Brown, Dale - Independent 04

by Storming Heaven (v1. 1)

  “Yes, ma’am.” The Secret Service agent reported that he was leaving the door, then walked briskly over to the door of the inner apartment, and went inside, followed by the valet. Another Secret Service agent, a woman this time, took his place at the outer apartment door and reported the room secure.

  A few moments later, wearing a short-sleeved college sweatshirt, jogging pants, and running shoes without socks, his hair slicked back with cold water, the President emerged from the inner apartment. “I really could’ve used another four hours’ sleep today,” he said, yawning. “Is this a coffee call or not?”

  “It’s a coffee call,” the First Lady said.

  “Great,” the President muttered. “Coffee calls” meant he should have coffee because he probably wasn’t going to get any sleep the rest of the morning. “What’s the beef now? Not another Cazaux attack, I hope.”

  “Bad news and not-so-bad news,” the First Lady said, handing her husband the messages. “A plane carrying a TV crew was accidentally shot down by the Air Force.”

  The President shook his head in exasperation, reaching for his coffee and stuffing a pastry in his mouth. “Ah, jeez ...” “It happened earlier this morning, but the staff decided not to wake you about it until later—I think that was an error in judgment. You should have been called.”

  “I agree,” the President muttered, not really agreeing with her—he was thankful for every bit of sleep he was allowed to get these days. “What’s the not-so-bad news?” “The FBI thinks they got Henri Cazaux.”

  “Hot damn!” the President crowed. “That ain’t not-so- bad news, honey, that’s great news! Dead, I hope?”

  “Dead,” the First Lady said. “Killed in a shoot-out at an estate in northern New Jersey, in a raid organized by the U.S. Marshals Service and Admiral Hardcastle.”

  “That Hardcastle is an arrogant sonofabitch,” the President said happily, “but I could kiss him on the damned lips if he engineered that raid.”

  “The problem is, we didn’t engineer it,” the First Lady said coldly. “We weren’t briefed by Judge Wilkes or Deputy AG Lowe about the operation, so we can only assume that Hardcastle exceeded his authority and freelanced this raid.”

  “Baby doll, I don’t really care,” the President said, “as long as that Belgian bastard is dead. We need to get confirmation on this, and they better do it quick—maybe we can get the morning news shows.”

  “You are not going to show this kind ... of glee on international TV,” the First Lady decided. “You are going to praise the FBI, the Justice Department, Governor Seale of New Jersey—I’m sure there were some New Jersey cops in on the raid too—and the Marshals Service for their efforts. No mention whatsoever of Hardcastle.” The First Lady paused momentarily, then added, “Except when it comes to an explanation of this accidental shooting of that civilian plane. The message stated the civilian plane was at fault and that the pilot who fired the missile killed himself by flying his plane into the ocean ...”

  “Oh, my . . .” the President exclaimed, reaching for a muffin now.

  “. .. and we’ll put Hardcastle’s fingerprints all over that screwup,” the First Lady said, her mind turning to high gear. “This will prove that Judge Wilkes was right all along: the FBI was better suited to solve this Cazaux problem after all, and that Hardcastle’s plan to use military forces was a failure right from the start. You see, we’ve got to wipe your fingerprints off this military idea.”

  “It ain’t gonna matter, sweetie,” the President drawled casually, sipping coffee. “It’s over. We can go back to normal now.”

  “What matters, dear, is the political fallout. You approved using Hardcastle, so it’s your fault if innocent people got killed. We’ve got to portray that fucker Hardcastle as a loose cannon, a maverick ... I know, we’ll put him up in front of a Congressional panel.” The First Lady’s legal

  mind was turning; she was in full damage-control mode: “If Hardcastle’s a witness, he can’t talk to the press. You may have to strip him of his authority, maybe even fire him.” “That’s easy,” the President said, swallowing the last of the muffin. “No one likes him anyway. What I need to do is get back on the road, honey. I’ve got an election to win yet. Kemp and Bennett have been on the move in the east all during this Cazaux thing, Wilson and Brown have been slam-dunking me on the west coast, and Dole’s been in Kansas whipping up the midwest against me—I’ve been stuck here in Washington too long.”

  “I told you before, hiding behind the trappings of power doesn’t look good,” the First lady said. “If you simply declare the emergency over, some might say it’s political. Let Lowe and Wilkes and the terrorism committee make a statement to the press declaring the air defense emergency over, and have Hardcastle’s office release a statement taking the fighters and the surface-to-air missiles off alert status pending the investigation of the accident. The press will listen to Lowe and Wilkes. When the press starts wondering why you haven’t gone on the road yet, suddenly they’ll find you on a six-state ‘fact-finding mission,’ beginning in California. But let the staff take the heat. I told you before.” “I know, I know ... let public opinion make the tough decisions,” the President said. “Don’t make headlines—embrace them.”

  “Right,” the First Lady said. “And we need to make our peace with the producers of the TV show that had their crew shot down by Hardcastle’s goons—we might have to feed them an exclusive interview from the White House or from Air Force One while we’re on the road.”

  “Let’s do it on Air Force One—that always impresses the hell out of the media.”

  “We’ll decide that later,” the First Lady said dismissively. “Again, it’s important to emphasize that Hardcastle’s mismanagement caused the accident—the Air Force crews were following orders. The pressure Hardcastle was creating with these ’round-the-clock patrols and missiles everywhere caused this terrible accident. Remember that.” “Gotcha,” the President said. “I’m gonna go take a nap for an hour while the staff gets their act together.”

  “Let’s get the photos done first,” the First Lady reminded him.

  “Photos?”

  “Of you and me, up in the middle of the night, working after being notified of this terrible tragedy,” the First Lady said, reaching for the phone. “We’ve got to show the people we’re on the job, and need to show them ratty sweatshirts and unshaven faces. Remember: You’re concerned over the accident. Look concerned. You share their pain.” The President sighed but nodded okay. Sometimes even he had to admit his wife was a bit much.

  U.S. Department of Justice

  Office of the Deputy Attorney General

  Washington, D.C.

  Four Hours Later

  “I’m glad this is over,” Deputy Attorney General Elizabeth Lowe said during the day’s first meeting of the President’s Executive Committee on Terrorism. “If this got any bloodier .. . well, I’m just glad it’s over.” Left unsaid were the . words “It might really hurt the President’s reelection chances,” but everyone present in the Oval Office knew what Lowe meant to say. To Ian Hardcastle, Lowe said, “Admiral, the President is meeting with the producers of that trash TV show ‘Whispers.’ What’s the final opinion as to the cause of the accident—and what happened to the pilot who fired the missile?”

  “Captain Humphrey killed himself, plain and simple,” Lieutenant Colonel A1 Vincenti said to the Deputy Attorney General. “He was overcome with grief because of the accidental shoot-down, and he flew out over the ocean and crashed his plane where he wouldn’t hurt anyone else.”

  The room got very quiet at that point—but not for very long. “Jesus, what a damned mess,” someone muttered. Vincenti angrily searched for whoever it was that spoke, but all he saw were averted eyes. Finally one of the Assistant Secretaries of Defense that Vincenti did not recognize said, “Did he have a family? A wife and kids?”

  “Tom Humphrey was a newlywed,” Vincenti replied. ‘They’re—she’s—expecting her firs
t.”

  “How the hell could this happen, Admiral Hardcastle?” Ralph Mersky, the Secretary of Transportation, asked. “This was a tragic but avoidable accident, in my opinion. The Air Force has very specific procedures to follow during an intercept—and they weren’t followed.”

  “It was an accidental missile launch. Secretary Mersky,” Admiral Ian Hardcastle responded. “He made a mistake, that’s all. They were chasing a hostile aircraft.”

  “It was a TV news plane, for God’s sake! They identified themselves.”

  “It was violating the law and flying like a hostile aircraft, with its transponder and lights off,” Hardcastle said. “The fighter leader got disorientated.”

  “Screwed the pooch, you mean.”

  “I mean, got disorientated, ” Hardcastle snapped. “You should know about spatial disorientation, Mr. Mersky— you”re a licensed pilot. Mundy lost control of his plane due to the sudden flash of light from the TV crew on board the Learjet and because of spatial disorientation, and Humphrey reacted as if his leader had just gotten hit by hostile fire. It was a mistake.”

  “A damned costly mistake,” Lowe interjected. “Admiral, we’ve received word that Congress is going to begin an investigation of the shoot-down incident, and you’ve been subpoenaed to appear.” She nodded to one of her aides, who handed a document to Hardcastle. He did not open it, but handed it to Sheehan—he was so furious, he thought he would tear it up into tiny pieces if he even touched it. “Until the matter has been resolved, your duties and responsibilities with the Executive Committee on Terrorism have been suspended, effective immediately.”

  “What?” Hardcastle retorted. “You’ve suspended me? Why?” . ,

  “We’ve been heavily criticized for your approach to solving this problem, Admiral,” Lowe said. “Your tactics regarding the air defense setup simply havn’t worked—the accident tonight near Atlantic City was a good example. In addition, your actions concerning the raid on that mansion in New Jersey, although probably successful, were beyond your authority.”

  “Secretary Lowe, I did what I had to do.”

  “As we all knew you would, Admiral,” Lowe said, averting her eyes so Hardcastle could not see the contempt in them. Yes, we all knew you’d come in with guns blazing and the Bill of Rights be damned, the Deputy Attorney General thought. I just wished we made a stronger connection between you and Martindale. There was still time to build that, Lowe reminded herself. “I’m sorry, Admiral. The Congressional investigation will commence shortly; we can assist you in obtaining legal counsel.” Lowe turned to Vincenti and said, “Colonel Vincenti, you’re under similar subpoena, as an expert witness, so like Admiral Hardcastle, you’re prevented from talking with the media'about the incident.

  “The President has directed that the Air Force will make a statement about the accidental shoot-down,” Lowe told the rest of her advisers seated around her, “expressing our condolences to all the families of that TV crew who suffered a loss.” It was obvious that the President wanted to distance himself from that situation as well, Lowe thought—yes, the crew on that Lear screwed up, but if there was some political hay to be made out of his sorrow for the deaths suffered, the President wanted to do it. “General Skye . .. ?”

  “First of all, ma’am, if I may, we should offer condolences to the family of Captain Humphrey, the F-16 pilot lost after the accident,” General Charles Skye replied. Skye was the fifty-eight-year-old “triple-hat” commander of U.S. Space Command, U.S. Aerospace Defense Command, and the North American Air Defense Command, charged with the air defense of the continental United States, North America, and all U.S. assets in space. Tall, distinguished, and completely no-nonsense, Skye showed his exasperation at these endless meetings for the entire world to see. “It was obvious that the remorse and guilt he felt caused him to crash his aircraft into the sea.”

  “General . . .”

  “If you only offer condolences to the TV crew that violated the law and caused the accident to occur in the first place, ma’am, you and the President will lose a lot of faith from your military supporters,” Skye said. “Captain Humphrey, his wife and kid, and his unit deserve better.”

  “I didn’t forget, General,” Lowe shot back angrily. “We weren’t only going to offer our condolences just to the TV crew. Thank you for reminding me.”

  But there was not much chance of General Skye’s taking the hint. “I’ll go to Atlantic City and meet with the unit commander myself.”

  “I’d like to accompany you, General,” Hardcastle said immediately.

  “Same here, General,” Vincenti echoed.

  “Permission granted, gents,” Skye said, “if the Justice Department or the Senate or whoever wants a piece of your ass lets you come out and pay your respects. Thank you. We’ll arrange to talk with the TV people later.”

  “I’m so glad we got that settled,” Lowe said, rolling her eyes. “Now, about dismantling the air defense stuff...” “What?” Hardcastle retorted. “I think that’s a bit premature, Miss Lowe.”

  “That’s a real stupid idea,” Skye said, not bothering to use polite words in this meeting. “Real big mistake. The fighters are the first line of defense—you’ve gotta have eyes up there to see who’s coming down on you.”

  “General, perhaps you didn’t understand—we got Henri Cazaux,” FBI Director Lani Wilkes said. “The emergency is over.”

  “Tell that to Lake, Fell, and that Gulfstream crew up in Newburgh,” Hardcastle said. “It was a summary execution all the way—maybe it wasn’t Cazaux, but it was probably one of his men.”

  “Cazaux’s operation has been blown away, Admiral,” Wilkes said. “We got his mansion, several of his soldiers, his bimbo, and his banker. We’ve got a line on several million dollars belonging to Cazaux’s organization—he’s frozen, bankrupt.”

  “We can’t account for several aircraft that Lake purchased,” Hardcastle said, “and several of the weapons stolen from Naval Air Station Fallon that have been linked to Cazaux. He’s still got to be considered dangerous.”

  “Cazaux or not, Judge Wilkes, if the Commander in Chief orders me to take the air defense stuff down, I’ll do it,” Skye said. “I haven’t received such an order, so they stay. It’s that simple.”

  “I’m concerned that there will be more accidents if we have all these missiles and fighters in the air, especially with air traffic controls lifted,” Transportation Secretary Mersky said. “Besides, the fighters didn’t help over Atlantic City or over Fort Worth, did they?” .

  “You don’t turn these boys loose to do their jobs, Mr. Mersky, and the job won’t get done,” Skye said. “You set up an air cordon and tell civilians they can operate inside the cordon, they better understand that if they play games and dick around, they’ll get their asses shot off, pure and simple.”

  “General, the President is afraid to publicly announce that the emergency is over, because he feels, and I concur, that such an announcement will only attract the copycat bombers or Cazaux’s lieutenants out there to blow up a terminal or airliner,” Deputy Attorney General Lowe said. “Instead, we want to recommend to the President to quickly but quietly take down the air defense network and return the air traffic system in this country back to normal. Airport security will still be at maximum levels, and we want to implement an air marshal program again, but we want to do away with the special air cordons, the military weapons in place around the airports under Class B airspace, and all military control of access to the air traffic control system.”

  “The President wants a gradual increase in the number of flights,” Mersky added. “I’ll concede that giving access to uncontrolled or VFR air traffic should be phased in over a much longer time frame, but the President’s top priority is to do everything he can to encourage the airlines to start flying again.”

  “General Lowe, Secretary Mersky, if all you propose is allowed to happen, the military won’t be able to stop a Cazaux type again,” Hardcastle said. “There are jus
t too many aircraft out there doing suspicious or even downright illegal things.”

  “The only way to make sure we can pick a terrorist flight out from all the rest of the inbound flights is to increase the number of interceptors and decrease the number of flights until the two balance out,” Colonel Vincenti added.

  “And we’re telling you, Colonel, that’s not what the President wants, and that’s not what the American people want,” Elizabeth Lowe said finally. “Besides, it’s not the military’s job to find and stop these terrorists—it’s my job, and the FBI’s job.

  “I’ll pass along your reservations, General Skye, Admiral Hardcastle, but I’m recommending to the President that we immediately ground all fighter patrols over the United States.”

  “Maybe we should go tell the President our opinions together, General Lowe,” Skye suggested.

  “General, the^purpose of having this committee is so a horde of people with a horde of different opinions aren’t marching in and out of the Oval Office all day,” Lowe said, refusing to let the four-star Air Force general bully her around. “My job as chairman of the Executive Committee on Terrorism is not only to coordinate day-to-day antiterrorist operations, but to analyze the threshold of danger existing in the country, determine what are the best possible options to deal with the danger, and present my opinions to the President. -

  “In my opinion and in the opinion of the majority of members of this committee, the danger has subsided to a sufficient level, and the hazards of continued military interceptor and military air traffic control have increased to such ! a dangerous level, that we feel we can recommend that the military’s involvement in this emergency can be substan- daily decreased.”

  “General Lowe, I caution you about using the President’s wishes to form the basis of this committee’s policy decisions,” Hardcastle interjected. “The President wants everything back to normal—we all do. But we feel the time’s not right. At least let’s wait a few more weeks until the FBI analyzes Cazaux’s financial records from Lake’s computers, sifts through the debris at the mansion in New Jersey, tracks down whoever killed Lake and Fell in Newburgh, and bags more members of Cazaux’s organization.”