by James Phelan
“You’re like someone with an obsession with Sex and the City,” Fox replied. Again he looked at her. She cocked her eyebrow, as if asking, Really?
“The way you talk, dress, act,” Fox said, smiling. “Admit it, you want to be Carrie Bradshaw.”
“I’d rather be Samantha,” Faith said. “And I guess you think you’re Aidan?”
“Probably more Berger,” Fox said.
“The novelist character? Broke up with a Post-it note? Ouch.” She gave him a mock-evil stare. “Have you eaten? Why don’t we go get some dinner?”
“At this hour?”
“This city never sleeps,” Faith said. “Seems neither do we.”
“I really have to get moving with this,” Fox insisted. “Things are coming to a head, there are too many events happening at quicker intervals.”
“Tell me about it over dinner,” she replied.
“I can’t go out for dinner when Al and the security team are somewhere in the air,” Fox said. “This investigation I’m working on is unfolding to become a radical power shift in Europe, I’ve got the Feds watching me…”
“Well then, tell me about it over breakfast,” Faith said, running her manicure up his long, tanned arm.
Fox looked at her. He was conflicted. She was attractive, smart, fun to be around, but the situation was just far too complicated. And too close to home. For both him and Faith it was too easy but didn’t mean enough.
Faith saw the hesitation in her eyes. She got up, pushed his chair back and hitched her skirt up, opening her legs and sitting on his lap, then pulled him in by the collar and kissed his mouth. He sat there, compliant but not responding, letting her run her hands through his hair as she kissed his face and neck, licking at his day’s stubble along his jaw line.
After a few minutes she sat back a little, undid her shirt and flung it over her head. Her lacy La Perla bra was full in Fox’s face as she unzipped her skirt and stood, pushing it to the floor. She was naked but for her bra and suspenders and stockings. In the few times Fox and Faith had done this, it had always been the same: him working late in his office, her coming in. She sat on his desk, and leaned back on her elbows. She pulled Fox to her by her feet through the arms of his chair.
Fox rubbed his hands down her legs, and kissed her chest.
“You know this can’t go anywhere,” he said.
“Yet we keep coming back for more,” Faith replied, pulling him up to her and unbuckling his belt.
90
THE WHITE HOUSE
McCorkell again pressed the mute button on the phone to the French President.
“There’s no need for them to come anywhere near our coast to launch,” Vanzet said.
“That’s right, Mr President,” McCorkell agreed, nodding along with Vanzet.
“What do you mean?” the President asked. He took off his reading glasses and pinched the tension away from the bridge of his nose.
“The missiles are intercontinental, Mr President, they could reach us from their homeports in France,” McCorkell said. “Ballistic-missile subs do have another quality, though.”
“They’re silent,” Vanzet said, adding to McCorkell’s hypothesis.
“Wait, you think the French are quietly setting off some personnel on our eastern seaboard?” Larter asked. The Secretary of Defense was shaking his head in disapproval of this line of thought. “Too far-fetched, too much work for something that could be done quicker via small aircraft or ocean vessel.”
“Ex parte Quirin,” McCorkell said, still looking at Vanzet. The highest-ranking officer of the DoD got it, he could tell.
“Gitmo?” Larter said.
McCorkell received a crooked smile from Vanzet.
“Wait, what the hell has Guantanamo Bay got to do with this sub—they headed down there?” the President cut in.
“Ex parte Quirin refers to the Supreme Court case back in 1942 that sentenced German combatants to death,” Vanzet said. “It’s the precedent used today for Gitmo detention and trial of suspected terrorists.”
“And a precedent in incurring our shores via submarine,” McCorkell said. “German agents were deployed via two subs back in ’42, coming ashore at Long Island and a beach in Florida. It’s been done before and it looks like it will be happening again. Modern boomers—hell, particularly these nuclear-powered French subs—are practically undetectable. Quieter than the sea around them. It could be a drop-off, it could be a pick-up. Either way, Mr President, we have to take this to the next level.”
McCorkell and Vanzet shared a look.
“Mr President,” Vanzet said. “I recommend that we go to DEFCON Three, sir.”
“And get you to a secure location ASAP,” McCorkell added.
“Bill—”
“Mr President, let’s have this conversation in the air,” Fullop put in, standing up. The President was steadfast.
“Mr President, France is the world’s third-biggest nuclear power,” McCorkell said. “We know there’s a renegade nuclear sub headed for our shores. We have had confirmation that all their naval assets are loaded with a full suite of arms at the moment, meaning nukes as well. Going to DEFCON Three will authorise naval and air combat, and we’ll continue this conversation on Air Force One.”
“Mr President, I suggest we at least move the eastern seaboard to DEFCON Three,” Larter said.
“We’ve established there is no reason for the sub to come to our shores but to pick up or drop off agents,” McCorkell added.
“It could well be deploying a biological agent,” Larter suggested. “Some kind of WMD, like a chemical attack in the water supply.”
“Okay then, we go to DEFCON Three in the European theatre, and here at home we step up the Homeland Security threat level from Orange to Red along the entire eastern seaboard,” McCorkell said. “Every Coast Guard vessel is activated. This will give us flexibility in Europe without having to militarise things within the US. We go to DEFCON Three worldwide and everybody gets spooked, which may be enough for some crazy people to do crazy things. Things that aren’t even on our threat board yet.”
“Or a mad Frenchman with jittery nerves taking that step too far. I agree with Bill, Mr President,” Vanzet said. “It means we can get some strike power in the air to act if we need it. Lock and load some B2s out of Britain and have our European air force ready to play.”
An army major stood in the corner of the room, a slim case containing the nation’s nuclear launch codes cabled to his wrist. He stood more to attention than McCorkell had ever seen him. DEFCON Three in Europe would see dummy warheads replaced with live nuclear warheads.
“Bill—we have the French President on an instant com link here—”
“A president who has not had credible command authority over his armed services for twenty-four hours now—maybe even longer. Announcing DEFCON Three in Europe will wake up the world and show everyone in that theatre not to mess with us right now.” McCorkell looked to the Chief of Staff, who nodded, and then turned to the President’s Secret Service detail chief, a man who had held his sleeve-mike to his mouth ever since he’d heard the content of the current conversation.
“Do it,” the President said.
Vanzet turned to the aides and barked orders to get things moving fast.
McCorkell motioned to the Chief of Staff, a man he genuinely loved to hate. He got the look.
“We’re going to Air Force One and I want you to crash the White House once we’re out,” Fullop said to the Secret Service detail chief.
“Code Black, Code Black. The Family and the Lakers are moving to Air Force One!” the detail chief said over his sleeve-mike. The coded talk meant that the President’s full complement of serviceable helicopters from the HMX-1 Nighthawk Squadron would be heading in from the Marine One fleet at Quantico, landing in synchronised formation on the South Lawn for a full evacuation of senior staff—the ‘Lakers’—and the first family from the Residenc
e. Air Force One would be rolling from the hangar, fully stocked and fuelled, waiting with engines running for fast take-off from Andrews Air Force Base on their arrival.
“Now listen here,” the President said, standing. “I’m happy for you to move my family, but—”
The detail chief and another Secret Service agent each took an arm and whisked the President from the room, his feet barely touching the ground. The senior staff and the joint chiefs followed, the aides at their heels.
91
WASHINGTON
Outside the restaurant, Secher passed the valet a tip and followed Kate into the back seat of a cab.
“Where to?” the driver said.
“Your place or mine?” Secher asked, squeezing Kate’s hand.
92
NEW YORK CITY
“See you in the morning,” Fox said, closing the cab door and waving goodbye to Faith.
He walked off East 51st and headed back up Lexington Avenue, having had to walk a block to find a cab in the rank outside the subway station.
The streets were busy, despite it being after midnight, and he ran across the street between the intersection at East 52nd—
A car horn blared beside him.
“What?!” Fox yelled. He knew his path had been clear—and he turned to look as the honking cab went past him—but he wasn’t honking at Fox, he was honking at a black Suburban SUV that had followed him through the red light and was ten metres away, engine roaring—
Fox sprinted past a news-stand, then turned to a building with big exposed columns the Suburban jumped the kerb, taking out a postbox and street sign with an explosion of the radiator. The news-stand was smashed backwards, its vendor screaming as he toppled into the street and magazines and papers went flying about.
Screams came from the sidewalk as Fox flew through the air, the remaining distance covered as he slid across the paved foyer. The three tonne Suburban came to a shattering halt as it wrapped its front end around the marble-encased column, the ground-level glass doors and windows of the building shattering from the force and showering down onto Fox.
He covered his face with his arms as the safety glass rained down, the noise pierced by the deafening sound of a nine-millimetre pistol firing four shots at close range.
PART THREE
93
AIR FORCE ONE
Vanzet hung up the phone to the Pentagon, turned around in the small Air Force One version of the Situation Room, and made a gesture to talk over the speaker phone. The President nodded.
“Mr President,” Vanzet said to the French President over the speaker phone. “I have a report from my intelligence people. Sianne Cassel is confirmed as the leader of a planned right-wing coup d’état. Running the show out of your military base, Fort Gaucher.”
“I don’t know of any military base there,” the French President said—a little too quickly to be convincing, McCorkell thought.
“Mr President, it’s a military fallback command base in the Mont Blanc region,” McCorkell said. “And operated year-round by your DGSE as a satellite relay station.”
“We have a list of names coming through of members of the coup,” Vanzet added.
He passed over a print-out of names. McCorkell scanned it and then passed it on to Boxcell and the President.
“Mr President, we are sending you this list now,” McCorkell said. “You should note that while it lists some of your high-ranking officials and members of the defence community, such as your departed chief of navy, the list is not exhaustive.”
“We need to roll everything we have to safeguard our nationals,” Baker said, turning to Vanzet to organise their military assets in the area.
“You may not be in a position to know who to trust,” the President said over the speaker phone, reading through the list himself. “While I offer my support to you, you must understand that I cannot send my military in to support you in what may be a bloodless internal political matter.”
“I understand,” the French President said.
The silence in the cabin was met by silence over the phone line to Paris.
“This list,” the French President said, reading through the names. “My God, how can this be? I have known some of these people…”
“Mr President,” McCorkell said, leaning forward to speak on the speaker phone. “Who is in your office with you right now?”
“The Prime Minister and Minister for Defence,” the French President replied absently.
“That’s all?”
“Yes,” he affirmed. “I will alert our national police force to arrest Sianne Cassel and these others,” he said. “Outside of them, I do not think that I can call on the military to respond to Fort Gaucher. I wonder if I may be so bold as to ask for your help.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” the President said quietly to those in Air Force One. “What have we got in the region that we can use?”
“The Brits’ 22nd SAS Regiment is tasked with a counter-terrorism and high-intensity support role with Europol,” McCorkell said. “Legally, they can enter into this situation under the request of the French Government. Beyond that, unless we have a clear threat to our national security emanating from Fort Gaucher, we cannot make a pre-emptive strike.”
“Did you hear that, Mr President?” the President asked.
94
HEREFORD, ENGLAND
Major William Farrell, DCM, of the British 22nd Special Air Service Regiment, looked over his troopers as they strapped in. Satisfied, he gave the thumbs-up to the pilots in the cockpit.
On board the Hercules aircraft, thirty-two heavily armed SAS soldiers were buckling in as it taxied towards the runway. They were from A Sabre Squadron, grouped into two separate sixteen-man troops. Air Troop, and Mountain Troop.
He would have liked more shooters on this trip but the other half of A Sabre was in Afghanistan, while B Sabre was spread thin throughout Iraq. C Sabre was stuck in the UK, playing the counter-terrorism role.
They wore snow fatigues, many with their variants of M4 rifles fitted with white and grey coverings. Farrell himself was using an SR-47, something he’d fallen in love with in Afghanistan. Specifically developed for the allied special forces for use in Afghanistan and Iraq, it looked like an M4, but was built for the bigger 7.62 mm round. The real kicker was that it could use AK-47 magazines, meaning you could use your enemy’s ammunition.
None of the troops asked what they were about to head into, and only two men in the cargo area knew their destination and mission. He’d prep his troops soon enough, he wanted them to get locked, loaded and in the zone first. Not that a hot incursion into France would put a dampener on this lot.
Farrell turned to his trusted second-in-command.
“Jenkins, we’re off to kick some Frenchy arse. Up to it?” Farrell said.
Warrant Officer Jenkins almost had tears in his eyes. His delivery was worthy of any Old Vic performance:
“It’s what I was born to do, sir.”
95
NEW YORK CITY
Hutchinson looked around Fox’s office before leaving, and put the empty coffee cup on a desk that was bathed in morning sunlight.
“Well, Capel’s a damn good shot,” Fox said. “I owe that man more than a few beers.”
“Should be in the Secret Service, but his heart’s too far in the right place,” Hutchinson said. “He’ll be back on the streets tomorrow. The Bureau normally desks agents for a couple of weeks after successfully using their sidearm but I got some pull.”
Fox walked him to the GSR thirty-seventh-floor lift.
“I’ll make sure I pop out front and thank him,” Fox said.
“He’d probably rather you stayed in the building,” Hutchinson replied, getting in the elevator and pressing the lobby button. “I’ll let you know what we find at the French Consulate. Heading over there this morning.”
“No way!” Goldsmith said.<
br />
In the security room, Pepper was updating Goldsmith on the events of the previous night.
“Way,” Fox said as he entered.
“Here’s the man,” Pepper said on seeing Fox. He got up out of his chair with a sigh and slapped Goldsmith on the arm. “Don’t let him out of your sight, he’s like a magnet for trouble.”
“Thanks Doug, you’re all heart,” Fox said as the big guy tiredly walked off and gave the bird over his shoulder.
“Ready to try the team?” Goldsmith asked. Fox nodded and sat next to him at the radio controls. They got through on the third call.
“Copy that, Seagram. We’ll be taking off from Canada as soon as the gale-force wind cuts back,” Gammaldi said. “Should be in two hours if the satellite weather feed is good.”
“Come on, Al, you can fly in anything,” Fox said. “Anyway, I’ll meet you guys at the airport. I’m trying to track someone down, and hopefully by then I’ll have a location so we can refuel and take off straightaway.”
“Oh, more travel into a dangerous area I hope,” Gammaldi said, his voice crackling over the satellite phone from the winds belting down on the small air station they were at.
“Shouldn’t be too bad,” Fox said. “I think you’ve missed the worst of it on this adventure.”
“Speak for yourself,” Gammaldi replied. “I’ve been locked in a snow-covered spy base with a couple of pot-smoking nutters while two sets of commandos tried to kill everyone in sight.”
Fox smiled. “Yeah, well you should try hailing a cab on East 51st.”
96
WASHINGTON
Secher watched from his sleeping position as Kate walked into the bathroom, her naked body silhouetted behind the frosted-glass shower screen. Once he heard the water running he rolled over on his side, the sun blazing through the bedroom window into his face.
