Call to Treason o-11

by Tom Clancy

  “Orr told the admiral, and the admiral told me,” Stone said.

  “Did you ask the senator yourself?” Rodgers asked.

  “Why bother? He would have lied to me. Anyway, the admiral never lied. Not to me.”

  Rodgers was just a few paces away. “If this is true, I need you to tell me everything. Then I can pass it along to Op-Center.”

  “Op-Center!” Stone snarled. He turned a little more. “They were the ones who screwed this up for all of us—”

  Rodgers saw an opening and took it. Stone had raised his arm slightly so the Glock was pointed away from both Donald Orr and Kat Lockley. Rodgers reached across Stone and grabbed the man’s right wrist with his own right hand. He forced the gun toward the floor as he simultaneously swung his left hand toward the gun. Rodgers pressed left with his right hand, against the back of Stone’s forearm, and right with his left hand. Stone’s wrist snapped audibly. The gun hung loosely in his trembling fingers, and Rodgers snatched it.

  The marines moved in. One of them secured Stone by pushing him facedown on the carpet. The other ran to look after Kat and the senator. He told Kat to call downstairs for the hotel physician. Rodgers picked up the Glock.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing!” Stone said.

  “Saving you from death by lethal injection, I think,” Rodgers replied. He motioned for the marine to let Stone sit up. Then the general crouched beside him. “Where is Admiral Link?”

  “I don’t know,” Stone replied.

  “I don’t believe you,” Rodgers replied. “You were filibustering outside the hotel while his limo was being hijacked. You wanted to keep me from seeing anything.”

  “That doesn’t mean I know where he went,” Stone said.

  Rodgers shook his head. “Don’t you get it? The counterprocess is over. Whatever it is, whatever it was supposed to be, this whole thing is done. Cooked. The only way you save any part of your own ass is by cooperating.”

  “I believe that what we have done is right,” Stone replied. “And I won’t rat out my boss. Neither will Ms. Peterson.”

  “This gentleman says he will,” said a voice from the bedroom door.

  Rodgers looked over. The other male member of Stone’s party was standing there. His short marine guard was behind him, the assault rifle lowered. There was something contrite in the manner of the big man.

  “Who are you?” Rodgers asked, rising.

  “Thomas Mandor, sir.”

  “What is your role in all this?” Rodgers asked.

  “Just muscle,” Mandor replied.

  “He was hired by Admiral Link’s staff, supposedly as a personal security officer for the senator,” Kat said bitterly.

  “I was hired by Mr. Stone, but to escort the senator to another location,” Mandor said. “And I happen to know where Admiral Link is.”

  “I’m listening,” Rodgers replied.

  “My partner has him. If I tell you where they are, can we cut some kind of deal?”

  “No,” Rodgers said. “If you don’t, I’ll do my damnedest to make sure the state of California adds obstruction of justice to whatever else you may have done.”

  Mandor considered that for just a moment. Then he told Rodgers where Kenneth Link had gone.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  San Diego, California

  Wednesday, 5:15 P.M.

  Rodgers and his marine unit charged back up the stairs to the roof of the hotel. They left Stone, Kendra, and Mandor in the custody of the local police. The three were charged with assault, a felony weapons charge, and conspiracy to kidnapping. Kat remained with Senator Orr and the hotel physician. Rodgers had questions for Kat, but this was not the time or place to pose them. He needed more information and suspected that only Kenneth Link had it.

  Thomas Mandor had directed them to a cabin in the mountains of nearby Fallbrook. The pilot phoned the address to the county sheriff. The marine explained that they needed to get to the site without the chopper being seen or heard, which meant landing some distance away. He said that he did not need backup, just a spotter, someone to point out the residence. The sheriff sent Deputy Andy Belmont ahead to meet them. He said the young man would be waiting in an open field at elevation 1963 feet, three miles due northwest of the Mission Road exit in the foothills of the Coastal Range. That was just a quarter mile or so from the target. The dispatcher said that Deputy Belmont was familiar with the area and also had met Mr. Richmond. He would be able to point out the cabin. The pilot was told to look for a black Jeep with a large white star on the hood.

  The Apache flew over Highway 163 and then followed 15 east. The pilot kept the helicopter under five hundred feet. Navy fighter pilots trained along this corridor, and he did not want to risk a collision. He ascended when he reached the foothills. Rodgers was sitting behind the pilot, watching for the deputy’s Jeep. There was one marine to his right and three more in the snug jump seats behind them. They were actually more like paddles, recent additions to the Longbows that allowed them to shuttle small special ops units into hostile territory. The seats, even the fixed ones, vibrated like those old quarter-fed motel beds, and removing the headphones was guaranteed to leave a passenger’s ears ringing for a week. This was not an aircraft designed for comfort. As the pilot proudly put it, “The Longbow was built for roughing things up.” In addition to the chain gun, the helicopter could be equipped with air-to-surface Hellfire missiles on four-rail launchers and air-to-air Stinger missiles. This particular Apache did not carry Stingers. Part of that was a virtue of the quick launch protocol the crew had used to reach Rodgers as quickly as possible. Part of that was to protect the civilian population in the event technical failure brought the chopper down.

  The pilot spotted the Jeep first and swung toward it. He set the Apache down two hundred yards away. Rodgers opened the door and ran over. The deputy climbed from the Jeep and offered his hand.

  “You must be General Rodgers,” the deputy said.

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s a pleasure, sir,” Belmont told him. “What do you need from me?”

  “Tell me about the target,” Rodgers said.

  “It’s a traditional log cabin set back about three hundred yards from a ridge,” the deputy told him. “There are oaks all around — a real firetrap, but shady. May I ask what’s going on there?”

  “Hostage situation,” Rodgers replied. “What is the best way in?”

  “Are you looking to surround and siege or charge it?” Belmont asked.

  “We’re going in.”

  “There are more windows on the north side, the ridge side,” the deputy told him. “You’ll be safer coming in from the south.”

  “Is there someplace closer to set down for extraction?”

  “There’s a three-acre clearing off the point, just above the cabin,” Belmont told him. “Good surveillance point, too.”

  “Great. Can you walk us there?”

  “It will be an honor,” Belmont assured him.

  Rodgers gave the deputy an appreciative clap on the shoulder, then ran back to the Apache. Gathering his team, Rodgers told the pilot to get airborne and remain over the field. As soon as the marines had secured the cabin, one of them would direct the pilot to the point. If Link were here, as Mandor had said, Rodgers wanted to get him into custody as soon as possible. The way people were getting drugged, the general wanted to make sure he had at least one live and conscious USF official.

  Hopefully, it was one who could be convinced to tell him what the hell was going on.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Fallbrook, California

  Wednesday, 6:00 P.M.

  Eric Stone had said that based on the photographs he had seen, the isolated mountaintop cabin reflected the personality of the owner. Like Michael Wayne Richmond, it was rough, uncomplicated, and a little dangerous.

  The two-room structure was small and dark. The hardwood floors were warped from groundwater that percolated from below and the old, beamed ceilings we
re stained from seeping rain. The many framed oil paintings of trucks, done by Richmond, were lopsided due to regular seismic activity. In the front, the four-pane windows looked out on a thickly weeded field that ran to a private dirt road. In the back, the windows offered views of steep slopes spotted with huge, precariously balanced boulders. A strong Santa Ana wind caused the branches of oaks on the sides of the house to scratch the roof insistently.

  There were field mice in the attic. They had become active since the sun started to set. There was mostly beer, processed meat, and cheese in the refrigerator. The bread was stale. When it was dark, Kenneth Link would send Richmond out to get real food. Richmond would take his SUV, not the van they had used to get here. That was in the freestanding garage. If anyone had seen Richmond transfer his “captive” from the limousine, investigators would not find the other vehicle. Certainly not before the next night, when Link would manage to get away. He would leave here while Richmond was placing a call to the press, claiming to represent Far Eastern extremists. That would represent the first blow against the USF. The last thing Americans wanted was to make new enemies among radical terrorists. His hands bound, Link would make his way down the mountain path. He would run, fall, and scrape himself to make it look as if the escape had been a daring one. When Link finally reached the freeway, he would be saved. Then, after a manfully short hospital stay, the admiral would address the USF convention. He would ask the attendees to pray for the well-being of Senator Orr. When that was done, he would sit down with Eric Stone. If Orr had agreed to retire from the USF, he would be released. If Orr refused to cooperate, there would be widespread mourning about his disappearance and presumed death. In either case, Kat Lockley and Lucy O’Connor would be implicated in the deaths of William Wilson and Robert Lawless. He had no doubt that Kat would fall on her sword to protect Orr. The only one Link felt bad for in all this was poor Lucy. She had been used. But then, she had let ambition fog her judgment.

  Following Kat’s murder confession, the USF would lose even more credibility with the voting public. Donald Orr would return to the senate and then, when his term was over he would retire. A few months from now no one would remember that the USF had ever existed.

  Link and his abductor were both in the main room of the cabin. Richmond was in a rocking chair. He was sitting forward, not rocking. Link was in a frayed armchair. They had just turned on the local news. The kidnapping was the lead story. The reporter said that Senator Orr was reportedly in his suite, under guard. The USF spokesperson, a local organizer who worked for Stone, said he hoped that the senator would have a statement to make within the hour.

  “I hope that isn’t true,” Richmond said. “Orr should have been hauled out of there by now.”

  “I’m sure he has been,” Link replied. “Eric may not have wanted to say anything yet. Perhaps he has not heard from Mandor.”

  “Yeah. Tom could be afraid to use the cell phone. Maybe he’ll wait till he gets to Vegas.”

  “That phone is secure,” Link said.

  “They could have gotten held up somewhere, at a road-block or something,” Richmond said.

  That, too, was not likely. The cover story was that the senator was being moved for his own safety. The police would have no reason, or right, to overrule Orr’s own security chief.

  “Why don’t you call Mr. Stone?” Richmond suggested.

  “I’ll give him a little more time,” Link replied. He continued watching the TV. There were interviews with shocked and worried convention attendees and with the chief of police. Link was pleased and proud that his own abduction had gone so well, and he took some comfort in that. He told himself the second half of the operation had also gone off, and it was the reporters who were behind. He switched to CNN to see how the national news services were playing this.

  Link suddenly became aware of something. The mice in the attic had stopped moving around. Perhaps they had gone outside to forage for food. Or maybe there was a predator outside. This was the time of day when rattlesnakes came out to feed and coyotes and owls began their hunt.

  Or maybe they had visitors.

  A moment later, the windows on either side of the room shattered, and two canisters of CS tear gas exploded in the room.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Fallbrook, California

  Wednesday, 6:16 P.M.

  The effects of chlorobenzylidenemalononitrile gas are instantaneous. It inflames the soft tissue of the throat, causing it to burn and swell. Within seconds, victims begin to experience dizziness and acute nausea. And it causes the eyes to water and sting. Even if an individual could keep his eyes open, the finely dispersed particles hung in the air like a thick, slow-moving fog.

  Rodgers and his marines were wearing goggles to protect their eyes. They did not bother bringing breathing apparatus from the Apache. They had determined that the winds up here would clear the room quickly once the windows were shattered. They would hold their breath and remove the occupants, carry them some distance from the cabin.

  Approaching the structure had been easy. With the deputy’s help, the men moved along the sides that had no windows. Lieutenant Murdock used a MiFOP, a miniature fiber optic periscope, to look into the room. A suction device the size of a large housefly contained a small camera. Once that was attached to the window, the user could back away to a secure location. The fiber-optic lens relayed an image to a receiver that was the size of a computer mouse. Each of the marines was able to study the room and the position of the occupants before moving.

  While Rodgers and five of the men crept toward the front door, the other two men positioned themselves to hurl the gas. In less than a minute, Kenneth Link and his companion were outside. Two marines secured the kidnapper with double-lock handcuffs while Lieutenant Murdock called for the Apache to come to the ridge. Rodgers used a secure point-to-point radio to inform Jack Breen of the rescue. He told him not to notify anyone else until they were airborne. He did not want reporters converging on this site until after they had left. When Rodgers was finished, he borrowed a canteen from one of the marines. He indicated for two of the men to stand off to the side as he led the admiral toward a nearby tree stump. Link sat, and the general handed him the canteen. Wheezing, the admiral took a short swallow and then poured water into a cupped hand. He rinsed each eye in turn.

  Rodgers was glad that he was not holding a weapon. He had a feeling he was not going to like what Link had to say.

  “Thanks for the save, Mike,” Link said.

  “Not a problem.”

  Link blinked hard to clear his vision. “How the hell did you locate me?”

  “The kidnapper had a partner,” Rodgers informed him. “He told us where you were.”

  “I figured this guy could not have been acting alone,” Link said. “Where did you find him?”

  “In Senator Orr’s suite,” Rodgers said.

  Link took a longer swallow of water. “Is the senator okay?”

  “He’s fine,” Rodgers said.

  “Good.”

  Rodgers crouched beside the stump. “He did not have you tied up in there,” the general said.

  “No,” Link said. “He said he had a gun, that he would shoot me if I tried to get away.”

  “Admiral, why don’t we mothball the bullshit and talk about what happened?” Rodgers suggested.

  “Sure.”

  “No, I mean what really happened,” Rodgers said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that Stone told us everything,” Rodgers said.

  “Oh? What did he tell you?”

  “How all of this was a plot to stop Senator Orr’s candidacy, an operation to kill the USF.”

  Link looked at Rodgers. “Did he?”

  Rodgers nodded.

  Link glanced around. The two marines were standing twenty or so yards behind him. The tall, yellow grasses hissed lightly, and wind filled the field with a low yawn that would mask their conversation. The admiral looked down.

 
If a man is lucky, there is at least one moment in his life that Rodgers called the cornerstone. It is when a man has to make a decision based on principle not on personal security. It was a single building block that shaped the rest of his life. It was a moment he would look back on with pride or with regret. Rodgers had seen cornerstones in combat, when the decision was typically more one of instinct than a deliberative process. Some men froze under fire, others put the risks behind them and charged. The ones who choked never got over it. The ones who acted felt like gods for however many decades — or seconds — remained of their lives.

  Admiral Kenneth Link was facing a cornerstone. Rodgers could see it in his bloodshot eyes. He was trying to decide whether to finish the lie he had just begun, which he might or might not be able to make stick. Or whether to embrace the truth and acknowledge the war he had apparently been fighting.

  “Did Stone tell you that Senator Don Orr and Kat Lockley planned the murder of William Wilson?” Link asked.

  “He did.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I’m not sure,” Rodgers admitted. “Why would the senator and Kat have done that? And why would he have confided in you?”

  “We were his staff, his close advisers,” Link said. “And he felt that his plan left him bulletproof. As for why he would do it, hate, for one thing. Politics for another. Orr felt that a tawdry death, a heart attack in the middle of sex, would destroy not just the man but the head of steam people had built for his fiscal plans. He believed that having it happen right after the Georgetown party would call attention to the USF. It would give him a platform to enunciate the differences between himself and the other Euro-friendly presidential candidates.”

  “But Op-Center screwed that up.”

  Link nodded. “Orr did not anticipate that Darrell McCaskey would discover the puncture wound. The son of a bitch wanted attention, not a murder charge.”

  “If you knew this, why didn’t you go to the police?” Rodgers asked.