Frank's Independence Day

by M. L. Buchman

  Frank could see why she’d so grabbed the President’s attention. She reminded Frank of Carole Bouquet, the Bond girl from For Your Eyes Only. He’d been thirteen and madly in lust with her enough to slide into the theater an extra couple times. All long dark hair, that actually billowed, light eyes, and a serious body. The best part was that she didn’t hang around going, “Oh James,” with a sigh. She brought a crossbow and kicked ass.

  This woman looked like that, but with almond-shaped eyes and the dusky skin of a Vietnamese Eurasian. France and Vietnam twisted together into one fine-looking woman. Fine enough to turn even the President’s head which was saying something. Since his own wife had died in that helicopter crash during his first year in office, he hadn’t looked at a single woman. Well, except his childhood friend Emily Beale, who’d already fallen for Major Mark Henderson, even if it took her a bit to figure it out.

  As the trade meeting stretched long past any reasonable ending time, she took over the conversation, gently at first, so smoothly Frank thought she’d make a good agent. There was no ripple as she took full control. Watching her political savvy, Frank moved past irritation and began to wonder more about who she really was.

  “Hank,” he triggered his mike and whispered into it. “I know we cleared this Kim-Ly Beauchamp. What have you got on her?”

  “Chief of Unit, Southeast Asia for the World Heritage Center of UNESCO. As far as I can tell, that’s a pretty serious role.”

  He clicked his mike once to acknowledge receipt.

  “We’ve got scenarios for the President when he’s done.”

  Another click and a deep-rooted effort not to scream with impatience.

  The lady wasn’t making her points with her beauty, she was making it with her brains. He could hear bits and pieces about at-risk heritage sites and how their protection should be an essential requirement before the settling of any trade agreement, because they needed large levers to enforce protection of fragile environments.

  Frank could get to like her, she had the Laotian and Cambodian ambassadors squirming about something, though he couldn’t quite tell what. Seventeen billion dollars of yearly trade on the table compared with a couple of old temples and she was taking it on as if it made sense. He wished her luck.

  The thing was, she was having some as she talked about tourism dollars. She’d sure caught the President’s ear. More than his ear, she’d caught his attention.

  “Hank, read me the longer version.”

  It all appeared very friendly, but he wasn’t paid to trust to appearances. As the woman’s background sounded in his ear, thankfully read by one of the techs without Hank’s twisted sense of humor, he kept his eyes and his attention on the room.

  Frank and the other three bodyguards lined the west wall like statues, except for their roving eyes. They each stood a little over an arm’s-length apart. It provided each of them with a maximum field of vision and range of action. Frank had to admit, these guys were acting like a cut above. He’d met Kim Jong-un, the North Korean ruler’s bodyguard last Christmas. He’d been less than impressed. These three guys were either trying to show off for him, the head of the U.S. Presidential Protection Detail, or they were just that damned serious about their jobs.

  Probably a bit of both.

  Now he just had to wait.

  # # #

  As they sat in darkness on the hut’s dirt floor and ate the stolen spicy peanut fufu with their hands, the starchy cassava sticking to their fingers, Beatrice filled in the ambassador and Charlotte on the situation. Despite the food being cold, it burned the tongue and forced them all to drink a lot of water, which was good. Beat could tell by the sharp stench of their urine, despite the hole they’d dug in the corner of the hut and reburied, that they were all badly dehydrated. She was no exception, not daring to go out in the daytime to get water.

  “We’re being actively hunted.” Beat kept her voice soft and slightly breathy. That would make it harder to distinguish directionally. “They appear to know that we survived the attack on the airport.”

  “But that makes no sense, why would they hunt us?” Charlotte handed her blue pumps over to Sam Green who slid them into his burlap bag with his briefcase. The sandals fit just fine and would be far more comfortable. That should help their speed.

  “Regrettably, it does.”

  Beatrice tried to see the ambassador’s face in the darkness of the hut, but couldn’t make it out.

  “How? I haven’t been able to make sense of it.”

  “Last April…”

  She whispered, “softly,” to him and he tried, but didn’t succeed much.

  “… we captured their former Chief of the Navy in a drug-running and arms-trade bust at sea. He had thirty million dollars of cocaine and two dozen MANPADS.” Sam Green’s whisper became more assured. They were getting back into his territory.

  “MANPADS?” Charlotte hadn’t heard that one yet.

  “Man-Portable Air-Defense Systems. Shoulder-mounted anti-aircraft missiles. They were headed to the Colombian drug lords for shooting down the U.S.’s D.E.A. helicopters. We’re close to tying him back to the acting President of Guinea-Bissau and, with time, about a third of the power elite. If we can prove that, we can perhaps convince the U.N. Coalition Forces that it’s time to clean this place up.”

  “But that didn’t work in Somalia.” The U.S. had tried to do exactly that about twenty years ago and the country still wasn’t working.

  “But Somalia,” Green pointed out, “had no functioning government at that time. G-B still does, mostly. If we can get control of that back into the voters’ hands, where their constitution says it belongs, this country might stand a chance.”

  “And that’s what’s in your briefcase.”

  “Right,” he rested a protective hand on his burlap bag. “I’m carrying a proposal to the people we were unable to connect to the drug-running, and if they agree, we’ll land heavily on their side. If we can even get U.N. peacekeepers and international election monitors in the door, maybe we can start working on free elections and shifting their economy off the drug trade. Then, eventually, we can end this disaster that started the day they claimed independence in 1973. But these documents also include their names, a death sentence to these people who might be our friends, and the death of all our hopes if it falls into the wrong hands. My notes and appointments would become a kill-list of every potentially reliable politician and leader.”

  Maybe he wasn’t quite the lost cause Beatrice had thought him to be. Terrified out of his skull, definitely, but he’d hung onto that stupid briefcase for a reason. And maybe something about making love to Charlotte in a darkened West African hut, or being hunted like a criminal, had given him a focus.

  “But why would they want to kill you?”

  He shrugged. His white dashiki just catching the light from the one window to reveal the gesture.

  “Different factions. One faction sees a chance to lash out at the U.S. by killing me, not realizing the world of hurt that will land down upon them should they succeed in doing so. The more rational factions think my death would send a clear message to stay out of G-B politics, not that it would work any better. Others would perchance prefer me alive as a bargaining chip. They’d use me to save their own skins with transport to a country they can disappear in, the Congo and Senegal don’t have an extradition treaty with us. Perhaps a few people think they can gain a favor from the U.S. government if they save my life, maybe the politicians and military leaders on my list, but maybe not. How can I tell them from the others until we’ve had a chance to meet and talk?”

  Beatrice let it all process. It fit. Not all of it, but enough that she knew what was going on and what had to come next.

  “Okay, this is going to get harder, starting right now. Are you two up for it?”

  By their too-bright hair, she could see them turning to
ward one another. Sam reached out and took Charlotte’s hand, then brought it to his lips.

  They turned back to Beat.

  “Okay, we’re ready.”

  Beatrice moved to the door, checked both directions, listening to the silence of the streets, and moved them out. They had four, perhaps five more hours of darkness and a lot of ground to cover.

  Chapter 17

  Beat: 1989

  Half a step before storming into the conference room at Fort Sam Houston, in San Antonio, Texas, Beat stopped herself.

  Secret Service liaison office to U.S. Southern Command regarding the Panama situation.

  This was Frank’s first assignment, a huge feather in his cap to be assigned the project straight out of training. She’d gotten some of the history on it. The whole thing was tiny when it started, so they sent down a senior agent and three rookies, one of which was Frank. Two months in, the senior guy got offered a cherry assignment. He’d insisted that one of the rookies had it in hand, so rather than send a new lead, they’d sent the new leader a mid-level guy to help.

  So what had she done?

  She’d gone from six months in Africa to being assigned to the Panama mission in under seventy-two hours.

  By being so angry at Frank Adams that she hadn’t been thinking, was how she’d done it. Beatrice had blown through the Secret Service command hierarchy so fast that she’d bet her section commander had shipped her out just to be rid of her demands to be assigned to the Panama project.

  Panama? What the heck was up with that?

  She’d landed from Africa Wednesday night, slept most of Thursday, tracked Frank down on Friday morning, and was supposed to have the week off but instead been on the road by that night. She’d driven twenty-four of the last forty-eight hours, crashing into a Motel 6 in Chattanooga, Tennessee for fourteen hours in the middle of it. Now it was Monday morning, July third at eight a.m. She was in San Antonio, Texas and through the Fort Sam security.

  And Panama?

  If she went storming into the Secret Service liaison office, Frank would just laugh his head off and she’d be forced to kill him. And she sure didn’t like the idea of being one of the peons like he was, but she didn’t want to start a battle for control either. Her section commander had made it clear that some new agent was shaping up well and they were going to let him run with it and see how he did. He’d told her that they were only letting her jump on because she’d done so well in Africa, but it wasn’t her team.

  So, one, she didn’t want to tromp on his toes.

  Two, the fact that she’d showed up at all… well, he’d know he’d won. She hadn’t thought of that. She’d just been so damn angry she hadn’t been thinking right up to this moment. He’d made her angrier than the day he’d tried to carjack her new car. And she was angry now for his not being where she’d left him.

  That in itself was pretty damn stupid. Of course he’d take a great opportunity like this one.

  She didn’t like these feelings one bit for a whole lot of reasons.

  She turned and walked back to the white porcelain water fountain hanging from a gray tile wall between the bathrooms. She wasn’t thirsty, though her throat was dry. She just needed a moment to think.

  Beat knew that if she were rational, she’d go and climb back into her car and head right back to Brooklyn, to beg for a new assignment.

  No strings. No ties. Her parents had always been trying to tie her in knots to fit their plans for her. It had sure worked on her sister. Hannah had a degree in literature, a pediatrician husband she’d met at Vassar and helped support through Columbia, two cute kids, and she was barely twenty five. They’d just bought their first place barely ten blocks from her parents’ place, serious parent heaven. Hannah’s life was all neat and set. And it probably was, her husband was a great guy. Good for her.

  Not for Beat.

  Over the last six months she’d finally decided that she liked her new nickname, even if Frank Adams had been the one to give it to her. Beat was a tougher, stronger woman than Beatrice Ann. Beat wouldn’t be shying away from facing Frank Adams. She’d just sweep into that conference room and take over.

  She turned, made sure her vest hung straight and headed for the office door. Just as she hit the door she realized that, without thinking, she was wearing the exact clothes she’d been wearing when she first met him.

  Well, he better not get all smug, or he’d be going down.

  Going down hard.

  # # #

  Frank heard the door slam open, rocketing into Malcolm’s desk with a sharp thwack. He didn’t even bother to turn, he knew exactly who stood now in the doorway behind him.

  The other three guys, so used to the banging door they didn’t jump, did turn to look. Frank could see by their total shift of concentration just how much they appreciated the vision standing there.

  He turned his chair slowly from where he’d been studying the latest information regarding the thirty-five thousand Americans living and working in the Canal Zone.

  Beatrice Ann Belfour looked incredible. The first time he’d seen her in these clothes, it had been in the darkness of a New York City hot-summer night. Now she was lit by the Texas sunlight streaming in through the window. The damn woman shimmered.

  He made a point of inspecting her exactly as he had so long ago in the underground garage at the Secret Service building. Her red sneakers had been replaced by blood-red cowboy boots, but the jeans were still tight, the lemon-yellow blouse brought her glowing skin to life, and the leather vest that he now knew was almost as soft as her skin had just enough bulge to show that she was packing her revolver in its normal shoulder holster. Her hair was about six inches longer, she hadn’t cut it since they’d met, and it now fell in a glorious thick wave well past her shoulder.

  And those dark eyes were boring holes right into him.

  “Hey, Beat.” He made it sound as casual as he could. It took effort ’cause he was so damn glad to see her.

  “Hey, Adams.” She didn’t move, just stood there letting him drink his fill of her.

  He’d never get enough. He knew he’d missed her, but had no idea how much until she stood there in front of him.

  Gone, Adams. You’re twenty-one and you’re completely and totally gone. That wasn’t supposed to happen until he’d played the field much wider and longer. It was something he’d never expected. Find a woman someday, sure. A main squeeze. But in the six months she’d been gone, he hadn’t even noticed another woman. Oh, he’d had offers, but there was not a one for him other than Beat Belfour.

  Then she glanced over his head at the other three guys, “So, who’s in charge here?”

  Frank let the silence stretch a bit before drawling out an answer.

  “It’s gonna really suck for you…”

  Her eyes came back to his. She glared at him with that splendid mix of arrogance and pride, of a woman who knew she was just that damn good. Then a bit of smile that she did her best to hide with a scowl.

  “You.”

  “Me.”

  # # #

  Frank had sort of forgotten how good she was. By lunchtime he had Beat up to speed with what it had taken his team three months to gather together, by mid-afternoon she was adding ideas to his scenario planning. And he was loving it. It was like there was some kinda hyperactive feedback loop between them and the ideas just circulated back and forth between them. The other guys had gone, but he’d stuck around to show her what they knew and they’d taken off from there.

  “So they’re mobilizing everything?”

  “Rangers, Delta, Air Force, Special Operations Forces helicopters, everything. All running as exercises now, but everyone knows they’re gearing up for a big hit. We’re doing a razzle-dazzle down there, moving troops in and out so fast that no Panamanians can count ‘em and make a counter-plan.”

 
“Helicopters, huh?”

  Frank glanced down at the paperwork. “Some outfit called the 160th Special Operations Group. What are you thinking?”

  Beat just smiled at him. He could see that something had just clicked in her brain and she wasn’t going to share it yet. So, he looked for a change of topic.

  “It’s July 3rd, you know.”

  “Yeah,” she said it like it was nothing important and that pissed him off some.

  The other agents had left after lunch. They had families in the area. Only he and Beat had stayed. The heat in the office had gone up several degrees since lunch even though the sun had moved around the other side of the building. It forced Frank to loosen his collar. The four white walls covered with maps pressed in around the four desks and table, all crammed into a space that had probably been one man’s office prior to the Secret Service’s arrival. Gearing up for a potential invasion of Panama had made space a premium at Fort Sam.

  “What I’m thinking… ” she drew out the words in a way that definitely made him think some very nice things.

  God, she was muddling his brain. All he knew was that he wanted to get his hands on Beatrice Ann Belfour and he didn’t care how, as long as it was soon.

  It was a trap. Had to be.

  “I’m thinking that I saw a place on the drive in that’s still running Ghostbusters II. Want to go?”

  “You hate sequels.”

  “You love Sigourney Weaver.”

  Yep. A complete and total trap.

  Chapter 18

  Frank: Now

  What do we know about her?”

  “Who?” Frank knew exactly who the President was talking about, but he wasn’t going to let him off that easy. They were effectively alone, walking through the underground corridor that connected the Dag Hammarskjöld Library with the Secretariat Tower. Two agents cleared the corridor ahead and two followed behind.

  “Don’t give me a hard time here, Frank.”

  “Or what, sir?”