Death to America (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #4)

by Kennedy, J. Robert

  Leroux’s eyebrows raised slightly at the thought as his mind refocused, ideas racing as intelligence reports, news footage, agent reports and more coalesced into different patterns. His eyes popped wide.

  “I see a few possibilities, sir.”

  He could almost hear Morrison smile. “And they are?”

  “First, it was a disgruntled citizen who killed the President because of what’s going on, or for some other personal reason. But I doubt that.”

  “Why?”

  “How did he get the gun in?”

  “It was plastic.”

  This stopped Leroux in his tracks, his geek side kicking in. “Really? How many shots were fired?”

  “Six. Five hit their target, the first hit a Secret Service agent.”

  “Remarkable,” muttered Leroux, making a mental note to update himself on 3D printer technology. He smiled.

  “You said six shots, five well aimed?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he have time to fire that many shots without someone stopping him?”

  “A Secret Service agent, the one I mentioned, jumped him and in the struggle the gun went off.”

  “Did he fire before or after the agent jumped him?”

  “I’m not sure, I think after.” There was a pause. “Yes, definitely after. I heard the shouts, saw the struggle, then the shots were fired.”

  “So a man, struggling with a highly trained Secret Service Agent managed to fire six shots, placing five of them in his intended target.”

  It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, one laid out for Morrison to come to his own conclusions on.

  For Leroux had already come to his.

  Ridiculous!

  “There’s no way it could have happened,” said Morrison, the dawn of realization clear in his voice. “What you’re saying is—”

  “My guess is the Secret Service Agent aimed that weapon and fired it.”

  “Meaning our shooter is actually a patsy, another conscript into the attacks that have been happening.”

  “And if our agent nodded to someone like you think he did, then that means one of two things. One, someone killed the President using the same method as the terrorist attacks as a cover, keeping in mind the same method was used on our F-35 pilot. Or two, someone killed the President using the same method as the terrorist attacks, not as a cover, but as the method of choice because it has worked for them before.”

  Morrison cursed. “And if someone in the White House knew, then these attacks may not be at all what we think.”

  “And the F-35 theft could be connected.”

  “Everything could be connected.” Morrison cursed again. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “It means we can’t trust anybody.”

  Leroux felt his chest tighten as he looked about his empty office, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. “What are we going to do, sir?”

  “We’re going to figure out who that agent was nodding to, and where the shooter came from. Get on it, Chris. I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The White House, Washington, DC

  Jacob Starling shook hands with the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. His mind was a fog of excitement, fear, and confusion. He was now the President of the United States. The Commander-in-Chief.

  The leader of a country in chaos.

  A country looking to him for solutions.

  Those in the room clapped politely, no one happy about the occasion, not even himself. To say it was his dream to become President one day after Bridges had successfully completed two terms was an understatement. He had already begun the groundwork. But to get it like this? Through the assassination of his good friend?

  Never.

  He had received the news from his aide who had taken the call while in the limo on the way to Capitol Hill. He had wept openly at his friend’s death, at his country’s plight, and a small part of him in fear of what was now expected of him.

  The thought had pissed him off.

  If you expected to be President one day, then you better be ready to be President today!

  He had wiped those tears, instructed the driver to head to the White House, and contacted the Chief Justice and House Leaders to meet him immediately.

  All of whom now looked at him expectantly.

  He hadn’t even had time to prepare anything, to even think of something inspirational to say, but he needed to say something, to somehow bring comfort to those surrounding him.

  But his frown creased his face as he spoke.

  “Thank you, Mr. Chief Justice.” He opened his arms, spreading them wide, his fingers splayed open, trying to convey to those in the room a sense of inclusion. “Ladies and gentlemen, we, and we together, will solve this crisis. America is under attack. We have no idea who or why they are doing this. We are on our knees, defeat is looking down upon us, but this”—he jabbed his finger at the ground—“is America! America never surrenders, never throws in the towel! We will win this fight, and we will win it by being what we are—the greatest nation on Earth. We will use the tools and knowhow that make us that great nation, rather than standby and let ourselves be destroyed. Our citizens want action, nay they demand action, and action is what they shall receive.

  “Mr. Speaker, I will be seeking Congressional approval to temporarily suspend Posse Comitatus. Our troops are in their barracks, raring to help, so they will. I want an immediate drawdown of our foreign forces. Every man and woman not absolutely needed in theatre is to return to secure the homeland. Make certain our allies and enemies know that any hostile action against our facilities or forces will be met with a nuclear response. We are not going to tolerate anyone trying to kick us when we are down.

  “Susan, I want MYSTIC activated immediately. Record every damned phone call in this country. I want to know who our victims are talking to the next time one of them blows something up.”

  “Sir, that violates the Constitution,” interjected the Chief Justice. “You’ll be challenged.”

  “And by the time I’m ordered to stop, we’ll have at least a day’s worth of data, won’t we?” He dropped his head slightly, implying an “or else”.

  The Chief Justice bowed slightly. “I’m certain it would take at least that long.”

  “Very well. Hopefully tomorrow we might have some intel on what’s been happening.” Starling smiled, holding his hands out to the room again. “And remember, together we will save our nation. This is by no means the final round. We may be on our knees, but it’s time to stand back up, to fight back with our entire arsenal. America will win this war, for it is war we are facing ladies and gentlemen. We have been invaded by an unknown force that is using our own citizens against us. Today that changes. But to effect these changes, I want no changes around here. Everyone who had a job this morning, still has the same job tomorrow. The only change will be my own, and the swearing in of a new Vice President, who will be named shortly.”

  He paused, looking about the room. “Where’s Bill?” Bill Cambridge stepped forward from behind the imposing General Thorne, the room still crowded.

  “Here, Mr. President.”

  “Bill, you’re my speechwriter now. I’ll be addressing the nation in sixty minutes. Make it clear that the party is over and that those who have committed these acts will be eliminated, but also make it clear to our population that it will take time and to remain hopeful, vigilant, and law abiding.” He smiled. “Make me sound as wise as you did our good friend and our great President, Johnathan Bridges.”

  “You can count on it, Mr. President.”

  “Excellent.” He sucked in a deep breath, his lips pressing tightly together as the Nuclear Football entered the room, handcuffed to the wrist of an Air Force Major, the sight of the metal Zero Halliburton briefcase causing his heart to leap with the reality of the situation.

  You’re about to have control of the most powerful arsenal mankind has ever known.
/>
  “Thank you, everyone. Please give me a few minutes alone, I have some business to take care of.”

  The room cleared of unnecessary personnel, and within minutes the Yankee White cleared Major had handed control of the hand of God to him.

  And he trembled in fear as he was finally left alone, suddenly uncertain if he was capable of doing the job he had been forced to take.

  USS Columbia, SSN-771, Los Angeles Class Submarine

  Contiguous Zone, 17 Nautical miles off the coast of China

  Dylan Kane grabbed a handhold as the sub shook from another depth charge, the count of how many had been dropped already lost. Lee Fang gripped the seat she was in with one hand, the wall with the other, it clear she was as scared as he was. But like him, he suspected that fear was just another emotion to use. It forced the body to produce adrenaline, which heightened the senses and allowed for quicker actions and reactions if harnessed properly, rather than giving in to the shaking, quivering mass most would under these circumstances.

  “Someone really wants you.”

  Fang nodded. “Do you really think this is over me?”

  Kane placed his hand on his chest, feigning shock. “You think it’s me? I’m a likeable guy!”

  Fang looked at him as if she wasn’t sure what to make of him.

  That’s the one flaw in training spies for other cultures. They almost never get the humor down, especially sarcasm.

  He winked at her. “Just kidding. But yes, I’m pretty sure they want you. And it’s for more than killing a General. There’s no way they’d risk war with the United States over that. If they know something about the assassination, or are somehow involved, then I can see them wanting you dead, but risking war? There must be something they think you know that they can’t risk having get out.”

  Fang bit her lip, Kane catching it immediately.

  “What?”

  She frowned, looking up at him, a hint of guilt on her face. “There’s more I didn’t tell you.”

  “Spill.”

  She sighed. “Are you missing an F-35?”

  Kane shook his head, his chin dropping slightly toward his chest. “Excuse me?”

  “From what I overheard, I think someone involved in whatever is going on delivered an F-35 to our government and they’ve already determined it was intact and our scientists are looking at it now.” Her eyes narrowed. “You do know about the missing plane, don’t you?”

  “No comment.”

  “So you do.”

  “And you have more.”

  She nodded. “They also were talking about being able to take Taiwan, Mongolia and the South China Sea without interference from the United States.”

  Kane’s eyes flared a bit on this revelation. “And they were being serious?”

  Fang nodded. “Absolutely. They had barely begun to drink, and they sent the girls away before starting the conversation.”

  “And this is the same conversation you told me about when they mentioned the assassination of the President?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they didn’t know you were there…” His voice drifted as he began to process this new information, the sub rocking again as another depth charge exploded, this one sounding and feeling much closer than the others.

  He barely noticed it.

  If the Chinese involved in this overheard meeting were acting outside of the purview of their government as Fang seemed to think based upon her debriefing in the mini-sub, then this rogue element had taken delivery of the F-35 and also knew of a planned assassination of the President, which meant the two events were linked. He found it impossible to believe that events this big would coincidentally coincide with the terrorist attacks that had been happening over the past two weeks.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Kane’s eyes returned their focus to Fang. “I think that everything that’s happening back home right now is a diversion, or a means to an end.”

  “But what end?”

  Kane shrugged his shoulders. “If China thinks they can take Taiwan, Mongolia and the South China Sea without American interference, it can’t be good. Someone has carved up the world, giving China a big chunk of it in exchange for something.” He looked at her, realizing how difficult it must have been for her to give up this intel considering how much benefit her country could conceivably gain if successful. He lowered his voice. “You’re a good person, Fang. Most people would have kept that intel to themselves, just in case we weren’t able to save the President and we decided to cut you loose.”

  Fang frowned. “You wouldn’t do that, would you? The deal was I give you the intel about the President then you protect me.”

  Kane could see a hint of fear in her eyes. It was clear she knew if she were captured she was not only dead, but her death would be long and painful—China wouldn’t be trying to sink an American nuclear submarine for murder. And if he were in her position, he’d have gone deep, but he had more options. This was his life, not hers. She was Military Special Ops, not Intelligence. Military was short term, Intelligence could be years—decades even.

  He reached forward to try and provide some reassurance but was jostled by another explosion that sounded far too close. He settled for a verbal delivery. “Don’t worry, my government might, but I won’t. Assuming we survive the day, you’ll be safe, I promise you. But you’ll never be going back to China.”

  Her eyes glistened for a moment, then she blinked. “I’ve already resigned myself to that fact.” She pointed up. “Each of these depth charges is another nail in the coffin of my old life, as you Americans might say.”

  He chuckled. “You’ve got some of the colloquialisms down. You’ll do fine in America.”

  She smiled, it turning into a frown as another charge went off followed by an alarm. “If we ever make it there.”

  “We have to. This information is too important. If there’s a connection between your intel and what’s happening back home, then this has nothing to do with Islamic terrorism. My government needs to know that, and quickly.”

  Fang rose. “Then we need to get off this boat.”

  Kane nodded. “Agreed.” He opened the hatch and poked his head out, looking at the guard stationed at the door. “I need to speak to your Captain immediately.”

  Operations Center 3, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  Someone cried.

  Chris Leroux didn’t bother looking to see who. The image was shocking and heartbreaking. He felt his own stomach churn in the darkness of the Op Center, as he was sure they all did. They were among the first in the country to see the assassination of their President in high-definition living color.

  It was gruesome.

  Leroux had seen death before, even in person. As part of his job he watched videos of beheadings and mutilations, rapes and beatings. But this was different somehow. He felt a connection with his President, not those others, and to see him shot in cold blood made him sick to his stomach.

  And determined to find out what this once great man had meant when he had delivered his dying words to Director Morrison.

  “Wait!” Leroux jumped from his seat, rushing to the front of the room, pointing at one of the large displays showing one of the views, six different angles already available and time-synched to play together. The view was a large swath of the crime scene, the shooter on the right, the President at the base of the stairs on the left. “Back it up ten seconds and zoom in on the shooter’s hands.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  One of the techs backed up the footage and zoomed in then tagged the hands in the image so the computer would keep them in the center of the screen, no matter where they went in the frame.

  “Good. Now zoom out just a bit so we can see the shooter’s shoulders.”

  The view changed slightly. “Tag his right shoulder.”

  A little green plus sign appeared at the center of the shoulder.

  “Now play it back in real-time.”

  They watch
ed as the man’s arm was grabbed then the struggle that ensued resulting in six shots being fired, five hitting their target.

  “Okay, reset it, but in slow motion. Everyone watch the shoulder before the shots.”

  He could sense everyone in the room leaning forward as they looked to see what he had spotted, or at least thought he had spotted. It could be completely innocent, it could be his mind creating something from nothing, but he was sure he had seen something that didn’t look right.

  “He pulled him toward the President!” cried Alice Michaels, the Operations Center Coordinator for the day.

  “By the hand!” agreed Harold Dillard, one of Leroux’s better analysts. “And look at the trigger!”

  Leroux had already moved on to the rest of the looping video the moment his fears had been confirmed. He pointed at the screen. “Remove the shoulder tag and move it to the shooter’s right hand.”

  The plus sign moved and the video restarted. It was clear the agent’s hand was enveloping the shooter’s, but from their angle all they could really see was the shooter’s hand and the gun. He pointed at another screen with a reverse angle. “Bring that one up, same tag.” The screens swapped and everyone gasped as the enhanced image made the truth crystal clear.

  The agent’s finger was the one pulling the trigger.

  “He’s even checking his aim!” exclaimed Dillard, throwing up his hands. “This is insane! He’s Secret Service, isn’t he?”

  “Special Agent Maxwell Logan, according to the report,” replied Michaels. “Six years on the job.”

  Leroux was squeezing the bridge of his nose absentmindedly as he watched the replay. To no one in particular, he said, “Pull up his service record. I want to know if he’s ex-military or has any connections to Raven Defense Services.”

  “Why?” asked Dillard. “You know something?” The way he said it Leroux knew he was smiling. His team, by reputation, and since he had become their supervisor, through experience, knew his skills, and he felt had come to respect him, even though he was younger than some of them. Dillard however was a full eighteen months Leroux’s junior.