Term Limits mr-1

by Vince Flynn

  He parked underneath a large oak tree near the administration building and dialed

  Stansfield’s number. Someone else answered and told him to wait. Stansfield was on the phone in short order, and Coleman asked, “Did you find the Congressman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he all right?” Stansfield looked at O’Rourke. “He’s a little roughed up, but other than that he’s fine.” Coleman breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Are you at Nance’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think it’s time we had a meeting.” Stansfield was caught off guard by the proposal.

  He turned his back to the rest of the group. “In person?”

  “Yes. You, Nance, and Congressman O’Rourke.” Coleman paused.

  Stansfield’s apprehension was obvious. “You have nothing to worry about, sir. There are some things we need to discuss, and I would like to see with my own eyes that the

  Congressman is safe.”

  “And if I decline?”

  “The tape gets released.” After a long pause, Stansfield asked, “Why should I trust you?”

  “Director, we have gone to great lengths to try and find a way out of this mess. My beef is not with you, it’s with Mr. Nance. Am I clear?”

  Stansfield considered the last statement. “I think so. Where would you like to meet?”

  “Do you still have your helicopter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get on board with O’Rourke, Nance, and one pilot. If anyone else comes along, it’s off. Tell the pilot to fly to Dutchman Point and then head due east five miles out into the

  Bay. I will call you in twenty minutes and tell you where to go from there.”

  Coleman paused. “And, Director, I don’t want any surprises. We have Stinger missiles, and if I see another aircraft within a mile, I’ll have my men blow it out of the sky. Understood?”

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  “Yes.” Coleman hung up and pulled away from the curb. He had made up the part about the Stingers, but Stansfield didn’t know that. Coleman was on his own with no backup, but if his gut feeling was right, Stansfield could be trusted. The Naval Academy had its own private harbor located at the east end of the campus. Coleman worked his way down the narrow streets and parked in a small lot adjacent to the harbor. Standing next to the plain gray harbormaster’s hut was his old friend and former Navy SEAL Sam

  Jarvi.

  Jarvi was the current dive master at the Academy. Coleman got out of the car with the scramble phone and metal trunk in hand and walked over to Jarvi. Jarvi tossed his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his foot. The menacing little pit bull, as

  Coleman used to call him, was no taller than five six. If one counted his bristly, short, gray hair he may have been five seven. Back when Coleman was trying to become a

  SEAL, Jarvi was one of his instructors, or tormentors, depending on how you looked at it.

  When Coleman went through BUDS, the twelve-week boot camp that the Navy uses to make sure only the toughest of the toughest become SEALS, Jarvi was there every step of the way screaming and yelling.

  Jarvi stuck out his hand. “So you got some bad guys on your ass?”

  “Yep.”

  Coleman set both cases down and the two men hugged each other tightly.

  Jarvi picked the larger Coleman off the ground, then set him back down.

  “It’s good to see you, brother.”

  “It’s good to see you, too.” Jarvi motioned toward the selection of boats in the harbor.

  “You need a little transportation?”

  “Yeah, if you can spare one.”

  “Anything for a buddy. I already cleared it with the harbormaster.

  He’s an old crusty frog. He said as long as it’s going to a SEAL, it’s okay.”

  A large smile broke across Jarvi’s face. Coleman tried to return the smile, but failed.

  Jarvi picked up on his old friend’s unease and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, just some business I have to take care of.” Jarvi went from jovial to no—

  nonsense in a second. “Do you need some help?” Coleman shook his head. “No, but thanks. I’m running solo on this one.”

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  Jarvi showed his displeasure with a furrowed brow. SEALS didn’t like to hear other

  SEALS use the word solo. They were trained and conditioned to do everything in pairs and teams. The solo concept was foreign to them.

  “Scott, you say the word, and I’m in.”

  “Thanks, Sam, but this is something I have to do on my own.” Coleman slapped

  Jarvi’s shoulder.

  “I’ll be all right.” Jarvi nodded solemnly. “I won’t keep you waiting.

  Follow me.” Bending over, Jarvi picked up the heavy trunk. “Shit, what in the hell do you have in this thing?”

  “Tools.” Coleman grinned. “I don’t wanna know, do I?”

  “No.” Jarvi led the way down one of the docks.

  “I gassed up a twenty-eight-foot Whaler. She’s got a one-hundred-fifty hp outboard on her, and she’s loaded with all the new navigational crap.” Jarvi waved a hand in the air.

  “Global-positioning system, depth finder, the works. These little shits around here can’t find their ass without a computer and a satellite.” Coleman .jumped into the Whaler and grabbed the trunk from Jarvi. He primed the engine and fired up the motor. Jarvi untied the bow and aft lines and nudged the bow away from the dock with his foot. “If you break it, you buy it.”

  “I’ll bring her back in one piece.” Coleman slipped the boat into gear and started to pull away. Over his shoulder he said, “Hey, Sam, if the FBI comes looking for me, tell them you never saw me.”

  “Whatever you say, brother.” Jarvi gave his old friend a curt salute.

  Coleman stood behind the small center console of the Whaler and pushed the throttle to the stops. The whine of the outboard matched the increase in speed. The small white boat kicked up a foamy wake as it sped out of the harbor and toward the expansive

  Chesapeake. When Coleman cleared Greenbury Point, he headed southeast across the channel. There was a slight chop on the water, but as the wind died down, the bay would get smoother. Once he reached the other side of the channel, he called Stansfield and gave him the final location of the meeting place. Coleman had picked a small sandbar just outside of the channel that appeared during low tide. He pulled the throttle back as he neared the hump of sand. The sandbar was crowned in the middle and at its widest point was fifty feet across. The strip ran north-south with the current of the channel. He brought the Whaler in on the north end and beached her.

  Coleman knew the Chesapeake as well as one could expect for such a large and shapely expanse of water. When he ran SEAL Team Six, they had spent countless hours

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  training in and around the bay during every possible weather condition both day and night. Coleman opened the metal trunk and grabbed a flashlight and black tactical hood.

  He studied the hood for a moment and decided that for theatrical reasons it would be needed. He pulled the hood over his head and adjusted it so a one-inch slit was around his eyes. Next he grabbed his 9mm Glock and stuck the gun in the back of his pants. He leaned against the center fiberglass console and waited.

  Several minutes later he heard the familiar sound of a helicopter chopping its way through the air. Not long after that he spotted its blinking running lights. Coleman turned on the flashlight and pointed it in the direction of the helicopter. He waved it back and forth several times, then pointed the light at the crest of the sandbar. The helicopter looped around to the south and came in for a landing without the assistance of its powerful floodlight. Sand was whipped into the air as the spinning rotors displaced the air beneath. Coleman shielded his eyes but did not turn his back. The retractable landing gear extended into the locked position and touched down softly on the sand.

  The whine of the turbine engines slowed immediately and with it the
speed of the blades. The fury of flying sand died, and the calm, quiet night returned. Coleman stepped out of the boat and his foot splashed into several inches of water. He stayed next to the boat and eyed the helicopter. From his vantage point, the only person he could see was the pilot. One of the side doors opened and three men stepped down onto the sandbar.

  Coleman recognized all of them. Shoving the flashlight into one of his pockets, he moved forward to meet them. His boots sloshed through the water for his first several steps until he made it onto the drier portion of the tiny island. The four men stopped several strides away from one another. Nance stood in the middle, and O’Rourke and Stansfield stood on either side. Coleman looked at his friend’s battered face and said, “Michael, I apologize for getting you involved in this.” The former SEAL hesitated before proceeding with the next part of his plan.

  It was a gamble, but if he had gauged Stansfield’s character correctly, one that should work. Coleman pulled off the black hood and addressed Director Stansfield. “Sir, I am

  Scott Coleman, United States Navy retired. Congressman O’Rourke knew nothing about what was going on until this morning. The recent political assassinations were conducted by myself and a network of men that shall remain unknown. Congressman O’Rourke was brought in after my people interrogated Mr. Higgins and found out that he and this idiot here”-Coleman pointed at Nance—“were behind the killing of Senator Olson and

  Congressman Turnquist.

  “Congressman O’Rourke was a close friend of my deceased brother. We needed someone we could trust, so I contacted Michael this morning and gave him Arthur’s confession along with a list of our demands. I failed to foresee the possibility that Mr.

  Nance would try something so desperate.” Coleman looked from Stansfield to O’Rourke.

  “Michael, I can’t apologize enough for pulling you into this.” Michael stood in silence, completely dumbfounded that Coleman had revealed his identity.

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  Coleman paused for a moment and then glared at Nance. Through clenched teeth he asked, “You just couldn’t walk away, could you?” Nance shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Mr. Coleman, the issue of America’s national security is my responsibility, and one that I have always taken very seriously. When someone blackmails the President, they are threatening the national security of this country.

  Did you honestly expect me to do nothing?” Coleman frowned. “Wait a minute. I

  think you’ve left something out. How does killing Senator Olson and Congressman

  Turnquist fit into your idealistic and noble protection of America’s national security?”

  “In hindsight that may not have been the best decision, but we felt we had to do something to slow you down. Your actions were very destabilizing to our political system and-” Coleman interrupted, “In hindsight? You are so full of shit. Don’t insult me with your blabbering. You didn’t kill Olson and Turnquist to protect America’s national security. You killed them for your own perverted, selfish interests.” Nance shrugged his shoulders. “And you didn’t kill Senator Fitzgerald and the others for your own selfish interests?”

  Coleman stepped back and crossed his arms. He studied the reptile in front of him for a moment. “I killed those other men because they were a prime example of what is wrong with our political system. Year after year they promised to do the right thing, but in the end, all they were concerned about was winning and holding on to power. They were running this country into the ground. They were, in your language, ‘a direct threat to the national security of this country.”” Coleman hesitated for a second. “For most of my adult life I’ve been flying all over this damn planet killing people that were a threat to our national security. I finally realized that assholes like you”-Coleman reached out and jabbed his finger into Nance’s sternum”and all of your egomaniac political friends were doing more damage to America than any of the terrorists and dictators you’d sent me to kill. Politicians like Fitzgerald and Basset spent all their time dividing our country.

  They pitted the right against the left, the wealthy against the poor, and they didn’t believe half of what they said.” Coleman jabbed his finger a little harder this time. “I put my ass on the line for jerk-offs like you. I’ve seen my men get killed because people like

  Fitzgerald didn’t know how to keep their mouth shut. You sit in the White House and it’s all one big fucking game. You decide you want someone killed, you pick up the phone, make a call, and twenty-four hours later the person is dead. Have you ever been in the field? Have you ever killed anyone? Have you ever seen eight of your closest friends blown out of the sky because some drunk Senator doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut?” Coleman stared at Nance and waited for an answer he knew he’d never get. “Of course you haven’t.

  You’ve walked around your whole life with a silver spoon shoved up your ass! Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your fucking head off.” Nance took a half a step backward and held his chin high. “I can see when I’m beat. I will agree to your

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  demands and quietly withdraw from public life.” Coleman scoffed, “Do you think I trust you?”

  “Mr. Coleman, I understand your animosity towards people like myself and Director

  Stansfield. I don’t agree with it, but I understand it.”

  “Wait a second.” Coleman held his hand up. “Leave him out of this.

  You created this cluster-fuck by yourself, now it’s time to stand alone and pay the piper.” Nance continued in his confident tone, “As I was saying, I don’t expect you to like what I do, but nonetheless, I have served our country well. I have made my fair share of mistakes over the years, but they have been honest ones. I think I deserve the chance to retire and live out the rest of my life in peace.”

  “Like Arthur. I know your type, you can’t just sit on the sidelines.

  You will continue to meddle. You’ll try to find out who else is in my group, and if you have the chance, you will kill me without hesitation.” Nance remained aloof. “This country needs people like me whether you like it or not. I’m sorry you disagree with me, but that’s the way it is, and the way it will always be. I give you my word that I will walk away from everything.”

  “Your arrogance alone is enough to make me want to kill you!” Coleman reached for his gun and pulled it out. “First of all, you deserve to die, and second of all, I don’t trust you as far as I could kick you.”

  Coleman extended his arm. Nance stared down the barrel of the gun and looked to

  Stansfield.

  “Thomas, you are going to have a very hard time explaining my death.”

  Coleman took his eyes off Nance and looked at the director of the CIA.

  Stansfield replied, “If you could kill him in the same manner that you killed Senator

  Fitzgerald, it would make things much easier.” It took a second for the comment to register, and then Coleman replied, “My pleasure.” The former SEAL put the gun back in his pants and stepped toward Nance. Nance turned to try and run, but O’Rourke reached out and grabbed him by the back of his shirt collar. Like a rag doll, O’Rourke swung

  Nance back around and presented him to Coleman. Nance’s cool demeanor had for once vanished. With a pleading voice and a panicked face he screamed, “Thomas, you will never get away with this!

  You can’t do this, Thomas!” Coleman delivered a quick punch to Nance’s solar plexus, ending any further conversation. The national security adviser instantly buckled over and gasped for air. Coleman grabbed Nance by the hair and pulled him down and into the sand. The muscular killer dropped down with all of his weight, sending his knee

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  into the center of Nance’s spine. His hands reached for the underside of the chin, and in a quick burst of strength he yanked up and then twisted Nance’s head to the side. A loud crack broke the still night and echoed off the water.

  Coleman held his tight grip for several moments, then let t
he lifeless head drop to the moist sand.

  SUNDAY MORNING dawned. AND The SUN WAS PEEKING THROUGH the clouds.

  The limousine and its two security cars slid into the V.I.P underground parking garage at Washington’s National Airport and pulled into a row of open spaces reserved for Senators and Congressman. Three men got out of the last car and proceeded into the terminal. Two of them were carrying large attache cases. Irene Kennedy paused and looked down at the file sitting in her lap. She had been up the entire evening researching the relationship between Congressman Michael O’Rourke and Scott Coleman. Skip

  McMahon, Director Roach, and Director Stansfield were listening intently as she wrapped up her briefing. “Everything seems to check out.” Kennedy tapped her pen on her file. “The only thing that bothers me is whether or not Coleman knew that Senator

  Fitzgerald was the one who blew Operation Snatch Back.

  Besides the counterespionage people at the Bureau, and a select few at Langley, the list of people is very short. At the top of that short list is, or I should say was, Senator

  Olson. At the time all of this took place, Congressman O’Rourke was transitioning off of

  Olson’s staff and getting ready to start his first year as a representative. If Coleman discovered who leaked his mission and caused the deaths of his men, it would explain his motive. If I had to guess, I would bet that Congressman O’Rourke was the one who told him about Fitzgerald.”

  “Do we have any proof?.” asked Roach. Kennedy shook her head. “Only an educated guess.”

  “So where do we go from here?” asked Roach. “We make sure none of this ever goes public.” Stansfield looked at Skip. “I’m going to want to debrief Coleman. In order to do that we’ll have to arrange for your surveillance team to lose him for a day or so.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem.

  He already shook us once.” There was a tap on the window of the limousine and

  Stansfield rolled it down halfway. One of his bodyguards leaned forward and said, “Sir, the tower is holding the flight. The Congressman and Scarlatti are waiting at the gate, and we’ve secured and swept the room.”