Adams was still trying to make sense of what Jensen was suggesting. Although the office of CJCS was a prestigious appointment, the Admiral had no executive authority over combatant forces. The chain of command went from the President to the Secretary of Defence and then directly to the unit commanders, Adams merely a convenient conduit for passing on suitable orders.
Jensen wouldn’t let it lie, “All I’m asking is that you check.”
“And when are you anticipating this attack will take place?”
“It’s not yet dawn in Astana and the talks are due to resume in about four hours… I have no definite time scale but I guess in four to eight hours.” Jensen was struggling to know how broad to make Adams’ search, every Chinese military facility or ship a potential target.
Adams gave Jensen a hard stare, “I need something more than just a vague suspicion. Dick Thorn might disagree as to the extent of America’s response but to suggest he’s overriding the President’s authority is extreme.”
“I’m sorry, Admiral; I can’t reveal the specifics, except to say the source has proved totally reliable in the past. If you are happy to confirm that Secretary Thorn has always acted under the full authority of the President then this conversation never happened.”
Jensen had put the onus back on Adams. The Admiral had to assume Jensen had a source inside the Pentagon, perhaps even someone close to the Secretary of Defence.
Adams said, “And if Secretary Thorn has used his initiative and issued orders which might conflict with the President’s present policy on China – what then?”
Jensen shrugged, curious as to why Adams had phrased it so deliberately, “That is for the President to decide.”
The Admiral rubbed at his chin, not looking at Jensen. Abruptly he stood up and gazed out towards the fuzzy lights of the National Mall, standing with his back to his somewhat irksome guest. Adams might not believe any of it but could be really ignore the vague possibility that Jensen was actually right?
It was almost a full minute before he turned round. “Very well, Secretary Jensen,” said Adams formally. “I will do as you ask...”
Jensen had expected to be left alone while Adams made the necessary calls but the Admiral had other plans, keen to show that he had nothing to hide. It then become a waiting game, Adams more relaxed now he had set everything in motion. Strong coffee also helped break the tension and Jensen was treated to a tale of daily life in the Pentagon, the building almost a city in itself with close to twenty-five thousand military and civilian employees. If Adams was trying to convince Jensen they were both on the same side then it was working and it was virtually the first time they had talked one-on-one about nothing in particular, Jensen seeing a side to the Admiral he never even glimpsed before.
It was a good twenty minutes before the Admiral’s cell phone rang, Adams again not seeking privacy. He barely spoke until the end, a worried frown creasing his brow.
“It’s possible,” said Adams to Jensen, “that you’re misgivings have some merit. There’s one matter that needs further clarification: a coded order was sent from Secretary Thorn to Admiral Lucas which seems to be at odds with the agreed rules of engagement.”
“Lucas – Pacific Command?”
Adams nodded, looking distracted, “If one of our carriers is attacked, Lucas has orders to target the Liaoning and her escorts. This new instruction seems to give Lucas the leeway to attack the Chinese carrier immediately an alert has been confirmed rather than waiting for an actual attack.”
“And these new rules of engagement are effective now?”
“It would appear so.”
Jensen was slow to grasp the practical aspects of what Adams was implying. China’s submarines had continued to probe the American carriers’ defences, minor incursions of the hundred-mile exclusion zone merely targeted with a warning ping from a helicopter’s dipping sonar. Was that now to be met with an immediate and senseless retaliatory strike? If so, Jensen’s four to eight hours was nothing more than a wild exaggeration, a U.S. missile attack liable to happen at any time.
Adams had the same concerns, “If it’s confirmed, I’ll need to speak directly to the President; only he has the authority to countermand this order.” He stood and stared at his phone, unsure whether to contact the White House immediately or go first to the Pentagon.
“Forget the phone,” said Jensen, taking the initiative, “we need to see the President now. We can take my car.” It was barely fifteen minutes to the White House, the situation requiring a face-to-face meeting and not some impersonal phone call.
Adams made as if to argue then abruptly changed his mind, recognising the wisdom of what Jensen was saying. Time was precious and as CJCS, his protection detail was part of the Army Protective Services Battalion, the same unit that had responsibility for guarding the Secretary of Defence – Adams knew he was sinking to Jensen’s level of paranoia but why take unnecessary risks?
A frustrated and resentful Secretary of Defence had finally made his move, and missiles might already be racing their way towards the Liaoning, Thorn clearly determined to halt Deangelo’s search for a peaceful resolution. The Liaoning wasn’t some small reef of dubious worth but a symbol of China’s new superpower status, and if Thorn expected Beijing to crumble then he had seriously misjudged the nature of the enemy, China more likely to seek instant retribution than abandon the Spratly Islands.
The evening traffic was less than Jensen had expected but that advantage was more than countered by the weather, the driving snow making visibility relatively poor. Jensen tried to keep his focus on the road ahead but the problem of Thorn kept invading his thoughts, so many questions still needing to be answered. Admiral Adams held his cell phone tight as though it would somehow try to escape, there still no absolute confirmation that Admiral Lucas was acting under Thorn’s direct – and unauthorised – command.
The Buick started to lose grip as they crossed the Roosevelt Bridge and Jensen slowed, the snow already covering the road surface; this was looking to be a far trickier journey than he’d anticipated and winter driving in D.C. was more often a lottery than not, there far too many rear-wheel-drive vehicles driven by the inexperienced and the downright incompetent.
Jensen took the exit towards the East Street Expressway, the glare from the passing lights a distraction, wipers not proving as effective as he would have liked. A quick glance in the mirror showed a black SUV tailgating him and Jensen swore under his breath at such stupidity; it was only then that past concerns resurfaced, a check of the slow lane revealing a silver sedan easing up alongside.
“We may have some company,” he said to Adams. “Better hold on.” The road climbed and twisted, and as soon as it straightened out Jensen put his foot down, still uncertain as to whether his fears were justified or not.
The other two vehicles dropped back but only for an instant, racing to catch up. Jensen had his answer and he struggled to work out how best to react; beside him, Adams was already talking on his phone, angrily demanding Secret Service backup, then the car shuddered as the sedan nudged it from the side.
Adams was flung to the left, his arm smacking into Jensen as his seatbelt locked. Jensen desperately tried to keep control but he was unable to prevent the Buick’s front wheel from tapping the central kerb; an instant later, the tailing SUV smashed into the rear of the Buick, the latter bounding up over the kerb.
The Buick caught a glancing blow against the low metal barrier and bounced right, sideswiping the front of the SUV. There was the screech of tortured metal, the Buick spinning around full circle, its rear also hitting something solid.
The car slid to halt, Jensen shocked but still conscious, Adams with blood on his face. The SUV was also stationary, engine smoking; just ten feet away to Jensen’s right sat the black sedan, passenger door opening to show a heavyset figure with gun in hand.
The Buick’s engine was still running, the airbags not even deployed, and Jensen jammed his foot back down, tyres squealing as
the Buick accelerated away. He wrenched the wheel around to head east once more, struggling to see his way through the swirling snow, one headlight not working.
The tunnel under Virginia Avenue seemed to appear almost without warning; Adams had his seat-belt off and was scrabbling around on the floor searching for his cell phone, Jensen only now aware of an unhealthy growl from the engine.
As they sped out of the tunnel, the Buick hit the lying snow and skidded left, bucking up onto the median strip; this time there was no metal barrier and the car careered onto the opposite carriageway. Jensen heard the squeal of brakes and a large dark shape powered past, horn blaring. Despite being half-blinded by the lights from the oncoming traffic, Jensen stamped on the accelerator, pushing his luck; he kept well to the right, cursing out loud at every other driver, innocent or not. Two more cars swerved past, those ahead squeezing their way into the slow lane.
Jensen glanced to his right: Admiral Adams lay slumped in the passenger seat, head lolling against the side window. The sedan hadn’t given up; it paralleled the Buick, a belt of trees now separating the two carriageways. Up ahead was the intersection with 20th Street, Jensen unable to think clearly as to which way to turn.
Decision made, he twisted the wheel sharply left, heading north, almost colliding with another car. Jensen still couldn’t see properly, dazzled by lights, the snow flying almost horizontal as it hit the front windshield.
Every few seconds, there seemed a new problem and the Buick was now pulling steadily to the right, steering heavy, the rest of the vehicle juddering in sympathy. Jensen could hear an emergency siren but that was no guarantee of anything, certainly not his future well-being, and he careered into F Street, now barely half-a-mile from safety.
The headlights from the sedan were once again visible in the rear-view mirror. The Buick was struggling to go over forty and the sound from the engine was becoming a throaty rattle. The front-right tyre was definitely blown, sparks starting to fly up from the road surface. Uncaring, Jensen sped across 19th Street, the traffic lights a welcoming green.
There was a loud crack as a bullet punched its way through the rear windshield, it thumping into Jensen’s seat. He tried to swerve from side to side, but it was impossible to keep control, the intersection with 18th Street just ahead.
Jensen didn’t care what the traffic lights were at and he just kept his foot down. The instant he reached the intersection, he knew he’d pushed his luck too far, a half-seen shape smashing into the front of the Buick.
Jensen felt himself rolling over and over, the airbags finally inflating. As the Buick tumbled to a stop, Jensen fought to release his seatbelt but he couldn’t seem to work out how to do it, his fingers fumbling uncertainly; he could barely move his head, something warm and sticky stopping his eyes from opening, the sound of the siren much closer now. And another, more annoying noise, Jensen slow to realise it was the ringtone from Adams’ cell.
Strapped in his seat and unable to do anything, it was almost a relief when the heavy weight of unconsciousness swept down over him, the despair of having come so close and failed too much to bear.
* * *
The idea that McDowell could be tempted out by an unscripted appearance from Thorn was growing on Anderson – there might be no chance to prepare beforehand but McDowell would be happy enough with that, and it might well offer a better opportunity than the other options. The rumours that a ceasefire was close to being agreed were becoming more persistent, some reports indicating that a permanent deal covering all of the Spratly Islands was also under discussion. If true then everything Thorn had fought so hard for would soon be wasted. What then for a very pissed off Secretary of Defence?
The McDowell-Thorn theory was still one hundred percent speculative; not that Anderson was that bothered and despite the snow he was quite enjoying his walk in the park. He had taken plenty of photos, always hoping for something spectacular and occasionally getting one or two shots a real professional might actually be proud of. Photo or investigative journalist: Anderson still hadn’t the skill of the former, his persistence seemingly better suited to the latter.
Most of those involved in the candlelight march had now reached 3rd Street, people standing around and waiting for the stragglers to join them. Security concerns had changed the location of the vigil from the steps of the Capitol to between 3rd Street and the Capitol Reflecting Pool, the public-address system already moved there from the WW2 Memorial. There was no giant screen and because of the weather the organisers had reduced the vigil to no more than twenty minutes, prayers and music the plan.
Anderson walked across 3rd Street to stand beside the reflecting pool and stare up towards the lights of the Capitol Building. It was still snowing but not quite as heavily as before, and the setting and elements cleverly combined to make it all rather surreal, the sound of a siren in the far distance slightly spoiling the moment. A handful of police had kept pace with the march but they were the only ones he had noticed; under the circumstances that seemed surprisingly few and Anderson couldn’t help but wonder where the rest were waiting – or maybe the few B-list celebrities amongst the marchers weren’t considered that important.
If Thorn deigned to make an appearance, 3rd Street would seem the most likely place for his convoy of cars to park, leaving the Secretary a sixty yard walk to the vigil. The high buildings to either side might provide suitable line of sight for Lavergne but most were government controlled – would McDowell really have enough time to plan something so complex? The tree cover was also relatively sparse now, nothing else leaping out as offering a viable alternative.
An icy trickle was working its way down the back of Anderson’s neck and he sought the protection of a large elm tree before phoning Flores with an update, both men prepared to wait it out just to be sure. McDowell was doubtless wise enough to stay in the warm and let others do the worrying, Thorn’s D.C. residence or his Massachusetts home no doubt providing a rather more predictable setting if McDowell were so minded, perhaps also a better chance for Lavergne’s skills with a rifle.
Apart from those taking part in the vigil, Anderson had seen hardly any other visitors in the last hour and he waited beside the elm tree, watching as the organisers gathered everyone together for a final symbolic march across 3rd Street. Relatively few of those that had attended the lighting ceremony looked to have given up because of the snow and it was questionable as to whether they’d all squeeze into the area between the road and the reflecting pool. 3rd Street was pretty much empty of traffic, two police officers ready to do their duty as crossing guards.
“No sudden movements, Mike; you don’t want to make me nervous.”
Anderson felt the cold tingle of fear run up his spine as he recognised McDowell’s voice, and he noticeably flinched as the hard metal of a gun pressed into his back, McDowell’s instructions somehow superfluous. Their roles of adversary and prey had instantly been reversed, the consequences of Anderson’s brief lack of concentration likely to be unfortunate.
“Hands where I can see them,” added McDowell curtly. He patted Anderson down one-handed, phone pulled from his side pocket, before positioning himself slightly behind Anderson and to his right.
Anderson risked a quick glance, McDowell standing with the gun now cradled in the crook of his arm, only a small part of the silencer actually visible. It was enough to suggest running might be a second serious mistake, Anderson still with the presence of mind to wonder where exactly Lavergne and Preston might be.
“Persistent as always,” McDowell said, his tone almost friendly. “And no FBI tail other than Special Agent Flores – you really need to care more care, Mike.”
When Anderson didn’t respond, McDowell turned to view the trail of candles as the first group of marchers crossed 3rd Street. “Will Secretary Thorn honour the vigil with his presence or not?” he asked rhetorically. “He was thinking about it an hour ago but you never can tell with these politicians. Sadly, it seems there’s some new problem
at the Pentagon which might well take precedence.”
“Your doing?” said Anderson, finally finding his voice.
“Not down to me, Mike; I’ve been here, watching you. I hear you’ve been busy: Boston and then a daily visit to the Mall, even a tour of the Capitol.”
Anderson didn’t bother asking how McDowell knew all this; phone tracker or tail – it was all irrelevant now and McDowell wasn’t likely to let him off with anything less than a bullet in the brain.
McDowell continued, “I wouldn’t get your hopes up that Agent Flores will come and rescue you; he seems quite happy on his side of the Mall. Personally, I’d rather just deal with Thorn then we can all go our separate ways – even you, Mike.”
“Generous as always, Pat; you deserve a gold star. Forgive me if I choose not to believe you.”
“Our President owes you a big favour,” said McDowell cheerfully, “and that has to be worth something. He was never that keen on muzzling Congress but it was Thorn’s price for risking his career; now thanks to you it’s a non-starter.”
Anderson certainly didn’t want the credit, angry with everyone, especially himself. “You gave me Nash; I was just the sucker who did all the hard work.”
“Well, think of how grateful our nation will be to the man who helped save U.S. democracy; just make sure you’re still around to receive a personal thank you from the President and a congratulatory handshake.”
Despite the cold, Anderson felt the sweat running down his face, not knowing how long he could delay the inevitable. A couple of friends having a chat while watching the vigil wasn’t going to make anyone curious, and while Anderson’s sudden collapse into a heap might create a stir of interest in the Mall, it was a chance McDowell would eventually be forced to take.
The rest of the marchers were steadily making their way across 3rd Street; for the moment they were staying close to the centre of the Mall but any further south and McDowell might start getting nervous. Anderson kept scanning the trees on the other side of the park but he couldn’t see any sign of Flores, not that he had any idea what to do even if he could.
The Rule Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 3) Page 30
