by Oliver North
Hearing nothing back, Murad continued, his voice loud enough to echo down the West Wing corridor to the Oval Office. “Jon, I want to know—no, let me rephrase that—the president wants to know which U.S. senator is interfering in the foreign policy decisions of the executive branch. I—no, she—she wants to know who the senator is, who the senator was talking to in Mexico, and what was said. And don’t send me any messages about it. I want you to call me—on this secure voice circuit—and I want answers before our oh-eight-hundred brief with the president. Do you understand me?”
There was another long pause before the voice on the tele-cube said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Don’t see what you can do, Mr. Acting Director. Just get it done.” With that Murad touched the top of the cube and the glow faded from the little box. He turned away from the window toward the hallway and was stunned to see a female Secret Service agent reaching to close his office door.
Their eyes met and she said, “Excuse me, sir. I’m just making my rounds before going on Oval Office duty and heard voices. I was just closing your door to give you some privacy.”
Murad nodded and said, “Yes. Good. Thank you. What’s your name?”
“Special Agent Frances James, sir.”
OVAL OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE
1600 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE
WASHINGTON, DC
FRIDAY, 17 SEPTEMBER 2032
0815 HOURS, LOCAL
Admiral Stanley Turner, U.S. Navy (Ret.), now in his seventh year as Director of National Intelligence, liked the job, the perks that came with it, and his carefully cultivated reputation as nonpartisan. He had just completed his morning briefing for the president when the chief of staff knocked twice on the curved Roosevelt Corridor door and entered the chamber.
Turner, flanked by General John Smith, the National Security Advisor, and White House Counsel Larry Walsh, stood in front of the Resolute Desk. The president, as usual, was seated. She glanced up at Muneer and said to Turner, “Go on.”
The retired admiral, looking suddenly uncomfortable, said, “Perhaps we should continue this conversation later.”
“No, I want him”—she nodded toward Murad—“to hear this.”
As the chief of staff moved to stand beside Walsh, Turner shrugged his expensively tailored shoulders and continued. “Muneer, I just told the president this information is not included in the PDB. We have concluded the suicide bomber who blew himself up yesterday at Mexico City’s Benito Juarez International Airport was actually one of the individuals in the contingent of commandos dispatched by the Caliph.”
“How do you know that?” asked Murad.
“We don’t know it. But our liaison with the MPN—the Mexican National Police—has given us at least some of the imagery from the scene, their preliminary investigation results, and transcripts of eyewitness accounts and interviews with survivors. All of it supports the conclusion that the bomb went off inside one of the two buses ferrying the Caliph’s Humanitarian Support Team from their aircraft to a hangar on the other side of the field.”
“So why is that such a big secret? Bombs go off in Mexico all the time.”
“Because this bomb was apparently being worn or carried by one of the people dispatched by the Caliph. The detonation and fire caused at least eleven secondary explosions on the bus—evidently from munitions in the baggage accompanying the Caliph’s personnel.”
“The PDB has thirty-nine dead and a hundred and five injured. Do we know what caused all the casualties?”
“All but two aboard the first bus, including the Mexican bus driver, seem to have been killed by the primary detonation. Everyone else was hurt or killed by the secondary explosions and fire while trying to rescue those on the lead bus. Though they have not announced it, the MPN claim to have evidence the entire contingent sent by the Caliph was heavily armed.”
“I realize I just walked in here—but I don’t get it,” said Murad. “Why is that a problem for us?”
“Because of the imagery,” Turner said, pointing to the eight-by-ten-inch DigiVu digital viewer in the president’s hands. “It’s very graphic stuff—lots of charred bodies—but several frames show the tail fins of a U.S. AT-8 anti-armor rocket. The manufacturer’s ordnance registration codes are clearly visible. Our analysts enlarged the frames and traced the serial number to a shipment from Redstone Arsenal delivered to the Caliph’s military warehouse outside Jerusalem six months ago.”
“Look, you two, I’m busy,” the president said. “Stanley, cut to the chase. When Murad walked in here, you were about to tell us what else is likely to blow up.”
Turner nodded and pressed on. “The Mexicans were already upset with us for saying the Houston attack was an Anark-cartel conspiracy. When we blamed the Federation Cartel for yesterday’s airport bombing and closed the border, they went ballistic. Mexican president Domingo Rodriguez is considering whether to announce the airport explosion was caused by the accidental detonation of a Caliphate weapon provided by the U.S.—and accuse the Caliph of exporting terrorism, with our help.”
Murad shook his head and asked, “But didn’t you just say the explosion on the airport bus was a suicide bomber?”
“That’s our conclusion—because the DigiVu imagery shows the effects it had on the person closest to where it went off. He was literally blown to pieces. From years of documenting jihadi suicide bombs, we think it looks like he was wrapped in multiple layers of Semtex—probably as much as fifteen or twenty pounds of it. Some of those digi-pix show the blast blew out the entire side of the bus, starting in the third row of seats.”
“Couldn’t the bomb have been planted beneath the seat by someone else, before the Caliph’s people ever got aboard?”
“Perhaps, but one of the two survivors on the bus that blew up told Mexican investigators one of his teammates jumped up and yelled, ‘Allahu akbar!’ just before the explosion.”
“Can we confirm any of this?” asked Murad.
“Not really. A lot of evidence was destroyed in the subsequent fire and they won’t let our forensics experts near the scene to do any testing. The Mexicans have detained all the surviving members of the Caliph’s supposed Humanitarian Support contingent and MPN investigators are interrogating each of them individually. If our liaison contact is telling us the truth, the police have found all kinds of weapons, munitions, and military equipment in the Caliph’s ‘medical supplies’ shipment.”
“Have any of the survivors said what a military unit was doing on a humanitarian aid mission?” asked Muneer.
“According to our liaison source, they claim they were along to protect their medical and relief personnel. The Mexicans think that’s a cover story and aren’t buying it. Rodriguez seems prepared to tell the world the Caliph sent jihadists to Mexico to overthrow his government—at our direction.”
The president stood, handed Turner the digital viewing device, looked at the four men in front of her desk, and said, “I can’t figure out what Rodriguez stands to gain from any of this.”
When no one else spoke, Smith said, “Here’s the short form: Fifteen percent of Mexico’s entire gross domestic product comes from Federation Cartel cocaine shipments. They deliver across the border into the U.S. and into Europe through West Africa. The Federation is essentially running Mexico. They killed the last two Mexican presidents, and Rodriguez knows he is alive today because the Federation Cartel lets him live. They can’t buy him, so they rent him and much of his government. Now they have reason to kill him.”
“And the reason?” Muneer asked.
Smith: “The thugs running the Federation are furious we fingered them for terrorism because it cuts their international travel and banking options. Being placed on the UN’s International Terror Watch List effectively limits them to Caracas, La Paz, Quito, Managua, and Havana. Unless Rodriguez can show the world the cartel isn’t committing terrorism, he’s expendable.”
“I got it,” said the chief of staff. “Rod
riguez proves his loyalty to the Federation by accusing the Caliph of terrorism—aided and abetted by Yankee imperialists—and the cartel lets him live. That could hurt us.”
“Could hurt?” the president said, leaning over her desk. “The Mexican president, who is also former head of the OAS and former UN Secretary-General, accusing the U.S. government of helping the Caliph commit terrorism will finish my campaign. Think, gentlemen. How do we convince Rodriguez to keep a lid on all this until after the election?”
Once again the four were silent, until Turner spoke very quietly. “According to his psychological profile, Rodriguez is very pragmatic. He responds to carrots and sticks. We have some of each.”
“Such as?”
“Rodriguez is vulnerable. He and the Federation Cartel bankers have done a good job of hiding whatever he is getting from the cocaine trade. But we know he also does business with the junior cartels that move meth, hash, marijuana, and people across the border.”
“People? What people?” she asked.
Turner grimaced and said, “The Gulf, Juarez, and Tijuana cartels move a lot of people into the U.S. through their family networks. Not all the people they move are sex slaves, domestic servants, farm laborers, and construction workers. Some of those they move—for a price, a portion of which goes into Rodriguez’s hidden bank accounts—are Hezbollah and Hamas agents coming in from Venezuela. If we very privately let Rodriguez know what we know about his profiting from moving people, particularly children for the sex trade, we will probably lose some valuable intelligence assets—but it could be enough of a stick to keep him quiet for six weeks or more. Allegations about profiting from human trafficking would end his hopes for a Nobel Peace Prize.”
“And the carrots?”
“The Strategic Petroleum Reserve. We tell Rodriguez, again very privately, that we will replenish the SPR with Mexican crude at world-market price plus, after you are reelected. He gets to pocket the ‘plus.’”
“Wait. We can’t do that,” Murad interrupted. “We’ve already privately told the Caliph we’re going to buy Caliphate oil for the SPR after the election at whatever price OPEC—”
“Shut up, Muneer!” she snapped. “John, how much oil do we need to top off the SPR?”
Smith, already consulting his PID, replied, “Since imposing the ban on domestic and offshore drilling, we have drawn the SPR down to 149 million barrels. To ‘top it off,’ as you put it, we would have to add 851 million barrels. With winter coming on, we will have to replenish supplies for heating oil from foreign sources starting in mid-November. Those numbers are of course classified.”
The president pondered this information for a moment, looked at Turner, and asked, “So how do we let Mr. Rodriguez know about these carrots and sticks and advise him it’s in his best interest to keep his mouth shut about the Caliph’s commandos and the U.S.-made ordnance in those digi-pix?”
“If that is the message you want passed, I can arrange it,” Admiral Turner replied. “But I will have to make a quick, quiet trip to Mexico City as soon as Hurricane Lucy is clear.”
“And then what do we tell the Caliph when the SPR ‘carrot’ leaks from Mexico?” asked the chief of staff, still stinging from her rebuke.
“Look, if it comes out before the election, have one of our pet reporters deny the story,” she replied firmly. “Prosecute anyone who tries to report it under our Fairness in Media laws, and if someone posts it on one of those MESH sites, lock them up as a national security risk. If it leaks after November second, it won’t matter. We’ll just cut a new deal with Rodriguez and the Caliph. As long as nobody outside this room knows how much crude we need to replenish the SPR we can just get half from each of them,” she said decisively.
Then, turning to the DNI, she continued, “Stanley, as soon as this hurricane is past, get to Mexico and make sure my good friend President Rodriguez keeps all this business about the Caliph’s commandos under his sombrero until after the election. Now, I have other work to do. Muneer, you and Larry stay here for a moment.”
As the door closed behind Smith and Turner, the president sat back down and said, “Muneer, did you and Larry have a chance to discuss what you told me earlier this morning about this Senator Caperton’s caper?”
“Only what I finally learned from Keker about the bureau’s Signals Intelligence technicians inadvertently overhearing a conversation between Senator Mackintosh Caperton and an individual in Mexico. During the call they discussed a person named Marcia Quintero and her importance in locating Dr. Martin Cohen.”
“Have we determined where Cohen is?”
“Not for certain. His PERT signals were being picked up intermittently from a location three or four miles inland from the north coast of the Yucatan until shortly after noon yesterday, but they haven’t been heard since.”
“What do we know about Caperton?”
“More than we know about Cohen. I sent his official bio to your PID. In addition, we know he has Anark tendencies—just like most of his crazy right-wing constituents in Montana. He’s also been to a bunch of those Freedom Congress rallies and—”
“So Caperton is an Anark and a ‘Free-Cong.’ Who was he talking to in Mexico?”
“We don’t know yet. Keker finally told me the call to Caperton was placed from the U.S. Consulate in Merida, Mexico, by a male who referred to himself as ‘A-Jay.’ We have no USG employees there with that name, nickname, or initials. He could be a contractor with access. State is going to quietly inquire with the consul general later today to see what he knows, but I think we need to find out more about what Caperton is up to. Larry disagrees.”
She looked at her lawyer. Walsh had not uttered a word since the meeting commenced. He began. “Madam President, I’m your lawyer—not Muneer’s. Any advice I give you privately is privileged. Anything I say to you in the presence of others is not. I strongly recommend—”
“Larry, I don’t have time for this legal crap!” she exclaimed, cutting him off. “I want to know what Caperton is up to, who he is talking to, what laws he may be breaking. As you may have noticed in the information Muneer collected on him, Caperton is a Naval Academy classmate of Peter Newman—father of the fugitive James Newman. And in case you haven’t made the connections, this is the same James Newman who is suspected of having illegally entered the United States from Canada across the border into Montana.”
“Yes.” Walsh nodded meekly in her wrath. “I realize Senator Caperton is from Montana, but—”
“Good, I’m glad you realize all this. So let’s get to the point. If a member of Congress is suspected of committing a crime by aiding a fugitive suspected of involvement in terrorism, isn’t that sufficient cause to overcome the restrictions of the Congressional Communications Privacy Protection Act?”
“It’s not settled law. Back in 2026, your husband ordered the Attorney General to tap the phones of several of the congressmen and senators on the special committee investigating what happened on the Iran-Afghan border during Operation Protect Freedom. As you recall, the evidence collected then was never used, because all charges were eventually dropped and—”
“Larry, stop! Answer my question. If Senator Mackintosh Caperton is suspected of breaking the law, can we intercept his communications or not?”
Walsh shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I suppose if the Attorney General agrees it is warranted, he can direct the FBI to do it as a Criminal Intelligence Surveillance activity.”
“Good. Stop talking. Go write up an order for the AG to sign, directing the FBI to intercept all of Senator Caperton’s communications between now and November first in order to assist in the apprehension of a federal fugitive. Muneer will deliver it to the Attorney General.”
Muneer and Walsh were headed out the door to the Roosevelt Corridor when the lawyer turned and said, “It may be a fine point, Madam President, but technically James Newman won’t be a federal fugitive until such time as we have a warrant for his arrest. That won’t be until lat
er today, when we get a sealed indictment from the grand jury.”
“That will do,” she said. “Maybe we can apprehend both Newman and Caperton at the same time.”
As Murad pulled the heavy door closed, he nearly collided with the same Secret Service agent he spoke with outside his own office little more than two hours earlier. Proud of his photographic memory he said, “Hello again, Frances.”
PARKSIDE COMMUNITY CHURCH
DULLES, VA
FRIDAY, 17 SEPTEMBER 2032
1230 HOURS, LOCAL
The old sanctuary of Parkside Community Church was a special place for Rachel Newman. It was here, on the evening of March 3, 1995, that Rachel began what she called her “joyful walk beside our Lord and Savior.” That journey began when Lucy Brooks, the pastor’s wife, glimpsed the anguish in Rachel’s face, sat down beside her, and said, “I saw you sitting here and you looked like your heart was breaking. Would you like me to pray with you?”
Now, more than thirty-seven years later, there was a new, larger sanctuary; Lucy and Rachel were the closest of friends; and the old sanctuary was used for outreach ministries, homeschooling events, and choir rehearsals. And every once in a while, the two women adjourned there after a church leadership meeting or a Bible study to just pray quietly for a few minutes and savor the blessing of their long friendship.
When Peter and Rachel moved to Narnia in 2010, they made Parkside Community their church home. On Sabbath mornings, between services, Peter started teaching a Sunday school class and Rachel began leading a women’s Bible study for the spouses of Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, Guardsmen, and Marines deployed around the world in the war against radical Islam.
Though Rachel welcomed the challenge of preparing her weekly lessons, coping with the questions of anxious wives and consoling grief-stricken widows was an emotional roller coaster, taxing all her experience as the mate of a Marine since 1980. To assist in helping her “students” through their difficulties, Rachel often called on her husband, Peter, for his practical wisdom and her friend Lucy for spiritual counsel.
