by Clancy, Tom
Herbert was happy to test the elevator. It was strange. He had ridden this elevator thousands of times, but this was the first time he paid attention to the sounds, to the little bumps and jolts. Were those mechanical groans of pain or the yawns of waking machinery? He was very aware of the thinness of the air, which was being forced in by a portable, battery-powered pump on the top of the carriage. In a way, the carriage reminded Herbert of how he had been after Beirut: hurt and shut down for a while, then struggling back into service. That was an advantage Herbert had over his Op-Center colleagues. The rebuilding process was miserably familiar territory to him.
The elevator was a little sluggish, but it reached the bottom of the shaft.
Better too slow than fast, Herbert decided.
He wheeled himself out, reached back inside to send the carriage upstairs, and headed to the Tank. The skeleton team at work throughout Op-Center was sharp and focused. That did not surprise Herbert. In a postcrisis situation, work was an intense, short-term involvement that kept trauma from settling in. It was like an emotional gag reflex. The full impact of what had happened would not hit these people until they put down the armor of responsibility.
Hood was the only other person in the Tank. The reunion was surprisingly relaxed, at least from Herbert’s perspective. The intelligence chief had kept Hood up to date and had nothing to add. He plugged the laptop into the dedicated power source in the room and rebooted it. He wanted to be ready if Viens called with information. The map from Homeland Security showed traffic patterns, air lanes, and even possible terrorist targets such as nuclear power plants, electrical grids, dams, transportation centers, and shopping malls. Overlays with different access routes could be added to the image if necessary.
The McCaskeys arrived shortly after Herbert. They brought dinner, which was welcome. It marked the first real break anyone had enjoyed since the attack. In the case of the McCaskeys, it was the first real time-out they had enjoyed since the death of William Wilson. Hood asked about Rodgers. Both McCaskey and Herbert told him what the general was doing.
“I meant, how is he doing?” Hood asked.
“I think he is kind of in limbo, waiting to see how this all turns out,” McCaskey told him.
“It is odd,” Maria said. “Mike Rodgers is out in the real world, but you say he is in limbo. We are in a badly wounded facility, yet we are supposedly connected to the world.”
“I suppose everything depends on your attitude,” Hood replied.
“Knowing you have a job helps,” McCaskey said.
“Elected officials and appointees learn to live with flux,” Hood said. “I still say it’s the inside defines the outside.”
“You mean like us,” Maria said. “The shell of Op-Center is broken, but we are still functioning.”
“Exactly,” Hood said.
Herbert did not involve himself in the conversation. He busied himself with taking bites from the roast beef club sandwich the McCaskeys had brought, pulling up a map of San Diego County on his laptop, and jacking his borrowed cell phone into the Tank system. As a rule, pep talks bored the intelligence chief. Herbert was self-driven. Usually because there was a throat he needed to get his hands around. That was all the motivation he needed. This particular conversation had a fringe of wide-eyed sanctimony that made him angry. Maria had her spouse alive and well and at her side. Hood still had an organization to run and a résumé that would keep him circulating through government employ as long as he wanted. It was easy for them both to be optimistic.
Maybe you really ought to join Mike out there, Herbert thought. Start a consultancy of some kind, maybe for private industry. Security in a nonsecure age. It was something to think about.
The call from Stephen Viens came before Herbert had to listen to very much more of the chat. He was surprised to hear from the surveillance operations officer so quickly.
“We just got a call from the California Highway Patrol, San Diego Command Center,” Viens told the intelligence chief. “They found what they think is your missing limousine.”
“What makes them think it’s the one?” Herbert asked.
Herbert did not ask why the CHP had called the NRO. The Department of Homeland Security had linked all the nation’s highway patrol offices into the NRO’s Infrastructure Surveillance System. The ISS gave local law enforcement offices unprecedented access to observe possible terrorist activity through military, weather, and other observation-equipped satellites.
“The limousine was abandoned in a lot off Highway 163, which is just east of San Diego,” Viens said. “The original driver was found tied up in the trunk. He said he was hit on the head in the hotel parking lot, and that’s all he remembers. The kidnappers obviously switched vehicles. The CHP wants the NRO to look through the back-image log, see if they caught a parked vehicle in the area.”
“How long will that take?”
“Not very,” Viens said.
“What do you mean?”
“The satellites that watch Naval Base Coronado and the inland flight training center do not overlap,” Viens said. “They follow Highway 15 east. It looks like the limousine pulled over in a blind spot. They are double-checking now.”
And who would know that better than a former head of naval intelligence? Herbert asked himself.
“It is possible that the Interceptor-Three border patrol satellite picked something up, but that may be a little too far south to have seen this activity. The FBI monitors that one and is looking into it.”
“I’ll let Mike know,” Herbert said. “Thanks, Stephen.”
Herbert updated the others while he punched in Rodgers’s number.
“Why would the admiral organize his own abduction?” Maria asked.
“That’s the key, isn’t?” Herbert said.
Rodgers picked up the phone. The general said he was just about to board the Apache but waited while Herbert briefed him. Rodgers listened without comment. With the sound of the helicopter pounding in the background, Herbert was not even sure Rodgers could hear.
“Did you get all that, Mike?” the intelligence chief asked when he was finished.
“I did,” Rodgers said.
“Any thoughts?”
“Yeah. I think we’ve been had,” Rodgers said. “Big time.”
“In what way?”
“I’ll let you know when I’ve checked something out,” Rodgers told him. “I’ve got to run. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
“Go get ’em,” Herbert said and hung up. He lowered the phone and looked at the others.
“Go get who?” McCaskey asked.
“Mike didn’t say,” Herbert said. “He told me he’ll call in thirty minutes or so. The only thing I know for sure is it’s ironic.”
“What is?” Hood asked.
Herbert replied, “That the man who is in the best position to put this one away doesn’t really work for us anymore.”
FIFTY-TWO
San Diego, California Wednesday, 4:29 P.M.
The news of the abduction shocked Kat Lockley. It also concerned her. Senator Orr would never have organized that, and she could not imagine who would. Someone from the outside, perhaps. Maybe Rodgers?
That was not important right now. What mattered was the senator and his safety. After talking with Stone, Kat jabbed the elevator call button. While she waited to take the carriage to the penthouse, she phoned the senator and told him what had happened. She asked him to stay in his room and said she would be there in a minute or two. Senator Orr agreed, at least until security could be organized for him to go downstairs. He felt it was important to talk to his people as soon as possible, to let them know that he was all right and the convention would go on. Kat said she would see to that. Her second call was to Pat Simcox, head of security. She wanted to make sure he stayed at his post outside the senator’s room and did not join the detail searching for Admiral Link. Simcox said he had no intention of leaving. He told her not to worry. If this were a plot against the
USF, no one would get through to the senator.
She believed him. The truck driver turned security man was tough.
The elevator arrived, and guests streamed out. There were concerned looks and questions for Kat. She told them the senator was all right, then excused herself and entered. On the way up, she was joined by Kendra Peterson.
“Eric called to tell me what happened,” Kendra said. “I just spoke with the senator. He said you suggested he stay put.”
“I did. Is there a problem with that?”
“No,” Kendra insisted. “I think that’s a good idea.”
“Good.”
Kat was glad. She did not feel like having it out with Kendra over this issue. The elevator opened, and Kat went to the senator’s suite. She knocked on the door, and it opened. She stepped through.
Into something she did not expect.
Pat Simcox was standing in the entrance of the suite. He was pointing a 9 mm Glock model 19 handgun at Kat Lockley. A Gemtech SOS silencer was fixed to the barrel.
Kat stopped. Her eyes snapped from the gun to Simcox’s brown eyes. “Pat, what are you doing?” she asked.
“Welcoming you,” he replied.
“Why the gun?” she asked.
“Just go in!” Kendra snapped.
Kat turned angrily. “What the hell are you doing?”
“We’ll discuss that when Eric gets here,” Kendra said.
Kat walked into the living room. Senator Orr was sitting on a divan near the terrace. He was staring ahead, his breathing shallow. His arms were hanging limp, his hands lying palm-up in his lap. There was a glass-topped coffee table in front of him. An open bottle of ginger ale sat beside a half-empty glass. The senator’s bodyguard was standing nearby.
“Senator?” Kat said. “Is he all right?” she asked the bodyguard.
He did not answer. Kat ran to the senator’s side and squatted in front of him. She took one of his hands in hers. It was cool. “Senator Orr, are you all right?”
“He can’t answer,” Kendra said. “Mr. Simcox put several drops of sodium thiopental in his drink.”
“What is that?” Kat asked.
“A mild anesthesia,” Kendra replied. “It should keep him still for about ninety minutes.”
“Why?” Kat demanded.
There was a knock at the door. Kendra waited. The knock was followed by two others. Kendra opened the door to admit Eric Stone. The young man walked in. His expression was serious but unworried.
“How is everything?” he asked.
“Perfect,” Kendra said. “What is it like downstairs?”
“Mild disorder and growing,” Stone replied. He walked over to Simcox and took the gun. “Get him dressed please, Thomas.”
“Yes, sir,” the bodyguard replied.
“Thomas?” Kat said.
“Thomas Mandor,” Stone replied. “A longtime acquaintance of Admiral Link.”
“What is he, an assassin?”
“No, Kat. We do not want to kill the senator,” Stone assured her. “We want to get him away from here and have a long talk about William Wilson and about the future. We want to make sure we all have an understanding.”
Kat rose and approached Stone. He held up his free hand for her to stop.
“Eric, what is this?” Kat asked. “What are you doing?”
“We are helping to save the country,” he replied.
“What are you talking about? The senator is a patriot. And what about Admiral Link? You know him—”
“The admiral is not the issue. What concerns me right now is Donald Orr,” Stone said. “He is a killer, a belligerent nationalist who appeals to the basest fears of the electorate. He nurtures the kind of suspicion that will one day make us turn on ourselves, on anyone who is different than he is.”
Mandor returned with a hat, sunglasses, and windbreaker. He began putting them on the senator.
“Please,” Kat said. “Stop this. Stop before it’s too late.”
“We are.” Stone moved closer to Kat. “My question to you is this. Will you come with us, or do we leave you here?”
“Come with you where?”
“That is not important,” Kendra interjected.
“Away from here, ostensibly to keep the senator safe,” Stone said. “Yes or no, Kat? Are you coming or staying?”
Kat looked at the gun. “You wouldn’t shoot me. Not here, not now.”
“No one will hear,” Stone assured her. “Your answer, please.”
The woman did not know what to say. The silent barrel of a pistol was more persuasive than Stone’s arguments. The sight had a way of short-circuiting the brain and weakening the legs. It was one thing to believe in an ideal. It was quite another to perish for it. But there was a stubborn part of her soul that did not want to be bullied. Especially when she and the senator had worked so hard to get here.
The brief, internal debate was resolved a moment later when a third option presented itself.
One that no one had anticipated.
FIFTY-THREE
San Diego, California Wednesday, 4:44 P.M.
The low hum, more tangible than audible, came upon them suddenly. The windows began to wobble before anything else. That caused the drawn drapes to shake. A few moments later, everyone felt the vibrations.
The nearly sixty-foot-long AH64-D Apache Longbow helicopter lowered itself sideways beside the hotel. The sun threw its stark shadow against the drapes. The Longbow looked like a mosquito, with its slightly dipped rotors and stubby wings set against a long, slender body, a large General Electric T700-GE-701 turboshaft engine mounted high on each side of the fuselage.
The helicopter rotated slowly so that its 30 mm automatic Boeing M230 chain gun was pointed toward the room.
“Christ in heaven,” Stone muttered as the aircraft turned.
He started toward the door just as the knob and lock popped loudly, and the door flew in along the hinges. Mike Rodgers stepped through the acrid smoke of the C-4 blast. He was followed by a small complement of marines. The marines were all carrying MP5-N assault rifles. Several of them moved toward Thomas Mandor and Kendra Peterson. They directed the two toward the bedroom. Neither of Stone’s companions protested. Two of the marines remained with Mike Rodgers.
“Put your weapon down!” Rodgers ordered as he walked toward Stone. He had to shout to be heard over the beat of the Apache that had ferried them to the rooftop. Rodgers expected to be using it again shortly.
The USF officer hesitated, but only for a moment. He turned the gun from Kat to Senator Orr.
“Don’t!” Kat screamed.
“You are leaving me no choice!” he replied.
“I am,” she said. She edged toward the senator. “We can talk about your concerns. We’ve done that before, all of us.”
“It’s too late,” Stone said.
“Eric, have you actually killed anyone?” Rodgers asked as the marines filled the room.
“No,” he admitted.
“Then don’t start now. I know you think there’s no other choice. People in an emotional situation often think that. But it isn’t true.”
“You don’t understand!” Stone said. He gestured angrily at Orr with the gun. “This man is evil!”
“This man is a United States senator, and you are not his judge!” Kat yelled.
Slowly, the woman sat beside Orr. She was obviously attempting to place herself between the handgun and the senator. That was a sweet gesture, but at this range, Stone would take both of them out before Rodgers could reach him. That left just one option, and the general did not want to use it.
“Kat is right,” Rodgers said. “You may get jail time for whatever you’ve done till now, but it beats having these boys cut you down.”
“You tell me not to kill by threatening to kill me?” Stone laughed. “You’re as twisted as Orr!”
Rodgers continued to move closer to Stone. The young man was standing sideways, the gun aimed down. He scowled, angry, cornered.
In hair trigger situations like this, it was important to be determined without being overly aggressive.
“Let’s stop thinking about who can kill who,” Rodgers suggested. He extended his left arm slowly and opened his hand. “Let’s do as Kat suggested and talk this thing over. Give me the weapon so we can start to ratchet this thing back.”
Stone said nothing. Often, that meant the individual was ready to capitulate. It was usually noticeable in a softening of the tension around the mouth and eyes, in the sinew of the neck. Unfortunately, none of that was happening here. The thumping of the helicopter probably was not helping Stone to think straight.
“I’ll tell you what, Eric,” Rodgers said. “I’m going to have Lieutenant Murdock, who is standing right behind me, get on the radio. He’ll send the helicopter away. It will be easier to talk.”
“I don’t want to talk!” Stone cried. “I want to finish what we started!”
“What who started?” Rodgers asked.
“The admiral, Kendra, and myself.”
“What did you start?”
“The counterprocess,” Stone said. “That was the code name the admiral devised. It was his idea, and it was the right idea!”
The young man was under both internal and external stress. More than intent and desire, physical strain could cause the handgun to discharge. Rodgers had to take precautions. He held his right arm straight down, the index finger pointed toward the floor. That was a sign to the marines. If the general crooked his finger, that meant to ice the target. If he raised his arm again, it meant to stand down.
“Talk to me about the counterprocess,” Rodgers said.
“It was conceived to work within the senator’s plan.”
“Like a virus or a mole,” Rodgers said.
“Yes.”
“What was the senator’s plan?”
“To kill his enemies,” Stone replied.
“That’s a lie!” Kat shot back.
“Let him talk!” Rodgers cautioned.
Rodgers watched Stone’s grip on the handgun. There was no change. The general continued to walk toward him.
