While Payton sat there on the deserted country road trying to figure out how he was going to avoid Wingate’s hired killers, the combined law enforcement agencies of the local, state, and federal governments were swinging into action–all with the same objective: to find and apprehend Payton and Janet Phillips. This time, the police, FBI, and Secret Service agents were told that Payton and Phillips were armed and dangerous. Extreme caution was advised. It was a shoot‑to‑kill situation.
“That was too damned close,” Payton said after he cut the engine. “We don’t dare go back to town or even to Frederick to find another place to stay. They’ll have all-points alerts out on us throughout western Maryland. We can’t very well stay here, since they’ll be searching for the car now that they have a description. I thought we could avoid Wingate’s people for another twelve hours, but obviously I was wrong. If we hadn’t been eating dinner, we’d be dead now.”
“How did they find us so quickly?”
“Probably hit all the motels until they spotted the car. I should have gotten rid of it after yesterday.”
“If you had, we’d be walking. I doubt you could find a car rental agency anywhere in Thurmont.”
“Well, I could have done something! Leaving the car out there was stupid!” Payton exclaimed.
“Take it easy. What’s done is done, and at least we got away.”
“We got away all right, but we’re out of places to go.”
“As much as the thought doesn’t thrill me, given the temperature, I think we’re about to spend our first night together in the woods,” Janet said. “We’ll take the extra clothes and the sleeping bag, and find some place to curl up for the night.”
Payton hadn’t roughed it since he left the Marines. Unfortunately, he didn’t see any alternative to what Janet had proposed. They didn’t have all the gear they’d need to be comfortable, but with what they had purchased in Frederick, he figured if the mercury didn’t drop into single digits, they might survive until morning.
Fortunately, they had left most of their new clothes and all the camping equipment in the trunk of the car. More important, the shotgun and shells were still in the back seat. Payton pulled the park map out of his pocket and, using the illumination from the car’s dome light, checked their present location against the tower road. He thought that he remembered seeing a campsite fairly close by in the park. With the park closed at sundown, it was doubtful anyone would be going around checking for illegal campers.
Payton drove up Route 550 until he found an unpaved side road, which looked more like an abandoned driveway or some kind of fire access. He pulled off the main road and onto the shoulder. Payton took the flashlight, then got out and walked back to check the side road for tire tracks. The area hadn’t had rain in the past week, so if the side road was used at all during that time, he should be able to see some tracks. There were no tracks in the thin layer of dirt covering the road surface. It would do.
He pulled over, and backed the car into the trees. Payton left the lights on, and headed back to the main road to see if the car was visible. From where he stood, he could make out the headlights, but just barely. It would go unnoticed until after tomorrow’s Presidential news conference. Payton walked back to the car, turned off the lights, then shut off the ignition.
Janet stood near the trunk and was already busy adding layers of clothes to what she already had on. “By the time I get all of this stuff on, I’m going to look like the Pillsbury dough boy,” she joked, trying to hide the rising tide of fear.
Payton removed his ski jacket, and put on a pullover sweater that still had the tags on it. Then he put his coat back on. He rolled on a second pair of pants, and two more pairs of socks up into a manageable bundle.
Satisfied that he’d survive the early morning temperature drop, he opened the box of buckshot and split the shells up, putting half in one of his jacket pockets, the rest in the other. Finally he picked up the shotgun and closed the trunk.
“I guess I’m ready. Promise me you’ll keep me warm,” Janet said as she stuffed extra hiking socks into her jacket pocket.
Cradling the Remington, Payton took Janet’s hand and they trudged off into the forest. The dark woods were eerie and foreboding. Payton shivered. They were gradually sinking deeper into the mire.
CHAPTER 45
November 1st: 0500 Hours
John Grant checked out of his motel only after making certain that he had left nothing that could be used to trace his true identity. He had wiped every piece of furniture clean of fingerprints, got rid of his towels and bed linen, and then emptied the trashcan into a distant dumpster. After the room had been cleaned a few times, not even a single strand of hair would be left from which to identify him.
Once clear of the motel, he headed toward his rendezvous in western Maryland. About seven o’clock, he pulled the car into the secluded spot he had selected on his previous trip. Grant had no more than a half hour’s hike to the tower from where he parked–plenty of time to get there and remove any obstacles in his way. He pulled the pack and the rifle case from the rear of the car, where they had been hidden under a small tarpaulin, and headed off into the woods.
Dawn had started to break over the horizon, and the promise of a sunny, clear day loomed in the sky. The morning air was cold, yet to be warmed by the sun’s rays. Grant’s pace was swift as he made his way toward the fire tower. As he got closer to his objective, caution took over, slowing his progress. He dare not chance being spotted from the tower if the Secret Service agents were already at their posts.
A few hundred yards from his objective, Grant selected a spot where, on both sides, the tree line ran to the edge of the road. From his pack he took out the spando‑flage mask and a small camouflaged green box. Quickly, he pulled the lightweight balaclava over his head. From the pack, Grant slid on a pair of thin latex rubber gloves–insurance that he wouldn’t leave fingerprints anywhere in the cabin. He then picked up the small green box–a product of bygone days in Vietnam, an electronic booby‑trap firing device. Six inches of wire, terminating in a small metallic ring, extended from its bottom. Grant also removed a small reel of camouflaged olive‑drab trip wire.
He attached the electronics box to the trunk of a tree on one side of the road. One end of the trip wire he attached to the ring, then he crossed the fire road, playing out the camouflage wire. When he got to the other side, Grant left sufficient length to secure it to the tree, and then cut off the excess.
With the wire traversing the road and only a few inches above its surface, Grant went back to where he had left the box. Using a lightly oiled rag he obliterated any fingerprints he might have left on it.
Grant gave his handiwork a quick once over. Satisfied that everything was perfect, he activated the power switch. Anyone, or anything, coming up the road would break the wire setting off the device and, transmit a radio signal to his hide at the top of the tower. Tampering with it would also cause the same signal to be transmitted to the receiver clipped to his belt. He didn’t expect any company, but a little insurance never hurt.
0800 Hours
Allen Thiesse’s security briefing kicked off promptly at eight o’clock in the Secret Service’s command lodge. Captain Cantrell and Lieutenant Damoni attended, representing the Marine detail, as did all the agents assigned to cover the conference. Because of the threat posed by Payton, Mary Neill had requested and received additional agents from both the Baltimore and Washington field offices. The assembled agents and Marines quieted as Thiesse called the meeting to order.
“Good morning, gentlemen and ladies. We have a busy day ahead of us, and I’d like to get down to business. I’ll outline our protection program for today, but I won’t be making any specific assignments. You’ll get those later from my ASAIC, Mary Neill,” Allen Thiesse said, nodding at Neill. “Mary will be the assistant shift leader today. She’ll show each of you covering fixed posts where you’ll be for the duration of the press conference.” It was vital
that the agents assigned to the President's detail knew where each post was. That way, if assistance was needed, the response would be prompt.
“As some of you know, our Protective Intelligence Division alerted us to a threat against the President. Ms. Neill is passing out flyers with the suspects’ descriptions. Agents Whitman and Spencer are here from ID, and they can answer any questions that you might have about these two. Later, they’ll also give you a short briefing as to the current threat level.”
Allen Thiesse checked his notes before continuing. “Please note that the Thurmont sheriff’s office has implicated these two in the deaths of two deputies early last evening. If you see either of them, do not, I repeat, do not take any chances. Remember, your first job is to get the President out of the way. Then deal with Payton. Other than that, standard operating procedures apply,” Thiesse said in reference to the Secret Service’s Manual of Protective Operations.
Thiesse took a drink of his coffee. He then went over the posts for the conference, including the ones to the left and right of where the President would be speaking, the sides of the seating area, and those to the rear of the conference area.
“Since this is the first on site press conference we’ve had up here in some time, I’m going to take a minute to review some of our press conference procedures,” Thiesse told the gathering.
“We’ll be checking each and every piece of camera, sound, and video equipment anyone brings onto the grounds. And I mean each and every one. The Marines will continue providing security at the main gate; Secret Service personnel however, will augment Captain Cantrell’s people specifically to handle the equipment check. I’m doing this because it’s more expedient to have people who are familiar with this type of gear doing the security check than it would be to train new people, and for no other reason.”
Thiesse’s decision had nothing whatsoever to do with trusting the Marines to handle the screening, and he wanted them to know it. Captain Cantrell ran a tight ship, and Thiesse had always been impressed with the Marine officer’s attention to detail.
“We don’t have the final press assignments, but we have enough seating to handle the same number of media people as we do at the White House. We’ve already told all news agencies, magazines, and electronic media editors that only persons on the White House press corps list will be permitted entry, and then only if they have their WHC identification badge.
Agents and Marines assigned to the posts at the main gate should remind each member of the press that their badge must be visible at all times. Ms. Neill will have a complete press corps roster at the main gate by 0900. As usual, we’ll screen each visitor for concealed weapons. We’ll be using three of our standard walk‑through metal detectors which UD, our Uniformed Division, will have ready on time. Any questions?”
An agent in the rear of the room asked, “Will we be using the special podium, sir?” referring to the bullet resistant speaker’s platform that the President often used when he spoke from the South Lawn at the White House.
“No. President Varrick has informed me that unless I have an overriding security concern, he’d prefer to deliver his speech while seated.” Thiesse at first had been going to tell the President that the Secret Service strongly recommended the use of the podium, but since everyone in the area would be screened, he decided against imposing a security measure the President didn’t want.
“Any other questions?”
When no one spoke up, Thiesse continued. “As some of you know, we have a computerized system capable of calling up the photograph of each press corps member. Before we left Washington, we arranged with TSD to copy the White House disk, and give us enough equipment to be able to call up those photos here. Their people are here now installing that equipment.
One agent will be assigned to that function on a full-time basis beginning at 0900. Everyone’s also been told to be in their seats, which are as usual assigned by the President's staff, by ten‑thirty. When the news conference’s over, keep everyone seated until after we have President Varrick safely back at Aspen.”
Thiesse then ran through their approach to escorting the President to the conference area and back to his cabin after it had ended. “When we get the President back to Aspen, either the team leader or I will let the rest of you know that it’s okay to let the press people tear down their equipment, or do whatever else it takes to get this story to their respective offices in the most expeditious manner.”
Thiesse started to wrap up his end of the briefing. “Remember, we’ll be using the DES equipment for all two‑way comm,” Thiesse said, referring to the NSA‑approved digitally scrambled transceivers. “Don’t transmit anything in the clear. There are too many scanners out there capable of monitoring our frequencies.” As an afterthought, he added, “And you never know who’s got one.”
“Okay, that’s about it. Mary will give you your specific assignments, the call signs that will be in use today, and the frequencies for the two‑way units. One last word before I get out of here: I know our visitors can be a real pain. Please remember that our job is to protect the President. As long as you’re doing that, everything will be fine. We all have our hands full, so don’t let the turkeys get you down. Thank you for your attention.”
Allen Thiesse left the front of the room as Mary Neill took over with the individual assignments. Everything was going pretty much on schedule. Allowing Mary another half hour to complete the briefing, the agents would be at their posts by nine o’clock.
. . . . . .
0850 Hours
Payton woke with Janet cuddled up against his side. His right arm had been around her all night, and it tingled as if he’d slept on a bed of nails. As he massaged his arm, Janet yawned.
“What time is it?” she asked, stretching.
“About eight‑fifty,” Payton replied. He sat there massaging his arm, still trying to get out the pins and needles.
They hadn’t gotten far last night before the thickets and underbrush had stopped their progress. Payton had found a small stand of evergreens where nature let the trees grow close together. They must have been northern white pines, because their lower branches were intact, creating a natural windbreak for their impromptu shelter. Payton and Janet had made their bed on a cushion of pine needles, which smelled good, but occasionally found their way into various parts of their anatomies.
Payton had thought it was cold when they settled down for the night. He discovered the true meaning of the word about an hour before sunrise when the temperature reached its low. Payton awoke to see his breath made visible by the cold morning air, and certain that the park service would find his frozen body when the Spring thaw came.
“I guess we’d better get up and moving. I don’t think we’re far from the tower, but I want to get there as soon as possible,” Steve said, glancing at his watch.
Janet stretched, and tried to rub some warmth back into her legs and arms. “It’s too bad we can’t risk a fire. I could use something–hell anything–hot.”
Payton reached into his pocket and pulled out a small half pint can. He held it up so that Janet could see its label–Sterno.
Smiling, Janet reached into her jacket pocket and removed a couple of tea bags.
Payton walked over to where Janet stood, a foxy smile on her face. “Remind me to marry you when we get out of this mess.”
“Is that a proposal, Steven Payton?” she asked, unsure if she had heard him right; and if she did, whether he meant it.
“Let’s say it’s a damned good idea, Ms. Phillips.”
“Very well, I’ll think about it.” The operative phrase was ‘when we get out of this mess’, She thought to herself.
“Think about it!” Payton exclaimed, wrapping his arms around her. “That’s just great.”
“Well, you wouldn’t want me to make a snap decision, would you?” she said jokingly.
Janet prized the top from the Sterno, then set a match to the reddish paste. In a few seconds, a deep bl
ue flame glowed from the top of the can. Using an aluminum camp cup as a pot, she heated the water. He would have preferred coffee, but then he wasn’t about to complain. It was exactly what they needed to ward off the early morning chill.
CHAPTER 46
0910 Hours
John Grant had reached the tower a little after nine. He wanted to spend some time watching it to see if the Secret Service held to their routine. He also wanted to monitor the two‑way communications back and forth between the tower and the command center before he took out the agents posted at the tower.
Grant had to know the times they called in to Camp David’s security command center, or the times Cactus made contact with the tower. His contract and his orders had been specific–he had one target. The deaths of the agents assigned to the tower were neither part of his plans nor required. He’d neutralize the two Secret Service agents, then set up the comm link with the Chairman.
. . . . . .
Jim Norwood had been with the Secret Service for twelve years, serving the last four in the Washington field office. PPD often tapped the D.C. field office to augment the protection teams, and Norwood had been called up too many times to count. Generally, PPD or VPPD assigned him to one of the fixed posts wherever the President or vice President was speaking. The travel wasn’t bad, and Norwood looked forward to the change of pace that occurred on these temporary protection details.
Norwood’s partner for the day, Douglas Talley, had served the first five years of his career running down credit card scams and chasing counterfeit in the Miami field office–all non-protection assignments. When the President or Vice President made one of his infrequent trips to Miami, Talley supplemented the agents of the Protective detail. Unlike his partner, Talley yearned to be an integral part of the cadre who made up the protection details, and prayed for a permanent assignment with one of the groups in the near future. Talley wasn’t ambitious; he only wanted to be where the action was. Being stuck at the top of a fire watchtower far from Camp David didn’t make him happy.
The Cassandra Conspiracy Page 34
