by Al Ruksenas
“Sir?”
“Chris, my boy,” The general said paternalistically. “Under the circumstances a formal report would look a little empty. Why don’t you just detail a memo for me—‘Your Eyes Only’.”
“If anything further develops, we can spend more time on it.”
“The others must have returned for them. They picked up the bodies.”
“That’s unusual for street thugs,” the General replied. “Especially when you routed them. Their only concern is to get away.”
“They probably didn’t want attention focused on the area,” Colonel Jones offered.
“Let’s file this away for now,” the General reiterated. “Our attention is Jeannie McConnel. Not your average street muggings,” he added with sarcasm.
General Bradley rose from the armchair and started back to his desk. “Our lead’s in Beirut. That’s where you’re going. Things are dicey there again, so it’ll have to be an insertion. Who knows who’s in charge and we don’t want you noticed. Rendezvous at Andrews at Eighteen hundred. I called General Wittenfield for transport. Your
orders will be waiting for you.”
“Very well, sir,” both officers responded and started to leave.
“By the way, General. What about Sherwyck?” Caine added.
“Talk to him upon return. If things pan out in Beirut, you may not even have to.”
“Yes, sir.”
In the hallway, Colonel Jones turned to his friend. “You want me to find some appropriate get up for you? You know, something to help blend in at the bazaars, so you won’t stand out as a former plantation owner lost in the desert?”
Caine responded with a broad smile. “Don’t you forget your alligator shoes.”
***
Colonel Caine drove back from the Pentagon along the George Washington Parkway towards Arlington. The sounds of the 600 horsepower rumbling engine, barely muffled for effect, and the sights of the contrasting fresh greenery around him absorbed his preoccupied mind. He glimpsed a portion of Georgetown across the Potomac as the treed canopy of the parkway parted near some grassy banks of the river and opened onto a vista of new condominiums rising on the other side.
His thoughts mellowed into an image of Laura Mitchell. He had offered to drive her to her townhouse in Georgetown. She asked if he could drop her off at her uncle’s instead. She was all right, she said but would feel safer being with Uncle Jonas that night.
Colonel Caine sensed some continuing apprehension in her. At one point a sudden chill coursed through her body. He had turned on the Viper’s heater.
He assured her it was a rare incident. She was a brave woman and he thanked her for helping him against the attackers. She insisted she had heard a woman’s scream inside the building. He promised to check it out with their mutual friend Al Carruthers, as soon as possible.
When they reached her uncle’s residence, she uttered a demure “thank you” and kissed his cheek. Their eyes locked for a moment and each knew they would see each other again. He waited until she was inside.
Caine felt an urge to cut across the Key Bridge to Georgetown, but figured he may not find her at her uncle’s and he didn‘t know where she lived. He could easily find out, but there would be no time before reporting to Andrews Air Force Base. He contented himself with her smiling image, so familiar now after the harrowing incident that had welded their acquaintance.
Chapter 9
Ronald Stack, the Secretary of Defense, was riding in a limousine along Pennsylvania Avenue with the Director of the FBI. He had offered Richard Worthington a ride to their strategy session that day to coordinate plans for action on the Jeannie McConnell case and was taking him back to the Hoover Building.
“I still think this should be a police matter,” the Secretary of Defense said, staring out the limousine’s window. “We have much graver issues to handle in the Group.”
Richard Worthington nodded slightly. He had heard the Secretary of Defense, but was preoccupied with another thought.
“Dick?” The Secretary asked turning to Worthington.
“I heard you, Ron. I was just thinking. If information from this Warlock contact is correct, we could really be in for high level blackmail. Imagine a family member of one of our highest officials being displayed on the internet with machetes at their throat. What would the President do? How would our people react? One of our roles in the Omega Group is successful negotiation in the most sensitive international hostage situations. This is way beyond local police work. We have criminals at war with governments. They don’t have shock troops or tanks. They go for the underbelly. One by one. Things we treasure. People we treasure. What would we give up to get Jeannie back?”
“I don’t know, Dick. What would we give up?” pondered the Secretary of Defense.
“I think that answers your question,” the FBI Director replied. “We use our top resources to make sure we never face that kind of choice. The D.C. cops are good, but they have too many street shootings to deal with.”
“You’re right, Dick,” Ronald Stack conceded with frustration. “I suppose my pitch to Congress for less vulnerable, higher altitude attack helicopters for the ‘no man’s land’ mountains in Asia can wait,” he recited with irony.
“We need to find her, Ron. That’s all,” the FBI Director said emphatically.
“Alive, I hope,” the Secretary of Defense replied fervently.
Two blocks from FBI Headquarters their car stopped at a red light. Dust from a construction site was swirling around them at the intersection. Overhead a large crane had just hoisted a steel I‐beam from a tractor trailer along the adjacent curb and was swinging it into place about four stories above them. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, the large eye bolt holding the hook that was attached to the braided steel cable holding the beam sheared in half with a bang and the half‐ton beam came swooshing down as if propelled by a large, lazy slingshot.
It crashed at a perpendicular onto the roof of the limousine with a horrible grinding and popping sound, sending glass flying in all directions and freezing passersby into a momentary paralysis.
Seconds later there was disoriented movement in the limousine. FBI Director Worthington and two special agents gazed around in shocked bewilderment. The driver was hunched low, looking upward through the shattered space that had been the windshield, instinctively, but ineffectively, reaching for the revolver in his belt holster.
Ronald Stack, the Secretary of Defense, lay motionless, slumped backward where he sat. The force of the beam’s collision had put an ugly V into the roof of the shiny black limousine. That part of the roof had collapsed onto Stack’s head, snapping his neck and killing him instantly. The others were dazed, but barely scratched.
Secret Service and FBI agents were already swarming over the intersection, cordoned off by the Washington police, when General William Bradley learned of the accident. He quickly dispatched Colonel Garrison Jones to the scene. Jones presented his credentials and was let through the police lines. He approached the crumpled car with the steel beam embedded in it. The black limousine looked almost rakish with its crushed roof and carriage resting low over the tires, which were still inflated.
A crowd had filled the periphery of the intersection along the bright yellow tape barriers marking the restricted accident area.
Colonel Jones studied the car from bumper to bumper, trying to picture the positions of the men inside and imagining the beam whistling down on the car. It rested there, after the fact, almost jauntily, at a slight angle off parallel with the length of the limousine.
“They removed Secretary Stack a few minutes ago,” a voice said from behind.
“How is he?” Jones asked.
“Not good, I’m afraid. He had no chance.”
Colonel Jones turned around to see a well‐groomed man in a crisp two piece suit talking to him. Jones recognized him as an FBI agent he had seen before.
“Colonel Garrison Jones,” he said extending his hand.
>
“Jim Martin,” he replied extending his. “Director Worthington and the three others were rushed to George Washington Hospital. They seemed okay.”
“Very lucky,” Jones said scrutinizing the wreck. “I can’t see how no one else was killed or injured.”
“Must have been some serious meeting,” the agent speculated. “Two VIP’s in the same limo.”
“Aren’t they all?” Jones said without sounding facetious.
“Looks like a freak accident,” agent Martin speculated and turned his head upward. “We’ve got a couple of our men up there now.
You want to have a look?”
Colonel Jones followed the special agent into the skeleton of the new building.
They surveyed the scene from the fourth floor and joined in conversation with two workers in hard hats who were speaking with two other FBI men.
“We were liftin’ this here beam, just like the others,” a grimy, heavy‐set construction worker was saying. “Dennis—that’s the crane operator up there—he was liftin’ it up this side here from the truck down there.” The worker pointed out the action as he spoke. “Then he worked the beam around the corner, here, toward the front out there.”
“He was liftin’ nice and easy, like he always does,” added the second worker, a younger man with a full beard. His tone seemed to be declaring that no blame can be placed on them.
“There was nothing unusual? No unusual sounds?” one of the investigators asked.
“No, nothin’,” the younger worker declared with the other nodding agreement. “Suddenly, we just heard this …Snap!”
“The cable holding the beam just snapped back like a whip,” the heavy‐set worker continued. “And then the beam just crashed down on top of the limo. That’s it. There was nothin’ anybody could do about it.”
“Nobody up here was hurt?” Colonel Jones interjected.
“Naw,” the worker assured. “But, I’ll tell you, that snapping cable sure scared the living hell out of Dennis up there in his crane.”
“Yeah!” the younger worker added exuberantly. “And it sure scared the living hell out of that bird that was sitting on the end of the beam.”
Chapter 10
The President’s advisers were seated in their customary places on several chairs and a settee waiting for him to enter with his signature phrase when confronted by a dilemma.
“Damn it!” he exclaimed entering. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another!”
“It always is, Mr. President,” soothed his chief of staff, George Brandon with the usual clichéd, but very true response.
“He was just here on the McConnell matter,” the President said.
“It was a tragic accident,” affirmed Stanford Howard, the national security adviser. “A real freak accident.”
“Ron was a good man. A real friend.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the aides replied.
“Why Stack, damn it? Poor Stack. You know how hard I had to fight to get him confirmed by Congress. With all the strategic changes going on today, our defense posture’s one of the hottest issues going.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Paul McCallister, his senior adviser. “But we have excellent candidates to step in.”
“Someone from your corporate world?” the President replied in frustration. “Ron was a good man, selfless. He’ll be hard to replace. He was bright, dedicated, had a great grasp of history—that’s rare nowadays. Helps keep us from stepping into strategic blunders all the time.”
“Very true, sir,” Brandon, the chief of staff, replied.
“They’ll put any new appointee of mine through the ringer again,” the President declared.
“This is all McConnell needs for another power play showdown in the Congress.”
“The situation may be a little different now, Mr. President. What, with her daughter missing…” one of the aides offered.
“Speaker McConnell may be neutralized for now,” the President said. “And I feel for her. But Everett Dunne, her counterpart on the Senate side, is just itching to grab back the White House.”
“What about Philip Taylor, the Deputy Secretary?” Howard suggested. “He’d most likely get little flack.”
“Anybody, but Taylor!” the President retorted. “He was foisted on me. Political expediency. It was a favor to Senator Dunne in exchange for letting some of my legislation go through. More effective caliber bullets for our troops in urban warfare. Remember?”
“I was meaning you could avoid a floor fight.”
“I know what you mean, Stan. But any decision like that would mean I’ve capitulated to the Congress—to McConnell and Dunne. It’s bad timing. The other party is the majority and they’re already angling for the next election.”
“Senator Dunne’s own name has been floated for the presidency,” Paul McCallister offered.
“Exactly! I can’t boost him or his party by favoring his people and their policies.”
“Yes, sir,” an aide intoned.
“What about Ron? I need to call his family.”
“We’re arranging that, sir,” replied the chief of staff. “Also, you were scheduled for the Country Music Command Performance tonight at Ford’s Theater, but we’re cancelling your presence in view of today’s events.”
“Of course,” the President said in a preoccupied tone. “What about Michelle’s daughter? What’s new on that?”
“Everything is in play, sir,” replied the national security adviser.
“It’s too early to tell.”
“What about Sherwyck? I need Victor in here. Did you set up that meeting? I want to pick his brain,” the President declared.
“Or he pick yours,” adviser Paul McCallister, the smooth, veteran Wall Street insider thought, but would not dare say.
Chapter 11
General Benjamin Starr was saddling his Appaloosa mare for his weekly ride along the lower reaches of the old Patowmack Canal. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff kept his prized mount at the estate of a friend in the Virginia countryside south of Georgetown. General Starr was an expert horseman and had participated in more than one Olympics in his time, but as he rose in rank, he inevitably found that his military duties intervened with his consummate pastime.
His regular jaunt along wooded trails bordering the old historical canal was one of the few pleasures that he insisted upon. It invigorated his spirits and kept him physically fit, even though his robust appearance belied that. That morning, too, was dedicated first to his ride. The issue of the missing Speaker’s daughter could wait until he returned later that afternoon. After all, there was only one real lead and it was being actively pursued. If any national catastrophe occurred that needed the personal attention of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, everyone knew where they could reach him.
“Damn overkill,” he thought as he completed cinching the saddle on the restless mare. General Starr’s saddlery was Western, while the gentry of the area would be found more typically in English tack and riding attire. His jeans, snakeskin cowboy boots and Stetson gave him an obvious Western air that reflected his individuality and confidence in his social and professional position. The General swung himself effortlessly into the saddle and with a nudge of his knees, signaled his mount out of the stable and onto a path leading along a road that eventually joined a trail leading into the National Park System.
His rhythmic and barely perceptible swaying back and forth in time with the Appaloosa’s gait made them appear as one. The General figured that by the time the elite counter‐terrorist group was fully mobilized for the mission, Jeannie would pop up somewhere and make everybody look foolish.
“We’ll just do what we have to do, right girl?” he said spurring his horse and leaning forward to anticipate her response. The mount broke into a spirited gallop along the hardened dirt trail. Starr adjusted his Stetson more firmly on his forehead as the wind whistled in his ears.
He remembered the view of a predecessor, “Vinegar Joe” Still
well—a personal hero, who coordinated efforts in the Burma Campaign against the Japanese in World War II. Horses were all “prance and fart” according to General Stillwell. Starr smiled musingly. “He didn’t really know much about horses, did he girl?” he shouted at his galloping Appaloosa. “But he leaned over backwards for his men! Not afraid of his superiors! Eh, girl?” Not like some of his more recent colleagues, he thought. Generals advancing their careers and afraid to tell their Commander‐in‐Chief that he’s up to his ears in horse shit. “Go, girl!”
General Starr gazed ahead along the trail to see if hikers were in his way. He saw nothing and heard only the rhythmic thundering of his mare’s hooves on the ground. As they approached a gently curving bend, the General glanced quickly through trees on his left to see a glimpse of the trail ahead. He noticed a black flash dashing their way and heard a faint but distinct thundering along the ground.
