Once the conversation ended, Captain Cantrell switched off the STU‑III, and pocketed his key. He turned to the Marine sergeant handling base communications, and said, “Contact Lieutenant Damoni. Ask him to meet me here ASAP.”
Cantrell left his office to find Lieutenant Michael Damoni waiting for him. Damoni saluted as his CO approached. Unlike his CO, Damoni was not a man whose chosen profession anyone would guess had he not been in uniform. Soft-spoken and with a gentle manner, Damoni was well respected by the men in his company.
Cantrell said, “At ease, Lieutenant. Let’s walk.” They left the security building near the main gate, and started down the access road.
“Secret Service intelligence has issued an alert that includes us here at Camp David. It seems they’ve run across what could be a plot to assassinate the President.”
Damoni was paying careful attention to everything his CO said. He was relatively new to Camp David’s Marine detachment. Unlike Cantrell, Damoni had made his way up through the ranks, bridging the gap between the enlisted and officer corps by taking on Officers Candidate School. Mike Damoni’s acceptance into the rigorous course was proof of his value to the Corps.
The lieutenant served as Cantrell’s principal liaison to all the enlisted personnel assigned to the base. The detachment normally ran at peak efficiency. When the occasional problem arose, however, Cantrell had learned that his lieutenant was quick to get it resolved.
As they passed Sycamore Lodge, a smaller stone cabin located a few hundred yards down on the left side of the road, Cantrell briefed his lieutenant on the information given to him by Agent Whitman. “I’m not sure where all this is going. We’ve had a lot of these incidents over the years, and so far, other than an occasional protester, things have been quiet up here. Nonetheless, we’d better put out a hundred and ten percent for the next few weeks.”
Cantrell had wrapped up his briefing by the time that the two men neared Walnut Lodge. “If the Service gets more information pointing to trouble up here, they’ll be all over the place. Remind your men that, as usual, we’re working closely with them. I’ve also noticed that the main gate detail is getting a little lax in checking visitor IDs. Better post orders reminding the detail to verify each visitor’s identity against the photos sent up by the White House.
“The President plans to use Aspen to finalize his economic program, so I expect we’ll see more of him from now until he goes public. Remind the patrols to be particularly alert when President Varrick is on site, but I don’t want them so tight that they get too tense.” Damoni remembered the time that a Marine response team scared the crap out of a Secret Service agent who was guarding the President on a late night walk.
“I’ll get on it immediately,” Lieutenant Damoni said. “Anything else, skipper?”
“No. That should hold it for now. I’ll keep you posted as we get additional information.”
They parted as Lieutenant Damoni walked back toward his cubicle in the security cabin. Normally Camp David was quiet, except when the President came up for the weekend or had visiting dignitaries staying over. Cantrell preferred it that way. He didn’t like knowing that there might be someone out there intent upon assassinating the President of the United States. He had crack troops at David, more than just pretty faces. If push came to shove, they’d do their jobs efficiently.
Cantrell hiked over to the one-hole golf course Dwight Eisenhower had installed when he was President. Since George Bush had left office, the course hadn’t been used much. Bill Clinton had preferred the fancy courses in southern California.
Nonetheless, the view across the mountains was spectacular. Even the early morning mist shrouding the mountain peaks still hadn’t burnt off yet. Cantrell took a deep breath. The air was cold and crisp. In a few short weeks, the cold, stark winter would be upon them.
CHAPTER 36
When they got to Frederick, Janet suggested they continue farther north to Thurmont. The town was considerably smaller, and quieter, which suited her disposition more than heavily commercialized Frederick. From Payton's perspective, Thurmont was also closer to the Catoctin Mountain National Forest, and therefore made more sense logistically.
The sign in front of the motel announced room rates by the day, week, or month. In light of how many times they’d moved, by the day seemed like a great idea to Payton. On the way up from Washington, he had stopped off at Baltimore‑Washington International airport and exchanged their rental car for a new one. By now, he figured, the old one would be plenty hot.
The motel they found was part of a motel‑restaurant combination, the latter featuring family‑style home cooking. By the time they got into town, both of them were hungry.
They parked the car and went into the restaurant. The hostess seated them near one of the front windows, but away from the other diners.
“All right, Steve. We’re here. Now what are we going to do?” Janet asked, after the waitress took their iced tea orders.
“I’ve been thinking about all this. We can’t prove that Wingate is behind the plot to kill President Varrick. The more questions Whitman asked me, the more doubts even I had that we were on the right track. Convincing someone else is all but impossible.” Payton stopped talking when their drinks arrived, but continued as soon as the departing waitress was out of earshot.
“On the other hand, we know more than anyone thinks. Given the security at Camp David, the assassin’s going to have to use some sort of stand-off weapon like a sniper-rifle or maybe even some kind of surface-to-air missile–a Redeye or Stinger.
“Most likely, the President’s helicopters have some kind of countermeasure system, so I’d tend to write off a missile attack. That leaves us with a sniper, and that means the killer has to be in a direct line of sight with the President. If the assassin can find a suitable spot, so can we. If we locate his hide, we stand a chance of calling in the authorities and stopping him.”
“And what happens if we can’t locate this...hide?” Janet asked. “After all, there’s what, about twenty square miles of park to cover. How are we even going to find Camp David, much less search the area around it?”
“Good question. I’ve been thinking about that too. First, we’re going to try the direct approach.”
“Which is?”
“We’re going to drive up to the Visitor’s Center, and ask them where Camp David is.”
“And you expect them to tell us?” Janet asked him incredulously.
“They might. And if they do, we’ll be that much further ahead. If they refuse, we’ll find it ourselves.”
Janet had developed respect for Steve’s abilities, even if they weren’t honed to a razor’s edge. On the other hand, she saw no easy way to locate the site on their own.
“How are we going to find Camp David if they won’t tell us where it is? That’s a car out there...” she nodded toward where they had parked the rental, “. . . not a helicopter.”
“Right. But follow me for a minute. First, not everyone who’s invited comes up to Camp David does so by helicopter. You’ve seen news broadcasts of visitors or the press driving up. If they drive from Washington, then there has to be a road. If there is, then it has to intersect one of the larger ones in the area. If worse comes to worse, we’ll start at Route 77, which runs along the park’s southern edge, and take every right turn into the park until we find the one leading to Camp David. We’ll know we’ve gotten the right road when the car’s surrounded by irate Marines and Secret Service agents. I’ll bet you they even have a sign at the checkpoint that says ‘Camp David’.”
“And you really think the Secret Service is going to let us go banging on their front door, and then do nothing about it?”
“No, I’m sure they’ll be very interested in knowing we’re in the area. On the other hand, we won’t have broken any laws, so what can they do? I’d like nothing better than to have the Secret Service or Park Police follow us from now until hell freezes over. At least we wouldn’t have to worry
about Wingate’s people. Besides, if we draw enough attention, we might throw a monkey wrench into Wingate’s plans.”
. . . . . .
After lunch, they walked over to the motel’s office and registered. Payton used his mother’s maiden name and prayed that the cash he dropped on the counter would preclude a request for identification.
Their room was clean, but plainly furnished. Photographs depicting rustic scenes apparently from the surrounding area, hung on the walls. A fireplace was on the outside wall near the side of the room, and some kindling and logs had been stacked on the brick hearth.
“If we’re going hiking in the mountains, I think it’s time for some new clothes,” Janet said as soon as they were settled in. “We probably ought to burn these in the fireplace,” she said, gesturing toward her clothes.
“You’re right. Let’s find someplace where we can pick up some clothes and camping equipment. We’ll probably need it.”
They locked the door and drove down Route 15 toward Frederick. Payton told Janet their clothing buys should be somewhere other than in Thurmont, where the two of them, buying a complete outdoor wardrobe, not to mention camping supplies, would quite likely cause a stir with the locals.
Frederick would be perfect–there they’d be like any other couple planning a camping trip. It didn’t take long to find a store specializing in outdoor clothes and camping equipment. Janet went off to the women’s section, and came back half an hour later laden with several pairs of jeans, four flannel shirts, a ski jacket, heavy socks, and a pair of hiking boots. Payton's wardrobe selection was about the same, but he also picked out a small knapsack, two canteens, and one double sleeping bag.
As they headed back to the car, each with enough clothes to last them for a week, they passed a newspaper vending machine. Janet shoved in two quarters and bought a copy of the early evening paper. On the way back to Thurmont, while Payton drove, she scanned the paper for any relevant news.
“Look, Steve. President Varrick will be at Camp David this week. ”
Payton was too busy adding the number of days to the date he had encountered the stranger in Pine Lakes. After he was satisfied that the schedule fit, he turned to Janet. “They’re planning to kill the President this week. The only problem is we don’t know where, and we don’t know what time.”
. . . . . .
After changing their clothes, they left the motel room. Payton drove out of Thurmont and across Route 77 to the Catoctin Mountain National Forest, following the road until he saw the sign to the Catoctin Mountain National Forest. Even this late in the season, cars were parked along both sides of the visitor center lot. Payton took the last available space.
The rustic-looking single story building was considerably longer than it was wide. As they approached the main entrance, Payton noticed a couple of uniformed rangers speaking in hushed tones. Payton and Janet walked into the center.
Two smaller rooms, containing nature lore exhibits, were off to their left. On the right, an L‑shaped glass counter extended out from the front wall then turned right terminating a little short of the side wall. Another ranger, this time a woman, was speaking on the telephone. From her tone and the few eclipsed words Payton heard, he drew the conclusion that she was speaking to one of her colleagues. Engaged in conversation, she paid no attention to the two new visitors.
Payton's eyes were immediately drawn to the map mounted under Plexiglas on the far wall. It was a large rendering of the park, probably a good four feet by three feet in size. He walked up to it and began looking for any designated roads that seemed to lead nowhere.
Payton wasn’t there more than a minute or two when Janet came over to where he was standing. “Why don’t you come over here,” she said gesturing toward the side wall.
“I’ll be there in a minute. First I want to check out this map.”
“The one on the other wall’s more interesting,” Janet suggested.
Payton followed her across the room. Over a stuffed squirrel sitting on a tree branch, another map, smaller than the one Payton had been looking at, hung on the wall. It was titled Catoctin Mountain Park; Thurmont, Maryland.
It took Payton only seconds to realize that he was looking at a topographic map prepared from U.S. Geological Survey data. In the center of the map, an area approximately three square inches was designated ‘Do Not Enter–National Park Service–Restricted Area’. Payton looked at the rest of the map. It was the only area designated “restricted” on the map.
“I wonder what that is,” she said pointing at the delineated area. “Could it possibly be Camp David?”
Payton started to make a mental sketch of their location and that of the supposedly restricted area when Janet pointed to another, smaller sign also on the wall. “For three bucks, you can even buy a copy.”
Less than a minute later, they were leaving the center with a copy of the map rolled up under Payton's arm. When they got back to the car, Payton slid the map out of its protective plastic cylinder and unrolled it across the hood of the car. “Okay. We’re here,” he said, pointing to the visitor center. “If we take a right out of the parking lot and follow Park Central Road, we should pass Misty Mount, then Hog Rock. Right after Hog Rock, there should be some kind of access road on the right hand side. Shall we?” Payton asked, rolling up the map.
They followed Park Central Road for about two miles before signs warning them not to stop or park appeared on the right side of the road. A well‑maintained macadam road swung off from Park Central and traveled north into what the Park Service called Camp 3. Payton slowed the car enough to be able to take a quick look up the road. Do Not Enter signs in English and symbolized signs with a horizontal bar warned tourists to keep out. Farther up on the right side, a white sign with black letters designated the area as “restricted” and set forth penalties for trespassing. A half dozen No Parking signs drove home the point.
“That’s it,” Steve said enthusiastically.
“Great, now what do we do?” Janet responded. “From the looks of things, if we turn up the road, we’ll end up in jail.”
“We’ll stay on Park Central Road for now. I want to find a place to park the car. Then we’ll see how close we can come to Camp David without getting busted. I’m sure the government has carefully marked the perimeter.”
When they saw the sign marking the Chestnut picnic area, Payton pulled onto the side road and followed it up to where he could park the car. The picnic area had the usual complement of picnic tables and stone barbecues. In the center a small open-sided pavilion offered a haven during a rainstorm. Payton looked around, but no campers were in the area.
After locking the car, they headed into the woods. Based upon the odometer reading, he figured that they were about a mile from the entrance to Camp David–less than half a mile to its western boundary.
Neither Janet nor Payton were experienced hikers, so they tried to follow whatever deer trails they could find while staying out of the heavy brush. Knowing what direction Camp 3 was from where the picnic area made things easier. They soon found themselves near the fence marking the perimeter.
Payton studied the fence line, then shook his head. “The good news is it looks like we’ve found what we’ve been searching for. The bad news is that even if we keep following the fence line around the entire perimeter, we’ll never figure out where the sniper’s going to shoot from. Somewhere in there,” Payton said, gesturing toward Camp David, “...there’s a place that can be seen from outside the Camp’s boundary where the assassin will be able to get a shot off at the President. We don’t even know where the President’s going to be when he’s here. But I’ll bet the sniper knows Varrick’s entire schedule, down to the minute,” Payton said as a matter of fact.
Janet realized that Payton was right. They lacked the assassin’s background, experience, and knowledge. Worse, they didn’t have the inside information needed to ascertain how the assassin would attempt to end President Varrick's life. They had some o
f the puzzle’s pieces, but not enough to stop the assassination.
“If we knew when the attack was going to take place, at least we’d know where the President would be at the time. With that, we could backtrack from the fence line. Without it, we could walk the whole boundary and still know nothing more than we know now.
“Conversely, if we knew where the sniper would be shooting from, we’d know where Varrick had to be at that specific time. Since we’ll never find the hide in time, we’d better concentrate on the former. Other than the Marine guard’s attention, there’s nothing to be gained by walking around here. Let’s head back to the car.”
All the way back, Payton walked ahead of Janet, holding the thorn bush branches out of her way, but didn’t say a word. When they got back to Chestnut, Steve said, “We need more information about Camp David, and we’re not going to get it from the Secret Service or the Park Service. We’ve got to focus our search.”
Janet too had been thinking about the problem. Somehow they had to find out where the key areas were inside Camp David, and what the terrain was like around it. Janet got into the car, then refolded the newspaper, placing it on the front seat between her and Payton. “Why not try the paper?” she said as Payton pulled back onto the road.
“What paper?”
“The Sun. Over the years, it must have done some articles on Camp David. I mean it’s one of the most prestigious sites in the state. There’s got to be something in the files.”
Payton's face previously cast into a frown, turned into a grin. Janet had hit the nail square on the head. If they could get access to the paper’s morgue, they might come up with something.
“Today’s pretty much shot. We’ll go into Baltimore tomorrow and check it out.”
They returned to the motel. After dinner, they went to bed early, optimistic about their chances of obtaining the information they needed.
While the couple slept, Parker’s people were busy tracing their movements from the Washington airport motel. At 1800 G Street in Washington, tired Secret Service personnel feasted on home delivery pizzas as the agency broadened its sweep.
The Cassandra Conspiracy Page 28
