gentlemen, I think we have a way out."
THE PRESIDENT'S SECRETARY, a mousey little man with scant hair combed over a prominent bald spot, stood at attention when he recognized four of the most important members of the President's administration enter his office. He straightened his tie and shirt cuffs to be certain they were properly visible. "Uh...good morning, gentlemen." The name plaque on his desk read Eugene Petit.
With thick black eyebrows arched together, Adornetto looked down at Mr. Petit. "We're here to see the President."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I don't have an appointment listed." He checked the calendar on his desk. "I have an opening next week on Tuesday. Would ten o'clock be all right?"
"No."
"How about 10:30?"
"No." He reached over and closed Eugene's calendar. "Our business can't wait. The President should be the first to know."
"To know what?
Mr. Adornetto tilted his head to one side, and shouted. "Why we are here, of course," he said loud enough to be heard in the next office only six feet away–the Oval Office.
Petit backed away from his desk. A voice from the adjacent room asked, "Who's out there, Eugene?"
Petit went to the door leading to the President's office. "It's Mr. Adornetto and, and..." The four men brushed Eugene aside and entered.
Seated in his high-back leather chair, Graham Steward suddenly stiffened his posture and dropped a gold pen he held in his hand. He looked at each of the sober faces standing before him. "My. My. What a serious bunch." He spoke in his down-home drawl and forced an amused expression. "Have the Russians declared war on us?"
Adornetto ignored the question. "I'm here to offer you my resignation." He placed a letter in front of the President.
Admiral Smithy scowled at Steward. "I too plan to resign, sir. He put his letter on top of Adornetto's. "With some regrets, Mr. President," said Fitzgerald, sliding his letter onto the desk. Ed Delong, dropped his resignation on top of the pile and said nothing.
Steward's eyes widened and he reached out to touch the letters, and then withdrew his hand as if they might burn him. "You boys aren’t serious?"
Adornetto became spokesman for the group. "We are serious, Mr. President."
"But why?"
"It is customary for heads
of Federal agencies to resign when the President no longer approves of their performance."
"There must be some misunderstanding here. In no way do I have a problem with your work."
"We don't see it that way. With my support, the NSA, FBI, and the CIA, along with other agencies in the intelligence community, have worked as partners to foil a major terrorist attack that you saw fit to ignore.”
"Oh, if you’re referring to that blunder out in the Nevada desert..."
"That blunder in Nevada was an attempt to kill hundreds of thousands of our people, an attack that would have plunged us into a massive and extended war. An act of terror designed to brand your administration and leadership incapable of protecting the country and the citizens who elected you."
"I stand by my position, gentlemen." Steward used a sharp tone. "An enemy able to explode a nuclear weapon on American soil..."
"No enemy exploded a weapon in Nevada, sir–that was a controlled discharge of a nuclear bomb by an agent of the FBI, not a terrorist. Your speech today was a blatant distortion of the truth–a cover up."
"That's one-way of looking at it."
Ed Delong stepped forward. "The question is, how will the voters of our country, look at it?"
Steward's eyes narrowed, "What do you mean?" He shot to his feet as if to defend himself physically. "This matter is classified as top secret. If any of you utter one word about this, I will see that you are prosecuted under Title 18, Section 789 of the U. S. Code"
Delong acted as a teacher correcting a student. "That's Section 798, sir. Not Section 789."
The President glared at Director Delong. "I'm serious."
"We have no intention of violating your orders, sir. The others nodded support for Delong's promise.
The Seventh Message Page 33
