Deep State

by Chris Hauty

  * * *

  IT’S TIME. UNDER minimal lighting inside the musty barn, Sinatra watches as his team finishes preparations, almost ready to move out. Four of his men are dressed in black leggings, boots, and pullovers, skin-tight outfits that remind the team leader, a slight grin coming to his face, of murderous mimes. Three of the men—Lewis, Martin, and Lawford—have strapped large tactical duffel shoulder bags to their backs. Two others—Bishop and Davis—shoulder smaller backpacks. Only Bishop wears street clothes. Sinatra, dressed in tactical black clothing, carries a Sig Sauer P320 RX with optics in a chest-mount holster crisscrossing his upper torso Mexican bandito–style. If required, the weapon is readily accessible in what shouldn’t be a high-action operation. Better to be prepared, however, for any contingency. Sinatra has survived countless combat missions thanks to exactly this kind of redundancy. The team leader checks his watch for the third time in the last ninety seconds. “Everyone ready? Quick-check your buddy.”

  They obediently scan the man next to them, up and down, front and back. Something as mundane as a loosely tied shoelace could upend an operation. They are silent and serious. There’s no horseplay or pre-mission banter. No one can ignore the sobering momentousness of this particular operation. Each man gives Sinatra the “OK” sign.

  “Let’s move.” He leads them out a door in the rear of the barn and into the night. They cross the backyard of the farmhouse, uncut grass grown thigh-high, and enter the forest beyond, one man at a time swallowed up by the deep shadows of the great Maryland woodland. Approximately forty-four minutes later, they emerge again from the forest’s edge, facing west and the outer boundary of the naval installation named after President Eisenhower’s grandson. The nearly hundred motion-detecting sensors the team had passed in their hike through the woods approaching the presidential retreat had all been deactivated sixty minutes earlier. A little-used maintenance-access gate in the high-security fence in the middle of the woods had been conveniently left unlocked. Where the operators emerge from the trees had been carefully selected, beyond the sight line of a sentry position manned by four Marine guards on this eastern edge of the compound. Only open ground lies between the hit team and the first collection of structures on the property.

  The men crouch on one knee and look forward, each wearing night-vision goggles that give them the appearance of cartoon aliens. They wait for the command from Sinatra to move forward. A low mumbling can be heard from behind them, and initially none of the men can make out the words. But soon the chant becomes clear and shockingly familiar.

  “The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.” Sinatra pauses in his slow and methodical recitation, waiting for his men to join him. Of course, none of them are willing to do so. “Amen,” he adds almost bitterly.

  The men say nothing. If Sinatra’s prayer helps them achieve their mission goals, all the better. Even still, however, any mention of “the hour of our death” strikes them as pretty poor form. Sinatra stands up to a low crouch from a kneeling position and gestures ahead. “Let’s do this.”

  * * *

  SHE SITS AT the small wooden table by a window, rendered a black mirror by the dark night outside, scanning news reports on her computer, when she hears a knock at the door. Hayley is on guard when she stands and crosses the two-dozen feet from table to door. “Yes?” she calls through the door.

  “Secret Service, Ms. Chill,” comes the muffled reply. “It’s Agent Christie.”

  Hayley pauses to consider her options. The operative clearly knows she’s inside the cabin. Refusing to open the door will betray her knowledge of the man’s true intentions. Her best hope is the element of surprise, gained by the fact that the operative doesn’t know what she knows. Hayley opens the door halfway, revealing Bishop in his casual sportswear and Patagonia down jacket outside. She says nothing, waiting for the agent to speak.

  “We’re just doing an area check on all the cabins.” He looks over her shoulder, into her little cottage. “Everything seems status quo here,” he announces with a friendly grin.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you. I’m fine.”

  “Mind if I come in for a sec. Frozen half-solid out here.”

  Hayley hesitates.

  “Just a few minutes, I promise.”

  She reluctantly opens the door wider for Bishop to enter. He slaps his gloved hands together and hugs himself, making an elaborate show of warming up. She makes no offer of anything, simply waiting for him to leave but on her guard, every muscle attuned to defending herself from attack.

  “Got the place to yourself, huh?” he innocently inquires.

  She nods her head yes. Mute.

  He gestures at the computer on the kitchen table. “What’s the latest?”

  “The Russian army has occupied Tartu and Narva,” she tells him flatly, without emotion.

  “Holy shit! No kidding? It’s really happening! Goddamn!”

  Hayley doesn’t share his surprise. “Yes, it’s happening … whatever ‘it’ is.”

  “NATO?”

  She shrugs. Wary. If Bishop clocks her apprehension of him, he doesn’t show it. All is a lark.

  “Well, if Monroe manages to get us all blown up, at least I won’t have to pay off my car loan!”

  “Always a silver lining.” Hayley hopes by being just a couple notches friendlier, he’ll leave. Is he trying to hook up with her?

  Bishop points at the half-filled pot of coffee in the automatic maker she had brewed a half hour earlier, anticipating a late night. Tomorrow may be her last shot to deliver her message to Monroe, and she doubts sleep is a likely. “Maybe I’ll cash in that rain check.”

  She looks at him blank-faced.

  “When I interviewed you at your apartment? You offered me a cup of coffee.”

  “I did?” She honestly can’t remember.

  “Pretty sure you did.” He says this with a smile.

  Hayley relents, turning to retrieve the coffeepot from the maker. Glancing to her right, at the window next to the table, she sees the reflection of Bishop drawing a concealed 9-millimeter Beretta from a shoulder holster and taking aim on the back of her head. With less than three seconds before her execution, Hayley grips the coffeepot in hand and pivots on the balls of her feet, flinging the glass container at his head. It shatters on impact and splashes hot coffee in his face and down his shirtfront. Bishop screams, momentarily stunned.

  Hayley launches her attack, seizing her brief advantage. Two quick punches to Bishop’s head dislodge the Beretta from his grip. Thus disarmed, he seems to recover his equilibrium and recognizes the precariousness of his situation. Equally trained in close-quarter combat and outweighing Hayley by at least sixty pounds, Bishop counters with a flurry of punches his opponent can only partially deflect.

  Bishop comprehends Hayley is no slouch in martial arts. He picks up a ladder-back chair and throws it at her, then snatches up the other chair and throws that one, too. She is unable to block a flying kick that follows and is knocked down to her knees. Bishop is on her in less than two seconds, pummeling Hayley with punches to the head and back. Defenses softened, she cannot stop him from encircling her throat with both hands. Starbursts explode in her field of vision. Roaring fills in her ears. Her brain empties but for one thought: I am dying.

  Beyond her reach by maybe six inches are the tools for the small fireplace at the center of the cabin’s back wall. Too far to reach. Just too far. But God, in his benevolence, loves perseverance. Blessed are those who don’t quit. She has a job to do. All her life, she has toiled to complete what is expected of her. She has fought and won every personal battle, no matter the odds. The pyrotechnics blaze in her vision, and she recalls her siblings on July Fourth holidays, frolicking in the dirt front yard with sparklers, the only fireworks the family could afford, under her watchful eye. Only fourteen years old, she bears the burden of the family’s wel
fare on her shoulders. To this day, Hayley has lost no one. Not on her watch. God loves perseverance, because it’s never easy.

  Thinking she is as good as dead, Bishop leans in to apply even greater pressure around her throat, drawing close enough for Hayley to bring her right hand up and jam her thumb hard into his left eye. Wailing in pain, Bishop releases his grip from around Hayley’s neck. She stretches now and grips the fire poker by the pointed end, swinging it around and clubbing Bishop against the side of his head with the heavy, wrought iron handle. Knocked out cold, his howls cease abruptly.

  Hayley shreds the top sheet on her bed and uses strips of it to bind and gag Bishop, as well as dress the nasty wound on his head. She drags him into the cramped bathroom of the single-room cabin, wedging all six feet, two inches of his frame between the toilet and bathtub. Bishop slowly regains consciousness as she finishes the task, his eyes expressing pain and rage. She crouches down in front of Bishop and speaks without anger or judgment. “I know what you are and who you work for. I know what you’re trying to do here. I’m going to stop it from happening.” Her matter-of-fact pronouncement complete, Hayley stands and backs out of the bathroom, closing the door on Bishop’s futile protest.

  Odom’s team of mercenaries would not have infiltrated Camp David for the sole purpose of killing her. Without a shred of doubt, Hayley is convinced an attempt on the president’s life is imminent, if not over. There isn’t a second to lose. Checking her phone, she tries to make a call but hears only an eerie, telephonic howl come through the line. Pocketing the phone, she grabs a jacket, jams Bishop’s handgun into the back of her waistband, and hits the door.

  The first breath of fresh, cold air clears her head of the fog induced by her near-choking. She starts sprinting up the path, heading through the woods toward Laurel Lodge. While she runs, Hayley discards useless anxieties that Monroe is already dead. If she were heading the operation, would she order Bishop to eliminate a secondary witness before taking out the target? Not likely. But any further hesitation to calculate those odds is unacceptable. She must act quickly, before Bishop’s delay in returning raises alarm with the conspirators. Disruption of the hit team’s operation is all that matters now.

  As Laurel Lodge becomes visible through the trees, she’s heartened to see it ablaze with lights. Despite the late hour, she is reassured staff and Secret Service will be on duty at the installation’s administrative center. But no agents are posted at the entrance. Perhaps their presence outside is deemed unnecessary during off-hours. She enters the building but finds no one in the reception area just inside the front doors. Nor can she find anyone in the security office just off the entry hall.

  Hayley continues through the building, checking each room for occupants. She fails to find a single person inside the brightly lit administrative center. Lights and machines hum with power. A steaming cup of coffee sits on the desktop in an administrator’s office. Three televisions tuned to different network stations are in three different rooms. She can find not one living soul. A check of a corded phone confirms her suspicion—the line is dead. Undoubtedly, the entire installation is cut off from contact with the outside world. Whether personnel left under their own volition or against makes no difference. They’re gone.

  Hayley backtracks and exits the building. She is on her own. Odom’s hit team is somewhere in the compound, and it’s up to her to stop them. The wind swirling through the trees that surround Laurel Lodge is the sound of fear and isolation. The black night chokes out all light and hope. Loose rocks are piled on the edge of the path at her feet. Hayley bends down and retrieves a palm-size stone with a jagged edge. She grips the rock and squeezes as hard as she can, the sharp pain shooting to every point of her body. She squeezes harder, pressing through the pain and absorbing the rock’s density. Pain becomes determination. Opening her hand wide, she sees the rock is coated with her blood, and she drops it to the ground, continuing to gaze at her hand and the constellation of small cuts and abrasions in her skin. She’s ready to fight.

  Running up the drive in the direction she knows is the location of the presidential residence at Camp David, she fixates on the single notion of saving Monroe’s life, whatever the cost. The bright quarter moon that illuminated the woods after dinner has set and the night is cloaked in the blackest of blacks. Despite her light jacket, she doesn’t notice an air temperature that nears freezing. Since leaving Bishop trussed up in her bathroom, she hasn’t seen another living soul anywhere in the installation. She feels like the last human alive in the world.

  The driveway dips and then seems to be swallowed whole by the surrounding woods. Hayley worries she has lost her way. Is she running away from the place where she is needed, rather than toward it? Nothing would be worse than getting lost now. Peering into the darkness that looms before her, Hayley thinks she sees a figure approaching and quickly, within moments, hears accompanying footsteps. She stops and prepares herself for a fight, retrieving Bishop’s gun from her waistband and holding it down, against her right thigh.

  The shadowy figure continues to approach, the occasional glow from cigarette end flashing in the darkness. Only when he is less than fifteen yards away does Hayley see that it is the Navy Mess chef, Leon Washington.

  “You gonna shoot me with that thing?” he asks casually, gesturing toward the gun at her side.

  “Leon,” is all she can manage to say in the moment. Her relief on seeing a friendly face is enormous.

  “What’s wrong, girl? You don’t look so good.” He pauses, adding sardonically, “And then there’s the gun.”

  “I need your help, Leon.”

  “If it’s a midnight snack you’re looking for, I’m your man. But I’m thinking that’s not the thing.”

  She is reluctant to involve the cook. But does she really have any other choice?

  “They’re going to assassinate the president, Leon. Tonight.”

  “What?! Who?!”

  “I don’t know. Powerful people.”

  “Are you crazy, girl? What have you been smoking?”

  “Nothing. No. This is happening, Leon. Right now.”

  Leon stares down at the ground and shakes his head, trying to process the information. “Can’t be … Just crazy.”

  “We’ve got to do something. We’ve got to stop this.”

  The cook’s head snaps back up, gaze locking on Hayley’s. “What’s a chef supposed to do about it?” He laughs at the absurdity of the notion. “Doesn’t the man have a whole Secret Service for that sorta business?”

  “They’re all gone, Leon. No one’s here.”

  The old cook begins to grasp that she’s serious. “Everybody? Where’d they all go?”

  “I don’t know. Right now it doesn’t really make any difference. They’re just gone, which means it’s on us to stop something terrible from happening.” She pauses, letting the full weight of her words land on Leon before continuing. “Please, Leon. There’s no one else.”

  Leon frowns, and it’s the first time she can recall seeing the chef as anything but affable and good-natured. He dislikes being put in this position. Hayley can’t possibly know the life Leon Washington has lived, the prejudice he has encountered his entire life, and the failure of politicians of every stripe to correct those injustices. Why risk his skin for theirs? But Hayley’s earnest sincerity stirs something within the old cook’s consciousness. It feels like a throwback to greater ideals, something that Leon knows to be patriotism. The cold nips at his cheeks. A breeze rustles dead leaves on skeletal tree limbs. What to do? There’s no denying it. The old man is scared.

  * * *

  SINATRA LEADS HIS team in a running crouch around the pool and closes the final distance between the woods and the dark Aspen Lodge in seconds. There’s no sign of the three Secret Service agents who normally man the command post outside the cabin. The operators hug the wall on either side of French doors leading out to the pool’s patio and wait for a signal from their team leader. The desolate call o
f a whip-poor-will drifts across the open ground surrounding the building. It’s 2:21 a.m. There have been no further communications from the CIA deputy director. Operation Damocles remains a go.

  Sinatra hasn’t been able to raise Bishop on the two-way radio. The operative is overdue from his assignment to eliminate the intern. Obviously, there is a problem, but so far it does not seem to have impacted their primary mission. He cannot see how the operational plan could have been laid out any differently. Once the president is dead, they could not possibly remain on scene a minute longer. Perhaps including the intern as a target in tonight’s operation was a mistake, but Monroe’s death may send her off the rails. Going back over his decisions, Sinatra can’t see he had any choice. The intern’s presence in the isolated compound was too good an opportunity to pass up.

  There’s little leeway with time. The supervising Secret Service agent, sympathetic to the cause, had handpicked the dozen similarly minded agents for duty this weekend, men and women who could be counted on to “disappear” at the right time. But that operational window, by necessity of short duration, was rapidly closing. If Sinatra doesn’t get the men going soon, it will be too late to execute the plan fully, and they’ll have to abort. If they abort, there will be no million dollars transferred to his numbered account at CIBC FirstCaribbean International Bank in the Cayman Islands. If the million dollars isn’t transferred, then he won’t have the means to purchase a new-built home to rival the one his ex-wife enjoys with her new husband. And, the Lord knows, that is an outcome Sinatra is unwilling to accept. He raises his right clenched fist, signaling his men to begin.