Term Limits mr-1

by Vince Flynn

  You have had your chance to correct America’s course, and you have failed. “‘Senator

  Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, and Senator Downs were killed as a warning to the

  President and the remaining members of the House and Senate. Your days of deficit spending and partisan politics are over. During the last twenty-five years, you have spent money we do not have on Federal programs we do not need. Every year you have promised the American people that your number one priority is to cut spending and balance the budget. Despite these promises the Federal budget has continued to grow.

  “‘You have had the time and the opportunity to bring spending under control and you have done nothing. You have shown that your own personal greed and the goals of your political parties are more important to you than the economic security and future of

  America. As a result of your selfish and incompetent leadership, we are now burdened with a national debt that is more than five trillion dollars.

  A national debt that is growing at a rate of more than a billion dollars a day and is projected to reach ten trillion dollars by the end of the century. If the national debt is not confronted, it will plunge our country into economic chaos.

  “‘The time to act is now. We are directing the President to withdraw his budget that is before the House, and with the help of the Office of Management and Budget and the

  General Accounting Office, to construct a balanced budget using zero-based budgeting.

  This budget will contain no new or raised taxes and will cut all unneeded Federal programs. It will introduce means testing to control the growth of Social Security and

  Medicare and will adopt the military cuts as proposed by the Joint Chiefs without political interference. After this budget is passed, the President will submit a national crime bill that will focus on keeping violent criminals off the streets and in jail. The

  President, the House, and the Senate shall also implement a two percent national sales tax to be used solely for the reduction of the national debt.

  “‘If you are incapable of restoring the limited form of government that the framers of the Constitution intended, quit and go home. We will be watching your actions closely.

  This is the only warning we will give.

  If you do not respond to these demands, you will be killed. None of you are out of our reach-not even the President.”” As THE NEWS ANCHOR SPOKE THE WORDS

  “NONE OF YOU ARE OUT OF OUR reach, not even the President,” all eyes in the room turned from the TV to President Stevens… all eyes except those of Special Agent

  McMahon. McMahon had turned away from the group and was clutching his digital phone, waiting for someone to answer on the other end. “Special Agent Jennings.”

  “Kathy, this is Skip. Get someone down to NBC’s studio on the double.

  Call ahead and tell them we’re coming to seize that letter as evidence, and until we get there, I don’t want anyone touching it. I’m sure half their damn newsroom has already put their fingerprints all over it.”

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  “I’ve already got Phillips and Reynolds on their way over, and Troy is on the phone trying to get ahold of whoever is in charge.”

  “Good.” McMahon paused for a second. “Listen, let’s gamble on the chance that they sent more than one of these. Call the post office and find out when the other networks and major papers get their mail delivered. Send some people over to CBS, ABC, and CNN.

  Hopefully we can get our hands on one of these before it’s been opened.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, call me if you find anything out. I’m on my way back to the office.” McMahon hit the end button on the phone, placed it in his pocket, and spun back around. “What was that all about?” asked the President. “Just trying to see if we can get a hold of one of these letters before it has a dozen different sets of fingerprints on it.”

  “Can we take this seriously? I mean, isn’t it quite possible that someone sent this trying to take responsibility for the murders even though they didn’t commit them?

  Doesn’t that type of thing happen all the time in these cases?” The President was visibly shaken by the letter and more precisely the mention of his office. “Yes, sir, it’s quite common to get letters and phone calls from groups who did not perpetrate the crime, but not this early. It usually starts days or weeks later.

  These murders were committed less than eight hours ago.” Garret, trying to reassert himself after being embarrassed by McMahon earlier, jumped to his boss’s side. “That doesn’t mean that someone couldn’t have written that letter and dropped it off this morning, after hearing about the killings. I mean, Mr. McMahon, we have to keep our minds open about this.” McMahon desperately wanted to get up and leave. He needed to be back at the Hoover Building running this investigation.

  “Mr. Garret, anything is possible at this point.” McMahon turned to the President to ask permission to leave, but before he could do so, Garret blurted out another question.

  “How do we know it’s not meant to confuse us? Maybe someone killed them for a different reason, like wanting to scuttle the President’s budget or wanting to damage this

  Presidency. Maybe they sent this letter to make us look in the wrong places.” McMahon glared at Garret for a brief moment and told himself to keep his temper in check.

  “Mr. Garret, we know very little so far. That is why we need to investigate. I will take all of your theories under advisement and keep an open mind.” McMahon turned from

  Garret to the President.

  “Sir, if you don’t mind, I really need to be out in the field coordinating this investigation.”

  “Why … yes … of course.” McMahon leaned over, whispered in Roach’s ear, then rose and left the room.

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  The small conference room in Congressman O’Rourke’s office contained the same furniture it had when O’Rourke had taken over the previous year.

  O’Rourke saw no sense in following the age-old Washington tradition of getting rid of perfectly good furniture and buying new stuff at the taxpayers’ expense. O’Rourke, his brother Tim, Susan, and several staffers were sitting around the color TV watching

  George Blake continue to read the letter sent by the group claiming responsibility for the murders of Koslowski, Fitzgerald, and Downs. O’Rourke sat without movement or emotion, staring at the TV, while the others shouted comments back and forth. His hands were pressed together in front of his face, forming a triangle. After Blake read the letter for the fourth time, Nick Swenson, one of O’Rourke’s young staffers, turned to his boss.

  “Well, Michael, you don’t have to worry about them killing you. It sounds like they’re right up your alley.” O’Rourke glanced over at the blond-haired Swenson with a neutral expression.

  Inside, however, O’Rourke was far from emotionless. Tim O’Rourke looked at his brother from across the table. “Michael, what do you think about all of this?”

  O’Rourke slowly brought his hands down. “I don’t think our country will miss the likes of Fitzgerald, Downs, and Koslowski.”

  Tim frowned and said, “Michael, that may well be true, but please don’t say that in public. They were Senators and Congressman, and no matter what you think of their politics, you can’t go around saying they deserved to die.”

  “I didn’t say they deserved to die. I only said they won’t be missed.”

  “The press won’t bother to make that distinction. They’ll put on the front page of every newspaper, ‘Congressman O’Rourke Says Koslowski, Downs and Fitzgerald

  Deserved to Die!’” Tim held his hand up and punctuated every word. “I don’t care what the press does.”

  “I know you don’t care what they do, Michael, but there are other people in this office who care about their careers and their future in politics.” Michael leaned in a little closer to his brother and in a lower voice said, “I’m not entirely comfortable with assassins running around our capital, but if i
t takes killing a couple of corrupt dinosaurs like

  Koslowski, Fitzgerald, and Downs to bring about some change, I’m all for it.” Tim

  O’Rourke sat back and frowned at his older brother. The source of Michael’s severe dislike for the political hierarchy of Washington was deeply rooted. Ten years earlier, when Michael was a senior at the University of Minnesota, his life couldn’t have been better. He was captain of the nationally ranked hockey team, he had a great group of friends, a wonderful girlfriend, and he was on schedule to complete his history major.

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  There wasn’t a gray cloud in Michael O’Rourke’s life.

  Michael was about to learn, not for the first time, just how quickly life could change.

  On a cold winter night, after one of his hockey games, his parents loaded two of

  Michael’s three brothers and his little sister into the family Suburban and started their two-hour drive back to the O’Rourkes’ hometown of Grand Rapids in northern Minnesota.

  About forty minutes from Grand Rapids, the large Suburban was hit head-on by a drunk driver who couldn’t keep his car on the other side of the yellow line. Michael’s sister, Katie, and his brothers Tommy and little Seamus survived the accident, but his parents didn’t. The loving parents of five children were dead-killed by a thirty-four-year-old man with six previous drunk-driving convictions.

  The deaths of his parents shattered O’Rourke’s life. After graduating in the spring he joined the Marine Corps as his father and grandfather had done before him. After returning from the Gulf, he blew his knee out on a low-altitude nighttime training jump with his teton platoon.

  Several of the lines on his main chute fouled, and with no time to pop the backup, O’Rourke thudded to the ground at, twice the normal speed.

  The same knee he had injured in college buckled under the impact and crunched like an aluminum can. The young lieutenant underwent a complete reconstruction of his knee, and his career as a United States Marine was effectively ended. O’Rourke left the service and joined Senator Olson’s staff in Washington. Senator Erik Olson was a close friend of

  Michael’s deceased parents. Michael looked at Washington through idealistic eyes and saw the new job as an opportunity to do something that would make a difference. Over the next five years Michael became one of the Senator’s most effective aides. He worked hard and fought not to fall into the trap of Washington apathy, but as time progressed, the behind-the-back dealings of the nation’s power brokers wore him down. Washington politics was a disgusting game that only a certain breed could play. Anyone with honor and integrity was worn down and spit out by the political machine of party politics.

  Right about the time Michael was ready to quit and head back to Minnesota the congressional seat in his home district opened. Senator Olson encouraged him to run, telling him if the system really bothered him so much, he should try to do something about it. Michael took on the challenge, and with the backing of his grandfather and

  Senator Olson, the young O’Rourke won the barely contested seat easily. That winter, before Michael had taken office, tragedy struck again. The death of another person close to him had forced O’Rourke to look at Washington in a different light, and any joy he felt over his recent victory vanished.

  His two-year term as a freshman Congressman became a two-year sentence in a town he despised more and more every day. The phone started to ring, and Susan got up to get it. A moment later she poked her head back in the room. “Michael, your grandfather is on line one.”

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  “I’ll take it in my office.” Michael walked back to his office and grabbed the phone.

  “Hello, Seamus.” Seamus O’Rourke was the President and sole owner of the

  O’Rourke Timber Company. Seamus’s father had started the company as a small lumberyard in 1918. When Seamus returned from fighting in World War II, he took over the company and turned the small mill into one of the largest timber companies in the

  Midwest. Seamus was calling from the deck of the O’Rourkes’ home in Grand Rapids. It was located on Lake Pokegama, a beautiful island-dotted lake almost ten miles long.

  The home was a gorgeous, modern log cabin set on the tip of a point that overlooked the largest bay on the lake. The seventy-two-year-old grandfather clutched the phone and took in the panoramic view of the sky blue lake and the bright fall colors. “Is everything all right, Michael?”

  “Yes, everything’s fine.” Seamus leaned on the railing of the deck.

  Grandpa O’Rourke didn’t look a day over sixty. He walked three miles every morning with his band of dogs, which included two Labs, a husky, and several others of mixed origin. The early-morning walks with his dogs weren’t the only thing that kept him looking young. Ten years earlier, the unfortunate death of his son and daughter-in-law had turned him into the de facto father of a twelve-year-old girl, two sixteen year-old twin boys, and Michael and Tim, who were in college at the time. Seamus took a drink of coffee and asked, “What do you think of the assassinations?”

  Michael tapped a pencil on his desk calendar while he struggled to phrase his answer properly. “I’m torn. Part of me thinks it’s exactly what we need, and part of me is very uneasy about it.”

  “I think that’s understandable,” replied Seamus in his deep voice.

  “What did you think of the men that were killed?”

  “I don’t think the founders of democracy would be sad to see them relinquish their seats of power.”

  Seamus laughed slightly. “That’s for certain.” Michael spun his chair around and looked out the window. He could see the Washington Monument jutting upward in the distance. “Seamus,” Michael said uncomfortably.

  “There is something I need to talk to you about. Are you still planning on coming to town this weekend?”

  “Yes.” Seamus detected something.

  “What’s wrong?”

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  “I’m not sure. It might have something to do with what happened last night.” Michael hesitated briefly. “I think it would be best if we talked about it in person.” Seamus got the point instantly.

  In Washington it was best to assume that anything said over the phone was potentially being recorded by God only knew whom. “Can you give me a hint as to what it’s about?”

  Michael rocked back and forth in his chair.

  “It involves a mutual friend of ours.” Back in Minnesota Seamus squinted at a fishing boat that was cutting across the entrance to the bay. The old man knew immediately whom Michael was talking about. “I see. Keep it under your hat until I get into town.”

  “All right.”

  “I’ll see you in a couple days.”

  “Are you flying your plane?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call me and let me know when you’ll be landing.”

  “I will. Say hello to Tim and Liz for me.”

  “Will do.” Michael hung up the phone and thought about the individual he and

  Seamus had just alluded to. He definitely has the motive, Michael thought to himself. The motive and the ability. News of the letter swept across the country. The real life drama that was unfolding in the nation’s capital had seized the attention of every American.

  The President sat in his high-backed leather chair, staring out the windows behind his desk in the Oval Office. He had been sitting in this position for the last ten minutes and had not moved a muscle. He was pondering the isolation of his office. Thinking about the hard fact that he, the President of the United States, knew no more about what was going on than anyone else in the country. He thought of how short his budget victory had been.

  Today was supposed to be a day of celebration, a day when he could bask in front of the cameras and take another crucial step toward a second term. Instead, the unthinkable had occurred. His budget would never be passed without Jack Koslowski, and whoever was responsible for the killings was threatening his life as well. He thought about the possibility of these murderers ge
tting near him and came to the comforting conclusion that they could not-not with all the Secret Service agents and modern technology that surrounded him. He knew he would have to address the nation, but had no idea what to say. It was almost two in the afternoon, and Stevens had yet to stop and think about the deaths of his former colleagues or the loved ones they had left behind. He was immersed in himself and how the events of the day would affect his career, his place in history. In

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  the hallway outside the Oval Office, Ann Moncur was waiting to get in and see the

  President. If you wanted to have a meeting with the President, you had to go through his chief of staff, and Moncur was sick of going through Garret. The media was all over her, wanting a response from the White House on the killings. Everyone assumed the

  President would be addressing the nation, and she needed to let the press know when. Stu

  Garret came rumbling around the corner with Mike Nance and the White House communications director, Ted Hopkinson. Hopkinson’s unofficial title was spin doctor.

  With the help of Garret, he’d taken over most of Moncur’s responsibilities. Garret had to keep the feminists happy and let them think Moncur was important. So he gave

  Moncur the title and let her brief the media on the day-to-day events at the White House, but that was as far as it went. All the strategy planning, intentional leaks to the media, opinion-poll analysis, and one-on-ones with the President were handled by Hopkinson.

  Moncur stepped in front of Garret and blocked his entrance to the Oval Office. She had brooded all night about the way he’d treated her the day before and decided she wasn’t going to take it anymore. In a firm voice she said, “Stu, I need to see him.”

  “Not now, Ann, we’re really busy.” Garret went to step around her and she moved in front of him. “Stu, I’ve got the media all over my case.

  They want to know when he’s going to address the nation.”

  “I will let you know as soon as we decide,” snapped Garret. “Is that what you guys are going to talk about in there … his speech, the media strategy? I should be included.”

  Moncur paused and Garret looked away, shaking his head no.