Heroes Proved

by Oliver North

  As soon as she shut down the engines, four men in civilian attire came aboard, confiscated the crew members’ PIDs, and directed them to immediately exit the aircraft, board a waiting crew bus, and proceed to a debriefing. Only later did some of them figure out why they were interned for three days. By then it was already too late to rescue Marty Cohen.

  TREATY ROOM, THE WHITE HOUSE

  1600 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  SATURDAY, 18 SEPTEMBER 2032

  1800 HOURS, LOCAL

  So does this mean our missing Dr. Cohen has been found?” the president asked, looking up from the message on her PID. “Who is this ‘Seeker Fifteen,’ anyway?”

  General John Smith, the National Security Advisor, was tired—and he knew it was beginning to show. His response was curt. “Seeker One Five is the call sign of the U.S. Navy patrol aircraft that detected the EPIRB and PERT signals in Mexico. These confirm what the DEA listening post picked up two days ago. The EC-8 is an old airframe but the electronic detection gear aboard is first-rate.”

  “Please, John, don’t feed me another lecture on the unnecessary technological feats we have bought with billions of wasted tax dollars in our defense budget. What’s the bottom line here: is Cohen alive or dead?”

  At this, her chief of staff, Murad Muneer, interrupted in an attempt to refocus the discussion. “The answer, Madam President, is we don’t know whether Cohen is alive or dead. That is not of immediate importance. What we do now about the message on your PID is very important.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Didn’t you hear John just tell us the aircrew that detected the rescue beacon and Cohen’s PERT has been sequestered in Texas?”

  “Of course I heard that,” Muneer replied, trying hard to keep his temper from showing. “But as General Smith just pointed out, these signals simply confirm what the DEA listening site already surmised. Unfortunately, the message you have on your PID was also sent to scores of U.S. military personnel. If we do not announce some kind of rescue or recovery effort in the next forty-eight hours or so, there will be speculation and rumors about—”

  “Stop!” she commanded. “Are you crazy, Muneer? If Cohen is alive and he surfaces before the election, we’re finished. We can’t launch a rescue mission in Mexico.”

  “I didn’t say we should launch a rescue mission right now. I said we should announce one now.”

  “Quiet!” she ordered, once again holding up her hand. Looking at her National Security Advisor, she asked, “John, where is Admiral Turner, the DNI, right now?”

  Smith responded, “Stanley is en route to Mexico City for a meeting with President Rodriguez. Depending on the weather, he should be on the ground in the next hour or so.”

  “Good. As soon as we finish this meeting, get him on secure voice with me so I can talk to him privately about the problem of Dr. Cohen.”

  Turning to White House Counsel Larry Walsh, the president asked, “Has our Acting FBI Director—your friend Keker—any idea where young Newman is hiding?”

  “Not yet. But as you directed, the FBI has acquired all the Newman family’s medical records. Keker says they have four analysts going through everything in the data, looking for psychological problems, addictions, prescriptions for psychotropic medications—”

  “Larry, I don’t want Newman committed to a mental institution. I want him dead. Didn’t you tell me just a few hours ago the special grand jury handed down a twenty-three-count sealed indictment on James Newman for acts of terrorism, attempted mass murder, crimes against humanity, and a host of other violations of U.S. criminal law?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Don’t give me any ‘buts,’ Larry. Get a copy of the indictment to the Attorney General, the DNI, and your pal Keker. Tell ’em—don’t send a MESH-mail on this—tell ’em—I want a Capture/Kill finding for Newman and I want it today, without any congressional notification.”

  Smith, looking stunned, said quietly to no one in particular, “A death sentence finding on an American citizen? A decorated U.S. military officer is going to be executed without a trial?”

  “Man up, John,” the president sneered. “This has been legit since 2011, when they took out that American imam in Yemen with a couple of those high-tech Hellfire missiles you’re so proud of. What was his name?”

  “Anwar al-Awlaki,” Muneer replied.

  “Right,” she continued. “The rules they wrote then still apply. All it takes is for the AG, the DNI, the National Security Advisor, and the Director of the FBI to certify the target is an illegal enemy combatant who has committed ‘crimes against humanity’ and presents a ‘clear and present danger’ to American citizens. That suffices for due process and it certainly fits the description of James Newman. He belongs on the Capture/Kill list and needs to be taken out. Get it done. That’s all for now.”

  As the three men started for the door she said, “Larry, you stay.”

  When the door closed behind Muneer and Smith, the president said to her lawyer, “What have you found out about our Senator Caperton? Is he an Anark working against our country, trying to overthrow the government?”

  Walsh hesitated a moment before responding, “You know Caperton is a former Navy SEAL. Badly wounded . . . very highly decorated . . .”

  “Larry, I don’t give a damn what Senator Caperton did in the past. What’s he doing now? What’s he up to? Keker has a ‘wires warrant’ to monitor Caperton’s communications and movements. What’s the surveillance turning up? Where is Caperton now?”

  “He’s apparently in Pawleys Island, South Carolina, for the weekend.”

  “What’s he doing there? Is he running around on his wife?”

  “Running around on his wife? I doubt it. He’s evidently a guest at the Newman family beach house.”

  She was silent for nearly half a minute before she said quietly, “So the ‘Free-Cong’ senator from Montana is at the Newman’s house on that island in Anark-infested South Carolina . . . Ask Keker how long it will take him to get a search warrant and raid the place.”

  “I already asked this morning as soon as I found out Caperton was headed there. Jon says both the senior Newmans are there along with James Newman’s wife and children. He doesn’t know if our target is there or not. Keker wants to use DHS agents instead of the FBI. He’s working with the AG and Homeland Security to have all the paperwork and people in place to take the residence down. He’s certain he will be ready tomorrow. He wants to do it at night.”

  For the first time, the president smiled. Then, ushering Walsh to the door, she said, “You do very good work, Larry. Wouldn’t it be a shame if the treasonous Senator Mack Caperton and federal fugitive-terrorist James Newman both died while resisting a search warrant by federal law officers?”

  CAIR PARAVEL

  PAWLEYS ISLAND, SC

  SATURDAY, 18 SEPTEMBER 2032

  1900 HOURS, LOCAL

  Newman clan traditions hold that birthday activities are chosen by the person celebrating the occasion. There is only one rule—all family members must be able to participate in all events.

  Seth Newman’s twelfth-birthday celebration—an all-day affair—came off without a hitch. The weather was a perfect 75 degrees, with classic Carolina blue skies, a gentle surf, and a steady 10-knot breeze from the southwest. The first event, an “Around the Island Kayak Race,” was followed by a “Three Laps Around the Island Bike Race.” This in turn was succeeded by a half-mile-long ocean swim and a break for lunch. They were ravenously consuming sandwiches and soup when Capitol Police Officer Carter deposited “Uncle Mack” at the Cair Paravel gate and departed for his room at the Sea View Inn.

  After the meal, Senator Caperton and Peter Newman withdrew from the “Youngsters vs. Oldsters Body Surfing Contest” and a “size matters” fishing competition to closet themselves inside the house. Hours later, as the sun was setting, while the older boys engaged in a “duel to the death” kite battle and the twins built sand castles, James notic
ed that his father, the senator, and one of the rental cars were gone.

  At dusk, the air temperature dropped quickly with the offshore breeze. When it became too dark and chilly to play, the herd straggled off the beach, rinsed the sand off their bodies in the outdoor showers, and piled into the living room for a series of “Round Robin Checkers” games and fiercely contested rows of dominoes while awaiting dinner. James had just fired up the propane grill beneath the house when Peter and Mack pulled through the gate and parked.

  The two older men sat in the car talking as James finished preparing the birthday feast Seth ordered: homemade venison sausage, Narnia Farm beef burgers, and his grandfather’s famous “game-bird stew of pheasant, goose, duck, and wild turkey.” He didn’t select any vegetables but he got them anyway—corn, potatoes, celery, carrots, peppers, and onions—all from Rachel’s garden.

  Their conversation concluded, Peter and Mack helped James carry the meal upstairs to the hungry horde. On the way, James asked, “What’s got you guys acting so weird?”

  “Later. After the kids are in bed” was all Peter answered.

  Caperton added, “Let’s enjoy the moment. There’s a lot to discuss and decisions we have to make. But it will all keep for a few hours.”

  * * * *

  No adult concerns were evident during the birthday party. After the main courses, Sarah dimmed the dining room lights and Rachel served her famous carrot cake—complete with twelve candles stuck in the white icing. As the crowd around the table sang “Happy Birthday,” Seth extinguished them all with a single long breath—to the applause of his siblings.

  After the cake and homemade ice cream were devoured, it was time for presents. Each one had a tag with a hint about the contents from the giver—a family tradition Rachel started many Christmases and birthdays before.

  Seth was stumped right from the start. He guessed that a package labeled “Sharper than our brother” from David and Daniel was a new PID game. It turned out to be a Swiss Army knife.

  Josh wrote, “This will make you look very bright.” Seth speculated the box contained a new pair of glasses. Inside he found a SureFire flashlight.

  The large gift from “Uncle Mack and Aunt Angela” was surprisingly light but the hint read: “For your heavy loads.” The lad deduced it was a new book bag to replace his old one—the one with a failed zipper. Instead it was a top-of-the-line, feather-light, internal-frame, mountain backpack.

  When there were but two presents left, the birthday boy chose the largest and heaviest—the one with a tag reading, “Seth: For the rest of your life.”

  “I have no idea,” he said, opening the box to find a Benelli .20-gauge automatic shotgun, a lensatic compass, a copy of the Holy Bible—and another note. He read it aloud: “Seth, if you master all three—the shotgun, compass, and Bible—you will never go hungry, never be lost, and need fear nothing. Love, Mom and Dad.”

  “Wow!” the boy exclaimed, running his hand over the black composite stock of the shotgun. “Can I take it outside and try it tonight?”

  Sarah, knowing her son was thinking only of the firearm, replied: “You can start tonight on the Bible. Since today is the eighteenth of the month, I suggest you try Proverbs, chapter eighteen. All thirty-one of them are full of good advice for a young man. Try one a day. Tomorrow you can work on nineteen. Then your dad can show you how to take apart, clean, and shoot the shotgun—and how to find your way with the compass.”

  Seth nodded and said, “Okay, Mom, got it.” As the boy reached for his final present—one Rachel picked out at a Winchester, Virginia, hobby store—a PID in Mack Caperton’s pocket pinged. Mack looked at the device, nodded at Peter, and they excused themselves to go out onto the ocean-side porch to take the call. Had either man seen what was about to happen, he would have stopped it before it was too late.

  The tag on the wrapping read: “Seth: Landings must = Takeoffs. Love, Nan & Granddad.” He guessed: “It’s a model airplane.”

  He was almost right. The box contained a small, battery-powered, remote-controlled helicopter—complete with a tiny built-in camera that broadcast real-time video to the operator’s PID.

  With the remaining grown-ups distracted while picking up discarded gift wrapping and dessert dishes, Seth grabbed the unregistered PID his grandfather left on the table and quickly mastered the controls, launched the toy from the tabletop, flew it around the room, and hovered it above their heads. As Peter and Mack returned to the dining room, the boy flawlessly landed the miniature aircraft among the dishes without incident.

  Forty-five minutes later all four children were in bed. But the little helicopter had already done its damage. Everyone at Cair Paravel—especially James Newman—was now in grave danger, all because of a toy.

  * * * *

  It was nearly 9:15 p.m. by the time the empty boxes and toys were cleared away, all the plates, bowls, glassware, and utensils were in the dishwasher, and the adults could convene again around the table with mugs of coffee. On the table in front of Mack was a manila file folder—the one he removed from the safe in his home that morning. The senator began by thanking Rachel for a wonderful evening. Their discussion quickly became ominous.

  “The president and her White House staff are committing criminal acts,” Caperton began quietly. “All the things we talked about here on Wednesday and Thursday are no longer just speculation. They are all true. It’s much worse than we suspected . . . Please bear with me. There is no way to sugarcoat what I’m about to tell you, except to confirm Peter and I have evaluated the information and, God willing, we have devised a plan to ensure the safety of all here . . . James, I learned this morning the special grand jury in Washington has delivered a sealed indictment accusing you of acts of terror against our country.”

  Sarah uttered a soft “Oh, no!” and tears welled up in her eyes. James put an arm around his wife and pulled her head against his shoulder. Peter, who had spent the afternoon with Mack, held Rachel’s hand on the table.

  For the next ten minutes, the vice chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence spoke dispassionately and without interruption about the evidence he had accumulated on what he called “the president’s most provable crimes and impeachable offenses”:

  • Withholding intelligence about those who really perpetrated the 9-11-32 terror attacks in Houston;

  • Secret promises to enrich the Caliph by granting the Muslim leader exclusive “refill rights” for the U.S. Strategic Petroleum Reserve in exchange for a commitment to prevent terror attacks against the United States until after the election;

  • DNI Admiral Stanley Turner’s current secret trip to Mexico City, offering President Rodriguez the same “SPR refill rights” in trade for the Mexican leader’s undisclosed “help” in preventing the rescue of Admiral Marty Cohen.

  Mack concluded his dire presentation: “There are many other offenses harder to prove: violations of the Foreign Intelligence Act; tampering with a grand jury; campaign finance violations in accepting money from a foreign government; abuse of executive power by breaching the Congressional Communications Protection Act; presidential orders to ignore the Federal Patient Records Privacy Act in an effort to collect pejorative information about members of the Newman family. But the most important thing we can do right now is to get James and his family out of harm’s way.”

  James’s mother was the first to break silence around the table. Rachel asked quietly, “How much danger is James in right now?”

  Mack pursed his lips. “The call I received on my PID while Seth was opening his presents came from my White House source for all of this,” he said, tapping the thick file before him on the table. “This person called to inform me the president had just ordered James placed on the Capture/Kill list.”

  Rachel gasped and the color drained from her face. As Peter hugged his wife, he said, “Mack, I think you should tell the others what you told me this afternoon about your White House source.”

  Caperton nodded
and continued. “He’s a very ambitious man, at the center of all this controversy. He has not always been trustworthy and his lifestyle is not one I can admire. He is well aware I am one of his severest critics. It turns out he is also a very brave man. He’s seen firsthand how vicious this president and her closest advisors can be. He knows my communications are being monitored by a special unit at the FBI, yet he has recently found the integrity and courage to pass to me his contemporaneous notes of all that’s been happening at the White House for the past twelve months. Most importantly, he made the call this evening, warning of the Capture/Kill finding for James. My source is General John Smith, the president’s National Security Advisor.”

  “Why do you trust him now?” asked James.

  “Fair question,” Mack replied. “Particularly since all our lives may depend on his veracity. First, General Smith has taken enormous personal risks to get the information in this file to me—and the call he made tonight regarding the Capture/Kill list. Second, much of what I have in this file has been independently verified by other sources. Some of it is from a Secret Service agent who confided in your mother. Still other information has been confirmed by old friends in the armed services, the CIA, DEA, even the FBI.”

  “So what do we do now?” asked Sarah, looking at Mack through red-rimmed eyes.

  “We get you, James, and your boys out of the reach of the criminal in the Oval Office.”

  “Where will we go?” she pleaded.

  “We take James out of the country and we hide you and your boys in Montana with Angela, Beth, Sam, and their boys. That way they can’t use you as bait to lure James into a trap.”

  “How will we get there?”

  Now Peter spoke. “Mack and I spent this afternoon coming up with a plan we think will work.”

  “When?”

  The old general shook his head and said, “We don’t know exactly when. Smith will give Mack a heads-up if they figure out where James is and come for him. Based on what we know now, we need to be ready soon.”