by Kurt Winans
Knowing that she was rarely if ever present on a Sunday, let alone by five minutes after seven, he smiled and asked, “Mrs. Dawson, why are you here on a Sunday?”
“With all due respect Mr. President, this is not the time for me to have a day off. Now, what do you need me to do?”
The elderly woman meant well with her intent, and her loyalty was unwavering. As one of the few people who truly understood his humor, the President felt that he could be somewhat less guarded with his answer toward her. So he replied, “Well thank you for being here Mrs. Dawson. Although I’m not sure that we could classify this morning as a good one either personally or for the United States, with your help we shall press on.”
“Yes sir.”
Then he added, “I don’t suppose you could turn the clock back twenty-four hours for me? What I really need is for yesterday to have never happened.”
“I wish that I could do that for you sir, but that power lies beyond all of us.”
“Indeed. So, do you have my schedule for today?”
“Partially Mr. President, but I’m afraid that you will have a steady stream of people without scheduled appointments coming in all morning and afternoon. I hope some of them can provide you with the answers that you seek.”
“Thank you Mrs. Dawson, so do I. Now, who’s first?”
Throughout the course of the morning the President met with various individuals and small groups who provided him with information not easily absorbed. One such report revealed that the jet planes thought to be part of the terrorist escape from Colorado Springs had been lost, and that the Mexican authorities, as of the time of the report, had no idea as to their whereabouts.
The man providing President Harwell with the negative information said, “The jets were flying so low that radar lost their signal. Their course away from New Mexico suggested that they were heading for the Pacific coast, and many aircraft of that type and size would have the fuel range to do it. The jets would first have to climb in order to fly over the Sierra Madre Mountains, but using their last known course as a guide, then a good guess would be that they were headed for an airport in San Jose del Cabo, Mazatlán, or Puerto Vallarta.”
“Well that actually sounds like three guesses to me, but it’s a start. Have you and the Mexican government begun a search for the planes in any of those locations?”
“Yes sir. The state department is working on that and other avenues as we speak.”
“Very well, please keep me posted of the progress.”
“Yes Mr. President.”
Another morning briefing revealed that Major Bates, Captain Scribner, and the crews of the two helicopters flown over West Point were innocent of any wrong doing other than not being as attentive as they should have been. Their most notable attribute, if one could call it that, was their casual approach to the entire flight. In their belief, all events leading up to the drop must have been as they were intended to be, and as such, the men were of little help to the investigation. They simply missed any potential clues of slightly incorrect attire or weaponry that may have given them cause to abort the mission. Only one man, the corporal who had notified Major Bates of the New York National Guard soldiers training their weapons on the helicopter, was the exception by remembering something unusual.
When asked by the Federal agents who interrogated them all if he had noticed the surgical gloves while in flight, he replied, “Yes sir, I do remember seeing the gloves shortly after the men came aboard and we lifted off. I didn’t say anything about it or ask them why they were wearing the gloves because we were tightly crammed in and short on time. As it was we barely got everything ready for the seven of them to jump before reaching the designated drop zone.”
In the crews defense, they had been given a short time window by General Norgard to position the jumpers over West Point, with a continuing time pressed mission beyond that. Additionally, there were no fingerprints on the helicopter other than those that could be matched to the flight crews, ground support personnel, or other members of the military that had legitimate cause to leave them behind. The fourteen soldiers scheduled to jump from their helicopters had been found dead, and initial toxicology reports had revealed that their deaths must have been excruciating. Nothing tangible had been recovered from the three smoldering vehicles used to gain entry onto the facility from which the helicopters departed, and it was doubtful that anything ever would be. In reality General Norgard was the one guilty of improprieties, and would need to answer for his misuse of military hardware by sending the helicopters to Albany for an unsanctioned evening event. That separate investigation would probably cost him his single star via a demotion in rank, but it could wait for the time being.
Later in the afternoon, President Harwell finally received some tangible information with regard to body count, and it wasn’t good news. He had known from early reports that the military casualties at each of the three academies would be substantial, but he had also been led to believe that civilian loss of life had been minimal. Those figures, like most every statistic formulated by a government agency, could have a wide range of results depending on interpretation. In this case, the question became what constituted a civilian. Did it include members of the media and employees of the attacked facility, or did they fall into a different classification from those who had an actual ticket to sit in the stands at each game. For that matter, did family members accompanying military personnel in the stadiums create a separate category, or were all of the above to be lumped into one grouping?
As the President listened to the banter of the men and women who had been collecting the data, his aggravation level quickly rose. When he had heard enough, he finally asked quite bluntly, “Can any of you provide me with some numbers, or are you just wasting my time? This has been a tragic event in the history of our country, and I have been waiting for this important information. When I speak to a joint session of Congress tomorrow I would like to have some specifics, and the four of you are trivializing it by creating sub- groups of human souls that were lost. Now for the moment I really don’t care how you break it down, as you can always do that later in a more detailed report, but aside from those currently in uniform, how many people were killed?”
With a gulp of fear for having offended the President in the oval office of all places, the lead woman of the fact finding group spoke first. With voice cracking she said, “Yes Mr. President, sorry about that sir.”
After a deep breath and a sigh while staring at her worrisome eyes, Jordan Harwell replied, “Yes, fine. I apologize as well, and also understand that your team has been given a difficult task. Now could you please just think about those who have lost a loved one? They, along with the nation, will need answers. I can’t help them with that unless you give me something to work with. So now once again, start with the total civilian casualties before breaking them into sub-groups.”
During the course of the morning briefings at the White House, the sun began to rise over a seldom used airstrip well south of Chihuahua near the small Mexican town of Valle de Rosario. Continuing south from the airspace just inside Mexico when pursuit by the two American fighter jets had been called off, the pilots of the two Cessna Citation Latitude jets brought their total of sixteen passengers in for a safe late afternoon landing. Even while flying in low terrain hugging altitude to help avoid detection at nearly their maximum speed, the fuel range of the aircraft at close to three thousand two hundred miles had not nearly been met. Following a meal of non-perishable rations that had been stowed within the jets a few days earlier in Aspen, and a good night’s sleep for the weary souls, the collective could now anticipate their next rendezvous. If all continued to go according to plan, then the second MIL MI-8 HIP-C helicopter that had been mentioned as available for purchase to Samuel by Mr. Flores in May would soon pick them up.
In conjunction with the one that had been brought into Texas at the border crossing of Laredo, and subsequently used for the training and carrying out of t
he Colorado aspects of the overall attack plan, Samuel had purchased what he considered to be her sister ship. At that time in May, Samuel made a simple business arrangement with the man who helped make that transaction a possibility. The organization would pay for the simultaneous refurbishing of the second HIP-C helicopter, but the work would be done in Monterrey. Then with the bird remaining in Mexico, the Flores family and their business associates could have free use of it when needed in exchange for a few favors. Those favors would be required in mid-November, and although not privy to the events leading up to said act, Mr. Flores would obtain outright ownership of the helicopter after those favors were successfully carried out. The terms were very clear, and the two business men agreed on how their goals should be accomplished. All Mr. Flores needed to do was assure the safety of Samuel Tillman’s comrades by retrieving them from a desolate airstrip far to the west, and then transport them all back to Monterrey where they would be given shelter from any and all Mexican authoritative agencies. Then after perhaps a week, the eighteen individuals would be safely smuggled over the border into Texas by associates of Mr. Flores without detection.
Now that the morning hour of seven o’clock central time had come, they all prepared themselves for the pending extraction from the desolate airstrip. Mr. Capra and Mr. Fisk listened carefully for distant rotors, and with their well-trained ears, each picked up the distinct sound before others in the group could hear it. While moving forward a few paces and positioning an outstretched hand in front of his face to shield the rising sun, Mr. Fisk then saw the helicopter. Speaking loudly he stated, “There it is now. I can see the black silhouette of the fuselage just to the left of that small rise.”
Seemingly turning in unison, the remainder of the group mimicked his hand position while scanning the eastern horizon. A moment later as the figure grew larger in the distance, one of them replied, “Alright, I see it now.”
Flying low to the ground, the helicopter arrived within the next few minutes, and soon after that, the sixteen men waited to climb aboard the HIP-C while watching the two women who had piloted them to their current location perform one final act of brave treachery. With the cabin doors left open for an expedient and desperate escape, each of the Cessna’s were pushed to full throttle while the pilots stood on the breaks with all their might. Then with the yoke locked into a fixed straight forward position, the first pilot in line released the breaks and scrambled for the exit. With a light load of no passengers or cargo, the jet had already reached a speed of more than twenty miles per hour before she could jump down without hesitation from the open doorway. When hitting the ground she tumbled and rolled several times before coming to a stop, but suffered only a few scrapes and bruises in the process. Then the second pilot followed suit in her plane, and the two women came to their knees while watching the jets roar down the compacted dirt runway.
Given enough forward velocity even a barn door can fly, but controlled flight is another issue. The two Cessna Citations were no exception, and they both rose slightly above the brush while screaming out over the Mexican outback. Then each had an intensely bright flash within, and quickly nosed gently downward to belly land. The Fugas bomb within each had ignited, and smoke began to billow wildly from the melting wreckage. A moment later, after the two women had climbed aboard the HIP-C into tight quarters with the sixteen men, the helicopter lifted off and did a quick flyby to ensure that the destruction of any potentially damaging evidence was under way. Then while flying at no higher than two hundred feet toward the rising eastern sun, and with a need for only one refueling stop along the way, the collective reached the cradle of protection provided by the Flores family and the city of Monterrey within hours.
Driving from Bristol in the northeastern corner of Tennessee via the remainder of interstate-81 and then onto interstate-40 toward Memphis which bordered Arkansas in the southwest would have normally been possible in about eight hours. Unfortunately for the second of the two escape vehicles from Annapolis along that route, things had not gone as smoothly as planned. Already seventy miles behind the first car that had arrived in Bristol at eleven, the car with the battered man continued to be slowed by his condition. Throughout the night his fever increased a few degrees, and the now bloodier vomiting intensified. The first vehicle had switched from Virginia to Tennessee license plates at the roadside rest area roughly forty miles southwest of Bristol, and with the lack of late night and early morning traffic, had been making reasonably good time. The badly wounded left arm of the man in the back seat had been the only cause for slowing beyond the norm of restrooms and fuel, but as had been the case throughout their journey, he continued to exhibit bravery. That stern emotional resolve came in spite of the self-realization that his arm was in terrible condition, and the loss of feeling that now included everything below the wrist.
Already traversing the entire width of the state in only thirty minutes longer than had been hoped, and by gaining an hour on the clock when crossing into the central time zone between Knoxville and Nashville, the car rolled around the northern edge of Memphis at six thirty in the morning. Crossing the Mississippi River into Arkansas a few minutes later meant that the five souls within could begin to feel more at ease. They were now in a state that bordered their own of Texas, and only moments after their brethren had been retrieved from the desolate Mexican desert, the car pulled into another roadside rest area thirty-five miles west of Memphis.
As the clock on the dashboard panel read seven fifteen, the second car had dropped further behind. Parked at a rest area just west of the Tennessee River, that group of five souls was roughly one hundred sixty-five miles to the east of their counterparts. As they prepared to once again press on after refilling water bottles that had been used mostly in a futile attempt to control the fever, the woman acting as caregiver slid herself back into a seated position while gently lowering the wounded man’s head into her lap. At that point he had already been stretched horizontally for a few hours with his feet resting on another man’s legs in an attempt to ease the discomfort, but the shaking, sweating, and vomiting had not lessoned.
The other woman in the car who was about to resume driving turned to look in their direction, and the return glance of the caregiver seemed to verify her suspicion. Then she asked, “Should we risk going faster on the interstate to make up some time?”
The man seated next to her asked, “Why would we do that?”
“Because we have probably two and a half hours in front of us before exiting Tennessee, and that’s if we only stop for fuel.”
No one said a word for several seconds, but then the injured man broke the silence. With a weak and raspy voice he said, “Don’t risk being pulled over by the law due to excessive speed on my account. I know that we all have a long way to go and are behind schedule because of me, but all of us must get through undetected.”
Turning back to start the car, the driver replied, “Is that how everyone else feels?”
Once again there was silence before the woman tending to him said, “Let’s just do the best we can while maintaining a nearly legal speed. It’s what he wants, and it sticks to the plan. Besides, I believe that he knows the possible implications of additional time being needed to get home. Meanwhile, I will do what I can to keep him as comfortable as possible.”
By midday Sunday, the drivers of the three black suburban’s used for support in the western attack had each been in Amarillo for more than twelve hours. Coming in from various directions of northern New Mexico, western Kansas via the Oklahoma panhandle, and Colorado by traversing a course down through the southeast corner of the state, the three women had all arrived well before midnight. Now after resting comfortably in a local motel and catching up on the morning regional and national news reports of the attacks, it was nearly time for the drivers and their vehicles to continue onward.
Courtney Tillman had arrived many hours before them during the midafternoon, and as the final aspect of her secretive mission, waited for
the safe return of the three women. After checking out of her south Denver motel during the early morning hours of Saturday, Courtney had driven directly south on interstate-25 past the Air Force Academy long before the attack had transpired. Then two hours later, shortly after entering New Mexico, she turned more eastward onto highway-87 for the remainder of the distance toward the northern outskirts of Amarillo. By the time forty-two men began jumping out of helicopters to do their dastardly deed, Courtney had already crossed over into the central time zone at the state line of New Mexico and Texas.
Later that night after getting five hours of well-earned sleep, Courtney positioned herself where she could easily record the pending arrival of the three drivers. After the last of them arrived, she broke her non communication mode of two weeks by contacting number twenty three. Courtney informed the woman that her own mission in Denver had been carried out successfully and without complication, while also disclosing what she had observed with regard to the drivers arrival at their designated motel. Shortly after ending that communication, Courtney then began to gather intelligence for something of a more personal matter. The two women that she had witnessed going into the Centennial Airport control tower posing as federal agents looked quite different as they emerged from their rooms in the relaxed attire of jeans and t-shirts. Courtney couldn’t blame them for venturing into a country bar next to the motel with the third driver for a late night drink and a bit of relaxation, and in a way, wished that she could join them. Because none of the women actually knew her, she might be able to position herself near them in the bar and listen for confessions or gossip. She didn’t possess the slightest bit of evidence to support it at the current time, and perhaps it was just her own imagination running wild, but Courtney’s gut instinct told her that one of those women might be sleeping with her husband Mason.
