Election Day: A Harry Cassidy Novel

by Henry Hack

  “Indeed, but that slice of nature in Manhattan was one of my favorite places.”

  “Miss New York?”

  “Yes and no. I breathe in this sweet, cool air with nary a brown, noxious bus fume anywhere to spoil it, and push the city life further away in my mind.”

  “So tell me about your meeting today. What’s going to happen?”

  Harry told her of the recent discussion and his admonitions to the group concerning their safety. He said, “Phil MacDonald seems overly optimistic to me. You know, I’m not a pessimist by nature, but I think that the government in control now will be around a long time. And things will get a lot worse for folks like us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One thing I agree with Phil about – as do all the Committee members – is the government’s insatiable appetite to require more and more money to pay for their social welfare programs. I’m concerned about my pension. That’s now our only source of income. But my main concern is the safety of Bradley and the Committee members. If those idealists are captured, who will lead the revolutionary charge?”

  Susan poked him in the side and said, “How about you, Hopalong?”

  “You know I hate to admit this, but I’m past my prime. Oh, physically I think I can still shoot it out with the bad guys, but the fire in my belly is gone. And I can see it’s gone in the other old-timers – Walt, Nick, John and Charlie – we have fought too many battles.”

  “So Jonathan Bradley is the answer?”

  “Yes, his flame burns bright and he has the heart and soul of the Founding Fathers.”

  “How about the other Committee members?”

  “An excellent support staff, but only Colonel Connelly has the inner drive of Bradley. And speaking of persons with inner drive, they should enlist my daughter to the cause when she finally decides to leave the FBI. Would I be bragging if I said Lizzy Cassidy is the embodiment of her old man twenty-five years ago?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I happen to agree with you.”

  “Let’s call her and see how she’s doing and get the latest scoop on the good old FBI.”

  * * *

  “Not good at all, Dad,” Lizzy said from her Brooklyn apartment which she now shared with her fiancé, Pete W.

  “Care to elaborate on that?” he asked.

  “The FBI is being chopped apart. Essentially, we are being reduced to an agency that works in two chief areas – criminal behavior and white-collar crimes. We no longer investigate matters of national security, domestic terrorism, or espionage. Most of the agents who performed those functions are being transferred to Homeland Security, or asked to leave the Bureau, depending on the results of what I hear is an exhaustive interview process, which Pete and I will soon be scheduled to take.”

  “Wait a minute,” Harry said. “You all are seasoned agents who have been background checked to death already.”

  “But not for our political views.”

  “Are you saying,” Susan said, “that if you don’t agree politically with the liberals now in charge you will be dismissed from the FBI?”

  “Yes,”

  “So if you want continued employment at your chosen profession, you have to tow the left-wing line? Are you prepared to do that?” Harry asked.

  “NFW! How could you even ask that?”

  “That’s my girl. Just tweaking you, honey.”

  “Pete and I are already exploring our options, as the saying goes. We set the wedding date for three months from now. The invitations will be mailed out shortly.”

  “Congratulations! Harry said, and Susan followed with, “Where will you honeymoon?”

  “Hawaii, for three weeks. And when we come back it won’t be to the FBI, job or no job.”

  “Hope the Chinese haven’t taken over the Islands by that time,” Harry said.

  “What?”

  “Long story, but nothing to worry about. Enjoy the next few months and forget about world events. But before we hang up is there any news on Red Baker, or should we presume he is rotting away in Gitmo?”

  “Interesting that you ask that. The jail at Guantanamo Bay is in the process of being totally shut down.”

  “What about the remaining hard-core terrorist prisoners?”

  “Being released to their home country. We’re not at war with Islam anymore, don’t you know that?”

  The bitter cynicism in that comment was almost visible over the phone lines. Harry said, “Then where could Red and the others be?”

  “We hear there are a few secret prison locations reserved solely for political dissidents, the main one right in D.C. He’s most probably in one of them.”

  “Dissidents? Political interviews? Prisons in our nation’s Capital?” Harry said. “Will we have an American Gestapo next?”

  “We hear that’s already in the works. Now that the political goals of the government have been mostly reached, they want to hunt down all the dissidents they can find, with the Committee members at the top of the list.”

  “I was going to ask about that. I’m surprised they hadn’t addressed the Committee sooner, but I guess they had their priorities in a different order.”

  “The intelligence gathering has been in high gear. I think they are waiting to locate them and arrest them at the same time if they can. Then a quick public execution as a reminder to everyone what could happen if they oppose their government leaders.”

  “Lizzy,” Harry said, “have any of your former Task Force members been interviewed down in Washington for a Homeland Security position?”

  “Only George Washington. In fact, he’s down there now.”

  “That’s right. George has a strong background in national security matters. I remember him joking about it when he first came to the Task Force.”

  “George was always joking, Dad.”

  “Yeah, he said he couldn’t tell us about his past investigations or he’d have to kill us. But Walt told me he was a valuable, outstanding investigator despite his Eddie Murphy act.”

  “He’s not going to roll over and join that outfit,” Lizzy said. “He’ll be back here soon.”

  “Maybe that’s not such a good idea. It would be a big plus to have George on the inside.”

  “Why?”

  “To help with the next revolution.”

  “O-o-o-kay.”

  “Forget what I just said. Does George still have the same cell phone number?”

  “Yes.”

  When they disconnected Susan said, “I notice you didn’t bring up your thoughts about Lizzy possibly joining the cause with Bradley.”

  “No. Let her and Pete have their happiness, their marriage and new careers. There will be time for that later. Now I have to call George.”

  * * *

  That afternoon George Washington had passed his interview to the satisfaction of all who sat on the raised dais in the well-appointed conference room in Homeland Security headquarters. The obvious leader of the seven-member interview group, sitting a bit higher than the others, and at the center of the dais said, “Agent Washington, because of your expertise in national security matters, we would like to offer you a position in Homeland Security working here in Washington. But before you accept that assignment, we have a more pressing one for you – the capture of the Committee members who run the Minutemen. We believe the death of your fellow agent and friend, Alicia Johnson, at the Minutemen’s hands would give you sufficient reason to join the hunt.”

  “When can I start going after those bastards? Right now?”

  The bespectacled leader smiled as did the six others. George had said the right thing. He would be a valuable member of the twelve-person team tasked to hunt down the Committee.

  George smiled inwardly. He had felt extreme anger and sorrow when Alicia and Mike Morra were killed that night at the high school. But now he knew the big picture thanks to Harry Cassidy’s comments a few weeks ago. He knew the Minutemen had been deceived by the maniac Brothers in White. And he knew th
e people now in charge would eventually destroy the America he knew and loved. His father, a patriot of the first order, hadn’t named his son George on a whim.

  When his cell phone rang later that evening, and Harry Cassidy inquired as to his well-being George said, “Doing well, Harry. Just got assigned to a special group to track down those motherfuckers on the Committee.”

  “Good for you,” Harry said. “When you get them be sure to put an extra bullet or two in their heads for me for what they did to Alicia and Mike.”

  “Sure will, Boss. Talk to you soon.”

  That conversation was deliberately scripted for the benefit of anyone who might have been listening, as everyone had previously been told by Harry to treat every conversation on the phone, and in their homes and businesses, as if someone was always tuned in.

  Brigadier General Thomas Thorne listened to the conversation once more and said to his aide, “We got another good one joining us tomorrow. Two more to go.”

  * * *

  One month later General Thorne’s elite squad of federal agents was ready to make their first strike, but there was a problem. The crafty, paranoid general had not divulged the name of the Committee member, or the location of the attack. All he said to his men was, “Assemble here at noon tomorrow, and be prepared to move out after my briefing.”

  George contacted Harry by a pre-paid throwaway cell phone and informed him of the situation. Harry said, “Are you flying or going by truck?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Damn! The only thing I can suggest is that as soon as you know the location notify me immediately.”

  “How! I can’t reach in my pocket and call you on my cell.”

  “Let me think…let me think…. Okay, I’m going to go buy a few more throwaway cell phones. I’ll get back to you in exactly one hour.”

  “What are you planning?” George asked when he answered his cell.

  “Put this cell number into your phone and text me the name or location as soon as you find out. Use this code – the single digit one for Bradley, two for Connelly...”

  Harry went down the list and then did the same for the locations which he had just gotten from Jonathan. He said, “All of them are in different states, so if Thorne doesn’t identify the target by name, just text me the first initial of the state the target is in. Use N for Bradley, I for Connelly…”

  “Okay, I got it all,” George said when Harry finished. “And I’ll get a new throwaway to use when I send you the text. This Thorne guy is a real paranoid type. I can’t be too careful.”

  “I agree. Let’s hope we can save a good man’s life, whoever it may be.”

  * * *

  They were transported in battle gear by truck to Dulles Airport, the words “Homeland Security Special Forces” stenciled in bright yellow across their backs. They boarded a government jet and were airborne at two-thirty, obviously heading west. The plane touched down three and a half hours later and a small black bus was waiting on the tarmac. George had no idea where they were and was afraid to ask. Everyone had remained silent. Before they got on the truck General Thorne said, “Stretch your legs men and breathe in this beautiful mountain air.”

  “Okay to smoke, General?” asked one of the agents.

  “Sure,” he said. “Pollute your lungs and pollute the air in this great state of Colorado.”

  Colorado! So that’s where we are, but then George sickeningly realized that there was no letter C in the code list. They had to be going somewhere else.

  Twenty minutes later Thorne shouted, “Everybody on the bus. We got a long ride ahead of us, but there’s plenty of food and soft drinks on board. The next stop will be the target’s house which we will hit at midnight. I’ll go over the plans and layout on the way.”

  George Washington made sure he got a window seat on the bus and kept his eyes peeled for road signs. A few hours later he noted they had just crossed into Wyoming, but again no W was on the list. Then after they had eaten and several men were nodding out, George saw the “Welcome to Idaho” sign. He checked his watch – 10:20 p.m. This had to be it – I for Idaho.

  The agent sitting next to him was sleeping with his head down and eyes closed. George reached into his boot and withdrew the throwaway phone. He quickly texted the single letter I, and returned the phone to his boot.

  Chapter Thirty

  The bus pulled off the dirt road in the sparsely populated Idaho countryside. The team crept the remaining half mile and surrounded the small ranch house as planned. There were no vehicles parked in the vicinity, and the only light on was the one above the front door. The general gave the sign and they hit the front and back doors and stormed inside to an empty residence.

  “Goddammit, we missed him!” Thorne shouted.

  “Think he was tipped off, sir?” asked an agent.

  “No, we know these guys move around a lot, besides who the fuck could have warned him. We’re the only ones who knew his whereabouts.”

  But the ever-suspicious general, a former commander of the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division, started to wonder if there was a rat somewhere, maybe in the Intelligence Unit that located this turncoat Connelly. Or, less likely, in his own hand-picked group. “Listen up,” he said. “I’m going to call for a forensic team to check this place out. I’ll leave four of you here in case this asshole returns.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the latest picture of Colonel Connelly saying, “This is what the fucker looks like.”

  On the way back to the bus George smiled and breathed in the scented air. Chalk one up for the good guys.

  * * *

  When the forensic unit reported back to General Thorne that they had discovered no usable fingerprints or other evidence in Connelly’s home his level of suspicion increased tenfold. It had to be in the Intelligence Unit. Connelly definitely had sufficient warning to clean up the place before he fled. Or maybe they were just unlucky and missed him by days during one of his regular moves. He looked at the paperwork in front of him. The Intel Unit had just located Committee member Zachary Sampson in a residential condo complex just outside of Las Vegas. Forget Connelly for now. He would move on Sampson tomorrow.

  Again they came up empty. The condo was vacant, but it was obvious Sampson had not been gone very long. The stove top was still warm, the refrigerator was fully-stocked and some clothing remained in the single bedroom. If someone in the Intel Unit was tipping these guys off, Sampson would have been long gone. Could it be one of his guys?

  General Thorne pondered the possibilities on the plane ride back to Washington. His unit was now zero for two, and he saw his promised second star fading away into oblivion. Back at headquarters he told his troops to get out of their battle gear and wait for him in the conference room. Taking his helmet off he said, “Before you head for the locker room please put your cell phones in here.”

  They all complied without a word. A trickle of sweat worked its way down George Washington’s back, the throwaway cell phone still tucked in the boot on his right foot seemingly swelling in size as he dropped his Homeland Security issued cell phone into Thorne’s helmet.

  Back in his office the general reviewed the latest data from Intel, and then made a few telephone calls. That group had done an amazing job in locating the Committee members, sifting through mountains of phoned-in and emailed tips. A lot of people out there wanted that million bucks, that was for sure. He lit up a large Cuban cigar and took several puffs before setting it down. Just as he was finished changing out of his BDUs into civvies, he heard a knock on the office door. “Come in,” he called out.

  “Specialist Fourth Class Webbman, sir. Electronics Section.”

  “At ease, Webbman. Captain James sent you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take these twelve cell phones and download all the numbers dialed from them in the last forty-eight hours. Then find out who those numbers belong to. Whatever help you need to do this ASAP will be made available. I’ve already informed y
our boss of this.”

  “Will do, sir,” he said, looking at the phones nestled in the general’s helmet.

  “Let me find a bag for those, Webbman. Get those results to me as soon as you finish. Oh, on your way out, tell my aide I want to see him.”

  When the general’s aide, Major Victor Zinnit, had made the copies he wanted, General Thorne strode into the conference room and his elite twelve-man unit snapped to attention. “At ease and be seated,” he said.

  One scary dude thought George Washington as the throwaway cell phone, now tucked away in his left sock, seemed to throb with pulsing energy against the vein in his ankle. No way could he have left it in his locker. He had no doubt all the unit’s lockers would be searched after they left for home. Something was up, but he had some comfort in the fact that the regulation cell phone collected by Thorne had nothing incriminating on it.

  “Here’s our next target,” the general said passing the composite photo around.

  George stared at the photo with the name Thomas Porlamis, a/k/a Nicholas Santucci beneath it.

  “We’ll take him just before sunrise tomorrow, so report here at oh-three hundred. We won’t have far to go. No plane ride this time. Go home and get some sleep.”

  V for Virginia, George thought since there was no M for Maryland on the list. But why was Thorne giving out all this information now when he hadn’t in the past two missions? He looked at the smiling general, leg up on the table, puffing his cigar, bearing an uncanny resemblance to General Jack D. Ripper in that old Dr. Strangelove movie. Two nut jobs, but two very smart nut jobs. He knew this had to be some sort of a set up, but even if it was he somehow had to get the information to Harry as soon as he could.

  * * *

  George, and a few of the other agents in his group, was living in a subsidized government housing complex just outside the D.C. city limits in a Maryland suburb. His third-floor, one-bedroom apartment looked out on the street below. He glanced outside and noticed a sedan parked directly across the street, and as he stared at it, another sedan, then two more glided to the curb, spacing themselves along the length of the entire building. He knew immediately what was happening – they were electronically listening to all telephone conversations and monitoring text messages. He looked at the handset of the cordless telephone. Bugged and monitored, no doubt.