by Oliver North
TREATY ROOM, WHITE HOUSE RESIDENCE
1600 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE
WASHINGTON, DC
SATURDAY, 11 SEPTEMBER 2032
0800 HOURS, LOCAL
Ulysses S. Grant used this room on the east side of the White House second-story residence for cabinet meetings. President William McKinley employed the space for a ceremonial signing of the peace treaty ending the Spanish-American War. Since then it has been called simply the Treaty Room.
From the room’s full-length windows, the view across the Truman Balcony takes in the Ellipse and the Washington Monument. Most modern presidents have used the room as a study and for small, private, off-the-record meetings.
During the tenure of Presidents Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon, the Treaty Room was one of the few places inside the eighteen-acre White House complex where conversations were not monitored and recorded. The present occupant of the White House insisted on the same requirement. As the chief executive exploded in anger, General John Smith, the National Security Advisor, reflected on the wisdom of that decision.
“This is outrageous! A terror attack, fifty-one days before my reelection!” the president shouted, interrupting the briefing Smith and White House Chief of Staff Muneer Murad had come to deliver. “We had a deal! How the hell can he do this . . .”
“Madam President,” Murad interrupted. He was one of the few in her inner circle who dared do so. Before she could cut him off, the chief of staff pressed on: “As General Smith just said, we don’t know who did this. But what we do know is that it is too dangerous for you to go to Houston tomorrow and we need to cancel your attendance at the Pentagon 9-11 Memorial ceremony an hour and forty-five minutes from now. We also need time to take a careful look at your upcoming campaign appearances—”
“No!” she said emphatically. “I will not, I repeat not, be taken off the campaign trail by this. Now, you listen to me, both of you. I didn’t get to be the first woman president just to be driven out of office when I’m on the verge of being reelected. Use the Secret Service, the military, whatever you need, and make sure I can keep my campaign schedule.”
“But . . .” Murad tried to interrupt again.
“Shut up,” she snarled at her chief of staff. He complied.
Then, turning to her National Security Advisor, she continued, “John, you and M&M work out a statement I can insert into my remarks at the Pentagon. Since you just told me you don’t know who did this—blame it on ‘Anarks.’ This will give us a good reason to crack down on these crazies who breed like rabbits and won’t play by the new rules. Have the FBI go out and arrest a bunch of them. If the Attorney General squawks, tell him his job is on the line.” Both men nodded, sensing their jobs were as well.
“Now,” she continued, “is there anyone out there who is going to contradict us if we say the attack in Houston is the work of Anarks?”
“Well,” Smith began. “Even though no group has claimed credit yet, it is possible, I would say likely, that someone will. Though one or two of the perpetrators appear to be Hispanic, we won’t have any DNA tracking data from recovered remains for at least a few more hours. But you have to understand, the attacks in Houston have all the telltale fingerprints of an Islamic Jihad attack or one of its affiliates. There were at least three suicide bombers we know of, perhaps more—”
“Stop,” the president ordered. “First, for years I have been telling everyone my dear departed husband’s ‘Framework for Peace’ and my Mideast Peace Treaty solved the problem of radical Islamic terrorism. We’ve staked my reelection on the success of all the measures we have taken to make it a fact. I’ve told the voters that PERT technology has stopped illegal aliens and terrorists from getting into this country. They believe me. We’re not going to confuse people now with some new revelation. If some group makes such a claim, deny it.”
Smith nodded, but said nothing.
“Second,” she continued, “our ‘Revitalize America’ and ‘Better Deal for All’ economic plans are just about to pay off in getting unemployment below ten percent with good-paying government jobs. If people think we’re vulnerable again to Islamic terror attacks, or if the price of oil goes sky-high again, it will all go down the drain. Who would be able to contradict the idea that this is the work of a domestic, right-wing extremist, Anark fringe group?”
The general was silent for a beat and then said, “I would guess that most foreign governments and their intelligence services will follow our lead. Certainly, your cabinet officers will. Of course, we can’t control pirate broadcasts out of reach of the Communications Fairness Division of the FCC. And I suppose there is always the possibility of a leak from one of our contractors who do most of our domestic and foreign intelligence collection.”
“Okay,” the president said, “let’s stop talking about this. I have to get ready to leave for the Pentagon.” She paused for a moment and then addressed both men: “Put out the word that the attack in Houston appears to be an Anark operation, with ties to Mexican drug cartels and Jewish fanatics upset about our Mideast Peace Treaty. Anyone—contractor, broadcaster, MESH blogger, and whether it’s an individual or a group—who disputes that is subject to arrest under the Spreading Fear Statute and our anti-extremism hate-speech laws. This Supreme Court has upheld them both. That’s how we shut down the NRA. Now go.”
As the two men headed for the door, Murad’s stomach was churning. He despised the “M&M” nickname she inflicted upon him. And though he tried very hard to never let it show, his Arab heritage seethed at taking orders from a woman. As they exited, they both had PIDs in their hands, summoning deputies to meet them in their respective West Wing offices.
Just as they reached the top of the stairs to head down to the ground floor, the president stepped out of the Treaty Room into the Center Hall and said, “M&M, there’s one more thing.”
They both stopped and Murad replied, “Yes?”
“When I return from the Pentagon,” she said, looking directly at her chief of staff, “I want you to get your friend the Caliph on the secure line. If he has broken the pledge he made to me about no terror attacks until after the election, there is going to be hell to pay.”
Murad simply nodded and turned to go down the stairs.
That’s when Smith noticed the Secret Service agent posted beside the entry to the Treaty Room. She was wearing a dark blue two-piece pantsuit and standing immobile with her hands clasped “fig leaf” style. Their eyes met for an instant. There was no hint in her expression that she had even heard what the president just said.
That was, after all, her duty. That is why it’s called the “Secret Service.” But as Smith walked toward his office, the retired general made a note in his PID to find out her name.
CHAPTER TWO
WANTED
MAPLE LEAF ROUTE 1, TRANS CANADA HIGHWAY
CALGARY, ALBERTA, CANADA
MONDAY, 13 SEPTEMBER 2032
1045 HOURS, LOCAL
James Newman knew he was a wanted man. He just didn’t know why.
The unmarked, dark blue sedan in the old Harley’s rearview mirrors had been behind him since he pulled out of the University of Calgary. It followed him on Twenty-Fourth Avenue as he headed east toward the southbound ramp of Crowchild Trail.
Newman punched the car’s license number and a “?” into the PID mounted on the motorcycle’s handlebars, hit SEND and less than five seconds later he had a four-letter answer: “RCMP”—the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. As he accelerated past the stadium at Foothills Athletic Park, he noticed a second, identical car joining the chase, fifty yards behind the first.
For an instant he considered making a break for it. Except for motorcycles and the big, twenty-four-wheel, Inter-American freight haulers and petro-tankers, the highway was almost devoid of traffic. The Harley Nightster’s 73.4-cubic-inch engine might be twenty years old, but Newman knew it could easily outrun any government hybrid.
Instead he throttled back, downshifted, thumb
ed his right-turn signal, and exited the four-lane highway on the Sixteenth Avenue ramp, following signs to the eastbound lanes of the Trans Canada Highway. With the two blue hybrid sedans trailing, he settled down to an easy speed-limit pace until he saw the sign SOUTHERN ALBERTA INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY, 1KM.
As Newman slowed to make the exit into the North Hill Shopping Center, adjacent to the engineering campus, the lead blue sedan suddenly flashed its lights, sped up, and pulled even with the black motorcycle. A loudspeaker beneath the hood blared, “Pull over, police.”
Newman obeyed, slowly coming to a stop in the nearly empty shopping center parking lot. With the Harley’s distinctive exhaust cut to a murmur, he touched a button on the handlebars and spoke into the microphone inside the motorcycle helmet: “Pulled over by RCMP. Plot my GPS location. Stay tuned for more. Out.”
As Newman unzipped the black leather flight jacket and removed his bright blue helmet, the lead car pulled in front of the bike, stopped abruptly, and all doors but the driver’s flew open. Three well-built men emerged, all identically attired: dark blue suits, light blue shirts buttoned to the collar, no tie. In the Harley’s rearview mirror he could see the second car, ten yards behind him—a camera lens visible inside the windshield.
“Good morning, James Stuart Newman,” said the oldest of the three as he approached the bike and rider, holding out his badge and credentials. “Senior Inspector Christopher Jackson, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. What’s your business in Canada?”
“Good morning yourself, Inspector,” replied Newman with a smile. “Aren’t you supposed to warn me of my rights first? Am I suspected of breaking any laws?”
“Ah, you’re a clever one, aren’t you, eh?” said the police officer, not smiling at all. “Just like in the Lower Forty-Eight, we’re required to record every stop and detention. So I have to tell you, for the benefit of the cameras, that you are not being apprehended or detained.”
“Then why did you pull me over?” asked Newman, still sitting astride the motorcycle, eyeing not only the inspector but his two colleagues, who stood with their coats unbuttoned, hands at their sides, about ten feet behind their superior. They were spread far enough apart so if they had to, they both could get a clear shot at the man on the Harley without hitting the inspector in front of him or the sedan behind him.
“Well, to be quite honest about it, Mr. Newman, I don’t quite know why you are of interest to my superiors in Ottawa—but I do know my provincial field office was directed to see to it that your business here is concluded and you depart Canada expeditiously. Apparently your PERT data is transmitting intermittently. According to our data you have an implanted PERT. Where is it?”
Newman held up his right foot and said, “Between my third and fourth toes.”
The RCMP officer pulled a scanner about the size of a TV remote from a holster on his belt, waved it over Newman’s raised foot, looked at the digital readout, shrugged, and said, “Looks like your PERT is working to me. You know it’s contrary to the North American Union Treaty and forbidden by laws in your country and mine to tamper with your PERT signal, right, Mr. Newman?”
“Of course,” the motorcycle rider replied. “So may I go now?”
“Well now, it depends on where you are going,” said the inspector. Then he added through a tight smile, “I’m trying to be pleasant about this, Mr. Newman. Please remember, we’re Canadians. We’re the nice North Americans. So where are you going, Mr. Newman?”
Newman looked at the policeman, shrugged, and said, “I’m headed back east to watch the trees change color.”
The officer was no longer smiling. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a PID, and said, “Let’s stop playing games, Mr. Newman.” The inspector touched the screen to activate the device and continued: “Your PERT informed us when you arrived Saturday night on Air Canada flight 5081 from Chicago—less than twelve hours after serious criminal activity took place in Houston, Texas. We know you stayed Saturday night and all day yesterday at the home of Professor Steven Templeton. We know at five thirty this morning, an unusually early time of day, you accompanied him to the university’s Applied Sciences Laboratory. Do you want more?” asked the policeman.
“Sure,” James replied with a shrug.
“Very well,” the Mountie continued, looking at the screen. “We know at eight fifty-five this morning you placed a call to Dr. Davis Long at the Southern Alberta Institute of Technology from Professor Templeton’s laboratory phone and talked for exactly six minutes and thirty-one seconds. We know the Harley Davidson Nightster motorcycle you are riding is registered to Stanley Templeton—the son of your professor friend. And now we want to know where you are heading. You know you can’t hide. How about it, eh? We’re going to track you anyway.”
“Who is ‘we,’ and why are ‘we’ so interested in where I am going, Inspector?” asked Newman.
“As far as you are concerned, I am ‘we,’ Mr. Newman, and ‘we’ are responsible for preserving law and order, enforcing international agreements, and protecting security in this province of Canada,” Jackson replied, his voice hardening.
When the man on the motorcycle said nothing in response, the inspector placed his hand over the wireless microphone embedded in the RCMP pin on the lapel of his suit coat and bent down so Newman’s head masked the camera mounted in the police car behind the motorcycle.
The inspector continued, barely above a whisper, “I was in Canadian Special Forces during the Shindand campaign in 2025—back when this country still had a military. I know what you did then. I don’t know why you’re in Canada now, but I do know you are in danger. From whom—or what—I don’t know. But you need to get out of here—quickly.”
Newman still said nothing and he tried hard to keep the surprise he felt from registering on his face. Finally, in frustration, the Mountie reached into his trousers pocket, withdrew an object, held it in front of the motorcyclist’s face, and said, “Now do you believe me?” Clutched between the policeman’s thumb and forefinger was a tiny metal fish.
“I have one of those, but that’s not in my PERT file,” said Newman, still wary.
“I know,” said Jackson. “Those of us who carry these are in a different database—at least for now.” As he put the little ichthys back in his pocket, he said, “You need to get out of here, do you understand me?”
“Okay. I’ll leave. But first I need to go next door to meet someone,” Newman said, gesturing toward the Southern Alberta Institute of Technology campus, across the Fourteenth Street expressway.
“Who?”
“Dr. Davis Long, in the engineering department,” Newman responded.
“Don’t bother. Professor Long is dead.”
“Dead?” Newman was visibly stunned. “How? When? I just talked to her less than two hours ago.”
The Canadian lawman, still covering the microphone on his lapel, said, “We know. Apparently she committed suicide by jumping off the roof a few minutes after you and Professor Templeton hung up the phone. Her body was found on the pavement of Fowler Drive. The death is being investigated by the campus and municipal police. They haven’t located anyone who saw her fall. Any idea why she might want to kill herself?”
“No. But I know she wouldn’t commit suicide.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she also carried one of those little metal fish,” Newman said emphatically. “I need to get to her office right away. Can I go there?”
The big Canadian cop thought for a moment, then stood erect, took his hand off the lapel mike, and said, “Follow me.”
The motorcade started up again, this time with the deep-throated Harley between the two sedans. They exited the south side of the nearly abandoned shopping center, turned left on Fourteenth Avenue, crossed over Fourteenth Street on the overpass, and turned left on Fowler into the campus. They stopped at the yellow police tape.
Jackson ordered the rest of his crew to stay with the cars and motioned for Newman to follo
w him. James shut off the ignition, removed his helmet, dropped the kickstand, dismounted, and followed the broad-shouldered Mountie into the building.
Immediately inside the door they were stopped by a uniformed campus police officer who said, “I’m sorry, gentlemen, you can’t enter right now. There is an ongoing police investigation.”
Jackson merely nodded at the policeman and said curtly, “Check my ID on your PID, Officer Thomas,” and headed for the elevators.
The uniformed officer glanced down at his personal interface device, mounted on a police wristband, looked up, and said, “Excuse me, Chief Inspector Jackson. You’ll want the third floor, room three twenty-one.”
When the elevator doors closed, Newman was surprised to see Jackson reach under his coat and switch off the lapel mike’s tiny wireless transmitter fastened to his belt. With that done, the inspector turned to Newman and said, “Look, you are going to have to trust me. What are you here for? Does this have to do with the work Dr. Long was doing with Dr. Martin Cohen and Professor Templeton before Cohen disappeared?”
Newman shook his head, trying to grasp all that had happened since leaving Templeton’s laboratory. Still uncertain about how much to tell the Canadian lawman, he said, “You probably know this anyway, Inspector. Professor Templeton, Dr. Cohen, and my father are all classmates from our Naval Academy. Class of 1978. They are lifelong friends. My father and Professor Templeton care about Dr. Cohen and his family—”
“And Dr. Cohen, Professor Templeton, and Dr. Long were all working on some kind of advanced fuel cell technology that didn’t sit well with the Caliph. I suppose you know that in this part of Canada, the Caliph and the Chinese are competing to buy all our oil and natural gas business,” added Jackson, helpfully.
Newman nodded without speaking as the elevator doors opened to the third floor. Everything the Mountie had just said about the three scientists was true—and public knowledge. There was a media frenzy six months earlier when it was announced that Cohen, Templeton, and Long had achieved a scientific breakthrough for making high-powered hydrogen fuel cells commercially viable. That this news was not well received in oil- and natural gas–rich Russia, Mexico, Brazil, Venezuela, and the Caliphate was also well-known. So too was the fact that cash-rich Chinese companies were buying every energy resource they could.
