The Shadows of Power

by James W. Huston

  Rat threw his Barrett to the side and jerked a rope that ran down the trunk of the tree. It came free and he slid down it in two seconds. He ran toward Stovic’s jet. He saw the Hornet hit and the single small, futile puff of the parachute before it was engulfed in the flames. “Ed!” he screamed as he ran as fast as he could.

  The French crash trucks and crews sped toward the scene, leaving half of them to deal with Oden’s Hornet, still burning out of control. Sirens tore through the air from every direction. Security helicopters with GIGN forces lifted off with some fear of additional Stinger missiles but determined to close the perimeter and catch anyone fleeing or any other hopeful shooters who still had weapons.

  Stovic felt his parachute come free as he fell to the ground and felt the flames rolling up around his back. He held his breath and fought to stand without putting down his hands. He jumped toward the only daylight he could see, his quickest path out of sure death. He broke into clear air but still held his breath as he looked for cool ground. He saw intact grass to his left and threw himself down on it, trying to extinguish the flames he could feel on his flesh.

  He rolled and rolled as the crash crew arrived. A French fireman shot carbon dioxide over him and suppressed the remaining flames as they encouraged him to walk quickly away from the burning airplane, out of the range of a possible explosion. His lungs burned from holding his breath, and he exhaled, exhausted and beaten. He was grateful for the coldness of the carbon dioxide around him. He gasped for air. They stopped moving, and he leaned over as the fire crews surrounded him. He looked at his hands and wrists and saw that the fire had done its damage—skin hung limply from the back of both hands.

  The crash crews were talking to him emphatically in French, insisting he do something. Finally one of the firemen said in English, “Down. Lie down!”

  Stovic shook his head.

  Rat broke through the circle of firemen and gasped for breath. “Eddie! You okay?”

  “I think I got burned.”

  Rat looked at his hands. “You’d better let them put something on those. They’re going to hurt like hell in about thirty seconds.”

  “Did I burn my face?”

  Rat looked at him and shook his head, quickly looking around for any other trouble. “No. Just a little on your neck. Won’t matter.”

  Stovic nodded as the shock started to wear off and the burns on his hands began talking to him. He started feeling light-headed and weak. He sat on the ground, then rolled over on his back and stared up at the blue sky.

  The fire crew slid him carefully onto a stretcher and backed the ambulance up to load him in. They wrapped his hands and put a cold damp compress on his neck as they placed him carefully in the ambulance. Rat spoke in French to the rescue crews. The EMT asked Rat to see if Stovic wanted anything for the pain. Stovic declined.

  The Boss was frantic. “Rat, is Animal okay?”

  “Yeah,” Rat transmitted. “Few burns, but he’ll be okay.”

  Rat began to climb into the ambulance but was held out. He spoke softly in French. They stepped aside and let him in as they closed the doors and rolled toward the hospital with the lights and siren blazing.

  Rat waited until they were on the pavement of the runway, then sat on the fold-down seat. He watched Stovic stare. “You okay?”

  Stovic tried to shrug. He pointed toward his chest with one of his bandaged hands.

  Rat looked at his chest, confused.

  Stovic pointed again. Rat leaned over and looked at the bulge in his lower left chest. It looked as if several of his ribs had been broken and were protruding. He reached down and touched it gently and felt the hard steel of a gun barrel. He nodded, unzipped the flight suit pocket, and withdrew the Glock. The EMT raised his eyebrows as Rat shoved the Glock into his belt.

  “Rat, what happened? I thought you got them all.”

  “We did. But they didn’t get Ismael, and there was a whole second team in place. A backup team. They got off a few shots, and unfortunately a couple of them got through.”

  “How’s Oden?” he asked, afraid of the answer.

  “They took him away in an ambulance. But I saw him step in. He’s fine.”

  Stovic took the first deep breath he had allowed himself in a while. They rode in silence for a mile or so. “Rat.”

  Rat came out of his thoughts, back into the ambulance. He moved his chin up, a “yeah” on his face.

  “You know how to get in touch with Karen?”

  Rat reached into a pocket and pulled out a miniature cell phone. He dialed a long number, obviously international, listened until it started ringing, and held the phone up against Stovic’s ear.

  “What?” a gruff voice answered.

  “Is Karen there?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Ed Stovic.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Ed looked up at Rat, who took the phone. “Who is this?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Rat.”

  “What are you doing calling here?”

  “It’s over. Put her on.”

  “How do I know—”

  “Put her on!”

  There was a pause of ten seconds, then Karen came on the phone. “Hello?” she asked expectantly.

  Rat put the receiver back up to Stovic’s ear. “Hello?”

  “Ed?!”

  “Karen.”

  “Ed! Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. It’s over. We thought we got them all, but there were a few left. They got Oden and me. We busted our jets.”

  “How? That doesn’t matter, are you hurt at all?”

  “Got a little sunburn on the back of my hands, but I’ll be fine. Just need some vitamin E.”

  “Did you crash?”

  “Yeah. Look, is there any way you can come over? I know this isn’t how we planned it, coming to Paris. We were going to go out to dinner and drink wine and look at art and walk along the Seine—”

  “I’ll be there—”

  “and go to the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame and sit at the cafés—”

  “I’ll leave this afternoon. I can’t wait to see you!”

  “I’ll share half my hospital meal with you, and we’ll drink wine if they’ll let us, but I don’t think we’ll get to do—”

  She could sense from his voice that he wasn’t doing as well as he had said. She could sense a desperation, or fear, something serious in his tone. “I don’t care. You know that. I just want to be with you. The Seine and the cafés and the walks are all there. We can talk about all the things we’ll see. I’ll read to you from every tour book I can find.”

  “When you get here, Karen, we need to talk.”

  “Anything you want.”

  “We’ll talk about lots of things, but I want to talk about what your dreams are.” He paused. “I don’t know enough about them.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I love you,” he said, and they hung up. He closed his eyes and handed the phone to Rat.

  Rat accessed the web and typed in a short message, then hit “send.”

  Stovic opened his eyes. “Who was that?” he asked, looking at the phone.

  Rat smiled. “Had to report to someone who thinks I work for her.”

  “Do you?”

  Rat slipped the phone into an invisible pocket. “I’m just a private citizen with a new security company to run. Remember?”

  * * *

  St. John excused herself from the situation room. She was shaken. She had watched the burning hulks of the Blue Angel jets as they lay on the ground at Le Bourget. She and the others had received word that the pilots were slightly injured but would be okay, but the bill of what she had set in motion lay in front of her. It was worse than she had hoped, but no one had been killed.

  President Kendrick stepped out of the other door and called to her in the hallway, “Sarah?”

  She stopped and turned around. “Yes, Mr. President? Sorry, I was just sneaking to t
he ladies’ room.”

  “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  He walked up to her. “One thing I’ve been trying to figure out,” he said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Stuntz told the Blue Angels to pull the plug. Right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But they flew anyway. How did that happen? I mean, by the time we got to this room, they were airborne.”

  “Yes. I saw that.”

  “Do you have any idea how they flew in spite of the Secretary’s order?”

  “I think everyone understood that the cancellation was based on the fact that we hadn’t found all the terrorists. As I understand it, they did find all of them, or thought they did. So since the reason was gone, they launched.”

  “Who gave them the go-ahead?”

  “Maybe you should ask Mr. Stuntz.”

  “I get the feeling he doesn’t know.”

  “I assume it was Admiral Hooker, the Admiral at the Pentagon who is in charge of the Blue Angels.” She paused. “The same one who told them they’d been canceled for next year.”

  Kendrick processed what he was hearing. “So they thought they had gotten them all, but in fact there was a second team we hadn’t even expected. So they flew, and although it was at high cost, we got all of them too.”

  “I think that’s exactly right.”

  “This whole thing has made Stuntz look like he doesn’t know what’s going on in his own house. Was that part of what you were trying to achieve?”

  “Always after the truth, Mr. President.” She smiled.

  Kendrick turned to go back in, then had another thought. “Seems to me you were a little closer to reality through this. More in tune with the risks that are out there.”

  St. John waited.

  “If the opportunity ever arose, would you consider becoming the Secretary of Defense?”

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost I would like to thank the Blue Angels—the Navy Flight Demonstration Squadron—who showed me great hospitality and friendship while I was with them. They continue to demonstrate the high professionalism and skill that has become their hallmark, but, more important, they are officers and sailors of integrity and honor who are an example to us all. It is an honor to have gotten to know them. I would particularly like to thank Commander Scott “Scooter” Moyer, USN, former slot pilot for the Blues, who gave me invaluable advice and guidance. In spite of his good advice I have taken editorial license with some of the Blues procedures and communications for which I hope he can forgive me. I would also like to thank Kevin Miller, my roommate in the Jolly Rogers and former Blue Angel who first introduced me to the inside of the Blue Angels many years ago.

  I am grateful to my friend Balester Barthélemy who gave me great insight into French security. I would also like to thank my good friends Mike Johnson and Paul Singleton for their insight into special operations and computer security.

  Lastly, I want to thank my agent, David Gernert, for his continued support and encouragement, and my editor, Henry Ferris, whose insight is invaluable to me.

  About the Author

  A graduate of TOPGUN, James W. Huston flew F-14s off the USS Nimitz with the Jolly Rogers. He served as a naval flight officer and worked in naval Intelligence before becoming a lawyer and the acclaimed author of Balance of Power, The Price of Power, Flash Point, and Fallout.

  ALSO BY JAMES W. HUSTON

  Balance of Power

  The Price of Power

  Flash Point

  Fallout

  Credits

  Jacket design by Richard L. Aquaun

  Jacket photo collage: CIA seal, Bettman / Corbis

  Whitehouse © Bill Ross/ Bettman / Corbis

  U.S. Navy’s Blue Angel’s, AP Photograph Frank Franklin, II.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  THE SHADOWS OF POWER. Copyright © 2002 by James W. Huston. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™.

  PerfectBound™ and the PerfectBound™ logo are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

  MS Reader edition v 1. June 2002 ISBN 0-06-009819-8

  Print edition first published in 2002 by HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

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