Trap the Devil

by Ben Coes

  A half dozen Secret Service agents flanked the limo.

  Amy Dellenbaugh climbed out first, followed by Sally and Summer, the Dellenbaughs’ daughters. A crowd of VIPs—members of Congress, governors, large donors, and old friends—let out a cacophonous and sustained cheer.

  Dellenbaugh climbed out last. A big smile was on his face as he stepped toward the crowd. For the first time, he noticed his parents. Dellenbaugh let out a loud, “Oh my God!” when he saw them, glancing at Amy, who he knew had arranged the surprise. He stepped toward them. His mother had her hands on her mouth, unable to control her excitement. Dellenbaugh embraced her.

  “Hi, Mom,” he said, holding her for several moments. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”

  “Are you kidding? My son is announcing that he’s running for reelection! You think I’d miss that? Not for the world!”

  The president’s father stood next to her. Dellenbaugh let go of his mother and wrapped his arms around him.

  “Thanks for coming, Dad. Talk about a surprise!”

  “I’m very proud of you, J.P.”

  “I’m proud of you too, Dad.”

  86

  JOINT BASE ANDREWS

  PRINCE GEORGE’S COUNTY, MARYLAND

  Nina Simonds stood at the side of the woman’s bed, checking the various monitors attached to her. She was still unconscious, her head wrapped in bandages down to her eyes.

  Simonds leaned over and placed an instrument near the woman’s left eye, examining it. She caught Dewey’s shadow as he entered.

  “How’s your hip?”

  “Fine.”

  Simonds touched the woman’s arm, which was connected to a variety of tubes and wires.

  “She’s not going to gain consciousness,” said Simonds.

  “Until when?”

  Simonds stood up.

  “What do you mean, ‘until when’? Until forever. The operation wasn’t successful. Or, perhaps more accurately, the operation was a waste of time. She was already gone by then. I’m sorry. Were you two … close?”

  Dewey stared at the unconscious woman without responding to the question. Finally, he looked at Simonds.

  “I don’t know her,” said Dewey. “She has information, that’s all.”

  “What sort of information?”

  “If we knew that, we wouldn’t need to talk to her.”

  Simonds nodded.

  “I don’t know what you guys are working on,” said Simonds, “but I did find something. I know it’s not my job, but we both work for the same agency so I thought I should say something.”

  “What?” said Dewey.

  “She had plastic surgery. Not everyday plastic surgery. The kind we do.” Simonds put her index finger to the woman’s eyelid. “Both eyes were cut. They removed some material. The incision is almost too small to see. They elongated her eyelashes and her eyelids.” She touched the woman’s cheek. “They grafted synthetic bone onto her cheekbones, about two millimeters. Went in through her mouth. They also altered her nose. The work was so good that you can’t even find where they cut in, but the bone in her nose was broken. Based on the break, it was done by a machine. It’s very precise. We’re talking about someone whose face was altered, and not just altered. It was done by a professional. By one of us.”

  “Agency?”

  “I’m not saying that. It was done by an agency—Langley, or a foreign intelligence service. This is serious surgery, concealment versus enhancement. Whoever did it is like Picasso. It’s impressive work.”

  The wheels on the big plane rumbled to life as the jet arced left and down, beginning its descent into the Washington, D.C., area.

  “There has to be more you can do,” said Dewey. “Something to wake her up, even if it’s just for a few minutes.”

  Simonds stared at Dewey, an icy look on her face.

  “There’s nothing,” she said. “I wish there was. We’ll get her to Bethesda and run a more comprehensive set of diagnostics. There’s always a chance I’m missing something, but the instruments don’t lie.”

  87

  FEDEX FIELD

  Bruner got out of the vehicle and entered FedEx Field at the D entrance, going through the medical and chemical detectors. An FBI agent examined his identification.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Bruner,” said the agent.

  “Good afternoon.”

  “Aren’t State Department officials supposed to stay out of politics?”

  “I suppose they are,” said Bruner. “Hopefully, I won’t get into too much trouble for coming out and supporting the president.”

  Bruner took an escalator to the second level and walked around the concourse until he saw the entrance to Section 211. He went into a nearby men’s room. A father and his young son were washing their hands. Bruner entered one of the stalls and waited until they had finished. He went to the sink and felt beneath the counter until he found the weapon. He ripped it out of the tape and slipped it into a specially designed pocket beneath his armpit, then walked back to the escalators, descending to the first level and following a line of people who were walking out to the field. The noise was loud. The crowd was excited.

  As he came out through the tunnel, sunlight hit his eyes. He scanned the enormous stadium as his eyes adjusted. It was filled to capacity. Red, white, and blue was everywhere—on clothing, on small flags being waved, on signs, on banners hanging from the upper decks. A triangular formation of fighter jets appeared overhead, followed by a violent, earsplitting roar as the formation of F-35s tore just a few hundred feet above the stadium, sending the enormous crowd into pandemonium. A few moments later, a black object appeared in silence out of the sky, behind the wave of F-35s. It was a Stealth Fighter, swooping low. The crowd seemed to quiet as a soft electric purr trailed the sleek plane. The crowd cheered excitedly as it passed overhead, a low rumble shaking the ground.

  In the middle of the field, cutting across the fifty-yard line, was the stage. At the center of the stage were a podium and teleprompters. In front of the stage, at approximately the twenty-yard line, was another stage. On it stood dozens of reporters and cameramen.

  Bruner walked along the cordon until he came to the VIP entrance just a few feet from where the president would be speaking. He presented a pass and was escorted to the second row, almost directly in front of the podium.

  An older woman was already in the seat next to him. Bruner smiled at her as he sat down.

  “Hi,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Charles. Are you as excited as I am?”

  The woman smiled back.

  “More, I would imagine,” she said. “I’m Mary Dellenbaugh. He’s my nephew.”

  88

  THE KENNEDY-WARREN BUILDING

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The entrance to the Kennedy-Warren was filled with ambulances, police cars, and dark sedans. Blue and red lights flashed in silence. Bruckheimer and Samantha were allowed through the police line.

  When they arrived at the elevator, a coroner in a blue uniform was standing in a pool of blood, kneeling over June. Samantha gasped, covering her mouth as tears began to roll down her cheeks.

  Bruckheimer put his arm around Samantha’s shoulders, trying to comfort her, even as his own eyes became wet.

  Samantha took a step toward the body. She leaned over and kissed her fingertips, then placed them on June’s chest.

  “Good-bye, Jesus,” she whispered.

  * * *

  Back at NSA headquarters, Bruckheimer, his voice choked with emotion, announced to everyone in the SID operations theater that June had been killed. Shock and tears swept over the room. Bruckheimer went across the hall to June’s vacant office. Samantha was already seated at June’s desk, typing.

  “Hi,” said Samantha. “Sorry. This is what he was working on.”

  The LayerX matches were spread across the computer screen. Samantha clicked through all eight individuals.

  “What does it mean?” said Bruckheimer.

&nb
sp; Samantha double-clicked the file on a Consular Operations employee named Simon Smith. According to LayerX, he was a former Delta by the name of Richard Vaughan, killed in Somalia in 1994.

  “What about him?” Bruckheimer asked.

  The photo of Vaughan was in color. He was standing with three other soldiers in front of a Humvee, somewhere in the desert. Samantha pointed to one of the men in the photo, a tall soldier in camouflage, holding a rifle, standing in back.

  “What is it?” said Bruckheimer.

  Samantha ran across the hall to her desk and pushed papers aside until she found a folded section of USA Today. It was a photo of the newly sworn in Speaker of the House, Bobby Largent. She returned to June’s office and held the photo next to the one of the soldier as Bruckheimer looked on.

  It was unmistakable. It was the same man.

  “Oh my God,” said Bruckheimer.

  89

  FEDEX FIELD

  Dellenbaugh spent more than fifteen minutes moving through the crowd of his closest supporters, shaking hands, hugging a few people, as a White House photographer as well as another photographer from the reelection committee took photos.

  At some point, one of the members of the White House advance team got his attention.

  Dellenbaugh took a few steps back and held up his hand, asking for a little quiet so he could say something.

  “Wow,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “How great is this? Seeing so many old friends, so many loyal supporters, well, it makes me feel humble and grateful. Look over there,” he said, pointing. “Senator Hank Rogerson. He was voted the most liberal member of the Senate, but we came into the Senate together. We were roommates up on Tennessee Avenue for almost five years. Thanks for coming. Does this mean you’re going to vote Republican, Hank?”

  “Damn right,” said Rogerson. “I vote for the candidate, not the party. I know if I ever run for president, you’ll be there for me.”

  The crowd erupted into cheers, clapping, and good-hearted laughter.

  “You know it,” said Dellenbaugh.

  Again, laughter rolled over the crowd.

  “Thank you all for coming. Thank you for being there for me, through thick and thin. I’m a blessed man, in so many ways, but it wouldn’t mean anything if it weren’t for all the people who helped me along the way, who supported me, believed in me, put up with my mistakes. I hope I make you all proud. It sounds like a cliché, but I actually believe in all this stuff, in what we’re trying to do. I believe in leaving America a better place than we found it. It’s never easy, trying to make it better, but we’re going to try. That means all of us. So thank you. Now, I’m apparently getting the signal.” Dellenbaugh nodded toward the advance man. “I’ll see you all in there.”

  As the small crowd of supporters clapped and cheered once again, Dellenbaugh, his wife, and their two daughters followed the advance man and several Secret Service agents into the long tunnel. Behind them trailed both photographers, who continued to snap pictures.

  They walked quickly down the tunnel, toward the field, then they went right, moving beneath the stadium, just off the field. The sound of cheering echoed down through the concrete. Dellenbaugh waited just off the entrance to the field, smiling at his daughters, then at Amy.

  The stadium speakers crackled to life.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my high privilege and distinct honor to introduce the President of the United States of America, J. P. Dellenbaugh.”

  Dellenbaugh wrapped both arms around his wife and daughters, like a football huddle, as he got ready to walk across the stage.

  “Any last bit of advice?” he asked.

  “Ummm, don’t fall off the stage?” said Summer.

  90

  JOINT BASE ANDREWS

  The door to the jumbo jet opened just moments after the plane stopped moving on the tarmac. A set of air stairs was driven immediately over. Dewey was the first person down the air stairs. As he stepped to the tarmac, he saw a black helicopter descending toward him. When it landed, the back door opened and Calibrisi climbed out.

  “Come on,” barked Calibrisi.

  Dewey looked back at the jet for a brief moment, then climbed aboard the chopper, taking a seat across from Calibrisi.

  “Welcome home,” said Calibrisi. “How was the trip?”

  Dewey glared without emotion at Calibrisi. “Peachy.”

  “How is she?”

  “She never regained consciousness,” said Dewey as the chopper ripped away from the ground, its rotors in a frenetic frenzy of power, soon tearing across the sun-filled sky.

  For the first time, Calibrisi noticed Dewey’s bloodstained jeans, which a nurse had sewn back up, washed, and dried so he had something to wear. The stains remained.

  Calibrisi opened a small cardboard box. Inside were several earbuds. He handed one to Dewey, then stuck one in his own ear.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Redskins Stadium.”

  91

  IN THE AIR OVER THE NORTHWESTERN HAWAIIAN ISLANDS

  AIR FORCE TWO

  Vice President Donato entered his suite. He changed from his suit into a green-and-blue-striped golf shirt and khakis.

  It would be in the eighties when they landed. He wanted to enjoy every minute of his first vacation in more than a year. He couldn’t wait, thinking about playing golf with his son and tennis with his daughter, taking long walks with his wife along the beach. He looked forward to that the most—talking to his wife the way a normal couple talks, as friends, outside the chaotic, programmed world that they were a part of, beyond the reach of the lenses, the cameras, the staff—just being a normal family, a normal couple, at least for a little while.

  Donato walked to the cockpit and stuck his head inside. “Hey, guys.”

  “Mr. Vice President,” said Snow, the pilot on the left.

  “Hello, sir,” said Coleman, the pilot on the right. “I trust the trip has been okay?”

  “It’s been great. I just wanted to thank you guys.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Vice President,” said Coleman.

  Donato glanced beyond the two pilots, beyond the electronic dashboard, out the window to the gorgeous green silhouettes of the islands, surrounded by ocean.

  “How long until we land?” he asked.

  “Fifteen minutes, sir. Sir?”

  Donato’s eyes were transfixed as he stared out the front window.

  Both pilots followed Donato’s stare, turning their heads and looking.

  A small spark—a flash of fire—punched through the peaceful view. It was a small apparition, a tiny orange blaze. As the three men stared in silence, the small burst grew and sharpened. A smoky, white-hot arrow took hold and formed into a bright comet of light just above the orange.

  “Oh my God,” said Snow.

  Coleman hit his headset. “Mayday!” he barked. “Mayday!”

  Alarm beacons inside the jet roared as the plane’s defense systems picked up the incoming warhead. Loud, violent squawks repeated over and over, as an automated female voice boomed from every speaker on the plane:

  Warning, take evasive measures immediately.

  Snow lurched up and slammed a button initiating automated air defense systems as Coleman grabbed the plane’s controls and pushed hard, down and to the left, trying to move the big jet out of the line of fire.

  Warning, take evasive measures immediately.

  Air Force Two made a low, mechanical grinding noise as, in the same moment, it torqued hard to the left. The sound of metal seams stressing, the dull squeak and groans of the plane trying to do something it wasn’t meant to do, echoed through the plane, above the robotic monotone of the voice and the loud squawking of the alarm beacons.

  Warning, take evasive measures immediately.

  The underside of the fuselage rumbled as undermounted cannons dropped, targeted, and started firing rounds in a high-pitched rat-a-tat-tat. A moment later, a different weapon began firing as well—big bo
oms every half second, as the plane’s automated defense systems tried to shoot the missile out of the air.

  Two low booms were followed by rapid hissing noises. The hissing rose above the cacophony as a pair of heat-seeking air-to-surface missiles roared from beneath the plane, targeted on the incoming missile.

  The yellow comet of light grew larger. A trail of black exhaust plumed in a wavy line behind the missile as it tore through the sky toward the jet. The confrontation would happen soon—both sides were moving at each other at a blistering speed.

  The loud boom boom boom of the plane’s undermounted miniguns cracked the air a moment later, like a drumbeat, the weapons trained automatically to target the approaching warhead.

  Warning, take evasive measures immediately.

  As Donato watched through the window, a sense of deep disbelief struck him and nearly made him faint, but he did not. He could not, for he needed to see, he wanted to know. Would Air Force Two’s missiles hit the attacking missile? Would they miss? What about the guns? It’s what they were meant to do—he told himself that—but disbelief and surprise turned into fear. It was a fraction of a second, but he saw it as it occurred: the two air-to-surface missiles from the plane passed the incoming missile.

  “Fuck,” said Coleman.

  Donato stared at the incoming warhead. There was a silent fraction of a moment and then the proximity fuse was triggered. The explosion was followed by a wall of shrapnel—white-hot—moving at supersonic speed—striking the plane in a hurricane of ruin and destruction, ripping it to shreds. In a cloudless, azure sky, Air Force Two was torn into dozens of burning pieces. Fuel tanks ignited less than a second after the initial explosion. The plane and everything and everyone in it tumbled in a medley of vapor, smoke, flames and metal, raining toward the black sea below. The vice president of the United States disappeared into the watery oblivion.